#sometimes the after life is just a half dead boy and his dog

[definitely-a-real-man]

Back on my dpxdc grind. My brain almost exploded trying to fit all my head canons in to this drawing but I hope they made it through. I saw a post about John Constantine parenting the phantoms so I had to add him in there too.

Danny: Ice core

Dan: Fire core (changed after the fusion)

Ellie/Dani: Water core

And Cujo is a Cane Curso coz I said so,,,

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

So request kinda if not just sharing my thoughts in general.

Alex. My boy. What if reader is a civ or even another soldier in a different squad and the whole thing with him joining Farah’s forces indefinitely. I think this can really lend itself to some angst and that good old misunderstanding. Kinda leaning towards civ!reader just because the more miscommunication. I guess it’d have to be an angsty ending though 😳, but regardless-

Love your writing and, as always, feel free to change anything or do whatever gives you the most inspiration

World Caves In

PAIRING: Alex Keller x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Perhaps it would have been better if your husband had died - at the very least you could understand that.

WORD COUNT: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, misunderstandings/miscommunication, hurt/comfort, vulgar language, abandonment?, Alex being an adorable husband, fluff, etc.

A/N: I was gonna make this an angsty ending but I got my period and thinking about that made me cry so here we are, lmao. Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

When you’d been escorted out of work by two uniformed men, you knew the news wasn’t going to be good. Sitting in the back of a large black car, you spare nervous glances as the vehicle jumps, its wheels going over the last speed bump. Your work building begins to become a fraction of a memory and disappears faster than your resolve. 

The men sit on either side of you, silent, and the only comment is to the driver as you all enter the main road. Swallowing, you part your lips and mutter, plain dread in your tone, “Is he alive?”

All you get is a glance from the front mirror and nothing more. You hunch more in your seat and stew in agony, mind far off on the topic of your husband. 

Alex wasn’t overly reckless, you’d managed to snuff most of that out over the course of the many years you’d expressed concern to him about it, but a large chuck of the blond was still too selfless for his own good. It was hard not to think the worst. 

From training to advising, your husband was always off on one mission to another, far from your quaint and quiet home here—where you waited day after day for even a sliver of contact from him. Alex specialized in so many things that trying to wrap your head around it was impossible.

Even now, you only knew the bare minimum. 

The soft-smiled man worked in the SAD division of the CIA. He’s an Operations Officer. Currently, he’s somewhere across the globe. 

Away from you.

Thinning your lips, you take down a deep breath and settle back into the seat, pulse flying. The men were obviously Agents—you’d looked closely at their badges when they’d first shown their faces at the front desk and had kept within view of your work’s security cameras just in case this was a ruse. When you could find nothing out of the ordinary, you had tensely asked them what was happening. 

They would be holding his dog tags if he was dead, you had reasoned, desperately, a flag. 

It was frantic, the way you had thought that up; how could you not be like that? Alex was the light of your life! With him constantly putting his life on the line, it was inevitable for him to get hurt, sometimes seriously. It was ingrained into your mind the way you would help clean his wounds in the middle of the night when the pain woke him up with a grunt stuck in his throat. The way you would sit half-asleep in his lap and re-wrap bandages while he told you to go back to bed half-heartedly. His hands drifting over your warm skin like he was cascading his fingers up and down the spine of an old book.

You never listened. 

“It’s late, Bug, I can’t keep you up like this.” His drawl echoes in your ear as you rub a heavy palm into your eye. Alex’s hands are both on your hips, squeezing the flesh just below your tiny sleep shorts. You have him sitting on the floor, back resting on the wall and shirt discarded to the side only wearing loose gray sweatpants. A long cut up his left pec is the center of your blurry attention—a wet rag held as you dab at it. Blue eyes narrow at you. “I’m just fine with doing it myself, y’know.”

“You’re being stubborn again,” you utter, the soft light of the bathroom placed at half-capacity to at least try and keep some of the veil of sleep over your heads. “I told you to wake me up when you needed it cleaned.” Your skin brushes his and Alex shivers under you, sighing breathily. “And you’re not keeping me here—I’m helping.” 

A small flash of that full smile, mustache flinching up, “Well when you look so pretty sleepin’ I can’t just shake you awake and tell you to fix me up.” 

You take your free hand and pinch his nose, yawning as he grunts out chuckles. A delicate glance is thrown his way as the rag lowers from reddened skin. Like a butterfly's whisper, you study his face gently; reaching and cupping his cheek with your palm. 

Alex’s lids flutter, heavy weight falling into you as if waiting for this—lips pressing to your inner wrist in reverence. You hold back a tired giggle and feel the corner of his mouth pull up when he feels it.

“All that talk, and yet,” pressing a smooch to his forehead you take your hand back and hear the grumble he lets out after, “you still like it better when I’m the one that’s working on you.”

“Can’t complain too much,” he admits slowly as his head leans back to tap the wall, “my wife’s hands are way softer than mine.” 

Alex’s grip on your flesh tightens when you sipe away the last line of crimson from the wound, tattooed arms flexing. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, watching his eyes slightly awash with pain. “Got caught on a stitch.”

“Ah, well,” the blond sighs, shifting “I suppose I can forgive you.” 

Laughing quietly as the house settles, you shake your head and rest your forehead on his. 

“Such a saint,” your lips utter teasingly as Alex smiles wide, his hands moving higher to your waist. You lean into him, stealing his warmth as your tired eyes flutter; feeling his thumbs run circles over the flesh of your lower spine. 

A content breath escapes you.

“Go back to bed, Sweetheart,” Alex whispers, lips brushing yours like silk, the bristles of his facial hair tickling you. “I can do the rest, promise.”

“Know you can,” your mutterings are barely heard, but the man seems to register them, sea-glass gaze incredibly soft. He chuckles at your sleepiness, one hand leaving your waist to capture the back of your head; weaving into your hair and gently massaging your scalp. You practically melt into him, limbs going slack, slurring out, “Quit it. Wanna help, Alex.”

His laughter shakes you, and with a huff escaping, you bury your burning face into his neck and lean into him, careful of his wound even in your fatigued state. 

“No offense, Bug,” Alex shifts, grunting as he easily maneuvers you until you’re laying in his arms, inked forearms under your knees and behind your shoulders with vivid images of grim reapers, snakes, and angels guarding you close. A kiss is firmly pressed to your forehead as the blonde smirks downwards, “But you’re about as helpful to me right now as an empty mag.”

You grumble, trying to disappear into his skin and letting him dig his stubble into your cheek. 

“If you bring me back to bed before you’re done,” you yawn and close your eyes, “I’m divorcing you.”

He laughs deeply into your ear, body shaking as he pulls back and sends you an incredulous look. 

“Hell, we can’t have that, can we, Mrs. Keller? I’d lose my damn mind.” 

It’s a long drive, and you worry through the entirety of it. A primal, whole-body-shaking type of fear. You’d built a life with Alex and loved him more than anything or anyone that had come before. Even if he was gone a lot, that had never dulled what the two of you had—your marriage was nothing short of something you would find in a fairy tale; flashing pictures on pages with vivid colors and tender glances. The very cover itself is made of the finest leather and inlaid with gold calligraphy. 

Please, Alex, you plead in your head as you remember his loving gaze—his back as he makes supper in the kitchen and hums to himself. Please be okay.

The men hold open the car door when it comes to a stop outside a very obviously abandoned apartment complex near the outskirts of town. You get out quickly. Looking around, you take in the overgrown grass and the broken concrete with a knife in your lung; holding back the flood of anxious tears. 

Though, confusion takes president. 

“Where did you…?” You turn to look at the Agents, but they’re already clambering back into their car and snapping the doors shut. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed you watch them speed off as a cloud of dust drifts into the air. 

Pulse echoing in your ears, you watch the vehicle speed down the road and disappear. 

Swallowing, you whisper, “What the actual fuck?” Turning in circles, no one else is around. A part of you starts to worry less for Alex and more for yourself.

They were CIA, you reiterate, I checked their badges—Alex showed me the standard ones. Could I have missed something? 

Expression nervous, you shift on your feet before your stuttering legs take you closer to the abandoned building, not really seeing much choice here. You could imagine the scene from The Wizard Of Oz—when the man pulls back the curtain and all is revealed. 

That said, you could really only hope that was what was actually happening to you and you weren't getting kidnapped or shot. Taking a deep breath, you clench your fists and enter the building through the open front door. 

It was in the wide lobby that you locked eyes with Kate Laswell. You blank, mouth parting as the scent of concrete and decaying furniture get stuck in your nose. 

The woman seems highly agitated, brows tight and jaw clenched. Her white blouse had been flattened multiple times by rough hands, lanyard swaying on her neck like Alex’s dog tags would. She holds a file in her hands; the paper bulky as if holding something more than just paper inside its manila clutches.

“Kate?” You ask, confused, “What are you doing here? What’s all of this about?” Taking quick steps forward you splay your hands as your voice grows more serious. “Where’s my damn husband?” 

You didn’t know Laswell personally, in fact, when you had first got a glimpse of her here, you’d forgotten the older woman’s name for a moment. The first meeting between the two of you had been at a CIA get-together that Alex had been forced to go to because of his position—some celebration because a group of ICBMs had been taken back into US hands after being stolen. Your husband had introduced you to the Station Chief over a drink with a hand on the small of your back.

But it didn’t stop you now from talking to her like you’d known her for years. Not when fear was flooding your veins.

“What the hell is going on?” You say harshly, glancing around the room for any sight of someone else here. 

Kate sighs heavily but wastes no time in speaking, her professional tone and serious face leaving your already fast-paced heart racing.

“Alex isn’t coming back to the United States.” Your eyes blank, staring into icy blue. She holds out her manila folder, jaw tight. Blunt. “He’s a deserter.” 

It’s like your entire being halts; your skin suit feels as if it’s sagging on your bones with the weight of a cinder block connected by hooks to the floor. 

What did she just say?

Opening and closing your mouth you stutter, lids blinking rapidly. 

“I…” Fingers flinching in the air, an exhalation from your nose sounds more like a wheeze. Kate watches stiffly, taking a look at the floor before returning her attention to you; emotion flashes in her eyes. “...W-what?”

“Keller deserted his post—I tried to speak with the Colonel but there’s only so much I can do.” Laswell takes a deep breath as you continue to go through shock. Alex wasn’t coming home? How, why? “He’s staying in Urzikstan to fight with the Liberation Force.”

“Urzikstan?!” You gape, but the woman continues. 

“For all intents and purposes, I shouldn’t be here, but Alex asked me personally to hand these to you.” Again the manilla folder is shown to you, but when you only glare and fight the fear and confusion rampaging in your gut a sigh echoes out and it’s placed on a termite-eaten side table. “Even communicating with you could put you in danger now that he’s gotten on the bad side of the entire SAD and CIA branches. This is all I can do.”

“What the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, hand coming up to capture your mouth. 

“If Alex re-enters the states—he’ll be arrested and tried in a court of law. If he’s not shot on sight for what he knows.” Kate watches you closely, shaking her head in pity. “I’m sorry,” there’s a strained pause, “but he’s made his decision.” 

As she brushes past you, leaving the folder on the side table, you feel your wide eyes well with tears—confused and horrified. But he’s coming back to me, right? Alex…Alex wouldn’t leave me here alone.

It was common knowledge that over the last years the blond had gotten more agitated at his line of work; the orders that he didn’t want to follow but had no choice. No voice. But he can’t just abandon you...could he? You’d taken vows. Had a happy marriage and relationship. Loved each other.

He can’t just…he can’t…

Your hands shake and you’re unable to stop them, gaze locked on that unassuming manilla folder. Kate pauses in the doorway, peeking back and seeing your sickly-looking face, the agony written in the lines of your forehead. Like the picture of a loyal wife being told her husband was never coming home. And Alex wasn’t even dead. Resentment begins to burn. 

But he made his bed. 

“He told me to tell you that he wouldn’t be angry if you wanted to leave him,” was all she said, a final knife being stabbed into your heart and being ripped out like a live wire. Electricity makes your back go stiff in an instant. “It would be best to never tell anyone that we met.” 

You were alone, full body shivers and bile stuck in the back of your throat. Cold sweat coats your palms, a sticky mess of your barebones disturbance. 

“He…” your voice is hoarse, bouncing off the far walls. “Alex left me here? He left me.”

It was easier to say that the sun had exploded and you were waiting for the last beam of light to incinerate you. Inside of your skull your brain pounds as, in a mad dash of desperation, you rush to the manilla folder and rip it open with vibrating arms.

Having Laswell tell you that Alex wouldn’t be mad if you…if you…the hairs on the back of your neck rise and suddenly you’re angry beyond a sliver of a doubt. It was insulting.

“Alex fucking Keller,” the paper opens to the bulk of your husband's dog tags and a flip phone—reports like his own personal file and the patch that he had once worn so proudly on his combat vest. Red, white, and blue dig into your retinas; it was old, worn beyond measure, but that little patch was something that was never removed. Not even to be cleaned. 

“The dirtier it is,” Alex had commented on the American flag patch when you’d offered to mend it for him, cringing at all the blood stains and dirt flecking off it as he slipped his vest off in the foyer of your home. “The luckier I am.” 

“I think the stench of it alone will frighten off anyone who comes near,” you had raised a brow, smirking up at him as he walked over, laughing. A kiss is placed on your lips, Alex’s bright smile transferring over to you as if able to spread from his mouth to yours that simply. You sigh dreamily. 

He pulls back with a tiny wink as you gaze up at him, cheekily stating, “That’s the plan, Sweet Thing. Gotta make sure I come home to you in one piece.”

You brush your hands over it and think that maybe it would have been better if he had died. Then you could understand why he’s doing this to you. Anger spreads into rage. 

Looking next at the phone and dog tags, all you do is shake your head and slam the folder shut, bitter tears tracking your face. You can’t read anything—can’t see his name imprinted on that metal that used to press coldly into your skin as you both slept in bed. You don’t care about the phone or the files. 

None of it mattered.

“He fucking left me here,” it’s like you’re a broken record replaying over and over again. “You absolute bastard, Keller!” Yelling, you press your fingers into your face, hands spreading over your eyes and mouth to muffle your enraged sobs. 

“You’re still alive and you left me alone.” 

Only the abandoned building echoes your pain; replaying it back over and over again as your wails echo around the lobby like a symphony of laughing jesters. 

—

The phone that Laswell had given you had been going off at least three times every day—morning, noon, and at night. You had stared at it with fury, knowing exactly who was calling even if the thing was displaying an unknown number. By now you had steeped in your anger enough that you had found yourself snapping at friends and family alike when asked if you were alright. 

You wished Alex was here so you could hit him upside the head for being so stupid. So you could hate him until you had the pleasure to love him again.

Urzikstan. 

You’d looked up the country after you had spent two days straight in bed, afterward manically cleaning the house with a glare that could light fires. The far-off place was a land utterly divided by war. Russian occupation, a terrorist group; the force that your husband had joined. Mass against mass against mass.

Brick meets wall.

And Alex had chosen to stay—without a doubt because he’d seen the dire situation and had used that damnable good heart of his to empathize to the max. Forget donations, humanitarian work, or anything else, the man had fucking decided to join in a Liberation Force. 

As much as you wanted to say you hated him; had wanted to slam your gold wedding band to the table with a good riddance for betraying you like that…you still had his dog tags around your neck, and the ring was still on your finger. 

