#tuesday this is all because of you. i hope you know this.

[dixons-sunshine]

Actions Speak Louder Than Words | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

(GIF by @daryl-dixon-daydreams)

Summary: Being woken up with kisses by you might have been Daryl’s favourite thing ever. Getting a gift that particular morning was unexpected, but not unappreciated. It might have been the best birthday he has ever had.

Genre: Fluff.

Warnings: None.

Word count: 817.

A/N: Wrote a little something in honour of Norman’s birthday! Happy birthday to one of the best people on this planet!

Daryl slowly opened his eyes at the feeling of soft prodding against his skin. He blinked to rid himself of the loopy, sleepy feeling, his gaze landing on the ceiling above. However, he looked down when the soft prodding persisted, and when he did, a small smile spread across his face.

You easily returned the gesture. You pressed your lips against his chest, being extra gentle whenever you were met with a scar. You slowly trailed up his collarbone, his neck, his cheek, before finally letting your lips meet his for a tender kiss.

Daryl pulled away after a few seconds, his signature half smile on his face. “Well, g’mornin’.”

You grinned and brought a hand up to cup his cheek, lightly scratching his stubble. “Good morning, handsome,” you greeted him, your eyes sparkling with excitement—something that made the archer confused.

Your partner raised his eyebrows at you, instantly reading you like the back of his hand. “Alright, spill. What’s up?”

You gave him a faux innocent look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed, completely unconvinced. “Sure. S’jus’ my imagination, huh? You wake me up with kisses, lookin’ all excited and s’for no reason at all?”

“Can’t I just be happy to be with you?”

“Sure you can, but s’more than that. I can tell.”

You finally gave up on your attempt at keeping a straight face. You laughed and removed yourself from his embrace, reaching over to grab something from your nightstand. It took a couple of tries to get the drawer open, but you finally succeeded after the third try.

Daryl watched you move in silence, his eyebrows furrowing together when you grabbed a little box that was wrapped in pink, glittery wrapping paper and placed it in his hands. “What’s this?” he questioned, fiddling with the object but making no move to open it just yet.

“If I wanted to tell you, I would have done so instead of making sure to keep it a secret,” you retorted, chuckling when he sent you a look that said ‘really?’ “Just open it, okay?”

The archer hesitated for a few seconds longer, before sighing and slowly beginning to peel the paper away. Underneath, it revealed a tiny wooden box. “A box?” he asked, looking back up at you.

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Look inside the box.”

Daryl chuckled. He opened it up, and his heart started galloping in his chest. He gingerly took the object from the box, his ocean-coloured eyes widening in awe. “I—what? Why?”

You smiled at him reaction. “Because I wanted to. I had to pull some strings with people to let me take their places on runs, but I got something for you. I hope you like it.”

In his palm, there laid a chain necklace with a little silver arrow hanging from it. It may have been something simple in the eyes of others, but to Daryl, it was absolutely perfect. It was beautiful, and he was going to wear it with pride because his woman got it for him.

“Thanks. S’amazin’,” he whispered, letting the chain hang from his fingers. “But seriously. Why? What’s the occasion?”

“You really don’t know what today is?” When Daryl shook his head, you leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the tip of his nose. “It’s your birthday, Dar. Happy birthday.”

Realization dawned on him. Ever since coming to Alexandria, where the people had somehow managed to keep track of the dates, you had insisted on keeping an out-of-date calendar in your shared room. You might not have known whether it was Friday or Tuesday, but you knew what the date was. And that day, it was his birthday.

“Shit. That’s today?” he asked, continuing when you nodded. “You didn’t have to do nothin’ for me. I would’a been happy with a simple “happy birthday”. You didn’t have to go through all’a that trouble to find me a gift.”

“It wasn’t any trouble.” You cut Daryl off before he could protest. “It wasn’t. It’s your birthday, and I wanted to get you something for it. That’s not any trouble for me. It’s a way for me to show you how much I love you, okay?”

Daryl’s heart leaped in his chest. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wished he could say to express his gratitude. However, words fell short in that moment. All he could manage was a simple “thanks.”

You smiled softly and nodded. “Of course.” Despite the simplicity of that answer to your heartfelt confession, you knew how grateful he was. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up, in the way his hand found your’s and squeezed it three times, and in the way he looked at you. You didn’t need any words to know how much he loved you.

Sometimes, actions spoke louder than words.

[royalarchivist]

Fit: It would, um... Uh, how should I put this... It would be like a date. Because... um... gosto de você.

Pac: [Delighted laugh] Gosto de mim?

Fit: Uh yeah. I'm s– did I butcher that? I'm sorry.

Pac: No no no no no no no! It was good! It goes: gosto de voce também.

Fit: Oh. [Laughs] Um yeah. But uh, I just– just think you're cool and I– Tuesday if you wanna– yeah! I got something cool that I think you might like. Is all.

Pac: To be honest with you, I never had a date in my 10 year life in Minecraft.

Fit: Yeah, you know, I've– I don't– I've never had a date in Minecraft either, now that I think about it. [Laughs]

Happy 1 year Anniversary to Fit confessing to Pac and asking him out on a date! 💕🌹

[ Full Transcript ↓ ]

—

Pac: Yeah, Tuesday sounds great!

Fit: It would, um... Uh, how should I put this... It would be like a date.

Pac: Oh! It would– [Realizes] Ohhhhhhh

Fit: Because... um... gosto de você.

Pac: [Delighted laugh] Gosto de mim?

Fit: Uh yeah. I'm s– did I butcher that? I'm sorry.

Pac: No no no no no no no! It was good! It goes: gosto de voce também.

Fit: Oh. [Laughs] Um yeah. But uh, I just– just think you're cool and I– Tuesday if you wanna– yeah! I got something cool that I think you might like. Is all.

Pac: No, yeah yeah!

Ramon: [Audibly takes a photo]

Pac: [Laughs] Ramon! Can I hide behind the bench just like you? [Laughs]

Fit: [Laughs]

Pac: You know, I think you're cool too Fit, you know? I'm down for the- for the date you said on Tuesday, you know. I– to be honest with you? Like, I never had a date in my 10 year life in Minecraft, you know?

Fit: Yeah, you know, I've– I don't– I've never had a date in Minecraft either, yeah, actually, now that I think about it. Yeah, so it– [Laughs] Well, hey! I mean, may– you know, I bet it'd be cool!

Pac: Yeah, you know– you know, I– I- when you- when you started like, giggling, I thought you would say like– [Deep voice as he leans into the mic] "In the oldest anarchy server in Minecraft!"

