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hargrove-mayfields · 2 years ago

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It’s fibromyalgia awareness day! 🦋

Fibromyalgia is a disability characterized by lifelong, unexplained body pain and numbness, memory problems, attitude changes, depression and anxiety, stomach issues, migraines, and sensory sensitivity.

Here’s a fic about Billy Hargrove (and Steve Harrington) having that disability!

content warnings for: discussion of child abuse and abandonment, ableism and ableist slurs, vomiting, detailed and stressful descriptions of chronic pain, illness, self-deprecation, and suicidal ideation.

~~~~~

Something is off with Billy.

Atop the lifeguard tower, wearing a long sleeved sweatshirt, sunglasses, and a hat. From the outside, it looks like he’s hiding from something. Trying to blend in.

Max had accused him of as much this morning. Pointed her finger right at him and started snapping her teeth about pretending everything was normal. The kid was almost in tears while she confronted him about telling the truth. But Billy had no idea what she was talking about.

His back fucking hurts and he wanted to wear a comfortable shirt, so fucking what? He doesn’t have to justify that to her.

Now he can feel all her creepy stalker friends staring at the back of his head at work. Even sees the glint of the magnifying something or another they’re using to watch him.

He can’t give a shit about whatever those tiny assholes have gotten in their heads about him. They’re probably doing a round of their stupid role play game shit again.

Whatever. Because sitting in this hard ass chair isn’t helping his pain any. The sun is fucking hot, but he’s got chills from how bad his body hurts, a deep ache all over in all of his limbs. The migraine certainly doesn’t help, but even his glasses and his hat aren’t enough to block out the harsh light.

The summer isn’t easy on his body. Neither is winter, or any other time. He never gets a break. But the heat is especially bad on his body, and specifically, the pain in his legs and shoulders. He’s got the body and immune system of a guy in his 60s instead of one who just turned eighteen a few months ago.

Some lifelong nerve disorder he’s had since he was a kid and would spend hours curled up in momma's arms screaming for relief. Good luck with that kid. He lost the only person that ever tried to help; he should’ve been grateful he used to even be able to ask for it.

Now, the best he gets is an apathetic glance. He buys drugs off of some sketchy kid in a creeper van to manage it himself. The doctors and Neil cut him off of his prescriptions a long time ago, accusing him of just trying to get free drugs. Even still Max gives him shit for taking random pills, and he knows she’s right, but he’s just trying to comfort himself when the going gets rough.

He’ll live. Get over it, kid. Man up.

Right now he can barely breathe.

Someone could be drowning three feet in front of him and he wouldn’t even notice. All because Heather had some emergency and needed to take off and leave Hawkins for a few weeks, and he had been the one stupid enough to volunteer to pick up all her shifts until she gets back in late July.

If he lasts that long.

Right now his stomach is twisting from how bad it all hurts. It’s indescribable. If he had to try, he’d say it’s like threading fishing wire through his muscles and tying his whole body in knots, tearing through tissue in the process. Like hammering nails into his joints to keep the mangled mess all together.

He's going to be sick.

It’s not time yet but he blows the whistle anyways, because he needs a fucking breather. There’s no one else on duty with him because today is slow after yesterday's rain. Who’s gonna know?

Those scurrying little shit head stalkers will probably notice. Still not his damn problem.

Billy manages somehow to drag himself to the back room to collapse onto a bench. He tries to tell himself he won’t cry, but it’s far too late for that. This is the worst he can ever remember it being on its own. At least since the beating he took right before the move. That was probably the actual hardest time of his life.

Doesn’t change a damn thing about how bad he feels now though. As he’s just laying there, pathetically wasting his shift away, there’s a painful feeling traveling up his spine and into his ribs, stealing his breath away. He feels so damn worthless. Nobody would probably even notice if he died right now. Suffocated from the inside by his own body.

But that’s not the way this works. The pain cracks open suddenly at the highest point of his spine like a fault line, leaving behind a deep set, intense flash of pain in his back and his ribs.

That’s his last straw. His lowest point. He drags himself off of the bench and literally crawls to the showers. Hot water might help, he needs it to, because this is unbearable.

The shame of pulling himself on his hands and knees across the pool’s filthy floors is almost too much. He wants to scream for help. But nobody’s going to come for him.

Nobody will find Billy collapsed in the shower stall, wheezing like he ran a marathon just from the extraordinary effort it took him to crawl ten feet. It feels like he’s dying. The ground is cold but he’s hot, his skin flushed and sticky with sweat. If he had the energy, he’d take off his shirt, but he’s stuck. Arms tucked underneath of him, one cheek pressing into the floor and just staring at the wall because it hurts too bad to even hold his head up. He’s stuck.

It feels like some other thing is piloting his body. Right now, the pain is. It took the reins and told him to sit. Like a damn dog, trained by his own weakness. A shock collar tightened around his neck from the day he was left alone with this hurt, choking and gagging him.

It feels like he’s already dead.

An hour or so passes. He can tell because he hears a distant blow of a whistle. They probably assumed he ditched work and stuck a manager onto guard duty. He’ll get pointed for this. He could lose his job just because he’s lying miserable in a pool of his own sweat and tears and vomit. Just because he can’t take a little pain.

Try as he might, nobody ever believes him that it’s not just a little. More like a full body sensation of being torn apart from the inside. Is this what a heart attack feels like? Jesus, maybe he is dying.

That thought sends a rush of adrenaline through him. It would anybody, no matter how many times he might have prayed for exactly that to happen when he was lying in bed just the same way as he is here on the cold, wet floor.

Billy forces himself to sit up. His arms wobble like they’re too weak to hold up his weight, but he pushes up until his back is propped against the wall, and he’s not really holding himself up at all. His head fell back and knocked against the wall too, pretty hard.

The pain shoots through his neck, precise lines of fire burning in his veins, from the back of his skull down into the base of his neck. His fingers go numb. He leans over and tries to throw up again. There’s nothing left in his body. He’s dehydrated. Starved. Sick of this.

He’s still going to ride the adrenaline shot for what it’s worth. It’s the only chance he has of not spending the night on the ground in this locker room. God he wishes he had somebody to help him.

It’s past the point of denying it; Billy needs help. If only he’d realized that before right this moment.

The next step is standing. There’s not enough power in his entire body to get his knees to straighten. He’ll have to pull himself up to at least a kneeling position.

His eyes are still blurry from hitting his head though. Protected by a shower curtain in the already dimly lit locker room, there’s barely enough lighting for him to see anything at all in this tiny stall. So he’ll reach blindly for the shower seat and try to pull himself back up.

Billy grabs the spicket instead. All he feels is metal and he assumes that’s good enough. He barely knows where he is right now.

Besides, whatever it is will act as a base to help him slide his back up the wall. His legs wobble all the way up and his knees stay bent, but slowly, slowly, he’s getting himself to his feet.

And then the spicket twists. Billy loses his grip and slips back down to the ground, harder and faster this time, and hits his elbow. There’s no suppressing the shout of pain that bubbles up from his throat when there’s what feels like electricity charging through every nerve in his arm from the one contact point. He had hit his left hip off the floor too, and his leg on that side went completely dead.

When he’d twisted that handle, it turned the water on too. Freezing cold. Hitting his body like shards of glass against his already aching and sore.. everything. Even with the weak water pressure, every drop feels like an electric shock, pressing down and down until he feels like he can’t even move from how deeply the pain goes.

Billy’s sure he’s actually going to die this time. It’s time to swallow his pride.

He calls for help, “Hey! Need a hand back here!”

Nothing. Just the sound of water rushing, soaking him and making him freeze. This isn’t going to end well.

Straining his voice to be heard, so weakened by his condition as to still sound meek even at his loudest, he tries again, “Adam! Come on, I know you’re working today!”

Billy doesn’t know how long he’s spent on the ground now. Hours could have passed. The goddamned pool might have closed and he could be all alone here. He grows desperate, “Somebody, please!”

Something snaps in the primal part of Billy’s mind. He physically can’t sit up. Can’t turn the water off. Can’t survive on his own.

He needs…

“Momma! Momma come back!”

Nothing

After some time the curtain opens, but Billy is barely conscious anymore. He doesn’t look up or move or anything. Just sees a shadowy pair of shoes in front of his face. There are tears on his face already. Anguish. Pain. Disappointment in himself.

Let it be the goddamned figure of Satan, as long as this suffering might end, and for the moment, it does. Everything, the stall, the figure, the whole world turns black as he loses consciousness.

———

Suddenly blinding white light hits Billy’s eyes when he opens them again. He’s in some room with a window, and the curtains aren’t closed. That’s how he knows it isn’t home, his own bedroom window long ago sealed over with a thick blanket for keeping the light out when he’s having a migraine.

The wall paper in this place is almost as headache inducing as the entire fucking sunshine positioning itself right in his face after god knows how long he was unconscious. Blue and red plaid that is as dizzying as it is tacky.

Nothing else in the room identifies who it belongs to, the only hint of personality being a sticker covered cane in the far corner.

Did he get fucking kidnapped by an old person? Maybe, but what kind of an old person uses Garfield puffy stickers on their mobility aids?

That question is answered when, after some trudging through the fog in his brain for any hint of who’s house he could be in, Steve Harrington opens the door to the room he’s in.

Like it’s totally casual to just bring somebody home from their work, no matter how fucked up they were, Steve just walks in and talks to him like it’s nothing, “Hey. I heard you up. You doing good in here?”

Billy stares in disbelief for a moment, squinting against the overbearing sunlight to see Steve, the action making his skepticism doubly apparent, to make up for the work his tired and crackly voice isn’t doing, “So you’re the one. Mother fucking knight in shining armor..”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I went to give Dustin a ride and he told me there was something off with you. I went to check and found you on the ground.” Steve explains it all, pacing around slowly. At least he shuts the curtains on the way before sitting on the other side of the bed Billy’s laying in. A fucking queen size, since he’s some rich messiah apparently. “Matter of fact, you still look pretty rough..”

Billy doesn’t like feeling his sympathy, something like humiliation burning in his face, second to the pain, “Just get back to your bullshit little family, Harrington.”

Steve protests the idea, arguing automatically, “It’s not complete without you.”

A beat passes. For a moment, Billy doesn’t know what to say. He knows what Steve means, because he’s Max’s brother and whatnot, but that sentence has him feeling some kind of sentimental.

His instinct is to become defensive, so he tries it, since every other aspect of this situation is completely out of his comfort zone, “Well, get used to it. Probably won’t be around much longer.”

He’s referring to the fact that he feels like death constantly, a looming feeling of failure in his body. Any moment he could lose his battle against this invisible thing he doesn’t understand.

Poor Steve doesn’t get it. “Oh. Are you moving away already?”

How optimistic, to think only a month of work after graduation would be enough for Billy to make it on his own. He’d think it was because Steve was sheltered, if he didn’t know the guy was working his ass off at the ice cream parlor almost every day of the week.

It almost makes him feel guilty, that he can’t be as hopeful as Steve is, “I’m giving up.”

“Billy..” The concern is so raw in Steve’s voice, it breaks something inside of Billy. His intense resilience could carry him through when he was by himself, but he isn’t this time. He wants to be, so he tells him that, “No. I said, go away, Steve..”

It’s at that moment that he breaks down crying. Not even lying on the hard cement floor at the pool did he feel this pathetic and broken. Painful sobs in his throat and his chest ripple through him in larger waves of stinging jabs. Like the very act of crying is a punishment.

“Billy. Hey. I’m not going anywhere.” Steve soothes, moving closer but keeping his hands off of Billy. Afraid to touch what is broken, Billy deduces. Though Steve at least seems genuinely interested and not just being creepily invasive, since he gently requests, “Tell me what’s up..”

In frustration, Billy exclaims simply, “It hurts!”

“What hurts? Do you need a doctor?” Steve looks him over now quickly, frantically, like a worried parent. That just makes Billy’s feelings hurt worse.

The question also makes him irrationally nervous, spiraling once he realizes that a trip to the doctors would mean Neil would find out this happened. That meant more pain, and right now, Billy can’t handle that. He rushes to insist, “No! They won’t do anything..”

Steve looks so sympathetic, asking all the right questions to make Billy feel heard, “How long’s it been hurting?”

“My whole fucking life. If you can even call it a life. It’s not worth living.” Billy sobs apathetically, earning a sad, slightly panicked even, look from Steve.

His caring nature prompts him to plead, “Don’t say that.”

Billy is so unused to having anybody that cares, he feels like he has to defend his self-deprecating remarks, “But I feel dead. I can’t sleep, but I can’t stay awake. I can’t keep down what I eat, and half the time it makes me fucking sick. I just hurt all over, and it makes it worse when-“

He stops himself abruptly. Harrington is sweet and all for doing this, but Billy barely knows him. Not as much as he wants to. There are some secrets that don’t just get blabbed to close strangers. Even ones he has a crush on.

