#verse: Perfect Defense

[astralnymphh]

The Sweeter the Wheat

# pair: post-seattle!jackson!ellie x reader

## summary: There is no better birthday gift than loving her.

### reader discretion is advised: romance angst, fluff, bit suggestive towards the end, alcohol consumption, jesse is alive (he thought ahead this time), loser!ellie, sometimes!awkward!ellie, sometimes!cheekyandflirty!ellie, reader is sickenly envious and a bit nosy, but aware, ravenous and tipsy makeouts, sappy shit. #### a/n; listened to "to all of you" by syd matters + "cardigan" by taylor swift while writing parts of it.. got a love/hate relationship with this fic but it slaps i guess

WC: 7.7k+ | DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MASTERPOST | MASTERLIST | ART BY @trackinglessons | DISCORD SERVER

SPRING SUN

 

 “At least we got back before her birthday. Psh—‘magine that sweet tooth havin’ to commemorate her twentieth with nuts and jerky.”

Jackson tholes the bright spring against countless heavy hearts, numb from the death groans of winter. Under the melted snow, came old meadows, but nobody returned to comb through them. Only to pluck them bare of flora for a sole reason—a sole person—and not in the name of beauty. 

Some meadows were stabbed through. Pierced into, made into a final home for the dearly departed he.

Time slipped slowly.

“Huh?”

Jesse sits at the tail of the bar, mumbling somethings that fly right past your ears. The diner is packed and the jukebox softly plays, but that of joy and conversation rules, so all nearby speech that is spat has become hodgepodge, herding your brain to run where the world is quiet. Given that, and the subtle significance in the day around you, you feel less than yourself. Immaterial.

There's a rightful wager that you didn't hear Jesse at all. Something about birthdays, maybe.

You pull yourself from the stars with a head-shake, having to retire the tiny notepad in your clutch. “Sorry, I completely tripped out just then. Why are we talking about birthdays—whose birthday are we.. talking about?”

Jesse appeared to be in doubt that your star-scaping moments were over; his features contorting more and more into disbelief as you gave him that barely curious squint. Poor him for having to be offended for somebody else.

A special somebody else at that!

His drawl comes in handy, “Come on, man. Four years strong and now you wanna forget that girl's birthday?” a voice so versed in pettiness, you could smack it right from his clever, grinning lips.

At whim, you almost do. But then his words fall into perfect place; that subtle signifigance makes all the more sense.

Spring: dappled in sunlight and vigorous in the trees, seems lovelier than it would in March or May. Seas of crimson and clovers thrive in the middle of April, and so does the red in her hair—soft, auburn tines—and the meadows in her earnest and shiny eyes. Recently dim, bruised and disheartened. But there, and unplucked at least, above the freckles you least regret missing when vengeance and a clue drove her out of this large, timber sanctuary. Home.

Every year on this day, the sun is relentlessly beautiful. No wonder, you think, now that you remember.

It's Ellie's birthday.

“Shit,” you curse, chewing at your guilty lip. “Is Ellie hiding out today as well? Haven't noticed her walking the thoroughfare at all.” Through the idle-talk, your hands find stray porcelain to retrieve and pile in the sink, scoffing at the liters of coffee that inevitably go cold in forgotten mugs.

“Do you notice anything working behind that counter?”

“Duh, dipshit,” you spout, back-talking him shamelessly, “I noticed you ambling towards the window earlier and knew my ears were in for a grating punishment.” Minding your eyes on nothing but the various plates you grab, the clutter clears fast. Like a damn robot.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, not my fault patrol’s been on cruise control this week.” With a part of the counter graciously tidied by your speedy work, he reclines in the barstool and claims that space with his lower legs, off to the side. Blissfully permission-less. “Can't say the same for here, though.” 

You draw in a prefacing breath, tilting a cup at him. “You could if you hel—”

“No chance.”

“Fuck you, Jess,” you reply wielding a nickname given for occasions of defeat, little knives glaring from your eyes. “Thought this friendship had a no-questions-asked sort of thing. You've disgraced me.” Cueing that age-old love for drama, you gild the lily; mock a drama-queen. Hand to your heart and a pout to your mouth.

Hating Jesse is out of the picture, and hate is an easy pill to swallow. Sure, you two bark blank insults from time to time, but it's all in good humor. You just get each other too well. A hitch fated to click. A shoulder to violently sob into.

Jesse tuts at you, rolling a smug pair of eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Diners just aren't my thing, as infected aren't yours.” He reaches and grasps his mug of coffee that'd been basking there ever since you whipped up his usual, content in keeping his gob flat for the ‘noon.

And you're content in the casual peace and company. Always are. It coerces you to fulfill orders quicker, you would say. Here you stand, in perfect function, machine of the cogs.

That's how all days streak by here. A warm sun arises, and the hustle and bustle of human nature crowds every faded red booth in here, as your kin would have you sustain, and you sustain it fine enough. Even with the latching, mostly silent presence of your best bud Jesse to keep boredom a stranger and insanity a myth. Peckish lips, thirsty throats; everybody. All famished faces of Jackson, satisfied in the wake of your work. All, save one. 

Ding!

At the entrance, you hear the jingle of the tiny, golden bell topping the door, and it doesn't intrigue you to investigate. Everyone is a frequenter, and you're basically omnipresent; sensing who it is and where they're routed to before they even sit. Call that perfect function.

Abruptly, the vintage magazine Jesse blankly browsed through is smacked back in place, and his throat clears. “First customer to break the hour-long streak. Let's see who—” he trails, and a dramatic pause thickens the air. Surprise loudly ensues. “Oh, ain't that funny. Look what fate dragged in.”

“Is it not a regular?” you ask, and at last perk your chin up. Intrigue clasps you now, as Jesse thought it atypical enough to point out. 

Turns out, it isn't a regular at all.

Fate was a scary portrayal, as fate—and unfinished threads—would have you snuck into a corner and stranded for her to find. Plaid and blue, stood Ellie, lost as a doe in tangled woods, yet tall with purpose in front of that swinging glass door. From here, you notice her right arm supported in a white sling and twisted into her chest, right off the bat, as you did the night of return. Changes were made, obviously, sprigs of marker detailing the canvas-color of it, no doubt produced by those pesky kids in-town. Her tattoo is sorely invisible behind the bandages too; you've always liked that thing. 

She's a bona-fide crush. A red-headed angel.

There and then, you recall why your heart reawoke into a prance that night she returned head to toe in dry, aged blood. You felt the revival of an inner-warmth, tracing fingers over the stitches in her back as she hunched in repressive quietude. Felt the moon evaporate off your skin, felt her wrist tensen in your palm as you dressed the wounds in hers. Felt the elusive moment staying became going, as it wasn't right.

You went straight home and threw right up, that very night. Her cold, marred skin was as deathly-like as the skin of a corpse. And you trailed your fingertips, all over it. 

Strange. In a week, her flesh has been suppled of life. Hale, blushing and glowing as in younger days.

In your heart: a tremor. It reaches up every time you swallow, and blooms its beat, pounding at the pit of your throat. You don't feel real, you feel light, you feel fright. You feel the past, waking from a slumber in you, emerging breathless beyond the surface. So many things.

You feel fourteen again.

“Guess her ears were burning,” mumbled Jesse, polite enough to not transform your shared scrutiny into a scene, only so he could leave it in your hands. His head carefully turns, speaking softly, “You spoke to her at all, recently?” 

“No,” a weighted breath departs you, and your shoulders repose. “Only the night she returned, while I tended to some of her travel wounds. Conversation wasn't easy to digest.” Shunning her very blatant presence, you pick your wash rag and begin again, foraging distraction.

“Bet not. Shit got hectic on the route Tommy picked,” he hums, and his eyes pursue once more to secretly follow her walking the opposite direction. Eyes you expectantly the second she slips into a booth. “Gonna take her order?”

You glower at his smug stare, knowing full well he intends to badger you into jumping the gun. Well, you're employed to do that, but, fuck fate! “Uh, duh? Di—”

“���Ipshit. Stop stalling.” He aims his hand, escorting you. “Birthday girl awaits.” 

“Yeah, hold that smile. See what happens later.”

“Mhm.”

EXTRA SYRUP

 Spectral hands suffocate your heart, and now your chest is tightened. Gut nervously sickened. There, she sits, seemingly absorbed by the air, and the sun that ripens with it. Thumbing at her nails, but not anxiously. Blowing at her lip, but not boredly. Hair dark ochre as the earth, yet fiery as the flaxen ray that pours into it. Tucked into a neat bun, as it was in December, January, and every paving year before. You like her hair that way.

She halved it up when Joel passed, and Seattle howled her name. 

A lot about Ellie changed, really, but that is the perennial nature of water. Ellie is Neptune; a late-teenage girl experiencing a crucial shift into a new, individual season. Ones so seldom—they're cataclysmic, but temporary. 

So much of her is eclipsed to the naked eye. Buried to make burrowing space for others. Just not you, it seems.

Every now and then, she glances as you intricately work your way over, a fist cupped to itself as if it alone safekeeps her deep and untold intentions; the warrant for sitting there. And you too, glance when her eyes smoothly retreat, dedicating pockets of this single, cherished minute to drink in little glimpses of her face. Trying to read her, read the shapes on her face if they indicate trouble, or truce. Last time you talked, you declared your resentment for being left worried and sleepless in Jackson.

Was it out of love?

Through the fair-haired light, that scar-heavy look on her features has noticeably abated, recapturing the tender warmth that gave her face the kind, puppy-browed ambiance you hesitated the world for. Gently laid brows, scarred the same as ever.

Those fucking freckles, too; a constellated map. Hidden miles and miles away for one sun and moon too many. 

Not a mile bridges you both apart now, not anymore.

“Hey, Ellie,” you chime in, frail in respect of the one-mind conversation her idle stare partakes. Just her, and the spring sun. Sweet wheat skin is taken from its aerial shine as her head heeds your voice, a loose twine of auburn falling from place.

Your somber greeting fine-tuned the focus in her eyes, softening into a shape less spacious, more devoted.

And though away from underneath the boughs of sunlight, her eyes found a disembodied source. Dried moss, gleams into a violent sea glass, pupils taking in how you hold that notepad firm in thumbs and pointers.

For the first time in an age, you too, have changed.

The corners of her lips crease into her cheek. “Hey,” her reply mirrors the breathiness of yours, and her left arm low-arcs up to rest on the booth seat, body facing you head-on. Totally relaxed. “How come you didn't mention the job switch? Was lookin’ for you,” she asks curiously, a tinge of that sweet-talk peeking through her wide grin. 

Now that you've stepped closer and garnered her attention, you can see and feel every notched nicety of her face on yours. You can only imagine how a swollen, sliced lip feels, and the continual migraines a fractured nose brings. Weeks of healing have swept by, but her afflictions in particular weren't petty.

“Guess it felt irrelevant to bring up when you got back. But you're here now, and you found me. So?” your tone edges on.

“Well, yeah,” she chuckles. “Did you not miss me?” She feigns offense; brows quirking and her tone pitching slightly.

You did. 

A sigh starts in you, “Hard to not miss and worry for somebody when you picked up their slack in every patrol dating way back.” Barely nipping what you really felt with a snarky tease. “Oh shit, that rhymes,” you glance off and whisper to yourself, still loud enough to inspire mirth.

And it does; her forehead pinches and her voice rises in mirth, laughing casually and shifting in her seat to lean one elbow upon the table. “Ha— yeah,” she admits defeat. Ellie is undeniably cute when she does, always shrinks into herself and sinks into thoughtful conference, thinking of something—anything smart to knock you back into that corner. “Guess you're right. Hm, always were on my ass about that, huh?” 

You tut, “Mhm. Missed my scolding in Seattle?” crossing a leg and bearing weight upon it.

“Nah,” she confesses briefly, and you barely believe it. Wringing in doubt at that sly smile she tries to conceal from you. “I learned my lesson this time.” Ellie glances up, a prayer written on her face asking you to hold your scolds. “Trust me.”

“Hurt enough this time?”

“Fuck you!” She punts you playfully in the ankle and begins a laugh again. “You’re not allowed to point that out!”

That was the way of things; Ellie would charge into a fight wearing her life on her chest, slackening the rules, and you had to reel her in. Tug the leash. It had you suspecting her to have a foolproof reason as her backbone, like she was daring the devil with eyes fearlessly open. Steadfast intent. She would lure runners to her, grapple them from you, or push you away beyond safety. Leave you to watch an animalistic vigor fill every bind in her body until you're convinced she’s either coming out bitten or scathingly torn.

You wish she saw how worrying she truly looked; a sweet face splattered hair to chin in the blood of infected, catching her breath and shaking the arm of the croaking infected she just slaughtered off her ankle. Being way too blithe-hearted for the sacred sake of everyone involved.

“Don't worry about me.”

One day, when she asked you with her solemn eyes to be afraid, you thought she finally trusted you to handle yourself past her overprotective nature. Then, one clicker got too close for comfort, and she retracted the pact of fighting equally. Losing more than what her blade owes the earth would prove her fears to be a product of her unsacrifice.

Ellie figured it was half the reason you quit patrol duty, but not that it was fully the reason you anguished over her leaving for Seattle later on; her appetite for violence.

She accepts it so easily. But even when you had sworn she had place in something as simple as retiring from patrol and nothing else, she smelt the sugary scent of a white lie. Joel did it before. She never accepted it under a gentle radar. Instead, it had her wondering if she had upset you, if you would forgive the crimson melodrama and still take her up on breakfasts at ten when she returned. Regardless if you painted the full picture in the end, apologies spilled alike to winded waters out of this girl; sorry that she still could not stomach you tagging along for vengeance. Never-ending sorries, and you lapped each one up. Brought gaping arms around her and absorbed all the ugly and hopeless sounds. You wanted to prove her fears wrong, but perhaps it was time fear let you be the lamb. Live and let live.

Then, Dina would step in, and Ellie would be wrapped around her finger in sudden laughter. Happy and unhurt. Couldn't even remember what occurred before her sun entered the room, and dried those tears.

Crimson melodrama is all you preserved when abandoned, and is all you could look at her with when in longing.

The winter dance had your guts up to your throat.

Seattle, inexplainable.

You don’t hate Dina; your envy lies with the disconnection of it all.

“What do you recommend?” she questions, and her eyes anticipate you to be the ultimate apocalyptic-dining expert. Locked and attentive. She then begins to shake her head in gesture, planting the menu down. "I don't— I don't usually go to these kinds of places, so.. What do you think?" she awkwardly giggles, tapping the menu's plastic sleeve.

Tension presses a smile onto your lips at her inelegance. "Nobody does, not even people who went to these places before the outbreak," you opine, swapping the notepad to one hand and sliding into the booth. "It's okay. I mean.. hmm, what do you prefer? Sweet or salty?"

Her eyelids flick down, fingers coming to lace together as her eyes traverse the options. "Uh, I guess I— wait, wait," she interrupts herself. A swift finger draws you to look down at the menu, "You guys make pancakes here?" green eyes gaping at you with pupils more voracious than her stomach—or her sweet tooth.

"Yeah."

"I'll have that then."

It was a steadfast verdict. The sweet honey pancakes, she shall have, at the cost of a couple minutes and a couple ingredients. But it isn't traditional for birthdays, so you weigh in. “Just pancakes? I mean.. Faye is back there if you want something a little more celebrator—”

“—I'm not really a blow-the-candles-out and make-a-wish type of person,” she corrects you, brows cinched in as she rambles. Then, her free hand scoots the menu forward. “But you already knew that, you just insist otherwise,” she chuckles, unable to meet eye and eye.

True. Your soft insistence dawns from wanting nothing less than heaven inside everything for her, and maybe a dash of that sweet-sweet crush on her. But, Ellie is so staunch in being the humble girl that doesn't glorify every recorded happening with string lights and a wish hurled into the uncaring universe bent upon nurturing demised, late lights young girls reach for. She kept everything low-key: a small garage get-together on her last birthday, the one before that, and the one predating those two. Alcohol in your palms and movies playing back to back. Budding distorted laughs and tumbles into each other. Birthday things.

The remnants of her fifteen-year-old mind hangs aimlessly inside that museum. Dangled and stretched into archaic bones. On the day of return, she arrived happier than a sunflower drunk on the sun. Broad smiles and whatever else.

Wasn't for long.

“Forget you're so down-to-earth and reserved about all the fun things,” you snarkily deliver, retiring that still empty notepad behind your back. Memory shall serve. “Will that be it then?”

“Are you saying I'm not fun?” 

“I'm saying you need more of it.” You emphasize with a tiny bounce-up on your calves, tilting your head north. Though, nothing she uttered was wrong and so your voice silkily drones on, “And that.” You act the lack of a ruder way to insinuate. “But yeah, okay. One order of pancakes coming up.”

“Cool, I'll uh—have a 'celebratory' drink in the meantime?” She nudges the menu towards you once again, irises pulled thin on themselves. Thoroughly staring; your reflection in a bead of black.

You have to laugh, kindly laugh. “No alcohol here, dumbass.”

“Oh. Right.” Her doe-stare only crescendoed from there, shying away at the result of her asking. Something reluctant is lodged in her pale throat, stumbling out only when it feels imminent as you turn away. “D-Do you wanna chat, afterwards? There's so much bullshit surrounding Seattle I have to catch you up on and I-I didn't before, so.."

Swinging your head back, you gauge that mercurial girl there. Tripping up her request like it couldn't escape hibernation from her head any quicker than insult does.

Faye shouldn't mind. “'Course, I was left to wonder about everything since that night anyway.” Your boss might even encourage it; knowing that your long-standing crush for her—heartbreaking to fathom, beautiful to feel—never swept you from rambling Ellie into some fairytale, so she would use it to psych you into asking her out. Jesse, too. Damn the nosy ones!

But it's the one thing that keeps you worried now.

“Cool, cool. Oh, hey, add extra syrup will you?”

What does Ellie think of you?

“Mhm,” syrup is nowhere as sweet as your hum. “Got it.”

Does she think of you at all?

MOUTHS ALL-CONSUMING AND DEPRIVING

  Minutes in, minutes out, wallowing at that ruby-red booth fed the realization to Ellie that the nerves feeding off her anxious chest could not combat conversation alone. She needed an aid. Liquid courage. Velvety smooth and robust.

Fortunately for betting gods and heaven-watching anyones, leftover whiskey from the last bonfire made stock in her cloistered, chaotic cabinets. So it founded no surprise that it whirled to mind after the celebratory-drink fact; leading you here, in her bedroom, on her bed. She pours whiskey into stubby glasses, One for her, one for you, and a lucky extra two for further along this unexplored line. Nothing overflowing limits.

But, oh boy, did it make you all lovey-dovey.

Her lips move and they dance over words, but all you hear is your own enamoration of how heart-shaped they are. You see, but fail to hear and comprehend. Floating aimlessly into those freckles, again. Something a fourteen-aged, sanguine mind would do.

