#lamb has to cope somehow

[lil-vibes]

im a firm believer that Narinder has rizz but its the kind where he casually says stuff that he perceives as something glaringly obvious and then if you look to the side Lambert is close to exploding

[bi-shop]

i am desperately trying to think of a name for this au but all i could think of is 'get on the whirlwind' and i hate that i couldn't think of anything better please god i need to think of a good name before i tag these

penny lamb , the unluckiest girl in town (=> mischa) - she never got a break in st. cassians no words can describe the amount of bullying she faces . the only reason she wasn't left unidentified is because she has foster parents instead of being left by herself and ezra

"c?" (=> jane) - she was nice . forgot a lot of things including her own name . only remembers the 'happy memories'

ocean o'connell rosenberg , the fiercest girl in town (=> ricky) - got a pretty bad leg fracture that made her slow down on her game , which ruined her as she no longer lives up to her own high expectations . somehow more unbearable than before yet stopped insulting people ?

mischa blackwood bachinski , the gentlest boy in town (=> constance) - was put in a good loving environment so he isn't filled with rage . still , trying to cope with the death of his mother and feeling like he doesn't belong in uranium was tough

richard potts , the most artistic boy in town (=> noel) - has jumped to creating by doing art and writing to make the most of his short life . if he's going to go he'll at least release the stories in his head first

noel gruber , the most determined boy in town (=> ocean) - studies hard so he could leave uranium to move to france . partly because uranium sucks and partly because he'll go there to do drag , why would i Not include his historical oc monique gibeau

you can guess which one i had the most fun developing

feel free to ask anything ! i do put a lot of thought into this !

also virgil and karnak because i Have to include them ... has anyone thought of swapping any of the choir kids with karnak yet

[jolenes-doppelganger]

Reflected Through the Looking Glass (Part Two)

Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman) x fem! Reader

NSFW 18+- MINORS WHO INTERACT CAN AND WILL BE BLOCKED.

Summary: Lucifer’s pretty little angel learns a few things; never trust too quickly, and never judge a book by its cover. Hell isn't welcoming, Mother is nowhere to be found, and trouble has a knack for finding the Reader throughout the maze of twisted answers and lies. Is Lucifer truly the savior Reader was looking for, or merely a demented shell of what they were created to be? (Too many 'hell' puns).

Warnings: A little angsty, sensuality used as a form of manipulation. Brief smut (simulated masturbation R receiving, nipple play R receiving, groping R receiving), mild elements of dub-con (Reader gives verbal consent but has limited knowledge of what sex is and what it contains), confusion regarding post-coitus/ sexual activity [Adding in additional info regarding the very brief smut scene just to be safe. It is quick and practically glossed over, PWP.]

A/N: The LONG awaited part two! This series is still not finished, unfortunately my first semester at Uni really took a lot of time and energy out of me. I appreciate everyone's patience and understanding. It appears that my writing slump is momentarily abating, and I am better coping with managing my courses and other adulting things. Anyways, comments and feedback are ALWAYS appreciated and welcome. :)

Word Count: 2.1k

The morning of this sacrilegious place took away the mysticism and otherworldly nature of Lucifer’s domain. The screams that were once eerie and fear-inducing felt... Old. Lucifer's arms that had once been inviting and calming paled in comparison to the safety Mother's gnarled hands had given. Hell was hell. It smelled awful, you realized, curling your face deeper into the bedsheets. Sulfur and other dastardly concoctions of filth drifted upward into the room from the open window. Lucifer stood in front of the window, their hands clenching against the dark stone.

"Little one, come here." they sighed.

Sliding out of bed your feet made clumsy progress, and you managed to stumble over towards them, much to their amusement.

"Like a wee lamb, precious." Lucifer cooed, bringing you into their arms.

The embrace was... Restrained. Lucifer pulled the robes tighter around you, frowning in distaste.

"You should cover yourself more, my love." the quietly scolded.

You chewed your lip in anxiety, pausing when you felt the sting of your busted lip that was still healing. Lucifer was... Off somehow. The warm protector had changed into a preoccupied guardian, their thoughts elsewhere.

"You need a name."

The thought was odd. Surely you had a name... Right? Mother would have named you, you were 'little one'. That's what Lucifer called you too.

"I have a name." you answered, brow quirked naively.

Lucifer's gaze darkened, nostrils flared as they breathed in and out rapidly.

"What do you mean? Who named you?" they demanded, gaze growing dangerous.

It was scary, this sudden shift in behavior. Surely it was not aimed at you? Regardless of the intent of their anger, you shrunk away, raising your wings and covering yourself like a frightened bird.

"I'm 'little one'. That's what Mother calls me. It's what you call me too." you whispered, eyes filled with fear.

Lucifer immediately softened, laughing good-naturedly. They gently reached for you, combing your hair back, cradling your face affectionately.

"Oh, sweet one, that's just a pet name. No, a name is a title. It signifies ownership of creation. And you, my sweet one, were created for me."

You nodded at the notion, turning it over in your head. There was a hang up, naturally. You were created by Mother. Surely Mother would name you?

"What do you mean, I was created for you?"

Lucifer pursed their lips for a moment, considering their response.

"There is another power in this world. A deity, of sorts. I am both that deity's and Mother's creation. But you are entirely Mother's creation. And you were created as my counterpart, a reward for my allegiance to this other deity."

The story made sense, and the slow, methodical way with which Lucifer spoke complimented your ignorance surrounding the world around you. Most things you could piece together from what you'd observed in the century or so you'd been awake. But larger things involving higher powers and domains still confused you.

"Your counterpart?"

Lucifer smiled, bringing you into their arms.

"My other half, my partner, my beloved, my everything." they cooed.

Partner. Well that was a twist.

An impish creature shrieked into the room, jumping and bristling like it was on fire.

"Your imminence, their has been a breach!" the imp shouted, cutting short the tender moment.

Lucifer scowled, shielding you from the gaze of the imp.

"What have I said about barging in when I am with my angel?" Lucifer growled. "She is for me, she is *mine*, she is not for your eyes or anyone else's! I should have you beaten!"

The imp whined, it's ears flattening against the back of it's head. It was a sickeningly sad sight, and it made your heart ache.

"Lucifer, it did not mean it," you defended the poor creature, looking up at the leader of Hell imploringly.

Their gaze went hard, and you feared for a moment that they were going to reprimand you too, but it was for naught. Instead they reached forward bringing you in.

"My angel is very accommodating of other's mistakes." they gently mused. "But the imp has made a serious transgression against my beloved in the name of haste. I will take your views into consideration, but I must attend both to the breach and to the disobedience that runs rampant."

Lucifer turned themselves, hooking a finger under your chin. They seemed to consider you deeply, blue eyes skimming over your features. Then, with a slight smirk, they leaned forward, placing a slow, wet kiss on your lips.

"I'll see you soon, beloved."

Lucifer gracefully released you from their grasp, following the whimpering imp out of the room. Though without activity, you were occupied extensively by the whirlwind of thoughts racing through your head. Lucifer was not some protector, not like Mother had been. They were your partner, and according to Lucifer, you'd been made for them. What was the word they'd used? Counterpart? Counter; against or corresponding to. Part; apart, a piece of something. You were corresponding to part of Lucifer, or perhaps you were a piece that connected to the whole part. The extensive thinking of the eccentricities of words and meanings gave you a slight head ache. Never before had you so deeply analyzed such a simple bit of information.

Mother had always promised you a day sometime in the distant future where you would join her outside of the cradle, where you would be allowed to walk and fly amongst her and her creations, helping her with the Earth and it's many duties. That day had been yesterday... Except... You'd been forcefully taken from the cradle by the dryads. Yes, that is what happened. You'd been afraid, the dryads had been afraid. The outer world had burned and creaked, there had been screaming, destruction, and from that pain Lucifer had appeared.

From one trauma to another, Lucifer had removed you from the good, the safe, the dependable, and thrust you into a world of pain, confusion, and obscurity. Lucifer's domain was that of pain and suffering, you realized. The pain and suffering of Mother's domain had arrived shortly after them. What kind of hell had they thrown you into?

<------------->

"Sweet thing, you seem to be quite the thinker." Lucifer mused, drawing a hand over your shoulder.

You'd spent the hours they'd been away pacing and concerning yourself with the dilemmas of both your situation and awareness. Your body had begun to catch up with your mind, although both were advancing at rapid, nearly blinding rates.

"I have a lot to think about."

Lucifer chuckled at this.

"You need a name, little one. That is what you should be thinking about. I've decided on the perfect one, you need only say 'yes'."

Having a choice in your own name? Surely it was an illusion.

"I see." you nodded, twitching your wings in thought.

"From here on, you will be called (Reader)." Lucifer whispered, bending down to press a kiss on your ear. "You're mine now. I've named you, and that makes you every bit my creation and my beloved."

Their logic felt skewed. You were skeptical, but Lucifer tolerated it.

"Come, dear. I believe it is time we explore the benefits of this relationship."

Their hands trailed down resting on your hips, pulling your back against their front. Lips remained hot on your ear, and an unfamiliar feeling stirred in the pit of your belly.

"Little angel, my little (Reader), do you know what being my counterpart means?"

You shook your head, 'no'.

"It means that we share things with each other that no one else does. Do you remember that kiss from earlier? That's an example of something you only give me. And when we took the bath together? All of your beauty is for me to see, and me only."

Possessiveness vibrated from every conceivable pore of their body. The large, sinewy black wings bore down upon you, covering your soft, pale white wings, hiding them from the light. It was both a metaphor and a reality. Lucifer had taken you from the light, they had taken you from your rightful place among the good, natural things of Mother's Earth and brought you down into the recess of this hellish province.

"You took me away from Mother." you stubbornly retorted.

Lucifer paused at this, their breath ghosting moisture upon your neck.

"I did, but only because you belong here with me." they answered, kissing your neck sensually.

The action caused your breath to hitch. It felt good. Strange, a little unwelcome in it's profound effect on your body, but good.

"Do it again." you asked, curious to see if the stimulation would have a similar effect the second time.

Lucifer chuckled, placing a longer, wetter, sinfully erotic kiss on the other side of your neck. It did have a similar effect, but the feeling from earlier fused with the added arousal, and it seemed to cloud your senses.

"See..? I told you that we were made for each other. No one knows your body like I do. Nobody can please it like I could."

Their hands trailed to the tie of your robe, jerking it down.

"This body? It was made for me. Everything I could desire, everything I could ask for in a partner is right here.

They kissed your neck again, nibbling and sucking the flesh intermittently. The feelings growing in your lower abdomen, you believed it was referred to as your womb or pelvic floor, grew. Leaning against them, you watched with interest as they trailed their hands over your stomach.

"Can I touch your breasts?" Lucifer crooned.

You frowned, but then you nodded. The devil chuckled, reaching up to cup them. It was a generically pleasant feeling, and then they slowly began circling their thumbs over your nipples. The sensation was odd, for the first few moments, and then it became pleasurable. Sensation travelled down to your core, and it amazed you that such places could be connected so. Lucifer hummed in approval, continuing to plant slow kisses over your neck.

"Does your pelvic area feel funny?"

You nodded. It ached, in a both exciting and frustrating way. Lucifer smirked, dipping their hand down, resting it right above your pubic mound.

"May I?"

"Yes."

Long, thin fingers parted your labia, a finger slowly circling around a bud. It was the clitoris. It felt good, and you let out a soft gasp, followed by a moan. Lucifer chuckled, continuing to rub slow circles around the bud. Your mind grew foggy from that point on. One hand squeezing your breast, pinching your nipple, the other rubbing slow circles over your clit. A rising sensation, like an incoming tide drew over you, and bliss. A few soft moments of bliss, like a release.

"Good..." they cooed. "Very good."

Your brain felt foggy, your legs were tired. The added strain of the experience combined with the exhaustion of using them for such prolonged periods caused them to ache. Lucifer carried you into the bath, climbing in with you like the night previous. Few thoughts circled your head as they washed you. Most of them were conflicting. The act of sex... Had it been sex? You weren't sure. It had felt good, but it hadn't felt... Natural. Moreso you felt a little used, like Lucifer had manipulated your body to avoid more questions regarding Mother, regarding the world around you.

