#its just that i was angry that we had spent a good half an hour waiting in line while we could have seen *dinosaurs!*

[alchemistc]

Y'all were so insistent that I keep going with the Eddie Fixes It By Making It Worse post breakup fic.

This is officially a three-parter. Sorry. Or you're welcome.

You can read part one here

We have to make out in front of Tommy.

Buck's in the ice cream aisle, reminding himself that he has given himself three more days of moping and ignoring his diet before he gets his ass in gear and starts to live a life again. The Halo Top is mocking him, jeering and heckling as he goes for the Blue Ribbon. Mint chocolate, because Buck always loved it and he can almost forget the mock fight he'd had with Tommy three months in when he told Buck he refused to allow toothpaste flavored treats into his home, and how they'd barely gotten back to his place without a public indecency citation.

He stares at the text until his eyes cross.

What, he sends back, and slowly, cautiously, returns the pint of ice cream to its spot in the cooler. Maybe he should lay off the sugar. He's had enough.

Trust me

It comes in almost immediately and Buck tries to rewind, tries to figure out what any of this means, what the context is, why he's getting an actual Trust Me Bro from his best friend.

You've already met your last and it's not me comes crashing back to the forefront of his mind. He's had a full 36 hours to forget it, and he had been nearly there, nearly ready to chalk it up to Tommy trying to make him angry. Which he's been doing a really fucking excellent job of, lately. Almost like he knows all the buttons to push. Like Buck had given him the owners manual.

Tommy had meant Eddie? How could Eddie have possibly come to that conclusion? What the hell was he doing sending Buck half across town to the market for snacks when -

Buck judges the distance from this market to Eddie's. Then to Tommy's.

"Oh you mother -."

A woman squeaks by with her kid in the cart seat and glares.

---

Are you at Tommy's right now

No question marks. This is an accusation. Buck's thankful there are no perishables in his cart as he abandons it in the lane and hikes it towards the door. It's a dick move, and Buck feels, a little spitefully, like if anyone remembers him they'll remember him from the times he and Tommy giggled and play-fought down the aisles, so they'll think of Tommy when they think of the cart left behind. Resent him for it, maybe.

Not like Tommy isn't particularly good at just leaving things behind.

Yeah. Join me.

Buck breaks through the doors and feels a little woozy. This might be a panic attack. His chest fucking hurts.

🖕just get my stuff and meet me at yours. tell Tommy we burned all his shit

Eddie is an asshole. I'm not gonna LIE to the man. Also he definitely doesn't have an Evan box ready to go, so take what you will from that

Buck's still in that vicious cycle where he goes from angry to upset to sad in record time, no barriers in between, where every bruise feels like it's healing too fast so he keeps pressing in just to watch the color muddle. He hates this.

It'd be a Buck box, Buck texts back, just to release some of the pressure behind his temples, and he pulls in a few deep breaths before he jogs for the Jeep. He's gonna go home. Throw on the DVD copy of Sleepless In Seattle Tommy left behind and then maybe once that's done he'll throw the damn thing in a blender.

Are you coming or not?

Buck turns the ignition and peels out in a direction that won't lead to his own home, or the things Buck has been too much of a mopey bastard to pack up and return to their owner. At a red light two miles down the road, he shares his location.

Eddie sends back an ominous Hope you brushed your teeth today.

---

Eddie gets the door and it sucks just as much as if Tommy had. They barely ever spent time at Tommy's, and Buck can see it now for the boundary it was. When they had, though, their time had been split pretty evenly between Buck picking him up for a date, and Eddie wanting to leave the quiet echo of his own house to hang with them - a car on a lift and beers shared between them, Buck watching the pull of muscle beneath Tommy's shorts as he took Eddie down to the mat, Tommy's fingers drifting through the short curls at the back of Bucks head while Eddie yelled about triple-doubles and chatted with Tommy about how impossible coverage was for some guy named Joker.

Buck has never actually figured out who that guy was. Eddie hated the Mavericks and he hated the Lakers but Eddie also complained about the guy so much he definitely wasn't a Clipper.

Eddie gets him by the forearm when Buck shows clear signs of regretting this. Drags him through the front door before Buck can fully execute his spin and stomp back to the Jeep.

Tommy's next door neighbor had waved at him from her yard where she was doing something new with her display of bird sculptures, and Buck hadn't had the heart to do anything but raise his hand back.

It's less than ten seconds before Eddie is steering him down the hall, into the living room. It's cozy in here. Lived in. Mismatched furniture that somehow fits, a blanket thrown over the side of the couch, dark wood tables and light wood flooring and lamps that look like they came from an estate sale up in the Hills. A huge ass TV set above the mantle of a gas fireplace that Buck never even had the opportunity to see working before... Before.

Tommy is a shadow coming out of the kitchen, and Buck can't help but be a little pleased that he looks as crappy as Buck feels.

---

Eddie claps his hands together before either of them can get a word in. "Okay. Here's the thing. You're both dumbasses and there's a lot of shit that you guys gotta figure out on your own. But apparently you," he points at Tommy with the lip of a beer bottle. Corona. Tommy hates the stuff, and Buck is reminded once again how dearly Eddie loves him, "need empirical evidence that there's no deeply repressed sexual tension between Buck and I. So."

"You're insane," Tommy says, and Buck feels like snapping at him. He's probably right. This is an insane thing to do. Eddie ambushed his ex and then ambushed Buck in the frozen treats aisle and now he wants to kiss Buck to prove a point? What??

Eddie ignores it. Turns to Buck. "How do you wanna do this?"

And now would be the time, actually. Now would be the time to cut the thread, make it clean, break it for good. Only despite his protest, Tommy is staring between them and his expression looks almost... hungry. Frightened, at the same time. Oh. Oh.

He really had thought...?

Eddie's a fucking idiot. Buck doesn't want to kiss him. He's squared with the fact that he definitely had a crush when they first met and he's definitely been attracted to Eddie and just not realized it but he doesn't want Eddie. He doesn't want a life with Eddie, not like that. He doesn't- He isn't -

He loves Eddie more than almost every other person on the planet, but he's not in love with him.

Buck squares his shoulders. Nods. "Yeah, okay," and then he's taking three strides to meet Eddie at the coffee table.

---

"Oh come on, are you serious?"

Buck ignores the exclamation from the peanut gallery. Tries to figure out where to put his hands. He's never really noticed the height difference before. It's barely anything - a couple inches at most - but it feels like he's looming, this close. Which is stupid. He's been this close to Eddie a million times.

Eddie bends his knees to set the beer down. Darts his gaze back up to Buck.

Buck's seen him pull this move before, and has to bite down the urge to cackle because those big brown cow eyes have charmed women up and down California and probably plenty of Texas too but the only time Buck's ever seen them look genuine was when he was looking at Shannon.

He's got a good face. Angular in all the right places, expressive in a way a lot of men try to hide. Good eyelashes, clear skin.

Eddie gets a thumb in one of Buck's belt loops and tugs.

It's a good move. It's a move that has inspired Buck to sink to his knees on more than one occasion with the right men. Man. Just the one man.

He desperately bites back a giggle when the front of their thighs brush and Buck feels nothing more than the heat coming off Eddie.

Eddie's flushed, just a little, like he's well aware how ridiculous this all is, but he's got his I'm So Fucking Serious face on and there is a part of Buck, something fucked up and broken and wrong, that wonders how Tommy would feel to see it. To know that Buck is out there in the world kissing people who aren't Tommy. It's not like he'd ended things because he didn't care for Buck, because he wasn't attracted to him. It's gotta sting, right?

Buck gets a hand on Eddie's waist, just above his hip bone. He's never actually paid attention to how much more slim Eddie is, before, how big Buck's hands feel against him.

The night Tommy had first kissed him, Buck had spent an indeterminate length of time replaying every second of the interaction. The lead up, the frank honesty, the way Buck's entire body had followed the flow of Tommy's. Heart racing, body thrumming: when Tommy had ducked his head, when he'd laughed, when he'd opened up his body language and dropped a tiny morsel of his heart, Buck had felt himself drawn in.

The lips that had caught his had set him alight.

Eddie shifts his weight and blinks up at him and for half a second Buck wants this to be a good kiss - earth shattering, life changing. He wants to feel it. Wants it to be better than every kiss he and Tommy ever shared.

The pointer and middle finger he uses to tilt Eddie's chin up are petty as hell.

[swallowtail-ageha]

My start of evil was that time me and family went to zoomarine and the time was running out and i wanted to go to the dinosaur exhibition but they all decided to go on the water rollercoaster and when it was finished the dinosaur exhibition closing time had already come 😔😔😔😔😔

[kenmakodz]

it's hard :/

── .✦ yuuta x reader.

syn: sorcerer!yuuta has been neglecting doctor!reader in their relationship recently.

angsty angst, swearing, implications of a breakup, gn reader.

take everything from me, don’t care ‘bout this money,

you didn’t miss the way yuuta’s eyes glazed over, a reflection of the ring you just tugged off your finger shining back at you. it was a beautiful, princess-cut ring, with a big fat gemstone in the middle.

“it’s my promise to you”, he said.

“that i’ll stick by your side. forever”, he said.

he said a lot of things, didn’t he?

the ring never left your finger since that day, your first anniversary. he couldn’t have been more proud to be your boyfriend, parading you around like the two of you had just gotten engaged. holding your hand out towards your mutual friend, maki, as if you were royalty. of course, she played her natural indifferent facade, yet gossiped with you later on about how the hell he could’ve afforded that.

you don’t miss the way he flinches when it’s slammed onto the marble countertop, the palm of your hand covering where it’s sat.

“your promise, to me huh? what a joke, okkotsu.”

i just need you by me, need you right beside me.

“okkotsu…?” he shakily lets out, his voice merely higher than a whisper. he was scared to speak even half a tone louder, scared that you’d be caught like a deer in headlights and run off.

“really, that’s what you’re calling me now?”

as his final question leaves his mouth, he’s left staring back at you as a laugh he’s never heard before escapes your mouth. it’s not your normal, sweet, beautiful laugh. no, it’s something sinister- something laced with hate.

“what do you expect?!”

another laugh comes from you, almost as though you have gone completely manic. if he squinted, though, your pupils weren’t blown. you knew exactly what you were doing. it was simply a breaking point.

“you never put in any effort anymore! why should i address you with love in my heart, when i barely even get a ‘hello’?”

you throw your hands up into a shrugging position, causing him to flinch once more as he watches them fly right back down onto the ring. his head is in his hands now, and a long, deep breath is had before he formulates his next response.

“y/n, i love you.” brows furrowed, his gaze flicks down to your hands on the countertop, before reluctantly raising to make contact with your own.

… really?

before you can even take a breath and begin your next quip towards him, he continues. his tone isn’t angry, nor is it upset. you’re usually very good at pinpointing yuuta’s emotions, why is it so difficult now?

i remember watching the sunset, my world, it got darker

my life, is it done yet? wrap it up like a spider.

“ever since our two friend groups formed into one, when i saw you from the first time, i’ve loved you. ever since those same friends planned a picnic and we were the only ones who actually showed up, i’ve loved you. ever since the night we went to the beach and i watched you pick through sand for hours looking for sea glass, i’ve loved you. through the countless nights we’ve spent driving around going absolutely nowhere, i’ve loved you. it’s always been you, ever since i met you, and you want to throw it all away?”

the smallest, almost unnoticeable glimmer of hope spreads through his face, as if he’s gripping onto his final life force.

you missed it, for the very first time.

“don’t guilt trip me, please. you know that’s not what i’m doing.” you sigh, almost getting angry at yourself. a world of guilt is tumbling down on top of you; you shouldn’t be feeling like this, he’s been neglectful. you know giving into him is wrong, just like it always has been in the past.

why are you letting him get to your head again?

he’s hurt, and that you don’t miss. his left hand starts to tug at the chain around his neck, which holds his matching ring. it didn’t fit when he got it for himself, and the two of you constantly forget to get it resized. so, putting it on a necklace was the next best option.

i know that it’s hard to be with me.

and i’ve been trying to hard to be what you need.

“i’m not guilt tripping you, i’m trying to make you see my side! i know i haven’t given you much attention, and i know it’s my fault, but you know how taxing being a sorcerer is! for fucks sake, y/n, your everyday life is filled with aiding to them! it’s not an excuse, and i know that, but just because life has been hard lately isn’t a reason to throw four years away!” he allows his tone to rise, to let his raw emotion bleed through, which he almost never does. sure, the two of you have gotten into ‘fights’ before, but never in his life has he raised his voice at you. you deserve better than that, he thought. he never wants to take his anger out on you.

you shove the ring into your pocket, and turn on your heels, finished with the conversation. he isn’t hearing you, and frankly, you don’t want to hear him either.

yuuta almost goes to grab your arm, plead for you to stay, practically get on his knees and beg for your forgiveness if that’s what it came to. but something inside him told him to let you go, let you clear your head. he loathes leaving things unresolved. the nights with you in the guest room, and the side of the bed where you usually sleep being cold. the nights where he stays up staring at the ceiling instead of being fast asleep with you in his arms. he hates it. but this time, he lets it happen.

i had to take a walk, i’m nervous, wonder when you’re coming back. and i can feel the distance growing, was it something that i said?

⤷ © kenmakodz

[starfall-spirit]

Precious Collateral

Read on Ao3 // Fic Masterlist // SJM Omegaverse Masterlist // Dark Feysand Masterlist

Summary: When Rhys set out to collect his dues from the head of the Archeron house, he knew the man would be begging for more time. What he didn’t expect was to be offered the youngest daughter as collateral.

After spending only a day in the temperamental woman’s company, he found himself utterly enthralled with his new guest—and with no intention of letting her father scrape together the funds that would grant her her freedom.

CW: None

Chapter III

She’d be fine. She’d been fine before now. Feyre had presented nearly three years ago and while she had never gone into a true heat or mingled with alphas of either gender, her omega traits were still very much present. So why after three years of being without a proper nest was she so eager to create one now.

Everyone claimed an omega could only be comfortable enough to nest in a place they considered safe. Here she was, trapped and terrified—though she’d never admit her fear—and on the verge of tearing apart her bed and closet just to have something resembling nesting fabrics.

So what the hell was wrong with her?

There was a soft knock on the door, making her pause her pacing.

“What?”

It swung open to reveal a blonde bombshell with a quick smile. “My, you do have an attitude, don’t you? Good. Rhys needs someone to give him a hard time for once.”

“I—”

“I’m Mor by the way. His cousin.”

She eyed the female for a moment, noting she too was an alpha. Not exactly rare, but not something you see every day either. Feyre wondered if the woman had as much control here as Rhys and his goons seemed to. “I’m Feyre. Why are you here?”

Mor waved off the rude tone, her smile only seeming to widen. “I know if my life was flipped upside down in a matter of a few hours I’d want a girlfriend to help me through it. I might not be able to change Rhys’ mind about this, but I’d like to make it easier. If you’ll have me as your friend?”

A friend. More likely someone to babysit and spy on Feyre while her cousin was off killing people. Or whatever it was he did for entertainment. But maybe Feyre could manage to turn things in her favor. Put the woman at ease and learn the weaknesses of this place—more importantly, of its master.

“I’d like that,” she said, turning away as her nervous energy returned.

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well at the moment.”

“Well, of course you're not. You haven’t done anything to settle in yet. Are the things the boys brought you for your nest in the closet? I can help you if you’d like. Or not. I know some omegas can be rather particular. What did you bring from your room at home? We can work around that.” Feyre blinked, watching Mor march over to the walk-in closet Feyre had spent an embarrassingly large chunk of the morning sifting through. “I swear those boys don’t have half a brain cell between them,” she said, seeming genuinely angry on Feyre’s behalf. “Hold on, hon. I’ll handle this.”

