#full disclosure: i know absolutely nothing about cars

[allthemurders]

Walter Sullivan’s car

I spent literally four hours researching this for a throwaway line in a fic which doesn’t even apply anymore. Please appreciate my nerdiness so this doesn’t go entirely to waste 😭😭

This is Walter Sullivan’s car — a 1954 Jaguar XK120 Drophead Coupé (DHC), Special Equipment (SE) version.

These were manufactured in 1953–1954. Only 295 right-hand drive versions of the XK120 DHC were made, with less than 40 right-hand drive SE versions

The DHC SE was basically the “sport version” of the DHC. It had a 3.4 litre engine which produced 180–190 bhp, up from the regular DHC’s 160 bhp. I’m uncertain about its top speed, but the Open Two-Seater (OTS) model on which the DHC was based had a reported top speed of 125 mph, and could achieve 0–60 mph in 10 seconds. This made it the fastest production car in the world as of its debut in 1949, a title it seems to have carried until 1953

The DHC SE version had the following improvements on the DHC:

Wire wheels, meaning increased cooling to the brakes

Uprated torsion bars & rear springs

More powerful engine with high-lift cams

Dual exhaust system (this one was possibly an optional extra on top of the usual SE offerings?? Basically I found some sites that say the DHC SE had a single exhaust, except in the entirely unexplained “Super Sports model”… but also that might just be a difference between UK & US models, idk)

I wasn’t able to find information on original prices for the DHC SE, but you could probably make a rough estimate based on the following:

Apparently the OTS cost £1600 in 1953. (For context, the average house price was £1800 and the average salary was £10 a week)

The DHC probably would’ve cost more than the OTS, as it came with additional comforts such as a lined roof, external door handles, roll-up windows, opening quarter lights, and wood-veneered dashboards & door-caps

The DHC SE would’ve cost more than the regular DHC due to its further additional features and more powerful engine

Walter’s car in particular also has optional extras of Lucas fog lights and a Radiomobile car radio. It possibly also has (unseen) optional extras of a larger fuel tank and/or an underbody steel shield

Of course, after I’d spent literally four hours researching this (most of which was spent struggling to figure out if it actually was an SE version, or if it was just a regular DHC with some optional extras), I finally came up with the much simpler and easier idea of just. googling the car model + “hire”. Which immediately brought up the hire website for the exact car used in the show:

Although it doesn’t specifically say it’s the SE version, the 180 hp is a clear indication. Why did I not think to do this like three and a half hours sooner,,,,

Also put the registration plate through the DVLA checker to get the 1954 manufacture date! Apparently it was first registered in July 1954, if you want to be particularly specific

Anyways. TL;DR: Walter Sullivan’s car is only like a year old; it’s fast, fancy, and super rare… and most of all, it’s ridiculously expensive

[paperclipninja]

So I've been obsessing over Crowley's crank, and its significance in the way we've seen it utilised throughout the series so far. There has been some amazing commentary around its use as a tool and the way it plays into Crowley's creativity, but I keep fixating on the link between his use of it to start the nebulae, the fact Crowley can stop time and its function as a car starter (a car that is somehow connected to Crowley like it's an extension of the demon himself).

Is this all pure conjecture on my part? Absolutely. Might it get a little wackadoo? Highly likely. But I've been mulling over this darn crank for so long that I need just to get it out, so here goes.

If Crowley played a part in creating space (or a part of space), then he played a part in creating time. We know that space and time are inextricably linked and that space-time can bend and curve (full disclosure: I am absolutely not a scientist, just a tv nerd who likes reading about space and is obsessed with fictional characters, so apologies for the extremely rudimentary understanding or any inaccuracies!). While there are a whole lot of other fascinating impacts that things like gravity can have on time, my theory is that Crowley has the ability to play with time because he understands it in the context of the ever expanding universe that he had a hand in creating.

He knows the stars intimately; where they are located, how to get there, each pocket of the nebulae he created clearly mapped in his mind. So doesn't it make sense that Crowley can navigate time in a similar way? He can find those places where space-time bends or curves and grab onto it, draw it to himself in a time of need. He only uses the crank to restart time when with Adam, so perhaps this is because when he freezes time in that instance, he is freezing time in heaven and hell too, not just an individual person, and far more energy is required to get it going again. And just as his little part of space was started with the crank, he restarts time the same way. Because they are, in a sense, the creation of the same thing: re-starting time is simply a continuation of what he already set in motion when starting the nebulae.

(the other, perhaps slightly more tenuous and definitely less formed, idea is the link between Crowley giving light to the nebulae and speed of light in relation to stopping time, though that would also mean there would be no light or sound if there was some manipulation of the speed of light and a) that's not what we see happening during the time stops and b) my brain isn't big enough to comment further on this)

And so what of Crowley's beloved Bentley? Yes, the crank is practical in the way it literally starts the car, but if this crank is linked to time and space then it is also linked to matter and energy. You know what else is made up of matter and energy? Humans and animals (well, everything tbh so cars too, yes, but just stay with me here).

I'm gonna throw it out there that the human or pet-like characteristics we see in Bentley are a result of the crank being the source of the car's energy. The same crank that helped start the nebulae in which Earth, and therefore life, exists. The same crank that has been used to stop time in order to save lives, connected to space and time and energy and matter, all in the hands of Crowley, from his time as an angel through to his demon times. Angel, demon, the crank doesn't care, it exists as a tool with which Crowley can create on any scale.

Now I've thought a lot about Crowley's connection to the car, what does the crank have to do with the way he and Bentley are seemingly attached and communicate? It is undoubtedly a lot to do with him using his own powers and nothing to do with the crank, but his ability to sense what is happening when Aziraphale is in the car, for example?

If we're going to stick with the idea that Bentley is charged with life-like qualities as a result of receiving its energy from the crank, then perhaps it isn't a leap too far to suggest that Crowley remains connected to the car much the way he is connected to the stars and knowing where they are and what they're like at different times of the year. Because he helped imagine it. That energy source, the crank, was part of Crowley's inspiration and imagination coming to life, and so the Bentley houses those parts of him inherently. The car is an extension of him because it contains his energy.

So that might provide possible speculation as to how Crowley is connected to his car, but then how and why does Bentley change while Azirapahle is driving? Well, I personally like a choose-your-own-adventure approach to thinking about this one. Reasons Bentley changes for Aziraphale could include:

Just as humans or animals react and respond differently to different people/celestials (I assume??), Bentley is able to adjust its response depending on who is driving

Something about how the different energy and matter of Aziraphale might impact the car's response that someone with more science knowledge than me would need to talk about

Aziraphale and Crowley's energies are linked from that moment of creation, when they started up the nebulae together. And so, Aziraphale's energy is also a part of Bentley and Bentley recognises it when Aziraphale's driving and adjusts accordingly.

So that's where I'm at, a whole lot of questionable ruminations about a crank, a car, a demon and the universe. I mean, it could also just be that using a car crank to kickstart part of the universe is pretty darn hilarious, there's absolutely no deeper meaning or more to read into it. But that wouldn't be nearly as fun to write about.

[friendsim2]

I think that having Amisia as the outsider creative against the system was not necessarily the best use of the character. I think having a character like charun would have been better as their art is more avant-garde and outsider. Also if you were going to have a system supported empire person vs a person in a more freedom artistic breaking the mold way a better comparison for two appositions on privilege and creation could be Nikhee moolah and vikare ratite. Both being engineers but with nikhee having easier access to resources and it being expected of indigos vs vikare where it’s going against what the empire wants or him and any materials he needs he has to scrape together and or make do.

(director/lead writer responding)

Interesting perspective here, and I see your points, although a couple things specific to our interpretation of the game world and also the setting-specific stuff we've interpolated from canon:

Charun, while definitely a more "outsider" artist in terms of how they do their trash stuff, is a lowblood who happened to get caught up in conscription. So Amisia has had the position of being allowed to be creative and finding the whole thing kind of stagnating as they realize in the last few years that what the Empire will allow them to do is always going to be limited by what the Empire will allow. I think parallels here might be something like the vibe in the indigo car in Act 2, where the indigo-bloods are just kind of sitting around having this pointless academic-esque discussion with Joey because what else are they going to do? They're almost at the top of the pyramid, but find little satisfaction in it. And we see that with other indigos as well - Galekh isn't satisfied with his role as an enforcer of the system, Zebruh isn't really happy with who he is despite his power over others.

I think your point about Nihkee is a good one, but there's a very specific (and as-yet-unrevealed, so obviously you wouldn't know about it) reason why she isn't in that role. There are hints at what's happening with her, although they do require doing a bit of digging around inside of Volume 10's hacking segment specifically. Might've put some hints inside Volume 9 as well, but all of it is completely optional content and it's still kinda vague, but you might be able to start to piece together what's going on. I suspect, given the topic, that this ask might've been sent after playing Volume 8 so I suppose you also wouldn't have seen stuff from Volume 10, lol.

While I see your point about Vikare, and the idea of resource allocation definitely fits in with his route in FS1, I would say that from his route we kind of get "aspiring engineer" since he hasn't actually, like, built a successful design or anything. He has dreams and aspirations, but the Empire provides absolutely no path for him to make them a reality, especially given he's a lowblood. We don't necessarily go into this in hyper-specific detail, and it isn't canon (since canon says basically nothing about military structure), but we developed some degree of hierarchy for how the Alternian conscripts are handled, similar to how IRL military structures work. So, as a bronze blood with no particular cultural exemptions (like what's going on with Chixie) who got recruited into the Fleet (unlike Skylla, who's infantry), Vikare is trained in a role that is a bit more survivable (unlike Marsti and the other rust blood pilots, who are considered more disposable). So he ends up as a transport pilot through a combination of aptitude and enthusiasm. Not an engineer, because that kind of technical role is reserved for teals who aren't in Legiscorpus and jades who are in the Fleet. Maybe a particularly talented gold blood but, yknow, bigotry.

Anyhooo, thanks for the ask - it was an interesting one to talk through.

Full disclosure - I'm kinda mixed on answering "you should've done it this way instead" type asks - not because I think it's bad form or mean-spirited to send them, but just because I think that the whole "respond to all criticism" thing is kind of a trap for creators. You're allowed to have different opinions about the world we created, or think decisions we made didn't fully land. Similarly, we may not agree with your interpretation or just not want to do things the way you would've done them - and I don't want folks to think that translates into somehow attacking you for your thoughts/opinions.

That being said, I think you made some interesting points about Alternian hierarchical structures that were interesting to talk about, especially since some of them tie into our particular take on how the Alternian military is organized that doesn't necessarily get spelled out completely in-game. Plus, the whole plot of this game was laid out pretty far in advance. And some small details have changed, but some stuff - including what's going on with Nihkee Moolah - has been decided a long time ago, even if you're not gonna find out about it until later.

[urrone]

wip amnesty - jordan eberle/taylor hall

Full disclosure, I think I've posted this before, but I'm officially posting it again just to get it off my chest and out of my active fics folder. It's never getting finished. At the end I will include my notes for how I would have ended it if I had the willpower to do so. I created this document in the year of our eldritch horror TWO THOUSAND THIRTEEN so that's how long it's been muddling through existence.

--

the new normal

It’s not that Taylor hasn’t heard of Oklahoma before, of course he has, though he doubts he could have ever picked it out on a map of the US. He’s just never, like, had to physically acknowledge its existence with his own presence, and it’s weird. 

“Is it as flat as you thought?” Jeff, the intern the team sent to pick him up at the airport, carefully keeps his hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel. Bringing his truck down from home hadn’t made sense given he’s sure he won’t be here long, but Taylor misses driving already. 

“I didn’t really think about it,” he says, and that’s definitely true. Foreign places always resemble a slightly different Canada in his mind until he sees them. And it’s not like anywhere in the US is really that different, not like going overseas. 

And honestly, it does kind of remind him of Edmonton, only with fewer trees. 

Jeff laughs when he says it out loud, and starts pointing out landmarks on the way to the apartment Taylor will share with Jordan. He’s never lost this much playing time before, and he isn’t sure if it’s that or seeing Jordan for the first time since April that has him wiping sweat off his palms every five minutes. 

Taylor lets Jeff’s inane chatter ease him all the way to his new front door, on the second floor of a low rise apartment building that Jeff assures him is only a five-to-ten-minute bike ride from the arena. “It doesn’t look like a lot, but there’s some good stuff in Midtown,” Jeff says, gesturing vaguely to the road behind them. 

Taylor doesn’t know how to respond to this but it doesn’t really matter because Jeff’s already gone.

--

“Are you telling me you actually brought your dirty laundry from Canada to wash down here?” Jordan says, looking at the pile of clothes in front of the washer. “You moved down here just so I'd do your laundry again, didn't you?”

Taylor laughs and chucks the socks he'd been wearing on top of the pile. It’s almost a relief to just fall back into chirping each other like they always used to. It helps him talk through the fluttery bits in his stomach. “Yep, it had absolutely nothing to do with finally being able to play again. I got tired of washing my own socks.”

Jordan picks one of the socks up and flicks it back at Taylor's face. “It doesn’t look like you’ve washed a sock since last season.” 

Taylor bats it away, laughing around the new tight feeling that’s taken up residence in his chest. He'd really missed just being in the same room with Jordan, sitting on their mutually owned couch playing xbox, buying groceries they’d forget to eat, watching Jordan sort their dirty laundry.

“Why aren't you holding up your end then?” Jordan asks. He's given up bitching and started dumping the pile of clothes into the washer. “When's the last time you went grocery shopping?”

“Chill out, I just got here.”

“We can't eat at Earl's every day, dude.”

It's weird that he can eat at a place called Earl's in two different countries. Did they run out of restaurant names? The one down here doesn't have the variety of Edmonton’s, but their brisket is delicious, and Taylor doesn't see why they can't eat it every day if they want to. He says as much.

“The nutritionist might object.”

Fair point to Jordan. “Do you think Tubes would let me borrow his car?”

Jordan snorts. “No.”

Taylor flops down on the couch. “Well do you think he'd give me a ride to the grocery store?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether or not he's already going to the store.” Jordan flops down next to him, and it's not their awesome giant wrap around couch that Jordan’s mom bought them when they moved in, so next to him is kind of on top of him given the way that Taylor's sprawled, but Taylor doesn't mind. He likes Jordan's warm weight against him, even though it's kind of hot in their apartment, despite the air conditioning. It's weird that it's 30C in late October anywhere in the world.

“If we had Vespas we could go to the store.”

“How is grocery shopping with a Vespa different than grocery shopping with your bike?”

Taylor tries to shrug but his shoulders are stuck to the leather. “I'd get there faster?”

“Do you even know what a Vespa is?” Jordan nudges Taylor with his foot. “You still wouldn't have anywhere to put the groceries.”

Taylor doesn’t want to admit that no, he still doesn’t know. “I wouldn't get much. It's not like you're going to cook it.”

“Can't fit a lot of coconut water on a Vespa.”

“I could fit enough.” He nudges Jordan back with his knee, since his feet are currently trapped under Jordan's calves.

“Hey, Cheds.” Sometimes Taylor regrets ever telling Jordan about that nickname, but sometimes he likes that Jordan is the only one to use it anymore.

“What?”

Jordan won't make eye contact with him for a minute, which is weird because it's Jordan and Jordan has never been uncomfortable around Taylor, not even when they first met. “I just. I really missed you.”

It's weird to say his heart flips in his chest, because hearts don't actually do that, really, but Taylor might finally know what people mean when they say that, like this sick warm weird feeling right there behind his sternum. It's awesome and terrifying and he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

He waits until it passes and pats Jordan's shoulder, because Jordan's still looking weird. Which, granted, they hardly ever talk about their feelings for things other than food or hockey, but still. “I missed you too, you non.”

Jordan doesn't even smile at that, and Taylor suddenly feels like they're having two different conversations. “No,” Jordan says. “I mean. I missed. Jesus, Taylor, it was like <i>six months</i>.”

“No it wasn't, I was back in Edmonton that whole time. I mean, except for the surgery.”

“Not on the ice.”

“Well no, but—”

“Not over the summer.”

“We never spend the summer together.”

Jordan's looking at him now, but it's with the distinct impression that says Taylor's missing something big, and fuck if Taylor knows what it is. He kind of does though, because even when he'd been out with his ankle his rookie year, they'd still been around, and it hadn't been some planned thing like his shoulder where they knew it'd go through next season. 

The shoulder thing had kind of scared him, and he guesses it must have scared Jordan a bit too. He puts his hand on Jordan's shoulder again, but leaves it there and holds on. “I get it,” he says, even though Jordan's still looking at him like he really doesn't. “I really did miss you too. And playing with you. And winning with you.”

Jordan looks kind of okay with that, and he reaches up to pat Taylor's hand.

“You want to hug it out?” Taylor asks.

Jordan laughs at that and smacks his hand away and things feel normal again, but a different kind of normal. “Fuck you, turn on the TV.”

If this is going to be their new normal, Taylor could be okay with that. 

–

Practice is weird and it isn’t just because he hasn’t actually had a team practice since last season.  Jordan and Ryan have been down for a month already, since before the home opener, and Taylor hates feeling a step behind. He knows some of the guys from training camp last year, but Schultz is new and Ryan follows him around like a duckling. 

He’s also missed out on several months worth of inside jokes, which he hates almost more than feeling winded after sprints. During practice Justin hip checks Jordan and they both say “sauce” and crack up laughing. Taylor doesn’t feel bad at all when they both land on their asses and get yelled at. 

Tubes laughs at Taylor when he mentions the grocery store, but Hamilton takes pity on him. (Taylor hadn't really planned this well and asked in the locker room. If anyone chirps him about it, he's totally throwing Jordan under the bus about the laundry. Cereal is way better than socks.)

“We can go after practice,” Hammy says. “I've gotta go anyway.”

They end up driving way further north than Taylor's been before, he hasn't really made it past 23rd St on his bike, and stopped there because there wasn’t a bike lane. He figures if it isn't in the confines of downtown, he doesn't really need it.

“But you do,” Hammy says. “Because they don't have a Whole Foods down there.” He then spends about fifteen minutes bitching about the grocery store situation in Oklahoma, because apparently the liquor laws in the States are different than Canada, and for some reason that means no good grocery stores exist in this state. “It's a big fucking mess,” Hammy finishes, just as he parks. He catches Taylor giving him whatever look must have been on his face, because really, <i>grocery stores</i>. “What?” Hammy asks.

“I had no idea someone could have so many feelings about grocery stores.”

Hammy just pushes him into a parked car, and they both run when the alarm starts blaring.

–

“Did you know it's not even called KD down here?” Taylor asks, neatly arranging the offensively labeled blue boxes in the cupboard.

“I did, actually,” Jordan says, not even looking up from the TV.

“You could have warned me.”

“I'm sorry, was it a shock to your delicate nature?”

Taylor lobs one of the wet sponges on the sink at Jordan's head, and fuck yeah he's got excellent hand-eye coordination, it hits Jordan right in the ear. Jordan yelps and comes at him, and Taylor barely gets out “I'm sorry, was it a shock to your delicate ear?” before Jordan has him pinned on the kitchen floor, laughing into the tile. 

Taylor gets his hands under him and shoves up. He's got height and weight on Jordan, which has always made wrestling pathetically unmatched, especially when Jordan forgets to do shit like pin his hands. He gets Jordan wedged into the corner between the cabinets and the floor, and even with Jordan squirming and kicking his truly massive thighs around, he can't dislodge Taylor. Taylor is the fucking master of pinning people.

“Say it,” he says. It's unfortunately a little muffled because he's got Jordan's shoulder pinned with his head, and his mouth is full of Jordan' shirt. Still, it's a familiar enough routine by now, and Jordan's face is free and clear.

“No.”

Taylor presses down harder, his feet hooked over Jordan's legs and their arms tangled. It'd be horrible form if either of them had ever actually officially wrestled in any kind of formal manner, but there aren't any rules here. They're touching knee to head and it’s apparently part of the new normal that Taylor notices this time. Notices exactly how they line up, how Jordan's thigh flexes between his, how Jordan's breath pants across Taylor's forehead as he struggles. He doesn't know why he's never thought about this before, how good everything feels. He's missed it. They've had to be too careful about Taylor's shoulder for so long.

“Say it,” he says again, and hopes his voice doesn't sound as wrecked as he feels.

“You're better than me!”

“At what.”

Jordan sags against the floor and Taylor finds himself resisting absolutely nothing, and then they're just two guys, cuddling on the kitchen floor. “At literally everything,” Jordan says.

Taylor lifts his head. “That escalated quickly.”

“Fuck you, don't quote <i>Anchorman</i> at me.”

“Don't say ridiculous shit.”

Jordan shrugs and Taylor feels it with his whole torso and remembers that, oh yeah, he's still basically laying on top of Jordan, and it isn't for wrestling reasons anymore. He gets up and offers a hand to Jordan. “NHL 13?”

He laughs when Jordan slaps his hand away. “I'm gonna kick your ass,” Jordan says, levering himself up against the cabinets.

“Yeah, we'll see.”

–

Taylor's first week playing with the team for real and not just practicing involves a road trip down to Texas. On a bus. Taylor remembers taking buses to games, it honestly hasn't been that long, but the drive from OKC down to Houston is going to be like eight hours. And because he’s who he is he decides to complain about it out loud in the middle of Earl’s. “Welcome to the AHL,” he mutters.

“It's not that bad,” Jordan says.

“You're like a foot shorter than me, of course you don't think it's that bad.”

Jordan flicks a fry at him. Taylor tries unsuccessfully to catch it in his mouth. “I'm like inches shorter than you,” Jordan says. “Very few inches.”

“At least two,” Ryan says helpfully.

Justin nods. “But not more than six.”

“Fuck you both, it's not six inches.”

Taylor flicks a pickle at Jordan. Fries are too precious to waste, and he's really not a fan of pickles. “I can see over your head without even trying. It's enough.”

“You cannot.”

“I can.”

“Prove it.”

“Right now?”

Jordan gets up from their booth and stands next to it, hands on his hips. “Yes, right now.”

“You look stupid.” Taylor looks at Ryan and Justin, but they're both concentrating really hard on eating right now and are exactly no help. “Seriously?”

Justin looks up from his barbecue. “It makes Nugget really uncomfortable when his parents yell at each other,” he says, with a truly impressive deadpan expression. Taylor is forced to begrudgingly admit, only to himself, that Justin could teach lessons.

