#yes i did make an oc so i could pretend they are my parents

[axolotluv]

Divorced parents

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Pretty like the sun

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a/n the follow up chapter AND This is pretty like the wind series spin offs. This can be read as standalone all you need to know is that Azriel has two adoptive kids with OC - Zofie and Axel. Future stories related to them might include stories specifically decided to Azriel hence why I am taging it as Azriel story too. Don't come at me please. ✨

warning: none? A bit of fighting, blood.

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Zofie's pov:

She had been beaming all morning. Not only had it been the best sleep of her life, but there was something so surreal about waking up in the arms of a man you had the biggest crush on. There was a moment when Zofie was sure that it was her sleepy brain playing a trick on her. That Nyx wasn't there with her. They weren't actually in the same situation. Limbs tangled. But Nyx's arms, which had quite a firm hold on her hips, felt all too real. His breathing did, too. So did his messy hair and slightly pouty lips.

How did one look so adorable in their sleep? Mother, he would be a frowning mess if she called him cute. But he was, and Zofie had to try really hard to suppress the giddy excitement that bubbled in her chest. Nuzzling back into the crook of Nyx's neck, she breathed in his scent. Feeling her body melt into it. Oh, how she missed him when he was away. How oddly lonely she felt. Truth be told, Zofie didn't have many friends. A couple of younger priestesses that Gwyn was teaching, yes, but they practically never talked. So... not friends. But Nyx had always been so keen on getting her attention. She was weary of him at first. He was the most talkative kid she had ever seen. But then Zofie only had a handful of traumatized sanctuary toddlers to compare him to. His bubbly side chipped away with the years, though. More often than not, the smile that was plastered on Nyx's face was nowhere near the smile he used to give her when they were younger.

"You're the cuddliest person I've come across in my entire life," Nyx grumbled, opening one eye to look at her. "So, if I pulled away now..." Zofie muttered, but Nyx's grip on her tightened immediately, "Don't you even think about it?" His morning voice was raspy and, oh, so delicious. "Got you," Zofie breathed out, shaking her head. He never denied her touch. She could watch him roll his eyes at Feyre kissing his cheek, but the next minute he would be right next to Zofie, his fingers subtly reaching for her as their palms brushed against one another.

"Do you think if I don't open my eyes, we can pretend that we don't have to go back?" Nyx muttered, and Zofie could sense the dread in his tone. "Your mom probably misses you a lot," she said softly. "Cause Ma always cries when Axel comes home, so I'm sure the high lady would..." "Don't." Nyx's whole body stiffened. Zofie frowned as specks of red fell onto the sheets. He was mad. Or frustrated, at least. "Did something happen?" Her voice grew weary, and Nyx's face grew ashamed. Hands pulling the girl back to his chest, "Promise it's nothing; I'm sorry, just tired," he breathed out. She didn't say anything after that. Letting the silence stretch over them both.

"My... The high lords are hosting a ball", and Nyx sounded as if this was the most dreadful thing he had to make himself think about once again. Zofie quickly cut in, "You don't want to go?". Nyx huffed, "Something like that." She never really understood if the high lords of the night court enjoyed the festivities themselves. Rhys, Nyx's dad, was a charmer, always quick to tell a joke. His grin never failed at balls and parties. But Zofie had caught him once. Head in hands. Messy hair. Wrinkled shirt. It was such a difference compared to that beaming smile she had seen on her high lord's face only moments ago. "Well, Axel and I will probably be there if our parents are going," Zofie breathed out, hoping to ease some of the tension, but Nyx simply shook his head. "I have a feeling it's the lordship shit," the heir growled before explaining even further, "Preppy parents in desperate need to marry off their children to form bonds between courts."

And here it was. This was the thing Nyx hated with a burning passion. All he wanted was to be normal. A young man still so full of life not some crystal gem for everyone to drool over. He cringed and frowned at all the titles people threw his way. And Zofie... Zofie hated every single female who felt entitled to come and touch him, pull at his hands, and rub at him like cats in heat. "Oh, Nyx," she breathed, her fingers carefully brushing through his hair. His fingers grazed her wrist tenderly. "Everyone is making such a big fuss over it too," he admitted as Zofie nodded in agreement. No wonder he was stressed. Especially if he was also to be left alone. Only with nobility to keep him company all night long.

"Bitch your way through it," Zofie muttered, and Nyx let out the most genuine chuckles she had heard in a while. But it had also died down as quickly as it started, "Will you tell me why you were by the river last night?" Zofie knew this was coming. Nyx had a hard time letting go of the topics he wanted to discuss. And he had been more than clear that he was going to get the answer out of her about this. So fighting this...

"I have a sister," Zofie breathed, her eyes falling to the crisp white sheets on the bed. Nyx shifted slightly, his hand dipping beneath the blanket to run soothingly up her thigh, "I hear a sad note in that," he muttered. And Zofie hated that. She hated that she was still upset over something she genuinely wanted. She didn't care much about having to share her parents' attention for a while. It was everything else that ticked her off. "She's perfect", Zofie let out a deep sigh, "Has wings, no flaws. She's perfectly Azriel's". Her voice died down, overpowered by the growl Nyx had let out. "Has that asshole?", "No, no, I just... it's me," Zofie shook her head, "I felt... irrelevant.".

The room fell silent. She watched as Nyx blinked a couple of times, letting her words sink in, "Don't you talk shit like that about yourself?" His voice had an edge to it. A powerful force. "But it's true; I'm Illyrian but have no wings," Zofie muttered, turning to play with her fingers instead. Admitting her fears and insecurities felt humiliating almost. "I'll always be your wings," Nyx's much bigger palm cupped hers, giving it a little squeeze. "What have I done to deserve you, huh?" Zofie chuckled slightly, hoping to mask the sting in her eyes. Nyx crooked his head to the side. Watching her for a moment, "You didn't have to do anything. I'm the one who's lucky that you were born.".

Nyx's pov:

They had laughed through the whole flight back to the city. And the closer they got, the more Nyx dreaded it. He didn't care much about the shit he was going to get from Rhys. But it's the letting go part that pressed against his chest. He knew, for a fact, that if not tonight, then by the next morning they would be ushered back into the camps up the mountain. Yes, he was happy to learn and to earn a rank, but leaving her here felt like a dreadful task. Not to mention that they weren't allowed to write letters while they were up there. Not to mention that Nyx had a whole box of letters he had written for Zofie. Ones he had written while up there. Ones that no one would ever see.

Zofie had asked him to drop her off at the edge of the forest near the house. "Better if you don't just walk in. You know my dad," she said. However, Nyx felt it the minute Zofie's legs hit the snow beneath her. He had barely let go of her when the claws of darkness pulled him back, nearly sending him to his feet. But he expected this. Escaping the spymaster under the protection of his father's wards was one thing. The moment they were on the perimeter of Velaris, well, let's say that was Azriel's hunting territory. And that male always hunted as if he were starving.

Nyx had seen Azriel pissed more than once, but the frown on his face this time was unmatched. And accompanied by the dark circles beneath his eyes. Yeah, he looked as if he was out for blood. "You forgot yours, young man," the spymaster said through gritted teeth as his shadows roped around the princeling's ankles and wrists.

"Dad, that's enough." Zofie stomped through the thick snow, trying to get in between the two of them. Nyx wished she wasn't there. He hated it when she was there to witness their snarls. "You lost all sense of fun, uncle," Nyx said mockingly. His own hands grew dark, seizing the spymaster's dark, as cold gloominess chased all of Azriel's shadows away. "You had no right to take her like that," Azliel bit back; his wings were arched in a warning, but Nyx didn't skip a beat, doing just the same.

"No one took me," Zofie growled with a huff. And it was the way Azriel had turned back to look down at her that broke the last sense of logic within Nyx. It was the way his big frame looked toward her when Azriel snared, "I wasn't speaking to you, young lady," that undid Nyx. "Why?", he asked bitterly, "Because you forgot that she existed? The new child has already taken too much of your time?". It felt as if the whole world had stopped. Even the snowflakes seemed to have seized in their fall. "Nyx..." he said, meeting Zofie's pleading eyes. Saw her shaking her head in disapproval. But he was truly seeing red. No one had a right to make her. Make his sunshine feel small.

"What did you just say?" Azriel frowned, slightly taken back, but his demeanor was still predatory. The princeling only growled back at the shadowsinger. "Nyx for fuck sake," Zofie pleaded, panic raising to her features as she moved closer to her dad in hopes of putting distance between them. But it was for nothing when Nyx muttered, "You heard me loud and clear, spymaster." Nyx managed to spare Zofie one look. One look before his vision was interrupted by black dots as his head was wiped to the side from the impact. Zofie's shriek pierced the silence, rippling over every surface.

Nyx knew that, in a way, he deserved it, so it didn't surprise him. He had been messing with the habitat of fae males. One who had just become a father. One who's instinct to protect was on such high alert. But he had to. Had to stand up for her. "Papa, please," Zofie pleaded. Nyx wiped the warm liquid trickling down the side of his lip. Oh, he was not going to go down without a fight. "Please, let's just go home. Please, I'm sorry". Her tiny hands were grasping at Azriel's hands, trying to pull him back. "Don't you apologize for him," Nyx snarled, but Zofie's firey eyes met his as she muttered, "Shut up." Only now did Nyx notice the tears streaming down her rosy cheeks. Only now did he see the quiver in her chin.

"Zof," Nyx breathed out, but the girl had simply turned her back on him. "Come on, papa, please," she pleaded once more, and this time it was enough to get Azriel's attention. His chest was still heavy as he breathed through his anger. "If I ever catch you doing anything like this," Azriel snarled, stepping forward to look at Nyx, but Zofie pushed back, putting all of her weight against her dad. "Consider yourself fucking lucky." Azriel flapped his wings a couple of times before reaching for Zofie's hand, tugging her alongside him as the shadows swallowed them both.