[They both laugh]

—

Not included in the clip, but they have this fun little exchange immediately after this scene:

Pac: I hope that date is not on 2b2t, you know? Otherwise I'm gonna be scared as fck.

Fit: No, it is not– it is not gonna be on 2b2t! No, don't worry.

Pac: [Laughs]

Fit: That would be... That would be... No.

Pac: That would be– right? That would be something!

Fit: If- if it was on 2b2t, we would be both banned from Twitch, so no, it will not be on 2b2t. [...] Plus, a bunch of fire and destruction and a bunch of hate is not... the most appropriate place for a date, you know? So...

[8thhousekat]

struggles of having a 8h dominant chart

From an 8th houser ✌️

Tw: SA, abuse, neglect

🕷️we have resting bitch faces and look mad all of the time

🕷️we had to raise ourselves and it caused us to have unhealthy coping mechanisms

🕷️we don’t trust easily

🕷️the paranormal is drawn to us (a little too much)

🕷️we experience losing the people we love most way to often

🕷️people come into our lives as lessons or vice versa

🕷️we have a sexual aura about us when we aren’t even sexual at all

🕷️again the sexualization 😐

🕷️people randomly tell us their deepest darkest secrets 😭

🕷️we are always find out if people are lying to us

🕷️personally I really struggle with letting items go??

🕷️grudge holding and vengeance until I die✌️

🕷️we will read you like a book

🕷️experiencing a lot of near death experiences

🕷️attracting animals they just feel safe with us

🕷️being treated like an adult way to young

🕷️our mothers are very cold towards us or older woman in general

🕷️Scorpio placements 😭 are attracted to me like flies ( I love them tho they make me feel safe)

🕷️ the emotional repression for 5 yrs comes out on a random Tuesday

🕷️loving people on the line of hate

🕷️as a child seeing spirits everywhere

🕷️we are really loyal people especially in relationships/friendships ❤️

🕷️random haters out of nowhere

🕷️people make up rumors about us really easily (this one time I moved schools suddenly and people started saying I died?? Like wtf)

🕷️we have intense stares we deadpan people

🕷️a lot of us were neglected really bad growing up and abused 😔

🕷️being hard to get to know🕷️

🕷️issues sleeping

🕷️intense anger 😭

🕷️the BETRAYAL really gets outta hand people gotta do better

🕷️experiencing awful jealousy from others

🕷️being hard to manipulate ❤️

🕷️no one really knows us but they know us if that makes sense

🕷️we are paranoid 100%

🕷️we have horrible intrusive thoughts

🕷️We love scary stuff

🕷️there’s stuff that has happened to us that if we said it out loud no one would understand the severity

🕷️mental health is either amazing or horrible no in between

🕷️randomly wanting to change your appearance? We always have urges to go through transformations because we constantly are 😭

I hope you guys liked this it’s just from my experience and what I’ve noticed 🙏

[from-memphis-with-love]

The Price of Living

Summary: What happens when a frontier nurse saves an entire town from deadly fever - and names her price? A child of her own, to be given by one of the survivors. When the straws are drawn, fate chooses Elvis Presley - a classics professor turned miner with a fiancée back home. Their marriage of duty becomes something neither expected. Word count: ~6,600 Warnings: None. Sexy but tasteful mention of making a baby.

The Price of Living

When the fever came to Gold Hill, it took the women first. 

I remember Mary Wilson clutching her throat on a Tuesday, my hands trembling as I mixed the willow bark tea that had saved so many others back East. By Thursday, she was gone, and the tea sat cold and useless by her bedside. Then it was Martha James, then the Widow Carson, then little Jenny who helped me in the infirmary. The children followed their mothers into the earth, ducklings following in a neat row. I buried them all, my hands cracked and bleeding from the shovel's wooden handle, while the men stood back and watched, their hats pressed to their chests.

"Y’know, you oughta wear gloves," John Matthews said one evening, watching me dig another grave from a respectable distance. "Your hands–"

"My hands need to feel what they're doing," I snapped, then immediately regretted my tone. He was only trying to help, in his clumsy man's way. But I couldn't explain how the pain in my hands was the only thing keeping me sane, keeping me from screaming at God for making me watch mother after mother slip away while I stood by, useless with my teas and poultices.

I alone remained untouched. Perhaps it was because I'd had scarlet fever as a child, or perhaps God had other plans for me. I couldn't say. 

What I did know was that twenty-three men now looked to me as their only hope of survival when the fever caught them too. Their eyes followed me everywhere I went, hungry and desperate, like wolves tracking the last deer in winter.

They came to my infirmary one by one at first, then in waves. I stripped their sweat-soaked shirts from their bodies, pressed cool cloths to their foreheads, and forced bitter willow bark tea down their throats. I sang to them when their fever dreams made them cry out for their mothers, their wives, their lost children. I held their hands when they thrashed against the sheets, and I prayed over them when their breathing grew shallow.

When Elvis Presley took ill, I felt a fear I hadn't known since Mary Wilson first showed symptoms. He'd been helping me tend the others, his educated hands surprisingly gentle with the sick. 

In health, he'd stood out among the miners – a classics professor from Memphis who'd traded his lectures on Aristotle for a pick and pan. The other men mocked his fine manners and careful speech, but they came to him in the evenings to have their letters written home, appreciating his way with words even as they teased him for it.

Even in sickness, he was beautiful. The fever that made other men gaunt and ghostly seemed to burnish him instead, like gold in a crucible. His dark hair curled damply against his forehead as he twisted in the sheets, calling out for his mother, for his Priscilla, for God. I wiped his brow and sang the hymns he'd played in church, watching his face for any sign that the fever was breaking.

"Angel," he murmured on the third night, his eyes fever-bright as he caught my wrist. "Are… are you an angel?"

"No," I said, carefully loosening his grip. "Just your nurse."

"The angel of Gold Hill," he insisted, his voice cracking. "Everyone says... says you're the only thing keeping death away." He tried to sit up, his movements jerky and desperate. "Don't leave me here. Priscilla... I promised her..."

"Hush now," I said, pushing him back against the pillows. "You ain’t going nowhere. I won't let you." I pressed another cool cloth to his forehead, trying not to notice how his skin felt like silk beneath my roughened hands, how his lips parted slightly at my touch. "Rest. Dream of your Priscilla."

But when he slept, it was my name he whispered - Anne, not Annie like the others called me, just Anne, soft and wondering like a prayer.

Some died despite my efforts. William Parker was the first - a young man, barely twenty, who'd been saving his gold to bring his fiancee west. "Please don't let me die," he begged, clutching my sleeve with strength that belied his wasted frame. "Catherine's coming in the spring. I promised–" He never finished the sentence. 