Steve isn’t content with that, never is without the full picture. Or maybe Billy doesn’t mind sharing as much as he pretends to. Maybe it’s nice to feel listened to for the first time in forever.

“When what, Billy?”

“When my dad hits me.”

Short and to the point. Having a fucked up body means it’s agony going through what he knows no kid should have to. He’s never told anybody that before, especially not so bluntly.

Once or twice Billy has tried to imply he needed a hand back when he still believed other humans had the capacity to give a shit. Steve Harrington and his kind and wise brown eyes is the first goddamn sign he’s had since then that there’s a chance someone might still care.

So when Steve tries to apologize, saying, “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-“ Billy is quick to interrupt.

He tries to sound more gentle than his previous, snappier responses had come out, “It’s fine.”

Stubborn apathy crashes into the force of determined empathy. A battle Billy doesn’t mind losing.

Not when Steve so passionately argues, “No it’s not! You need help, you can’t do this all on your own!”

And finally, going against what last bit of his aching soul wants him to believe in, Billy lets him in.

Instead of arguing, or asking in bad faith, he genuinely wants to know, “How do you know what this is like?”

“Have you ever heard of fibromyalgia?” Steve prompts, his eyes lighting up as bright as the morning sun when he recognizes that Billy isn’t pushing him away anymore, but inviting him in on his own terms.

It doesn’t help that he literally hasn’t heard of that though, shrugging to show his ignorance. The action of raising his shoulders up hurts though, and it dies out halfway, along with a pained grunt. To make sure Steve got his message, Billy answers verbally instead, since his skeleton is fighting so hard against his broody body-language thing, “Fuck no.”

“I could tell you about it, but just by hearing what you went through, I think I know what you’re going through. I got diagnosed just a few years ago.” Steve explains carefully, watching Billy like he’s about to say the wrong thing at any second.

Billy just stays quiet while he processes everything Steve is saying, but he realizes what exactly Steve was worried about saying once he continues, “Yeah, sometimes I have flare-ups and I can be right where you are. But, you know, I don’t have anyone at home actively trying to make it worse.”

That’s hard to hear. He’s right, and Billy doesn’t want him to be. Without the energy to get mad or lash out about it, Billy asks more questions.

“Flare-ups of what?”

“Fibromyalgia. Like I said. It’s a pain disorder. Makes you feel gross and sleepy and in pain all the time.” Steve puts it into words exactly like Billy has tried to for years, only they know the context between one another.

The sleepless nights writhing in agony, the loss of self, the torture from the inside out, it all goes without saying between the two of them. In Steve’s presence, Billy has a place where he’s understood instead of examined under microscopes and treated like a monster.

This drab bedroom suddenly feels like the only place he wants to be, saying with an almost awe-stricken quality to his voice, “So you really do get it, huh.”

“Mhm. Except I have it easier. I’ve got a Jewish Ima who loves me and lets me take breaks when I’m hurting instead of.. well.. the stuff your dad does.” So Steve isn’t letting that go.

Shockingly to even himself, Billy isn’t all that mad about it. Telling someone his deepest, darkest secret and having them actually listen, for the sake of helping rather than keeping dirt on him, that’s something Billy has never had before.

Now he just wants to know, “How do you fix it?”

Steve breaks the news softly, but in a huge way, “You don’t, B. It’s a disability.”

“I’m not-“ Billy tries to argue with that right away, associating that word with all the horrible things his dad had called him over the years. Fuck up. Cripple. Waste of space.

Something compels him about Steve’s brutally honest interruption of an explanation though, “I didn’t think I was disabled either until I slipped on my ass down the stairs and couldn’t walk for a month, long after the bruises, because I was in so much pain. That’s not normal for just any abled nineteen year old, and neither is what you went through last night.”

Even still, Billy’s impulse to argue is triggered, “So I just have to accept that I’m fucked up for life. But I don’t understand what I fucking did wrong?”

Steve doesn’t even hesitate for a moment before he’s assuring him, “Nothing. You didn’t do anything. It’s just a part of who you are.”

A failure. A fuck-up. All those rotten things come back in his head again, and Billy worries, for a moment, that Steve is turning on him. Mocking him.

“Yeah, damaged goods?” Billy scoffs, bitter and hurt, emotionally instead of physically for once.

Steve proves him wrong, for the thousandth time, and heals his heart just a little bit more, “Would you say that about me?”

“The opposite really.”

“But what does that mean?”

Well, Billy meant it in two ways. For one thing, Steve isn’t like him. Steve is kind, and loved, and all around doing better in life than him, relationships wise and career wise. It doesn’t feel right to compare all of his wrongs to all of Steve’s rights.

Though, because of how vulnerable he’s been already, it’s easier for Billy to say, “It means everything about you is fucking perfect. You got a good mom, a huge mansion, and probably the best fucking doctors out there.. Sure, maybe I gotta accept that I’m busted, but why can’t I be busted like you?”

“Why do you want to be?” Steve sounds like a therapist, and a damn good one too. He stays all soft and sweet and god it makes Billy frustrated.

He bursts out, talking with his hands without realizing that he’s been distracted long enough to recover enough energy to do so, “Because it’s easier for you!”

The final nail in the coffin. There’s nothing left Billy can say to pretend this isn’t what it is.

He’s jealous of Steve, he idolizes him, fucking loves everything about the guy. No matter what he argues he can’t hide how stupidly fond of the other boy he is, and has been. Even if the thoughts aren’t the sweetest, he’s got Steve on his mind, all the time and especially now that he’s being interrogated in his bed.

Crucify him, but Billy fucking Hargrove has a crush on Steve fucking Harrington’s

Steve isn’t afraid of that for even a second. “So let me help you, B. I don’t want to compete. I want to take care of you.”

While Steve isn’t afraid, Billy is. He’s terrified. Nobody has ever treated him like Steve, and his heart is getting too attached.

Hoping to get an answer that will either make the heart break easier or avoid it entirely, Billy asks him, “You’re not sweet-talking me, are you?”

Steve shakes his head patiently, “Nope, but I don’t know how to prove it to you. Can you tell me what you want me to say?”

“Fuckin’- Maybe.. some tips?” Billy tries. This isn’t natural or easy for him, asking for help. It took him this goddamn long to even accept that Steve was genuine, despite waking up in his bed more than an hour ago now. His trust has been established, but now he’s unsure what to do with it. So he keeps asking the questions nobody else has ever been able to answer for him, half to test Steve, and half just because he truly trusts Steve to answer, “How do I make it hurt less?”

“Self care. But-“ Steve starts, about to hand Billy the hard truth.

To avoid blaming Steve for it, Billy just decides to admit that reality out loud, “I know, I know. Going back home where my dad beats me doesn’t count as self-care. I know.”

Thankfully Steve moves on to giving more advice that doesn’t involve the tragic circumstances of Billy’s life, “Heating pads help.”

It sounds nice, but Billy has to admit, “I don’t have a-“

“I do.” Steve interrupts before Billy can finish, with all the eagerness and expectation of a new puppy waiting for a treat.

It’s charming and sweet, how much Steve wants to take care of him. Billy doesn’t want to outright accept or deny anything yet, the decision feeling too large when his head is still hurting and his thoughts are all jumbley and messy.

He’ll settle for giving Steve a fond smile, to make his words match the positive feelings in his heart, “You really want me to accept your help, don't you?”

“Uh, fucking yes.” Steve laughs, like it’s really nothing stressful for him. Like he’s happy that Billy might stay.

It’s not as easy for Billy to get to that stage of comfort, so he wonders, “And if I do say yes?”

“I’ll drive you home today to help Max pack you a bag, and you’ll move in with me. Hopper will deal with your dad while my Ima and I help you manage your pain and get you a new doctor. And make you good food.”

That sounds like a fucking dream. The fact that Steve came up with it so quickly somehow even dreamier, “You’ve thought about that before, haven’t you?”

“I like you a lot, Billy.” Steve confesses.

It’s almost too good to be true. As a matter of fact..

“In what way?” Billy asks skeptically, after everything, the fight, the showing his true colors, he can’t believe that Steve would have those kinds of feelings for him.

But, for the thousandth time, Steve proves Billy’s unintentionally cynical assumptions wrong, when he details, “In the way that I like you. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like, butterflies in my chest and I can’t stop thinking about you, and when I see you hurting I just want to hold you and make it all better.”

Billy can tell he’s blushing and his eyes are wide, “Really?”

Steve sounds breathless, like he can’t believe he just confessed all of that. Still, he doesn’t deny it, though he clearly begins to worry how Billy feels, “Yeah. I’m sorry if that’s-“

“You’re the first.” Billy says abruptly, before Steve can take back his love. Though the sudden declaration seems to confuse Steve, according to the furrow of his brow, so Billy explains his thought process, “You’re the first person to care about me like that.. But you deserve better than a broken-“

“Hush. You’re not broken. You need a little TLC is all.” Steve says it all so confidently, and since he’s been right about everything else, Billy finally feels ready to believe him.

He just has one more question, “And you’re seriously saying you’re gonna be the one who does it?”

“Yes! Please, Billy. Let me.” Steve begs for the right to love Billy. And that, that dedication and longing- that convinces Billy.

The time for words is past, instead letting their body language do the talking. At first, Steve is just holding Billy’s hand, but Billy gets closer and closer, until they’re arms are pressed right against one another.

Billy is pretty sure he across Steve first, connecting his lips with his, kissing him softly, but with all the passion he’d saved up for the months he’d loved Steve in secret.

Yesterday is still affecting Billy, stealing his breath away and making it so he needs a break. He taps Steve’s cheek and they part, but only enough to get their bearings back. Steve patiently waits until Billy is ready again, smiling as Billy leans in and they kiss once more.

It’s nothing too intense. After all the emotions of today, they aren’t ready for that. Right now is for gentle affection, and love, and all the tender moments that Billy’s suffering had robbed them of.

Steve adds at some point, after they’ve been cozying up for a while, “By the way, the kids are going to apologize to you.”

“Nah, they didn’t do anything wrong.” Billy shrugs, not really bothered by their stalking, even if it was a little weird.

Steve makes a guilty face and Billy can tell he doesn’t have the full story before Steve even explains it, “They almost did. Their solution before they called me was going to be to put you in the sauna. Burn the sick out.”

Oh. Now he’s a little more than fucking bothered. Those little assholes are gonna get somebody killed someday.

“Holy shit, never my fucking mind. I expect a damn cake and a handwritten, formal apology.”

“Right?” Steve rolls his eyes at the thought of them, and Billy does too. Already on the same page, Steve thinking exactly what Billy is, he says it, punctuated by a kiss on the cheek, “Later, you’ll have it. Right now you need some sleep more than any of that.”

“I’m not gonna say no, but…” Billy shuffled into a comfortable lying position, and pats the pillow next to his head, wiggling around to make room for Steve to lay by his side, “Care to join me?”

Steve laughs, a bright bubbly sound, and copies him by laying down and getting comfortable, “For sleep, yes. I need a goddamn nap.”

Billy ends that morning with an arm around his middle, a puff of hair in his face, and a full feeling in his heart. Billy is finally safe. Finally at ease. He mumbles, barely awake as that comfortable feeling sets it, “Thanks, Stevie. Love you.”

“Don’t worry about it. And I love you too.” Is Steve’s easy response, without needing to prepare it or anything.

Everything is just fine with Billy.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #billy x steve #disabled billy hargrove #disabled steve harrington #my writing #ej writer #tw abuse #tw ableism #tw suicidal ideation #i have fibro and like. as poignant and heartbreaking as so many comparisons to being flayed are #the one I resonate most with is chronic illness #so this fic is basically what would happen if billy wasn’t actually flayed he just seemed like it #and also if Steve wasn’t trapped underground and could have helped billy #because they’re romantic soulmates and you can’t tell me otherwise #/lh

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alligatorjesie · 1 year ago

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Can you, like, get real problems? I’m sure there’s a soup kitchen or a that needs an extra volunteer or a city council meeting you could go to.

Yeah. I do those things already and isn't it weird I still find extra time to tell assholes to get out of my fandom space.

So what public service have you done this week @rudyknight? In the last month? year? Hey, tell me real quick @rudyknight whens the last time you joined a counter protest?

Because my town has our own version of westburo baptist church and they LOVE protesting our pride events.

I had a bunch of fun.

I used my hyperfixation of plants to block out their signs and ensure they didn't have room to protest on the sidewalk.

I got to practice my metal growling.

The preacher who had spent the entire night telling everyone we was all gonna burn for eternity in a lake of fire for just bein' ourselves Did Not appreciated me telling him I enjoyed fucking his mother.