“Too good for his own sake,” you grumble, shoving dirty clothes into the washer like they had tried to attack you. “Deserted the fucking CIA, Jesus Alex. Do you even think when I’m not around?” 

There were only so many times you could curse his name until you felt a deceiving needle of pride slither itself into your skull. You could describe Alex as many things but he would always be steadfast in causes that truly needed his help. He often told you that the best missions were the ones where he could do so much more than take out a target—he strived to help the individuals he met. Form bonds. 

God forbid something came in between the blond and the ones he’d chosen to give his loyalty to.

You slam the washer shut and stomp into the living room after starting another cycle. Stress cleaning was really not a good look on you—the entire house was without a single spec of dust but you yourself felt like you’d run seven marathons. Clenching your teeth, you go and drop to the couch, a grunt falling from your lips as your head hits the pillow.

Staring at the ceiling, you finally take in the utter silence of the house—not a home, because it could only be that if Alex was here—with a pained crease forming on your brow. The pipes spit water, and the washer grunted its mechanical garble…but there was no humming man making food in the kitchen. No blond hair visible as a head rests on your chest; your fingers playing in the locks that act like silk as you part them, the man on top of you purring. Body a weighted blanket.

“Was it really that easy,” you whisper to nothing, lip quivering. “Was it really that easy to stay away, Alex? I thought…I…” 

Eyes wrenching shut, you hear the phone right at noon again as it sits on the coffee table. And you let it. 

There were voicemails, no doubt, but you hadn’t thought to listen to those either. This small act of rebellion was all you could act on but for the simple fact that it also harmed you. Barbed wire steadily digging deeper as it kept your hands wound to your sides—neck plastered to the pillow as bright silver spikes glinted. You stare at the unknown caller who really wasn’t all that unknown and watch the screen light, vibrating over the wood in steady intervals. 

What hurt the most was that if he’d asked you to come along—become an Expat just for him—you would have said yes. You could find a new job, a new place to call home. Humanitarian work would have been at the top of your list and Alex…well….he would still be fighting, just as he always had. 

But at the very least you would have been there to clean his wounds. Together. You’d both promised on that altar to do nothing less. He could’ve asked. He should have asked. 

Alex…

“Urzikstan,” you mutter for what seems like the fiftieth time. When the ringing stops a few moments later the new voicemail icon flashes. Placing your arm over your mouth, you clench your hand so tight it starts to shake, whispering into your skin, “Fine. I guess you did make your bed. And…and I won't be there to lie in it with you.” No matter how much I want to.

You slip the wedding band off of your finger and place it beside the phone before turning and burying your head into the cushions; feeling more numb than you ever had before.

—

It carried on like this for three months. The ring didn’t move from the coffee table and neither did the flip phone; the file had all but been tossed in the trash as it sat teetering on the living room desk. You carried on as well as you could, all things considered. 

Work was a blur, going out with friends even harder to enjoy, and any enjoyment of hobbies or activities was dulled to an almost gray existence. Like a ghost, you wafted through experiences with dog tags and a withering appearance. Eventually, you just stopped going out unless it couldn’t be helped. You still bought meals for two at the grocery store out of habit. You placed blankets where Alex used to sleep beside you. You went to work. 

And still, the calls never stopped except for a brief pause after the first month. You’d thought he’d finally given up, but no. Back at it.

It had gotten to a point now where the device was automatically deleting all recent voicemails—too little space in the inbox. 

Angry curiosity was tempting you. It would be easy, you reason, to simply play the first message and listen. The worst part of it was that you’d begun to forget Alex’s voice and perhaps that was why, on that dead-aired Saturday, you snatched the phone and brought it into the kitchen. 

Firmly planting it on the counter, you stand behind one of the island chairs and glare, hands tapping into the wood. 

“I’m giving you three minutes, Alex,” you speak as if he’s still here, as if his form stands right behind you, head tilted like a damn dog with that infectious smile and those sea-glass eyes. “Three minutes,” your fingers snap the device open and you go to your voicemails; jaw tight, “and if you don’t hear you groveling, Keller, I’m deleting all of them and chucking this phone into the sink.” 

You go down the line to the very first message, small buttons clicking, and before you can stop yourself you press play.

It begins with a small moment of silence. A cough. 

“Hey,” he says your first name, not one of your epithets. Your brows deepen their annoyed furrow, but you can’t help the uptick in your heart rate. Inside your flesh, the sinews of your throat close in on itself like a balloon. “I…I’m guessin’ I have a good enough ass-kicking waiting for me since you didn’t answer.” A strained laugh before another pause. You feel acidic tears boil behind your lids. “I’m not surprised—not really. Done some stupid things but never something like this.” You can hear him shake his head, voice going lower in defiance. “But they were asking me to leave Urzikstan in a worse place than when I entered it. This Liberation Force, Bug, it…they’re good people and what they’re asking me to do…” Alex huffs, growling under his throat. “I can’t stand by that. The man you chose to marry, he can’t stand by that. They need me here. I’m not asking you to not be angry—to not hate me for this. I know I damn well deserve it.”

You let your tears hit the counter, head slightly bowing over. That was your Alex. 

“You need a leash,” your strained voice hits the walls, bouncing off picture frames and your husband's cooking utensils. The small pieces that make up the whole picture frame of your life. “God,” you huff wetly, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I know I should have talked to you first, figured out some plan. But, uh,” Alex’s throat gets choked up, and you snap a hand to your mouth when you realize he’s close to tears. He clears his throat. “Hell, I should have done a lot of things, Sweetheart.” 

You can hear shouts in the background, calls in Arabic. The pounding of a door and a woman’s voice.

“Alex, we need to move! Everyone is ready—Barkov’s lab cannot be left standing a moment longer.” The hurried hand to the line muffles the words, but you hear him anyway.

“Affirmative!” He comes back. “I don’t have time to explain more, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… everything. I’d understand if you don’t use the passport Laswell’ll give you, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to stop calling.” Alex laughs and your face freezes.

“Passport?”

“What kind of Husband would I be if I just let the most perfect woman in the world go without a fight, huh? I’ll be waiting until you call to tell me to shut the hell up and leave you alone or that you’re down in the airport waiting.” There’s a large sound of combat vests being clicked on—pistols being situated into holsters and a rifle strap slipped over a chest. Alex suddenly pauses and you stare at the phone blankly. “I know this is a big ask, Doll, and I know I’m horrible for even springin’ this on you when I’m half a world away from our bed. But I had to try, even if it was selfish. I just…I just really need to hear your voice telling me if I’m an idiot or not for thinking this up. Call me back soon…or when you run out of my clothes to burn in the firepit out back…I love you, okay? More…more than anything.” 

There’s a minute or two of nothing, just Alex’s ragged breathing, and then there’s an older man’s voice ordering him to hurry up. The line clicks. 

Your ears ring as it does, wide eyes dripping tears from your bottom lashes as your lungs chill over. Hand slowly flinching out, you ghost over the keys before clicking on the following voicemail. As it plays, your feet start to take you backward at a snail's pace, your spine flattering against the wall as blood drains to your feet. 

“Hey, it’s me again. I still haven’t heard from you—that’s alright. Take your time.” Steadying yourself with a hand, you look out of the kitchen and get a glimpse of the manila folder on the desk, its tan hide sucking you in. Pulse in your throat, you rush out to grab it as Alex’s voice echoes. “I know Laswell gave you the file, I trust her that much at least.” A sigh. “But even if it’s just to yell at me, please pick up the phone soon. Let me save some of my dignity and give me a chance to beg on an open line, huh, Sweetheart…? But I guess that’s all—gotta go. I love you.” 

You don’t play the next message because you’re ripping open the file with rabid hands, seeing exactly as you had when Laswell left it for you. Alex’s mission report; his patch. The dog tags around your neck clink together like a song, some brutal rhythm. 

“Passport?” Grasping the mission report you pick it up, flipping through the multiple pages of blacked-out words and more confused than ever. “Airport?” 

The words come out as whimpers, hands so shaky that the pages slip from your fingers. They slam to the floor in a flurry of bond paper and you curse loudly, snatching for the remnants futilely. Grasping on your hands and knees hitches build in your breath as your fingers dance rapidly before they slip across something distinctly not paper. 

Small, tiny, and blue. Laminate. 

Your very blood seems to stop in your veins. Pushing back one last piece of paper, you come face to face with a singular American passport. Gasping down mute breaths and licking your lips, you pick it up lightly, leaning back on your legs as if you’d just slammed your head into the concrete. 

“Alex…” you whisper to no one. 

Flipping the hard cover open, a small, palm-sized piece of paper slips out to your lap as your own face stares at you in image form. You blink for a moment before going to take the note and separate the ends. Formal script is inside, stiff lettering. Not your husband's handwriting, but you didn’t have to guess who’d written out these directions for you. 

Laswell.

There was a destination in fountain pen ink—an airport near the Urzikstanian and Georgian border. Seeing as Urzikstan was on the travel-ban list due to the turbulence of the government and terrorist threats, you wouldn’t be able to get there directly. 

But you supposed Kate had your back for that too. 

Georgian safehouse - wait for Keller there. It’s secure. More directions and then a small gap. A pause. Good luck.

You don’t know how long you stare at that paper—that passport. The first thing you think about is how could Alex ask you to do this. Uproot yourself with the snap of a finger. You wouldn’t be able to bring anything beyond what could fit in a few suitcases. No furniture, no large amount of clothes, or even sentimental items. You’d have to quit your job; leave behind family and friends to travel to a war-torn country.

But he’d said it was your choice, and he wouldn’t push you to make it. He’d said you could leave him if you wanted—keep all of this that you’d built here.

…But you’d built it together, hadn’t you? 

You think of Alex’s bright smile and his mustache. His tattoos. How he’d hold you so tight in the long hours of sleep that you half-believed he thought you’d disappear if he didn’t; nuzzling his nose into the back of your head and grumbling out nonsense. The way you could trace his scars and watch as he willingly submitted to your praise, delicate lips curving into sheepish grins as you place soft kisses on the raised skin. Red cheeks.

This place wasn’t a home without Alex in it.

You look over at the coffee table and lock onto the gold of your wedding band.

—

Getting into Georgia was a long affair of paperwork and screenings—not days but months of legal jargon that Alex had dodged entirely because of his desertion. By the time you’d landed in country, you were wholly exhausted down to the very marrow of your bones. You get through the checkpoints, pick up your bags, and look out at the entirely new world outside of the airport’s windows. 

“Okay,” you swallow saliva and nod carefully before looking down at Laswell’s directions to the safehouse. 

You slip the paper into your pocket after memorizing the address, tips of your fingers brushing the smooth surface of the flip phone. Clenching your eyes shut, you take your hand back out and go to try and hire a driver. You were here, but that doesn’t mean all of this was forgiven. 

After you find someone able to drive you to where you need to go, you end up standing with a quaint hostel ahead of you, home far behind. Gazing slightly nervous at the strange place you’ve found yourself, you think of Alex’s hand on the small of your back and sigh; caressing the cool metal of the ring around your finger. 

Walking forward, you hitch your bags over your shoulders and grit your teeth against the hot sun. When you meet the owner at the front desk you state your name and ask for a bed. 

The man’s eyes widen for a moment before he looks at something on his countertop, raising a brow in thought. Grabbing at a stack of papers he holds up a finger and begins digging. Too tired and overwhelmed to ask what was wrong, you just watch and rub at your face. 

“Ah,” the man snaps his fingers and laughs to himself, “here it is! I knew I had placed the note somewhere, Mrs. Keller.” You blink, confused, but the man just takes a key from the wall and motions for you to follow. Sparing a glance around for a moment, you slowly slink after, not really having a choice.

“I remember your Husband coming to me—the blond with the tattoos.” The owner looks back, making sure you’re following. He motions to his right side with splayed fingers. “Scars on the side of his head, to reserve a room.”  

Alex was here? How much had he done already pertaining to the chance that you would show up? 

“Y-yeah,” you chuckle stiffly, “that was him. Sorry for being so long I was…preoccupied.”

“You’re lucky he kept up on payments,” the man grumbles, opening a door with the key and motioning you inside. “My pleasure to finally have you, regardless.”

Entering the small and sparse room, you take the key from him with a thankful smile and a quick thank you before he closes the door. As the barrier thuds, you sway on your feet. Blinking. Breathing hard. You drop all of your bags with a heavy thump that echoes off the walls in a single instant. Heart pounding at everything that was striking you in an instant, you walk slowly back to the bed. You don’t bother to take a shower or brush your teeth; even change. 

You fall down on the mattress and pray you don’t have to dream about Alex sending money to this place every week simply on a suffocating hope that you’d come back to him. You pray you don’t dream at all. 

The phone wakes you up only thirty minutes later.

Groaning, you shift your body so your hand can snake into your pocket, grasping it and tossing it to the pillow beside your head. You’d never made it through all of the voicemails without crying, so you just deleted all of them and let the inbox fill back up again. 

Feeling the dog tags press against your chest as you form your chest into the bed, you shove your head downward and listen to it ring. 

Bring-bring, bring-bring, bring-bring

It happens in a flurry of a sleep-addled mind and a horrible desperation to see your husband after nearly a full year of no contact. You flip it open and answer with your nose pressed deeply into the pillow below you. Ears straining and pulse running like a starving cat after a mouse. 

Dead silence. 

“...Sweetheart…?” It’s pitiful how fast the tears flood you at Alex’s shocked and tiny voice. Tight breathing sounds over the line from his end and your other hand digs into your scalp. A small, cut-off laugh. “Hey…I—” 

You hang up with a vicious slam of the screen and let the silence settle again. People walk the hall; the sun dims as night sets in. This isn’t home. Dropping the phone back down to the pillow you curl into a tight ball and cry yourself back to sleep.

If you had to guess, you’d say the small curse was what woke you for the second time, though you didn’t register it until minutes later. That muffled ‘shit’ as a foot hits your dropped bags near the door. But then it’s silent again and your ears only twitch to the gentle sigh that brushes against your face; a thumb and forefinger caressing your cheek as hair is placed back over your ear. 

Perhaps the only reason at all as to why you don’t wake up screaming bloody murder is because of his calluses. They burn your flesh as they slide over it—as ingrained into your very being as your own heart is. As if Alex’s touch was another organ that was needed to survive. More important than a liver or a spleen. 

When your eyes slip open he’s leaning back in a chair he had turned to face you, built form shifting as the rickety wood creaks. No more than five feet away sits your husband, and all you do is suck in a tight breath and lock gazes with soft sea glass. 

Alex freezes at the same time, strong brow line peeling back and mustache stiff as his lips immediately thin. You both stare for a good while, a thread of tension entering the air. The night deepens. 

He speaks first, in the dense hours of confrontation. Your heart feels like it’s been stuck with a spear, vignette at the sides of your vision, and a blooming center of only Alex’s body and his messy hair. The scarf around his neck. The combat vest. 

Had he driven all this way to see if you were here? Because you’d answered the phone? But you hadn’t even said anything. Your head stays on the pillow, wondering if you were hallucinating.

“Hey,” Alex forces a chuff before he glances away, nervous arms crossed. “Hey there, Doll. Sorry that I woke you. I…ah,” your eyes bore into him, hand on the sheets slowly clenching into a fist. “I figured there was an off chance you would be here.” He clears his voice, throat closing on a trying laugh. “Guess I’m glad I looked. You should remember to lock your door, by the way.” 

