#it's stupid and unwieldy so i like it

[agoralgia]

fiancé finally signed me up for horseback riding lessons which means my life will change drastically, again, i assume

[nerdie-faerie]

This has got to be the worst move out yet

[alnilaem]

butcher!ghost neighbor but he hears u loudly curse/yell and a loud bang of something hitting the floor (those thin walls man i swear 😔). he angrily goes nextdoor to yell at his neighbor and they open the door crying and holding a bloody towel?? possibly hurt themselves trying to make dinner with the lamb they bought 🧐

this definitely happens after simon has a long day at work, too. he returns to his flat that evening and doesn’t even bother toeing off his unwieldy boots, he just simmers his annoyance with a beer, his overripe recliner chair (which he stole from a dump site ), and some premiere league football.

the resounding thud pealing from your flat irritates him, sure, but he doesn’t care since there’s always shady shit going on in this part of town. but when your successive mewl travels through his walls, and when he recognises it as you, simon goes rigid. and if he had a tail, it’d be erect.

simon clunks over to your flat and bangs on the door, hastily regretting it when he realises his knocks sound more agitated than perturbed. he’s squeezing his stature through your threshold when you open the door, and he probably says some dull-witted shit like, “thought i asked ya to keep it down?” before heeding the moisture in your eyes and absolutely kicking himself for it. he’s big and stupid so give him some time.

you explain you’re having a hard time cutting your lamb into smaller pieces, so simon wordlessly strays into your flat and finishes slicing them for you. he probably takes a covert look around your flat, at the cute trinkets and garments scattered around the place. he doesn’t bother hiding the route of his wandering eyes, either.

you sheepishly ask if he wants any money for the favour and he says no, stalks out of your flat and slams his door behind him. you hear the hum of his football resume as he kicks up the volume.

he’s such a wet dog

[colleendoran]

How Do I Do Stuff

The question was phrased a little strangely, and I don't want to embarrass the person by posting exactly what was said, but I'll answer it and hope this clears everything up.

I do almost all of my drawing by hand. No, I don't trace in Photoshop. Not a judgment on those who do, but I come from a generation of artists who did not use Poser programs or other digital tools. We learned to draw using a technique called the Sight Size method. I know a lot of people assume everyone - including the old masters - traced everything using optical tools, but while it is true some people did, it is just as true that most didn't, and you can draw with great accuracy if you learned how to draw the old fashioned way.

Sight Size breaks everything down into its barest components of geometric shapes and you build from there. Once you learn it, you never forget, and it applies to everything you will ever draw.

I learned it using a set of Famous Artist Course books my mom had since she was a kid, and they are still the gold standard. They're often on ebay. If I were you, I'd buy them.

I actually find using figure reference really annoying because I like exaggerations and modifications from reality in my final work.

This page from Neil Gaiman's Chivalry was drawn and painted without figure reference of any kind.

I don't know why people assume I trace all the time. If you were to try to use photographs to replicate these figures, you would find they are slightly off. There is no tracing here.

This is not to say I never use reference. This page, for example, was referenced from a photo of my mother. Isn't she pretty.

But this page of Sir Galaad was drawn and painted without reference.

He's pretty, too.

If he were real, I'm sure a lot of people would be very happy about it. But he's not. And had I reference, the art would have gone a lot faster. I had a time trying to nail this face that is very alive in my head but doesn't really exist.

Back in the ancient days, all cartoonists had to learn to draw and paint extemporaneously because reference was limited and digital tools didn't exist. While some high end artists had photography studios and professional models with costume and sets on hand, small fry like me were limited to what was in the house or available at my small local library, which was no bigger than a few rooms of my current house.

Artists kept extensive "morgue files" or "swipe files" which were collected from magazine clippings and photographs so we would have as much of what we might need on hand for quick reference. These ephemera collections could get unwieldy. I have thousands of photographs I've simply never sorted. I finally dumped most of my files this past year.

Have I ever traced anything? Of course, especially if I have to re-use a shot or setting over and over. Making extra work for myself is just silly. It's my job to make pictures, not to perform magical feats, like copying one shot after another over and over without making a mistake.

However, for almost 15 years of my career, I refused to copy or trace anything, and did not even own a lightbox. On the one hand, that forced me to learn to carefully examine what I saw. On the other hand, it was a stupid hill on which many deadlines died.

Only after I realized many professional artists had lightboxes and overhead projectors did I finally break down and get one.

The one thing I use my lightbox for more than anything is for tracing my thumbnail sketches to the final drawing paper. Instead of trying to capture the liveliness of the original sketch by copying what I see - only bigger - I blow the thumbnail up to the size I want the final art to be, then I trace over the thumbnail using a lightbox onto the final drawing paper.

Here's a look at thumbnails from the graphic novel Neil Gaiman's Snow, Glass, Apples.

I enlarged these on my computer to fit onto 11"x14" paper, and traced the thumbs before finishing the art which was drawn in pen and ink and colored in Photoshop.

While I obviously made some changes, the essence of the thumbs is there in the final work. Tracing my thumbs retains some of the looseness of the original sketches, which is often lost otherwise.

So, there is a valid purpose to tracing at times, though in my opinion, too much tracing can weaken drawing ability, substitute for developing skills, and make the work kind of stiff.

If you want to, I'm not your judge. But it's weird to me that people think I must be faking my skills in some way.

Ironically, the word cartoon comes from the Italian word cartone, which is a large heavy sheet of paper - also, the origin of the word carton.

Preparatory sketches were made on this paper which was then transferred to the final work surface via either tracing or by stamping little holes in the paper through which dust was sprinkled, recreating the contours of the drawing for the artist to follow.

So the origin of the word cartoon comes from a process often used...for tracing.

[frostbitebakery]

Loud.

part one two three

“You’re impossible!”

Obi-Wan harrumphs back at Cody with feeling. The way they’re running it’s equally impossible to sign or code tap. He engages the lights on his gloves, squeezes his fingers in a rhythm and the code appears in short and long lines on the back of his hand. Which he gladly shows to Cody. “You’re one to talk.”

“Dogpiling Grievous was a calculated move,” Cody huffs back, skids to a halt at a maintenance door that Obi-Wan almost missed. While Cody types in the emergency sequence, he carefully gets his message ready.

“You’re bad at math,” Cody reads blandly when he turns around. “Very funny.”

“Careful,” he signs, fingers stiff and unwieldy as the nervousness crawls through him. Setting in his knees, making them weak. A clump in his stomach. Stiff, clumsy hands.

“You know you can change your mind any moment,” Cody says, catches his eyes and Obi-Wan sinks into the warmth. “We can stop whenever you need.”

“No.”

Cody waits for him to continue but he can’t even nod or move. The gap between their fingers feels insurmountable.

But he wants this. Needs this, on a level deeper than the trust he has in Cody.

“Shadows don’t trust easily,” he wants to say. “I do even less.” His trust is forged in pain and loss and bittersweet victories. And faith.

“I like hugging,” his fingers confess and he feels stupid for the brief moment until Cody’s face lights up.

The mask digs into his face where it’s smashed against Cody’s shoulder. Cody’s arms feel safe and unhesitating and so sure it unlocks Obi-Wan’s knees and stomach and fingers and he’s hugging back with eyes closed.

For the first time in a long, long while he wants his voice back. He doesn’t know what he’d say. And perhaps it doesn’t matter. Just the urge to pull off the mask and move his mouth—

soft lips press against his temple just over the edge of the mask, gentle fingers tap on his hand in code, “I hear you.”

You really do, don’t you, Obi-Wan thinks, watches his own hand tap in the same rushed rhythm. One short, one long, two short.

“I hear you,” Cody signs back, forehead against Obi-Wan’s brow.

Three long.

Obi-Wan never lost his voice.

Three short, one long.

Not with the people that matter.

One short.

“Me too,” Cody whispers. “Ready?”

The catches on the mask hiss as they open.

.

“You’re impossible!”

Obi-Wan harrumphs back at Cody with feeling. The way they’re running it’s equally impossible to sign or code tap. He engages the lights on his gloves, squeezes his fingers in a rhythm and the code appears in short and long lines on the back of his hand. Which he gladly shows to Cody. “You’re one to talk.”

“Dogpiling Grievous was a calculated move,” Cody huffs back, skids to a halt at a maintenance door that Obi-Wan almost missed. While Cody types in the emergency sequence, he carefully gets his message ready.

“You’re bad at math,” Cody reads blandly when he turns around. “Very funny.”

Obi-Wan squeezes out another message.

“It was also very hot,” Cody reads. And pauses.

Obi-Wan imagines the blush hidden by the helmet vividly and smiles.

He’s ushered with no further comment into the maintenance closet which bears entrance to some shortcuts across the Malvolence. He looks at Cody in question who shrugs.

“I briefly saw the holoprints in one of the war rooms.”

Yes. One of the many reasons this infatuation is turning into something warm and bright and unbearably sweet. Cody is making himself a place in Obi-Wan’s heart like he’s coming back home.

“We’re almost there, Sir,” Cody says suddenly, relief palpable in his voice. Master Windu must have finally reached him on comms. “Understood, Sir. No more shenanigans, Sir.”

Obi-Wan’s shoulders shake with laughter.

.

“The mask helps me breathe,” Obi-Wan explains, head held high under Cody’s gaze. Getting out of breath could possibly suffocate him. Too dry or humid air is painful. With the exact parameters of what his body is able to handle, the healers had settled on a mask to protect him when he runs too fast. “Or other strenuous activities,” he adds with a slight smirk.

Cody shakes his head at him with a fond smile that tingles in Obi-Wan’s chest pleasantly. His thumb caresses the web of scars going from Obi-Wan’s bottom lip. “Can you feel that?”

“A little bit.” Not much at all, when it comes down to it. Kissing has become unimportant to him out of necessity. Few people had wanted to kiss him in the first place when the scars had still looked fresh. He’s lucky his jaw hadn’t needed to be replaced, so he’s not complaining.

It had been difficult nonetheless. To work around the muteness, the way his body had been changed. He’s learned to put more importance into other gestures than kissing on the mouth.

Cody’s forehead rests against his once more, catching his hand and slowly stroking the palm, up to the fingertips. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Gestures like Cody’s.

.

“I didn’t expect to see you there,” Cody says as they settle into the rescue shuttle. “General Windu said we had reliable intel to do a hit and run on the Malvolence.”

Obi-Wan waves his hand, palm empty before a flick of his fingers reveals the data stick.

“Information retrieval,” Cody asks, voice changing from vocoder to his usual timbre as he lifts his helmet. “I imagine there was a lot of useful data to harvest.” The shuttle is rocked as the warship explodes. “I should’ve saved my sweets ration,” Cody murmurs, eyes reflecting fire and bone-deep satisfaction.

“You’re dying for a fabricated war,” Obi-Wan doesn’t sign. The intel he managed to get his hands on is enough to connect the missing senate funds with Serenno’s newly acquired wealth from another angle and make it waterproof.

Destabilizing a whole galaxy for— for shits and giggles. Obi-Wan sits on his hands, shuts himself up so he can think.

“The Dark Side has clouded their vision. Hundreds of senators are now under the influence of a Sith lord called Darth Sidious,” Dooku’s voice grates through his memory. Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to tell him just where he could store his lightsaber for safekeeping so his erstwhile grandmaster had taunted him with the truth, in hindsight.

Anakin.

The signs rush out of his hands, too fast for Cody at first. He repeats himself, trusts that Cody, brilliant, brilliantly fast Cody, will get it.

The helmet is back on Cody’s head, lights flickering on, antennas adjusting their angle.

“General Windu, this is Commander Cody using emergency frequency 2-Esk-5-0. Immediate contact with General Bilaba required. Immediate removal from battle of General Skywalker required. Use of force strongly encouraged should he resist.”

Obi-Wan crosses the small distance, waving his hands before using the quick battle sign for “deliver message”.

“General, Master Shadow Kenobi has a message,” Cody says, doesn’t pause as he translates to voice even though his back goes ramrod straight. “Chancellor is the Sith. I have proof. Ani must be kept away from him.”

.

“Some call them traitors,” Cody whispers, “but I’d rather turn a blind eye and let them run than watch them step into blaster fire because they don’t want to fight with every fiber of their being.”

“You’re a good man,” Obi-Wan signs, hands held up a bit so Cody can see. He hadn’t wanted to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes for the confession, had chosen to press him close under his chin instead. “You’re a good man,” Obi-Wan taps out on Cody’s chest so he can feel his words, too.

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER THREE ━━ Falling out of Focus

☆ ━ pairing: hopkins!paige x oc (dani callan)

☆ ━ word count: 4.5K

☆ ━ warnings: use of homophobic slur, underage drinking, smoking i think, tiny fist fight lol, more angst

☆ ━ links: my masterlist, take me to church masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: so sorry i did not proof read this and it’s so dialogue heavy but here it is anyways and drama period

IF NOTHING can comfort Paige Bueckers, it’s usually a basketball court that she needs. It’s the place where she’s found solace nearly her whole life, at this point. The steady rhythm of the dribbling, the weight of the ball in her hands, the way her body moves practically on instinct with it now—all of it is usually enough to drown out the noise of the world. Apparently, not today. She feels like she’s playing in someone else’s body, like everything with her game is off. None of her shots fall, she turns the ball more than she assists, and, when, she shoots once more and the ball hits the rim, bouncing off again, she feels like she’s going to lose it.

Coach Cosgriff seems to feel the same way. “Paige! Come on!” his voice cuts, sharp and direct. Paige blinks, shaking her head a little to clear it, before getting back into the drill.

“Sorry, Coach,” she mumbles, forcing her feet to move. But it’s almost like neither her heart or head are in. The ball feels heavy, unwieldy, like it isn’t made for her hands anymore. She passes it to Taylor, who shoots her a worried look before continuing the play.

Paige can feel the eyes of her teammates on her, each glance a tiny needle pricking her skin. Normally, she’d thrive under the attention, but today, it’s suffocating. She feels like she’s spiraling, and she has no idea how to stop it. It isn’t just about basketball; it’s about fucking everything.

“Let’s run it again!” Coach calls, and Paige tries to push all thoughts that aren’t basketball out of her mind. But the harder she tries, the more insistent her brain becomes.

They run through the drill again, and—again—Paige finds herself a step behind. She’s supposed to cut to the basket, but her feet move too slowly, like they’re stuck in mud. Amaya passes her the ball, but Paige isn’t ready, and it slips through her fingers, skidding across the floor.