I buried him next to the others, and wondered if his sweetheart would ever know where to lay her flowers.

The others lived, though there were nights I thought I'd lose them all. Nights when the fever rose so high it cooked their brains, made them see devils dancing in the corners. Nights when I had to tie them to their beds to keep them from running naked into the snow, chasing visions of their dead wives. Nights when I caught myself nodding off and jerked awake in terror, certain I'd dozed while another soul slipped away.

They emerged from my infirmary changed men, hollow-eyed and grateful in a way that made my skin crawl. They brought me things: gold nuggets, pretty rocks, wild flowers. 

They fixed my roof, chopped my wood, fetched my water. They called me "Miss Anne" and treated me like I was made of spun glass, precious and fragile, when I was the one who had carried their dying bodies and cleaned their sick and buried their dead.

"You shouldn't be alone," they'd say, hovering around my porch like nervous suitors. "Let us help you more."

But I saw the fear in their eyes when they looked at me - fear mixed with something else, something hungry that made me pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders. I was the woman who'd seen them at their weakest, who knew their fever-babbled secrets. The woman who remained when their wives were gone. It was a dangerous combination.

When they gathered at the saloon that night, the air was thick with relief and whiskey. Someone had dragged out an old piano from storage, its yellowed keys chiming discordantly as men who hadn't touched music in months remembered how their fingers moved. The bartender, Tom Sullivan, kept the drinks flowing, though his hands still shook when he poured.

"To Miss Anne!" They raised their glasses, voices rough with emotion and drink. "The Angel of Gold Hill!"

I stood in the corner, my shawl pulled tight despite the heat from the crowded room. Twenty faces turned to me, flushed with whiskey and life. Twenty men who'd seen death's shadow pass over them and lived to tell the tale. Twenty men who owed me everything

It was Tommy Wheeler who brought up the subject of proper payment. "It ain't right," he said, his voice carrying across the quiet room. "What you done for us, Miss Anne. We can't never repay it proper."

"I don't need payment," I said, but they wouldn't hear of it.

“We ought to give her something," John Matthews declared, swaying slightly as he got to his feet. "Something proper, to show our gratitude."

The suggestions came fast and eager. A new roof for the infirmary. A new garden full of medicinal herbs. A piano like the one currently being tortured by drunk fingers.

“Why don’t we ask her what she wants?” Jim Barnes added as if it were the brightest idea in the world. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to them to ask.

I set down my spoon and looked at them, these men I had nursed back from death's door. They were strong again now, their faces filled out, their eyes bright. They had everything they needed to rebuild their lives – except for what they'd lost.

What I'd lost too.

"I want a baby," I said, my voice quiet. "I want one of you to give me a baby."

The silence that followed was absolute. Then someone laughed - a sharp, ugly sound that died as quickly as it came.

"You can't be serious," said John.

"I am." I looked around the room, meeting their eyes one by one.

"Now, Miss Anne," Tom said carefully, as if speaking to a spooked horse. "Wouldn't you rather have something practical? We could build you a greenhouse, maybe. For your herbs."

"Or a new well," another voice chimed in. "Closer to your house."

"Or a fiddle. Maybe you wanna pick up an instrument!" said a third man.

"I'm twenty-six years old," my voice was stronger now, fueled by their obvious discomfort. "I came west to be a nurse because no man back home would have me. Now all the women are gone, and you want to repay me? Give me what I've always wanted. A child of my own."

The saloon erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped against wooden floors as men jumped to their feet, their voices rising in a cacophony of shock and protest.

"She's gone mad with grief!" someone shouted from the back.

"It ain't proper!" called another.

"Think of what the territory marshal would say!"

John Matthews slammed his fist on the table. "We owe her our lives, but this… this is too much to ask!"

"She saved my Tommy," Wheeler's voice cracked. "But I can't… my Mary ain't even cold in her grave…"

The accusations and protests grew louder, more frenzied. Some men backed away from me like I was carrying the fever again. Others argued amongst themselves, their faces red with whiskey and embarrassment.

"It's indecent!"

"We're God-fearing men!"

"She needs a husband, not a…"

I felt the tears coming then, hot and unwanted. My hands trembled as I gathered my shawl, my medical bag, my dignity. These men had cried in my arms, had trusted me with their fever dreams and desperate prayers. Now they looked at me like I was something dirty, something shameful.

"I should have known better," I whispered, though no one could hear me over the din. My vision blurred as I stood, nearly knocking over my chair in my haste to escape.

I was almost to the door when Billy Maynard's voice cut through the chaos. "Well, hell, if the woman wants a baby," he thundered, "by God, we'll give her one."

Wheeler cleared his throat. "But who…"

"Draw straws," I said. "I don't care who. But that's my price."

They did it right there in the saloon, using pieces of straw from a broom. Twenty men, all of them shifting uncomfortably, none meeting my eyes now. All except one. Elvis Presley stood apart from the others, his handsome face troubled.

When Billy offered him the straws, he hesitated. "I can't," he said. "I'm promised to another. Back in Memphis."

"Draw," Billy said firmly. "You took the same care she gave as the rest of us."

On the men continued, drawing straws with shaking hands, pale faces turned away from me as if I couldn't see their relief when they pulled a long one. Elvis’ fingers trembled as he drew, his educated hands suddenly clumsy as a schoolboy's.

The straw was short.

The room erupted in relieved laughter and back-slapping. Elvis stood frozen, the damning straw in his hand, while I watched from my seat by the fire. His eyes met mine across the room, dark with something I couldn't name.

"It ain't right," someone muttered. "The child'll be a bastard."

"Then they'll have to marry," said Wheeler, and more laughter followed.

But Elvis wasn't laughing. "I told you," he said, his voice carrying that musical lilt that had first caught my attention months ago, when he'd wandered into town with his guitar strapped to his back. "I'm promised to Miss Priscilla back home. We're to be married come spring."

"That was before the fever," Matthews said. "Things are different now."

Different. Yes, everything was different now. I stood up, my chair scraping against the wooden floor. "I won't force anyone," I said quietly. "That wasn't part of the bargain. If Mr. Presley doesn't wish to fulfill the debt, draw again."

But Elvis was shaking his head. "A debt's a debt," he said. "And a promise is a promise. I made one to Miss Priscilla, and now I've made one here. I just…" He ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing it from its usual careful style. "I need time to think."

I nodded once and left the saloon, the men's voices following me into the night. I had time. I had nothing but time, in this town of grateful men and empty cradles.

Elvis avoided me for three weeks after that night. He kept to himself mostly, through his books and his music that drifted down from his room above the general store late into the night - mournful songs that made the dogs howl and kept half the town awake. Every Sunday after church, he'd write his letters to Memphis, seal them with shaking hands, and press them into the postmaster's care like they were made of gold.