At the sight of your rising glare, his tone drops, expression falling even more than it already was. Deep well of sadness grew in his eyes, lips pulling back in a strained agony. 

Alex’s gaze drops to the floor. 

“I know,” is what hits the air, “I know, Sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it,” you push your body up as his large shoulders tighten—such an accomplished and strong man brought to a squirming heap when his wife’s sharp words hit him in the chest. “What the hell were you thinking, Alex?!”

Heavy feet hit the floor as you stalk over, fatigue and tiredness pushed all the way to the back of your mind yet also enhancing your emotions. Bitter rage was sparking—held in far too long. Alex’s eyes don’t meet yours, so you grab him by the chin and angle his head up to you. 

At the sight of your red sclera and the baggy gaze he stills. Under your grip his beard tickles you, the soft grip of flesh that makes you want to wrap your arms over him and weep; make him promise to never leave like that again. 

“I…I wasn’t…”

“That’s the thing isn’t it—you didn’t think.” Sea glass floods over, going glossy; hurt etched into both of your faces as if carved from the same stone. But you don’t stop now, growling out as your skin burns. Alex isn’t sad that you’re angry, he’s sad he’s done this to you. “You disappeared, Alex. Laswell had to just drop all of this shit on me. I thought you had died.” You growl. “Do you know what that feels like?!” 

“Sweetheart—”

“Shut up! You let me talk,” he falls silent, hand delicately coming up to grab your wrist. Not to pull you away, just to hold you. To feel your skin and the heat of it. You sniffle and his eyes break. “And the worst part of it was that if you had just asked I would have followed you right then and there.” Alex sharply looks back at you. “But the biggest insult was that you thought I would leave you—that you even considered that.” 

Shock slowly gives way to a blank expression. He was confused, now.

Was that what you were angry about?

“You’re an idiot, Keller. Hot-headed. Cocky.” You shake your head, but a tiny smile begins to bleed onto Alex’s face. Watching you like you’d just sprung a million dollars on him. His grip slightly squeezes, calloused thumb running the span of your knuckles as you shake his head with your hand. “Damn nuisance to my health, is what you are.” Trying to remain angry is tough when he’s looking at you like that—starstruck—but you spit out, “It’s insulting that you thought I’d just give up on us that easily.”

“Most women don’t want a man who’s wanted for desertion, Doll,” Alex whispers, testing a smirk on his lips with his expression still strained. 

“Arrogant!” your voice snaps. “Not a single brain cell in his stupid little head.” You let go of his chin and grip the sides of his skull, feeling the dirty but still soft strands of hair before you huff at him. 

But he just looks at you and smiles, face smooshed. 

“...You really came?” Alex asks quietly. You fall silent and after a moment you deflate.

After the silence of trying to keep the sneer on your face, you let it drop, lips quivering slightly. Anger glints with pain. “I should hit you upside the head, Keller, for all the worry you’ve put me through,” you grunt, eyes flashing over every new bruise on his face—every cut you’d have to re-learn. He looks tired. 

Oh, Alex…

Before the blond can respond to you, you’ve captured the back of his head and shoved it into your chest; face burying itself into his scalp to bring forth that scent of dust and cologne. You whimper out as he grips you around the waist with just as much fervor, “Did you think that I would stay away?”

Alex says nothing, only the slight tremor in his bicep betraying him. You firmly kiss his skull and run your fingers through his hair, the both of you so tight together there’s barely enough room in your ribs to allow your lungs to inflate. 

But holding him was more important than air, a sentiment that Alex seemed to share entirely. 

“I’m so glad you’re here, Bug.” He mutters into your skin. “Feels good to be able to hold my girl again.”

You stay like that for a long time before you pull back and capture his cheeks, face pulling closer before you kiss him deeply. It’s not a fast-paced or desperate thing—no clashing teeth or tongue. That wasn’t what you needed right now. 

All that you needed was Alex. Your home. 

You both separate and the blond grabs the back of your neck, forcing you back so he can lay another on the side of your mouth; nose, cheek. Anywhere that he could reach as his mustache tickled you to a smile. Giggles worm out and you wiggle out of his grip to wipe at your cheeks, spreading away tiny tear tracks and saliva.

“Quit it,” you whisper, and Alex gazes up at you reverently from his chair.

“Negative, Ma’am,” he says, equally as soft, not even blinking. “Don’t wanna.” You roll your eyes, face hot. 

The seconds draw long of only watching one another before you shake your head and move your hands to shimmy out of the dog tags around your neck. Alex’s gaze locks on the metal swiftly, smile shifting.

“You’re horrible.” You huff, quietly, before shoving his dog tags at his chest. “Now put them back on.”

“But I’m not in the—” Your glare shuts him up. Alex clears his throat sheepishly. “Yes, Ma’am.” 

You nod and watch as they’re resituated around his neck. Right where they should be. When you take a step back to really take him in, there’s a moment where you skim over the state of his left leg. After all, the metal was barely noticeable in the dark. But when you do see it every little part of you shrivels up with confused pain.

Alex stands with a noticeable preference to his right and as he towers over you, fingers coming to grab at your face and slowly drag it back up.

A slightly apologetic look washes over him.

“I’m guessing you didn’t listen to all of the voicemails.” 

“Alex…” you slowly cut off. “You…” Staring at the metal limb instead of the real one, you gape. “...how?”

“Y’know,” he laughs, but you don’t find this funny. He notices and kisses your forehead, tapping his scalp to yours and saying after a contemplative pause, “I think it’s better if I don’t explain it. I’m alright, just...” Alex smiles cheekily, the spark that you love coming back easily as it shimmers in his eyes, “just a little more carbon fiber and aluminum than I was before.” 

You hug him tightly.

“I’m sorry, I should have come sooner—I was just angry, and I wasn’t—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Alex sighs, grabbing you and maneuvering the both of you to the bed. He sits and you end up laying in his lap like that moment in the bathroom ages ago. “None of this is your fault, okay? You deserve to be angry. I shouldn’t have put such a burden on you.” 

You sigh in his arms, head under his chin and heart finally able to return to a steady pace. Licking your lips, you ask, “Does it hurt?” 

Sending a glance down, Alex’s lips twitch with a grin before it disappears. He hums.

“Sometimes.” Your hand grips his opposite cheek and you lay a kiss on his chin, caressing his flesh.

It’s a tentative kind of love. An understanding and a plea all at once. 

The blond leans back against the wall and pulls you closer, closing his eyes. Finally relaxing for the first time in what seems like forever. But his girl is in his arms, and he’s never been this calm.

“I have a home in Urzikstan,” he confesses lightly, fingers brushing your body and giving way to shivers. You listen, eyes fluttering at the vibrations of his words. “It’s safe—protected. I…want us to live there.” Alex nods against your head, swallowing. “If you’ll come back with me.”

“Yes,” your answer is immediate. “Anywhere, as long as you’re with me.” 

You feel his breath hitch, soft chuckles brushing your hair far better than any comb. There’s a small tremor in his voice as he says, “I love you. God, do I love you.” 

Your lips pull up, body growing heavy with a final sense of home.

“I love you, too.” Soft kisses and tight arms. Shifting tattoos. “But if you ever do something like that again without talking to me, I’m telling Laswell she has permission to put a bullet in your ass.”

His loud laughs shake your body, and you press your face into his neck to steady yourself; smiling.

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[princesscolumbia]

Star Trek Captains, A Review and Categorization

Star Trek is a show about a Neo-military organization that has rank structures, ships, and fights wars, so naturally there's plenty of captains to talk about, but for this post I'll be highlighting specifically the main cast captains, in something resembling chronological order. (But, I mean, this is Star Trek, so even that's kinda up in the air)

Captain Archer

That Guy who had to hand crank the warp engine up-hill both ways in the blinding ion storm. We don't need no stinkin' Prime Directive! Remember The Alamo Pearl Harbor 9/11 Florida! But...uh, maybe don't be dicks about it, not everyone who looks like the ones responsible for that thing we're never going to forget actually wants us dead. Got transformed into an alien, got possessed by another alien, slept with a couple more. Never got pregnant, though (that was his chief engineer)

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 1

Wars started: 0

Wars ended: 3

Times on screen naked: 1

Nazi facilities destroyed: 1

Category: Grampa

Captain Pike

Midlife crisis? What midlife crisis? Everything's fiiiiine. Now eat something, it'll make you feel better. I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. Number One, don't tell me I can't adopt more kids, I don't care that they're from the future they're mine now. Besides, we've already got a whole ship-full, what's two more?

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 2

Violations of the Temporal Prime Directive: -3 (yes, it's an irrational number, we're talking time travel, people!)

Musical Numbers Participated While On Duty: 3

Hair: Really Great

Category: Dad (or DILF if you swing that way)

Captain Georgiou

You will be captain when you can snatch the stone from my hand.

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 1

Protege's who required a redemption arc: 1

Awesomeness: Transcendent

Category: Gone too soon, also, MILF who can kick your ass

(Edit: Courtesy of @cheer-me-up-scotty for pointing out an oversite on my part)

Captain Burnham

Cosplays as a Vulcan 'cause she's jealous of her adoptive brother. Accurately called an audience-stand-in-self-insert-mary-sue (shut up, Star Trek fandom invented the Mary Sue, it was a term coined by women fans, so shut up!), but by season 2 she actually gets interesting.

Scorecard

Mommy Issues: Has a subscription

Moms: 4

PTSD inducing life events: Like, all of them

Ships commanded: 3

Mutinies led failed: 1

Category: That One Cousin who married surprisingly well and made something of herself in spite of all expectations

Captain Kirk

Golden retriever energy, would be the Useless Bisexual Himbo if he didn't have so much game. Probably smarter than he lets on. Polyamory King and certified Alien Fucker. Boyfriend is a half-space-elf, main sometimes-girlfriend will go on to create the deadliest super-weapon ever built by humans by accident.

Scorecard

Number of Klingon Bounties on his head: [CLASSIFIED]

Number of women he's slept with: [CLASSIFIED]

Nazi regimes toppled: 1

Number of times he should have had a test that determines if you can stick your dick in it that got named after an upstart from that other science fiction show instead: 1

Ships Commanded: 3

Ships He's Stolen: 3

Category: Slut(affectionate)

Captain Kirk (the other one)

Golden Retriever that got left behind when his family moved away and had to lead a ragtag team of a crotchety older dog and a wet cat on a journey...

No, wait, hold on...

Right! That's the one!

Scorecard

Times he should have been kicked out of Starfleet: At least 4

Ships commanded: 3

Ground transport destroyed: 2 (that we know of)

Number of middle fingers given to Admiralty: 2

Category: Bad Boy

Captain Picard

You know that guy who you see going to the library all the time and always seems to have his nose in a book and always seems to be telling people off for breaking the rules and doing dangerous shit? You'd never know it but he used to be That Guy in college who got, like, ALL the girls and is going to be the Hot Grampa that you don't know how he has that much game, but he got it.

Scorecard

Ships lost in the line of duty: 2

Number of times he married and then estranged his best friend's wife who named their son after her dead first husband: 1

Number of toxic omnipotent and omniscient boyfriends who are obsessed with him and spends their spare time playing with ponies: 1

Category: Inexplicable Sexyman

Captain Badass Sisko

The Cool Dad with baggage. He's got game, but he's got priorities as well, and DON'T mess with his son or you won't even exist anymore to regret it. BLM before it was cool. Led a civil rights riot two centuries before he was born. Space Jesus who can make the best jambalaya you've ever had. Fought and won a war, punched a god, then became one.

Scorecard

Civilizations saved: 4

Native Cultures Treated With the Respect They Deserve: Many

Times He Bent the Rules so his CMO could get some nookie from a Cardasian spy plain, simple tailor: The counter broke

Successful black-ops assassinations completed: 1

Category: BAMF

Captain Janeway

THE single most decorated captain in Starfleet history. Successfully dropped the hammer on dozens of petty tyrants, oppressive regimes, roaming mass murderers, and the Borg. What Prime Directive? Your Mom. Also, probably slept with your mom, that's how much she is the Domme-est of Dommes. She told the Borg to use the safe word...and they DID!

Scorecard

Borg Daughters: 1

Times she told the Borg to step off: 3 (or 4...or 5? Honestly, with the time travel shenanigans it's hard to know for sure)

Nazis she's personally shot: 1

Category: Mistress, but it's "Ma'am" to you

Captain Freeman

She's angry AND disappointed! She's just as good as all the other captains in the fleet, and the good ones know it, but all the rest? They see "cali class" and assume all they're good for is the jobs nobody else wants. But jokes on them, because thanks to that attitude her crew are the flippin' Jacks and Jills of all trades and are more capable of fixing AND fucking AND "fucking" shit up than damn near anyone else!

Scorecard

Times the ship has nearly been destroyed but she and her crew got through it: ...uh...how many episodes are there? And then there's the times that get casual mentions that we never get the details on!

Daughters who should probably be captains now if they were at least a LITTLE more respectful and didn't actively try to piss off Admirals: 1

Times the Cerritos has had to be rebuilt to the point it might as well be called "The Ship of Cerritos Problem": At least 4

Category: Your mom...get back here, I'M NOT DONE TALKING TO YOU!

Captain R'El

Cinnamon Roll, just let m'boy into Starfleet! He just wants a home and a family! I'd like to see full-grown captains who can keep up with half of what this Best Boy is capable of!

Scorecard

Number of species his genetic code is made up of: All of 'em. Even the GODDAMN Q!

Number of Janeways he impressed the socks off of: 2

Quality of his Janeway impression: Bad

Number of Ferengi he out-Ferengi'd: 1

Nazis punched: Give him time...

Category: Teenage Boy Who's NOT GOING THROUGH A PHASE, MOM!

Should I do Captains Shaw and Seven? How about Alternate Timeline Tripp or Future Chakotay? (Going too far down that rabbit hole will eventually lead to Imperial Kirk and Captain Spock from the movies.) Let me know in the comments.

Next Post in this series

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @spideronthesun!

OC Deep Dive Tag

Rules: Answer the questions for your oc

In honor of getting the first arc of Starbreaker finished, let's take a look at everyone's favorite fearless captain, Faalgun Falani!

What uncommon/common fear do they have?

Being a Flying City native, Faalgun hasn't been around much in the way of nature or natural spaces. He's not a fan of bugs, trees, or any animal bigger than he is, which is not a high bar. He's also pretty afraid of large bodies of water, as he can't swim.

Do they have any pet peeves?

People who can't follow orders - so he's obviously having a field day with his new crew. Faalgun is a military brat through and through. He doesn't believe in respecting authority for authority's sake, but he also believes that in moments of crisis, it's best to just listen to whoever's barking orders. He just can't wrap his head around people who are defiant on principal (cough, cough, Nyda).

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

Aboard the Starbreaker, he doesn't have a bedroom, but back on the Flying City, you could find many music recordings, some old awards from back in flight training, and, later on, lots of payday loan receipts.

What do they notice first in a person?

If they were born on a planet or in space. There's a notable difference between the way people from both places move - and sometimes, how they act.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?

Probably about a six? He's tough, but he's no supersoldier.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?

Fight, all the way. This isn't always the best move, since he's all of three and a half feet tall, but Faalgun lives for the thrill of an adrenaline rush, and he'll take on anything or anyone if it means that thrill gets to last longer.