Ellie was relaying Seattle to you, she prefaced. Prefacing didn’t aid you in paying attention, though. Today is not your sharpest, it dates to be your most absentminded. Not your usual, at all.

Nods are swayed to every shock-value word that you manage to understand, but the star-crossed rest, you miss, and replace with whatever story her pupils trace. They flit to read your face after each end of her sentences, so it has you thinking too much of her time has slipped without the company of a listener, and now that her time slips into you, she can use it to stretch your expression with whatever witty remark she makes. 

She did one day blurt that your laugh compliments your smile—or however that fucking flirt threw it over the crackle of that bonfire.

In fact, when you begin to let parts of her body neck-down from her face distract you, only then do you decipher how much she has grown in a month.

She pitches her drink to sip, and your eyes are hot on that glassy trail, artistically concerned with the way she swills down whiskey: fluently gulped, throat bobbing, the scar on her lip licked clean. Her brows too, have thickened, much so as her leathered skin, her callouses. She traces her thigh in circles repeatedly—a fidgety habit—and her lips purse and tug and wrinkles hug and press said lips when they are prettily wide. 

Every high noon or low point of her body was different, and you have missed a great many things you care too much about to not appreciate every brink and midst. You don't want her to be lost to otherworld winds without studying her presence harshly. She is in your scrutiny, now more than ever.

“So, do I get to see my pancakes yet, or?”

“Oh, oops.” You snap out of your woolgathering, wagging your head left to right. Then briskly as you assented her invitation, you slide your knees under you, reorganizing your seating. “Can't blame me for being so invested in your epic tales. Could totally be a comic narrator for the school in town.”

Ellie had already been sat skyward. Sprawled at one leg and tucked at the other, arm in her lap, where her whiskey is nestled. “Oh, sure,” she says with a sarcastic edge. “Those kids are a bunch of little shits. They would probably interrupt me with fart jokes or make actual fart sounds than sit still and pay attention for thirty minutes.”

“Hmm,” you hum, short and atonal, peeling the corner of the plastic lid back. “And who do you think taught them those terrible jokes, huh?”

Soft lids narrow together to sharpen her gaze; glaring at your clever comment, lips propped slightly open. “Terrible?” An offended, toothy smile pulls on her lips. All sentences she could possibly muster up come crashing into each other; an agglomeration, “I—They aren't bad jokes—and they're puns, really, so they're actually pretty fuckin' smart,” she boasts with brows raised. “And It isn't my fault that every annoying kid picked them up and started repeating them.”

It most certainly is her fault. Hell, even you catch yourself reciting them at the crest of nightfall, giggling into your palm. Although, why she's trying so rigorously to plead her pun-enjoying case to you, might just be funnier. “Are you seriously trying to explain puns to me?”

“God,” she surrenders in a chuckle, and bows her head to introduce another quick sip to her parched lips. Ellie then eyes you for a blank second thereafter, tugging the plump of her lower lip through her teeth. Like contemplation has her hindered.

Around you, the lungs of the garage’s foundation inhale, and exhale; creaking and settling.

She dashes a huff. “You basically asked,” Ellie reminds you, her tone and eye-roll implying obviousness. “Can I eat my pancakes now? M'hungry.” Her face sutures into a pseudo-frown and encloses herself to a crisscross, impatiently behaving.

Now, as for the pancakes. Fluffy, biscuit brown, star-shaped, bountifully rivered in unrestricted syrup, topped off by a definitely-melted, humbled ingot of butter. Needless to say, you're pleased by what boredom and intact cooking-books taught you, and she hasn't even seen them yet.

The ask for a carryout-container was already in order the moment you set pace for her table, because you wound up in a near-catastrophe as she sought you out around the kitchens like a lost pup and maundered right into you. Thank patrol for instincts; it's the one thing you held an undying clutch to. And the sweet pancakes you proudly plated, making refuge on the counters as you cross-examined Ellie in case you injured her arm more.

Lucky girl was all fine and peachy, of course.

She only knocked you two right into that near-injury mess to invite you here. Persuasion sat readily in her throat incase you questioned her motives—most of her ideas turning out to be a little friend-group antic, never anything serious or singular—but you agreed to it in double-time. 

“Think you might just be one of those kids at this point.” You gingerly tweak the rim of the plate you kept the pancakes on and lift it outside the container, planting it between all four knees.

“Eh, you're not so innocent yourself,” Ellie contends before she even casts her first peek at the hillock of starry sweetness, totally taken aback when she does. “Holy shit,” she awes, just as if she were a young teen again, “Are you kidding me?”

Labor-intended nights never slip soft through the gaps of your fastened fingers, not even days where your work period is abridged, but hey, strange, space-brain girls are far beyond ordinary exception. Hell, Ellie is vital! Commemorating the red angel you worship in the patterned and soapy act of cooping up on her bed, toasting to the moonlight and letting her talk your ear off for old times' sake is your approach to telling her you love her.

“Know I'm not a pancake-connoisseur, but I gave it a unique whirl. Just for you.” You held a fork out, gracing her with first honors. “Don't blame me if it gives you a stomachache,” your forewarn is a doubtful one; in your mind, morningtime will arise with an extra punch to her gut.

Ellie, however, stares right into the baying eyes of a challenge, snatching the fork from you. "Hey, if it's good enough for my tongue, then it's good enough for ma' gut!" and promptly after exclaim, gashes and tears her fork into the sweet, airy texture of the pancake, popping it past her sweet, berried lips. “Mhh—and I will blame you. So you end up feeling sorry n'take care of me.”

God, whatever souls you would sell to spend paradisal afterlife with this fool. Talking with a gob flush of the birthday project you're humiliated to be proud of. You scoff, “Asshole,” lightheartedly scornful as can be, and it snaps something to mind. Head tilting eye-to-eye, “Dina wouldn't be the one to?” you ask, right after she swallows.

That particular question seemingly struck a chord as her brows cinched together, eyes dropping with allusion. “No,” she says meekly, soft in the sound, but you can tell it came up heavy. Shadowed by a sigh, and an untimely chuckle. “Do you want to know?” She throws on a shrug that ripples through her head, sending it to hang lopsidedly. As the stout willow grows.

“Guess so,” you agree temperately, not wanting to seem too eager—even though with this topic, you just might be. Camouflage those old, foul feelings of envy. “Did Seattle have you kicking more ass than just Wolves and infected? Couldn't have been a very romantic tr—”

“Dina's pregnant.”

Silence carves it's way after that. Thick, tense and unyielding. You had words lined up but like a shot in stark night they've just—vanished, sunk back into the chamber. Nothing prepared you to hear that, “Pregnant?” lowering a hand to your belly where you swear your heart has pummeled to.

Ellie glances up, once at your widened face and once at your hand. A bite of humor works it's way above her chin; smugly smirking. “God, don't tell me you're pregnant now too.”

“What? No!”

Damn idiot. Should punch her right in the—nevermind.

Ellie is way too quick to make serious things unserious. “You're a damn menace,” you unapprovingly giggle.

“Am I?” Amusement raises her brows, tearing into the pancake with her fork for another bite. “Cause you seem to like menace.”

You adjust onto propped elbows, “Do I?” playing all nonchalant. “I mean, what do you mean by that?” your voice dims, expending for the small space that separates you and her.

“Mhh,” she contemplates with a purring sound, and shrugs. “Dunno.” Ellie retreats those eyes downward where you won't compel her to smile. You can tell she battles the letch to look up again, which—as proven in her case—doesn't fucking work. She shoots up carefully, and it's a conflicted gaze this time. “Not with Dina anymore, though. That’s the other thing.”

And we're back.

Having reconciled the chance, you retrace. Look at her with somber concern. “Did something between the two of you happen?” It's a gentle question, reinforced by the bulletproof stare you offer her to unwind in.

The air in her voice softens, “Sort of,” and the meridians of your body then become easier to look at as she continues, wrinkles in her brows. “Said some things I shouldn't have, and we.. figured it best to leave it at that. For now.” her explanation sounds desolate and attemptless, like she has sat in shadow and vigil accepting this fact and has given up on hope. Crestfallen and quieter; this isn't like her. Bent at her wrist, dangling that glass above her crisscrossed lap like a sad child pokes at the food on their plate.

“For now?” You hate that you pry, but that sick greed in your gut from times before haunts with a hunger for knowledge. Your envy that is enlightenment. Still, you hesitate to seem nosy, wanting nothing than to possibly just console your friend in need. “What's holding you back from.. calling it quits? The pregnancy?” You crane your body upright slowly.

“Just still feelin' bad.” Her fingers begin a tap-dance at the glass' rim. “I'm an asshole.”

You duck at the neck, searching for her downcast eyes. “Come on, El. I've only ever seen you rant and rave at middle-aged grumpy men and infected, no way it was that bad.”

“You weren’t there,” she insists otherwise with an earnest voice, inciting a refreshed sigh as she swigs her whiskey.

“Well, what did you say?” You are relentless. No, normally you would not condone it, but tonight, tongues are loose and boundaries are blurry. You miss your happy girl. “I could talk to Dina, if it helps.”

“Wouldn’t change shit.”

“If you love her, you would try.” Even if it sickens you.

Ellie slots her drink in her lap, and grouches. “Dude.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and stifles a groan, frustrated. It draws out in words without proper footing, “It's weird. We just don't know what to say to each other—I don't know what to say to her, it.. it's just how it is—it was a mutual agreement. None of your business, really.” 

Her own tongue is a very obvious byproduct of nerves, whiskey, stress, by and large a lot of things. Being goaded, definitely.

How it is, is how it will be.

“She broke up with me.”

You didn't mean to goad her, but curiosity—and a kiss of alcohol and envy—ate your refrain. The lack of any eye contact or movements to stray from you thereafter her word is telling enough. That it aches her head, and a cold, guilty sweat crosses over your skin. It was a stupid thing to blurt. You feel fucking stupid for even saying that.

Fuck. 

Her dry sniffle is noisy on your shortcoming, and has you scrambling to think. “Sorry, just been worried for weeks.” But you shrink into a ball of abraded arms and legs, conserving yourself into a shy, spotted egg of curiosity that clads no hatching cracks to be convicted of. “Thought you two finally getting together would be the dream to end all dreams.” What the fuck do you know anyway?

Her eyes watch through you, into you like water; she notices, and the pancakes are slid to the side. Shuffles of fabric clamber closer as she eats the inches between you two, her breath brushing your forehead. “Hey, hey. I didn't mean anything by it. It's fuckin' great that I got somebody I can drink with and mope to. Really. Just been shitty all around—Tommy? Fuck, he's been the worst lately.” 

Everything ascends in temperature once her hand plants on the side of your neck, every nerve petrifies; unheard-of touch. She can feel the gasped tension in your throat, thumbing the muscles down. 

“Don't worry about it,” she says, and her saying that amuses you.

A moth-eaten phrase in particular is what was said. You scoff at it, plopping your legs back out. “Dude.” You bite a smile into your lips. Sucks that such a hackneyed thread of words does so; you're really chewing back the urge to call her any byname of dumbass, per usual. But damn that sincere face on her face that sweetens the teasing deal for you. You settle for low-hanging fruit. “You always say that, Ellie.”

“Ugh,” she seconded a scoff back at you, grimacing coyly. “Don't you start.” Ellie drags her hand off, not intending for it to land smack-dab on your thigh. It takes her a second to register the sound, the texture, slinking her hand behind her when you say nothing.

“Start what?” you stutter a laugh, bringing your thighs together.

“Nothin,”

“Don’t bullshit me, WIlliams.” To educe her, you dig your foot into her side, poking her. “Does it have anything to do with only me being here and not anybody else?” You lean into her.

Ellie does too, an exact mirror of you. “No..” The only thing that contrasted you, was her hand again, seeking what was left behind on your thigh. “Just wanted to see you first,” her lips barely move besides a slick smirk. Voice tiptoeing through the air, the noise-level two clandestine lovers live at, in secret song.

“You fuckin liar. No hang-outs for weeks before you left and suddenly you want to see me?” You call bull when she relucts to raise her hung head, witnessing the corners of her lip curl. Her head twists away more, and you spearhead the first, little move: tuck that irkful strand of auburn with a single finger. “C'mon.. what is it?”

“Stupid,” she blatantly spits, and at last confronts your face with her puckish one—glimpsing down, and up, and down. Watching her grip flex into your leg intermittently, chewing her lip. “Mhh, maybe 'm starting it.”

Ellie is heart-poundingly close; her breath is now yours to breathe. You whisper, “Maybe you are,” perking yourself right up to her cheek, unnoticing of the ardor her eyes spin over your face. Unsure where to stare. You pretend the pressure on your thigh flies under the radar, too, and that your heart isn't in the middle of a love-logged swell, and your cheeks aren't tender from smirking at the feeling of it perched there. Love-struck death befalls, if else confessed, so you tease, tease, and tease to stomach your excitement. “Maybe, you're stalling on those pancakes because they actually gave you a stomachache. You feeling good?”

Her bitten lips part, and the next sensations you feel—are transcendental.

Wisping whispers so hot, and intoxicating on your skin, you fail to catch her hand coming up from your thigh to clasp your face, or that hers has shifted in front of yours. She breathes out, “Won't you shut up already?” through lips pulled into a smirk, and rushes to press it fondly against your mouth.

You wince—somewhere between an electrified gasp and a reaction of delight—into the kiss she stole, and it only beckons her to starve more for you. The heat of her whiskey breath pours into your mouth, and you drape your eyes closed. Scoring these seconds by, she spends them concentratedly rolling the skin together, others pushing and shying from the kiss, until she stills and bleeds out the pressure in a slow, wet smack. Hazily eyeing you for a response.

Once you feel her no more, your eyes blurrily creak open, and the corners of her lips at soft upturn greet you. Single creases at either side, the few freckles above them outspread.

Judgement renounces you, leaving you with pathetic pickings for reply. You aren't sure what she wants—or needs you to say. “Ellie?” daintily, a mumble flows onto her lips, and is far from a frail sound of concern. Intrigue encapsulates you.

What does this mean?

You think you know, but self-reason has always proven itself to be naive and too eager to trust.

By cruel emotion, she misunderstands you. “Sorry,” she pants out breathlessly, blowing the shape of it into your cleft lips and hovering right upon. Her fingers gouge the fabric clothing your chest, mangling it into her fist—an attempting grasp. This proximity is all she could ever dream of. “Is this okay?” Yet, dreams always sever at the apotheosis. So when she comes in for the second kiss, she wants no more for dreaming; the reality she yawns with hunger into, is insurmountable.

A dewdrop of something cold dribbles between you. Tears.

In turn, you misunderstand her. Using your own stubbornness to create an enigma. To think, that out of the blue, all of this would transpire? After endless wishes unanswered? You doubt it.

You love her, but you refuse the reality of it happening upon you.

Separating from the plush, licked skin of her lips fleetingly, you speak. “Is this you being drunk?” Only to be drawn back in without her processing your words right away, and then drawn back out. Intricate intimacy.

“Please,” Ellie begs, “Answer me, before I feel like an asshole again,” and chuckles sobbingly before her teeth feel rapaciously empty, and cannot tolerate it any longer. Instinct, and teeth nip your bottom, vulnerable lip.

Neither of you could be totally drunk, having only drank a modest portion.

So this is raw.

Thinly pulled, she slowly stretches it across the air between, and watches it spring back beneath eyelids sunken low. The action entails nothing else for her to feed satisfaction from, already panting right in your mouth in search of more as soon as your tongue descries the answer. “More than okay,” you heave in a passioned breath along that all-consuming, deprived mouth. Your hand squeezes her fist confirmingly.

It quenches her lust to know, a hot-blooded, moaned and voiceless curse snapping into your mouth. “I fuckin' love you.” Her rage softens in meeker kisses, peppering them up to the corners of your lips until she pauses, and pulls herself away. Her eyes turn troubled and adrenaline-rushed. Stains of tears shimmer beneath, along new ones that begin to plunge, and for the first time ever, you know they're yours. But then the flesh between frowns, the mood shifting, and she croaks, “Am I.. an asshole?”

It breaks you to hear that.

You glare, and stammer, “W-What? You aren't.” Hooking dearly onto her wrist when her hand glides up to rest against your cheek. “Why?”

“Cause I sprung this on you, 'nd I don't wanna force you to..” Ellie cranks to a halt, mouth screwing shut like her thoughts were too much to bear hearing aloud. “Fuck,” she quietly spews, cowering her face near your neck.

“Said it was okay,” you coo, clarifyingly coo, raking your fingertips up and through the tied loops of her hair. “The only asshole thing you'd ever done was not let me come with you.”

“I know.” Her eyes search for uncomplicated plains. The sheets, her lap, your neck. A kiss is planted as she tips her head, the gust thereafter a warm reminder of her sorries.

“Thought you were going to die.” You awoken in violent patterns, cold nights restless in bed, tossing and turning. Waking and falling into daydreams of how Jackson would feel missing a cardinal component. A girl to rave against dying lights. Thorns scale your throat at the thought. “You're reckless, y'know?” you mean it as a gentle insult, chuckling as it leaves your lips, and sealing it into her scarred palm. Kissing reckless consequences.

Her lips loiter on the pulse of your throat. They drag, and they drag.. sloppily limping over your jaw as she makes her way to observe you in her palm, mumbling low, and gravelly, “How many times am I gonna have to say it?” Ellie deems it redundant to tell you that she knows again, resorting to her own little gentle insult, “Such a fuckin' sap.”

“Says you.”

Her hand is comfortingly warm; you aren't fain to break away. But her fingers are curious, thumb nearly making it into your mouth before she second-guesses herself, easing it at the verge of your lips instead.

A longing moment of Ellie staring at the way her thumb looks—a decoration to your mouth—passes, and she responds, “Still alive, aren't I?” to that loose thread of a plea you forgot you even said. It calls you right over, bidding you to look into her eyes again as space finds itself thinning again, her scratchy, band-aided nose caressing yours. “Dumbass.”

She chuckles into your mouth as you chuckle into hers, cutting yourself off with a kiss that ebbs, and flows. Suckles, and smacks, snaking her tongue in for a change. That sweet, sweet wheat. Saccharinity you can't explore anywhere else other than the outline of her mouth. And you—of grunted volitions in her chest—take exploration further, replacing the grasp of her shoulder with the coursing of fabric, sliding under the hem of her shirt and palming the skin there.

You feel her skin breathe, her belly breathe into your hand, and a content wrinkle pinch between her brows. Her skin, is as soft as nothingness.

“You're a dumbass.”

Air clings to your cheek as her hand reaches around you, pressing fingerprints into the base of your head as to prop you for her delightments. Ellie is no amateur, enjoying you as if she knew you were hers without explicit pledge.

“Sure, babe,” she scoffingly counters, and pulls her tongue out of you, lips messiy shining. She scouts you out; lays eyes on your expression with undertones of satisfaction and presses an appetent bite right back into your damp skin, grunting into the filthy kiss.