Breezing out of the room, Mor left her alone, the door cracked open enough that a shrill, “Rhysand, you idiot!” rang back up from the ground floor. Was the woman that careless, or was it a trap?

Whatever the case may be, it would likely be her only chance of escape. Picking up her sandals from the night before, Feyre eased the door open, thankful for the well-oiled hinges. From her place on the landing she could see the entirety of the impressive foyer. The only sound throughout the house at the time was from a room somewhere beyond it—Rhysand and Mor’s verbal volleying over what Feyre assumed was the bedding situation. Unless the woman had been putting on an act, after all.

She had to gather her courage and run before they were done with their discussion. Loosing one last nervous breath, she descended the steps. ~~~~~ Cassian

“What a ballsy little thing.” Mor paused her rant at the comment, eyes sliding his direction. “I thought she’d at least wait a few days before trying to run.”

After the fit she’d pitched last night, the whole house had been convinced she’d be on her best behavior. Rhys had never been shy about handling defiance in the ranks of those he employed, and while the girl was in a very different role here, she had earned it from what Rhys relayed after putting her down for the night. Maybe the fact any of that was necessary to begin with should have told them the lesson wouldn’t stick.

“You put a camera in her room, Rhys? Seriously?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Morrigan,” his brother scoffed, holding out a hand so Cassian would return his phone. “I showed her to a room that already had a surveillance system installed. Months ago.”

“Rhys!”

His brother chuckled, turning to face the wall that shielded their escapee from view. “Want a turn, Cass?” He blinked. “Mor here let her out and after least night’s… lesson, we may need to try a new approach. Az won’t be back for a bit.”

“I’ll leave the discipline to you, Rhys.”

He shook his head. “Another punishment will only make her more mulish right now.”

“So what, I go out there and haul her back inside to show here we’re all on your side in this?”

“Aren’t you?”

Rhys raised a brow as they heard the front door briefly open and click shut. “Unbelievable.”

Pushing to his feet, he headed for the foyer, taking his time about it. It wasn’t like she’d truly get anywhere with the border guard active twenty-four hours a day. The first thing he heard was a yelp. Feyre had foolishly rushed down to the gravel drive before fully putting her shoes on, scraping up the bottoms of her feet if the colorful language to follow was anything to go on.

“Couldn’t even wait until someone told you we’d left the house?”

He only let her make it a few more steps before throwing her over his shoulder and stalking back into the house, chuckling at the little fists she beat against his back. “Put me down, you oaf!”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Not gonna happen. I’ve got to admit, I was sure that last night would have knocked some sense into you.”

Feyre froze. “Last—You know what happened last night?” she whispered, sounding horrified.

He chuckled. “Feyre, everyone knows what happened last night. You didn’t exactly take it with grace. So what happened to all of those pretty promises about being good, hm?”

She made a pitiful sound, going limp over his shoulder, apparently resigned to her fate. That is until she realized they weren’t heading back to her room. “Please, I don’t want to see him.”

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little bad about it. Regardless of what trouble the brat had been stirring the past two days, Cass had always been a sucker for a pouty omega. But if the girl was going to be staying here he couldn’t afford to let her put that together.

Trudging back into the main living room, he hunched over enough to drop Feyre on the cushion beside Rhys. Mor rolled her eyes. “Get the shit I told you to,” she muttered, before making the sort of dramatic exit only the Sterling cousins seemed capable of.

“Feyre darling.” She refused to look at either of them. “Petulance won’t do you any good here.” Locking a hand around her ankle, Rhys yanked her down the couch until she was close enough for him to lean over. She wasn’t stupid enough to lash out at Rhys from her position. Then again it could just be her sore backside ensuring that much cooperation at the moment. “Let’s get these cleaned,” Rhys murmured, reaching for a first aid kit someone had brought in the time it took for Cassian to retrieve their guest.

“What?”

“You’ve cut your feet, darling. Perhaps you thought not wearing your shoes helped you keep quiet, but it did you no real favors today, did it?”

“Mor was testing me.”

He stayed silent, apparently unwilling to incriminate his cousin in the girl's eyes. Cassian took a seat at the other end of the sofa, lifting Feyre’s head enough to wedge a pillow beneath it as Rhys started tending to the minor cuts she’d earned. She looked up at him, clearly confused by his attention beyond bringing her back to the house, not that he had a good explanation to give her. Or himself for that matter. She was distracted soon enough anyways, whimpering when Rhys took an alcohol swab to the worst of the cuts. He tried not to think about why the sound unsettled something in him. Why he wanted to distract the sweet thing beside him from the small hurt. She’d certainly earned it, bolting without any solid plan.

She wasn’t going to be here forever. Eventually Rhys would get bored or Archeron would make another shady deal to scrape together the money he owed them. And the omega would leave.

He couldn’t get attached.

