#now time to go rinse out a jean jacket

[boyslugs]

have i gotten anything i wanted to do tonight done? well, i did dishes and had a shower and i had dinner and i started my application for a higher paying job so yeah, i have. not all of the things, but enough that i'm not gonna beat myself up for not doing more.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 25

part 1 | part 24 | ao3

cw: throwing up, recreational alcohol & drug use

“Well, thank fuck I didn’t wear the Reeboks,” Eddie laughs.

Steve groans 'Jesus,' because he doesn't know what else there is to say to that. Eddie came out of nowhere. Materialized like some kind of freaky wizard. And that would— that would be on brand, wouldn’t it?

Eddie the magician. Eddie the shapeshifter.

Maybe Eddie is Misty? Would explain why she left him all those dead rats when he first—

“Oh, fuck.” His stomach rolls at the thought, a hot-cold-nasty-sick shiver down his spine, and he bends forward to retch again. Hits the grass this time at least, right between Eddie’s boots; groans and spits drool into the dirt. Eddie smooths a hand between his shoulder blades, which is nice, even if everything else about this totally blows.

“Godddd,” he moans when the dry heaving stops. He lifts his head to apologize and nearly tips himself into the mess he just made.

“Whoa, whoa whoa, hey; easy,” Eddie shushes, steadying him with both hands. Warm palms against his biceps; firm grip.

“S’nice.”

“Yeah?” Eddie grins, private and soft. "Alright, arms up."

"Mmh?"

"Up! Come on, sweetheart, up you get." He loops Steve’s arms around his neck, wearing him like a cape. Steve giggles into his fluffy curls, nuzzles his nose into them because they're warm and Eddie smells nice, and time does that weird drunk thing where Steve slow blinks and suddenly they're a hundred yards away.

Edge of the creek, downstream from the falls where the water’s just a thin squiggle cut through smooth, mossy stone. Eddie's got Steve facedown across his lap, gathering up his hair and making a headband with his hands, and he's apologizing in advance for Steve-doesn't-know-what.

"Big breath," Eddie warns him, and then he dips Steve's face in the icy stream like he's battering fried chicken in a goddamn egg wash. Two quick dunks, the cold ripping through Steve's nerves; it's all finger-licking fucked.

"What the hell?!" Steve splutters when Eddie lifts him up, rolls him onto his back and smiles down at him.

"Mornin', sunshine!"

"Jesus Christ!"

Eddie's laughing at him hard. "Sorry, big boy. Had to wake you up somehow."

He brushes Steve's bangs off his face, and Steve pants up at him, wide awake now. Trembling. In the dark, Eddie's eyes look nearly black. Two inkpots full of moonlight.

“'M awake," Steve mumbles to distract himself from the sudden kick-throb behind his ribs. "Sorry I barfed on your shoes."

“Ah, comes with the territory.” Eddie kicks his legs out, rinsing the toes of his boots off in the stream. “Drug dealer, remember? Seen a lot worse than this at parties, sweetheart, I can promise you that."

Steve blinks at him. Still feels syrupy and slow like he's wading through mud. Sweetheart. The word's a fog machine in his mind. Hazy warmth; candy clouds. "If... If you're a drug dealer, then... should've woken me up with drugs."

"Oh?"

"Mhmm. Jus' rude not to, really."

Eddie's lips quirk. His eyes are soft, his fingers combing through Steve's hair, and Steve's head is still in his lap, even though it probably shouldn't be. "If you want coke..." he murmurs, his voice a low, fond rumble, "you can just ask for it."

"Yeah?"

"Sure, Stevie."

Steve watches with rapt attention as Eddie reaches into his jacket, pulls out a little baggie and holds it up in question. Steve gulps; nods.

Fuck yeah. He hasn't had coke in forever.

Eddie pours the smallest amount onto the back of one hand, licks the thumb of his other and presses it into the pile, coating it in white powder. He brings it up to Steve's mouth and rests it right against his lip — barest hint of pressure; not hovering, not pushing in. "Well, go on," he smirks.

Steve makes a questioning sound that comes out like a whine, a high, nasal thing in the back of his throat. His cock stirs in his jeans.

"Ask me," Eddie whispers.

"Can I have it?" Steve asks. He can feel Eddie's thumb against his lips as he speaks; has to stop himself from flicking out his tongue to get a taste. "Please?"

"Fuck," Eddie hisses between his teeth. "Yeah, baby." He presses into the meat of Steve's bottom lip; drags it down, exposes skin that's wet and warm. Dances over it with the pad of his thumb — the inside of Steve's lip, his gums, his tongue.

There's no mistaking the sound Steve makes for anything but a moan, throaty and deep as he sucks Eddie's thumb deeper into his mouth; hollows his cheeks, makes Eddie gasp. Makes him twitch his hips up under Steve, and it's good, and Steve feels like there are live wires where his veins used to be, the rush of the coke and Eddie's hands and Eddie's noises in his good ear, and—

"Hey!" someone shouts across the field. Eddie moves like he's been shot at, flinching away from Steve entirely, a hand pressed over his lap as he turns to see who's coming.

Steve lifts his head to look. His mouth is buzzing, lips full and flushed like he's been kissing someone. Kissing Eddie. God, he wants to. Wants to hike him up the falls, shove him hard against a tree.

But he can't. Because Jason Carver's here now.

Great.

—

part 26

gonna do the tag lists in separate reblogs from now on (with the tag "#trailer park steve au taglist" if you'd like to filter that content), comment and let me know if you want me to add you tomorrow (21+ only, please confirm your age if you're asking to be tagged)

[yumeaoka-chan]

Walls Will Crumble(say the word)

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Reader/ Demon! Hobie x Angel! Reader

Word Count: 8.4k

Tags: Cursing, blood, gore (oops), reunions, flashbacks (it's all coming together), death (it's not that bad, I promise), fighting, scared reader, angry reader (furious even), Billie & Ramona, angry hobie, crying, norman osborn (cuz that mf needs his own tag, ew), degradation (screw osborn, real talk), panic attack?? (kinda, but not really), title based off of Don't Think Twice by Hikaru Utada, no physical description of reader (besides clothing), reader is AFAB, sparse use of y/n (just once, promise)

Summary: A century in the dark. A century of loss. A century of longing and aching… It's high time you get the revenge you so deserve, no? A/N: Credits for the lovely banners go to @the-shroom-garden !!! Another late entry for Octobie @the-kr8tor , oops! Billie, Ramona, and third child belong to Katy! Last part of the au that has been keeping me up for several days now🫠💕💕

Part 4 >>> Part 5

The sound of knocking at your front door startles you slightly, the soapy dish in your hand falling into the sink. Rinsing your hands off and wiping them on a dry dish towel, you walk into the living room of your apartment slowly. You weren't expecting any visitors, especially since your friends have been out of town. “A business trip”, is what they had said when you questioned why all three of them had to leave together, sheepish smiles on their faces. You'd brushed it off and believed them because they actually did work together at a small local clothing shop. Maybe their boss wanted to treat them for their hard work, you weren't sure. Besides, the guilty look in their eyes for having to leave you for three whole months made you weak and quick to reassure them. Even if three months was an absurd amount of time for a business trip.

Peering out of the peephole, you squint your eyes at the sight of a tall man biting on the long nail of his thumb, foot tapping on the doormat. He looked a little nervous and a bit… familiar. You unlock and open your door just enough to peek your head out, the man's head whipping around immediately to meet your eyes. Piercing golden orbs gaze back at you, warm and glittering and oh so familiar. Your mouth drops open as you hurriedly open the door wider, gazing up at the man before you and raising a hand up to gently rest it on his arm. You never thought you'd see him again. After that night you met, you'd gone to see him again a few days later like you promised you would. Only for disappointment and slight concern to fill your chest at the sight of his corn maze burned to the ground, the soil black with the ashes of the burnt plants. There were no remnants of a scarecrow to be seen, just a few burnt straws of hay laying in the very middle. And though the logical side of you tried to remind you that he was a demon and he'd be fine, you still found yourself worrying.

“Hobie…? Y-You didn’t burn to a crisp…?” You whisper softly as you peer up at his face, noting all the little changes. His face looked shaper and a bit fuller, like he'd finally been eating well. He was taller too, the top of your head barely reaching past the middle of his chest. Long locs spilled over his shoulders and down his back instead of the freeform wicks, shimmering crystals weaved into his hair and hanging from the ends. Hobie sports a leather jacket adorned with several pins and spikes, as well as black combat boots with jingling chains dangling off the belt loops of his plaid jeans. He looks good, beyond good. Amazing. You can feel your cheeks warm up a bit as he chuckles lowly, your heart fluttering at the deep voice you'd longed to hear these past few months. He's tender in the way he grips your wrist and guides your hand to rest on his chest, letting you feel the way his own heart flutters beneath your palm.

“I was a good boy, lovie. No eatin’ any angels, remember?” Hobie murmurs as he leans down just a bit while looking down at you through his long lashes, eyes shining with a fondness to them. You roll your eyes as a smile flits across your face.

“How could I forget? You're a demon with morals”, you chuckle as you step back and nod your head, eyes roaming over his appearance once again. “Modern clothes look good on you.” Hobie grins at your words and moves back to do a little twirl, flipping his locs over his shoulder as he bats his eyelashes at you. It makes a loud guffaw leave you as you shake your head. People walking pass give you both weird looks of judgment and you roll your eyes while taking his hand, leading him inside of your apartment. Once inside, he takes both of your hands in his and pulls you close to him, making you raise an eyebrow in question.

“I know it's been a while, angel. I had some things to take care of back home. But thanks to that, I've finally got all my powers back.” Hobie says with a smile before furrowing his eyebrows, gently squeezing your hands as a flicker of something you can't quite name goes across his face. He lowers his eyes to the floor before bringing a hand up to gently caress your cheek. Nuzzling your face in his palm is practically second nature, something in you knowing that this was right. That this was how it should always be. Hobie's molten gaze hypnotized you, his golden eyes swimming with a hint of sadness, a hint of hesitation. Your fingers move to grip the hem of his leather jacket.

“What is it, Hobie…?” You mumble as you feel one of his thumbs grazing your bottom lip. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as several heartbeats pass between you. Warm lips are pressed against your forehead then, lip piercing cool against your flesh as you melt under his affection. Only, it feels as if your body is suddenly thrown, pushed down into the ground and sinking deep beyond the flooring of your home. You're drowning, the tide is pulling you down into the depths of the abyss. A bubble leaves your lips as you gasp and…

“I'm tellin’ you, love. Somethin’ is wrong with that slimy bastard.”

“Trust me, Hobes. I know…” You sigh in exasperation as you lay down on his lap, the scent of flowers all around you as you both sit in the field of daisies. One of Hobie's hands is buried in your hair, sharp nails gently scratching at your scalp in a soothing way. You can feel your body relaxing as you wrap your large wings around you like a blanket. The sounds of the babbling brook a few feet from your resting area lull you into a sense of calm, much better than how stressed you had been when you came to meet up with Hobie. The demon prince grumbles softly as he brushes a flower petal off of your cheek, frustration battling with the peacefulness of the serene surroundings.

“He's up to somethin’, I just know it. Cause there's no way he's just allowin’ the shit my dad's doing to just happen with no fuss. Startin’ natural disasters, causing war, famine, and disease? Don't even get me started on the monthly demon scares the humans keep talking about…” Hobie sighs and scrubs a hand down his face, anger and suspicion coloring his words as he places his fingers under your chin and tilts your head to look up at him.

“And then there's Osborn’s obsession with you… That I really don't like”, he rumbles lowly, his grumpy expression reminding you too much of a cat. Biting back the giggle that threatens to escape you, you lift a hand up to poke at his cheek.

“It'll pass. Here's hoping he forgets me entirely for someone new. But, you're right. Why is he just overlooking this stuff? The balance is all out of whack. I might have to speak with him about it later”, you mumble, eyes fluttering shut as he leans down to brush his lips against yours. The scene melts away.

You're now thumbing through paperwork, brows furrowed as you try to tally the number of souls that should have been admitted into Heaven. Should have, but are nowhere to be found. Files missing and the count not adding up, you angrily huff and slam the papers down onto the desk. The feathers of your wings ruffle and puff up as you move to search through Osborn’s papers instead, hoping that maybe he has what you're looking for. Thank the stars he's out attending to whatever business he claims he has to see to. If he ever saw you combing through his desk, you're sure his lecture and punishment would have been long.

After minutes of searching, you still don't find the papers you're looking for, a groan leaving your lips as your wings droop a bit. You let out a sigh and pick up one of the files that litter the desk, mindlessly flipping through the pages. It'd do no good to keep searching when you were too tired to do so, a break much needed at the moment. As your eyes flit across the paper, you can't help but notice that it's mentioning the names of the souls that you've been looking for. It makes you sit up straighter, eyes widening as you focus on the context of the scrawny handwriting. A contract. It was a contract. And as you read the full details of what it entails and the signatures written on the very bottom, you can feel your heart thudding in your ears, breath stilling and hands trembling.

Because why in the Almighty’s name did the High Priest think to make a contract with the King Of Demons…?

“ ‘In exchange for the services of aiding in the recruitment of new devotees, I, Norman Osborn, High Priest Of the Archangels and soon to be God of Order, agree to the releasing of the more innocent of souls. A select choice of the finest souls being of infants, virgins, and the highest order of faithfuls shall be bestowed upon the reigning King of Demons monthly, upon completion of aiding the new order. Should either party fail to uphold their end of the agreement, the offender must release unto the other their most treasured possession...’ ”

The whispered words make you sick as you utter them, paper falling from your hands as the information sinks in. It all clicks then. The large amount of disruptions and demon activity on earth, the huge amount of missing souls, the lack of reactivity from the High Priest. Osborn was giving the King free reign to cause havoc, in hopes that humans will see the demons and turn towards faith to pull them through. Faith in a new God who wasn't the Almighty, a God who'd “restore” the peace and order. And all it costs him is the souls of truly innocent people, people and children who earned their eternal rest now damned to an eternal prison. Hobie had been right to be suspicious, right to keep questioning everything. Because now, everything was going to shit.

The sounds of faint footsteps make you jolt, alarms going off in your head as you quickly put the files back in order. You had to tell someone, but who would believe you? Surely not your fellow angels, some who already look at you with jealousy. They could use this knowledge against you, make Osborn punish you for being “disloyal” and falling for “a devil's lies”. No, you had to leave, had to take this with you. Stuffing the papers into your chiton, you quickly open a portal to your hideaway and dart in. Heart pounding furiously, you can feel yourself breaking down when you see Hobie already sitting in the circle of flowers, lying back with his hands behind his head. It's like he can feel your presence when you arrive, body already turning in your direction. He smiles warmly at you and you feel the dam break, hot tears dripping down your face.

Hobie's next to you in an instant, smile gone and eyebrows knitted with concern as he cups your face in his hands, thumbs wiping away the tears that continue to fall.

“It's awful, it's awful, Hobie. It's terrible”, you sob as your hands cling to the fabric of his shirt, chest heaving as you gasp with your words. Lips press against your cheek and his deep voice calmly shushes you as he wipes the tears still.

“Breathe, angel. Breathe. I'm right here. Just tell me what's wrong. What's terrible?” He mumbles against your cheek before pressing another kiss to your forehead and another to your other cheek. Before golden eyes gaze calmly into yours. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you calm the frantic beating of your heart.

“You were right. Your suspicion and everything about how messed up everything is was right… And I'm the one who took the only proof of it away…” You breathe out, hands shaky as you reach to hand him the files. Hobie takes the papers from you with a worried look before silently reading what you handed him. His expression darkens as he reads the full contract, fire licking behind his eyes. Clenching the paper in his grip, he looks around before looking back down at you.

“Who else knows of this, love?”

“N-Nobody. I found it in Osborn’s office when I was searching for papers. This is bad, Hobie. He's planning something that's gonna wreck the natural order of things. Becoming a God… It's madness…” Hobie scratches the back of his head before scrubbing a hand over his face. He looks at you with wide eyes then, a flicker of trepidation in his eyes.

“Listen, sweetheart. We gotta leave here. From the Heavens, earth, the Hells, all of it. Nowhere is safe right now. Osborn is gonna figure out that you're the one who took it–”

“–Because I'm the only person with access to his things…” You mutter quietly, fresh tears welling up in your eyes and you feel your heart sink into your stomach. Because even if you were now one of the strongest angels besides Osborn, there was no way you could fight all of your peers and make it out alive by yourself. Hobie pulls you close at the look of utter despair on your face, arms wrapping around you tightly and burying his face into your shoulder. He rubs at your back as you silently sob, cooing and reassuring you that it would all be okay.

“He's not gonna find us, lovie. I've got a place in mind, somewhere no one knows about, okay? Do you trust me, angel…?”

“I trust you… I love you…”

“And I love you. Let's get goin’, yeah?” The scene melts away.

Laughter fills the air as you smother your daughters in kisses, raining little pecks on their cheeks as they squeal and try to break free. Hobie watches you three with a dopey grin on his face before cooing at his son, watching little Aiden flap his wings and glide over to him. You and Hobie had found a little sanctuary in a realm just beyond Earth, between Heaven and the Hells. Invisible to most everyone besides those who knew just where to search. It was there that you two decided to make it official, your union evident by the rings adorning your fingers. The rings were special, able to turn into a matching pair of tear shaped necklaces, one with a ruby and the other with a sapphire. It was with your union that you were able to bring your pride and joy into this world. Twin girls, named Billie and Ramona, and a little boy named Aiden. When you first held them, you couldn't imagine a life without them. They were perfect and they were yours, you and Hobie's. You vowed to protect them till your very last breath if it ever came to the day that your peace was shattered.

A trumpet blaring rings in the air, making all of you look up towards the source. And that's when you see it, a large swarm of angels breaking through the barrier of the realm, pieces of its shattered remains falling down from up high as they dive down towards your direction. Fear pierces your heart as your girls grip onto you tighter, anxiety shining in their eyes. You turn to Hobie, who holds Aiden close to his chest, before you both run as far as you can with your children in tow. Eyes glowing a bright white, you conjure up a wall of flowering vines that reach miles high and separates you from the approaching angels.