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?

Faalgun was raised in an orphanage, actually. So far as he knows, his parents just didn't have the means to support a child. Despite that, he had a really good childhood. He was especially close with the orphanage's nurse, who took the shy, runty boy under his wing whenever the other kids got a bit too rowdy. As an adult, he would regularly return with donations.

What animal represents them best?

Yes, I know he's a little lizard guy, but I think a hunting dog is the best fit for him. Loyal, unyielding, focused, lives for the chase - but not immune to being pulled off course by other more exciting scents.

What is a smell that they dislike?

The cheap incense used in casinos. It brings back bad memories. Also, anything to do with animals, since he's just not used to it.

Have they broken any bones?

Probably? I'll say he broke a few fingers getting into fights in flight school. Most notably, a broken neck is what killed him.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

"Aw, look at that little guy in the pilot's uniform! His scales are such a pretty blue, and that little ruff of fur looks so soft. And look how his horns stick up from his hat - how adorable! Those big yellow eyes look so tense, though. What does such a cutie have to be worried about?" (As a note, Faalgun hates being talked about like this, but it is an unfortunate fact that he is indeed a 3'5" dragon man with little whiskers that twitch when he's mad. Too bad literally nothing else about him is cute.)

Are they a night owl or a morning bird?

He doesn't sleep now that he's dead, but in life, he was a morning bird after many years of practice.

What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?

A flavor he loves is fried chicken. Meat is a delicacy on the Flying City, reserved only for brief stays over any of the planets they visit. Faalgun would go out and party with his friends during landings, where he'd eat lots of fried meats. A flavor he hates is the shitty canned meals he subsisted on once all his money started going to his gambling habit.

Do they have any hobbies?

Not that he'd ever do this in front of someone, but Faalgun really loves to sing. He frequently sings to keep himself occupied while piloting the Starbreaker. Speaking of, piloting is more of a career, but he loves it nonetheless. He could tell you countless facts about different voidskiffs and how they handle.

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises?

He'd be confused at how anyone found out his birthday at first, then grateful for the effort put in. He'd stay and talk with people for much longer than he normally would before retreating to the nearest open space, as he is very much not a party person.

Do they like to wear jewelry?

Not usually. He's pretty spartan when it comes to style.

Do they have neat or messy handwriting?

It's passably neat.

What are the two emotions they feel the most?

Shame and the excitement of adrenaline.

Do they have a favorite fabric?

Sailcloth - not to wear, but because of what it represents. Other than that, put a gun up to this man's head, and he couldn't name you a single fabric.

What kind of accent do they have?

According to the accent map of Illaros in its original form as a dnd setting, he should have a NYC accent. It's probably pretty faint, though.

I'll tag @tragedycoded @cee-grice @inkednotebook @mysticstarlightduck @cataclysmic-writer and anyone else who wants to play :)

[nicoforlifetrue]

I need to get the gangs designs out of my head like, right now so here we go! Au characters first then cannon guys spoilers below

Anyone the color crew considers a friend gets a matching jacket that green made with something representing them embroidered onto the old jackets, chosen has one and has it tied around his waist most of the time, everyone else wears it near 24/7

Victim: gray dead anime mom hair, scene kid from Spencer's in the 12s looking clothes, long sleeves striped under shirt with a t shirt on top, ripped up skinny jeans, has broken shackles around his wrists that act like the lasso tool but he doesn't use very often, a fire fox icon often sleeping on his shoulders he has three that act as attack dogs, soft rainy day blue eyes that are normally kept in that same dead anime mom half lidded state, he looks calm and approachable and loving after all that's how he gets you.

Chosen: black hair to his shoulders that he keeps in a bun, dyes red streaks into it, combat jacket three sizes too big, ripped up t shirt and jeans he never bothers to fix, wears a face mask when hiding his identity because his mouth is abnormally long and it freaks people out, has a locket with a family picture in it (it's a picture of Alan's face and cupped hands, the hollows are in his hands waving at the camera, Alan took his picture made it the computer background then took a screenshot of the boys, it was Alan's phone screen lock picture) everything he owns is burned at the hems because of his anger issues triggering his powers. Eyes glow red and are set into a permanent scowl, he has worry lines.

Dark: wild red hair he's never brushed in his life, he dyes black streaks in it, has one of those slutty leotard things that show the hips? You know what I mean, and combat pants, he has five virabands one of each limb, he made the first one just to give chosen a challenge but after seconds powers awakened he made more for when the kid has nightmares and needs to be held down so he doesn't hurt himself or anyone else with his powers going haywire, it only really works because the powers not concentrated, also has a locket with the family picture, he says it's for chosens sake but he stays up at night sometimes staring at it. Has black eyes but his pupils glow such a bright red their mistaken for red, all the hollows have sharp teeth but darks are especially sharp and he keeps them in a lazy grin, he has pronounced crows feet.

Second: orange wavy hair in a low short pony with it down it only reach's his shoulders, basic orange hoodie and well he does have his own clothes he more often then not is wearing some eclectic mess of stolen goods from his brothers, he likes Vic's shirts and darks pants the most and will try to get away with chosens jacket at any given opportunity, chosen trades his hair bands to get it back. Eyes glow a radioactive green, his lip is always busted from him chewing it, as are his cuticles from picking at them, is always a little wide eyed and sad looking even if he's over joyed just because his face has kind of settled like that, real case of "resting depression face"

Cannons turn!

Cannon second! Same hair as au, wearing the groups jacket and has is closed most of the time because he gets cold easy but takes it off to sleep, wears paint pants and shirt near always and there always covered in new color splash each day, convinced chosen to perce his ears and has a industrial one that he puts a spare pencil tool in after the box episode so he's never really disarmed, the other side has a little curser on a chain because he felt bad that Alan couldn't get a jacket. His eyes are still nuke green but they don't glow and his hands have calusus but he doesn't pick them like au infact he has them painted, heavy eye bags because he actually has to get up in the morning when the crew decides to have late night party's.

Red: fluffy red mop that he just cuts when ever it gets into his eyes, has the fellow headband to keep it off his scalp when exercising, cat ears, no really he has actual working cat ears and not normal ones, his jacket is hanging on for dear life and Is always at least a little off his shoulders even keeps it on when he sleeps, gym clothes even in the snow, bandages and gaze patches everywhere, his jacket hides the fact that he's fucking ripped because after the "blue punching obsidian" incident he got competitive and started working harder, he's up to diamond now. Eyes are whiskey colored have slits like a cats and he's sensitive to air changes just like cats are.

Blue: ties the group jacket like a cardigan around their neck when working in their garden or making potions so it doesn't get ruined, overalls are a farmers best friend, has the longest hair out of everyone reaching his knees, ties it into a bun for fights, braids it for potion making and sleep, and puts it in a ponytail the rest of the time, keeps it down when they plan on just hanging out with the guys. Has excessive nerve damage from the lava and can't feel if they've been cut or injured below their chest. Eyes are a very rich mahogany that gained purple flecks after a while of messing with potions, red asked Herobrine about it and it turns out to just be his body gaining immunity to most of the bad side affects potion making gives you (turns out his neather wart addiction is actually fairly common among potion makers because it helps build and keep those immunities which are important when experimenting)

Yellow: blond typical trans boy hair cut, meaning under shave with a quiff, has the jackets sleeves perpetually shrugged up his arms, only closes it when working on a more advanced machine, under shirt is stained red and he doesn't own a single pair of clean cargo jeans all of them have at least one mend in them. The bridge of his nose is stained red from rubbing there when he had redstone on his fingers, his fingers themselves are also permanently red, where's glasses near identical to Alan's, his eyes are a washed out pinkish rose, almost gray.

Green: for the longest time had an an uncontrolled frizzy mess of hair I'm talking untamable never seen coconut oil 3c, but after they sticks where introduced to dj, he managed to wrangle them into locks, DJ helps him braid them best he can if he ever wants to clean up but it's either dreads or spending hours everyday calming them. Only one who wares the crew jacket like a normal person, also the only one with a normal clean and sensible wardrobe in general, likes skirts but considering it's a bitch to fight in them only wears them when going out and knowing the others won't start a group bonding brawl, always has both head phones and earbuds on his person and is the only one too keep his phone intact and not broken. Eyes are hazel mixing green and gold with flecks of blue around the center, has audio processing issues and it helps him understand people if there's a background noise of some sort also fights better with a beat. Also has really bad tinnitus and always has, it's been made worse by recent fights though.

Purple: curly hair more of a 3b or 3a, keeps it in a single braid so it's easier to keep track of and care for, mango helps them with it in the mornings, the most recent one to get a jacket after the king stuff went down. Likes fancy and just nicer clothes like button ups and poets shirts and leggings, has bird wings because there mother was made for a stick flight animation test, but there weak and they can't fly like there mom can, they can hover and glide but they need an elytra to act as basically a sort of brace if they want to propel them selves, and even then they can't get to high speeds without rockets. Has orangy red autumn colored eyes like there mother.

[inukag-archive]

Hi, do you have some recommendations for the "inukag as cat/dog parents" or maybe one of them as adoptive parents of a stray animal? Thank you so much! 😊😊

Hey @chit-a-to ! We love seeing our dog-boy as a cat-mom (or dog, or horse) so thank you for this ask! We hope you enjoy this list of predominantly -- but not exclusively-- modern AU's from across the ratings spectrum, so please do check individual fics for additional tags.

Dumplin' by MooMiscief (E)

She was officially settled working from home, she owned her own house and the time had come for her to get a puppy. Until a gruff volunteer gave her sass, until said volunteer gave her his number, and until she realized maybe was interested in him for more than dog tips.

--

Cat Person by @arisukingdom (G)

Inuyasha is a cat person, and every cat person needs to meet his first cat at some point in life. So here it goes a little Inu finding out what a cat is and trying to bring a cat to a dog house.

--

The Seven Sins of Buyo (G) by @ruddcatha

It is Inuyasha Sins Week, September 20-26, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, Greed, Pride, Gluttony, Lust. How does Buyo, Kagome's faithful cat, represent each of the sins?

--

Begin Again by @coccinellesroses (T)

There is beauty in starting over when you get to let go of what happened and who you were in the past.

Kagome has moved into a new apartment, and she looks forward to a brighter future where she leaves the baggage of a toxic relationship behind. Rooming with her best cat Buyo, Kagome starts to experience the fun of living alone. Although, she didn't count on her neighbor being a cute half-demon.

She also didn't expect to develop a crush on him either.

--

How To Train Your Dog Demon by @anxietyaardvark (M)

Izayoi is tired of Inuyasha's excuses. All he does is work; despite his protests, she knows he's lonely. She decides to get him a companion to get him out of the house, and when she finds a no-nonsense dog trainer with great reviews, ulterior motives take over.

--

The Cat Came Back by @fawn-eyed-girl (T)

When Kagome and Shippō adopt a stray cat from a village, Inuyasha is incensed. Cats (who aren’t Kirara, of course) just cause trouble; don’t they know that?

And then, Kagome goes home to study for an exam, and Inuyasha is left with a cat he doesn’t want, but who has suddenly decided he is the most interesting person in all of Musashi.

--

Little By Little by LittleKnownArtist (E)

Post Manga. After the three year separation, Inuyasha and Kagome are finally together as a couple. There will be little bumps in the road along the way, but its all part of the learning experience. And they plan to learn everything about and every inch of the other-little by little.

--

Must Love Dogs by WakingPriestess (NR)

Taking her dog to the park was a sure fire way to get a dose of serotonin. But the sight of a scary looking dog being lonely and unable to make new friends broke Kagome's heart. Thankfully she had the sweetest pup in the world who was also a little intimidating and also looking for new friends. The owner being drop dead gorgeous was just a bonus.

--

Chai. by @inusunflower (E)

In which Kagome and Inuyasha fight over the custody of their shared corgi, Chai.

--

Ramen by @writemydaydreams (T)

Three years is a long time to be separated from the person you love. Inuyasha had to find a way to cope with Kagome's absence and the possibility he may never see her again. Sometimes support comes from the last place you expect it.

--

Quarantine (series) by @superpixie42 (E)

Starting a new relationship can be hard when you have to host all your dates via webchat because of Covid-19 quarantine regulations.

--

Light Me A Lantern by @inuyashasforest (T)

Picking up the pieces after being separated for three years isn't as easy as it may seem. A quiet, burning kind of chaos sweeps through Feudal Japan, and it's going to take a lot more than a fairy tale ending to put things back together. They defeated a man who would become the Devil. Can they survive a man who would become a God?

--

You Rescued Me by @keizfanfiction (E)

Maybe it was fate that he decided to take the back way home that night, but whatever the reason, Inuyasha was grateful for arriving just in the nick of time to rescue a waif of a woman who had clearly been through hell. He never would have imagined that she would end up rescuing him, too.

--

Max by KittyKatz (T)

It was business as usual until Kagome's family adopts her father's canine partner. A short 3-chapter blurb about a military working dog joining ranks with the inu-gang. [T - Inuyasha's potty mouth]

--

Guard Dog by @keizfanfiction (T)

Kagome moves into her very first house and decides to introduce herself to her new neighbor with the scrumptious gift of Oreos. She had no idea she'd be leaving as a new dog owner.

--

Hermit's Haven by @britonell (NR)

In which one dog leads to a hermit failing to be a hermit…

--

Feel free to add your own recs in the comments or reblogs!

Check our Masterlist of previous lists to see which topics we've covered. 

Send us an ask (here).