He wouldn’t get attached.

~~~~~

Taglist: @whatishowedyouinthedark // @ninthcircleofprythian // @sajirah // @acourtofladydeath // @lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone // @rosanna-writer // @toporecall //@popjunkie42-blog

[givemea-dam-break]

5 Times George Missed Lucy + 1 Time He Admitted It

a/n: this was co-written by the phenomenal @ikeasupremacy i quite literally had the time of my life writing this with you, and i think we broke our own hearts quite a few times during the process. we really, really hope you enjoy it <3

warnings: big sad (i beg, listen), language, spoilers for the end of the hollow boy words: 5k+ taglist: @neewtmas @waitingforthesunrise @wellgoslowly @irisesforyoureyes @aayeroace @flashbackwhenyoumetme @ettadear @ella23116 @mirrorballdickinson @magicandmaybe

5. More Chores

The basement was too cold, but George persevered with the chores. If he turned the thermostat up, Lockwood would probably have him beheaded, meaning he had no choice but to grin and bear it.

It was meant to be early spring for heaven’s sake, but he was stuck in the depths of the Earth to do the cleaning, while Anthony Bloody Lockwood was off frolicking in the sun with Holly to Satchel’s and Arif’s and God knows where else! Probably buying doughnuts or something! The favouritism at Portland Row was blatant that day.

He carefully laid Lockwood and Co.’s dozens of chains out across the hardwood floor, with some oil and a rag sitting on his desk, ready for Lucy. While she oiled them, he’d polish the rapiers and make sure they had enough salt bombs and lavender bundles. Not the worst job by far, but he would’ve definitely preferred to be outside or better yet, in the air-conditioned, cherry-blossom windowed Archives.

Heaving a sigh, he stepped over the thick iron links and trudged to the bottom of the stairs that led up, up, up into the kitchen.  

“Luce!” he called. “Need you to come oil the- ”

Oh. 

How stupid. Within a moment, his shoulders had sagged as he remembered; Lucy was gone. He suddenly became very aware of how alone he was in the house, the gentle hum of peaceful silence suddenly the disconcerting emptiness of a black hole.

Lucy had been gone for at least a week now, so how could he forget? He’d cleaned everything once without her already! She had been careful not to disturb anyone when she left, but George was a notoriously light sleeper. He had wordlessly sat in his room the morning she crept out, knowing she was gone for good as soon as he heard the third step creak. He heard everything, but he didn’t move an inch. He just listened as she crept out of the house that morning. Even though he didn’t do anything about it, he knew just as well as anyone that she was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

A self-pitying laugh tore through his lips, resounding in his solitude, a moment meant for him alone. She had left them. Her absence was impossible not to notice, filling him with something distinctly empty. Hollow. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A bittersweet nostalgia for something that hadn’t really left. Call it cheesy, but she’d started actually accepting him for who he was, and then she left.

She left.

For a moment longer, he lingered there, staring up at the spiralling stairs with a half-glare. Daylight glared back at him, causing him to squint and furrow his brows in frustration while the sun tried its best to burn his eyes right out of the sockets.

As he stared into the sun for whatever self-inflicted reason, a single quiet thought made him soften his gaze in defeat. He had nobody to be angry at but himself.

Turning with a dejected sigh, he rested his gaze upon the rapiers and the chains.

Once more, he’d have to do them both. 

4. Food Gone Cold

Silence. Terrible, uncomfortable silence.

George stared down at the food that he’d spent the better part of an hour making, and a pit formed his stomach. There was Lockwood with his meal, Holly with hers, food left over, and an empty plate. Just sat there. Waiting. It haunted the dinner table more than any Source ever could.

When would he stop doing this? Lately, every single meal he cooked ended up with four portions, even though there were only three of them there. He could already see the concealed remorse on Holly’s face as she thought about stuffing yet another spare portion in the fridge in hopes that someone would eat it later. Usually, no one did.

The thought of it apparently made Lockwood “sick to his stomach” and, well, George couldn’t say he was nauseous, but he had definitely lost his appetite when he saw the leftover food in the pan, regardless of whatever it was that he’d made.

Worse still, he should’ve realised the moment that he’d set it down that it was wrong. After Lucy had left, they’d begrudgingly swapped the thinking cloth out for a new one, folding it up carefully and placing it on top of the fridge, scribbling back on George’s stray research from the last, any pending tasks from the last one, and new doodles had taken residence everywhere: George insulting Lockwood; Lockwood’s loopy handwriting forming a shopping list or writing reminders for everyone. Hell, even Holly had started adding to it, normally with little smiley faces or cartoony flowers, but it was something at least. 

Then there was Lucy’s spot.

No one dared sit in her seat. It felt like an action that they would be scolded for, by either Lockwood or some incorporeal voice that was haunting them, like a strange shared conscience between the three of them. Maybe it would even be Lucy’s voice, scolding them like she did when, every day for a week or two, Lockwood would sit in her place just to annoy her. She would jokingly tell him off every time, and force him off of the seat in a light-hearted push-and-shove. A sweet memory came to mind of Lockwood falling off the chair, and they had all doubled over laughing until their ribs pulled and their cheeks ached, the kind where anything sets you off again. A sweet memory indeed.

And, so, there was a portion of the thinking cloth that was entirely blank. Not even George’s messy and rushed research passed the invisible line that marked Lucy’s section. Maybe a mark of respect, of not wanting to let her go, of fruitless ambition and silent mourning.

Even the biscuits. The biscuit rotation was all messed up. With Lucy around, they would know who had last taken a biscuit on their little mental rotation, a fine-tuned seventh sense (after being a Sensitive, naturally), but every time George reached for a custard cream, he mentally hesitated as a ghost of Lucy’s voice went to whisper in his ear, “Have I had my biscuit yet, George?”

He wanted to say something; he was desperate to end this stifling, choking silence that plagued them all like a hand to his throat, a gag in his mouth. What could he even say? Jokes often ended up turning sour nowadays. Holly had the (albeit little) decency to give George a polite laugh at the predicament, but on the other hand, Lockwood would simply sit and stare at the empty plate as if he could summon Lucy back to her plate if he just thought about her hard enough.

George had already tried that. It didn’t work. 

3. Patience Lost

Lockwood was like a cat, George observed. When he had a goal, he was a machine; a well-oiled, slit-eyed, prowling machine. He waited for his prey, and he attacked just as gracefully. He was always waiting, watching for his next move, the next opportunity, with careful focus, and George could see why Lucy liked him. It was a skill neither he or Lucy possessed, yet one they both admired. All the same, he thought Lucy was bonkers for it.

When Lockwood had no purpose, he was a cat stretched out in the sun, ambling with no real purpose and slinking around in his suit and tie, waiting for the next thing to do. George generally found this habit of his incredibly pointless anyway, but with Lucy gone it was just worse. For the last year, Lockwood had the goal of thinking about Lucy.

If she were here, Lockwood would be moving. He’d be yelling at her from the foot of the stairs to turn her music down before marching up and doing it himself. He’d be prancing around, animatedly talking about the latest gossip from his magazine and how it was so important that they knew what colour of dress Penelope Fittes wore to a meeting with Steve Rotwell. Green meant it was about new gear, purple about the future of their agencies, blah, blah, blah. George had no mind for it.

But now? Lockwood slouched in his armchair in the library, flicking through a magazine, entirely devoid of emotion. His freakish poker-face had come out strongly as his eyes darted from line to line, occasionally lifting a finger to flip the page he was on. A cold mug of hot chocolate sat abandoned by his side that George had, yet again, accidentally made out of pure muscle memory.

Lucy always drank a hot chocolate with him. 

George was now completely out of his book. His eyes remained on the pages, reading the sentences over and over again, but they weren't what was running through his head. What would Lucy be doing right now if she were here with them? No, he couldn’t let himself linger on that thought. He tried to bring his attention back to his book.

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might ngo fda bfgn tj Sorgfn. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg npt wutg hwt bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”

She’d have complained that the fire was dying down and added a log to it, her frame sinking into the seat near Lockwood yet again to continue her new crochet project of the week, as the calming click-clack of the plastic needles against each other melded wonderfully with the crackling of the (now revived) fireplace. A song would be stuck in her head, and she’d quietly hum along to it, none the wiser that George and Lockwood could both hear her. 

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg not with her bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”

She would have called them all boring for just sitting there, and gotten out the chess board to entertain herself. She was always freakishly good at that, George recalled with a slight smile. There were quite a few times where Lockwood had gotten so frustrated at her that he resigned and stormed off into his bedroom, leaving George to get absolutely throttled by Lucy every time. Every. Single. Time.

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. The woman was sentimentally attached to not the wedding band, but her husband. Her source, as the agents soon found out, was not with her bones, but the husband’s. This was a revolutionary discovery for many reasons, one being the realisation…”

George gave up on the book, gently closing the hardback cover with a soft thump.

At the time, nothing could’ve annoyed him more, but George was bored of winning chess games now. Lockwood was somehow even worse than he was (and that was saying something), meaning the games lasted forever. Neither of them had the patience to sit for hours going back and forth. Lucy did.

That was the refreshing thing about games with her. It wasn’t relevant if the game lasted fifteen minutes or two hours, just sitting there with her gave the game an entirely more interesting feel. Especially when she swore under her breath after a bad move. George was a sore loser, and a gloating winner, but Lucy always took her losses humbly and her wins even more so.

Unless she was playing Holly. When Lucy won against Holly, it was as if the Heavens had shone a spotlight onto her face with how proud her smile was.

Lockwood missed that smile, and in some (pretty fucking irritating) way, George thought he did too.

It didn’t matter now. He’d have to deal with Lockwood’s doubled pawns and forgotten rooks, which was much less preferable. They would have to bear the silence of nobody humming as they crocheted, painfully watching a chess board gather dust, and having to live in the house that was no longer a home.

2. Ducks in the Wash

George could hear Lockwood rattling around in the basement incessantly, and he could only sigh. This all over again?

Surely there were no more socks missing - every single wash, Lockwood checked, and every single time he came back empty handed. It wasn’t like the washing machine was going to gobble them up. (And there was definitely no need to lift up the whole washing machine.) However, Lockwood always folded the washing better than George. That was the one reconciliation about the whole thing, thank goodness. Once George heard the telltale thump of the washing machine being on solid ground again, he assumed Lockwood was folding the clothes. Feeling less worried that Lockwood was going to break the washing machine this time around, he unpaused the telly and kept watching Pointless, or whatever crappy gameshow he had chosen to put on that day.

It wasn’t long before Lockwood came trudging up the basement stairs and through to the living room, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms. But it wasn’t the neatness of it (usually they were folded haphazardly until Holly came along and fixed it up) that had George pausing the telly once more. It was the bright blue thing on top.

“Lucy’s,” Lockwood said, not even trying to conceal the miserable look on his face. “She left a sock.”

George wondered if Lucy had noticed that it was missing. Unlikely. She had so many pairs of socks, all the same shade of tell-tale royal blue, she could probably provide a few dozen to each family on Portland Row and the next few streets over and still have enough for the next two wash cycles. Besides, it was such a small thing that she’d never notice. She’d never. Never. She wouldn’t have. It’s just a sock. She’d probably lost another one and she had perfect pairs again.

But, an irrational part of George couldn’t help but blurt out, “Are you going to call her?”

There wasn’t really any need to call her. She’d survive without one bright blue sock, even if there were cute little silicone ducks on the sole of this one to keep her from slipping. But George found himself wanting to hear her voice through the phone, strangely enough. The way she said “Hello?” in her Northerner accent on the phone, her little inquisitive chirp, even though she usually knew who it was, always used to make him laugh, and he was sure it would now.

It was clear Lockwood wanted to call, what with the twitch of his fingers, and the way he longingly stared at the ducky sock. It was easy to read him after a while of knowing him, and as he observed Lockwood, he saw a strange, stone-like look on his face. He knew that expression. The barrage of emotion he was holding behind a facade of stoic presence. The way he didn’t blink while he looked at the piece of fabric in his hand, not once. His eyebrows furrowed so slightly it could even be mistaken for natural.

George knew that expression. He saw it in the mirror every day.

“No.”, Lockwood muttered breathlessly.

He placed the washing down, balanced precariously on the back of the sofa, threatening to tip over. George had bigger things on his mind than the laundry, observing it as it teetered in the balance, but his mind was in a different place as he watched the washing basket lean forward.

He simply remained on the sofa, entirely sunken in his armchair, feeling as frozen as a marble-cut statue, and staring at the sock in Lockwood’s hands. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, as if it held some piece of Lucy that was finally attainable now that they had found it - something that could connect the three of them once again. For a moment, he wished that you could have Sources for a real person.

It’s just a sock, George told himself. There was nothing outright special about it and there never would be.

So what was their deal?

What had them reeling over a sock of all things? Was it because they could both easily imagine Lucy’s laughter as she tried to skid over the kitchen floor, only for her socks to keep her from sliding? Those stupid ducks on the bottom of her socks? Was it because of all things to have been left by Lucy accidentally, this was it? This was the last thing they had of her in the house? A literal sock?

Then again, it wasn't unwelcome. It simply brought with it a reminder of the gaping hole in their household, and dragging behind it the ugly emotions of guilt, and the hurt of a betrayal.

“I’ll wait to give it back to her,” Lockwood murmured in the same tone.

But they both knew the time would never come. Lucy wasn’t coming back, no matter how tightly Lockwood held onto the sock now, knuckles turning white. No amount of socks stolen by the washing machine would bring her knocking on the front door, or bursting through and demanding them back. The sock would simply sit, gathering dust and harbouring feelings that had no need to be felt. 

But George still agreed, holding onto whatever tiny shred of hope he still had that she would come back. George knew as well as anyone else that it was fruitless, but even he didn’t have the heart to extinguish the hope that their paths would cross again.

It felt like something was destroying him though. He had gotten to a point where it was getting unbearable, the pain of all the reminders of her everywhere, it gnawed at him and ate away at his focus, at his time, at his brain, at his happiness. He should’ve put into words, and he knew that inside him, but that would destroy all the work he had put into coping with it; for both Lockwood and Holly. Lucy was an unnamed ticking bomb, ready to cause an explosion at 35 Portland Row anytime soon, and George was reaching his limit of how many more reminders of Lucy he could take.

The washing fell over. Once upon a time, Lucy and him would have laughed together over the thought of watching Lockwood fold it all again. They would’ve giggled until their cheeks were on fire, their ribs felt tangled in knots, shrouded by the ecstasy of simple delights.

“Lockwood? The washing’s just fallen over.” George called, entirely monotone.

1. Someone Familiar

The early spring air clung to George as he stepped through the front door, shopping bags in hand. Really, London had no excuse to still be so cold, but, alas, he still shivered as he kicked the door shut and placed the bags down. The warmth of the hallway was incredible, and he could’ve just stood there forever, feeling his skin grow warm. It was only when he eventually tugged off his jacket that he heard the laughter.

He peeked into the living room, where Lockwood sat in his armchair, and Holly on the sofa beside someone else whose hand she held and squeezed. The sight filled George with warmth. Holly’s last relationship… Well, it had ended badly, and she was a wreck for a little while, so to see her happy now felt like something, finally, was going right. George was genuinely happy for Holly, and for everyone. They really needed something to go right, all of them did.

He hadn’t realised the ache in his chest until his eyes lifted to the girl whose hand she held.

How did he not notice? The bobbed brown hair, the wooly jumper and denim skirt, it was…

“Oh, George!” Lockwood said, grinning as he set his mug of tea down. “You’re back! Hope you don’t mind, Holly brought her girlfriend over for a bit.”

George tried to move, but he found himself stuck in place, simply staring at the back of her head. Surely he was dreaming. None of this was real. It couldn’t be her. No, he was still sleeping soundly in his bed and his alarm hadn’t gone off yet. It was a lie. This couldn’t be real. A dream. A nightmare.

But- But, still, however he hated to admit it, there was hope in him. She had come home. She was back. She was here. She had finally come back to them after all these horrible months and he would never let Luc-

“Lucy” turned and flashed a grin at George, and he felt a little pang of nausea in his throat. This girl, she wasn’t Lucy. He’d mistaken her just because of an outfit and a haircut. How stupid of him. As he scanned her up and down, within a matter of seconds he had noticed the pristine white trainers she wore rather than plasm-covered, chunky black boots, her jumper was purple instead of blue. Her eyebrows were prominent, pointing upwards and giving the face an inherently sharp aura about it, combined with long features that he could never even imagine on Lucy’s round face.

He saw it all clear as day, all of it. The freckles Lucy lacked and the blue eyes she didn’t have, the mascara-caked lashes and the pointed chin.

“You’re George?” she asked in a high-pitched tone that Lucy would’ve definitely later made fun of. “Hol’s told me all about you.” 

Lucy would make fun of the nickname too.

He felt insanely stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should’ve realised sooner - she had been introduced as Holly’s girlfriend for Heaven’s sake! There was a higher chance of Lockwood and Kipps dating than there was Lucy and Holly. But, he would’ve preferred Lucy over whoever this was. He didn’t hold anything against this (probably lovely) girl, who just coincidentally managed to look uncannily like Lucy from the behind, but George couldn’t help but bite back a sob.

The bittersweet lemon-curd hope now tasted rotten and acidic in his mouth. The taste of his idiocy coated his tongue and twisted his insides, and he hated every moment of it. He hated that for a moment he’d believed it to be her, that he had been ready to smile and accept her back without a word’s notice. He hated himself for having hope, and he hated Lucy for leaving, and he was entirely ready to be sick to his stomach.

He was impressed he managed a nod in her general direction, before abandoning the shopping bags on the floor and storming upstairs. Up, up, up, until he found himself in the doorway of the attic bedroom. The door was forced open, and he stared inside the stripped down room, the same way she’d left it, with her Blu-tack stains still on the walls and a leftover Polaroid of the three of them to the right of the bed. He couldn’t help but stare at the photo, as a tonne of weight settled on his shoulders as he stood unsettlingly alone in the attic bedroom. The weight of Lucy’s memory, perhaps. Because that’s what had made him feel so terrible these last few months, wasn’t it? It was never just throwing away the food, or being bored with a chess game, or seeing a sock with ducks on it, or any of it. Everywhere he looked, he saw Lucy, but he didn’t have her at his side, bickering with him and making her little remarks, lifting his spirit a percentile at a time, and dropping him down to ground level after he finally felt valued and appreciated by someone, after he found a friend who made him laugh until he couldn’t anymore, even though he absolutely hated her sometimes.

He had never hated Lucy Carlyle more than that moment.

He flung his clothes off the vanity chair, mad that he’d even had the gall to put them in this room, and sat on the bed, trying to arrange his thoughts. 

It was like cutting himself open to admit that he missed Lucy. This girl he’d detested for months; this girl he’d slowly learned to appreciate, and even cherish. He looked for her in every room of this house - the little crocheted coasters she had made, her abandoned mugs in the cupboard with awful sayings on them, the honey jar in the kitchen that only she had used for her tea.

Hell, even whenever he took out his favourite mug, because she had accidentally chipped it her first week there, and George had sworn he would never talk to her again after that, decreeing it on the Thinking Cloth with so many swears that he lost count.

Every moment of regret, of sadness, of longing he had felt since her leaving seemed to add up and show itself proudly to him now, sending him into a rabbit hole of falling into emotional turmoil. The solitude of the basement every month, the quiet of the evenings without the click clack of a crochet needle, the way his socks were never mixed up with hers anymore, the way nobody stopped him from researching until 5 in the morning-

Fuck.

George sprinted to the little bathroom and unloaded the contents of his stomach into the toilet. When his quaking body had finished purging the contents of his (again) too-large breakfast, he crumpled onto the floor beside the bowl. The sour taste of bile was heavy on his tongue, and it slicked along the sides of his throat.

He looked up at the abandoned room around him. Just the sight of its sorry state was enough to tempt him back into throwing his face over the toilet bowl once more, but he resisted. He leaned his head against the cool tile behind him, trying to hold back the tears in his eyes, the mucus in his throat mixing awfully with the vile taste in his mouth.

Lockwood had come upstairs at this point, the door being thrust open as he rushed to George’s side. His expression was pained, as he looked at George with concern in his eyes, but a resigned light to them as well.

“You’re okay,” was all he said.

0. Confession

Moonlight streamed through the attic window, splitting across the clothes-covered floor in beams of silver. It was a peaceful kind of light - the sort that would have Lucy standing by any window in the house, staring longingly up at the sky. She always spoke about how she missed the stars, stars that glittered for her back home but were now hidden by the dozens of ghostlamps scattered across the city, and the haze of pollution in the city.

As George sat on the edge of her bed alongside Lockwood, he wondered if Lucy was looking up at the moon now, too.

Oh, the horrible feeling of knowing they shared a sky but not a roof.

Lockwood heaved a sigh, playing with the polaroid in his hand. He’d plucked it off the wall not long ago and had taken to staring at it, occasionally brushing his thumb gently over where Lucy was. Maybe he thought it was like a genie’s lamp, that if he rubbed it three times some otherworldly being would come and grant their wish of bringing her home. 

No genie appeared, no wishes were granted, and Lucy didn’t return.

George remembered the day that photo had been taken. Lucy had taken the last jam doughnut, the one he had wanted, and they had argued the entirety of breakfast. Holly had trotted into the kitchen, polaroid camera in hand, grinning about how she’d found it in a charity shop and had to buy it. She wanted her first photo with it to be of her friends, the agents of Lockwood and Co., but no matter how much she and Lockwood tried, George and Lucy wouldn’t stop arguing. So there was Lockwood, smiling, albeit awkwardly, between George, who looked like he was about to implode with anger - anger he now saw as an overreaction, even if she was a thief - and Lucy, whose cheeks were flushed pink, as she waved the half-eaten doughnut in the air. The camera caught the moment some of the jam in the middle had dribbled out onto her brand new jumper.

“I thought it was her, too, at first, you know,” Lockwood said after what felt like years of silence. “Holly’s girlfriend. I thought it was Lucy as well.”

With a shrug, George said, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“You miss her, and that’s okay.”

“I do not miss her.”

But it was a lie. That’s all George had been doing since she left, wasn’t it? Lying to himself and to everyone else that he didn’t miss her.

He had hated Lucy for so long. From when she had first joined the company and the few months that followed. Then after she left them, giving some bullshit excuse and a secret escape. But he had never allowed himself to miss her, not really. He had only burdened himself with the memory of her, looking for her in anything he could find but not allowing himself to grieve the girl who hadn’t even died.

His fingers hurt from clutching the duvet cover so hard. “Maybe I miss her a little.”

Lockwood’s laugh was breathy, filled with tears he wouldn’t dare shed. “You can give up with the pride, George. She’s not here to make fun of you.”

“But you are.”

The words resonated between them both, and for a moment George truly realised how alone they were. Yes, Holly was there daily, mourning Lucy’s resignation in her own detached way, but George and Lockwood… Lucy had been everything to Lockwood, and somewhat less than that for George. They were a trio. George couldn’t even remember the agency before Lucy, so now it felt like a machine missing a cog - it didn’t function properly, and wouldn’t until it was put back into place.