As their soft hands washed away the minimal dust from you, an overwhelming urge to cry came over you. Tears poured down your cheeks, and you found yourself briefly wishing that you could go back to Mother. Briefly wishing turned into profusely wishing. Lucifer's hands did little to console you, and for the first time you saw a flicker of doubt cross their features. You weren't supposed to be crying, what you had just shared had been pleasurable, good.

"Honey, sweet lamb, I didn't mean to confuse you." Lucifer whispered, stroking your back desperately. "That was supposed to be good, a loving thing to share... I've screwed up, I'm sorry."

Eventually the tears subsided. The bathtub turned into garments. Garments turned into food. This time you noticed the sourness of the fruit, like it was on the verge of going bad. The small seeds got stuck in your teeth. You winced as you spit them out. This time you noticed the insecurity of Lucifer's embrace. Cracks were showing. Lies were unravelling. But which ones, whether they were lies you could even guess upon, those were unsure.

<------------>

Far above Hell, Mother crawled from the cradle. Her Earth remained charred, the fields remained lifeless, and a low growl came from her lips.

"Where is Kore?"

A/N: SURPRISE!!! Greek mythology infused with Christian lore? Who would do such a thing?

Tags: @vii-v @s-c-rambledegggs @lakita-fisher @kermidd5 @popularpop

[LMK if you want to be tagged in future parts]

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 4 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, OMC Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), alcohol as a coping mechanism, season 1 Lydia behavior (her comments on addiction are wrong and insensitive and she's knows it) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: Your life somehow becomes further entangled with Stiles and Scott's strange secret world, and Lydia is concerned in her own aggressive way. 

A/N: this is in fact a scott mccall stan account. i love that boy like he's my own. you can also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

The drive home was ultimately uneventful. No need for tasers, silver bullets, or wolfsbane goop. You would need to get gas before you left for school in the morning, but you supposed that was a relatively minor inconvenience when the other end of the scale was being torn apart by a fanged monster. 

Your jaw cracked with an aggressive yawn as you slowly stumbled through the garage door, fumbling for the light switch on the wall. You flicked on the light and paused, shivering a little as the cold air from the vent above your head skimmed over your bare arms. After a moment of hesitation, when that little persistent wriggling in your ear wouldn’t go away, you ducked back down the concrete steps to poke around the garbage can. Underneath a few Styrofoam take-out boxes, there were four empty beer bottles. The glass bottles clinked against each other as you nudged them out of the way, unearthing the real object of your paranoia. A drained bottle of 100-proof rye whiskey was cradled between two sacks of trash from the night before. You just stared at the bottles, heart and lungs wound tight, and then you dropped the lid back on top of the can.  

When you reentered the house, you were careful to keep the noise to a minimum. It wasn’t that late, only a little past nine, but you didn’t want to disrupt your dad’s slumber. Usually, he was a night owl—which, of course, was really just a pretty way of saying chronic insomniac, another thing you’d inherited from him—but it’d been a hard liquor night. Your dad always went to bed early on hard liquor nights. You didn’t know if he actually slept or if he stared at the ceiling, watching memories play on spackle until dawn streamed through the cracks in the blinds. Probably the first. You hadn’t ever heard him cry through the thin walls, not even once. You, however, couldn’t ever stop crying, not on the nights you trembled for something potent enough to mask the scent of the coconut oil your mom used to remove her makeup. The echoes of your mother had seeped into the walls, saturated the insulation with the faint sounds of the 70s pop rock vinyls she put on when she was in a good mood. They faded sometimes, but they always came back. You desperately hoped, and you hopelessly feared, that they always would. 

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hands aggressively and slipped under the covers, still in your plaid skirt and black t-shirt. Mascara smeared against your silk pillowcase, blurred your vision as it melted into your waterline. You stared at the wall until the silver swirls in the teal wallpaper started to sway. The teal was so dark it almost looked velvet with the lights off, and you had a heavy-eyed impulse to stroke it, but your hand was too leadened to lift. 

Your lids slipped shut, and in the haze between consciousness and slumber you felt the vague sensation of something solid against the back of your head. You murmured something incomprehensible and pulled your arms closer to your chest, taking in a breath of sharp whisky and a familiar woody cologne. You kept your eyes closed, and the warm weight cupped your skull for a moment. There was a brief kiss pressed against the top of your head and then the warmth was gone. Something large caught in your throat, and you squeezed your eyelids until your forehead wrinkled, forcing yourself to fall into a restless sleep filled with dreams of pancakes swimming in bourbon and howling beasts. 

Stiles was waiting for you by your locker when you arrived at school the next day. His friend—Scott, you reminded herself—was leaning against the locker next to him. Scott’s eyelids were heavy, and there was a coolness underneath them that stained his tan skin with a swathe of puce. Puce: From the French term ‘couleur puce,’ meaning ‘flea color.’  You dug your incisor into your tongue once you recognized that the intrusive internal narration was in Stiles’s voice. You didn’t even know if he spoke French, but it seemed like the kind of weird detail he’d know. You ran your tongue over your teeth and shoved your fists into your jacket pockets, thumb poking through the hole in the lining from previous twiddling—when the hell did you start thinking about the kinds of things Stiles would and wouldn’t know?  

You pivoted sharply, and your traitorous leather boots ruined your attempted exit when they squeaked against the freshly waxed floor. Stiles’s head popped up from his hushed conversation with Scott, and he waved vigorously when he made eye contact with you, “Hey! C’mere!”

You tipped your gaze towards the tiled ceiling and sighed. It was inevitable, really; you had to get your English binder before homeroom—homeroom, yet another reason to hate Wednesdays. It was one of your few classes with Lydia, and there wasn’t ever any actual teaching to distract you from the disgusting goo-goo eyes she gave her boyfriend. Studying was your only respite.

“Patience,” you nudged Stiles out of the way and spun your combination into the padlock, “work on it. It’s an essential skill.”

Stiles scoffed and leaned his shoulder against the locker next to yours, arms folded over his chest, “Essential. There’s nothing essential about wasting time. It’s actually unvirtuous if you think about it.” 

You swung her locker door open, blocking out Stiles’s frown, and rested your backpack on your knee so that you could unzip it. “Was there a point in there somewhere, or are you stalking me again?”

Stiles ducked around the locker door and placed his hands on Scott’s shoulders, shoving him a little closer to you, “Scott had a question for you.”

Scott’s eyes didn’t look so tired when he reared his head back to stare at Stiles. They had an intense conversation for a moment. There weren’t any words exchanged, but you got the gist: Scott was pissed, and Stiles was relentless. In the end, Scott lost the battle and swallowed thickly, “So, uh, you know a lot about supernatural stuff. That’s cool.” Stiles rolled his eyes and smacked the back of Scott’s head. Scott glared at him before mumbling, “Do you have any more of that wolfsbane…potion?” towards his muddy Converse. 

You directed your annoyance over Scott’s shoulder, more than confident that the real culprit of this request was the idiot avoiding your eye-line. “What? You already burned through your goo sample? Are the streets finally free from the demon beast of Beacon Hills?”

Stiles held up his hands and shook his head, “This is all Scott. See, me, I’m a fan of not being a greedy little bastard, but Scott—” This time Scott smacked Stiles with a resounding thwack. Stiles rubbed his shoulder, mouth agawk with indignation. 

“He…dropped it.” Scott glowered at the side of Stiles’s face, “‘Doing something stupid.” 

You smirked, “Sounds about right.” You shoved your binder into your backpack and brushed your hairs out of your eyes, “I’d give it all away for free, but it’s not up to me. Sorry.” Zipping your backpack shut, you slung one of the straps over your shoulder and shrugged, “You could always buy some more, but I’d strongly advise against such a dumb financial investment.”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck and gave you a smile. It was small but riddled with warmth—like he just couldn’t help it, like sunshine leaked through every one of his pores, and you were filled with the sudden urge to buy the stupid wolfsbane gunk for him. “That’s what I figured,” Scott looked at Stiles pointedly. His voice dropped a few octaves and a growl slipped into the end of his sentence, “But someone thought we should ask anyway.” 

The bell rang, and Scott flinched, smashing one of his ears into his shoulder. He turned around, a little dazed, and Stiles trailed after him after giving her a distracted wave. As you watched them leave, a parasitic impulse wrangled through your throat, prying the hinge of your jaw open as you shouted, “Hey!” The hallway was abuzz with various conversations and clomping feet, but your voice was still a bit too loud for the short distance between you and definitely too urgent for 7:45 in the morning. 

Stiles turned around first, almost tripping over his sneakers, and then he yanked on the scarlet hood of Scott’s jacket until he stopped too. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and licked your bottom lip, suddenly realizing how dry it was. “I, uh,” you sighed and took a few steps forward so that you didn’t have to raise your voice, “I could talk to Maggie. I bet she’d cut you a deal if I asked.” You let out a little laugh and raked your fingers through your hair, accidentally dislodging the satin bow tying your hair out of your face. “I know, actually. I know she’d give you some for free. She’s a terrible business woman.” 

Scott’s smile put the moon to shame, and Stiles looked like he’d been waiting for you to change your mind since the moment you told them no—when the hell did he start thinking about what you would and wouldn’t do? 

“That would be awesome,” Scott ducked down to grab your black ribbon and held it out to you with an open palm, “thank you. I’d owe you big time.”

Stiles looped his arm around Scott’s shoulders and smirked, “We’d. We’d owe you. I’ll stop by the store and bless you with my scintillating conversation sometime.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you smiled softly at Scott, taking your ribbon from his hand. You attempted to tie your hair back in a neat bow, but it was difficult without a mirror. You assumed it was halfway decent because Stiles didn’t take the opportunity to tease you—you, on the other hand, had no such qualms about mocking him. You smiled at Stiles, far too sweetly to be considered congenial, and sneered, “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” 

Stiles’s eyes narrowed, face curved around a smirk that screamed trouble, and Scott slapped his hand over Stiles’s mouth before he could say something to make you reconsider, “Thanks again. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to pay you back. Name it, and we’re there.” Stiles winked at you with a glint in his eye that was as vexing as it was bright, and Scott rolled his eyes as he hauled him away by the nylon material of his backpack, “C’mon, dude. My mom’s gonna kill me if I’m late again.”

You watched Stiles’s buzzed head bob amidst the congested crowd of students, all shoving each other in their rush to get to class on time, until you couldn’t hear his surly complaints anymore. You rubbed your hand over your chapped lips, swallowing hollowly, like you could erase every impulsive word that’d spilt from your stupid mouth.

You were still thinking about what you’d gotten yourself into when you walked into Mrs. Farias’s classroom—and that must be why you forgot your copy of Metamorphosis in your locker. You groaned internally and dropped your forehead against your desk, bumping it against the cool laminate finish a few times, before ducking out the door with a hall pass. 

The halls were empty—silent too. You could hear your own footsteps and the tick of the large clock above the main office as you walked around the corner, and then, just as you approached the hallway your locker was in, you heard something else. Voices. Angry voices. One familiar—your face scrunched as the recognition wriggled through your ears to your brain—and one not. You cautiously glanced around the corner and frowned. Jackson, Lydia’s arrogant prick of a boyfriend, was talking to a hulking, leather-clad stranger—or rather infuriating him based on the murderous look in the man’s dark eyes. 

The stranger looked a good five years too old to be in a high school hallway, but the grown-out stubble and over-defined muscles weren’t of immediate concern. You were more focused on the color of his face. His skin was pale, clammy, and quite honestly a little corpse-like thanks to the purply-blue tinge carving out the hollows of his face. You assumed that he was too strung-out to care if anyone noticed their altercation because you could hear him from halfway across the hall. 

“Where’s Scott McCall?” His voice was deep and gravelly, as expected, but there was a desperate undertone you hadn’t anticipated.

You could only see the back of Jackson’s head, but you knew exactly what his face was doing when he puffed out his chest and folded his arms—no one else could make a smirk look quite so punchable. It was a gift, truly. “And why should I tell you?” “Because I asked you politely,” the man leaned forward, bared his canines, and you couldn’t believe that Jackson didn’t even flinch, “and I only do that once.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Jackson sneered, meeting the man’s challenge with another step forward and a shrug that reeked of false-superiority, “how ‘bout I help you find him if you tell me what you’re selling him. What is it? Dianabol? HGH?”