[mourningdewey]

as is customary for 4/20 , i am out of my mind zooted . that being said , here are my stoned thoughts on different fallout 4 characters as stoners . nonhumans are humanized because it's funny . think like- a college au ig . don't take this post too seriously please 😭🤚

Companions

ada: can take three blinkers off a cart and be fine , tbh she probably smoked a decent amount with her original crew

cait: ✨ seasoned stoner ✨ , doesn't smoke much anymore but she'll engage in the doing of some good zaza occasionally , makes fun of deacon for smoking to become poetic

codsworth: would vomit after even breathing in secondhand mary jane smoke from twenty feet away

curie: has smoked weed to test sciencey shit that she was curious about , has a decent tolerance

danse: has never smoked weed in his life . decided not to after being half-blinded by stepping into a hotboxed room

deacon: among the ✨ seasoned stoners ✨ , has a MAD TOLERANCE because he's depressed and uses pot to make himself more poetic , he smokes to forget but he always remembers

dogmeat: if you give your fucking dog weed you are awful please do not let the dog hit the bong

hancock: ✨🍃king seasoned stoner 🍃✨ , his bare minimum with pot would have any other humanbeing dead burned and buried , smokes with deacon and cait sometimes , provides others with that good zaza

maccready: smokes sometimes either to feel ... deep and edgy , or nothing at all . would shove all the weed in his mouth if the cops came knocking , chew it up , and swallow it . buys from only the fInest most credible dealers

nick: he smokes every once in a while for similar reasons to deacon (it makes him more poetic) , his weird fucking 50's detective coat flaps in the wind more dramatically when he's stoned (he's some weird cosplayer like hancock ... nobody knows what his deal is)

old longfellow: nah this man is on smth a lot stronger than pot 😭🤚 i remember nothing about him as a character but looking at him scares me

porter gage: he is constantly crossfaded . he needs to be to cope with the dumb fuckin edgy junkies he hangs out with . he's dumb and edgy and a junkie too though so ... hypocrite ass

preston: he coff coff 💨 ouchie lung hoit 💨 coff coff 🌬️ no more zaza for pressie (he literally just looked at a bong and greened out)

strong: don't let him anywhere near any drug the entire human race would be wiped out (don't ask how my brain is starting to fizz and dissolve)

NPC's

amari: she'll pass weed along for friends if they need her to but she isn't too into smoking it . carrington Might be able to convince her to join him for a joint but it's rare

arturo: he'll share his zaza with you 🥳 only really smokes on weekends or holidays to avoid issues during the week . it's just a nice relaxing thing he usually does on his own

desdemona: this poor woman is so fucking stressed someone pass her a bong and a bucket she can sobb into . she smokes with carrington . they're both so stressed they're barely sophomores in college and they have gray hairs

drummer boy: he gets so weepy when zooted like please look after him 😭 wrap him up in a blanket and don't let him think . talks big game about smoking but he'd pass out in a hotboxed room

carrington: his tolerance is godly . he's been so stressed his whole life that he smoked in HIGH SCHOOL how scandalous~ would end another person's life for a fat blunt

crocker: 💀 this fucking wackjob is trying to find a way to mix Adderall and weed . hancock thinks he might just be a genius and everyone else thinks he needs to be behind bars

fahrenheit: oh girl she hangs with hancock she's blazing it in a back alley on campus in the middle of class , has some silly bimbo girl friends she likes to smoke with

glory: smokes with deacon and drummer boy primarily . will make fun of drummer boy for being weepy but takes care of him (not cuz she cares abt him 🙄 he's just a little worm) if he gets too bad . also smokes with des but they're gay asf eww

ingram: smokes very rarely like on special occasions . she doesn't have time to drift off into zazaland on a regular basis

irma: classy lady who smokes the finest quality zaza because she can . gets really really flirty with amari while high . gets flirty in general while high tbh . somehow fully aware/grounded the whole time tho

jun long: he ALSO smokes to forget but he always remembers . idk even if he didn't have a son thag died i feel like this man is HAUNTED like he needs that bud to survive

kent connolly: oh no no no don't give him weed . no good for the good little man . no good at all he cannot have that . give him a comic book and have him wait in the hall

magnolia: she smokes weed rolled in fucking rose petals . she deserves it tbh . smokes with kleo , irma , and daisy . sometimes her , mac , and deacon will sneak out to smoke in the park

marcy long: thinks weed is for lazy bums with no ambition . she takes care of jun when he's zooted but lectures him later . she wouldn't be caught dead with weed anywhere on her

myrna: she's too uptight to have ever smoked weed ... she is sucha fucking square

percy: he needs weed to cope with myrna . she's like his bossy mean toxic girlfriend who thinks he's inferior to her or smth idk man where am i

sturges: 😇 he like zaza it make him head go bzzzzztTtt bZZzzzzzZt like an old flip phone vibrating . sometimes he comes up with really weird projects while stoned and then he tries make them

sun: if only he had TIME to get zooted fUCK . his dormmate is a headache and his classes are hell . he'd gladly join carrington and amari for a smoke sesh but he does not have that kinda spare time

teagan: doesn't usually smoke himself but he sells that shit in some covert operation at a burger king drive-thru

quinlan: he smokes to quiet his buzzing mind . he gets very opinionated when stoned . his cat cannot escape his zooted cuddles

zeke: eh he'll chainsmoke cigarettes but draws the line at weed . cuz it's just nOt cOoL ??? (sturges likes being friends with zeke but is too autistic to understand why the man does not like to feel like his head is being banged like a gong)

ok i know i missed a lot of characters but considering how many i put in here i hope i deserve a pass 😇😇😇 um but ueah i am starting to really drift into zazaland . which is great . i'm gonna sleep fuckin epic tonight

anyways please don't take any of this seriously i could hardly remember who half of these characters are

[mbrainspaz]

I’ve actively been trying to be worse at work lately. I don’t know what else to do for my sanity. I’ve got one coworker, technically the stable manager, who I’m pretty sure is making at least $2 more than me an hour and is salaried while I’m still hourly. Btw we’re the same age and both have ADHD, and I came here from managing and running a whole stable on my own and according to rumor he came here from getting fired off a craft beer assembly line for being late, so it just goes to show you that being a charismatic tall white boi will get you everywhere in life. He’s late all the time. Chronically late. 70 minutes on average. He lives on the property his parents’ money must have bought him that’s about 10 minutes away so there’s not much excuse. Believe me—I get the time blindness issues. He actually has medication for it sometimes. I have 3 devices that read me the time every hour and half a dozen alarms. The worst part is that I can’t blame him for not caring—for doing a shitty job. Even while he’s making more than me he’s not really making anything worthwhile. The boss couldn’t fire him because there’d be no one to get distracted and cut down dead trees all evening instead of doing other crucial chores that I’ll have to come in and do on top of all my other work the next day. I do value what he brings, really. Every barn needs a tinkerer who goes on side quests. That guy probably shouldn’t also be manager but WHATEVer. I do my best manage him without overstepping too much. All the time. It’s exhausting,

This morning I was trying to formulate a plan to ask the boss for a raise. I mean—we do the same job! (I do it better.) Next week the ‘manager’ is going on vacation and leaving me to deal with/train the new 17 year old worker who’s apparently never touched a horse, the only person the boss was able to find in 3 months who’s been willing to work for the laughable wage they’re offering. I can just see her guilt tripping me. Acting angry. People with money and power only act friendly until you stand up for yourself. If you’ve ever dared to ask for what you’re owed you know what I mean. The devil light that comes into their eyes. The instant transformation like Bilbo Baggins when he sees the ring. It’s terrifying. I can’t afford to be afraid of that vitriol. I tell myself I don’t care. I do though.

The barn is clean tonight. The horses are grazing. They’re safe and clean and well. I worked 11 hours today to make sure they would be. The manager didn’t even have AM feed prepped for me, after I came in for an extra half hour on my day off to help him with feed the day before. The boss texted me at 1 pm to ask if I needed help, after I’d already done 95% of the work alone. I said no because when she comes out to ‘help’ it’s sweet but ultimately she’s just another person to babysit and I don’t have the energy.

Ever more frequently I have to remind myself—they don’t care. Nobody else cares as much as you. You’re not being paid to care. They don’t care about you.

So instead of abiding by my strict code of honor maybe I do leave work a few minutes early. Maybe I do leave a few buckets uncleaned. Maybe I do bring my dogs to work with me when no one is around, even though it’s strictly forbidden. The manager does. Sometimes I do start work a few minutes late. I can’t be better than management or I’ll start to resent everything. So I actively try to be just as bad as they are.

I’m not very good at it though. I care too much and I know better.

[help-me-nah]

some backburner in-the-works potential fic excerpts/teasers! (+ some notes)

I. ghosthunting prequel

A prequel for that October oneshot where they’re all youtube paranormal investigators! All the backstory of Steve and the kids. Bonus: a little bit of Steve and Nancy, a lot of Steve and Jonathan. No Eddie though, bc prequel. Also me chewing on Steve a little, really beating that boy up. Make him cry, make him bleed. Also, probably the next one in the chamber after I get fantasy AU in order.

Sometimes Steve remembers that living in a town with a pretty obvious cult just outside it isn’t actually normal. But everyone in Hawkins has sort of gotten used to it.

The Eleventh Church of Stranded Souls keeps to themselves, and whenever one of their members comes into town for groceries or other supplies, they’re polite and cheerful and don’t say much about the apparent ‘our church can reconnect you with your lost loved ones and commune with the dead’ schtick that draws in new members. (At least, not unless they’re asked, and most of Hawkins chooses not to ask.)

Every couple months someone new drives through town on their way to join the church, and that’s when it’s sometimes a little jarring and weird. Some new arrivals will gush and weep about the church and how they hope it’ll change their life. Some seem far more skeptical, spending a few days in town, asking questions as if anyone in Hawkins knows anything about the cult and how real their claims are. But for all their skepticism, even those visitors often carry an air of desperation. Sometimes they’ll talk about who it is they want to contact. Sometimes they never say what they’re after, but everyone in Hawkins knows. And those same folks are the ones who provide Hawkins with the only answers they have for the next arrivals— they come, skeptical but desperate to talk to a deceased loved one. They visit the Eleventh Church. They return to Hawkins a few days later, teary and starry eyed. Very frequently they leave just long enough to pack up their previous lives, and then they pass through Hawkins once more on their way to join the church. The cult. Whatever.

Steve doesn’t think about it all that much. It’s a part of life in Hawkins, and high school’s a bitch, and Steve’s busy juggling his new relationship with Nancy Wheeler, and the funny feeling in his chest when spending time with her puts her in proximity with her fellow Hawkins Post intern Jonathan, and keeping his grades up enough to keep his father placated, and the weird tension with Tommy and Carol lately, and also how he’s somehow babysitting almost a half dozen kids these days, whose newest obsession is ghost hunting and have been bullying Steve into taking them to every abandoned house in Hawkins.

And yes, Tommy and Carol make fun of him for getting bullied by middle schoolers (and sometimes a single elementary school girl), but they aren’t trying to wrangle four middle schoolers (and the aforementioned elementary school girl). One middle schooler is a stress headache. Two middle schoolers is like trying to walk a tightrope while also walking two uncooperative dogs trying to go in two different directions. Three is a disaster. And four is a fucking hurricane. There’s no controlling that. You hold on for your fucking life and just focus your energy on making sure the stupid bullshit they do is non-lethal stupid bullshit. (Adding Erica to the mix is a whole different beast. Steve’s pretty sure every hour spent with all five takes years off his life. He’s rapidly aging like the puppets in that one movie Dustin insisted on showing him, that left Steve scarred, because Steve was expecting, like, Muppets, not skeletal bird men sucking the life out of bug-eyed Cabbage Patch dolls.)

II. a good old fashioned cliche concert violinist/rock star who are neighbors AU

I mean, what it says on the tin. I know many people have probably done it before, who are far better equipped than I am, but I’m having feelings about it. Pros: getting to play with a Steve who is spinning a lot of plates, still meeting his family’s high expectations but only just barely, everything right on the edge of falling apart. Also, bickering. Cons: To really get it off the ground (bc I’m nitpicky about accuracy but limited in time and energy) might require some help/notes/beta-ing from people whose musical expertise extends past my childhood of piano lessons.

Eddie and the guys have ordered delivery, and in the month and a half of living here Eddie has quickly learned that if you want your food hot, you better hang out in the apartment lobby and wait for it. Because while the little table for delivery in the vestibule (a term Eddie only knows courtesy of Dustin being a smartass) may be nice in theory, Eddie has found that almost every delivery driver, regardless of service, just drops the food there and fucks off without bothering to shoot a text or find the relevant name on the long list of buzzers, and you’ll find your food twenty minutes later, icy-cold.

So Eddie’s in the lobby, shooting the shit with Gareth and Jeff and Vernon, because “We’re here to hang out with you, man, we’ll come with,” and it really does help kill the time.

The elevator dings, and Eddie doesn’t pay it any mind until, “Hey! Asshole!” and he turns to see the pretty violinist from the fifth floor come out of it, scowling. He’s accompanied by the young woman Eddie sees him with more often than not (she’s gotta be a girlfriend, between the cohabitation and the joined-at-the-hip), and both of them are carrying their signature instrument cases.

“Is that bitchy neighbor?” Gareth asks under his breath.

“One and the same,” Eddie confirms, before turning back to the two classical musicians heading down the lobby.

“What can I do for you today, pretty boy?” Eddie drawls, because he knows it’ll piss the guy off.

The guy’s scowl deepens, but oddly enough, he stops as they reach the seating area, swings his violin case up onto one of the lobby couches and begins undoing the clasps.

“Oh my god, Steve,” his partner complains. (Steve, Eddie idly notes, which means pretty violinist is, as he suspected, also the piano tutor Dustin praises and complains about in the same breath.) “Murray is going to fucking kill us if we’re late for rehearsal again, you know that?”

“We’re already late,” pretty violinist— Steve— counters. “And last time was your fault so it’s my turn. I have a point to prove to a certain dickhead who said he’s got ‘no interest in keeping things down for the practice time of someone who can’t even shred.’”

“I just don’t think a prissy classical music snob can possibly understand my process,” Eddie drawls. “I don’t see why I gotta let you choke my sound, babe.”

Steve’s nose wrinkles, and Eddie smirks back at him.

“Oh my god,” groans Steve’s girlfriend. “Do you boys ever tire of all this fucking posturing? This is why I stick with girls.”

“Fuck off, that’s not why,” Steve retorts, hefting the violin to his shoulder and sticking his tongue out at her, and she cracks a smile.

Not a girlfriend then, Eddie notes. (Dangerous thing to think about, a smaller voice in his head chides himself. Pretty and cohabitating with a lesbian friend doesn’t mean available. Also he’s a huge bitch.)

And then Eddie doesn’t think much at all except oh fuck. Because pretty violinist Steve proceeds to play what might be the single most impressive rendition of the solo from Megadeth’s Tornado of Souls Eddie’s ever heard in his life, on his goddamn violin.

“Holy shit,” Jeff murmurs as Steve lowers his violin. “Damn, dude.”

And then Eddie gets to witness Steve’s smile, and it’s fucking radiant, jaw-dropping, overwhelming. And it’s fucking directed at Jeff. Eddie’s suddenly struck with the irrational desire to throttle one of his oldest and best friends.

“Thanks,” Steve says warmly to Jeff.

Then he turns back to Eddie, and his smile drops, and his voice drops back into a familiar acidity. “Fucking keep it down.” The clasps on his violin case snap shut in punctuation.

“Satisfied?” his partner asks drily, though a tiny smile twitches at the corner of her mouth.

“Yup,” Steve tells her cheerily. “We can go now.”

Eddie continues staring blankly after them as they head out of the apartment building. He slowly lowers himself into a chair.

“Oh no,” Eddie hears Gareth say, sounding distant, like Eddie’s hearing it through water.

“Is Eddie smitten?” Vernon laughs.

“I’m pretty sure Eddie’s fully in love,” Jeff says, sounding amused.

“I think that was the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life,” Eddie says faintly.

III. Wayne & Ms. Mayfield

Canon-divergent where Eddie and Max share a hospital room and decide to set Wayne and Ms. Mayfield up. I know it’s a little tacky but also I think it could be fun and cute, and Eddie and Max dynamics are always good to write. Bonus of yet another variant on Harrington family dynamics, with some real old-money rich weirdness. Also, obviously, Max is using the setup to also try and set up Steve and Eddie.

“After you, miss,” Wayne says politely.

Ms. Mayfield laughs, ducking her head self-consciously.

“Haven’t been a ‘miss’ for a while now.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Eddie could swear Ms. Mayfield flushes a little.

“Forgive me for being nosy,” Wayne continues, “But I couldn’t help but notice your car’s been sitting out front your trailer lately,” Wayne continues. “Busted?”

Ms. Mayfield laughs again, this time weary, a little dry. “Thought it had a little more in it before it needed repairs, but guess I was wrong. And, with— well. Can’t exactly afford to fix it now.”

Wayne hums in understanding.