“I’d never make fun of you for this.” Lockwood’s smile was nowhere to be found. Not in the corners of his lips or the dark of his eyes. It was as if it had been torn from him the minute Lucy stepped out the door for the last time. “I miss her, too.”

Of course Lockwood did. Missing Lucy was second nature to him. Any time she’d gone off on a case by herself he had missed her. Hell, he probably missed her when she went to bed a few floors above him. But this was unfamiliar territory for George. He wasn’t used to missing people. Not his parents who still lived in London, who occasionally visited and checked in on how things were going. Not his siblings, who were also still nearby muscling on with their careers. He’d never experienced loss like Lockwood and Lucy had.

Was that why it felt like he had been hit by a ten-tonne brick? He hated this feeling more than he’d ever hated anything.

“She’s not coming back,” George said, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “We’ll cope. We have to.”

But, staring at the room she once lived in, straining to try and feel any remnant of her presence, he wished that the genie would finally appear.

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

The public eye

Happy Pride to everyone except for Eddie and Will because they are horrible people 

this took so long to write, I have been basically bedridden sick for 3 weeks now, but it’s done, I hope it’s legible

Taglist: @ziptiesnfries @lumpofsand @fleur-a-whump

previous masterlist

TW: pet whump, dehumanisation, drowning (brief), referenced past abuse, blink-and-you-miss-it homophobic remark (Diana is such a bitch, and in june???), 75% of the band needs its own trigger warning atp i think, Oli is suffering im really sorry <<<3

They spent the ride home in uncomfortable silence. Getting through the crowd this time was a lot more manageable, considering Oliver’s shaken up state and bruised up face the guards had no choice but to shield him from the crowd. He was vaguely aware of his hair sticking to his cheek, where Eddie’s ring split the skin, and braced himself for the worst, when James would inevitably try to brush it away, to take a better look, and the strands would pull on the skin, glued there by half dried blood and it would hurt just as bad as the slap did.

“Do you think anyone saw?” Will asked, looking out the window, still waving at the crowd. 

“We all better hope not” Khai shot an angry glance at Eddie, who didn’t bother to engage with any of them, simply climbed in his bunk and pulled the curtain closed.

Oliver couldn’t find it in himself to be angry with him. He knew that it would have been reasonable, justified even, but good pets are not angry with their owners, and he was Eddie’s just as much as the other boys’ whether he liked it or not. Instead he concentrated on the childishness of it, the way the singer got upset with him not paying enough attention and the way he hid away in the cramped bed space for a half an hour long ride. He was allowed to think he was childish. Juvenile. Immature. 

The engine whirred up and the bus drove away from the venue.

James hooked a finger in his collar, to pull him close, turning his face to the side to inspect it. There it was, the pull, the strands of hair could have turned into gillette blades and Oli would not have known the difference.

“Shh, Oli, it’s okay, just let me check on it” the drummer tried to soothe him as he flinched away “It’s not too deep, don’t worry” he shared the observation, he prodded at the skin around the wound earning some winces out of Oliver “I doubt it will scar, you’ll just need a few days and some ointment”

He leaned the good, left side of his face on the drummer’s shoulder, and watched the streetlights pass by the window and tried to guess where they might be, based on the glimpses he caught of some well-lit buildings.

It was cold outside, unreasonably so; Oliver chalked it up to the breeze and the smell of rain that promised a storm to come. 

He was right about the storm, though it didn’t arrive in the form of thunder and a downpour, but as a red headed woman, standing on their porch with her arms crossed, impatiently clicking the heel of her shoe on the floor tiles. This was the first time ever, Oliver has seen her look at them, with her phone out of sight, and the way the boys stopped in their tracks as they got out of the bus suggested it was a rare occasion for them as well, and it would bring nothing good.

“Everyone, inside, now” Diana turned around and led the way into their own living room.

James stayed behind them with Oliver, closest to the door, but none of them went much further either.

“Are any of you familiar with the concept of public image?” she asked coldly ���Because if not, let me refresh your memory, I got the mutt for you to look good, does that ring any bells?” James nodded timidly, just to soothe himself, Diana was not expecting an actual answer.

“You get a pet, because we keep up with the trends, he’s a rescue, so you look charitable” she raised her voice, lecturing them “So please enlighten me, why are you walking him around with his face all fucked up?” she looked at them expectantly, then sighed “Alright then, Khai, anything to say?” The bassist shook his head.

“Edward?” the singer crossed his arms defensively, but glared back at her.

“I didn’t do anything wrong”

“Sure, if you don’t count hitting him for no reason” James spat, and his grip on Oliver’s arm tightened, when Eddie just shrugged.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” 

“It does not matter! It’s all of your problem now that there are pictures of him, like that” she gestured towards Oliver’s face “You morons are lucky, you make a lot of fucking money for me and I’m willing to fix this. And one of you clean him up” 

“James, he’s your favourite toy nowadays…” Eddie sneered.

“Fuck off, you’re the one who got us here in the first place” the drummer retorted. Oliver tried to make himself as small as possible, to avoid drawing any more attention than it was necessary.

“I’ll do it, let’s just not-” Will interrupted, breaking his silence and stepping between his bandmates facing the singer.

“The boyfriend has a brain, I never would have thought!” the guitarist blushed deeply and Diana laughed, loud and shrill, the sound of it made shivers run down all their spines “I’ll leave you to it, and let’s agree this won’t ever happen again” They stepped out of the way as she stormed out of the house and slammed the front door, leaving eerie quiet behind.

“He can’t keep pulling your ass out of trouble” James pushed Oli away from himself so the guitarist could grab his arm and lead him away.

“I can wash it, you don’t have to-” he started, but was immediately cut off “Just shut up, Oli” 

Will opened the tap above the bathtub and turned to the cabinet to look for first aid supplies.

“Sorry” he muttered. He hissed as the guitarist wiped the blood away and sprayed some disinfectant on the wound. 

“Let’s wash your hair too, some blood dried on it” He made the mistake of grabbing Oliver by the collar. His hands shot up to protect his throat and instinctively pulled away.

“Nonono, please no!” He struggled, panicked he would be choked again.

“Stop it!” Will warned, but the boy was too preoccupied with the hand on his collar to listen to him “Oli, stop, I’m not gonna say it again” 

The air was knocked out of him in an instant and he curled in on himself one moment too late to protect his stomach from the hit. Will grabbed him by the hair, and yanked him towards the tub that had filled halfway by then. 

“Down!... Sit!... whichever the word is, just get down” Oliver whined painfully, still grasping at his stomach, where the guitarist punched him, but lowered himself on the floor next to the bath.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll do better, just give me a second, it hurts” he blurted out, eyes scrunching shut to keep his tears in. He felt so helpless. 

Will’s hand was still entangled in his hair, pulling him up and over the edge of the tub, so he could wash it.

“Can you stop being so difficult for a moment?” He turned Oliver’s head up to face him.

“Fine” He sighed begrudgingly, and let go of the boy. He slumped to the ground, grateful for the momentary peace.

“Better?” Oli nodded and got up to lean his head above the water. He watched their reflections muddle together as the guitarist stood above him and brought the showerhead above him. 

The water was comfortably warm, he felt himself relax into it, still it felt wrong. He really could have done this alone, there wasn’t much blood there anyway. He would just get water on his band tee. He didn’t think, as he pulled back from under the stream to voice his concern.

Will didn’t hesitate, as he put a hand on the back of his neck, just above the collar and pushed him down with enough force that Oli met the water. He wanted to raise his head back up, but the hand kept him under firmly.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even take a proper breath beforehand. Oliver couldn’t breathe. 

He tried kicking and scratching in the direction he thought Will was, but the other just dodged his tries and all he achieved was his head getting fully underwater.

He was let up suddenly, he coughed up water he hadn’t even noticed got into his mouth and throat.

“Fuck, I’m sorry” Will apologised, tense, not quite sincerely “I didn’t mean to-” Oli wasn’t sure what he could have replied if he could speak.

“Go back to James’ room, I can’t deal with this” he left the bathroom door open after himself and just left. 

Oliver scrambled to his feet, still soaking wet and now shaking like a leaf. 

[kindnessisweakness2]

2

The next morning Emily woke up at 7am, anything but well rested. She didnt get into bed until 3am and despite being exhausted sleep would not overcome her. She tossed and turned for hours, her mind going round and round yesterdays events. Coming home to find that girls underwear and dirty sheets. Her explosive episode at Teller Morrow that left her extremely embarrassed. She spent all last night crying and packing away Noah’s things. 6 years. Gone in the blink of an eye. Tears welled in her eyes at the painful thoughts, the ache in her chest something she was already becoming familiar with. NO. She’d done enough crying, especially over that asshole. Pulling herself up from the warmth of her bed, she forced herself into the bathroom to get ready for what she already knew was going to be a long day. 

Jax watched from the office as Noah leaned against the boxing ring chatting to one of the clubs many hang arounds. He really was never gonna learn. Something about him didnt sit right with Jax. Jax messed around with more than his fair share of women, and he had no doubts about the broken hearts he left in his wake, but Piney was right. Half the men in the Club would kill for a woman like Emily to hold them down, and the likes of Noah just threw it away. He thought he knew everything but the reality was the little runt didnt know his arse from his elbow. “You wanna tell me why your glaring holes through that kid?” His Mom spoke without even a glance away from her paperwork. Gemma Teller really didnt miss a beat when it came to her son. Jax shook his head before turning to his mother. “It just dont sit right with me thats all. Got a bad feeling.” Gemma raised a knowing eyebrow at her sons vauge response. “Oh so its got nothing to do with you being curious about Little Miss Angry?” Jax smirked at his mom. “No. Just looking out for the good of the club, as aways. And trust me, Noah isnt good.” Gemma nodded as she poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. Before Gemma could continue her questioning, they both turned at the sound of a knock on the open office door. There she was. Little Miss Angry. Stood in the doorway looking uncomfortable. "Sorry to interrupt. I'm just here to sign the paperwork for the bike." Emily wanted the ground to swallow her up as she stood there awkward and red faced. "Oh, and here." She thrust the large baking tray full of homemade lasagne and Garlic bread towards Jax. "I made you guys food to say sorry for erm. What ever that was yesterday." Jax gratefully accepted the tray. "You really didn't have to darlin. Come this way, you can fill the paperwork out in the clubhouse." Jax jerked his head in the direction of the building but regretted it when he saw her face change as she clocked Noah still stood by the boxing ring. "How about we sit on the benches instead?" Emily visibly relaxed at the suggestion. She wanted to be the furthest away from him she could get. "You guys head over, I'll bring the paperwork out." Gemma spoke as she took the tray of food off of Jax. "I'll put this in the clubhouse kitchen, the guys will be all over it like pigs if they see it now." Smiling at the pair as she left. Jax couldn't help but shake his head at his mother. She really was obvious. Leading her to one of the picnic tables, Jax sat down opposite Emily. "So stupid question but how are you holding up?" Emily's eyes widened at the question she wasn't expecting. "Yeah I'm fine. I'm always fine." Emily may have convinced her self she was fine but Jax wasnt buying it. The bags under the girls eyes were dark, she looked exhausted. She glanced over to where Noah was stood talking to some girl. He really didn't give a fuck about her. Clearly. "He's been busted back to prospect." Emily couldn't help the shock that spread on her face at Jax's comment. Before she could speak jax answered the question that he knew was coming. "For the disrespect. He didn't earn his place at our table. How he treated you? It wasn't going to go unanswered." Emily Shrugged her shoulders. “Not gonna lie i wasnt expecting the club to do that. The way you tend to treat women isnt exactly good, So i wasnt expecting you guys to care. Thought i would have my angry outburst and you guys would go on about your day. You hardly know me anyway, he always kept me seperate from it. He used to tell me it was because of how dangerous things got. I thought it was sweet, him looking out for my safety. When really its because he wanted to  fuck around behind my back.” Emily smiled at Jax through watery eyes. “First love dies hard ya’know? I’ve stayed loyal to a sad excuse of a man for 6 years thinking he loved me. He was my first everything. Pretty pathetic right? 25 years of age and I’ve only been with one man.” Emily sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Yeah love will make you do stupid shit, until one day reality smacks you in the face. Hard.” Jax smiled at her. “I get it. Fuck, if i could tell you what my first love did to me, you wouldnt believe it. Had me proper twisted up. Even debated leaving club for her.”Emily’s eyes widened. “Fuck thats messed up. Im sorry. Loyalty is hard to come by nowadays.” Jax couldnt agree more with Emily. He couldnt understand why but he felt he could talk to her without being judged. She was different. Beautiful, but different. “Em?” Jax watched as she visibly stiffened at the sound of his voice. “I didnt know you’d be coming in? What are you hear for?” Emily ignored him completely, still staying focused on Jax. “Did your mom say how long she’d be with the paperwork?” Jax Frowned at Noah, “No Darlin��� Ill go and check now.” Fucking Noah. Was all Jax could think as he stood from the bench and headed into the office to get the paperwork his mom had clearly forgotten. 

Outside Emily was praying  Noah would disappear into thin fucking air but god had other plans. “Hey, are you gonna talk to me?” He placed a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. Emily instantly jerked away and stood up from the bench, trying to create space between them. She could feel the anger burning in her stomach again as she looked at the man she once loved. What she ever saw in him she would never know. Its as if the blind fold she had been wearing for the last 6 years had finally been lifted and she saw him for what he truly was. A Pathetic Sad little man. “What are you doing sitting with Jax? You know his reputation. What you wanna get back at me so your gonna fuck a brother?” Noah’s voice carried across the busy TM Lot. Everyone from the Mechanics working away, the rest of the club coming out of the club house, and even customers heard the accusation spill from his mouth. “Are you fucking kidding me?” There it was. The anger she was trying to hold back came spilling from her mouth. “What i do, Who i speak to and who i fuck is none of your goddamn business anymore! Stay the fuck away from me.” Emily tried to leave it at that. She tried to walk away. But Noah made the mistake of grabbing her arm and trying to pull her towards him. And before he knew it Emily’s clenched fist was making contact with his nose. The crunch was loud. Satisfying even. “Carry on and I will FUCK every single man that sits around that fucking redwood table that doesnt have an old lady waiting for them. 6 years of shitty sex i think im owed a good dicking down. Maybe ill save Jax for last, from what i hear he’s second to none in bed.” Emily spat as she smacked Noah again, ignoring the searing pain in her hand. “And im pretty sure as prospect they can make you watch.” The loud whoops and whistles that came from the rest of the club, shocked Emily. Noah sat on the floor holding his bloody nose as she turned to walk away shaking her quickly bruising hand. Jax came rushing towards her with the paperwork in hand. “Come on, after that you can definitely fill this out in the clubhouse. I’ll get some ice for your hand aswell.” Emily nodded as she followed Jax. Her anger gone, and embarrasment quickly taking over. 

[compassionatereminders]

Lord. Today has been such a day. I hope it's ok to just rant about it here, if not obviously feel free to delete!!

Got woken up at 1am because my mom needed to go to the ER for excruciating pain. So we load up and I take her. It takes an HOUR for them to even pay her any mind- and it's not because it was busy. We live in a small town, and there was literally nobody there waiting to be seen. We think they were ignoring her because she looked like she was having drug withdrawals (shaking, pale, she couldn't stop moving/fidgeting). They only came out to see her when I brought my little brother in, and they realized that she wasn't just there to try and get meds from the hospital (this is all speculation ofc, but I really can't imagine any other reason that 'nobody saw her'). I'm still so mad because she sat there for so long, crying in pain (my mom NEVER cries, so that's how I could tell it was really bad) and nobody even bothered to check on her for over an hour. It took another hour for her to get any pain relief and while the nurses were all really nice, I'm still incredibly upset that she had to endure it for so long.

Anyways. Mom's going to be fine, she's getting flown to a better hospital a couple hours away to get the problem dealt with. That's all good. I'm staying home with my brother, and my aunt is going to pick her up later today (hopefully; it might take a few more days). The only issue is that I'll need to meet with my little brothers father (not my dad) to drop him off for the weekend, and I hate the guy, but I can easily ignore him so it's fine.

I think it's the stress of coordinating 4 different people's schedules that put me so on edge (my aunt needs to know when my mom is leaving, my sister is coming 1400 miles to Nevada from Texas, my little brother needs to do his homework/get ready to go/be dropped off). Family keeps calling me because I'm the one who lives with my mom, but I don't have any updates, because I'm home looking after my brother. I feel terrible that I can't tell them anything else, but it's still frustrating when I'm trying to get the house cleaned up, take care of a worried 7-year-old, and answer calls just to repeat the same thing.

The final straw though was one of my cats. When my brother and I finally got home around 8am, we were having breakfast. I look over, and my cat is peeing on my moms lunchbox. I freaked out, because that's disgusting, and he had NO reason to do that- their box is perfectly clean, he's not a serial pee monster, he's never been in competition with the other cats. I don't understand why today, of all days, he would choose to make a mess.

I've spent the past hour and a half trying to clean it by hand because I can't just throw it in the washing machine (it has a cloth outside, but its not removable). He ALSO managed to pee on my brother's homework tower (a short, plastic 'filing cabinet' with drawers we keep his stuff in), and of course, it got inside some of the drawers. Luckily the only stuff I had to throw away was some construction paper and white printer paper, and the rest was untouched, but I still had to clean up a MASSIVE puddle of cat pee on the floor, and empty + wipe out four of the drawers.

So. Anyways. I'm not feeling solution-oriented right now, I'm just really angry that this is all happening at once and there's not really anything within my control besides making sure my brother keeps to his schedule. At least he's not too worried, but I've kind of been avoiding talking to him at the moment because I feel like I might snap at him when it's not his fault at all. I'm also avoiding the cat because, while I would never hurt an animal for doing something dumb, I'm still so mad about it. I'd much rather he'd have peed on something of mine.

Now I just feel super on edge, and I keep waiting for ANOTHER bad thing to happen, because at this point it just feels like the universe is out for blood. It's not even noon yet. It's barely 10am

I'm so sorry about all of this. Anti addict ableism is completely unacceptable and literally kills people. It's not like an addict can't ALSO be in excruciating pain/genuinely need urgent care. I'm glad your mom will be okay, but it makes me furious that she was neglected for hours because of prejudices against a potential addiction. And I completely understand that you're not in a good place right now. I'm sorry about the pee situation also, though it's important for me to note that the cat didn't CHOOSE to "make a mess" just to bother you - either he was a bit ill or it was simply an unfortunate accident.

[heathersbutincorrect]

Time for a chandsaw oneshot to add to the collection!

The taste of drain cleaner hit her tongue before Heather realized what was happening. This was no prairie oyster, but a liquid death. She choked immediately, trying to expel it. A hand that wasn’t hers shoved its way past her lips. Fingers down her throat. Veronica? She gagged and gagged. How long can a person go without breathing? The next thing she knew, she was retching and finally ejecting that horrible drain cleaner.

“T-that’s it Heather, get it all out…” Had Veronica been crying? “I’m so sorry. He tricked me. I never, ever wanted to hurt you.”

Heather threw up on her own this time. The taste was even worse coming back up. It was startling to see so much blue. How much had she consumed? Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. Veronica was kneeling in front of her. The phone was sitting off the hook. She must have called 911.

At the hospital, doctors frantically ran about and provided treatment. There were second degree burns inside her throat. They said she was lucky to be alive. Veronica was frantic to explain that it was a freak accident. There was a mixup in the kitchen. Heather had never seen the girl have so many panic attacks in a row. And yet she could do nothing. It wasn’t until several days later that she got the full story of what had been done. And really, she knew JD was bad news but how dare Veronica try to undermine her and take power for herself? If her guilt wasn’t so genuine she would plot revenge against the girl too. But for now, ending JD was a good enough goal. As punishment, Veronica would have to help.

“Anything! I’ll do anything!” Veronica was so quick to agree. She hadn’t left her side since she was admitted, missing school. That was unheard of. Heather tried to speak, but it still hurt too much. Instead she had to write out what she wanted to say. She handed the note over.

“Yeah, I can help come up with a plan. Hey uh, Heather and Heather wanna stop by today to see how you’re doing if you’re up for that. What should we tell them?”

Heather glared and shook her head. Too embarrassing to give all the details. “Okay! I’ll just give them the same story I gave your parents. I promise, JD will get what he deserves. Just hang in there.” Veronica squeezed her hand and walked off for a moment. She was doing that a lot. Touching her, then isolating herself.

Heather and Heather visiting was a drag. McNamara just played twenty questions with a doctor. Duke spent half the time in front of a mirror, not even fully present. Veronica was the only one that actually seemed to want to be here. After half an hour, the pair left, and Heather was just relieved. It was less lonely to be alone with Veronica. Where was she, anyway?

“V…” Once again, her voice died in her throat. She’d get it back if it was the last act of her short life. She wandered towards the bathroom and saw the door was shut. On the other side of the door, she could hear panicked sobbing. Heather knocked.

“I-I’m fine.” The worst lying she’d ever heard. And she heard bad lies before. But she wasn’t trying to lie.

“Let-“ Heather burst into a round of wheezing and coughing. “P-pl-“

“Okay. Okay. Please don’t…don’t strain yourself.”

She opened the door. Her eyes were red, wet, and swollen. Her makeup was completely smeared. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I can’t make the…guilt…go away. I was just so angry. I fucking slept with JD and said I was done with you. He took it too far.”

Heather could only nod in response. She hated not having her voice yet. There was a lot she wanted to say about JD.

“I know you’ll probably never forgive me. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring him down. And I promise, I won’t let a boy sweep me off my feet like that ever again. I can’t be trusted.” Heather raised an eyebrow. Veronica was really talking down on herself about this. It must be destroying her. It was then she wondered, when was the last time this girl had even slept?

“Well anyway. Enough about me. They’re gonna take a look at you tomorrow and if you’re able to talk by then, you can go home.”

Thankfully, things looked far better in the morning. Although she was still on the mend, doctors were stunned when Heather was capable of saying a few words at a time already. Her recovery was praised in the whole wing as she was sent home with Veronica. Her parents had found an excuse to be out of town…in other words, not deal with the embarrassment.

Back in her room where it all happened. Heather saw the blue stain on the carpet and nearly cringed. While Veronica religiously started to scrub at it, she noticed a couple things out of place. Her copy of The Bell Jar sat on her bed instead of the nightstand. And there was a crumpled paper with some pencils on the floor. She cast a glance at the brunette who was still cleaning.

“My book.” She couldn’t say much more to clarify what she meant, but Veronica followed her gaze and got the point.

“That must’ve been what JD was doing…he was convinced you’d die and wanted to stage something. Obviously, I didn’t listen to him.”

For the first time, Heather was afraid of JD.

“I know. I didn’t want that either. I was lucky to even be able to save you at all, really.” Two more words came to mind. Something she thought she would never say.

“Thank you.”

The blush in Veronica’s cheeks gave her new life. And so they spent the afternoon together, cleaning and plotting the demise of Jason Dean.

[waterfallofspace]

could i maybe request 32,47 and 52 for vash? 👉👈 (ft his bf wolfwood)

side note i love all the trigun and jjk fics you've been putting out and the buddy daddies fic,,, omfg i Love them sm

Aha- yes you can non, and I'm so sorry for the wait!! (Honestly I'm not even sure if you'll still be around, so I'm really really sorry if you're not~ But thank you so much for the praise, and the request~)

1.8k words, prompts 32, 46, and 52, story under cut!

32. “Are you sick?” 47. Hiding sneezes  52. “Did you just sneeze?”