Your pov:

Quite frankly, you knew something was wrong from the moment you looked up to see Zofie's pale face when Novie was born. And deep down, you knew that this insecurity that was quite clearly blooming right in front of you was inevitable. You just didn't know it would take a turn like that. Zofie had always been good about voicing her discomfort, and you had always encouraged her to speak her mind, but it seemed as if your love had been lost in the shuffle of it all.

You knocked on her bedroom door gently. It's been a couple of hours since she and Azriel got back home. Your mate, mostly thanks to his lack of sleep, assumed that you both hadn't noticed your girl not being home and, and then hadn't felt them coming home. It was the stench of anger that was dripping from Azriel that was enough to let you know that a fight must have happened. And this sort of frustration as of lately was only brought on by one person.

Without getting an answer, you just let yourself in after a while. Zofie was curled up in a ball, and the blanket Azriel had knitted for her was tightly wrapped around her. That fact must have slipped her mind, considering the fight the two have been in. Sitting down on the very edge, you let your fingers gently brush through Zofie's dark waves.

"Sweetness, why don't you eat up? It's lunchtime", you said gently, nodding towards the plate of warm food you had brought up for her. She simply shook her head, turning away from your touch. A sharp ache pierced your heart. If your children were hurting, so were you. You climbed into the bed, nudging her slightly as you moved to wrap your arms around the girl. Let her be the little spoon.

Zofie laid as still as a statue for a moment before her arms snaked around yours. "Now he will never love me again," Zofie's voice was barely a whisper, but you still managed to hear her perfectly well. "Who, baby?" you asked, running your fingers up and down her arm. She stilled for a moment before looking up to catch your gaze and saying, "Papa." A breath hitched in your throat. "Lovie," you muttered.

Zofie quickly shuffled, sitting up. "First, I don't have wings; now he thinks I'm sneaking behind his back with Nyx," she blurted out in a rush, "And I'm not, I promise." She caught your arm, shaking it slightly. You cupped her face softly and said, "There is nothing wrong with you falling in love." Her face scrunched up so hard that you almost had to laugh. "I'm not in love. I'm not", she stated. "Okay, okay," you muttered, tapping her cheek playfully.

"And Azriel loves you, Zo." Your tone was much firmer now. You understood the fears. Mother, even you still had them. Wondering why? Why had Azriel chosen you, and what did he see in you? So for a teenager to have emotions like that, "He had loved you from the moment he saw you," you added.

Zofie bit her lip as if contemplating her next words for a moment, "But his yellow is fading", she admitted. Her colors. She found comfort in them, but good things usually come with baggage. Understanding the amount of emotion there was still a hard task. "That doesn't mean he stopped loving you. Maybe the color is evolving. Shifting into something different", you said softly. You made a mental note to ask her tutor to find her a book about the colors of emotions to read. Well, one that she hadn't already devoured.

"Hate," those silent words, made your mind halt. You shook your head. "Love has different forms; you'll learn that along the way," You reached up to carefully take her necklace between your fingers. "Papa is on edge right now because a lot of things are changing. He's sensitive because he's lost so much already. Losing all of us would break him without repair." It felt like a lot to unload on her, but she had to see that Azriel's love hadn't just faltered or disappeared because of Novie. Thinking like wings, no wings, scars on no, even the blood bond didn't matter to Azriel. Zofie pinched her eyebrows. "Is he home?", she breathed, "I need to...", "He's out on his broody walk, but I'm sure he'll be back soon," you said softly, reaching for the plate and handing it to her. She was desperate to make sure that she had at least some food in her stomach.

Nyx pov:

He had lost track of how long he had been flying. Nor did he know where he was going, but regardless of his endless attempts to escape it, Nyx knew that he would have to go home eventually. A part of him hoped that Rhys wouldn't have been able to sniff this one out, but then Nyx had lost track of his uncle fairly early on. So Azriel could have already been stomping his foot in his father's office.

"Purple truly suits you." As if on cue, Rhys's voice rang out. He was seated in front of a fireplace. A drink in hand. His usual black button-up shirt hugged his skin. Nyx didn't hate his father. He hated the high-lord aspect of him. Yes, he was different from most. Mother, spare anyone from a father like Beron, but... he still valued his position a bit too much at times. Nyx simply shook his head, shifting to move toward the back patio, but his father's voice stopped him, "I don't remember letting you walk away.".

Nyx let out a bitter chuckle, "Oh, so now I am to obey you too, like a servant?" It was bitter; he knew it. But Nyx just wasn't in the mood—wasn't in the mood to deal with any of this right now. "You're my son," Rhys stated firmly, his purple eyes gleaming. "Doesn't that just suit your story?" Nyx barked back, matching his father's glare. "Nyx," Rhys said in a warning tone, but the princeling was already walking. "I'll be with Mom," he breathed over his shoulder.

The wind that hit his face as he stepped outside soothed his heated cheeks. He always loved the walk towards his mother's gallery. It had always been his favorite time of the day when the two of them would go there. Gods, did he need to clear his head. Anything. Everything. All he could think of was her. Yet... two hands clasped his shoulders, making Nyx quickly spin back, putting whoever was behind him in a chokehold.

"Well, dang, you're on edge, my man," a familiar voice rasped out, and Nyx instantly let go, pushing the figure forward. "What the hell are you doing here?", he whispered. Axel simply smirked before shrugging, even if his eyes lingered on the library door for a bit too long. "I came to see how my dad painted your face," Axel chuckled, "Pretty." Nyx simply flipped his friends off and said, "Fuck off." Yet the corners of his lips did twitch slightly. Axel always had that effect on him. It was hard to not smile around him.

"She's okay," Axel muttered, making Nyx's eyes snap up at him. Yet he refused to give in to it. "I don't care," he said simply. Axel raised one eyebrow at his friend, tilting his head to the side, and, "Right, so you wouldn't care if I told you that mom got her to eat, and she's much calmer now." Nyx's shoulders eased a bit. Eased almost immediately. A calmness like no other washed over him as he nodded in agreement.

"She asked about you." Now these words struck a chord with Nyx, and his big eyes were instantly searching for Axel. "Did she?", Nyx breathed out desperately. Axel simply chuckled, slowly shaking his head, "No, but I love proving a point." Nyx let out a growl, "I'm so kicking your ass on the sparring mat." But he couldn't help but smile now. Because Axel knew him. And in a way, this was his silent way of approving. Or at least not stepping between him and Zofie.

But Axel's eyes lingered behind his friend, and Nyx's eyes instantly followed suit. Only he caught sight of white robes slipping back inside the library. Nyx instantly turned back to face Axel. "What was that?", he questioned. Axel blinked a couple of times, "What was what?". Oh, but Nyx wasn't stupid. "That look," he muttered, motioning his hand towards Axel's face, "Are you fucking a prestress?" Axel frowned at the question instantly, his eyes finally moving to gaze at his friend, "What the hell, man, wash your mouth." Nyx chuckled slightly, but he knew deep down that the moment they were going to be better on the camp walls, he was going to get his answers one by one. Now all he needed was his sun. His Sunny and for some reason risking a black eye didn't seem that big of a sacrifice.

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Taglist: @sirenpearldust @historygeekqueen @hnyclover @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @naturakaashi @stressed-reader @woodland-mist @goldenmagnolias @nocasdatsgay

[atinylittlepain]

joel miller x f!oc

story playlist

monsters are made of myths. in this story, two myths become one. two myths are in love. they are in wretched love.

warnings | 18+ this is a work of contemporary horror | literally cannibalism, and the trappings of it - love as consumption, non-graphic death, murder, grotesque depictions of food (normal food) and eating (normal eating), non-graphic references to unhealthy parental relationship (abuse and neglect), descriptions of dissociation, smut, strange neurotic processes in general

word count | 17K (yes, really)

a/n | this fic is partially inspired by the movie Bones and All, and it is my attempt to get Bones and All right (read: better) - i cannot stress enough that this is a work of horror, and as such, deals with unsettling imagery, subject matter, and emotions. read with care. special thanks must be given to @pr0ximamidnight and @wannab-urs who loved these two characters enough to keep me writing them, thank you, my darling friends, i hope i've done them justice. and thank you, dear reader, for coming along on something of an odyssey.

Monsters, she thinks, are hewn from guilt and shame. She is trying very hard not to feel either of those things about what she must do. But some slippery part of her still supposes that she has been a monster for a very long time, maybe even from the beginning. When did it change? When are monsters made? Like everyone else, she drank from her mother’s breast. Some time after that then.

What she does remember is not regretting it, any of it, until her mother taught her it was something to regret. Shame in the whites of her eyes, the dark ring of her open mouth, stricken in a scream. She has only ever met one other person like her in all her time skipping from town to town, a few years younger than her, but older in her confidence, her certainty in who she was. And like her, the first time, a babysitter, blood in the bathtub. She took her ear clean off, and the girl’s father found the scene when he got home from work, babysitter having fled, baby still in the tub, gumming on something pink and soft in her mouth. He had been afraid, she told her, that she could have drowned. Never mind the ear. Monsters are loved too, after all, a wretched thing of love. 

For her it had been a finger. At least that’s what her mother told her, easy to wrap her small mouth around. She believed her, vaguely remembering the flicker of red nail polish, bitter amidst the rest of sense and sate. What she does remember, the feeling of fullness. What she does remember, her mother making a myth out of her, conjuring up some way to explain this condition of hers. Condition, what she decided to call it. An affliction of appetites, something to be controlled, to be smothered under the thick swaths of what her mother taught her. How to be normal is really just another way of saying how to hide. And she hid for a very long time, weak and wan and wanting things she knew she shouldn’t be wanting. Until, eighteen, and their tenth packed car and dark house and her mother telling her that she was no longer interested in this myth, this unmaking of a monster. You are what you are and I have tried, I have tried, I have tried, but you are what you are. 

