#if I write a third installment

[jomiddlemarch]

A letter always seemed to me like immortality

Everyone Diana wanted to write to was dead.

Walter, what seemed like a dozen lifetimes ago, at Courcelette if his last letter to Rilla was to be believed; Diana had often wondered whether he had already considered himself a dead man walking before the day of the last battle, the boy he’d been destroyed beyond repair or rebirth.

Aunt Leslie, whom she’d found it easier to talk to than her own mother, perhaps because she’d also had a brother she adored. Perhaps because she’d left Glen St. Mary and never missed it. 

Perhaps because Leslie liked whiskey better than tea, newspapers better than poetry. 

Una, who’d been too pale since she barely survived nursing her father and stepmother through the Spanish flu, who’d been someone everyone underestimated or decided to treat as a martyr, who would not have judged Di the way her own sisters would. 

Rosalind Foyle, whom she’d had to ask about as discreetly as she could, counting on her general reception as a cheerful and polite Canadian, not much like a bossy Yank, to yield her the few details she’d squirreled away. An artist, a mother. A beauty. Better-bred than her husband, well-liked, she’d had elegant hands and never forgot to wear gloves.

Diana only wore gloves to operate and if an actual gale was blowing in a blizzard.

Who had thought all she wanted was to go to France, to make something of her life that would last her the rest of it. That might make the rest of it of a duration she could bear, an end her family could cope with or justify why she’d never return to PEI.

Dear Una, You’re the best one to write to, I think. The one who’d mind the least, like it the most. The least awkward for me to imagine reading this, the least likely to tell me something I don’t want to know. I leave for France in a few weeks and now I don’t want to go. Or rather, I do and then I don’t. There’s something holding me in England now, something to do with Walter, a mystery. Men, who’ve died. A man who’s alive, very much so.

A man I want to know. His name is Foyle. Christopher. He knew Walter, said Walter knew him as Kit. Everyone calls him Foyle or sir or Superintendent. Christopher. Oh Una, I thought this was behind me. That it was something I’d never have to deal with, some sort of consolation of being a woman in a world missing a generation of men. I thought I wouldn’t know this and that was a relief, watching you and Rilla and Nan. Faith. Mary. I thought it was fair, that I’d never know heartbreak like this. And now there’s Christopher. A half-dozen dead men. Walter’s poem. And France, waiting for me. I have to go, I know that, but how do I go wanting to stay here, a place I can’t call home. Wanting to come back.

Christopher. I like writing his name because I oughtn’t say it often. That’s what a young girl does, lovesick, dull, embarrassing herself, making everyone around her smile behind their hands unless it’s Miss Cornelia, scolding you for making a fool of yourself and for what, a man? What’s a man worth, I ask you—can’t you hear her say it, tart, ready to wash her hands of us— I don’t care what a man’s worth, Una. Just Christopher. And I can’t answer the question, not to satisfy Miss Cornelia or you or myself.

You’d write me back something comforting, if you could. If you hadn’t died before your time, twice over, after the telegram, after the epidemic. I should have insisted you leave before me or with me. I should have told your father you were worth more than all the rest of them put together or made Dad send you away to convalesce, somewhere warm, where you might have lolled about, turning brown in the sun. I’ve said I’ll go to France and sew up the men who need sewing up. Cut off the parts that need cutting off. I’ve said that’s my life, my vocation, as important as Mother’s poetry, as Walter’s, as the babies Jem delivers and the columns Ken Ford writes, and it must be but now there’s murder and Christopher to contend with, a dozen mysteries at the heart of me. For it seems I’ve a heart after all, Una. It beats and beats and leaps when it oughtn’t. It will break, I know it shall.

Christopher. I’ll take a dream in lieu of a letter. A flower, out of place, in lieu of a word. Answer me if you can, Una. You can’t and I know that, but I’ll still hope, silly Di Blythe.

She put the letter in an envelope but left it unsealed and unaddressed.

Left the envelope in an otherwise empty drawer of the desk in her flat. If she didn’t return from France, well, that didn’t bear thinking about too closely. If her papers were sent back to Canada, her father would likely burn the letter rather than let her mother see it unless if gave it to Nan, thinking her twin would derive some comfort and, happily married to Jerry, the bonny wife and mother Di had not made of herself, could weather any pang it gave her.