~~~~~~~

There are moments that Wolfwood would swear Vash is born of the suns.

A muffled thud pulls Wolfwood from his coffee induced trance. Stumbling into the kitchen, Vash appears to have walked straight into a wall. Eyes half closed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the only response to this abrupt chance of pace is a yawn. 

“Mornin’,” Wolfwood laughs, the greeting nearly knocking Vash off his feet. As the messy hair tilts in his direction, he notes the sweater hanging around Vash’s shoulders. “Ain’t that mine?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, and they both know it. Wolfwood acquired said hoodie a few months back after some particularly intoxicated gentleman tried to purchase his jacket with it. The refusal was met with some slurred ‘k’p it an’way’ from the form stumbling out of the bar. 

The sweater was much too loose on Wolfwood, the gifter having stood at least two heads taller. Still, Wolfwood was never one to toss out something of possible use, so the hoodie found itself stashed in some corner of a motel closet. It wasn’t until a chance encounter left Wolfwood staying in the same room a few years later that the sweater made its reappearance. 

“Hey Nico, someone left a jacket in here!” 

“Hm? Oh. Forgot about that.” 

“Wait, this was yours? I didn’t know you’d been here before!” 

“I’ve been ‘lot of places, blondie.” 

The second he’d put it on, Vash’s entire face had lit up. The sleeves hung far past his hands, flapping at each movement. He spent the next couple hours just waving them around, convulsing with a laughter that left even Wolfwood smirking. It quickly became his nightshirt, though he’d normally be changed out of it by now. 

“Makin’ a fashion statement today, are we?” Pulling his mind back to the present, Wolfwood catches up with his mouth, gesturing to the outfit. 

Vash seemingly attempts a response. Instead, he only succeeds in a strangled noise that leaves them both wincing. With a light cough into his sleeve, he clears his throat and tries again. “Morning! Sorry about that.” 

Raising an eyebrow, the silence echoes through the room. Wolfwood’s learned by now that commenting on the apology only leads to a never ending loop of ‘quit ‘pologizing’ followed by Vash’s instinctual apologies for apologizing. 

“Want some?” Wolfwood offers instead,gesturing to the coffee leaving trails of steam drifting through the chilled morning air. The response is a chuckle, Vash shaking his head in time with his sleeves. 

There’s a slight shake in his legs, accompanied by his fingers fidgeting through the holes in his sleeves. Once he picks up on this, Wolfwood’s eyes soften. Yeah, definitely not a coffee day. Vash can handle it occasionally, but if he’s feeling heightened anxiety already, caffeine tends to leave him jumpy.

 It’s been a good week. Relatively calm, no angry mobs chasing him out of town. Hardly surprising he woke up anxious. Seems the universe can never cut the poor guy a break. If he has even a moment of peace, something has to come along to ruin it. 

Wolfwood reaches up, lazily grabbing Vash’s hand and begins to rub soft circles against his palm. Vash gives him a soft smile in return, sinking into the chair closest to his and pouring out a serving of juice. 

He’s barely taken a sip before a far off look consumes his eyes. Wolfwood squeezes his hand. Not a word spoken, but a question asked. Vash answers in the form of a hum, laying his arms on the table and resting his forehead against them. 

“Gon’ suffocate like that, needle noggin,” Wolfwood says, noticing Vash’s shoulders shake lightly. Laughter? Didn’t think it was that funny. After a moment Vash emerges, mist lining his eyes. Okay it can’t have been that funny. Maybe… crying? 

“Y’alright?” Despite the rough grammar, his tone is soft. Gentle in a way the blue-eyed dipshit just seems to pull out of him. Despite countless attempts to maintain just a touch of his previously rough exterior. 

Vash shakes his head, which Wolfwood takes to mean no. Before he can ask any further questions, he realizes he misinterpreted the action. Vash’s eyes remain hazy, his metal arm raising to meet his face as he flinches against the back of it. 

“tnsshiew-!” 

“Blessin’,” Wolfwood pauses, analyzing the man sitting in front of him. There’s a pinch to Vash’s brows, his teeth beginning to show as gasps fall from his lips. The light reflecting from drops hanging off his lashes matches the metallic sheen coating his hand. “More?” 

“Y- yeah…” Vash manages to choke out. One breath, two, and he ducks again, this time his voice crackling through the pitchy sounds. “in’kasshhiew-! hh’akkshihiew-!” 

“Another blessin’.” 

“Thanks,” Vash smiles, raising his other hand to swipe away some stray drops migrating down his cheeks. After a breath he pipes up again with a “Sorry-” before seeming to catch himself, and trailing off into a light cough. His knee brushes against Wolfwood’s as it resumes its trembling, dipping in rapid succession as the table shakes. 

Wolfwood reaches down, placing his hand against Vash’s leg. Meeting his gaze, the tone used is lower. “You okay? If somethin’s the matter, you know you can tell me.” 

Blushing under the scrutiny, Vash lets a sniff escape before verbalizing his response. “Yeah, sorry, I’m alright.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Vash nods enthusiastically, though Wolfwood clocks the way he flinches at the movement. “I’m gonna sit on the couch, put a little music on, you wanna join?” 

Pressing a kiss against Vash’s temple, Wolfwood stands, heading towards the sink to rinse his mug. Not waiting for a more solid answer, Vash heads off towards the radio with a touch more speed then he should have this early. 

A sweet melody begins to swirl through the air, followed by a muffled sound Wolfwood can’t quite make out. Electing to ignore it, he hums along with the rising beats, settling into the couch next to Vash. A few words slipping out as the song begins to slow again, he raises his arm so Vash can settle against his chest. 

The singing soon fades away, a light instrumental taking its place. Wolfwood feels his eyes begin to shut, starting to drift off. The light in the room dulls as a few clouds cover the suns, everything bathed in a peaceful haze. 

A sudden jerk snaps the room back into focus. 

“What w’s that?” 

“Sorry,” Vash shrugs, snuggling deeper into Wolfwood’s chest. “Arm fell asleep.”

“Oh, s’all?” Clearing the sleep from his voice, Wolfwood lets his chin rest against Vash’s hair, breathing in the floral notes. As the rise and fall of his chest leaves them both slightly rocking, Wolfwood lets his eyes shut again. Still, a nagging suspicion keeps his consciousness focused on the form in his arms. 

Sure enough the shudder comes again, this time with an audible “engnkt-!” 

Gazing down, Wolfwood leans back to get a clearer view of Vash’s face. “Did you just sneeze?” 

Vash’s eyes are cloudy, his fingers still pinched round his nose. “S- sorry… I’b dot… dot fidished…. hH’ingkt-!” 

Letting his lips meet Vash’s forehead, Wolfwood whistles. The warmth is low enough that it was easily missed earlier. Combined with the shivers bounding through the frail form huddling in his arms, the fever is obvious. 

“Let ‘em out, blondie. Can’t have you blowin’ a fuse on me.” 

There’s no reply, but considering the panting, it’s not for lack of desire. Wolfwood feels his heart skip a beat as Vash’s canines peek out from between his lips. It’s not unusual for his teeth to show in a smile, but Vash isn’t the type to snarl, so watching them get bared is a rare pleasure. Dropping his fingers, Vash aims for cupped hands, spinning himself towards the couch.

“hh’kNZSHhuh-! hk’PTZSHh-! ARKSHh’oo-!” 

“Bless,” Wolfwood chuckles, the harshness never failing to get a jump outta him. They’ve never seemed fond of being held back, reaching a vocal quality the timid man producing them seems utterly incapable of. 

“Thagks.” 

“Are you sick, or is somethin’ settin’ you off?” Brushing loose strands from Vash’s forehead, the heat seems to have rapidly increased. “You feel a bit warm.” 

“It’s not-” Whatever denial Vash was attempting to produce fades away as his voice breaks, leaving him descending into a rough cough. He begins to lean away, attempting to aim himself towards the floor instead. A squeak breaks free as he slides towards the edge of the couch, only being saved as Wolfwood grabs his arm. 

“Vash.” 

The coughs halt immediately at the name, Vash’s head swinging around to face Wolfwood. The look that he gives could melt anyone, okay? It’s not a him problem, no one could resist those puppy-dog eyes. No one. 

“You sick?” 

With a faint nod, Vash sniffles again. His eyes begin to swim, lip quivering with what seems to be only half irritation. He knuckles his nose, a light huff slipping out. It’s obvious it wasn’t aimed at anyone but himself. 

“That’s not a crime, blondie,” Wolfwood pauses to cup Vash’s cheek, thumbing away a stray tear. “ I’m not gon’ be mad at you for gettin’ ill.” 

“B- but… if I get you sick, I’ll be mad at myself.”

Wolfwood chuckles, a smirk breaking loose as the corner of Vash’s mouth twitch up. He’s never been able to hear someone else’s laughter without joining in. “I won’t let you. Jus’ means you’ll get a chance to take care of me back.”

 “Back?” Vash pipes up, tilting his head in one of his many acts of pure innocence. Ironic, given all he’s capable of. Ever the walking contradiction. 

“Yup. Starting right now, you’re under my care.” Wolfwood grins, starting to sit up. Vash feigns a shudder, earning himself a light slap upside the head. Still, Wolfwood doesn’t miss the way his leg is bouncing again. 

“Vash.” 

Those eyes turn to look at him again.

“I love you.” 

Vash pales, the rose stain against his cheeks blooming up to his ears. It doesn’t matter how many times it’s said, blondie always reacts as if it’s a revelation. “I love you too, Nicholas.” 

Wolfwood slides onto the floor, standing up and pulling Vash close in one graceful movement. Suddenly playful, he lets his lips brush against Vash’s ear. “That’s my shirt, ya know.” 

Vash hums, leg going still. “Need to take it off me?” 

Wolfwood grins, lips greedily meeting Vash’s. He sighs against the feeling, the world dissolving away as the two draw closer until even they can’t tell where one ends and another begins. 

Finally Vash pulls away to direct a “knshhiew-!” into his collar. 

Catching his breath, Wolfwood addresses the earlier question. “For now, you can keep it. At least until you’re better. In case you need some motivation.” 

The laughter that follows pulls the air straight from Wolfwood’s lungs. 

There are moments that Wolfwood would swear Vash is born of the suns. 

[autumnalwalker]

Find the Word Tag

Thank you for the tag, @ahordeofwasps.

My words to find were open, onward, ongoing, & own.

Passing the (optional) tag to @meerawrites, @midnight-and-his-melodiverse, @dyrewrites, @sleepyowlwrites, @pluttskutt, and the usual open tag for anyone else reading this who wants to join in.

Your words to find shall be pillow, plant, particular, & perfection

Open: A Dream About An End To Loneliness

We have stopped for the night and I am in bed in my room alone, nearly asleep, when I feel light footsteps pressing into the blankets and mattress, stepping over me and settling down on the other side of me.  I roll over and open my eyes to find myself staring into twin glowing red pinpricks illuminating empty dried out sockets.  There is a mummified, bandaged, and animated corpse lying atop the bedsheets, resting its head on the pillow next to mine. 

I do not cry out.  I do not flee.  Perhaps I am just frozen.  Fear is not quite the right word for what’s thrumming through my veins.  Trepidation maybe?

She begins to speak softly.  Gently.  By her voice alone one might think her still alive and whole.  It does not occur to me until the next morning to question how she knows my language.  She is not angry at us for disturbing her rest, but grateful for being set free.  

We lie there whispering to one another into the small hours of the night, telling each other of our lives and worlds.  And, against all good sense, falling for one another.  We are both terribly lonely. 