Not just guilt and shame, monsters are made in the breadth of a back turning, in eyes settling somewhere up and away. Monsters are made in a leaving. Everyone has already left. So what else is there to do but eat?

She likes the song that’s playing in the convenience store, the light haze of it, staticking from somewhere overhead. Hazy in the afternoon slump, everyone making minced conversation about setting the clocks back last weekend. Her watch still reads an hour ahead. 

I feel the earth move– she needs toothpaste.

I feel the sky tumbling down�� and soap.

I feel my heart start to tremble– but there’s an empty promise left in her wallet.

Whenever you’re around– soon, she will have to stay.

I just got to have you– soon, she will have to pretend.

Baby– make-believing normal.

I just lose control– make a little more money.

I get hot and cold, all over, all over– before another leaving.

Tumbling down, tumbling down– before another fullness. 

“Excuse me.” A man, somewhere in her periphery, and the quick realization that she’s been standing in front of bars of soap, considering what it would feel like to slip one or two into the pocket of her coat, standing there for a bit too long. Shrug and shuffle to the side, a quiet sorry, keeping her eyes down, but in a quick flicker, she sees his face. Fang recognizes fang, always. 

He looks tired, like if not for whatever weight is pulling at his shoulders, he would be much bigger, much badder. Worn thin at the edges, wings darkening beneath his eyes, he spares her a single glance, disinterested, picking up two bars of soap, the kind that smells clean and young and kind. As he leans down, she sees the glint and flirt of gold dangling from his neck, a cross. But she knows, she thinks she knows. When you are rare like this, it isn’t difficult to know another myth when you see one. 

She watches the heels of his boots clip down the aisle toward the checkout, there and gone, and she does not follow. This is not something that should be followed. She knows, she knows. She tried once, with that girl. That girl who had different ideas about what their myth meant, their mouths, who decided that cruelty felt good, who decided to play the part of the monster with a terrible flair. No, this is something best done alone, and worst when it is shared. 

A single bar of soap sits heavy in her pocket while she pays for a tube of toothpaste, the man already gone, mercy. And the evening unfolds like it usually does during these times of motion. Still enough gas in her car that she can crawl a few miles down the interstate and find a quiet place to pull off for the night, somewhere green, somewhere with trees. Summer, the heat turning cool and sticky as it starts to darken, and a routine that is familiar to her by now. Windows cracked just enough to let a thin stream of fresh air in without threatening danger. And she folds the fact of her body in the backseat, tucking all her angles beneath a worn blanket that she keeps folded in the trunk during the day. Always memory before sleep, though her mind has made motheaten, misshapen murmuring out of the most of it. The fullness is always what remains. And that thick curl of shame. 

Here is how her mother made her. She broke skin and pulled out a rib of her own, made flesh of her flesh, tended to the wound until it was something else. There was no father, and there was certainly no god. At least that’s how her mother told it. You came from me, mine, this is mine, me and you and your mouth that must stay closed because I love you even though you are like this, awful, you are like this and I love you. But that love stretched thin, snapped, bleeding gums and broken teeth and never again. A goodbye that she is still saying, that she curls herself around in the backseat of her car in the summer when it’s warm enough for leaving. 

…

Maybe a foolish thing to spend what’s left of her money on. The waitress is very pretty though, a flush of red curls piled on her head, red lipstick too, crackling with her smile and bleeding into the lines around her mouth. Pours her a dark cup of coffee and leaves the steaming pot of it at her table. She pours three plastic thimbles of cream into it, two packets of sugar that she doesn’t stir in, lets it settle, biting down on the grit when she tips the last of her cup back into her mouth, and repeats. And the pretty waitress brings her two plates, so hot that they leave red welts on her forearms when she sets them down on her table, pinkened pain. Scrambled eggs, grease and sweat pooling beneath their lingering heat, bleeding over into two pieces of bacon, blistered crisp. A stack of pancakes, the sheen of butter seeping down, she pours enough syrup over them to pool thin and flooded on the plate. Collects a little of everything on her fork, the soft give of protein and matter, everything sagging in the sweet stick. Hand to mouth, but she stops, stuck, seeing him sitting alone at a booth across the diner. And he sees her too. A meal much like her own, enough to give someone a stomach ache. His eyes fall away from hers just as soon, and she watches him pass a knife through a piece of meat, flesh on his fork that he pockets into his cheek, jawing it down. She works her mouth around her own bite, teeth hurting with the snap down onto metal, the scrape of the fork. The food turns to sweet, soft mush, rolling around on her tongue, swallowed hard. 

He’s watching her again, working his jaw in a slow shift, and this time, his eyes don’t leave hers. She plucks a piece of bacon off her plate, pinched between thumb and forefinger, bites down again and sucks the salt from the dried flesh. He finishes a piece of toast in two bites, mouth screwing to the side, the dip and bob of his throat when he swallows, muscle moving muscle. Sweat is starting to prickle her scalp, the soft stretch of her stomach with her meal, warm and sick and sloshing. She doesn’t chew her eggs, swallows them, slipping down her throat with the rest of the salt and sate. His eyes fall to her hands, the smooth procession of fork and knife making mince out of her pancakes. She sucks the syrup out of each bite, works the sugar down first before swallowing the rest. His meal, almost completely gone, dragging a finger through a smear of ketchup he had been steeping his hashbrowns in, sucks the remnant red into his mouth. She can almost hear the hum that bobs in his throat, even through the murmurings of the diner. And he is very beautiful, beneath it all. The crooked strength of his nose, his brow, the drop of his lashes over the tops of his cheeks when he takes a pull of coffee. Unabashed, she stares, and he stares back, a darkened dare, watching the movements of each other’s mouths.

And just like that, she’s still chewing when he gets up to leave, not sparing another glance her way as he shoulders out the door. Her chin tilts, neck stretched to see him get into a blue pickup truck with a slam of the car door. He’s gone like a thin flame of lightning. She feels like she’s going to throw up. But she doesn’t, pays her check and stumbles out into the starkness of the morning. It’s a Saturday, and families are congregating for breakfast. She watches, slumped in the driver’s seat of her car, a sliver of a little girl and a little boy crossing her rearview mirror, holding onto hands attached to bodies that are cut off from view. She sighs, sits up straight and turns the key in the ignition. 

…

It’s a half-hour worth of driving later when she sees that blue pick-up truck again. Midwest, middle of nowhere, fields of ruin, and that truck, still and silent next to an abandoned barn made of rot. Middle of the day, the sun a flirting threat high in the middle of blue shock, but there are very few people out here, no one around to see her pull off the side of the road, get out of her car, and start swaying through the tall grass toward that truck and the barn. 

He is beautiful like this too. Slinking out from behind the barn, his eyes flickered low like he knew, he knew. His shirt is ruined, dark, damp. White t-shirt bled red, and the strange starkness of that gold cross glinting around his neck. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and makes the mess worse, smears it up to the height of his cheeks, across his forearm. And his eyes, his eyes, swimming, darkness starting to drip down his face, starting to meld and mix with the rest. Beautiful, and so very sad. 

“There’s nothing for you here.” Low, the shivering thrum of it murmuring from somewhere between his ribs. Some kind of twang that sharps in her ears. She can’t find words of her own, still where she stands, beneath his hunkered gaze. When nothing comes, he sighs, shakes his head, walks right past her to his truck, keeping a wide breadth of distance between them as he does. 

“How did you know?” The question tries up her throat once, twice, before it finally jerks out into sound, stopping him before he opens the door to his truck, squinting at her over his shoulder. 

“It’s not hard to tell.” And in the space that follows, something is understood, confirmed. It’s starting to dry on his skin, in the scruff along his jaw, dark. The strangest hunger, the sharpest, an awful ache just looking at him. But he’s already leaving, not another word when he gets into his car, and the silence is a command in and of itself. I am and you are, and it will be a blessing if we never cross paths again. Again, gone, parting the sea of withering  grass with the slow trundling beast of his truck. 

She does not look, does not see for herself what lies behind the barn. She already knows. 

…

Like a child, her cheeks flamed with tears, scrubbing at the salt as soon as it falls. To put it simply, her car stopped, a few last wheezing rolls, and it will not start again. And there is no one to call, not out here, between states, between time itself. Eventually, the panic gives way to a dull surrender. She leans against the side of her car, tips her head back to let her face flush in the last slip of light, the sun fretting at the edge of the horizon. Memory is never far when she lets her eyes close. Something normal, driving down the street outside of house number five, her mother letting her, teaching her. She had laughed, giddy, running her palms along the wheel. Back then, flight had felt more like option, and less like routine. Those last few years, and the quick succession of escapes. 

She was out of control, her mother’s words, and she felt it too. Felt like a fine thread of hunger had been stitched through her spine and was pulling painful, the sharp tug toward destruction. And when the thread snapped, it was all she could do to find something to close her mouth around. Those last few years, they moved more than they ever had, every couple of months when she would inevitably mess up, making a mess of everything. Much easier now to always be leaving, because staying was never really an option. 

It’s heard before it’s seen, the crackling of gravel, of tires and brakes slowing down. She lets one eye slip open in a thin slit, squinting in the final slip of sun. That blue pick-up truck, sidling up behind her car along the shoulder of the road. He makes no move to get out, but he does roll his window down, and that’s enough for her to walk over to the side of his car, smalling beneath his steady eyes. He’s clean now, she thinks she can even smell the soap on him, that same soap that she stole a bar of and has been holding under her nose in the nights, something of comfort before she sleeps.