If somehow it ended up with Christopher, he’d know how she’d once felt.

She could make that happen, writing his name across the white field of the envelope, but that was too much like a dare, and for all she was her father’s daughter, she still had her mother’s wise fear of the fey.

She’d written his name enough. She’d hope she’d come back to say it.

[ruvviks]

finally got around making a proper outfit reference sheet for nathan! he likes wearing dark clothes which really emphasizes just how pale he is. he was a STEM developer at MOBIUS for nine years what did you expect </3 click for higher resolution and to get a closer look at all the details! outfits from left to right: his gear for the evil within 2, 1am convenience store trip, his mobius gear, and an improvised outfit for my own fictional the evil within 3 =^)

taglist (opt in/out)

@shellibisshe, @florbelles, @ncytiri, @hibernationsuit, @stars-of-the-heart;

@lestatlioncunt, @katsigian, @radioactiveshitstorm, @estevnys, @adelaidedrubman;

@celticwoman, @rindemption, @carlosoliveiraa, @noirapocalypto, @dickytwister;

@killerspinal, @euryalex, @ri-a-rose, @velocitic, @thedeadthree;

@jacobseed, @swordcoasts

[brainiacmaniac]

What do you think of that zombie-mulching lawnmower Dave made? The one named Mo I think.

:3c

Frightened, to say the least.

No matter however, considering I can just make something to counter it easily!

[justaboot]

prequel ep !!!

Episode fic of 19 year old twins and Scrooge on a South American jungle river adventure!

Questing through tunnels and jungles, encounter new travelers, and no one can quite get on the same page.

The twins realize for the first time they're tottering on the edge between childhood and adulthood, struggling with the impermanence of life and the inevitable passage of time.

---

“So what now?” Donald hissed, “This guy’s living the dream, and now you're gonna go off and live in the Cloudslayer ‘full time?’”

Her head dropped sideways to look at him, her brows drawn tight.

“Why is that the dream?” she whispered back.

 “Going wherever you want?” Donald said, “No one telling you what to do, what not to do, living off whatever you can find and sleeping in the plane in whatever field looks good?”

She watched him for a moment with an odd, perplexed expression.

“Why would I want to do it without you guys?” she finally said.

Donald shook his head, but he could feel the corners of his lips quirking. A quick handful of damp grass took care of the oddly sad expression on her face, and he flipped over, closing his eyes as she spluttered greenery and dirt out of her mouth behind him.

[shark-myths]

Chapter 17!

please enjoy this one darlings <3 i'll be japan-posting at you on friday, calling you from the future (i still think that line in young and menace is because patrick played that song for him in japan)

next: me and @leyley09 watched point break and it affected me in unexpected ways

[screaming-universe]

Snippet Sunday

Let's pretend it's still Sunday for me ^^

I was on a train for three hours and started writing a third part for my werecat a/b/o series??? (not a direct sequel, I think it would contradict some of what's strongly implied in the first two fics but well)

Snippet is under the cut, please feel yourself tagged if you want to be!

Buck had liked Tommy, had maybe even flirted with him, but that had only lasted until he saw Tommy and Eddie together. Eddie, who was always free in his affections when it came to casual touches, hugged Tommy closely as a greeting and then didn't seem to let go. From saying hi to the moment he needed to let go to climb into the copter, Eddie's right arm stayed around Tommy's waist and Tommy put his arm around Eddie's shoulders.

Omegas are touchy, Philip Buckley would have said but Buck knew better. Humans were touchy, some more so, some less. But strong alphas were supposed to be stoic and above such basic human needs (and Buck failed so badly at that, frankly he was proud of it), unlike frail omegas who were allowed to indulge without risking society's judgemental eye.

So maybe Buck was upset about nothing- Eddie was tactile, he knew that - but it didn't mean that he had to like this. And it only continued: Tommy this and Tommy that, suddenly Tommy was everywhere! Or more precisely: everywhere around Eddie. Going to trivia nights, watching movies, having dinner at Eddie's, going to watch sweaty men beating each other up, being sweaty men beating each other up. Well, maybe not that last one. Buck had seen the bruises and cuts on Eddie during his fight club days and sparring with Tommy just did not compare.

And then there was basketball.