Onward: The Archivist's Journal, Day 47

Once it was gone, Butat made an awed exclamation confirming the being I had just witnessed was in fact the Wandering God I had heard of.  With less caution than I would like to admit, but still more than Cass ran forward with, I moved to examine the fallen log that had been planted on the side of the trail.  Somehow half-expected, but no less amazing for it, green buds of new growth were forming on the jagged top.  In the time that it took for Daianna to finish urging us onwards I saw yet more new buds forming fast enough to be made out by the naked eye.

Ongoing: Empty Names - 7 - Compilation

“Most of these trees shouldn’t be growing together,” Eris observes aloud.  “You’ve got a white pine next to a mahogany, I’m pretty sure I saw a baobab back there, and,” she points at a nearby tangle of above-ground roots, “somehow you’re growing a mangrove without a coastline.  I’m not going to ask how, because I know the answer is just going to be some magic BS, but why?  Even with magic that still has to be a Hell of an energy expenditure to maintain.”

To Lacuna’s surprise, it’s Glassheart that answers the question in an awe-tinged voice.  “They’re all bridges.”

“Right on the first try, wizard boy,” says Bridgewood.  “We are right now walking through the eponym to the family name.”

Wait, wizard boy?  But he’s so…  Lacuna glances again at Glassheart practically gliding down the path before shoving down the implications of this particular case of gender envy for the time being.  As it is, she’s already flustered enough to almost miss the ongoing conversation.

Own: Kindly Basilisk

I spent a long time in front of that mirror in the ship’s head, memorizing every plane, curve, and angle of the precious gift you had given me.  I stared into its eyes, trying to see the both of us in there.  Over and over again, I traced my fingers along the borders of where you had once tried to mar the designed perfection in a failed attempt to mold the face into one that felt like your own.  You may have given up in favor of simply hiding it all, but to me it is all the more beautiful for its imperfections having been wrought by your touch.

[punchdrunkdoc]

Part 2, Chapter 15

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action/violence and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

Reference pics

————–

Posting this a bit early because I’m out of town the rest of the week.

Enjoy!

————–

PART 2

Chapter 15

20 minutes earlier…

Calina picked the lock on the rooftop access door, relying on feel rather than sight. She'd stashed her motorbike in an alleyway two blocks over, then scaled the back of her and Matt's apartment building under the cover of darkness. Suddenly waving a flashlight around up here would defeat all her attempts at stealth.

And she needed to be stealthy - if Volkov's men were watching this place, she couldn’t let them see that she'd returned.

The lock gave way with a quiet *snick* and Calina slipped down the stairs into Matt's apartment. It was empty, as expected. At this time of night, he’d be out Daredevilling, and would be gone for another few hours at least.

She dumped her bag on the floor and flicked on the lights…then stifled a laugh at the sight of the new sofa sitting in the middle of the living room - with the plastic wrap still on it.

“…the new couch was delivered yesterday. But I couldn’t bring myself to sit on it. It feels like our couch. And it didn’t feel right for it to be there, in the apartment, without you…the place feels so lifeless now. So cold and empty without you…”

The suppressed laughter turned into a sob and she covered her mouth to hide the sound. Her emotions were all over the place. And all the joy and love and guilt and fear that she was feeling kept spilling over as tears - she’d spent half of the four-hour ride here crying beneath her motorcycle helmet. Thankfully the roads were fairly deserted, so her blurred vision hadn’t endangered anyone apart from herself.

She just...needed to be here. Despite her annoyingly fragile emotional state, and her barely-healed wound, and the risks involved…she needed to be here.

She needed to see Matt.

Yelena had freaked out at the idea, of course. “It’s too dangerous! Volkov knows you spent months living in that apartment building - and now that we got rid of the trackers, its the only place he has to start his search for us.”

“I get that, Yelena,” Calina had argued. “But I still need to speak to Matt.”

“So call him!”

“I’ve been calling him. For hours! He won’t pick up.”

The moment she’d finished watching the footage of Matt’s confession…she’d pressed play and watched the whole thing again, unable to believe the words spilling from his lips.

“I deluded myself that I didn’t feel this way about you…”

“You need to wake up so that I can tell you I love you.”

“You’re…everything.”

“There was just something about you, standing there on that rooftop”

“I’ll always be here - if you’ll have me.”

“Please come back to me…”

Each line was a euphoric, impossible jolt of pure joy to her heart. And watching him say those words while clutching at her hand and stroking her cheek and pulling her into his arms to hold her all night had been like watching all her dreams play out before her.

He loved her.

He really and truly loved her.

He’d dropped everything to come to her. He’d put his life in the hands of women he barely knew and didn’t trust, and he’d bared his heart and his soul to her.

And then she’d ghosted him for a week and a half.

She couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling. He must think she was still angry with him. That she was still hurt by what Foggy said in the bar and was ignoring him on purpose.

After the second viewing of the footage, she’d scrambled off the bed and grabbed her phone then punched in the number she’d memorised months ago, desperate to tell him the truth - that she’d been sick. That she hadn't known about his visit. That she felt the same way he did.

But he never answered.

She’d paced the floor of her room, the device pressed against her ear as she listened to it ring and ring. She’d stood on the balcony and stared out over the harbour, the phone clutched in her hand as she’d tried again.

And again. And again.

But each time it just rang out.

And with each failed connection she started to worry that they’d missed their chance. That each miscommunication and separation was pushing the possibility of them further away.

The need to speak to him grew more urgent with each passing moment. Until she’d finally given up on the phone and grabbed her rucksack from under the bed. If he wasn’t answering…she would just go to him in person.

That’s how Yelena had found her - shoving clothes into her bag and trying to ignore the twinge of pain in her side from the rough actions. “At least wait a while,” Yelena had said, trying a different tack. “You only got back on your feet a few days ago.”

“I have to go now, Yelena. I can’t explain it - at least, not in any logical way. I just…need to go. I promise I’ll be careful. And I’ll be back as soon as I’ve talked to him.”

“So you are coming back?”

The hint of vulnerability in Yelena’s voice surprised Calina. She paused her packing to look at the other Widow, who seemed uncharacteristically…anxious.

“Yes, of course,” Calina answered. “I know the risks about staying in New York. I know it would just put Matt - and us - in danger.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“What’s this about, Yelena?”

Yelena picked at the chipped polish on her nails. “I was worried that you hated me. For what I did. And that you were leaving for good.”

Calina laughed bitterly. “You’re not exactly my favourite person in the world right now…but I don’t hate you. You made some choices - some very questionable choices, like dumping Matt in Connecticut and then not telling me - but I know you didn’t do it out of malice.”

Calina zipped up her bag and slung it over her shoulder then grabbed her winter biking gear from the closet. She stopped next to Yelena on her way out the door and issued the ultimatum she’d been contemplating ever since she found out what Yelena had done. “But you have to accept that Matt is part of my life now. You can’t keep making unilateral decisions that affect both him and me - especially decisions that serve to keep us apart. If you can’t do that, then I will find somewhere else to live.”

Yelena shook her head. “This is your home, Calina. As much as it is ours. I’ll…respect your relationship with Murdock.”

Calina squeezed Yelena’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Be safe.”

“I will.”

“And keep in contact. I don’t want to have to send any Widows to come find you in New York if you go off the grid.”

“I will,” Calina had repeated.

And in that spirit, she fired off a quick text message to Yelena and Katya: Arrived safely.

Then she shrugged out of her leather jacket and unzipped the heated liner underneath. It had done a good job of keeping her warm during the ride here but she was starting to feel over-heated in Matt’s cosy apartment.

She wandered over to the new couch and started stripping off the plastic wrap, eager to have something to do to pass the time. It felt wrong to just make herself at home again after everything that had happened…but she wasn’t sure what else to do while she waited for Matt to return.

Halfway through the task, there was a loud banging on the front door, quickly followed by Foggy’s bellowing voice. “Matt? You better be in here, you son of a bitch! MATT!”

Calina raced to the door and swung it open.

“Calina?” Foggy’s double-take at her sudden appearance would have been comical under other circumstances, but he looked frantic…and scared. And she started to get a very bad feeling.

“Foggy, what’s wrong?”

“Is Matt here?”

“No. I assumed he was out…doing what he usually does at this time of night.”

“Shit!”

Calina pulled him into the apartment and closed the door behind them. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

Foggy raked his hand through his hair. “I met up with a contact tonight, to see if he knew anything about our fear pheromone problem. And he did know something. Something bad.”

“What?”

“Whoever’s in charge of the operation - and my contact didn’t know that, unfortunately - knows we’re snooping around. They know Daredevil is snooping around. So they set a trap for him.”

“What kind of trap?”

“They’re going to lure Matt to some old base of theirs and blow it up.”

Calina's bad feeling exploded into full-on panic. “Where was Matt going tonight, Foggy? You guys must have narrowed the next location down by now. Where was he going?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be going anywhere tonight. He agreed to take a break - he hasn’t been doing so well these past couple of weeks.”

Guilt slammed into Calina, but she pushed it aside. There would be time for that later - once Matt was safe. “Regardless of what Matt was supposed to do, he’s obviously out there. So where, Foggy? Give me somewhere to look!” She was practically shouting at the other man, and she had to fight the urge to shake the information out of him.

“Down by the Chinese Consulate. But I’ve just come from there - there’s no sign of him.”

Calina pushed passed Foggy on her way to the stairs. “I’ll look again. I’ll look everywhere.”

She raced up to the roof and backtracked her earlier movements. Within minutes, she was swinging her leg over her bike and roaring down the street towards the Hudson. She didn’t have a plan beyond getting to Matt’s last known location then scouring the city - street-by-street and building-by-building if she had to.

But it turned out she didn’t need to. She’d only managed to travel a few blocks when thunder rocked the night and a fireball lit up the horizon.

Matt!

Calina stomach tried to lurch out of her throat. But she ignored the spike of terror and steered the bike towards the site of the explosion. She rolled the throttle and accelerated, veering in and out of the sparse traffic at a reckless speed.

Minutes later she skidded to a stop on the street behind the destroyed building. Her throat went dry as she imagined Matt beneath that flaming pile of rumble.

No. She couldn’t think like that.

Matt was smart. He wouldn’t have fallen for a trap like this. He would have made it out before it blew up. She just needed to find him - preferably before the sirens in the distance got here - and the best way to do that was from a high vantage point.

She dismounted her bike and ran through the lot behind the building - it looked like a taxi depot, with rows and rows of yellow cabs. She jumped up on one and used the extra height to grab the drain pipe of the adjacent building. She shimmied up it onto the roof then ran along the edge, peering over the side to survey the damage below. 

But her view was obscured by all the smoke.

“Matt, where are you?” she whispered, her voice tight with fear.

She swore as she saw the firetrucks peeling down the street. She heard sirens come from the opposite direction and swivelled her head to see a bunch of cop cars racing along the greenway.

And then a sliver of dark red caught her eye, peeking out from the other side of the water tower.

“Matt?” she called. “Is that you?”

There was no answer.

On alert now, she inched around the structure, until she could make out more than a sliver - it was an arm, clad in familiar material, holding an even more familiar baton.

She exhaled sharply in relief. “Matt.”

She reached out her hand to touch him…and he exploded into action.

He batted her hand away and swung his club in her direction. She ducked, and just managed to avoid taking a hit to the side of her head.

“Matt! It’s me!” She grabbed the baton before he could swing again, and hit the nerve cluster in his elbow. His fingers jerked as a result, making him drop the baton to the ground. The move had been a reflex on Calina’s part - she’d seen a weapon and disarmed its holder. And a moment later she was glad she had, because Matt attacked her again with a fast series of punches.

She blocked most of his strikes, but took a few hits to the arms and one that glanced off her cheek. “Matt!!” she yelled again, her voice desperate.

What was wrong with him?

Had he been dosed with the fear pheromone?

Her confusion led to a moment of distraction, which Matt used against her. He grabbed one of her arms and trapped her wrist. Then he spun her around and caught her other arm, pinning both behind her.

It was a familiar hold - and one she knew she could escape. She used her Aikido training to free herself and send Matt rolling to the ground.

He sprang to his feet again, but the move was clumsier than usual. Slower, and less graceful.

And that’s when she realised - he wasn’t in the grip of some adrenaline surge.

He couldn’t hear.

The blast from the explosion must have damaged his ears. She’d seen that type of injury before when one of the widows she’d trained with had strayed too close to a bomb while out on a mission. The Widow had suffered tinnitus for a week and never recovered her full hearing.

And she'd never returned to the Red Room as a result.

“Matt?” Calina called, testing her theory.

There was no response. He just stood in front of her looking lost and confused.

“Oh, Matt.”

He must be so scared. Without his hearing, he was as good as blind. She remembered what he was like when his ears were affected by the common cold. This must be a million times worse. A million times more disorientating and terrifying.

And she had no way of reassuring him that he was safe. No way of letting him know who she was - the minute she got close to him, he would interpret it as another attack.

The sirens were right below them now, and the night sky was lit up by the flames of the building next to them. They were completely out in the open, visible to anyone who looked up at this rooftop too closely. And she had no way to get him out of here if she couldn’t convince him who she was.

“C-Calina?”

At the sound of her whispered name, she nearly cried with relief. He recognised her somehow!

But he sounded so tentative and unsure, as if he couldn’t believe that it was true.

To be fair, from his perspective, her presence here was a little unexpected. She took a few steps closer to him, until his body blocked the warm heat radiating from the fire behind him. She carefully took his hand, and tugged of his glove, exposing his bare palm.

And she spelled out a single word in braille in answer:

YES.

He grabbed her hand and let out a shaky breath. Then he dropped his head to rest his forehead against hers. “Hi,” he breathed.

“Hi,” she replied, despite knowing he couldn’t hear her. She wound her arms around his waist and leaned into him, the waning adrenaline making her feel unsteady. She’d spent the last twenty minutes terrified that she would never see him again…

The thought made her clutch him tighter.

He seemed to need the contact as much as she did. He wrapped his own arms around her shoulders and dragged her close, until every inch of them was pressed together. He dipped his head and buried it in the crook of her neck. He breathed deep, as if trying to capture her scent, but ended up barking out a series of hacking coughs instead as whatever was in his airways protested.

She leaned back and used her hands to lift his head up, wanting to look at him properly. Black soot rimmed his nostrils and there were streaks of ash on his skin. There were no major injuries that she could see, but she’d need to get him home to check more thoroughly.

And they needed to get off this roof before anyone saw them.

She grabbed his palm again and tapped out the braille for ‘GO’, trying to use as few a words as possible to get her message across.

It seemed to work. He nodded and grabbed her hand. “Lead the way,” he croaked out. It sounded like he was trying to make light of the situation, but she knew him. She knew how much his helplessness must be killing him.

She squeezed his hand and used it to guide him along the rooftop, back the way she’d came. Luckily, the first responders were all congregated at the front of the building, and the back route was still clear.

But getting Matt down to ground level would take a bit of work. They couldn’t descend the drain pipe she’d used earlier - Matt’s spatial awareness had been thrown off by his deafness and there was too much risk that he’d fall.

So she found the access door leading to the stairs and kicked it open. Then the two of them slowly descended through the - thankfully - deserted building. When they reached ground level, she disengaged the tight grip he had on her hand and tapped out another single word, ‘WAIT’.

He nodded so she took a couple of steps away, ready to scope out the street for any bystanders…but he immediately tensed up, his hands clenched by his sides, and his his head locked at an angle, as if he was desperately trying to hear the world around him.

The sight of him - the man who normally seemed so strong and invincible - standing there, seemingly lost without her guiding touch made her heart ache.