“You’re like me.” The words come from somewhere unnamed inside her, what might be called courage in someone else, and it seems to surprise him too, his brow jumping before furrowing back down. 

“I am.” 

“Where are you from?” A stupid question to ask someone like her. She doesn’t blame him for remaining silent, lips pressed in a thin line. So, she tries again.

“Where are you going?” 

“West.”

“Where west?”

“Just west.” Silence again, a single car hums by them. He clears his throat.

“Is your car broke down?” 

“I think it’s dead.”

“Is it worth fixing?”

“No, probably not. And I don’t have any money left.” 

“Do you want a ride?” Myths are made in the fine split of choice. She is walking into a new one. 

“Okay.” 

There is very little of herself to collect. A bag in the trunk of her car with a few spare clothes, her blanket, a bar of soap. The rest can be left behind. 

“I’m Joel.” All that he offers her when she slides into the passenger seat, a glance that falls on the curl of her hands in her lap. 

“I’m Maeve.” 

It has been a very long time since she has been a passenger in someone else’s car. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, leaving always looming, but she had been doing well for her mother. Well enough to get a date with a shy boy who sat behind her in seventh period math. He took her out in his car, fall and dark and dim and something light threatening in her chest, stealing glances at each other as he drove them out to that spot that everyone parked at. Lovers, lovers, lovers, young limbs tangling in the backseats of cars, damp windows and fog twirling up skirts in the wash of headlights. And they had parked, and shy boy had stuck his shy tongue in her mouth, and she had liked it, she had liked it. And of course, it went wrong, blood and body and blood and she ran home with salt stinging down her cheeks. She didn’t mean to hurt him. She never meant to hurt anyone. This isn’t a hurting thing, at least she didn’t want it to be. Her mother had slapped her, hard, sending her neck turning to one side before collecting her up in her arms and making it all better, making a leaving for both of them.

Now, with her temple pressed against the window of the passenger side door, silence save for the thin voices on the radio, she thinks of that boy, and how carefully he had cupped her cheek in his palm. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to love him. But she didn’t know how to without biting down.

For as long as she can remember, alone has meant monstrous. Evidence of defect, deformity, the delineation between others, normal, the world, and her, somewhere on the periphery, always. But she wasn’t always alone, and for a while, that was enough to convince her that normal was possible, that, no, not a monster. She had her mother, not alone, not a monster. Clinging to not alone so hard, and in turn clinging to her  mother so hard, that often her fear, or love, or the product of the two, would get her hurt. 

She was hungry for touch as a child, and her mother was unwilling to give it to her in the amounts she wanted for. Her mother, her mother, locking her bedroom door from the inside so she couldn’t turn the handle and slip inside and ask for a palm on her back to calm her nightmares. She would curl up on the pilled carpet of whatever house they were in at the time, back pressed to the door like maybe she could feel her mother’s respiration through the wood, something to soothe down her spine, thumb tucked into her mouth. And in the mornings, bleary, jostled awake by the slow fall backward when her mother would inevitably open the door to her room. Lying on her back in the doorway, blinking up at her mother, grave and grim, who was always frowning, always sighing. Not again, not this again, not you, doing this again. Her mother would step right over her, the hem of her dressing robe brushing against her body as she did, and even that was a relief to her, touch of some kind.

And her mother did love her, in some way. Loved her the way one loves a monster. At arm’s length. That doesn’t mean much to monsters, though. They want, they hunger, just the same. She has wondered, from time to time, if it was the way her mother loved her that made her worse. To go hungry like that for so long, no great working of the imagination to consider how a body might solve that problem in another way. But no, she knows, this is something essential, something curled close inside her. This hunger has been there from the beginning. After all, the finger, the red nail polish, she was just a baby then. She likes to imagine how her mother loved her before that happened. There was a whole year of life before she became a monster. What is love like when people will actually look you in the eye, when every touch does not come tentative as if through the bars of a cage? Sometimes at night, she will wrap her arms around herself and trace her palm along the span of her back that she can reach. Something like that, she imagines, it would feel something like that. 

Something like what she is seeing now, sitting in the pew ahead of her. Husband and wife, and they are very old, the fine threads of age mottled on the back of husband’s hand, spread between his wife’s slight shoulder blades, her pale blue sweater, gold band glinting. His thumb moving back and forth, a smoothing thing, smoothing and steadying thing. The sermon, the prayers, the withering coughs of the staggered crowd all fall away. Small salvation in the steady rhythm of touch, it mesmerizes her. Things like these are always over before she’d like them to be, the husband’s hand falling away as he and his wife both rise from their seats, the sudden shuffle making her blink back into place and space. Plenty of people are getting up, sliding out of the pews to line up down the aisle. Joel, one of them, a gasp of cool air in the empty space he leaves beside her. 

She doesn't know what they are doing in a place like this. She doesn’t think, up until recently, that she had ever been in a place like this, if she’s being honest. Her mother wasn’t religious, and it always seemed to her like churches were somewhere good people went. So no, she had never been in a church before. Not until she started traveling with Joel. 

He tries to find one every Sunday if he can, in between towns and states and strips of road. Usually, he will manage to, he doesn’t seem to care what kind. Last week, Presbyterian, and the week before that, Baptist. This week, Catholic. They all seem the same to her. But then again, she doesn’t listen closely to the sermons, focuses instead on the movement, and making her own like theirs. Here is what she has learned, when you talk to God, look up, and look sad. What else she has learned, at the end, there is always an eating. Bread and wine placed on soft, trying tongues, and some kind of prayer draped over the entire thing. She watches Joel, every week, take communion until she doesn’t even have to watch. Keeps her eyes closed and pictures the drop of his jaw, the slow pull of his throat. She knows it, she knows it. What she doesn’t know is why. Not much room for a God like this one in their particular myth. Though Joel seems intent on it, and she is in no position to challenge this routine. A month traveling together, and still such strange silence between them. But on church days, he is always more likely to speak. 

There’s only a few other people who don’t get in line to receive communion, and all them, herself included, are met with the heavy sweep of eyes, soft shakes of heads that tells them no, should not be here, no, not for you. A childish thought that she keeps to herself, not for Joel either, no matter how he plays pretend at it, gold cross glinting like a rotten tooth rendered good at his neck. A thin flare of jealousy, maybe, that he can believe in good so easily. 

But maybe Joel is good, she thinks, in spite of what they both do. He certainly seems good walking down the aisle, polite words soft in his throat and a nod for her to follow on his heels and out to the parking lot. These people, church people, will never see them again, and that is a mercy. 

“Where are we?” 

“We’ll be in Kansas soon.” He always answers that question with the future rather than where they are in the present, always forward motion. All that he offers her, folding his worn map back up before he pulls the truck onto the road. 

Joel has some money saved from a past staying. And she told him that wherever he decided to stay next, she would stay too, paying him back for what he has already spent on her. He seemed neither moved nor impressed by her affirmation, eyes slipping down somewhere to the side, a sigh. At the very least, it’s a comfort to her, the promise of somewhere for her, for a little while.  

“Should we try to today?” 

“We don’t have to do it together. If you want to, today, that’s fine. I don’t mind.” The words feel stupid in her mouth, and the sharp look Joel gives her before his eyes return to the road tells her as much. 

“It’s safer if we do it together. Less of a mess.” It doesn’t feel that way to her. She knows what he means, but still. Not to her. Shameful to her, that someone else sees her like that. Shameful back when she had been traveling with that girl, that girl who would grin through it, teeth stained and tarred and making her sick up in her throat with shame, with cruel terror turned inside herself. But Joel isn’t like that. No, there is something different to how Joel tends to this. 

Now, alone means go, green light, good for taking. They watch for alone, parked in rest stops, gas station parking lots, all the in between places, places where the loneliest people tend to linger. They’ll spend whole afternoons in some various slump in or against his truck, squinting down in the sun at bodies moving around them, moving through. Today, they pull off at one of those long haul trucker stops, a gravel lot full of slumbering beasts of cars, cargo, men mincing around, stretching length back into their tired bodies. And they watch. And they wait. Teeth aching.

Joel distracts her, sometimes. Her watching him watching the world. It seems like he moves and something pressed beneath the thin crust of the ground moves too. Big man, silent as a fist man. But he is nice and gentle and kind. Small words for a big man. A kind of manners she has never seen before. She watches him now, the soft squint of his eyes under the sun’s cool heat, leaning against the side of his truck with his hands tucked into his pockets, ankles crossed. He looks so casual, but she knows that there’s a wire strung taut in his spine, quick flickers of want, of hunger. She feels it too. 

“Joel?”

“Hmm.”

“Can I ask you something?” He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either, ducking his head down in a way that shows her he’s listening. 

“How many others have you met?” Like us, the implicit understanding of like us. Something strange passes across his face, quick pinch, smoothing itself out. 

“A few.” 

“How many is a few?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Well, how many do you think there are in the country?”

“I think that’s a useless question.” He doesn’t say it mean, more matter of fact than anything, though it still feels like a swift loss of breath in her lungs. She pinches her mouth shut, a flume of embarrassment warming beneath her skin. But Joel pays her no mind, his gaze has settled on someone. 

They’ve only done this together two other times, but it’s been enough to know there’s a particular way Joel goes about this. Always alone, always men, trying for the bad ones. And how they decide who is bad is, at best, a childish logic. Alone, for one thing, both of them understanding how that can translate into bad. The loud ones, the brassy, blundering ones, ones that bodies move like they know violence intimately. It is all a game of chance, though Joel seems so methodical. Regardless, it makes her feel messy, smeared and stupid for the way she used to go about this, which is to say, with little thought for anything save the ache in her gut. Yes, she had rules of her own. Never children. Rarely women. As alone as she could find them. It was in the mechanics of it that she always failed, and this failure curdled into something close to cruelty, something she had a hard time stomaching. 