Eddie had asked Buck to come many times but Buck had refused every time. He could play but he just didn't like it. He preferred spending time with Eddie at home, in the kitchen or out with Christopher or maybe going for a drink. Just not basketball.

But now Tommy went along and Eddie had it in his calendar, circled.

So Buck may have lied to Chimney about wanting to go to the basketball game with him as a brotherly (in-law) bonding exercise. And of course Chimney knew as soon as they arrived, which probably meant that Maddie would soon know too. Buck was pissed from the start, from the moment he saw Eddie and Tommy touching, if he was honest with himself (which he certainly wasn't, as he knew even then). That should have been a good indication to not play. But no, like an idiot he went on.

They had come off a 24 h shift just an hour before the game and Buck had taken care to reapply his scent-blocker but he was certainly the exception. Chimney's smell grew stronger as they played, the sweat overpowering the vestiges of his scent-blocker. Buck liked the beta's smell – marriage or not: Chimney was his brother. There were the smells of two other alphas but Buck paid them no attention; these two in particular held no appeal to him.

There was Eddie's smell, which was a rarity outside of the Diazes' home. Eddie had told him once that he'd gotten used to scent-blockers in the Army and since then enjoyed not being clocked as an omega immediately. Things certainly were better than they had been fifty, thirty or even ten years ago, but Buck had observed how some people’s attitude towards Eddie shifted if his scent-blockers grew weak during a long day without any pauses and his smell became noticeable. To Buck, his best friend smelled like home; possibly the best smell in the world, but some people smelled an unmated omega and decided to take that as permission to feel superior and become a creep, to put it as nicely as possible. Normally Eddie's scent was soothing and calming but right now it pissed Buck off and he couldn't tell why.

And then there was Tommy, whose scent Buck had never smelled before. He was an omega too, which maybe would have surprised Buck 1.0, who had not shaken off the stereotypes as much as he'd thought back then, but especially since meeting Eddie and mistaking him for an alpha, Buck had given up trying to guess anybody's secondary sex. Tommy certainly didn't fit the omega stereotype: tall and built, more so than Buck, and he smelled enticing, exciting – even though Buck hated him.

Normally that last thought should have been enough for Buck to step back and take a moment to try and understand what was going on. But right now he was trying to get closer, even if that meant running into Tommy, literally, and then...then Buck got so close so quickly that Eddie was lying on the ground, groaning, and with a hurt ankle. Buck did that. And Buck did not understand.

Buck had some realisations while he tried to distract himself with some bills - which totally did not work. He'd been trying to get closer to Eddie because he'd felt as though Eddie was leaving him out, even though Eddie was just spending time with somebody else, a new friend. Buck knew he’d struggled with the fear of being replaced; he'd had long talks with Doctor Copeland about it. He’d thought he’d been over it, or at least better at recognising it for what it was. Apparently not. Fear of being replaced, that was all it was, right?

And he'd been trying to get closer to Tommy because Tommy was an interesting person and also a hot man, objectively. And also subjectively, when it came to Buck. There had been a reason why Buck had asked for a tour at the 217  after all, and asked Tommy specifically.

He'd wanted attention from his best friend and an attractive man, sue him. Which they actually maybe should, or Eddie at least. Buck had hurt his best friend – if Eddie even wanted to remain friends, Buck could understand if not, and- Buck cut off this catastrophising, spiralling train of thought. Whatever Eddie decided, Buck would learn about it. He'd just have to be patient.

Luckily for him it wasn't a long time between this realisation and a knock to his door that promised a good distraction from his impatience. He opened it and there stood Tommy. Buck didn't know who he was expecting, maybe a neighbour, but definitely not Tommy

[itsjaywalkers]

guys i've been writing the iwtywmm sequel all day but i haven't stopped thinking about the overprotective james series like . at all . not even for a single second

[shitpostingkats]

There are two, possibly three oneshots planned in the yugioh gc au for the sole reason of making sure the Arc V bois and girlies get adopted and happy endings.

[foxclcves]

𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 03)

She should have known better than to give out her real name. Now she was running. Again. Ohhh, you stupid, stupid girl, Lucille! Look at what you’ve done now—gotten yourself into a real pickle. She didn’t quite understand the meaning behind such phrases, but if it were ever appropriate to describe any part of her life, this would be it. Along with a handful of other things, but the past was unwanted by her; best left forgotten. Best left denied, even.