She rushed towards him again, uncaring of the time she was wasting, and the risk she was taking with their safety. She grasped his head in her hands, leaned up, and pressed her lips against his cheek. She lingered there in the kiss, trying to convey everything that she couldn’t say with words. She wanted him to know that she knew he was scared, but she was with him. That he could trust her. She would get him home.

That she loved him.

He leaned into the contact, his own hands latching on to her waist and holding tight.

After several long moments, she broke away and approached the front door. She checked the street outside, but it seemed deserted - all the action was taking place around the corner where the firefighters were still tackling the blaze.

She twisted the lock and stepped outside. She raced to her bike and wheeled it closer to the door, then rummaged through the top box for her windbreaker. It was sized to cover her bulky winter riding gear, so it should hopefully fit Matt and hide his suit on the ride home.

She dashed back into the building and shook out the coat. She guided one of Matt’s arms through the sleeve, and he seemed to grasp what was happening because he took over and slipped the jacket on. It was snug across his broad shoulders and wouldn’t zip up, but it would do the trick.

The last thing to do was remove his mask - there was no point hiding his suit if he still looked like The Devil from the neck up. She reached up and tucked her thumbs under the edges of the mask - and his hands immediately shot up to stop her.

She paused, and brought her thumbs down to stroke his cheeks, trying to calm his fears - it must make him feel even more vulnerable to be without that last layer of protection.

She kept caressing his face, running her fingers over his cheeks and his lips, even down the back of his neck where she pressed into the knotted muscles beneath his skin. She kept soothing him with her touch until she felt his spike of anxiety pass.

Eventually he nodded and dropped his hands, permitting her to remove his mask. The fact that he didn’t do it himself, but left it to her, felt symbolic of…something.

Something she really didn’t have time to contemplate just now.

She allowed herself a second to smile at his ruffled hair, before smoothing it down, knowing how much the wayward strands annoyed him. Then she pulled the hood up over his head, grabbed his hand again and led him onto the street.

She guided him onto the back of the motorcycle then slipped into the space in front of him. His arms immediately wrapped around her waist, and she smiled again. Her grin widened further once she kick-started the engine and accelerated away from the burning building.

Away from danger, and towards home.

Matt shifted his weight until his front was pressed against her back, and tightened his hold on her. She had the feeling it had nothing to do with the unfamiliar mode of transport, and everything to do with being close to her.

She knew the feeling.

She leaned back against him and tilted her head to the side, allowing him to rest his chin on her shoulder. She ignored the smoke and ash she could smell on his skin and tried to imagine they were just two people in love riding together through the streets of New York for the sheer joy of it.

Maybe she could convince him to try this again, under better circumstances. Once they’d cleared the air between them. And once the Widows had resolved the Volkov situation and she was free to live her life again, maybe they could just…enjoy each other. Without mind control and misunderstandings and explosions.

They could just be two people in love.

The thought kept her warm as they sped through the cold, dark night.

----------

Chapter 16

Be sure to check out the reference page - updated with the building on Google maps that I decided to blow up!

@hollandorks @acharliecoxedfan @yanna-banana @tearoseart-blog​ @chezagnes​ @stilldreaming666​ @freckledbabyyy​ 

If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!

[futureplayboibunnie]

Okay, what about extreme hateful, angry, rough sex? Like they absolutely despise each other…..

Maybe at the end they maybe fuck all the anger out and give a relationship or whatever a try bc I love hate sex that leads to them liking each other 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

BUT STILL ROUGH ANGRY HATE SEX THAT MAKES YOU WANT TO REPENT BC ITS SO NASTY

… plz.

‘Good’

YESSS I LOVE WRITING THIS KIND OF HORNY SHIT <33

Screaming your lungs out would not do you justice. Your patience was ebbing away, nails forming crescents into your skin as your fists turned into a ball, aching to just punch something. Anything. Preferably Stephen Strange's face. Anger is dysfunctional- and you weren't party to playing happy family.

The Avengers came back to the compound after leaving you behind on a mission. You had waited for hours for them to come back; happy to give them all a verbal tongue lashing, but your machinations were only on Stephen. They had locked you in your room like you were some naughty child behaving badly but it was Stephen: he planted that little seed in their heads- that you were unfit to go on the battlefield.

You had all day to sit on it and you wanted to hear it from the horses mouth. You could no longer stomach his antics, his need to pull the rug from under you and make you believe that you weren't worthy of being a part of any of this. You knew he barely spent any time in his room at the Compound so when he was there you had to take your chance. It was late, he would be leaving anytime soon- so you barged through his door and it looked like he was gathering up some things to take back to the Sanctum.

‘’Hey sweetheart, hope you weren't twiddling your thumbs all day and made yourself useful for once while we weren't here.’’ His never ending condescending tone made fire course through your viens- hell hath no fury like you being scorned. Your face contorted into an unrelenting frown.

‘’Son of a bitch!’’ You slapped him. Hard. Intense. His jaw made of glass and brittle as bone. The type of slap he'd feel ringing in his cheek for days at a time. Stephen let out a sharp exhale- the prick was smiling down at you. Looking down at you as if you were worth nothing.

‘’Princess…What's got you all riled up like this?’’ He was mocking you as if he were talking to a child with no self control. That crooked half smile on his face only confirming the fact, he raised his hands to his chin to readjust his jaw.

‘’You know damn well why you bastard. Are you that scared of me? Scared that I'm stronger than you or scared that I'll make you look weak in front of the others?’’ You seethed, blood burning cold and curdled at the entire sentiment of jealousy.

‘’Weak or strong, you're still hot. Too bad your personality is as appealing to me as shit on my shoe.'' Stephen said huskily and you couldn't control the way your palm met his stupid face once more- even harder and even more brutal than the last time.

Stephen chuckled lowly, his hatred for you was as brutal as could be.

You were such a stick up his ass and always ready to pick a fight with him. Dear God everytime you walked into a room his head swirled like wildfire, his rage amplified tenfold and he didn't know how to control it.

You were a tick under his skin, crawling around causing havoc for thrill of it. He didn't trust you on missions and you didn't trust him; it was a constant game of chess and he got you in checkmate with just a few little whisperings of how unreliable you could be, always wandering off and never being where you needed to be.

Maybe it was because you were stronger than him. Maybe it's because of how immensely attractive you were. There were multiple narratives of you he had spun in his head like a muddy web, crossing and layering at every given chance. Stephen's hate for you and his desire for you. It was his cross to bare everytime he was near you.

And now you were here, short perfumed breath and an impossible fraying temper. He was hateful of his desire, he resented the fact he would want someone so different than him and it was driving him mad.

‘’To what end? Because I'm willing to go as many rounds with my hands as I need to, Stephen. Do not test me right now.’’ Your warning was the truest thing you've ever uttered and your skin tightened.

He was impossible. A dick. A pompous asshole that was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and expects everyone to bow down at his feet. Your revenge was amped and ready to go but you noticed many fleeting moments where you just looked at him. It was objective a fact- he was nice to…observe.

And at all the parties women fawned over him, you weren't jealous…you were sure of it.

Stephen grapsed onto your upper arm and pulled you closer to him. Tight. Your death stare was anything but welcoming and it made his jaw tick.

‘’How many rounds?’’ He gazed down at you with a wicked gleam in his eyes-something you deemed as suggestive.

The prick was looking at you as if you were a full course meal.

‘’Until I'm satisfied.’’ You gritted through clenched teeth, he could practically hear the bones crunching against each other. His grip was tighter on your skin and you were unsure as to why your heart was thundering at such a fast pace.

‘’Until you're satisfied?’’He repeated after you as if a deviant plan was forming in his head. You were warped back to reality as his other hand traced over your face slightly and lifted up your chin to connect intense gazes once more, your eyes darkened into the abyss of his powder blue.

You spat in his face as recompence and he recoiled. Taken aback by your brazen nature but ultimately not surprised. Stephen didn't know what to say, he just wanted to act. He needed to do not say. He watched you, unblinking and speechless as he wiped his face.

He spun you around by the arm that was holding onto you ever so tight, your rediculously defined ass pressing into his crotch as vour back was to his front. Stephen revelled in your surprised gasp that fell from your throat.

‘’See, we keept doing this little dance of death. Isn't that right?’’ Stephen's hands played with the hem of your shirt, teasing you with every feather light touch- pulling you in with touches you could barely register. You sighed and tensed up.

‘’Now you decide to get all tense on me? You were so relaxed slapping up my face.’’ He tutted, reprimanding you in a way you were so familiar with, but in this setting and in a compromising position like this it was crossing unknown territory. It felt so foreign but so good. ‘’How about I slap yours?’’ Stephen's hand darted up to your neck in a matter of seconds as he growled into your ear- holding onto your neck and tugging it back in a cupid's chokehold.

‘’Dare I sense hateful pining?’’ You muttered, a small yet salacious smile adorning your lips as your eyes were cast down.

‘’Hateful? Yes. Pining? Maybe.’’Stephen's coarse palms slowly travelled up your shirt and he felt your little heart beating and thrumming throughout your whole body. He felt goosebumps embalm your skin and he was pleased he was getting this bodily reaction from you.

‘’Have I wanted to fuck the attitude out of you? Yes. Very.’’ He whispered hotly into your neck and began teasing you by peppering kisses on your neck and like clockwork you melted into him.

You swiftly turned around to view the look on his face.

‘’I already regret this.’’ You exhaled and finally captured your lips on his and the sweet release of months of pent up agression made everything worth it. Your fingers tangled in his hair and it made his mouth open up.

Sweet Jesus, he tasted good.

He thought your kiss was impossibly toxic, so good yet so bad- he felt naughty for wanting you like this but his egomaniacal self thought he deserved it. Stephen waited a long time for you and now it was his time to savour every moment of you. Stephen's hands gripped onto your delectable waist and pulled off your shirt and his too.

Dear God, his chest. You wanted to lick sugar off of his ridiculously defined torso.

Stephen let a chuckle escape his throat as you toppled onto him and onto his bed, straddling him with your kisses binding you together again like a moth to a flame. He was bad to the bone, sick as a dog- manhandling you with a delicious vigour you'd never experienced before. He pushed you into him and you could feel a prominent bulge underneath you, smiling at the fact.

‘’Someone's excited.’’

In response, he pushed you back down onto the bed and nestled between the sweet nectar of your thighs. You felt yourself going lightheaded as your head hit the pillow, it was all happening so fast and you were craving the intoxicating neverending rush of it all. This felt like too natural an outcome- of course you'd find common ground by finding each other mutually attractive.

‘’You don't get to be all snippy with me baby. Not when I'm the only one capable of making you feel good.’’ He whispered menacingly as he kissed your jaw and peeled your remaining clothes off- leaving you in your bra and underwear. The way he called you baby made your heart dip.

‘’Good? Really? That's such a weak word.’’

'Don't be smart.' Stephen sounded intensely annoyed with you but wasn't that what you wanted? You had the insight to undo your bra to be rid of it - so he could feel you quicker.

‘’I'm just impatient.’’ You scowled and that just pushed him further the way he pinned your arms onto the bed by your wrists, the pinch was unnerving as it was attractive.

‘’So am I.’’ Stephen's voice was tight and thick, so matter of factly in such a husky manner. And with that he flipped you over and adjusted you to his preferred position- the position in which he could pull on your hair the easiest. You perched yourself up and leaned on your hands.

He slapped your ass and he smiled at the way your skin turned pink under his palm. Holy fuck, you were so malleable and bendy under him and the arch of your back told him all he needed to know. Your moan was incandescent, so held back and restricted as if you didn't want to embarrass yourself at how good he was making you feel; how tightly he had you under his thumb.

‘’Don't keep it in- don't be embarrassed about it. Give in to me, will you do that for me?’’ Stephen reeled his aggression back in to ask you, but you could still detect his mocking charm- you bit your lip, a little admament at first until you nodded your head.

Stephen slapped you again and then you let those noises that you were holding in escape your throat and he thought it was beautiful. He didn't spent too much time shimmying off your underwear- he practically ripped it off your body and the friction of the elastic burned your skin. He was revelling in the fact he had you in this position- that he had the opportunity of taking you and you were willing to give yourself to him so willingly after all the arguments you shared. This was a very pleasant outcome from all the animosity.

He bent down and fawned over your body to breathe hotly into your ear and neck, you melded perfectly into him. He peppered kisses from your shoulder to your shoulder blade before ultimately biting it. You whined as you felt the indents on your skin. He pulled your hair with just one hand and pushed you to the edge and he wasn't even inside you yet, how was he even able to do that?

‘’You're so pretty when you actually listen to me, huh?’’ Stephen's voice was bringing you back to his sacred space.

‘’Mhm...’’You whimpered pathetically, your lip quivering.

With his other free hand, he let his cock spring free and it was painfully hard- almost sore with his ache for you. Stephen pulled harder on your hair and it was the type of manhandling your cunt couldn't handle- you were clenching around nothing, so when he entered you...all you could sense were fireworks alighting inside of your body. You coated him in your wetness and of course he perked up at that, you were soaked.

‘’Isn't this what you wanted?’’He gritted as he set a ruthless pace and your body felt limp under him, so overwhelmed at how good it was feeling.

‘’Fine! Yes! Dear God, I want it- feel so...good.’’ You almost screamed, your throat feeling hoarse and raw- you could barely keep your balance at his brute force.

You knew he would be aggressive- it was in his nature, but this was the type of fucking you could only dream of.

Stephen was eating at you from the palm of his hand- you were so sweet and so wet. You were clenching around him relentlessly- so close to the precipice, the summit, the climax he was dragging out of you. When he spanked your ass again, you felt yourself begin to spiral. His hands still roping at your hair was only amplifying the raw truth.

‘’So tight. Pretty girl.’’His grunts were drowning out his actual words but you heard it still and even though your cheeks were heat seeped with sex, you blushed.

That alone made you let go and into free fall, you came with a scream and began leaking onto him. The sheer silhouette, the sheer feeling of you made him follow you in your undoing. You didn't realize how intoxicating you were, a mystery and now he had a puzzle piece, a missing key. He couldn't deny that he felt really special to having bedding you.

You don't think you've ever came that fast or that you were actually even capable of coming. Your lungs were filled and you felt like they were going to explode due to the pressure of how deeply you were breathing. As he rolled off of you your body went limp and the side of your face was buried into the pillow as you lay yourself down.

Stephen's slow intakes of air made you feel like you did a number on him the way he did to you. You both stared into the ceiling contemplating what to say.

‘’Good enough for you?’’ He asked deadpan.

‘’A lot better actually.’’ You finally found yourself admitting defeat. ‘’I wouldn’t shy away from letting this happen again.’’

Stephen’s eyes held a glint of wonder and surprise. He thought he should risk embarrassment and press his luck, which was probably not the smartest thing to do but you got him all…dizzy.

‘’Maybe I could… take you out.’’ He said quietly with his gaze cast down- kind of hoping you couldn’t hear. You obviously did and turned your head to face him.

‘’Like a date?’’ Your voice couldn’t hide your shock.

He gazed into your beguiling eyes.

‘’Yes.’’ He stated simply.

‘’I may just take you up on that.’’

—-

[tendertenebrosity]

Another Hollow piece! Masterpost for this character is here. This is just some getting-to-know-you.

While the sun was up and shining green through the canopy, I spent an hour or so wading in the streambed until my legs were numb with cold below the knees, gathering specifically shaped stones. Then I spent another half hour arranging them just so.

I ran my hand over the piece of wood I’d scavenged from the fallen giant the other day. Wide and flat, as long as my arm. Almost straight. I hoped it would work; I spend another period of time fiddling with it trying to get it to sit stable on top of the stones.

I wracked my brains thinking of what to offer, trying to recall the stories my grandparents had told, the things people left in fairytales. I didn’t have much.