Taylor sighs heavily and ridiculously and throws his napkin down. “Fine.” He knows he's exaggerated his and Jordan’s height differences. Jordan knows he's exaggerated their height differences. Literally everyone knows he's exaggerated their height differences, and he stands up and his eyes are right on Jordan's forehead and of course he can't see shit over his head and he hates that he had to stand up and leave his barbecue behind. “Whatever, you non. Fine.” He sits back down again. “Two inches. Why were we talking about this again?”

Jordan is insufferably triumphant with his shit-eating grin. “The bus,” Jordan reminds him. “It's not that bad, so quit your fucking whining.”

“Language, Ebby,” Taylor says. “This is a family establishment.”

Jordan kicks him under the table, and it's really fucking hard actually, but then he leaves his leg pressed up against Taylor's until they leave.

–

Taylor shifts around for the millionth time in as many minutes. The bus is too hot and too cold and too cramped and too . . . everything. He's got his iPad out and has Dexter queued up but can't find a good position for the iPad and his legs and his shoulders. Jordan shotgunned the window seat on the way to the bus and at first Taylor thought that the aisle would be awesome, more room for his legs, but then Arco spread out a blanket, grabbed his pillow, and camped out in the aisle. It's a mad genius idea and Taylor wishes he'd thought of it first, but now he's got nowhere for his legs except under the seat in front of him.

“Stop squirming,” Jordan says, shoving at his shoulder. “I can't sleep when you squirm.”

“I can't get comfortable,” Taylor says, shoving back. “This is the worst.”

House kicks his seat. “Tell us again how wonderful the Oilers plane is, seriously.”

Taylor hunches down in his seat. This is the worst, the absolute worst, but he might be down here for the whole season, given the way the negotiations are going, and he doesn't really want to be <i>that guy</i>.

“Here, just.” Jordan starts manhandling him a bit. “Sit up a minute, will you?” Taylor does and Jordan pulls his leg up behind Taylor and Taylor does not at all see how this is going to be comfortable? But then Jordan grabs his shoulders and turns Taylor away from him and pulls his back into Jordan's chest, so Taylor is basically reclining in a Jordan chair. Taylor tries really hard and really unsuccessfully to not think about every point of contact between them. 

He swings his legs up onto the armrest across the aisle, basically right over Arco's head, but he's asleep and Danis is all alone across the aisle and sleeping with his face mashed against the window and obviously not using the arm rest right now.

“Better?” Jordan whispers, and it's right in his ear and that's definitely what makes the goosebumps spread across the back of his neck. He wonders what Jordan will attribute his full body shudder to, but Jordan doesn't actually ask. Also is it better? No. And yes. 

“Yeah,” he says, just as quiet. It really has no business being comfortable, because they're still two tall, muscular dudes shoved into a seat made for people roughly half their size, but somehow it is, and it’s weird that it is. 

Jordan slings his arm over Taylor's shoulder, because it's that or leave it mashed between Taylor and the seat. He can feel when Jordan falls asleep again, because his breath gets deep and even against Taylor's shoulder.

Taylor puts his earbuds in, props the iPad against his knees, and hits play. He’ll deal with how good all of this feels later.

–

It’s Justin’s idea to go see Cloud Atlas. Taylor doesn’t really like going to movie theaters, he gets bored just sitting there trying to follow along with a plot he doesn’t really care about. He relents when Jordan tells him to stop being a non and promises to buy him a popcorn and lemonade, so he gets on his bike and follows them all down the street to the theater. 

Somehow, when they all go to sit down, Taylor ends up on the end of the row next to Justin, and Jordan’s on the other end next to Ryan, and all Taylor has is his watery lemonade. Ryan and Justin do this thing during the previews where they do a thumbs up or down on whether or not they’ll go see the movie. Jordan starts giving his opinion after he sees Ryan and Justin doing it. 

Taylor keeps his thumb down the whole time and eventually Justin stops turning to ask. 

He only makes it thirty-seven minutes into the movie. By the sixth time a new storyline is introduced and he’s leaned over again to Justin to ask if that’s still Tom Hanks under all the makeup and Justin has shushed him yet again, he just gets up and leaves. He waits in the lobby to see if anyone follows him but eventually Taylor has to concede that they might not have even noticed he’d left. Or maybe they just thought he was taking an extended bathroom break.

The lobby of the movie theater is boring and doesn’t have any couches and he’s actually pretty close to home because everything is pretty close to their apartment, so he just leaves.

He bikes around downtown. There’s a little canal area near the theater and a big statue of a covered wagon. He likes the canal. It’s absolutely nothing like the river in Edmonton but whatever, it’s trying. He stops outside Toby Keith’s restaurant to tweet about the movie and laughs at Whits’ response. 

Most of the time he’s not sure if it’s Oklahoma City that he likes or his anonymity. No one recognizes him here. No one stops him on the sidewalk to ask about their Cup chances. No one laments to him about their godawful power play, or how long it’s been since their last playoff run. No one gives him their insider tips or advice on going top shelf or five hole. He hasn’t been this anonymous in a really long time. 

If he’d stopped to think about it, and he never had, obviously, he’d have assumed he’d find it lonely, isolating. The first time he’d left the country, to go someplace that wasn’t the United States, he’d gone all the way to Russia for hockey. They had people to help them around, translators assigned to help them order dinner and find their way to the bathrooms. And, other than thinking they were obnoxious tourists, the Russians hadn’t really cared much about who he was. He keeps thinking about that time, about being in the middle of a crowd of people and completely unable to communicate with any of them unless they spoke English. 

They speak English in Oklahoma but it’s the same feeling, like there’s something lost in translation between him and the people strolling along the canal. 

He’d never been alone in Russia though, Jordan had been with him. He wonders why he feels more alone now, and he kind of hates it. 

As he’s contemplating that feeling, he realizes he’s hit the highway. And because he’s hit the highway, he doesn’t actually know where he is. It should be easy just turn around and go back the way he came, plus all the streets in Oklahoma City are numbered, but he can’t figure it out. He lets Siri direct him back to the apartment.

-

That's where it ends, these are the notes:

Lockout ends and they go back and Taylor is still pissy and doesn’t know why

Jordan confronts him about it

Taylor finally says that OKC was balls but he missed feeling like they were about to start something, like they were removed from their normal lives in a place where anything could happen

Jordan calls him an idiot and kisses him

“It was like. Anything could happen there. We could have just been two normal guys. And it made me think, if we were just two normal guys, what would I do.” 

“But you didn’t do anything.” 

Taylor shrugs. “We still weren’t normal guys, even though it felt like it.” 

“What’s normal? Nothing’s normal. There’s no such thing as normal.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“So we make a new normal,” Jordan says, and kisses him. 

Okay but now that I’ve been reminded of it I need to add something in there about bonking their heads together as they kiss. 

[lerr-writes-fic]

Music game!

rules: shuffle your “on repeat” playlist from spotify/the music service of your choice and post the first 10 tracks.

thanks for tagging me, @ellena-asg!!

I use Apple Music, so I put my Replay 2023 playlist on shuffle - it's gonna be a lot of Beyoncé, y'all.

spoiler alert: I am very predictable in ways even i could not imagine. Replay 2023 dragged my ass... more under the cut!

Steve Biko (Stir It Up) by A Tribe Called Quest

if I'm not listening to Beyoncé or movie soundtracks, I'm listening to A Tribe Called Quest.

2. SUMMER RENAISSANCE by Beyoncé

what a powerful way to end her rebirth after Lemonade. Also love that she sampled by man Giorgio Moroder who also worked on the soundtracks for Scarface (1983) and Top Gun (1986).

3. CHURCH GIRL by Beyoncé

this is my absolute favorite song on RENAISSANCE. "nobody can judge me but me, I was born free" brings me to tears and then I immediately shake my ass bc Beyoncé tells me to "drop it like a thotty, drop like thotty."

4. Verses from the Abstract by A Tribe Called Quest

this song is from The Low End Theory, which is a different album from song #1. it's wild to think this album wasn't a big commercial success, but it still went on to create alternative hip hop.

5. 6 Inch (feat. The Weeknd) by Beyoncé

this is my second fave song from Lemonade, and how could anyone not love this song? a sexy song about a woman working her ass off thinking she's doing it for herself, but in the end, she was trying to get her man's approval... brutal

6. Main Title (From the Motion Picture "Scarface") by Giorgio Moroder

okay y'all, i swear i'm writing these lil tidbits in real time as i listen. i had no idea this song would come up despite mentioning it in my answer for #2. fun fact about this album: it was not available on streaming until 2022, which i know bc i bought the Scarface CD in 2020 so that I could listen to it in my car

7. Top of the World by Trevor Jones

not gonna lie, my least favorite song from this album was next, so I skipped and got this song instead, which is an actual bop! fun fact about The Last of the Mohicans, it was my least favorite movie for 13 years, but i gave it a final chance a while back. lemme tell ya, Michael Mann does not disappoint, and the music is outstanding.

8. Auto Rock by Mogwai

another song from another Michael Mann movie, this time it's Miami Vice (2006), and apparently this is my most played song this year. Michael Mann does such a wonderful job of picking music to fit the tone of his movie endings.

9. Line of Sight (feat. WYNNE & Mansionair) by ODESZA

full disclosure, i had to skip 4 more songs from Beyoncé's RENAISSANCE to get to this song... sorry not sorry

10. Elk Hunt by Trevor Jones

welp, I guess we just had to end on a Michael Mann movie song. This the best song in The Last of the Mohicans though, so i ain't complaining.

welp. i am nothing if not predictable, which i hate 🤣🤣

[dzpenumbra]

2/14/23

Today was bad.

Yoga was alright, nothing too extreme, just longer than usual. I ate a muffin after. I had a whole plan. I was going to eat the muffin, then shower (with no music, so I - in theory - shower faster), then grab an apple, grab my consent form and head out to the health center. While in the shower, I had the realization that I have absolutely no accurate perception of time in the shower, especially when I have a plentiful supply of hot water. I would use music to time my showers, dating all the way back to high school, before that, I would be in the shower up to 45 minutes sometimes. It was helpful to remember that, a far-dated reminder that this issue with knowing where I am in time is a lifelong thing I've struggled with. I can pick up contextual clues, but my intuitive internal clock is just one big "?".

I grabbed my apple and form and headed out. Then started to think of this really stupid joke to break the ice with the doctors - using humor as a coping mechanism to ease my anxiety. I was going to ask them if it was okay if I brought the apple into the lobby. You know, "an apple a day", that whole thing. Yeah. <groan> But as I thought that, I realized I didn't have my bandana with me. You know, the whole ongoing infectious disease pandemic thing. So I went back and got it. This was just like... the first of a chain reaction of things going wrong.

I brought the form in, the dude behind the counter looked at it as though he had no idea what a form was... just in general, let alone this form. He had a second person look it over to check and make sure it was properly filled out. I was just like... I mean... it's an information disclosure form. It had my therapist's name and address, their name and address... and "Full Medical History" checked, and my signature and date. THAT'S IT. And this dude who I have never met before, who doesn't know me from Adam, is reading my therapist's name and address out loud, and asking for help checking to see if this form was like... filled out correctly. ... It had weird vibes. So as the woman he called over for help came over... the doctor came in. The one I met with. And she didn't acknowledge my presence at all. And someone walked behind me... And the whole fucking situation just made me go into like... "I'm in the woods and I don't entirely think I'm on a trail anymore and it's getting dark super quick, oh and I just heard some twigs snap over there" mode. I mean... a lesser degree of it, but still... I went inward real quick. And I just wanted to get out of there. Like... it's a week after my appointment and I'm finally getting this form in. The two people are like... taking 5 whole minutes to verify I actually filled this form out correctly... and the doctor who I should be consulting with about like... following up on this form? She's standing like a foot and a half behind them. I was going to point that out, but... I felt it would be a bit forward or something, like she obviously just got out of an appointment, it was the end of the day, I didn't want to put her on the spot. Right when the second receptionist gave a masked smile and thumbs up, and "yeah, you're all set." I gave a warm "thanks" and speed walked the fuck out of there. I could not get out of that health center quick enough.

I was upset with myself when I got in the car. I have a serious problem with... feeling unfairly judged by medical personnel. I have a long, traumatic history involved with this, so it's very justified, and I'm doing my best to work through it. But I just got this thought in my head when I got in my car, this vibe from the place, that I should lock my fucking doors. Like I could get stabbed or robbed in the lobby or something. I got that vibe when I was on the street with all the shops the other day, before dinner with my brother/nephew/sister-in-law. And... I mean... isn't that judgement? Isn't that me being presumptuously judgmental? Isn't that me doing exactly what fucks with me when people do it to me? And yeah, like I said, I got upset with myself for this. And I still can't really find a good inner resolution for it. Probably because I'm still on high yellow alert right now.

I had a bit of trouble fear-wise just... getting out the door today. I don't know what factor caused it, it feels like sometimes I just have days where it's like... my feet are glued to the ground and I have to make myself go do that kind of stuff. Like my brainstem is just going, "no. bad. danger. no." but not even using words, just draining all of my energy and making it super difficult for me to do anything. Like... self-sabotage. After the doctor situation kinda... set it off worse? It carried through basically the entire day.

I'm realizing that this all probably sounds super normal to people. Not my reaction, of course, but like... the things that happened. Like... to an outsider, what I described probably sounded like I handed a form to a desk clerk, it took longer than expected, then I got in my car. And that might have been frustrating. And that's it. But for me? For me, that was like... god, it's so hard to describe. Like walking to the grocery store in a bad neighborhood. Alone. There it is. That kinda vibe. Like, it's just a simple task, right? And you just need milk and eggs, so it'll be quick. It's just 2 blocks, just knock it out quick. And then you get there, and the clerk is going to ring you up but they need to balance the register first... and someone sketchy walks into the store and looks at you... That kind of feeling. That's what this felt like for me. And this is not that kind of situation. Like... you saw my reaction immediately after, being frustrated with myself for being that judgmental. I don't think this is a bad neighborhood. There is an elementary school across the street, for fuck's sake! But the vibes were that strong that I was like... actually worried and wondering if I should leave my wallet in my car. I mean that. That's what PTSD will do. That's how convincing it is. Because the pain that was caused to me, the threat that I know from experience is looming right in that building... it really is that dangerous. It is a bad neighborhood for me.

And I feel so horrible about it, because the doctor seems really sweet, and creative, and around my age, and I feel like we could actually be friends if we had the opportunity to get to know eachother.

I carried that fear all the way to Goodwill with me. My personal space comfort-level bubble was like... 10 foot radius today. Like... I was on a mission. I did not want to dawdle. I had a list of furniture written on my hand, I just wanted to get what I wanted and get the fuck out. And... they had fuck-all for furniture. Like... nothing. And... okay, this is silly, but I've had this thing for a long time. I do not like to leave stores without buying something. I don't want people to like... think I'm stealing something. Yeah, I'm an anxious wreck, I know. It's part of this "people suspicious of me" trauma thing. So... I spent a good 15 minutes (which is a long time to be aimlessly wandering, pretending to look at things in a mostly empty store) listening to shitty music and just... trying to think past furniture. Past the frustration. I saw a candleholder, that broke me out of it. It took a few times of looking at it, but I was like... I have this color changing candle that I've never gotten to light because I've never had a candle holder. Well... there I go. And then I found a pretty cool bowl that I liked, could use it for whatever really... then I found a double boiler set, which I was super stoked about, because I ordered a book about a week ago about making your own inks and paints from scratch, and that would really be perfect, I'd imagine. Good for wax work too. And then I found a set of 6 pairs of chopsticks that I thought was sweet. So I grabbed all of that, and a pair of sunglasses too. All I had to do was just... break through the wall, you know? And it started to get a bit better.

And the guy at the checkout actually talked to me, which was... uncomfortable and awkward for me. On "off-days", small-talk is just... it's really forced for me. It's really difficult. So I kinda tripped on my words a lot, and avoided eye contact and shit. And I always feel bad for that, like... I feel bad for extroverts in that situation, they rarely know what to make of me, I'm sure they think there's something wrong with me, or I'm rude or something. If only they knew it was just... suffering. And surprise, honestly. And being out of practice. But I'm sure they deal with enough older people that they're kinda used to some of that. The guy was nice enough and seemed stoked about the chopstick set and the double boiler. I appreciated his enthusiasm.

I went down the road and got food from a fast food place that makes like... real food. But it's affordable and it's really good. I got a Nashville Hot Chicken Sandwich and a Salted Caramel Milkshake. I don't know why I capitalized that, I just felt like making it fancier, I guess. It was really good.

I went home. I ate this food around like... 5:30. My whole schedule has been completely off. But I just said "fuck it" and got food wherever there was a calm in the storm. It paid off.

My mom called. We got 15 minutes in and... conflict. She went up to her barn to look at the scrap wood up there, to check and see if her carpenter friend would be able to make some kind of table or something out of it. She didn't think so. I got frustrated, I was saying stuff like "why is this so damn hard? why can't I just get like... any sized table? Just to put plants on! Or a bookcase? Like any bookcase made from real wood? Is this too much to ask?" Just... flustered. And just... ugh. Like actually confused. Like... okay... if there's no wood in your barn... just like... ask him to buy some cheap lumber, cut it up and make some rudimentary furniture pieces for me to assemble. I literally just need someone with a power saw to cut wood into the right size pieces so I can assemble them. Like... it would be preferable if they didn't assemble it, then the pieces could ship easily. But... for some fucking reason... I am still running into snags with this. And I have been living here for 2 months now. And all my shit is still in boxes. And I have a feeling... yet again... that my shit is going to stay in boxes the entire time I live here. Yet again.

I WONDER WHY.

And... after a decade of this? You just kinda... get used to living with your shit in cardboard boxes in your living room. It becomes normal. Until someone points it out, then you just feel fucking shame.

My mom, having had a difficult day herself... most of which she did not disclose to me until like... the 4 hour mark... decided to take my expression of frustration personally. Just like my ex used to. She was expecting me to thank her for checking the barn for me. And she got my frustration instead. And she thought that frustration was directed towards her. I have no idea how that leap happens, but... it seems staggeringly common. And... it got bad. And I said a few times internally and vocally that I should have left... but... I was scared. Again. I was scared of losing help, losing assistance, losing family... So I stayed. It was bad.

It eventually turned around. I don't know how. It was well after the 2.5 hour mark. I legit feel like I ran a marathon right now. Like... all I did today was yoga, eat, drop off a form, buy some second hand dishes and shit, get takeout and talk on the phone. That was like my entire day. And I feel like I climbed a damn mountain. Emotional exhaustion is just... brutal.

After the "conversation", I put on a stream. That stream just... got really stressful. He was stressing out about how sketchy Twitch is getting, and was clearly super uncomfortable talking about it. The chat kept like... giving live updates on a school shooter and shit, which was super dark and I really don't know why we need to fucking live-Tweet that shit. Like "okay guys, the dude offed himself, we're good" like it's a fucking TV show or something. Like... I've been on a campus where I guy threatened to comeback with a gun, and actually fucking did. Whether he was going to use it or not? Who cares. That feeling? Bro, these fucking kids are in a Twitch chat, you're on the fucking internet, you're not fucking helping by just... following the breaking news and eating popcorn. Why the fuck is that entertaining? This shit is not entertainment. This is terror. It's fucked up shit. And then they go and try to justify it by saying some shit like... "it's important to stay informed" or shit like that. For real? What, so I can stop the next school shooting? Are you shitting me? So I can recite statistics when I'm inevitably quizzed on this? No, I don't need to fetishize a horrific tragedy happening half a continent away from me. I don't need to buy the narrative that following the live-tweets of this trending topic is actually doing anything but giving clicks (aka MONEY) to "journalism" companies. This is not about being informed, it's about being entertained. And making money. And that sickens me. And I don't even want to talk about it anymore. Seriously. It's so fucking dark and gross how we've normalized this. Like... pass the info along to people who can help, who need the info, don't turn the terror and pain of others into a fucking reality show, you sick fucks.

Ugh. That really upset me, in case you didn't notice. Ugh, I'm like... shivering, shuddering.

So I eventually just turned that off entirely, the vibes were just way too bad. I put on YouTube and Rimworld. I made ramen with eggs and scallions and a broth with smoked maple habanero sriracha, soy sauce and sesame oil in it. One of my new favorites. I put on a YouTuber I like who looks into really weird esoteric historic spiritual texts from all over the world. This one was about Greek, Roman and Egyptian magic papyri: spells, incantations, rituals, stuff like that. I thought it was interesting, and I'm curious to compare different cultural rituals to see the similarities and differences are. At the level of like... conceptual. Some are very direct, like almost conversational with a deity or being, just saying like... "_____, please bless and protect _____", or "_____, use your power to bind this demon, and if you're cool like kicking them out and shit too that'd be great, thanks". Others are like... symbolic? Like doing an action in life that kinda symbolizes and pantomimes the action you want yourself? Like breaking a reed and giving the halves to two strong men and having them walk towards eachother while chanting, then when the halves meet, bind the united reed to your broken leg and this theatre and dance will help your leg heal faster. No matter how silly it might seem, I actually think that kind of visualization would help, at very least morale-wise. Some involve mixing symbolic ingredients. Some are a combination of all of them. I don't know, I found it very interesting and I'm curious to look into it more.

I'd like to actually perform some form of traditional blessing for some of my jewelry pieces at some point. Obviously protection, for a person like me, after the day I described, shouldn't be too surprising. But peace and healing as well would be nice. And yeah, I'm a hippie in that regard, and I'm kinda getting past the judgment on it. I think of it this way. If I take... half an hour of my life. And I devote that time and effort exclusively to wishing a complete stranger feels protected and safe. That sacrifice, that act, that devotion of myself towards that sentiment - that means something. The thing that I give them can serve as a reminder, a symbol, of that act. And looking at that bracelet or necklace reminds them of that, "someone put a lot of love into this, in order to remind me that I can feel safe right now." If that person normally doesn't feel safe? And my act of devotion? My act of devoting myself to that degree to send a message to them, is referred to? And makes a difference in the future? How is that not magic? :D

Inspiration, kindness, sentiment. These are so powerful. And these little reminders, totems, mementos. These are things I'd like to make right now. These I'm feeling strongly drawn towards. Things that are beautiful, but that can also provide people a practical use for emotional wellbeing. An act that transcends superstition and becomes more of a... personal reconnection... a reminder of concepts that we might need in our lives. Like a tattoo. Like what tattoos do.