“Damnit,” Paige curses under her breath, running after it. She can feel her teammates’ frustration, their confusion, and she hates herself for being the cause of it.

“Paige, you good?” Maya asks as they pause for a water break. She’s careful not to sound accusatory, but Paige can hear the concern in her voice. “You’re not yourself today.”

“I’m fine,” Paige snaps, harsher than she intended. Maya blinks, taken aback, and Paige immediately feels guilty. “I’m just… off. It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” KK chimes in, wiping sweat from her forehead. “You can talk to us, you know.”

Paige forces a smile, but it feels all wrong on her face. “I’m good. Just needa get my head straight.”

The words feel empty even as she says them. How can she explain to her teammates without sounding pathetic and stupid that she’s acting this way over a girl? Obviously, it’s not just any girl—it’s Dani. But still. A girl is getting in the way of Paige and basketball and it’s frustrating her so fucking much. She hates it. She hates all of it. She hates that every time she closes her eyes, all she sees is Dani slipping further away from her, replaced by Beau Hudson’s smug, indifferent face?

“Alright, everyone, bring it in,” Coach Cosgriff calls, ending the break. “Let’s focus up and finish strong.”

Paige nods, but her focus is long gone. The rest of practice is a blur of missed shots, half-hearted passes, and growing frustration. When it finally ends, Paige doesn’t stick around to talk to anyone. She grabs her bag, mumbling something about having to study, and heads straight for the locker room.

In the quiet of the locker room, Paige finally allows herself to collapse on the bench. She buries her face in her hands, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes. She refuses to let them fall. Crying won’t change anything; it won’t bring Dani back to her, and it sure as hell won’t fix the gaping hole that seems to be growing in her chest.

Paige decides she needs a distraction. Something, anything, to take her mind off Dani, off the way everything’s falling apart.

—SO, a few days later, when Jalen texts Paige about a party, she doesn’t hesitate. She needs noise, people, a chance to drown out the thoughts that have cut off all her access to oxygen.

Paige can feel the bass of the music vibrating through the floorboards the moment she enters the house. The air is thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and the faint tang of weed lingering in the background. The place is packed—people spilling out into the backyard, others dancing in the living room, and even more just milling about with red solo cups in hand. It’s exactly what Paige needs—or, at least that’s what she tells herself.

Jalen and Thaliah walk in beside her, ready for a much-needed night out. Jalen has a grin plastered across his face, greeting people as they walk in, while Thaliah is more laid-back, scanning the crowd for familiar faces as she takes a hit from the pen in her hand. Paige, on the other hand, feels almost like she’s moving through fog—like the world is a few seconds behind her. But that’s the point of tonight, anyways. To blur the edges. To numb the ache that’s been gnawing at her ever since Dani pushed her away.

“Yo, you good, P?” Jalen’s voice cuts through her thoughts, his hand landing on her shoulder as they push their way toward the kitchen. He gives her a once-over, expression tinged with concern. “You don’t look like you’re feelin’ this.”

Paige forces a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “‘M fine,” she lies, grabbing a solo cup from the counter. “Just need a drink.”

Thaliah, pen still in hand, raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say anything, though there’s a look exchanged between her and Jalen. Paige ignores it. She isn’t in the mood for questions, for concern. She just wants to forget. Wants to drown out the constant loop of thoughts running through her head—Dani with Beau, Dani avoiding her, Dani blocking her out. It all swirls in her chest, a storm she hasn’t been able to control for weeks now.

With that thought, Paige downs her first drink in one long gulp, barely wincing at the sharp taste of Vodka and God-knows-what mixed into it. The burn isn’t enough. She needs more.

Within the next hour, Paige makes her way through three more cups of whatever mix of alcohol they’re serving, the edge of her thoughts blurring with each one, head starting to swim pleasantly, the fog that she’s been chasing slowly starting to catch up to her. Jalen and Thaliah drink too, but not with the same reckless abandon. Even they have their limits, knowing when to pace themselves.

But Paige? She doesn’t quite care about limits tonight.

“Bro, slow down,” Thaliah says, eyeing Paige warily as she reaches for yet another cup. “We’re supposed to be having fun, not getting wasted in the first hour.”

Paige rolls her eyes, ignoring the warning. “I am having fun,” she shoots back, though even to her own ears, her voice sounds a little too sharp, a little too defensive. She takes another long sip from the cup, the world around her beginning to tilt slightly. It’s like floating—like nothing can touch her, and that’s exactly what she wants. No feelings. No thoughts. Just nothing.

Jalen watches her, his buzzed and carefree smile faltering as he nudges Thaliah. “Hey, maybe we should—”

“I’m fine!” Paige cuts in, louder than she means to. Her hand tightens around the cup as she glances at them both, the alcohol making her words slur slightly. “I’m fine, okay? I don’t need a babysitter. God.”

She turns away from them, her eyes scanning the room for something—anything—else to keep her occupied. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want to think. She just wants to not feel for a while.

She spots a group of people in the corner of the room, most of them looking just as drunk as she feels. Without another word to her best friends, Paige drifts toward the group, her steps a little uneven as the alcohol works its way through her system.

Jalen watches her go, his eyebrows furrowed for a moment before he turns back to his conversation. “She’ll be fine,” he mumbles, though there’s a slight hesitation in his voice. He glances at Thaliah, who shrugs, clearly tipsy herself but sharing the same concern. Nevertheless, neither of them are quite in the best shape to intervene. Besides, they both know Paige well enough to understand that trying to stop her won’t do any good.

Paige finds herself wedged between two guys she barely knows, both of them laughing loudly about something she isn’t even listening to. It doesn’t matter. She’s laughing too, caught up in the haze of drunkenness, the weight of everything she’s been carrying slipping off her shoulders for just a moment.

“Yo, you good?” one of the guys asks, his words slurred and slow as he nudges her with his elbow. “You look like you’re having a real good time.”

Paige grins, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through her chest. “Yeah, I’m good. Real good.”

He sends her a matching grin in return before handing her another drink—something dark and strong—and, without thinking twice, she takes a long sip, the liquid burning as it goes down. She doesn’t care. All she wants is to keep the buzz going, to keep drowning out the thoughts that keep creeping back whenever she slows down.

Dani. Always fucking Dani.

Paige shakes her head, like she can physically push the thought away. She doesn’t want to think about her. Not about the way she’s pulled away, not about the way she’s acting like Paige doesn’t even exist, not about the way she’s with Beau now. Paige doesn’t want to think about any of it.

“Paige, what are you doing?” Thaliah’s voice breaks through the noise, and Paige blinks, realizing she’s wandered away from the group she was with, ending up near the back patio. Thaliah stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, a slightly exasperated but still concerned look on her face.

“Getting another drink,” Paige slurs, waving her empty cup like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Thaliah steps closer, her eyes narrowing. “Maybe you should chill for a minute. You’ve had, like, five already.”

Paige rolls her eyes again, turning away from her friend. “I’m fine, Thal. Seriously.”

Thaliah hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder toward Jalen, who’s still talking to a couple of people near the couch. She isn’t entirely sober herself, and her judgment is definitely a little clouded, but even she can see Paige practically spiraling.

“Just… don’t do anything stupid, okay?” Thaliah affirms, her voice softer now.

“I won’t,” Paige mumbles, though she isn’t sure she means it.

Thaliah stares at her for a moment longer before sighing and heading back inside. Paige doesn’t look back. She wanders farther into the backyard, her footsteps a little less steady now. She finds a group of people near the fire pit, most of them drunk and talking over each other. She sits down on the edge of the bench, barely listening to their conversation as she takes another drink from the communal cooler.

Zoning out, she stares at the flames in the fire pit, the flickering light casting shadows on her face. It crackles, and she watches, the embers highlighting the dark air around her. Everything is a bit softer at the edges now, almost dreamlike, until something—or, rather someone—catches her eye.

A brunette girl sits down next to Paige, her face half-illuminated by the fire before them. She has softer features and warm eyes, as well as brown hair that falls around her shoulders in waves, light highlights coating it. Her cheeks are red with the unmistakable flush of alcohol. She glances at Paige, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of her lips. There’s something familiar about the girl, a feeling that tugs at Paige’s drunken mind. It takes her a second to place, but when she realizes why, her heart stumbles a bit: this girl reminds Paige of Dani.

The blonde blinks, her gaze instinctively drawn to the girl’s lips, her head swimming a little more than before.

“Hey,” the brunette slurs a little, her voice laced with the same inebriated giddiness that Paige feels. “I’m Delaney.”

“Delaney?” Paige echoes, feeling like she misheard for a second. She blinks again, her heart doing an unsteady flip at how similar the names Delaney and Dani sound to her. It throws her off for a moment, but not in the way she expects. Maybe it’s because she’s wasted, maybe it’s the loneliness she’s been burying, or maybe it’s just how much she misses her best friend. But somehow, Delaney seems all the more appealing to Paige because of it.

“Yeah,” Delaney giggles, leaning closer, her shoulder brushing against the blonde’s. “And you’re Paige Bueckers.”

Paige feels a smirk creep onto her lips. “You know who I am?” she asks, voice dipping lower, ego inflating slightly. She leans in a little, enough so the sides of their legs touch.

The blonde watches as Delaney’s gaze trails across her face and over her lips. “Everyone knows who you are,” the brunette murmurs. She pauses for a moment, her drunk smile widening slightly. “You’re hot.”

The heat rises in Paige’s chest at that, and she grins back, asking, “Oh, am I?”

Delaney rolls her eyes a little and Paige laughs. The air feels smaller now, like it’s just the two of them, cocooned in the haze of alcohol and tension. Delaney’s eyes sparkle as she stares at Paige, and without much more thought, they fall into a flirty back-and-forth, words blending into giggles and gentle touches that feel a little too familiar.

The brunette rests her hand on Paige’s knee, her fingers slowly trailing upward, and Paige doesn’t stop her. It’s easy. Too easy. Paige leans forward, her breath catching in her throat as their faces hover inches apart.

“You really are pretty,” Paige whispers, her eyes drifting to Delaney’s lips.

And before she knew it, the space between them disappears their lips crash together, the kiss hot and sloppy and fueled by too much alcohol. Paige kisses Delaney harder, trying to drown out the ache that’s been gnawing at her all summer—the same ache that Dani left behind when she cut Paige out of her life.

For a moment, it’s enough. Paige loses herself in the kiss, her hands sliding to Delaney’s waist, pulling her closer. Delaney’s hand is on Paige’s thigh again, this time higher, but the basketball player doesn’t stop her. The brunette tastes like cheap beer and something sweet, and Paige kisses her like it’s an escape.

But then, the sensation of being watched creeps up on her, sending a shiver down her spine. Paige pulls back a little, her breathing uneven and her lips swollen as her eyes darted around. She scans the yard and the back-end of the house, the shadows of people milling about. And then her gaze locks onto someone standing just by the back door.

Her stomach drops.

Dani.

Paige’s breath hitches as she stares at her. Dani’s watching her, her eyes dark and unreadable, arms crossed over her chest. Paige freezes, her heart pounding in her ears as she takes in the sight of her former best friend, looking so effortlessly gorgeous. She’s wearing jeans that fit her perfectly and a tank top that leaves little to the imagination and as soon as Paige’s eyes set on her, a familiar fire alights in her chest.

As soon as Dani realizes Paige has seen her, she looks away, turning her head and beginning to walk away from the back door as if she wasn’t watching at all. But Paige saw it. The tension in Dani’s jaw, the flicker of something in her eyes.

And suddenly, it’s like Paige is struck by lightning, jolted back into reality. What the hell is she doing?

“Shit,” Paige mutters, pushing herself away from Delaney, her heart racing. Delaney blinks in confusion, still dazed and flushed from the kiss.

“Wait—where are you going?” Delaney asks, her hand reaching for Paige’s arm.

“I—uh—I’ve gotta go,” Paige stammers, barely sparing her another glance before she’s up on her feet, leaving Delaney sitting there on the couch, confused and drunk. Paige barely feels a pang of guilt as she hurries toward Dani, the alcohol still swirling in her system, making her steps unsteady.

Paige stumbles inside the house, weaving her way through the crowd until she catches up to the Callan girl. She reaches out, grabbing Dani’s arm, stopping her in her tracks.

“Dani, wait—” Paige’s words come out more frantic than she intends, her grip on Dani’s arm loosening when Dani turns to face her. Paige’s heart hammers in her chest as she struggles to form coherent thoughts. “I—I don’t know what’s going on, but can we just—”

Dani jerks her arm out of Paige’s grip, her face stony. “What do you want, Paige?”

“I don’t know!” Paige’s voice cracks, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “I don’t know, okay? I saw you staring at me, and then you—why were you even watching me with her?”

Dani’s expression remains cold, but Paige sees the way her fingers twitch at her sides. “I wasn’t watching.”

“That’s bullshit, Dani!” Paige’s voice raises an octave, her fists clenching as she fights to keep herself at bay. “You were staring at me. And her. Why?”

“No, I wasn’t!” Dani denies again, her voice sharp and biting. “It’s none of my business what—or who—you do at a party.”

Paige’s chest tightens at the bitterness in Dani’s words. She feels the sting of them like a slap to the face. “If you don’t care, then why are you acting like this? Why are you even here?”

“I’m here with Beau,” Dani says, her voice firm. “And I don’t care what you do. So, why don’t you go on back to making out with random girls, yeah?”

Paige’s breath catches in her throat, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. “God, you’re so full of shit,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You act like you don’t care, but you do. I know you do. Why can’t you just admit it, for fucks’ sake?”

They stare at each for a long moment, face-to-face in silence, anger and something else surrounding the air between them. But before either of them can say anything more, Beau appeared out of nowhere, stepping between them.

“Is there a problem here?” Beau asked, his eyes narrowing at Paige, his tone casual but the tension in his stance clear. He steps in front of Dani like a shield, glaring at Paige.

The blonde rolls her eyes at him, her frustration doubling. “No,” she snaps, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just having a conversation.”

Beau scoffs, his arms crossing over his chest. “Doesn’t look like much of a conversation to me. Looks like you’re harassing my girlfriend, Bueckers.”

Paige’s stomach churns at the word, the jealousy like a punch to the gut. It’s not unfamiliar at this point, but it still gives Paige the same effect. “Can’t you just fuck off?” she retorts with venom. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m her boyfriend, so, yeah, I think it does,” Beau argues, stepping closer to Paige, trying to intimidate her. But Paige isn’t scared of him, even in her drunken state. He may be more muscular—the football kind of body type—but she’s taller, a couple of inches on him, and she meets his challenge with a steady glare.