But not Joel. Joel is painfully careful in how this is done. The first step is always the waiting, seeing if a body will stick around in this in-between place. And in that waiting their hunger grows teeth of its own, hunkering their shoulders, making them as small as the curl of their guts. And when a body stays in that in-between place, a trucker who seems to be resting for the night, wandering idly around the lot with a cigarette held loose like a prayer between his lips, that’s when Joel moves. This part is not difficult for Joel, because he is kind and gentle and nice. Quiet, he smalls himself, makes himself anyone that could be anyone else. 

And when he does it, he does it in the night, pale slants of the moon’s watchful gaze washing down on him. And when he does it, he does it with his hands. Not a word, not a whimper or whine, just a final puff of breath when he is done, something absent floating up in his eyes. In the close brush of trees a few yards away from the rest stop, there will be nothing left to find when they are done. Down to the ankles, and then some. 

She hates doing this with him, to have him see her in it, and in the after of it. The sate feels good, but the shame fans a perfect flame up her neck. And she cries, she always cries, and he refuses to look at her when she does. They stumble into the rest stop bathrooms and wipe away what they can from their skin. This is no clean thing. She will feel the stick of it on her for days afterward, she always does. But she will feel good too, full too, and it will only make the shame worse. 

“Why do you cry like that?” It startles her, stops another sniff from hiccuping up her throat. He doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes focused out on the flare of their headlights eating away at the road, driving back into the night. It’s difficult to look at him, the pearling stains of it that he missed down the line of his throat, the darkening of the front of his shirt, pink-tinged skin, hard to scrub off. Not difficult in that she wants to look away, but difficult in knowing that she should want to look away, though she doesn’t. Beautiful, eyes blown into a sad melt from beneath his brow, his jaw working at some phantom feeling. No, she shouldn’t, but she does. 

“It feels like I should.”

“Well, you don’t have to.” A little sharp, still quiet, but enough to make her heart twist. The rest of their drive is silent, eventually, pulling into the vacant yawn of a motel parking lot. 

Joel goes into the motel office after hastily changing into a new shirt, her eyes slipping somewhere else, but not without a glimpse of bare skin. He’s better with people than she is, and she is still inconsolable, shaking in the passenger seat and trying not to look at her hands, the thin curl of red under her fingernails. She lets her gaze unfocus on the blinking neon sign, vacancy becoming less of a word and more of a throb in her skull. 

“Come on.” He opens her door for her, snapping her back into awareness, and he’s not mean about it, but he is exasperated, dragging his palm down his jaw, already rounding the car to pull their bags out of the bed of the truck. She wishes she could be like him about this, so matter of fact, so mundane. Where did he learn that from? Who taught him to be like that? Who loved him like that? He is far more free than she is, she thinks. She wishes he would show her how. 

This is part of the routine too. They stand, hip to hip, at the cracked sink in the bathroom of their room and they brush their teeth. Their work is meticulous, rounding every canine, making gums bleed with too much pressure. She flosses twice, then brushes again, spitting pink into the porcelain. Joel prefers mouthwash, swallows two stinging gulps of it, trying to kill something from the inside out. It makes her stomach hurt to watch the dip and bob of his throat. 

He lets her take a shower first, the faint sound of late night news filtering in through the cracked bathroom door. She scrapes at her skin with her fingernails, scrubbing down until it stings, until she’s certain that a layer has been sloughed off. She uses the soap that he uses. She smells like him. Clean and good when she looks in the bathroom mirror again. 

Cheaper to get one room with two beds, she never sleeps under the covers. If she thinks too hard about what other lives have breathed on this bed, what cellular remains cling to these sheets, she will make herself sick. So she curls close to one edge of the bed, letting the light from the television blur into meaningless shapes. Joel comes out of the bathroom clean as well, the soft ruff of his hair, the stretch of muscle in his back beneath the thinness of his t-shirt. She watches him sit down on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, the glinting dare of his cross hanging from his neck. 

“Can I ask you something else?” She regrets the words instantly with the sigh that slumps down through his shoulders. Not supposed to speak, not after. Though he still turns his face over his shoulder to look at her, eyebrows jumped in something like assent. 

“Why do you wear that?” Nod of her head that she hopes he understands, and he seems to, pinching the teardrop of gold between thumb and forefinger.

“Because I believe in it.”

“Why do you believe in it?” 

“I’d like to think there’s something that will forgive me when I say that I’m sorry.” And she can understand that, though she gave up on sorry a long time ago. Her mother used to be the one to receive her sorry. Her sorry, met with scorn, with a scoff, the whites of her mother’s eyes rolling with her sorry, the flat of her mother’s palm making contact with her sorry. Much easier, she thinks, to offer sorry to something that will never actually answer. You can believe anything you want that way. 

“I wish I wasn’t like this.” She’s never said that out loud, sighed out loud, her chin propped in her palm where she’s laying on her side. But it is the crux of all her wanting, and there is a sorry threaded through it. Wanting for something else, to be anything else other than this. 

“It’s not your fault, being like this.”

“I should be able to control it.”

“You can’t, Maeve, you can’t.” She knows that, nods her knowing to him before sitting up and curling her chest over her knees. There’s comfort, at least, in sharing this understanding, in finding control in other ways. 

“Why did you let me come with you?” 

“That’s another question.” His words curl with the smallest smile, a rare thing as he turns to fully look at her, something softening, something slipping. 

“Did you follow me, Joel?” She ruined it with that, she knows, his face falling into something darker, shadows dipping and bending around his eyes, something dark swimming in his lashes. But some part of her already knew. There are no coincidences in a myth like this, everything must be chosen. 

“I did, I’m sorry.” 

“Why did you follow me?”

“I was confused by you.” He speaks so quietly that she keeps her body perfectly still so she can collect what little sound there is, the low thrum of it, something cracking in his voice. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I knew you were like me, but I didn’t understand how that could be possible.” She knows that he doesn’t mean the possibility of others, he has met others before her. Her confusion must be evident on her face, because he offers her a weak smile, his hands in an anxious clasp in his lap, working a steady rhythm into his knuckles. 

“I didn’t think people like us could be good like you are.” These words, what finally shocks her, a surprised yelp of a laugh frightening up her throat, though he is serious, unwavering, and she finds herself becoming angry. How dare he tell her what she is. How dare he hope like that, amidst all this rot. The most they have spoken in their month together, and this is what he says? How dare he say good with so much certainty, and lay it at her feet like it is hers for the taking. A sick joke, more cruel than anything else. 

“I’m not good, Joel.” 

“You are, I see it.” She feels tears starting to ache behind her eyes again, and she is too tired for another flood. All she offers in response to him, a quiet I don’t think so, leaving no room for argument when she lays back down and turns out the lamp on her nightstand. With her eyes closed, she can hear his quiet sigh, the slow shuffle of his body laying down, the softening of his breath. 

She hates that she liked the way good sounded coming from his mouth. 

“Alright?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Are you getting that?”

“No, no.”

“It’s nice.”

“It’s not practical.”

“You can get it, if you want.” She considers it, letting the fabric fall between her fingers, a brief wanting that she lets dissolve with a shake of her head, the small pang of it settling in her stomach. There’s no point in getting something nice like this dress, light blue with buttons down the front. It’ll just get ruined anyways. No, instead she sticks to the sensible stack of t-shirts and jeans, some sort of dollar deal at the Salvation store on denim today. Joel takes the bundle of clothes from her, his palm cupping her elbow for a moment, and she thinks he might ask her again if she wants the dress. She’s grateful that he doesn’t, that he takes his hand away, because if not, she might have said yes, might have given into that want, and that would be something she simply could not do. 

They move strangely around each other. Days bleeding weeks bleeding months. Very little progress made in the push west, following a coiled snake of a path, zagging from state to state. Pieces of each other, collected slowly, carefully. Joel is from Texas, and, like her, Joel tried at normal for a very long time. He got further in normal than she ever did. Had a daughter, had a family. Held on long enough to see her into adulthood. He writes letters to her now, though Maeve tries not to watch him working. The shake of his hand, his shoulders, not for her to see. Sometimes the letters get sent, if they are in the right place at the right time to make that happen. Sometimes the letters are left behind in their wake, a prayer to something much larger. 

She tells him a clean version of her own myth, leaving out what she can, leaving out the mother when she can. She is learning the power of deciding for herself where she comes from. She is learning the power of looking someone in the eye, and of them looking back. 

Joel pays for their new clothes, and she sulks, lingering amongst the racks like a despondent ghost. In part, his money comes from the wallets of the people they find in the in-between. It had upset her when she discovered this, and while he had been apologetic, always quick to soften when she prickles, he was still firm about it. She couldn’t exactly argue with his logic, doing far worse things, after all, but she still tends toward steel when money leaves or enters his hands. It makes her nervous, and it makes her sad. Because she knows with no uncertainty that Joel is good, she knows that now. A shame, that all his goodness must get confused in what they must do.

“How much longer do you think?”

“Maybe twenty minutes, we’re close now.” Something that she knows he is doing for her, and only for her, which makes it lovely, and dangerous, and a little dizzying. It had been an idle, errant thing on a morning a few weeks ago, looking at the creased map over the dash of the truck and trying to make sense of what should come next. Arizona had seemed like a tenable answer, and a memory had floated up, something she had seen on the television as a child, something she couldn’t quite believe on a hazy afternoon, turned upside down on a couch they’d be leaving behind soon. A chasm in the earth, somewhere split open, somewhere to look inside of and see whether all wounded things bleed the same way. Sheepish, she had mentioned it to Joel between the cracks of her fingers held over her mouth, hiding the want that was curling at the corners of her lips. And he had said okay, as if it were as easy as that, as if want could ever be as easy as that, asking and receiving. A silly thought, she wondered if he wouldn’t say the same thing if she had pointed up to the moon instead. She thinks that he would. 