“Steroids,” the man’s voice was dry, and if he didn’t look like he was about to double over and puke all over the floor, you’d say the menacing glimmer in his eyes was a little amused. 

“No, Girl Scout cookies. What the hell do you think I’m talking about?” Jackson tutted, maddeningly haughty, and shook his head, “By the way, whatever it is you’re selling, I’d stop sampling the merchandise.” He let out a low patronizing whistle, and you kind of hoped that the stranger would suckerpunch him in the throat for it. “You look wrecked.”

The man didn’t punch him. Instead, he pushed himself off of the locker he was slumped against and started staggering stiffly down the hall, “I’ll find him myself.”

Jackson grabbed onto his broad shoulder and yanked. The veins in his bicep bulged with the strength of grasp, “We’re not done here.”

Your limbs suddenly remembered how to function. You ducked back behind the brick wall and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable sounds of bone colliding into flesh. Your right eye cracked open a sliver when the noise never came. Instead, there was a loud thud and the echo of clanging metal. You peeked around the corner again and froze, eyes wide and throat dry. Jackson was pinned against a locker by his neck. You’d already noticed that the stranger was tall, but you didn’t truly realize just how large he was until now. Jackson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t small. He was captain of the lacrosse team—everyone within a ten-mile radius knew that thanks to his constant reminders—and if anyone on campus was taking steroids, he would’ve been your first guess. But next to this sickly beast of a man, Jackson looked meek and mousey, and you didn’t even get to savor it. After a brief moment, no more than a second, Jackson’s assailant sniffed the air and slowly turned his head in your direction. It wasn’t an accident; he wasn’t surveying his surroundings. His eyes landed on yours, and he didn’t look the least bit surprised. 

The man’s irises were dark, nearly black, and they didn’t stray from your face. You forgot how to breathe, feeling distinctly like a rabbit trapped in a fox den as your heartbeat hammered against your ribs. He spared you after a few seconds of paralyzing eye-contact and turned his petrifying gaze back to Jackson’s neck. You recoiled, slipping back to your spot around the wall, and pressed your back against the bricks until the sound of your heartbeat wasn’t so loud in your ears. 

When you found the courage to look down the hall again, the man was gone, and Jackson was bleeding from the back of his neck. There were four distinct punctures along his cervical spine, trickling crimson droplets onto the stark white collar of his polo. The gouges were small, almost like…nail marks. Baffling. This town was fuckin’ baffling.

You poured over the incident all day, barely conscious enough to take down notes and roll your eyes at Stiles’s badgering and bad jokes. You’d never been more ready for the final bell to ring, not even during sex education with the extraordinarily sweaty Mr. Peterson. 

You twisted your pendant around its onyx chain as you walked out of your last period, winding and unwinding the charm over and over again as you mulled over your thoughts. Scott didn’t seem like he was on drugs. You didn’t exactly know him, but he was the least aggressive person you’d ever met, and he had to be eternally patient if Stiles was his best friend. You spun the medallion again and shouldered your way through the cramped halls to the parking lot, scolding yourself. What Scott McCall did or did not inject into his bloodstream wasn’t any of your business…even if his alleged dealer looked like he was on death’s door and had a habit of throwing teenage boys around when he got mad. 

You’d just convinced yourself that you didn’t care what happened to Stiles’s best friend when a discord of honking stopped you in your tracks. You flitted your gaze around the parking lot, searching for the cause of obnoxiously loud cacophony; your shoulders wilted along with your resolve when you spotted the guilty party. The man from the hallway was sprawled on the asphalt, and Scott and Stiles were scrambling to help him off of the ground. 

Your feet reluctantly trudged towards the peculiar trio, arms tightly folded over your cropped sweater. You would’ve laughed at how wide Stiles’s eye stretched when he finally noticed your presence, but you were a little preoccupied with the fact that he was currently trying to stuff a ghoulish grown man into his front seat. You watched him struggle to hold up approximately 200 pounds of solid muscle with his spindly arms, absentmindedly lamenting that you couldn’t truly appreciate the humor of the situation. “Hey,” you slanted your head and searched Stiles’s face for any sign of an SOS signal, “you good?”

“Ayup,” Stiles nodded emphatically, and Scott shot you a weak thumbs-up from his squat next to his tipped-over bike. 

You looked between the two of them, waiting for the truth to crack through the awkward pretense, and narrowed your eyes, “You sure?” 

“We’re good,” the man barked from inside the jeep, teeth bared. It was a little less intimidating now that he was slumped over and at the mercy of a sixteen-year-old with a dork complex, but you still flinched. You couldn’t help it. It was a small twitch, but Scott still managed to track the minute movement from his low perch. He glared at the man, shockingly firm for such a sweet-faced boy, until the stranger stopped scowling at you. Mr. Sour Face turned his head towards the window and stared intensely at the hazy tree line over the hill. Your fingers relaxed. You hadn’t even realized that you’d dug your nails in your palms until the stinging stopped. 

Scott jumped to his feet and pulled his bike up by the handles, rushing through his weak explanation, “Stiles is just…doing me a favor. Derek needs a ride, and all I’ve got is my bike.”

Letting out a flimsy snort, your brow pinched, “So…he walked here?”

“Uh,” Scott squinted, and Stiles nodded behind him, “yeah?” 

You pursed your lips, ignoring all the students who’d started shouting over the beeping horns, and watched Derek grit his teeth and clench his fists through the dashboard window. You looked back at Stiles and chewed on your lip. Stiles was taller than you, but he was on the scrawnier side of lean and wouldn’t stand a chance against a man of Derek’s size—even if he was barely clinging to the rapidly fraying threads of consciousness. “I could use a ride to work,” you pulled the backseat door open before you could talk yourself out of it. 

Stiles lurched towards you and slammed the door shut, narrowly avoiding your fingers, “Normally, I would seize any opportunity to have you further indebted to me, but—that’s Lydia Martin.” His eyes bulged out of his head, and he leaned against his jeep, slipping down the blue frame as his legs went boneless, “Walking towards me. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

The prospect of riding in the same car with Mr. Resting Bitchface was being more appealing by the second. Lydia didn’t even look in Stiles’s direction. Her cutting green eyes were fixed on you and you alone. “Are you an idiot?” Lydia snatched your wrist, mauve manicure digging into the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist, and yanked you back to the sidewalk.

“What?” you went brainless for a moment, taking in all the glory of an enraged Lydia Martin. 

Lydia’s cheeks were flushed pink from anger and adrenaline, “Or just suicidal?”

The shock had worn off. Now, you were thoroughly pissed, “What?”

Lydia’s eyebrows, perfectly tapered and freshly threaded, knitted together until she was in danger of developing a unibrow, “Do you have any idea who you were about to get in a car with?”

Your eyes flicked to the side, and it took gargantuan strength not to roll them too. “Stiles?”

“What the hell is a Stiles?” Lydia’s riptide of fury gave way to confusion, but her soft features sharpened abruptly when she returned her attention to your scowl, “I meant Derek Hale. Obviously.”

Your hip cocked to the side as you crossed your arms, “And?”

“And he’s a murder suspect,” Lydia’s lips curled into a vehement sneer. It was so strange to finally see it first-hand. Lydia had such a sweet face, cherub cheeks and doe eyes—a clever smile. She hadn’t quite mastered disdain when you were friends; the ice queen routine wasn’t performance ready until you’d drifted apart. It was an awful face, you decided; it completely erased the last few pieces of the Lydia you knew.

“In an animal attack,” you muttered under your breath. 

Evidently, it had been a long time since someone dared to disagree with the Lydia Martin because she was struck speechless. It didn’t last for long, but it was still satisfying. “He’s dangerous,” Lydia hissed. “He went completely off the deep end after his family died. Seriously, his life is like a textbook precursor to violent behavior; he’s a profiler’s wet dream.”

“Because his family died,” you repeated. The numbness eroded some of the snark in your voice. 

Lydia either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the glaze creeping over your eyes. She continued, barbarous and unashamed, “Because he watched them turn into charcoal, and his sister was just ripped in half. At best, he’s unstable—but his little hobby of trolling for minors is a bit of a red flag, don’t you think?”

“Charcoal,” you spoke—more of an echo really with its resonating hollowness. Your eyes were on Lydia’s face, but your mind was somewhere far away. A lifetime ago, with the ashes of everything you once knew. 

Lydia’s eyes went wide, and her mouth gaped into a perfect little ‘o.’ Her dainty fingers twitched by her sides, and then she smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in her flouncy mini-skirt. “Most of his family died in a fire,” her voice was much softer this time, a bit of tenderness accidentally rooting through the cracks in her veneer. Lydia looked away and gripped the thin strap of her handbag, “Accidental house fire. It was all over the news like five years ago.”

You stared at Lydia, and for the first time in the last four years, you didn’t miss her. For the first time in such a mind-numbingly long time, your anger strangled your heartache with a wrought-iron grip that felt a whole lot like hate. It was always going to be like this, you realized. You would just have to walk around with all these what-ifs, if-onlys, and what-really-happeneds needling your heart with every thud—always. You had to learn to live with this: knowing that Lydia was never going to apologize and that there would be no closure. Ever. 

“Right.” You laughed, shark-like, with your canines on display. You hoped it would make all your constants sharper. “So he’s gotta be a lunatic now.”

“Y/N…” It was surreal to hear your name out of Lydia’s mouth after so long. You didn’t know if you liked it, and, currently, you didn’t even know if you cared. Lydia chewed off what was left of her nude lipstick and then squared her shoulders, “So we’re just going to pretend that he wasn’t completely strung-out and totally embracing the heroin-chic aesthetic?”

You slanted your head a bit and then let out another serrated laugh. There wasn’t any point in having it out, you decided, because Lydia didn’t care. She got to move on and erase your entire existence—live her perfect, popular girl life without all this suffocating quicksand binding her to the past. Must be nice, you thought venomously, souring your tongue, stinging your eyes. Showers were probably just showers for Lydia. She didn’t singe her skin until the water went cold, imagining what she’d do, what she’d say—how she’d hurt her back. Must be so fucking nice.

“Lydia, I really don’t think you really want to get into all the things we’re pretending,” your voice was tight, strangled at the ends. You would not cry. You could not cry. Lydia sensed weakness like blood in the water, and you refused to give her the satisfaction. 

“Fine,” Lydia’s curls spilled down her back like strawberry wine as she pivoted in her designer heels, “ride off into the sunset with a 'roid-raging creep. Don’t act surprised when you turn up dead in a crack den.” 

Truthfully, Lydia had a point, but at this moment being contrary seemed far more important than being right. “It’s kind of difficult to act like anything when you’re dead,” you called, eyes zeroed-in on the back of her head as she slid into Jackson’s Porsche with a sensual grace you would never possess. Lydia was too far away to hear your retort, but you felt a little less like punching something after you said it. 

You didn’t notice that Stiles and Scott were gone until the threat of bitter tears stopped burning your sinuses. The last thing you needed was to cry like this upset you, even if the only nearby witness left on the vacant sidewalk was yourself. You scoured the parking lot for even a flash of powder blue, but the jeep was nowhere to be seen. Probably long gone by now—your spat with Lydia must have taken longer than you thought. It was certainly louder than you meant it to be. Little clusters of ambling students were looking at you a little too long to be casual, and the indiscreet whispering once they turned back to their friends forced your legs forward. 

You didn’t know where you were going when you started your car, but far, far away sounded pretty damn good.

[ura-niia]

Yknow, on a retrospective, it is interesting how the COTL fandom puts Narilamb as a devoted and hateful relationship.

In other words, I would actually love to know why we love this ship so much.

I’d love to know your point of view!

I finally have time to answer this!! I am SO GLAD that you asked.

I was extremely interested about the dynamic of this ship, you could watch it from all angles and it would still be a lovable duo; whether it be comedic, overly toxic, unrequited love/devotion, requited romance/devotion, it would still be enjoyable for everyone in the fandom. I believe that there's no bad version on how anyone portrays their relationship!

It's kinda difficult for me to see them in a light-hearted angle. Other people in the fandom have shown this kind of dynamic very well and they have all my applause.

How I portray my vision of narilamb, I still haven't fully fleshed out their story, but basically when Narinder was still a god, Lamb's devotion is for him entirely because they truly thought that The One Who Waits was their saviour and shining grace, handing them down a chance to live once more and avenge their kind. Narinder didn't pay this no mind, then plays the lamb around like a tool, speaking of honeyed words to keep the lamb up on their feet.