“I don’t give a shit what you think,” Paige bites out, stepping closer herself, their faces inches apart now. “But Dani and I? We have history. And you—” she jabs her finger into his chest, “are just a replacement.”

Beau’s face twists in anger, his hands balling into fists. “Watch your mouth, Bueckers.”

“Or what—” the blonde begins, but before she can get her words out completely, two figures are by her side, hands pulling her away slightly.

“Paige,” Thaliah mutters, trying to tug at her arm. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Jalen stands there too, shaking his head. “Yep, come on,” he says. And then he lets his gaze shift between Beau and Dani, glaring at the pair. “Neither of them are worth it.”

Paige’s jaw clenches, her eyes still locked on Dani’s, searching for anything that would tell her this isn’t over. But Dani won’t even look at her. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest, her whole body tense.

And so, Paige id about to turn around, to let Thaliah and Jalen pull her away, when she hears Beau’s voice again.

“It’s good you and her aren’t friends anymore,” Beau says loudly, looking directly at Dani. His next words are sharp and venomous. “Don’t want a dyke like her corrupting you.”

The world seems to freeze.

Paige’s heart stops. The word dyke echoes in her ears, and the blood drains from her face. She can feel the heat rising in her chest, the anger boiling over like a volcano about to erupt.

Even Dani’s head snaps up, her eyes wide with shock. But she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t defend Paige.

Without thinking, without even hesitating for a second, Paige turns and lunges at Beau, her fists flying before anyone can react.

Her first punch lands squarely on his jaw, sending him stumbling back. She feels pain erupt across her knuckles, and she shakes her hand for a moment. The shock on his face is almost satisfying—almost. But Paige doesn’t stop there. She she shoves him backwards now, hands at his chest, and he stumbles slightly.

“You fucking—” Beau starts, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish.

Thaliah and Jalen are on her in an instant, pulling Paige back with more force now. Thaliah’s voice is almost panicked, trying to calm her down as Jalen stands between her and Beau, his hands outstretched like a human barrier. He glares at the Hudson boy, saying firmly, “Back the fuck up.”

“Paige, come on, it’s not worth it!” Thaliah’s practically shouting now, her grip on Paige’s arm tight.

“Let go of me!” Paige yells, her voice cracking with fury. She struggles against their hold, her eyes locked on Beau, who stands there, looking more shocked than anything. But there’s no fear in his eyes—only smugness, actually.

Beau wipes his mouth, glancing at the blood on his hand where her punch landed. He sneers. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Can’t handle the truth, can you?”

Paige’s vision blurs with anger, and she tries to lunge at him again, but Thaliah and Jalen hold her back.

Dani, who’s been frozen this whole time, finally speaks up. “Beau, just stop.”

Beau’s glances down at Dani, almost grinning. He clearly is enjoying the chaos he’s caused. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking, babe.”

Paige is done. She’s fucking done.

“Fuck you,” she spits at Beau, staring at him from behind Jalen. He just smirks back. And then she turns her attention to Dani, adding, “And, fuck you, too. You’re such a fucking coward, Dani.”

Paige rips her arm from Thaliah’s grasp, turning from the group and walking straight out of the house, wanting nothing more than to just go home.

THE DAYS that follow are a blur of basketball practices, classes, and restless nights. Paige tries to focus, tries to lose herself in the familiar routine, but nothing feels right. Every time she steps onto the court, her movements feel sluggish, disconnected. She’s there, but she isn’t really present. Her mind is elsewhere, stuck in a loop of memories and worries that she can’t escape.

Coach Cosgriff notices, of course. It would be impossible not to. Paige has always been the one to set the pace, to push herself and her teammates to be better. But now, she’s lagging behind, missing cues, and snapping at anyone who tries to point it out.

“Paige, my office. Now,” Coach says one afternoon after a particularly grueling practice.

Paige knows what’s coming, but she follows him without protest, dragging her feet as she walks. The other girls exchange glances but don’t say anything. They know better than to try to talk to her when she’s in one of these moods.

Coach’s office is small, cramped with old trophies and posters of past teams. He sits behind his desk, his expression unreadable as he gestures for Paige to sit down before him.

“What’s going on with you, Paige?” he asks, leaning forward, his tone soft but firm. “This isn’t like you. You’ve been off for weeks now. Is it school? Family? Whatever it is, you need to get it sorted, because it’s affecting your game.”

Paige looks down at her hands, unable to meet his gaze. “It’s… complicated,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Coach sighs, running a hand over his face. “Life is complicated, Paige. But you need to find a way to deal with it. You’re the leader of this team, and if you’re not focused, the others won’t be either.“

“I know,” Paige replies, her throat tight. “I’m sorry, Coach. I’m just… going through something right now.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Coach offers, surprising Paige. He isn’t usually the type to get involved in his players’ personal lives, but Paige guesses he’s worried about how much this is affecting her performance.

Paige shakes her head, though. She couldn’t talk about it, not without breaking down, and she couldn’t afford to do that. Besides, it would be more embarrassing than anything to have to explain how much losing someone—that’s technically still there—has affected her. “No, I’ll be fine. I just need some time.”

Coach watches her for a moment, then nods slowly. “Alright. But you need to get your head back in the game, Paige. I can’t have you on the court if you’re not all there. Understand?”

“Yes, Coach,” Paige responds quickly, feeling the weight of his words settle on her shoulders.

“Take tonight off,” Coach says, surprising her again. “Clear your head, do whatever you need to do. But when you come back tomorrow, I need the Paige Bueckers I know back on that court. The season starts in less than a month, Paige.”

Paige nods, standing up to leave. “I’ll do my best, Coach.”

As she’s about to walk out the door, Coach Cosgriff stops her, saying, “Wait.” She turns, eyes curious as she meets his gaze, wondering what else he has to say. He offers a small smile, telling her, “I went through a tough time when I was your age, too. It’s difficult to be a teenager. But the best advice I was ever given is that whatever problem you’ve got going on—you gotta either drop it, forget it, and move on, or you fix it. I know it’s easier said than done, but it’s true.”

Paige lets the words sink in.

Drop it, forget it, move on.

Or fix it.

Fuck, she doesn’t know.

[tallykale]

episode 19

as you can probably tell, i've thought a lot about what post-canon one would look like in my vision... i've said before that i have issues with straightforward fix-its, and i do genuinely love the tragic open-ended conclusion that the series has, but i... am not immune to playing with characters like dolls LOL

here's some writeups about where everyone is at mentally in these pictures. please please please PLEEEASE feel free to ask me more about this cuz i love talking about my beautiful mind palace

charlotte: somehow the most optimistic person in here, mostly out of necessity. when she died, she saw parker leading her out of a cave as her waiting room and was about to take his hand when airy respawned her, so she has a brief moment of bonding with bryce when he talks about the waiting room and seeing stella. with the knowledge that there is potentially a way to get out (bryce and liam being the proof) and the fear of rotting away again she is by far the most actively motivated to help liam figure out the computer. a lot of her days are spent talking to liam over the mic and writing out the code in the dirt so she can try to understand it. she still has to push against her natural misanthropy (and often shouts at liam or bryce for being fucking stupid and useless) but both working on the code and helping amelia give her something concrete to focus on outside herself. she wants to get home so she can make amends with her friends. charlotte is scared of dying! she's really genuinely horribly scared of dying and has awful vivid nightmares about rotting away. she often pushes amelia into talking about her life which causes some tension, but it's because she really hates seeing amelia lose herself like that - a metaphorical rotting away of the self.

subway seat & atom: not on the same level of pure existential depression as the batch 1 contestants, but they both feel the hopeless mood pretty harshly regardless. subway feels very lonely as the only hidden object still 'awake', and likes to carry whippy creamy around rather than just leave him sitting on the ground constantly. tray is too big and unwieldy for him to do that with, but he 'hangs out' with her anyway, talking to her and whippy creamy in the hopes that it'll get them to want to wake up again. atom doesn't talk much, but he still carries his piece of grass. he's definitely the person who's the least affected by the prospect of being stuck on the plane forever, since he… doesn't really perceive existence in the same way as everyone else? he's an atom. but his time in the competition definitely made him view everyone else as friends, and he feels even more powerless than usual in the face of this incomprehensibly difficult problem.

amelia: falls into total hopelessness when bryce rejoins, basically seeing it as the final sign that they're never going home. still calls everyone their competition names (she actually gets into a big fight with bryce about it lol). she gets really clingy and dependent on bryce when he first comes back but it crashes and burns pretty quickly when, during an argument, bryce tells her how much he wishes he could just go back and never have let liam in and forgot about everything… which really sucks for amelia to hear, given that she's part of that everything. after that, with bryce isolating himself, she's kind of reliant on charlotte to keep her going. she blames liam for airy dying and secretly kind of thinks he killed him but just isn't telling them… she also doesn't really believe there's any way of getting out and is just kind of waiting around to die of, like, old age i guess. after how long she's been here, amelia is convinced that she has nothing to even go back to and frequently forgets details about her life. regularly cries and hates being alone. the shift markings on the side of the water tub have changed from being a way to keep track of time and stay sane to a horrible reminder of how long they've been here and how much longer of an eternity they have before them.

bryce: hates himself and liam and airy and the plane and his entire stupid fucking life. bryce is really, really fucking pissed off at liam for losing the notes and letting texty die and every other mistake he's made, and isn't shy about telling him that. as well as being angry, he's also incredibly miserable, because he was finally starting to turn his life around (he quit drinking after the plane) and now it's all for nothing - and even worse, those 7 months he spent getting better were 7 months he did nothing to help the rest of them, especially amelia. he's horribly guilty about that, and that he didn't tell amelia about the fake votes before he was eliminated… but finds it easier to just let liam take the heat for that one at first. after he fights with amelia about it he becomes a bit of a hermit, hanging out by himself next to the plug, and never responds when liam tries to talk. contemplates suicide regularly but pretty much the only option is drowning himself, and the idea of that still scares him more than staying like this forever. would kill for a beer.

liam: tortured by horrible guilt every day over a million different things. these include getting bryce pulled back into this (plus delayed guilt over getting him for real killed), letting texty die and not saying anything about the charger, not telling amelia that everything was fake, knowing that charlotte is going to die if he doesn't get really smart really fast… he's frequently gripped by fits of rage where he almost smashes the computer and has to hobble around outside with the axe for a while to blow off steam. he has really bad nightmares and dissociative episodes, made worse by the isolation and spending hours in a dark cave. liam really wants to fix things with everyone but genuinely has no idea how to start that conversation. he assumes airy killed himself (and views it as an unforgiveably cowardly move) and directs a lot of resentment towards him. he has a lot of things he wants to say, especially to bryce, but the fact that he cant talk to anybody one on one makes things difficult. spends a lot of time just reading through the code, too afraid to actually make any changes in case everyone explodes, but talking it through with charlotte at least makes him feel like he's doing something. more than he would like to admit, liam catches himself staring at the plane as if it's a simulation or a livestream.

[florencemtrash]

The Artificer: Part II - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Torture, violence, death

✨Based on this ask ✨

Masterlist of Masterlists

“She is my mate.” The male’s eyes flashed with horror and understanding, and that feeling chased him towards his death, “And your High Lord will burn for what he’s done.”

Five months later…

“Where is she?” The Shadowsinger stalked forward, silent as the dead and just as unfeeling.

The Autumn Court warrior at least had the sense to tremble when The Shadowsinger came near. But he kept his red-cracked lips shut, golden eyes shining with hatred. 

“Bastard.” He sneered, spitting on Azriel’s polished boot. 

“I said.” A shadow darted out from his side, grabbing a fistful of matted tawny hair and wrenching it back. His skin was thin, so translucent that Azriel traced the flow of his blood in his purple veins with dead eyes. “Where. Is. She?” Every word was emphasized with a violent jerk.

He’d gone to visit you last week, carrying your favorite chocolates from Velaris and hoping for a far sweeter kiss in return. Instead your workshop had been in ruins. Swords shattered and the fire burnt out. For the first time, the room had been cold and unlit. 

Azriel had only found the pathetic male in front of him, kneeling on the ground and uselessly tugging at the sword which refused to move - Sunseeker. 

Azriel held it now in his hands, the pale, yellow glow sharpening the shadows beneath his eyes and the elegantly cruel cut of his jaw. 

It had been a risk trying to pick up the sword, but the weapon had sung to him and his shadows, calling out for him to wield it instead of the unworthy Autumn Court male. Azriel was no replacement for its real master - he was no replacement for you - but Sunseeker willed it and he obeyed. 

“Is there truly no one else capable of wielding it?” Azriel asked, sitting so close to you that your knees and elbows brushed against one another. He didn’t have the courage to kiss you just yet, but gods did he want to. And with the hours he’d spent looking at and dreaming about your lips, he was certain he had a good idea what you tasted like.

“Her.” You corrected, holding the sword up to the steady stream of sunlight that spilled through the slats in the ceiling. Pressed against the light, the sword appeared almost transparent - as if made of glass. 

Azriel smiled. You liked to name and personify every tool, weapon, and piece of equipment you owned, as if you had a secret third eye that allowed you to see into the lives of inanimate objects. He wanted to believe it was true - it was the only way he could explain the wonders you produced with your bare hands.

“There is one other person capable of such a thing,” You hesitated to tell him, but ultimately finished. “My mate.” 

All at once Azriel’s heart fell into free fall, prepared to crash through the cradle of his bones and into the floor. His face, marvelously, betrayed nothing.

“Your mate.” He stole his gaze away, focusing on a very interesting speck of dust on the counter, “They’re lucky.” He murmured, drawing away. 

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not lucky enough.” You sheathed the blade, returning it to its new place on the wall, “They haven’t found me yet.” 

“Oh.” A flicker of hope filled his chest - dangerous and unwieldy. “Is that… is that something you want? A mate? ” Azriel wondered aloud before his mind could trap the words. He cringed, shaking his head in self-disappointment. 

What a stupid question. Everyone wanted to find their mate. Everyone. He himself had been obsessed with the concept for hundreds of years. He had thought he’d find his mate in Mor, and then Elain, he had even thought he felt something more than friendship for Gwyn. 

But more recently the idea had faded into the recesses of his mind. More recently the worst of his thoughts had fallen silent, and it was all thanks to you.