Your mind is one-pathed right now; in the most maddened form, you crave the story further down her throat. In that warm space, is air thinned and balmy with the scent of alcohol and syrup. In those whimpers, is the sincere confession she held tight in throatly gloaming, all those intimate times before. In all of your yearnings, your lips never parted for more.  

Two holes that want to consume each other.

Weeping, wailing, tormenting in an empty forever.

“Fuck you, Ellie,” you cathartically sob into the humid cavern of her, a hint of wanton—and other repressed things, taking form. That hand under her shirt wanders from her navel and tweaks the button of her jeans, pressing your body against all of her like it hurt to be inside your own, singular body. Overcame by a need you could not chew out.

Ellie cuts the kiss, quick to soothe the movement with her hand pressing down and collecting yours. “Hey, hey, too fast,” she laughs, distancing herself and giving you those eyes that could see you were overstrung, hectic to go somewhere you aren't prepared for.

She loves you, but that means appreciating you enough to wait until time is perfect.

Her head cocks, “Let's take shit slow, huh?” fingers weaving into the pliant gaps of yours and pulling your fist dear to her chin, kissing it.

You speak over the repeated sounds of her smooches, “Yeah, sorry,” cringing slightly at how fucking cheesy the scene became. But, when is Ellie not? Wonder clasps you now; intent to know what this makes out of the two of you, having held your feelings for forever. “Well, what does all this mean, then?”

“It means..” Ellie slants her body even more, stealing your wrist along with her. Planning something, no doubt. “You and me, breakfast tomorrow at ten, Tipsy Bison?” Her mouth stuck to the side of your hand like syrup, so firm in not letting you go.

It makes your ears simmer hearing her shamelessly set up a date, of all things she could have said. God. You errantly laugh, totally not giddy when her mouth starts sprinkling up your arm at an alarming pace. “Sounds more than good—hey! You slow down!” 

Happy birthday, asshole.

perm taglist; @whore4abby @aouiaa @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @maleelee @seraphicsentences

[lmk if you'd like to be added to my perm taglist!]

[deadsetobsessions]

This is based off of that one tiktok from @sorruna where it’s the audio from Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse.

——

Dick Grayson was a sneaky, intelligent little shit.

He was also dumb. These things are not mutually exclusive.

To this day, one of his best kept secrets- one of the many, many that he had now- was something he’d take to his grave.

Or to Jason’s grave, at least.

Dick sat down and began telling the story to ears that would never truly hear it.

——

Batman’s voice rumbled behind him as Dick, in his Robin suit, stood blankly on top of a roof.

“I know you snuck out last night, Robin.”

Dick froze, train of thought about his dinner derailed. Holy busted, Batman! Quick! Play dumb!

“Who’s Robin?” He asked, the years of performing in front of a large crowd coming to save his ass.

Not that dumb!

Batman sent him a dry look, reprimand already poised on his lips. Dick, however, was nothing but a good performer. Nay, a dedicated performer.

Quick! Do something out of character! He shouted at himself, panicking visibly. He stepped backwards, an idea appearing in his head. In his defense, it sounded like an amazing idea at the time. He had no idea it would blow up into a Justice League issue. If he had known… Dick would have lied better, probably. There was no way he was going to let B bench him for weeks!

“Who the fuck are you?!” He yelped. Dick apologized mentally to Alfred and his parents. Batman paused, stunned.

“That’s my question. Who are you?!” Bruce asked, immediately hostile. His son doesn’t curse. Well, not in any normal way anyways. Dick quickly backpedaled by yelling at him with a heavy Vlax dialect, missing his parents terribly as he screamed stranger danger in rudimentary Romany. After this, he was going to have to convince Bruce to get him a language tutor. He refused to forget one of the only ties he had left to his parents.

“Wait, wait- you’re my son.” Bruce replied back, in perfect Romany. He looked more convinced but still skeptical.

“My dad is a circus performer! Not a flying rat!” Dick screeched back. He couldn’t help but feel touched about Bruce seeing him like a son.

“Oy! Keep it down out there, you assholes! Some of us like our sleep, damn!” A random Gothamite screamed out of their window.

“Yo, shut the fuck up! The vigilantes are helping to keep the rent low, motherfucker!” Another Gothamite shouted back.

….

Needless to say, Bruce quickly brought Dick back to the cave- with precautions to make sure he didn’t figure out where the Cave was if Dick was actually someone else.

——

“You would have loved it, Little Wing. B was running around like a headless chicken. The memory loss protocol was actually made because of me, you know.” Dick chuckled, sniffling as he talked to the carved gravestone.

It did not reply.

——

The blood tests came back. Yeppers, Dick sarcastically thought, who woulda thought I’m me?

Reinforcements were called in.

Meaning, Batgirl.

“Watch him while I contact Justice League Dark.”

“You think it’s magic?” Barbara asked.

“Yes. There was no one else near our vicinity that could affect Dick like this. He has no head wounds.”

“Eesh. Okay, go. I’ll watch him.”

Bruce disappeared in his zeta tube, looking harried. So, to everyone that’s not a Bat, he looked absolutely terrifying.

“What did you get yourself into now, Boy Wonder?” Barbara sighed. Dick was careful to keep any signs of recognition out of his face.

“Stop calling me that! Where are my parents?!” He asked back. Barbara coughed and looked uncomfortably away.

That’s right, Babs. I’m pulling out the orphan card. Feel bad. Dick hid his feral grin.

“They’re… uh, busy.” Busy being dead, Barbara thought, immediately wincing at her own thoughts. Apparently, Dick thought the excuse was lame too, and he sent her an incredulous look.

“Would you like refreshments, Master Dick?”

“What?”

Alfred held out some cookies on a platter, giving Babs a quelling look as she tried to reach for his share.

“Oh, wow, these are really good!” Dick said as he shoveled cookies into his mouth. He tried to replicate the reaction he had when he tried these for the first time, and from Alfred’s satisfied look, Dick nailed it.

——

“Robin doesn’t remember who he is.” Batman rumbled as he all but dragged Zatanna and Constantine by the scuff of their jackets towards the zeta tubes.

“Hey, wait-”

“We have no time.” Batman snarled, tossing the two magic users into the zeta. He punched in the destination.

When they got there, he glared at the two magic users until they got into the cave.

“Damn, Bats. Really living up to your name, huh?”

“Not bad,” Zatanna said as she looked around.

“Robin,” Batman- Bruce- reminded them. He did a quick glance over to check on his kids, and found them satisfactorily uninjured. Though, Barbara was looking worse for wear. Bruce quickly found out why as she stalked to him.

“You deal with him.” She muttered. “I’m going home.”

Bruce blinked and nodded. “Get home safe.”

Zatanna and Constantine followed Batman as he walked towards Robin. It was odd to see the normally laughing child frown.

“It’s you! The kidnapper! Where are my parents?!”

Bruce winced which, for him, was akin to a full body flinch and recoil. No wonder Barbara was so tired.

“Fix it.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Batsy.” Constantine grumbled.

“Well help, Batman. Though… I’m not sure if he should be doing that.”

Bruce sharply turned his head back to where Dick was. Emphasis on was. Because now, he’s halfway up the giant dinosaur the Robin had insisted they keep.

“Robin, get down from there!”

“Stranger Danger!” Dick hollered back.

Batman- Bruce Wayne- sighed.

“That’s high level magic,” Zatanna hummed. “I can’t feel anything, but I know for sure that he won’t die. Magic like that either dissipates naturally or…”

“Lasts forever,” Constantine finished.

Bruce groaned, shooting off a grappling line and swooping upwards to catch Dick as he fell from the giant dinosaur.

——

“I pretended to get my memories back later,” Dick chuckled. “And pretended to forget the whole thing. Bruce was so relieved that I stopped knocking things over and trying to do cartwheels in high places that he totally forgot I snuck out.”

Dick patted the headstone.

“But between you and me? I’m pretty sure Alfred knew. I think B pissed him off that week.”

[woso-dreamzzz]

The Kids

Alexia's Daughters

Bambi Putellas -> From Injured -> Age 3-4 -> Accident -> Future Ballerina -> False Confidence By Noah Kahan -> Lives in The Little Bambi Ballerina Verse

Pequeñita Putellas -> From Tears -> Age 3-4 -> IVF -> SPD -> Future Artist -> Fluffles the chinchilla -> ❤️ Teeny Engen-León -> Lives in The Little Artists Verse

Mija Putellas -> From Perfect -> Age 1 -> Adopted -> Future Attacking Midfielder -> ❤️ Sunshine Engen-León -> Lives in The Little Loves Verse

Mapi and Ingrid's Daughters

Bebita Engen-León -> From Difficult -> Age 1-3 -> Happy Accident -> Future Motocross & MotoGP Rider -> Counting Stars by One Republic -> Lives in The Little Hive Verse

Sunshine Engen-León -> From Heart -> Age 4 -> Adopted -> Heart Transplant -> Future Photographer -> Starshine and Moonshine the lovebirds 🐦 -> ❤️ Mija Putellas -> Lives in The Little Loves Verse

Cub León -> From Surgery -> Age 2-4 -> Happy Accident -> ADHD -> Future Cat Café Owner -> Garfield and León-León the cats 🐈 -> Lives in The Little Troublemakers Verse

Skatt Engen -> From Secret -> Age 0-1 -> Happy Accident -> Future Entomologist -> Lives in The Little Fauna Verse

Teeny Engen-León -> From Tattoos -> Age 2-3 -> Happy Accident -> Future Artist -> Mr Pina the hedgehog 🦔 -> ❤️ Pequeñita Putellas -> Lives in The Little Artists Verse

Ingrid's Sister

Nena Engen -> From Nena -> Age 4 -> Natural -> Future Defender (Centreback) -> Lives in The Little Sisters Verse

Frido's Sister

Älskling Rolfö -> From Kidnapped -> Age 0-1 -> Adopted -> Future Detective -> Lives in The Little Troublemakers Verse

Katrina and Clara's Daughter

Bubs Gorry -> From Grouchy -> Age 0-1 -> IVF -> Future Film Director -> ❤️ Angel Catley -> Orpheus by Vincent Lima -> Lives in The Little Tillies Verse

Sam and Kristie's Daughter

Chook Mewis-Kerr -> From Torn -> Age 5 -> IVF -> Epilepsy -> Future Palaeontologist, PhD -> Lives in The Little Troublemakers Verse

Ellie and Daan's Daughter

Pipsqueak Van De Donk -> From Breakfast -> Age 8 -> IVF -> Future Gymnast -> Lives in The Little Tillies Verse

Mary's Sister

Rugrat Earps -> From Read -> Age 5 -> Natural -> Future English Professor, PhD -> Lives in The Little Sisters Verse

Alessia's Sister

Tesoro Russo -> From Copy -> Age 3-4 -> Natural -> Future Striker -> Lives in The Little Sisters Verse

Leah and Jordan's Daughter

Bug Williamson-Nobbs -> From Outburst -> Age 3-4 -> Adopted -> Future Striker -> ❤️ Bear Walsh-Bronze -> Lives in The Little Hive Verse

Leah's Sister

Bean Williamson -> From Playing Favourites -> Age 4 -> Natural -> Future Defender (Centreback) -> Lives in The Little Sisters Verse

Lucy and Keira's Daughters

Peanut Walsh-Bronze -> From Travel Day -> Age 4 -> IVF -> ADHD -> Future Defensive Midfielder -> Lives in The Little Besties Verse

Bear Walsh-Bronze -> From Broken -> Age 3-4 -> Adopted -> Narcoleptic -> Future Year 1 Teacher -> ❤️ Bug Williamson-Nobbs -> Lives in The Little Hive Verse

Pup Walsh-Bronze -> From Dogs -> Age 3 -> Adopted -> Future Wolf Sanctuary Worker

Katie and Rue's Daughter

Kiddo Littlejohn-McCabe -> From End of the World -> Age 3-4 -> IVF -> Anxiety -> Future Child Therapist -> Baby the cat 🐈

Beth and Viv's Daughters

Liefje Mead -> From Sharks -> Age 4 -> IVF -> Future Shark Biologist, PhD -> Carpet the shark 🦈 -> Lives in The Little Besties Verse

Munchkin Meadema -> From Video -> Age 1 -> Adopted -> Future Doctor -> Lives in The Little Medics Verse

Pernille and Magda's Daughter

Princesse -> From Big Adventures -> Age 0-Adult -> IVF -> Anxiety -> Future Goalkeeper -> Prins the dog 🐕, Reina the cat 🐈, Kung the bunny 🐇 -> ❤️ Natalia Guijarro (OC) -> Long Live (Taylor's Version) By Taylor Swift -> Lives in The Big Adventures Universe

[ascendingaeons]

Hymn to Sekhmet

by Joey Rivers (ascendingaeons)

O Sekhmet, Great Eye of Ra, the First and the Last Healer and Destroyer, Mother and Daughter You Who accepted the Command of Ra, Your Father To cleanse the Two Lands of Isfet But Your nature was too mighty, Great of Strength as You Are Wanton and unrestrained, You ravaged Earth as a purifying flame And as Ra looked on and saw His Eye, He was stricken with pause By the Will of the Sun, Your Rage was quieted by a crimson brew And into transformative slumber You fell, Great Goddess And from Your great Rage, Het-Heru rose A new Eye was christened, of eros sublime And you, Great Mother, knew the sadness of regret

You, Great Goddess, know the measure of rage unbound And so You Stand, Great Mother of War, in defense and duty Of the Principles and Consequences of Ma’at Your Children are many, Great Lady of Life Diverse in their multitudes, empowered by their tribulation

Yours is the soldier, Your Mighty Sekhem made flesh and bone Entrenched in a maelstrom of fire and blood Returning home to a nation that does not understand him

Yours is the survivor, a living branch of Your burning Will triumphant Endeavoring to rise above the quagmire of loss and agony Through You their struggle is transmuted into the golden light of ka ascendant

Yours is the mother, she who knows sacrifice and sleepless nights A font unyielding of love and pride, of smiles and laughter perfected They who bear the weight of the world so a child can know childhood

Yours is the healer, an alchemist of the ontological persuasion He who is humbled by the frailty beholden to human experience He who ushers Your Sekhem through the riptide of transformative loss

Yours is the artist, through whose passions course Your Divine Fire Who walks the scales of inspiration and madness, knowing Creation unfiltered An alchemist versed in the milieus of perception

For You, Great Goddess, are the very Force of Change You are that which makes men tremble so Such an unnecessary fear, of wisdom and experience untouched Were I You, I would feel such sadness But how You smile, Great One! How You laugh! How You fight! You are not “she who cowers before Apep!” NO! You are the Great Lioness Who rends Chaos asunder! You fight and rage and bite and tear Passion and emotion alive and unrestrained!

You are Love, Great Goddess You are Fear, Great Goddess You are Devotion, Great Goddess You are Loss, Great Goddess You are Health, Great Goddess You are Sickness, Great Goddess This is why I call You the Mother of Life Your Ka is the very essence of experience! Your Sekhem is the very wind of change!

When I first called upon You, timid and unsure, I beheld Your Gaze, a window of fire open before my face And as quickly as You Saw me, You left And again when I called to You with offering of water and bread Exhausted by grief and devotion, tirelessly sung from a caregiver’s heart You came to me and my eyes were opened to You! As I lay without sleep, You stood at my bedside Stroking my back with strong hands of fire Whispering strength and courage into my ear As a sentinel You walked with me, a Mother Lioness guarding Her cub Such loyalty and tenderness You showed And my eyes were forever opened to Your nature

You are the very Force of Creation, the Monad of Being From which stems those primordial principalities Love and Fear, Physis and Logos, Known and Unknown Order and Disorder, Life and Death, Dynamism and Stasis

I offer henu to You, Great Goddess of Creation The endless potentiality and movement of the living cosmos The Fires Divine that Become living sinews and living earth

I offer henu to Your Husband Ptah, the Cosmic Smith Patron of artisans, of those who tirelessly toil In the pursuit of Bringing Into Being but a shard of the Sacred Unmanifest

I offer henu to Your Son, the Beautiful Nefertem The Ageless Lotus that rose from the Benben Stone The First Splendid Light to Shine in the churning Waters of Nun

It was You Who held my right hand as I accepted the mark of a healer And embraced me as a Mother would Her graduating son I offer You my pain, Great Goddess So that You may transmute it into Strength I offer You my fear, Great Goddess So that You may transmute it into Courage I offer You my uncertainty, Great Goddess So that You may transmute it into Wisdom

Into Your Belly I give of myself to unleash my greatest potential To burst from Your Bosom, shining and emboldened For there is nothing that is beyond Your Reach, Great Mother It is for me, now, to See that nothing is beyond my own

Dua Sekhmet! Dua Sekhmet! Dua Sekhmet!

[bawdyknocker]

A long rant justifying one minor parallel of dialogue in Gideon the Ninth...

[GtN, Harrow sees the end, maybe the entire, duel between Gideon and Naberius Tern... After the Response trial, she says a very important thing, imo.] At the end of that fight, when Gideon gets the move on Babs and punches him, pulling back and getting ready to fight again, and Babs bitches about her, Naberius calls Gideon out saying she thinks “she’s some Nonius come-again,” and says she’s more of a brawler than a *real* fighter, like him. The Third’s technique is impeccable. Perfect. Pristine. Clean… preserved… stale… so maybe he’s upset that he lost to someone who was creative while at a handicap. Gideon could’ve taken off her glasses and her cloak. Hell, she could’ve USED the cloak like a net, which would indeed fit with a style of fighting consistent with the Cohort in a real fight, you use everything you’ve got. You stick the other bastard before they can stick you, or else yer dead. (thank you @chuusyfucker for positing the idea of the cloak itself as a weapon that went unused in that duel) and yet, after the trial in Response, when Harrow is babbling gayly about how impressive and incredible it was to see Gideon fight, *through* her own eyes, she makes special mention that Gideon is, indeed, “like Nonius come-again” There is no way she did not hear Naberius Tern make that shit-ass remark at her cav. There is no way she didn’t remember that statement and specifically draw a comparison in the moment she did, explicitly to tell Gideon, “no, for real tho, you *do* fight like Matthias Nonius (no really, you can trust me on this, I have idetic memory, and I have the horrid misfortune of knowing every verse of Ortus’ Noniad… if anybody would know and recognize [who is alive and here today], it may well be me)” I honestly just love how defensive she gets for her here. it's super sweet, and also marks a serious inflection point in their relationship and the overall narrative of GtN long rant summed; Harrow, gone fan-girl post Response, tells Gideon she very well *could* be Matthias Nonius come-again, is super gay for her in ways, and is super fucking proud of her cav

[enjolraspermettendo]

Les Miserables Fanfic recs✨️

I tried to make a selection, my absolute favourites have a heart next to them ❤️, but my les mis fics bookmarks have 17 pages, so you know, there are still other amazing fics that i didn't include (part 2 maybe?). I also realised while making this list that most of these fics are actually very well known, but still, they're great 🤷‍♀️ I'm an angst enthusiast, be warned.