Taking another bite out of her small loaf of bread, Lucille scrutinized the town square from the narrow mouth of an alley between a book store and a tea room. She ate despite her labored breathing, having run from the market place to where she found herself now, having regrettably lifted the bread in her hands and thinking nobody would care, that nobody would recognize her. But oh no, her life here, as it turned out everywhere else, was not so simple.

Not even four days ago, the baker found her, freezing and starving and trying to sneak her way into the backdoor of his kitchen for a bite to eat and a warm, dry place to sleep. She wasn’t going to take much, only what she needed: a couple of rolls, perhaps, and enough wood in the oven to light and keep her warm through half the night, so she could sneak out again before everyone opened shop bright and early and none would be the wiser. She relayed this to the baker, her pleading falling short and overcome by fatigue. He took pity on her and fed her more bread than she was anticipating, and in the morning she even found a little chicken pot pie, still steaming and waiting for her. Oh, how deliriously happy she was, and full! So full, she could not remember the last time her stomach had been pleasantly quiet for a whole morning.

But, as she had anticipated, there was a catch. The baker offered her his kitchen for shelter and his oven for warmth, his bread for meals, if she were to work around his shop. Just the things she could handle, as she was quite petite and scrawny—sweeping, taking out the garbage, putting pans upon pans of bread in the oven and taking them back out again at times most appropriate; they could not exceed a certain time or bake any less than needed, not even by a minute or two. Her arms tired quickly carrying those pans, and she lost count of how many times she had burned herself trying to shovel out the damned loafs, possibly more in this span of time than in all her nine short years of life thus far.

The first day and the second, they weren’t so bad, but by the end of the third, Lucille grew tired of the routine, depressed, really. As fortunate as she was to find an adult who seemed trustworthy, and who fed her straight from his own hands no less, she could not shake the notion that he meant to trap her here. Perhaps till the spring, when his oven was no longer required by her, or maybe longer. Would he let her leave, or would he not. Maybe he’d think her labor wasn’t enough to make up for his loss of resources? So many scenarios raced through her mind that night, as she was unable to sleep, what his true intentions could be, if she would become a familiar face to the locals, and it made her afraid. She did not want to be familiar, but she was lulled again into complacency; made too comfortable. Not trusting anyone was ever so painful, but it was what she had to do, and it was a miracle that she came even this far, after last time. She then decided that she would leave in the morning, and to take something with her for the road. Why, she figured she had swept up the ashes extra good this morning, and hoped the baker would notice, and that he would understand. She had taken a small loaf, enough to last her a few days maybe, and something that wouldn’t inconvenience him too much, no harm done. Lucille had smiled at her resolve, a weight lifting off her shoulders as she quietly left the bakery behind her, hugging the bread to her chest.

And that’s where it all went wrong. Someone had stopped her on the street—a woman with a baby in one arm and a small child holding her free hand. Even explaining her circumstances to the weary mother did not soften her, and the grim purse of her mouth made Lucille doubt herself, gazing down at her attire and shoes, unsuitable for the season and boldly announcing her as a homeless beggar no matter where she went. They were abruptly interrupted by a constable, and with a deep jolt of panic, Lucille took off running. And she was sure then that the baker would not vouch for her. A dirty, aimless and unwanted little girl, soiling his kitchen and his breads and using up his firewood. A pang in her chest caused her to gasp, and she tried not to start crying, her breathing already ragged.

The baker would tell them her name, surely. Perhaps she needed a new one. Something more refined, like… well. What made a name fancy, anyway? Lucille certainly didn’t look fancy. Her hair had been shorn off several months ago, and now it was bobbed and chaotic, each coil and curl having a mind of its own and resting wherever she wanted it to. She had bangs now, though; she’d always wanted those, but it wasn’t exactly what she was expecting. How did people keep the damn things out of their face?! She would have to remedy it, somehow. Having hair in your eyes, especially as course and thick as hers was, put one as her at a considerable disadvantage. Only when she ran did the winds of momentum grant her reprieve. Well, she’d just have to keep running, then. Lucille finished the entire loaf begrudgingly, thinking it’d be best if she wasn’t caught carrying it around anymore, and slipped alertly out of the alley. Come tomorrow, she’d have to figure out what to do for food, as she’d become spoiled these past few days. But first, she had to find a way out of here. A coach leaving, a cart—even one filled with stinky farm animals, anything would do.