But hey maybe your too shy to tell assholes to fuck off to their face.

I mean you didn't seem to have that issue here so I don't know what the fuck is holding you up in the real world, but hey, maybe this'll be a push to get you to stop white knighting assholes on the internet.

But hey there's a lot of other things you can do to help your community that ain't active protesting!

Whens the last time you went through your neighborhood and helped remove invasive species? I'm sure you've done that over the past few weeks, Right @rudyknight?

I've been slowly removing invasive honeysuckle and using it's bones to make yard structures.

I've personally saved at least 5 adult trees in the neighborhood from an invasive plant called winter creeper that will slowly choke a mature tree to death if left unattended. It's already claimed a 100 year old maple a block away from me.

Or you know as a little treat, for me, I've been completely redoing the closet that my hot water heater use to live in before it fucking exploded.

The water damage was... extensive.

I fell through the fucking floor when I first started

It's coming together baby.

Oh but man don't worry I still have So Much Time Left in a day to tell useless assfucks posting hate to my fandom to

Fuck Right The Fuck Off.

But you go on @rudyknight. You keep right on defending a useless prick who got caught being a useless prick from getting told they're being a useless prick.

I'm sure that useless prick appreciates it.

God fucking knows you ain't doing shit to be actually helpful.

#anti talk #anti harassment #anti bullshit #fandom wank #fandom nonsense #fandom hate #seriously like I know I'm not being friendly about it by any means #but how the fuck do you look at this entire conversation and think the person asking the other one to leave is in the wrong?#I didn't post hate to their fucking fandom.#and I have proof OP posted it directly to my fandoms tag #but I'm in the wrong for asking them to leave?#Really?#you're defending that?#God fucking bless.

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keelywolfe · 2 years ago

Text

The Bird in the Hand Shouldn't Punch the Gift Horse in the Mouth (baon)

Summary: All Sans wanted was lunch and instead he got the one thing he wasn't looking for: effort. Good thing Red is worth it.

Tags: Kustard, Domestic, Established Relationship, Sans/Underfell Sans, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Background Spicyhoney,

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

All things considered, it was a pretty nice day on the surface world and Sans was sitting outside, working on what was likely his most important decision of the day.

Namely, trying to figure out what he was gonna do about lunch.

When they built the Embassy, it was designed with a large courtyard in the center, an overflowing garden space and lots of pathways and benches. Thanks to Asgore there was always something out there blooming, even in the dead of winter, and no one should ever underestimate the gardening skills of a Boss monster who suddenly had access to a decent fertilizer.

This year the new guy running the cafeteria came up with a plan that on nice days, there would be a food cart set up for anyone who wanted to eat out in the sunshine. For a buncha monsters who’d never even seen the rays a few years ago, much less had a chance to work on their tans, it was a popular lunchtime choice.

So popular that the line was entirely too fucking long and that meant Sans’s two favorite pastimes, laziness and food, were at war with each other. Eh, maybe more like a mild skirmish than a war, closer to a slap fight between two prom queens who’d worn the same dress.

Problem was, if a guy, say, a skeleton guy with impeccable fashion sense and a great sense of humor wanted some of the goodies, waiting in line was a requirement. If you missed out on the queue, you were stuck with whatever leftovers were lingering at the bottom of the bag. That was usually where the health food options hung out with vegetables and sadness; celery was no substitute when a guy was looking for deep fat fry.

Waiting in line vs tasty goodness, it was a dilemma and Sans was sitting on his regular bench as he contemplated the equation. Energy out (waiting in line) vs energy in (delish food) and he was so deep in mathsy logic that he didn’t even notice Red making his creeper way over.

Having a grease-stained paper tray shoved into his lap with a terse, “here,” was one way to derail his thought process. Sans grabbed it automatically before it could tumble down to the ground and raise the cholesterol of the local wildlife.

He looked down at the unexpected gift to see a tray of fries, but wait, not just any fries, fries from Louie's, one of the local extra-greasy spoons. The burgers there were pretty good but the fries, now those were a legit orgasmic experience, and these didn’t look like an exception to the rule. Still so fresh the heat was soaking through both the thin carboard and Sans’s shorts, the ketchup so recently applied it hadn't had time to soak in and make 'em soggy.

They looked fucking delicious, but Sans was always a little wary of unexpected gifts, especially ones that appeared from a certain red-eyed, shark-toothed genie.

Thing was, Louie's was halfway across town, further than either of them could easily, or even with fanatical difficulty, shortcut. Which meant Red was either involved in some sort of bribe/blackmailing incident or he’d managed to break several laws of physics, both of which were a lot of effort for him to put out before lunch.

Hm.

Sans picked up a fry with the same caution as he might disable a greasy bomb, studied the layer of ketchup intently, noting the sprinkle of salt. He ate it and it crunched lightly, gloriously, between his teeth, the golden crust bathed in fatty deliciousness the perfect vessel to contain the soft, mealy innards.

All in all, good shit. Well worth being poisoned if that were on the table.

Now that Sans had accepted his fate, he munched his way through the fries agreeably, ignoring Red when he heaved himself up to sit next to him on the bench. Or at least pretending to ignore him since actually doing it was a fast track to getting behind in the game. No tray of his own, interesting; Red wasn’t actually much of a fry fan, he preferred chili dogs. Sans didn’t have an opinion on Louie’s contribution to that genre, but Red always ordered ‘em there without complaint so they couldn’t be too bad.

What he did have in his possession was a coffee cup and instead of drinking from it, he set it next to Sans’s hip in silent, pointed communication.

Message received. Sans picked up the cup between wolfing down his unexpected and dubiously welcome lunch, and took a wary sip. On his tongue was not the burnt undernotes that was always in Louie’s coffee despite it being brewed almost constantly, a taste that lingered in the mouth hours later, even if a guy dispelled his tongue. No, this was pitch-black nitro blend that was only available in-house at the Beanery on Tuesdays.

Today was Friday. Hm. Another confusing clue in his unanticipated afternoon mystery. If any meddling kids showed up with a big-ass dog, Sans was heading back down to his office.

He was mostly done with his fries when another Monster approached them. Mandy worked upstairs in the administration offices doing fuck only knew what. She was a pretty little bird monster with a colorful crest on her head that popped up whenever she got enthusiastic.

Sans knew this because her enthusiasm extended to a reality TV show called ‘Romance Island Retreat’ and he knew that because she’d seen the button on his hoodie last week for Team Veronica and figured he was a fan, too.

Not that he’d ever seen the damn show, the pin was actually from the Archie’s comic books and he’d gotten it free last time he’d stopped to pick up his monthly stash at the local store, pinned it on without thinking much about it. But he’d never been one to piss on anyone else’s Wheaties, unlike other people who seemed to enjoy it, and he’d let her ramble on about it, nodding in all the right places and injecting predictable bullshit in at appropriate times. Wasn’t too hard, because OMG can you BELIEVE he did that? What an asshole move, right, and-and-and-

It'd been funny enough that he’d read up on the wiki about the show and they’d chatted a couple times since about it. Pierce was an asshole, but he really did hope Veronica made the final cut so he didn’t need to get a new pin.

There’d been a new episode last night and Mandy was probably filled to bursting about it, ready to go over it scene by scene over a little falafel and fries. And here was Red in her seat, studiously not looking at her as she hovered uncertainly by the bench with her lunch tray in wing.

Well, now. This was interesting.

Sans wasn’t much for puzzles, that was Paps’s schtick, but he damn well knew how to slide tab A into slot B. And out and in and out and in, but that wasn’t exactly work-safe, now was it.

Her excitement about last night’s totally-not-at-all scripted emotional rollercoaster didn’t seem able to stand up to Red’s menacing aura and she’d already visibly decided to sit somewhere else when Red said, a touch too loudly, "fuck off."

It would take a hardy soul indeed to make any sort of argument around Red’s version of logic and Mandy promptly fucked off, heading over to the benches on the other side of the oversized peonies bobbing in the breeze.

Sans licked the ketchup off a fry before eating it in two quick bites. "that was rude," he said mildly.

Red grunted. "that was barely on th' rude meter, you wanna see rude, i can give you a fuckin' show."

Yeah, from the side glances the other Monsters were giving them, that was exactly what they were hoping for. Not a single one of them made for the doors, all the assholes who worked here must’ve bought their survival instincts at the same store where Stretch shopped. Sans kept his voice low and even. "save it for broadway. what you can do is apologize."

Red looked at him like he'd suggested an all-night threeway with Jabba the Hut, with that shiny gold robot along to narrate.

Sans only serenely sipped his coffee, heh, say that three times fast. "unless you're looking to spend tonight on edge and stretch's sofa? 'cause we can arrange that, don't even need to make a reservation.”

It took years of practice to be able to look without looking at the skill level Sans had. Actual effort had been put into it and it was oh, so worth it for a glimpse of the seething outrage that practically seeped from Red’s expression.

Might as well raise the stakes. Sans licked his fingers clean then deliberately reached up to fondle the buckle of the collar fastened securely around his cervical vertebrae, lightly tracing the shape of the heart.

Outrage cranked up to something very close to murderous, teetering on the precipice of violence. Sans hooked a finger into the narrow band and pulled the collar taut, the scrape of leather against bone just barely audible.

For an endless moment, they hung right over the edge of the cliff, one foot dangling and the other right on top of the banana peel.

Then Red hopped to his feet, muttering under his breath as he stormed over to Mandy’s bench. If he stomped with any more force he'd be leaving shoeprints in the pathway. Mandy looked wisely concerned at his approach and whatever Red said only made it worse, her already large eyes widening. Sans doubted anyone in the courtyard would notice if Asgore put in a sudden appearance, stark naked and riding a unicycle.

Oh, yeah, this was gonna be all over the Embassy in about two minutes. He gave it about five before Edge called his brother to ask what the fuck he’d done, probably to silently confirm no bodies were laying around in need of a little discreet hiding.

Welp, might as well add Mandy to the list of people who probably weren’t gonna to be stopping by for game night. Huh, what would it be like to have Red spit an apology into your lap on a nice, sunny day over your ham and swiss on rye, hocking a ‘sorry’ right into your face? It was pretty chucklicious from this side of the equation and who said math wasn’t fun?

Not that the apology was really for her, anyway. Sans would have to apologize himself later for accidentally dragging her into their kink parade, she sure hadn’t signed on to walk with the clowns. Something to look forward to, maybe he could get her a Team Veronica t-shirt made up. If she let him get close enough to hand it over, might have to just leave it on her desk.

Apology concluded, Red stomped back and Sans swore he saw the branches on the trees quivering in his wake. He flung himself back on the bench and said nothing, only made a fair attempt at withering a patch of daffodils with his glare.

Sans waited, took a sip of his cooling coffee as he counted to ten and then did it again before he said, very softly, "good boy."

Oh, honey, it was worth a hundred apologies and a thousand t-shirts to see Red’s sockets briefly close as that shiver went through him. Worth so very much more.

"hope you got plenty of sleep last night," Red said through gritted teeth, “’cause tonight you’re gonna be pretty busy singing a fuckin' midnight symphony.” Oh, fuck, yes, there were dark promises in those words, caverns-deep, miles below the surface and ready to crawl out of the depths and make Sans grateful for many layers of bedroom soundproofing.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, there was coffee, silent promises, and french fries, and Sans was more than happy to take another grateful bite.

-finis-

#kustard #sancest #keelywolfe #by any other name

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alligatorjesie · 7 months ago

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Something else you can also focus on is invasive plants in public spaces. Every place on this planet has at least a top 3 invasive plant species problem that you can easily learn to id and focus removal efforts on.

Three of the big ones in north America are winter creeper, honeysuckle and English ivy.

They're all incredibly easy to ID and fairly simple to remove.

Sometimes someones gotta do something about problems in the community and that someone is you.

#Public services #community engagement #Invasive plants

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lovelytsunoda · 2 years ago

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fairytale of new york // mick schumacher

summary: it's her first christmas alone, and he's wandering around new york in the middle of an existential crisis about his future. it was simply meant to be

pairing: mick schumacher x female reader

you were handsome, you were pretty, queen of new york city. happy christmas your arse, i pray god it's our last. and the boys in the nypd choir still singing 'galway bay', and the bells are ringing out, for christmas day (..) i could have been someone, well so could anyone

warnings: angst: mentions of mick losing the haas seat, guenther steiner mention, anxiety and loneliness, metions of hospitals and thyroid problems. cheesiness, a romance book-worthy meet cute, sexual tension, body image/insecurity, implied smut.

author's note: fuck guenther steiner. netflix created a monster as soon as they made him a series regular. and fuck gene haas, i hope he goes back to federal prison for tax evasion. mick really gave his all this season and got nothing in return.