If you're new here, would you be surprised to hear that I trained to be a tattooist? XD Maybe this was a natural transition. I always saw tattoos as a sacred art. Very personal, like scars, reminders/messages to the self. I'd like to pursue other forms of sacred art as well. ... I'd like to continue, that is... XD

I wrote a lot here tonight.

Today had so much darkness in it, within and without. And I came out the ass-end of it wanting nothing more than to conjure up as much light as I can, imbue it into whatever I create and get that in the hands of those whose lives it would vastly improve. So, again, my plan is to use that light to... heal myself, for one. Then figure out where to go from there.

And in the meantime, I'm going to try to not think about what day tomorrow is. -_-

[dxringred]

What made Robin turn? I would like full disclosure over this issue. Like, how it happened the first time, how her parents reacted, does she still have a place in her house? What changed after the first transformation?

well, as i mentioned in a previous ask, she was bitten while on holiday when she was 7. she and her parents were having dinner at a beach-side restaurant when there was suddenly a commotion outside. next thing everyone knows, a werewolf comes crashing through the glass front of the building like it's nothing before jumping onto the nearest patron and beginning to eat his face off. cue, unsurprisingly, absolute pandemonium. people screaming and all trying to flee the building at the same time. most make a run for the main exit, including robin and her parents, but the crowd is thick; people are shoving, shoulder to shoulder, toe to heel, and robin's hand gradually, eventually, slips out of her father's, and the throng of people swallows her whole.

she gets knocked all over the place before being accidentally tripped and falling to the floor. people practically trample all over her, and by the time she lifts her head again from under the safety of her arms, the crowd is meters ahead of her. she sees people all but trying to climb over each other to get out of the door, blocked by three people trying to squeeze through it at once like sardines packed too tightly into a can.

for a few seconds, there’s silence and then, behind her, the sound of growling; of heavy footfalls. she turns, and the werewolf is prowling towards her, its brown fur matted with blood, its muzzle dripping with it. she immediately tries to scramble to her feet to get away, but she doesn't make it very far before the creature sinks its teeth into her leg. she screams. she's never felt a pain so horrible, so excruciating, in her short life, and-- wait, what's this? it's... it's... BY GOD, IT'S MR. BUCKLEY WITH A RESTAURANT CHAIR! and he fucking bitch slaps that werewolf around the head with it before it can tear robin’s leg off completely. 

the thing lets go, and robin is gathered into her mother’s waiting arms, her dad stood between them and the werewolf with nothing but the now half-broken chair for protection. the werewolf is obviously fine, but now more pissed than before. (if that’s even possible.) the whole family thinks they’re going to die, and robin’s parents are almost at peace with it -- at least they’ll go together -- but suddenly there’s gunfire, and they all fall instinctively to the floor as bullets spray into the restaurant. the werewolf howls in pain as silver is shot into its pelt, over and over again until one bullet finally tears through its heart and it drops, dead. the police had been chasing the beast through town and finally caught up. 

robin’s taken to the hospital. she’s not the only casualty. she’s lucky she wasn’t one of the several fatalities. the image of the restaurant floor covered in blood and what was left of the patrons closest to the window will haunt her until she’s old enough to forget. the bite on her leg is deep, but it isn’t serious. it’ll heal. she’ll live. she sees a man from a nearby cubicle being hauled off, screaming something about cages and monsters. she hears her dad begging a doctor outside her own curtain to let them go home. “please, she’s just a little girl,” he says desperately. “we’ll take care of it. we’ll make sure she never hurts anybody.” a few minutes later, her mom’s carrying her out to the car as they leave. 

if i followed her parents’ seemingly canon portrayal, she’d be dead or homeless by this point, which is why i’m not lol. here, they love their little girl, and her affliction doesn’t change that. her dad starts working in the basement in the evenings. she tries asking him what he’s doing, curious, but he just gives her a sad smile and ruffles her hair instead of answering. she doesn’t find out until the hour before the next full moon when her parents finally take her down there for the first time. it’s completely empty. the floor has been set with fresh concrete, there are chains coming out of the ground, and the door has more locks on it than she can count. 

they hug her and tell her they love her, and then they clamp heavy chains around her wrists and her ankles. her dad tells her, “be brave, robin,” and kisses her forehead, and then they leave her there. she’s 7. she cries. she yells for them to come back. they don’t. after a few minutes, there’s an awful pain in her tummy. all her teeth hurt. her fingers itch. she feels dizzy and like she’s going to be sick. the next thing she knows, she’s waking up on her back in the basement. she aches everywhere. her parents come and let her out. it’s morning. she cries again and asks them why they left her there. 

she’s not really old enough to understand the scope of the truth, and so they try to explain it as simply as they can. (don’t ask me why they waited until after; it’s for the drama.) they sit her down with ice-cream and tell her that because of the bad wolf that hurt her, she’ll also turn into a bad wolf “every time the moon is full” and that she has to go in the basement to keep her safe. (they don’t tell her that the alternative is a prison cell or even being put down.) she just about gets it; enough to know that she isn’t being punished and they don’t hate her. it’s tough for the first few years, of course. she doesn’t adjust to the pain; it still hurts like hell every time, but her parents always spoil her the day after. she doesn’t have to go to school, she’s allowed to watch cartoons all day and have ice-cream for dinner. she forgets about being chained in the basement the night before relatively fast.

by the time she’s 10, she understands that it’s for everyone else’s protection more than it is hers. she understands that she can and will hurt people. she understands why she has to be chained down every full moon. by the time she’s 14, she knows exactly what she is. she knows that she could rip her mother’s head off with one swing or run her dad through as though he were made of jelly. she starts tracking the lunar cycle on two separate calendars and in her notebook. she wants to be chained up in the basement because what she doesn’t want is to hurt anyone. 

it’s around this time that her parents start leaving her at home on her own for days at a time in their search for some sort of cure; they’ve been trying for years with no success. now that she’s old enough to understand the true gravity of her affliction and (arguably, i mean it is the 80s-) stay home alone, they can broaden where they’re looking and follow leads that require them to visit other states or even countries. (when the main story takes place, for example, they’re following rumors in greece.)

so, nothing changes, really. it just becomes something they have to deal with. robin’s parents love her, and her curse doesn’t change that. they’ve done all they can to keep her (and others) safe and refuse to give up on finding some sort of cure or aid for her. nancy will, of course, help with that search in the end. 

[yaffles-world]

Hi! I feel like this was more statement/fact question based rather then the previous stronger leaning imaginary style asks- I had fun! A nice change of pace hehe.

Romantic F/O - Spike Spiegel

rose - how many brain cells would you estimate there are between you and your f/o?

20. Shared completely. All or nothing or some sort of mix who knows. It's a hazard :D

anemone - in ten words or less, describe the dynamic between you and your f/o.

Loving couple who exist on spectrum of cool - organised - stupid

dahlia - what song and/or song lyric do you most associate with your f/o?

Money - the drums. Particularly funny story, I was making a playlist of songs thatI relate to Spike in some way, and spotify auto suggested this based on songs already in the playlist, and i was like "SORCERY" because I'd never heard it before and it was so Spike. Basically, it's about a guy who makes a mistake and wants to make up for it but feels like he can't because he's broke which is a Big thing with Spike, to learn he doesn't need money. Also the vibe of the song fits.

tulip - go to your f/o's wiki page and quote your favorite part of it.

That's a DANGEROUS GAME

buttercup - give an incorrect quote of you and your f/o.

So full disclosure I just looked at the incorrect quote tag on Tumblr idk hehe

Me: You're late.

Spike: You're handsome

Me:... You're forgiven.

marigold - what is your favorite picture, video, and/or moment of your f/o?

Anyone paying attention to the canon of our relationship will remember this - either the one of him asleep in the car with his flower crown or when he's sleeping in bed with Sunny our cat on his chest :D

orchid - is your f/o also your favorite character from their respective media, or is it someone else?

Yeah he is! He's also the main character - it's very unusual for me to like the main character the most hehe. Jet is a close second but Spike is leading, definitely.

sunflower - do you make fun of or tease your f/o a lot, or can you not bring yourself to be lovingly mean to them?

I'm not usually a making fun of kind of person but yes absolutely. He can take it, and he needs it hehe. Plus he gives as good as he gets. And sometimes that goes too far but it all just ends in cuddles so… :D

zinnia - how often do you think about your f/o? do they live in your head rent free or do you not think about them for months on end before suddenly hyperfixating on them nonstop for a week?

I haven't really had a proper f/o before so I'm not sure. But judging from previous fixations he shall reappear at random hehe. At the moment, it's rent free in my head :D. With the few other f/os that weren't as intense it's like "oh hi" talk for a few minutes then they go again for a day or so...so who knows hehe.

lily - what would you say is the color scheme of you and your f/o?

Purple and blue

hydrangea - list your full playlist for your f/o.

Uh? https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5tm1odu3YnqayeTItmcJCz?si=Z1-x4LTBRj-Mik_arT0sJw&utm_source=copy-link

iris - does your self insert for your f/os source material have a detailed and complex story and character arc, or are they just kinda vibing?

My self insert is kinda just me but adapted to fit in a mix AU between our world and Spike's. I'm sorta just making stuff up as I go along - since it's just me, I make stuff up as I go along and its relevant hehe like being friends with Jet, how I met Spike, etc. So basically just vibing haha

peony - how many images, gifs, and videos of your f/o do you have saved to your gallery?

Only 27 because I'm too scared to google him cos spoilers. Thanks irummna for 12 of those :D

[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Face/Off

OK, so this might be cheating a tiny bit because technically I have seen this movie many times and no one EXPLICITLY requested it. But Wife believed that, and I quote, “the people would really want to hear” my thoughts about this one. So here we are, watching John Woo’s masterpiece, Face/Off for the first time in probably 10 years or so, and man oh man is there a lot that I forgot about this movie. For the uninitiated, this is the classic tale of John Travolta and Nicolas Cage swapping faces - it’s kind of like The Parent Trap if one of the Lindsay Lohan twins was a professional...bad person? (It’s unclear what Castor Troy actually does besides fuck shit up) and the other twin was a high-ranking FBI agent. Oh and the first twin killed the son of the second twin. Ok, so it’s not really like The Parent Trap. Full disclosure: I apologize for nothing. I unabashedly love this movie for every single ridiculous moment of its 2 hr 19 min running time. And I saw this in THEATERS. I was TEN YEARS OLD. And before you start judging my parents too harshly, this movie inspired a very healthy fear of both drugs and plastic surgery into me, so really it was more effective than most D.A.R.E. programs according to the data, so I say once again - thanks John Woo!

Some thoughts:

TWO HOURS and NINETEEN MINUTES. It’s frankly ridiculous, and if it were any other director I would say learn to edit, man, but John Woo really knows how to make a slow motion shot work. 

Castor (Nic Cage)  is so much more disgusting now that I’m grown. Like, when I was a kid he was just a cartoonish villain, but now his rampant misogyny and sexual predator antics at every turn is WAY more creepy and disturbing than his tendency to just shoot people.

More people should follow John Woo’s lead - this motherfucker loves sparks in his action scenes, and they’re so much more visually interesting than just plain explosions. Broke: you shoot a car’s gas tank and it explodes. Woke: You shoot the engine of a passenger jet and a shower of sparks goes everywhere.

This is Academy Award winner Nicolas Cage’s finest performance, tbh. He gets to go full unhinged crazy pants for half the movie, and then turn on a dime and play the determined no-nonsense FBI man. I genuinely love Nic Cage with my entire heart, because he - has - the - range.

One underrated thing about this movie is its score. The funky bass line when Castor first arrives, the overwrought strings during every chase scene, the triumphant orchestral swell when Sean stages the prison coup - it’s so cheesy and SO good. 

Reason #57 this whole face switching plan is insane - they did no psychological exam or evaluation to determine whether Sean (John Travolta) would lose his damn mind by going through the intense trauma of wearing his son’s murderer’s face. You’re telling me he didn’t have to fill out a single form before they cut his literal face off? If I know anything about the government, I know there would be so much paperwork involved before anyone’s face was going anywhere. 

Why are we not talking about the massive problem it is that there exists a prison where “the Geneva convention doesn’t exist” and that Amnesty International has never heard of? Like, Castor is a bad guy, sure, but we’re supposed to just be fine with this? This is the precursor to the raft prison they built in Captain America: Civil War that is meant to house literal superheroes and is completely off the grid. That’s not okay! The copaganda runs so deep, it genuinely boggles my mind that I grew up watching movies like this and only now that I’ve unlearned so many things can I even recognize how absolutely fucked up it all is. 

John Travolta doesn’t get enough credit for this movie either - all the attention goes to Nic Cage and his bonkers facial expressions, but Travolta is having the time of his goddamn life doing his little dances, singing his little songs. We all know he loves musicals, and I love that he gets to showcase that here but through villainy.

Sean’s entire escape plan hinged on Dubov (Chris Bauer) getting his brain fried first, but he had no way of knowing that would be the exact moment Dubov would be in the clinic getting fried. 

Also one of my favorite things is that during the escape when one of the guards is burned by acid he screams the same scream that was used in the credits for Aah! Real Monsters.

Oh and we have to talk about the fact that Sean escapes the prison by just - jumping in the fucking ocean? How did he not die? How did he get to land? And the helicopter just STOPPED LOOKING for him? Didja spend all your money on magnetized boots so the “helicopter that searches for escaped prisoners” fund ran dry in your terrifying war crime prison budget?

In retrospect, I should have realized that I was into women based on how very hard I crushed on Gina Gershon in this movie. Velvet top with satin pants and the Jennifer Aniston haircut? SO INTO IT.

Taylor Swift is re-recording all her old masters now, right? I’m just saying, I really think she would be smart to collaborate with John Woo on a new video for “Sparks Fly,” because, and I can’t stress this enough, NOBODY loves sparks more than John Woo. Nobody.

What even is this building Dietrich (Nick Cassavetes) lives in? It’s like an airplane hanger but there are stairs and black lacquer furniture, but there’s like a basement lobby thing that’s all marble and tile and a circle of mirrors and giant plants? Who designed this? Is it a hotel? I have so many questions.

I know that the benchmark for future technology is the flying car, but I ask you, how is it possible that we don’t live in a world where people can swap faces like this yet? Or DO WE and it is all just black ops operations like this. Oh lord, I’m probably gonna start getting batshit crazy QAnon type conspiracy Facebook ads now that I’ve typed that sentence on the internet.

Also pretty fucked up that Castor - as Sean - sleeps with Eve (Joan Allen) and both she and the real Sean are just kind of like “yeah I know, rape by deception really sucks, guess we’ll just have to deal with it.” Like how much therapy does this whole family need now??

What kind of church is this where doves are just flapping around INSIDE the entrance by the remembrance candles? And there’s just so many of them. Like at least 30 doves. Doesn’t that feel like too many doves? You know what, nevermind, I shouldn’t have doubted John Woo’s vision - keep the sparks and doves coming, buddy, I’m here for it.

There’s no way you drive a boat THROUGH ANOTHER FUCKING BOAT and emerge completely unharmed. 

Ohh teen daughter Jamie (Dominique Swain) doesn’t have her nose ring anymore! That’s how you know she’s no longer broken.

And Sean just brings a new 5-year-old son to live with them and everything is totally fine, as if no time has passed. That’s how you heal collective trauma, right? By simply replacing your murdered son with a different 5-year-old boy? Ah, the 90s.

Everything about this movie is exactly what I want movies to be like. You’ve got great villains who are really in it for the DRAMA of it all, you’ve got stalwart and true (read: repressed) heroes who are willing to do what it takes to get the job done, and you’ve got more sparks and doves than you know what to do with. 

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

[chickawah23]

Full disclosure: I don’t think k/t are together any more, but I still follow in hope of hope, & I enjoy your blog. But this take that they are together & kk is somehow just rouge doing things that her partner/co parent isn’t ok with is almost fanfic like. Kk won’t drive me away, but this narrative that TS is a guilty pushover being taken advantage of will. I respect Taylor more than that and I don’t believe it.

I hear you. I know there are plenty of people out there who agree with you. For me it’s the fact that Taylor is 32 years old. That is what I say to myself when things start getting a little coocoobananapants. Taylor is 32 years old. Lol she is grown. Karlie is turning 30 in august of this year. Lol these people are grown. Team work makes the dream work.

I tend to think about what life between pap walks, social media posts, photoshoots, interviews, and work trips (All of which can be filmed, recorded, made over the course of a couple days) is like for them. Most of the things we see tell us absolutely nothing about them because that’s not what celebrity is for. It’s all about selling a marketable version of yourself to the public real enough that people find you relatable but extravagant enough that people are interested in being like you. Who are these people when no one is looking...?

I live for the mundanity. In how many photos is Karlie hiding gum in her mouth? What car air freshener does taylor use? Has Taylor ever walked into a room in one of her many houses and said to herself “wow I don’t think I’ve ever been in here”? What coffee mug does Karlie avoid using and why? When is the last time either of them did their own laundry? How mad does Karlie get when she’s losing during a friendly game of volleyball? What is Taylor’s go-to choice of pan for making a hot breakfast? Does Taylor know she snores?

And I’m okay not getting answers to any of these questions.

This was a rambly ramble post but it’s okay.

[gureishi]

yoosung + beloved hands pls? 🥺

An absolutely ADORABLE request.

Full disclosure: this is, somehow, my first time writing Yoosung. I~...really wanted to do the sweet boy justice. Thank you @currentlyprocrastinating for consulting with me about darling Yoosung. <3

Valentine’s Vignettes requests are open! Guidelines are here.

beloved hands (Yoosung)

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

He is uncharacteristically quiet beside you. His gait is hesitant—as though he’s waiting for something.

It’s cold today; you stuff your hands in your pockets, slowing your pace to match his. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, always: a protective gesture his friends mock him for. You find it unbearably charming.

The air feels still and quiet: maybe it’s the cold, or the gray, wet whether. You wonder if this is the reason he seems sad.

“Yoosung?”

He turns to face you too fast, his eyes too bright, his smile too big. He’s pretty good at this—playing pretend—but you know him too well.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

His face falls; he’s been caught.

He tries one more time: “Nothing,” he sings, with a big, false grin. Nope. You’re not letting him get away with that.

You sigh, stopping at the crosswalk. Cars rush by, windows rain-speckled. And that’s when you notice it—he stands close to you, as always, but there’s something...

His left hand, the one closest to you, hangs a little awkwardly. It’s half-outstretched, fingers reaching vaguely toward your pocket. Ah-ha.

“Yoosung, did you...did you want to hold hands?”

An expression crosses over his face that puzzles you: a mixture of surprise and relief and something else, too. He blinks, eyes wide and innocent. Oh, it’s too easy to read him.

He laughs, plays it off. “What makes you say that?” You recognize the other emotion now. It’s written all over his face. He’s afraid.

You pull your hand out of your pocket and hold it out—perhaps excessively enthusiastically.

“You’re my boyfriend, Yoosung. Of course you can hold my hand.”

His cheeks flush; he’s so cute like this you could tackle him to the ground right here, at the crosswalk.

“It’s not that...” he murmurs. The light’s green, but you stand there still, side by side. Your hand is outstretched and he peers down at it, but he doesn’t move.

“Yoosung, please hold my hand.”

He giggles, face red. “When you say it like that, you make me want to even more!” Finally, he grabs your hand. His is warm and soft and wonderful; you interweave your fingers.

You step off the curb, crossing the street—he follows, a pace or so behind you. You clutch his hand tightly. Somehow, you know there’s more—his face didn’t look like that just because he wanted to hold hands.

“So why were you sad?” you ask him. You swing your clasped hands, like a little kid on the playground—it makes him smile.

He hums, hesitating. “I know you wouldn’t laugh, but...don’t, okay?”

You squeeze his hand. “Please tell me.”

“My hands...” His face is red again and he stares straight ahead.“They’re…small,” he says at last, in a quiet voice.

“They’re what?”

He sighs, stopping again. He pulls his hand free and holds it up, palm facing you. Understanding, you hold up your own hand, line up your fingers. It’s true that they are similar in size—you’d never thought about it before.

He doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “See? I thought you’d like someone with bigger, stronger hands, you know. There’s stories about that. Men in romances always have...um, large, manly hands.”

He’s looking down, biting his lip. You know this isn’t just about hands. Somewhere deep inside this beautiful, loving boy, there’s a little demon that whispers you’re not enough.

Moving closer to him, you take his hand in both of yours. You dip your head and press a soft kiss to his thumb. His gaze finally falls on your face—his eyes are huge.

“What are you doing?”

“Yoosung, I love your hands,” you tell him. You kiss the tip of his index finger. “They are beautiful and they are soft. They cook me delicious food. They write me wonderful messages.” You kiss his middle finger, his ring finger. “They rub away the tension when I have a headache. They hold me when I’m cold at night. They...do all sorts of things for me, at night, actually.” You wiggle your eyebrows, taking his pinky into your mouth and giving it a gentle nibble. He squeaks.

“You don’t wish they were more…”

“No.”

You take both his hands and place them on your cheeks. He’s so close now, fresh-smelling and enticing.

“B-but if I only...” He’s got that quality in his voice he gets right before he kisses you: lilting, musical.

“Your hands are perfect,” you tell him. You lean in, begging with your eyes; he gives you what you need—he always does—brushing his soft lips over yours. 

“You promise?” he whispers and you kiss him again, parting your lips, pulling both his hands down to encircle your waist.

He deepens this kiss this time, and there’s relief in the way he holds you. You slip your own hands inside his jacket, wrap your arms all the way around him.

“Mmm,” you hum into his lips. “You are perfect.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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[almightyellie]

p.s. i love you

in which your best friend gets sent to war, and for the first time, you begin to wonder if he’s just your best friend.

word count: 16.4k

a/n: full disclosure: i know absolutely nothing about ww2 and i did not care enough to do my research, but this is not about historical accuracy, it’s about VIBES. I’ve read this so many times that i don’t really know whats going on with it anymore but heres this

title song: p.s. i love you // billie holiday

Childhood best friends.

Of course, it looks—from the outside—that you two are meant for one another. That’s because no one knows the ins and outs of your years-long friendship. It looks like you’re made for one another because you had spent all your life mentally jotting down every last detail of Gwilym Lee. You weren’t meant for one another, though you fit together like two puzzle pieces. No higher power has made sure of that. No, you fit together because you had spent years melding yourselves into one another’s sides, listening and learning and laughing. You were not made soulmates, but you had chosen one another, and in some ways, that made it more special.