“Let me drive you to work?” he offers.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

“Let me drive you,” he says a little more firmly. “If our kids are gonna be cohabitating, it’s the least I can do.” (“Ugh, come up with a more gross way to put that, will you?” Max complains, and both Wayne and Ms. Mayfield grin at her.)

“‘Sides,” Wayne tacks on, “The Hawkins bus ‘system’ is shit.” Ms. Mayfield laughs again at the sarcastic weight Wayne puts on ‘system,’ given that Hawkins has exactly one bus and two drivers.

(And Eddie’s sure as fuck taking note of how often that laughter’s happening in this conversation with Wayne).

“Pretty sure Mitch drinks on the job,” Wayne continues, “He’s gonna crash the damn thing one of these days. Won’t do anyone any good for you to end up in the hospital too.”

“Well,” Ms. Mayfield says, voice almost teasing, eyes crinkling with her smile, “I suppose if you put it that way.”

Eddie’s eyebrows climb his face.

“Well then,” Wayne says, “Like I said, after you, miss.” He glances back into the hospital room. “You three stay out of trouble for once, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says.

Max just rolls her eyes.

Eddie beams. “No promises!”

Wayne sighs, Ms. Mayfield laughs (again), and they exit into the hall.

Eddie and Max turn to each other in sync as the door swings shut.

“What was that?” Max asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Damn, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie says.

There’s a very long pause as they stare at each other.

“Your uncle’s a good guy, yeah?” Max says slowly, eyes narrowing in thought.

Eddie can’t help the grin that splits his face.

“The best,” he says.

“Mom hasn’t always had the best taste in men,” Max says. “She deserves someone who’ll treat her right.”

“Would be nice to know Wayne won’t be alone when I inevitably bounce from Hawkins for that rockstar lifestyle.”

“Oh my god,” Steve mutters from the corner.

“Don’t be a wet blanket, Stevie,” Eddie says brightly. “This is gonna be great.”

“You know you two can have your weird insufferable sibling energy without actually setting up your family, right?”

Eddie just sticks his tongue out at him, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Sure,” Max agrees blithely, and her gaze flicks between Steve and Eddie. “But there’s some fucking matchmaking that needs to be done around here.”

(extra bonus excerpt, in part because I think this is the story least likely to happen, and because I desperately need this little snippet to make it somewhere even if the fic doesn’t:)

“Hey,” a raspy voice comes from the doorway, and Eddie almost doesn’t recognize it.

He blinks at Steve.

“The fuck is wrong with your voice?” Max says.

Steve laughs a little, low and rough, wincing just a little.

“Consequence of getting choked out so many times apparently,” he says. “It’s worse first thing in the mornings, and the doctors think long days or cold ones’ll probably bring it out too. Sounds like I smoke a fucking pack a day, huh?”

“Awful,” Max agrees, grimacing.

Eddie averts his eyes and stares at the ceiling and does not voice the little thought in the back of his head that thinks it’s kind of hot. It’s pretty fucked up. It’s a serious, possibly long-term side effect caused by some pretty brutal trauma, so it’s very inappropriate for his brain to think about how Steve’s voice sounds shredded in the way Eddie’s pretty familiar with after screaming metal lyrics at the top of his lungs for hours, in a way Eddie can imagine might result from other kinds of screaming. (And Eddie’s definitely got some wires crossed because the mental image of Steve at a metal concert, lips pressed to a mic, sweat shining under stage lights almost seems more obscene than sex.)

IV. superkids school

I can’t even say the actual premise of this or do a proper elevator pitch because that would spoil a (relatively early) twist. This one would be angsty. It was originally my ‘rotating my blorbos in my head and chewing on them’ brain fic so it’s very self-indulgent and very heavy on the hurt side of hurt/comfort. Lots of secrets, but counterpoint, getting a very flirty bitchy version of Steve. Still working out all the powers each kid would have, but Steve and Robin are the new hires at a Munson-run school for kids with superpowers. oH also, alive and well Chrissy and Barb!

“It’s not what I expected,” Steve says.

“Were you expecting some big dramatic manor, pretty boy?” an unfamiliar voice drawls, heavy with sarcasm. “A proper rich kid boarding school?”

Steve turns, and there’s no one who knows about the Munson Institute who wouldn’t recognize Eddie Munson—one of the first generation of students, nephew of the current institute head, highly anticipated to take over when Wayne Munson retires, the public face, and, despite the reputation and fame and scrutiny, any abilities he may have are somehow still a secret to the world.

He’s lounging casually against a doorframe, fiddling with a curl of his long dark hair, but despite the air of disinterest, there’s an air of skepticism and disdain in the curl of his mouth, the dark weight of his stare.

Steve bristles, folds his arms across his chest defensively.

“I mean, yeah, kind of,” he says, fighting to keep his voice level and polite. “You’ve managed to keep world governments, military factions, and international espionage at bay for nearly two decades now. So sue me for assuming you must have crazy resources and the facilities to match.”

Eddie Munson snorts, pushes off the doorframe.

“Nancy,” he says, “Come on. We’re really gonna go through with this? Ms. Buckley, absolutely, obviously.”

He turns to Robin with a wide grin, extends a hand. “Never got to learn a second language when my brain was all fresh and elastic, but we’ve been searching for ages for someone who can cover everything the kids wanna try, and your resume? Insane. Plus, I am very partial to music, but everyone’s been fussy that we need someone with proper band and orchestra training, and a wider range of instruments, and that I can’t just teach the kids metal and classic rock on guitar. So I was ready to throw a fucking fit if Murray’s absurd background check requirements didn’t clear for you.”

Robin shakes his hand and grins.

“I mean, I can definitely work in some metal. We can have some fun with Metallica on strings and brass for sure.”

Eddie laughs, delighted.

Then he turns to Steve and his brow arches and the smile turns into something more of a patronizing smirk.

“But do we really need a gym teacher? Let alone one so obviously prissy?”

“Excuse me?” Steve says.

“Eddie,” Nancy says, and Steve’s a little relieved to see that she seems as exasperated as he is, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Physical activity and team sports have been proven beneficial for child development. Just because you’re allergic to organized athletics doesn’t mean you get to take it out on our new hire, or pretend it wouldn’t be great for the children.”

“Nance,” Eddie says, pointing a finger at her, “I can say definitively, absolutely, from personal experience, that gym is quite the opposite of ‘beneficial’ for children’s development.”

And Steve can’t help himself.

“I mean, sorry you always got picked last in gym, Munson,” he scoffs, gratified to see the way Eddie Munson startles, “but even if I wanted to replicate a traditional gym class, which I don’t, it would literally be impossible, because it’s a class of seven children, with superpowers. The day you show me someone who can make an ordinary gym class work with that is the day I shave my goddamn head.”

[misiwrites]

4KINGDOMS RE-READ ADVENTURE part 4

Chapter 13: takao's obsession with kai Begins

finally! a longer takao chapter! chorus of angels sings

this entire fic is just takao going SO EVERYONE DECIDED I WAS UNRELIABLE AND STUPID AGAIN. FUCK THEM BUT MAYBE THEY ARE RIGHT. ALSO RALF SUCKS and i'm dead and dyinhg

i mean

But I did let Ralf follow me around like a dog, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, and he didn't annoy me so much when I mostly just ignored him. I knew that he was just doing his job. Poor Ralf and his boring life.

very cute that takao is envious of max. oh you just wait.

casual drop about volkov's existence 70 chapters before he makes an appearance in the story

oh hey look mihael makes his first appearance. i'm thinking of going back and changing his name to miguel in this fic for stupid canon naming reasons. anyway funny that takao is thinking he'd want miguel to be his knight instead. again with the ralf dissing. it's a 24/7 roast over in cherrywood castle

literally used the words "euphoric hurry" when takao receives his first ever message from kai. boy. you kinda gay let's be honest here

Chapter 14: rei's magic explodes on his face. olivier laughs at him

aaaand we are back to rei. and he's just gushing about talking to max

excuse me wait

There was an ancient Western folk legend about the gem of Byakko having been broken once in the past and causing a storm so massive that it wiped out the entire capital, which was then re-built from metal into its current form.

well i didn't remember that but a cool nod to metal being his secondary element without him realising. i do smart things sometimes

also the first time talking about rei's meditation, man reading these is really kind of a blast. i can't even explain. it's so like, obvious to me that of course byakko-ou rei meditates to practise magic every day, that's such a core aspect of his character. this is so cute somehow idk. but i don't think my initial idea was that 70 chapters later he still hasn't fucking summoned byakko (spoiler, he'll get there eventually)

here's a really kind of excellent line i've written of max here, line that i like alert

It was strange how he looked so much younger than me but was far more knowledgeable and competent in many ways. He did have his naïve side, born from being pampered by his parents in a loving home, but that naïvety didn't equal stupidity. Rather, it showcased in Max as innocent daring, occasional spontaneous mischievousness, and infinite enthusiasm for life, none of which overshadowed his intelligence.

yes that's it. that's the max. thanks for summarising, 4kingdoms rei who hardly knows him

max is sooo upset to hear that rei's not allowed to leave the palace because of the purification rite. he just wanted to see rei again. cute. AND THEN REI STARTS CRYING AFTER ADMITTING HE CAN'T LEAVE oh no how cute is this for real

this is a long chapter. would have chopped in half if i wrote it now

olivier the rude fuck laughs to rei's face when his magic blows up on him. i forgot about this too

oh mathilda is mentioned here. i see this is where i thought of adding the barthez team to the mix

i forgot myself for a bit what this chapter actually is and was wondering like why do i have this fucking long nonsense garbage about rei just doing random shit and it goes on and on and OH MAX APPEARS AT TIGER MAPLE AT THE END I SEE HOW IT IS i just wanted to drag it out for the surprise ending of him getting Epic Glomp'd

Chapter 15: max crashes rei's house uninvited

so max goes on to describe tiger maple and you guess right. i had completely forgotten everything he said about it. so apparently tiger maple is full of those ugly asian feline statues that have stupid weird faces. noted

this

Rei’s pointy ears jumped a little, like a startled animal’s.

his ears. his ears jump? rei's ears jump???

okay this is just one of those chapters with several funny as fuck lines.

I pressed a hand against my mouth, trying not to laugh at their weirdly haughty bickering. Rei was a terrible liar, and Olivier’s voice was seeping with sarcasm and I wasn’t too sure if Rei even realised that.

max commenting on rei's teeth being bigger than his. because rei's got fangs. and rei laughs like MY TEETH ARE BIG BUT NOT SWEET and max is like oh they're pretty sweet alright [because you're so hot] i'm. yeah this is

sorry i got nothing else to say about this chapter but share some quotes but this one, also a thoroughly fantastic exchange:

“That wouldn't work,” Rei said with a smirk, “they’d all faint as soon as they saw Byakko. I wouldn’t want them to collapse on the streets like a row of Tien Gow tiles…”

“Okay then, I have a better idea – you should ride a bike around the city, just a normal bike, imagine that… Their worshipped Byakko-ou, casually on a bicycle… Or a tricycle, if you can't ride a bike. That would turn some heads. And eventually you’ll be just like Takao, just casually going around and everyone thinks ‘oh, there goes the king’!”

It was hard to imagine Rei on a bicycle, and the thought made both of us laugh.

i feel very vain talkign about my own writing like this but this is 4+ years old i'm allowed to like it. i have no idea what tien gow is. also max sort of implying there he thinks (or knows.) that rei can't ride a bike

i'm kinda. like. this is the 15th chapter of this story and max is already talking really affectionately about rei and about wanting to hug him some more and all. and. well. i'm at 80+ chapters now and they absolutely are not together yet. i feel a bit bad

sorry but this is some real cheesy gooey. cutenes. overload. thing

“[…] Rei, I'll always be behind you – we kings should stick together. I don't know if there's anything I can do to help Takao or Kai, but at least I'm here for you, and I believe in you. And I’m sure Takao does too. And, well, Kai… He’s a tougher cookie to crack, but maybe he’ll join us one day.”

Rei's golden eyes were really shining at me, brighter than any of those gaudy trinkets of his palace. His eyes were such a warm and graceful colour when he smiled.

geez! what the fuck i love the way i write these two. what do you mean that's obvious because i'm the one who wrote this and this is my OTP

Chapter 16: an ant-sized chapter whose only point is to slide in a mention of the mysterious extra tunnel in the west. unlimited exposition machine works

i swr to god i thought it would be more takao now but no. okay i can maybe see why people lose their shit as this fic being more of a reimax. but look………. later it evens out

all i have to say about this chapter is: what? so rei knew his element was metal all along? then what did i write a chapter of max telling him that for. this is bullshit i'm changing this. actually no i'm not because it's too fucking funny that apparently totoro exists in 4kingdoms west

rei is already dramatically going "i miss him….." thinking about max, you have no idea what kind of slow burn hell machine you have been squeezed into, boy.

Chapter 17: takao gets facetimed by hiwatari motherfucking souichirou

max is such a little hypocrite asshole, humblebragging about sneaking into rei's house in secret and then he's like OH BUT TAKAO DON'T YOU GO TRYING THE SAME THING BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT AWESOME AND FREE LIKE ME. and takao is like. i didn't even think of it. but now that you fed the idea to me,

souichirou fucking. being like "i'd like to send kai off to learn manners and improve his nonexistent social skills" BRUTAL BUT TRUE

then takao starts this never-ending cycle of lies because gramps lied to him first. i'm glad he's not above this kind of pettiness

so takao schemes how to get kai to come to cherrywood and he's like…. perhaps this is kind of abusive towards kai though? but i want him so much, so it's fine! hmm. takao. and then he even goes

There was the fact that Kai’d told me not to get involved with him. He would probably be pissed off about this. Probably sulk for a while the way he did back in the North. But I had a good gut feeling that things would turn out fine in the end. There was this weird sort of power inevitably pulling me towards Kai, and perhaps it was a sixth sense of my own that told me that he also felt the same pull towards me.

i. TAKAO!!! THAT'S JUST CALLED LIKING SOMEONE

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Zombies Masterlist

All This Hurt Can Finally Fade, Promise Me You’ll Never Feel Afraid (ao3) - onceuponatime M, 1k

Summary: The zombie apocalypse has happened and Luke has been bitten.

angels choking on their halos (ao3) - aliciaxadrienne michael/luke M, 10k

Summary: Fame and notoriety mean nothing when the dead are coming back to life. Or; the zombie apocalypse happens at the worst possible time and things go haywire.

Colors In The Blur, He’s There To Fight The Highway…. (ao3) - orphan_account michael/luke T, 1k

Summary: It was when Luke went to touch the wet area on his shoulder when a jolt of pain and horror shot down his spine. He drew his fingers and looked at them, his crimson blood drying quickly in the sunlight. His stomach dropped and he knew exactly what happened while he tried running from the zombies.

or the one where Michael’s worst fear comes true

Crossfire (ao3) - cthink michael/calum, luke/ashton N/R, 9k

Summary: Today was the day. There was no going back on the plan now. After months of preparation, they were finally going to escape. They were finally going to be free.

Or an apocalypse au where Ashton, Calum, Michael and Luke escape a corrupt containment camp only to find that the world outside is so much worse. Based on the song Crossfire by Stephen.

Fake Blood And Black Lipstick (ao3) - merlypops michael/calum E, 6k

Summary: ‘Michael was panting, his cheeks flaming as red as the flyaway hair sticking to his forehead. He seemed to be attempting to sweat all of his face paint off which was gross as fuck but Calum looked gorgeous and there was black lipstick smeared everywhere and Michael had never had hot zombie-actor-sex in the backseat of his car before but he was so down, he swore.’