And by the time when Narinder told the lamb that he was just using them for his freedom and they'd just die once they surrender the crown to him, everything just came crumbling down to them. The dawning realization that there will be no hope for lamb kind, and that filled them with so much intense emotions they ended up killing Narinder along with his disciples.

Time has passed, Lamb became the new god of Death and continued to serve for their cult. Though they still pray as if there's still any other god be because that's kinda how they cope with all the change. Unaware of the forces that were trying to come back up. Narinder has used up every last drop of his divine magic to resurrect himself with the intention of killing the lamb by his hand and take the crown, but that ended up being a fail so...

Now that Narinder was in the lamb's cult, they feel obligated to watch over him. They think it's really pathetic that the former god is ultimately struggling in the mortal life. One time Narinder tried to run away from the cult and got himself in danger during it so Lamb has to swoop in to save his ass.

“It seems like that you are still in need of me." They said, but there's no smugness in the tone, it's pure disgust and malice. “You don't get to pull the strings anymore, my lord, you're under my domain now.”

I'll make this one very quick bc this is becoming long 😭 So anyway, Narinder (begrudgingly) stayed in the cult because he didn't know how to stay alive in a mortal body, and the more Lamb took care of him, the more dependent he became of them(albeit extremely pissed about that realization and acted aggressively at first then came acceptance that he's hopeless without them), the lamb was aware of this, however thought that this was just another tactic of him to get their guard down, so they pulled the strings so they wouldn't get attached again.

Soon the lamb decided to let themselves get close to him while still being wary, then suddenly became "lovers". Narinder had thought that it was the right course considering how much time they spent with eachother, though hadn't acted on romantic actions. However Lamb thinks that this is just another one of their lovers they have to deal with, so it was still very unrequited.

Then by time it became a requited relationship, unknowingly truly falling for eachother in the process. They somehow know that they're terrible for eachother, but they still work on it. Their devotion for eachother became a devotee to genuine lovers.

[sock-kaleidoscope]

Lets start easy

Whats the plot about??

And basic relationships

-alz

The basic plot of my au is based off an in-game mechanic! In-game, if you kill/lose all your followers, you have three days before a game-over. The idea is that Narinder is on the fence about being a follower, and thats the main thing keeping Yael alive.

Now this might be confusing since Nufosa is also here, but they don't really count as a follower. Partly because their a child, and partly because they don't really worship the crown.

Basic Relationships:

The lamb is parenting Nufosa in an unintentionally toxic coping mechanism.

Narinder is bonding with the kid because of how much he's reminded of both Leshy and his disciples.

Nufosa is a child of an uncommitted divorce where no-one has signed the paperwork, but they may as well have.

Narinder is upset by the lamb betrayal, but he doesn't actually care that much. He's just having complicated feelings and wants to justify them somehow

The lamb still holds Narinder in high regard and is actually very nervous to upset him. (Sometimes trying to separate Nufosa and Narinder in order to keep him from getting irritated, and accidently annoying him because he likes hanging out with Fosa)

[noforkingclue]

The Slow Horses on vacation or some kinda team building??? That's lots of room for chaos to ensue haha

I started drafting a brief thing during my lunch break which, well, turned into this! I had way too much fun writing it and please, feel free to send in more Slow Horses stuff :D

Title: Team Building

“Are we being fucking punished?” You asked as you looked down at the memo

“We’re at Slough House y/n,” said Louisa, “of course we’re being punished.”

You grimaced and poked the paper with your pen, almost of though you were afraid that it would go off. Knowing how much The Park hated you, you wouldn't have been too surprised if it did. You were certain this was some kinda of sick practical joke.

“The important question is,” said River, “who’s going to tell Lamb.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. You were rereading the memo when you realised everyone was looking at you. When it dawned on you what they were expecting you shook your head.

“No.” You said firmly, “absolutely not.”

“He likes you the most.” Said River

“He fucking hates me. Standish, can’t you do it?”

“I think it’s best that you do this.” Said Standish with an amused smile

“What the fuck am I going to say?" you picked up the paper and waved it about, "Morning sir, The Park sent us a fucking note telling us we need to improve our team building skills. Shall I tell them to stick it up their arse?”

“Yeah, that’ll fucking do it.”

Lamb’s voice cut through the room and he stomped over to you. He snatched the note out of your hands and glared at you before he read through it. Once he’d finished he snorted in amusement and shoved it back to you.

“Sort this shit out,” he said as he walked towards his office, “I don't want to spend any more time you you cunts than necessary.”

“Well l/n,” said Roddy with a smirk, “looks like it’s all up to you.”

“Me? Why the fuck should it be me?”

“Because you’re the least useless one,” shouted Lamb, “not that that’s saying much.”

“Looks like you’re on your own with this.” Said Shirley with a smirk

“Oh no. This is meant to be about team building,” you snapped, "we’re not doing a lot of team building if your ditching it all on me.”

“We could go down the pub,” said Marcus

“We can’t do team building down the pub,” said Standish, “that defeats the whole purpose of this. Besides, how would that even work?”

“No wait,” you sat down on the table, “Marcus might have a point. When I was back in accounts-“

“Like a fucking nerd.” Interrupted Roddy, earning him a smack from Shirley

“We had a budget for this sort of thing, not that anyone really used it of course. I saw the expenses for team building bullshit. Dealing with drugged up team members and how people would cope dealing with the situation by themselves.”

“How-“ stated Louisa

“Basically the team got pissed and one person was the DD,” you said with a smirk, “and these things got through the system somehow. Now then, why don’t I do a bit of research…”

You smirked as you did a quick Google search trying to find the perfect place.

“Good Woods Corporate retreat,” said River who was reading over your shoulder, “can you fucking imagine Lamb in a place like that?”

“Nope,” You said, "But look it has a spa and a pool!"

“It’s a fucking grand a night,” said Shirley who was on your other side, "How the fuck can we afford that.”

“We’re not going to be paying for it.” You said with a smirk, “and I’m sure Ho can dig up some dirt on the CEO so we can actually get out of doing all the corporate team building shit. Once The Park gets our bill I doubt we'll be forced to do this ever again!”

“Already fucking on it. Anything to see you in a bikini y/n.”

“Five days of us eating good food, getting drunk and sitting by a pool all paid for by the Park. I think that sounds like pretty good team building don’t you?”

[perplexingluciddreams]

I got Float Like A Butterfly DVD!!!

It has Lisa Lambe in it. She is one of biggest most intense special interests. I like to collect all things related to her.

She is only got a small part in it at the beginning. So I only watch that part and a bit more at the start. But new things are hard (especially when not have a special interest or hyperfixation link). So I can't cope to watch the whole thing right now.

I am very relieved and happy that DVD works! Because it says on the DVD box case that it is "region 1" (which is for America). UK is region 2.

But it still works somehow! I don't know why, but I am not complaining at all.

[onychespherein]

me making the sams/laes x cotl AU, 2024, colorised:

allow me to ramble for a bit because its been a week and my brain is Rotting with a capital R, i am now 100% commited to this thing my brain birthed to cope with its parents (me & my previous obsession, cult of the lamb) divorcing

the general idea is that lunar somehow digs up a crown from the trash heap when the gang is exploring a robot graveyard (see: post-apocalyptic vibes, i just think robot graveyards are such a cool concept i wanted one ok). anyway. none of them really know what the fuck this thing even is, except for solar maybe, who has like a general idea, just a hunch really, and it's not like he ever really saw the bishops from up close, right, he doesn't actually know what the crowns are, how they look like, etc. maybe its just a thing people draw that doesn't really exist, you know, like halos around the heads of some higher up cultists. besides, there's no fucking way lunar found one just, what, lying around, right? Right?

and when they try to get rid of it, because of course they do, it's obviously some old magic artefact, they have no goddamn idea what it does, seriously lunar, why are you going around picking up potentially deadly things you know nothing about, for fuck's sake, what if it KILLED you, (this is the sound of sun having a PTSD flashback to that one time lunar almost blew them all up because he picked up a magic equivalent of a bomb moon & solar were working on and yes, they both got chewed out for that one too)

anyway, they try to get rid of the crown, right, but it just. doesn't work. no matter how hard they throw/kick it, it always comes back. they can't break it. magic doesn't work. at some point it sticks itself to lunar's head and they can't pull it off.

they give up (after like a few days) because clearly there's nothing they can do and it isn't hurting lunar, for now, and honestly they have bigger problems on hand than some stupid floating crown that doesn't do shit. like idk the demon currently possessing sun ((because demons are a Thing in cotl that i constantly forget about when i go crusading. bruh)

it takes a while but eventually cultists start coming after them, like they already had some less than pleasant encounters & avoided them best they could, but now the cultists are coming specifically for them. or, more like, for lunar.

and then lunar dies, gets resurrected, and starts their own cult. fun

[juniemunie]

Glad to see I was not the only one that thought of the PiB Death the Wolf and LoL Kindred connection, but for me it was backwards.

Death as he is now is the Grey Man or Grey Wolf in this case, when he was about to leave after the battle in the Wishing Star, Puss, after seeing the loneliness in his eyes and comprehending the weight of Death's duty, gave him the wish. Death wished a companion to be by his side so he "would always have a friend" until the end of all.

The star grants his wish in the form of a short sword and when Death catched his reflection on the blade he saw his face split in two different aspects but still forming a whole, he new what he had to do.

And so right there in the presence of 7 mortals Death split himself "right down the middle". Death became two. Two wolves rose, one with dark fur and a white mark on his forehead with a smile full of sharp teeth, and the other with pale fur black mark an his forehead and calm calculating eyes who would later change her shape into a lamb to suit her new nature.

Thats a really cool AU! I definitely like the idea of the wish being used by Death...

TW/CW: blood

Mine is..uh. well it starts completely backwards opposite.....?

Basically somehow, at some point, Lamb and Wolf merge back together, and by complete chance Wolf is the one who ends up 'surviving' the merge.

He ends up being Wolf and having Lamb's physical body, grace, and her logical side, but she's just straight up gone. He's as you put it, Grey Wolf now.

I've got two versions of this AU, one where you can imagine Wolf just somehow ends up in this physical form and everything is fine and dandy for my indulgent moments,

..but this whole story is the real version of this AU i think. Anything that depicts Lamb talking or interacting with Wolf and dressing like she matches his current outfit is nothing more than hallucinations he has to cope

[faithhopeloveandtherapy]

H, the baby and I are visiting my parents. H is “working from [my parents] home” and the baby and I are just hanging out with my family. Yesterday we called in to see my sister and hubs and then pick my nephews up from school. Today we’ve seen the first lambs of spring in the fields, and the baby’s heart is full after spending the afternoon chasing a steam train from one station to another, watching it come and go.

My parents are getting older and despite their reasonable good health, little things are adding up. My dad has had carpal tunnel surgery in both wrists in the last two months, but sadly it hasn’t resulted in an improvement in his hand movement on either side. My mum broke her wrist in the snow and ice before Christmas and is out of a cast now but still struggling with pain and stiffness. So I thought I should come and be present and supportive. We’ve also just booked to take them with us to Cornwall in the summer. My sister says two weeks away with them is very brave of us… I am kind of hoping they’ll do their own thing a bit and be happy to just potter and hang out. It can’t be too bad surely??

I think I’ve made my peace to a large extent with the emotional abuse and neglect of my childhood (my therapist says that’s what it was). I’m better at separating myself from their relationship - if not instinctively, I can at least do it rationally in my head and that helps my emotions to align. I think my dad has mellowed too and recognised his own frailties, he now needs others help here and there and I think that keeps him from being quite the all-powerful patriarchal figure he liked to imagine himself as in the past. Having worked through it all in therapy, I feel like I am in a better place to see their good points and cope with their bad points and maintain my own sense of self, rather than pretend they are perfect and any struggles I have are because I am somehow inadequate.

[psalmonesermons]

Dealing with unfairness as a believer

Going the extra mile

What is the most unfair thing that has ever happened to you?

You might have been passed over for a job or promotion when you were best qualified or placed to get it. Your parents might have shown favouritism towards one of your brother or sisters e.g. Jacob/Joseph. Your husband or wife has let you down badly, or you might have been accused of something you never did by your family, neighbours or even the police leading to a false imprisonment.