“Run! Get the children and get out of here!” Hobie yells at you as he hands the frightened toddler in his arms over to you, frantic and in disarray. His hands push at your shoulders, forcing you to turn away. This was it. Osborn had finally found you and now your family was in danger. Shaking your head, you plant your feet firmly on the ground, tears stinging your eyes as they start to spill down your cheeks.

“Not without you!” You sob desperately, trying hard to turn around and face him. Only for his hands to be firm in making you flee. You can smell the scent of smoke in the air, chest heaving as you feel your wall of vines now starting to burn. The fire is spreading too quickly, starting to creep towards the hanging vines adorning your cottage. His hands shake as he pushes you to move, to walk. There's fear in his voice, dripping worry that trickles down into you as his hands on your shoulders slowly dissolve into wriggling spiders.

“I'll find you! Just leave, quickly!” Hobie growls before the spiders on your shoulders scurry away, the sounds of him transforming ringing in your ears as you hold your son closer to you. Heat surrounds you now as you lead your children towards the escape route that you and Hobie had made if something like this were to ever happen. Only, to stop and hold your children close to you as the wood of your cottage splinters and crashes down in front of you, burning planks blocking your way. Fire licks at your cheeks as Billie and Ramona cower by your sides, Aiden wailing his heart out. This was too much for them to be experiencing right now. Heart thundering in your ears, you lead them around the cottage, hoping to get to the brook on the other side. At least, then you'd have a chance of getting out of here. Your hopes are dashed as a horde of angels fly down to surround you all, holy swords and staffs in hand as they close in on you. You know you can't escape them like this with your children in tow, can't fight them off with your arms focused on holding them close.

A hand harshly yanks at your hair, pulling you away at the same time that you feel multiple hands forcing your arms off of your children.

“No! No, no! Let me go!” You scream and kick, trying to get back to them, wings flapping harshly. A cry of pain leaves your lips as you feel a hand ripping and tearing at your feathers, blood dripping into the grass below from your damaged wing. You can hear Billie and little Aiden crying, Mona screaming as you're forced onto your knees. Glowing restraints are placed on you, around your wrists and wings, strings of light wrapped tight around your wriggling form.

“Leave my mummy alone!” Mona screams as energy crackles around her, tears falling down her cheeks and little fists shaking with fear. The angels reach out to hold her back, only to hiss with pain as they touch her arm. Your heart breaks at the sight, her power growing wild and out of control with how terrified she is. You shake your head as she reaches out to you, energy crackling around her fingertips.

“Mona, no. Don't–”

“You produced these abominations, little dove…?” The voice makes your body seize up almost instantly, heart thudding so hard that it aches. A cold sweat breaks on your skin and your breath hitches as the hand in your hair gives a harsh yank, forcing you to look up at the man before you. Icy blue eyes bore into your own, a frown painted on his lips. Osborn places a hand under your chin and forces you to look at your children as he flicks his wrist, a large bubble of light shining into existence around them, trapping them. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, wagging his finger at them when Aiden and Billie scream, the powerful sound making their prison vibrate harshly.

“Surely, that devil poisoned your ear and forced himself upon you. You didn't allow him into your bed. Right, my dove…?” Osborn says as he looks you over, but by the way his smile doesn't reach his eyes, you can tell he already knows the truth. With trembling lips and your instincts to protect your young rising, you sneer up at the High Priest with hate flickering in your eyes like an ember.

“You don't care about that. You just care about what I know!” Norman raises an eyebrow and sweeps a hand to gesture at the trembling twins holding their baby brother close.

“Why would I not care? My little dove, now with filth for offspring? And a demon prince who's been frothing at the mouth, trying to make us leave you alone? I am nothing but concerned, little dove.” As he leans in, you take the opportunity to spit in his face, a smirk on your lips as the saliva drips down his cheek.

“Don't you ever call my children outside of their names”, you hiss, the words sounding like a curse between your teeth. Osborn sighs and wipes your spit away with his thumb before more feathers are viciously plucked from your wings. You cry out as warmth dribbles down your back, blood splattering onto the flowers beneath you.

“So, he has poisoned you. A shame. You have such a bright light inside you, the brightest I've ever seen. It's now contaminated, I see.” Smoke forms thick clouds that drift in the air and you can hear Hobie shouting in the distance. Your children crying for you fill your ears as you look up, heart shattering as you watch the cottage you built with love crumble to the ground, flowers crushing and burning under the lit wood. Several more angels come toward you then, a tall cube made of pure light floating behind them. Hobie's snarling and banging on the walls of his prison, skin burning from the holy magic used to keep him at bay. He's snapping his teeth and roaring as his body constantly shifts, little spiders shaping into a swarming mass before wriggling into the form of massive creatures, then going back to him banging against the walls.

The enraged demon's eyes shift to his three little ones being held at bay before drifting over to you. You can see the way his golden eyes morph into seething crimson slits as Osborn raises his staff at you, voice booming loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Little dove, thou bearest a great sin indeed. For permitting a devil into thy bed and giving life to foulblood nephalems, thy light has died. In the Almighty’s name, no longer shall thee be permitted to adorn his heavenly skies.” Your lips tremble and you scream as more feathers are plucked from you, pain making your head spin. Hobie bangs even harder, shouts even louder.

“That's bullshit! You don't speak for the Almighty, fuckin’ snake! Get away from them! Don't touch my family!” The demon roars, all boiling rage and dripping despair. “Osborn! I'll rip you apart!” You can hear as he struggles, trying hard to get to you even as his skin sizzles and the children cry in the distance. A piercing scream rings through the air and now you're falling from up high, tears dripping from your eyes as you gasp. It feels like hundreds of hands are dragging you down, your deadly descent to the ground impending. You reach your hand towards the sky and…

Your chest heaves as you feel yourself finally being snapped back into your body, gasps leaving you as you stumble backward. Gentle hands hold your waist as you clench your eyes shut, the memories flooding you like a tidal wave. With shaky hands, you grip onto Hobie's arms tightly for support as you try to calm down the thundering of your heart. Tears, hot and thick, cascade down your cheeks as you feel your wings, your wings, emerge from your back, one of the appendages almost completely featherless. You reach up to touch your ruby necklace with shaky fingers, your other hand patting Hobie's chest to find his sapphire one sparkling beneath his shirt. And as you look up with teary eyes to gaze into his watering golden ones, you don't speak for several moments. Because finally, finally, you remember everything. Every foggy detail shines under a new light, every missing piece now clicked into place.

“Hobie… My Hobie”, you breathe out softly as you lift a hand to tenderly cup his cheek, heart aching as he nuzzles his face into your palm. His lips tremble as he smiles and nods his head, one of his hands resting on the back of your neck.

“That's right, angel. Your Hobie… Just yours”, he whispers, voice wavering with unshed tears that finally fall as he pulls you in for a breathtaking kiss. Both of his hands move to hold your face as he tilts your head back, kisses leaving you breathless and dazed. All of his frustration, all of his longing, all of his yearning. You can feel it all pouring into you, making you press yourself closer as you kiss each other senseless. It's like time stops, the world stilling just for the two of you. Nothing else matters, not when the love of your life, your fate, holds you like you're the most precious thing in the world to him. When you finally break away for air, your hands roam his face and hair, eyes looking him over as if you truly couldn't believe he was with you once again.

“H-How did you find me? Where have you been? Oh my days, where are the kids? Billie and Ramona? Little Aiden…?” Hobie shushes your bombard of questions with another kiss, chuckling at the way you practically melt because of it. Pulling you over to the couch, you both sit down as he shares what happened to him during the century following your fall. Hobie tells you of how he'd been taken to his father by the angels and punished to haunt the earth for the rest of his days, consuming souls his only way of nourishment. He tells you how his friends, Ned, Riri, and Serenity had followed him to earth in order to help get him back home. Of how he had them show Osborn’s contract to a group of angels who regretted tearing your family apart and how his friends went to find you, promising to watch over you as Hobie regained his strength. Hobie reveals how he had to conserve the brightest of souls that entered his maze in order to break the curse placed over him and the maze, how seeing you again for the first time in years had let him know he was finally ready to make his move.

“For the past three months, I've been gatherin’ forces to help take down my father and Osborn. Demons and angels alike, if you can believe it. Becomin’ King gave me the power to give you back your memories and the ability to shape his realm however I like. I've turned it into one we can all live happily in. Like before…” Your eyes soften at his words, the thought of Hobie doing everything he could to reunite your family making your heart swell. His hands caress your cheeks as he looks down at you with pure adoration and burning affection, devotion to you and only you screaming from the way his touches are as soft as silk. Golden gaze, a liquid pool of warmth that you're all too happy to dive in.

“Chaos, Mayhem, and the little terror are at home waitin’ for you, lovie. Why don't we go see ‘em, hm?” Hobie hums against your lips as he leans down to peck your lips once, twice, three times before leaning back just a bit. And everything in you screams to do what he's saying, wanting nothing more than to hold your little ones close and never let go. And yet…

“Not yet”, you mumble quietly, brows furrowing and a small frown on your lips. A grim look washes over your features, Hobie's thumbs grazing your brow to try and smooth the look off of your face. You shake your head and peer up at him sadly.

“Not until we're safe. We'll never be safe while Osborn still lives and I couldn't bear to face them until it's all over. He called them filth…” You say, seething as the memory ignites a fire within you. A need to see the man who dared speak ill of your children and love rot like a festering corpse. Hobie's deep voice rumbles in his chest as he peers at you with slight concern.

“Are you sure, angel? You don't have to fight if you don't want to.”

“I want to. I need to see him bleed. He's done too much harm to not only us, but the balance of the realms in general. We're making that bitch grovel.” You say with a huff, a determined gleam in your eyes. Hobie chuckles and nods his head, pressing his lips against your forehead softly.

“That's my girl.”

The next two weeks are spent at an abandoned building in the countryside planning for the coup d'état, rebel Archangels and demons working side by side to end Osborn’s schemes. Serenity, Ned, and Riri were there when you arrived holding hands with Hobie, all three of them rushing to pull you both in a hug. They rained apologies on you for leaving you alone for so long, which you just dismissed. It was for a good reason, after all. They all help you train your powers again, rusty after having gone so long without them.

“Strange how I still have divine powers”, you mumbled as you dodged a blow to the face from Riri, who growled angrily. For someone who was rusty, you were still pretty good at being slippery. Even if you absolutely loathe him, Norman's teachings truly didn't fail you. Hobie shrugs from his perch on the windowsill, munching on a bright blue fruit that weirdly enough smelled just like coconuts and cream. A fruit from the Hells, no doubt.

“Well, that fallin’ from grace bullshit wasn't at all justifiable, ‘specially comin’ from that wanker”, he huffs before letting out a low impressed whistle as he watches you conjure two whips made of pure light, snaking the weapons around Riri’s legs and yanking them to make her fall on her back. The cambion groans as her head falls back into the dirt, dust settling in her curls. You give her a teasing smile and blow a kiss to her when she flips you off, getting back up with a scowl on her lips. You spend the last few days training and taking walks with Hobie, thoughts drifting to your kids that were waiting for you at your new home. It made you strengthen your resolve, knowing that you had people you needed to protect. You had finally gotten your family back and nothing was going to come between you all ever again.

The day for the rebellion finally rolls around, your heart hammering in your chest as you finish wrapping the sash around your enchanted robes. All black and white ombre with long sleeves that end up wrapping around your fingers, intricate gold vines etched into the fabric. Long black boots on your feet and the ruby necklace shining brightly around your neck, you sigh as you gaze at your reflection in the mirror. Your damaged wings mock you as they flutter uselessly, anger and trepidation swirling in your eyes as you bite your lip. Today was the day. Osborn was going to pay for everything he'd done to you, to Hobie, to your children. To all those unfortunate humans that were unknowingly a part of his dastardly schemes. You were ready to end it all. But why did you still feel so… scared���?

“Almost ready, love?” Hobie's warning voice rouses you out of your musings, giving him a small smile as you turn around to face him. Perhaps it doesn't reach your eyes, because his smile falls as he nears you, golden orbs glinting with sympathy.

“What is it, angel?” He asks softly as he takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Breath hitching, you shake your head and sigh.

“I don't know why I'm scared, but I am. Osborn, he's… powerful. What if we fail? What if you get hurt?” Hobie tilts his head and chuckles, taking your hand and placing it on his chest, letting you feel the beating of his heart beneath your palm.

“Feel that? ‘S beatin’ like crazy ‘cause I'm worried too. I'm scared too. I don't wanna lose you again, after finally havin’ you in my arms after all this time.” He wraps his arms around you this time and pulls you close, so that your ear is pressed against his chest. You can hear his racing heart, feel the way his body shakes ever so slightly. Though he did a good job of masking it, he truly was terrified. Terrified of having his reunited family ripped from his fingers like a cruel joke, as though he hadn't suffered enough.

“We gotta believe we're stronger than him, lovie. ‘M gonna fight for you and the kids till my last breath. I promise you, he won't touch you while ‘m ‘ere. Never again.” Hobie whispers into your ear as his fingers tenderly graze the base of your damaged wings, making you choke back a sob. You'd fight for him. For your children, for everything. Until your last breath, no matter what. The two of you share more hushed promises and whispers of reassurance before Ned announces that it's time, the two of you walking back to where everyone else waits. Hobie squeezes your hands and moves to stand on the broken crates in front of your battalion of rebels. Everyone quiets down at the sight of him, standing up straighter and looking up at him expectantly.

“For too long, we have stood by and allowed him to do as he pleases. Too long have we had to endure as he uses us for his benefit. Too long have we watched as he shattered hopes and dreams and destroyed the very realms we work hard to keep from crumbling.” Hobie's words echo in the abandoned barn and seep into your very soul. There's a fire in those gold eyes, an inferno that begs to be unleashed.

“No more. No more will we sit idly while he rips our lives apart. No more will we agree with his outlandish rules that he claims brings peace. Norman Osborn is trying to become what he is not and never will be. A God. A God that is so twisted that he would damn innocents. So cruel that he would allow the killings of children and pregnant mothers.” Raising a fist into the air, his voice booms throughout the building, rallying the unit as they cheer and holler.

“Today, we free our realms from the oppressor! Today, we fight for the right to love, the right to live! Today, we end the snake that dares to claim he speaks for the Almighty! Today, we kill Norman Osborn!” The room erupts into cheers and yells, weapons and claws alike lifted high into the air as portals spin to life on either side of him. Your heart sings, your will strong and spirit invigorated with overwhelming morale. And as the rebels charge through the portals, Hobie takes your hand in his firmly. Sharing one last look, you both run into the portals, giving a roaring cry as you head for battle.

There's chaos all around you as you emerge, blood and bodies already littering the cloudy grounds of his throne room. The clanging of metal and the battle cries of the warriors. Rebels fighting against the ones that serve Osborn faithfully, both angel and demon alike. A scream rings in your ear as an angel charges at you, sword raised high and aimed for your chest. A blur whizzes pass you, Hobie quick to dispatch him with a thrust of his sharp nails to his chest. The angel chokes as blood spills from his lips, crimson ichor spilling onto the fluffy clouds as Hobie throws his body to the side. Something shines in the corner of your eye and you turn to see an arrow made of light aimed for Hobie's back. Brows furrowing and a snarl forming on your lips, you zip to stand in front of the arrow, divine energy crackling at your fingertips. A shield of pure light shimmers into existence in your hands, reflecting the projectile with ease. Clenching the shield in your fist, you pull your arm back and throw, the chucked weapon hitting the angel in the head hard enough to visibly dent her head in. She crumples to the ground as more charge at you, trampling over her body.

Hobie snarls as more enemies charge him from the front, body losing its shape to morph into a swarm of spiders. The spiders wriggle and scurry to morph into a frothing wolf, arachnids writhing to form eyes and a dripping maw that mauls anyone who dares get close to you. In turn, you're covering him from behind, chucking daggers and firing arrows into the hearts of those who dare to harm your demon. One has a blade too close to your neck and swiftly has teeth twisting its head off, Hobie's panther form flickering in and out of view as it lunges for another victim. The sight of a sword aiming for the demon's middle has you shooting out a hand to form a glittering sphere around the offender, fist closing tightly causing the sphere to close in on him until he's nothing but blood and gristle. There's a shout from above and you hurriedly look up as three angels rain divine beams of energy down on you two. With a swipe of your hand, a bubble appears over your heads, absorbing the energy from the blasts. The three look nervous as they see the smirk playing on your lips before you flick your wrist, a devastating beam of light incinerating the offenders. A whirlwind of spiders circle around you as more enemies try to flank you from all sides, the arachnids crawling into every orifice of the angels that they find, eating them from the inside out.

The swarm dissipates, Hobie gripping your arm and pointing to the throne. There stands Osborn, holy staff fighting off and impaling anyone who gets too close. Cold blue eyes almost white with a fury you've never seen as he grips a rebel by the face, skin melting off the bone from his touch as he pours out divine energy to maim and kill. The rebel screams as their flesh bubbles and festers, arm wildly swinging a blade to no avail. And through it all, Osborn’s holy robes remain pristine and white, untouched and unsullied.

His chilling gaze sweeps over to you then, a flicker of a smile ghosting his thin lips as he lifts his staff to point at you, hand flinging away the now still rebel. You grit your teeth as you blast an angel that gets too close to Hobie, eyes never leaving Norman as he outstretches his hand to you. A seemingly kind gesture, if these were different circumstances. But you can tell, can see nothing but the condescending mockery in his icy gaze. Your hands tremble with a mix of fear and trepidation and a glance at Hobie tells you that he's feeling it too. Fear now dissolving into fury and whips of pure light shimmering into your hands, you charge at Osborn, damaged wings flapping hard behind you. The black vortex of raging arachnids follow close behind you, the furious sound of spiders scurrying enough to raise the hair on the back of anyone's necks.