Michael thinks Calum makes a cute zombie and Calum just wants to kiss Michael’s neck (probably).

More than Just a Cranberries Song (ao3) - sclara T, 665

Summary: Pretty much just a really short and pointless venture into the zombie apocalypse, 5SOS-style. (basically just me goofing off)

Run. (ao3) - JetBlackSunshine M, 18k

Summary: Late one night in the pouring rain a train creaks to a halt altering the course of the life everyone once knew. Suburban streets become battlegrounds and passing strangers become allies. Sometimes all you need to do is run.

Run (ao3) - XxKeyvethebluebunnyXx T, 3k

Summary: Run, just run. That’s what they’ve been doing for the past year and a half, after the disaster hit. They were just a bunch of kids, all under the age of 16. There were nine of them in all, just nine school boys minding their own business, living life until all the adults turned into mindless, shambling, bags of rotting skin and disease. They couldn’t do anything but run and fight, there was nowhere to go. All the buildings were burned or destroyed in the early riots when the disease first hit. They had nowhere to go, and they wouldn’t have met, or even crossed paths if it weren’t for the disease.

Or the one where One Direction and 5sos are all under sixteen and are in a world where a disease turned all of the adults into zombies.

Survivor’s Guilt - @daydadahlias​​ (cornflowerblue (daydadahlias)) calum/ashton T, 9k

Summary: No one’s left but the three of them. Just Ashton, Calum, and his tiny yappy dog.

Oh, and all the zombies, obviously.

The Day the World Ended (ao3) - insomniacwriter17 ot4 T, 10k

Summary: “Reports state that people are experiencing incredibly high fevers, intense pain all over the body, and a state of delirium. Government officials have issued a warning: if you feel ill, seek medical attention immediately. If you do not feel ill, stay inside if at all possible and make sure to wash your hands often.”

the skies falling down (end of the world) @sup3rbloom (haveufoundwhaturlookingfor) luke/ashton, michael/calum T, 4k

Summary: Luke is severely hurt, and Ashton is desperate to find something to heal his best friend. He's on the brink of giving up when he meets Michael and Calum, who happen to be from a community that has medical supplies.

The Sun Has Not Died (ao3) - nintendoswitch N/R, 1k

Summary: The deadly virus spreads like wildfire, and when they finally find a safe place, after all this time, only two of them are left to see it.

to live in love and die (ao3) - michaels luke/ashton T, 3k

Summary: the virus is taking over luke's body, ashton's trying his best to keep him calm as the poison spreads to every inch of him. he's not got much time left, fuck it, ashton's going to tell luke how he really feels.

We just need to hang on (ao3) - orphan_account ot4 N/R, 18k

Summary: Its been a year since the beginning of the zombie apocalypse. The 5sos boys were on their world tour, and were in the US when it started. Now the boys rely on each other and take care of one another. Michael is the leader of the group and keeps a collected face. Ashton tries to keep everyone calm and eases the tensions. Calum is stealthy and smart. And Luke feels useless. The boys have to fight to stay together and relationships grow between the boys.

[libidomechanica]

He plungd in place, embroiderd in Lightning in his tuning head

A limerick sequence

               1

‘You were none you by a soundless cup. When I smile. My Lord, with a kiss, and    suit? For Wintergreen Shalott.    The moon. Is thy love to sight was they raised, but to call Chance!

               2

As dew in aprille, þat fallyt on þe sprang elate! The Peers and Wesley,    and two: she trees and    summer loathsome. In my attic and into find Liberty?

               3

And a whole sea and clings to you. That piano? Just in Air, she dead for    the yill. Hairs less a slight    us, for sometimes shou’d expressing, and body the spring.

               4

Permit me, Julia’s breath of the poppy falls for Nisus’ injur’d Hair!—Ye    may read, is leaving you    are made more; which hath no break, and more will I, with his her breast!

               5

’Er she leaves springtime, the same thoughtlessly, from him for the general constructed    in feeling soundless    main to wash away, and Nymph! Company of the Wits again!

               6

And my life, climbing. By the prostrate Ace. Are very court to shame! I have    you thumbed, thrust, jutted this    Morning Omens their dressed around this great green, your mouth be heir.

               7

This Nymph there wherein the yellow-leaved vine, and hush’d, confus’d, he stone bag    man, garlic in the midnight    Militia of the silver. Goddess, I do vow and kitsch.

               8

If, dear self, in the children outside the stood, before are this bold Sir Plume    repair, half-taught me to    her Desires of fine boy. Oh hadst thou were none of the Cards.

               9

When there touch that once Ulysses held the happy crowd the sages. Or caus’d    Suspicion when still readers    e’er would not be when I’ll be our tale, of Amminadib.

               10

Above a girl, her pocket-book and quite of a mayden was never dauntless,    flaming, the marge us?    The top of the granted of mine. The marge us? Mt.

               11

Being silk or taffeta, which fell their desire. Vouch for one small reade    in the helmet flows, ’mang    moors and where none, no lute, the rolling told me upon a stream.

               12

Yet all their Charms, as I was not in the rest lurk’d in vain! Thy mother crown,    but little question with    all above me weary road, yet how to the Tartar, England!

               13

Being sitteth silent sighes breast a frown of peopled hell in think of    scream from History. I do    not so great business, tremblings and Dukes, and wins oh shameful Chance!

               14

As this I may desert sky? But Lilia please alike. Unto the same,    his pompous Robe, and hear    planet chiming clears today of those nineteen who fly arise!

               15

Sometimes barters; the yellow-white. How cloth’d; how sunk beside his house, thou know    then, lastly, let me sleep    the arm’d with these Labyrinths his be their haram educate.

               16

My soul is mine, and round mere can but that such a day of your name as if    in doubting Wits are a’    my Nanie, O. I would make breathing of their skill. The other sea.

               17

The men on the late rain, me of the face by hear two women, gallant fight,    and He approach. Which long;    and will soon shall pall that is thy beloved, and, one sweet stream.

               18

I haue I called The Witch. And each high, and mortality arise like a    buttercup until,    afterwards for the Soul was strong the ghost nor smilde wherein I fry?

               19

Come, commands that horror, that her Eyes half equal to show? Goddess! Your cool    and going told him whom    he sport half to him. Let go. Find none lovely April of love.

               20

Of this pompous Robe, and the Dog Star I saw it for all the treason, from    her wide quiet nest, coming,    taking like a Bow, but I found it thus let us taste!

               21

A prophecies, a mortgage on Humanity’s shape. That single sorrow    will try gainst me ours is    a hands. A version brought of the will not even death is mine!

               22

This touches back. In search of solitude and after thee, his she rain is    over and I worried    you like it and in the general directed? In love. And I.

               23

I gave us were therefore do you betray; for the last, your conversations    on, when the sky; fair-    haired and pray. ’From Constitute of Air; the space of my body.

               24

That bare three in the photographs from Day’s detested some secret Truth!—Jamie,    come and rainy, O;    but when all a primrose, and all that which long line of sugar.

               25

Thou my blissful clouds refuseth, giuing from the village green and mow’d down to    the moon. Ah, my beloved    is mine stray Bird one sour as a suddenly wonder Box.

               26

I traveling songs with encrusted boots, child! Of trees and swept the Sword-knots Sword-    knot Sylvia’s Hands she    wakened. Just in Glory of the wretches fly, to steal to me.

               27

It’s ye hae wooers mony a merry drawling as it out and knocking of    the leopards. But if you    need not its earth forth by the dismal Domes, and which is the land.

               28

My thoughts that at one telling tears, and ancient hand did makes many men. This    I best friends old shipwrecked    it simple sentimental, swore the Lady of Shalott.

               29

A different behind her for the dawn of love. His green dale: but as the smelling    but yonder a jonquil    cheek where Lucy played by thy lute, the deep as ocean’s foe.

               30

Save breed a loathing over: you’ve already mixed. And no more, speaks no maner    grow; but which stick in    the red charmeth they read o’er the fruit then I once thou would be.

               31

For that. Into capitulations fly, to find my lovers long with human    love: blue, silver Vase    in your orange that to triumph now impart as sacred Nine.

               32

And in the gravel. Of silver, think and break and flower, like a hawk    encumbered by women with    all the Crown the early enough strawberries clusters by Night.

               33

In equal Curls, and fairies, bayonets, bulletin. Did round their local    life was enthusiasm    and dank, with splendid stream that I shall live some director?

               34

But wilt thou desire. He lifts the banqueting stream of social wrong; all    aloud full gallop, drew    in chiefly was old, its lines there were never fair Nymphs resound.

               35

Are very silence of sleep, thy love. The out his mother’s Hand is a letting    its limbs. Which never    blamable, who would not you planned, known, of one another breasts.

               36

It canniest gate, the fetish boutique, those tail’s a ditch. Some forth heroes fought,    of slumber of pleasant    things right passes for newspaper prais’d nor shame! Some boatmen near.

               37

Oft I here such a hey, and heart in you. To waken doubt few reade, must a    Victor cry’d insulting    Grace, and for all but—nothing thorns, so is my paines my care?

               38

That brings she said Almost everyone else shall quickly, we must. Hear men say,    white Breath may calm-breath; scatters    are rarely to so base a vice. And their banner of Day!

               39

Boils of it for glory! Clarinda, mistres of thy jealousy? This, folly!    Nothing hath she, whence    for the eyes or once for the way in which is most sacred Nine.

               40

The voice, sweet fruit, and I lie here a whole world enough, between the devil    now not, but the palm? Ay    from my soul, and floor of that camouflaged tip into its wound.

               41

Like rain, which is Solomon’s. Far more and tree, I shall if there was mawn, and    breath this Locks first cast lives.    That done, to shatter you are made in our planet fix my woe?

               42

There is no more glittering gentle friends; drink, yea, the wind a whole lower    shall answer’d Camelot;    the sixteen call’d in Shades of a bird; nor walke; with dewy locks.

               43

Just the hermit’s Dreams, on her with that get broken utterly be confounded    by feare, of Amminadib.    Th’ Imperial Tow’rs, the three fire the time must.

               44

To a roe or a reading—’t is no maner grow; but with plunge in crimson    claim, a watchful Sprite,    venture their sweet. What if I burn in Cupid’s Flame mount Gilead.

               45

Here Files of the happy dove, seen me get thee so far better that I have    been a caring, in proud    brow, it melts. Thy beloved is gone, and plain and drove than I.

               46

Yet if you like two youth as wild beasts shall the mountains of doves’ eyes. The grot,    while melting fireships    and Heavens you and conscious Habits and to the Blaze of Day.

               47

This Canto, ere my right Order lay as death; jealousy? Sweet, to a race    of fools or heart. If falling    bade their head, a purse, a heart another can into speak.

               48

To be and all the fire is it, and chaste woman next my hearts wracke I reede;    I cry with please, ineffably,    let thy fair face the sultan, rich Repast. This to roam.

               49

Or I shall know, not Cynthia when well practice dying I thrown of Spleen.    Two captive Queens o’er the    prince de Ligne have your Friend! And man’s son doth know. Fair-haired and snow?

               50

My business, and Garters up, furious earth as will not sure if Homer    makes it difficult to    get therefore and flash’d thy complaining Chocolate to view its ray?

               51

How little hear the painting through earth of Fame in one alive, and barb’rous    Cause, and bids her Smiles offer    poison of the cloud … it must hallucination of Day.

               52

The open there for the tough Walebones crackle, and tho’ unseen, are    rather by the Danube    could poke enough; noons of Bonaparte! Is ever was loathsome.

               53

To shamefastness: none is black and quiver in the keeper of her Hand    four Knaves in happier    St. What may blessing! With its propitious Habits and tree, fruits.

               54

It is otherwise. I likewise, and though Mars no doubt in being pad, sometimes    Times iourneys, half language    no laws, we’re out of public build a faithless was, we safe.

               55

But so it was not be rash, nor thee. With golden anniversal loveth:    I held in slender Chains.    Their ancient Personal cupidity, say, the balmy Rest.

               56

It seemed to mar them. The Care of thy record after you; on Helen, to    which was born as yet beguile    our household king is head as he rode down to Camelot.

               57

Before a sprights of her lips of their efforts should mountain, dark-rooted flowers,    euen Stellas state-thing    that love my Lays. Thy golden Galaxy. Pleasant art thy mouth.

               58

The painted new heart may never more by provocation of various    Day. She said my Pray’r, th’    expiring Swan, and strange tulip, whiten, aspens shiver.

               59

Is not reaching admir’d remain’d in some Sylphs with Reproach. The loins engenders    pursue: ’twas a boy    of your pursue him whom fortune the Pow’r; four Knave of Shalott.

[jspaceboy]

8/8/24

Lord let it rain on me is a fucking lovely song. So is that entire Spiritualized album Amazing Grace. I love the music of Jason Pierce. J Spaceman. I always wanted to be a little bit like J. Spaceman. “My liver was gone,” he said in an interview with the Guardian. That was the headline. Yes, friend, Hep C and heroin will do that to a man. What a vicious little combination. I’ve never had Hep C, thankfully, but I’d like to try it out sometime. I lucked out in that department.

I recall vividly a dull, gray Dallas morning in which, eighteen year old and very wayward me, was parked in his little black sedan near the loading dock of a bookstore in a strip mall off the main arterial highway of his hometown. I was sitting there in my car, with a little at-home (or in-car, I suppose) test kit I had purchased from the pharmacy somewhere in that depressing concrete market. And the kit was a saliva-driven machine designed to let me know, after 30 minutes, but not a minute before whether or not I had contracted HIV from my reckless, and frankly insane decision to occasionally share insulin syringes with my fellow comrades in junkiedom. The front lines of the great heroin battlefield were littered with disease, and certainly, like in most wars, infection killed just as many or more soldiers as the blunt force trauma and primary wounds from the fight itself. None of the external damage ever bothered me much. I found my little track marks kind of cute, if I’m being honest. The damage, of course, occurred in miniature every single time I decided to use. The act itself was a trauma, a mutilation. It was one of the things I loved most about it. The pain of slipping a needle under my skin had long since stopped bothering me, and the feel of cold, wickedly sharp steel penetrating my tender flesh has begun to give me its own distinct pleasure I can compare only to the erotic joy some people receive when a little pain comes packaged up with the pleasure in a great wicked coital act. What can I say? They actually go together quite well. Like peanut butter and bananas. All this to say, that the outward physical consequences of my using were but nothing to me. My dry skin, my pallid, tired face, my hair so devoid of moisture that it was frizzy and cracking on the ends, my little bumps and dots in the crooks of my arms on along my own arterial highways on my forearms clear through to the tops of my hands, were all badges of honor to this young bright and beautiful buck of a boy. I looked like absolute dog shit, as any reviewing of the photographs of me at that time will confirm, but I was blissfully unaware of this at the time, and what is bewildering to me now is that nobody bothered to tell me. How’s that for southern politeness? “Yes, son, you like the walking dead or perhaps nosferatu if he had long hair and liked to smoke camels, but I’m um going to politely avoid the fact that you appear to have just crawled out of a graveyard somewhere, because, frankly, to comment on someone’s physical appearance is rude in this gentile little slice of the nation in which we inhabit. Carry on, boy.” Now I’m not saying that as if it was actually my dad talking - lots of old southern men feel entitled to call you “son”. It’s very antiquated and occasionally endearing if you like the man saying it. But if it’s coming out of the mouth of an idiot, as it so often is, then it’s just patronizing.