Personal testimony

When I was a boy, my family were quite poor and did not have many valuables. However, one time my mother received a Churchill crown (a coin), considered to be valuable. When I was a young teenager, my mother took me aside one day, and entrusted the Churchill crown to my safe keeping, I hid it in an old piece of furniture. I forgot all about it for several years, when the matter of the coin was raised at a family gathering, I could not account for it. I knew that I had not sold it or disposed of it, someone in the family had taken it! I became the butt of family jokes, such as do not give anything to him to look after, look what happened to the Churchill crown! The stigma of an unjust accusation hung over me for many years until eventually a family member gave me another Churchill crown.

This experience helped me to identify in a very small way with those suffering from injustice or unfairness.

It is not a nice feeling, when you realize that you are being treated unfairly but we must handle unfairness or sense of injustice in a Godly way. Let us turn to God’s word to learn how to cope with unfairness and injustice.

Definitions

Unfair: is not fair, unjust, or not just, biased, prejudiced, contrary to rules of the game (or life).

Matthew 5:38-45

God’s instructions on how to deal with unfairness or injustice.

Verse 41; In every situation going the extra mile, there are two parties. The one is you (in your circumstance) we always assume the Christian will be one compelled but are you the one forcing another person to go the extra mile. Make sure you are the one being forced to go the extra mile and not the other party who is doing the forcing!

Extortion (see 1 Corinthians 6:10)

Demanding more of them than is fair or necessary.

Does your spouse always have to give in?

Do you always insist on getting your own way?

This is the sin of extortion which is forcing people to go or to give more than they are willing.

Extortion is not just about money but making unfair demands on someone’s life with the threat of emotional blackmail.

Love never demands its own way. Love never is not selfish and self-seeking.

Matthew 5:41

The act of love (by going an extra mile) defuses an act of selfishness. Love covers a multitude of sins. Jesus tells us if someone forces us to go one mile, then go with him two miles. Somehow this going the extra mile neutralizes the power of selfishness.

2 Timothy 3:12

The devil has a special form of unfairness called persecution through which he tempts the believer to be ashamed of being a Christian and with the goal of getting you turn away from God and his word.

How did Jesus Christ handle his persecution and unfairness?

Acts 8:32-33 (see also Isaiah 53:7-8)

Humiliated and persecuted he did not even speak in his own defence. Jesus Christ would be tortured and killed, but because of his love for God the Father and his love for mankind he endured the ultimate injustice and unfairness and was silent like lamb before his shearers. He who was without sin, was made to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteous of God (2 Corinthians 5:31).

God the Father did not spare God the Son from great suffering in his earthly ministry. It seems that for all Christians living Godly lives, then we can expect some persecution and unfairness will come.

But don’t despair, but count it all joy when you face trials of many kinds because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance, and perseverance must develop so that you may become mature and complete, lacking nothing in your walk with God.

God although allowing some injustice in our lives, never lets us be tempted above our measure when we are hurting through injustice. We can go to God and ask for judgement in the Old Testament sense, knowing that the judge of all the earth will do right.

Psalm 7:8

Judge me, O Lord, according to my righteous, according to my integrity says the psalmist. God is the one who vindicates his people.

Conclusion

When unfairness comes, walk the extra mile, show love which disarms evil or selfishness and when the pressure gets too great, then call out to the judge of all the earth knowing that he will do right.

Amen

Prayer

[faithful-church-mouse]

(allknowingfaith)

HONESTY– What kinds of small lies do they tell others? What lies do they tell themselves? What is the biggest lie they’ve told?

SOCIAL INTELLIGENCE– Do they experience emotional empathy (innate ability to feel emotions for other people's feelings, i.e. happiness at success, grief at loss, etc), or cognitive empathy (may not feel grief but has a logical understanding that loss is painful, may not feel happy but has an innate understanding that someone’s success is a celebrated thing)? Are they aware of their own emotions and reactions? How well are they able to manage their emotions?

LOVE– What attachment styles do they experience? How involved are they in their friends, family, and loved one’s worries, hopes, or goals? Do they turn to their loved ones for support? Do they let people who love them help them?

OC Ask Meme

| @allknowingfaith |

HONESTY

From the point of them interacting with fellow cultists there will be times where honey works better than the fire when dealing with those she deems pesky. With the main purpose of always wanting to improve the cult in anyway possible even in the smallest way moral must be taken into account. So little lies on praising the lazy or, well, not very skilled for doing ''hard' work or doing better even if they have not what so ever is a harmless enough that may in time improve work ethics with some rather than a scolding would.

As for the lies that Frankie tells themself? Generally that they are okay. No matter how they have joined the lambs flock it was marked with the loss of others prior. The mouse generally wears their emotions on their sleeve but keeps a firm handle on the horrible feeling of survivors guilt and trauma on so neatly packed away to be ignored and pushed back whenever it tries to come back into the light. The biggest lie they have told would be just where she has gone off to when seemingly escaping their sacrifice. They visit their home, provide food and even write letters to their family but never disclose just where they are staying. It isn't that she doesn't want them to join her in the flock but knows that their fear and stubbornness would not allow them to move from the old faith easily. It is simply easier to keep the peace by being vague.

SOCIAL INTELLIGENCE

Frankie being an exceptionally emotional being, even if said emotions are not always positive would lean hard into emotional empathy. When someone succeeds there is so much joy and pride for them, a celebration of hugging or patting on the back when emotion overflows and words are not enough. For pain and sorrow when words cannot be enough subtle touches or someone to lean against as another cannot or should not stand alone in anguish. The gal has a very big heart full of worry and hope for those around her but has a tendency to show it in funny ways.

As for their own emotions unless the situation calls to hide it they wear their emotions on their sleeve for better or worse. It is very easy to see how the mouse is feeling at any given moment because she is a bit too expressive, a left over from life outside the flock to garter attention. It's something she is trying very much trying to get a handle on though failing miserably. The problem is they were born into a very small body and have very large emotions that bubble over spilling out as the most inopportune moments.

LOVE

Ah, now this. This is a struggle for them. They'd fall somewhere into dismissive avoidant. Love is hard whether it is platonic or romantics and often puts them in a state of confusion of how they feel and anxious on how they should feel. There are a lot of walls put up from previous disappointments, ones that do not crumble easily.

While expressing this love in words is difficult and intimidating, actions are something they cope with better. They'd be the first to help without being asked, if something is worrying a loved one then they are going into problem solving mode to see if it can be fixed somehow. They'd rather deal with their problems internally rather than letting someone help. It's something they've always done alone and it feels too vulnerable to ask for help when its easier to tackle it on their own (or completely ignore the issue all together. We compartmentalize all those big negative and distressing thoughts into the mental storage facility in this mouse house )

[the-slasher-files]

ANDREI - PLAYTHINGS

Yandere Alphabet - Now, Andrei is a slasher that loves to hold his ‘playthings’ and have fun with them but they are different from his actual partners if he has one so keep that in mind. He has two sides to him; The man who is Andrei and then there is The Wolf... Hope you enjoy 🔪💕  

MASTERLIST

affection: how do they show their love and affection? how intense would it get?

With his playthings affection levels are heightened, almost to the level of his s/o but never that far. Andrei needs to lure his victims into a false sense of security, he wants them to think that he will take care of you after this is all done, but there is no end.

Andrei whispers sweet Russian in your ear, wrap you up in his clothes, gently kiss you, stroke your hair and rest his forehead against yours, however that is only after sex.    

If you last longer than 24 hours you might get to go to his house, a right, a privilege. You won’t get much affection other than being on his lap, him stroking your cheek or getting kisses to the neck.  

blood: how messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Andrei is a messy, messy boy in all forms and doesn’t care. Blood, spit, cum and tears, he loves it all. In terms of getting messy for a plaything Andrei has the motto “What is mine is mine and only mine.” Now, usually a plaything doesn’t last more than a week and you are stuck in the abandoned town but if someone somehow gets to what is his, he will maim, torture, or instantly kill depending on the mood. 

cruelty: how would they treat their darling once abducted? would they mock them?

Once he has you Andrei is a cold and cruel man, you have to learn that he is in charge and the only one that will ever be in charge, if you aren’t understanding that or do something he doesn’t like he doesn’t give warnings with playthings, it is instant pain or punishments. This can include cutting you or stabbing if he gets annoyed, handcuffing you with barely any clothes on and leaving you in the apartment basements to almost get hypothermia, choking you until you pass out and kicking you while you are down, but the strange thing about Andrei is that he will degrade you for a very long time but he will never hamulate you, it is a fine line but that is the one thing he will not do. Long story short is quick to snap and you are constantly on edge but he has rare soft moments which put you at ease on until you make the wrong move.

darling: aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Yes and no. With Andrei he mixes harsh and soft like an art to always leaving you wanting more but when its happening you are begging him to stop. The sex is pretty much constant, he will force you to play in his hunt with you as the prey of course, if you make it far enough he wants his house cleaned and his meals made but honestly, other than that, you have quite a bit of freedom to do as you please, but that just depends on how long you last, not many make it more than a week. 

exposed: how much of their heart do they bare to their darling? how vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

As I said before he mixes soft and harsh perfectly, he almost wants you to feel a little bad for him so in a way he feels as if his actions are justified. If he plans on having you just for 24 hours you get no softness except after sex, but if you somehow manage to stay longer with him he will open up his backstory to you just a small bit, like how he was pretty much raised to be a killing machine or share some of the things he has been forced to do but you will never get to hear about his sister or parents, that one is a touchy subject and even his s/o doesn’t know about that stuff for a long time.

fight: how would they feel if their darling fought back?

Loves it! Andrei adores a challenge and a good fight in a plaything. He doesn’t want just some weak and obedient little thing, where is the fun in that? However before he picks you up Andrei does little tests before he takes you home, he will talk with you and ask you questions about yourself to gather more intel, but he also relies of great instincts and can usually tell who is a fighter and who is not. 

Go ahead and spit on him, hit him, run away and say terrible things about him, Andrei has heard it all before and it doesn’t phase him. A strong person is to be desired to Andrei and he finds it to be a turn on. 

game: is this a game to them? how much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

It is absolutely a game and you are his prey. Andrei has designed the whole abandoned town to be a maze of traps and confusing layouts just so he can have fun and watch the person panic. He loves fear and what it does to a person. Like a wolf, the hunt is an instinct he cannot live without so be a good little lamb and run for him. 

hell: what would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Getting murdered by him, I guess, or maybe that is the best scenario so you are free from the pain, Andrei has no issue killing his plaything, as long as he was grateful for his hunt that is all that matters. Not being killed and doing something he doesn’t like or getting something wrong is another bad one because you won’t know what is you did wrong, you will just suddenly have a knife in your thigh and he will not tell you what happened, just be better, ok? 

ideals: what kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Andrei doesn’t plan futures with his playthings. He doesn’t want a partner with these people and most certainly does not want kids so you are there just for his entertainment and needs, also he just wants a clean house and good meals for like week before you die.

jealousy: do they get jealous? do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Of course Andrei gets jealous, it is just who he is. Now, most likely when you are his plaything you will never, ever leave his little town and go somewhere with other people but if there is the rare moment he does take you somewhere populated you are right beside him at all times, at least one arm on you and his ice blue eyes glaring at anyone that dare breathes in your direction. 

If somehow, some way a person touches you or flirts with you, god cannot help that person from the wolf’s wrath. Most likely that person will not be breathing for longer than 24 hours.   

kisses: how do they act around or with their darling?

This completely switches through the day. Like I said before, Andrei is a master of mixing sweet and rough. One minute he could be stroking your hair and the next he could be choking you against a wall, it all depends of what he wants and if he feels like he needs to praise you and show you security or if you need to learn a lesson and have some rough sex. 

love letters: how would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Andrei is an attractive man and he knows it and uses it to his advantage. For a plaything a lot of the time he picks you up at a bar, often times it is in a town or city a few hours away from his home so Andrei doesn’t draw attention to himself and it’s easier for people to go missing in larger cities. 

Andrei will notice you either as soon as he walks in or you walk in, this man has incredible instincts and uses them. He will pick a far away table and just watch you for hours if he could, enjoying his vodka and cigarettes in peace, taking every note of your body and feeling out if you will be his perfect little plaything for the for the week. Once Andrei has fully decided he will saunter up to you and lean on the bar beside you, one look and he can hook most women, then once he speaks Andrei will make you weak in the knees. 