I used my belt-knife to cut a lock of hair. A pretty stone I had found a few days ago and carried in my pocket, banded in white and red. After a minute’s deliberation, I picked a double handful of starry white flowers and pretty ferns, tied it into a posy with a loose thread from my shirtsleeve, and left it in the centre.

I knelt in front of my makeshift altar, feeling a little foolish.

“This does not really count.”

Something touched my ankle, making me jump despite myself. You’d think I’d be used to the forest god jumping out of every shadow by now, but in my defence, this time it was a snake.

“No?”

“No. Everything that you have is technically mine already.”

I hummed, bowing my head. I had felt the god’s attention looming over me the entire time I had been constructing the altar, in a way I didn’t usually, unless I was doing something very important. “Yeah, but you like it anyway. Don’t you?”

The snake, thin and banded in different shades of green, wound delicately over the stones that propped up the altar, lifting a coil up onto the flat surface. It investigated the flowers and the red and white rock with a flickering tongue.

I remained silent, awaiting its judgement. Maybe I should have offered something else. Maybe I should’ve waited to do this until I had something better.

“It is… good to see again,” the god said, sounding grudging. “Even though it does not count.”

I let out my breath carefully.

“That pile of armour, and jewellery, and stuff,” I said carefully. “The one you let me take things from the other day. People left you that, at altars like this?”

“Yes. Many other offerings as well, but the things that were not metal or stone have long since decayed.”

“Is that the sort of gift you like, then? I wasn’t… really sure what you would do with jewellery. Is it useful to you?”

“It isn’t about it being useful,” the snake said. It heaped shining coils on top of the banded rock. “It’s about it being offered to me. ”

“I… see.”

I sat there for a minute longer, my legs protesting, but this seemed important enough to put up with a little aching thighs for. The snake had settled into motionlessness on top of the altar, the red stone underneath it, and I wondered how much I should read into that.

Did it like the stone best because I had carried it longer than the flowers? Because I had thought it valuable enough to hold onto?

Maybe it just liked being in the sun. Maybe the god’s presence had left it and it was just doing what snakes did. I wished it had chosen a slightly more emotionally evocative mouthpiece for this conversation.

“If you had a choice,” I said. “If you could get rid of the humans, send the boats back or… whatever. Would you?”

The snake’s tongue flickered. “No. Why would I do that?”

“Well, we are a lot of trouble.” I looked down at my hands, curled into loose fists against my knees. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. You were… very angry.”

“You did not ask.” The snake resettled its coils. “Neither to be present, nor to take, and those trees were very old. You should have made very valuable offerings to even ask permission to take them, and you gave nothing. I thought I had explained this. If your kind would only adhere to the rules, there would be no conflict between us.”

“Right. Of course.” I looked at the altar. And if humans left again, there would be nobody to make you offerings.

And you miss it.  

“If if would please you,” I said, “I can bring things here sometimes - just until the villages start to make their own. I know, I know, it doesn’t count, but if you’d like it….”

The snake was silent and still as a few long seconds ticked by.

“You may do that,” it said eventually. “It does not displease me.”

I bowed my head. “I will, then.”

[sir-arlieosaurus-lung-struggler]

Unconventional: A Short Story of Hiding in Plain Sight

Is a short essay written in 2023 on my personal struggles being Native American and AroAce, and how both subjects intersected in a small window of time.

Disclaimer⚠️:

anti-Native American racism

Use of "noble savage"

I think its fairly good, weather the writing is good or not i think it has a good message anyway.

Notes:

In the writing I use the name Wallace to refer to myself, but for context I present fem & still mostly go by my birthname, the people talking to me were using my birthname.

Info aluding to location is removed.

This also relates to my expiriences as a trans person but I'm closited to most people, so is not included

The names of others is changed cause it was fresh at the time and i didnt want to hassle reporting them.

Slightly edited from origonal

History has always been one of my favorite subjects. There isn't much reason aside from that the past fascinates me. Native units are different though. I was ecstatic! Beforehand, that is.

Walking into class on the second day, I already dreaded sitting down, only to be called an "American Indian" through the scribbles of graphite on worksheets. The teacher listed name after name of tribes nearby, he got to a tribe with a well known casino, its famous add campaign was shouted out from the kid beside me, with near no objection. All we are to them; our casino's tagline.

All throughout page after page, side conversation to worksheet, "Indian" rang through my head like the caws of blue jays. Imagine the discovery of discomfort displacing you far from anyone's mind when your history teacher reads blindly from a paper without a second thought.

Through the day, peeve soaked my clothes and I stomped on every drip and caw with the vexation of a murder of flustered crows as I ducked through crowded halls.

I wasn't even there. Not that I made that known.

I wasn't content to sit angerly in my hamster wheel of a head, If I was going to be angry, I didn't want to go through it alone, I was happy to at least vent to someone.

I sat down later for advisory, still soaked in irritation head to toe, I yanked my computer out of its sleeve and clanked at its keys till my frenzied fingers were sore, all class I deliberated my days into a lengthy group-chat email. Saying I was- am annoyed is an understatement, my eyes were incandescent as I slammed down each key. Whether I had history work or not I didn't care enough to do it, I wasn't in the mood to be called an "American Indian" for the next half hour by a paper for answering X Y & Z. I value my sanity over that any day.

I trampled the keyboard with every example I could think of, the textbooks, the kid next to me, the fact that in any history class I've been in all the natives are put under the blankets of numbers. I ended my rant venting, "Sorry if this is out of the blue or off topic or if I 'ruined tha vibe' or whatever maybe I'm just 'over-exaggerating' but I don't care right now… I can only hope we get more than a geography lesson in this unit." I took off my obnoxiously bright hat to see my Aro and Ace pride pins lining its rabbit face.

I've always "identified" as native, there was just never much else. Dads side is just smaller, and out of touch with one another. None of them ever talk.

My weekdays are spent looking at my grandmothers' walls, beadwork, and Formline, and family photos framing it from corner to corner. I've always been a Tlingit Kid. Through my mom and generations of women back till who knows when, I am my clans child. But my dad's side of the family being white, and me taking more after him, the impression I get, when I tell some people I'm native, is that I'm one of those "my grandmother was a Cherokee princess" girls. And that just puts me off from telling people I don't know in the first place.

Once a girl responded to my invisible native-ness with "... so you're white?" I can taste her entitlement every time I repeat her, as if she were owed any sort of "truth." What's the point? What do you want? To see proof of my brown family? My tribal ID? Me to wear my regalia 24/7? My blood quantum painted on a sign above my head?

In attempts to connect with my roots I picked up a book from the library, #ImNotYourPrincess seemed interesting by its title. There was one page that stuck to my skin. "It's strange to me how people always want me to be an "authentic Indian" when I say I'm kanyen'keha:ka. They want me to look a certain way, act a certain way. They're disappointed when what they get is.... just me. White faced, light haired... They want my culture behind glass in a museum. But they don't want me. I'm not Indian enough..." that page was part of the poem, Invisible Indians, by a Mohawk woman named Shelby Lisk.

Advisory September 29, still angered from history just an hour beforehand, I was already unamused with my day. Sitting down for class, I noted down any other things I'd heard from my peers for safekeeping on a word document. Today there was nothing, but I was irritated so I noted any semblance that could have been something as an angered precaution.

From there I went with the motions and hid my face from the dim windows and lights to avoid a worsened headache. I sat to chip away at the little work I had, seeing as it was a Friday, only to be met with an unwelcome whine of my name. "Wallace? Wallace? Wallace? Hey Wallace?" It rang in my worn-out ears like early morning bird disputes from the trees, "Wallace? Wallace? Waaaaaaaalllaaaaaace? Don't be rude Wallace. Wallace Wallace? Wallace?" Frustrated in giving him the time of day, I swiveled my chair in Gabriel's direction for just enough time to send the message of hey, bud I hear you, and twirled back, my face growing more and more sour as the moments inch by. All just for him to spit "Anthony likes you!" For the whole class to feast their ears upon.

His caws stained my expression as we shuffled our chairs around and he continued "Wallace? Waalaace?" We moved again, and without fail he still was in his territorial dispute with the neighboring crows. Get my name out of your mouth I thought. I just continued to angrily lean tired on tables.

We shuffled chairs again, (admittedly this advisory was, not productive.) too tired to take it much further than I already had shoved it, I pulled it past the backpacks flopped on the floor and stopped it by the counters on the wall. Another voice, chimed in "You like Jacob, right? That's why you're sitting so close to him?"

I sat with my right leg crossed over my left, my shoulders slouched to the back of my chair. All I could muster was a glare and stern "No."

The class ended, nothing productive coming as a result of it, and I continued onto lunch.

As I walked the hall, my tiresome time trickled down my cheeks. I was done. I crimpled my face in my light blue hood and sleeves and broke my voice as I shrunk on my lunch. A moment went by when I heard a voice through my whimpers.

"Are you ok?" Rea was sat at the other side of the table with her friends, all seeming concerned.

Through my hiccups I answered. "No." I've always wondered, why even ask? By the time you want to ask you've already answered your own question. That's my case anyway. As I explained my past few days, I was practically reciting the email I wrote yesterday. How I'm not an Indian, the kid at the other table in 1st period, how in my nine years in schooling all the white men had the privilege of being referred to by name while all us sliver of native kids had to go off outside our families is Billy Frank JR. How I wanted enough respect to not have words put in my mouth. How I already have enough on my plate. How I was overwhelmed.

Rea and her friends watched me concernedly as I sat shivering. They let me go on with my rant till I crumbled past speech, and they had some room to ask, "Do you want a hug?"

"Yeah."

I stood up in anticipation. She speed-walked over in open arms, her friends following close behind her. And we hugged in the aisles of lunch tables as she let me cling to her back and cry on her leather shoulder.

I doubt they anticipated many native kids' reading the textbook, not like there's many of us here, four of us in the whole thousand-plus kid school.

Being called something I'm not, in more ways than one, just felt- I couldn't explain it. The concept was quite earthly, grounded to me. But putting it to words others could understand, and so that I understood that feeling before sharing it, was foreign.

Later that night, I wrote to myself and the void in a journal on my phone (was what i said for the school asignment, it was really tumblr drafts). About my eventful last few days, my frustration, my exhaust, and I said as much. Reflecting on my week, I wanted to have a vocalization of just how, weird it felt. I doubt Anthony "liked" me, I barely knew his name, let alone had we talked. The concept of someone liking me romantically is foreign, unwelcomed. Can't be controlled by either side, still just as off-putting.

I image they were antagonizing Anthony alongside me whether he did "like" me, it or not. I don't make it too well known verbally, but I'm Aromantic. No romantic attraction. In my case specifically the type where any romance involving me feels, for lack of better, more concise words, gross. It's purely alien to me. I just don't understand it.

My first "crush" was conveniently chosen at the end stretch of kindergarten. It was almost cartoonish how much I faked it, even to myself.

By the time 6th grade rolled around, I had counted about 5 "crushes" up to that point. I made it to my 4th period world history class and while playing "would you rather" I talked with a girl who agreed that pineapples on pizza was delicious, we concluded it was because their sweet-savory-ness. We were sat close together, and we talked a lot. I figured out she was gay from her telling me she was excited to meet her crush at the park later for a mini date. I didn't even care there was "someone else" I was just perfectly happy that she was so happy. I felt weird, not feeling weird, but it took another year to read between the lines, to figure out it was admiration and close companionship. (And more like queerplatonic attraction, but I didnt want to delve into ALL that for a school asignment)

The night of the 30th, it took till I was pacing lost in thought and song lyrics till I thought of how to word it, "Just the idea of someone feeling a romantic way about me feels gross. Let alone a kid 1 barely know... like it feels so gross I wish I was more articulated to explain it, the best synonym I have at the moment is that I need a shower. It feels like, sticky- like the equivalent of I just got dunked in syrup and it dried a bit then my hair being covered in gum to the point I may as well just shave it."

I realize now, I'm not any of these people's "truth," I'm not what they expect. I'm native, but I'm not dark. I don't want to be a prince charming, or to be "saved" by one. I'm not what any of them name me. I'm not a "hostile Indian" or, better yet "Noble Savage" (both attributed to a documentary we watched in class). I'm not going to find "the one" nor do I want to. I'm not the words they put in my mouth, what they decide I am.

The days moved on. The class moved on.

The boys mostly stop bothering me.

The second of October, a new kid at the same table as add reading kid, chirped the headline of my morning, "If these people were still around today, Bugs Bunny would be their god." The only context I had was I think they were talking about aspecific region that used rabbits a lot in clothing and food, but the statement they were gone was laughably triggering.

From there kids didn't say much else. All I heard was my personal broken record.

From then on, I made sure I had my Aro and Ace pins, and my native pride shirts as often as possible, to show what I really am. At least if people don't know what the pins are they can assume I'm somehow queer and back off. At least I started wearing the pins at home. Not that many people would notice; or know what any of it means to me. But at least someone would. At least I know there are 3 more of us here, somewhere. Hiding in plain sight. At least I ultimately don't care for why people I don't know would care enough to comment. Or why I comment on them in all honesty. At least I can decide it doesn't affect me so I can scrub the stains gone. At least I have pretty good luck charms. At least I have Redbone's Come and Get Your Love.

I don't think its that I don't like history anymore, more often than not, I've learned, my favorite part of history is what is never taught.

[flammelikeshookdust]

Damn who is the new blorbo, share with the class. He sounds interesting.

Aaaah sorry or the late reply, didn't get the ask notification on mobile 🙄

Now, about this new blorbo *cracks knuckles* Like I was saying on that other post, I recently rewatched the 10th Kingdom, a kinda obscure 5 parts mini series that I'd watched once as a kid when it aired on tv, and asolutely adored. I then spent the next two decades desperately searching for a piece of media that would make me feel the exact same way that this show had at the time. Also could not for the life of me remember the title, and I had half convinced myself that this whole series was a fever dream and that it didn't actually exist. Skip to a couple of weeks ago, where I saw a random tumblr post mentioning this series, awakening all my memories of it, then I found that all 5 parts of it were available for free on youtube. Thus began my obsession with the 10th Kingdom again, and more specifically with Wolf. My best friend. My pal. My homeboy. My rotten soldier. My sweet cheese. My good time boy. Wolf is the love interest of our main girl. He's also a werewolf. Half-wolf. I don't know. He's got a tail. He sometimes grows fangs. His eyes can change colors. He howls when he's sad, he growls when he's angry/horny, he scratches his head, he tries to cook grandmothers, he says "huff puff". He's basically the big bad wolf from fairy tales but played by a normal looking guy. Yeah cause I haven't mentioned it yet, but the 10th Kingdom is just a seven hours long love letter/parody of fairy tales. Think similar to Shrek. Or Once Upon a Time. With over the top acting, terrible special effects, and a plot that's either very dumb and silly, or rips your heart out, there is no inbetween. Also it's very horny. Again especially with Wolf. I cannot overstate how not subtle the show is with this, from the acting to the dialogue. When I watched it as a kid, these parts completely flew over my head though, so I still consider it a family friendly show. Anyway, this show also has prolematic elements (my main beef with it is that the only POC actors we see in it play trolls. The trolls are very cool though), and just in general, it's very much a product of its time. However, I still love it, and I think it's worth giving it a try, especially since it's all on youtube for free. Sorry, this ended up being more of a propaganda post for the 10th Kingdom in general 😅 But yeah, Scott Cohen as Wolf really did a great job making him a compelling and likeable character. He manages to be creepy and funny and touching, and you can tell he was having a lot of fun in this role. I lowkey wish I could draw a hookdust 10th Kingdom au but the vibes are so different, I don't think it would work. I guess Wolf and James are both tormented guys with a dark and destructive side to them. But James is a manipulative prick, whereas Wolf is completely unable to pretend.