You had never been without him. It’s what makes his departure such a flurry of emotions. Between the proud smiles of the old ladies in your church (“What’ll you do without him, Y/N?” They’d always tease; you weren’t proud to admit that you weren’t sure) and the tears of your mothers and filling every single day you have left together with one of his relentless plans, you almost forget that you’re losing him, too. Not just your mothers or the women from the church or the man who works behind the counter at the soda shop. You. You are losing your best friend, and it hardly hits you until the two of you are standing in front of his stoop, bags in the boot and the car running at the curb.

You’ve been light-hearted about it since the letter came, almost as though nothing was going to change, but when his parents leave you two alone for a moment, and you finally get a good look at him before you in his uniform, the tears in your eyes almost appear on their own.

“Oh, no. You’ve held out so long, now you’ve got to go crying?” He teases, and over the fence, you can hear the ladies from the church cooing at the two of you, but you’re too busy blubbering to care.

“Gwilym,” you sob, collapsing into his chest. He laughs softly, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright. “You can’t leave me, I won’t let you.”

“I think the Marines might have something to say about that, love,” he retorts, shooting for a laugh from you and landing a pitiful, ragged sob instead. “Hey, you’re okay. I’m the one risking my life.”

“You sick bastard!” You cry, pulling away to punch him in the arm. He laughs loudly and you grunt. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Just trying to stop your tears,” he reasons, still chuckling. There’s a moment, long and silent, where you just take one another in. Your face softens as you stare back at him. You hate to admit it to anyone but his mother, but he does look handsome in his uniform, contrasting perfectly against his tanned skin. How something that stands for such ugliness could look so beautiful, you aren’t sure, but you think it may have just been Gwil.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you say, voice trembling, and his lips quirk up in a smile.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you jab at his chest with a pointed finger. “Swear on it?”

“On my soul,” he nods.

Across the yard, one of the women swirling a drink in her hand heckles, “Kiss her already!”

You spin around. “Oh, buzz off, you nosy old hens!”

Even from the curb, you can hear Gwilym’s parents laughing and you huff, turning back to him with warm cheeks and embarrassment churning your stomach as the rest of the women cackled, Gwil’s own warm laughter soothing you. “I can already see staying out of trouble without me will be a breeze.”

You roll your eyes, shifting on your feet and looking up at him sadly. “Don’t be smug.”

With a soft sigh, he gives a noncommittal shrug. “We may as well give them a show, then, don’t you agree?”

You splutter, shoving his chest lightly. “What?”

“Wouldn’t you be chuffed knowing you were the last girl I kissed?” He raises a brow. “Think of it as a farewell gift.”

Your cheeks are only warmer now and you laugh nervously, playing with your own fingers as you say, “C’mon, Gwil, you’ve got to get going soon, so don’t be silly.” After all, the idea definitely feels silly. He always had been one to tease you in that way, always was the one to chase you around the schoolyard making kissy faces or to hold your hand in class just to see you get flustered. But Gwilym is your best friend. You had never taken him seriously, and he had never been on a mission to be taken seriously. Until now, it seems.

He smiles good-naturedly. “Not even a small one?”

Pursing your lips, you consider his words. You certainly would be pleased knowing you’d been his last kiss before he’d been shipped out, and you’d be in good company. Aside from that, how good he looks before you almost makes you woozy, so you sigh, straightening your posture. “I suppose.”

“Gee, Y/N, you sound so excited,” he teases, and you pout.

“You better kiss me before I change my mind, Private Lee.”

He grins at the title, tentatively reaching for you. Almost awkwardly, knowing not only your neighbors but his parents—and likely yours, from the window—were watching, you shuffle forward, allowing him to wrap an arm around your waist. Feeling him so close makes your whole body warm, and your eyes nearly flutter shut at the feeling, but you force yourself to look at him, at those bright blue eyes searching yours.

His nose brushes yours as he leans in, a delicate breath leaving your lips as he kisses you softly, his palm warming your back as his other hand reaches to cup your face. You melt into him, clutching at his biceps, heart racing at his gentle, content hum. You had never kissed Gwilym—never even thought about it—but now you wonder why. The way you fit against him, how easy it is to kiss him back, it all feels so right that when he pulls away, you don’t even realize that you’re chasing after his lips.

A goofy smile takes over his face and he chances one more quick peck before he’s releasing you, breath bated.

Your brain feels foggy but you shake your head to clear it, blinking once before you breathe, “Well, I hope that will tide you over.”

Another loud laugh and he’s wrapping you in a crushing hug. “I’m going to miss you,” he says, voice tight, and you squeezed him back, resting your head on his chest.

“Gwilym, we need to go!” His mother yells from the car, and you sniffle, pulling away from him and clenching your teeth to keep from shedding more tears.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said gently.

Smiling, you nod. “See you then.”

You take a dejected seat on his steps as he makes his way down the walkway. Over his shoulder, he sends you one last look before he’s ducking into the backseat of his parent’s car.

“Darling, it’s a good thing you’ve got him because you won’t find another husband with that temper,” one of your neighbors quips, a cheap attempt to make you smile. You afford them a watery chuckle, wiping your eyes as you watch them drive down the street.

August 14, 1943

Dear Y/N,

You know I’m as humble as they come, but I really think I’ve found where I belong in boot camp. I’m meeting lots of new people, the food isn’t half-bad, and the training I practiced at home is really coming in handy now. All to say, I’m doing really well! I’m even used to being yelled at all the time after Mrs. Aarons taught us together in Sunday school. In fact, I think my drill instructor might even be less strict than she was, and he probably makes better cakes, too.

My mum said you came by last week to help her cook dinner. I know she was worried about not seeing you around much anymore now that I’m gone, so she was really thrilled about that. She also said that the whole church is talking about our goodbye kiss, as they well should be. I like to think we gave them a rather long-anticipated show, and I would hate to have wasted your time, so I sure hope they’re talking about it.

I hope they haven’t given you too much trouble since I left. I know how they can be, but I think you said it best when you called them ‘nosy old hens.’ Such a way with words, you have.

I know it’s not much, but not much has happened! I hope to have many more stories to tell you soon. Tell me what sort of crazy adventures you’ve been going on without me there.

Love, Gwilym

P.S. What are they saying about the kiss? I didn’t have much time, but I’d say I gave you a hell of a few seconds. Also, send me a picture. I lied and said I had a girl, and no one believes me because I don’t have a photo of her, and I figure if anyone would be considered my girl, it would probably be you.

The letter is dropped on the bed with a knowing smirk by your father and you’re too excited to hear from Gwil that you can hardly be bothered by your dad. In true Gwilym fashion, you laugh the whole way through, feeling your heart yearn for him. Your whole family had heard you lament relentlessly about it, but it was the deepest longing you had ever felt. As long as you can remember, it had been you and Gwilym, stuck together at the hip like you couldn’t get along without the other. It’s the longest you’ve been apart, and though it had only taken him a week and a half to write you a letter, it felt as though it had been twice that without him at your side.

But something has felt out of place since he left. Since you kissed. It was all just a bit off-kilter. Of course, you miss him, but it ran deeper. You feel a pull to Gwilym, one you had never felt before, least of all to him. Your heart aches at just the thought of him, which is what makes this letter so sweet. You can practically feel him on the paper, through his excited, hurried handwriting, and you feel better just after reading it, after hearing he was okay. You read it over and over, pretending that your cheeks don’t burn at the thought of him telling his friends that you were his girl, and you hope the fluttering of your heart is just excitement to hear from your best friend.

August 22, 1943

Dear Gwilym,

I’m glad to hear that you’re staying modest. I hope some of your new friends are keeping your inflated ego in check now that I’m not there to do it. Mrs. Aarons! She’s softened a bit, I think she was just tough on us, which was well deserved. We put her through quite a lot, but it was all for the best because look at you now! I’m really pleased to hear that you’re doing well, we’ve been rather worried about you and I haven’t called around to your parents in a few days, so I’ve been in the dark for a while. Don’t you worry me like that; you promised you’d write as often as you could.

I did go around to your parents a few days after you left to help with your dad’s birthday; it was a really lovely night. Your mum knows I adore her—and the rest of your family—if anything, I’ll be going over more now that you’re gone. You’re practically my only friend, so I’ll be sticking to my routine of going to your house all the time. Who knows? Maybe by the time you get home, your mum will have replaced you as my best friend.

Ah, who cares about what the congregation says? But yes, we’ve been the talk of the group. They’ve not said anything to me about it, though. They’ve been going pretty easy on your family and me since you left. Tyler McGaskill ships out in a few weeks, so I’m praying they all forget about it by then. Once they’ve got someone else to sympathize for, you know they’ll hound me with questions.

Ha, adventures! Not a chance, not without you. I’ve spent more days alone at my house since you left than I have since I was born. It’s not an adventure if you’re not there, so I fear I just don’t have the heart to even try. And anyway, you know none of my friends want to do things like that. I’m playing by different rules now, Gwil.

Tell me about your friends! What do you guys do when you’re not training? Are you nervous to finish training?

Love, Y/N

P.S. Don’t flatter yourself, Private Lee. It certainly was a hell of a few seconds, but not because you blew my socks off. Also, no! I won’t send you a picture so you can be dishonest, you filthy bastard. I won’t have you sullying my image to men I don’t know by pretending that I would date you. I miss you tons, Gwil. Stay safe.

“That from your girl?” Ben nods at Gwil, and the brunette grins, nodding as he runs a finger over your letter.

You had never been afraid of prodding Gwilym back, and it’s especially prominent in your letter, which he appreciates. He likes the sense of normalcy, and he knows that’s why you’re trying to stay so upbeat in your letters. It’s for him, and his heart practically pounds at the thought. He leans back in his cot, still holding your letter and grinning like a fool, and Ben laughs brightly.

“Christ, Gwil, what’s the deal with this girl? She send you a photo?” Ben waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Gwil chortles, shaking his head easily.

“No,” he says, the tail of his laughter breaking up his sentences. “She just...makes me laugh.”

“What’s her name again?” The blonde asks, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeats, nodding once. “She pretty?”

Gwil’s eyes close, holding the letter against his stomach. “Beautiful,” he affirms.

Ben smiles over at his friend, though it goes unnoticed. “How long you two been together?”

Gwilym snorts, his shoulders digging into the mattress in a lazy shrug. “We’ve been best friends since we were born. We were practically together even before we were,” he says, peering at his friend through a cracked eye. It’s not entirely a lie; Gwilym meant what he said in his letter: if anyone were to be considered his girl, it would be you. Whether or not those feelings were reciprocated, well, that’s none of Ben’s business.

Ben hums, sitting on the cot beside Gwilym. “You love her?”

“More than anything,” Gwil admits, looking back down at the letter.

“You gonna marry her?”

“Jesus Christ, Jones,” someone else laughs, clapping the blonde on the shoulder. “What’s with the questions?”

“I don’t have a girl!” Ben defends, throwing his hands up. “I need to get my fill somewhere else.” He grins when he turns back to Gwilym, taking a long drag of his cigarette before pulling it from his lips. “So, are you?”

Gwil laughs softly. “I’m certainly going to try.”

Over the months, things with Gwilym begin to shift.

You suppose it must be that you can’t see one another in person, that it’s all on paper, but it feels as though he makes it his mission to make you flush. You know things aren’t easy for him. In fact, things are worse now than they have been since he shipped out, and if it makes him feel better to flirt with you, you’ll do that for him.

It doesn’t help the slow-building adoration in the pit of your stomach, the silly little crush you’ve been harboring since he left. Really, it only makes it worse. It makes you think. Did he think these things when he was home, or was this all coming on because he was lonely?

Shamelessly, you don’t mind the answer.

January 31, 1944

Dearest Y/N,

We’ve been moving a lot lately; I haven’t been sleeping much, but it’s okay. It hasn’t been raining much anymore, which has made travel easier. I’m proud to be here, to be fighting for my country, but I’m tired. I miss my life, and I miss my family and God, I miss you. So much.

My dad says your family came over for dinner a few days ago, and that your luck is finally turning around with gin rummy! He was really pleased that you beat him, and I was glad to hear it. You know I adore you, but I’ve truly never met a worse card player in my life. I’m glad to hear you’ve been practicing in all your free time without me.

Ben’s been complaining about how you send me so many letters and he doesn’t get any from anyone but his mum. He’s requesting letters from you, but I fear that will create a complicated tangle in our relationship. How’s my best mate supposed to write to my girl? I just don’t like it.

Speaking of, what’s been going on with you? I want to know all about what’s going on at home, what you’re doing. I miss that. How are your friends? Are you still running around with those girls from school? I think you’d do well with having some friends that are close to you. At least, until I come home. Then you’re all mine. But I wouldn’t feel betrayed if someone took my place for a few months.

Yours, Gwil

P.S. You’re just being mean by not sending me a photograph at this point. I swear, I won’t even show it to my mates, I just wanna see you. Be a good friend, won’t you? My life is of limited pleasure anymore, it’s just like my selfish friend to hold out on the one thing that would bring me joy. You giving all your pictures to other boys? That might just break my heart, doll.

It makes you smile, how he writes his letters. Always so sentimental. He always saves that sweetness for the post-script, something you had teased him for relentlessly but actually adored. How wonderful, to put the best part of the letter right at the end. You always read with bated breath, waiting to see what sort of affection he’s saved for you this time. It makes you ache for him.

Your friends have finally come to understand the priority that Gwilym holds. And, even before you had, they had come to understand why he holds it. You’d much rather spend a night in, re-reading Gwil’s letters and writing him new ones than go out with them and dance all night. Of course, they had always teased you about it, about how you and Gwilym were meant to be. Even still, you brush them off with a blithe laugh and a shake of your head. Silly crush or not, you wouldn’t allow your mind—or theirs—to run too wild.

And for a while, they let it go, holding on to the thoughts but never sharing them with you. But one night, all piled into your bedroom, Eva finds the shoebox full of his letters.

There’s no convincing them after that.

“‘P.S. mum tells me you’ve been going out with that fathead Jack McClaren,’” she giggles out, clutching Gwil’s letter to her chest and speaking in a silly impersonation of him. You flush, pressing your hands to your cheeks. “‘What a waste of your time, doll! But I suppose it’s best that you spend all your time with a dud until I get home. I wouldn’t want you marrying some other guy while I’m out.’”

Grace squeals, grabbing another letter from the box while you laughed softly, shaking your head. “He says stuff like this all the time?”

Shrugging, you say, “He’s always said stuff like that. He likes to tease me.”

“‘P.S.,’” Leona grins, “‘After months of you denying me, I’ve finally won: my mum sent me a photo of you, one she took at the new years party. I don’t know if you saw it before it got sent, but you look great in it.’”

Grace pulls it from Leona’s hands and you make a sound of disdain. “Hey, be careful with them!”

Your friend ignores you and continues what Leona had started, “‘Everyone’s been asking me what my girl looks like since I got here, and I have to say that you haven’t disappointed. You’ve certainly lived up to how I’ve described you. You really do look beautiful. I miss that smile.’”

Yeah, you were particularly fond of that one. Your cheeks warm even further and you can’t hide your smile, pulling at the hem of your dress with a dopey grin on your face. “Look at her!” Eva chortles, folding up the letter she holds and reaching for another. “Y/N, whether you’ll admit it or not, you are smitten.”

“It’s Gwil!” You laugh, shaking your head and reaching for a letter on your own. “He doesn’t mean it like that.”

Grace shot you an uncharacteristically cold look. “Y/N, we may not know Gwil as well as you know him, but we’ve known him almost as long. We all know what he’s like when he fancies a girl.”

You hadn’t thought of that. Your heart begins to pound. Gwil had always been a sweet talker, but never to you. You’d watched your best friend chase girls all throughout your lives, and as you think of his letters, things begin to make sense. The confusion, the off-kilter feeling your friendship had taken on, it seems to align.

As your friends continue to read, you blink stupidly. Gwilym Lee had been flirting with you.

March 24, 1944

Dear Gwil,

Your mum is a traitor; she told me she sent you another picture. Where she got it, I have no idea, but I hope you find it sufficient.

I can’t imagine why you keep asking what I’m up to. Life is still boring here, of course. Everything is boring when you’re not here. Things have gotten a little crazy, though. Grace asked me to help plan her wedding, so it’s been something to fill up my days. We’re really sad that you aren’t going to be there! Ed says we’re going to use a scarecrow in place of the best man since you won’t be there. I think it’s only fair; at least the scarecrow won’t subject us to terrible jokes in his speech.

I miss those silly jokes. I love being with the girls, but it’s not the same. Don’t let your head get big, but I never realized how difficult it was going to be without you.

I’m sorry I don’t have much to say. I’ve been working extra hard lately, and I feel as though I’m permanently tired these days. I’m tired of a lot of things, like working so much or the constant fear. Mostly, I’m just tired of things not being the way they used to be. I’m tired of the war and I’m tired of you not being here. I usually try not to get too down in these letters, I know that’s not what you need right now, but it’s been a tough few days. Hope you’re doing well, and I greatly look forward to hearing from you.

Yours, Y/N

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot. I’m beginning to fear the women at church were right about us.

The letter paints a much-needed smile on his face, the pictures of you his mother had sent tucked safely in the pocket above his chest. His heart races for an entirely different reason than it has in months. Is that a confession? In the barest possible way, yes. He knows you better than he knows himself—he doesn’t need to think hard to guess what you’re implying. It makes his pulse thrum, his stomach tilt, and his mind race.

However, he hates to hear that you’ve been feeling down, and he fishes a photo of you out of his pocket, the edges already beginning to curl up from how often he’s turned to it. A thumb runs over the printed page, eyes tracing over your bright smile and ignoring Ben’s intrusive stare. He knew them as well as Gwil did by now with how often he looked over his friend’s shoulder to look at them. Gwilym didn’t mind anymore. Not like he had the first time. In such a bleak life, he couldn’t steal from his friend the simplest pleasure of seeing you.

It’s one of the few things that brings him comfort anymore, the way you slyly smile back at him, standing in a busy crowd in his living room. He sighs, shifting on the hard ground, taking one last look as he prepares to put it back in his pocket, but in a second, a hand reaches around his shoulder and pulls the photograph from between his fingertips.

“Hey!” He huffs, spinning around to reach for their wrist.

Samuel grins at Gwil, holding the picture of you. “Who’s this?” He asks, turning his attention to the photo with a low whistle.

From Gwil’s side, Ben murmurs, “Y/N.”

Gwilym glares at him, but Sam doesn’t notice them, eyes still turned down. He drops to sit beside Gwil, a heavy sigh falling from his lips as he passes the photo back. The exhaustion is palpable between the three of them, silence settling over them. After a moment, Sam reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a photo, handing it to Gwilym tentatively. Ben leans over, the two of them staring down at the picture of a woman, Sam’s arm wrapped around her waist.

“Ruby,” he smiles. Reaching over, he taps the photo of you. “They look like they’d be friends.”

Gwil laughs softly, nodding as he hands back Sam’s photo. He looks at his own photo wistfully, a smile pulling over his face. For a second, he’s only focused on you, transported to a time in which you were smiling at him like that, not some camera. He’s not thinking about the sun beating down on him or the hard ground beneath him, but then someone’s yelling, and he’s brought back to his real life.

Your heart races at the sight of the letter in your mum’s hand, your fingers jittery as you reach for it.

It’s late. Much later than they usually come. In fact, it’s been nearly a month since you had heard from Gwil and after the first week, you had assumed he wasn’t going to answer at all. It wasn’t a bomb that should have been dropped in a letter, but it’s easier to say when you don’t have to see him, you find. You had always been too loose with your feelings when it came to your best friend, especially when you were already upset. The melancholy of the overcast days you had lived had left you feeling almost perpetually down when you had written the letter, and what little words you had to offer had flown out of you almost without thought. The confession had been nothing but an endless train of thought that had plagued you for months.

To the untrained eye, to someone who didn’t know you, it would have meant nothing. It could have been something simple, a throwaway thought or a sentence you just threw in to pad the conversation. But it’s weighted to the two of you. ‘The women at church were right about us’ may as well have meant ‘I think we’re meant to be, I think we should get married and have five children only to force them to go to the same congregation we were forced to go to, and while we’re at it, we may as well just die together.’

But maybe that’s just you overthinking.

Maybe the line just made Gwil laugh, and maybe he hasn’t written because he’s been too busy. But you can’t find out right away, because your mother holds the envelope just out of your reach with a knowing look.

You’re exhausted, really. After a long day at work, your friends dragged you out to go dancing with them for the first time in months. All you want is to lay in your bed and read Gwilym’s letter before you fall asleep, but she doesn’t relent when you reach for it, only pulling it further out of your reach.

“Mum,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “I’ve had a really long day.”

“And instead of going straight to sleep, you want Gwil’s letter?”

You laugh quietly, shrugging. “How is that different from any other day?” But your mother doesn’t laugh. Instead, she raises a curious brow, waiting. Any other day, you’d have no problem indulging her, but now, you just huff. “Yes?”

“How is he?” She finally breaks.

“At war, mum, so he’s certainly not his best,” you murmur, looking at her with sleep-hooded eyes. “Really, I’m exhausted. Can I have my letter?” She frowns, reaching to soothe over your bicep. You can tell that aside from her interest in Gwil, she’s genuinely concerned, so you breathe out sharply, smiling tiredly at her. It’s not fair for you to take out your long days on her. “We can have this conversation tomorrow, I promise.”

She gives you one last knowing look but hands you the letter. Sighing in relief, you smile again and take it from her, turning on your heel to retreat to your room.

April 19, 1944

Dearest Y/N,

So sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. You can only imagine the last few weeks we’ve had here, but all’s well! No need to worry about your picture being sufficient. It’s beautiful, of course. I think I must have the prettiest girl of all the guys in the group.

I’m crushed to miss the wedding! I know you’ll all have loads of fun, though. Don’t worry about missing out on my jokes, I’ll send a whole page of them for you to read in my place. Take pictures, alright? Make sure to send me a couple. When’s it scheduled? You know I’m nothing if not humble; I’m offended you’d suggest I could be anything but.

I’m sorry you haven’t been doing well. I hate to hear that, but I’m glad you said something. I want to stay updated on what’s going on with you, even the bad bits. What you really need is a new job, something less physical. I’m sure my dad has some clerical work you could do for the firm. We can’t have you run to the ground, can we? Get feeling better, doll. I miss you reams; I wish there was anything I could do to make you feel better.