As for courting, there is no courting, you are being fucked, knocked out, taken back to his home and staying their forever, end of story.     

mask: are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Andrei doesn’t really interact with others because he is supposed to never show his face around most of Russia, also in the army, loyalty is all you have and when he betrayed that there was no going back, people wanted to murder him and still do. Andrei has a few connections here and there but he acts cold, harsh, truth be told, he hates other people and just wants to be alone, so there is really not a big divide in his personality. He is just a cold man through and through.

naughty: how would they punish their darling?

Number one punishment is rough sex and I mean rough. Knives, blood, spanking, choking, bondage with cold metal chains and cuffs, edging you for his own satisfaction then overstimulating you because that’s just Andrei. 

Another is leaving you in little to no clothes chained up in the abandoned apartment basement and leaving you with the fear of dying from the harsh Siberian cold, it is a mind game for him and you need to beg him and plead for him to save you. When he does come back for you, like he always will, usually, Andrei will wrap you in his clothes and whisper sweet nothings to you and saying he will never hurt you and taking you home for a hot bath.... but the bastard will do it again.

Andrei will also make threats to you and wave his blade in front of you if you are getting too cocky with him, this is a warning and there is only one.

oppression: how many rights would they take away from their darling?

All of your rights are pretty much gone as a plaything. The only way you gain some rights back is if somehow you manage to captivate him and survive longer than a week. If you do, you are free do to as you please just make sure the house is clean, he has a meal at the table and his tea is always hot. You cannot contact anyone (obviously), can’t leave the home without him, mostly for your own safety he says, Andrei has traps everywhere and doesn’t want you hurt. However, you are free to your own time and you might be able to ask him for books or art supplies or certain cooking ingredients to keep yourself busy through the day, Andrei likes someone with their own hobbies and admissions... even though he controls you. Double edged sword with him constantly.   

patience: how patient are they with their darling?

If you are a plaything, little to none. He is quick tempered and hot bloodied. You might get stabbed for making him repeat himself or be choked for talking back, there is maybe one warning but that is it.

quit: if their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Oh yeah, easily. However, if you somehow escape you might only be alive for a few days, Andrei is a professional mercenary skilled in tracking, so goodluck with that. Also he kills his playthings all the time, most don't last longer than 3 days. 

regret: would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? would they ever let their darling go?

Andrei will never ever let someone go but he does feel huge amounts of guilt once his plaything is dead, more so if it is a small woman, it brings him back to when he killed his mom and fought with his sister. Honestly Andrei doesn’t love to kill and loves the hunt but at the same time it is the one thing major thing he hates about himself and will never get over. He loses himself in the desire and sick pleasure and when it is over and comes down from the ‘feral’ state he almost goes into a depression and self medicates with vodka or even pain medication to make him sleep. 

stigma: what brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

CHILDHOOD! His father Dimitri was an abusive man but no where near what Andrei went through under the care of his uncle when they moved in with him at around age 5. Viktor, his uncle, was massively paranoid and abusive, taking out most of his abuse on Andrei and his mother Eva. 

He began the abuse immediately making Andrei almost like a super solider and teaching him everything about killing and praising his dangerous thoughts and urges, teaching him it was ok, using Andrei’s pain as weapon and the rage within the young boy he made Andrei kill his own mother. Once his mother was out of the way Viktor could do as he pleased with the kids, making them fight each other, and raising them like soldiers. (TW: SA, RAPE) One thing Viktor used to do with Andrei was find prostitutes or wanderers and make him rape or sexually assault people as he killed them, starting as young as 12, twisting his desires for sex into killing and vice versa. 

It was so far implanted in his brain that even when Viktor killed himself when Andrei was 16 he continued to this and began to really hone his skills with killing and introduced ‘the hunt’. Also being in the army just made him better and gave him a reason to kill.

tears: how do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

He honestly loves it. It is a primal urge to hear you scream and thrash, he just wants to hear all your pretty noises. As for tears that one can be 50/50 if you are a woman, if you’re a man he literally will not care. Most times he will wipe your tears and coo “You look so pretty when you cry.” but if you are a woman and crying after the rough sex and crouched in a corner, this is when soft Andrei comes out, especially if you are small, it will remind him of his sister and it hurts his heart. What Andrei will do then is sit in front of you, give you time and he will coo soft words at you until you reach for him and he will carry you to bed. As i said, the master of soft and hard.    

unique: would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Nope, not really. He is the poster boy for yandere’s

vice: what weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

So you will never escape but you can definitely live longer if you are a small woman that has a fiery personality. Go ahead and fight him and put him in his place, he loves it. For Andrei he needs a perfect mix of obedience and independence in a perfect plaything. Also if you show genuine interest in his life beyond the wolf façade and bonus if you can cook. 

wit’s end: would they ever hurt their darling?

If you have read this far you should know the answer.

xoanon: how much would they revere or worship their darling? to what length would they go to win their darling over?

Andrei will not worship you in anyway, he does care for you but this man will never worship anyone unless you are his soulmate, but we are talking about his plaything here, you are probably gonna die. 

For Andrei to try and win someone over is like spotting a unicorn, it is not gonna happen. If he is trying to pick you up at like a bar or something he has a weird thing where he will not push himself on a woman if she doesn’t want him, it’s rare but has happened to him. Andrei has interesting feelings toward women, he respects the hell out of them which can seem hypocritical to keeping them as his toys but that’s why he feels so much guilt after. Also if he sees a woman that is being bugged by another man he jump in and tell him to fuck off, he is halfway to being a nice guy.   

yearn: how long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

A day... maybe, if that.

zenith: would they ever break their darling?

Yup. It’s all mental control, he needs you to be his and only his. 

[anayaahwrites]

KOT Ficlet #5 (Momoya Natsu/ Yoshinaga Atsumu)

When the lights start flashing like a photo booth (And the stars exploding, we'll be fireproof.)

Warning: Themes of underage drinking and implied sexual content.

Natsu roughly based on this art by @sasukeslove

A small AU on MomoYoshi's first meeting:

...

Natsu is six when he learns about Angels.

He’s perched on mama’s lap, carrying a new storybook with tiny hands and slowly pronouncing all the words. Her proud smile encourages him to read the larger words too, the ones he’d avoid out of embarrassment—something about a pro-fe-cky and a pro-mice that He exists up there somewhere, over the pillowy clouds watching down on them.

Mama tucks him in that night and tells Natsu to close his eyes and pray because Angels only come to good boys.

He’s ten when it all sounds like bullshit to him.

Over the years, Mom’s rosy smile had withered into a fatigued sigh, a cry for help to the God that never answers no matter how much they pray. Dad was more a guest than a resident. He came around once in a while to eat lunch—with a taut smile plastered eerily over his smooth features—and swiftly vanish to not return in that week .

They’ve stopped waiting for him and Natsu stops asking questions.

He’s thirteen when he meets Sei, a child around his age, except so much more charming and calm and composed for someone that carried half the same set of genes Natsu had. He learns of his father’s betrayal and is honestly shocked at his own lack of surprise. Still, he questions his God and why why why would He let mom’s heart shatter like that?

Sei is quick to laugh and tell him that God doesn’t exist and mom is just a victim to their monster of a father.

So he goes home that day to his outraged mother, hair coloured like glittery Christmas tinsel and sapphire lenses replacing his usual shade of honey brown. She snaps at the sight, yelling at him till her throat closes up, till nothing but a harsh sob escapes her and he lets her. They both had to cope somehow.

By the fall of his fourteenth year, he gets pierced four times and stops talking to his mother almost completely.

To hell with dad. To hell with God.

Natsu is fifteen, and he doesn’t care about anything anymore.

He’s fifteen and quickly realising from his daily job as a guitarist in the club that girls aren't attractive no matter how much they flock around him. He still humours them sometimes, a touch here, a kiss there since the pay is good enough for him to add some extra service on his part.

Mom plies herself with work as often as possible, to douse her misery in the decayed scent of piled papers and clunking keyboards. She leaves Natsu to deal with everything else on his own like the obedient son he is, letting him go like dad left her.

Natsu is alright, though. He’s done this far longer than she knows.

He stops reaching out to her, stops talking to someone up in the skies, settling instead to live a tranquil life in the shadows, under the dependable shade of music. He hates people. He hates the world.

Natsu is basking in the warmth of another uneventful day in the club, when in walks a boy out of fucking nowhere and his entire world tips on its axis.

The boy takes shaky, wary steps as if he were balancing on a trapeze. Dark black bangs like thick black rain spill over the side of his face, half covering wide brown eyes. Splotches of pink and porcelain white stick out where his sweater ends and skin begins. He’s small and delicate and beautiful, Natsu’s heart skips a beat. Or two. Or maybe three.

And why should he lie? Natsu has seen beautiful, quite a few varieties of it too. But this…this was different. This was unreal.

The boy looks around nervously before he catches something and there’s a spark in those hazel eyes, sharp and electric, a smile tugging at his lips.

Natsu follows his gaze. On the stage lies his own guitar—a pre-performance habit for people to know he was next. He took great pride because this itself garnered more clusters than anyone in the entire house.

Natsu smiles. So he was a fan.

He downs the customary shot of vodka, waving at the people before hopping on stage and wrapping the sling around his neck. He scours the audience for a familiar face and it doesn’t take a lot, to spot a splatter of ink black in the crowd, batting eager eyelids at him. The smaller boy realises the attention on him and glances behind to confirm his suspicion.

By the time he swings around, eyes blown wide in a stare, Natsu plays the first chord.

In an instant, his expression shifts to a mix of awe and interest, a silent worship and a loud cheer compiled in one small, thin body. He claps more than anyone else in the room, beaming like a floodlight by the time Natsu finishes.

It was nothing strange. He played among cheers every day but none felt as satisfying with this voice hooting and clearly standing out from his regular gang of squealing girls. He throws his head back laughing back stage when no one is there to see.

By the time Natsu gets out on the floor again, a little more thrilled for the night and dressed in something less flashy, he’s gone. He screws his lips in displeasure and asks his friend to make him something stronger than the usual.

This happens more nights than not, and it was frustrating him.

The moment Angel boy—as he’s dubbed him, steps in through the door, Natsu traces his every move and quickly registers a pattern. He only comes around on days the club was the busiest—specifically during Natsu’s performance, talks to no one and leaves before he has the chance to even ask a name.

Not that Natsu was interested in him or anything. He was just curious, is all—why this boy looked like a starved pet every time he saw him on stage and if he really smelled like soft winter blankets and warm fireplaces, all angelic and pure.

Okay, so maybe he was a little interested.

Months pass like that.

The mid-November chill comes with its blistering snowstorms and the club is jam packed—winters were some of their busiest months—and Natsu’s up to perform. Instead of preparing, he watches the door resolutely from the bar, tapping impatiently at the table.

As routine, it barely opens a crack, and he sees a sliver of ebony snaking it’s way through the crowd. The boy stands on his tippy-toes which don’t give him much of a view, so he does these tiny jumps—that are so adorable, for a second Natsu forgets his own name—and scowls when he notices no guitar on stage.

He checks the time, the stage and then scans the crowd. The anticipation throbs through Natsu as he follows his eyes cross the room in slow motion, dragging dragging until they eventually land on him. Everything stills—the thundering music, the singing and all he can hear is the low thump of veins against his skin.

It’s over in a flash.

“That your Angel boy?” The bartender gestures at the figure turning tail and running, drying the pad on his prized work station. He skillfully pours two coloured liquids into an oddly shaped glass and passes it over the counter to him.

Natsu hums, swirling the absinthe stained drink in hand, eyeing the smaller boy gasp as a couple slams against the door, clearly piss drunk with her suspended over his thighs and gyrating her hips into the man.

“Hey, chief.”

“Hm?”

“You think I can get off early tonight?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Like when?”

“Like now.” Natsu answers, never letting his gaze falter from the head full of black hair slowly receding through the crowd, horrified.

The man guffaws, lifting a glass of water—since he can’t drink on duty—and clinking it with Natsu’s.

“Must be fuckin’ Christmas if you’re taking interest in anyone, so I’ll let this one pass. Don’t scare him off now. He already looks like a trembling lamb.”