“Maybe,” You considered it, “Maybe not.” You sighed, sinking back into your seat. You rubbed at a metal coin on the benchtop, feeling the oil gather on its surface and taint your fingers grey, “My parents were mates. They didn’t love each other though. Not really.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n.”

You shook your head and shook off his sympathy.

“I don’t know if I want a mate…”

You pulled your chair closer and reached out, delicately beginning to drag your fingertips over the ridges and valleys of Azriel’s scars. His heart stopped when you picked up his hands and gently kissed them, your calloused fingertips rolling over his ruined skin. 

“But there is something I definitely want.” You revealed, looking at him with more feeling than you ever had before. 

You’d been scraping by on lingering touches and reserved smiles and momentary glances that spoke of more than friendship. But it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough, not since the moment he’d walked into your workroom. You felt like a woman starved, deprived of something that you hadn’t even tasted yet. It was a terrible pain to want something you didn’t even understand the nature of. 

Azriel wasn’t everything. He wasn’t the air you needed to breathe. He wasn’t every piece of joy that life could bring. But he was the bright touch of color in the world that made everything that came before seem dull. And you didn’t want to live in greyscale anymore.

Azriel swallowed thickly, his hands instinctively falling to your waist and pulling you into his lap. “Whatever it is you want, Y/n - anything at all - I’ll give it to you.” He whispered reverently, closing his eyes when you pressed your forehead against his, “I swear it on my life.” 

It was such sweet torture feeling you pressed against him with your hands caressing his throat. You smelled like woodsmoke and citrus. Heady, sweet, and clean all at the same time. 

“Just you, Az. I just want you.” 

He couldn’t handle it anymore. He tightened his grip on you, swallowing your little gasp of surprise with his lips. 

Time was molten metal. Cooling, slowing, and warping around your hands as you molded it to your liking, so you could savor this moment for as long as possible.

Little did you know, your mate had found you. And he would find you again. Nothing but the crashing of the stars and the splitting of the earth would keep him from fulfilling this promise.

Azriel’s eyes darkened. 

“Three of you were sent to take Y/n.” Azriel stalked around the male, slipping in and out of eyesight without warning. The male pulled at his chains and the ring of his futile efforts echoed throughout the dungeon. 

“She put up a fight.” Azriel emerged from the male’s left, shooting out an arm so quickly that the pain followed after the fall of blood down his freckled cheeks. 

Azriel cleaned Truth-Teller on his forearm nonchalantly, continuing his ambiguous path. If it weren’t for the hard cruelty in his eyes and the knife in his hands, he would look… normal. As if he were doing the grocery instead of slowly butchering a fae alive. He’d already taken three fingers and four toes. 

The male began to shake. 

“I saw the blood in the shop. It wasn’t yours, and it wasn’t hers.”

Another arm shot out, followed by a scream. The male grappled for an ear that was no longer there, feeling the blood drip down his arms from the stump. 

“I DON’T KNOW!” The male cried out, curling in on himself, “I don’t know.” He repeated miserably.

“What don’t you know?” Azriel asked. His countenance said he was bored, but inside he was barely holding on by a thread. His shadows begged to be released and scattered across all of Prythian until you were returned home. They wanted chaos and pain - anything to distract from your aching absence.

Let us handle this. They hissed. We can take him. We’ll get the information. We’ll get everything. Let us-

Azriel shushed them, and they obeyed, falling to the edges of his consciousness and the edges of his body. 

“What don’t you know?” Azriel leaned forward, some sick, twisted part of him relishing in the way the male flinched. 

“I-I don’t know where she is. I don’t even know why he wanted her. Just some no-name artificer from-”

“Who wanted her?” 

The male paled further until his skin was as pallid as moonlight on lakewater. 

“WHO?!” 

“THE HIGH LORD!” He whimpered, shuffling away from Azriel’s encroaching footsteps. The chains scuffed the ground and then clanged when he reached the end of his length, trailing blood. “Ber-Beron wanted her.”

Azriel stilled, his insides turning cold. 

There were dozens of reasons why Beron might want you as his prisoner. Your talents alone made you worth a thousand men. But if Beron had any awareness of what you meant to him? 

Azriel gritted his teeth. “For what purpose?” He growled.

The male’s dull eyes closed in defeat. He was as good as dead. He could only hope the rumours were true and that the Night Court were not the devils they pretended to be. Then, and only then, might he be offered the option of a violently quick end. 

“He heard rumours of an artificer - a female artificer - capable of crafting weapons that could be bonded to a single wielder. He’s been searching for years now.” He shook his bloodied locks, “We thought…We thought it would be another dead end. Another body to bury. We didn’t think-” He choked on his words, trailing off into silence. 

Azriel crouched down, dragging the Truth-Teller down the male’s face like a sculptor ready to carve a piece of marble down. 

One wrong breath, one flinch, and he’d draw blood. 

“Finish what you were going to say.” His hazel eyes cut deep. 

He swallowed, “We didn’t think… we didn’t think she was anyone important.” 

Azriel’s eyes were swallowed up by shadows until they hardened into two marble stones.

The male held his breath, feeling an oppressive power start to press down on him. Suffocating. Cold. Lethal. Darkness shoved him to the floor, crushing his ribs until they splintered and snapped. 

“That was your mistake,” Azriel growled, “She is someone important. More important than you will ever be.” With a flash of blue and black, he buried Truth-Teller into the male’s chest all the way down to the hilt. 

A shock of surprise and pain flooded the male’s face, and before the expression could dissipate, Azriel leaned in close enough to smell the blood pooling on his tongue and dripping down his chin.

“She is my mate.” The male’s eyes flashed with horror and understanding, and that feeling chased him towards his death, “And your High Lord will burn for what he’s done.”

___________

His shadows roiled in frustration, climbing up his legs and arms like fire greedily chasing after oxygen. They weren’t happy about being denied a kill, and every moment Azriel kept them on a leash, the more irritable they became. Their devotion to you was second only to Azriel. Even then, they would hesitate to disappoint you, even if it meant going against their master. 

Soon. He promised them. Soon.

Azriel’s silhouette was carved out of the fabric of the night sky, shadows curling around his arms and wings as he stayed low, pooling his power to keep them all hidden. Cassian and Eris lay on the ground beside him, arms and wings tucked in close. 

Autumn lay like a sleeping giant all around them, sighing with a breath that had mist floating up from slick, damp earth covered in leaves. Azriel was grateful for the weather, the rain disguised the curling of their breath in the air and masked their footsteps when they crossed over from Spring. Night and mist were a Shadowsinger’s dream. 

The ground rose steadily in front of them, trees only daring to inch halfway up the hill as if they too could taste the magic in the air. All the trees - save for the godstree that marked the crest of the hill and snaked its thundering hand towards the sky in a knobby, clenched fist. 

Icaryon Hill was one of Autumn’s most highly guarded secrets, and like the Forest House, it hid all its treasures and prisoners underground. 

Azriel leaned down, pressing his ear to the ground and straining his ears for anything. Anything at all. 

Eris smirked at him, reveling in the way Azriel bristled and bared his teeth. He would never let the Shadowsinger forget how he’d become desperate enough to swallow his pride and ask him for help.  

Cassian looked equally displeased at the Lordling’s presence. “I hope your information isn’t as useless as the rest of you.” 

“Careful who you call useless, Bastard,” Eris drawled, choosing his words very carefully, “Or else I might have to leave you and your pretty little artificer for the dogs.”

Cassian had to stop himself from wringing his pale, slender neck, but Azriel - for once in his life - didn’t have that much self control. 

He shot forward, wrapping one scarred hand around Eris’s throat and slamming his head back into the ground, pushing down until he sank six inches into the damp soil. 

Eris’s eyes flashed with something like triumph and curiosity. Nevermind that the Shadowsinger was currently crushing his ribs with his knee, or that Truth Teller was starting to leave a thin line of blood on his neck. 

Azriel hated him, and the piece he hated most was that even when Eris was down, he had a way of making himself out to be the biggest person in the room. 

“Az, that’s enough,” Cassian hissed. His eyes kept swiveling back up to the hill, “Let him go.” 

Eris had warned them there would be a narrow window of time between the changing of the guards. The belly of Icaryon Hill was so expertly warded that no one - not even the High Lord - was capable of winnowing in. At some unknown time three guards would slip out and three guards would slip in, all winnowing to the gate hidden in the base of the godstree. One - and only one - of the males would have the key necessary to enter and exit and they’d have to unlock the gate in twenty seconds or risk triggering an alarm. If any blood was spilled on the earth, internal alarms within the Forest House would trigger the arrival of a squadron of gorgons capable of turning flesh to rock with a single touch. 

That meant in order to evade the wards they’d have to winnow up the hill, kill six highly-trained males without bloodshed, and find the key in less than twenty seconds if they wanted even the smallest chance of getting you out. 

Cassian knew this and it made his stomach turn. 

Eris knew this and it made him cocky. 

“Interesting.” Eris said, tilting his head with a smug smile on his face, “The Artificer, huh? Was that doe-eyed seer not enough for you?” 

Azriel began to heave with rage, eyes turning pure black. It was enough to scare even Cas. Azriel had been on edge for weeks since you’d gone missing, but Cass had never seen him so… so unhinged. 

Azriel had traded in his icy rage for a darker, more visceral variety capable of driving him to madness.

And Eris was not making things better.

He continued to goad him, “Maybe she ran away? I wouldn’t blame her.” 

“Eris, shut the fuck up.” Cassian growled, “When are the guards changing?” 

Eris ignored him, concentrating on the Shadowsinger. Azriel may have been the one to approach him for help, but that didn’t mean he was going to waste an opportunity to advance his own agenda. 

It was funny. Everyone said The Shadowsinger was near unreadable - cold as a statue and as unfeeling as steel. But deep down, Eris knew he was still the same little Illyrian bastard that had been shoved into a cellar and convinced he didn’t matter. And more than making him insecure or thoughtful, it had made him angry. 

Eris switched tactics, focusing on you instead, “Maybe, when this is all said and done, your precious whore will run away too.” Azriel stilled, shadows pouring off of him to the ground where they turned into claws and sank in deep, “And just maybe, I’ll be there to fuck her the way she likes. I’d pay her good money too.” 

“Eris!” Cassian’s warning came too late. Azriel raised his arm, Truth Teller glinting in the darkness.

Something in the earth shifted, thin rays of light spilling out of the gate atop the hill. 

Eris smiled. 

Just on time.

The guards were changing.

“Fuck!” Cassian groaned, grabbing at his swords but not daring to unsheath them. 

Azriel was roiling with panic and rage, every muscle in his body feeling ready to split in two. And Eris… Eris was smiling. 

“Go on Shadowsinger.” He said, pointing to the hill, “Tick tock.” 

Azriel clawed the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet at the same time he clutched Cassian’s arm hard enough to bruise. They winnowed up to the gate in a whirlwind of death and shadow. 

Six guards. 15 seconds.

Eris slammed his fist into two of the males’ throats, cutting off their roars of alarm. Two swift kicks to their knees and they exploded out with a sickening snap. Sharp cracks followed and they fell to the ground, their necks sticking out at a harsh angle. 

Four.

Eris dropped to his knees, ripping at amour in search of the key. 

Cassian rolled to the ground, narrowly missing the downward swing of a sword that buried itself in the ground. He bounced onto his feet, as lithe and limber as a fae a quarter of his size. He grabbed a fistful of blood-red hair, swiftly bringing the other elbow down. He made perfect contact at the base of the skull, severing the connection between the spinal cord and the brain. 

Three.

This was taking too long. They would never make it in time. 

But… but how was it still so quiet? Cassian dared to look up from his search for the key and his blood ran cold. 

Azriel…

Azriel was death and decay given form. The moment they reached the gate, for the first time in his life, he relinquished full control of his shadows. 

They swarmed around him until he was nothing more than a dark, blurry cloud of destruction. He grabbed the male closest to him, digging his hands into his throat and registering the horror in his eyes before shadows poured into his eyes, mouth, nose, ears. They flooded every sense, screaming in Azriel’s ears of a power that he had never been desperate or angry enough to unleash… until now. 

The shadows filled the male’s body, wrecking bones and ripping apart tendons with a force that transformed them into razor sharp talons. The male gurgled, body jerking around in pain. Azriel finished him off by snapping his neck with a clean, sharp jerk. The body fell to the ground with a hollow thud.

Two. 

The remaining guards similarly dropped to their knees, empty eyes and hands left to ghost over their throats before they fell forward. Dead.

Shadows leaked out of their eyes and mouth, slipping over their cooling bodies like the rain that pitter pattered against their backs. But no blood. Not even a drop.

One tendril of night slid up Azriel’s leg and washed over his hands, depositing a glittering bronze key that burned with warmth. 

He should have felt more. More surprise and some semblance of disgust at what he’d just done. What he’d been capable of. But those feelings remained hidden, sullen and silent behind walls of obsidian willpower and adamant. 

Cassian and Eris stared at him, wasting a few precious seconds to gape at the littering of bodies around them, raindrops pattering onto their backs and slowly absorbing into leather and skin. 

Cassian swallowed, daring to break the silence, “I never knew you could do that.” He admitted blandly. Cassian wasn’t afraid of his brother - he never could be. He’d survived too many battles by his side to ever fear being on the wrong end of his blade… but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be unnerved by the powers that thrived within him, and how little anyone knew about them. 

“Neither did I,” Azriel said without emotion, closing his fist around the key. “Let’s go.”

He stalked to the gate where it hummed in the ground like a dropped coin, fluttering with life, beckoning him to enter. 

Just a little longer, Y/n. I’m coming.

He used the key and the gate opened.

You crouched in the darkness, cradling your ruined hands and trying not to cry. 

The first few weeks Beron had let you out of your cell during the day, bringing you to the forge hidden beneath the hill so you could set about building him a weapon of his own. You’d leaned into his desires, working the metal until it sang a song of promise to the cruel High Lord. 

He wanted power, and you’d promised it to him, proving your worth long enough for Azriel to come find you. But it had been almost two months, Azriel was nowhere to be found, and Beron was losing patience. 

He traded empty compliments for threats, and when those failed to do anything, he turned to outright cruelty. Just this morning, he’d had one of his men whip your hands until they bled. Then, as a personal touch, he’d torn your shirt to pieces and trailed his fingers down your back. His touch had been light. You could’ve mistaken them for the kisses of a lover if it weren’t for the fact that he’d set the tips of his fingers on fire so they burned the whole way down. 