No one here paid her any mind, word of a little bread thief not circulating yet. No constable in sight, either. Against her better judgement, Lucille heaved a sigh of relief, and her back straightened and her shoulders bobbed. She was a superstitious person, it was true; in her short life she had heard plenty of talk of superstitions and karma, and it was one thing in her past that she kept fondly close to her heart, even if it scared her sometimes. She would rather be scared than sad though, not that that’s much a good choice to begin with. The serious or laughing faces that also appeared with these memories were always quickly stifled, but not fast enough to keep a lump from forming in her throat. Lucille kept herself from shaking her head at her ever wandering and worrying mind, wanting to come off normal along with everyone else in the square, wanting to seem like someone heading home from wherever whence they came. She wanted to be like those she was constantly surrounded by: seeing and hearing as little as they did, and clueless about the true way of things. She folded her arms now, tucking her hands under them, her fingers numb and smelling of fresh dough.

She walked for a long time, occasionally glancing at her reflection in storefront windows; using her spit and palms to wash up her face a bit, running a hand through her puffy mane and wincing when her hand would catch and pull a lock of hair, or several, taut. Her clothing, she could do little about, unless she wanted to try to steal clothes that would not be missed—maybe some pants with long and thick pant legs, and pockets! Yes, pockets would be good, as she had no sort of carry-on to keep things in, not that she had anything to put in one. Pausing on a street corner, Lucille considered her options. On one hand, she was desperate to leave town before anyone could catch her, and on the other, there was the possibility of obtaining warmer clothes. A coat would be splendid, even if it was too big—even better, for sleeping in. Gloves, a scarf, boots, for the snow—no, was that too ambitious? Would she have time? She pondered staying in town, hidden, until nightfall, when she would have a better chance of sneaking into a clothing store and taking what she needed. But that went over so well with the bakery, didn’t it, Lucille? Perhaps the seamstress would be even more sympathetic toward you and your ghastly and deteriorated fashion sense, dressing you up all lady-like and then assigning you to sew this and that for her, or worse, condemn you to patching everything that needed patching. Oh, no, no—at least the baker had an oven.

Realizing that she was staring down at her shoes, Lucille’s head snapped up in time to notice two constables walking down the street. She ducked low behind a parked carriage undetected, and was careful to avoid the horse’s hooves. If need be, she could easily slip under the carriage if she had to, and by extension, move to its other side and make a break for it, if she was overestimating her stealth yet again. She waited, tried not to breathe too much even though they wouldn’t be able to hear her. Her knees trembled from her uncomfortable kneeling and the frigid air, her ears straining to track the constables’ every step and every word mumbled, satisfied that they continued on their way without a care in the world but keeping herself guarded until they’d round the corner.

There were footfalls behind her, so suddenly, that she had no time to turn around or act at all. She gasped and became rigid, her breath held and her eyes wide, bracing herself. Oh, stupid, stupid, girl! You became too focused on the two constables and now you’re in trouble, someone found an opening, you thoughtless, stupid girl, now--!

The footsteps passed her without breaking pace, not in the slightest. Surely someone would have noticed her strange position or demanded that she step away from their carriage. Lucille lifted her head and looked after the footsteps, at first not seeing a thing. She shivered. Then a figure appeared, shimmering like a wave of heat in the cold, clad in all black and walking away from her. At first, she thought it to be an old man because of his silver hair but no, he was young. Older than her, certainly, but still too young to have the color drained from his hair. In his gloved hand, an equally silver pocket watch peered back at her between his fingers. She could hear it tick so clearly, slowly. She found it very strange. She found him very strange. Something did not quite feel right.

And then she knew. It was happening again. She was seeing what could not be seen. Lucille got to her feet and stood by the carriage, mesmerized by the young man’s figure as he widened the distance between them. She could see him… but he had not noticed her. Intent and chary to keep the reasonable gap between them, she moved to shadow him.