Natsu knocks back the contents, swallowing the liquid till it numbs his entire mouth and smirks.

“I’ll try.”

So he follows the boy. Hands are immediately all over him from faces he recognises in passing—a girl he once kissed, someone that made him cake, but he pushes them off.

His boy of interest forces the hood of his shirt up all the way, and glances behind him once before increasing his pace. Maybe the lights are really getting to him and maybe Natsu is a little tipsy when he reaches out to grab his hand.

The boy flips around to lock eyes frantically, as if a ghost had seized him.

“Hey.” Natsu musters his sweetest smile.

“Hi..” The boy replies.

And oh, his voice. It’s sugary sweet and so so soft like—like actual rolls of smooth and silky cotton had woven them. He blushes fiercely under Natsu’s relentless gaze and stares where their hands were connected in a tight grip as if it burned holes through him.

Natsu frowns. “Don’t run.”

The boy’s gaze shoots up, and he’s pulling away.

“I-I’m sorry I really h-have to go—”

“It’s my birthday.” Goddamn, he must be really wasted to admit that. Now that he thinks about it, what did he just drink?

Twentieth November, the day he was born and incidentally also the day he found his father’s tongue down another woman’s throat, holding a child over his shoulder.

“Oh,” The boy stops, pursing his lips and letting the hood go all the way down before flashing easily one of the most ethereal smiles Natsu has ever seen.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” he replies awkwardly. “It’s not going really well.”

“No?”

Natsu nods. “It’s nothing different.”

“You want it to be special?”

The buzz in his nerves practically screamed a yes to that—he wanted something to remember, to bury the horrible memories he associated with this day, for the days he wished he was never born in the first place. He wanted to fit it all in this one boy in one night, this angel he didn’t even know, to free him from himself.

Natsu tightens his grip. “Dance with me?”

Oh boy, the alcohol was talking.

Angel boy looks at Natsu with wide doe eyes, peers back at their hands and gulps. Natsu frowns and releases his hold. He was drunk, probably a little more than he’d admit to, but he didn’t want to pressurize anyone—not when this boy already looked so out of his element, a beige hoodie and skinny jeans in a club full of scantily clad folk.

But he reverses the roles, grabbing Natsu by the fingers so delicately, he releases a soft hum of satisfaction. He rubs fingers between his own, feeling the brush of calloused fingertips on them. It reminds him of mom’s soft chest rising and falling when she slept beside him because he was her ‘perfect little angel’ and made him feel safe.

He misses it. Misses being safe. Misses being loved.

“Okay,” the boy mumbles, peering from under his natural hood of hair with a light smile. “Okay. Let’s dance.”

Natsu doesn’t really know what he’s doing anymore. The lights blink and they’re suddenly in stop motion. It tricks his brain into thinking of them as pictures trapped some place in his brain forever. So he stares and stares and captures the blush spreading like wildfire across the boy’s face, a smile widening in tandem with the soft beats.

They’re two faces among a thousand on a random winter night. The music isn’t his type nor is his attire anything to be proud of. But this boy. Holy heavens, if he isn’t the prettiest thing ever then the stars should be ashamed because damn, he’d beat them even on a bad day.

His hair sways—a steady swing of left right left right and a pleasant smile sits snug on his features like that’s where they belonged, that’s where they had always belonged and Natsu closes his eyes when their hands meet again.

This is perfect.

It’s when the music stills that they transition to a slower lull of movement, and the blaze of liquor in his blood emboldens him into yanking the boy a little closer. He lets him fall with a small plop on his chest and laughs when he rubs his nose, scowling.

“Why do you never wait back?” He asks, exhaling at the warmth the boy’s presence brings. Natsu puts his hand around his waist and he swears, it was like he wasn’t human, like someone had sculpted him out of clay, moulded to near perfection. And maybe he’s treading into dangerous waters, but his mouth had a mind of its own and there’s nothing he could do to stop it.

“I always look for you after I’m done but you’re never here.”

Pair of hazelnut eyes sheepishly peer at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m just.… not good at socializing.”

“So you say,” Natsu laughs, “But you’re doing better than me.”

“No way!”

“Yes way.”

“You have to be kidding me you’re so cool—and and so beautiful I really cannot—since the beginning I haven’t been able to take my eyes off—”

He squeaks when he's dragged closer by the small of his back. Their eyes meet. Natsu sees flashes of every happy moment of his life mirrored in them; His first recital, mom’s naturally loud laugh, the first time he played the guitar. They reach into Natsu’s soul and drag out his joy like the reel of a kite.

“I thought you were an angel,” he chuckles so close, he feels the boy shiver against his cheek. “I still do. Everyone here calls you Angel boy. Score a drink from them with that name sometime. I’m sure they’ll oblige you.”

“Angel? I—” He breathes a giggle, twisting silver strands with his fingers. “If there’s any angel here, it’s you.”

But this is fake, he wants to say. It’s fake, artificial, made of desperation because he never wants to look into the mirror and see his father’s face staring back at him. He won’t be him. He won’t.

“Atsumu,” he says. “My name is Atsumu.”

“Atsumu.” Natsu repeats in his head till it rolls naturally over his tongue. Like Atsu meaning heat and summer and everything bright and cheery.

Natsu purposefully lingers near his ear, to breathe his name in the air, smiling, content.

“ ‘Tsumu. It’s cute,” he hums. “You’re cute.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Definitely.” He chuckles.

Atsumu whispers, low and uneasy. “C-can I ask you something?”

“Mhmm.” At this point, his voice gave him a greater high than the drink he had downed fifteen minutes ago. Or was it an hour? He couldn’t really tell and decided very quickly he didn’t care, anyway.

“Why don’t you.. come to school?”

Natsu’s eyes open a crack to glimpse at the boy who trembles softly under him, as if he were admitting to a crime.

“I—” he continues in alarm, “I swear I’m not a stalker I just—Oh my god please don’t misunderstand me—”

“Calm down.” Natsu shushes, smiling apologetically at the few people around him that had been torn out of their aggressive make-out session as if they weren’t the ones that needed a room. God, if he sees another dick hanging out, he’ll have to bust out the chainsaw in the basement and go wild.

“So,” he leads them to a quieter corner with very few people and lesser eyes their way. “School,” he waves a hand dismissively, “It’s boring. Lots of people. Annoying questions. You know the drill.”

“Right,” he gulps. “Right so, I’m uhh—in your class I don’t think you noticed and I’m from an instrument club and someone asked us a question. Something about erotic sounds—wait that sounds bad—not erotic erotic but.…Ah, I’m bad at explaining.”

Natsu doesn’t keep back the dreamy giggle that leaves him, swaying lightly to the music. He’s exactly as he imagined—hell, even his name was spot on—all warm and giggly and fluttery.

“I’m still listening,” Natsu smiles. “Go on.”

Atsumu scrunches his nose and continues. “So one of my club seniors—he comes of a little rough but he’s really nice—went to one of my other seniors house who I think he really likes, and her mother told him it’s—I’m sorry am I too confusing?”

“I think I can manage.”

“Okay, so basically, her mother says it’s the pause in between his words and actions. The space that is just…there. And so I was writing about it—because I write everything—and Oka-kun saw my book.”

Natsu scowls. “Oka is annoying like that.”

The boy giggles this time. “Funny. He said you’d say that.”

“It’d be nice if he attempted to change it, then.”

“And so he told me you play music, where you work and that maybe you could do something good for once—I didn’t say that he did—So…” He moves his hand vaguely around them. “Here I am.”

Natsu hums against his head, bringing him to a slower pace as the song changes.

“I’ll have to thank him for that.”

“You’re not..angry?” He says through furrowed brows. “Oka-kun said you would be if you found out.”

He’s certain if Oka showed up here uninvited, Natsu would promptly kick him out. Because Oka is annoying. Atsumu however….

“So? Did you get your answer?” He asks instead.

The smaller boy makes a face, pulling all his features in to make his button nose stand out more than it already does and pout.

Natsu laughs. He’s been doing a lot of that today. Laughing.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Don’t get me wrong! Your performances are splendid and I really can’t get enough of them but the answer…I still haven’t reached a conclusion.”

Natsu plays with the fingers in his hand, shuffling to let them sink into the gap between his. Atsumu stares and responds by shyly tucking his fingers in.

“Want me to help you?” He whispers, tapping the side of Atsumu’s waist with his other hand.

“Can you?” He whispers back.

Can he? Yes. Should he? Probably not.

But what use is logic anyway, when a boy the embodiment of a sunny summer day amid a bitter winter stood enclosed in his arms?

Yeah. To hell with logic.

Natsu sways his hips, raking his free hand through Atsumu’s hair. He releases a pleased sigh when the tiny fingers between his tighten as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality, which was good. Natsu felt the same, like his sanity was slowly slipping through open fingers.

“Spaces…exist everywhere. In words, in voices, in time…” He draws their joined hands to his mouth, dragging wet lips over porcelain skin. Atsumu shudders, breathing in sharp, shallow exhales.

“These hands..there’s a space in between them too if you look carefully. We’re so close,” fingers tighten around his shirt. “But still never close enough.

He runs a palm down the boy’s face that angles and angles till plush, red lips are within kissing distance. They part and blow warm clouds of air that taste mint and chocolate in his mouth. Natsu smiles. “Space is where there is distance. Space is where there is intimacy. Space is where there is friction. And this exciting gap that keeps us wanting to be closer till not even an atom could squeeze in—” he leans in closer, “—is erotic.”

He backs away while he has the physical capacity to do so, before the alcohol overrides every decision in his head and they end up a tangled mess of limbs in some random hotel room, but Atsumu having none of it.

He pulls Natsu to himself, clutching the pleats of his shirt and tugging him down to his lips. Teeth knock loudly against each other and Natsu hisses lightly, parting to lick the tingle in the tip of his incisor away.

“S-sorry!” Atsumu covers his embarrassment behind shaky hands. Natsu wraps thin fingers under his chin, reeling him in slow and steady and closes the distance. It’s soft, like a snowflake on a tree, virgin snow settling on frozen water and ironically, melts him. It boils and freezes, ignites his soul into a firework of bursting flames. He’s touching, feeling, pulling until every inhale feels like fire in his lungs.

“Closer,” Atsumu murmurs, throwing nimble hands over his shoulder and locking their lips together like puzzle pieces on a gameboard. “Make the space go away.”

It’s chaotic, and it’s magical. Like every star in the galaxy twinkled around them tonight, like every blossoming flower settled wherever Atsumu touched him. He’s drunk on vodka, drunk on happiness, drunk on love.

Closer. Natsu pushes a knee in between his thighs. His mouth hangs open in a silent moan, eyes slowly rolling into the back of his head.

Closer. The hands in his air pull him in for another searing kiss, pressing for entry, to delve deeper, deeper into themselves. Atsumu nibbles lightly on his lip and Natsu lets him bruise him for tonight. To wreck him, destroy him.

Closer.

They settle for a slower casual rhythm when they part to breathe. He keeps them moving on the floor, smiling against a pair of swollen lips.

“School suddenly sounds much more interesting.” He says.

Atsumu squints incredulously. “We can’t do this at school.”

“No?”

“No!”

Natsu shrugs, pecking the tip of the boy’s nose. “Shame.”

“Then you’ll come?” Atsumu bumps his forehead against Natsu’s. “I’ll really see you tomorrow?”

“If you can walk home straight after tonight, then sure.”

Atsumu gasps and slaps him across the back, blushing as they leave the club, hand in hand, away into the wintery night.

Natsu turns sixteen—a little drunk, a lot happy—but he’s sixteen and he can pinpoint this as the day he falls in love even years later.

And every other birthday is insignificant but so much better, spent at home, in the arms of the boy that saved him in just one night, all those years ago.

Mom only ever asks where he’s going and who he’s moving in with while he packs his bags to leave. She frowns when he answers with the widest smile on his face, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“An Angel.”

Ignore the sloppy writing haha. I'm writing this while travelling back home after a god awful six hour exam.

It felt too plotless to post on my ao3 kdkcd—

If you look at the colouring of Natsu I based it on (go give @sasukeslove all the real love), I imagine the art as the morning after when Oka's annoying Natsu and Atsumu walks in through the door (≧▽≦)

[isitgintimeyet]

Just a Friend

Thank you all so much for your support with this story.