They smarted and burned, the pain seeping in now that the shock was ebbing away.

“He’s coming. He’s coming.” You murmured to yourself, curling in on yourself with your arms pressed close to your exposed chest. “Just stay strong. Stay strong.” 

“He’s not coming for you, dear.” A phantom hand, cold and bony as death, caressed your back. You looked up, eyes shining like two shards of glass in the darkness. 

The High Lord was as handsome as he was deadly, the smooth and elegant planes of his face and his honey-sweet voice in stark contrast to the light of his eyes - or rather lack thereof. 

They held no warmth, no pity, no fear. 

“He’s not coming for you.” He repeated.

“Liar.”

He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head. His blood-red robes trailed along the grate of your prison cell, blocking out the meager light that trickled down. The gold-trim embroidery winked deceptively, flashing sultry looks of wealth and opulence in your direction. 

Your stomach growled painfully and you wrapped yourself up as best you could. You’d spent most of your life time by the forge. Cold was not a familiar experience. 

“I don’t know what that Illyrian bastard, Azriel, promised you. Wealth. Prestige. Love.” 

You growled, kicking the wall hard enough for a shower of dirt to rain down on your head. You tried not to flinch when debris landed on sensitive skin, “Keep his name out of your mouth.”

Beron smirked, amused, “So much anger. So much defensiveness for a male who won’t care about you the next time a pretty female with doe eyes wanders into his path.” 

You bared your teeth at him. 

“Ahhhhh,” he clicked his tongue happily, “So perhaps you’re already aware he holds a certain reputation. Pity.” There was another swoosh of his velvet robes, “I’m promising you safety, enough gold and silks to make an empress jealous, and in return I just ask for you to do what you’ve always done.” He held up his hands, “I don’t understand where the difficulty lies”

“In return you’d want to make me your bitch.” You spit out, “To give you the tools to kill whomever you pleased.”

“I already have the tools to kill whomever I please.”

“No. No you don’t.” He narrowed his eyes in displeasure. You limped forward, holding your hands close to your chest. Your body may have been weak, but your heart and your mind were still strong. Not even Beron was capable of taking that from you. You looked up at the High Lord unflinchingly, “When Azriel comes for me - and he will - I’ll ask him for your head on a pike.” 

Beron sneered, “If he and his half-breed Lord decide you’re worth the trouble, I’ll kill your little Shadowsinger first and reduce him to ash.”

You set your jaw, refusing to look away as the High Lord turned on his heels and left the room. Only then did you sink to your knees exhausted and breathed in the scent of damp, rotting earth.

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Taglist: @dr4g0ngirl @glitterypirateduck @i-am-infinite @brujitafantomatico @woodland-mist @coureurs-de-bois9 @aetherl0l @gorlillaglue25 @onlyangellh

[alchemistc]

too many toasters | bucktommy 1/1

Tommy contemplates asking Buck to move in with him.

read on ao3

He's reorganizing a cupboard to make room for the massive crockpot he'd found for a steal at an estate sale (thinking of the stew he wants to make for Evan the next time the Santa Ana's are chasing at their heels) when he notices.

Evan's protein powder, still balanced on top of the fridge because he's hesitant to claim the spot Tommy had cleared for him weeks ago.

Evan's spare immersion blender, brought over because he'd seen Tommy's old-school espresso maker and wanted to try his hand at foam art. Unsuccessfully, considering both of them were avoiding cows milk at the moment.

The spare set of Jeep keys looped next to the garage door, which Evan hadn't asked him to return after Tommy changed his oil, and Tommy had taken to touching on his way out of the house like a wife stroking a token of her husband far off in a foreign country fighting a war.

In the living room, the blanket over the couch is tucked and folded in a way Tommy can never replicate and doesn't try, because he likes the look of it, hanging neatly over the arm of the loveseat.

In the garden, a second set of gloves, too unwieldy for anything but pulling thick weeds.

In the bathroom, the mouthwash Evan swears by tucked next to Tommy's aftershave in the medicine cabinet.

In the bedroom, two hoodies Tommy has stolen and stretched out the shoulders of - a flavored lube in the bedside table drawer that they'd both laughed themselves silly about after one use and Tommy hadn't had the heart to toss in the trash the next morning - three department issue tee's folded neatly in his wardrobe that Evan outgrew years ago and has retrofitted for sleepwear - a book on the bloody history of the potato on top of the ancient PS4 setup Tommy still hasn't moved to the living room.

And more - Tommy can picture them all in his mind clear as day, and his heart lurches fondly, warningly, in his chest.

They’ve settled somewhere between normal and warp speed, now that the early relationship milestones have all been blown clean out of the water. Spare keys exchanged, controversial sexual fantasies shared, shovel talks mostly avoided by the sheer power of dry wit and matching bitchiness, I love you’s exchanged beneath a hazy crescent moon with half a bottle of Merlot drunk between them and the wisteria hanging off his pergola tickling their noses. Tommy counts the time Evan had let him throw the Jeep up on the lift so he could do a full diagnostic rundown, and Evan counts the time Tommy let him Facetime with his nephew in Reno. Milestones, common and uncommon, that Tommy had stumbled through with a hand clenched in Evan’s, absolutely prepared to match both speed and psychosis.

He’s met the parents, at more than just a passing glance with his face covered in the same soot that painted a radius around Evan’s mouth. He’s fully integrated into the 118’s groupchats - every iteration, though he’s fond of the Maddie-Karen-Athena combo that never fails to go for the throat where station fuckery is involved.

They’ve done the stupid zodiac quizzes Tommy’s sister had sent him, Evan curled into the circle of his arms and ignoring the barrage of texts he’d gotten from Maddie after he’d asked her what time of day he’d been born, grinning into the skin of Tommy’s pec at the readout and then promptly reminding Tommy that neither one of them believed in that shit, anyway.

They’ve talked about the future — for themselves, individually, for the possibility with a partner. For each other, if (when, Tommy’s heart whispers) they make a good run of things.

Evan’s lease is up in a month.

They haven’t talked about it.

He only knows because Eddie had mentioned it, about as subtle as a bullhorn, before Tommy had to stop him from gossiping about all the missteps Evan’s had with living with significant others in the past.

(”There are things about Evan I should hear from Evan first,” Tommy had told him, a little more stern than he’d been going for, enough to make Eddie visibly swallow down a barrage of thinly veiled disdain for Evan’s exes.)

Evan hasn’t brought it up, but Tommy knows a little , enough to piece together why he might be reluctant to broach the subject.

But as Tommy shifts the popcorn maker into a corner and removes the toaster he’s been tinkering with to no avail for six months now, crockpot sliding in without so much as a rustle from the other kitchenware stuffed in there, he thinks about the recent quiet that has swallowed him whole on nights when they just can’t quite make the revolving door of their disparate schedules work. He thinks of the times he’s pushed through the door to Evan’s loft, dead on his feet and world-weary after a patient arrived at the helipad DOA — of the sound of his voice falling into a tangent easing something inside Tommy even though his joints and his heart were both still aching.

He thinks of the way Evan looks, toothpaste on the corners of his lips because he’s had a thought halfway through brushing that couldn’t wait the extra forty-five seconds to be heard. He thinks of the way he hates washing his sheets between visits, now, because he doesn’t like losing the faint scent of Evan’s shampoo on the pillowcase.

Tommy closes the cabinet and makes a beeline for the jug of protein powder sitting on top of his fridge. Opens the cabinet door above it and shifts the jug back into the spot he’d assigned it weeks ago.

“Right,” he says, out loud, into the silence of the house.

The house sighs back at him.

---

Tommy is incredibly good at stifling the part of himself that enjoys rom-coms more than any other genre of fiction. He’s had years, decades, to push his soft sighs down below his diaphragm where they can’t hurt him.

Evan appreciates how little fanfare there’s been to most of their firsts. The lack of pressure, the ease with which they’ve approached things that they’d both previously considered watershed moments.

He considers texting Eddie to ask him if Evan has mentioned anything about re-upping his lease. Tosses that thought aside almost immediately, because he can already see the snarky response: There are things about Buck you should hear from Buck first.

He nearly reaches out to Bobby, before he remembers Bobby’s soft smile, a month and a half ago, while Evan carted a squealing Jee-Yun around Hen and Karen’s backyard, his gentle smile when Tommy had handed him a club soda and lime. (”You know, I never thought I’d see Buck settle in to something he doesn’t need a pep talk about,” Bobby had said, and something had unfurled in Tommy like a delicate flower reaching for the sun.) He could. It’s stupid to think Bobby wouldn’t be happy to talk to Tommy about something like this — but there’s a quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him this is something he needs to figure out for himself.

In the end, he keeps it simple. Just enough romance to maybe give Evan a heads up. Two nights after shoving Evan’s protein power where it belongs, Tommy tells him to dress slightly more than casual, picks him up in the Nova he’s been fixing up for three months, drives him up the PCH until the sun is low on the horizon. They watch the clouds spark up in pinks and purples, the sea reflecting colors back, and then Tommy gets them burgers and beers, and they walk them off in the twilight, shoes in their hands as they drift along the sun-warm sand.

Evan points out a cloud that he swears looks like the tree in the front yard of the house he grew up in, and Tommy seizes the moment, shifts the slim box from his back pocket while Evan is turned away. It’s nearly too dark, and they should probably have turned back for the car twenty minutes ago, but Evan has a step count he likes to meet when he won’t be at the gym for a few days, and they’ve got plans for a long weekend.

Tommy takes a deep breath when Evan turns back to look at him. His breath tumbles out in a rush when he catches sight of the box. “It’s not a ring,” Tommy tells him, cringing, hyperaware all of the sudden that Evan would absolutely know that just by the size and shape of the box.

Evan tilts back on his heels. There is a gentle grin on his face — the one he had five seconds before Tommy told him he loved him, the one he wore the first time Tommy threw one of his hoodies on in the chill of the loft and raised the cuffs surreptitiously to his nose, the one Tommy sees every time he presses a kiss to the pink mark over Evan’s brow.

Like he knows.

Like he’s been waiting on Tommy to catch up.

“You could have just said something yourself,” Tommy notes, with a hint of sass, as the picture comes into focus. “You didn’t have to send Eddie in to drop hints.”

Evan bites his lip. “Is that for me?” That cloud looks like the tree outside my childhood home, my ass.

Cheeky. God, Tommy loves him. “Could be.”

Evan crab-hands his way forward, and Tommy shifts his weight back just enough that he misses, in the growing dark. There’s a little helicopter on the keyring he’d bought, no key attached because Evan already has that, and it’s so sappy he’s bound to get half a dozen teasing texts about it the very first time someone at the 118 clocks it. Tommy doesn’t care.

Evan shifts his weight back, drops his hands to his sides. Tommy can see the moon reflecting off the water in the sparkle of his eyes. “Ask me,” Evan says, and Tommy leans in to kiss him, instead.

---

Tommy finds no less than six of his henley’s in the depths of Evan’s closet while they’re paring down the parts of his wardrobe he doesn’t wear anymore. Rather than comment on it, he folds them neatly and adds them to the keep pile.

The Buckley’s, always deciding to be overbearing at the worst of times, try to buy them a new mattress when they hear through the grapevine that Evan is moving.

Chimney spends a week giving Tommy shit about the keyring, and Tommy retaliates by buying Jee a toy copter that lights up, makes noise, and can manage to hover off the ground just at ankle height.

---

“We have four toasters,” Evan comments. They’ve spent an entire three days off unpacking, the both of them unsettled by the idea of leaving boxes stacked around the house, or in the spare room (Thank you, Eddie, for that shared trauma response).

He’s shirtless, rubbing a serum into his skin as Tommy settles in on his side of the bed, soft pink lips parted, favoring his good leg a little. Tommy’s already reaching for the massage oil by the time Evan has finished his thankfully simple skincare routine. Tommy needs to upgrade his stock medicine cabinet, if Evan is going to continue stockpiling a backup of both of their respective skin and hair products.

He waves the bottle of massage oil at Evan when he moves towards the bed, and something eases in Evan’s expression — the reminder that Tommy pays such close attention to him always enough to turn him a bit gooey, and Tommy has never used it for evil, but he could, if he wanted to. “Do you want to get comfortable to sleep, or is this going to make you horny again?”

Evan grins, bright and wide, a little mischievous as he tilts his head and cocks a hip. Down to his briefs, there’s not much left to Tommy’s imagination.

“Not my fault you’ve got magic hands.”

“I’m merely trying to perform a service for my partner who has been moving boxes up and down stairs for a week and a half.”

“I’ll perform a service on you,” Evan rebuttals, tongue between his teeth, and the muscles in Tommy’s groin tighten on instinct, more than anything else.

“Three out of ten for cheesiness. I’ll give you six overall for sticking the landing.”

“That’s at least an eight and you know it,” Evan argues, the side-sleeper knee pillow already out from under the bed and propping up his leg as he shifts to get comfortable.

Tommy doesn’t warm the dollop of oil in his hand before he slides his palm up Evan’s thigh, and Evan makes a noise halfway between a squeak and a snort. He shoots Tommy a bratty look that Tommy wants to devour, but —

He warms a much more generous pour of oil between his palms before he slowly searches out the deepest knots with gentle fingers, and Evan sighs, eyes tipping closed as Tommy works. His dick twitches in his briefs, but Tommy ignores it, for the time being.

They’ll have time for it later.

[random-thot-generator]

Better Not to Know

KYLE GAZ GARRICK x FEM READER

-

Summary: A chance encounter with a handsome stranger in a night club leaves you longing for more.

Warnings/Tags: Explicit language, explicit sexual content, unprotected P in V - fr tho wrap it up ya filthy animals, random hook-up sex, breeding kink?- hmm... yeah, fem breeding kink, a moody touch of angst, some pining, my usual brand of smut, only half-assed proofread- embrace the imperfections, no use of Y/N

(Notes: Just another smut purge with pretty boy Gaz, along with some angst added in for @tiredmetalenthusiast . I didn't forget, I just get easily distracted. Hope you like!)

banners & dividers by: @saradika-graphics

-

Chaotic, strobing lights and throbbing, hypnotic bass. Dim shadows writhing en masse on the dance floor, a dense forest of waving arms and swaying bodies. There is heat and sweat and sex layered thick in the oppressive air with just a hint of danger to heighten alcohol-dulled senses.