The truth, she likes Joel, in a way that makes her nervous. Likes the quiet hum in his throat while he drives, likes his palm between her shoulder blades, an absent-minded touch that she tries hard not to lean into, likes the steadiness of his breath in the middle of the night. Above all, she likes him looking at her, and she likes giving that back to him, looking right back at him with only kindness, a foreign mercy.

“Have you been before?”

“No, never even been in Arizona before.”

“Thank you, Joel, for doing this. I know it’s silly.” His hands flex along the wheel, a light jump in the tendons of his fingers, a glance her way in the passenger seat before his eyes settle back on the road.

“It’s not silly. We needed somewhere to go.” Always needing somewhere to go, the in-between of the in-betweens. But here in the cab of his truck, it seems like time might forgive them, might let them slip by. She’s worked up something that kicks like courage over the months, enough that now, she will often reach across to him and take one of his hands in both of hers. And he will let her. Always that first tensing, touch still tentative, though the lines of his palms will smooth out eventually, pressed close and tight with hers. She likes to hold the pads of her fingers over the soft inside of his wrist, let the beat there lull her into line with the murmuring engine. And he lets her. 

It’s a perfectly normal scene when they get there. Tourists, teeming, tired parents and kids tugging at pants, at hands, at each other. And Joel, clearing his throat a few times, a shake in his hand that she knows well as they walk out to the edge. She hooks her arms over the railing, leans over until her stomach starts to lurch, eyes dizzy from the vast swaths of red and orange grit, crags and peaks and dry brush all around, down into the canyon. 

Because she is so good at leaving, she can do it without even having to move muscle. A little leaving, she watches herself from somewhere suspended, and in her leaving eyes, she watches the small mechanics of her body climb over the rail and leap out into the sinking blankness. But a hand on her shoulder draws her back. She finds Joel looking at her with a cloudy focus, a soft frown that she watches pinch and pull into a thin line. He clears his throat again. 

“Is it what you imagined?” 

“It’s in color.”

“What?”

“When I saw it on the TV it was in black and white. This is better.” Relief, she thinks, something that smooths his brow and the wings of his shoulders. Maybe even a smile. She offers him one of her own, slight slippage when her gaze wanders over his shoulder. Hand in hand, a halo of golden hair like corn silk, a daughter at her mother’s hip, both of them walking away from the edge. Probably back to their car, probably back to their home, to dinner, to bedtime, to mother brushing her daughters corn silk hair with hands that could not even imagine violence. Saying I love you with mouths that could not even imagine violence. 

And Joel turns around to see what she is staring at, and she sees in the planes of his back the same tensing she feels, the same tensing that comes with knowing that something has been lost, and that it can never be retrieved, returned to. When he turns back around to her, steel has resettled in his jaw, but something is swimming hazy in his eyes. 

“We should go.” 

“Okay.” She takes one more look at the open wound, one more imagining of slipping into it, letting it swallow her whole. And then, well, they do what they always do. They leave. Somewhere inside of her, she is telling her mother that she finally got to see the Grand Canyon. 

…

She thinks she might be hurting Joel. Not directly, not intentionally. She’s been trying to wait out her hunger, staving it off, and he in turn has been doing the same. Testing and trying the boundaries of how long she can hold onto normal, and it hurts, and she can see that it hurts Joel too. Waiting like this, going without like this, strings him by a livewire of his want, makes him jumpy, slow to soothe, to sleep. She can hear him shifting around in the night in the close quiet of their motel rooms, restless, wanting. Sometimes, he will sigh, get up, moving quiet in the dark, the thin slice of sound when he opens the door and steps outside. He goes and sits in the truck. She knows, she has stepped into the corner of the motel room window and seen him with his temple propped in his palm, made small in the cab of the truck. This waiting is tiring. This waiting has teeth and claws and growls. This waiting, this hunger, is enough to make an animal stupid, shivering like static. 

And he has done this nice thing for her, taken her to see the black and white wound in color, and so, she decides that the waiting is done, for now. So they do the thing that they do. They find a place that is in-between, and they begin a different kind of waiting. 

“I want to see this time.”

“No, Maeve, it’s not something you should be seeing.”

“It’s nothing new to me, Joel.” She needs to see, she thinks, needs an accounting of every part of him. In the past, it has always been an unspoken routine. She would catch glimpses of it, of him, of his hands closing around something fragile,  but he wanted her to have nothing to do with it. It’s not like she hasn’t done it herself. The whites of the eyes, and the collapse of the lungs one final time, wretched things she understands.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” His voice borders on the edge of pain, the tendons in his neck playing a hurt tune, and for a moment, she thinks about backing down, letting this go. But she can’t. To do what she wants to do, she must know every part of him, this too. 

“Please.” And he’s not going to say no, she knows that. He has turned her into a terrible king in some ways with how little he says no to her. She grows greedy with it. A child growing up with so much no will hoard whatever yes they can find. 

He doesn’t say anything else, returns to his waiting in the gas station parking lot, with perhaps an edge less patience, shifting in his boots and squinting into the dry shock of the afternoon. She presses her lips together to keep any more from coming out, turns back to the strange landscape surrounding them, the desert, the resilient death of it. And as always, if you wait long enough, someone else will come staggering into the in between. 

It begins like it always begins. They wait until the bruising pall of night washes the cracked earth purple, all the other nighttime creatures starting to yip and titter, working themselves up into their usual routine. But this time, she is there when Joel approaches the man, there to watch something else slide into the place where he is kind and gentle and nice, there to watch him, with the calm strength of a storm, take the man out into the quiet judgment of the desert. 

She stands and she watches a scared animal whimper and wriggle in a merciless trap. Joel’s hands are around the man’s neck, hunched over the strange slump of his body, a thin frown on his face and the slightest pinch between his brows. She can’t look away, her eyes stinging, unblinking, wide and receiving this part of him. And Joel is looking right back at her with the same intensity, eyes lit up in a slash of moonlight. And the man refuses to die. Still struggling, clutching at air and hoping for a savior. And the errant realization that she is someone people need saving from, a quick flash of lightning in her mind. Her stomach starts to churn. 

“Please, please.” It isn’t the man that’s saying it, she realizes. It’s Joel. Quiet and broken murmurings, pleas, prayers, for this to be over. This time is different. Joel, usually so clean and quick and quiet, is struggling. And it isn’t because the man is big or battering, actually quite slight, actually still slumped, but wheezing lost breaths, heart still beating blood and body. Broken cries like an animal caught in a trap. She covers her ears with her hands, but the sounds echo, and the sounds  will echo for a long time. But she can’t look away, not even when thin beads of silver start to fall down Joel’s face, crying, and still pleading for the man to die. And when nothing else works, Joel does turn violent, a quick shock of it in the way he makes simple work of the man’s neck in his hands. She lets out a shriek that she cannot hold back, hot shame following close on its heels. 

Joel is pale, face flushed wan and weary. He swallows hard a few times as he straightens his spine, letting the body curl limp on the ground. Hot salt starts to skate down her face, both of them crying now, shivering with it. 

“I can’t, not this one.” His face crumples at her words, something close to agony that makes her stomach swoop and curdle. She has seen every part of him now. There will be no returning from this.

“Maeve, please, I–” 

“I’m going to wait in the truck.” Already turning her back to him and stumbling toward the faint, fluorescent pulse of the gas station in the distance. He does not stop her, and she is grateful for it. 

The worst part, she is still very hungry. Her shame growing wings that batter against her ribs, because beneath the horror and the guilt, there is still that hunger, made worse now by how close she came to sating it. Like a petulant child, frustrated, and on the brink of going full-tilt. She sits in the passenger seat of the truck and presses her forehead against the window, cool glass providing the smallest comfort. 

And when Joel eventually returns to the truck, he is not covered in it. She knows he is still hungry like her. She does not want to know what was done with the curled body, and he does not tell her. 

They are silent, small, slow moves. She keeps her temple pressed to the passenger-side window, shoulders shaking with the smallest sobs. And she isn’t sure if it’s the hunger, or the shame that is making her cry, and not knowing only makes her cry harder. 

She doesn’t know how long they drive for, but eventually there is a motel, and eventually she is standing in the bathroom of a motel room, and he is standing next to her, and they are moving like they had not failed. She brushes her teeth twice, until it hurts, and like always, he lets her have the shower first. She wants it to burn, and so it burns, coming out from under the water with skin welted and washed thin. And when they pass each other in the doorway to the bathroom, their eyes still don’t quite meet, nothing is said. 

Something strange is settling inside her. She doesn’t lay down, runs her palm across the static fuzz of the television, over the pixel-pocked face of the person delivering the evening news. And when that isn’t enough, she presses her cheek to the low-humming screen, curls her arms around the back of the television, and holds herself there. And for a moment, it’s as easy and as simple as how good that warmth feels, the mumbling drone of sound in her ear. She pulls herself away from it when she hears the water shut off, and there is a moment of reckoning, recognizing, when he comes to stand in the doorway to the bathroom. Hair dark and dripping darker onto his t-shirt. He looks at her, and she looks back, her hands fisted in the fabric of her sweatshirt. He looks small, he looks sad, he looks like he’s about to ask her for something. She would give him anything he could ask for, she would try, the realization as clear and clean as the blade of a knife. 

“I’m sorry, Maeve.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I couldn’t. Not with you there like that.” 

“It’s okay.”

“I wanted to keep good for you.”

“You are good, Joel.”