“Osborn!” Hobie roars as the spiders morph and twist into his form, eight sharp spider legs protruding from his back and mouth now adorning a pair of dripping spider fangs. His golden eyes are crimson slits of rage as he extends his claws, close by your side as you both dart towards the smirking Archangel. Osborn lifts his staff to block the cracking of your whip, letting it coil around it and yanking it so that it slips from your grasp. Gritting your teeth, you transform the whip that's still in your hand into a dagger. Hobie uses his claws to swipe at the older angel, who dodges each blow and shoots a hand out to wrench the dagger from your hands like it was magnetized. With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he thrust the dagger forward, aiming for the demon's chest and furrowing his brows when his arm is suddenly covered in spiders.

Hobie's form morphs lightning quick, becoming a massive bat with gleaming fangs that viciously bites Osborn’s flesh. Snarl twisting his lips, he goes to swat him away, only for you to coil a chain around his wrist and twist it around hard. You can hear the way his bone snaps, the sound wet and making him howl with pain. He's quick to heal the broken bone, divine energy an aura around him. Heart pounding in your ears, you see Hobie form into a panther in order to rip a chunk of flesh from the angel's calf. Norman drops down to his knee before grabbing your demon by the neck, the inky black fur sizzling in his grip as the panther yowls with pain.

Energy pulses between your hands as you conjure a bow and arrow, pulling the bowstring back and releasing the glistening arrow. It sings as it flies through the air, hitting Osborn right in the hand on your love's neck. The Archangel howls as the arrow pierces his flesh, the arrowhead poking straight through the side of his palm. He lets go of Hobie with a grimace, hand shooting out a powerful gust of wind that blasts your demon several feet away from him. His injured state leaves him open and you take the opportunity to summon a glittering sword that thrums with divine energy, rushing over to him with a furious look gleaming in your eyes. Only for his whispered words to make you seize up, goosebumps breaking across your flesh.

“This is not what I envisioned for you, little dove. You must know that, yes?” Norman says with a kind smile, icy blue eyes devoid of emotion betraying his soft spoken words. Still, the nickname is enough to make you hesitate, make the memories of constantly being harassed and punished by him flood back into your mind all too quickly. Your hands shake and your breath quickens as you try to reign in the feeling of helplessness suddenly threatening to drown you. He's uttered those words plenty of times before, times where he'd lock you into a room and scar you while kissing the marks he left as punishment for not being how he wanted you to be. For not abiding by his rules. For not giving yourself to him everytime he asked. The times when he'd degrade you for failing to master things he'd teach you, yell at you while his hands dug into your scalp. It felt like walls were closing in on you and you couldn't move, your sword falling between trembling fingers as unshed tears stung your eyes.

“Y/N, look out!” Hobie's shout makes you peer up, only for a piercing scream of agony to leave your lips, your quivering wings severed and clutched in the Archangel's fist. Blood oozes down your back and seeps into your robes as you fall to the ground, writhing in pain. Teeth bared and eyes glowing bright with boiling rage, Hobie roars and lunges at Osborn, eager to wipe the sick grin off his face. Norman makes a low sound of disapproval and wags a finger at him before light bursts from his fingers, a beam of divine energy shooting the demon in his chest and leaving a gaping wound. He screams as the light sears his flesh way too close to his heart for comfort, his pained cries making your heart freeze with fear. Your screams of terror for your love almost being killed turns into a roar of white hot wrath that practically boils you from the inside out.

You're a blur of fury as you roll onto your knees and shoot a ray of sparkling light at Norman's thigh, the beam searing his skin and leaving a bloodied hole. You shoot another at his shoulder as you jump to your feet, then another to his side. Wrath incarnate, you litter him full of holes, divine rays leaving chunks of his flesh to drip onto his throne. And as he stumbles back to trip on his self-made throne of gold and ivory, you summon your sword back into your hands. With one last shout, you thrust the weapon deep into his middle, crimson ichor seeping into the white fabric of his robes. Blood and roses scent the air as the fighting of the rebels cease, all eyes watching as Osborn looks into the face of his once highly adored angel.

“F-Filthy sinner”, the dying Osborn says with an astounded chuckle, spitting blood onto your face as it bubbles up his throat and spills past his pale lips. Your chest heaves as you look down at the Archangel, your severed wings still tight in his grip. Blood splatters onto his robe as he coughs, blue eyes radiating malice and contempt as he sneers at you.

“You could have had it all. If you'd been obedient and joined me. I could've reached true Godhood with an angel so pure and bright as you on my arm, in my corner. Now you're nothing but defiled waste.” His strained words almost make you want to laugh and you tilt your head at him, something akin to pity shining in your eyes as you twist the sword deeper.

“You're a fool, Norman. A fool to think you could get away with hurting those I love. Where's all your faith now, when you need it most? Clearly not giving you any strength right now.” You mumble before chuckling and letting the sword dissipate into a flutter of sparkles. There's a low rumble of a growl behind you, little barks that sound close to a laugh. A hyena's laugh.

“This is what happens when you try to play God and disrupt the balance of things.” Is what you mumble as you feel a massive presence looming over your shoulder. Osborn trembles at the sight of the creature behind you, prayers to the Almighty stumbling between his blood speckled lips as he holds out a shaking hand for mercy. You have none to give and neither does the growling form of Hobie, his massive hyena form black and dripping with an inky mist that spreads a terrifying shadow. Drool dribbles from his mouth as he licks at his chops, maw open and ear flicking. Patting your demon's furry cheek, you lean down towards the frightened Osborn, lips near his ear.

“The Almighty hath forsaken thee, High Priest”, you whisper in his ear before stepping back, watching as the hyena stalks forward, the sinister laugh of the creature making the fallen Archangel whimper. Norman begs and pleads for mercy and forgiveness, none that are afforded to him as Hobie descends upon him. Sharp teeth tearing at flesh and snapping bones, claws ripping apart organs and gore dribbling down the throne. And as you watch Hobie devour him whole bones and all, you're suddenly called into a void of white. Eyes frantically looking about, you're shocked at the looming silhouette of an entity gazing down at you. It's massive and towers higher than any mountain you'd ever seen. The entity bows its head in respect, in thanks before you're suddenly forced back into your body with a shaking gasp.

Body shaking and back arching, you cry out as you feel something pushing forth from your back, your spine. It feels like you'll explode if you don't let it out, your eyes rolling as it sprouts free from it's confines. Stumbling and shaking your head to clear the dizziness, your chest heaves before you feel something familiar. A weight that had been missing for years. Hobie's next to you then, wriggling spiders shaping him into his normal form once again. The hole in his chest is slowly closing up, the energy he got from devouring Osborn healing him. His eyes are wide as he looks at you in awe.

“Lovie… Your wings..!” His words make your heart soar with hope and you quickly wrap them around yourself in order to look at them, the action second nature even after seemingly loosing them. A gasp leaves your lips as you look at what has sprouted from you. Large glittering wings that sparkle. As you move them, the feathers switch between a pristine white to a shimmering black, then back again. Any time you moved a certain way, the color changed. And inside your heart, you know who the entity was.

Everything that happens next is a blur to you then, you who were exhausted from the draining battle. The remaining Archangels that sided with Osborn are locked up, plans to give them a chance at repentance being discussed. Ned, Serenity and Riri talk with the rebel angels in their King’s stead, negotiating terms of peace and planning clean up crews on earth. Hobie pulls you into an embrace that seems to make your knees weak, exhaustion making your bones ache as you sag against him. It was finally over. Osborn couldn't hurt you or Hobie or your children anymore. Your love lifts you into his arms, carrying you over to the swirling portal that led to your new home, where your children await. Where, after a century of waiting, your life with Hobie can finally be resumed.

[pumpkinsy0]

Could you elaborate on your Pony and Curly sleeping together (but like actually sleeping not like the other thing) head canons.

idk if u want me to elaborate on just them sleeping together or like specifically them sleeping together and being caught by the gang so ill just do a bit of both!!!

•compared to everything else, i dont think the gang would be too up in arms about pony and curly sleeping together, theyre just sleeping, however that isnt to say that they arent thinking its a bit weird for curly shepard of all ppl to b acting like that w someone else

•no matter where he is curly will always want a sweet treat in the middle of his sleeping time, there was one point where curly woke up to get into the kitchen and everyone just watched him, so confused cause he looked like he was one long blink away from knocking out, and tim was aloofly like “yea he does that sometimes dont worry about it”

•sleeping is a very generous way to describe the way pony and curly sleep together, they both more so nap, wake up, then go back to napping

•so basically, everyone would be chillin, they hear mumbles of pony and curly in the room, then they hear nothing again, and u just rinse and repeat that for a while

•curly would get all comfy like he was in his own house, he took off his pants and jacket before going to sleep w pony, he refuses to sleep in his jeans, if he was feeling even more exhausted, his shirt too, like he really WAS at home

•literally anyone who walks in that room to check in on them notices that his jeans, maybe shirt, r just on the ground and theyre all like “?!?!?!?!” cause why r u getting THAT comfortable rn man

•speaking of him getting comfortable, curly drools quite a bit and hes on sodas side of the bed, hes fucking drooling on sodas pillow, yes he knows it, does he care however??? ABSOLUTELY not, he’d sleep on sodas pillow out of spite just to leave his drool and scent behind, what a dog

•both of them have this odd habit of moving very suddenly in their sleep, they both have accidentally hit each other and wake up w like bruises and stuff

•pony and sodas bed is a twin size bed, even if they DIDNT wanna cuddle they have to if they dont wanna bust their ass falling outta bed, but what made them sleeping together a lil, hmmmmmm, was pony being on top of curly, sleeping, like yall aint gotta do allat now, get off each other🙎🏽‍♀️

•bc it takes pony just a bit to fall asleep, he would lowkey hear what the gang was saying about them and he was dreading fully waking up, hell, he was somewhat up when ppl would come in the room to see how they were doin, he just looked asleep cause he didnt wanna face anyone just yet, also bc he was very comfortable w curly but shhh

[minawritesfanfic]

Backyard Boy Part 2

Rodrick Heffley x Reader

Word Count: 3,000+

Summary: You and Rodrick go ok that long await ice cream and skate ‘date’, it’s not a date though well okay maybe it is. A friend date, you can go on dates with your friends right…?

Part 2

Previous Next

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

I lay in my bed staring blankly at my ceiling, the room was dark but slowly being illuminated by the rising sun. I knew that it was already nearing eight a.m. and that I hadn’t slept a wink last night. At first, I thought me and Rodricks hang out tomorrow, wait no that's today, was just a simple meeting between friends. My mom on the other hand doesn’t believe that, she asked so many questions and gushed about how I already had a date. Now that she brought it up this hangout is seeming more and more like a date.

I groaned and covered my face with my hands, trying and failing to pretend that it wasn’t already morning. I knew that I had to get up in a few hours and that I had stuff I needed to do before then. I forced myself to sit up and climb out of bed, I shivered once my feet hit the cold hardwood floor and quickly put on my house shoes. With a yawn I undressed and got ready to take a shower, I hopped in without checking the temperature and I was jolted wide awake. I adjusted the temperature and quickly warmed up, at least I was more awake and conscious of what was going on.

By the time I had gotten out of the shower, it was a few minutes past eight-thirty, I now sat at the kitchen counter eating breakfast. Homemade french toast and a glass of sweet vanilla almond milk, way better than normal milk I’d say. Despite it being eight a.m. on a Saturday I knew both my parents were out of work already, Dad was always in and out of the house since he was almost always on call at the station. Whilst mom’s job just had a weird work week, who the hell works Friday through Tuesday? I don’t even know what she does anymore since we moved, just that she’s out for hours at a time on the weekend.

I finished my breakfast and decided to start on chores early, so it wouldn’t be a problem later. I grabbed my ipod and started to clean with my epic playlist ‘Doghouse Jams’, it was chaotic but it was perfect for practically any mood. I nodded my head to the music blaring through my earbuds as I cleaned the dishes from breakfast and whatever meal my parents ate last night, they probably came in late and ate the leftover lasagna from last week. Regardless I scrubbed and rinsed away the leftover food bits and put the plates onto the drying rack, eventually the sink was empty so I switched sponges and started cleaning off the counters. I had spilled a bit of syrup and cinnamon on the counter, so I might as well get the rest of the counters while I’m already cleaning them.

It only took half an hour to finish up in the kitchen, so I decided to just hang out on the couch for a bit and let the rest of my playlist play. It was still only nine a.m. so I had a little over two hours before I could even think about getting ready to leave. I let out a sigh and snuggled deeply into the couch, I let my eyes flutter shut. I would just rest my eyes for a bit to waste some time.

★ ✮ ★

I awoke with a yawn, as I sat up with a stretch. I felt incredibly disoriented and stood as I rubbed the sleep off my face. I walked through the hallway towards my room and happened to glance up at the clock on the wall. If I wasn’t awake before, I definitely was now when I realized the time.

11:57 am

“Shit, shit, shit! I’m so gonna be late!” I bolted down the hall and up the stairs to my room.

I quickly gathered everything I needed to go out on my bed, phone, chapstick, wallet, and fuck where did I put my keys? I scavenged my dresser and any jacket pocket I could to find them, it was only after several minutes that I found them in a discarded pair of jeans. This made me realize that the pants I was currently wearing were way too nice to wear to a skate park, so I wasted a few more minutes looking for a replacement. Eventually, I found a nice loose-ish form-fitting denim pair and put them on, then my sneakers. I made sure to grab a hoodie before I left my room, as I walked down the stairs to the front door I organized everything I needed into my various pockets. I lifted my head when I heard a knock at my door, and it was then that I remembered my skateboard was still upstairs. I quickly rushed back and grabbed it before answering the door, only after calming my heavy panting first. I swung the door open and I was met with Rodrick, who stood with his hands in his pockets shifting awkwardly in place.

“Hey! Sorry, I’m a few minutes late. I woke up barely an hour ago.” He said with a nervous laugh avoiding my eye contact, while I just breathed a short sigh of relief.

“Hey, it’s fine I was running a bit late too. Are you ready to hang?” I said stepping out my front door and shutting it behind me, giving the nob a quick twist to make sure it was locked.

“Yeah, ice cream, and then I’ll show you that skate park as promised.”

“Glad to see you’re a man of your word.” I joked as I followed him off my porch toward the ominous white van I just realized was parked in my driveway. It had ‘Löded Diper’ painted on the side, I just stared in awe.

“Do you like it? I drew it myself.” He said with a proud grin as he looked over at me.

“Yeah, I’m speechless. I didn’t realize that was how your band name was spelled, it’s unique though. I like it.”

“Thank you, it’s totally spelled like that on purpose. I picked the name myself, and I love it. Anyways, after you my liege.” Rodrick did a dramatic bow as he opened the passenger side door for me, I laughed and climbed inside.

He climbed in after me on the other side and then put his key into the ignition to start the car. He pulled out of the driveway a bit recklessly so I gripped my seatbelt tightly and knew I would have to apologize to my parents for the damage to the front yard. But just like that we were on our way down the street, it was silent for a while inside the car. I could occasionally catch Rodrick sneaking a few glances over at me as he drove, which reminded me a lot of my own mother's driving. Unlike my father’s uptight and stickler for the rules driving, my mother was uncaring and drove with her hands in the wind, literally. She occasionally let go of the wheel and put her arms out in the air, thankfully she at least used her thighs to somewhat drive the car when she did that.

It was a relatively short drive and we were already pulling into the tiny parlour’s similar tiny parking lot. The building looked quite old but through the large windows I could see the inside was certainly more modern. I left my skateboard on the floor of his car and climbed out of the van, the sound of passing cars was loud and led to there being a breeze despite the stagnant wind. I stuffed my hands into my pockets as I rounded the back of the truck and met Rodrick, we walked up to the parlour in a somewhat comfortable silence. Rodrick opened the door for me keeping up his chivalrous act, as I entered I was hit with a wave of coolness and sweet scent. I stepped up to the glass protecting the several dozen containers of ice cream as I looked for my favourite flavour.

“Welcome to Old-Timey Ice cream parlour, what can I get you guys today?” The blonde clerk asked as he gestured to the rows of ice cream.

I ordered my favourite flavour but then saw the different cone options, “Oh, and can I get that in a waffle cone too please?” I asked as I held onto my wallet in my pocket.

“And I’d like a mint chocolate chip in a normal cone,” Rodrick said, stepping up beside me at the counter.

“Are you ordering separately or together?” The clerk asked as he quickly scooped my ice cream up and handed it to me, then did the same for Rodrick.

“Sep-“ Rodrick put his arm out in front of me and cut me off, “Together, how much is it?”

“Your total is eleven thirty-five.” Rodrick pulled out his wallet and paid for the ice cream before grabbing my hand and leading me outside.

“I don’t know what to comment on first, you choosing mint chocolate chip, you paying for both our ice creams, or you holding my hand. It almost seems as though we’re on a date right now.” I said with a quirked eyebrow as I savoured that first lick, Rodrick met my gaze and hesitated for a moment looking from me to our linked hands.

“You say that like it would be a bad thing!” He said with a smirk letting go of my hand and wrapping his arm around my shoulder instead. “Also, mint chocolate chip IS the best flavour in the world.”

He waved his ice cream in my face offering the first taste I just made a disgusted face and ducked under his arm, “Gross! I bet you like eating toothpaste, you weirdo!” I said with a laugh putting a couple steps in between us.

“No, now that’s gross, I just really enjoy brushing my teeth. I’m not a crazy person y’know.” He flashed a toothy grin, albeit not having the straightest teeth his teeth were on the whiter side.

“Mmm, maybe not that type of crazy person but definitely still a bit crazy. Anyways, are you still going to show me that skate park?” I asked licking away at my ice cream happily, Rodrick nodded and we walked back to his car.

The drive over was much shorter than the one to the ice cream parlour, Rodrick had me hold his ice cream while he drove. But of course, he had to multitask and have me hold the ice cream near his face whilst he drove, which had me hoping there was somewhere I could wash my hands. I now had sticky ice cream and Rodrick’s spit all over my hand from failed attempts at eating ice cream, not to mention I learned Rodrick bites into his ice cream due to the fact he bite my finger.