The danger you're seeking lurks at a corner cocktail table on the outskirts of the dance floor. He's somehow managed to sprawl with natural grace over the unwieldy, tall chair, lounging like a king on a throne. One heel is hooked on a rung, the other resting on the floor, his body one long, continuous masculine line that pulls the eye up to a face that's both wicked and angelic. His smile is pure sin, his dark eyes appreciative and knowing.

Oh, yes...

This is what you came here for tonight. To hell with the drinks and dancing and your girls' night out. This is what you really need. This man, this demigod currently eye-fucking you from across the room. A coy smile curls your painted lips as the two of you lock eyes.

Ten minutes later, you're pressed up against the graffitied partition of a bathroom stall, legs wrapped around his surging hips, whimpering as he snaps and grinds them with brutal precision. Your fingers glide over dark skin sheened with sweat, hungry mouth seeking the hot cavern of his as he spears you to the wall with a particularly hard thrust. The rhythmic clink of his belt catches your ear, a lewd accompaniment to your gasping breaths and the constant slap-slap of flesh on flesh. It debaucherous and filthy and you can't get enough.

He stares into your eyes when he tells you to touch yourself, pinning you with a smoldering look that has your cunt clenching in response. Nostrils flare and teeth grit, his strokes growing sharper, deeper, more unhinged with each passing second. He's fucking you with feral abandon, a wild light flashing in his eyes as he nears his release. He's growling, gnashing his teeth, mouth hovering at your neck as he fights the primal urge to bite, to mark, to claim.

"This is mine. My pussy," he snarls at your ear, and holy fuck! That possessive, dark tone in his voice sends your mind reeling, turning you into a desperate, needy, grasping thing. Speaking coherently at this point is out of the question, but you nod your confirmation with dazed enthusiasm. Hell yes, this is his pussy. He can claim it and any bloody thing else he wants, just so long as he doesn't stop fucking you.

"Come for me," he demands in a low, guttural voice, and you do. God help you, you do, like a bitch coming to heel. "Fuck, that's it, pet. Just like that. Bloody fuck—"

The rest of his words catch in his throat, and with one last violent thrust he stills, his entire body tensing, muscles trembling with the strain as his fingers clamp onto your ass and drive you down onto his cock, holding you in place as he empties himself inside you. His cock pulses hard enough to make you moan at the feel of it, your eyes rolling back in your head. You know it's bad form to not use a condom, dead stupid of you both, to be honest, yet you can't deny the truth.

You wanted him this way, raw and real and messy. It's insane, pure unadulterated nonsense, but you relish the feel of his cum inside you. You'll regret this decision come morning when you're slinking into the chemist's shop for a Plan B pill before popping into the clinic to get tested. Right now, though, it's all you can do not to purr in decadent satisfaction.

His kisses are errant, artless things landing haphazardly across your collarbone, your earlobe, your cheek. His lips then cover yours, his tongue unfurling in your mouth to slide over yours in a sensual, intimate coupling, and something inside you blooms warm then spreads out to all your extremities. His nose bumps yours in the sweetest way, and you're enamored with him, just like that.

The bathroom door opens, noise flooding into the quiet space between you. Two drunk girls dawdle at the sink, comparing notes on the blokes they've chatted up, deciding which ones they'll be taking home later. His brown eyes sparkle with barely contained mirth, lips quivering as he holds in his laughter. He's so bloody beautiful. You drop your head to his shoulder, unable to look at him any longer without saying something stupid like, "Come home with me."

You bite your tongue and wait.

The sink runs, the hand dryer blasts, and then the two birds are walking out, leaving the lingering scent of cheap body spray and pink hand soap in the close, heated air. The tap drips, his belt buckle jingles, and the spell is broken. He sighs, placing a chaste peck on your lips, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze.

Time's up.

Legs sliding down his muscled flanks, you lock your shaking knees to support you, inner thighs quivering. His cum is a tangible reminder of his claim on your body, as much as the smell of his cologne and sweat on your skin, as much as that poignant, sharp ache in your battered cervix. He fucked you hard and he fucked you well and he made certain that you'd remember him for days to come. What more could you ask of a man like him?

"Ya alright, pet?" he murmurs, his voice so deep and smooth and warm that it raises the fine hairs all over your body. The man is sex personified, a carnal feast that's left you sated but still craving more. You've never been with anyone like him, and it scares you a bit, the effect that he has on you. You were right about him; he's dangerous.

You hum in the affirmative and smile, suddenly feeling shy and awkward. You lower your lashes to hide your confusion, too flustered to speak. You can only imagine what sort of goofy, cock-dumb expression you're wearing. His sigh of satisfaction gusts over your face, the backs of his long fingers brushing over your cheekbone. "So lovely," he mutters, like an inner thought spoken aloud.

Silly cow that you are, his words make your heart flutter.

"I'm fine. More than fine," you finally answer.

You chance a glimpse up into deep brown eyes with striations of amber and copper that catch the dim light. Your gaze drinks him in, flickering over his long, curling lashes and wing-like raven brows. You're melting at the sight of the most sensuous mouth you've ever seen on a man, not to mention a smile so brilliant, it turns you inside out and dumps your heart on the floor. It's only the scar beneath his left eye that detracts from his ethereal, masculine beauty, that proves that he is, in fact, a mere mortal.

"Perfection," you whisper, skimming your thumb over the scar. Your meaning goes for both the man and the sex, but he can take it however he likes.

He fumbles at the latch and opens the stall door, keeping a hand at your lower back as you toddle out on coltish legs. You drift to the mirror to see what the damage is, oddly proud about the mess he's made of you. You swipe the mascara from beneath your eyes and dab away the smear of lipstick at the corner of your mouth. Your hair's a bit of a tangle, but who's going to notice or care at this late stage of the evening?

A tremulous smile appears on your face when he steps in behind you, large hands curling 'round your hips as he presses his full length against your back. His warmth seeps through the thin material of your dress, his mouth hot and wet as it skates up the column of your throat. "You were bloody amazing, love," he breathes at your ear, chuckling, pleased, when you shiver. He gives your bum a light smack that turns into a protracted, possessive squeeze. "Love your arse," he mumbles to himself, then gives his head a shake, stepping away. "I'll, uh, see ya around, yeah?"

"Sure," you husk out, knowing it's all a lie. These soft words and kind glances are nothing more than routine hook-up etiquette— always try to part ways on friendly terms. You know this role by heart, have played out this scenario so many times that you can recite all the inane pleasantries in your sleep.

Only this time, you wish the words were true.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, his weight shifting between his feet, then he winks and stuns you with another one of those mega-watt smiles. Stepping to the door, he takes hold of the handle but then pauses, his eyes drifting over you one last time. He seems on the verge of saying something, but his beautiful mouth presses into a thin line, the corners turned down. He takes in a long, slow breath then heaves it out with a wistful sigh. "Take care, love."

"You, too."

You offer up a brave smile and hold up a hand in farewell, though a pang of disappointment rings hollow inside your chest as you watch him step through the door and disappear. The racket from the club pours into the room like dirty flood water, and the sudden urge to go after him has you shuffling your feet. Then, with a pneumatic hiss of the closing door, the obnoxious noise is muffled again to a dull and distant roar, and your reason returns.

How pathetic would you have looked, chasing after him like some clingy, lovesick girl. Your fingers tighten on the edge of the sink as you peer into the mirror at your reflection. You're surprised by your forlorn expression and realize you feel a little sad now that he's gone.

Once you return to your seat, you ignore the chatter of your drunk friends, instead panning your eyes over the crowd. You're hoping to spot his familiar silhouette among the anonymous bodies but can't find him, again. He must have left, his mission for the night now complete, you think with a touch of bitterness. No point in sticking around, right?

You fancy that you could pretend he was just a drunken fever dream, nothing more than a figment of your inebriated imagination, if not for the dull ache that still resides deep in your core. Oh, he was real, alright, as real as his cum in your panties and the sore throb of your bruised cunt. You know in your heart of hearts that it will take weeks, maybe even months for his memory to fade. The thought is depressing.

"Think I'm gonna call it a night, ladies," you tell the bleary-eyed trio seated around the table.

Your friends fuss and protest, trying their best to coax you into one more drink or at least another dance, but they're too drunk to really see the state of you. If they were just a little bit sober, it would be more than obvious why you're so set on leaving; you're completely fucked out, decimated, ruined. You hug each of them good night and promise to text the group chat when you arrive home.

Cold air smacks you in the face when you step out of the club. You inhale a sharp, icy breath, fog condensing in front of your eyes as you release it. You can feel the chill wind seeping through the seams of your coat, feel how it settles deep into the marrow of your bones. You suddenly feel achy and tired and near desperate for the warm safety of your own bed.

A glance up and down the sidewalk reveals the lack of waiting taxis, so you pull out your phone and order an Uber, cursing the wait. Huddling deeper inside your coat, your let your thoughts drift back to that brief but memorable encounter in the loo. For once, you regret not getting a bloke's number, and now you can't help but wonder if that's why he paused before leaving. Had he wanted you to ask him for it?

Unfortunately, you'll probably never know.

It's probably for the best, you tell yourself. A handsome bloke like him would undoubtedly complicate your life. He's the type of man that makes a sane, independent woman want to bake cakes and make babies. He is dangerous. You knew it when you first saw him, and now he's proven it to you. Already the 'what-ifs' are rattling about inside your tired brain. It's a good thing he left when he did, otherwise...

Yeah, you're definitely better off not knowing.

Your phone chimes, notifying you that your Uber has arrived, a faded red hatchback pulling up to the curb seconds later. You check the driver's ID then climb into the backseat, sinking back into the cushions as the car pulls back into the light flow of traffic. It irritates you that you still feel that little inkling of sadness. It's such a haunted, lonely feeling.

Damn, you think, staring blindly out of the window. I wish I'd asked for his name.

-

part 2

[shirefantasies]

Okay this is probably a really stupid and hyper specific request, but I really want to see it.. What about the Fellowship (plus Faramir if you wouldn't mind) with a reader who's really sensitive to the cold? Specifically in their hands too.

I have a weird medical condition called Raynaud's Syndrome where, when I get cold, my hands lose all circulation and essentially risk dying from blood loss (something about the blood vessels constricting in the cold) so I personally have to wear at least 2 pairs of gloves when going out in under 50°F weather. It's annoying as hell, and I just imagine the reader on the quest trying to hide it but someone notices they're wearing like 3 pairs of gloves or how their hands are freakishly ice cold and getting worried.

Sorry if that's too specific, it's just -5°F here so I'm thinking about it. I love your blog, keep up the amazing work and take care of yourself sweetie!

Nah, not stupid at all! Besides I've seen much more specific requests and scenarios 😆 this honestly has such opportunity to be a cute imagine though I'm vibin with it~ gonna do everyone cuz, well you know 😂 I use the term frostbite a bit just because they probably wouldn’t quite have the same medical understanding/terminology in Middle Earth lol

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Aragorn

“There is no shame in it.” Starting, you peer up at Aragorn, probably looking for all the world like a spooked rabbit. “It is cold,” he agrees simply, nodding down to your hidden hands. “Yes,” you reply, wringing them and shuddering, “I suppose you are correct. Call it misfortune, but I am quite prone to its ill effects.” Immediately he reaches for your hand, brows raising at the ice he feels in your veins even through your pair of gloves. Half releasing you and gazing sadly upon your wince at the loss of warmth, Aragorn reaches into his pack and hands you a bundle with a faint sheen. Leather gloves. “These are much thicker. A bit unwieldy, yes, but I trust we won’t be doing much fighting in the snow. Take them, please, for they see no use with me.” “How can I thank you?” You smile at him, wonder coloring your eyes. “Simply wear them with joy,” he replies.

Legolas

“Do not worry,” Legolas spoke suddenly at your side, all but startling you save the sheer calm of his presence, “I have something for you if you’d like- a gift of the elves.” Cocking your head, you swiveled to face him, flushing as he stepped close enough for your hips to brush. A part of you wondered if he was doing it on purpose, but knowing him he hadn't even realized...shaking your head, you held out your hands to accept what he offered. It appeared as a kerchief, a small shroud of fabric with a faint, almost silky, sheen. "You may recall our cloaks hide us from hostile eyes? Well, this will keep the cold locked away from you tighter than anything. May I?" Such a gentleman. Smiling, you nod as he folds his gift gently over your hands, almost sobbing at the instantaneous difference. Experimentally you flex your hands, find even the strain of your joints diminished. Without thinking, you lean up and kiss his cheek, pulling away with shock to his smile. "And yet you still have a warmer gift for me."

Boromir

He sees the way you furtively grip your gloved hands, tries not to draw too much attention but gradually moves to walk at your side. “Are you in pain?” He asks with a slight nod to your hands. At that, you sigh and shake your head. “No, my hands are just quite sensitive. Since I was young I was told my risk of frostbite is great.” Eyes widening, Boromir takes one of your hands; you wince at the motion’s rush of cold only for it to melt into a smile at the way the pad of his thumb brushes over the back of it. “Why have you never told me?” “Because,” you shrug, “it sounds like I’m just complaining. My claim is not believable to most.” “Your words hold true to me,” Boromir replies with a smile, pulling a pair of gloves from his pocket, “here. You need them more than I do. Really, I insist.”

Gimli

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Chuckling faintly at the dwarf’s words, you finally break from your reverie, realizing you must have been staring oddly in a daze. The cold was getting to you and bad, snow flitting between your heads and caking onto your cloaks. The old, worn gloves you had were hardly helping, and in that moment you feared for loss of your hands to frostbite- perhaps that was the ghost you’d seen. With effort you peel your fingers from their fists and wince. “Ah! Cold, are you? Why, I’ve just the thing! We dwarves are quite thick in the hide, often hard to beat by a little snow! But that’s also because we know a trick or two,” he tells you with a wink, pulling two little sewn objects from his pockets. Resembling small pillows, they fall lightly into your hands. “Give them a shake for a bit, see if you don’t feel better! A great chemical trick from the mines, you see.” Frowning faintly, you humor Gimli, shaking his strange gifts in your hand until- warmth! Grinning, you shake more vigorously and sigh in relief at the heat and motion spreading back into your hands, which you throw around his neck. “I’ll never doubt you again, Gimli!” “Mind telling the elf that?”