Sorry for the delay with this next chapter. Hope you enjoy it.

thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta

AO3

Previous

Chapter 10: From Posing to Plus One

I adjust the numerous cushions behind me on the purple velvet chaise longue and take another sip from my glass of champagne. This luxurious moment is marred somewhat by the underwire in my strapless bra digging painfully into soft tissue. With my free hand, I surreptitiously try and manoeuvre it into a more comfortable position.

“Claire, after this we have tae get ye a new bra, fer the dress.” Geillis has noticed. She notices everything.

She is sitting on the edge of a lavender boudoir chair, so full of excitement, I can practically see the air humming around her. She can’t seem to keep still, her legs constantly jiggling while the fingers of one hand beat a tattoo on the arm of the chair. Despite all the movements, the champagne in her glass remains unspilt, unsurprisingly.

Eventually, the sales assistant enters holding aloft a large white garment bag. “Here ye go, ma pet. If ye jes’ want tae pop behind the screen over there, we’ll get ye sorted.”

Geillis disappears behind the screen, while I continue to savour the champagne and take a good look at my surroundings. This room is like being in a big fluffy cloud. The walls are white with huge white wooden open wardrobes, filled with masses of lace, frills and satin. One wall has a full length mirror set in an ornate gilt frame. The floorboards are painted white as are the shutters at the windows. The only splashes of colour are from the chaise longue and two boudoir chairs, which do look somewhat incongruous against the overwhelming whiteness, like burlesque performers stuck in a room full of angels.

But perhaps they couldn’t risk white seating. All the shuffling bottoms, fake tan and spilt wine would play havoc with pristine upholstery—less virginal and more slightly seedy and used. The velvet decadence is probably preferable.

“How’s it going, Geillis?” I call across the room.

“Fine,” a muffled voice responds.

I am certainly enjoying this experience—wedding dress shopping with Geillis. It’s not something I ever imagined doing for myself, so to share it with my best friend is great. Even when I was a little girl, I never seemed to dream about weddings. I never played weddings with my dolls— I was far too busy bandaging them up, healing their imaginary diseases and, on one memorable occasion, amputating the left leg of my Tiny Tears. (In my eight year old self’s defence, it was a necessary intervention to save her from imminent death—her leg had already turned black with marker pen and all it took was a sharp pair of kitchen scissors and some red wool to stitch up with.)

And so I am thoroughly enjoying this new experience of visiting bridal shops and choosing dresses. All the pleasure and none of the wedding planning. Geillis has already dropped a dress size due to pre-wedding stress and I hope she doesn’t drop anymore—this is our final fitting.

I take the last sip from my glass. While Geillis is still being manhandled into her dress, I quietly lean over, take her half full glass from the (white) side table, pour some into my glass and relax back against the cushions.

And just in time as Geillis emerges from behind the screen.

The expression ‘take my breath away’ is often used, but in this case it is genuine. I’ve seen the dress before. I was with her when she chose it, but to see her in it now, well, I’m speechless. I want to rush over and hug her, but of course, I can’t for fear of spoiling the pristine fabric.

It’s a simple dress. Cream chiffon pleated Grecian style with a fitted strapless bodice and a long floaty skirt full of tiny intricate pleats that make the fabric lift and swirl around her as she moves. A plain cream veil cascades from the back of her head adding to the ethereal image. She looks like a goddess.

A goddess until she opens her mouth. “What d’ye think, then? This dress is bloody gorgeous, is it no’?”

She stands in front of the mirror, and twirls around, trying to glimpse it from every angle.

I feel my eyes prick with tears. “Oh, Geillis, you look absolutely beautiful. It’s just… just… lovely. You’re lovely and it fits like a dream. Dougal is a lucky man.”

“He is. And I make sure he knows it.”

The sales assistant is hovering around, straightening imaginary creases, checking the dress. Finally, Geillis stops moving and allows her to cast a professional eye over the fit. Once satisfied, she directs Geillis behind the screen once more, for the reverse transformation.

Geillis pulls a face as, clad again in jeans and t-shirt, she sits down and picks up her glass. She views it with suspicion, before shooting me a glance and taking a gulp. I try to look innocent.

“All ma clothes are sae boring now,” she pouts. “ I want tae wear that dress every day and never take it off.”

“Not very convenient in theatre, though, love,” I console her. “And think how special it’s going to be when you put it on for your wedding.”

“Aye, I suppose ye're right. And now it’s yer turn. C’mon now.”

The sales assistant returns with another garment bag and I follow her behind the screen.

There’s something quite uncomfortable about being dressed by someone else, I decide as I stand in my bra and knickers, arms stretched above my head waiting for the dress to slither down my body. I mean, obviously my parents would have dressed me when I was little, not that I can remember that, but by the time I went to live with Lamb, I was fully able to dress myself. He would have to do the occasional rebuttoning of cardigans, or zipping up of anoraks, but that was all.

The dress slips over my head and down my body. Now is the moment of truth as the sales assistant lifts my arm and pulls up the side zip. I breathe a sigh of relief (yes, I can actually breathe); the dress fits like a glove, or rather like a dress that’s been tailored to my exact measurements.

I step out from the screen to a round of applause from Geillis. “Claire, ye’re gorgeous. Ye look stunning in that dress.”

I sashay towards the mirror, enjoying the feeling of the fabric as it dances around my calves. In style, it’s not dissimilar to Geillis’, the same intricate chiffon pleats on the bodice and skirt. But my bridesmaid dress has one shoulder and is, as I was informed, ‘seafoam’ in colour.

That name is so descriptive; neither blue nor green yet both at the same time, and, as my skirt swirls around my legs, it’s easy to picture the ocean waves lapping against my ankles.

“D’ye like it?” Geillis sounds genuinely concerned.

“I love it.” And I do, I really do.

There’s just one thing, I realise as I continue to twist around. Geillis was right. I do need a new bra.

***********

With the two garment bags safely stowed in the wardrobe of Geillis’ spare bedroom, we celebrate with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

I curl my legs up on the sofa and watch as Geillis switches on her laptop, ready to update all her wedding preparation spreadsheets with today’s activities. She sticks her tongue out in concentration as she scrolls through all her information, finally finding the appropriate worksheets. A few taps of the keyboard and it’s done. She doesn’t switch off but continues to look at the screen.

Eventually she speaks. “Claire, I need tae know. This weekend we’ve tae give the numbers tae the hotel and I want tae do the seating plan. Are ye bringing a plus one? I mean, it’s ok if ye’re no’.”

I feel really bad about not letting Geillis know sooner. I mean, after the rugby club, it appears  that Jamie and I have somehow become each other’s ‘plus one’, but I haven’t yet decided whether to ask him to the wedding. That somehow seems more intimate—and the thought of him being interrogated by my friends fills me with dread.

“I haven’t asked anyone yet. When do you need to know?”

“By ‘anyone’ I take it ye mean Jamie? Who else would be yer plus one? Frank?” She pulls a face at that idea. “And I need tae know by tomorrow night. It doesna matter if ye dinna bring anyone…Angus isna bringing anyone either. He’d be thrilled tae accompany ye.”

I grimace instinctively. I met Angus, Dougal’s brother, at Geillis’ last New Year's Eve party and he was more than a little, shall we say, full on. I could cope with his hands, although it was rather like trying to wrangle an octopus. Midnight was a different matter as he tried to turn a polite peck into a full snog, tongue and all.

“Ok, I’ll ask Jamie tomorrow. We're going running.”

Geillis bursts out laughing, which rapidly turns into a coughing fit. “Running? Ye?” she croaks between coughs. “Oh ma love, I’d pay good money tae see that.”

******************

I don’t consider myself unfit. I try to do yoga every week and all those hours in theatre keep me pretty active. But running isn’t something I ever imagine myself doing, let alone actually enjoy.

Jamie first suggested it to me a couple of weeks ago. As usual, I didn’t have to say a word, my face told him what I thought of the idea. He then proceeded to agree with me, declaring that he didn’t think I had the stamina for that kind of exercise. I knew exactly what he was doing—a blatant attempt at reverse psychology. Did he really think I would fall for that?

Anyway, I’ve arranged to meet him in the park at our bench. I eye the coffee kiosk wistfully. It’s too early in the morning for it to be open, or indeed for anybody to be around, save a few fellow runners and some dog walkers. Perhaps, it will be open by the time we’ve finished.

I hold onto the bench and practice a few lunges, trying to look as though I know what I’m doing.

“Ye’re wobbling a bit,” a familiar voice calls from behind.

Immediately I stand up and turn to face him.

“Morning, how are ye? Looking forward tae this?” He sounds far too cheerful for this early on a Sunday.

“Of course.” I don’t tell him that usually all I want on a Sunday morning is coffee and a cinnamon bun.

He checks his watch. “Well, mebbe yer man’ll be open fer coffee when we get back.”

I don’t believe it. Are all my friends mind readers?

I shrug, trying to look like it never crossed my mind.

“Sae,” he continues. “We’ll start off wi’ 5 minutes brisk walking tae warm up, then mebbe 15 minutes alternating between slow running and walking and finish off wi’ 5 minutes walking tae cool down. I dinna want ye tae do too much as it’s yer first time and I think that’ll be more than enough fer ye.”

Here we go—Jamie and his reverse psychology again. How obvious.

“Oh well,” I reply. “I think we can do more than that. I’ll be fine.”

He smirks as he sets the timer on his watch. “OK, Sassenach, whatever ye say.”

*************

I don’t think I’ve ever seen so welcome a sight as the open shutters on the coffee kiosk. It may be my imagination but, even from this distance, I can smell the freshly brewed coffee. And, boy, do I need it.

I let my pride override my commonsense and actually ran-slash-walked for ten minutes more than Jamie had planned, finishing with a totally unnecessary sprint, or rather my pathetic attempt at one, before the cool down. And now I’m paying the price. My face is burning hot, my t-shirt is one huge sweat patch and my legs feel like they’re made from rubber.

Jamie, on the other hand, is strolling towards the kiosk looking as though he’s barely broken into a sweat. I think it literally was ‘a walk in the park’ for him today.

I sit down on the bench, shifting awkwardly as the sweat trickles down my back and between my cheeks. What I really need is a long, hot shower…

Jamie comes and joins me on the bench, his hands full with coffee and a couple of mysterious bags. He deposits his purchases between us and settles himself. I hope he’s not downwind of me. I don’t think I’m smelling my sweetest at the moment.

He passes me a coffee and a bag.

“Here ye go, I reckon ye’ve earned it. I didna ken what ye wanted. That’s an almond croissant, but I’ve a pain au raisin here if ye’d prefer.”

I accept the almond croissant and coffee gratefully.

“How d’ye feel now?” He asks as he takes a large bite of his pastry.

“I feel fine.” I lie.

“Hmm. Actually, ye did well today. Better than I thought. Ye’ll be running a five k before we know it.”

I stare at him, not sure if he’s being sarcastic, but, no, there’s a genuine smile on his face as he takes another bite of his pastry.

“Not sure about that.” I’m thinking that once is enough.

“Nonsense, ye should do this regularly. I’ll help ye, if ye like.”

“But won’t I hold you back with my slow pace?”

“Doesna matter. I run a couple of times a week anyway. I can do this as well.”

“I’ll think about it.” I break a piece of my croissant off and pop it in my mouth. It is delicious and totally guilt free. I’ve earned it.

We are quiet for a moment, both of us savouring the coffee and treats. I am also pondering how best to ask Jamie about Geillis’ wedding. I know I have to ask him today, but I don’t want him to feel obliged to attend, I need to offer him a way to decline without feeling guilty.

“So,” I begin, a bit hesitant. “I was wondering…of course, you don’t have to, if you don’t want to… but you know I’m a bridesmaid at Geillis’ wedding and I was wondering, well, if you wanted to accompany me…be my plus one.”

“I won’t mind if you don’t want to come. That’s fine too.” I add quickly.

“Ye sound like ye dinna want me tae come.” He watches my face, maybe looking for clues as to what I actually want.

“I do…but only if you want to. You don’t have to.” I’m still giving him a guilt free way out.

“But, ye want me tae come, do ye?” He looks a little bit perplexed, unsure what to do.

“Yes, obviously—“

“Well, Sassenach, in that case I accept. It will be ma pleasure.”