new york city, new york. december 22nd, 2022

they've got cars as big as bars, they've got rivers of gold, where the wind blows right through you, no place for the old

she still wasn't used to the sounds of the city.

new york city raged around her as she walked down the sidewalk, her adidas tennis shoes squelching in the muddy slush.

there was no destination in mind, she just knew that she couldn't stay in her residence alone. her roommates had gone home for the holidays. her own parents had decided to embrace their newfound freedom and flew to puerto rico, leaving y/n to navigate the holidays on her own.

she was a small town girl at heart, raised on a vineyard in niagara falls. new york city had been a big change for her, but she was halfway through her semester and she wasn't sure if moving had been the right call for her.

she was still thinking when she felt the impact, a hard body running right into hers. the impact forced her off the sidewalk, and she fell in between two parked cars. melted slush soaked through her jeans and stained her puffer jacket, her glasses knocked from her face with the impact.

"what the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted, inspecting her glasses for cracks or scratches. "if there's anything wrong with my glasses, you're buying me new ones, asshole!"

"are you alright?" the person said hurriedly, kneeling down the help her to her feet. "i'm so sorry!"

he had a soft face, one that reminded her of an owl. his bright blue eyes were panicked, and his voice had a touch of an accent that she couldn't quite place.

she got to her feet, with some help from the handsome stranger, her feet sliding through the damp street shoulder.

"it's no big deal." she was breathing heavily, her anger dissipating the longer she looked at his soft face. "i should have been paying more attention."

"no, no. it's my fault. can i buy you a drink?"

"can i get your name first?"

"mick." he said softly, extending his gloved hand for a handshake.

"y/n. now, about that drink."

when you first took my hand on that cold winter's eve, and you told me that broadway was waiting for me

twenty minutes later, they were sitting in an old-timey british pub, with john lennon on the speakers and a basket of onion rings in between the two of them as they nursed hot drinks.

"i'm sorry about your jeans, by the way." mick said apologetically, swiping the whipped cream from the top of his hot chocolate onto his pointer finger before licking the cream off his skin.

the action sent shivers down y/n's spine as she shrugged to hide the involuntary action. "it's no big deal. they'll dry."

"still, i feel bad."

"well, don't." she smiled. "what brings you to new york? you're not from around here, are you?"

"but you're not either. not a hint of new yorker in your tone."

"touche. i'm canadian. i was raised in wine country, just over the border in old niagara on the lake."

"switzerland. genolier, but not too many people know where that is." mick laughed lowly before shoving an onion ring in his mouth. "new york was a pretty last minute decision, actually. didn't want to go home, didn't want to go to the ranch." i needed to be some place where people didn't know who i was. he didn't say it out loud, but he yearned to. "i lost my job in november. i'm not sure where to go from here, to be honest."

"i'm sorry to hear that." she frowned, taking a sip of her own hot chocolate, flinching as she felt it scald her tongue. "and around christmas as well. christ, your boss was a heartless bastard. this is my first christmas without my family around. my grandparents are in europe, enjoying retirement and all that bullshit. they've been retired for fifteen years, they just seem to not like staying in canada very long. and my parents are in puerto rico on a beach somewhere."

"so why aren't you with them?"

"i moved out when i went back to college. i took a gap year right after high school, and then it was two years digitally during covid, and my parents told me that i needed to" she paused, getting her fingers ready to make air quotes. "spread my wings." she ran her fingers through her hair, resisting the urge to mess with her hoop earrings. "it's lonely. making friends in university isn't as easy as they claim."

"tell me about it." mick laughed. "you can't make people like you. like my boss."

"does he live around here? we can key his car." y/n suggested halfheartedly, stealing another onion ring from the basket.

mick laughed. the first genuine laugh in weeks. the first genuine laugh since abu dhabi. "well, guenther lives in austria, so that might be a little difficult."

"austria? jesus." she laughed. "hey, this might sound strange, but has anybody ever told you that you look like micheal schumacher?"

mick's cheeks flushed pink as he thought about a response. "he's my dad." the german said simply, showing y/n a picture on his phone. "all i ever wanted was to make him proud, you know. do you watch racing?"

y/n smiled fondly, looking down at the iphone. "my grandfather did. i remember the schumacher era well, his big mercedes comeback. i haven't watched f1 in years, actually. granddad spent some time in the hospital for thyroid problems, and i'd sit with him for hours on end watching races with him while he was in for treatments."

"would you beleive me if i told you that i was a driver?" saying it stung. he still couldn't get used to the fact that he wasn't going to get to drive any more, even if he did sign the reserve contract with mercedes.

y/n raised an eyebrow. "i'd have to see it to believe it, schumacher."

mick laughed, pressing a few more buttons on his phone, pulling up a picture from abu dhabi, his last race ever. it was him and seb, with lance in the corner of the frame and esteban behind them both.

he was going to miss everybody so much.

"is that sebastian vettel?" y/n's eyes widened as she looked at the phone again. "the sebastian vettel? he's still around?"

"he just retired, actually. he had a great run, didn't he."

"he did."

"you said you were in university? what are you studying?" mick asked, shifting the focus of the conversation to the young woman across from him.

"english literature, with a focus on the mystery-thriller genre." she said sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. she was a nerd through and through, occasionally embrassed to admit her degree ut loud.

english lit was the fallback option for people who didn't know what they wanted to do with their lives, and the fact that she took a gap year first would tell everybody everything they needed to know about her.

except she was starting to get an idea of what she wanted. she just wanted to be around books, be it in a publishing agency or a librarian.

"so you're like, really smart." mick gushed

she brushed her hair behind her ear, hoping that mick would assume the red in her face was from the american winter raging on outside. "i don't know if those are the words that i would use, to be honest. i'm in like, the middle half of my class. incredibly fucking average. i've just always known that i wanted to spend my life around books.

conversation had reached a comfortable lull, with the duo sneaking the other longing glances as they munched on the onion rings and drank their hot chocolates.

mick thought she was stunning: with her shoulder length hair that shone in the lights from the bar, the cat's eye glasses that framed her eyes so nicely, the small golden nose ring that glittered against her skin. but more so than that, he enjoyed her company. her soothing voice, her beautiful laugh. her aspirations and eccentricities.

y/n was entranced by mick schumacher. his passion, his vibrance, his sunshine attitude that could light up an entire room without even trying. was it too soon to say that she had fallen for his soft features, his bright blue eyes and his beautiful hair?

sinatra was swinging, all the drunks they were singing, we kissed on a corner, then danced through the night

the song on the stereo changed, a group of drunk nyu frat boys in the corner who had been celebrating the end of exam season throwing their arms around each other and belting out the words.

y/n laughed at the group, before she started singing along herself. "and then we sang a song, a rare old mountain dew. i turned my face away, and dreamed about you."

"you have a great voice." mick said shyly, not wanting to embarass y/n.

"no i don't." she laughed, fighting the urge to hide her face behind her hands. "i just really like this song. it's my favorite holiday song. 'fairytale of new york'. it's not my favourite version, though. i like the creeper version better than the original. not the most popular opinion."

mick raised his eyebrows. "it's a little depressing."

"it's beautiful. melancholic, almost." mick didn't miss the sparkle in her eyes as she started talking about music. "i went through a phase in high school, I was really into the punk bands of the seventies and eighties, like i was a complete nerd about it. i could recite any fact about the sex pistols or the clash in seconds. sorry, i'm rambling."

"no, no. keep going. i think its cute." he regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth, a dusting of pink coating his pale cheeks.

why did you say that, schumacher? you're not as smooth as you think you are. what would sebastian say?

"do you want to dance?" he offered up instead, getting up from his side of the table and extending a hand for y/n to hold on to.

y/n looked at him, slightly confused but taking his hand anyways, an electric shock coursing through her veins at the closeness. "you know how to dance?"

"my mother raised me properly." mick laughed as he pulled her closer, leading her in a clumsy ballroom waltz and trying to keep himself together, overwhelmed by her vanilla scented perfume, her closeness to her body. "just follow my lead."

they matched their footsteps, circling around the carpeted floor and the frat boys in the corner, the couples sharing drinks after work, the group watching the premier league on the tv above the bar. the world narrowed down to just the two of them, fingers laced together and arms around backs to hold the other close while y/n sang along under her breath.

they stopped dancing as the song faded out, foreheads pressed together as they stood between empty tables.

"can i kiss you?" mick asked softly, scared that if he was any louder, his voice would betray him.

"yes." she answered equally as quiet, wanting to keep the moment a secret between the two of them.

their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss, mick's lips warm and soft against her own. she pulled away, a bright smile on her face as she rested her forehead against his.

"i don't usually kiss strange men in bars, you know."

mick laughed, both his hands resting comfortingly on her waist. "and i dont kiss strange women in bars, but i'm really happy to make you the exception."

"i'm glad. now, can you kiss me again? if we're going to break these rules, i think we should go all out."

and then mick kissed her, with twice as much feeling this time, each kiss punctuated with giggles and bright smiles.

you were handsome, you were pretty, queen of new york city

their giggles echoed off the hallways of the residency building. the apartment had been shoddily built for the sole purpose of housing students away from the university campus: three floors with paper thin walls and metal doors with electronic locks, pre-fabricated and cookie cutter pre-furnished three-bedroom apartments behind every electronic combination lock.

the hallways were hung with dollar-store tinsel, whiteboards with festive doodles proclaiming who lived where, the sound of christmas carols wafting up from the lobby and through the thin drywall.

she held mick's hand in hers, and the driver longed to touch every inch of her body as they ran down the hallway, the pom-pom on the tip of her winter beanie hat bouncing up and down as she ran, flared jeans swirling around her legs as she stopped in front of a door with a handmade wreath hanging off the front door, covering up the names on the whiteboard.

"all of my roommates went home for the holidays. it's just me here, we aren't in anyone's way." she said softly, pushing the door open.

a large christmas tree stood in the small living room, covered in mismatched garlands, homemade ornaments blinking rainbow lights and a picture of ryan reynolds perched at the top where the star should have been.

the sight brought a smile to mick's face. It was a glimpse into the life of a girl he could see himself falling in love with.

a girl that could help him find out who he was outside of the sport he had given so much of his life to.

"i'm just in here." she said softly, opening a door with a poster of guns n roses on the front, a small hangar reading "y/n's room" in calligraphy hanging off the doorknob. "sorry, it's a little bit of a mess."

"that's okay." mick beamed, taking everything in. everything in the youngest schumacher's life had been cookie cutter, neat and organized as a pin. he was ready to embrace a bit of disorder once in a while. "i actually like it. feels cozy."

every available surface of her room was covered in books: overflowing bookshelves next to the desk, another makeshift shelf constructed at the end of the bed that was filled with overflow, a few mismatched photo storage boxes on the bottom shelf. the walls were a collage of all the things that made y/n who she was: art cars with paintings from van gogh and monet, polaroid pictures of her and her small circle of friends from home, postcards of all the places she wanted to see. strings of fake flowers, their plastic petals bright against the cream colored paint.

y/n smiled as she flicked on the warm-colored fairy lights hanging above her bed, lighting a small scented candle that was on the side table before she took off her jacket and beanie, ruffling her hair in a way that allowed mick to see something that he hadn't originally noticed in the dim lighting of the pub: the magenta streaks running through the undersides of her hair.

"what?" she asked, a smile on her face when she caught him looking.

"i just noticed the streaks in your hair. i think it looks really good. you're beautiful, you know that?"

she shook her head, kicking off her shoes before crossing to where mick was, looping her arms around his neck. "unfortunately, that's not something i've heard from too many people."

"i don't understand why." he said, gently kissing the top of her forehead as he rubbed his thumbs up and down her torso, over her knit sweater like the gentleman that he was. "and if you'll let me, i want to show you just how beautiful you are, even if i only have you for one night."

she slipped her glasses off her face, folding the arms in and resting them on top of her romance book before turning back to mick and kissing him softly, cradling his face in her hands.

she never wanted to let him go.

she shivered under his touch as he undid the buttons on her cardigan, stripping her top half down to her lacy black camisole before he gently pushed her onto the bed, climbing on top of her and pressing his lips to hers in a bruising kiss. her fingernails left scratch marks across his abs as she slipped her hands underneath his sweater, bunching the fabric up as she tried to strip the german of all the clothing covering his upper half.

as he kissed down her neck, mick could feel himself getting hard, fully at the mercy of her labored breathing, the low moans and whines she let out as he nipped at her skin and dug his fingers into her jean-clad thigh, wrapping her leg around his body before he grinded into her, trying to find any kind of relief that he could.

his hands tugged at the cotton camisole with enough fervor that he was sacred it might rip as he scrambled to push it up, pressing kisses to y/n's stomach before she sat up, gently pushing him away.