Frodo

"Can we keep the fire going?" Frodo. He had made his way to Aragorn's side, and though that was all you heard beneath the wind and your premature mourning of the heat it seemed the hobbit was vying rather well, making a few gestures before the ranger gave him a nod. With a small smile Frodo returned to the log you sat upon, lowering down to take a seat at your side. "I saw how cold you are. Your hands have hardly left this fire. Aragorn agreed we can keep it so long as watch is kept," he told you, nodding down to the kindling saving your hands. "Thank you," you breathed, "I hope he doesn't think me frivolous." "And I hope you don't think me a gossip, for I told him you needed it. I-I just worried for you and could hardly stand to see you get frostbite of our accord." Endearment took over your face as you peered into the hobbit's eyes, saw the reflection of your fire flickering therein. "Oh, Frodo, I could never think that. You are no gossip, but a hero." And with that, you relinquished the fire long enough to put your arms around him, pulling him close and bringing a different kind of warmth.

Sam

“You look like you’re fit to catch your death of cold.” Turning from your focus upon your hands, you see Sam at your side and smile faintly. “Let’s hope not,” you joke back, “but I’ll be grateful for the fire once we get it started.” Digging in his pockets, Sam looks down for a moment before producing a scarf. “I figure even if I had gloves they wouldn’t fit you, but you could always wrap this around.” “I can’t take this,” you shake your head, “after all, what will you do, then?” “I’ll just sit right next to you and that’ll keep me plenty warm,” Sam responds with a sweet smile, "here." Matters settled, he winds his scarf tightly around your hands, keeping them in his for a moment, thinking, then finally pressing a kiss to them before he lets them go.

Merry

"Oh, no, you don't!" "Merry," you giggle, "I need to get my whittling knife from my pack!" "I can get it." Since the day you told Merry you were sensitive to the cold, particularly by the frost that overtakes your hands, the hobbit has quite insisted upon holding them in his at all times. Even if yours are larger, his are quite insistent and, bless him, warm. However, he barely understood that you could hardly walk with both your hands in his all the time, and the others had taken to giving you little smiles and shakes of their head and never calling one name without the other. "You ought to give up," Pippin chuckles your name with a grin, "Merry is quite used to keeping his antics going." "Antics?" Sam shoots back, crossing his arms and shaking his head fondly. "More like excuses. I know a lovestruck fool when I see one."

Pippin

“You should have told me you were cold!” Guilt flit across your features at Pippin’s words and, of course, his glance to your thrice-gloved hands. “Well, it’s just my hands, you see, I-” “Doesn’t matter,” he cut you off with a grin of warm acceptance, “no matter what of you isn’t comfortable, you have me to take care of you, alright? Now watch this.” You watched as he placed stones in Sam’s once-washed pot. “I’ve seen healers do this, usually on someone’s back but I figure heat is heat, right?” Giggling, you admit that he is right. “We’ll let these go for a bit before you grab them- can’t have you getting burned either,” he dotes, shaking his head and peering back from the fire to you with shining eyes.

Faramir

"Faramir, they'll stare," you protested as he began walking you out the door. "And when I tell them this is what the nurses ordered they shall feel quite remorseful," he joked back, continuing on your course. Heat rushed to your cheeks as you went out into the White City with one hand both in Faramir's and in his pocket. The other you kept in your own, supplemented for lack of your beloved's warmth by an extra glove. It was, in fact, not the same. "Besides, there are worse pockets for your hand to be in, no?" That comment was quite worth relieving your left hand of its pocket long enough to give Faramir a light smack on the chest. Opportunity struck, though, and he caught your hand in his free one, pressing his lips to the back of it. "Perhaps I am fonder of winter than I quite realized. Always did we prefer spring's hope of blossom to the dreary chill, but it would seem there are many advantages to take in the cold."

Eomer

“Why do you hide your hands so?” Direct. Eomer, it seemed, did not find your habit of tucking away from the cold as discreet as you did. You sighed. Fear crept along your spine alongside winter’s chill at the thought of the warrior finding you weak. Would he believe you or disregard your word like so many others? “I’m prone to frostbite, you could say,” you replied quietly, hands clasped. At that, Eomer tilted his head, fixing you as a sight entirely new to his eyes. “Let me see.” Suppressing a wince, you held out your gloved hands and tried to ignore the jolt you felt when he held them, thumbs running over the backs. Frowning, he spoke again. “This will not do.” That time, you winced, trying to pull your hands away, but his grip tightened as he continued. “The Riders have far thicker gloves. Let me fetch you a pair. Your hands are far too capable to lose, after all.” Winking, he made his way toward the armory with a smile matching the faint creep of yours upon your lips.

Haldir

"Is this why they were so reluctant to send you? I must apologize, I fought so hard on your behalf because I thought they doubted you, not this." You shake your head, eyes almost tearing up at the hurt on Haldir's face. "You could not have known. I...try not to tell anyone. They seldom believe me," you confessed, hands wringing nervously. The mission was outside of Lothlórien, away higher into the mountains where the chill could affect you. Of greatest concern to you, though, was how Haldir would react to a perceived weakness. His grace had you taken aback, though, as he held your hands, never pushed you, ensured you felt able to fight before sending you into the fray. Even when you stayed behind from danger you couldn't help but smile as his words. "This will never happen again. All I want is to keep you safe."

Eowyn

“This is beautiful, thank you,” you breathe, pulling a short length of luxurious fur from the box with wide eyes. This could not have been an easily attained gift. “You like it?” Eowyn smiles, enraptured at your joy and the way you eagerly nod. “Do you know what it is?” Grin fading a bit, you shake your head, regretting your ignorance especially if it is to come off as ingratitude. It does not, though, or such only fuels Eowyn’s glow further as she extends a hand over it. “A muff! See here!” Plucking it from your hands, she slides her own inside the fur, revealing its tube shape. Alight, you immediately stick your own hands in there, sheepish at the way Eowyn starts at the cold of them before holding them together beneath the warm, fluffy layers. “This is perfect,” you thank her, your head falling to her shoulder.

Arwen

"Your hands are cold!" "I-I'm sorry," you pull from her grasp sheepishly. "Do not be," she smiles and shakes her head, "It simply came as a surprise. Mine are often the same. Rarely do I feel it so." "Prone to frostbite as I am," you remarked, "my hands are likely colder than any you have felt before." "Meleth nín," Arwen's brow creased, "why have you never spoken of this before? Perhaps we should try something." Your own brow creased with a faint frown as the elf took you by the hand, off to one of the many rooms baths were drawn in. "Oh, yes," you replied, "hot water does help." "I am sure it does, but would you be willing to try something new?" Swallowing a spike of anxiety, you peered into Arwen's blue eyes and nodded, giving in fully to your trust of her. You could tell she wanted to keep what she was doing a surprise, standing completely over the small basin as she was, but soon she was taking your hands again, dipping them several times into thick, heavenly warmth. "And now," she told you with a grin, wrapping your hands in small covers, then heated towels, "we wait." Every muscle in your body relaxed as the sensation crept through your veins, up through your loosening hands and shivering deliciously down your spine. "What is this?" You asked, almost adding magic to the end of your question but feeling a bit too foolish. "Wax of all things," Arwen giggled, "and judging by your expression, it is helping."

Elrond

"Let me feel them." Elrond's voice is commanding, but not at all harsh, as he holds out his palms and accepts your hands. Immediately his thumbs curl over them and a light frown creases his forehead. He nods. "They are quite cold." At that, it is your turn to nod as if to say I told you so. "The storm is to last for several more days. Come with me. Please." The last word upon Elrond's lips is one of the softest you've heard, drawing you up from your seat and after him without a single thought. You follow the flow of Elrond's robes down a corridor and into another room, this one with a crackling fireplace and the softest-looking bed you've ever seen. "What is this," you cannot help joking, "my winter prison?" Before you hear the lord of Rivendell, you feel him, his form drawing nearer until his chest rests against your back. "I prefer to think of it as our getaway," he replies in a low voice, hands falling upon your shoulders.

Lindir

Lindir’s face fell at the frustration upon yours, the way your hands shakily dropped from his harp. He was to teach you as you’d wished, but your hands were not cooperating with you. “You seem a bit stiff. May I?” Confused more than anything, you look up at him and nod. Reaching over, he takes one hand in each of his, brows shooting up the moment you touch. “Well, no small wonder! Your hands are like ice.” “I know,” you agree, gaze falling from Lindir’s dark eyes, “they get like this with every chill of winter.” You see the way Lindir straightens, the surprise crossing his face and creasing his forehead. “Then let us move inside,” he replies, massaging your hands gently in his, “and I will hear no more talk of lessons until we’ve drawn you some warm water.”

[philtstone]

for the writing meme - Juliet and Lassiter, platonic? :)

this pov is so wildly outside my comfort zone that im in the stratosphere rn and as such i have no idea how i feel about this. that said: tag for 4x09, aka shawn spencers horrible no good very bad day, ft. a scene i am convinced must have happened.

As if the rest of today hasn’t been horrifying enough, when Lassiter gets back to the empty hospital waiting room with the requested 9-p.m.-hail-mary-verge-of-collapse coffee and truly-unwieldy large-sized woman’s purse in his hands, O’Hara is blubbering.

Despite his partner’s bubbly exterior and inexplicable desire to speak with awful regularity about his feelings, she has, since first meeting, more than impressed him with her steel stomach, unflappable cool, and general fortitude in the face of evil, gore, and worldly destruction. Coming head on against the lowest scum of humanity’s underbelly has yet to have cracked her almost belligerent, cotton-candy-wrapped, peach-scented determination to take their job seriously, and it isn’t until right now, right at this exact miserable unfortunate second, that Lassiter realizes: 

Beyond a few stoic cases of Misty Eye and, admittedly, more than a few instances of dreamy girlish exuberance, he has never actually seen Juliet O'Hara cry.

As in, the Real McCoy. Unfiltered feminine waterworks. Mascara smeared down her face, perfect updo unraveling, exhausted, snotty, blubbery sobbing into her dainty little manicured hands.  

Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Mary and Joseph and Christmas and Justice and everything in between.

Lassiter freezes with the coffee and the purse precariously in arm, his exhausted body wedged within the half-open door, and stares at her. 

She stares back, equally frozen. Her watery miserable bloodshot eyes, already in the realm of grotesquely-Disney-princess-flavored large, grow unbearably larger until they achieve the size of small and glassy bluebell colored dinner plates. 

“Oh! C-Carlton,” she squeaks.

Then sniffles.

Her chin is wobbling.

Horror he did not know he was capable of feeling clouds his general consciousness. Panic, borne of a fight-or-flight instinct ingrained into the hard edged fiber of his belligerent being since aged twenty, wells up rapidly within his chest.

Even when confined to an ICU bed with a bullet hole in his goddamn shoulder, Shawn Spencer is still capable of causing him problems. One of these days, Lassiter's going to lock the little twerp up in that smelly corner alcove underneath Dobson’s desk for a full forty-eight hours – maybe more! – just to teach him a lesson.

Except O’Hara would probably disapprove.

Which is exactly the fucking problem, isn’t it.

“O – O’Hara,” he manages to croak, before squeezing with an ungaining shimmy through the rest of the way into the room. He makes it two awkward steps forward before a slow and sad zzziiip sounds out and O'Hara's too-full purse and the tray of coffees in his hands flop forward and overbalance. Fumbling, he tries to fit all the indiscernibly woman-ish bits and pieces of her handbag back together into some semblance of organization so she doesn't think he's gone through her things while also balancing the coffees in his other hand. A tube of lipstick clatters to the floor while a disastrous bundle of frilly pink yarn tangles itself around his arm. He can hear the faint sound of a nurse paging someone over the hospital speaker system and the white lights of the waiting room grate against his eyeballs.

Who carries their knitting in their purse to a car chase?

… O’Hara, he supposes. O’Hara does that. He already knew this about her.

"Goddam -- goddammit."

“... Carlton?” she says again, querulously, in the smallest, most pathetic tone of voice he has ever heard emit from her smiley pink mouth. She looks flustered, almost afraid, like he wasn’t supposed to see her like this.

He probably wasn't. She'd forgotten her bag in the back of Guster's stupid little car, she said not ten minutes ago, and could he please go grab it when he went to get the coffee? She'd stay behind and get started on their ass-load of paperwork. That was the deal! The straightforward, simple deal. Basic series of steps. He'd had to go get the keys from Gus, who'd finally convinced the doctors to let them into the surgery room. Abigail sat beside him, pale and shaken but pleasant. Shawn was sleeping but fine. The purse was half-spilled against the backseat but there. The day was over but not really, because Lassiter had been waiting, hands itching with a vicious twitchiness he hasn’t felt in a long time, to get the hell out of Santa Barbara General so he could head to the station – a place of blessed and reliable familiarity – and book their miserable scum sucking lowlife rat bastard shit stick of a perp away for life. 

Lot of buts today, he thinks. It's a generally unhelpful thought.

“You – coffee – I – here –” He clears his throat, gives up, and lets the twirling trail of little crocheted flowers dangle sadly from his arm. Then he frowns, and straightens up. “O’Hara,” he says, loudly and a little too firmly.

She looks anguished. It’s terrible. 

“I d-didn’t mean – I w-was only just – I’m like, really tired? And sometimes when you’re tired, y-you just n-need to – to cry a little bit, but that’s not –! There’s nothing wron – it’s fine, I am – J-just because he said – and I can't even go in the - it’s not even th-that – n-none of this means – it’s just been a v-very – day, and –”

Somehow the panicked and incoherent babbling is worse.

“Jesus,” is all he can offer, still holding the purse out like a fool.

She squeezes her eyes shut, as if trying to block some horrible and mortifying memory out, and buries her face in her hands again, giving up on her explanation. Her cheeks are red, with embarrassment and probably exhaustion. Lassiter is exhausted, and he’d definitely feel embarrassed if he was her. His stomach churns with discomfort. As he lamely uses the yarn to blot at the dribble of coffee that’s transferred onto his rumpled tie, he notices that his shirt is stained. Dirt and gravel and just one smear of blood, right over his stomach, where Shawn’s hand fumbled as Lassiter and Henry helped him get upright and against the car's vaguely cushioned backseat while they waited for the paramedics. 

He’s not stupid, or blind, no matter what the rest of the world likes to presume sometimes. He knows that whatever juvenile attachment O’Hara has to the Great And Irritating Thorn In His Side goes beyond the platonic and has elbowed itself into something greater than the immature and saccharine attraction that was regularly horrifying and – only sometimes – mildly amusing. Spencer is an idiot; O’Hara is not. 

Doesn’t make any of today feel different, though. 