( I'm trying to also tag the tumblr accounts of the authors: if you are one of the authors and I missed your url and want me to add you or if you want me to remove you dont hesitate to contact me! )

❤️ World Aint Ready by idiopathicsmile @idiopathicsmile

Enjolras presses his lips together. He already looks pained, and Grantaire hasn't even opened his mouth yet. That's got to be a record, even for them.

"I need a favor," he says at last.

"With what?" says Grantaire. "Ooh, are you forming a cult? Can I join? I'd be awesome at cults, I just know it." He ticks off his qualifications on his fingers. "I love chanting, I look great in robes—"

(High school AU. Grantaire the disaffected stoner is pulled into a cause bigger than himself. Or: in which there are pretend boyfriends for great justice.)

Part 1 of World Aint Ready-verse

To Fold the Sheet by Lyres

“Can you say one good thing about the season?”

Holding out his soap-sud covered hands until Grantaire tosses a towel on top of them, Enjolras hums in thought. “Not really,” he says, once he's dried off. “Just don't have a lot of happy memories of summer, I suppose.”

(In which Grantaire attempts to make Happy Summer Memories, and Enjolras is endlessly patient.)

History of Melancholia by Squash (JeSuisGourde) @meta-squash

Grantaire deals with his depression by documenting it through photography as he and Enjolras try to wade through life with mental illness. It doesn't make it any easier for him or Enjolras, though. It's the blind leading the blind as they try to navigate the waters of depression.

A series of moments in no particular order, showing the paths that Grantaire's depression and addiction has taken him on and the ways he has tried to survive.

Submission (Going Down, Down) by ddeadkennedys

anyway, enjolras hated grantaire at first. enjolras isn't an asshole, he's not a gatekeeper or some sort of shitty elitist, but grantaire was uninspired, hopeless despite all that potential. a waste. but then that whole thing went down, and shit changed, and if grantaire thought he couldn't get enough of enjolras' attention before, now that enj is only mean to him for fun he's a fucking junkie for it.

Part 1 of the revolution is my boyfriend

Keep It Kind, Keep It Good, Keep It Right by lady_ragnell @theladyragnell

“You aren’t going to ask me if I’m okay?”

“You aren’t. Believe me, I know the signs.” Grantaire sighs, and his breath mists in the air like cigarette smoke. “They love you in there.”

“And out here?”

“You know that’s not a fair question.”

Forget Me Not by Opium_du_Peuple @just-french-me-up

Enjolras loses four years worth of memories after a nasty car accident. Though he still remembers who Combeferre and Courfeyrac are, he also finds himself with a herd of friends he doesn't remember meeting. Friends who are exactly what his blank mind needs to recollect his missing memories.

or : the amnesia fic no one asked for.

i'm not the moon (i'm not even a star) by serinesaccade @serinesaccade

“The amnesiac has questions,” says Grantaire. Boyfriend grips the wheel. “Don’t worry, we’ll start with the 200 dollar Jeopardy trivia.” A semi roars past them. “What’s your name?” The perfect sinew and bones of his fingers relax. “Oh,” he murmurs. Just like that, defenses lowered. “Enjolras.” “Cool,” Grantaire says. “I’m Grantaire.” Something happens to Enjolras’ face which, if you zoomed in, might be considered a smile. “I know.” “How long have we been dating, Enjolras?” The almost-smile is gone. The gameshow metaphor has become too apt; someone’s lost it all. “That’s complicated.” Well. Grantaire should’ve known some part of this fairytale was too good to be true. He’s best friends with a streetsmart renegade and someone who wrote him a welcome-back-to-consciousness poem in godawful blue icing on an orange frosted cookie cake. There are nearly ten people who were waiting for him to wake up in a hospital room. Of course his inexplicable relationship with his supernova hot, socially conscientious boyfriend is ‘complicated.’

thirteen days and fourteen hours and a dozen minutes by Potoo

"Enjolras,” Grantaire gasps as delicate fingers brush over his chest, an airy quality to them, “what do you want?” Because Grantaire would serve him the whole world on a silver platter, and it would never be enough.

“You,” Enjolras states, his voice clear and severe, “I want you.”

Enjolras discovers one by one what his friends think about Grantaire. He is rather surprised by their words.

Also: body worship porn.

Metropolitan Art by ryssabeth @avagueambitioninyourerection

Paris is his home.

❤️ Wrap your fingers round my thumb by Ibbyliv

When Éponine leaves in the morning, he’s already feeling much better. No really, he is. He makes a cup of coffee and even showers. The sun is shining brightly –even though it’s mostly late in the afternoon than morning but he has no one to apologize to, no reason to excuse himself for being a lazy ass and not finishing that painting for ages- and he’s humming a catchy tune that has been stuck in his head while he wipes his hair dry with a towel. He opens the door because he feels good enough to take the trash out, and everything’s alright, even the odor coming from the plastic bag, until he hears it.

It’s a cry, a wail, desperate and heartbreaking as if something tiny is trying to cause its lungs to explode and is on its way to success. Grantaire looks around, not willing to accept what he feels coming, before lowering his eyes on the floor. In this moment, Grantaire swears, he's so fucking wasted. * Enjolras leaves to work abroad for a year. When he returns, he finds out that there has been a new addition to their group.

A Series of Progressions by AnnaBolena @annabrolena

Modern AU in Paris in which most of Les Amis are students and all of them are sort of slow on the getting together aspect of relationships, with sociopolitical commentary and medical jabber peppered in between.

how sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame by Tegami @furtherfish

He could have shrugged and that would have been it. Say that he just found it precious. But Grantaire was Grantaire and he never could keep himself from oversharing and he was already dizzy with the way this night was going, so he told the truth. “The first thought I had when I read that poem was ‘If someone would ever call me “sweet boy” and mean it, I would probably pass out.’” OR: E & R are being ""casual"". Grantaire attempts to break some of their habits. Enjolras reads some angsty notes R left in his copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. Then they fuck

❤️ Hotel California by sunflowerbright

'You can check out, but you can never leave' - Reincarnation!AU

❤️ Paris Burning by thecitysmith @thecitysmith

In a world where cities are personified, the City of Paris has been missing for centuries, driven away by the horrors of war and the worst humanity has offered him. Enjolras dreams of meeting Paris, and leading him to a better tomorrow. What he doesn't know is that Paris is now a cynical drunk who calls himself Grantaire.

❤️ Thirty-Two Times by Ark @et-in-arkadia

Marius, looking chastised but sad, says, “Is there nothing then for romance, Enjolras? It seems a strange emotion to be struck with, distracting as a fever, if it means nothing.” It is Grantaire who answers first. “Nothing means anything, Marius,” says the cynic. “Yet who would ever die for his country if he did not love some person who lived within it?”

❤️ Once We're Kings by raeldaza

Their kingdoms have been at odds for centuries, so what will be a greater 'fuck you' than to send hapless knight Grantaire as their representative for Prince Enjolras's queen choosing ceremony before he is crowned King? Grantaire disagrees, but he doesn't seem to get much of a say in the matter. No one is really expecting anything to come of it, but trust Enjolras to defy expectations.

❤️ Your Heart on Your Skin by zade @racetrackthehiggins

Grantaire’s first flower appears when he is two years old. It’s late, for a First Bloom, considering some children are born with their First already etched above their hearts, but Grantaire’s parents are warm and loving and wait to see what sort of child they have born unto the world. His First Bloom, when it comes, is vibrant patch of yellow carnations. He is too young to know what it means, and his parents don’t tell him, just—withdraw, and a much smaller patch of yellow carnations appears on his mother’s ankle. -- Soulmate AU where things in your life appear as flowers on your skin, and people with hard lives have a lot of flowers to show for it

Tetris by chapstickaddict

Cosette is Enjolras' half-sister. His father slept with Fantine and then buggered off to be with his wife. Then Enjolras found out. One day he sees her- and he knows its her- and doesn't know what to do. Enjolras is Cosette's half-brother. Her mother slept with a married man and died of a broken heart and weary soul. Then Cosette found out. One day, she finds him-and she knows its him- and doesn't know what to do. Then Marius happened...

Silence Is the Speech of Love by lady_ragnell @theladyragnell

Grantaire's life has a pattern: he pays his respects to Aphrodite, he goes to work, he loves Enjolras and provokes him because he can't bring himself to do otherwise. That seems unlikely to change, at least until Enjolras speaks out against the gods and ends up cursed. Grantaire does his best to help him, but it turns out it's just as hard to love Enjolras up close as it is from afar.

Part 1 of The Speech of Love

❤️ I Believe In Nothing but the Truth and Who We Are by Whreflections

"Under the wine, Grantaire smelled like smoke and summer nights. His dark hair curled in a chaotic mess around his face, his neck below pale and soft. The first time they met, the first time he drew the scent into his lungs, he ached with the need to mark that stretch of skin, to card his fingers through Grantaire’s hair so very gently before tilting his head back so Enjolras might mark his bared throat and make his claim. He resisted then, telling himself that to act on instinct alone was the arena of an animal; he was a man of intellect, and he could choose." As an alpha, Enjolras has known Grantaire to be his mate since he first came to the Musain, a truth he does his best to bury. With his devotion already promised to France, he tells himself he cannot risk dividing his loyalties, cannot risk a bond that would pull so heavy on his heart. This is what he's told himself a thousand times, but when Grantaire needs him, his careful resolutions may not be able to hold against the strain.

His Love Letter by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade @shitpostingfromthebarricade

Your Wednesday regular appears right on time and orders the same thing as he does every week, but something's different today.

❤️ Here's looking at you by illuminate

“So domestic trouble rather than treason?” Floreal said. “I’m not saying one precludes the other.” Enjolras said, which came out more pained than he had intended. “Are you suggesting Grantaire sold national secrets to a crime lord because you were a bad boyfriend?” Floreal asked. Her tone was bemused, but there was a glint in her eye that turned the comment into mockery. “No.” Enjolras snapped, stung, and then didn’t say more. Spy AU. Grantaire removes his tracker and disappears the same night Lamarque is killed in his office. Enjolras is left behind, trying to figure out what happened and why Grantaire didn't tell him anything.

❤️ Meanwhile, A Glacier by standalone

“I’ll go.” He says it without brashness or deference. Just a statement. “Where?” “You want to climb the Forty,” he says, and Enjolras can’t deny it. “I’ll go with you.”

❤️ It's Not the Same Anymore by ShameDumpster @shamedumpster

Grantaire is a bookstore clerk in his late twenties, and to everyone’s eternal disbelief, a father. It’s been years since he’s seen anyone from his former group of friends, after a falling out cleaved him from the ABC, but everything changes when Enjolras walks into his bookstore. Can they rekindle their friendship, or something more, while they both come to terms with how their lives have changed over the past decade?

Part 1 of INtSA-verse

❤️ Combeferre's Tattoos by standalone

Enjolras clunked down three lowball glasses of whiskey and a bottle of soda water. “We have already established, ‘Ferre, his freedom to leave us. Can you please stop bringing it up and instead give him some incentive to stay?” Combeferre cocked his head to the side, as if amused at Enjolras’s crankiness. “Such as?” “He seemed to like you shirtless.” ‘Ferre nodded. “Then perhaps someone should take my shirt off.” or When the universe gives you Enjolras and Combeferre, who the hell are you to ask questions?

Part 1 of Tattoos AU

❤️ In Defiance of all Geometry by idiopathicsmile @idiopathicsmile

Amis House might not be the biggest student co-op, or the fanciest, but it's got something all its own. Specifically, smoke damage on the kitchen ceiling from that time Courfeyrac lit a political pamphlet on fire. In which there are secrets, pining, pancakes, and revelations, and sometimes the shortest distance between three points is not a triangle but a circle.

Part 1 of IDOAG-verse

❤️ We still got time (Raise your hopeful voice) by RavenXavier

“Excuse-you!” came Grantaire’s offended voice from the other side of the room. “I would make an excellent wife, Monsieur Lesgle, should I choose to! I have all the qualities of one!" (In which Enjolras slowly falls in love, and Grantaire takes the time to explore what feels right.)

Musagetes by defractum @defractum

"You've had sex," says Grantaire, just to clarify. He gives Enjolras an obvious look up and down, as if he's trying to imagine it right now: Enjolras having sex, Enjolras in the act of having sex. The curve of his mouth gives away his smirk; it's Grantaire though, so his smirk is two-thirds mocking and one-third self-deprecating. In which Enjolras has sex, has casual sex, and doesn't talk about it; in which Grantaire speaks better through art.

❤️ Through the Narrow Place by revolutionbarbie

“What brought you to Paris?” Montparnasse asked. “A train, ostensibly. And a bus.” Grantaire leaves Poland for Paris, content to remain alone forever if it means that he'll be safe. He goes to work and he comes home and he doesn't think about how few people there would be to miss him should he disappear. When he meets the Friends who gather and plot at the Cafe Musain, he realises how much he has been missing and though their leader is reckless and arrogant, Grantaire can't help but be drawn to him.

❤️ A Thousand Miles by kjack89 @kjack89

Some couples had a morning breakfast routine. For Enjolras and Grantaire, it was coffee. Come rain, shine, or hectic schedules, they still made time every morning to have a cup of coffee together. Sometimes that time saw Grantaire perching on the counter in the bathroom while Enjolras gulped his cup in the shower; other times, it was the two of them in bed long past when they were supposed to get up, wrapped in blankets and each other. Some days those precious few minutes were the only time they saw each other, and they treasured it. Even when Enjolras was out of town on business, they called or Facetimed each other to share their morning cup of coffee. It was the one consistency in their lives that Grantaire could count on.

❤️ Hēbē by illuminate

“You cannot feed on a citizen without their consent, because that would be an attack on their person - and their Rights, I am sure. But you cannot risk revealing your nature and so you cannot ask for permission. Luckily, you have me, who am already aware and quite willing.” The chair screeches loudly as Enjolras pushes himself away from the table. ”Come now, Apollo, let me be your cupbearer.” Grantaire implores; his tone somewhere between teasing and honest. “No, we are not doing that.” Enjolras growls. (In short: Enjolras has trouble feeding himself, because he is too busy planning the revolution. Grantaire finds out and is more than willing to help.)

Part 1 of cupbearer

Enjolras looks down at where Grantaire’s hand holds the pack against him and doesn’t bother to take hold. “If you were Combeferre,” he says, “this would be the part where you tell me these things will kill me.” “If I were Combeferre, I’d be inside and you’d be bothering someone else,” Grantaire snaps. He snatches the pack of cigarettes back and extracts one, leaving just two inside. It is with sharp, savage movements that he jabs it into his mouth, lights it with the silver Zippo, and then offers it to Enjolras.

love is in the air, i just gotta figure out a window to break out by tamquams

[regicidal-defenestration]

A visual example of how I ended up on an entirely incorrect but seemingly right track:

[ID: Two screenshots of google translate. The first translates the Latin word limulus to the English silt. The second translates the English askew to the same in Latin, implying there is no such word, but a separate box below states that askew can translate to limulus, but appears with a low frequency. End ID]

Anyone spare a hint for a struggling TSV fan in these trying times?

[pumpkinpot]

Late night: Astarion

.

There was something about nighttime now. It was a peace Astarion wasn't familiar with. Chatter fell with the sun and the worries of the day seemed to press between the pages of an unfinished chapter, idle until morning.

The adjustment was violent to say the least. Astarion battled with himself for weeks upon integration into the party. Ink took to the sky and his mind broke into verse.

Should he loot everyone's bags for valuables? Now would be a perfect time to travel, find other camps and loot their bags or take a little bite of heavy sleepers.

Other people's willingness to trust the darkness was his best defense against their better judgement.

Here was annoyingly different. Trust was currency and you all delt generously. That didn't mean he wasn't himself, or rather the self that he had been molded into.

So he lie there on a stolen bedroll looking up at stars he'd become intimately familiar with and waited for exhaustion to take him. It would eventually take him, right?

The fire was in embers and soft breathing echoed through the shifting trees. He almost wished for someone to charge the camp. Torch in one hand, sword in the other. then at least his alertness would feel warranted.

Some time ago he memorized everyone's breathing patterns to scout who was a heavy enough sleeper to potentially drink from.

Shadowheart whimpered in her sleep and rolled around often. Halsin was an incredibly heavy sleeper, but Astarion wasn't willing to risk those bear arms catching him. Gale ground his teeth in his sleep and woke if the fire stayed out too long.

Karlach slept away from everyone and kept herself well guarded with boobytraps.

Wyll was his second choice behind Tav. He was a deep sleeper and didn't move much. Astarion intended to give him a try until seeing the knife under Wylls pillow.

It had been months since you had been generously feeding him, but Astation still kept the sleeping catalog in his mind. even now, he could locate everyone by their breaths.

Gale to the right. Shadowheart across the way, Tav-

An emptiness pressed in from the darkness. when had they gotten up, where the fuck did you go?

He squinted at your empty bedroll and then looked around. No movement caught his eye. He rolled onto his knees, throwing a bit of spirits and wood into the fire to keep Gale in his slumber.

This night was cooler than most. A welcomed surprise amongst a heatwave. Every night his week he's woken to a slab of sweat sticking his shirt to his back. Tonight it blew blissfully in the wind.

Tav was in none of the standing tents, nor the lake side, nor the storage trunks. He brought his hands up to his lips and blew between cupped fingers.

A perfect mourning dove call spread through the night. He doesn't know how or when he learned to do the imitation, but, he knew when he heard the song, it was time to venture back to the palace before sunrise.

It echoed in soft bouts of three with a break between to listen.

Ironically he'd never actually seen the bird.

That was then, now he used the song to find you when you wondered off. which was more often than he liked.

From somewhere in the thick of the trees he heard it. Soft and not as refined as his imitation, but still it was you. Wherever you'd ventured was beyond the reach of the fires light and he sighed frustrated lying before continuing.

He stepped into the sheet of increasing darkness until he was right beneath the call.

"up here," Tav whispered.

He looked around then up and to his dismay there the fuck you were, on a branch. In a tree.

"Why?" He sighed.

Tavs response must have been inaudible because none came. It was probably that insolent shrug. Astarion clamored up the lowest branch inching his way towards his squirrely companion.

"I'm too old to be climbing trees," He complained.

"I'm older than you," you retorted.

His eyes rolled. "only in human years."

"I think that should count for more where agility is concerned."

He didn't humor a response. His agility was fine. It was tested vigorously and consistently. Except not in tree climbing, which seemed to be oddly important to this particular adventurer.

A quiet disposition fell between the two. It could have been comfortable if the thin branch between Astarions legs was.

"Why aren't you asleep?" He asked, though his tone was harsher than intended.

"You've already fed on me tonight-"

"-Yes and this extra excursion could reopen your neck wound."

"did it?"

If it had, he would be able to smell it and it hadn't. "That's not the point."

"Is your drive to argue and criticize compulsive or some sick hobby?"

His mouth opened then closed. There you go again asking crypically deep questions he would think about later but needed to be witty about now. "A hobby, and I am rather good at it, so it seems or you wouldn't be deflecting-"

"Fuck Astarion I couldn't sleep."