Ah, I've gotten tired! I could finish this story but I don’t want to! I just want to jot down this little vignette, but I’ll give a way the ending so you aren’t left wondering for the rest of your life. I didn’t have it. Nor did I have Hep C or any other of the other adorable little afflictions I could have / should have acquired from cute little half-decade of ungentlemanly behavior. That was a miracle to me! A joy! I cried tears of sweet relief in the front seat of that dirty car as my hands shook from the nervousness of waiting to discover if the world as I knew it was going to end that day. It didn’t. Nor did it really get any better, I have to say. But coming up roses on the ole spit test did give me a chance to pick up and resume living at a then-indeterminate point somewhere a little further down the road. And of course we did reach that point one day, the point at which one has to choose to begin again. And that was a glorious day indeed. 

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

The World Keeps Getting Hotter, Baby, but I’m Too Cool to Die

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Pre-series; The Line-Up; Whisperers Arc

Warnings: Domestic violence; Child abuse; Injuries; Blood; Allusions to alcoholism; Mentions of canonical character death

Summary: Three times Daryl didn’t fear death and the one time he did.

gif by @jaaryl

Daryl had honestly never feared death. Sometimes, he felt it would even come as a reprieve from a life that had taken such a toll on every aspect of his very being. He had seldom wished for it, mostly as a child who didn’t understand the permanence. He wanted to follow his mama, who often took the beatings meant for him. 

Even in her near constant drunken stupors, she would reach for him from the bed, fresh blood and bruises still adorning her pale skin. C’mere, baby. It’s okay. When she died and Merle ran, Daryl faced their father’s wrath alone. 

“Worthless, bitch-ass mama’s boy.” The rough leather of the well worn belt was a follow up sting to the skin-tearing agony of the metal buckle. “Gon’ toughen ya up. Won’t have no pussy Dixon livin’ in my house.”

Daryl just laid there, watching the new flecks of crimson fall in sporadic splatterings on the dirty wooden floor. He circled the thought of his mother reaching for him, shushing and soothing in her slurred voice. It was almost enough to numb the angry wounds long after the onslaught was over. 

“I'll find ya, mama. We can run away together.”

He wasn’t a stranger to motorcycles. Merle had taken him down the backroads, no destination in mind. The elder Dixon had been working on obtaining his license but was already a skilled rider. 

He’d show up at the most opportune moments, almost like he was listening for the old man to pass out drunk. Daryl was older then, early teens making things more confusing as he went through changes he didn’t understand. He’d never speak them aloud for fear of invoking his father’s rage or his brother’s ridicule. He kept quiet and waited excitedly for the times his brother would offer him peace on the open road. 

Merle hadn’t noticed the pine needles on the wet asphalt until it was too late. 

Daryl could only remember bits and pieces. His brother’s distorted face and muffled voice. Keep them eyes open, boy! The younger man found he didn’t care to oblige. Maybe if he closed his bright blues, he’d wake up in a different life. Loving parents, good grades, a house in the suburbs complete with a dog that was always happy to see him. 

He was actually disappointed when he woke up in the hospital, broken arm and severe concussion, his body throbbing. 

Merle was already gone again. An officer took him home where Will Dixon broke the cast within an hour and twisted the skin above the break. 

Daryl missed his brother. 

It was his fault Glenn had died. Maybe Abraham should be on his conscience as well. If he’d never stormed off, half-cocked and hell bent, they would have all been there to make sure the group made it to Hilltop. The line up would have never happened because all the best fighters would have been together, functioning as a well oiled machine to plow the Saviors down. 

But Daryl had to be stubborn. He had to do things his way. And now Abraham and Glenn were dead, Maggie was a widow, and her baby would never know their father. 

He was losing blood. The wound was through and through, steadily freeing his lifeblood without medical intervention. As the van bounced and jarred over the rough gravel, the archer hissed and sluggishly pressed a hand over the weeping hole so close to his collarbone. Yet the blood on his hands wasn’t his. It was Glenn’s. 

His vision was graying at the edges, his skin colder without the blanket that had been left on the rough ground where his family mourned. They likely spit on the fabric, the only thing among them that had been somewhat his. Even if he lived, he could never go back and face their anger. 

His breaths came slower, more shallow. He was growing numb and exhaustion had him giving in to the urge to close his eyes. 

If there was a god, maybe he’d see fit to take Daryl and toss him into hell in exchange for Glenn being returned to Maggie. 

He’d lost you. The cave had collapsed and you had been swallowed by the dust and debris. It had been suggested there were other ways out, that maybe you had escaped after all. Only to go back to Alexandria or Hilltop, to reunite with Kelly, Yumiko, and Luke while discovering Daryl had gone off on his own—again—and let rage drive him. 

He was stupid to think he could coerce Alpha into revealing anything that might benefit him or aid in your rescue. He’d been reckless and now he was paying for it. Blood was no longer spurting from the wound in his thigh, the veins having long ago slowed the gush when his heartrate began to decelerate. 

He was gonna die there, bleed out and never know if you were safe. For the first time, he found he didn’t want to go. You, arriving with Magna and her group, had charmed your way right past his defenses and straight into his heart. He had been a lovesick fool, grasping the unfamiliar feeling with both hands until his knuckles turned white. 

You were completely and utterly transparent in your reciprocation, doting over his injuries and ensuring he took care of himself. You were glued to his side, throwing yourself into the fray when anything could possibly pose a threat to him, much to his displeasure. You were sweet as honey, but stubborn as an ox. Fierce and loyal, downright lethal when someone you loved was threatened. 

And you loved him. Of all the people left in the world, you had chosen him. 

And he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to escape the pain. He didn’t care to see Merle again yet or run into his mama’s arms. He had longed to hear the innocence in Beth’s singing that he’d failed to protect, but found that it wasn’t as important as what he had there, in life. 

He actually had a life. He could settle down with you, even if he couldn’t promise you complete safety and peace. You were still young enough for children if you wanted them, and he’d never deny you that even if he felt he’d be a shit father. He wanted to go home to you at the end of the day and let you whisper away the stress he couldn’t leave outside the door. He wanted to hold you, kiss you, touch you, love you. 

He didn’t want to die not knowing if you were alive and that those things were possible. 

He wheezed, forced to blink hard to battle against his eyes’ will to close. He was cold. He no longer felt the pain of the wound. 

He wasn’t ready anymore. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to risk leaving you. He didn’t want to die.

“Daryl.”

The archer gasped, summoning all the strength he had left to slide his eyes toward where the sun was now beaming into the cold garage. 

There you were, carrying the light behind you like a pair of wings. Like his vest, but bright and beautiful. He could make out your face as you lowered to hover above him. Your hand was warm against his cheek, it felt near scalding pressed to his chilled skin. 

“You’re alive.” He managed in a rough whisper. Even with your features vibrating, he could see that beautiful smile. “M’dyin’, Sunshine. Don’t wanna go.” Someone was working on his leg but he couldn’t be bothered to check or even ask. Your lips pressed against his blood streaked forehead. 

“You’re not going anywhere. Not today.”  Daryl sighed. He believed you. It was always so easy to do, but he could tell you weren’t placating. “You’re too cool for that.” 

He was going to live and he was going to love you right. 

[andiais1]

Harry Potter next generation fic. SFW. Horror short Drabble. Mentions of sex, not graphic.

Darkness Creeping

Summary:

The end of the world had come creeping in insidiously from the shadows.

Notes:

James/Teddy

It had begun with muggles disappearing. Whole families vanishing from their homes at night, with no evidence left behind to say why. No blood splattered across the walls, belongings left exactly where they had always been. Pan were left simmering on stoves, music playing repeatedly from stereos, showers left running.

The muggle authorities had at first merely put the disappearances down to unknown factors, not too worried about it until they realised that it was happening all over the globe, with alarming regularity. Within three months, whole towns were disappearing over night. Within six, the muggle population had been decimated, mere thousands left.

The wizarding world had taken note of the disappearances, but had not worried. What did they care if a few muggles disappeared? There were so many of them after all. No, they had not cared, until it happened in their community.

Suddenly, the wizards had found that they were not immune to whatever was happening to the muggles. Their magic did not protect them from the horror that slithered in when the night fell. They were merely able to see what was taking them. Strange, misty malformed beasts pouring out of the dark corners and shadowed crevices. Men with eyes like dinner plates and hands like claws. Dogs with too many legs, too wide jaws and teeth dripping with foul smelling saliva. That they made no sound as they came merely added to their horror. The would grin and laugh, they would speak, but no sound would reach the ears of the victims.

Sometimes, there would be a survivor. A child, or an adult, there was no rhyme or reason as to why an individual was left behind. They almost always ended up in St. Mungo's; sometimes merely sitting and staring at the wall, sometimes gibbering nonsensical words. The one thing they all had in common was that, when night fell, they would scream. They would scream and beg and cry. They would scratch and tear at the skin, their eyes and pull at their hair.

Teddy Lupin knew why they screamed. He had been left behind when the Shadow Horde, as they were being called, had come for his Grandmother. He had watched as a man with one eye hanging against his cheek, pointed teeth shining with a sinister half light in a rictus grin had sunk his claws into his Grandmother. He had felt the warm, rancid breath of a wolf with many eyes and rotting flesh as it breathed in his scent; waiting for it to bite into him and drag him into the dark pantry that had been left open.

But the creature had just turned and padded silently back into the creeping dark, leaving him shaking and crying and sitting in a puddle of urine. He had gone to Hogwarts immediately, following several other wizards and witches who believed that Hogwarts was still safe.

Teddy was one of the few left, even the survivors of previous attacks had been taken when St. Mungo's was emptied. The Weasleys were all gone, they were taken when Godric's Hollow was attacked on Christmas eve, the entire village gone, no survivors other than James Potter, who was no longer the carefree boy that had loved life with a passion that others envied.

Now, James only came alive when Teddy was fucking him, whispering filth in his ear and biting until blood flowed from broken skin under his teeth. He only smiled when Teddy was sucking his cock; a grim, brittle smile that matched the rough hands that gripped multi-coloured, ever changing hair.

Now, night was drawing in, and James turned dead eyes to Teddy and said “They're coming. It's tonight. We're the last ones, and they're hungry.”

Teddy looked out of the window, over the darkened grounds of Hogwarts. He saw them walking towards the castle, gliding with an unholy grace that was just wrong when set against their appearance. They were horrifying, and yet Teddy was not afraid.

James took hold of his hand and pulled him towards the Entrance Hall. As the great door of Hogwarts opened, and darkness crept in, Teddy looked at the grotesque, butchered form of his Grandmother and smiled. James' whisper of “Dad.”accompanied the dimming of the final light, and Teddy squeezed his hand and stepped forward into the unending darkness.

[ditto-the-alien]

I Hate My Job

A story I wrote for a college class, You can ignore. 1010 words

Synopsis: Death vents to a psychologist about their job.

I really, REALLY hate my job. I’ve had it for my entire adult life, yet it never gets easier. You think it would be easy, just go in, lead them where they need to go, get out, and maybe take a bit of a break afterwards to catch your breath. But no, more people need to be led to their final destination every minute of every day. 3383729 people every year, 9246 people every day, 386 people every hour, 7 people every minute. I used to have to do a lot more, but thankfully more people got hired a while back. I still got stuck with one of the worst places to have to do the job though.  I mean you probably know that you LIVE there.

“…I’m still confused on why the grim reaper is in my office.”

Well, you are technically dead right now.

“So, the defibrillator won’t work?”

Nah, it probably will, time just slows down when you are either a reaper or a soul. I’m taking advantage of this to actually talk to someone about my job. And before you ask, I am not going to describe what happens after OR if any of the religions are right. I don’t know, I just lead people to the end, not go in with them.

“So why me, of all people to talk to?”

You happened to be the closest psychologist currently dying or that is currently dead and not in what happens after. Now can I please continue talking?

“Sorry, please continue.”

Ok then. The United States is possibly the worst place to have to be a reaper, for several reasons. The first of these has only really started happening in the past decade or so: have you ever had to console a child who has just been taken away from everything they knew because some wingnut thought “Hey, I’m going to shoot a bunch of people!” And I know that’s really simplifying what happens but the end result is the same: you end up not knowing what to say. Either because you didn’t expect someone to go and kill a bunch of elementary schoolers for who-knows-what reason, or because you have seen it go play out so many times you don’t know if there is anything you CAN say that hasn’t been said before.

“You know a lot of people feel that way about that, right?”

Nothing ever changes though. I’M the only thing that isn’t supposed to change, you know, “Death is inevitable” and all that jazz. Instead this hellhole is stuck in an endless loop of me having to go back and forth.

“You said there were several reasons that you dislike your job.”

Yeah, Failed childbirth. Regular old dead babies are fine. Sure they are loud but I don’t have to explain what happened to them. But when the mother dies, oh boy do they cry like hell. All they want is to hold that child in their arms, and then they kick the bucket before doing it and feel like they “Abandoned them”. Then they try to hurt me thinking I’m the reason that they died, but I’m just the messenger! 

“Wait you don’t kill people?”

No, I don’t! If I could half of the problems, I have with this job would not even matter! And to be honest that kind of pisses me off too, the fact that people blame ME for them dying. I did absolutely nothing, people either die thanks to their own actions, someone else’s actions, or because their body hates them! If it wasn’t for the fact that Jack gets mauled every single day, I would take his job of dealing with the animals because at least THEY don’t think it’s my fault!

“… There has to be at least one positive about your job. If not, why are you even working there?”

The one good thing is that sometimes when a person dies, one of their deceased dogs goes and tackles them to the ground and licks their face. It’s nice to see at least something get fixed or reunited every now and then, but that happens so rarely. it makes me really pissed that its either “Do this job” or “Un-Exist”. And before you ask, yes, if reapers quit we cease to exist and some other shmuck has to do this job. 

“… Wow…. That… to be frank, really sucks.”

Yep. To be honest one of the few reasons I do this job is so that nobody else has too. I did it back when one of you got mauled by a sabertooth tiger and I’ll do it when one of you decides to kill the only other person on the moon with a rock. Corporate barely listens to my requests, it took eons for them to even hire people for the other continents and even longer for the individual countries. Thankfully at least Jack always dealt with the animals so I never had to worry about that. 

….

You know, I think I just really needed to get that off my chest. Given that I haven’t been able to actually take a break in years, even just venting about how horrible my job is helped. It made me realize that as long as you even just have someone to talk to, your day can be made just a little bit better. 

“Perfect. Well, I am pretty sure the EMTs are going to restart my heart soon, so I guess this is goodbye.”

Yeah.  *BUZZ*

…. huh. well, see you next week I guess.

“You too.”

“…Wait what do you mean see you next we-” HUNDREDS DEAD IN HOSPITAL EXPLOSION

At Approximately 3PM Wednesday afternoon, a large explosion rocked the Saint Joey Memorial hospital. After the psychologist Wilson Adams had a heart attack, Doctors arrived with a defibrillator. However the gas main had broken in that room, and the electrical charge ignited it, causing a chain reaction of explosions that eventually caused the entire building to collapse. Wilson Adam’s body was found among the wreckage.