Yours, Gwil

P.S. Well, it took you long enough to realize that, didn’t it? Think I must have picked up that there was some truth to that when we were 14, and I’ve kind of been waiting for you to come around since. It’s not such a bad thought, though. There are much worse things than the thought of you and I. Can’t think of much that’s any better.

You sleep better tonight than you have in weeks.

His own shrouded confession paired with yours changes your relationship. Not as much as it would if the two of you had come out and said what you were both thinking, or if you two were together.

Your friends refuse to let it go, which you don’t mind so much. It had done nothing but get on your nerves before, but everything feels a little lighter now. There have been no real confessions, nor could you expect there to be, not when he was still so far away, not when the two of you weren’t really discussing the state of your relationship. Even so, you can’t help but feel a little giddy about it all. You still feel as though you’re running yourself ragged between work and trying to act like your life is normal, but you’re feeling more positive throughout your days.

Gwil, however, feels like he's trudging through life. Every next day is gloomier than the last, and it begins to feel like his only refuge are the letters he’s receiving, updates about his family’s lives and the jokes you’re writing to him and the photos you’ve finally given in and sent. His letters seem to stay the same length, but they’re much less about his life; he feels that the only thing that can make him feel right anymore is to just read your rambling, to ask you questions and picture you, bright and smiling, living your life. He’s much more wistful, and if he wasn’t so hazy from the exhaustion, from how cold and tired he is, he’d be a little embarrassed at how overly-affectionate he is.

It doesn’t matter to you. In fact, it makes your heart ache for him. His actual letters get shorter and his post scripts get longer, sweeter, softer. It makes you wonder how you had spent your whole life with Gwil by your side and never once thought of him as anything other than your best friend. More importantly, how could Gwilym Lee have hid from you how adorably softhearted he is? You always knew how sentimental he could get, but never toward another person. That information was for the girls he had dated exclusively. Now that you’re privy to his sweetness, it makes you long for all the years you had missed of it.

May 30, 1944

Dearest Y/N,

Dad says you found yourself a job at Mr. Wright’s office, how has that been? Anything must be better than what you were doing before, but I hope they’ve been treating you well. How’s your family? You’ve not mentioned them in quite a while.

Ben’s been whinging much more than usual. He’s not quite what I’m used to when it comes to having someone at my side, but he’s not so bad. He insists on meeting you when this is all over and I think it’s one of the only good ideas he’s ever had. The two of you would get along, I think. I said that to him once and he’s never let it go; he’s got this crazy idea in his head that he’s going to steal you from me. I think he’s gone silly, but maybe he has a point. Maybe not meeting him would be better, yeah?

Yours, Gwil

P.S. Of course, McClaren can’t get over you! I could have predicted that one from a thousand miles away. In fact, I think I may have warned you about him. It just goes to prove that you ought to heed my warnings. You may think you’ve got it all figured out, but I know how that meatball works. He’s been the same since we were kids. I won’t say I told you so, only to save myself some grief the next time I’m wrong about something. You can tell him to buzz off. Tell him you’ve got a real man, one who’s at war and everything.

You couldn’t possibly imagine how much I miss you, but if you feel so inclined, I’d encourage you to use your imagination. Mum says I should stop teasing you so much; says you’re real sensitive and all, but I’d like to imagine that I’m keeping some normalcy in our relationship by busting your chops. Someone has to do it, or your head will get all fat. That’s the real problem with girls who know they’re pretty…

Truth be told, you don’t mind so much that he likes to tease you. He’s right. It wouldn’t feel like you were talking to Gwil if he didn’t prod you a bit, and it only feels right to poke at one another through your letters since you can’t do it in person.

You’re so caught up in him telling you you’re pretty that you almost forget that he’s called himself your man, and you think that’s a title you don’t mind letting him carry for a while.

June 10th, 1944

Gwilym,

I know you can’t tell me all your plans, but a little warning would have been nice. Lord knows there were plenty of ways you could have told me without giving anything away. I’m so angry at you. I knew the risks when you left, of course, but I didn’t realize how horrific it was going to be, knowing that you’re out there, every single day, risking your life. Knowing that everyday, I run the risk of losing my best friend and you run the risk of dying. It’s too hard to bear anymore, Gwil. I don’t know how you do it.

But I know you don’t want to talk about that. I know that these letters are to take your mind off of what you’re going through. It’s just hard to stay so positive all the time. Things here are getting bleaker by the day. Usually, I would turn to you when I can’t handle it all, but you’re gone. I just need you.

P.S. McClaren already thinks I won’t go out with him again because of you, so I suppose it isn’t entirely unbelievable. At the very least, you’re a great excuse for not wanting to see any of these boys again. Not that I’m seeing any boys right now, mind you. Don’t go getting yourself in a tizzy like you always used to about those other girls. Poor Jack didn’t know what he was getting into when we went out. I suppose I didn’t, either.

Don’t you worry about me getting a big head. I think you’ve forgotten all those years you teased me relentlessly. You were a mean-spirited kid, Gwilym Lee, and you’ve got lots of years to make up for when you get home. Thinking of it now, I truly don’t know why I stuck by your side. Probably because your dad bought me ice cream every time you made me cry. I’m just getting nostalgic now, but I’ve been thinking about you even more than usual this week.

I miss you. Be safe for me, okay?

You can’t lie, especially not to Gwilym. Life is getting bleak. Especially with the news of the storm in Normandy. Anymore, it feels like all you do is work and write letters and worry. And now, you’ve got him on your mind even more than usual, as if that’s even possible. You know things must be crazy over there, too crazy for him to sit down and write you a silly love letter.

No, you can’t blame him for not writing to you. But it doesn’t calm the storm deep in your gut, the constant churning of your stomach when you think of him. June, you expect. The letters sometimes take a while to get to you. That’s normal. At the latest, you expect his letter only a few weeks after you write yours. But June comes and goes without a letter, to either you or his family.

You try not to wind up his mother too much. You’re over often, more often nowadays than when he first got drafted, to help with things around the house or to play rummy with his dad. The lot of you talk about his letters often, comparing them to try to get a better idea of how he’s doing out there, since he refuses to go into much detail. In all honesty, you’re just happy to have someone to commiserate with. She’s just as worried as you are—more so—and you hate to make her worry. You spend most nights reassuring her only to go home and worry on your own. If Gwil was around, he would be consoling you, but he isn’t. So you hold it all in, praying and crying and waiting for a letter.

Of course, it’s always been a possibility that he wouldn’t come home to you. You thought you had come to terms with that, but now every moment of every day is spent feeling like you can’t breathe. More than ever, he’s all you think about.

It feels like your days, which pass like weeks anyway, drag on. By the time mid-July rolls around, you’re running yourself ragged; you’re doing everything you can to distract yourself from the fact that your best friend is missing in action. You’re working overtime every day, going out with your friends every night, and spending nearly all of your spare time with your family, who work just as hard to keep your mind off him.

Being around Gwilym’s family begins to feel suffocating. They had been a second family to you since you were born; you felt just as much at home with them as you did with your own family. However, now it’s just too much. You already spend too much time wondering where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s okay, why he isn’t writing to you. As real as it is for you, it’s infinitely worse for them. Understandably, it’s all they can think about. They spend every waking moment agonizing about their son, their brother, their family. A place that used to be your escape was now the home of the very conversation you were trying to avoid: where is Gwilym?

They haven’t sent anyone to notify his family yet. It might be the only thing giving you hope anymore. Until they send someone with that dreaded letter, you’re safe. He’s safe, at least as safe as he can be. For now, you wait. For a letter, a messenger, the end of the war. You can’t decide which.

Gwilym is miserable. Truly, deeply, down to his very soul, he’s bored out of his mind.

At the very least, he thought recovering from a near-fatal shot would give him enough time to write letters to you, to let someone know that he’s okay, but they aren’t running anyone out of Normandy, that he knows of, least of all someone to take mail. No one is even getting off the beach, unless they’re dead, and stationary quickly became a rare commodity, one that he couldn’t convince the nurses to score for him. “Focus on healing,” they would say. “Don’t wear yourself out with writing.”

He can’t really focus on anything with the constant influx of new patients, and they way his shoulder and chest ache constantly. The infirmary isn’t getting nearly enough painkillers and subsequently, neither is Gwil. It’s better that he hurts than he’s drowsy, he figures, but he won’t act like he’s enjoying his time, either.

Your pictures are a constant fixture on his bedside tray and he knows you must be worrying himself sick. Between you and his mother, most of his days are spent thinking about home, about how stressed you and his family must be after not hearing from him for so long. They had managed to get your last letter to him, and though you truly do sound miserable—and he knows you’re angry—he reads it multiple times a day. He just likes to read what you’ve written, even if he knows you’re not happy.

He’s going to be fine, for the moment. That, at least, he knows for sure. Part of him had hoped that they’d discharge him while he healed, but they’re desperate to keep as many people as they can. Gwil will be back practically back to himself in only a few days, hopefully. He’d really rather be out doing something, fighting for his country, than lying in an overcrowded infirmary, spending every day staring at a wall.

Aside from the soreness in the chest, the late summer humidity makes it almost unbearable to breathe, especially in poorly ventilated building they’ve all been packed in. Gwil is miserable, and he makes sure everyone knows it. The nurses, though, all adore him, of course. He’s charming, even when he’s complaining, and of course, it’s nice to get attention from someone who isn’t Ben, but it only further emphasizes an already gaping hole in his chest.

Yeah, he likes to make the nurses laugh and he likes it when they read to him and he likes that they always give him extra pudding, but it doesn’t feel right. He isn’t flirting—honestly, he isn’t sure he even knows how to do that anymore—but he knows they are and it makes his stomach churn. It doesn’t feel right to give that idea to anyone but you. You’re the only one he wants to make laugh, or flush, or say his name in that little laugh you do.

They all know about you, though. You’re all he talks about, pretty much, and they’ve all seen the photographs of you he keeps in his sight at all times. It’s cute, they think. None of them are really trying to move on Gwilym, not when he harps on about you all day long, but it’s easy to tease him a little bit.

When he moves, he can’t help but groan, the tightness of his chest forcing a dull ache to settle over his upper body. Beside his bed, a nurse with shifting eyes cracks a little smile. “Still sore?” She asks, careful of your photos when she picks up his lunch from his bedside tray. He smiles smally in her direction. “You’re healing well, though. You’ll be sore for a few more days but you’re on the mend.”

“Thank God,” he breathes. “I’m sick of this.”

“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed our company so much,” she laughs, sitting on the edge of his bed.

He rolls his eyes and nudges her with his leg. “I’d enjoy it more if you gave me anything to do.”

The nurse raises a brow and smooths out her skirt. “We’re giving you time to think, which—if you forgot—is not something you often get out there.” She motions to the door.

She’s not wrong, but he feels like he’s thought himself into a hole by now. He’s definitely healed up—his bandages are coming off clean now, which is a new development—and he’s ready to get back out there. They’ve already been in Normandy for two months, which means it’s been two months since he’s written to his family, two months that you’ve all been worrying about him, no doubt. He’s only one person, this he knows, but he can’t help but think he can be doing more. He wants to get himself off this godforsaken island, or at least get himself somewhere he can write to you, or be with someone he actually knows. He’ll never admit it, but he even misses Ben and his incessant whining.

“I don’t need to think anymore,” he sighs, head lolling. “I need to do something.”

She pats his shin and stands up. “Any day now, Private.”

Again, he’s left alone with his thoughts and he tries to force down the irritability bubbling in his chest. Closing his eyes, he releases a sharp breath. He could do well with more rest, but as he tries to fall asleep, his subconscious is fervently drafting a letter to you.

Another day without an officer was as good a day as any. At the very least, they have to know where he is if they haven’t sent a letter with bad news yet, which puts you at ease if only a little.

Both your families sit around the Lee’s table, your parents laughing easily along with a story your best friend’s father shares. You try to smile along, really, but you still haven’t gotten used to him not sitting across from you, flicking his mum’s mushy peas at you until you were kicking him. It always got under your skin, something he was most exceptional at, but now, you long for that. You hate whatever this is now, without him, both families pretending everything is okay when he’s not here getting you in trouble. It’s too quiet.

Without making much of a fuss, you excuse yourself quietly from the table. Before Gwilym was gone, you never would have gotten away with leaving in the middle of a meal, but the rules have all changed since he left. Like no one was denying anyone anymore. Part of you reveled in it, almost a sense of freedom, but more than that, it was just a reminder that things were different now, that they probably wouldn’t be the same again.

The air is thick when you slip out onto the stoop. It feels more humid this summer, especially when it was later in the day, but the air is still nice. The wireframe chairs Gwil’s mother had set up had come in handy many times, but none more than the past few months. When you need a break.

To your right, the familiar creak of the front door echoes through the night air and the spicy cologne is homely enough to make you relax. In the chair beside yours, Mr. Lee sits with a quiet grunt.

For a few minutes, the two of you sit in silence. There are a lot of things you both want to say, but maybe not to each other, and maybe not right now, so you take in the quiet sounds of the suburb and look up at the stars, neither of you acknowledging the other for a few moments.

“My dear,” he sighs, not glancing over at you. “Such poor table manners.”

You snort a laugh. “My greatest apologies.”

For a long moment, neither of you say anything, but you know you must have the same train of thought. Though you’ve spent the night joking, sharing wry looks with one another, it’s obvious to both of you that you’re not joking anymore. The air feels heavier and you chance a look over at him, taking in his likeness to your best friend as you wait for him to say something. Finally, he shakes his head. “Goddamn war,” he mutters, looking over at you. “Doesn’t do anything but tear families apart.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“He’s a good kid.” Mr. Lee nods. “I trust him to keep himself safe.”

It isn’t that simple and you both know it, but you don’t say anything, turning your attention back to the stars. Inside, your family and his wife have quieted down, the laughter of the night now silent, and you listen to the crickets, your breathing steady. A whole year since he had left and things still feel offbeat. You suppose that a year apart can be harder to get used to than a lifetime together.

When a few minutes pass and the laughter inside begins again, Mr. Lee leans a little to his side and reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket. From it, he produces a deck of cards and sets it gently on the matching wireframe table between the chairs, smiling slyly.

“Another game of rummy before those fuddies finish dinner?”

He always had reminded you so greatly of Gwilym. With a grin, you swipe the deck from the table and begin to shuffle in the low light streaming from the window.

It’s good news. God knows you need good news right now.

With the battle in Normandy ending in your favor, things feel lighter around town. The congregation sings a little louder, smiles a little brighter, and talks a little longer. All around you, people step lighter. It is not a victory, but it is an upper hand. One your people take with great pride. Even you, you must admit, are feeling better.

You hope that, if Gwilym is still fighting, he’ll find a way to write to you. Selfish, of course, but so true, it consumes you. It’s been too long, but a piece of you knows he’s still out there, ready to come home. Ready to come back to you. You can only pray he does so soon.

At the very least, the letter in your mailbox will do.

You could scream at the sight of his scribbled handwriting, but instead, you rip it from the box and run into the house, ducking under your father’s arm as you make your way to your bedroom.

“Y/N!” Your mom cries after you.

You don’t answer, slamming your door closed behind you as you ripped open the envelope. It almost feels like coming home, seeing those familiar words on the page. Your hands shake, your heart pounds, and your breathing is shaky as you sit on the edge of your bed.

September 9, 1944

My dearest,

Too long I’ve imagined what I would write to you once I finally had the chance, and now it seems to have escaped me. God, I missed you. Deeply, with great intensity.

You should know that since I’ve last spoken to you, I thought of you endlessly, every single day. The nurses got to know you well. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you that we were going to Normandy, but I often think it’s better that you don’t know many things about life here. I hate to let you worry. You can only imagine the climate. It was absolute madness. There was hardly a moment to rest and barely any supplies. It’s why I didn’t write, though you have to know that I bribed the nurses quite a lot to give up their personal stationary, to no avail.

Tell me about what’s been happening with you! I’d love to be caught up on the happenings of your life. How’s the wedding planning? Have you started classes yet? Are you still working at the firm? Tell me all about it. I fear that life is very much the same as always here. I’ve missed the escapism your letters bring to me. It’s easier to pretend I’m still part of the team when you’re the one telling me all about the fun you’re having without me, ha! I want to hear everything—even if it’s just how angry you are with me.

You still beating my dad at rummy? I’d love to hear that, he’s getting too cocky. I’m hoping you knock him down enough that by the time I get home, I’ll be able to swoop in for a win.

I had a lot of time to think while I was healing in the infirmary. I think it’s time we talk about what’s going on with us. However, I pray it’s as simple as I would assume it is; I know how I feel, and I hope you know how you feel. If we’re on the same page, isn’t there only one step to take? Write back soon.

Yours, Gwil

P.S. I love you. Another thing I had time to think of in the infirmary. I suppose it’s best to tell you in writing so you can’t reject me outright, yeah?

If you thought your heart was racing before, this must be what a heart attack feels like. Simultaneously, it feels like you’re light as air and have a thousand pounds on your shoulders. You fall on your back, clutching the letter to your chest. He loves you. Your own best friend.

Maybe you knew, subconsciously. Neither of you had ever said it outright, but you weren’t sure if you needed to. It had been pretty clear, you assumed. The two of you had always been good at conveying a message without coming right out and saying it; you had spent years doing it around other people, but never when it was just you two. You suppose this is new territory for you.

You furrow your brows, a gleeful grin on your face. Outside your room, you can hear your parents talking—likely about you—but you hardly care. All you think about right now is Gwilym, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel anxious about him. You feel right.

The thought of going to sleep without writing him back makes your stomach lurch and your hands itch to reach for your pen. They’re still shaking as you set up your stationary on your desk, sit at your seat, and begin your response.

September 16th, 1944

My dear Gwilym,

Don’t you dare think I’ll let this one go. I’m almost embarrassed to admit how low I allowed myself to get while I was waiting for you to write. You can’t leave me like that again, you understand? Also, don’t you dare think you’re getting out of telling me about how you got to know the nurses, and how they got to know me.

The wedding is nearly planned, all that’s left is to just do the damn thing. Grace is slowly but surely losing her mind but I think Ed is ready, which is nice. It’s almost annoying to watch them, especially now; they’re more affectionate than ever and being alone around them is pretty unbearable. I’m biding my time until you get home and we become the most annoying pair of the lot again.

I started classes a couple of weeks ago, so I cut down my hours at the firm, which has been nice. I really like my classes, but I wish you were here to help me with them. You always were better with schoolwork, and I greatly miss the nights spent with you tutoring me. They’re a need right now.

I’m not angry with you; I have no right to be, do I? God, I’m just happy to hear from you. You can only imagine how I felt when I thought I lost the only person who knows me. I hope you’re healing well. Knowing you’re okay, that you’re out there and still thinking of me, it quells any anger I could possibly feel toward you.

I won’t ask you what it’s like. I know you don’t like to talk about it, and I’m not sure I could handle hearing about it. Thinking about you there, it just breaks my heart. Any details might completely derail me. However, yes, I have been beating your dad at rummy. He’s not even a sore loser about it, I think he’s just pleased to have at least a little bit of a challenge during the games. I’m sure he’s letting me win—or not cheating when he deals anymore—but I’ll take what I can get.

We have been doing this dance for quite a while, haven’t we? Before you left, I had never even thought of us as anything other than best friends. I don’t know if it was the kiss, or the letters, or having you so far away, but I know now that you are the only person who understands me in every single way. You’ve always been the only person I want to go to, and I think Mrs. Davens said it best to us when she said a friendship was the strongest foundation for a relationship. If you agree, and if you think that’s something you want, I suppose you can stop lying to your friends about me being your girl.

It will sound infinitely better when it’s true, don’t you think?

Yours, Y/N

P.S. As though I could ever reject you. You would never let me live it down. I love you.

Gwilym feels as though his heart is about to beat out of his chest. Across from him, Sam clutches his own letter from Ruby, and Ben watches Gwil carefully, waiting.

“Well?” He huffs. “How is she?”

“Good,” Gwil breathes, his cheeks pink as he rereads the post script for the fifteenth time. I love you. “Perfect.”

“Sam?”

Their friend beams, hardly looking up from his letter. “God, she’s angry.”

Ben and Gwilym laugh, and the brunet holds the letter tightly to his chest. How long he had waited to hear those words, and even just reading them nearly sends him into a tizzy. You had exchanged those words thousands of times throughout your life, but never with such weight. Never in the way you say them now. Before your letter, he was sure he couldn’t adore you more, but he could be knocked over under the weight of his affection now.

His eyes slip closed, a blissful smile spreading across his face. The way he feels about you had long been something he held close to his chest, something he refused to expose to anyone else. It was a secret he had always planned to hide forever, but now it’s out there. You know he loves you. Even more importantly, you love him too.

Ben whines, waving the letter from his mum at his friends. “Great! Both of you are in love, who cares? What about me?”

Gwil rolls his eyes and claps the blonde on the shoulder. “Don’t you have bigger things to worry about right now? Maybe the war you’re fighting in?”

Ben glares at Sam when he cackles, a heavy boot kicking at him. “Fuck off. You only say that because you have girls to distract you from this.”

Folding up his letter, Gwil sighs tiredly. “Y/N and I have a friend that you might like. Leona.”

Beside him, Ben raises a brow. “She funny?”

“Yes.”

“Cute?”

“Yes.”

“Good taste?”

“If she’d like you? No,” Sam cuts in.

While Ben sinks down in the dirt, huffing, Gwil and Sam laugh. For the first time in the longest time, Gwilym finally feels like he can breathe a sigh of relief. There’s a newfound fire in him—something to look forward to—and he thinks that all he can do is stay alive to get home to you.

October 6, 1944

My dearest, Gwilym,

Ben does seem like someone Leona would be interested in. Even if he didn’t, I’d want you to bring him around anyway. Sam, too! I have to thank them for getting you through this. It must be hard for them and all, since you’re such a pain in the ass. I can only imagine you’ve gotten worse, so I think they deserve a little recognition. Maybe when you all get discharged, they can come into town for a few days. Sam could bring Ruby! The three of you sound thick as thieves. I’d love to get a chance to run around with you for a few days. I’ll be holding out hope.

Classes are going well! I still haven’t really decided what I’m studying, but I’ve still got time. Mr. Wright says I have a job at the office for as long as I want one, and I’ve really enjoyed my time there. I definitely won’t stay there forever, but I don’t think it’s a job I’d mind holding onto for a little while longer…

I’m really pleased that you’ve healed up well. You nearly gave us all heart attacks here, trying to play off that injury. You can trust that we won’t let that one go. Your mum says that you aren’t getting out of her sight at all once you get home, which will undoubtedly make our dates a little more difficult, but I think it’s a challenge we’ll be able to overcome.