Silence.

"Me either."

Silence. This one fell into one of those categories that could be argued wasn't silent at all. there was adjusting sighs and loud unspoken thoughts and a deafening need to not be silent.

"what was the city like at night?"

It wasn't a simple answer. He couldn't say there were nights he didn't even see the sky or that he scorned the warm pavement when he was out, because it got to be kissed by the sun. He couldn't say that for a few years into his spawn life he relished taking souls off the street because how dare they slink into his territory. into his hell when they had mornings.

It was different now, but only slightly. Night pressed you for answers to questions you didn't want to think about. There was nowhere to hide because it, itself was what you would hide in.

That's why people congregated under lamp posts and kept candles forward. Night wasn't cruel. She was- "Honest. After a certain hour the only ones left were the ones who were hurt enough to not look at the hour."

A break, a breath and a hushed smile. "Do you have the time?"

The corners of his lip tipped up. "No."

Now the night was as it should be. Now the silence could take hold of those who belonged in it. This was his peace.

[scarletcomalies]

distant star

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word count: 3,428

A/N: Age Of Ultron Wanda because asdkghjksñlfñ why not?!

Warnings: Angst, unspoken feelings, you name it!

Pietro Maximoff recognized talent wherever he saw it, and that's how he made you a member of the band whose lead vocalist and guitarist was his twin sister Wanda Maximoff. Not knowing how or when, all the songs you wrote ended up being about her.

"Alright, let's go over it again."

You rolled your eyes and let out a dramatic sigh, pretending to be annoyed at the brunette's request.

"Don't look at me, look at Pietro who completely messed up in the second verse!" Wanda exclaimed defensively, as she raised her arms in a mock surrender.

"But sing louder, I could run a marathon with the distance you set between you and the microphone!" He protested.

"Oh, shush!" Wanda exclaimed. "It's not about whether I sing loud or not, it's about your bass following a certain pattern and be guided by my guitar! Every time I play this chord, you must follow me..."

You laughed lightly at the little argument that was going on between the twins for maybe the third time throughout the rehearsal. It had barely been twenty minutes.

"Come on, guys!" You interjected. "If you keep arguing this frequently, night will fall, and you know how my mom is when it comes to noise."

Your house possessed a spacious and ideal garage that was perfect for a band to spent its beginnings with. Because of this, you generously offered your house as a rehearsal space most of the time.

However, there was a slight hitch in this arrangement. Your mother, like the Tess Coleman character straight out of one of your favore movies "Freaky Friday", she had the habit of turning off the power switch in the garage as soon as night time came.

Both Wanda and Pietro stopped their argument, and exchanged one last accusatory look, almost as if to say, "You are to blame."

"Clint, you count..." Wanda turned to the drummer, and subsequently, he gathered his drumsticks and did the counting.

You weren't sure how or when you started to sense this, but you knew it when you noticed that you stopped looking down at your guitar and instead, kept your eyes on her, and memorized every gesture she tended to make; frowning or wrinkling her nose during high notes, closing her eyes throughout the whole melody, moving her heel to the sound of her guitar, and your favorite one, when she opened her eyes just to dedicate you glances of approval every time you did a solo with your guitar.

You thought maybe it was the energy and passion Wanda put into every note, as you marveled at the way she gave herself completely to the music, but you realized it was beyond admiration when every song you wrote ended up being a loving ode to every aspect that made her up. Even when you tried to write a funny song about partying, you somehow ended up redirecting it to the woman next to you.

"And so I watch you from afar, like a distant star...

For I'll always love you, but you'll never know...

Ink and paper, my silent confidantes they are…

They seem to whisper, 'Your secret's safe,' as emotions flow..."

Wanda concluded the last song you wrote for her, and this time, it turned out incredibly. You knew it when she let out that sigh of satisfaction that only happened when neither of you messed up a note.

"Another love song, and we don't know your muse," Clint commented, placing his drumsticks on the snare drum.

"I don't have a muse," you excused yourself, and as if it were instinct, you looked at Wanda, who was very busy tuning her guitar.

"I don’t believe you," Pietro stated, as he placed his left arm around your shoulder, while his free hand held the neck of his bass as it rested on his side.

"Come on, I just... write whatever comes to mind," you shrugged. "I don't think of anyone specific, and they don't mean anything."

Both Pietro and Clint scoffed in disbelief, clearly not buying your attempt to brush off their accusation.

“Come on, there has to be some-…” Pietro said.

“Enough,” Wanda interrupted him, and you sighed in relief, sending a thankful look her way. “Whether there is a muse or not, you have every right to tell us when you feel like it. And if that day never comes, that’s okay too,” she added.

“Thank you, Wanda!” You exclaimed, emphasizing those three words as you glanced at your two male bandmates, who were very nosy about your love life.

Pietro withdrew his arm from around your shoulders, but not before giving you a little nudge to annoy you for being spared further questions.

"Now, do you have your three song suggestions for the setlist?" The brunette changed the subject.

In a month's time, perhaps the biggest presentation you would have so far would take place, as a well-known bar gave you a space, and besides, it was going to be Halloween. The four of you were excited, and very determined to seriously connect with the audience, and not just be a very irrelevant background noise for people who were only focused on getting drunk.

After having rehearsed your own songs for a week straight, it was time to focus on the covers. Each of the band members had the right to suggest three songs to elaborate the setlist for this presentation, and you would be the first to make your choice known.

"Break In by Halestorm and Amy Lee," Wanda read the first title, and nodded with a smile. "Things I'll Never Say by Avril Lavigne," she continued. "Oh! Lovesong by The Cure?!”

"Yes..." you said in a hesitant tone.

"Are we seeing the same person who for the last show made us play Angel's Punishment by Lacuna Coil?" Clint exclaimed from his seat, while laughing.

"Oh! My throat still hurts from doing those gutturals," Pietro seconded, rubbing his throat in a dramatic manner.

"Lacuna Coil is an excellent band," you justified.

"And Pietro, you insisted on doing those gutturals, when I could have done them Maria Brink style," Wanda added. "Speaking of which, how about Scarlet by In This Moment? It's among my suggestions actually..." she changed the subject again, to evade another interrogation towards you.

And so, with each passing rehearsal afternoon, your feelings for Wanda became more and more unbearable, and thus, more and more noticeable.

So notorious, that Pietro and Clint were fully aware that all those songs you couldn't stop writing were about her. And therefore, their insistence was no longer about you revealing the identity of your muse, instead, their new goal was to convince you to confess to her.

"(Y/N), my little sister would melt for you just by knowing that you wrote songs for her," Pietro tried to persuade you, following you into the kitchen of your house with the excuse of helping you carry ice for the drinks you would take to the garage.

"And what if she doesn't? What if she finds me weird?" You countered. "She had zero interest in knowing who the person I was writing for was."

"Exactly!" Pietro exclaimed, clearly seeing it from a different point of view than you.

And more of these conversations took place whenever Wanda wasn't around, and to say you were fed up was an understatement.

You were afraid to risk the beautiful, deep-rooted friendship that had blossomed between you and the brunette ever since Pietro introduced her to you seven months ago and said: "I got us a main guitarist."

So frequent became those sleepovers where you would listen to your favorite music, watch classic movies from the 2000s, and have deep conversations until two in the morning. Pietro would jump at the bed at early hours in the morning, asking Wanda to make him pancakes since he was nice enough to give up the TV so you guys could use it.

She also had a sixth sense that seemed to provide her the ability to appear when you needed her the most, as your eyes would sparkle with excitement every time you heard the doorbell ring and subsequently saw Wanda from your window with a basket full of both of you guys' favorite snacks, and her guitar in hand, which meant she would take you to the park to compose songs in a notebook you shared, with the purpose of distracting you from whatever happened that day. Even though the notebook you wrote in didn't have a single free space, and was full of scratches and notes, you didn't have the heart to throw it away.

That was just the tip of the iceberg. That was why it frustrated you that your male bandmates would take so lightly something as delicate as telling your best friend that you were head over heels in love with her, so you clung to your secret love, treasuring it like a fragile shadow that resided within you.

And so, the big day came. Pietro, Clint, Wanda and you took your positions on the small stage in the bar. Within the crowd, you noticed a few familiar faces, and a feeling of happiness invaded you as you realizes that you were slowly reaching a point where you could say you had a few loyal fans already.

"Good evening, everyone!" Wanda's accent added a little bit of allure to her words, drawing everyone's attention. "Thank you for joining us tonight!"

And with that, the first song started, as soon as Clint counted in with a rhythmic tap of his drumsticks.

As you gracefully played your guitar along with Wanda's, you couldn't tear your gaze away from her. You remembered vividly how the light casted a mesmerizing glow around her, and she always maintained those little habits while she performed, not to mention that astonishing voice of hers, that could go from raspy to high pitched, from sorrowful to joyful in a matter of seconds.

You didn't care if the entire audience noticed the intensity of your gaze. In fact, you were proud to declare, even silently, that you were deeply in love with Wanda Maximoff. The passionate emotion in your lyrics seemed to resonate even more as she poured her heart into every word, and there you realized that, even mindlessly, the brunette seemed to understand your feelings more than anyone else.

"I want you to meet the incredibly talented musicians who make up this band," Wanda said as soon as the audience finished applauding, her enthusiasm made you smile automatically. "On main guitar, we have the amazing (Y/N)," she gestured towards you, and you did a small reverence as everyone cheered you with applause and whistles. "On bass, my twin brother Pietro, who's older by thirteen minutes... so whenever he brags about being the older sibling, just remember, it's only by thirteen minutes!" She joked, and Pietro burst out in laughter as he also greeted at the public with a wide grin plastered on his face. "On drums, we have the talented Clint!" She gestured towards the drummer's way, and he stood up as he waved at everyone. "And... I'm Wanda, the rythm guitarist and vocalist."

The evening continued, and so far, all those rehearsals had been worth it, for there were a considerable number of people jumping and clapping animatedly, and for every time you looked away from Wanda to look at the audience, it seemed as if the number doubled.

Until it came time to introduce the last song you had written about the woman next to you.

It held a significance to you beyond comprehension, and although you had seen her rehearse it multiple times, there was something different about that night that was going to make it more magical than the other times.

"The next song was written by my beloved main guitarrist," Wanda said into the microphone, and the entire audience clapped and whistled in a form of support for you. "I always thought it was a beautiful song, but now I can say that this one has a face, and... a name," she added, and again, everyone in the audience applauded. You turned to face Pietro, who shrugged, and as you turned to face Clint, he looked as confused as you.

"This last song I would like to dedicate to my dear Vision, the man who I have secretly loved for so long, and two weeks ago, he came to me and confessed what I thought impossible, he reciprocated."

It felt as if as if a thousand swords pierced right towards your heart, shattering it into a million pieces as her words echoed through the room.

Every memory you shared with Wanda came crashing down upon you, each one of them feeling like a heavy brick that fell over you, until they slowly buried you. You thought, only in death was it possible to experience such a thing, but you were wrong, the agony of heartbreak was just as overwhelming.

"There you are... hi, darling!" She giggled, and Vision shyly laughed as he greeted the public around him.

You glanced at his direction, and there he was, with his blonde hair and glasses, the man who took everything from you... but objectively talking, he was simply the man who took the chance you always took for granted, and therefore, you ended up missing.

But even then, you forced yourself to swallow your heart that was threatening to come out of your throat, and began to play the corresponding chords. You hadn't invested so many weeks of dedication for a moment of weakness to make you throw away all that effort.

"And so I watch you from afar, like a distant star...

For I'll always love you, but you'll never know...

Ink and paper, my silent confidantes they are…

They seem to whisper, 'Your secret's safe,' as emotions flow..."

Somehow, you were grateful for that small work of mercy that the universe had for you, as you didn't know how you would have survived if you had not chosen this song as the closing song.

As soon as you left the stage, you made your way to the outside of the bar, almost hoping that your feelings were an object that you could simply forget about in there, but the reality was that they were chasing you until you drowned.

"(Y/N)?" You heard Pietro's voice, behind you, and you ran to him desperately seeking comfort, like a soul in sorrow that had just been banished from all that could have been a valley of angels.

As soon as you felt the warmth of his body, you burst into tears. It wasn't just the pain that Wanda had found someone else, but the fact that she had taken something as sacred as words spoken from the most vulnerable part of your heart and addressed them to another individual as if they were a crumbled piece of paper that she could toss, not caring where it landed.

"I swear I had no idea," Pietro whispered, stroking your head as he rested his chin on your head. "Vision was a family friend, but she never gave any signs, never mentioned anything."

The older twin's shirt was stained with your tears, as the merciless cold threatened to freeze you both right there, but despite the multiple signals your body was sending through shivering and shuddering sighs, you remained in the same place letting the silence of the street drag with it your sobs and wails for a love that was never yours.

Pietro took you home after an hour, and embraced you, while your tears clouded your sight until it was completely obscured, making you fall into a deep sleep, as if your body had taken pity on you and knocked you out to mitigate the pain that was eating away at you.

The next day, Clint arrived with boats of ice cream in an attempt to cheer you, and comforted you as much as physically possible. Each one of them, in their unique way, seemed willing to take every piece of you and put it back together, like you were their very own human kintsugi, making you even more resilient than you were before the chaos shattered you.

Wanda showed up after a week, her patience worn thin by the deafening silence that had persisted ever since what was supposed to be your big night. Her concern for you had grown, and she couldn't stand the thought of her messages going unanswered any longer.

"Hey," she greeted you, and judging by her smile, she seemed so oblivious that it somehow relieved you. Even in the midst of all your sorrow, all you wanted was for her to choose her own path of happiness even if it was one that didn't involve you as her partner.

Yes, you wanted to be part of her journey, maybe like a distant star yet so shiny it could be perceived even from 150 million kilometers apart. And in that moment, your love for her manifested itself more than in any song you could ever have written, because you decided to withdraw and pretend that your heart was not shattered, just so that hers could beat unbound.

"Hey, listen, I was not ignoring you, it's just that I am having the worst migraines lately, perhaps for the cold..." you excused yourself.

"I know," she said, her tone telling it all. She knew. "I know everything."

Pietro... who else could it be?

Two simple words that you have heard before through different contexts were able to thwart the fragile equilibrium you had acquired, for that was the first thing that started a fury within your being, and it wasn't the fact that Pietro had exposed you.

"Hey, hey, calm down..." Wanda quickly exclaimed, interrupting your train of thought. You blinked a couple of times, and your vision was blurred, indicating that you were starting to cry.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" You exclaimed, as you sobbed. "I just... I don't know how or why it happened, I'm so sorry," you apologized in a desperate plea for understanding.

You felt the need to apologize, because you felt as if being in love with Wanda was a transgression against your friendship, a condemnation to put it to an end.

She captured you in her arms, and naturally, you weakened at her touch, as you did with her and no one else. It was maybe something you could not comprehend, but it always felt as if there wasn't a point where you ended and Wanda started, therefore, the weight on your shoulders distributed itself so it would be a little more bearable. 

"I have this habit of being negative to no end, so I don't let myself down by getting my hopes up so high," Wanda spoke, once she allowed you to let out everything you had stuck, because she knew very well that you needed it. "I wanted to believe that those songs were about me, but.... what if they weren't? So I kept telling myself constantly that they were about someone else. And it hurt. It hurt just imagining it, and I was where you are now."

In that moment, it felt like the world had ceased to turn. You couldn't believe what you had just heard. Wanda, the woman you had secretly loved, was confessing that she had feelings for you too. It was a revelation that seemed too surreal to be true, and your mind struggled to process it.

Before you could find the right words to answer her, she continued, "I never saw my brother as furious with me as he was after that night," the brunette confessed, sighing. "He asked me, 'Why Vision? You're lying to yourself', and he said I didn't deserve that love song you wrote about me, as I dedicated it to a man that I don't love. In response, I kept insisting that all those songs weren't for me, and that the best thing to do was to try to move on, convince myself that Vision was the safer option, even if I knew in my heart that you were the right option..." she paused. "Out of frustration, he told me everything. And I'm sorry, so sorry, because Pietro is right, I don't deserve to..."

You stopped her right there, and crashed yous lips with hers.

There. The wait was over, and in that perfect, heart-stopping moment, everything fell into place.

She reciprocated immediately, and you could feel her firm grip on your waist. You felt a deep pleasure due to the culmination of unspoken feelings, but overall, you knew you finally had found home in Wanda's lips when the kiss felt more natural than anything else.

"It's just one song," you whispered softly against her parted lips. "I can always write more."

[gourjenous]

Harmonizing Hearts || l.mark

You never expected your big break to come through an impromptu collaboration with a member of one of the biggest boy bands in the world. As an independent musician, you were known for your raw, soulful voice and deep, introspective lyrics, but finding a unique sound for your debut album was proving to be harder than you thought. You had been grinding for months, hopping from one studio session to another, trying to piece together the perfect track list, but something was missing.

That’s when your manager dropped the news—Mark Lee from NCT had heard about your work and wanted to collaborate on a track.

At first, you were stunned. Mark Lee? One of the most versatile rappers and songwriters in the K-pop world? The idea seemed too good to be true. You admired his work from a distance, his ability to switch between different musical genres effortlessly. But despite your respect for his talent, a seed of doubt planted itself in your mind. What could someone like Mark see in your music?

The first time you walked into the studio, the atmosphere was electric. Instruments were scattered around, with keyboards, guitars, and synths plugged in, and sheet music lay across the counters. The room smelled faintly of coffee and that distinct scent of fresh recording equipment. As you took in your surroundings, you felt a nervous flutter in your chest.

Mark greeted you with a warm smile, his laid-back, approachable demeanor putting you somewhat at ease. "Y/N, right? I’ve been listening to some of your tracks—super excited to work with you."

"Yeah, thanks," you replied, trying to match his enthusiasm, though your nerves were making your voice come out shakier than intended. "I’ve been listening to your stuff too. Your lyrics... they always hit hard."

He grinned, clearly appreciating the compliment. "I try," he said with a chuckle. "So, what do you want to start with? I’ve got some ideas, but I’m totally open to seeing where the music takes us."

The first few sessions felt more like feeling each other out than making actual progress. Mark was as talented and easy-going as you’d heard, but your creative approaches couldn’t have been more different. You were used to spending hours fine-tuning melodies, getting lost in the details of composition and harmony. Mark, on the other hand, thrived on spontaneity—he’d throw out ideas, test verses on the fly, and embrace the chaos of creativity. It was impressive, but it was also overwhelming for you, who tended to be more methodical in your process.

During one late-night session, after a few hours of back-and-forth over a song’s structure, the frustration started to bubble up.

"Mark, this chorus doesn’t work," you said, your voice more clipped than you intended. "It’s too fast, and it doesn’t match the mood of the verses."

Mark, sitting across from you with his guitar, raised his eyebrows. "I think it adds energy to the track. If we slow it down too much, it’ll lose its edge."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "It just doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to rush through this. We need to get it perfect."