[genderdotcom]

kind of in a stupid place with my writing rn because i cant make myself break out of the really flowery introspective prose style i always use even when it would be better to write something more action-y and punchy. so i hate pretty much everything ive written for the wyllach first meeting fic but i still want to write it because the story itself compels me... and for the japhetash fic i genuinely just cant figure out how the story should be structured so i have a bunch of little snippets, each of which works with maybe 3-5 others but not with the fic as a whole :|

[lostandbackagain]

lowkey I want publishers to stop buying series from new authors if the whole series isn't written. not that we need everything to be mistborn-level complete but I'm fucking sick of not knowing if a series is ever going to be completed

[thehardkandy]

i have been lurking around online help forums answering questions for probably at least 15 years and to this day it still drives me absolutely bananas when people essentially just post "HELP! I HAVE A PROBLEM" and then refuse to provide any information or context as if you are some sort of mind-reading savant capable of inducing all the information required on the broadest problem imaginable

[puthyflapps]

That unrequited au’s got me in a gotdang chokehold. Not the sweatshirt! 😭 The description of Regan vs. Shelbyyy help. Wake up Toni baby wake uppp!

If I have to be in my emotional devastation era then so does everyone else x

Toni has no choice but to wake up when this whole situation finally comes to a head during a drunken confrontation at one of Fatin's notorious house parties. Shelby had spent another evening going out of her way to avoid Toni and, subsequently, Regan. Her evasive behavior, combined with Toni’s penchant for picking fights, had culminated in this late-night showdown of sorts.

The two find themselves sharing hard stares and even harsher words. Questions seem to morph into accusations that are a clear result of the last name Shelby bears and the god-fearing reputation that comes with it. Truthfully, it was naive of Shelby to think she could continue to get away with dodging the other girl like this, and it was wholly and entirely ignorant to believe she could survive the ensuing interrogation. Especially knowing how Toni’s always prided herself on her ability to easily get under her skin. Steady cracks begin to appear in her veneer as Toni throws shot after shot her way. Launching question after question at her. Creating a dangerous minefield that Shelby’s not entirely sure she can continue to navigate much longer.

With each passing moment, Shelby can feel the heavy weight of her pageant queen mask slipping further and further down, revealing the raw and vulnerable truth underneath. Slowly, the carefully crafted facade of perfection cracks and crumbles, giving way to the messy and embarrassing reality she's been so desperately trying to hide. 

"Why is it so fucking hard for you to be happy for us?"

Toni lobs the question her way in a fit of frustration, and God, the question stings. It feels as though the words themselves have reached out and slapped her with all their might. Every syllable of every word burns at a brutal temperature. Invisible blisters are already steadily forming across the expanse of her cheek. Bubbling painfully. Flesh sizzling silently.

The question hurts. The insinuation hurts. The idea that Toni believes Shelby cares so little for her happiness fucking hurts. However, it’s still not enough to make her admit the truth and she can tell her silence is only upsetting Toni more. Her jaw is clenched and her chest is rising and falling rapidly with heavy breaths. It’s unsurprising when she yells out at Shelby once more:

“Say something!”

Her voice is desperate, trembling with fear and heartache. Shelby can hear the pleading in Toni's tone, her words spilling out with an urgency that cuts deep into Shelby's soul. She can feel the weight of Toni's expectations pressing down on her, begging for an explanation, for any shred of hope that this isn't what she thinks it is. The tension between them is palpable as Shelby struggles to hold back a flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. But with each passing moment, it becomes harder to contain the torrent of feelings churning within her.

“Because I love you!”

The declaration fills up the space around them, leaving no room to move. There is nowhere to run; nowhere to escape from the rubble of this crumbling friendship. It’s finally out there. These words, this thing that she's been so petrified to speak of is now out there for Toni to see, to dissect and pick apart. Shelby's soul lay bare in the confines of a bedroom that belonged to neither of them.

With a harsh swipe, Shelby banishes the hot tears carving tracks down her youthful face. She swivels abruptly from Toni, the air cooling where their bodies were once in proximity. Exhaustion-wrought legs buckle under her as she slumps onto the bed; an unruly cocktail of alcohol and fatigue renders her form heavy and unyielding. As she releases a shaky sigh permeating with undertones of regret - it sounds like waves reluctantly crashing onto a deserted beach. Gathering herself, she starts to explain:

"I spent years praying that one day you would wake up and just see me. You would see that I'm here, I've always been here, and you would finally love me back."