I’m honestly struggling to decide which is the weirdest and the grossest, though in my heart it’s still probably the flavour. I really hate mint chocolate chip.

“Andddd here we are Plainview’s one and only skatepark, there's also a playground hidden on the other side.” He pointed over to the park as he pulled into one of the parking spaces, my eyes were fixated on the skatepark packed with people a few hundred feet away from us.

“Oh sick, there’s already people here. Thank you, Rodrick, I literally was going to die if you guys didn’t have a decent park and skaters here. Maybe your town isn’t so ‘plain’.” I snickered as I handed him his ice cream.

I climbed out of the van and cleaned my hand off with one of the napkins I took from the parlour, I’d still have to run it under some water on it as it was a bit sticky. I made sure to grab my board and we walked over to the skate park, it was a beautiful sight to see. Girls and guys all skating freely, doing tricks, falling on their asses, it had everything it did back at home. Down to the trio in one of the corners smoking and laughing their asses off every time someone fell, this was really starting to feel like home. I turned to say something to Rodrick and I could tell from his body language despite there being a smile on his face he didn’t really want to be here. The way his eyes darted back and forth, or how he hid one of his hands in his jean pockets. He even was eating his ice cream slower than before, he was almost done with it but had barely made any progress since we left the car. I looked from him and back to the park thinking for a moment, before ultimately deciding that I visit the skate park on my own another day.

“You’ve said you haven’t skated before right, Rodrick?” He whipped his head towards me, a bit surprised I said something.

“Yeah uh no, I haven’t skated before. Why..?” He asked skeptical but I just smirked and didn’t respond.

I tucked my board under my arm and took his hand then pulled him off towards the street beside the skatepark. I quickly finished the rest of my ice cream, enjoying the sweetness of the waffle cone as I did. I set my board down in the middle of the street after checking for any cars, once the coast was clear I started my lesson.

“Why you ask, well today we’re going to start your skateboarding lessons is why Rodrick! I promise it’s just as easy as driving a car, with waaay less rules though.”

“Wait what, since when was this happening?”

“Since like right now, skateboarding is fun and all but it’s a whole lot more fun when you’ve got a skatemate. So this is also me officially asking you to be my skatemate, I’ll teach you everything I know in return.” I said flashing him a smile, he hesitated for a moment looking from me to the board, and back at the skatepark before responding.

“I mean I guess I’ll be your skatemate, which is a stupid name by the way.” He said with a shrug shaking his head, I feigned hurt and wiped an imaginary tear from my eye.

“Ouch Rodrick! My poor poor ego, me, and my friend upstate came up with it. Oh how cruel you are, is this revenge for calling your band lame?” I teased with a curious expression, though it didn’t seem like he caught on to my teasing.

“Oh well uh actually it’s stupid in a cool way, yeah like that book is stupid but it’s still really good..?” He said nervously, clearly worried that he’d hurt my feelings, I tried to stifle my laughter but failed, confusing him even more.

“Pfft- oh my gosh, Rodrick I was kidding! Yeah, it’s a stupid name, you didn’t actually hurt my feelings. Literally, something me and Lorei came up with when we were like ten.” I said, shaking my head and giving Rodrick a reassuring pat on his shoulder.

He didn’t say anything and just looked away, though I could still see the faint pink hue on his cheeks which made my stomach flip at the sight. Though I shook away the image that was slowly ingraining itself into my mind and cleared my throat, we'd been standing here and I had yet to be able to get to my point.

“Anywaysss, first lesson standing on your board! First, we need to figure out if your stance is regular or goofy, please do me a favor and turn around.” Rodrick looked skeptical but turned around, before he could ask why I gave him a barely gentle shove forward.

He tumbled slightly, catching himself on his left foot, “Hey what the hell! What does that have to do with skateboarding?!”

“Everything my dear, you caught yourself with your left foot so that basically means that is your dominant foot. Which means you ride goofy just like me, so you’ll probably feel most comfortable standing like this.” I stepped onto the board balancing carefully in a demonstration, “Also sorry for shoving you. It’s kind of a right of passage my friends and I used to do, so it’s a really bad habit. Anyways it’s your turn, try to step on and balance.”

“You and your friends sure are wei-“ He tried to say as he stepped onto the board but wasn’t paying attention, the board slid off to the side from under his foot. He fell forward towards me, I just barely managed to catch him and keep us both from falling to the floor.

“Pfft- maybe try watching the board when you’re stepping on it. But here you can hold onto me. I'll help you balance since it’s your first time.” I tried to avert my eyes knowing how red and embarrassed I was the first time I tried riding.

Eventually after a bit more back and forth and with my guidance Rodrick was able to almost effortlessly ride up and down the street. I clapped as he turned around using a side street and headed back towards me, he came to a stop —well more like tumbling to a stop— panting heavily and smiling wildly. It was obvious Rodrick was having a blast and even though I’d barely been able to ride I was too, Rodrick’s smile and excitement were contagious so it was hard not to smile and celebrate alongside him.

“I cannot believe I’ve been missing out on this my entire life, I really appreciate you teaching me this has been so much fun. Though I haven’t fallen on my ass this much since I tried learning how to ride a bike.” He said with a laugh as he carried the board over to me while he pushed some of his hair back and out of his face.

“Ugh, don’t remind me of that! My grandpa straight up removed the pedals to teach us how to ride, I have no idea how it worked but it did.” I took my board and we sat down off to the side on the curb.

“What? I refuse to believe that actually worked, that sounds more like torture.” He sat down next to me, closer than I was expecting as our thighs were squished up against each other.

“Probably cause it was, I struggled with it but hey my grandpa was certainly on to something. How did you learn how to ride a bike though, Rodrick?” He paused for a moment staring down at the pavement below our feet.

“Uhm well I never really learned how to ride one, I tried but I just couldn’t get the hang of it.” He admitted quietly as he kicked the gravel further into the road, I didn’t know what to say.

“Really? Guess that means I’ll take up your time next weekend and teach you that too, we could put the no pedals method to the test yeah?” I nudged him lightly with my elbow and smiled over at him.

He looked up from the ground and up at me carefully reading my expression, he opened his mouth to say something but hesitated before just smiling and nodding. “Yeah, that sounds nice. I appreciate it.”

We sat for a while in a thoughtful silence enjoying each other’s company and our sugar rush coming to an end. I brought a hand up to cover my yawn, my eyes crinkling in the corners as I did. I turned to see Rodrick staring forward, his eyes following any car that happened to drive past, eventually, he turned to me as he felt me staring.

“ I didn’t get the chance to ask this earlier but who’s Lorei?” I was a bit surprised by the question, I hadn’t expected him to pick up on the name let alone ask about them.

“Lorei aka Lorelai was my next-door neighbor and ‘bestest friend in the world’, as she would describe it at least. We grew up together and were, well still, really good friends. We became friends because she had crawled through a hole their dog made in the fence to my yard , and her parents went crazy looking for her. But we had a blast crawling and rolling around in the dirt together, she loves the outdoors and is the reason I skate.” I said staring off with a fond smile as I thought back to the bubbly purple-haired mess I called a friend.

“Wow, she certainly sounds fun and like a really great person. I’m sorry you had to move away and stop being neighbors.” He nudged me gently with his elbow in what I think was meant to be comforting.

“Yeahhh, it’s alright though. I got a new neighbor to have crawl through a hole into my yard.” I said easing the mood with a grin, Rodrick laughed at my comment shaking his head.

“I don’t know about crawling but I’ll climb your fence if that’s what you want.”

“I could use something new so I guess that’s fine, but don’t sue my family if you break your neck doing so!” He rolled his eyes at me but we both laughed regardless.

Nothing about the conversation was particularly funny but we still laughed heartily, it was less of a joke and more of a positive energy building between us. The air felt softer and less like it would consume me if I embarrassed myself, and the conversation was light and a lot less like two teenagers who had met just days before. It was starting to feel like two friends who’d known each other for years and could truly be themselves around each other.

Previous Next

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[conversationsofyou]

                Chapter One:

The Only Living Boy In New York

"Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world." 

~Marilyn Monroe

        

Song: Manhattan by Ella Fitzgerald & Buddy Bregman

Present day. 

The perfect ringlets that form naturally at the ends of Harry's hair, which were there this morning, have metamorphosed into effortless beachy waves most people envy. The usual result from Manhattan humidity and overly fussing about with his fingers. It's a shampoo commercial moment as it falls against his back.

Harry squeezes the bridge of his nose, a temporary relief from sinus pressure. "Are we done?" he asks with his eyes closed.

He wonders if Zayn would notice if he took a kip on the chaise by the toilets. 

                   

“Never,” Zayn responds whilst his nimble fingers sort through a display of Celine totes.

He would.

To Zayn's dismay, Harry's met his limit of consumerism for the day. He typically loves to shop; specifically when it's time to restock his art studio. Although, he's accustomed to leisurely drifting in and out of thrift shops and vintage boutiques. He allows clothing and accessories to find him. This… this has been an Olympic event. Zayn warned him beforehand that his rookie status wouldn't be tolerated today.  

After an extensive marathon of pampering and excess, Harry's eager to go home and decompress from their shopping extravaganza. He loves Zayn fiercely, but Harry's borderline fatigued. This is the sixth or tenth store they've been to; he's lost count. Each one, serving a different purpose. Zayn had to explain this to him, like he did at the last three stores. 

"This isn't one of your nifty thrifty's, darling. There's no one-stop shop for all our needs. Well, maybe Bergdorf's." 

A crash course in fashion's utility as such has been mentally and physically strenuous. If they’d concluded this field trip after facials at the spa and mimosa brunch, Harry’d be in complete nirvana.

However, the tranquil mood a much needed massage had granted him has now been replaced with extreme tension in his muscles. His sciatica keeps jolting his nerves into spasm and his toes are most definitely numb. He would've worn trainers instead of his beloved boots if he knew it was going to be this intense.

"It costs a lot to be this beautiful," Zayn throws some more fortune cookie wisdom his way as he picks up a Louis Vuitton bum bag. 

"I lost my soul somewhere between Mercer and Broome," he responds dryly.

"We can't all be as cool as you." 

“Matt got this shirt for me in Tokyo,” Harry tugs at the end of a vintage Queen t-shirt from the eighties. 

Zayn looks up at him and smiles softly. “He had the best finds. I know it's sentimental, but I also know for a fact that Matt would've told you to buy whatever the fuck you please after selling out your first exhibition. This is a triumph for you. You're allowed.”

"I've bought some things since then." 

"Interior design excluded." Zayn's mouth twitches. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry concedes. "So, what's on the menu here?" 

There's no other option than to swim with the current force that is Zayn.

He looks at Harry, contemplating his wardrobe journey. "This place has phenomenal denim…" He holds his hands in the air, scanning the store, like a director setting up their next frame. "Thinking of some new washes. You'd look fabulous in a mid-blue rinse." Zayn turns back to him and tilts his head. "There are other colors besides black." 

"What's wrong with black jeans?"

"Nothing. Doesn't mean you have to wear them every day. You're not Superman."

Harry arches an eyebrow. "Aren't I?" 

Zayn ignores him while admiring a Givenchy satchel. He adjusts the collar on his gorgeous Alexander McQueen gunmetal leather jacket. It's not nearly cold enough yet for the biker chic inspired hide, but as he declared before they left Harry's flat, “We must suffer for fashion the same way we do for art."

Zayn glances over at him. "I do adore your vintage, starving artist tees and ripped jeans." He offers some reassurance. "Even though you could do with a little glam rock." Though he often makes fun, Zayn's admitted in the past he approves of Harry's style choices. No matter how eccentric they are. His eyes land on Harry's boots. "Starting with those." 

Harry looks down at the worn out brown leather boots he found at one of the first thrift shops he visited in the city. He treasures them. They've given him so many miles. He'll never part with them.

He looks back up. "No." 

“Veronica!” Zayn calls out and, like a best laid plan, a tall sales associate appears with silky raven tresses styled into a long bob haircut. Veronica approaches them wearing a stunning bordeaux Bowie inspired jumpsuit. Lipstick the same shade. It captures Harry's eye instantly.

She walks over and magically produces a large box with the Saint Laurent Paris logo printed onto it. Ignoring the box, Harry scans the details of Veronica's ensemble as he admires her whole look.

Zayn catches Harry's eye and asks, "Who makes this?" As he brushes a finger over the fabric of her sleeve. 

"Custom," Veronica responds vaguely. 

It's unique and Harry can understand her discretion. 

"H, you'll sympathize as an artist. When anything innovative or gorgeous as this is mass produced, it usually turns to shit. There's something about a piece being one of a kind that's priceless."

Veronica nods her head once.

"I wouldn't share either." Zayn nods back and brings the focus back to Harry, who automatically shakes his head at the box he's holding.

Zayn clears his throat, ignoring his stubbornness and signals for the big reveal. Veronica lifts the lid and Harry swears a little golden light appears, leaving a glow shining from the box.

 

Zayn tilts the box closer to him for the full effect. "Harry, let me introduce you to your new friend, Chelsea."

He holds up the gorgeous, buttery tan suede heeled boots. "Classic and a forever staple." 

"My mother, grandmothers, and aunts all passed down their retail D.N.A. to me. These," he gestures to the boots, "are an investment." Zayn imparts some more wisdom.

Harry ignores his rising heart rate and briefly hesitates. Inevitably he gives in, running his fingers along the soft leather. The sensation is divine and smells heady in the best way possible. Boots have always been his weakness. He succumbs.

"Fine," he says like it's an imposition and grabs the boots. 

He sits down to try them on and takes off his old boots while placing the faded leather comrades next to a plush chair beside him. He's wearing his Hello Kitty socks today.

"Precious," Veronica comments and walks away towards another customer who's borderline distressed.

Song: Get On Your Boots by U2

Harry meticulously takes out all of the cardboard and packing paper. The boots slip on like a second skin. He stands up, beaming.

"Yeah. Thought so," he smirks. Zayn's super hero sixth sense always prevails. He knew Harry would eventually buckle for the gorgeous footwear.

Harry spins around in front of the mirror and does a little jig with his toes pointed.

Zayn shakes his head as he walks away. "I'm going to look for some jeans."

Harry gives him a salute and walks around the store, enjoying the boots that have already changed his life a little bit. They even have a slight heel. The soles produce a satisfying clacking sound against the stone floor as he strolls back to his old boots. They look so sad, slouching against the chair, out of shape and worn with holes. Harry frowns and picks them up. He knows it's corny but, "Still love you the best. Thank you for taking me where I needed to be," he says quietly.

Someone within his ear shot snorts, and he gently drops the boots. Harry looks up slightly embarrassed.

☆ This was definitely more than a snippet. A snip deluxe. I'd love to one day finish this fic I started seven years ago. All the inspo to my fellow writers and creators who have started something and life has gotten in the way or time is not of the essence. I empathize and relate on all levels.

Shout out to my Beta, Lau @nyxdaughterofkhaos , nothing but love and respect!!! Looking forward to continuing this journey with you ❤️

As always, if anyone has any art to share.

@kingsofeverything @crinkle-eyed-boo @twopoppies @beelou @fallinglikethis @femstyles @harryshandbag @andyouknowitis @lookslikefairytale @rhea-the-eradicator @toomanydreamers

[windy-trickster]

A Mouse in The Snake's Coil

Another night of work as Roddie Lamare moved about the dining area, taking orders and sending them back to the kitchen, grabbing prepared food and bringing them to their respective tables. Night in and night out, this was his routine. This was his work. And honestly? He loved it. He loved finally having SOME semblance of balance and routine to his life, which was one a jumbled mess of job hunting and trying to pay his bills. He had been so nervous applying for the job at this high-class establishment, assuming the worst before even putting his application in. But he needed a job, he needed the money. So, he took the risk and went for it. And it turned out great! Wonderful, even. Now he had a job that paid him good, a boss who was on his side [for most things] and he could finally pay his bills! And have a little cash left over for other things. Tonight had been no different: Customer orders, he pens it down, sends it back and brings the food to them. Rinse and repeat for several hours. The dinner rush passed, and it seemed to slow down, Roddie was cleaning up a couple nearby tables when the little overhead doorbell went off, signaling the arrival of a customer. Roddie looked up and greeted the man like he did with every other customer, a bright smile and cheery tone. This guy was... Definitely different from the regular clientele. He wasn't dressed fancy nor did he give off that typical air of self-importance that all Highbloods did. Dressed casually in a jacket and jeans, heavy boots covered in... Some kind of gunk, the Indigoblood flashed Roddie a friendly smile and greeted him back. The two had a chat as Roddie wrote down his name, taking him to a table and watched the Indigoblood get all situated. Roddie held his pen and pad, smiling as he awaited the order. But was a little surprised when the other didn't order, flashing him another friendly smile before speaking. "🗡So. You're Vic's new server boy, yeah?" Roddie blinked and nodded, being caught off guard by the question. "🗡AH! Knew it. He seems to like hirin' cuties from what I've heard. And I've known him for quite a bit, y'know?" "Oh! You have? Boss never tolD me he haD any frienDs! Well... He Doesn't tell me a lot of things. But I'm very happy he's got someone in his corner!" -> The Indigo let out a booming laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair. "🗡Yeaaaaah. Me and ol' Vic go waaaaay back. Known each other since wrigglerhood. We've grown a little distant, but we're still pretty tight. And y'know... I kinda want to get to know YOU a little more too. Any friend of Vic's is a friend of mine." Roddie felt his cheeks flush a little at the blunt invitation to hang out with someone who looked... So cool! And made Roddie feel so comfortable despite having met this guy for the first time. He rolled the idea around in his head for a moment, feeling the flutterbugs kick up in his stomach. This was excited! How could he say no?! "Uh- Sure! I'D love to! I like makin' frienDs y'know!" -> The Indigo, who introduced himself as Jailyn, grabbed Roddie's hand and shook it. "🗡Great. I'll come by again at some point. We can make plans then, yeah? Now uhhhh. Hit me up with the best you've got here, mkay?" Roddie nodded and hurried off to the kitchen area to get his protentional new friend the best in the house. He was so excited! Too excited to realize the trap he just put himself in.