"I get that," he replied, but there was a flicker of impatience in his tone. "But sometimes, you just have to go with the flow. Not everything needs to be overthought, you know?"

"Overthought?" you snapped, your frustration spilling over. "It’s called paying attention to details. We can’t just slap things together and hope it works."

Mark’s expression shifted, his normally relaxed demeanor hardening. "I’m not saying we’re slapping things together. But if you keep overanalyzing every note, we’re never going to get anywhere."

The room grew tense, the atmosphere crackling with the unsaid. You felt the sting of his words, but more than that, you were frustrated with yourself. You hadn’t meant to get so defensive, but the pressure to prove yourself was weighing heavily on your shoulders. Mark was already successful, already established. Meanwhile, you were still clawing your way to the surface.

"Look," Mark sighed after a moment of silence, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn’t mean to come off like that. I just... I feel like we’re not on the same wavelength right now. Maybe we need to take a step back."

You nodded, swallowing your pride. "Yeah, maybe you’re right."

The session ended early that night, both of you leaving the studio in tense silence. You couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment that clung to you as you walked home, your mind replaying the argument. You had wanted this collaboration to be perfect, but instead, it felt like everything was falling apart.

The next day, you debated canceling the session altogether, wondering if maybe this partnership wasn’t meant to be. But as the hours passed, you realized that walking away wasn’t the answer. You respected Mark too much to give up so easily, and deep down, you knew that the problem wasn’t him—it was your own insecurities.

When you arrived at the studio later that afternoon, Mark was already there, tuning his guitar. He glanced up as you entered, offering a tentative smile.

"Hey," he said, his voice softer than usual. "About last night... I think we both just got a little too in our heads."

You nodded, taking a seat beside him. "Yeah, I was feeling the pressure. I guess I let that get to me."

Mark set down his guitar and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I get it. I’ve been there too. It’s hard, especially when you’re trying to put something out there that’s personal. But we don’t have to rush this. Let’s take our time, figure it out together."

His words eased some of the tension in your chest, and for the first time since you started working together, you felt like you were on the same page. Mark wasn’t just some idol who had everything figured out. He was someone who understood the struggle, someone who had been through the same challenges you were facing.

"Thanks, Mark," you said, meeting his gaze. "I appreciate that."

From that moment on, the dynamic between you two shifted. The pressure eased, and instead of butting heads, you started to find common ground. Mark’s spontaneity no longer felt overwhelming, and your attention to detail wasn’t a hindrance. Instead, you began to see how your strengths could complement each other. When you got stuck on a melody, Mark would jump in with a fresh perspective. When he wanted to push through a verse quickly, you’d remind him to slow down and focus on the emotions behind the words.

Late one evening, after hours of tinkering with a melody on the piano, you stumbled upon something special. You played a soft, delicate progression, and Mark’s eyes lit up.

"That’s it," he said, sitting up straighter. "That’s the mood we’ve been trying to capture."

You nodded, feeling the same spark of excitement. "Yeah, it feels... right."

Mark picked up his notebook, scribbling down some lyrics before passing them to you. The words were raw, vulnerable, and hit close to home. As you read through them, you realized they were about unspoken feelings, about finding love where you least expect it. The song was about emotions that had been bubbling beneath the surface for weeks, emotions you hadn’t even fully acknowledged until now.

The atmosphere in the studio shifted as the two of you worked on the song, your usual playful banter giving way to a deeper, more intimate connection. Mark’s voice was quieter than usual as he suggested changes, his fingers grazing yours as he passed you the notebook. Every touch, every glance, felt charged with something unspoken.

When the song was nearly finished, you both took a step back, listening to the playback. The soft melody you had created blended seamlessly with Mark’s lyrics, the music capturing the essence of everything you had been feeling—uncertainty, longing, and the thrill of something new.

"You know," Mark said after a long silence, "this song... it feels personal. Like, really personal."

You glanced at him, noticing the way his eyes lingered on yours. "Yeah. It does."

There was a beat of silence, the air between you thick with tension. Mark shifted in his seat, his hand resting on the edge of the piano. "I’ve been writing about something real," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "About us. About... how I’ve been feeling."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. It was something you had felt too, but hadn’t dared to acknowledge. The long hours spent together, the laughter, the quiet moments where your eyes would meet across the room—it had all been building toward this.

"I’ve been feeling it too," you confessed, your voice soft. "I just didn’t know how to say it."

In that moment, the distance between you disappeared. Mark leaned closer, his gaze flickering to your lips before meeting your eyes again. There was a hesitation, a silent question, and when you nodded, he closed the gap, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle, tentative kiss.

Mark’s lips curved into a small smile, his eyes softening. "I guess the music said it for us."

The kiss was soft and slow, filled with all the emotions that had been simmering between you for weeks. When you finally pulled away, you couldn’t help but smile, the weight that had been pressing on your chest lifting.

"I guess we make a pretty good team," you said, your voice light

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

you mentioned a horse with arranged!verse reader, is that something she pursues again with her new freedom?

It was a private tour of a stable- one that the owner of the track was more than happy to give. Angling for Bruce to buy one of the horses, probably.

"You used to ride, didn't you Mrs. Wayne?" the stable owner asked.

"Yes," you answer smiling, "It used to give my mother fits. She was afraid I'd break my neck." That was almost true. She said after you came in second place she wished you'd broken your neck.

"I remember that," Bruce hummed. "You had an Arabian didn't you?"

"Her name was Moonlight," you tell him, face heating. It was a silly name. But- in your defense you were 8.

"Adorable," the stable owner said, "I bet you were a good little horsewoman."

"I was alright," you say modestly. "Too many other hobbies and lessons I think."

Bruce put his arm around your shoulder and squeezed, "That sounds about right," he teased, tilting your chin up to steal a kiss. "Always busy."

"If I'm busy I'm out of trouble," you pout.

"But my credit card isn't," he said mock scolding. He didn't care what you spent. You could indulge whatever hobby with as many expensive paints as your little heart desired.

"You told me I could," you pout.

"Biggest mistake of my life," he told the stable owner, winking. "She's got good taste. And good taste is expensive."

"Well," the stable owner said grinning, "I don't have Arabians but I do have some beautiful horses- I'm sure Mrs. Wayne could find one-"

"Oh no I couldn't," you interject, "It's been so long I-"

"Come on sweetie," Bruce cajoled. "You used to love riding."

"I don't know." You bite your lip and try not to look at any of the horses too closely. It had broken your heart when they took Moonlight away. They hadn't even let you say good bye. You can feel tears and Bruce squeezing you a little closer. Prompting you to get less serious. And you smile, "I think we'll have to discuss it."

"Sensible," the stable owner said, clearly a little disappointed. "But tell you what. You call me when you figure it out. I'll help you find the perfect horse for the little lady. And when she gets addicted and has to have a stable full I'll come run it."

He laughed, Bruce laughed, and you swatted at your husband modestly. Trying not to let on that you felt like an idiot still being upset about something that happened when you were so little.

[dsireland86]

There is Beauty in the Pain Chapter 1

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Noah: She was the beauty in the darkness surrounding me; the force pulling me into the light. Buried in the corner of the massive sea of people, her blue hoodie stood out in the blackness, and from every spot on the stage, I noticed her. The red lights danced as I did my best to tune out everything that unsettled me when it came to performing in front of large crowds like this, but when they were as alive and loud as they were tonight, I didn't have to try very hard. She was my biggest distraction, though. Each time I looked her way, she was focused on me, moving to the music and smiling; the embodiment of happiness, a happiness for some unknown reason, I longed to be a part of. My stomach flipped inside me when I spotted her sweet face, feeling the pull in my gut from the way her whole face seemed to beam from her smile.

Fuck. That smile was going to be the death of my heart.

No matter how hard I tried to push through what she was doing to me, the emotions I was experiencing flowed through my veins like a drug that gave me the perfect high. I was drawn to her like a magnet by reasons unknown, and the more I tried to rationalize those reasons, the stronger they became. But memories from my past crept in, quickly stealing my joy. I didn't want to involve myself with girls and relationships right now. A long time ago I did that and it ended up almost destroying me and worse, the band. So, I decided to keep my back to the crowd for a bit, moving across the stage to avoid looking out and seeing the only face I was interested in looking at, the one that was slowly eating away at my defenses. I drew my energy from the adrenaline and excitement of the crowd, using it as fuel to the fire the guys and I started over ten years ago; it was my life. 

Tonight was the last show of our eight-week tour, luckily ending in L.A.; home. I loved performing, I loved touring, but damn I was exhausted and I knew the guys were too. We were ready for a few months off before heading to Europe for another six-week tour, and I was so looking forward to the time off. I didn't enjoy Interacting with the audience as much as I should as a front man, but a little was important during the show. Most of the time I felt like I sucked at it, but if I did, the fans never acted like it. They always responded with so much enthusiasm that at times it was a little overwhelming.

As I blocked the glow of the lights with my hand, looking out and grinning at all the faces I noticed her again. She'd moved closer, now out of the corner, and for the first time, we made direct eye contact. I saw how the corners of her mouth turned up and made her whole face brighten. She let out a loud scream while throwing her hands up in the air, completely taken away by our music. I had no idea why seeing her so happy made me smile, but it did and I was so caught up in her that I lost my focus and forgot what line I was on in the song, causing myself to mess up the entire last verse. I started laughing as the fans continued singing the words I'd missed, guiding me back on track to finish out the rest of the song. Thankfully it was the last before the encore.

Once over, I jogged off the stage for our four minute break, before ending the show with the last remaining song that was a crowd pleaser. I was soaked with sweat and my throat was dry. As soon as water was in sight, I snatched a bottle and guzzled it completely without stopping for a breath, feeling much better after. I shook my head, flinging beads of sweat everywhere.

"Dude, gross," Nicholas groaned. I chuckled as he walked past me. "Use a towel," throwing one at my chest. It felt good to wipe the sweat off, feeling the cool air hit my hot skin. "You okay?" he asked, finishing his own bottle of water. Once he was through, he took my trash and threw them in the nearest trash can. "Yeah, I'm good." "You sure? Fucking up lyrics isn't your thing.”  I reassured him with a quick nod, wiping the back of my neck. I got distracted, that's all." I wasn't about to admit the truth to him. "Well that's obvious. Over what?" I shook my head, trying to get rid of the slight ringing in my left ear. "Noah! What the hell," Jolly's voice boomed, coming over to me. "What happened? You missed the whole last line."  "What happened?" Folio asked, coming into the conversation a few minutes too late. He cracked open a beer once his water was out.  You didn't hear him miss the entire last line?" Folio shook his head. "Nope, I was in my own little world, man. Zoned out." "Jolly, I'm sorry. I got distracted." He was starting to give me a complex.

Grinning, Jolly softly laughed, playfully punching me in the shoulder. "I'm just giving you a hard time. Relax." I half smiled, running the towel over my hair before tossing it into the dirty towel bin. "You keep saying you were distracted," Nicholas reminded me. "You gonna say over what?" I huffed, adjusting my belt pack on the back of my pants. I wasn't about to tell them I fucked up lyrics because of a girl. They'd never let me live it down. "So many people in the crowd, dude. It's a lot, that's all." 

Nick stared at me, his eyes narrowing. "Yeah, I'm not buying," shaking his head. "Spill it." He shifted his weight to the other leg, locking his hands together in front of his bass. I started chuckling at how good he was at reading me. "There's nothing to spill, Nick. I'm just tired and ready to finish this tour," I assured him, trying to hide the truth anyway.  "Noah, don't lie. You have that weird look on your face again."  "What look,” I laughed, raising my eyebrows. I glanced over at Folio and Jolly and they seemed to be waiting for my answer too. I scoffed. 

"That look, right there,” Nick pointed out, twirling his finger in circles toward me.  I rolled my eyes and groaned. There was no escaping Nick and his relentless prying, When he wanted an answer to something, he wouldn't stop until he got it.

Sighing, I took a seat on a stool, thinking of how I would best explain what was going on with me without sounding like a stupid, lovesick teenager. There was no way I could convey the feeling that girl was giving me each time I looked at her in a way they'd understand. Hell, I wasn't sure I even understood it myself. All I knew was that the feeling I got just thinking about her and her pretty face, as if my heart had fallen into the pit of my stomach and flipped itself over and over, wouldn't go away.

My eyes darted between the three of them. Jolly had pulled his hair back, showing off his strong Swedish facial features, Folio was chugging the remainder of his beer and Nick, well Nick just stared at me. These three were my friends and I knew I could trust them to understand. "Shit, okay, fuck it. But promise me you'll hear me out first before you say anything?" Each of them gave me their word, but I still felt like I was going to regret this.

"So, there's this girl in the crowd wearing a blue hoodie and she and I have been exchanging looks and smiles half the night. She's really pretty and there's just something about her that's got me hooked." I wouldn't look at them, worried they were about to start throwing punches. "You said she's wearing a blue hoodie?" Nick finally asked, easing my fear. "Yeah, blue hoodie, brown hair pulled up in a messy bun. She's close to the front right side of the barrier."

He thought for a minute but then grinned. "I know who you're talking about. She was watching me the whole time we played "Take Me First". She is really pretty. I got a smile out of her too." "So this chick's got you so worked up and making you forget lyrics? Wow, that's the first time that’s happened in a long time." Jolly was right. It had been a long time since a girl held my interest like this. 

Shrugging my shoulders and standing to my feet, I fixed my belt pack once more, slipping one ear piece back in. It was almost time to go back on. "Look, I can't explain it guys. I'm not saying or implying anything. I just like looking at her and the pull she has on me is something I've never felt. Not even with Sarah."

The guys looked at me, Jolly giving me a sympathetic stare. I shook my head at him. "Don't man, it's okay; really. I'm good." I shot him a quick smile. Nick and Folio nodded, knowing that what happened all those years ago with a girl I thought I was going to marry still haunted me at times. "I'm not saying I want to marry this girl, I'm just saying there's something about her that's got me a little flustered. I've been trying to give it up, but the feeling just won’t let go."

There was a sad sort of silence hanging around and It was starting to get depressing. "Okay, fuck this shit," slapping my hands together. "It's encore time. Let's get this shit over so we can go home and enjoy a few months off." Everyone agreed. Folio came up to me, twirling his sticks between his fingers. "You said she was pretty, but is she hot? Because this whole thing is pointless if she isn't hot."  His face was so serious I couldn't help but chuckle. I couldn't leave him hanging. "Yeah I think she is. She's beautiful." 

That was enough for him to back up, cheesing like a kid at Christmas. Folio had a thing for women who were easy on the eyes and a lot of the time they had a thing for him too. Bryan met us at the entrance to the stage, waiting to take as many last song pictures of us and the crowd he could. "Fuck yeah baby, let's goooo! De-fucking-throne!" Folio unleashed his devil horns and crazy rock face to Bryan who snapped a few pictures, while releasing his wild ass cackle before taking off toward his drums.  "I'm going to look for her again. Maybe I can wrangle another smile from her," Nick teased, giving me a quick pat on the back as he walked by. "Are you planning on fighting me for her attention, Ruffilo?" He smiled and shrugged 

Jolly came up from behind and stood beside me. "Ready?" he asked, looking out onto the stage. Looking over at him, I nodded with a grin. "Ready as I'll ever be," I answered. He turned to me and smiled. "Let's go meet God then my friend," and walked out to the stage to take his place with me right behind him.

It was a deep, eerie blue that soon turned into a bleeding bright red when I started the infamous chant that became a ritual at every show. The loud waves of shouts and screams pierced my ears, making me have to reposition my in-ear piece while continuing to ramp up the crowd. In between the darkness and the light, her face flashed between the colors. The expression she wore said she’d never seen this before, but she followed along, repeating the chant with me over and over. I walked to the edge of the stage, looking down at her, watching how the excitement spread across her face like fire and reached her eyes. It sent electrifying chills up my spine that only enticed the feelings I was having  for her. As Jolly and Folio began playing the entire middle floor of the venue turned into a raging, screaming mosh pit.  

She didn't look like a mosh pit kind of girl, so I was glad to see her safely at the front of the barrier, holding on to it as the crowds behind her pushed and shoved. I adjusted myself from the growing pressure beneath my pants that was giving away the inappropriate thoughts I was having about this girl and leaned back, releasing the frustration in a long, single growl. I pulled my strength from my diaphragm, breathing in and out the way I'd been trained taking pride in the fact that I'd managed to go the whole tour without losing my voice. 

Once the song was in full swing, I became engulfed by overwhelming energy and excitement. Without reasoning, I jumped down to the lower floor, belting out the words while touching and grabbing at all the outstretched hands of fans who were screaming and begging for my attention. Following Ash as he led me through, I smiled at them and did my best to touch every hand I could without being pulled in or tripping over my own feet. It was such insane energy that I didn't even notice where I had stopped until I looked up and was met with the smile and eyes that had been holding me captive all night.I paused, taking a second to focus on her face and enjoy the feeling I got from her that went straight from my heart to my dick, making it twitch, I grinned, huffing a slight laugh in between lyrics when her cheeks turned a slight shade of red. Without thinking, I reached over and slid the tips of my fingers across her soft cheek, absorbing the intensity from just the single touch of her skin. My heart pounded. I was so fucking turned on by her and I knew my face gave it away, but I didn't care; not right now. Especially when she pressed her cheek harder into my fingers. Moving the mic away from my mouth, thankful it was near the end of the song, the two of us just stood there staring at one another as if trying to commit to memory all the little things about each other’s faces that we could, That's when the idea of meeting with her crossed my mind and how easy it would be to bring her to the green room.

Ash tugged on my arm indicating I needed to get back on stage, but before I could go, she grabbed me by the wrist, making my head snap back and look at her. Her hand slipped into mine and we both squeezed the other's at the same time, smiling. She giggled, and I winked at her as we released our grips until our fingers were the only thing holding us together. The longer we held on to each other, the harder I felt the need for her grow. That strong magnetic pull in her eyes came back, encouraging me to bring her hand to my lips and kiss the tops of her knuckles. She gasped, hand flying up over her mouth. I suddenly felt like I had won the round with her. I shot off like a bullet, back on to the stage, and finished the song with a massive bang. That was it; the end of the tour.

I met the guys behind the stage, listening to the applause that continued to grow. We went.back out as the lights came on and the ending song played, waving good-bye, tossing things out into the crowd, and soaking up all the appreciation and love. Squatting down, I reached out to her stretching out as far as I could to grab her hand. Climbing the metal barricade, she did the same and when she took my hand it felt like time had just stopped. Our gaze on one another was fixed, neither one of us moving or saying a word. What was happening between us had never happened to me before and from the expression on her face, it was the same for her. She never made an attempt to move away or scream and freak out like the other girls were doing around her; she just held my hand and stared. Jolly nudged me, letting me know we had to go, and reluctantly let go of her hand. But I motioned for her to stay where she was, hoping she understood even though she shook her head. I nodded and kept my eyes on her, running off stage and grabbing a security guard and instructed him to bring her back to the green room.