y/n didn't know why she did it. why she let the sudden wave of insecurity and anxiety keep her from getting something that she finally wanted. thoughts about the stretch marks and acne scars marring her breasts, her not-so-flat stomach that mick was sure to notice soon enough. the little inner demons that would be the death of her.

"what's wrong, pretty girl?" mick's voice was gentle and soft as he brushed a lock of magenta hair from her face. "is it too much? too fast? please, let me know how you're feeling." he was gentl as ever, bringing y/n's hands to his lips so he could place a kiss on her knuckles.

she sucked in a deep breath, taking things into her own hands, making the conscious decision to overcome her demons as she pulled the camisole over her head, reaching behind her to undo the cotton tommy hilfiger bra, putting every vulnerable part of herself on display, hoping that mick would see past it, fighting the urge to cover herself with her hands, to shrink back into the person she used to be.

mick kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, her nose, and her lips, her head cradled in his hands. "you're the most beautiful woman that i have ever seen, and i wish you could see that in yourself the way that i do."

"tonight, you've helped me find that part of myself, made me feel things that i never thought were possible for me. and if we only have one night, i want to make the most of it." she said confidently, unsure of where that confidence had come from but knowing it was from the part of herself she had been trying to find for so long. "kiss me, schumacher."

the boys in the nypd choir still singing galway bay, and the bells are ringing out, for christmas day.

they didn't leave the bed that night unless they absolutely had to, one of her grandmother's heavy knit blankets draped overtop the duvet as they lay together in a tangle of limbs. the air was punctuated with bright giggles as they kissed, big smiles on their faces.

neither of them wanted to let the other go. they knew what this was: a one night stand, nothing more.

but maybe it didn't have to be that way.

"mick?" she said softly, moving to sit up, the oversized def leppard shirt hanging off her frame, making her look smaller than ever. "where do we go from here? i know that we went into this thinking it would be a one time thing, that you would go back to switzerland, and i'd stay here. but i don't know if i want that any more."

mick sat up, still shirtless and with a thoughtful look in his eyes. a shiver ran through his body from the cold, and y/n instantly reached for the blanket, wrapping the corners around his torso.

"that's not what i want either, pretty girl. what i've felt tonight is nothing that i've ever felt with another girl."

she shifted in place, resisting the urge to reach for the driver. "so what now?"

"i've got no plans. no sport to go back to. i could stay in new york while i try and figure my future out." mick took her warm hand in his cold one. "i want to make this work, y/n. i want to get to know you, to wake up next to you every day. and if i ever get back to racing, i want you to be in the garage at my side."

"okay." y/n said, trying not to cry (the good kind of tears, of course!) "okay. let's do this. tomorrow i'll show you all my favourite places in new york?"

mick laughed. "sounds like a really good plan."

and then he kissed her again, wide smiles on both of their faces.

and even more important than that, they had hope for the future.

__________

tags: @sidcrosbyspuck @flannel-cures @libraryofloveletters @diorleclerc @magnummagnussen @daydreamingleclerc

#mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher #the christmas collection 2022 #formula one x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #mick schumacher x y/n

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starcrossedkaiju · 3 years ago

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Kingslayer AU: Chapter One

Finally! I’m sorry this took so long, I’m a nervous wreck.

Notes: this was originally a warmup for character interactions/setting. It is very dialogue heavy.

\\ Warnings: alcohol //

A single tumbleweed was all that crossed Scott’s path when he arrived in the Red Desert. It was rather comical, he stood and watched it roll away until he couldn’t see it through the sheets of sand blowing over the ground.

In the distance, the only mountain located in the desert biome loomed over the horizon. Imposingly backlit by the red, swirling, tendrils of the world border. Most residents kept away from the thing, as it was meant to give off an unsettling aura. Although Scott never minded it. The wall of his room was almost right up against it after all.

On top of the mountain was a barely visible “castle”, which looked as if it was built by someone wearing a blindfold. The inhabitants of the castle, and the aptly named “Monopoly Mountain” could be accurately described as menaces.

Clumsy when it came to forward thinking, and leaving hidden traps around so frequently that traveling through any wooded area required either a very long stick, or someone willing to take the business end of a TNT trap for the team.

They also happened to be Scott’s nearest allies. It hadn’t always been pleasant between them, but circumstance led to circumstance, and now Scott was making his semi-weekly visit to Monopoly Mountain to shoot the breeze.

Typically the only person at the base would be Grian. Scar liked to make himself elusive by causing problems elsewhere and returning late into the evening with a story to tell over dinner.

The base of the mountain was void of a bubble-elevator. To reach the top one must climb an absurd amount of stairs. Scott huffed and resigned himself to the task in front of him.

As his perspective grew higher and higher the rest of the map revealed itself. The roof of Joel’s house peeked over a swathe of trees, and the tall barricades of Dogwarts stood out as a stark silhouette against the sky. Scott took a few minutes to regain his purchase, shielding his eyes from the whipping wind.

The season was gradually descending into winter. Made obvious by the deciduous trees’ leaves choking out the last of their green pigment for fiery shades of red and orange. The weather was far less pleasant to endure. Everywhere outside of the Red Desert had to deal with bitterly cold conditions, although there hadn’t been snow yet, the sky churned with a constant overcast. Threatening to storm at the drop of a coin.

Scott rubbed his arms to fight off the oncoming chill and continued his ascent, hoping someone had installed a fireplace since the last time he visited.

Finally he rounded the last of the stairs and gazed up at the tall, thin roof of the Sand Castle. The Red Desert flag strung on the tallest rooftop flapped around in the wind. Pizza, the pet lama, grunted in Scott’s direction when he approached the front door. He hesitantly reached out to pet her (she bit him once and he’d never fully gotten over it) from over the fence of her pen, and she let him rub her fluffy bangs.

Scott knocked on the door three times and gave Pizza one last pat, anticipating someone to open the door. It would be a shame if he’d hiked all the way out only for nobody to be home.

Thankfully, the door swung open with a welcoming screech of it’s hinges.

“Hey dude,” Grian welcomed him from the front steps.

“Hey,” Scott greeted in return, “may I come in?” he asked.

“Of course! It’s freezing out here,” Grian replied and stepped away from the door, which slammed with a squeak behind the two of them.

Scott closed his eyes and waved to the resident enderman, who greeted him with a friendly, distorted “hello”. A furnace was running to warm the living room.

Scott took his coat and hat off. He draped them over the arm of the couch before swatting a layer of sand from the cushion and sitting down, observing the scene in front of him. There was always something going on in there.

This time, a myriad of blueprints were strewn across the floor. Each of them depicting heavily annotated structures and what looked like plans for redstone. Grian had planted himself on the floor with a pencil, and was furiously erasing a line of text.

“What’s that?” Scott pointed over his shoulder.

“These,” Grian held one of the outlines up to the other’s face, “are the blueprints for our secret bunker,” he explained.

“You hear that? Secret Bunker, so don’t go telling anyone about it m’kay?” He tapped the paper with the end of his pencil.

“Okay, fair enough. Is that redstone?” Scott slid another sheet of paper towards them with his shoe.

“Yup. I’m gonna equip it with a lava trap,” Grian said proudly.

“And this one will work?” Scott teased.

“Hilarious,” Grian pushed the other’s shoulder, “yes it will work, it’s going to be my best yet,” he assured.

“Oh good! That’s not a very high standard to meet then,” Scott congratulated.

“Blah, blah, blah,” Grian mocked back, “you better be careful what you say with twenty five reputation points,” he said.

Scott threw his hands up in surrender, still laughing at how the other man’s ears turned red.

The house fell into a comfortable silence after that. The sound of scribbling and wind served as a calming ambience. Scott intermittently shared a few words with the enderman, who seemed to understand more of what Scott said to him than the other way around.

“Hey, Grian?” Scott turned over on the couch to face his friend.

“Yeah?” The other said without looking away from his work.

“Do you think you would have still been friends with Scar if he hadn’t died from that creeper?” Scott asked.

There was a pregnant pause, then Grian said, “I don’t know. I never thought about it,” he doodled absently on the margin of his paper.

“Hm,” Scott replied halfheartedly. He mainly asked because whenever he visited Grian was alone. If they were even home at all. Other than that him and Scar were always attached at the hip.

“Why?” Grian asked in return.

“I don’t know, forget it,” Scott waved him off. Not wanting to get into it.

“When’s he gonna be back?” he asked instead.

Grian sat up and stretched his back, “uh, I don’t know actually. He said he went to gather resources but you can never really count on him doing what he says he will,” he explained.

“You didn’t go with him?” Scott asked.

“I don’t want to babysit him anymore. If he gets in trouble that’s not my problem,” Grian said. He stood up and wandered over the the kitchen, carefully avoiding the blueprints on the floor.

“Ha! I would drink to that one, Jimmy is the same way sometimes,” Scott replied and watched as Grian contemplated the contents of their cooler, reaching in and pulling out a bottle of red wine.

“Well then, let’s drink to it,” he held the bottle up with a grin.

“Where did you get that?” Scott vacated the couch and made his way over to his friend, taking the bottle and studying it, “I haven’t seen the fruit of the vine in years!” he recalled.

The bottle had clearly been tapped into before, although not much was absent from its contents.

“I have my ways,” Grian rummaged around in a cabinet and pulled out two glasses.

“I would say it’s too early for this, but for once, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” Scott uncorked the bottle with a satisfying pop and poured each glass a third of the way.

Grian cleared his throat, “To the safety of our stupid partners,” he raised his glass.

Scott nodded in return and connected their drinks with a polite clink, then they drank to the sentiment.

The conversation traveled to the dining table, which was more of a booth. Talking points ranged from preparing for winter to future plans to expand their bases.

“I’m not going to get anything done with the weather coming on,” Scott complained over his drink, “I don’t handle the cold very well,” he downed the last of it.

“Well you can always move in with us for the season, the attic is vacant,” Grian offered.

“Never in a million years. I’d rather be sick at home than spend a week living with barbarians,” Scott refused the offer.

Grian rolled his eyes, “it is not that bad,” he defended himself.

Scott raised an eyebrow and shoved his hand in between the cushions of the booth. Pulling up a handful of sand, which he deposited on the table.

“We live in a desert! What do you want us to do about it, of course there’s some sand in here,” Grian threw his hands up.

“Some?” Scott repeated.

“Okay,” Grian glanced under the table and shuffled his foot around, which scraped across a layer of sand, “a lot of sand,” he corrected himself.

“Get a vacuum. For the hundredth time, get a vacuum,” Scott demanded.

“We have a broom that works perfectly fine,” Grian stood up and opened a linen closet to reveal a single broom leaned up against the wall.

Scott didn’t comment on it, but he had a feeling that broom never left the closet.

The conversation was effectively halted when the front door screeched open, letting in a gust of wind and sand. It blew a few papers off the floor and scattered them around the living area.

“Hey,” Grian called out, “Scar? You back?” he asked.

“Yeah,” came from the front of the Sand Castle.

“Okay! We have company by the way,” Grian prefaced.

Scar’s head poked around the doorframe, he waved at Scott who returned the gesture.

“What have you guys been up to?” He inquired at the sight of the wine on the counter.

“Just hanging out. It gets a bit lonely up here you know,” Grian closed the linen closet and took Scar’s backpack from him. He opened it and looked at the contents.

“Oh, you actually did what you went out to do,” Grian revealed a bundle of wood from the bag.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Scar crossed his arms.

“Never mind, go wash up. I assume you’re hungry,” Grian opened a pantry and took some spices out, “are you staying for dinner Scott?” he asked.

Scott leaned out of the booth to check the time on the clock above the door, “mmm, yeah why not. I’m already here,” he decided.

“Let me just page Jimmy and tell him I’m gonna be home late,” Scott patted all his pockets but found no sign of his communication device.

“Hey Grian? Can I use your pager?” he requested.

Grian fished around in his back pockets and pulled out his pager, tossing it towards the other who caught it with both hands. Scott thanked him and flipped the screen up, selected the address he needed to contact, and typed out a short message. Making sure to say it was from him and not Grian before sending it to Jimmy.

“What’re we making?” Scott asked once he finished, intent on trying to help in the kitchen.

“Well, it’s Spaghetti Friday,” Grian declared and revealed a bag of Rigatoni pasta.

“That’s a thing?” Scott inquired, taking the bag and examining the packaging. It was pretty simple, mostly cardboard with a plastic window. Presumably from the village on the other side of the map.

“We’ve gotta have some fun around here, come on now Scott,” Grian said.

“You’re right, how can I help?” Scott said. Grian side eyed him.

“You can add the salt when I say you can add the salt,” he offered. Scott crossed his arms.