I didn't push. I had meant what I said about not forcing anyone. But I watched him, same as I had when he lay burning with fever in my infirmary. He was different from the other men - softer somehow, like clay not yet fired. His hands were unused to labor, though he'd taken his turn with the burial detail same as everyone else. The other men noticed it too, this difference. They'd watch him tune his guitar with those gentle fingers and shake their heads, muttering about men who weren't quite men.

The letter from Priscilla came on a Wednesday. I was in my infirmary, rolling bandages, when I heard the commotion at the general store. Elvis had read the letter right there on the front steps, his face draining of color, then walked straight to the saloon. By sundown, he was roaring drunk, smashing bottles and trying to pick fights with men twice his size.

It took three of them to drag him to my infirmary. They dumped him on a cot, bloody-knuckled and sobbing.

"She's marrying a cotton merchant," he kept saying, over and over. "A proper gentleman. Says she can't waste her youth waiting for a fool who got himself trapped in some godsforsaken mining town."

I cleaned his cuts in silence. What was there to say? She wasn't wrong - he was trapped here, same as all of us. The fever had passed, but the quarantine remained. No one in, no one out, by order of the territory marshal.

Father McKinnery started visiting Elvis daily after that. I'd see them walking together, the priest's black cassock collecting dust, Elvis's head bowed as he listened. Sometimes I'd catch snippets of their conversations - talk of duty and honor, of making the best of God's plan.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," Father McKinnery would say, loud enough for me to hear as they passed my infirmary. "Perhaps this is His path for you both."

A month later, Elvis appeared at my door in his Sunday best, sober and grim-faced. "I reckon we ought to do this properly," he said, not meeting my eyes. "If you're still wanting what you asked for."

We were married the next day, a quick ceremony in the little church. Elvis spoke his vows in a flat voice, like he was reading from a faraway script. When Father McKinnery told him to kiss the bride, he pecked my cheek like I was his maiden aunt.

He moved his things into my house, but that was all that changed. Each night, he'd lie rigid on his side of the bed, careful not to let any part of him touch any part of me. I'd lie awake, listening to his breathing. Waiting. Sometimes I'd hear him mumbling in his sleep – calling her name, not mine.

During the day, he'd tip his hat when we passed on the street, polite as you please. "Mrs. Presley," he'd say, like I was a stranger he had to show respect to, not his wife. At night, he'd come home late from the saloon, smelling of whiskey and regret, and collapse into our bed without a word.

The whole town watched us, whispering. They saw how he flinched when I reached for him, how he kept his distance even as we shared a roof, a name, a bed. They saw, and they pitied me. The woman who'd saved their lives, now living like a ghost in her own home.

But still I waited, night after night, for him to remember his promise. For him to turn to me in the darkness and give me what I'd asked for. What I'd earned.

Winter came early that year. The passes filled with snow, and the quarantine hardly mattered anymore; nobody could get in or out even if they wanted to. The men huddled in the mines for warmth between shifts, and my infirmary filled with cases of frostbite and fever.

Elvis took to playing in the saloon again. Not for money anymore, but because the men needed something to lift their spirits. He'd sing those old hymns his mama taught him, and for a little while, the men would forget about the empty chairs where their wives used to sit, the silent cradles in their homes.

I'd listen from my place by the fire, pretending to mend someone's shirt or darn their socks. He never looked at me while he sang, but sometimes his voice would crack on certain words - love, home - and I'd see his hands tremble on the guitar strings.

One night, Tommy Wheeler's boy started crying during "Amazing Grace." He was only eight, the last child left in town, saved from the fever by being away at his aunt's when it hit. Elvis stopped mid-verse, his face white as paper.

"Keep singing," Wheeler said gruffly. "Boy's just tired."

But Elvis set down his guitar and walked out into the snow. I found him later, sitting on our front porch, his breath freezing in the air.

"I ever tell you about my mama?" he asked without looking at me.

"No."

"She used to sing that hymn every Sunday. Said it was God's own favorite." He laughed, a sound like breaking ice. "Wonder what she'd think of me now. Married to a woman I won't touch, playing songs in a dead town."

I stood in the doorway, watching the snow collect in his dark hair. "You could touch me," I said quietly. "I wouldn't break."

He turned then, really looked at me for the first time in months. "No," he said slowly. "I don't reckon you would. You're probably ‘bout the strongest person in this whole damn town."

But still he didn't touch me. Just went inside and lay down on his side of the bed, rigid as a corpse, while I stared at the ceiling and listened to the wind howl through the empty streets.

Another letter from Priscilla came two days later. I saw the postmaster hand it to him, saw him tuck it into his jacket without opening it. That night, he burned it in the fireplace without reading it.

"Ain't nothing she could say that would matter now," he said when he caught me watching. "This is my life. For better or worse, like the preacher said."

It wasn't much, as declarations went. But it was something. A crack in the wall he'd built between us.

That night, he didn't turn his back to me when he lay down. He stared up at the ceiling too, his breathing uneven in the darkness.

"Anne," he said, "you ever wonder if God has a sense of humor?"

"Sometimes," I said. "When I think about how He put a man with a beautiful voice like you in a town that's gone quiet."

He was quiet so long I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then I felt his hand move across the sheet between us, his pinky finger just barely touching mine.

"Maybe," he said, "He knew what He was doing after all."

Spring came to Gold Hill like a woman trying on her sister's dress - awkward and uncertain at first, then with growing confidence. The snow melted, revealing the graves we'd dug in fall, but also the first green shoots pushing through the mud. The men started talking about the future again. They smiled more. Laughed sometimes.

Letters started going out - not just Elvis' to Memphis anymore, but dozens of them, to sisters and cousins and friends back East. "My cousin Mary's got a friend," they'd tell each other in the saloon. "Real nice girl, good family. Writes that she'd consider coming West, now the fever's passed."

John Matthews was the first to get a response. He showed the letter to everyone who'd stand still long enough to listen. Three pages of careful handwriting from a widow in Pennsylvania who'd agreed to marry him sight unseen. "She's bringing her sewing machine," he said proudly. "Says she can make curtains."

After that, it was like a dam broke. Every week brought new letters, new promises, new hope. Tommy Wheeler's sister was coming with her two daughters. The blacksmith had a sweetheart in Ohio who'd waited for him. Even Father McKinnery had written to a seminary back East about sending more priests - the town would need them soon enough, what with all the weddings and baptisms surely coming.