“Please, don’t.” A monster, broken, a monster, bending, a monster, brought to the ground. A monster in tears. Something seems to split inside him, the fragile threads of his strength flailing and failing. And she surprises herself when she goes to him before the first shaking crack of a sob can rack his chest, curls arm around shoulders like she knows what to do. He’s saying something that sounds like sorry and she’s saying something that sounds like forgiveness, managing enough movement to get them to the edge of one of the beds, to sit down still holding him. 

That cross hangs from his neck like a wretched joke, the small shiver of it. He cries, big man, big strong man. And she holds him, lets him shake with sorry and promises him that he doesn’t have to, that he is okay, that he is good, and in turn, it feels good to give these things to him. 

Eventually, the shake starts to smooth, and when she takes his face in both her hands, he leans into it, eyes heavy and worn weary, but something bright still when he looks at her. 

The thing is, Maeve knows very little about what care looks like. Most of what she learned came from the same black and white fuzz of a television. Beautiful women and beautiful men and their beautiful lives. In the movies, care is a delicate hand at the cheek. In the movies, care is a complete embrace, arms in arms and faces tucked into necks. In the movies, care is having someone to come home to, someone to love. When her hunger was at its worst as a child, she would sit as close to the television as she could get, unblinking, should she miss the moment that the beautiful woman and the beautiful man would kiss. 

And when she got older, she learned a little more about what care is, and more importantly, what it isn’t. There were boys whose violence shocked her, and in turn were shocked by her own violence. There were men that made her feel foolish for expecting care, and there were others who were just plainly mean. One comes to mind, a man whom she got on her knees for. Strange, how women are made gods on their knees, fleeting, foolish gods. And she felt wanted, looking up at him and him looking down at her. And she was wanting too, the thick curl of it in her stomach that was different from any other want. But that had changed very quickly. She didn’t like the way his hand gripped the back of her skull and she didn’t like the crude words he dribbled over her and she didn’t like that it didn’t feel like care, knew that it wasn’t care, it was a cage, and it was too much, and it was all she could think to do because she was afraid, she was afraid, and wanting, and afraid of her wanting, and she was young. So she let a different kind of wanting, different kind of hunger take over. And instead of a god on her knees she became a monster all over again.  

She has not tried for care since then, not for a very long time. But she thinks that she would like to now, with Joel. And so she does, tentative at first, the soft presence of her mouth at his temple, the round of his cheek, the drop of his lashes brushing against her skin, something shy about it. She lays another at the corner of his mouth, and it is an asking, it is a choice, it is a new myth made possible, one in which they can both be good, one that is constructed out of care. An answer in the tilt of his head, in the aligning of mouths, in his palm spanning her jaw, holding her now, holding her still in a kiss that teaches her a new kind of hunger. 

They move like they have both been wanting for a very long time, and they have, after all. The act of give and take, and she wants to take so much, give so much, perfect, pooling pangs of want when she lets his tongue into her mouth, a sharp sigh in her nose. Both turn pliant for the other, his hands at her hips, coaxing and curling her into his lap, and her hands in his hair, tilting his head back how she would like it so she can taste the sharp of his jaw and the soft hollow of his neck. For a moment she pauses, mouth pressed to the jump of his pulse, and she breathes because he smells like him, like that soap he buys wherever they go, like something else human and pleasant and real. And he lets her, runs his palms up the track of her spine, a soothing, steadying thing, only stilling when she lifts her face from the crook of his neck. Breath and beat stop briefly when she looks at him, the dark awe rounding his eyes, cheeks flushed down devastating and lips parted. She has never been looked at like this before. She likes being looked at like this. 

“I think that you’re beautiful, Joel.” It makes him shy, and awful, it makes her smile. She keeps him from dropping his gaze in denial with her hand at his jaw, holding him there and pressing a small thing of a kiss to his lips. And what unfolds afterward happens slowly, something on the verge of timid in how they move, like at any moment, flight, fleeting and fled and gone. But that does not happen, but they both stay, and they both grow more confident every time touch is answered with more touch until they are both bare, and they are curled around each other on the bed, the closest to holy she thinks she could ever get in the sense and sate of skin pressed to skin, a warmth that is so new it stings salt behind her eyes in overwhelm.  His brow pinches at the sight of her first tears, showing her how gentle he can be for her with the fragile presence of his thumb gathering the salt before it can fall. 

“I’ve never met someone good like you.” Awful, she believes him when he tells her this, hope unfurling in her chest and flushing up under her skin, a terrible heat that flickers and flumes when he begins to shift down her body, moving muscle how he would like it to move until she is splayed for him, her knees falling to the sides to allow the breadth of his shoulders to settle between them. He rests his open mouth over the soft inside of her thigh, his eyes flaring up to hers beneath the dark fan of his lashes. And this is care, she thinks, soft jaw and soft teeth where they could turn so violent. Soft only for her. He holds her in the soft bleed of his mouth, dragging heat to her cunt. He takes from her, eats at her pleasure, pulling muscle and bone into a taut line of want, her whole body strung in a snarl as he takes and takes and takes, his mouth, and his fingers, and yes, she thinks, anything else she could ask him for. He would give it to her. Gives and gives and gives until it’s his name in the back of her throat, something that borders on pain with the way he continues to mouth at her through it. She tugs at his hair, begging mercy that he finally allows, up and up and up until she’s tasting herself on his mouth and the solid weight of him is smoothing the kick of her pulse, her chest. 

The roll film starts to melt and pop at that point. Not like the movies, some myth of their own, making myth out of their want. She opens for him, a high, animal keening in her chest when his hips settle against hers. And it is not grace, it is not beautiful or merciful. It’s want distilled, and it makes them move ugly, animal, accepting and open to each other, a little bit frantic, frenetic and fizzing. Skin slicks with salt, turning everything hazy, everything close and cloistering and she likes it, the feeling of overwhelm, blatant and battering and him, all she can think about is him saying her name, saying his want and calling his want by her name. And in the aftermath, they barely move, remain pressed close like stained glass starting to melt into syrup. 

He holds her in a way she didn’t think she’d ever be able to ask for, tucked close to the steadiness of his heart, a sound that soothes and reassures her that yes, this is real, yes, this is shared. 

“This is a good thing.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Want is whispered on broken exhales, and accepted into willing mouths. Monsters that are no longer monsters in each other’s company. 

Some things make the hunger easier to stomach. This is one of those things. This is care. She is learning how to receive it, and she is learning how to give it. She is learning that she might like giving it more than she could’ve ever imagined. She didn’t know how to for such a long time, after all, that it is something entirely new, something that feels good. 

And in that care there has been a staying. Small, but still, she can’t remember the last time she spent a week, let alone two,  in a single place. They get a motel room with a kitchenette, and she knows that money is starting to become more of a question than an expectation, because neither of them are doing the thing that makes them monsters. Playing chicken with each other’s hunger, but filling in the ache with other things.

Joel buys her that dress, light blue with buttons down the front, watches her put it on for the first time in the peeling mirror next to the bed, sheepish and smiling, rubbing his palms down his thighs. She flushes, and any hunger is smothered beneath a fine flume of want, and of something else. Something like power, being seen like this, and seeing him like this, his eyes heavy and lingering. And how easy want like this becomes, him reaching out and her responding with two steps into his arms. He drops to his knees before her, sweet in his supplication, bunches the fabric up at her hips, and gives a little more to her from the soft hinge of his mouth. A fine fissure splits and snarls in the mirror that day from the way her skull makes contact with it, perfect arc of pleasure and she doesn’t even mind the pain. 

They go to the grocery store that’s ten minutes away and pretend at normal. They buy white bread that’s so soft, she watches the easy give of it with the press of her thumb, how it reforms itself around the indent through the crinkling plastic. Tomatoes, and mayonnaise, and salt, and they sit in the back of his truck, and she watches him slice into the perfect, red skin, juice dribbling from the clean break. The end of summer, sun flirting and flaring on their curled backs in the motel parking lot. He makes them sandwiches, and she sighs at the taste, golden and the grit of salt, and the soft stick of bread to the roof of her mouth. A hum in her throat when the sense of it all slips down. She watches his jaw work. 

How nice, to let days go by in something close to stillness. She learns his body, lays him out on the coarse sheets and puts her mouth wherever she would like to. Because she gets to have him, however she would like to have him. And so she does. Lips to the center of his chest where she can feel the kick of his heart, to the soft catch of his stomach where he holds his breath, watching her beneath the shy fan of his lashes, light and shadow flickering with the trying twirl of the fan. And she’s so soft for him, only for him, soft jaw and teeth and tongue, taking him into her mouth and humming at the salt and sense of it. That gold cross glints above her with the rise and fall of his chest. And she could, and he could. As easy as exhaling, as easy as the hinge of the jaw. Though they don’t, though they don’t. They sate each other in different ways. 

He coaxes her up and up and up, squeezing at the soft of her hips, a preening laugh getting stuck in her chest when he pulls her down onto the open heat of his mouth. Sweat beads and bends in all the soft places in the close swelter of the afternoon and she exults in it, watches her hips move in the sliver of mirror caught in the corner of her eye. His hands splayed against her ass, making flesh give, animal mouthings that make her shiver. She feels beautiful. Looks back at the woman in the mirror and the woman looks back at her and she feels beautiful. 

And when they settle down around each other, when his hips press close to hers and she’s looking at him and he’s looking at her, she can begin to believe that they aren’t monsters at all. Monsters couldn’t love like this, at least she doesn’t think so. 

“Can I have one of those?”