He wasn’t that bad at cooking. He’d only burned a few things, smoked the house out for three days once, and set scrambled eggs on fire.

“That one time was just a rookie mistake,” Scott retorted. It’s not like he did it on purpose.

“A rookie mistake that almost burned your flower forest down. I wouldn’t let you near the kitchen if I was Jimmy either,” Grian set a pot down on the stove.

Scar came back in the kitchen then, and was pulled into it almost immediately.

“A man can’t even sit down in his own house without his culinary skills being put up for debate?”

Grian laughed at him, sliding the pot under the water pump.

“That’s not an answer at all! Can you or can’t you?” Scott demanded to know, holding a salt shaker.

“I can cook,” Scar’s gaze wandered into thought, he started counting on his fingers, “pasta, assorted vegetables, mac and cheese, cornbread, mashed potatoes, and I can bake a half decent carrot cake,” he recited.

“I worked in a supermarket before the borders. We made some of our own stuff for the bakery and the buffet,” Scar said. It was the first mention he made of what he did back when things were normal. At least to Scott.

Scott was pleasantly surprised. He nodded, seeing as he’d been given a satisfying answer.

The spaghetti went off without a hitch, Grian was surprisingly good at making it. Scott had the sense that he’d done it many times before.

“Remember, you can put the salt in but you can’t take it out. Here taste the sauce and tell me if it’s alright,” Grian fished a spoon from a drawer and handed it to Scott.

“Hmm,” the other pondered after trying a spoonful, “maybe a bit more salt?” he suggested.

A window was propped open to let the steam and heat out. It was getting dark now, and the world border stood out against the purple hues of night falling over the server. The brightest stars made themselves known to the east as the sun set to the west. It was peaceful, the wind had died down. Scott wondered if anyone else was watching.

Personally, he enjoyed stargazing a lot more. His servermates knew next to nothing about the cosmos, which made him wonder who was teaching them about the greater universe. Clearly they’d never been out there.

“Yo,” Scar called him out of his trance. He handed the other a ceramic bowl.

“Thank you,” Scott said and waited to serve himself.

The spaghetti was pretty good. Decent meals were hard to come by, especially with the limited resources outside of villages.

Over the course of dinner, Scar explained his excursion of the day. He had been gathering wood to stockpile for the winter months (no wood in the desert, better to have a source available and not have to hike out and get more constantly) when he came upon Etho’s base.

“It’s entirely made of wool,” he recounted.

Grian raised an eyebrow in confusion, “All of it? Why?” he mused.

“Dunno. There was nobody around,” Scar replied.

“You didn’t steal from them did you?” Scott interjected.

“Not this time,” he said, which earned him a jab in the ribs from Grian.

The three laughed it off and switched the subject to current server affairs. Who had the best gear, everyone’s respective allies, the phantom problem, and the pros and cons of a vacuum.

“Well, I would say this is a fine work of spaghetti,” Scar complimented when he was finished.

“Indeed, couldn’t have done it without Scott. The best salt dispenser among us,” Grian agreed.

Scott tried to look offended but couldn’t repress a smile. He stood up, about to take his bowl to the sink; but Scar insisted that he was the guest, so he handed over his dish and sat back down. Preparing his “i’m out of here” pleasantries.

He settled on, “Well, I’m out of here,” after a few more minutes of banter.

“Okay! Thanks for keeping me company dude,” Grian gave Scott a hug as thanks.

“My pleasure,” Scott replied.

Scar offered to accompany Scott back to the Hobbit territory, but he refused.

“No need Scar, you’ve been out all day. I’ll be fine,” he assured as he adjusted his hat and jacket for the chilly walk home.

“Alright then, let me walk you out,” Scar proposed instead.

Final waves and good wishes were exchanged and Scott started back down all those stairs. It was quiet, save for the gentle buzz of the world border which sat right against the Red Desert.

Lost in thought for most of the journey, Scott traveled into the dark canopy of leaves. There weren’t many mobs out due to the moon being in its Waning Crescent phase. Scott rubbed his hands together and shoved them in his pockets, wishing he’d brought his mittens.

As he crossed over a clearing, an arrow whizzed over his shoulder. Scott ducked down in surprise, turning around and expecting to see a skeleton, but there was nothing there except a dreadfully dark bank of trees and a vacant plot of land.

Scott squinted into the darkness.

Then the handle of a weapon was brought down on the side of his face, and all the lights went out.

#THAR SHE BLOWS.#Time to get this monster out of my system! This au gave me brainrot.#hahaha! it only gets worse from here #kingslayer au #3rd life smp #3rdlife #3rdlife smp #grian #goodtimeswithscar #scott smajor #mcyt #cas types

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letsfluxshitup · 4 years ago

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the winter festival (ao3)

tw: violence, angst, suicidal ideation (very different from my other fics woops)

It was a festival and it was an execution because what's a festival without a little politically charged murder.

If history was going to repeat itself Quackity may as well help it along.

Ranboo stood hunched in front of him, wrists tied behind his back, expression resilient and strong. So calm for a kid facing his imminent demise. Ranboo leaned down of his own accord, forcing eye contact at an equal level.

Equals.

They weren't equals. Ranboo was a traitor and Quackity had an axe and they were not the same.

He shoved Ranboo down, landing him on his back, axe held high over his head. He straightened his back as he stared down at Ranboo.

"I know what you were doing. I know you're working with Technoblade." Quackity hissed between gritted teeth. Ranboo's expression cracked, fear leaking through at the raised axe.

Quackity focused on his chest, on his heart, instead of looking into mismatched eyes.

Ranboo would respawn. Quackity would not.

"Listen, Quackity-" Ranboo started, stuttering slightly.

"Quackity, don't do this." Tubbo interrupted, hand outstretched towards Quackity's raised arms. "You're not Schlatt, don't act like him."

Quackity jerked slightly, static filling his ears. He wasn't like fucking Schlatt.

He snorted.

"You're right." He tilted his head slightly, looking to Tubbo, shoulders relaxing slightly.

He snapped his attention back to Ranboo, making eye contact as he spoke again.

"Schlatt pawned off the dirty work to others. So, you're right. I'm not like him." He brought the axe down hard, and axe met wood.

He'd missed.

He blinked, looking up, having reflexively closed his eyes.

Philza.

Of fucking course.

"Philza, get out of the way." He dug his heel into the ground, stumbling slightly as he pulled the axe out. He hadn't thought he'd swung that hard.

Philza stood still, clipped wings flared out in front of Ranboo, the enderman hybrid sprawled on the ground from where Philza had knocked him to the side.

Philza looked... Different.

The normal Philza was relatively laid back, posture lax and expression calm.

Now, though, wings raised high in defense and face closed off and cold...

It was easy to see why people feared the Angel of Death and the Antarctic Empire's co-leader.

He had a sword gripped tightly in hand, and was looking Quackity over. Sizing him up, analytical in every movement.

Without thinking Quackity rushed forward, swinging wildly. His axe was easily caught and deflected away, sending him stumbling to the left.

Apparently, good balance was important and throwing your body weight forward wasn't the best strategy. Philza sent him careening to the ground like he was nothing.

He flipped around quickly, wings flaring slightly as he scrambled back, dragging the axe with him. Philza stood over him, looking vaguely amused.

Quackity quickly got to his feet, face flushed from being knocked over, brushed aside, so easily.

He had a clear shot towards Ranboo, and he lunged, again, because he doesn't fucking learn, huh?

Quackity wasn't entirely sure what happened, vision swimming from the abrupt movement, as he landed on his ass again. Philza stood between him and Ranboo, frowning down at him.

"Your quarrel is with me and Technoblade, Quackity, not Ranboo." He said, voice sharp and just on the edge of irritated. "Ranboo's just a kid, he has nothing to do with this."

Quackity blinked up at him, heartbeat loud in his ears. Normally, talking came easy, one of the few things he was good at. But now the words stuck behind his teeth, acidic on his tongue.

He was still crouched on the ground, Philza standing in his way. Philza had been a problem before, refusing to say where Technoblade lived, and openly opposing them.

Philza was a threat.

Philza's brow furrowed at the blank look on Quackity's face, stance relaxing slightly.

"I didn't hit you that hard, did I? Are you-" He didn't get to finish his sentence, blunt side of the axe catching him across the jaw in a, frankly, really fucking lucky shot.

Philza hit the ground hard.

He ignored the shouts from Ranboo, Tubbo, the faceless mass of people in front of the stage, and raised the axe again.

Threats needed to be taken care of.

Before he could swing, something sharp and curved caught him across the neck from behind. It ripped him backwards, throwing him to the ground like he was nothing.

He gasped roughly, wind knocked out of him and throat aching from the pressure. He blinked rapidly, vision clearing to-

Technoblade.

Huh. He looked weirdly calm. Their last fight had been a flurry of thrown words and snarls, but Techno looked... Indifferent, now.

Quackity decided he hated that look.

He started to sit up, desperate to get to his feet again, but a sharp kick to his chest stopped him.

He wheezed again as he lost his breath, head connecting harshly with the ground. He felt the taste of copper fill his mouth from where he'd bit his tongue.

There was a jeer from the crowd, faces blurring together, and he was reminded of another time with blood on his tongue and tears in his eyes.

He wanted to fight, and scream and curse and do something. He pulled in another desperate breath, stifled by the boot crushing his chest. He'd felt a definitive crunch from the stomp, and it was getting harder to breathe.

He should fight.

Or.

Or, he could give up here. Let go. Technoblade wasn't all bad, Quackity knew. He was a threat to the government but he wasn't a threat to the people.

Well.

You know what he meant.

He wondered then, if he'd disappear like Schlatt or be cursed to wander forever like Ghostbur.

And it would be a curse, wouldn't it? The universe's last kick while he was down.

He knew what he preferred.

He knew what he deserved.

His blinks were lasting longer, eyes blurring. He could make out enough to see that Techno wasn't looking at him anymore, deep voice arguing with another voice.

Techno's heel was steadily digging more and more into his chest, pressure becoming unbearable.

It was too hard to focus, a ringing in his ears steadily climbing in volume.

Suddenly, the weight on his chest disappeared, Techno moving to squat next to him.

"Quackity? Quackity, can you hear me?"

Quackity blinked, confused, because Techno's mouth wasn't moving, face still blank.

He hated his indifference. He remembered before when he'd snort at his stupid jokes, mock his messy wings and help him fix them.

How did they end up like this?

The voice chimed in again, Sam's cool hand coming to cup his cheek, carefully turning his head to face him.

The creeper hybrid looked so concerned, as he lifted a healing potion to his lips.

It would be so easy. To close his mouth, turn away.

Die, here, with everyone watching.

A bitter mockery of Schlatt's last moments, his enemies standing over him, his last friend at his side, and the release of death ahead of him.

He understood, now, why Wilbur had begged Philza to kill him, instead of facing the consequences.

But he wasn't Wilbur.

He wasn't Schlatt.

He opened his mouth, and he drank.

#quackity #technoblade #philza #ph1lza #ranboo #mind the warnings uwu;;;#flux writes #hurghj idk why the ao3 link is being weird #ok to reblog ;]

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alligatorjesie · 2 years ago

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Naw, see that's the wrong attitude to take with all of these plants.

Yeah, with horrible land management a bamboo patch can get real fuckin' unruly, but I've never seen a bamboo patch do half the amount of destruction as kudzu.

I've never seen fields of mint choke out all of the life from a forest like winter creeper.

There has never been an artichoke patch so aggressive it's the only thing growing alongside every roadway in every state from Florida to Maine like bush honeysuckle.

Bush honeysuckle, winter creeper, kudzu, they all can be distributed via seed and are fucking impossible to control once you put them in a location because it just takes one bird eating a seed and shitting it out miles away for them to start to become a problem.

Mint and bamboo however only spread via rhizomes and runners. They can only go as far as you let them.

Artichokes can spread via seed but deadheading them can prevent that from becoming an issue but if you miss a few you don't have to fret much because most seeds end up falling close to the parent plant.

Mint can grow as deep as 24 inches but that's uncommon for a plant that's maybe only a few years old as only super old growth would have such deep roots. Someone could and should argue that you should have taken care of mint before it became 'old growth'.

Most mint plants only grow on the top 4 inches of soil. Tilling will uproot a lot of the deeply growing mint and what grows back can be snuffed out by pouring boiling water on it or making a mixture of 1 gallon white vinegar/1 cup table salt/2 tablespoons dish soap and pouring on it till it don't come back.

It's very easy to 'trap' mint into locations but planting them on house walls or along walkways. They sort of grow prostrate and send out runners that need to contact ground to root so if you block them in they just can't go anywhere and they're but weak little mint so they can't wreck your house by growing next to it.