I watched it all from my infirmary window, my hands busy with the endless work of keeping men alive. They still needed me for the burns from the mine, the cuts and breaks, the lingering coughs that winter had left behind. But they needed me less now. They looked past me sometimes, their minds already full of the women who were coming to replace the ones they'd lost.

It happened on a Sunday after church. The Wheeler boy – the same one who'd survived the fever by being away – was showing off for the new children, climbing the old oak tree behind the church while their mothers chatted about the upcoming social. I heard the crack before I saw him fall, that sickening sound of breaking wood that's followed too often by breaking bone.

I was running before the screams started, my skirts hitched up past my ankles in a way that would have scandalized the new ladies if they weren't all too busy screaming themselves. The boy had landed wrong, his neck bent at an angle that stopped my heart for a moment. But there was no time for fear. My hands knew what to do even as my mind raced with prayers.

"Don't move him!" I shouted as John Matthews reached for the boy. "Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?"

His eyes were wide with terror, but he managed a small nod. Good. His neck wasn't broken then. But the way his chest heaved, the horrible whistling sound with each breath. That was bad. Very bad.

"Something's in his throat," I said, more to myself than the crowd gathering around us. "He's choking on it."

I turned him carefully onto his side, supporting his head and neck. The new Mrs. Matthews gasped when I thrust my fingers into the boy's mouth, but I ignored her. I could feel it – a chunk of something he must have been chewing when he fell. Apple, maybe, or one of Mrs. Wheeler's hard candies she always snuck to the children after service.

"Come on, Tommy," I whispered, working my fingers deeper as he gagged. "Work with me here."

The crowd had gone silent, holding its collective breath. I was dimly aware of Elvis pushing through to the front, his church clothes getting dusty as he knelt beside me. Without a word, he took over supporting Tommy's head, his hands steady and sure.

When my probing fingers finally dislodged the candy, Tommy's whole body convulsed. I pulled him up against me, letting him cough and splutter against my shoulder while I rubbed his back. My good church dress would be ruined, but I didn't care.

"That's it," I murmured. "Get it all out. You're alright now."

It wasn't until Tommy was breathing normally again, crying in his aunt's arms while the other ladies clucked and fussed, that I noticed the state of my hands. They were bleeding again, the barely-healed cracks from winter's work torn open by the rough work of saving yet another life.

Elvis caught my wrists as I tried to hide them in my skirts. "Let me see," he said softly.

"It's nothing. Just need to wrap them again."

But he held on, turning my hands over in his. The women around us had fallen silent, watching. They saw my rough, red hands in his smooth, clean ones – a contrast as stark as our match.

"Nothing," he echoed, his voice strange. "You call saving a child's life nothing?" His thumbs traced the scars, the raw places, gentle as Sunday morning prayer. "These hands have done more good than any soft, pretty ones I've ever held."

He looked up then, and the expression in his eyes made me catch my breath. It wasn't pity or guilt or duty I saw there. It was something else entirely. Something that made my scarred hands tremble in his grasp and my heart beat faster than it had during all the emergency.

"We should get some salve on these cuts," he said, but he didn't let go. Not even when Mrs. Matthews started herding the other women away, not even when Tommy's aunt led the still-sniffling boy home.

"Elvis," I said, suddenly conscious of how we must look, kneeling in the dirt behind the church. "The people–"

"Let them look," he said quietly.

That night, he brought me a jar of honeysuckle salve from the general store and insisted on wrapping my hands himself. His touch was different now, less clinical than when he'd helped me tend the sick, more like the way he handled his precious guitar. Like he was touching something valuable. Something worth caring for.

"Isn’t it wonderful?" Elvis said one night, his voice dreamy. He'd taken to sitting up in bed reading the newspaper instead of going to the saloon, pointing out every mention of trains running again, of trade resuming. "Everything's coming back to life."

I thought of the tiny garden I'd kept behind the house, the seeds I'd planted that refused to sprout. "Yes," I said. "Wonderful."

He must have heard something in my voice, because he put down his paper and really looked at me. "You still want it, don't you? A baby?"

"Doesn't matter what I want," I said, folding the quilt back with careful hands. "Some things aren't meant to be."

"I made a promise–”

"You've kept your promise," I cut him off. "You married me. You're a good husband. You don't drink too much or spend all our money or run around with other women. That's more’n most get."

"But we haven't–"

"No," I said. "We haven't. And we won't, unless you want to. I won't have you touching me out of duty, Elvis. I've had enough of men doing things for me out of duty."

He stared at me for a long moment, something like wonder in his face. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"I do."

"Even though it's the thing you wanted most? The whole reason for this marriage?"

I smoothed the quilt, avoiding his eyes. "I learned a long time ago that wanting something doesn't make it right. I wanted to save everyone during the fever, but I couldn't. I wanted to be pretty like Priscilla, but I'm not. I wanted you to love me, but…" I shrugged. "Life goes on anyway."

When I finally looked up, his face had that same expression he'd worn the first time I sang to him during his fever - like he was seeing something he hadn't known was there.

"You're something else," he said softly. "You know that?"

I blew out the lamp and lay down, turning my back to him. "Goodnight, Elvis."

But I felt his eyes on me long after the room went dark.

The first bride arrived in May. Sarah Matthews, formerly Sarah Cooper of Pennsylvania, stepped off the wagon in a blue calico dress with a sewing machine clutched to her chest like a shield. John Matthews lifted her down like she was made of china, his face split with a grin so wide you'd think he'd struck gold all over again.

I watched from my porch as the whole town turned out to welcome her. They'd swept the streets and hung bunting, like it was the Fourth of July instead of a random Tuesday. Even Elvis had put on his good suit to join the welcoming committee, his guitar strapped to his back in case anyone called for a song.

The new Mrs. Matthews looked around at all the men's faces - eager, hungry faces that hadn't seen a new woman in nearly a year - and clutched her sewing machine tighter.

"John wrote that there was another woman here," she said, her voice carrying in the strange quiet. "A nurse?"

"That'd be Mrs. Presley," someone said, and all eyes turned to my porch.

I nodded to her from my rocking chair, not getting up. My hands were busy with mending - they were always busy with something these days. "Welcome to Gold Hill, Mrs. Matthews."

She stared at me for a long moment, taking in my plain dress, my work-roughened hands, my face that had never been pretty even before the fever aged it ten years in as many months. Then her gaze slid to Elvis, standing there in his fine suit with his blue eyes shining like the Pacific and his skin so tanned, and I saw the question in it clear as day.

How did she end up with him?

It was a question I saw more and more as the brides trickled in through spring and summer. They came in ones and twos, clutching their belongings and their dreams of Western adventure. They looked at Elvis - still beautiful despite the hard months, still gentle-mannered and sweet-voiced - and then they looked at me, and I could see them trying to solve the puzzle of us.