Been thinking of you extra lately. Hope you’re thinking of me, too.

Yours, Y/N

P.S. I’ve been thinking about your birthday coming up; I know they’re expecting us at the soda shop, but it almost feels wrong to go alone. I’d hate to break tradition, though. Maybe I’ll still go. I don’t know; it felt weird without you there last year. I just miss you. I’m waiting for you every day, Gwil. I love you.

He’ll never get used to reading it. He thinks the first time he really hears it from you, he might pass out. It’s just another thing to keep him going through his days. The thought of you, waiting at home for him, loving him, well, he thinks that could get him through a hundred wars.

You thought after Gwil left, things couldn’t get more different. Back when you walked that line between completely platonic and flirting. Now, though, your relationship has almost evolved completely without changing at all. There are ‘I love you’s and talks of dates, but Gwilym is still your best friend. It’s all the excitement of a new relationship and none of the nervousness, because nervousness doesn’t exist between the two of you. It never had.

You had never been the kind of person to let a boy change your mood, but the boys you’d dated had never been Gwilym. Though you never thought of him as anything more than your best friend, things feel right now. Like something had clicked into place that you didn’t even know wasn’t there.

Both sets of parents have to know that something is up, based on the sly smiles they share with one another, but you haven’t mentioned it, and you’re sure Gwil—sweet, private Gwil—hasn’t either. It must be how light you feel. Having him away is still so heavy, weighing on your shoulders every day, but you’re looser with your smiles now, no longer slipping away from dinners or hiding in your bedroom. Still, they say nothing. They graciously allow you to live in your bubble for a bit longer.

It seems the only downside to your new relationship is that you’re proving right all the nosy women from church, who still ask you about Gwilym every time they see you. Even so, you think you can live with that. You can live with being wrong about something if it means you get Gwil in return. It may be the easiest trade you’ve ever made.

Gwil’s birthday flies in almost without you realizing, and you finally decide to go to the soda shop with Eva instead. You and Eva seem to stick together the most nowadays. With Grace newly married and Leona spending all her spare time with the boys she meets at school (“Just until Gwil’s handsome war friend comes home!” She always teases), you settle into an easy pattern with Eva. She reminds you of Gwilym in some ways. She taunts you far less, but she has the same countenance, easy and comforting and ready to listen.

Though your days still feel longer than possible, you become used to your new routine. Not the loneliness, never the loneliness, but work and then school and then home. Sometimes out with your friends, but less so now. Oftentimes, a lot of nights end with you and Eva watching a movie, or playing rummy with Gwil’s dad. Overall, it’s not a bad way to fill your days, for the time being. It isn't forever, which you’re grateful for, but it reminds you of the relationships you’ve forgotten to cultivate while you and Gwilym have spent your whole lives together.

Gwil spends his birthday how he spends most days, deflecting questions about his personal life (not that he really has one anymore) from Ben and Sam. The three of them have eased into the perfect ebb and flow of conversation, where Ben overshares and Sam makes fun of him and Gwil keeps to himself. His life isn’t a secret, not even close, but it almost feels as though he’d be tainting the idealism of his real life by sharing it in such a dark place. He doesn’t want the war, the soldiers, to know about him. That was for him to hold close to his chest. If he met Sam and Ben somewhere else, he decides, they might already know all about him, and maybe when they visit him after the war, he will open up. Until then, he’ll laugh along with their stories and smile wryly when they ask for his, and he’ll keep his life to himself like a daydream he can escape to.

January 12, 1945

My dearest, Y/N,

I heard from my mother that the New Year’s party was quite successful this year, and that you did a wonderful job helping her plan it. She’s just thrilled with how close the two of you have gotten since I’ve left. She has always adored you, but hearing her gush about the two of you planning a party together thrills me to no end. I must be the luckiest guy in the world to have the two of you, and for the two of you to have each other.

Congratulations on finishing your first term of school! Of course, I won’t be there for the one starting now, but I’ll let myself hope I can be there for the next one. I never used to hope, but it’s one of the only things that gets me through my day anymore. That, and you. I don’t have to hope for you anymore.

Ben’s been talking loads about how excited he is to finally meet you. Turns out that bastard caught hold of a couple letters you sent me, and he’s taken quite the liking to you. He says he can’t wait to meet you so the two of you can team up against me. He annoys the piss out of me, really, but I can’t wait either.

My mum had said something about us that made me think she knew. Personally, I don’t mind so much our families knowing. I’m glad they do, I think it’s about time. However, the women from church? That’s what I worry about. Our families will keep quiet about it until I get home, but I’m already dreading all the questions we’re going to have to stave off about our relationship when that happens. Until then, let’s keep it to ourselves. It’s the way it’s meant to be.

Yours, Gwilym

P.S. You don’t know how much I needed that picture you sent me, sweetheart. You looked gorgeous; you always do, but especially at the New Year’s parties. I’m thinking of you every second, desperately wishing for the day this war is over so I can come home to you. I hope you’re doing well, my love.

Ben and Sam practically force Gwil to show them the photograph you send, and, as he expects, it only proves to make them gush about you. Ruby sends one to Sam, too, and the more Gwil thinks about it, what he assumed was a throwaway line in a conversation lingers in his mind. He really thinks the two of you would be friends, especially judging by how eager you are to have Ruby join Sam on his trip to meet the two of you. According to Sam, his girl is equally as excited. The thought makes a mindless smile cross his face. He had grown to love Sam as much as he loved the friends he grew up with, and he could practically see the four of you at a table, you and Ruby ganging up against him and Sam.

Until then, holding your picture close to his heart is enough. He waited his whole life for you. He thinks he can wait until the end of the war.

The winter isn’t nearly as brutal as the one before, but it still bites to the bone when it snows. You’ve convinced your mum to allow you to use the car for the winter, especially since she isn’t going anywhere, which makes your life the slightest bit easier. Still, you hate to drive in the snow, and driving back and forth from work and school and home does run the car a little ragged.

Finally, the days warm a little and the snow turns to rain, and another spring has come in. On the warmer, sunnier days, you and Eva study outside, and even with your final exams coming up, you’re practically bursting with excitement. More than you are anxious, you’re excited to finally have a little bit of free time. Even with your summer work schedule, you’ll have most of your day to do whatever you please.

What free time you have now is either spent with Eva or your or Gwil’s family. If you and Eva aren’t at the movies, you’re cooking dinner with Gwil’s mum or working on helping your mother around the house. It feels good to spend time with them, to laugh and dance around the kitchen and to have someone to lean against. Your family had always been close to Gwil’s—you don’t know that the two of you would be so close if they weren’t—but ever since he left, it feels as though the two families have merged. A lot of dinners are shared, whether you’re all gathering in the same kitchen or you’re shuffling casserole dishes across the street.

Between rummy with Gwil’s dad and spending so much time with his mum, you pray to God that everything works out between you two. You want to live like this for the rest of your life.

“Shit!” Ben cries, whipping his helmet off to the side to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “It’s hot.”

Gwil can’t help but roll his eyes. Of course, it’s hot. It’s nearly always hot anymore, especially in their heavy uniforms, but Ben’s inability to not complain only bothers him, so he doesn’t respond. Summer comes in sweltering, hotter than usual, he thinks. You haven’t mentioned the weather in your letters, likely because unlike him, you have other things to think about, but he wonders what it’s like at home. God, he longs for the day he goes home and remembers how to form thoughts about things other than the weather, or how he wants to hit Ben, or when the mail is coming in.

“Obviously, it’s hot,” Sam says, cutting a glare at Ben. “You’re wearing layers in June. We’re all hot.”

June. The thought could make Gwilym sigh. Only a few months short of two years since he had been drafted, and he’s exhausted. He knew when he left that he would likely be out until the war ended or he died, but he hadn’t quite realized how much longer this war was going to last. He’s sick of the monotony of it all, but he figures the last time he escaped monotony, he had been shot.

Lying in the infirmary sounds like a dream now. A retreat from the sun, and from Ben and Sam’s constant bickering. Gwil wonders what he’d have to do to get sent back there, and the thought makes an amused smile quirk on his lips. Two years ago, he never would have laughed at the thought of his mortality, but a lot can change in only a few weeks in war, let alone years. For a few moments, he manages to tune out Ben and Sam arguing with one another about something inconsequential, and he closes his eyes, leaning back in his cot.

Any day now, he promises himself. Any day and the war will be over. I can go home.

With a sigh, he prays it’s true this time.

Despite the almost unbearable heat, summer doesn’t crawl by in the same way winter does. They’ve got a little more daylight, a little more time to actually relax when they aren’t moving, which he appreciates. He had never been one to just sit down; he wasn’t stagnant, he always had to be doing something. But the constant movement brought out an appreciation for sloth that he had never quite felt before. Now, he relishes in the time he can spend sitting down, his eyes drooped closed or scanning the horizon lazily.

Yes, summers are better even during the war. It’s the simplest of pleasures, one he’ll gladly accept. He finds pleasure in the mundane now. Passing of days—every new day means he was one closer to being home—and fresh water and mail. Especially mail. There’s finally a break from the heat when he receives another of your letters.

August 14, 1945

My dear Gwil,

Classes start soon! It’s been wonderful to have days full of nothingness this summer, and I admit that I’ll greatly miss the late nights drinking tea on the stoop with your mum, I am rather glad to be going back. I’m getting bored of the work at the office, and it’ll be nice to have something to split my days with.

I went to dinner at Ed and Grace’s this week, and let me tell you that I don’t know how much longer I can handle being around them alone. They invite me to make me feel less lonely but once I’m there, it’s like they completely forget about me. I wouldn’t mind it so much if you were here to make fun of them for the way they act together, but I suppose that will have to wait a little while. You have much to make up on.

The bake sale for the church went well! As expected, your mum’s cupcakes sold out within a couple of hours. You can rag on Mrs. Aarons and her cake as much as you want, but I have to admit that she’s improved if only a little bit since we were in Sunday school.

I’m sorry I don’t have much to say. Not much has been going on, really. I’ll try to shake things up around here to give you something interesting to read about in the next letter!

Yours, Y/N

P.S. You’re lucky I’m already in love with you, Gwil, or you’d be booted to the curb in no time. You bullied me enough when we were kids, give me a break now! You’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to me, starting the second you get home.

Two years and a few weeks since he had been drafted. Just a week short of one year since the letter in which he had confessed his love for you. He thinks there’s no better time for the war to end.

The whole group of them buzz with the news, drinks flowing and men yelling and laughter, more laughter than he’s heard since he left home. Gwil still can’t feel anything other than shock. Two years, he’s been away, and now it hits him. He’s going home. After so long, the thought of going home crossed his mind often, but it always felt wishful, like it was something that would never happen.

It isn’t today, and it isn’t tomorrow. Hell, it wasn’t even this month, probably. But Gwilym is going home.

As for his home, well, you nearly miss the news. Of course, it’s impossible to miss something like that, but you miss the announcement. Gwil’s mum always preferred real conversation over the artificial company of the stereo, and while she bakes, you sit at the table, content to listen to her talk.

You hear your mother coming before she’s even in the house, crying your names loudly before she swings the door open. With furrowed brows, Gwil’s mum wipes the flour from her hands and you stand, the two of you rushing to meet your mum in the living room.

“Mum?”

“Did you hear?” She gasps, clutching at her chest. “Did you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Gwil’s mum asks, shaking her head. She grabs your mother���s elbow, steadying her. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s over,” she whispers, looking between you and her friend. “They signed the papers this morning. The war is over.”

Suddenly, you feel dizzy, your head spinning as you look at her. Over? The war had been going on for six years, a constant cloud looming over your life, and now it’s over? And then, as though it’s a punch to the mouth, you realize with a jolt. “Gwil,” you breathe, looking over at his mum. “It’s over. He’s coming home?”

Outside, you hear the women from the church squawking, and you feel like you could be washed away in this feeling, floating and weightless and perfect. He’s coming home.

Three long months of nothing but letters all lead up to one day, one perfect day. Gwil doesn’t have much to do besides write letters, and you’ll often get two or three from him before you’ve even finished replying to one. Each as sweet as the last, they do nothing but thrill you for his return. P.S., he writes in one, I’m taking you to that soda shop the moment I get home. I want to start our forever as soon as possible. How could you ever say no to that?

It’s cold on the platform, but all the people huddled around you warm you up a little bit. Aside from that, the blood rushing in your ears hardly leaves you shivering. In fact, you might be sweating a little under your coat, but you aren’t sure. You can’t find it in yourself to care, anyhow. You’re too excited.

The tell tale rumbling of the ground beneath your feet tells you everything you need to know. They’re almost here.

In the train, Gwil’s cheeks are flush with laughter and excitement, Ben kicking his shin gently under the table. He’s only a minute away from the station, from being able to go home and see his family and you. There’s nothing to do but laugh; the glee he feels practically forces its way out of his body, his laughter light and bright as the station comes into view, crowded with people waiting for their marines. He grins.

The train rolls to a shaky stop, and they both gaze out the window for a moment, waiting for the bustle of the other men grabbing their bags to die down. It’s busy, loud, and Gwil’s happy to just watch people for a moment, up until he sees a familiar face, anxious but still smiling, and he shoots to his feet.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Ben’s green eyes follow him anxiously, glancing back out the window. “What?”

“Y/N is here,” Gwil exclaims, pressing a palm to the glass. You’re on your toes, watching the people filtering out of the train, and Ben searches frantically for you. It’s hard to say whether he’s just been away from you for so long or if you actually look different, but Gwil swears he’s never seen you look so beautiful, even from a distance.

Finally, Ben catches sight of you and breaks into a grin. “Well, go! Go! What are you doing?”

Flustered, Gwil reaches for his bag, only looking over at his friend for a moment. “I’ll write, okay?”

“Sure, fine! Go!”

Gwilym can’t help but laugh, tossing his bag over his shoulder. The train is still emptying, and even when he’s so eager, he isn’t rude, so he bounces as he waits for everyone else to get off the train. It’s slow moving, especially with so many people, and he feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest when he finally ducks under the doorway.

It’s practically slow motion anyway, the way the two of you see each other. You’re looking right at him the moment he’s outside—he’s so hard to miss, tall and handsome as all—and your face splits into a bright grin. It takes everything in him to not run to you, and you to him, but you wait for him to reach you, taking in the sight of him in his uniform with a gentle sigh. Shouldering past unaffected patrons, a smile growing on his face, Gwilym feels his palms sweating, unable to stop his stomach from rolling and his heart from pounding.

He almost seems taller when he stops in front of you, and you can only look at him for a moment, taking him in. Without a thought, one of your hands raises to cup his cheek, thumb running over the dark circle under his eye. “Hello.”

Both of his hands cup your face, keeping your eyes on him, and you release a gentle breath. “You’re here,” he says, like he can’t believe it.

With a quiet laugh, you say, “So are you.”

He doesn’t make a joke about your smart remark. Instead, he leans down, pressing your foreheads together. “You look beautiful.”

Your cheeks flush, palms pressing against his chest. “Stop,” you chuckle. Gwilym beams, his nose brushing yours, and you sigh gently, closing your eyes. It had been far too long since you had been close to him, so long that his calloused hands almost feel foreign against your skin. He’s less polished, even after the accommodations he had after the war ended, but he’s still your Gwil, even with a messy shave and hair that’s just a touch too short from an ill-informed barber. You breathe him in, allowing yourself a moment to commit him to memory. Him, like this, holding you so close, it’s something you never want to forget.

As for your best friend, he can barely contain himself, your noses brushing against one another as you stand together, silent. It wasn’t how you had always imagined your reunion, the intimacy you share on the crowded platform, but you love it all the same, your hand slipping from his cheek to wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. He holds you tightly, an arm wrapped crushingly around your ribcage, and presses his nose into your hair, his eyes closing. Like you had never been apart at all.

He talks the whole way back to his house, his hands waving to exaggerate his points. Mostly, they’re all stories of Ben and Sam, and between the stories and the joy you feel having him back beside you, you can’t help but squeal with laughter, chancing glances over at him when you can. It doesn’t feel, especially not when he teases you about your poor driving, like this is anything more than your best friend, still seventeen and chaffing you about getting your license to drive. It will all hit sometime soon, you’re sure, but this is your Gwil. It feels like it always has, and for that you’re grateful. The snow has made the roads slushy, almost scary to drive on, which you use as an excuse to drive a little slower than normal. He smiles about it; he seems to realize you have an ulterior motive, but he doesn’t mind either. For now, you’re both just happy to be reunited.

After all, it’s the only free time the two of you are likely to get together tonight. A family dinner waits for him at home, after which you’re sure he’ll be up all night spending time with his parents. You don’t mind, really. They deserve the time more than you do, but you’d like to get as much time with him as you can until tomorrow.

Your families whisk him into the house as soon as you pull into the driveway, and you follow quietly. Knowing him, it’s the most he’s talked since he left in the first place, but he doesn’t seem to care based on the little smiles he shares with you across the table. His foot brushes your ankles softly every once in a while, always with a sly smile in your direction. For the first time in a long time, the focus is all on him instead of the relationship between the two of you, something you’re grateful for.

“I’m just glad to be back,” he finally says, once dinner has been finished. His blue eyes stare directly back at you, and you can feel your cheeks warm as you break eye contact, taking a steadying breath.

Your dad smiles, looking between the two of you. With a clap, he suggests, “Time for games?”

It’s a cue, one your parents take less than subtly when Gwil’s mum says, “Will you two clear the table?”

With a quiet snort, you nod and push your chair back, exhaling sharply as you watch them filter into the living room, leaving you and Gwil alone in the kitchen. For a moment, you don’t move, pursing your lips in thought. When you had picked him up from the station, of course, there was some tension, but moreso, you were just filled with a childlike excitement, overthinking the endless possibilities of the kind of adventures the two of you would pick up again. But now, the way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. Neither of you have mentioned the letters, mentioned those three words you had shared countless times, and you were nervous to bring it up first.

So you choose to say nothing. You gather a few of the dishes, shooting him a pointed look when he remains at the table. “Don’t think you’re getting off easy, mister. You’re going to help me clean up.”

“Come sit with me,” he says gently, reaching for your wrist.

Softly, you smile and shake your head. Nodding toward the sink, you suggest, “After I do the dishes.”

He heaves a playful sigh, gathering the rest of the dishes as you walk toward the sink to begin filling it up. It’s hardly a minute before he’s joining you, shedding the jacket of his uniform and rolling up his sleeves as you start the water. Throughout your many years of friendship, you had done the dishes together thousands of times—usually as a punishment for some sort of hijink—and you had never watched his reflection in the window like you do now, your upper arm pressing into his as the two of you stood close. He looks more mature than he did before he left, and you suppose you should have expected it, but it certainly is a welcome change. Still handsome as ever in his uniform, previously neatly coiffed hair now falling. You grin. To say it to him first, you’re still shy, but you didn’t mind admitting it to yourself. You love him. It’s more apparent than ever with him standing next to you, glancing up to meet your eyes in the reflection of the window with a wry smile.

“It’s full,” he teases, reaching forward to turn the water off. “I wash, you dry?”

Of course. How could you forget? “As always,” you grin up at him, bumping him with your shoulder.

With a laugh, he shakes his head. You grab a fresh towel from the cabinet as he begins to wash the dishes, sighing a little in tranquility. For a second, you almost forget that electric tension the two of you have had all night long, waiting for the other to say something, to bring up the letters. The routine is still so familiar that for the first time in months, being in love with Gwilym Lee isn’t on your mind, but as you sidle up beside him again, holding your hand out to take the first plate from him, he breaks the silence.  “We missed our date,” he sighs, glancing up at you.

Your heart pounds. There’s no need for speculation; you know exactly what he’s talking about. After a second, you prop your hip against the counter and dry the dish lazily, glancing up at him with a small shrug. “It can wait a day,” you decide. “It’s certainly taken us years to get here. One more day can’t hurt.”

He just smiles, bumping your hip with his.

The boys must have been a lot closer than you had previously thought. You figure that if you spent every single moment of every day for two years together, you have no choice but to become close. Even so, it surprises you that Ben and Sam are so eager to come visit after only a few weeks of being home.

Gwil’s home bustles with people, friends and family and people from the church eagerly counting down the minutes to midnight. For the last two years, Gwil had gotten a photo of you at the party, but now that he sees you in person, he holds you as close as he always held those photographs, a large hand always holding yours or your hip, the two of you dodging the still-pleased glances from the women from church. You wonder if they will ever grow out of being smug, but it doesn’t bother you so much anymore, not when Gwil is there to make fun of them with you.

Ben rushes in like a hurricane, boisterous and loud and funny, and Sam and Ruby are content to just laugh at him with you. You mostly heard about how Ben complained too much, but the two of you spend more than enough of the night teasing Gwil together, right up until he meets Leona. The two of them hit it off immediately, much to the satisfaction of Gwilym.

As soon as the boys leave the three of you for a moment, she corners the two of you in the kitchen to obsess over him. “Oh, he is cute!” She gushes. You and Ruby both laugh, sharing a knowing look between the two of you. “Really, he’s adorable. And funny, don’t you think?”

“A blast,” Ruby grins, glancing over at you, and you giggle, shaking your head.

“Ah,” she huffs, waving you both off. “I like him. He’s already talking about coming down next month, I’m thinking I can get him to come for Valentine's day, too.”

“Good Lord!” You laugh, nudging your friend. “You’re not wasting a minute, are you?”

Leona narrows her eyes. “I’m the only single one of the group left,” she huffs. “Even the new girl has a man.” She gestures toward Ruby, whose cheeks flush, her ring sparkling under the lights in the kitchen when she brushes her hair from her forehead subconsciously. “So excuse me for swooping in on a handsome marine.”

With a bright laugh, you shake your head and grip her bicep. “Well, good on you!” You exclaim, shaking your head. You’re about to say something else when an arm slithers around your waist, Gwil’s large palm pressing easily against your belly.

“You ladies having fun?” He asks, his nose pressing against your hair. With a grin, you grip his wrist, turning to look at him. Your friends respond, but neither of you really listen, and they can tell. Most days are spent in your own little world with him, and it’s often hard to snap out of that when you’re around other people. Hopefully, they don’t mind, but even if they do, he’s whispering in your ear and you can’t even focus on them. “It’s almost midnight.”