Like this little spot close to my house. I got a whole bunch of shit growing in here happily and no one can escape beyond the confines of the house, the porch, and the foot tall brick wall I made with blocks that were left on the property when we bought the place.

It also keeps mosquitos away.

Bamboo is way more problematic than mint because those rhizomes can grow 2 to 3 Feet into topsoil and you can't always block them in with objects or barriers because they're so stronk they can and will Hulk Smash through a concrete wall.

Don't plant bamboo near your house. It'll wreck your shit.

But there is actually a really simple way to keep bamboo contained.

It's called mounding and it's as simple and throwing whole hay bails on the ground and letting them rot away into a mound that is at least 2 feet tall.

Do you got food trash? Coffee grounds at work? Orange and banana peals?

Throw that shit on the ground.

Rotten wood? woodchips? Cardboard?

Throw it On The Ground.

Mitch McConnell?

ON THE GROUND

And just keep throwing shit on the ground until you have a mound that is at least 2 feet tall after fully breaking down (The mound being taller also wont hurt anything) then plant the bamboo squarely in the middle.

As the bamboo grows it will remain level with the height of the mound but as it reaches the edge the shoots with pop right out the side and can be easily broken off to control the spread.

The shoots are edible but if you don't have a use for them throw them on top of a wood brush pile for a few months to kill the shoot so it won't re-sprout in the compost.

Just always make sure you leave your mound far enough away from fences and walls so you can access the new shoots.

Jerusalem artichokes are actually one of the easiest out of all three of these to control because the tubers only grow a few inches into soil so they're easy to dig up. You don't even need to block them in.

Just wait until they've died back in the winter and dig the tubers up. They can be eaten or pickled just like the heads or you can give them away to friends to start a patch of their own. They're full of vitamins and minerals and even got a little protein them.

The dead leaf material composts beautifully and makes some of the best soil. Throw that onto the bamboo pile.

You don't need to fear a whole ass plant all because one time uncle Joe didn't realize an aggressively growing perennial escaped it's laughably pathetic confines and now you have 5 acres of a plant no one can figure out how to kill.

It didn't grow that fast over night.

A pot wont contain shit if you fucking ignore it for years.

The effort needed is minimal. The most you got to do is go outside every week or 2 and just make sure everyone is where they should be and if they're not, Remove Them.

Good land stewardship is everyone's responsibility and with very little effort all of these plants can be easily contained on a plot of land and can provide you and your community with sustainable food and materials for years to come.

Don't hate a plant just because it wants to thrive. Every one of these plants has very predictable personalities and can be easily convinced to corporate if you just bother to learn how they work and give them the same amount of attention you would a potted cactus.

If you have space and a good method to contain them, I highly recommend growing all of these plants.

#gardening #containing troublesome plants #bamboo containment #mint containment #artichoke containment

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fluffy-papaya · 3 years ago

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Greetings and Salutations everypony, I am back on my bullshit. I'm in love with DATD. Plain and simple, I already have plans to propose my undying love with poems of winter and swords and bitter coffee in the morning, of unlovable stares and undying perfections that kill the bird, who dares to fly too close to the sun to escape the embrace of cold confrontation. I even have a ring ready, it's taste is of Blue Raspberry® For real though- I think the reason why I like this AU so much, is the fact that it's so painfully slow in what it does. It's not afraid to take it's time with the problems of the characters, and you can actually feel the drag that they are carrying. Doc is painfully silent, there's a just as painful misunderstanding waiting to brew, and RK is pain. That's in that's how that sentence ends, pain <3 - And because of the way this is written, you can FEEL that slowness and that pain alongside them. You can just jump into Doc's skin and understand what's going on in such a perfectly crafted way- I don't see many fics that are actually able to do that.

At the end of the day though, and if you allow me to reduce their personalities into one little vial, I'd dare to say that they both reek of sorrow. To be fair, it's a "walking corpse" and a broken creeper, on a fucked up van driven by a hippie that's left alone all day to ponder about a friend that's no longer there. I'd be sorrowful as well. To end this off because this is far too long im sorry ghdfng- this ask also goes out to Solar of course, they are just as much a part of this as you, but I think it would be weird to send this mammoth of an ask twice. Ok ramble time over have a wonderful day and get some water w/ice, hydration during summer is important! - 🌻

🌻. I can’t italicize emojis but 🌻. the amount of happy flappiness i have going on right now is wild, your words are so hnnnnnnnrhrhgh your words are so kind and I literally do Not know how to respond other than thank you so fucking much. blue raspberry is my favorite, sorrow and grief are definitely themes in this story that go on for a while. im very sappy :’)

#sunflower anon #datd au

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turquoise-skyyyy · 4 years ago

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The Solution To Everything(Is Hair Dye)

Note: Human AU! First time posting writing on tumblr lmao, and I wanted to try a bit of a different writing style... so there’s that.

Just a little writing practice paired with Marellinh fluff n kinda angst ig :)

Word count: uhhh i went overboard

Blurb: Linh is lonely, with no one in the world left by her side, hurt, by all that she’s lost, and possibly has an ever-so-slight crush on her elusive blonde neighbor. Marella needs someone to dye her hair within the day, and Linh happens to have exactly what she needs, in more ways than one.

When Linh wakes late in the night, startled from her dozing state on the couch in her dimly lit living room to the sound of persistent knocking, she certainly doesn’t expect to find the blonde neighbor she’s been inconspicuously watching— she’s still trying to convince herself that casually watching the girl enter her house anytime she got the chance wasn’t stalking— for the past three weeks since she moved in next door to be on the other side. And when the panting girl in front of her sucks in a breath, Linh definitely doesn’t expect the words that spill from her lips—

“Can you dye my hair?”

Linh blinks with bewilderment, still trying to process that the girl is here, on her doorstep. Not to mention really, really pretty. Annoyingly so, to the point where Linh’s tired brain has to avert her eyes to focus on forcing her mouth to form words.

“What?”

The girl smiles apologetically, and suddenly Linh’s throat feels dry. The girl’s beauty is much more manageable from a distance, through subtle glances out of the corner of her eye across the hall.

“My roomates— screw them— dared me to dye my hair bright green by tomorrow. I lost a bet.” She looks away. “And you have green hair dye, so...”

Linh stares dumbly, trying to puzzle out how to respond to such a random, odd request. Though she moved into the apartment complex almost a month ago and her maybe sort of possible little crush lives just next door, her mind is still trying to register the fact that they have finally crossed paths. And the girl has come to her, no less.

“How do you know I have hair dye?” The hair dye is something she’s gotten to send to Tam. The silver in his hair is something he kept in long after she cut it off and cut off their parents. He still hangs on, and Linh wants to change that, even if they haven’t spoken in a year. She isn’t going to send it though, she knows. She always chickens out. Her brother’s silence for the past year isn’t easy to face. Still, she buys brightly-colored dyes frequently on the off chance that a lightning strike of confidence will hit her. It hasn’t happened yet, but it’s a comforting routine anyway.

The girl blushes, scratching the back of her neck bashfully and shifting from foot to foot. The movement draws Linh’s eyes to her shoes. They’re ratty sneakers, and upon closer inspection, it looks like there are messy, multi-colored words scribbled all over the sides. The weird shoes match the long, tacky rainbow socks that go up to her knees and the bright, tie-dye, too big sweater draped over her surprisingly small frame, with black leggings to top off the outfit underneath.

“Well, I saw you coming back in from the supermarket yesterday and there was a box of green hair dye poking out of the bags...” she trails off. “Oh my god. I sound like a stalker, don’t I? I swear I’m not.”

Linh can’t help the delirious, sleep-deprived giggle that escapes at the words. It’s ridiculous to her, that the girl she’s been following and observing as subtly as humanly possible because she’s just so pretty and Linh wants to know everything is the one worrying about being a creep.

The girl grins at her laughter, the question still burning in her eyes, which are an even brighter shade of blue than Linh realized up close.

She clicks her phone on, checking the time discreetly. It’s late, nearly midnight. The hair dye takes at least an hour, most likely more, to finish. She has an exam at nine the next day that she still hasn’t studied for and she hasn’t yet messaged Tam for her daily one-sided check-in that he never responds to, or even reads.

She looks back up at the girl with thin braids threaded through thick, golden locks, framing beautiful ice blue eyes set in a still blushing face, waiting for her at her doorstep with an open gaze and just maybe, an open mind.

Her stupid, fluttering heart makes a decision before her rational mind can catch up.

“Come on in.”

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

The girl, who introduces herself as Marella, asks her if she’s always so quiet.

Linh snorts, resisting the urge to point out that Marella is the one invading the house of a relative stranger in the middle of the night. Of course, there’s also the fact that she let her, and that isn’t even considering how flustered the blonde makes her. Especially in such close proximity, where she can smell the faint lavender wafting off her hair. Linh never would have pegged her for a lavender girl.

And when she leans closer to touch up the roots again, she realizes that Marella smells of something spicy. It’s good, comforting, like the home-cooked meals made with love that Linh only ever got to experience in other people’s houses because hers never truly felt like home, or the smell of wood when it was burned in a desperate attempt to keep the warmth in the winter because woolen hats and group hugs were never quite enough to warm everyone’s toes.

Linh has to remind herself to keep working her fingers through the hair.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

Linh is thankful when the summer sun finally leaks away and is replaced by autumn wind. There’s something calming about the crisp air blowing through the hair that escapes from tightly-zipped thin hoodies and the leaves bleeding red and gold. She much prefers it to the heat of the summer, or the harshness of winter, the temperatures of which she can never quite escape from completely.

When she pulls open the doors to a nearby cafe and lets the smell of warmth and caffeine wash over her face, and falls into line to order, she isn’t expecting to be behind a girl with a mane of blonde hair that’s streaked through with bright green that hurt the eyes and small braids that sway when she shifts. And Linh’s weeks of watching from a distance pay off— and the hard-to-ignore green certainly helps— because she recognizes the girl immediately.

It’s Marella, sporting the new, significantly greener look that she gained by Linh’s own hands. Linh blushes at the reminder of the night weeks ago. She’s surprised to find that it was the first time she’s seen the girl since their unintentional night together. She’s been so occupied with settling in, getting organized, figuring out independence, and attempting to reach out to her absentee brother, that she hasn’t even noticed the girl’s absence. It seems her creeper skills have gotten rusty, which should make her happy but instead causes the barest amounts of disappointment to creep up. Even from afar, Marella is lively and brightens, or at least eases, the monotonous days that all seem to bleed into each other in one eternal, never-ending passage of pain.

“Hey!” Marella’s voice jolts Linh from her thoughts. “Nice to see you here!”

“H-Hi!” Linh stutters. She thinks the girl’s impossibly blue, intent gaze will always catch her off guard.

Her gaze shifts to the green in Marella’s hair, the harsh coloring softened by the sunlight streaming in through the windows of the cafe and bouncing off the bright strands.

“Your hair looks nice.”

Marella touches a hand to her neon green-streaked look and smirks. “All thanks to you.”

Linh’s cheeks warm at the praise. By the time they reach the orders taken down, Marella has somehow convinced Linh to sit and drink with her. She takes Linh’s wrist lightly and guides her to a table, an action that makes Linh’s face heat again. She looks down at the thin fingers encircling her arm to make sure she isn’t dreaming, and is elated to find that she isn’t.

And sitting in that booth, sipping their warm coffees and exchanging even warmer smiles, Linh’s romantic fantasies from afar suddenly seem a lot closer than she ever thought possible.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

Linh isn’t sure exactly how she’s gone from watching her neighbor from a(very far) distance to being dragged into her unfamiliar apartment to be introduced to her roommates, but she can’t say she’s complaining.

As nerve-wracking as it is to be inside Marella’s house, she has to admit that the chance of pace from routine is something she would have been too scared to do herself. Had Marella not knocked on her door and practically shoved her out of her own with an evil grin on her face and into the girl’s shared one just minutes before, she might have stayed holed up in her own apartment forever, seldom leaving and only ever for basic necessities.

Patterns are nice, reliable, and most of all, consistent, something that Linh has never had before, and up until a year ago, had given up on attaining, but there’s something undeniably exciting about throwing caution to the wind and launching herself into a new situation.

However, there is the slight problem of said new situation happening to be making a good impression on her crush’s roommates, who are all staring down at her stoically in a solid line of four with their arms crossed and their gazes narrowed. It reminds Linh of the stereotypical movie tropes in which the overprotective dad interrogates the unnecessarily perfect Mary Sue’s new boyfriend when she brings him home for the first time, and she has to force herself not to laugh in the faces of the people glaring down at her. They’re all at least half a head taller than her, excluding the brunette girl, who has the most terrifying expression of them all on her face.