Vicnet Carbon - @alternias-madness

[monstersinthecosmos]

September 4, 1973

Daniel buzzes Jeff’s doorbell right as it’s getting dark out, and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets as he waits.

“Who’s there?” Jeff crackles through the intercom.

“Molloy.”

“Gimmie a minute.”

Daniel fusses with a matchbook in his pocket. Shifts his weight beneath his backpack of tapes.

No interview today, but he brought his stuff just in case. In all honesty, he wants a night off. But now and then he runs into someone at Jeff’s, and you never know. All sorts of weirdos come in and out of here.

The buzzer goes off a few minutes later, and the pot smell wafts off the man he passes on the way in. Jeff’s previous customer, he’s sure, eyes already bloodshot as he heads out. Daniel’s lungs hurt by the time he makes it up to the third floor, and he sees the smoke clouding around the open door from down the hall. 

“Christ, man,” he says, and pulls the door shut behind him. “You’re baking out the whole floor.”

Jeff coughs at him from the couch, shrugging. “They don’t mind.”

“I’m sure.”

He sets his bag on the floor, throws his jacket over the back of a chair. Sometimes he feels more at home here than he does at his own place. He smiles as Jeff hands him a joint, and the flops down beside him. The hospitality helps, of course.

“Hey Daniel,” a woman says from the kitchen door. Jeff’s girlfriend Connie. She’s wearing sunglasses inside. And tiny shorts. Long legs and bare feet. Daniel drags at the joint slowly and holds it in, sitting forward in his seat as the heat rises in his face. “Wanna beer?”

Daniel nods. He hands the joint back. His throat burns as he finally exhales, and Jeff pats him on the back as he coughs through it. He shuts his eyes, slumps to the side, his head on Jeff’s shoulder. Lets it all rinse through.

They’re listening to the new Cher record. Daniel focuses on it for a moment, letting the music carry him. He doesn’t hear Connie come back into the room, but feels the cold bottle against the back of his hand as she holds it out to him.

The carousel man wouldn’t let me off his merry-go-round, Cher sings, and when he opens his eyes the music stops. He takes the beer, and Connie smiles down at him.

“Hang on, let me flip the record,” she says, and disappears to the corner of the room.

“Are you gonna hang out a while?” Jeff asks. He’s got that tone in his voice. And Connie joins them a moment later, folding herself onto the couch on Daniel’s other side. Practically in his lap. Jeff puts his hand on Daniel’s thigh.

So maybe Daniel did stop in to buy pot, but when he catches them at the right time this tends to happen. They adopt him like a pet. And maybe Daniel was hoping, if he came by in the evening, he’d catch them feeling needy.

“Can I?” he asks.

Connie’s hand curls around Daniel’s forearm. She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. Everything moves slow, everything feels warm. The strings in the music make his hair stand up.

It’s fluid, the way it all happens. How they pass the joint between them, how he tastes the smoke in their mouths. How Connie unbuttons his shirt and Jeff kisses Danie’s neck. Daniel’s hand reaches between Jeff’s legs, rubbing at him over his clothes, as Connie slips off the couch, kneeling on the floor as she unzips Daniel’s jeans. 

He needs this maybe. Needs to land somewhere, wants to belong to somebody. Too many interviews with lonely jerks. 

And it’s always like this. He never quite knows how it escalates. They move slow, treat him like he’s precious, until he’s straddling Jeff’s lap, riding his cock. Unhurried and gentle. Connie always wants to watch, touching herself at the other end of the couch, but Daniel always does her at the end. Overwhelming, feeling Jeff’s cum in him, that freshly-fucked glow in his asshole. So much sensation that he stops worrying.

Jeff always cooks food for them after. Connie likes to shut off all the lamps when they’re done, and light candles instead, so that when they sit on the floor around the coffee table they’re only lit with soothing warm orange. She likes to cuddle after, and always invites Daniel to spend the night. 

Sometimes he does. He thinks he will tonight. He doesn’t want to go home, doesn’t want to see his phone, his typewriter, his answering machine. And there’s a whole phone book of people he could ask over, but Jeff and Connie are his favorite. He’s never put a name to it, but he thinks they’re his best friends.

He splashes water on his face in the bathroom afterwards, stalling for a moment to collect himself. Rinsing his mouth out. He tries to avoid his reflection in the mirror. 

There’s another beer waiting for him when he comes back. Plates of scrambled eggs on the coffee table. 

“Thanks guys,” he says, and sits cross legged on the floor. 

Connie is changing the record. Jeff is lighting incense. Feels normal in here. Safe. When they join him at the table it feels like a little family. 

Sometimes there are these moments, since he’s left home, where he sees through the veil. Past all the bullshit and expectations, and all the mundane day-to-day stumbling blocks. Little moments where he realizes that this is the life he wants. The tension leaves his body as he looks back and forth between them, and sips at his beer, and reaches for the papers and dope.

There’s a book on the table, though. Daniel tilts his head to read the spine, and brushes the baggie aside to grab it. 

“Oh my god, it’s about the Dark Watchers,” Connie says. She reaches across the table for the baggie, instead. “Have you heard of that?”

“Shit, kinda,” he says. He flips through the book, checking the grainy pictures. Barely able to see in the candlelight.

Connie talks with her hands, too excited. Takes forever to roll a joint.

“I know more about east coast stuff,” Daniel says after a beat. “My cousin and I were obsessed with New England ghost stories. There was so much of it from the Revolution and everything.”

“And the Indians.”

“Well, yeah. Of course.” 

His cousin. The thought of her flickers in his periphery, almost enough to ruin his mood. And maybe it would have, if he were alone. He sips his beer, squints his eyes at the text. Too dim to read it. There’s an instinct, for a split second, to call her. Tell her about this book. And his mind floods with hypotheticals.

Inviting her out here, taking a drive up the coast, trying to catch a sighting. He wonders what else they can look for, if they can go get lost in the Pacific Northwest. 

When she got her first car she used to sneak Daniel out of his house and they’d drive the creepy beach roads around the Sound, looking for monsters. She knew all the stories, knew exactly what to look for.

Well, she’s getting married soon. Daniel hasn’t even met her fiancé. He can’t remember the guy’s name. Maybe it won’t be appropriate for her to come visit, or take a road trip, or have a ghost adventure. Feels like she’s a real adult now. 

But maybe he can call her. Send the RSVP back, at least. Apologize over the phone that he’s not gonna make it. 

He swallows. Blinks up from his reverie as Connie hands him the new joint. 

“It’s cool, right?” she asks. 

Daniel forces a smile. Takes a drag. Holds up the book.

“Can I borrow it?”

[previous day] | [next day]

[osovereign]

˗ˏˋ plotted starter for @ednaeflowers *˖ ☆

❝ kiddo—edna  i—  ❞  but  he  catches  the  rest  of  his  words  they  spill  onto  the  air  as  oral  tradition.  kratos’  days  had  been as  clockwork  long  ago:  wake  up ,  eat  breakfast ,  carry  lloyd  to  primary  school ,  work ,  leave  work ,  meet  his  wife  to  pick lloyd  up , and  home.  it  was  a  cycle  always  kept  on  rinse  and repeat,  that  was  until  that  one  faithful  day,  until  his  route  wasn’t  so  new  day ,  same  shit  any  longer.  the  one  day  he  had  to  stay  late  with  yuan  to  finish  up  the  last  bits  of  a  presentation  that  was  going  to  have  cruxis  (  the  founder  and  pinnacle  standard  of  all  things  magitechnology  ):  that  he  had  first  saw her ,  a  girl  that  always  seemed  more  half-wild  and  half-hallowed  than  a  mere  high  schooler.  it  had  started  as  all  things,  with  small  acts  not  meant  to  amount  too  much:  a  few  extra  sandwiches  from  work  here  and  an  old  jacket  or  pair  of  jeans  of  anna's  there.  that  was  in  the  beginning  though  and  kratos  aurion  was  far  beyond  the  beginning.  now, but  he  could  recall  it  ever  so  bittersweetly.  as  how  then  his  5:30pms  had  been  spent  actively  seeking  the  misplaced  girlhood  out  whenever  he  could.  she  was  always  so  shy  and  skittish ,  yet  also  forlorn  (  a  thousand  yard  stare  filled  with  a million  ghost  eyes  ):  but,  that  was  then  and  this  is  now.  like  genesis  it  started  like  so,  but  not  as  forbidden,  but  still  forcibly  as  pulling  teeth.  she  was  snarky  with  massively  spit  fired  tongue  and  quick  witted  enough  to  put  yuan  to  great  shame.  yet,  underneath  kratos  knows,  had  seen  it  all  too  well:  that  she  was  just  a  very  sad  and  very  alone  little  girl.

so ,  of  course  he  begun  gathering  information  here  and  there (  what  was  the  point  in  being  a  high  ranking  member  of  cruxis  if  he  couldn’t  pull  a  few  strings?  ):  but  she ,  now  known  as  edna ,  pulled  and  tugged  and  resisted  as  prey  trapped  inside  a  hunger  hunters  eyes.  for  naught  but  a  moment ,  ephemeral  and  still  closely  guarded ,  the  hollowness  and  snark  within  her  seemed  to  disperse  and  she  seemed  to  be  so  much  more  earthbound ,  so  much  more  grounded  in  an assumption  (  of  remembering  how  it  felt  to  be  loved  and  cared  for  ):  had  she  had  let  go  of  her  walls ,  let the  name  of  her  only  living  family  slip  (  how  she  waited  and  waited  and  kept  every  letter  as  it  was  her  own  living  gospel ,  as  her  own  written  alter  of  worship  ):  how  the  name of  eizen tied  with  his  military  branch  and  deployment  unit  had  connected  far  too  easily ,  how  shattered  the  lingering  fragments  of  a  girl  whom  now  was  lost  amongst  the  pieces  laid  before  his  feet  and  kratos ,  even  with  his  love  by  his  side ,  wasn’t  sure  what  to  do. but  what  else  was  kratos  nor  anna  meant  to  do?  it  was  the  eve  of  nine  months  of  …  somewhat  knowing  her  and  kratos  did  what  he  could ,  what  he  was  allowed  to  do  (  a  combination  of  what  he  thought  was  best ,  therapist  advice , and  what  edna  gave  within  arms  reach  ):  but  wasn’t  this  the  purpose  of  abundance  and  adulthood ,  hadn’t  this  been  the  point  of  being  able  to  provide  in  excesses  for  his  family — to  also  give  those  without  a  home  one  too?  grief  did  not  have  a time  limit ,  even  if  we  often  wished  it  too.  how  could  he  compare  (  kratos  couldn’t  nor  would  he  ):  maybe  he  could  share  the  closest  he’d  ever  been  to  loss ,  mayhap  he  could  talk  about  the  first  women  whom  had  ever  loved  him ,  before  he  even  knew  what  he  was  to  love  and  be  loved:  his  dearest  mother.

it  is ,  however ,  a  moment  of  sentimental  frailty  that  is  not  meant  to  last:  kratos  wishes  to  speak  on  the  love  that  can  still  be  found ,  even  within  the  loss ,  longing ,  and  grief  but  would  the  words  that  he  wanted  to  leave  his  tongue  even  come  close  to  her ,  in  the  ways  that  he  would  hope  would  reach  her?  kratos’  soul  twists  and  turns  and  bites  at  itself  in  a  deplorable  devoted  act  of self-punishment  and  within  him  is two  beings  chanting  (  something  about  duty  /  something  about  god  ):  truly ,  even  one  blessed  as  he  still  held  much  sin between  his  teeth  but  where  there  was  sin  lay  the  grounds  for  redemption  and  repentance  and  divine  self-sacrifice.  ❝ eiz—he  wouldn’t  want  you  like  this.  to  miss  someone  is  a  means  of  knowing  how  much  you  loved  them. when  it  gets  too  much,  ❞  it  was  spoken  from  experience,  from  a  place  of  the  purest  love.  in  the  doorway  of  her  bedchambers  was  anna  ready  to  jump  need  kratos  find  his  words  giving  additional  trials  to  the  living  embodiment  before  him,  but  his  will  and  kindheartedness  had  gotten  them  to  this  point  and  it was  an  attempt,  a  closer  attempt ,  and  for  kratos ,  that  would  be  enough.

❝ whenever  i  miss  her,  my  mother.  ❞  because  even  a  living  god  king  could  grieve,  what  was  a  man  if  not  the  grief  of  all  those  he  loved  and  would  ever  love?  ❛ i  recall  all  the  parts  of her  i  loved,  and  yes  it  was  everything,  her  laugh ,  the  way  she  would  hum  while  cooking  stew ,  the  smells  of  her  favorite  perfumes.  ❞  but ,  as  with  all  things ,  grief  was  still  grief  and  it  had  no  time  limit.  ❝  everyone ,  including  myself  at  times ,  wants  you  to  stop  being  sad  but  you ,  like  myself:  will  never  stop  being  sad.  how  could  they  ever  expect  you  too,  how  could  we?  how  could  i?  ❞

its  the  way  he  looks  at  her  tucked  in  form ,  she  was  already  incredibly  small  but  this  way  she  looked  even  smaller  (  all  the  more  childlike,  all  the  more  wounded  ):  and  mayhap ,  he  would  have  found  some  piece  of  beauty  in  this grotesque  decadence  (  death  held  much  beauty ,  for  it  had  once  held  life  ): if  only  it  had  come  as  the  payment  for love ,  without  the  transaction  of  loss  and  for  stolen  happiness — but  all  he  feels  is sorrow  and  grief , sainted  yet  acrid ,  as  in  his  soul festers  a  venomous  blasphemous  maw:  the  weary  bones  of  a  man  only  trying  his  best.  ❝ it  has  been  said  time  heals  all  wounds  but  i  do  not  agree.  much  time  has  passed  since  the  loss  of  my  mother  and  i  long  for  her  embrace  everyday ,  i  have  never  once  stopped.  like  you ,  i  nearly  lost  myself  or …  did  lose  myself  for  much  time  within  the  sadness  and  grief.  but ,  with  time  also  brought  the  acknowledgment  of  accepting  but  never  forgetting.  even  discussing  her  with  you now ,  it  hurts ,  my  heart  weeps  but  my  soul  doesn’t  shatter ,  not  anymore.  ❞

that  is,  what  kratos  doesn’t  say.  he  doesn’t  say  how  his  soul  cannot  shatter  any  longer  because  the  soul  of  whom  he  had  been  before  anna ,  before  lloyd — before  his  family,  edna  included,  had  been  broken  into  pieces  that  could  never  be  put  back  together.  his  mind ,  having  gone  insane ,  had  covered  the  hollowed  memory  with  scar  tissue  to  cope ,  but  the  pain  had  never  left  him  and  much  like  edna ,  would  never  leave  him.  ❝ when  you  no  longer  are  lost  in  the  grief ,  in  the  longing  for ,  in  the  loss.  ❞  gently ,  his  hand  extends  to  gently  pat  her  hand ,  his  eyes  noticing  how  her  sleeves  had  become  soaked  from  her  snot  nose  filled  tears.  ❝ we’ll  be  right  here,  edna.  ready  for  you  in  whichever  way  you  will permit  us.  ❞  because ,  sometimes  life  gave  too  much  unhappiness  and  tragedy  to  those  whom  did  not  deserve  it ,  least  of  all  the  flowering  youth  of  tomorrow.  kratos  and  the  budding  flower  child  before  him  where  grief-stricken  and  desperate for  the  warmth  of  a  summer  that  never  came  during  their  coldest  and  loneliest  of  winters  but  mayhap ,  together  his  family ,  their  family  could  make  even  the  closest of  winters  bestow  upon  their  lives  the  warmest  of  sunlight  upon  their  blossoming  earth.

[bonniebird]

Allison Argent x Male Calavera!Reader

Requested by Anon

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Request: Anonymous asked:Hey Bon could I request Allison Argent x Male Calavera!Reader with the prompt We could still be friends. Just friends that fuck. #valentine2023

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Warnings: implied sex, sexual themes

You groaned as you kicked off your boots and dumped your gear in the hall, shuffling through to the living room to throw yourself down on it.

“You’re really going to leave all that in the hall, not even clean it and put it away?” Allison asked as she stopped in the doorway.

“I’m tired. I’ll deal with it later.” You muttered and closed your eyes.

“You’re going to deal with it now so I don’t have to deal with bloodstains soaking into my wood floor.” She huffed. You groaned and scoffed at her. 

“Only you would be worrying about your floor after that.” You grumbled and gestured in the air as you got up and gathered your weapons. You dumped the ones that you could wash off in the bathtub, sitting on the edge as you used the shower to rinse them off and lay them on one of Allison’s towels.

“Oh, I hope you know you’re replacing that!” She said as she handed you her weapons and pointed at the towel that was slowly stained red.

“A towel? Really?” You grumbled and rolled your eyes when she sighed and took over from you.

“You’re doing that wrong.” She grumbled.

“Of course I am. I’m always doing something wrong. ” You complained as she moved you out of her way. You watched as she winced a little but said nothing, knowing unless you saw a wound she would lie and say that she was fine. Once she was done with the weapons she put them on the kitchen table to finish cleaning them and went to get changed. You let yourself into her room as she turned and glared at you.

“What’re you doing?” She snapped. You looked at her side, seeing a large bruising wound.

“I knew you were hurt.” You said and grinned as you tossed the first aid kit from the kitchen onto her bead. “Take a eat and I’ll fix you up.”

“You could have just asked if I was hurt.” She grumbled as she dumped her shirt in the corner next to her laundry basket. She sat in front of you as you went through the first aid kit and found what you thought you would need to fix her up. She grunted as you started but other than that tried to remain stoically quiet. When you were done you fixed a bandage over the wound and she turned to you. The two of you shared a look before she leaned in and kissed you. As she tugged your jacket off you muttered into the kiss.

“Aren’t we supposed to be staying friends? That’s what you said the last time this happened.” You muttered. She sighed as she pulled away and stood to unbutton her jeans. “We could still be friends. Just friends that fuck.” She offered. You paused for a moment before nodding and joining her in your moving clothes and flinging yourself onto the bed to tangle together.