A hard knot formed in the pit of my stomach, making me nauseous. I was pacing the floor, fidgeting, and trying not to wonder what was taking them so long. "You need to relax, Noah." I glared at Nicholas who was busy drawing on a napkin at the table in the corner. The door flew open and my head jerked around, but I was disappointed when I saw it was only Matt. "The was the fucking shit you guys! You were awesome,” he congratulated us. The others were appreciative and thrilled, but I just grumbled and went back to pacing nervously. Matt  looked from me, to the others, and then back to me. "What's wrong? What happened?" taking a can of Dr. Pepper from the fridge and cracking it open.

"Noah may or may not have done something a little stupid," Nicholas told him. "Stupid as in that one time when Folio went skinny-dipping in twenty-five-degree weather in Colorado?" Matt teased, giving Folio a playful grin. "Hey to be fair I was really drunk that night. I don't even remember the reason why I did that, now that I think about it." "Because some girl told you she'd make out with you if you did. Of course she was lying." Jolly reasoned, throwing a grape in his mouth. "Oh, shit yeah. Now I remember. She had a boyfriend didn't she?" "Yeah she did, and that mother fucker was pissed at you when you climbed out of the pool, ass naked and shivering." The room ignited in laughter that even I couldn't resist laughing as I recalled that night so long ago. That was during the van years when Sarah and I were still together; right before I asked her to marry me.

A knock came from the door and it slowly opened. The guard walked in, but he was alone and from the look on his face I knew the news he was about to give me wasn't what I wanted to hear. "I couldn't find her. I went to where you told me, searched for the blue hoodie, but had no luck. I even went on stage and looked down into the crowd. Sorry, Noah." I gave a small smile and thanked him. The guard left, closing the door behind him. Suddenly my hear felt like it had just dived off a cliff and splatter on the ground. Matt looked around the room, utterly confused. "Uh, what the hell did I just miss?" Groaning, I started searching for my hoodie, desperately  needing some air.

"There was this girl in the crowd that Noah kind of got attached to. He sent the security guard out to look for her and bring her back here, but I'm guessing she left already." Matt's mouth fell open. "Really, Noah?" I ignored him, wondering where in the hell my hoodie was. "Well it's probably a good thing she couldn't be found. Probably would have ended horribly anyway. Either way, sorry man." I knew he meant for his apology to sound sincere, but it really didn't "Where is my fucking hoodie!" I yelled, no longer able to control my frustration. I didn’t want to think about her anymore and was failing at my attempt to do so. I had an unnatural craving for her now, maybe because I knew I couldn’t have her. Grumbling again, I continued my search.

"Oh my bad, brother," Folio apologized, pulling my black sweatshirt out from underneath him and handing it to me. I took it, and threw it on, eager to get out of there and into the night air.

"Well, anyway, there is a small local bar not far from here that offered us its space for our small post tour celebration. The owner asked only for a small fee so everyone is heading that way." The guys all got up and started getting their stuff together, while I headed toward the door.

"Noah," Matt called. I turned and looked at him. "Don't do anything stupid." I didn't answer, only turned back around and walked out the door, heading towards the back entrance. "I'll text you the address of the bar," Matt yelled after me. “Remember, she’s probably not worth it!”

Matt's words lingered in the back of my mind as I walked away from the venue. My mind refused to let up on the grip it had on her. What would make her leave like she did? Did the things that went on between us not mean the same to her the way they meant to me? Matt was right; it all probably would have ended horribly, and maybe she wasn’t worth it. Or maybe he was wrong. Either way I wouldn't forget her face, her smile, the intense feelings my body felt each time I looked at her. I wouldn't forget how soft her skin felt, the excitement in her eyes when she looked at me, the way she made me hard just by her presence. Shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie, I hung my head feeling completely and utterly low. I made my way into the bright city lights, hoping to forget about the face that would haunt me for a long time.

CHAPTER 2

[ultratradmalewife]

MY BUCKTOMMY PLAYLIST

SONG TWO: someone that i used to be by Joy Oladokun

COMMENTARY: I made a post probably days ago (weeks maybe, depending on when this is posted) about how I had found the perfect Tommy Kinard song, and the song in question is this one. Joy Oladokun is an artist who expressed her sorrow and triumph about being queer and growing up in a non accepting setting in her 2021 album in defense of my own happiness, and as a gay man it’s been an album that’s been stuck in the back of my mind since it’s release. Everything about the song reminds me of Tommy Kinard and how he made himself into a smaller molded image of hatred under Gerard. He not only had to leave the place that reminded him of the worst version of himself, but he also had to unlearn all his toxic behavior that shielded him, all while battling to accept himself and stumbling his way through his new life as a gay man. As for Buck, I wasn’t planning on adding him to this song at all, but I scrapped the song that I had planned for him because it doesn’t feel like his vibe (I headcanon him only listening to whatever is popular at the time, and I don’t think Little Dreamer by Van Halen falls under that category). It actually felt more Tommy, but that’s beside the point. I changed my mind about including Buck when I payed more attention to the second verse. Buck is a character that’s had to untangle himself from the habit of putting himself in danger, as that’s the only way his parents payed him attention, but now as he’s maturing he’s realizing he doesn’t have to do that anymore, because he created a family for himself that’s there for him regardless of his state of being. He’s also been more open to receiving whatever life has to offer him since the lightning strike, and it makes for an exciting character that’s full of possibility and potential. So in the end I felt the song can fit him too. It’s a song about self forgiveness and self acceptance, and hoping those two things are enough to continue carrying you through life.

ABOUT THE EDIT: Okay, so I slightly hate myself. As I said this record is one that’s been close to me since it’s release, so I’ve listened to it so so so so so much. It’s actually part of another story playlist of mine that’s space themed too. Something about those opening strings just make me feel like I’m above the Earth and observing humanity. It’s a nice feeling and image, but I know art can have more than one interpretation, and I so badly wanted to shake this image off and head in a different aesthetic (maybe cathedral theme but that makes no sense for these characters, and that’s probably what Joy had in mind when making the song). It seems habit has won though, since I ended up making it into a vintage space journey, but regardless I’m actually a bit proud of how this one turned out. Not bad for a boy with no talent.

[ofstoriesandstardust]

you’ll lose your faith for a bit and question if she's you (b.r.b.)

a/n: i’ve been working on this for nearly a year. this is my first pride month fully confident and (mostly) open about my bisexuality. i think sometimes it gets taken for granted, knowing/being allowed to explore your sexuality at a young age. therefore, i wanted to write something i saw a little more me in. happy pride month. you’re loved and valid, no matter what label you choose for yourself. 

summary: Rebel has a life-changing realization.

title comes from “you might not like her” by maddie zahm

main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist | same mistakes-verse 

warnings: denial of sexuality, internalized biphobia, mentions of past icemav, MavDad, mentions of DADT, alcohol mentions, swearing,

word count: 4.2k

"She’s so pretty.”

Hangman shifts, turning to look at you. “I agree.”

“I mean, really, she’s gorgeous.”

“Who’s pretty?” Coyote leans over, looking at the phone. 

“Hailee Steinfeld.” You respond. 

“Second that. Why’re you looking at pictures of her?” 

“I think she was in the movie we watched last night.” Hangman responds, nodding down to his phone, looking through her IMDb.

“Oh, what movie? I’ve probably seen it, I love her.” You ask. 

“That Bumblebee movie. I don’t know, Hangman picked it.” Coyote responds, throwing his hands up in the air. 

You made a face. “God, that’s one of her worst films. Didn’t Dylan O’Brien voice Bumblebee? I can’t remember. Anyways, why would you pick that? She’s in so many better movies. Like the Pitch Perfect franchise does exist. Movie full of pretty women if I’ve ever seen it.”

Hangman turned in his chair fully, face full of confusion. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“You keep-ow.” Hangman turned, glaring at his boyfriend. Your eyes flitted between the blonde and your best friend, who had just pinched his boyfriend and was shooting him a look through narrowed eyes. 

“Okay.” You say, laughing nervously. “Moving on. I’m hungry, so... food?” 

-

“Javy, I think your best friend is gay.”

“No shit.” His eyebrow raised in question as his boyfriend shifted to sit up against the headboard. 

“Really? Did I miss the memo?” 

Javy sighs, reaching up to run a hand over his face. “No. I don’t think she knows and it’s not really my place to speculate on her sexuality.” 

Jake watched the rise and fall of his boyfriends bare chest, admiring the glint of the dog tags in the moonlight. “But?”

“But there’s a really good chance she’s bi.” 

“She ever say anything to you over the years?”

He shakes his head, shifting to look at Hangman in the eye. “No, but she’s said all this stuff, like she did this morning, over the years that has just... made me wonder. And she tries so hard to be an ally that sometimes I think she’s compensating for something.” Hangman reaches a hand out to his boyfriend, intertwining their fingers. “I tried once, about a month after we came out to the team. She was super defensive, adamant she was straight, and got pretty panicked so I dropped it. Haven’t brought it up since.” Jake catches his bottom teeth in his lips as he let out a sigh. 

“So basically she’s so far in the closet she can’t even see it?” Javy shrugs. 

“Maybe. Like I said, not my place to speculate. She’ll figure out or she won’t. That’s up to her.” 

“Yeah, but don’t you think she’d be happier? If she knew that about herself?” 

“Maybe. Maybe not. Why are you so interested in my best friend’s sexuality all of the sudden?” 

He sighs, letting his boyfriends hand drop as he moves to place his back against the headboard, crossing his arms. “Because. I remember what it was like to be so far in the closet the mere suggestion of being anything but straight made me want to run for the hills. Made me want shove anyone who suggested it off my plane over an ocean.” He tilts his head, looking to his boyfriend. “I also know that when I stopped hiding from who I was, stopped being scared, I was a lot happier. Felt a lot freer.” He swallows, reaching out to pick off a piece of lint from his sweatpants. “I also know she carries a lot of weight.” 

“I just don’t know what she’s running from. If she is, I mean. Maverick would love and support her, so would Rooster. We would obviously and she doesn’t have a thing to worry about with the rest of the team.” 

“Maybe she thinks Rooster will break-up with her. Kind of a life-changing realization, you know?” 

“Rooster’s down bad for her, he ain’t going anywhere.”

“Not if she’s not into men.” 

Javy moves, pushing himself off the headboard. 

“You really think that?” The words are sharp, a little bit defensive, and Jake winces. “You, what, think she just stays with him because she loves him but that’s not enough?” 

“No, Javy-”

“Then what, Jake? Think she’s got some internalized biphobia she’s projecting on to herself? This is my best friend you’re talking about.” 

“Maybe she is Javy.” Jake whispers and Javy roll his eyes, reaching over to grab a pillow. “Hey, where are you going?” He asks as Coyote moves off the bed and towards the door. 

“Sleeping on the couch. Don’t wanna hear this about her.” 

“Javy, c’mon, come back. We don’t need to fight about this.” Javy spins on his heel. 

“You drop it. Doesn’t matter whether she is or isn’t. Isn’t either of our places to discuss this or bring it up to her.” 

Jake sighs. “I just think that maybe she’d be happier.” 

“Regardless if she is or isn’t, she needs to figure that out on her own.” Coyote says firmly, but he’s already inching back towards the bed as Jake watches him carefully. 

He throws his hands up into the air in surrender. “Fine, I’ll drop it. Please just come back to bed.” Javy nods, already climbing back onto the mattress, bouncing softly in Hangman’s awaiting arms.

-

You’re standing at the bar, talking to Penny amidst the loud chatter of the Hard Deck when Hangman slips an arm around you. He bends closer to your ear, words hushed. 

“Hey, can I talk to you outside?” You nod, picking your beer up from the counter and waving to Penny as she moves farther down to serve other customers. You follow Hangman, weaving your way through the crowd, and once outside, you’re quick to slip off your shoes as you reach the sand. He nods his head to further down the beach. “Wanna go sit?”

“Sure.” You say, taking a sip of your beer. You follow him to a good distance away from the Hard Deck and follow his lead, settling into the sand. He sighs, setting his beer on the sand and bringing his arms to rest on his knees. 

“Listen, um, we gotta talk about something.” You swallow, setting your drink down as well. 

“Okay.” 

He sighs, rubbing his hands together. “Before I came out, before I met Javy, I was... I was very in denial about who I was. Kept thinking something was wrong with me and kept screwing all these girls just to prove I was straight. I don’t know who I was trying to prove it to, myself maybe. And that shit... it was lonely. It was a heavy burden to carry. I’m glad I don’t have to anymore.” 

You watch him carefully. Contrary to popular belief, you and Hangman were actually quite close. He’d never be Coyote but he knew when to keep it real with you and you appreciated the realness of your friendship more than anything. 

Weird how things changed. 

“How’d you know?” You hear yourself asking. You aren’t sure why. You’re straight. 

“I don’t know, I guess when I met Javy I had this oh moment. Everything about me sort of made sense. I was still a few years out from learning to deal with it but something clicked.” 

You bit your bottom lip, turning his words over in his head. You still weren’t sure why the two of you were having this conversation. “Where you going with this Hangman?”

“Do you ever feel that way? Like you have to prove something to yourself or that you’re carrying a heavy burden? Waiting for an oh moment?” You give a half-shrug, mouth gaping open. He sighs again, sitting back to rest on his palms. His gaze moves from you to the full moon on the horizon. “Are you gay?”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. You don’t respond, simply looking at him with wide eyes. He finally drags his gaze backs to you but holds firm, unwilling to back down. Finally, you force yourself to start breathing again, coughing nervously. You shake your head, looking down at the sand. “N-no, I’m not Seresin.” 

“It’d be okay, if you were.” 

“Yes, I’m very aware that it would be. But I’m not.” He tilts his head in acknowledgement and begins to stand up from the sand. All you can do is watch him. 

“Okay, well, I mean, it just wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you were into girls.” 

“I’m straight Seresin.” 

You were... weren’t you?

“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” He picks his beer up from the sand, turning on his heel to head back towards the bar. You sit there bewildered, turning his words over in your head. 

Still, there was some part of you that felt unsettled. Like Jake had prodded at something dormant just enough to wake it up.

-

You sat on your bed, trying to remember what you were doing. You groaned, running a hand over your face. A soft knock sounded at your door and you looked up to see Rooster leaning against the open door. His smile was soft but you’d known him long enough to see the concern in his eyes. 

“Hey.” You whisper softly. 

Ever since your conversation with Hangman, one that hadn’t really been a conversation at all, things in your world felt off-kilter. You felt like you were waiting for the band to snap, like for the realization to come, the thing that would change everything as you knew it. You’d been sick to your stomach most days, unable to sleep. 

Admittedly, you had always wondered. Maybe a little bit more so after Javy had come out. But there was never enough to prove to yourself that you were that you had always brushed the thought off, burying it deep down. And now it was resurfacing in waves, questions and fears drowning you. 

You weren’t... You were straight. You were sure of it.

...Right?

“-you listening?” You shake your head, eyes flickering back up to your boyfriend. His smile was still there but you could tell it was more forced than anything. 

“Yeah, sorry, just zoned out for a minute.” You say, waving a hand. “What were you saying?” 

He sighs, straightening up and crossing his arms. “Coyote told me you bailed. Third time this week. He’s worried.” 

You shrug. “Just needed some time to myself.” He nods slowly, as if he doesn’t quite believe you. 

You wouldn't believe you either. 

“Hey, are you okay? You haven’t really been yourself lately.”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.” You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear as you hear your Dad’s footsteps in the hallway. He appears just a few moments later over Rooster’s shoulder and he shifts to allow him room to lean up against the other side of the doorway. 

“Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to come out to the hangar tomorrow? For the long weekend?” You nod, even though it’s the last thing you want to do with how messy your brain has been lately. 

“Sure.” You look to your boyfriend. “Want to come with us?” Your Dad sighs, straightening up, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Actually, I was thinking it could be just us kiddo.” 

“Oh.” You say, frowning slightly. “Am I in trouble?” He shakes his head. 

“No. Hey, you okay? You got anything you want to talk about?” 

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m fine.”

Just like how you’re straight?

You brush the thought off, moving to stand up from the bed. “I beg to differ.” Rooster mutters and you shoot him a glare. 

“I’m fine. Now I’m tired so if the two of you would kindly-” You motion for them to shoo and they both sigh, exchanging a glance. 

“Its like... 7 PM.” Your Dad says, glancing at his watch. 

“Well- I’m exhausted, so I’m going to bed early.” 

Exhausted of running from who you are?

Rooster gives you a wary look before conceding, moving a few feet to give you a kiss. It’s short and feels forced and sends a wave of cold over you. He grimaces as he pulls away and doesn’t say anything as he steps back, slipping past your Dad. Your Dad sighs, stepping back and closing your bedroom door behind him. You sit back down on your bed, trying to swallow the tears.

-

You watch as your Dad swings his leg over his chair, settling back with his coffee in one hand and the paper in the other. 

Who still reads the paper?

Who denies their sexuality?

You swallow, looking up at your Dad. The two of you were meant to drive back tonight and if you wanted to have this conversation, your window was quickly closing. 

“Hey Dad?” He hums, not looking up from his paper. “Did you ever... Were you ever...” 

“Spit the question out kiddo.” He says with a chuckle, eyes still skimming over the paper. 

You take a deep breath, trying to steel yourself to ask what is a mildly inappropriate question. 

Still, you’d always looked to your Dad for guidance and if anybody would have some to offer you right now, it’d be him.

“Were you ever with a man?” 

He grunts. “Where is this going?” 

“Humor me, please?” 

“Does this have to do with why you haven’t been acting like yourself lately?” 

“Yeah.” 

He sighs. “Yeah, I was, but-”

“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. My real question is- Well, how did you know? that you were like... interested.” 

He tilts his head as he finally meets your gaze. “My story is a bit more like Jake’s. For so long, I hid any part of me that thought I might feel that way and then-” His face raises in a smile, clearly thinking back to some happier memory. “Then I met someone who changed all that. Everything just felt right with him and suddenly that part of myself I tried to keep hidden from myself and the world clicked into place. It stopped feeling like something was missing.” 

A silence falls between the two of you a you turn the words over in your head and he turns back to his paper. 

“Were you and Ice ever...” You wave your hand as he looks up at you, pausing mid-sip. “Together?” He sighs, and carefully sets both of them on the table in front of him. He eyes you carefully from where your back is pressed up the feet of the other chair, making a home on the rug placed in the hangar. 

“Yeah, we were.” 

“Oh.” You hear yourself saying, ears ringing with finally getting the truth after years. 

“That’s it?” 

You shrug. “Well, I mean I always suspected but I don’t know-” He nods, still looking at you ever intently as you begin to pick at the rug. 

“Yeah, we got together after that photo of us was taken. You know the one.”

You did.

“Anyways, we were together for a few years, but- it was hard. Especially with Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. I’ve loved your godfather, and I did until the day he died. But it was hard, being in the Navy, dealing with Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and we both agreed it was better to love each other and still be friends than go down in ruins. Was going to tell you but you got older and closer with Ice and it just- never came up.” 