Three hours later, Linh is laughing tears of joy and drinking hot cocoa with whipped cream and cinnamon with the scary roommates in their warmly lit, cozy living room, who’s first impression couldn’t have been more wrong.

The scary-looking brunette girl isn’t actually one of Marella’s roommates, instead living with the other brunette, her brother, at home with their parents. Her name is Biana, she has an attachment to the color purple that everyone else seems to make fun of her for, and an affinity for randomly throwing out the others’ clothes and replacing them with ones she deems good enough to be seen out with.

Her brother, who’s name is Fitzroy— everyone teases him about this— is better known as Fitz. He is smart, put-together, and as Marella refers to him, their group’s resident “tired dad”. He’s dating Dex, the nerdy but sarcastic actual roommate of Marella.

Then there is Sophie, who was in the kitchen when Linh first came in, and Keefe, the former being Dex’s cousin and Marella’s second roommate who is constantly done with everyone’s shenanigans; Marella claims that Fitz, the actually responsible one, can never be bothered to do anything about their spontaneous endeavors most of the time. The latter, on the other hand, is the most mischievous of the bunch who Linh also knows the least about. His smiles and grins are the most abundant, but also the most weighted. Linh suspects there is a lot more to him than she’ll ever be able to fully grasp.

Linh’s surprised with how well she fits in with these people. They seem so much lighter and freer than her, a girl still tainted and chained down by the past and the experiences that came with it. They welcome her with open arms, and hours later, when dusk falls and it’s time for her to leave, the wrap her up in a hug and make her swear she’ll come back .She sinks into the hug, thinking that after knowing their light, she can’t possibly stay away.

Linh will forever owe all this new warmth in her life to Marella, who is perhaps the warmest of them all.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

Fluffy blankets are good. Warm, cozy, comfortable, the kind of little thing in life that makes most people feel fuzzy feelings of nostalgia as they think back to the times they wrapped themselves up in warm blankets on the days they were feeling overwhelmed by the world, when they sat in messily-built blanket forts with their best friends and told scary stories during the devil’s hour with only a flashlight illuminating their evil grins, or the fights with their siblings to get the bigger portion of the blanket when they were forced to share a bed.

Unless that person is Linh, in which case all chances of that were stripped away by a pressured childhood where no room felt safe when her parents were near, friends were disapproved of, and anything that could knock the Song family from the top was discarded before either of the children could protest.

But whether it’s a childhood like Linh’s, or one where everything went perfectly, the fact can generally be agreed on: fluffy blankets are a good, good thing.

But Linh doesn’t think she was ever aware just how perfect fluffy blankets can be until they came piled in the arms of a blonde girl with tiny braids and green threaded through her waves at the door.

“Movie night?” Marella asks, wiggling a laptop in her other hand. “I noticed that you don’t have a TV yet.”

Linh lets her in, eager to spend more time with just her and especially eager to share another night with just the two of them. The idea of being in a dimly lit room wrapped in blankets with their bodies pressed together and only the light of a screen illuminating their faces doesn’t hurt either.

They curl up together on the couch without a second thought, as if they’ve been doing so all their lives. Linh adores the way Marella’s head fits in the crook of her neck like the last missing piece of a puzzle, and holds her breath as the blonde reaches across her and presses play on Netflix once they’ve settled.

When the girl falls asleep on Linh’s shoulder an hour later, she cuddles closer to the warmth of the fluffy blanket and her— crush, or love, maybe, she doesn’t know— pressing to her side.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

As nice of a distraction as Marella and her strange roommates can be in the months that pass, Linh has to come crashing back down to reality at some point. And crash she does, when the banging on her door at nine o’clock at night opens to the face she knows as well as her own.

Her brother, approaching her for the first time in years, bringing nothing but news of their father’s death.

Linh knows she should be feeling something. That she should be falling to her knees and sobbing dramatically, like a protagonist in a drama novel, or maybe grabbing his hands and begging him to tell her that it isn’t true. Instead, when Tam bears the news, all she can do is match his emotionless expression. After all, what is there to feel?

And why is she in such desperate need of comfort when, truth be told, she feels no suffering?

She can’t explain her mind’s twisted way of thinking, but she does know that it’s what leads her next door, and what pushes her to throw her arms around Marella’s neck when she comes to the door decked in pajamas and those long, irritating rainbow-striped socks that she loves so much.

Linh likes to believe that it’s her petty grudge against the annoying socks that makes her cry on Marella’s shoulder that night, but hiding from the truth isn’t as easy as she likes to believe.

And when Marella wraps her in a fuzzy blanket that rains tufts of fine fluff on their heads and pulls her in close, Linh has a hard time believing fluffy blankets aren’t the answer to all the world’s problems.

Confidence has finally come to her, and she’s able to give Tam a box of hair dye before he leaves. She doesn’t know if he’ll use it, or when she’ll see him again, but the smallest spark of light in his eyes when he takes the dye and turns it over in his hand is enough hope for her.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

When Marella appears at her door in the middle of the night this time, weeks since Linh’s father died and they last saw each other, Linh is surprised that she isn’t surprised. After all, surely there’s something seriously wrong if the only thing she says when someone comes knocking at her door at exactly three minutes past midnight is, “Did you bring the hair dye?”

She pulls the blonde inside softly, takes the fuzzy blanket still draped on her couch from their movie night, and wraps it around the girl’s shivering frame. Marella starts to sob on her shoulder. Her fingers wrap around Linh’s neck and latch onto her, bringing them both down to the carpet when her knees give. Linh immediately wraps an arm around her and holds her close.

Linh doesn’t know what’s wrong, but she does know that Marella is leaning on her for support, and she does know that she will always be here, for as long as the blonde might need.

When she finally stops crying and lets Linh reach gentle fingers to wipe her cheeks, and pulls out electric blue hair dye that brings a smile to both of their faces, Linh has a hard time believing that hair dye isn’t the cure for everyone’s sorrows.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

Linh finds it funny that one can promise themselves one thing-- that they are going to try as hard as they can not to connect with others as a means of protecting themselves, for example-- but still end up breaking the promise if the right temptation crosses their path.

And her temptation? A certain blue-eyed blonde with now bright blue highlights who’s devious smirks and snarky words can snap Linh’s resolve in a second. She knows she should hate her for it, but surrounded by mischievous roommates with twinkling eyes and light smiles filled to the brim with warmth, she can’t help but snuggle closer to her weakness.

Her weakness, who is currently failing to dominate the board in a (not-so)friendly game of Christmas Monopoly. Marella informed her that it’s a holiday classic when she dragged her inside the house just an hour before, but judging by the rabid way the players are screaming at each other, Linh can’t say she agrees.

“What do you mean, the empire kind is the wrong kind?” Keefe screeches. “Duh, it’s easier!”

“For you, maybe! But it’s not the original!” Dex retorts.

Keefe jabs a finger at the board. “Then why are you still playing and why are you in second place?” He throws his hands up. “If you’re so mad about it, then stop playing and let the rest of us noncomplainers win.”

“Noncomplainers isn’t a word, Keefe,” Fitz says, idly shuffling the assortment of multi-colored money laid out in front of him. As banker, he’s the calmest and least angry of the bunch, though there’s something oddly menacing about the way he rearranges his money with careful, poised fingers.

Keefe, Dex, and Fitz are circled around the board, all nursing mugs of hot cocoa(which Linh has realized is a sort of trademark for them) in between bouts of shrieking, while Sophie left a little while ago to buy original Monopoly just in case Keefe and Dex destroy the board. Linh laughed when the exasperated blonde said it, but now she can see why it’s a legitimate concern.

Linh curls her cold feet in from her position on the long couch, and Marella automatically shifts the fluffy blanket they’re sharing to fully cover her toes again. Linh smiles up at her gratefully, and Marella offers a small smirk back. Then she goes right back to screaming. Linh debates calling Sophie and asking her to bring back ear plugs too.

“Whatever,” Biana scoffs. “You’re all sore losers.”

She is currently winning, as she has been for the entire game, and she glares down at the boys huddling around the game board from her perch in one of the armchairs.

And on it goes. At the end of the night, when Monopoly money is scattered on the floor and a smoking dinner that’s just a bit too salty is shared and hastily wrapped presents tied with glittery bows are exchanged(Marella is too impatient to wait for Christmas morning), Linh finds herself full of more love and joy than she thinks she ever has been in her entire life. There’s something oddly comforting about being with people who care for and accept her, even if it’s by default or association. Having someone who cares is a rare light in her life that most people take for granted.

Especially when there’s the smallest chance that the person who truly holds her heart returns her feelings.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

It’s the night before Christmas and Linh can’t sleep.

It’s the tossing and turning type of ‘can’t sleep’, the kind where Linh lies awake long after dark waiting for her mind and conscience to stop running around in circles around her head, the kind where her insecurities grow claws and fangs and sink them in skin-deep, where there is no light slipping through the cracks to keep them at bay.

And Linh hates that kind of ‘can’t sleep’.

It makes her antsy, on edge, and the urge to pace itches at her feet. The unfamiliar surface of the floor of Marella’s bedroom only makes matters worse, and as softly as she tries to twist under the thin covers, it doesn’t take long for the rustling on the floor to alert the blonde girl dozing off above her.

Marella slides to the floor sleepily before Linh can whisper a protest and lands next to her on the mattress with a grunt. Linh rolls over to face her, and is startled by how close their faces are. She can count the light freckles on Marella’s nose and cheeks when she’s this close. Moonlight is streaming into the room through the cracks in the shutters of the window, painting streaks of glowing white on the blonde’s face. She always looks beautiful, but Linh finds there’s something especially intimate about her in this moment. The air is suddenly buzzing with palpable tension, making her palms go slick with sweat and her mind hyper-aware of every movement. She can’t take her eyes off Marella.

Then, girl of Linh’s dreams breaks the stillness, leaning forward and pressing soft, sleepy lips to her own.

She’s asleep by the time she draws away, but Linh is shaking with adrenaline. It’s the moment she’s waited for so long she can hardly think of a time where she didn’t want the blonde.

And yet.

Linh’s the kind of girl with baggage, with the kind of ‘skeletons in the closet’ that people run away screaming from, not because it’s scary, but because it’s messy. Complicated. It bogs everyone who knows down, making every action in her presence laborious and painful with the knowledge of her past. Even her brother, who once promised to be by her side forever, wouldn’t stay.

She knows it’s irrational, but suddenly she can’t imagine how to face Marella.

She slips out of the apartment in the early hours of the morning so Marella’s blue gaze can’t stop her from running away. But despite her misgivings, the insecurities that still haven’t retracted their claws, and the voice in the back of her head whispering that she has to have imagined it, Linh can’t stop touching a finger to her lips, long after she’s left the buzzing moonlit atmosphere that allows slips of self control under the cover of night.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

It’s been weeks. Three weeks and five days, to be exact, and Linh still can’t figure out how to face her.

With every day that passes, she can feel the strong bonds they formed weakening. That’s one thing about relationships. They need an equal amount of effort. If Linh doesn’t put in enough, the object of her affection slips between her fingers before she can blink. That’s how she lost her brother, her friends, and any last semblance she might have had of “family”.

That is, until Marella.

She was persistent, even in the beginning, fighting to spend more and more time with a mildly resistant Linh, until she found it impossible to stay away. Her light is unlike any Linh has ever known, wild and fluid like an eternal flame that can’t be doused. That flame kept Linh alive for all these months, and yet here she is, ignoring it. Maybe even putting it through pain.

It takes a month, but it finally comes to her.

She realizes now that love isn’t something that affects only her, and that she isn’t the only one to win or lose in it. She isn’t the only person in love.

Love is two people, three people, ten people, a hundred people. Love is everyone who forces themselves into her life with the intent of staying no matter how dark it gets. Love is the flickers of light in the night and the bold streaks of sun in the morning. Love is the twinkling stars splattered across a purple painted sky.

Love is illumination. Love is clarity. Love is a path paved special, with different twists and turns for everyone.

Love is...

Marella.

Love is Marella.

-ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ-

Weeks of radio silence after months of talking nonstop is hard to bounce back from, and they both know this well.

But Linh comes back anyway. She comes knocking on Marella’s door exactly a month after they last talked, this time she being the one to approach at random in the middle of the night. When the door opens and she smiles apologetically, pressing a butterfly kiss to Marella’s forehead and pushing a big blanket and a bright, eye-melting color of hair dye into her arms in a silent apology, all Marella does is smile and pull her back in for a real, proper kiss.

Yeah, neon green and fluffy blankets are the solution to everything.

#i did a thing #well this was fun #kotlc #kotlc au #marella redek #linh song #marellinh #the amount of times i wrote 'marellinh' instead of marella is ridiculous #i refuse to go through and edit this again #skyyyy'swriting

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