Glancing at the clock, you chuckle. It’s come on in no time, you think, after meeting your new friends and enjoying the last of your year, you have less than fifteen minutes until the end of the night. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Looking up at your friends, Gwil raises a brow. “Mind if I steal my girl for a few minutes? Sam and Ben are in the living room.”

Ruby wiggles her brows at you and Leona scoffs goodnaturedly as they slip past you. “How rude,” you tease.

It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s beaming and tugging you out of the kitchen, down the hall and into his bedroom, away from the crowd. The muffled sounds of the party make you breathe out in relief; you didn’t realize you were becoming overwhelmed until Gwilym whisks you away, and you lean into his side, clutching at his cozy sweater. “I forgot how busy it gets,” he says softly, clutching your hip.

“It gets louder every year,” you agree, slipping from his side to cross the room to the window.

The street is crowded with cars but empty of people, dark and snowy, and Gwil follows you, his hand finding its place on your hip. Silence had become a third companion with the two of you, something you secretly adored. There was a special aspect of silence that you had never thought of before he came home, that you were so perfectly comfortable for one another that you no longer felt the need to fill the quiet around you.

You lean into his side, resting your head on his shoulder with a gentle sigh. Your eyes stay trained out the window, but your mind is on him, as it most often is. It’s your favorite New Year’s party yet, especially after two of them without him. When you were younger, you had spent most of the night hiding in Gwilym’s room, and tonight only reminds you of that, but now he holds you close, thumb stroking your hip through your dress. There’s nothing to feel but adoration, solace, excitement. With him by your side, you think this will be your best year yet.

“Are you happy?” He breaks the silence, not looking down at you.

A smile quirks your lips. “What?”

“Right now, are you happy?”

With an airy breath, you wrap an arm around his waist. “Of course, I am. I’m with you.”

Outside, the crowd begins to count down from ten, and you beam, turning to face him. An affection smile overtakes his face as he looks down at you, hands reaching up to cup your face. You grip his sweater at his waist, grinning up at him as he leans down. The party is only on five, but he can’t wait, pressing his lips to yours, holding your face tightly. Neither of you can keep from smiling, so your teeth knock together awkwardly, but he laughs softly against your lips and tries to power through. With a soft sigh, he draws you closer, teeth catching your lip softly before he pulls away.

Dizzily, you smile, hands moving from his sides to grip his wrists. His eyes are cloudy with affection and you don’t doubt that you look the exact same, smiling up at him softly as your noses brush.

“You still love me?” He asks softly. A question he’s made a habit of asking.

You smile, squeezing his wrists. His naivete makes your heart flutter, his complete lack of awareness for just how head over heels you are for him. As though you could ever be anything but totally, irrevocably in love with Gwilym Lee. “Always.”

[mariahthelioness29]

Send the Addy

Pairing: SamBucky x Black! Reader 

WC: 4,279 ( I am theirs, they inspire me) 

Warning: It is absolute filth, my peeps, barely a plot, SMUT, Sugar relationship, D/s dynamics, Double Penetration ( anal & vaginal), oral ( male & female receiving), daddy and sir naming , spitting, edging, rough sex, praise and degradation, blindfold and light bondage... that’s all. 

A/N: This for @blackmissfrizzle and her Frizzle’s 2K Follower Celebration & Bad Bitch Challenge. I had the song Send the Addy by Flo Milli. 

@siancore @helahades @avintagekiss24 @rasberrylemon @saintsebastian-stan @sapphirescrolls @honeychicanawrites @marvelmaree @honestlyfrance @xbuchananbarnes @blacklavenderjade @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes @deansblackbeauty

After an excruciating week full of all-nighters, tidying final projects and exams. You and your girls are dancing, drinking some strong booze, forgetting the hell you all went through.

Send the addy, starting playing and you stand up from the chair and start dancing 

“Better watch where you steppin', this Gucci is pricey (Hello)

Like a snake on the loose, they gon' bite me

Put it on him, now he callin' me wifey (Ooh)

He tryna cuff but it's hard to indict me

He say he like when I call him daddy (Haha)

Tell him "Pull up" then I send the addy (Ooh)

She keep muggin' me down, she a maddy (Ew, bye)

I got three bitches wit' me, they catty (Ho)”, You sing along.

 You move your hips to the beat going down  till you're squatting near the floor and start throwing your ass back. Your ass shaking going up and down on repeat. 

“Ayeee, show’em what you got, baby”! ,your friend Bry hyping you up while recording.

You stand up running to your friend, laughing somehow feeling a little shy but still feeling yourself. 

“Damn, what’s gotten into you ?, you out here showing out, feeling yourself, but I can not complain I am enjoying it a lot”.Bry inquires, looking you up and down, smirking at you.

“Just happy that for once I was ahead of the curve, did not procrastinate and did all the work like for once I am confident, the finals will  be great”.

You smile at her, both of you sitting close to each other wrapping your arms around each other. You and Bry have been friends since freshman but sometimes you indulge in each other. When there is booze or stress involved, you seek each other's refuge.

 Some heavy twerking to 19, Birthday Cake and WAP, drinking and some heavy making out sessions with Bry and Draya recording it . You send all the videos to two particular men in your contacts. You are all snickering and smiling to your phone. You know you're in for one hell of a night with your daddies.

“y/n, when are you going to tell us the truth? ”,Draya disrupted you from your phone. 

“Tell, you what”. You feign, cocking your head to the side.

“ So you think we blind and stupid, you definitely have a sugar daddy or an Only Fans”.

“That is the same thing, I have been trying to find out”, Bry expressed with faux annoyance rolling her eyes.

“Your skin is glowing, The lace you got, Lace where?, you are not whining about your car problems, the clothes, the jewelry, the nails, like everyone can confuse you with some NBA player’s wife, if they don’t know you.” Draya continued. 

“The rent is paid and everything paid plus a new phone, new laptop. Oh, She gets some Fenty x Savage and Agent Provocateur on the side ”, Bry pipes in.

“Nosey bitch”, you shove Bry and she laughs. 

“ Is he some NBA ,NFL, Major League player, CEO, Rapper, Doctor, Real estate mogul, Politician?”, Bry asked. 

“Nope”, you said while stifling a smile and you took your shot of D’usse. 

Draya slouched more on the chair and sighs. “ Well if she won’t tell Bry, then she is taking that secret to the grave”. 

“Guys, I wish I could tell you but I can’t, I have signed an NDA, I don’t have money or lawyers to fight an NDA breaching just cause my girls want me to kiss and tell”. 

They all rolled their eyes. “Well, if he has friends that want a sugar baby tell’em to send the addy, I am here for the taking ” Bry responded while twirling around and posing. 

You all cackled. 

Little did they know that you were Captain America and the Winter Soldier’s sugar baby. You have to keep it a secret. This can mess up your future career and theirs. 

You start reminiscing, while your friends are having fun. 

You can see what they were seeing. A year and half ago, you were quiet, always tired and not as vibrant. Balancing the little you had, some internships to build your resume and classes, were taking a toll on you. You had the biggest internship. An internship at the Avengers headquarters, with no other than Dr. Bruce Banner and Dr. Helen Cho. If you aced this, you were pretty much settled. The chance of getting a nice job will be high. The internship pay was nice. It gave you some comfort but the hours were outrageous. The internship has some other perks. Seeing Sam Wilson, Captain America and Bucky Barnes, ex Winter-Soldier pass by. 

You seem them pass by hand in hand. They wave at you. You smile and wave back. You hate to see them go but love to watch them leave. They have some nice ass thighs and Sam’s ass in that Cap uniform. You are sure that if you ever had the chance to go to bed with him. You will be groping it all night. It looks so good.  You feel a sort of remorse for thinking that .You can see Sam and Bucky love each other so much and here you are being horny because of Sam’s ass in his uniform.

They were always trying to find ways to be in the lab with you, but you always denied that they were here for you. 

You  became friendly with both of them. You can see there were always lingering eyes or a hug longer than usual but you always thought it is your infatuation playing with your mind. 

That was until the Stark Benefit Gala happened. You were having fun until the party ended and your car decided to die on you. You were standing there, bummed in a beautiful dress. The dress was a courtesy of Dr. Cho. 

They saw you groaning and rolling your eyes in your car. They came to your help. Sam was drunk.  It was late, so Bucky offered you a ride to your humble abode. 

Against your better judgement you decided to ask if Bucky wants to get in your home. He went in. You were sitting drinking some water. You went to your room to get out of the dress and change to some comfortable sweatpants and a t-shirt. You were talking about T.V shows and he mentioned he was watching the Witcher but has never had time to catch up so you turned on the T.V watch the Witcher with him to explain to him what he has been missing. 

Suddenly you guys were making out. You on top of him, t-shirt disregarded. 

You stop him, “ We cannot do this to Sam”, you said, your lips ghosting over his. 

“What if I tell you, Sammy is okay, with this. He grabs your ass cheeks hard. He breathes you in and suckles the pulse point of your neck.

 You throw your head back and start grinding on him.

“What if I tell you he wants you, just as much as I do”. His voice raspy laced with desire. With that he kisses you with such a passion, all the oxygen in your lungs disappeared, he kisses your cheek in a chaste way, kisses your hand, pulls you off his lap, stands in front of you, and tells you goodnight. Leaving you hanging, confused, hot and bothered.

Your phone beeped and a message with a weird number appeared

Meet us tonight at the Cove at 21:00 sharp , The Uber is already paid and will pick you up. S&B” 

Another message in with the directions to the Cove. The Cove was a nice restaurant wine bar a little outside the city. 

At the Cove, Sam was there to confirm what Bucky told you. 

The waiter greets you and takes you orders. Chardonnay and tapas to go with it.  

“ Thank you for being here, y/n”, Sam started. “Buck told me what happened”. 

“Sam, I am so sorry, please I stay away from you. I don’t want this to cause any problems. I am so sorry”, you apologize to him.

Sam looks at you soft. “Hey, calm down, I would’ve loved to see that, you and Buck”. You are in shock. It is true what Bucky told you. “Buck told me you feel good,y/n and I want to find out:, he whispers. His eyes darkened while taking you in. It sends a shiver to your spine.

“ See, y/n, Buck and I, we love each other very much”. You see Bucky looking at Sam like he hung the moon and Sam takes Bucky's metal hand to his lips and kisses it. “But we are both missing what is like to be with a woman”. Bucky answered. “Someone we can both trust and confide in” Sam pipes in. “ We both have a kind of a dominant air and we want someone that can be ours” Bucky continues. “ I see the way you look at us, you invited me to your apartment”. "We made out"  “ You check Sam’s ass a lot, I know you can’t help it, It's so good”. You see Sam biting his lip at that. 

 You want to stay and jolt the hell out of there. You want to say something but you can't, the words won’t come out. 

Sam lift his hand 

“ Before you ask, what’s in it for you”, Let me tell you”. Sam led the conversation.

“ You are an amazing intern. Nothing but good things; cunning, smart, hard working. Banner and Helen have seen how hard you work. School and bills take a toll on you. “We see your car, that poor thing. “ You are quiet , you sigh a lot”. “We want to relieve that burden for you”.

You take a good gulp of the wine so that it can give you courage. “ This is not some cruel prank, right?, You ask with doubt. Taking a strand of hair behind your ears. You are shaking like a leaf. 

Sam and Bucky smile at you. They’re smiles are comforting. 

“ It is not. In fact, I have something for you”. Sam takes a stack of papers from his suitcase and puts it on the table. 

“ It is a Non Disclosure Agreement and some ground rules, This could be scandalous, we are aware of that so we have to keep this a secret much to my disdain.” Sam huffs. 

 Bucky takes your hand in his. “ Just give it a thought and think how good this can be for you”. “If you are not on board with this. It’s okay, we understand. Burn those papers and we  continue like nothing happened, please just think about it and let us know what you want”. Bucky looks at you with his ocean eyes pleading. 

The days followed. NDA signing. Medical exams all of you did. After that you had the most amazing experience you ever had in your life. It was everything. So erotic, you on your back Sam driving into you with madness. Bucky beside you alternating between kissing Sam and playing with your clit. Bucky spitting in your mouth, saying you are theirs and no one else's. So filthy, your back against Bucky’s chest he was in your ass while Sam was in front of you balls deep in you and they were both fucking you like there was no tomorrow. 

“Fuckkk, they groaned in unison”

Bucky was kissing the back of your neck giving you long but hard strokes. “Babyy, so tiight, so goood”, he said in between strangled moans. 

You could barely breathe. They are pushing buttons, you did not know they existed.

Sam was rough, giving you fast strong strokes, hitting that spot repeatedly. “He was moaning, grunting, breathing heavy too. Eyes closed head back. “Fuck baby, you’re gripping me hard, I’m not going to last long, if you keep doing that. Naughty girl you like that, huh?, “having two men at the same time”. Sam said with his breath short, driving his dick deeper in you. 

You nod. You cannot form a coherent sentence 

Bucky wrapped his vibranium fingers tight around your throat, making you face Sam. “Answer him”, he orders you, whispering in your ear.   

“Yes, sir, I love being stuffed by you both.” You answered him with a strangled whisper while your eyes were fluttering. It was too much but it was what your body was craving ever since Dr.Banner introduced you to them.

After a few more strokes you came with a shout and your legs shaking . Sam came hard , then Bucky after fucking your ass with no abandon. The night went on like that, Sam and Bucky using you the way they saw fit. 

You were stuffed with their cum and seeing galaxies at the end of the night. 

They took care of you after that. Bathing you, cleaning you up, giving you snacks, even brushing your teeth, and putting you to sleep. 

 You were biting your lip, pressing your thighs together. You were hoping you could get some of that tonight.

Seems like your wish is granted  because your cell phone vibrates. Two messages in 

Bad girl, making out with your friend, that mouth, that pussy  belongs to us. Only us. 

I see you’re having fun, but you can have more fun with us, baby girl. Say goodbye to your friends and you come to this hotel this instant. 

They sent you the address to the hotel . You see the address is not that far. Your pussy throbs in anticipation. 

“ Well, bitches, I got to go”, you say picking your Birkin bag and taking one last shot. 

“ Daddy Anonymous called you, huh”, Bry said looking you up and down. 

“ Yes he did and I am going to get some dick tonight”. You all laughed. 

Kissing and hugging your girls goodbye. You get in the car and connect the phone to the speakers and play send the addy again. 

Reaching to the hotel. You text the numbers back with: 

I am here, sir. 

I am here, daddy. 

They reply back with the room number. 

You arrived at the room you knocked on the door , just how they thought you. 

It was them. Bucky was dressed in a black shirt and the sleeves rolled up. Sam was wearing a burgundy shirt also with the sleeves rolled up. Tight jeans and two very noticeable hard ons. Your mouth waters at the sight. 

Bucky grabs you close to him and slaps your face. You gasped. The slap is not  hard enough to leave a mark but to tingle. Sam watches amused rubbing his erection through his pants. 

“Bad, girl, behaving like a slut, making out with Bry, letting her touch you like that”, he said, wrapping his vibranium fingers around your neck with force. “You just can’t get enough, do you baby ?”

“Daddy Buck, may not like it but I love it baby. You are so fucking sexy, especially when you make out with Bry”. Sam replied. 

Why did you do it, baby girl ?, Sam asked while unbuckling his belt and sitting on a chair in the corner. 

Bucky makes you face Sam. 

“ I like pussy too, sir and her lips are nice, both sets of lips,sir”. You whisper with Bucky’s hand tight around your throat. 

Bucky grabs you by the forearm, makes you walk to the bed with him. He sits at the edge of the bed. 

“ Lay across my lap”, he demanded. 

You do as you're told and lay across his lap. 

“Daddy is very disappointed, and you know what happens when daddy is disappointed”. You brace yourself for what is about to come. Spanking with the vibranium hand. 

“ You are going to count, Ok”. 

A slap to your ass and it is heard. ���One”. You exhale the breath you were holding in. Two slaps quickly after another. “Two, three”, you whisper and then hiss. He massages your ass cheek. And slaps it again “Four”, you scream. “Such a good girl, taking your spanking so well”, Sam encourages you while stroking his dick slowly. 

“Don’t get any ideas, he might like what you do but you are still a dirty slut”. With that he spanks you three times quick after another. “Five, six, seven”, you scream and a tear is rolling down your face. 

“Aw, baby you look so cute when you cry, don’t worry, honey, it is going to end soon, Sam walks to you and wipes the tear away from your face. He cups your face in his hand. 

Bucky laughs. “Whores pulling stunts and can’t handle the consequences”. “Should've known better” He spanks your ass three times one after the other. “Eight, nine, ten” you sob. 

You stand up from Bucky’s lap. Your ass stinging. You know that you will not sit comfortably for a week. You hiccup a sob.

“Sh, sh,sh, that's my girl, taking what we give so well”. Sam console you. He cups our face and then hugs you tight. He smells so good. Sandalwood and cocoa butter. His skin is smooth

“ Lay on the bed, baby girl, I'm going to give you a treat”. You lay at the edge of the bed, with your legs open.

Sam lick his lips, you are dripping wet.

"So wet, so pretty" Sam whispers, touching your pussy. You moaned at that,moving  your hips looking for more sensation but he stops touching you.

"Tell us, are you wet for Bry or for us?",Bucky questioned

"You only you"

"Good answer, pretty baby".Sam says breathing you in.

“ What do good girls say to that, y/n?”, Sam asked

“ Thank you, sir”, you answer him, all breathy

With that he licks along your slit and then starts devouring your lips. Sucking on your clit and then shoving his tongue in you. He keeps that pattern until you are squirming and moaning loud  but Bucky puts his arm around your middle, keeping you down. Sam keeps eating you out like you are his last meal.

“You are such a dumb baby, you cannot take my spanking or his tongue, don’t worry baby. "Bucky whispers to your ear.

 “He spoils you but I will set you straight.” He bites your nipple to the point it is painful. You moaned loudly the pain and the pleasure mixing in.  You grab his hair hard and he grunts. He soothes the bite, licking and flicking his tongue on your nipple. 

Bucky grips Sam’s head and brings Sam to him and they kiss slowly all tongue. Both of them sharing your juices. It is such a sight. 

“Do you trust us, baby?”, Sam ask with his lips shining of your essence and Bucky’s spit. 

“Yes, sir, My safe word is fly”.

“ Good girl”, Sam responds and then hovers over you to peck your lips.

He goes to the night table and takes a pink silk scarf and pink rope out of the drawer. 

He makes you sit on the bed and ties the silk scarf around your eyes and he kisses your cheek. 

“My pretty baby”

“ I don’t know why you keep putting her on a pedestal, she is a whore”, Bucky tells Sam. 

“ A whore that needs to be put in her place”. Bucky continues

“ C’mon, ass up ,face down”. Bucky orders and there is no room for ifs. 

You assume the position. “Hands behind your back”, Bucky demands.  

You put your hands behind your back and you feel the rope tightening on your wrists.  

You gasp when you feel a dick inside you in one thrust and you know is Bucky. He is like that though, demanding. He starts ramming into you. The shaking of your ass against his hips, your pussy creaming on his shaft . That spurs him on. 

“ He might say nice things to you, but we both know what you like, getting fucked without mercy”, He groans at the feeling of you spasming around him. “That is what you like”.

He pulls on your hair. “Say it”, he growled. 

“He might say nice things but I like getting fucked without mercy”. You answer him  breathless.

You are moaning non-stop, your breathing ragged. His dick drives in and out at a fast pace. You feel yourself tightening around his cock. 

He stops and pulls out of you. You whine

“Stop whining”, Bucky reprimands you, spanking your ass a little. A warning.

You cry out when you feel another dick inside you, a different kind of stretch. Inch by inch he enters you, he is hissing. “Aaahh fuuuck”.

 You know it is Sam. He takes his sweet time entering you most of the time. 

He starts going at a slow pace, pulling out almost and slams back in. Then he pulls almost out, he grips your hips and drives your ass against his hips unhurried. Every time he does that, you feel the air leave the room. 

He keeps doing that until you are almost there, you can feel it then he stops and pulls out of you.

You are left there clenching around nothing.

You hear them kissing. Humming and moaning into the kiss. You start hearing Sam moaning and slurping and gagging sounds, moans from Bucky too. 

You hear whispering but you cannot understand what is said.

Bucky was on his knees sucking Sam off, taking Sam's shaft to the back of his throat, savoring all of you from Sam's dick. He pulls Sam out his mouth with a pop. 

He stands up and whispers to Sam's ear: "She tastes so good on your dick, sweetheart, mmhmm so good." 

You whine:" pleeeaseee"

Sam returns to you, entering you at a snail's pace till he is full inside. His moans, hisses mixing with your moans and cries.

"Can't stay without dick for long, Can you baby ?". Bucky asks you. He chuckles. "Such a needy slut". 

You nod. You mewl: "Yes, daddy".

Sam kisses your shoulders. “ You are such a sight, baby girl, you are my good girl, I love you so much”, He says with his deep and raspy voice.

“ I love you so much, sir”. You reply with tears in your eyes. You don't know, who is worse, Bucky with his unforgiving pace or Sam's slow pace. They are doing this for what seems an eternity. When they feel you are about to cum, they switch places or leave you hanging. 

 Sam praised you and Bucky degraded you. 

You can’t take it anymore. You are so pent up. Release is the only thing in your mind. 

You were now on your back still blindfolded and your wrist tied on top of your head.

“Please, daddy, please, sir, please can I cum ?”. You sob 

Bucky was slamming into you. Faster than ever, groaning and moaning

“ Cum, let go”, he moans. He was so close too.

You came with your legs shaking and a silent scream.

More thrusts and Bucky was coming 

“Shiiiitttt”,fuck, fuck”, Bucky cried out on repeat. With a long moan, he emptied inside you. He dropped next to you on the bed, spent and satisfied. 

Right after, Sam entered you in one thrust and started pumping you fast. Your eyes were rolled to the back of your head. You feel your whole nerves convulse. It was so much but your body needed his release. 

“Sir, please, give me your cum”, you babble

“ Don’t have to ask me twice, baby girl, He grunted. 

Thrusting into you with his eyes closed, head back and his lips parted.

"Fuuuckkk, you got some good pussy on you, babyyy, y/n. He sped up, chanting your name. 

He came within you, with a loud groan. He dropped on top of you 

You love his weight on you. When he catches his breaths. He stands up and takes your blindfold off. Bucky tuned in the light so that your eyes don’t hurt, when Sam takes the blindfold. Sam takes the rope off your wrists and kisses your wrists. 