You swallow, nodding. “Cool.” 

“Is everything okay?” You sit there for a moment, turning everything over in your head. You knew, but you were so scared. It was like two sides of you were warring, what you knew desperately fighting with what you feared. “Hey, talk to me kiddo. What’s going on?” 

You continued to sit there, tears beginning to form. Finally, you found the courage to say the words that were right there-

“Dad, I think I’m bi.” 

The words are no more than a whisper but he hears them all the same. He didn’t say anything, just continued to observe you. A few more tears begin to slip down your face, and then a few more, and then more, and soon you were struggling to wipe them all away as your Dad stood up from his seat to sit on the floor with you. He’s quick to wrap you in a hug, a kiss being placed to the top of your head. 

“Sweetheart, it’s okay.” 

You shake your head, swallowing. “It’s not.” You whisper. He holds you close, tucking your head into his shoulder. “How can it be okay? I’m in my fucking 30′s, in a long-term committed relationship with the person I want to marry, and I figure out I’m into women. It changes everything.” 

“It doesn’t have to.” He whispers. 

“How could it not?” Your voice is thick, the tears still bubbling out of you. “He’s gonna hate me, like I lied or-”

“Hey.” He says firmly, adjusting you to be able to look you in the eye while still holding on you. “Give Brad a little more credit than that, please. He’s loved every part of you since you were kids and through all your years apart. He’s going to love this part of you too.” 

“I’m bisexual.” You whisper, the words prompting a new round of tears. “It feels really good to say that.” 

Your Dad pulls you back to his chest, squeezing you tight. “I’m glad you’ve finally found yoruself.”

-

You glance up from your phone, the text from Bradley sitting on your phone like it’s taunting you. 

Text me when you get home please.

I love you.

“This isn’t our house.”

Your Dad turns the ignition off. “Nope.” 

You blink, turning to your Dad. “Are you really making me have this conversation with him now?” 

He shrugs. “You can tell Brad whatever you want, but I figured you'd probably want to see him.” 

You sigh, sliding your seatbelt off. As always, your Dad was right. 

You did want to see Bradley. You longed for a hug and for him to tell you that everything would be alright, that he’d still love you just like he always had. 

“And kid?” 

You pause, looking up at him as you climb out of the car. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m really proud of you.” 

You swallow. 

“Thanks Dad.”

You climb out out the car, giving your Dad a wave as he drives off you. You sigh, pulling out your keys and thumbing through until you find the one that you had had since you were eleven years old, the key you’d never let go of, even in the years you didn’t speak to the person who inhabited this home. 

You blink tears away at the thought it may one day become your home. That tonight could mean it would never be your home. 

“Bradley?” You call out, toeing your shoes off by the entryway, straining for the sounds of him. 

“In the kitchen, honey.” He calls back and you can hear him moving around. You enter the kitchen, hovering by the door. 

Bradley’s cooking, sitting something on the stove, a towel slung on his shoulder as he tastes the sauce. He perks up at the sight of you, smiling. “Hey honey.”

“Hi. Sorry for dropping by unannounced.” 

He shakes his head, holding a hand out for you. “You’re never a bother. Come try the sauce. Tash sent me the recipe for her grandmother’s and I’ve been tweaking it to perfection.” 

He holds out the spoon for you to take but all you can do is stare. 

“We need to talk.” 

Bradley swallows, pulling back slowly. “Okay...” He trails off, leaning over to turn the stove off. “Do you want talk about it over dinner?”

You shake your head, glancing at the food. It looks and smells incredible, but you feel like throwing up, feeling the truth claw it’s way out of your throat on it’s own. 

“Now please?” You say, voice cracking. 

He nods. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.”

He looks so earnest and honest in his words, so sure that whatever you have to say to him couldn’t change how he feels about you, that you start to believe it too. 

You feel the tears stinging at your eyes as Bradley waits patiently. 

“I’m not- I don’t mean to spring this on you or- or- I don’t want you to think I’ve lied about this or intentionally hid it from you-”

He grabs your hand, squeezing it before running his thumb over your knuckles. “Honey, you’re okay.” He whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “It’s okay, whatever it is, it’s okay.” 

You take a shuddering breath, leaning into his smell and the way he feels like home. 

“Bradley, I’m- I’m bisexual.” You whisper. 

It feels as though all sound is cut off as you watch him intently, not sure if seconds or hours ar epassing, anxiously waiting for him to tell you that he just couldn’t be with someone like that. 

Rationally, you knew he’d never do that to you. You hoped he’d still love you just as you are, even with this new discovery of yours. 

“If you wanna break up with me, I’d understand.” 

Bradley’s face falls and he pulls you into a hug. “Oh, honey, no.” 

You wrap your arms around him, desperate to find some sort of comfort. 

“Honey, this would never, ever change how I feel about you or what we have. How could it? This is just one more part of you that I get to love and I’m so glad it’s something you were able to discover about yourself. I’m so happy you felt like you could share it with me.” 

You swallow, tears still brimming in your eyes as you pull back to look him in the eye. 

This time though, it wasn’t from fear but from the feeling sitting in you at the way he looked at you. 

He gives you a soft smile, one of his hands reaching up to move some of your hair. “Besides, I’ve always had a suspicion.” 

You raise an eyebrow, letting out a choked laugh. “You did? How?” 

“Do you remember your friend Lexi from high school? Yeah, no one was ever really sure you two were just friends.” 

“What?” You question. “I wasn’t into her like that.” 

“Well, now I know that, but back then...” He shrugs, leaning up against the countertop. “I don’t know, Sli used to have this theory you were just dating Ben as a cover.” 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him.” You mutter, reaching up to brush some of the tears away with a shake of your head. 

Bradley smiles softly, knowing there's no real heat behind your statement. Your Uncle Slider had always been able to see things in a way no one else could, reading past the lies and bullshit. 

Maybe the years of putting up with Mav and Ice had taught him how. 

“Do you feel better?”

You nod, leaning into his touch. “Feels like a weight has been lifted, I guess. Like everything makes sense.”

He ducks to press a kiss to your cheek. “Good. That’s how it should be.” He turns back to the stove, retrieving his spoon. “Will you try the sauce now?” 

You quirk an eyebrow, letting out a watery chuckle. “I have to admit I was expecting us to have a longer discussion about this.” You say, although you take the spoon anyways. 

He shrugs as he places the spoon in the sink after you nod, giving him your approval. “It doesn’t have to be. It can just be as simple as that if you want it to be.” He pauses, facing you. “Why? Do you want us to have a longer conversation about it?” 

You give a half-shrug, sighing. “Not- not really? It doesn’t change anything for me, I still love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you still want that, of course.” 

He sighs, reaching out for you again. “I want to be here however long you want me here. You trusted me with something deeply personal and that means so much to me. I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.” 

You take his, intertwining your fingers with his. “I know.” You whisper. 

He smiles. “Good.” He turns back to the stove. “Now, let’s get some food in you. Can’t imagine Mav cooked anything halfway decent this weekend.” 

You laugh, reaching for the bowls out of the cabinet so Bradley can scoop the pasta up into the ceramic dishes. He tells you about his weekend as the two of you settle in the couch, close to one another. Bradley’s body heat isn’t the only reason feel warmth, the love you feel brining a certain type of peace you rarely experienced. 

Later, after the two of you have had a couple of glasses of wine and are on your second helping of food, you remember your conversation with your Dad earlier in the day. 

You pause in your bite, fork halfway to your mouth. “By the way, I learned something today about Dad.” 

“Hm?” He prompts, shoving a bite of pasta in his mouth. 

“He and Ice hooked up in ‘86.” 

Bradley chokes. 

[erwinsprincess]

mine, always and forever: chapter 1

characters: OC (female, y/n, she/her) x Commander Erwin Smith

warning: this story will contain 18+ elements including but not limited to childhood trauma, age-gap, power dynamics, graphic sexual content, mild xenophobia(?), substance abuse, self-harm, and language (more in depth tags will be at the beginning of each chapter if need be)

aot semi-cannonverse (takes place in aot universe but I am taking some artistic liberties with timelines, characters, world politics, and happenings)

plot: (y/n) is a young (female, she/her) cadet (22 y/o) with a complicated past. escaping from a life of meaningless pleasures in a foreign land, y/n hopes to make a difference by giving her heart as a member of the scout regiment. with only her brothers by her side, she steps into a world of uncertainty. upon integrating herself within her rank, y/n meets a man that would flip everything she knows about herself upside down... and she likes it.

author's note: this story is my own personal delusion about meeting and falling in love with Commander Erwin if I was in the aot verse. therefore, the character is loosely based on my life experience and self-image. however, it is my hope that all of you will see something of yourself in the MC and all of you Erwin-loving baddies will enjoy our blondie in a new story. I am also new to Tumblr and it seems there are endless things I must learn, so feel free to kindly correct me if I fail to add something to my posts that is necessary for your reading enjoyment.

..............................................................................................................................

"the first day is always the hardest"

Your mother's words echoed in your head as you sighed out your anxiety. You reminded yourself to not be so cynical. Your mother means well, and she always has, despite making poor decisions in recent years. Many of which were out of her control, in her defense. She had not been a perfect mother, but then again, you had not been the perfect daughter. If she was not so wrapped up in her new husband and other children, she might have been worried about you.

Snapping yourself out of your thoughts, you looked to your twin brother, Alexander, Alexei for short. You offered him a soft smile, noticing he seemed concerned. His bright green eyes, identical to yours, gleamed with pride. You had both grown so much and been through so much together in the past few years that Alexei couldn't help but feel proud at your bravery and selflessness. For you, Alexei, and your elder brothers Mikhail (aka Misha), and Nikolai (who you affectionately refer to as Nik) were about to begin a very treacherous journey to join the military. It had been discussed that each of the boys would join the Scout Regiment together. After much quarreling, you convinced them to let you join as well. The three men were apprehensive, but seeing as how you were free to choose your own path, there was no point in arguing that you were more suited for Military Police. You would have rather been slowly eaten by a Titan with dull teeth than join the "soft" MP.

The trip from your homeland to Paradis was pure bliss, despite your underlying nerves, your worry, and your fear that you may lose the brothers you love so dearly. The Scout Regiment in particular was recruiting outside of the island due to lack of engagement. A draft of all able-bodied men was considered and thrown out, due to the all-time low birth rate in recent years. An open-invitation with promises of citizenship, healthcare, and provisions was sent to poor, neighboring countries and beyond. Despite these efforts, most recruits were young natives of Paradis, all in their early twenties, with so much life left to live. Many joined with hopes of surviving until they can collect a pension and retire, while some joined because they feel like their sacrifice can truly make a difference for the future of humanity. You had always identified with the latter sentiment. Growing up, all you wanted to be was a doctor. Your mother watched you take the temperature of your baby dolls, give them "medicine", and place them in their crib ever so gently. When your father died, so did those dreams. Your mother was forced to remarry the first person who offered to house her and her four children, or else you might have starved. Joining the Scout Regiment was your last chance to offer your life for the betterment of humanity, especially the children.

The cad that your mother married was a filthy and predatory man. Your mother, once beautiful and full of life, was now a mere shell of who she once was. Now a meek, timid woman who is no more use to that man than to make babies for him. You hated him and the children he had with your mother, three little girls that looked just like him, unfortunately for them. You wondered if he treated them the way he treated you, and you shuddered at the thought. You wondered if your mother would fail to protect them, as she had done to you.

You were only snapped out of your thoughts by a loud and commanding voice. "All cadets, line up in rows. You have less than one minute". You tried to follow your brothers, but you ended up getting left behind. You felt a hand on your upper arm, gently pulling you to stand next to them.

A girl with bright hazel eyes and reddish-brown hair smiled at you. "Potato?" she offered as she outstretched a hand that contained a steaming potato. You chuckled as you glanced, confused at the offering. "Um, thank you but no I don't feel very hungry." you smiled at her when your eyes met again. Taking another bite of her potato, she shrugged and teased, "You speak real strange. I ain't never heard the likes of your talking before. It's real pretty though. Sasha is the name". You blushed. "Y/N L/N, nice to meet you, Sasha". She might have said something else if not for the tall man with the dark circles under his eyes standing in front of her. He scolded her about the potato she was eating and you couldn't help but chuckle at her boldness to defend her choice to eat it now. He turned his head to you.

Keith Shadis was the instructor of the cadet corps and had held high leadership positions in the past. You could tell he had been through much in his lifetime.

"What is your name, cadet? Do I need to keep you and Miss Braus separated?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Y/N L/N... sir." you stuttered out, maintaining eye contact and an erect spine.

Eyes narrowed, Instructor Shadis inquired, "So you are one of the few and the proud to answer our call for help? No one with a name like that around here. Are you fluent in our language?". You nodded quickly, indicating your confirmation, and let out a sigh of relief as he moved on to interrogate the next cadet.

"He's real scary lookin' ain't he?" Sasha whispered as she lent closer to you. You smiled, still looking forward. "I like her already." you thought to yourself.

When the rows finally dispersed to assigned training stations, you and Sasha made your way past a table of important looking military personnel. You both glanced and smiled at them, hurrying to where you were supposed to be, when you heard a dusky male voice.

"L/N" he said calmly, but firmly. You turned to find that the voice belonged to a shorter man with dark hair, grey eyes, and an extremely handsome face. You found yourself to feel self-conscious under his gaze. You noticed he pronounced your last name incorrectly, but far be it from you to correct him.

Standing at attention, you uttered as confidently as you could, "Sir". The man observed you for a moment.

"Relax, cadet." You allowed yourself to do so. As you did, you took notice of who else was seated at the table. A woman with messy brown hair and glasses, who you instantly noticed was gorgeous in a unique way, a man with a bald head and grey mustache, a man with dark hair and sunken in features, and finally your eyes met a pair of bright blue eyes.

You felt a flutter in your stomach as your eyes met his. Gorgeous bright, blue eyes that you had never seen before, blonde hair swept back neatly, a prominent nose, and beautiful lips that had formed a soft smile as your eyes lingered on him.

"L/N"

Your eyes snapped back to the shorter man who was looking inquisitively at you. "I asked you did I pronounce your name correctly. It's too damn complicated if you ask me. You and your brothers were the topic of much discussion when you enlisted, seeing as how you're a tad different than the other cadets." A few chuckled from everyone at the table except for the blonde man with the scout logo on his jacket. The woman with the brown hair seemed fixated on you, as if she knew exactly who you were.

You felt your cheeks heat up as embarrassment washed over you. You corrected him, indicating your country of origin. "It's not such a strange name where I'm from. May I be excused sir?" you inquired, eager to leave.

"It's Captain to you cadet. Captain Levi Ackerman" He gestured to the others at the table, introducing them one by one, finally gesturing to the stunning blonde man seated nearest to you.

"This is Commander Erwin Smith. He is the highest authority you will answer to. You won't need to visit his office unless you are in deep trouble." he said pointedly, as if to indicate he thought you were going to be a problem child. "That goes for you as well". He said to Sasha, who you had forgotten was beside you.

She comically threw up her hands as if to say "I'm innocent" and sauntered away. You saw that as your opportunity to leave as well and you waved to the table of intimidating faces, eyes lingering on Commander Smith, who also held his gaze on you, before you turned your head. A smile spread across your face as you ran up to meet Sasha's pace. You both stopped when you reached your destination and with that same smile still on your face you turned to your new best friend.

"Want to cause some trouble?"

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[butchhamlet]

some reasons you should watch abigail thorn’s “the prince”

i mean, reasons beyond “it’s about trans women in a shakespeare multiverse and abigail thorn plays hotspur.” because--do you need more? but i have more to say, so i’m going to say it.

1. the exploration of the conflation of death and transition. i think trans people are in the habit of pushing back against the idea that transition is any sort of metaphorical death, because so many cis people say shit about feeling like they’ve lost a son/daughter/brother/sister/niece/nephew/gendered acquaintance/etc. but in truth, taking the plunge in deciding to transition, or deciding even to be honest with yourself about your transness, can look and feel a lot like a death, even if it’s a death that’s necessary for a rebirth (something thorn & other trans writers have touched on before). i can’t cite specific parts because spoilers but just trust me that this does a lot with that that made me want to put my head in my hands and scream

2. the interaction with manhood in the history plays. the henriad is incredibly concerned with what it means to be a man the right way--richard ii’s effeminacy assayed against bolingbroke’s stubborn strength; hotspur’s yearning for glory and love of war tied to his destructive masculinity and abhorrence of the feminine; hal’s gendernonconformity through use of language more often than weapons; henry v’s presentation of the english as a virile “band of brothers” identified in contrast to the foppish french dandies. the way this play examines gender--womanhood, manhood, masculinity, femininity, structural misogyny--is fucking delicious in that context, particularly in that the play turns hotspur’s obsession with masculine glory into something of a defense mechanism, as hotspur strives to be the person northumberland and worcester and kate percy expect. (ALSO THE COSTUMING. AND THE SWORD. AND THE DOUBLE-CASTING. AND THE SYMBOLISMS. FABULOUS.)

3. interaction with 1H4 in general. the way thorn cut up this play and rearranged it. i couldn’t go two minutes without turning to my friend and hissing, “this is a line from the real play! except in context it doesn’t go here!” and then gasping over how shifting the context, length, or speaker of speeches brought new aspects of both works to light. ALSO? SO MANY SPEECHES/SCENES IN SHAKESPEAREAN VERSE THAT WERE NOT IN THE ORIGINAL PLAY AT ALL. WHICH MEANS THIS WOMAN WAS JUST WRITING RAW IAMBIC PENTAMETER. LIKE, CONVINCING ELIZABETHAN-ERA IAMBIC PENTAMETER. WHAT. (also also! you don’t have to be a shakespeare nerd to enjoy this play, but if you like iambic pentameter jokes, boy howdy have i got good news for you!)

4. that said, it’s accessible to non-shakespeare-superfans, too! if you don’t know much about the histories, or if you struggle to comprehend shakespeare, don’t fear! the play is doing more than just riffing on shakespeare. it’s at least 50% modern speech, and the switches from one dialect to another tend to come at the most destabilizing and thus hilarious (or gutting) moments. there’s one particular modern-language-paraphrase of a specific 1H4 speech that i haven’t stopped thinking about since i saw it, because it’s the perfect balance of comedic and agonizing.

5. trans people. not just transgender shakespeare characters, but also modern-day trans women! i love that we get both original trans characters and shakespearean characters hit with the transgenderification beam, and i love how many trans people there are; it allows for a more thorough exploration of identity, and also so many good fucking jokes.

6. prince hal is gay for real. not sure i need to say much else about this

7. who doesn’t want to listen to abigail thorn recite shakespeare? not even just 1H4! but i shan’t say more, because oh, baby, that one’s gotta hit organically.

you can read more about it here if you’re not yet convinced, but come on. if you like shakespeare, or if you like art about gender and transness and narratives and confinement and freedom, or, hell, if you like seeing women with swords, i literally don’t know what to tell you i don’t know why you’re still reading this go watch the prince come on now