The new women brought life back to Gold Hill, sure enough. Curtains appeared in windows that had been bare since the fever. The smell of baking bread replaced the lingering medicinal scents that had hung over the town. Flowers appeared in garden plots that had gone to weeds. There were socials and sewing circles and church suppers. All the trappings of civilization that the men had done without.

I wasn't invited to most of them. The new women were polite enough, but they didn't know what to make of me. I was a reminder of the time before, of the dead women I'd failed to save, of the desperation that had brought them here to marry men they'd never met.

"Don't let it trouble you," Elvis said one night, watching me watch the lights in the church basement where the Ladies' Aid Society was meeting. "They're just scared. Everything's strange to them here."

"I know strange," I said. "I live with it every night."

He flinched at that, and I immediately regretted the words. We'd achieved a kind of peace in our marriage of convenience; he no longer avoided my eyes or flinched when I passed him the coffee pot, and sometimes he even told me about his day or asked my opinion on things. It wasn't love, but it was a sort of friendship, and I'd learned to be grateful for small mercies.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That wasn't fair."

"No," he said quietly. "It was perfectly fair."

He went back to his newspaper, and I went back to my mending, and we sat in our familiar silence until bedtime. But that night, when I was almost asleep, I heard him whisper:

"You deserve better than strange."

I pretended not to hear him. It was easier that way.

The next wedding was set for August – Tommy Wheeler's sister Emma and her girls were finally arriving, and she'd been corresponding with the blacksmith. They'd decided to marry the day she arrived, "to avoid any awkwardness," as Father McKinnery put it.

The whole town was buzzing with preparations. The women baked and sewed and decorated the church, while the men built a proper house for the new couple. Even Elvis was caught up in the excitement, practicing wedding songs on his guitar late into the night.

I kept to my infirmary, tending to the usual injuries and ailments. But one afternoon, Emma Wheeler's eldest daughter found her way to my porch. She was maybe twelve, with Wheeler's stubborn chin and suspicious eyes.

"Mama says you're the one who saved everyone," she said without preamble. "During the fever."

"I tried," I said. "I couldn't save everyone."

"But you saved Uncle Tommy. And Mr. Presley." She looked at me hard. "Is that why he married you? Because you saved his life?" Before I could answer, Elvis's voice came from behind me: "No, little miss. I married her because she's the strongest, bravest person in this town. She could have left when the fever came, but she stayed. Could have given up when it got bad, but she fought. Could have asked for gold or land or a ticket back East as payment, but all she wanted was to bring new life to a place that had seen too much death." He paused. "I married her for that.”

The girl stared at him, then at me, then scampered off without another word. I kept my eyes on my mending, though the stitches had gone crooked.

"You didn't have to say all that," I said finally.

"Didn't say anything that wasn't true." He sat down in the other rocking chair, the one that had become his over the months. "Been thinking a lot lately. About what makes a person worth something."

"Have you now?"

"Priscilla," he said the name carefully, like it might shatter, "she used to tell me I was worth something because I was a professor. Because I was handsome and had prospects and I could play a tune. But you…" He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. "You look at every broken-down miner like he's worth something, just because he's alive and trying his best."

I tied off my thread, started a new seam. "Everyone's worth something."

"See, that's what I mean." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You really believe that. Even after everything you've seen. Everything you've lost."

The wedding was three days later. I wore my second-best dress and sat in the back of the church, watching Emma Wheeler become Mrs. James Goodall. Elvis sang "Amazing Grace" during the ceremony, his voice filling the little church like sunshine. The new Mrs. Goodall cried, and all the other women cried with her.

At the celebration after, the women laid out pies and cakes on long tables, competing to show off their skills. I hadn't brought anything. My cooking was functional at best, meant to keep men alive rather than please them. I stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the dancing, until Elvis appeared at my elbow.

"Dance with me," he said.

"Elvis–"

"Please." He held out his hand. "My wife should have at least one dance at a wedding."

So I danced with him, there under the August sky. He held me carefully, properly, like a gentleman dancing with a lady at a ball. But his hand was warm against my back, and when the music ended, he didn't let go right away.

That night, he sat on the edge of our bed instead of lying down straight away. "Know what I thought about today? During the ceremony?"

I shook my head, working the pins out of my hair.

"I thought about our wedding. How quick it was. How I didn't even look at you properly when I said my vows." He twisted his hands together. "I've been thinking maybe we could… maybe we should do it again. Proper this time. With music and cake and dancing. If you'd want that."

My hands stilled in my hair. "Why would you want that?"

"Because you deserve a real wedding. Because I want to say those vows again and mean them this time." He swallowed hard. "Because I think maybe God knew what He was doing when He had me draw that short straw, and I've been too stupid to see it."

"Elvis." I turned to face him. "Don't say things you don't mean. Not about this."

"I do mean it." He reached out, touched my cheek with shaking fingers. "I mean it more than I've meant anything since I came to this town. You're not what I thought I wanted. You're better. You're kind and strong and good, and I've been sharing a bed with you for months without seeing what was right in front of me."

"And what's that?"

"A woman worth loving," he said simply.

His kiss tasted of promise and wonder, of months of longing finally set free. My hands found his hair - that beautiful dark hair I'd smoothed back from his fevered brow so long ago. His fingers trembled as they traced my face, my neck, learning me like a new song.

The lamp burned low, casting long shadows on the walls of the room we'd shared for months without sharing. His hands moved with purpose now, no longer hesitant or guilty. When he touched me, it was like the first warm rain after drought, like spring earth opening to seed.

"Want to give you everything," he whispered against my neck. "Want to put our baby in you."

I pulled back just enough to see his face in the lamplight. "You're sure?"

"More sure than I've ever been about anything." His eyes were dark, serious.

When he laid me down on our marriage bed, it wasn't like all those nights we'd lain stiff and separate, a canyon of silence between us. He took his time, touching me like I was precious, whispering sweet words against my skin. And when we finally came together, it was like finding a piece of myself I hadn't known was missing.

"My love," he called me, over and over. "My strong, beautiful love."

After, he held me close, his heart thundering under my ear. "We'll do it right now," he said. "Everything. A proper wedding, a proper home. No more hiding in the shadows while the town moves on without us."

And he kept his word. The next Sunday, he stood up in church and announced our plans to renew our vows. The new women whispered behind their fans, but their husbands - the men I'd nursed through fever and grief - they stood up one by one.

"I'll make the cake," said Tommy Wheeler's wife.

"We'll decorate the church," said Mrs. Matthews.