Bucky appears with glasses of water for the both of you. He gives Sam the glass and they kiss. 

You cannot believe your luck. Both of your men, naked. Sam thick arms and thighs and that ass. Bucky with those thighs, those abs carved like some Greek god and the contrast of his arm, flesh and metal, hair all disheveled.

Bucky kneels in front of you and gives you a glass of water.

Bucky kisses you. “You know that it is all role play, baby. I love you and I appreciate you so much”. You nod. You drink the water and put the glass on the nightstand. You grab his face. 

“ I know, daddy” and you place a kiss on his forehead.

He looks at you, like you are everything in his world.

He stands up. He kisses Sam again then Sam bents and kisses you.

“ You are so beautiful, you know that”, Sam expresses taking your features in. 

“ Thank you, sir. You are so pretty too”.  He laughs at that. 

Bucky finds some sweatpants and puts them on. 

“I am going to order something to eat”. Bucky picks the phone to call room service. 

"Blueberry waffles,pleaseee".You look at him with puppy eyes. Sam sits next to you. "I want some blueberry waffles too, baby boy". Sam asks with that smile that makes Bucky melt.

He chuckles shaking his head.

You, two are too much for his heart to handle.

"Well, when you both ask like that, how can I say no"

He calls room service.

You are there, feeling light and satisfied with two men that care so much. Every day you are falling a little bit more in love with them. 

You don’t know what the future holds for all of you but for now you will always go to them when they send the addy. 

[coreastories]

The Royal Guard: Elite and formidable and just as soft for their king and queen

Leading up to Queens Day, the Royal Public Affairs Office gave us an exclusive that made this author scream in the powder room again

We were invited to the palace to interview none other than the most elite of the Royal Guard, the ones who surround Their Majesties the King and Queen

As part of the preparations for Queens Day, the king and queen are now cocooned in their private residence, giving the members of the Royal Guard a much-needed respite before the mayhem of the public being admitted in and around the palace grounds

Apparently the Royal Public Affairs Office had been planning an interview with the Royal Guard for some time, and they chose us to take it on! 

In the photo: The eight King’s Guard of the Royal Guard. Elite of the elite. Engineering and science degree graduates. Deadly in tactics, weaponry and close range combat. You do NOT want to mess with this team. 

We spoke with Park In-Young, the only female member of the Royal Guard, Seok Ho-pil, Sub-captain, and of course Jang Mi-reuk, the Queen’s Unbreakable Sword, whom we are all so fond of. 

We publish the transcript here for your enjoyment, dear reader. 

Author: Hello, ma’am, sirs. Thank you for giving me your precious time. I’m very honored. 

Seok Ho-pil: Sure. How are you? 

Park In-young: Yeah. Let’s just keep it short.

Author: So, we’ll get right to it. I won’t keep you. Who is the easier to guard, the king or queen? 

Park In-young: The king. 

Seok Ho-pil: The king. 

Jang Mi-reuk: Come on. She’s not that bad. 

*pause as PIY and SHP stare at Jang*

Author: Why is that? 

Park In-young: The queen is unpredictable. She often goes around with this one here, or without him. 

Seok Ho-pil: She doesn’t seem to know how tiny she is. She worries me. She’s really really petite. You’ve seen her. 

Jang Mi-reuk: *laughs* She’s never punched you before, has she? She can hit you just right on the jaw and knock you out. 

Seok Ho-pil: Well, yeah, but still. 

Park In-young: I’m petite too. Do I worry you?  

Seok Ho-pil: No. No. Never. 

Author: This is my readers’ top question: Is the PDA really intense? 

Park In-young: Thanks a lot, Jangmi. 

Jang Mi-reuk: What? 

Park In-young: *sighs* I’m used to the PDA. I expect it. They’re newlyweds. And they’re mostly fine. 

Seok Ho-pil: *nods* I’m honestly fine with the “couple things” they do. They hold hands. They walk attached at the hip. They randomly kiss. The king can’t seem to help himself. It’s when they’re talking or arguing that gets to me. 

Author: Why? 

Park In-young: Oh yeah. I saw that when we were in the training grounds and the king and queen were only talking about guns but I had to turn away. 

Jang Mi-reuk: Eye sex. 

Park In-young: God, Jangmi, shut up! 

Jang Mi-reuk: That’s what you were thinking! 

Seok Ho-pil: You’re publishing all this? This is the king and queen, you know. 

Author: *giggling* Well yes, I mean, full disclosure, you know. You said the talking and arguing gets to you? Why? 

Seok Ho-pil: Jangmi already said it. 

Seok Ho-pil: *to Park In-Young* The PAO thinks this is good? 

Park In-Young: *nodding* *softly* Probably all part of the plan. 

Author: Excuse me, ma’am, what plan? 

Park In-Young: The Royal Public Affairs Office never does anything unplanned or not agreeable to a plan. I think all this is meant to endear the queen to the public. They want romance, so the PAO gives them romance. And the Queens Day is all about love for the queen. The PAO wants the people to know the king is absolutely arse over elbow in love with the queen, so the people would also love the queen. 

Author: But the people already do. 

Park In-young: Yes. The queen is easy to love.

Author: That’s sweet. As the only woman in the guard, are you close to the queen, ma’am? 

Park In-young: I would never presume to be close to the queen. But she’s lovely and kind.  

Jang Mi-reuk: They share the women’s shower in the garrison gym. It doesn’t say “Women,” it says “In-Young.” But they’ve changed that to, “The Queen and In-Young.”

Author: I love that! 

Author: I’m sure I don’t want you to compromise security in any way, but has anything changed since the king’s marriage? The queen has her own team, doesn’t she? 

Seok Ho-pil: They’re always together so it’s still the eight of us, plus the Captain and Jangmi. 

Park In-young: We expand the team as needed. Numbers don’t always mean better security. 

Jang Mi-reuk: *nods* The King’s Guard is essentially the Queen’s guard. They’re the elite and no one can match them. 

Park In-young: What do you mean “they?” You’re one of us.

Jang Mi-reuk: Oh. Thanks, sunbae. 

Author: So nothing changed in your routines and procedures? 

Seok Ho-pil: We have hair ties in our pockets. 

Park In-young: Oh yeah. 

Jang Mi-reuk: *grimacing* It’s because the queen uses whatever she can reach to tie her hair if she doesn’t have a hair tie. She even used a zip tie once. I got reprimanded when the king saw that. 

Seok Ho-pil: *to Jang Mi-reuk* Where did she get a bleeping zip tie? 

Jang Mi-reuk: I have them in the car. They’re useful. 

Park In-young: Oh that was the time I saw the king trying to untangle the queen’s hair? It was because of a zip tie? 

Jang Mi-reuk: Yeah. 

Author: So you have hair ties in your pockets so the queen can have one when she needs it? 

Seok Ho-pil: Yes. 

Park In-young: Everyone has one. Even Seung-ri at the entry checkpoint has one. 

Author: That is adorable. That is so sweet. 

Jang Mi-reuk: I know, right? 

Author: *giggling* Mr Jang, have you taken any more photos you can share with us? 

Jang Mi-reuk: No. 

Author: And how have things changed since the queen’s publicized love for Seoul chicken? 

Park In-young: It’s not our place to talk or even hint about that. 

Jang Mi-reuk: You’ll have to wait for the announcement. 

Park In-young: God, Jangmi, what did I just say? I’ll kill you. 

Author: *giggling* I think our time is almost up. Thank you so much again. This is another point of interest: How can someone join the Royal Guard? 

Seok Ho-pil: Training is always open although we do have limited slots. The requirements are all posted online. Background checks, clearances, degrees, and so on. It’s a 100 percent commitment. This is the royal family we’re protecting. We are given time off and plenty of perks but you do need to truly become a shield of the royal family. 

Park In-young: It’s not for everyone. But we’re happy to give training to Corean citizens even if they end up not committing to the Royal Guard. The training can still come in handy in protecting your families or Corea. 

Author: You are wonderful people. Thank you again so much for your service and dedication. 

 ----------------------------------------

That’s the hair tie adorableness from an anon now crossed off my outlines, too, lol. 

Image of the Royal Guard from @wdohwaaan on Twitter

[seasonschange-butpeopledont]

You can’t just mention Rob Zombie and not delve into Rob Zombie. Also by there being a first experience, does that mean there’s multiple?

Okay, okay. Full disclosure: I had a weird upbringing. Loving parent, but woefully unequipped. 

So back in ye olden days of the early 00’s, my big, tough metalhead dad was unexpectedly a single parent to a little girl he had just… no idea what to do with. Didn’t really know how to adapt his life to fit the situation, didn’t really want to dive into the world of Blue Clues and the Wiggles and Winnie the Pooh, so he stuck with what he knew and figured that he would at least get a fun little mini-me out of it who liked all the same things he liked. Unconventional, but generally okay.

And bless him, but there were times when he was a little clueless about what qualified as ‘kid-friendly’ material. Enter Rob Zombie.

My dad kept a stack of CDs in his car, and would let me sift through them and pick whichever I wanted to play— I always picked based on the colors and designs because I learned to read really late, so I payed a lot of attention to the images on the covers. And one day he picks up Rob Zombie’s Hellbilly Deluxe and adds it to the stack. No big deal, right?

Wrong, apparently. 

To understand this next part, you’ll need to see the album cover in question. 

Now, I was used to weird. I was used to scary, was taught that “scary” things should not be scary to me because my dear old dad wouldn’t let any of it hurt me and sometimes things just seemed scary because they were different. But at five years old, I took one look at this cover and cried. It terrified me. It was just one of those things— like to this day, the movie Coneheads still freaks me the fuck out— that did not jive with me. 

So he plays the CD, and I appreciate it as much as a weird little five year old can, and okay, maybe Rob Zombie isn’t so scary but also please remove it from the car immediately because I could and would cry every single time I saw it, no matter how many times he tried to show me that there was nothing to be afraid of. There was no reasoning with me on it, I absolutely would not budge, so eventually the CD just had to go for the sake of keeping the peace. 

And yes, multiple experiences. I saw my first movie directed by Mr. Zombie at age 11. That’s a whole different story.

[palimpsessed]

The Welsh Red Dragon, Kurt Vonnegut, and Social Activism

The inspiration behind Shepard’s pins

(original post with full artwork here.)

So, I spent A LOT of time thinking about the kind of pins our good friend Shepard (from Omaha, NE) would have on his denim jacket. Like a lot. Like an obsessive amount of time. I made a list, which seemed appropriate for this fandom. And because I’m a nerd and this sort of thing really interests me, and I’m proud of what I came up with, and because I think some of these items open up the possibility for some good, good literary analysis, I decided to make a whole post dedicated to Shepard’s pins. You’re welcome.

First, a little bit about my thought process. How did I decide what kind of pins to give Shepard? Well, he’s a guy full of stories. Stories that he can’t wait to tell anyone and everyone. And stories that others (mostly Maybes) have told him, once he’s earned their confidence. So, I wanted his pins to tell a story, his story in particular. What is the story that Shepard wants to tell about himself? More precisely, what is the story he wants to tell his new magickal friends on a disastrous summer holiday? The story is that of his own magickal credibility. His journey to magic (his come to Crowley moment, perhaps?) (I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry…) and his trustworthiness as evidenced by all of the Maybes he’s met along the way. He’s gotten drunk off dandelion wine with a creek dryad, given a toothbrush to a Sasquatch. spilled the tea with a jackalope, midwifed a centaur foal. Shep’s journey is just as impressive as Simon’s, and while Simon has been collecting notches on his dead dark creature bedpost (that’s a weird fucking metaphor…) (and now I’m thinking about dark creatures and Simon’s bedposts…so, you’re welcome, Basilton), Shep’s been collecting notches of the friendly variety. (Shoutout to @adamarks who did some super lovely analysis on Simon and Shep as mirrors here: https://adamarks.tumblr.com/post/188046272067/ok-so-when-shepard-said-he-was-cursed-the-first). So, I decided that I wanted to use Shep’s pins as a way to show the notches on his bedpost, so to speak. (Okay, I’m really losing this metaphor, but I think you’re still with me.)

Let’s dive in!

(I’m working my way down one side of his jacket at a time, for those following along at home.)

RIGHT SIDE

Welsh Dragon: I made this one very large, and easy to spot on his right shoulder. Of all of his accoutrements, this one felt like the most important. Mainly, because of Simon. Simon is, after all, half-Welsh. (The Mage, may he rest in pain, came to Watford from Wales.) And, of course, Simon, just like the Welsh Dragon, is a red dragon. (Or in the process of becoming one? Or a half-dragon? Or a dragon kitten?…) And the dragon that Simon and Baz fought on the Watford lawn, when they first worked together, and first shared magic, was a red dragon. Of course, the actual dragon in question here is Margaret. Shepard would absolutely have a pin to commemorate his friendship with her. And since I was going to give him a pin with a dragon, I knew I was going to have to use the Welsh Dragon because it would perfectly capture his burgeoning friendship with Simon, as well. Now, I want to go on a slight detour here (this blog post will be its own Odyssey) and talk more about the Welsh Red Dragon. I took the design for the pin from the Welsh flag, which is the thing that first made me think more about Simon’s Welsh connection. I’m not really making a point here, I just think it’s fascinating! There’s a lot of Welsh lore about the Red Dragon (and Margaret herself calls Simon “Great Red” - that ‘R’ is capitalized, by the way, so this seems to be a proper name for the kind of dragon that she thinks Simon is). Full disclosure, I am not Welsh and I am not a scholar on any of this by any means. That being said, a cursory, and super academic, perusal of the Wikipedia article on the Welsh Dragon led me to a few different history websites that linked the symbol of the red dragon with Merlin and King Arthur (son of Uther Pendragon, literally dragon head). Merlin, one of the most well-known magical figures and Arthur, one of the most well-known Chosen One figures in literary tradition. I know very little about Arthurian legend, and Welsh history, and dragon lore, though, so I’m going to just say, do a little research on your own when you’re bored and feeling nerdy!

Resist!: Shep is a young black man (and reasonable human being) living in the U.S. during the [redacted] Administration. I should hope this one is self-explanatory.

Hoover Dam: At some point in his visits to see Blue, I’m sure Shepard stopped off at the gift shop and bought himself a souvenir pin to mark the incredible experience he had making friends with an actual river. (This pin design is based on an actual souvenir pin of the Hoover Dam I found on Google Images—along with most of the other pin designs. I think it’s vintage, which just felt even more like Shepard to me, because he’s the kind of guy who would appreciate stuff that’s got a past.)

Deathly Hallows: I mean, IF the Harry Potter books/movies exist in the Simon Snow universe (which hasn’t been confirmed, as far as I know, by our Queen) I’m sure Shepard would have been totally into it as a kid, and probably would have found greater significance in its magical lore once he discovered that ACTUAL MAGIC EXISTS! So, he would have a pin to show his belief in the magickal world, and maybe also as a nostalgic reminder of when magic was still just something fictional he could turn to for escapism (and not something that would result in being cursed by a demon…).

The Truth is Out There: So, I know virtually nothing about The X-Files (my sister was obsessed with it to the point that she wanted to become a FBI agent for a few years, but I never watched it), but I’m sure Shepard is a fan. If nothing else, the sentiment is awfully apropos.

So It Goes: This one is very hard to see. It sort of looks like a black teardrop with a bar on top of it (it’s supposed to look like a bomb). The pin I based this off of reads “So It Goes”, which from my very superficial research, is a line repeated in Vonnegut’s anti-war novel Slaughterhouse-Five every time someone dies. I don’t know anything more about it, other than that it is a Kurt Vonnegut-inspired pin available for purchase on Etsy, and Shep mentions that he wanted to get a Vonnegut quote tattoo, even though “everybody has those.”

Green Alien Head: You will never be able to convince me that Shepard does not 10,000% believe in the existence of aliens. If he were still in the U.S. during the Area 51 Raid, I’m sure he would have stopped by, just, you know, for science…(I’m thinking he was probably still in the UK, but I guess we’ll see in AWTWB.)

Centaur: This one is also hard to see, but I took the design from a pin I found of one of the centaurs (the blue-haired, blue-bodied one, if that rings a bell for you) from Disney’s Fantasia. (Fun fact: I was super into Fantasia as a littlun, and I attribute my lifelong love for classical music in large part to the centaur sequence and my latent lesbianism—I mean, it was ludicrously erotic. Watch it sometime and tell me it would not make an impression on a sapphic three-year-old.) Midwifing a centaur foal was probably a very emotional and formative experience for Shepard. Buying this pin would be his way of remembering that experience, and the excitement and gratitude he likely felt to have been entrusted with that kind of acceptance from the centaur(s).

Jackalope: It doesn’t help that this pin is almost the same color as Shepard’s jacket, but it’s based off a design of a jackalope’s head that, again, I found on Google Image search (honestly, I don’t know how I ever made art without it). We know that Shepard once got some gossip from a jackalope, who vented to him about magicians calling “themselves ‘magicians’”, like “they’re the only ones with magic”. (This is totally irrelevant, but I always think of Americans when I read this. I am an American, by the way. America is a continent, but those of us living in the U.S. calls ourselves Americans, like everyone else living in America doesn’t matter.) Anyway, the jackalope offered Shepard some valuable insight into the political workings of the magickal world, so it gets its own pin.

LEFT SIDE

Pansexual Pride Flag Pin: I mean, technically, canonically, we don’t know what Shepard’s sexuality (or asexuality) is, but I just get some vibes from him. Plus, if we take him as a mirror for Simon (who is somewhere on the bi-plus spectrum), it’s not a far cry to imagine he also identifies somewhere on that spectrum.

Pentagram: This is another symbol that I chose based on my interpretation of Shepard’s character, and not so much on a Maybe or a story that he mentioned. The pentagram, or pentacle, is typically associated with the occult and witchcraft, which is something that could potentially also be said of Shep.

Sasquatch: You don’t go backpacking—or not backpacking—and introduce a Sasquatch to the benefits of dental hygiene without getting yourself a souvenir of the hike.

I [heart] Mystery Spot: The Mystery Spot is a weird sort of phenomenon in California (my home state). It’s a place outside the beach town of Santa Cruz that boasts of a “gravitational anomaly” on its website. I went once, years ago, and while you’re there, it can feel pretty convincing. (Also, I was probably like 10, so…) People outside of California will likely never have heard of this place, but driving around here (at least in the Bay Area, where I am, which isn’t that far from Santa Cruz) you’ll see yellow Mystery Spot bumper stickers on cars everywhere. I’m not really sure what the thing is with the bumper stickers. Like, I’m sure not that many people actually think it’s legit, and maybe it’s like one of those things that Californians just do (like freak out and forget how to drive when we feel water falling from the sky). But yeah, these bumper stickers are everywhere. Anyway, Shepard drives around a lot. He knows about the Vampires of Las Vegas (how is that not an indie rock band?) and the Katherine Hotel, and the Next Blood. So, he’s probably made it past Nevada and into California before. And while he was there, it’s not a great stretch of the imagination that someone who chases after magic wouldn’t wind up at a place called the Mystery Spot and get himself a pin while he was there. (And maybe even a bumper sticker.)

Black Power Fist: Unfortunately, this one is also hard to see, because the fist is black and I didn’t have anything to go over the outlines of the fingers with, which I sort of didn’t think about when I colored it. This one also feels self-explanatory. Shepard is black. Blackness has long been treated in itself as a crime by non-black members of law enforcement, and just the general racist population of the U.S. Young black men are especially vulnerable to racially motivated violence. I’m sure Shep, who drives all over the country by himself and gets into high speed chases at night in the middle of nowhere Nebraska while hunting super shifty rando Maybes has had a run-in or two. Stay safe, Shep!

Every Pronoun Belongs Here [Trans Pride Flag background]: Also, super hard to see because the letters are too small to read. I found this exact pin in a basket by the register at my local bookshop. (Support local bookshops, people!) They were being sold as a fundraiser for a LGBTQ club at one of the high schools, and I loved the idea that I could help them raise money and add this pin to my own growing collection to show off my support for trans rights. (Support trans rights and trans people, people!) I decided to give Shepard this same pin, because I could imagine him having an almost identical book buying experience in a dozen other towns that he’s probably visited. And I love the simplicity of the message, because it’s one of belonging, which EVERYONE is desperately seeking, no matter who they are or how they identify, and Shepard, and every character in this picture, is no exception. (Plus, it seemed like a cool way to connect my pin collection with Shep’s. Maybe I should have mentioned the fact that I’m also a pin person at the beginning? I walk to work and on my lunch breaks, so I carry all of my stuff in a backpack. And I proudly display my random pin collection on my backpack. Including several Simon Snow-related pins.)

Don’t Panic: This was based off a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy pin. I don’t really know anything about the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (including if it’s okay to abbreviate it as HGG? THGTTG? whatever), even though I did watch the movie years back when it was on TV and I still lived with my parents who had a TV. But the sentiment felt appropriate, and Shepard is a sort of magickal hitchhiker. Apart from managing to hold down a job at Dick Blick, he appears to lead a somewhat nomadic lifestyle. He tells Penny, “the road is my teacher”, and if that’s not a hitchhiker slogan, I don’t know what is. (Ass, gas, or grass?)

Black Lives Matter: They do. Just sayin’.

Magic Troll Doll: When I was growing up, the Troll doll was all the (nightmare-inducing) rage. Trolls are one of those magickal creatures that are continually mentioned in the series. Shepard talks about lonely trolls under bridges. Simon talks about killing trolls. Agatha would rather kiss a troll. And Baz was kidnapped by numpties, who are sort of like trolls. I couldn’t not include a troll. And the Troll doll specifically felt perfect, because the full name was Magic Troll Doll. You can bet if Shepard had to pick a troll-related pin, it would be a magic(k)al one.

[Asshole]: This is another Kurt Vonnegut pin. It looks like a messily drawn asterisk (*), but it’s actually meant to be an asshole (taken from the preface of Vonnegut’s novel Breakfast of Champions, and drawn by Vonnegut himself). I just thought, why the fuck not? So, here. Have an asshole pin. (I should have put it on a buttonhole…)

HONOURABLE MENTION

Shepard’s Phone Case: Remember that line I quoted earlier, about Shep wanting to get a Vonnegut quote tattoo? Well, when I was trying to figure out what to put on his phone case, I thought that seemed like a reasonable place to start. So, I googled Vonnegut quotes, to see if I could find one that I thought Shepard would like. Here’s the quote: “a purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.” I just loved that for Shepard.