Allison tags:

@the-caravello-post @killing-gremlin @aegonandaemondtargaryenslut18 @lchufflepuffcorn @maplefire18 @geekyandgay98 @savagemickey03 @kaitieskidmore1

[sojournerstales]

Lauralette is Hungry

It is the tail-end of a long, hard week. Lauralette’s bones ache, her breath tastes stale, and there is a sharp pit in her stomach. Lauralette is hungry and she has been trying not to deal with it. Methods to that end include a diet of red meats, idly thumbing the on-off button of her phone, pacing the main room of her apartment, leaning forward with her forehead on the wall and her eyes closed, keeping halfway busy with chores and errands that are quickly given up on, and then thumbing that button on her phone again.

She isn’t going to make the first call, but the person she is waiting on hasn’t either.

Frustrated, Lauralette tosses the phone down face-up on the table. It reflects the dark grey sky through the window. Moon-haze, all clouds and no stars and a glare of red from the lit sign outside.

BLOOD

ROCK

MOTEL

Lauralette owns the place and her living situation is a small two-room affair above the main reception and office. She doesn’t need a lot of space and if her ego needs a shot she can embellish things by claiming that in actuality 22 rooms are hers.

Right now Lauralette is in the dining room which is the living room which is the kitchen. She’s trying to keep down a greasy, somewhat undercooked burger, but it’s already tasting stale at two bites in and the cheap-as-shit chair is uncomfortable and her jaw aches from clenching.

“Fuck it.”

From slouched to upright to standing, her bones creaking all the way, Lauralette rolls her shoulders and massages that space between her neck and clavicle. She ignores the twinge of pain there which carries down from her neck and the top of her spine. She hisses whatever curse she has for it and drags herself through the bedroom to her bathroom.

The light here is a cold green-blue from the cheap lino and wall tiles. Lauralette peels out of her clothes and leaves them discarded over the corner of the towel rack. Her skin is grey, her eyes are dark and sunken. In years past her dirty blonde hair had looked more vibrant and she had put the work in, given it volume and sheen and she had blushed herself, and painted her lips red. She is older now and less interested in putting the effort in. Truthfully she hasn’t had to put the effort in for a while.

Lauralette pushes herself into the shower and washes under cold water. She had put on some mass since her glossy blonde, red lipped days, and then let it go again. Well worked musculature was left behind, along with nicks and scars and calloused knuckles. The water feels good down her back and for a moment she can forget everything aches. Only a moment.

The idea of clean and presentable had shifted over time. These days a shower is body soap and two-in-one shampoo, water splashed on her face and then quickly rinsed off. Clothing then has turned from sparkling black dress and heels to old jeans and a black t-shirt. She hand-combs her hair after drying off and by the front door Lauralette pulls on her bomber jacket and stuffs her hands in her pockets to find her keys.

Lauralette locks up the upstairs apartment and heads down. She is lost in her own head, mind filled with bad ideas, operating on autopilot as she moves through the reception, out the front door, almost bumping into a man.

“Oh thank God someone is here!” He sounds relieved.

“Uh?” Lauralette is trying to remember how to talk.

“Sorry, I know it’s late. I’ve been driving all night, I got totally lost on my way to– Nevermind that, sorry. Do you have a room?”

Lauralette stares at the man. He needs a shave and he’s sweating and his hair is a little greasy and he has thick rimmed, thick-lensed glasses. He looks warm in the literal sense, she knows nothing about him to gauge the other sense. He is also travelling alone. The man is easy pickings. She could take him to a room and rip him open.

“I can pay, obviously. Cash or card. Whichever is easier.”

The man’s saving grace is that he is simply not Lauralette’s type. Neither is it a good look if people go missing so close to the motel. Lauralette makes an irritated sound and heads back into the motel reception, “Fine,” She grunts, “Come in.”

The man’s relief is obvious and immediate. He follows Lauralette inside, who has quickly rounded the front desk, and almost fumbles the catch when she tosses him the key to a ground-floor room.

“Pay me tomorrow,” Lauralette says, already leaving the front desk, “Can’t be asked to open the register.”

“Oh. Oh, well. Okay then! Thank you.” He isn’t certain what to do with himself.

“Uh-huh.” Lauralette brushes past the man and heads out into the night air. She sucks on her teeth, tongue pressing against a sharp fang.

“Thank you!” The man calls out again. He is left to inspect the key given to see if it has a door number attached.

. .

Far flung from the small town she lives at, Lauralette pulls her truck into the parking lot at a roadside bar. Here there are stars in the sky. Lauralette pays them no mind. She climbs out of her truck, boots crunching gravel underfoot, and rolls her shoulders to work out any lingering stiffness from the drive.

She’s about an hour from home.

Hands stuffed into her pockets, Lauralette approaches the bar. It has a neon open sign that contradicts the painted lettering above it.

OLD MASTER’S ARMS

OPEN

Lauralette nudges the door open with her boot and sidles on inside. She catches the scent of tap beer and nicotine and sweat, then someone’s cologne, more than one strand of floral perfume, some kind of chlorination also. Underneath it all is the age that clings to the walls and the wood. Lauralette is hit with noise also – the mild din of conversation underneath a louder voice backed by terrible speakers and microphone pops. It is quiz night from the look and sound of things.

Lauralette licks her top teeth and sucks on a fang. The sharp point digging into her tongue focuses her from the sensation of the world packed into this bar and she scans the space. No patron looks isolated, it’s the sort of night where everyone arrived with a group and are unlikely to break off from each-other. They all look like they are getting along, any falling outs will be lubricated by alcohol and taken in stride.

She is scowling even though she doesn’t mean to. It’s just how her face rests, if rest can be considered as a frown and a knit brow and narrowed eyes. Someone once told her about how her crows’ feet would clench into fists. Scowling then, Lauralette walks to the bar. Most seats here are empty, anyone coming up intends to take their drinks away.

“You all good, hun?” The barmaid asks. She’s pretty enough, that’s the first impression. Warm skin, full lips, big brown eyes. Her hair is pulled back into a tight, black ponytail and the way her apron is tied pulls her whole outfit snug to her figure. Hourglass.

Lauralette reads that with a long look that drags up until finally meeting the barmaid’s gaze – the barmaid wears a knowing look there – and Lauralette says, “Yeah.” A single word typically isn’t enough to lay a line, so she gives the mildest form of elaboration, “Long week.”

“I hear you,” The barmaid’s name tag says CAM in neat handwriting. Cam is cleaning a line of shot glasses with a bit of torn cloth. There is someone else behind the bar with her, he’s name-tagged PAUL and seems to be pulling more than his own weight. This means Cam can be busy with those glasses and with Lauralette’s company and not worry about much else.

“Mm,” Lauralette leans on the bar after sitting and gestures with a nod across the room, “Weekly? Monthly?”

“Few times a year. Look like your kind of thing?” One glass is stacked under the bar, the next is picked up for a polish.

Lauralette scoffs, lip curling, “No.”

The MC cracks a joke at the same time and the whole pub floor breaks out into a mixture of laughter or just polite chuckles. Mostly polite chuckles.

“Bad night to come if they aren’t your thing, then.” Cam says, “Not from around here?” She leans forward, elbows on the bar, glass and cloth still in hand. At this angle she is bent at the waist and Lauralette is unsubtle in dragging her gaze away from the crowd, craning her neck to look behind the bar, behind Cam, Cam’s behind.

“I don’t mind the noise,” Lauralette says, sounding absent, the question goes ignored. Her eyes have darkened, though her gaze is not quite perverse it is altered somehow. Shark-like. Blood in the water.

“You checking me out?” Cam leans to one side and intercepts Lauralette’s gaze. Here she demands they meet eye-to-eye, though her expression is amused rather than offended. Her smile long and lop-sided, one brow raised, eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. She is used to playing this sort of thing off, but Lauralette isn’t the same kind of breed as the good old boys Cam is used to.

Catching Lauralette’s gaze is a mistake.

Her eyes are black pits, abyssal and falling forever, and though eye-contact is momentary the feeling will last. Lauralette calls this her certain something and that’s something she used to say with a coy tone of voice and an easy ‘gotcha’ smirk. These days she hardly says anything about it, little effort put into the social side of affairs. At a certain point it became easier to act as hook rather than bait.

She spares idle thoughts for the concept of catch and release. A back-of-the-mind reminder.

It is Lauralette who breaks eye contact and the experience leaves Cam blinking, staring into space. She glances away and tries to remember herself, what she was doing, asking internally if someone had just given her an order to fulfill.

“Got a light?” Lauralette asks.

“Uh. Yeah. Sec.” Cam stands up straight and then leans back to pat down her apron pocket. Tied around her waist, but not over her shoulders, she has to rummage to find what she’s looking for. “Here.” Cam slides a translucent pink lighter across the bar.

It spins into Lauralette’s hand. “Cheers,” She mutters and pockets the lighter. “Got a cig, too?”

“… Yeah.” Cam obliges again. She is feeling stupefied, malleable, though the feeling is quickly starting to fade. She hands Lauralette a cigarette and adds – voice empty – “You gotta smoke outside.”

“Sure.” Lauralette pushes away from the bar. Cigarette balanced between her lips, she heads for the exit to the pub garden.

. .

Outside is relative quiet. The bar still thrums with the energy of a busy night, though that energy is hitting its peak with a round of clapping, some cheers and jeers, and the muffled unintelligible announcement of the winning team. Moments later, a handful of people step outside into the garden to light up before heading home.

So the smokers smoke, chat, comment on the cold, and one by one snuff out their little lights and head back inside to re-couple with the others they came with.

Lauralette watches this from a corner of the building, one which joins the beer garden and the back wall to a side-alley between the bar and old wooden fencing. There is a dumpster there, garbage bags piled up, a door into the kitchen or some such back area. She is outside of any cones of light from the bar or the garden lamps, marked instead by an ember pinpoint. Smoke curls from between two fingers and then her lips.

She waits.

Time passes.

Lights inside the bar go out, the main floor cleared. Lauralette slips from her corner position to deeper in the alley. Action had managed to push down a certain feeling, but now it bubbles back up from the pit of her stomach, carves a line up through her chest, and grips at the back of her throat.

Hunger.

Lauralette knows that Cam will come out here. It comes from a certain type of intuition gleaned during their brief eye-contact. It’s only a waiting game before the barmaid delivers herself to Lauralette. Cam will come out here, she will find a pleasing shape in the shadow, she will allow herself to be lured deeper. Her mind will ignore the litter, the rust of the dumpster, the horrid scent of it, all in favour of a kiss and hands on each others’ bodies.

Lauralette imagines taking Cam by the neck then, dipping her low while clutched tight. Then there her fangs will sink into skin and Lauralette will be able to drink deep.

Lauralette knows this from both sides. For the giver it is a mix of hot-and-cold. First ice where the skin is pierced, the sensation running through the giver’s veins until seizing and slowing their heart. Then in their head they swim with feverish heat. Their vision blurs with blots of inky darkness. The corners close in.

For the taker it is the base euphoria of a vital need met after too long. Water in the desert. Warm hands in the dead of winter. Food, actual food, after a lifetime of starvation. Satisfaction is reached only when the taker drinks deep of the blooded well and it takes only a moment for it to turn deadly. Only a moment for the giver to take hold of a small strand of their sense and try to push away. Only a moment for the taker’s feral instinct to kick in, like an errant twitch on a hair-trigger.

Only a moment to go from control to a dead woman slumped in blood behind a rusty dumpster.

Images of it all flash hot in Lauralette’s mind.

Door opens, door closes. Cam steps into the night holding a garbage bag in each hand. She mutters something to herself about getting no help and dumps the bags as best she can into the dumpster and it’s then that she hears a sound – movement just out of sight.

“Hey.” Cam’s voice has a shrill quality when met with cold air, “That you, weird hot lady?”

Nothing responds, nothing is there.

. .

“FUCK!” Lauralette slams her hand on the top of her steering wheel once, then twice more. After the third time she grips with both hands on top and rattles her arms, “Fuck!”

She is driving too fast down narrow winding roads, each turn is taken too hard. That feeling of speed, the g-force on each bend, the sight of the world whipping by on either side, none of it is enough to truly distract her from herself.

She had very almost made a terrible, terrible mistake. Though she knows to call it a mistake is part cowardice and would not truly characterize what could have happened. She almost gave into her hunger in the worst possible way, all because she has been avoiding a phonecall.

Her stomach hurts. Her own body is angry at her.

Lauralette slams a cassette into the center console of her truck. She hits play and cranks the volume and the entire vehicle is filled with bone-shaking garage metal.

Another sharp turn with no loss of control. The straight-away ahead is empty and so – screaming along to the wave of sound – Lauralette slams her foot down.

. .

BLOOD

ROCK

MOTEL

The light of the signage casts a red glow about its immediate area.

The dusty road leading two ways to and from the motel – one way goes towards town, an errant collection of shops, businesses, two tourist traps, and a sprawl of mostly single-floor houses. The other way goes elsewhere.

The front of the motel’s lobby. The glass of the windows and door reflecting the sign at odd, conflicting angles, glaring over the signage posted on the window interiors. Rates, lobby hours, local businesses.

Further flung, from the other side, the motel pool is tinged red only if the night breeze catches the surface just right.

Right below, the step that leads up to the lobby doors. A young woman is sat with her knees up looking tired and bored. Without thought or intent she focuses her gaze on the whites of her trainers turned red by the light above.

She sighs. Her name is Dina and she is not sure how long she is going to continue waiting out here. She had called ahead, she had knocked on the doors, she had walked back to the side of the road to expertly toss a small pebble at what she knows is the bedroom window. Only after all that did she walk around the side of the building to see that Lauralette’s pickup truck was gone.

Dina hears a distant engine approaching. The trope ‘speak of the devil,’ might apply in some fashion, but Dina has been trying to manifest Lauralette’s presence for a while now. What this is – the truck fast approaching down from the road towards elsewhere – is coincidence. Good or bad remains to be seen.

Dina braces herself because she truly does not know what state Lauralette is going to be in. Just underneath the sound of the engine and then as the truck draws closer overpowering it, the sound of Lauralette’s rage-out tape. It isn’t an unfamiliar nose and it tells Dina very little about what to expect.

Lauralette parks the truck opposite where Dina sits. The windows glow red from the motel sign, but through that red Dina can see Lauralette. Lauralette is staring straight ahead. She takes a few moments to compose herself and then with a forceful thump she cuts out the music. Dina pushes herself up to her feet and Lauralette exits her vehicle. Neither women say anything to each other just yet, instead they hold eye-contact over the few feet between them.

It’s a game of chicken. It’s a game of who will blink first. It’s a game of Dina staring Lauralette down under the red haze and wondering if she’d see any blood. Lauralette with her hands stuff into her pockets, pulling the jacket taught and encouraging a slouched stance. Dina with a long narrow satchel over one shoulder, her hand steepled on the end of it, stood up straight to force Lauralette into meeting her gaze.

Lauralette blinks first. She bows her head, steps forward, and then steps past Dina entirely. She takes the step up to the motel lobby, opens up the door and says, “Alright. In, then.”

. .

Red glow, lunar grey-blue, dark shadows where the windows can’t reach. Lauralette sees just fine in darkness, though she’s familiar with home enough to navigate blindfolded. Lauralette winces when Dina hits the light switch behind her. The space still isn’t brightly lit by any measure, the bulbs are old and take a while to warm up and the furnishing harkens to an era where beige and muted greens were the fashionable thing.

Dina has said before the space needs an update, Lauralette always tells her it is the way she likes it.

“Tried calling you,” Dina says. She sounds distracted while looking around the front room of the apartment, looking for clues as to how Lauralette spent the week since they blew up at each other.

Lauralette shrugs off her jacket and tosses it over the back of the sofa. Then with the attitude of stepping into an old routine she pulls a chair from the table and sits slouched, legs parted, fingertips balanced on a surface. She looks up at Dina who is still in the middle of the room, “Didn’t take my phone with me.”

Dina had come here telling herself she wasn’t going to play caretaker, but still she sees that old plate on Lauralette’s table with the going-stale food and she feels compelled in some way to take it to the kitchen.

Tap-tap. Fingertips on the table. The chair creaking when Lauralette leans back, head turned to track Dina, tentative, curious, too-satisfied, hunger roils and it feels too easy to think this is how her week ends.

When Dina returns Lauralette makes sure to smooth her expression to something less shark-like.

“You fuck up?” Dina asks. She stands at the end of the table and looks down at Lauralette.

“Not all the way.” Lauralette is clean. No blood on her lips or her chin or her collar and sleeves. Hungry as she is, hungry as Dina knows she must be, she hadn’t tasted blood tonight. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” Dina folds open her satchel on the table. It’s a knife-roll, though hardly a standard kit. Rather than the tools of a butcher there is a scalpel and a wooden stake and zip-ties and gauze and adhesive bandages. Lauralette had helped her put it together more than a few weeks ago and she had called it a Bloodletter’s Kit. “Hands behind the chair.”

Lauralette obeys. She sits up straight, reaches her arms behind her, and watches carefully as Dina prepares. Earlier she had felt like a predator. If she’s still an animal she wonders what sort this makes her. Dina rounds behind her and binds her hands, the zip-ties looped through the spindles of the chair. Dina pulls them extra tight and Lauralette just barely hisses at that.

“I feel teeth and I stake you,” Dina warns. It’s nothing new, but Lauralette doesn’t roll her eyes, doesn’t take any of it disingenuously. So many aspects of her – her boredom, her attitude, her confidence – they get washed away and replaced with need. Hunger. Blood is close.

“Yeah,” Lauralette answers because she doesn’t want to fuck this up. Her eyes catch the glint of silver and she licks her lips when Dina raises the scalpel to her own wrist. Dina cuts a small, thin line without flinching.

The line of precious red. Thin but thickening. Terrible in its inches out of reach, almost enough to make Lauralette lurch.

“Please,” Lauralette gasps.