"I've got fabric for a proper wedding dress," offered the seamstress.

They rallied around us, these women who'd come to make new lives in our broken town. Maybe they finally understood something about love and duty and the strange ways God works His will. Or maybe they just saw what I saw - Elvis Presley looking at his wife like she hung the moon and stars.

The town changed after that. The new women stopped seeing me as a relic of the fever times and started asking my advice, about childbirth and medicine, yes, but also about love and marriage and making a life in this harsh land. Their children came to my porch to hear stories of the fever days, no longer afraid but proud to know the woman who'd saved their fathers and uncles.

Seven months to the day after that first real kiss, I felt our baby move inside me. Elvis laid his hand on my growing belly, tears in his eyes.

"See?" he said softly. "God knew exactly what He was doing."

[sirwadewilsonfromimgur]

Deadpool and Wolverine: KCAU

Christmas Special

Kansas City Missouri, Earth-10005 December 2065

Part 4

Authors note: The literal Blizzard in Kansas City gave me the time to finish this chapter, because I'm snowed in... I hope y'all like it.

Dr. House and the Wolverine

What happens, dear reader when you're left alone with your totally not boyfriend's very intimidating dad who has retractable Freddy Krueger claws...

Morning came, the automatic curtain retreated, and dawns light came crashing into the room. Greg had a surprisingly restful night, Wilson had infact not repeatedly kicked him. He was however quite chagrined

to discover that the dog Mary Puppens had nuzzeled herself firmly between his arm and arm pit.

Do you do this sort of thing with all house guests or am I special. He said to the dog who stood up, winked at him again, shook herself and hoped off the bed, and trotted out the door and down the hall... baffled Greg got out of bed. Wilson had gotten up before him he was already out and about well before he woke up.

Apparently, he'd gotten the let sleeping dogs lye treatment. He'd missed breakfast, and everyone was already done, and the table cleared.

Good morning, Greg

Wade handed him a mug off coffee and a croissant.

Sorry, late risers only get le petit déjeuner.

Parlez-vous français?

Only enough to get by when I'm in Quebec or if it's Tuesday. My French is always better on Tuesday.

It is Tuesday...

Si je suis honnête avec moi-même, je fais la plupart des choses par besoin d'attention ou par un cri d'aide désespéré.

I would have never guessed...

This was the kind of strange interaction the Greg eventually came to recognize as normal in the Howlett-Wilson household... he'd definitely understood James a little better. The man had an unusually high tolerance for shenanigans and bullshitery... you'd have to with Wade and Logan as your parents... loving but clearly unstable James had probably spent most of his childhood helping Wade on his bad days and tolerating an ungodly amount of whimsy on his good days.

No wonder they got along.

He spent most of the morning talking to Wade. Learning he was not, in fact, a burn victim as he'd told him the first time they met at one of Wilsons' weddings. But a mutant with a healing factor that was basically supercharging and killing his cancer all at once... a relation that he wondered if that affected James's choice in specialty. Oncology. He posed it to Wade...

Many years ago when James was just a little kitten, I may have told him that there's a chance that if my cancer was cured, I could finally die... I may have trauma dumped on my only son that i was terrified of out living him... I... I just love him so much... Family is important to me, Greg... both my found family and my husband and children.... Althea was 115 when she passed... Buck passed away recently... I haven't gotten over it. And no parent should out live their child... but I fear I will. If James chose a field to cure me so that I didn't have to live without him... he's truly the best son a father could ask for.

All in all, it wasn't a bad morning... until Greg was informed that Wade, James, Ellie, and Laura were going to crown center down the street to do some last minute christmas shopping... he and Logan were specifically not invited as Santa didn't want them peeking...

I know it's a thin premise... but work with me, Greg.

Oh, don't worry about Logan he's totally tsundere coded, he dosn't bite... unless you ask nicely...

Fine... but your husband scares the bajezus out of me... he literally tackled me yesterday. He's also been staring daggers at me. Sharp murdery daggers.

he might stab you, if you let too much of that brilliant personality shine through James whispers in his ear.

I can hear you James don't scare the man.

Sorry papa, love you see you in a bit.

Greg... Don't be yourself.

Thanks for the advice

Greg goes to the livingroom and sits down on the couch... a hockey game is playing on the TV that Logan isn't that invested in...

So... do you want a drink?

Sure, whatever you're having is fine

You'll have a bourbon... you can't handle what I'm having... and he was correct, Logan came back with two glasses and a bottle of Ben Holladay Bottled in Bond Straight Bourbon for Greg and A bottle of everclear for himself.

You need ice?

No, I'm good... thanks.

Logan pours a little over a finger of whiskey in one glass and fills the the other nearly to the brim with the clear concentrated jet fule.

Can you keep a secret? Because Wade dosn't exactly like it when I drink for results.

Eyeing the everclear...results!? if you drink all of that you'll be dead?

I'll be buzzed at best... didn't you read any fucking comics as a kid, didn't James tell you who I am...

Yes, the Wolverine. The bullet proof bad ass... he didn't tell me you were an alcoholic.

Logan glares... says nothing as he sips his glass and sits back down.

He doesn't actually talk about you and Wade that much... not in detail anyway. As for the comics, of course I've read about the Xmen... but I also know it's 90% bullshit propaganda... not that I'm against the cause.

Well, you're not wrong about that bub.

Still, the royalties must be nice, you seem to do well...

Logan lets out a loud laugh and downs his glass of Ever clear... pouring himself another glass, he explains;

I Don't see a fucking dime of that money, My name and Likeness is owned by the X-Corporation... Jean Grey specifically, Until she retires then I imagine it'll belong to Rachel.... no son, this house was paid for in blood, the blood of gangsters specifically if I remember the contract.

Well, you've definitely made a comfortable living from it. This place is huge.

Yeah... Huge... he said in a mournful tone.

It wasn't always like this, you know... I was homeless in more than one sense of the word before Wade and I met. Now I live in this place *he waves his hand in a gesture that could be described as sarcastic*

It's everything Wade wanted... it was different for him... the guy grew up in a shack with a fucking alcoholic mother and an abusive father... he always lived in squalor. So he wanted something big fancy... something nice..... And he deserves it. Ya' know.. deserves to have something nice.

I could do without it, I grew up in a big house and all the putting on airs of the money'd classes... I was happiest when I had less.

mansions... make me uncomfortable for a lot of reasons. This house is about as close to that as I ever want to get.

A cabin in the woods, a cave in the wild tundra... Logan shakes his head and looks wistfully out the window... an overcast wintery day... you know he didn't tell me he bought the place. Maybe he knew I'd say it was too big. Maybe he was right...