"Bee..." Toni's voice cracks. Raw with emotion and tinged with confusion.

Shelby pays no mind to the interruption, however. Instead, she presses on, ignoring how intensely pity-filled brown eyes watch her.

"I know how stupid and pathetic that sounds, but I really thought," her voice trails off momentarily as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat. "There were these moments where I swear it seemed like…like maybe you did love me. Then you met Regan, and I saw the way you looked at her, Toni. I saw it-"

"Shelby, please," Toni begs.

She pleads, for what? Shelby isn't sure. Does the thought of Shelby being in love with her make her skin crawl? Is Toni so disgusted that she can't bear to hear any more about Shelby's sick feelings? Perhaps she wants Shelby to stop, to save herself the embarrassment. Maybe she's simply trying to help Shelby retain what little is left of her dignity.

But Goodkinds aren’t known for being quitters.

So, if she's going to ruin the one good thing in her life and make a complete fool of herself, she may as well go for broke.

"It became painfully obvious that you would never love me the way that I love you. So, I'm sorry if I upset you. I'm sorry that I've been distant and closed off lately, but I am trying my best to learn how to not love you."

Toni's heart feels like it's being mercilessly wrenched from her chest, each beat causing a physical ache that seems to radiate through every limb. She knows she should say something, anything, to make things right, but her mind is foggy, and her tongue feels heavy with the weight of unspoken words. She can feel her knees growing weak with each passing moment. A tightness grips her throat, almost suffocating as a lump forms, making it difficult for her to even breathe. Despite the tears brimming in her eyes, she keeps them locked away; too ashamed to let them fall in front of her best friend.

Trudging forward, each step feeling more burdensome than the last, Toni makes her way over to the bed. Her eyes are transfixed on Shelby's form, as though she's just now seeing her for the first time. The air in the room is charged and tense, thick with unspoken emotions. "Bee," Toni says gently, barely above a whisper, only making Shelby want to hide away from her even more. She buries her head in her hands, unable to handle the softness in the brunette's tone. It feels too delicate, too careful, as if Toni is handling a fragile piece of glass that may shatter at any moment. Shelby's breaths come out in short ragged bursts, her head feeling light and dizzy as if the room is spinning around her. She feels exposed in all the wrong ways. Suddenly, there is a dip on the bed beside her and strong arms snake around her form. In this moment of vulnerability, Shelby can't help but lash out in the most pathetic way she can muster up - pushing weakly against Toni's chest like a petulant child. But Toni persists, ignoring Shelby's halfhearted protest and simply tightening her hold until they meld into one another. Shelby can feel puffs of warm breath tickling her ear as Toni whispers over and over again, "I didn't know." 

For what felt like hours, Toni and Shelby remained tangled together like the branches of an old tree. The soft pads of Toni's fingers traced soothing patterns over the expanse of Shelby's back as sobs wracked her body. Two girls, once inseparable, now finding solace in each other's arms amidst the ruins of their friendship. The aftermath of drunken confessions hung heavy in the air between them. As sleep slowly overtook her, Shelby couldn't help but wonder how they had ended up here - lost in each other yet worlds apart. When she wakes the following morning, she knows she can't linger a moment longer. She can't bear to face the harsh light of day and another inevitable rejection from Toni. With a heavy heart, she carefully untangles herself from the sleeping girl and mourns the thought that this will be the first and last time she ever shares a bed with Toni Shalifoe. 

[marlinspirkhall]

okay so I'm only just now realizing YOU wrote some of my favorite spirk fics. thank u kindly for nine million green bottles abd the find someone series xoxo

This means so much to me, thank you 💙💛 I'm so happy I finally got Nine Million Green Bottles finished this year

[roselightfairy]

oh no

[jojo-hut-jrs]

I was thinking about your hcs about Devo being a self saboteur and I remembered your fics and I have to ask. Was it on purpose that you wrote him self sabotaging in those because if so. :(((

Yes and no. Not everyone is aware of the extent of their own actions, and in the case of those fics, it was more to do with him sort of taking an obsession too far. But he's still in control of his own actions, he could have stopped, he arguably knew better. Sometimes you play the game and sometimes the game plays you, either way you never seem to stop playing.