He feels his shoulders sag. He feels the adrenaline drain out of him. He feels a surge of strange, complicated protectiveness trip over its metaphorical feet and land face-first in the back part of his throat, angry somehow, on her behalf – it’s difficult to explain precisely why – and then, through some cosmic magic that Shawn would probably claim he can commune with and Carlton absolutely does not believe in, his mouth opens of its own accord and her name comes out a second time, with more gentleness than he knew himself genuinely capable of:

“Juliet,” he says. 

Still awkward, and stilted, but maybe three percent less of a disaster. He watches his partner’s – his friend’s – mouth snap shut in surprise. He watches her sniff, and look at him a little desperately, a little lost, like even she’s not sure what to do with whatever horrible and unavoidable human indignity just accosted them. 

Lassiter swallows painfully and casts around for something else to say.

“You – you want a ride home?” he finally lands on.

Thank God: she nods. Exhaling loudly, he holds his arm out and the door open while Juliet scrambles to her feet in those confounding heels and accepts her bulky purse and his poorly-delivered grace with simple, slowly-settling determination. Or maybe it’s just plain relief.

He can work with that, he thinks, before absently raising one of the coffee cups to his mouth and immediately choking on the awful bitter sludge that is her black, one Stevia order.

“Oh, Carlton, this is undrinkable,” he hears her croak beside him, in between his own disgusted spluttering. He wonders miserably if Karen’s already worked her way through the interrogation he was so looking forward to conducting. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack twenty years premature …”

One of these days, he thinks again, wondering how many Tylenols it’ll take to kick the day’s headache. 

Spencer, chained to that desk armpit.

Forty-eight whole hours.

It’s a blissful fantasy that wouldn’t be possible if the man wasn’t going to be perfectly, one hundred percent alright, but that’s neither here nor there, just now; he said he would get his partner home.

The rest, he'll just have to figure out later.

[antianakin]

@assaultmech71 I'm putting this in a separate post because it IS a little off topic and that particular post is becoming fairly long and unwieldy as it is.

Part of my dislike of Luxsoka (and Lux in general) stems from my dislike of the episode he's introduced in. Heroes on Both Sides is supposed to show us that there's genuinely good people with legitimate grievances on the Separatist side and that Ahsoka is like... being kind-of ignorant by assuming all of the Separatists are evil assholes. However this is done SO SO BADLY the entire way through. I've talked about Mina Bonteri's whole sob story about her husband on some sort of base that got attacked by the clones and how unbelievable it is that the clones apparently just attacked an innocent base full of innocent people or something. There's NO WAY that Mina's husband wasn't involved in something either war-related or just sketchy and evil.

Lux on the other hand is sitting there being paralleled with Ahsoka where they're supposed to recognize that their lack of knowledge of the other side has caused them to be a little prejudiced towards each other. But while Lux has never actually met any Jedi and is making his entire opinion based on a lot of propaganda, Ahsoka HAS met Separatists, they just come in the form of military generals usually. Lux I think specifies "any Separatists who AREN'T military leaders" which is pretty unfair because those military personnel are STILL military leaders and effectively Ahsoka's counterpoint within the Separatist organization. Ahsoka has seen these people who claim to fight on behalf of the Separatist government do some absolutely heinous shit to actual innocent civilians (she's there for the incident with the Lurmens, the Blue Shadow Virus, Ryloth, and the Holocron Heist arc at this point). Ahsoka has genuine evidence to believe that the Separatists are, at best, ignorant of what's being done in their name, and at worst complicit in these actions being perpetrated by their military. Ahsoka isn't naive or ignorant the way Lux is, it's not a fair comparison. So their entire connection here is based on what amounts to a lie.

Lux also literally gives Ahsoka a once over when she bandies his own words back at him and asks him if she looks evil, which is juvenile and gross. And yes, he IS juvenile and Ahsoka does call him out on it a little, but still. It's not exactly a GREAT first impression here.

So basically a large part of the reason I hate him is because his entire introduction is just really really stupid and he represents this radically unfair perspective on the Jedi at this point just to make a point that isn't even ENTIRELY true.

Then we come to their second meeting where the whole episode ends with them saying they were a "good team" except that Lux fucks up approximately 20 different times and Ahsoka has to keep saving his ass and doing all the work. And Lux also betrays her like 4-5 separate times, he slaps her ass and acts like a misogynist to keep up an act with DEATH WATCH, apparently doesn't know or just doesn't care that Death Watch are literal terrorists, and is just overall completely awful and useless the whole time. They're not a good team, he's just a massive fuck up with delusions of grandeur who Ahsoka has to keep bailing out of danger over and over again.

He's better by their third meeting during the Onderon arc, but by then whatever feelings he may have had for Ahsoka seem to have faded and he's got a new girlfriend he's focused on and Ahsoka ultimately lets him go. But she's also JEALOUS of Steela for a while and it's impossible to figure out what she's even jealous OF. Like babygirl, I'm so frustrated with you right now, but you can STILL do better than Lux Bonteri. At least she decides to just move on by the end and we never see him again.

So yeah, Lux is a terrible person, a terrible love interest for Ahsoka, and Luxsoka is a fuck awful ship and I'm just so glad it got abandoned before it actually went anywhere and never came back.

[familyabolisher]

Elaborate on poor things? Haven’t seen it, just curious

i think caden does a great job at getting at the heart of a lot of its problems here. some of my own thoughts on top:

for a piece which clearly wants to work with the materials of frankenstein and dabbles in broader gothic tropes especially in its final plot beats, it really just -- it wasn't very fucked up at all! i think probably the worst thing we saw happen was bella killing a frog in the first half hour. the gore was unspectacular and the plot was profoundly low-stakes -- the film utterly fails in crafting any kind of a sense of tension, such that you're never really afraid for (or of!) bella, never seriously concerned that something bad is actually going to happen. it was all just a fun little romp through europe.

the humour was either just straight-up asking the audience to laugh at how a character telegraphed as disabled moves and communicates, or, like, marvel-type jokes that felt unnatural and forced. i don't think a single joke landed for me. it's not a black comedy because it's not black enough and it's not a straightforward comedy either because it is simply not funny. a better version of this film would've been a) more fucked up and b) funnier, with those two elements complementing one another very well, but -- well. Sad!

lanthimos thinks that making big, unwieldy gestures towards every discourse of the nineteenth century he can think of is the same as interfacing with them at the narrative level. we've got: science and religion! class struggle! sex work! humanism! enlightenment idealism giving way to socialist thought! misogyny! we've got class inequality and a very faint outline of imperialism, helpfully telegraphed by showing some starving brown people on-screen in a yellow filter for all of about five seconds. but none of these are actually engaged with -- they're thrown in as empty signifiers, as if to say, very vaguely, It's The Late Nineteenth Century, Big Ideas, We All Know About Those. nothing changes in bella's material conditions at the end of the film, save for like, the presence of her Black lesbian socialist lover. that's not engaging with what Blackness, lesbianism, socialism ought to problematise about bella's life and worldview; it's tacking the fact of those things on as a footnote and calling it development.

speaking of enlightenment-style idealism, the film makes very little effort to problematise bella's desire for self-improvement, and how that self-improvement comes about specifically through becoming articulate and acquiring greater motoric skills. as i said, the film takes a turn towards (very shallow depictions of) socialist thought once the action shifts to paris, but the underlying suggestion that bella's 'self-improvement' to the ends of making herself, essentially, less disabled was to her benefit is never challenged. this combined with the extent to which the film's aforementioned shit humour rested heavily on expecting the audience to laugh at bella speaking and moving oddly or saying something out of place &c. left a v nasty taste in my mouth.

the premise is stupid sorry. like it's just utterly inane. frankenstein for the most unimaginative people alive. for that matter, most of the plot beats are ridiculous and lazy -- the final arc, with the arrival of her old husband and the return to her old house, was very much giving "the deadline is at midnight and we still need to fill this last half hour and we've got nothing to put here so let's just whack out the first plot we can think of." like, it was incredibly rushed, ridiculously heavyhanded and patronising, and unable to add anything of substance to the piece (which, to be fair, nothing in that film was at all substantial, So Like).

it's misogynistic slop with a lazy plot and no real interest in engaging with the ideas it vaguely raises for five seconds. it's aesthetically decent, i guess, but like ... anything can be aesthetically decent. it's v easy for a film to look pretty and apparently v difficult for it to actually do anything substantial.

[hipstersoulgushers]

Fic: Call Me Something Else Rating: Mature (to be safe) Characters: Agent One, Phase Words:761 Summary: Phase is watching One lift heavy objects and wants to talk about it. They also regret using their given name to start this friendship because it's not nearly as attractive to hear. Notes: I don't know how many other fics I'm going to make but this one is for the ao3 statistics and also the rvb0 community.

One was beautiful, she was hot. Her hair was shaved to a thin fuzz that she dyed bright yellow. It was gaudy, it was sexy. She was only partially armored and lifting boxes to help her father set up the training room. The sweat building up on her face and dripping off her pouted lips had Phase staring holes into her.

East's girlish crush on One had crept into Phase's view of her. They didn't mind it though... One wasn't a bad choice, it was just embarrassing to admit it. They were a knife-wielding-badass and this goody two shoes with gorgeous muscles and beautiful bright brown eyes was NOT going to get the best of them.

"Hey Danielle, can you stop staring and help us get this one up there?"

One called them by their given name, looking back at them with a tired lopsided smile. Warm and inviting to soothe their reservations.

Phase wished they hadn't said that was their name, it just made their stomach knot when she said it. They didn't want to think of her moaning "Danielle" when they–

"Yeah? You sure?" Phase made themselves get up off the bench and over to help, “I might drop it on you and crush you flat.”

"F'course." She rolled her eyes while trying to keep the particularly unwieldy box balanced in her arms, "I trust you about as much as I did before so- heh- not a big deal."

Was she nervous?

Phase phase-skipped on top of the box pile and grabbed a hold of the new box's edge.

Axel called for a 1..2… 3! and they had lifted and pushed the container into its precarious spot.

One had groaned. This wasn't that difficult for her but it still came out. Phase wished they could hide, being closer did not help the feeling burning inside them.

They hopped down and came up to One.

"Hopefully that doesn't kill anybody."

One wiped her brow and leaned on the box pile before responding, "It's not going to do that."

"You’d look really stupid if it fell on you right now."

"Pft, don't try and psych me out."

She sighed and leaned her head on the side of it for a second. Maybe she really was winded. 

Phase stepped up a bit closer.

"No I mean it. You actually look stupid already."

"What's your deal today, Danielle?" she huffed.

"Are you mad?"

"Are you trying to pick a fight with me?"

"Maybe..." They leaned on the pile of boxes too.

She squinted at them, trying to sort out their deal before letting herself get heated.

"What do you want?-"

"Maybe I think you'dlookbetterflatonthefloor." Phase cut in rapid and quietly, embarrassed but already locked in.

Axel quirked an eyebrow from across the room.

One was agape, blinking confused and almost laughing.

"--What? Huh? What'd you say?"

"Nothing! What? I didn't say anything."

"No, you said you- Is this a joke? Why are you messing with me." One had a scowl, getting bothered by Phase's behavior.

"I want t’you." Phase said with a crack in their voice, they cleared their throat then restated, 

"I want to talk to you. Somewhere." 

One blushed, still not sure what was happening but was starting to pick up on it. She looked at the training room doors then back at Phase.

"Like right now???" She questioned.

Phase blushed just as hard, knowing how stupid this was. 

"Not like that just--" They walked away towards the exit, "If you'd be interested..."

One paused, seeing Phase act even slightly vulnerable caught her off guard. 

She glanced back at Axel who was pretending not to be there, “I uh, have to go. I'll be back in a bit!”

–

Phase pulled her into a corner closet, One pressed her lips in, phase heatedly reciprocated.

It was a deep kiss, they kissed her hard, slipping in tongue with a juvenile excitement.

"Danielle..." One gasped when they're lips parted

"Call me Phase." they kissed her again.

Her brows knotted with confusion at the request but they were already back at it. Phase's necking getting her hot and bothered.

"Phase~" she whined as Phase's lips wandered down to her neck. Their name being said made them press in closer, titillated.

"God, I’d do anything to go down on you" They breathed out while pressing their body against her.

“You are doing enough for that already, I think.” One admitted, clumsy but interested.

Phase got a mischievous turn in her smile and started pulling armor and suits off.

~I’m not writing that today~

– the end –

[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

April 8: Alone

Day 8 of @hinnymicrofic

The portrait closes behind them, effectively shutting out the sounds of raucous cheers and wolf-whistles, and they’re finally, finally alone.

She looks up at him, her lips twisting into an elated smile, letting her gaze rove over his face in a way she’d never truly allowed herself. His eyes are so green, so striking; she’d felt them on her everywhere for months, like a light misty rain clinging in droplets to her cloak, but now his stare is direct and she feels it down to her toes.

“Sorry for doing that in front of... well, everyone,” Harry says, looking a bit dazed, as though the reality of what he’d done is only now striking him.

“Are you?” Ginny teases, stepping closer. His eyes won’t leave her face. “Not really.”

“Good,” she whispers, because she’s never been less sorry for anything, and then she reaches up and kisses him again for good measure. It’s slower this time, softer, sweeter, and she’s a balloon that might float away or burst when his arms lift up to clutch her against him.

This is really happening. It’s nearly surreal. She hadn’t let herself truly believe this was possible, despite her inkling borne from stares and jokes and jumps, and now he’s kissed her in front of the whole bloody house and admitted it wasn’t some fluke or mistake, and he’s holding her against him like he doesn’t want to let go.

He pulls back, looking as overwhelmed as she feels. His eyes are soft as he looks down at her. “Are... do you...” he struggles, and Ginny furrows her eyebrows.

And then, the thought strikes her: He doesn’t know. He’s wondering how she feels. The role reversal is so stark as to be comical, and she stifles an incredulous laugh.

It’s been years of skipping hearts and fluttering stomachs and stupid daydreams that deepened into something unwieldy, inside jokes and wordless understanding and a deep admiration for everything he is. All of that seems impossible to distill or express, so she settles for, “I’ve wanted you to do that for so long.”

The tension in his brow releases, and without warning he’s kissing her again, desperate, hungry, and Ginny reckons she hasn’t been alone in this silent longing.

She thinks that’s all she’s going to get out of him - he’s always said more with actions than words, after all. But then he pulls back, his gaze heated, and he says roughly, “I really fucking fancy you.”

She’s quite done for, after that.