When Wade and I first got together, we lived in a one bedroom apartment with Althea, I slept on a couch that hurt my back... Wade and I would cuddle on it and fall asleep watching TV.

I miss it... I miss simpler times. I miss picking up odd jobs and hanging out at hardware stores, hoping to get a construction job for the week...

Wade would freelance, he'd only work when we needed the money for rent ... I wish we could go back to then, I don't regret where I ended up, and Wade is the love of my life... but. I wish we could have done some things differently, took our time... made some decisions together... it's hard. We all make little sacrifices for the ones we love.

I appreciate your cander... and this has ben... fun, well, about as much fun as an STI examination.. but i gotta ask why the confession... we've never interacted that much, and this is the most chatty you've been with me ever

Everything I've told you today was the truth. I'd hoped that you'd return the favor... but i guess not.

What makes you so sure I'm lying.

I can smell whenever you're uncomfortable... or when you're lying and you lie a lot... that's why I wanted to talk to you...

It took me 3 months, a huge fight before I was honest... not only with Wade, but myself... but it also took Vanessa telling me to stop being such a little bitch... so Greg, learn from an old mans mistakes... how much time have you already wasted... how much time do you have left?

I don't really follow what you're trying to tell me here.

I've watched you trip James every chance you get... I did see you trip him in the hall, I heard you too... just so you know...

I've heard you make cruel jokes at his expense, and you've said terrible mean-spirited things to him about his appearance, his personal choices... every time I've had the opportunity to observe you and my son together you've been a class A pure bread dickhead.

*snikt*

Logan brandishing his claws for emphasis lightly taps on the coffee table.

The only reason I haven't stabbed you and tossed you in the river... is because I can literally smell the truth on both of you and its so fucking stupid because of how familiar it is. You two love each other... I can smell the attraction. You're a grown ass man... it's time you put the school yard phase of expressing your feelings about it behind you.

I suggest you be honest with my son. But that choice is yours and this conversation, just between you and me.

Walking towards his office, he left Greg to be alone with his thoughts. But he added a parting shot.

I may not be the greatest detective, but your attitude towards my son is no mystery to me. I know why you're such a grumpy fuck too. But that's a conversation for another day.

[constellation-skirmishes]

always two, there are.

[miraculousbumbble]

Training

Kolivan: Having the will of a Galra is not enough to defeat a Galra. Get back up and do it again.

Keith: I'm trying

Kolivan: Trying never solved anything, doing is the only way to survive. Again.

[candycryptids]

😇- What's their best trait?

👿- What's their worst trait?

for Tuesday and Chuu

“Miss Chuu’s best trait? Mmm… You said this is an interview for your retelling of the Warriors of Light and their journey, right? I’d say it’s her unshakeable resolve. She decides she’s going to do something, and she doesn’t give up until it’s done. Ah… I’m not allowed to speak more on Miss Chuu without her presence, my apologies, mister Levraut.”

“You broke into my house,”

“Your lovely wife let me in actually,”

“To wake me up from my nap and interrogate me on my assistant,”

“Interview, Mademoiselle, not interrogate. Though I am sorry for waking you, your eyes were open so I assumed-”

“Ah-ta-ta. You wanted to know Two’s best trait right? Adaptability. Any environment, any obstacle… he’s got brains enough to figure the way through most anything. And failing that? He knows a top notch engineer in Magitek to kit him with the right tools to overcome his few shortcomings. Hey wait did you fucking call me a mad gazelle, you lop-eared scab?!”

“Thank you for your time, both of you. I have just one more question before I consider this interview complete and I let you both go back to your.. erm, busy schedules. What would you say is each others weakest trait?”

“I knew it! This IS an interrogation! Two, don’t-”

“Ah, that would be Miss Chuu’s paranoia, mister Levraut. Most of her other traits net positive gain,”

“Watch your mouth, Two.”

“That is.. ah, her paranoid trait has served to pull her out of many situations she would have landed in had they not afforded her foresight and caution to approach most situations.”

“Two’s worst trait is how I just can’t seem to keep mad at him when he finds and exploits loopholes in whatever rules I’ve set for him. And last week I asked him to bring me lunch, and he was nowhere to be seen for nearly six bells.”

“… Miss Chuu, if I may, you were in Azys La, and you called me via Linkpearl to bring you specifically egg sandwiches from the Bismark, even utilizing the Aethernet it takes time… and when I arrived at your last marked location you were nowhere to be found.”

[Duo Oc Ask Meme !]

[thestrangestwatermelonofall]

i will never forget the time I was hanging out with two other people who were new friends and they were like "let's do a sonic fandub" and one of them started looking up sonic game footage on youtube for us to dub while we discussed who would speak for who and we decided I'd voice tails. But also I knew nothing about sonic at the time, i'd only seen the snapcube fandubs because I'd heard they were good and funny, I didn't know the plot or characters very well. I couldn't remember what they sounded like so while the other two started to say silly things in sonic and amy's voices I asked "what does tails sound like again?" And I was laughing because I was embarrassed and also shocked by how quickly they had started commiting to the bit of trying to do some voice acting and my friend just said "he sounds like a twink" and I could not stop laughing and I could not take the idea seriously and I just told them that I couldn't do the voice oops. And so we moved onto a different topic pretty quickly and just enjoyed the pizza we had while we waited for our other three friends to get back from the store

anyways all of this is to say that Tails is NOT a twink, he is an 8 year old little boy and my friend was misguided.

[themyscirah]

Suffering more than Jesus atm (being a fan of 80s/90s Suicide squad in 2024)

[kira-light0]

Happy Trapper Tuesday everybody!!!

(Reference + closeups under the cut)

[httpiastri]

how about if... i just... don't do my work.....

[goofyguppy]

.

[imagine-nerd]

The fucking disconnect is so real.

[allylikethecat]

Chapters: 9/20 Fandom: The 1975 (Band) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: George Daniel/Matthew Healy Characters: George Daniel, Matthew Healy, Adam Hann, Ross Macdonald, Carly Holt Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Verse, Hurt/Comfort, Past Drug Addiction, Fertility Issues Summary:

He couldn’t be in heat. He couldn’t remember what he even was supposed to do if he was in heat. But he couldn’t be. It had been nine years, all of the blood tests, all of the wait and seeing, all the hormone shots had yielded the same results. He didn’t have a heat cycle anymore, and he would never have one again. He had damaged his body beyond repair.

Except apparently not because he was dripping more slick than he had produced even as a horny teenager and his uterus was screaming at him that it wanted a baby and he just felt so nauseous and empty and-

[romanceforransom]

Why is making friends as an adult so hard 😫