That seems to do it, the plea. Dina holds the cut to Lauralette’s lips and instinct takes over from there. Lips to skin, tongue over the red line, then eyes closed she suckles from the wound. Dina holds the back of Lauralette’s head, fingers in her hair, ready to yank her away if needs be, but until that might occur only cradling. Not a drop is spilled.

This isn’t their first time doing this. The sensation is familiar to Dina. Cold up her arm, hot in her head, a silent bee-swarm sensation that buzzes throughout her body and rocks the world from left to right. For Lauralette it is a vital heat that floods into her, flushes red in her cheeks and her chest. Nothing can replicate this, nothing comes close. Not from an animal, alive or dead. Not from a donor bag, lacking a pulse. The pulse is important. Lauralette drinks to the rhythmic throb pounded out by the beat of Dina’s heart.

Then it is over. Dina pulls her arm away and stumbles backwards until she is able to catch herself by the edge of the table. Lauralette lunges forward. The chair creaks. She gasps, teeth bared. Animal. The zip-tie bindings dig into her wrists and she remembers herself.

“Ugh.” Dina grabs the gauze and turns to sit heavily on the floor. She puts pressure on her wrist and keeps the limb raised.

The room is hot. Sweat prickles at Lauralette’s skin. Her mouth is wet and that void in her stomach is gone. She sits herself up and stares up at the ceiling and feels animal instinct abate and subside. She can’t look down at Dina, not right now, not while she is too painfully aware of how warm that body is, aware that the cut on her wrist hasn’t fully closed yet.

Time passes with silence between them. The buzz of the lightbulb, the heat of their breathing. Eventually the floor groans and Dina picks herself up. Lauralette catches her in the bottom of her vision – Dina looks tired and pale, but there is less red on the gauze than one might expect. The cut is already healing. Through some property of Lauralette’s mouth, wounds close quickly, but Dina still bandages up her wrist.

“Can I?” Lauralette’s voice comes out wet and sated, but the question itself is pathetic. She’s staring at the gauze, at wasted drops of blood.

Dina’s expression curls. She’s amused and disgusted and a harder to read third thing. It’s this strange third thing that has her indulge. She shoves the bloodied gauze into Lauralette’s mouth.

“You good?” Dina asks.

Lauralette nods. She can still taste blood all over her mouth. Metallic and warm. There are precious few drops left, soaking from the gauze to her tongue. She knows how it looks, she doesn’t care.

Dina waits a beat just taking Lauralette in. This woman who had drifted into her life with supreme confidence and unsaid history and some kind of raw magnetic power. This woman who is now very much bound and at the mercy of Dina. Dina, someone who really has no idea what she would want to do with power. Dina shakes her head. She kneels down behind Lauralette and with a deft hand she cuts the ties that bind.

Lauralette slouches immediately. She folds forwards and rubs her thumbs against her wrists. “Mn.” She takes the gauze from her mouth and uses a clean side to wipe her face before tossing it across the table.

“See you tomorrow, Lette.” Dina has already packed her things away. She is shouldering her satchel and getting ready to leave.

“Wait.” Lauralette sits up, one hand on the table and the other about to reach out.

“What do you want?”

“It’s late,” Lauralette says. “You should stay.” It’s impossible for Lauralette to sound innocent here. Even sated there is a wet hunger to her voice. Blood itself makes her feel whole, but she is always, always left wanting more.

“Ugh,” Dina scoffs and shakes her head, “You’re just fucking horny because I fed you.”

Lauralette takes Dina by the wrist, leant forward almost out of her chair, “That a problem?”

Dina snatches her wrist back. She’s starting to remember clearly why she stormed out last time, why she told Lauralette to go fuck herself and tossed the spare key she had been given at the vampire’s face.

“Sorry.” Lauralette says the word like it physically pains her.

“See you tomorrow, Lette,” Dina tries again. This time she leaves without interruption.

. .

The next day, about seven in the morning. The world is dusty yellow and orange and the colour blue strikes through all that in a big rectangle shape. Lauralette is standing poolside with a big net. She has a wide-brim hat and large shades and a short sleeve floral print shirt and the heat of the sun only mildly stings and the brightness of the summer morning atmosphere is not enough to dampen her mood.

It is quiet. Soft breeze and the glug-glug of the pool’s water filter and the splash whenever she swoops the net through the surface to catch more dead leave and the occasional cigarette end.

“Oh, hey!” Some man’s voice in the distance behind her.

Lauralette squints at something odd in the water. She has to lean to reach it with the net, but an expert’s hand swipes it from the water.

“Hey!” He’s getting closer. The man is loud, but trying not to sound threatening.

Lauralette pulls a face when she has to touch the net to get the strange bit of litter free. It must be some type of business card, but the ink is all run and ruined.

“Did you know the ice-machine is broken?” The man asks her. He’s not just a few feet away.

Lauralette doesn’t want to deal with all that. She swoops the net back into the water. She will pretend not to hear him for at least six seconds longer. It’s going to be a good week.

. . .

Read more like this?

[gaykey]

HIII Asher how are you! I hope everything's good. i wanted to ask you if you have any tips, even small ones, little details or advice on where to begin to dress like or try to dress inspire by kibum's style

hello anon! i'm good, hope you're well too!

now, though i am a lover of key's style, i find it something quite hard to replicate because he goes through so many phases.

his looks atm are quite lowkey and casual (compared to some of his past ones) but he just has an aura that elevates them.

if you really want to have a go at emulating it though, just think about the basic mainstays like:

atm, kibum is alllll about hats. beanies, caps, and bucket hats. he's kinda going through a bit of a 00's phase, but not, i think, in the way that fashion from that time has been absolutely rinsed out by everyone lately. but i'm biased.

he pairs the hats with oversized tees and shirts. he's been wearing light, neutral, mild earthy tones (it is summer after all) with a pop of colour or pattern here & there

lots of demin!

he's been wearing a lot of slouchy & oversized fit jeans, and jorts. khaki's, cargo pants & dungarees.

flip flops, sandals, comfy trainers.

and either a shoulder bag/bum bag (that's what we call fanny packs here lol), or a huge oversized bag.

cute jewellery & accessories. kibum is all about cutesy jewellery at the minute. lots of pastels. beaded & pearl necklaces, cute chunky plastic rings. same goes for his phone case and charms. cutesey & bright.

also you've got the jackets. gilets and windbreakeers and denim jackets, anoraks and hoodies.

he vaguely looks like a dad on vacay, but make it pretty & also fashion.

tbh though, i think kibum would say the best way to emulate his style, is to just, make it your own? wear whatver you think is cute and ACCESSORISE 😊

oh and if you want m[re help or visuals, key's gram, of course is always handy, but also, i have recently been told about @/kibumoutfit on ig! a goldmine for kibum fashion. <3

[snowbunnytrick]

Hi this is the same peterick anon that did the album by album ask a bit ago and like, wow sorry to bomb ur ask box with another drabble but your input was so fucking ingenious I'd like your enlightenment again

Currently thinking about how sexually frustrating it would be to be 16 and stuck with 3 other guys within a foot of you 24/7. Pete would tease the fuck out of Patrick for trying to get privacy and jerking off in gas station bathrooms while biting the back of his hand. Banging on the door and yelling at him to hurry up and does he want any candy and all Patrick can this of is how pissed off he is at Pete. He still cums anyway, sadly and not hard enough. It doesn't satiate him at all. It's an appetizer, he's even more desperate now but he has to go. Rinse his hands off and try to wipe the look off of his face before he shoves past Pete. But Pete knows, he's been 16 before. Blushed cheeks and pissed off, hair a little sweaty and breath still shaky. He's enamored. He can feel Patrick's frustration radiating off of him and he feeds on it.

Pete would find absolutely any opportunity to pester the fuck out of him when he senses that frustration. Usually he'd get rewarded with a shove or a punch to the jaw, which Pete wasn't wholly opposed to. But sometimes, oh sometimes he'd be rewarded with Patrick leaning against him hot and heavy in the backseat later that night. Searing breath fanning and leaving a damp spot on Pete's shoulder while Patrick already had his hands down his pants. Pete could never tell how far Patrick would let him go. That's what made it so fucking exhilarating. Could he kiss him this time? Could he put his own hand down the front of Patrick's jeans? Would he even let Pete put a hand on his hip to let him know he was awake? Patrick's hot shame casting a suffocating cloud around his arousal. Pete wanted to live in that shame. This was their dirty little secret and it was Pete's favorite place to be, under Patrick's skin.

I could think forever and ever about the times Patrick lets Pete touch him, rutting into his hand and panting weakly. He'd never ask or beg or even say please but Pete can sense the teenage desperation. The way he'd press his face into Pete's shoulder or grab a fistful of his jacket when the van seat wasn't enough. How his legs would tense and hips would jerk and he came against Pete's hand, up his wrist. Sometimes he'd immediately pull Pete out by the forearm and move away, but other times he'd slump back and take it, jerk weakly if Pete tried to keep going and groan out in disagreement. Pete knew how delicate his position was, he had to tread water to have Patrick let him do this, so he always obeyed, pulling his hand out after a just couple of weak warnings. They both know Pete wanted more. He was ravenous for it, but this kid had him wrapped around his finger. So he laid in wait, he bid his time. The opportunity would come. Patrick was made for him.

.

[ednaeflowers]

❛ kiddo—edna i— ❜ but he catches the rest of his words they spill onto the air as oral tradition. kratos’ days had been as clockwork long ago: wake up, eat breakfast, carry lloyd to primary school, work, leave work, meet his wife to pick lloyd up, home. it was a cycle always kept on rinse and repeat, that was until that one faithful day, until his route wasn’t so new day, same shit any longer. the one day he had to stay late with yuan to finish up the last bits of a presentation that was going to have cruxis ( the founder and pinnacle standard of all things magitechnology ): that he had first saw her, a girl that always seemed more half-wild and half-hallowed than a mere primary schooler.

it had started as all things, with small acts not meant to amount too much: a few extra sandwiches from work here and an old jacket or pair of jeans of lloyd’s there. that was in the beginning though and kratos aurion was far beyond the beginning. now, but he could recall it ever so bittersweetly. as how then his 5:30pms had been spent actively seeking the misplaced girlhood out whenever he could. she was always so shy and skittish, yet also forlorn ( a thousand yard stare filled with a million ghost eyes ): but, that was then and this is now. like genesis it started like so, but not as forbidden, but still forcibly as pulling teeth. she was snarky with massively spit fired tongue and quick witted enough to put yuan to great shame. yet, underneath kratos knows, had seen it all too well: that she was just a very sad and very alone little girl.

so, of course he begun gathering information here and there ( what was the point in being a high ranking member of cruxis if he couldn’t pull a few strings? ): but she, now known as edna, pulled and tugged and resisted as prey trapped inside a hunger hunters eyes. for naught but a moment, ephemeral and still closely guarded, the hollowness and snark within her seemed to disperse and she seemed to be so much more earthbound, so much more grounded in an assumption ( of remembering how it felt to be loved and cared for ): had she had let go of her walls, let the name of her only living family slip ( how she waited and waited and kept every letter as it was her own living gospel, as her own written alter of worship ): how the name of eizen tied with his military branch and deployment unit had connected far too easily, how shattered the lingering fragments of a girl whom now was lost amongst the pieces laid before his feet and kratos, even with his love by his side, wasn’t sure what to do.

but what else was kratos nor anna meant to do? it was the eve of nine months of … somewhat knowing her and kratos did what he could, what he was allowed to do ( a combination of what he thought was best, therapist advice, and what edna gave within arms reach ): but wasn’t this the purpose of abundance and adulthood, hadn’t this been the point of being able to provide in excesses for his family—to also give those without a home one too? grief did not have a time limit, even if we often wished it too. how could he compare ( kratos couldn’t nor would he ): maybe he could share the closest he’d ever been to loss, mayhap he could talk about the first women whom had ever loved him, before he even knew what he was to love and be loved: his dearest mother.

it is, however, a moment of sentimental frailty that is not meant to last: kratos wishes to speak on the love that can still be found, even within the loss, longing, and grief but would the words that he wanted to leave his tongue even come close to her, in the ways that he would hope would reach her? kratos’ soul twists and turns and bites at itself in a deplorable devoted act of self-punishment and within him is two beings chanting ( something about duty / something about god ): truly, even one blessed as he still held much sin between his teeth but where there was sin lay the grounds for redemption and repentance and divine self-sacrifice.

❛ eiz—he wouldn’t want you like this. to miss someone is a means of knowing how much you loved them. when it gets too much, ❜

it was spoken from experience, from a place of the purest love. in the doorway of her bedchambers was anna ready to jump need kratos find his words giving additional trials to the living embodiment before him, but his will and kindheartedness had gotten them to this point and it was an attempt, a closer attempt, and for kratos, that would be enough.

❛ whenever i miss her, my mother. ❜ because even a living god king could grieve, what was a man if not the grief of all those he loved and would ever love? ❛ i recall all the parts of her i loved, and yes it was everything, her laugh, the way she would hum while cooking stew, the smells of her favorite perfumes. ❜ but, as with all things, grief was still grief and it had no time limit. ❛ everyone, including myself at times, wants you to stop being sad but you, like myself: will never stop being sad. how could they ever expect you too, how could we? how could i? ❜

its the way he looks at her tucked in form, she was already incredibly small but this way she looked even smaller ( all the more childlike, all the more wounded ): and mayhap, he would have found some piece of beauty in this grotesque decadence ( death held much beauty, for it had once held life ): if only it had come as the payment for love, without the transaction of loss and for stolen happiness—but all he feels is sorrow and grief, sainted yet acrid, as in his soul festers a venomous blasphemous maw: the weary bones of a man only trying his best.

❛ it has been said time heals all wounds but i do not agree. much time has passed since the loss of my mother and i long for her embrace everyday, i have never once stopped. like you, i nearly lost myself or… did lose myself for much time within the sadness and grief. but, with time also brought the acknowledgment of accepting but never forgetting. even discussing her with you now, it hurts, my heart weeps but my soul doesn’t shatter, not anymore. ❜

that is, what kratos doesn’t say. he doesn’t say how his soul cannot shatter any longer because the soul of whom he had been before anna, before lloyd—before his family, edna included, had been broken into pieces that could never be put back together. his mind, having gone insane, had covered the hollowed memory with scar tissue to cope, but the pain had never left him and much like edna, would never leave him. ❛ when you no longer are lost in the grief, in the longing for, in the loss. ❜ gently, his hand extends to gently pat her hand, his eyes noticing how her sleeves had become soaked from her snot nose filled tears. ❛ we’ll be right here, edna. ready for you in whichever way you will permit us. ❜

because, sometimes life gave too much unhappiness and tragedy to those whom did not deserve it, least of all the flowering youth of tomorrow. kratos and the budding flower child before him where grief-stricken and desperate for the warmth of a summer that never came during their coldest and loneliest of winters but mayhap, together his family, their family could make even the closest of winters bestow upon their lives the warmest of sunlight upon their blossoming earth.

she is angry; she is enraged; she is indignant—she is crying.

this is not how she wanted him to find her: curled up underneath the blankets of her new bed, her eyes horribly sore and red, and the sleeves of her hoodie are left in dreadful tear-stained condition. it has been like this ever since she first arrived in this house: the sheets are different, and the walls aren't of the same wallpaper, and the furniture is all different, and the windows. the windows were normally small and showed a view of the oak tree just outside the apartment complex if the curtains were pried apart, and beyond that would be the sidewalk she usually treks on the way to school, and there'd sometimes be dried leaves sprawled all over the asphalt for her to crunch with her shoes if she's bored— and that, that's all gone now. it's all gone just like how onii-chan is gone.

she'd gotten the notice herself this morning, actually: the phone call received at 8 in the morning, a voice telling her that 'the body was confirmed dead at around the crack of dawn a few days prior,' then everything else became a blur until reddy found her during the usual 5:30 time in the early evening. she, of course, offered more bite to her barks, as it is usual routine between them, but each time, reddy still remained patient; unmoving, anchored, as stationary as the tall, sturdy lighthouses at the sea onii-chan sometimes shows her from the books he'd read on oceanography for fun. it annoyed her. annoyed her so much.

edna doesn't quite know how to describe their relationship. they aren't like her and meebo from school: meebo has the same long-suffering patience as reddy does while sitting through most of her shenanigans—but meebo is easier to talk with, and she hasn't exactly shown reddy the same non-hostile willingness yet. it was just weird to her, really. she and meebo are classmates, so it makes sense to talk with him. she pesters meebo all the time for homework answers, and pilfers his pens and eraser from his pencil case whenever he isn't looking, and occasionally swipes something random from his bentō during lunch before rubbing it in his face as he complains. reddy, though. she has no affiliation with him. he's just 'that one overstressed old man who likes feeding the alley cat on his way home,' or whatever analogy of an alley cat that exists. edna wouldn't know. all she knows is that reddy offers her things like one would to an alley cat. edna likes cats. she doesn't like reddy.

he should, realistically, have nothing to do with her: he's married and has a son a little younger than her and a busy job, as she had unwillingly learned from all of his unnecessary chitchat, and she has no parents or relatives—or a brother anymore. what does he do? he still somehow comes by at 5:30pm; suggests that she goes with him, implies that she doesn't have to be alone. it makes edna wonder if he's a masochist. he sure seems to act like one. she has seen him weary and tired, like he needs a really good shoulder massage, and thinks he should go to a retirement home already rather than dealing with her. he should leave her alone and go back to his wife and son, who are both waiting for him. he should take his pity and swallow it up like a fruit pit. he should vanish from her life just like how onii-chan vanished.

but no, he does none of that. instead, reddy takes her in; into his house, into his life, into his family's life. this room they're in right now, her new bedroom, is something that belongs to them. she should, realistically, not be here. she is not one of them, after all. it was always just her and onii-chan. there is no 'reddy' in the equation. ( there is no 'kratos' in this equation. same with 'anna' and 'lloyd,' and even 'noishe.' ) even though she very reluctantly accepted his offer to be here, she still shouldn't belong here. she needs a roof over her head, and food, and a nice pillow—but this place is not home. how can it be home when it doesn't feel like home despite reddy and anna having helped move her belongings in already? she reasons to herself that she can at least accept the hospitality because she feels guilty to impose on reddy's wife when edna's never even met her before until a few hours ago.

anna was... very kind to her when edna arrived. she doesn't tell reddy anything, that she actually likes anna for the warm welcome, but it still feels very odd. after all, edna has no idea who her mother was, and was raised with only onii-chan by her side. there was never an adult female in her life, excluding teachers, and now anna is suddenly here. surreal. anna is why edna chose to suck it up and bear with being in this new environment, if only to not disrespect the hospitality. ( and there's also reddy, who has been dealing with her even longer. he still annoys her, but he has never once tried to hurt her either. a sort of stalemate. )

when most of her things had been properly moved in and arranged, that had been when reddy and anna decided to leave her alone. that made sense to her, because it's late and people should be sleeping at this time anyway—but sometimes when you're in a brand new bedroom, lying in a brand new bed, having learned within the same day that your older brother died in the military, edna thinks there is nothing else one can do but cry, so she cries. she's wrapped in the brand new blanket and is crying. she's a quiet crier: she's always proud of that, still is—but tonight, she sniffles a little because there is a gap in her heart now, and it's a big, enormous, irreplaceable gap that's in the unmistakable shape of onii-chan.

and that's when reddy came back in the room. doesn't he know that you should leave a girl alone when she's crying? ugh, really, it irks her so much: how he tells her these things so easily, how he talks like he knows what she's going through, how he talks like he wants to understand her. he talks about his mother, the things he loves about her. edna tries to do the same; tries to think of onii-chan greeting her each morning with a smile as he pats her head, how he lets her have the bigger half of whatever he's eating, how he lets her have the tv remote when she wants to watch her cartoons even though he's still watching something else, how he labels the salt and sugar containers specifically for her—all the trivial, little things that meant something to her. it makes her eyes feel hot, and she is frustrated at herself for letting reddy see her like this. how did he even know she was crying anyway? stalker, she halfheartedly accuses, just to feel even a smidgen better. ( it actually works. )

but the most frustrating part to her is that she actually considers his words. she is angry. angry, angry, angryangryangry— angry at him for knowing what to say. onii-chan may be gone now, but life still continues on. ❛  all right, i get it already. i'm not going to mourn forever,  ❜ she grumbles, hoarsely. eloquence is not possible for edna when she's emotional. she also does not shake off his hand either. that makes him rather special, she supposes, because she doesn't even let meebo touch her. or anyone, really, other than onii-chan. but reddy is not onii-chan, and she's pretty sure he's too old for that role anyway, but she'd rather eat a pair of eyeballs than to call him anything synonymous to 'otou-san,' or 'dad,' or even 'father,' and definitely not 'papa.' it makes her grimace disgustedly as she rubs at her eyes again. ❛  i'll be better by morning.  ❜ she'll get up at dawn, lock herself in the bathroom to clean her face, and—

she pauses and squints. ❛  this—  ❜ she warns darkly, gesturing a finger vaguely between them, and knows that her threat isn't exactly convincing with her red eyes and wet cheeks and disheveled hair, ❛  —is only a one-time thing. got it, reddy? you do not tell anyone.  ❜ he'll probably tell anna, though. oh well. she grumpily wriggles and turns until she lies on her other side, her back facing him to hide her face, then curls into the blanket. she demands, ❛  and close the door when you leave,  ❜ as she rests her eyes. she doesn't turn around to look at him again. edna only planned to cry now, then clean up her face before breakfast, her first official breakfast here. it's impolite and uncouth to eat breakfast while looking like a raccoon's nest, so she needs sleep, and sleep she does.

it's enough, she thinks, drowsily, before everything turns black and flashbacks of onii-chan appear. they transition one by one, like old, grainy sepia films—then reddy's face suddenly pops up, and instead of sepia, it's full of color as he extends his hand to her, all welcoming and inviting. it's only a dream, she knows, so that's why she accepts it. it's a secret she'll take to the grave, she decides as she follows him, then he nudges her inside a house, one that is bigger than her apartment and full of homeyness and life. she enters, he closes the door, then everything is black again as she continues dreaming and dreaming of a new beginning: maybe she is throwing one of her normin dolls at reddy for another wisecrack comment, maybe she is helping anna rinse and chop vegetables for dinner, maybe she is helping sneak a cookie for small lloyd, maybe she is putting on a cat-eared hairband on noishe while he naps.

this brand new, unknown home? it's... enough.

reddy is... okay, for now.

( also: she never kicked him out. she really hopes she won't regret that in the morning. )

[kaitokrush]

My heart is chained to yours; a Junkrat and Roadhog fanfiction

Chapter 2

Preview

My sleep is disturbed by the noise of my apartment buzzer, I drowsily check my phone. 7:10 am, Jesus fuck, I was supposed to wake up an hour ago!!! Stumbling out of bed, I make my way to the speaker butt-naked!!!

"MAKO!!! Uhhh good morning, mate?"

"I've been trying to get you up for like 10 minutes, how heavy of a sleeper are you?"

"Damn, I didn't realize heh. Well, I'll buzz you up, but give me a minute to shower. Wanna look nice and sparkly for ya."

I gather my clothes and run into the shower. Cleaning every inch of my body I could as I simultaneously brush my teeth. Unfortunately, got soap in my mouth, so I tried to rinse my mouth with shower water. Spitting and coughing like a cigarette-addicted smoker. When I get out of the shower I don’t bother to brush my hair and start getting dressed. I wear a black long-sleeve that has Shadow the Hedgehog on the front, and a pair of baggy jeans shorts that cut off at the knee, I belt the shorts and put on some plain socks with a red stripe around the top.

Exiting the bathroom I see Mako sitting on the floor. Looking down at his outfit he has a black bomber jacket that has pins and patches, a pair of baggy pants, and some DC shoes. Glancing back at his face and his mask is the same as usual, with the cute pig face on the side. His dark eyes have some messy eyeliner and his silver hair is down. Fidgeting with the gold rings on his right hand, he also tugs his fingerless glove on the other hand to make sure it's on tight.

"Mako, why are you on the floor?"

"I didn't want to break your bed…”

Getting up, his eyes wander around.

“…your room is cleaner than I thought it would be and smaller too. You should do laundry though."

"Hey, I don't look like the type of guy to have a messy room right?"

Grumbling to myself, we crowd around the exit.

“Also the laundry mat is temporarily closed.”

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I put on my steel-toe shoes. It’s a brown exercise bag that I thrifted years ago that carries all my shit. Such as my knife, protein bars, pain medication so it doesn’t feel like my nerve endings are being ripped out in my arm and leg, my phone, headphones, and napkins. Anything the average Aussie bloke wouldn’t complain about.

"You kinda do, considering your workbench. Saw you clean that like five times yesterday. Expected a bomb would’ve gone off in your room."

Impulsively I kick Mako in the shin with my steel-toe shoes.

"JESUS, ARE THOSE THE ONLY FUCKIN SHOES YOU OWN!?!!"

Jumping up, he holds his shin.

"Yeah, what about them? Well, I got some runners but I don’t want to wear them."

Vengefully he kicks me in the shin back.

“OW, WHAT THE FUCK!?!!”

"Shall we get going?"

Holding the door open like a cocky fuckin cunt, we both stumble out holding our shins. When we make it out he opens the passenger car door like I'm a princess.

“Oh, Mako you shouldn’t have!!!”

Jokingly I sway my hips as I grip the strap of my bag like a girl, cheekily grinning. Without warning he cups my face into his hand, the surprise embrace causes my heart to skip a beat.

“M-my Mako, you’re becoming more out of pocket by the second.”

Now available on AO3+Wattpad

[detective4blog]

I wrote a follow up to this because I'm foaming at the mouth

Sebastian stared at the reply and the address he already knew. He didn't expect to get an answer. Maybe assuming that John was constantly busy was a bit stupid on his part.

In his defense, how easy is it to balance being a doctor and an assistant to a detective?

He shuddered at the thought of having a normal job on top of everything he already does. Managing the other snipers within the network, making sure Jim doesn't get his pretty face damaged or killed, take care of the occasional target he gets...

God, doing some other job would either kill him or lead him to more violent urges.

Not the point. He could see John today. He could get the answers to those stupid questions that bothered him all night. He could...act like he was normal.

Damnit.

Sebastian rubbed his face and groaned. He could act normal, sure, but if he wanted to keep talking to John, he had to have a good cover story. God forbid he says he works at a bank one day and the next say he's something else.

Though never keeping a job would fit him. Not the point.

"In-between jobs right now," he muttered to himself. It was the best answer he could have now. Maybe he could get some pathetic sod from the network to spew out a fake identity. It'd be easy considering his "rank" or whatever.

Clothes. Did he have any that didn't smell like alcohol, blood, and gun oil? Probably not. Maybe those nicer clothes Jim buys could work if he managed it. A button up and jeans, and the least stained t-shirt underneath.

He started digging around, tossing the needed clothes on the bed. Good thing he already showered. Shaving wasn't a big concern; besides, people like a scruffy, tough looking man!

...hopefully.

He got dressed, rinsing his mouth with mouthwash as he started getting the regular things to leave the house.

Keys. Phone. Pocket knife. Wallet.

How much money did he have? If things went there, getting a hotel room would be in both's interest. He fumbled through the wallet, scowling at the sad amount he carried with him.

Great. Now he has to stop at the bank and get money from the account Jim deposits payment into. Which will be noticed because he never does this, and then Jim will ask questions and-

Whatever. Cross that burning bridge later, he wanted to be prepared for the best and worst. Good thing he kept condoms in his wallet already.

Tugging on the first jacket that he saw, Sebastian left. He called a taxi, not in the mood to figure out which train he has to board and when. For being born and raised here, he really had no clue about the Tube system.

Curse his rich bastard of a father.

...

Sebastian stared up at the red sign, wondering if this was a dream. He kicked the side of his leg to check, wincing slightly.

Not a dream.

"'Bastian?"

His heart nearly exploded. From being surprised or an ungodly amount of joy, he wasn't sure.

There was John, wearing a nice jumper. Looking like a piece of sunlight captured into a human vessel. Eyes bright with happiness, lips curled into a grin...perfect in every way.

Say something, dumbass!

"Hey, doc."

I'm fucking hopeless. "Doc"? Real original! I'm sure he's never heard that one before-

John laughed. He was laughing at that shitty nickname, head shaking slightly. He was laughing and it sounded like it would be the call of an angel, not the laugh of a regular human.

Sebastian had absolutely no memory of going inside the cafe and sitting down but at some point, that occurred. He prayed that he wasn't just staring at John the entire time like an idiot.

"So, how are you?" The doctor asked kindly, hands wrapped around a cup of tea. The blonde laughed a little, wetting his lips nervously. He still wasn't used to the scar tissue over his lips that disrupt the texture.

"I'm alive, at least. In-between jobs right now, and surprisingly single." He answered so easily, a crooked grin shifting onto his face.

More of that honeyed laughter. "Really? I thought out of everyone I knew, you'd settle down first."

I would've if I didn't fall into a fuckin' pit and-

Sebastian cut his own thought off by laughing in return, shaking his head. Bits of his hair curled around his shoulders now, bringing that smell of fruit with them. "You though that I'd settle down? I got described as a little heartbreakin' bastard by pretty much everyone!"

John shrugged in response, taking a sip of his tea. It was difficult not to stare at his lips but somehow the sniper managed. "You were the one who'd muse on about living in the country with your partner."

He remembered that?

Sebastian blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Haven't found someone to go off into the rolling green hills yet." He managed to respond, acting like he hadn't forgotten his own damn words. "What about you?"

"It's...difficult keeping a girlfriend with my flatmate. He isn't a...people's person." John explained with an awkward chuckle. Sebastian bit back a comment of agreeing.

"What's that bloke like? I didn't really read much on the blog." He admitted, head turning to the side.

John stared into his cup for a moment, obviously trying to think of a way to describe the detective in a way that wasn't a long rant. "A bit of a know-it-all who knows he's smart and makes sure everyone knows."

Interesting how that was the exact way he'd describe Jim. Though it'd more that he makes it everyone else's problem that he's the genius in the room.

"I see. Hopefully you'll find a gal who doesn't mind your...friend?"

John nodded at the last part, shrugging again. "Maybe. Where are you living? Please say it's not back home."

"Fuck no. I've got a place with Severin. It's a cheap flat that frankly needs destroyed, but it's ours." A complete lie at the moment. He was still living with Jim for the time being. Eventually he did plan on moving out and getting someplace for him and his brother.

"That's good. Tell Severin I said 'hi' for me." John looked relieved by the answer. Sebastian nodded in response, placing his hands firmly on his knees to stop them from bouncing. "Looks like you've seen some excitement. The scars, I mean."

"Oh, these old things? Turns out I'm not the only one who doesn't always fight clean." He couldn't hide the excitement in his voice at the topic of...well, fighting. If he could only have two interests for the rest of his days, it would be space and fighting.

John raised a brow, looking amused. "It helps your whole...tough guy with a heart of gold thing going on."

He thinks I have a heart of gold? I could get him a heart and cast it in gold if he asked.

Maybe he should stop listening to Jim's attempts of dating advice.

He laughed, head shaking a bit. "Sure, it's a golden heart, but it's a pretty damaged one. Dirty, too."

"Doesn't mean you're any less worthy of love, 'Bastian. One day you'll find someone that'll cherish that heart, help you repair it and clean it."

You are making it so much harder to not fall back in love with you, you sweet bastard.

Sebastian felt his face heat up, avoiding eye contact while his heart pounded in his ears. "Right, yeah. Someone that'll cherish..." He mumbled, too flustered to think.

It wasn't even something to get flustered over!

He heard John laugh, the cup be lifted from his saucer, then placed down gently. "Your ears still go red when you blush."

Fuck.

"Good thing I've got hair to cover that up." He managed to say, pushing his hair in place to cover the reddening ears. More laughter from John, pitched so sweetly with lightheartedness.

"God, I haven't laughed this much in a while." The doctor admitted, fixing the collar of his shirt. "You always make it easier to laugh."

I'm going to fucking fall in love with you, stop it.

"What can I say? I'm just gift to all who have the pleasure and displeasure to know me." A signature cocky grin spread, followed up by a playful wink. "It's nice to hear you laugh again."

John's eyes seemed to brighten with something. Sebastian couldn't tell what had sparked in his eyes, getting lost in those beautiful eyes. It was like gazing into a blue crystal ball that carried so many human emotions inside. Grief, joy, anger, regret, love...

"I still have that pendant you made me."

Sebastian's eyes widened, jaw nearly dropping. "Holy shit, really?"

The doctor nodded with vigor, eyes glimmering with memories. "It's been sitting in some little trinket box for the longest time. I nearly forgot about it until now."

You kept the shitty little charm I made you by melting down a pound and burning my fingers trying to put a fingerprint into it...and then failing to do so and just making a weird dip in it?

"That's bloody insane. I mean, I'm glad to hear it but...damn. I should get you a chain for it, it'd be a better keychain or whatever. Maybe a Christmas ornament."

"I'd like it as Christmas ornament. I'll get that taken care of so you can see it if you stop by. We...try to host little holiday parties. Keyword try." John went from overjoyed to slightly dimmed down, likely remembering disastrous Christmas pasts.

Wait. You want to see me on Christmas? Have me over, spend time with me? You're going to make that broken little heart get fixed without raising a finger, John...

"That'd be nice. I mean, I'd be the first holiday party I'd go to willingly. I'd want that to have you there, yaknow?" Was it obvious he was fumbling over his words? Was his face more red or did it just feel warmer? God, this was a blissful disaster.

John brightened at that, nodding. "I'll do everything in my power to make it a good one, then. You'll get to eat some good homemade food if all else goes wrong."

Sebastian nodded, a more gentle smile growing on his face. "I think those girls who left you just because your flatmate is a bit of a dick didn't see how sweet you are."

Was that too flirty? I mean, I'm not trying to flirt or anything but...

John blinked, bursting into laughter after processing what was said. "Ever the smooth talker, 'Bastian!" He covered his mouth to stifle the continuous laughter, face flushing with joy-

Fuck, that's adorable.

Sebastian bit his tongue to keep back what he wanted to say. He wanted nothing more than to spill out all the yearnings and wishes that had been plaguing him all of last night and today.

"Hey, I'm just being honest over here!" Joining the laughter was irresistible, John had a contagious laugh. "You're a bloody sweetheart, mate."

A darker pink tint glowed on John's cheeks, finally managing to get control of his laughter. "I think you're the sweet one here, mate. I mean, you've been like...a ray of sunshine. Just positivity and the works." The doctor paused, brow furrowing. "Or I've been around my friend a bit too much."

Sebastian was still trying to process being called a ray of sunshine to respond, face absolutely burning a dark red. His heart had to be working overtime for how fast it seemed it was beating.

This has to be a dream. It has to be. God, I want to kiss him.

"Pretty easy to be all positive and...sunshine-y with you, doc."

That fucking nickname again? Really? At this rate I'm gonna greet him with "what's up doc" like an idiot!

The banter continued, John's tea getting cold as it was abandoned in favor for conversation. Sebastian lost count of how many times the smallest thing the doctor did or said that made him feel...alive.

He felt alive, like the rush from energy drinks had been put in his system without the chemicals and flavorings. And god was it more addicting than any of those drinks. He felt like he could go a whole week without sleep if he had John with him.

Parting ways felt like removing a bandaid. It had to be done. His cab was by the side, John waiting outside to see him off. Sebastian wanted to linger, to reach out and hold, be held. But he didn't let himself try, getting in the cab and giving some ridiculous farewell with another mischievous wink.

His heart ached for what he knew he couldn't have. If he got what he wanted, it'd end in tragedy. The truth would come out, either from his own slip ups or from either of the Holmes spilling it. Then the way he was perceived would change, be tainted with "innocent" blood spread, and he could never be held in those arms again.

I want to be ordinary.