“Mmm.” This is the way most afternoons go. Bare, they don’t leave bed again, making a game out of reaching whatever they could possibly need. She stretches one leg out, toeing at a carton of cigarettes strewn on the floor until it’s within arm’s reach, Joel’s hand held steady on her hip to keep her from slipping. Smoking, she has found, is an excellent way to press the hunger down and away, tendriled tempering. She curls back into his side, plucks the lighter from where it was tucked in the carton and settles a cigarette between his lips. The pull he takes once it’s lit jumps and jags the tendons of his throat. She lays her mouth there, feels the thrum it drags from him, and like divine machinery, it makes a smile start to curl and round her cheeks. 

He offers her a drag, and she takes one that is a little too much, makes her eyes water while he rubs his palm up and down the bare breadth of her back, soothing, all easy, easy, Maeve. Sheepish, she tucks her face down along the line of his clavicle, a small sound of protest in the back of her throat before she can stop it when his palm stills, though he’s quick to pick up the smooth circuit. She flushes, because he has made her greedy with all this touch, all this give and take, ask and receive. A different kind of monstrous, what he has made her with want made real. 

“Maeve?” She already knows that tilt to his words because he has tried this a few times now, that little edge of pain that comes with hunger. She sighs, but she does lift her head so she can look at him, the slight pull of his frown, waiting for the question that’s coming. 

“Will you eat?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Maeve.”

“I don’t, Joel.”

“I know you do.” And the unsaid of it, because I do too, because I am in pain too, because we are the same, and we must not forget that. Yes, she can set the hunger down, but there is always the picking it up, always the remembering. It turns her quiet, turns her stomach too, making her sit up, Joel’s hand falling from her spine. He sits up with her, ducking his head to catch the slant of her gaze, eyes rounding and wet. 

“Baby, all you gotta do is eat. I’ll take care of the rest.” She sighs, letting her cheek fall into the cup of his palm, fighting a question that is threatening in her throat, and that has been for a while now. She wants to know how long, just how. He held onto normal for a very long time, and if he could, maybe she could as well. Maybe this could be enough, her cheek in his palm. But, at least for now, she will not ask that, will not try that, because she can see that she is hurting him again, dark wings beneath his eyes, jolting with unanswered want. She knows that hurt, and was fine with hurting herself for a very long time, so long as it meant a gentle hand from her mother, a promise of staying. But this is different, because even when she isn’t hurting, even when she isn’t hungry, Joel doesn’t look away from her, doesn’t leave, doesn’t punish or preach. Relief, she thinks, is all he feels when she’s full. And that’s a kind of care that is new to her as well. 

She lays her hand over his, turns her face into his palm to the fated lines there. 

“Okay, we’ll eat.” 

Eating means leaving, and they both know that, but just the promise that this hurting will soon be over is enough to ward off any worry with skittering fingers. They slink out of bed, get dressed in the wavering light of the single lamp in their room. By now, night, dark and close when they step outside, that late summer cooling that comes when the sun slips down beyond the horizon. 

They haven’t, not since she refused to, not since Joel wept. And she feels a fine thread of worry tugging in her stomach, trying not to look at him too hard as they drive through the night toward some in-between place. But there is nothing to worry about, because Joel takes care of it. And so they are full again, and so they aren’t hurting any more, stumbling through the desert brush beneath the merciful glow of the moon, dark, dark, dark. 

It is amazing how little time something so monstrous takes when it is done so carefully like this. In the passenger seat, she presses her palm over her mouth, feeling the dried stick there. And in turn she reaches over to him, lays her hand over his mouth in the same place, feels the same tack there. Like her, like her, like her. He kisses the cup of her palm without ever taking his eyes off the road, the jump of muscle in his forearms, in his knuckles curled around the steering wheel. 

They are quiet when they get back to the motel, curling around themselves to conceal the truth of the stain, of the darkening damp smeared down their fronts. And this routine starts the same. At the sink, the toothpaste and the floss and the mouthwash. But there is no separation when the steam of the shower starts to seep. They both strip down and step in together. Before he can, she is already pressing her palms against his chest, holding him in the stream of the shower. She cleans what remains from his skin, water pinkening in the drain. And when she’s satisfied with that, she takes his skull in her hands and tips his head back so she can thread her fingers through his hair. He hums, eyes slipping shut in pleasure made pure. And she is so gentle for him that even now, so dizzyingly full, she has a hard time convincing herself of her own monstrosity. 

He surprises her when he takes over, beginning his ministrations with his hand holding her chin, fingers tucked at the hinge of her jaw to hold her steady, hold her mouth open so he can run the pad of his thumb over her teeth, pressing at the sharp of her canines, something dark laying heavy over his eyes. She tries for a grin, though it is only a crook of the corners of her lips with the way he is holding her face. And when she bites, just a little, holding his thumb in the merciful pressure of her teeth, he laughs, a quiet murmuring sound as he watches her from beneath his lashes. 

“Be good, please.” And she is good for him. Good means not biting down. Love means not biting down, at least not too hard. Instead, taking his thumb into her mouth and curling her tongue around it. She sucks, and he groans, and it sends a new want stuttering up her spine. Close to frightening to want and be wanted so regularly like this. The cool tile is holy against her spine, shivering down a perfect prayer. He holds her there, and she lets him, and they do something about the hunger that remains. 

When the water runs cold and clean, they get out, continue a routine that looks normal, settle down around each other in bed. Joel puts on the evening news and she keeps her ear pressed over his heart, lets the flooding beat of it drown at that slick slither of shame, still there, always there. But then, but then.

There is a woman on the news. A woman who is crying. A woman who is surrounded by the small flicker of candles held in hands, held in vigil. And the woman is crying because her husband never came home. Three weeks ago, and her husband didn’t come home, and her husband isn’t, wasn’t, the type of man who would just leave because they had children. They had children, and their father never came home. And Maeve sits up because when they show a photo of the husband, the father, she recognizes him. That night when she refused and Joel wept. She recognizes him, and her stomach starts to curdle. And Joel recognizes him too, sits up too, a careful, quiet call of her name, low, so as to not scare her into flight. But she is already shaking her head no, no, no, no, shirking and shrinking away from his touch, curling up on the end of the bed, all her angles tucked up close as panic turns into sickening white noise in her mind. 

They had been careful, hadn’t they? Always careful, always the in-between, always people that couldn’t possibly have someone waiting at home for them. After all, it isn’t hard for like to recognize like. And they were careful, and they were kind, and they always tried very hard to be gentle when they had to do what they always have to do. Not enough though, none of it, enough, and it was never going to be. 

Joel turns off the television, his movement fragmented in the melt of her tears, catching stained-glass glimpses of him kneeling in front of her, pleading, or praying, or something in between the two. Please, baby, please will you look at me? It’s not your fault, it’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine. You’re good, you’re so good, please, I’m sorry, please. And it’s please over and over again, and she’s shaking her head no over and over again, trying to wrench away from his hands holding her face steady. 

In the perfect cradle of a pain like this, there is a regression, something childlike in the logic of making it better. Something young in the way he unclasps his cross from around his neck and tries to give it to her, tries to lay it against her sternum. And something young in her too, throwing a perfect fit when he tries to make this right the only way he knows how. She shows him her snarl, thrashes and tears the chain away from her skin, throws it across the room. Terrible, she regrets it immediately, regrets the way his face falls, the way he sinks back into himself. She has hurt him, and this time, on purpose. 

He gets up with a sigh that sounds very tired, doesn’t say another word as he crosses toward the bathroom. She can’t look at his face right now because it will make her cry even harder, so instead she lets her vision blur and unfocus around his form, a silhouette with his forehead resting against the bathroom door frame. 

“I’m sorry, Maeve.” All that he offers, slipping away, slipping out of sight and into the bathroom, and that young part of her panics. No, needs him to be where she can see him, where he can see her, needs to fix this. She gets down on her hands and knees in a blind stutter, runs her fingers along the grimey baseboard trying to find where she threw that wretched chain. And it’s no use because when she does find it she sees that the clasp is broken clean off, golden bones in pieces, glinting in the faded carpet. She picks up what she can find of it, feeling small, shivering small when she pads into the bathroom. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, big man made small just like her, curled over himself with his head in his hands. And now would be a good time for her to leave, she thinks. Leave the cracked pieces of his faith on the counter and start walking in any direction away from here. She is familiar with this kind of leaving. All those years ago, and her mother in a similar posture of prostration, of surrender to this thing that she could not fix for her daughter. Her mother, asking her to leave. And Maeve, finally given an opportunity to succeed in what her mother asked of her. Yes, she is very good at leaving when people get tired of her, or frightened of her, or tired of being frightened of her. She has done it many times now. 

“I’m sorry, Joel.” And the rest is said too, in a sodden slur when she holds out her cupped palms to him and shows him the broken pieces, something about her fixing it, with money that doesn’t exist, and in a place she doesn’t know, and with hands that seem to only be good for greed. But he accepts her sorry, curls his palms around hers to close her fingers over the wreckage, a prayer that she is relieved to partake in. 

They are ruinous. But they are in love. 

A strange, slow slump over the lip of the tub, and he pulls her with him. The porcelain, or whatever it is, is still pearled damp from their shower earlier and the bare skin of her shins sticks and slips as she settles in his lap. She holds his face in her hands, thumbs stroking at the soft skin beneath his eyes. And he’s beautiful, and she’s already forgiven him, and she never wants to hear him say sorry again because she would continue to forgive him for any and all of it. She wants a world for them in which they never have to say sorry.

“Joel?” He is listening, though he doesn’t say anything, and she allows something like hope to lurch hot and hazed in her chest.

“Do you think we could be normal together?”

Silence, for a long time. The sink faucet drips.

“We could try.”

Two years pass. 

It is the longest she has ever managed normal.

The truth is there was money, because her mother did love her in her own strange way. She had never touched it before though, there never seemed a good enough reason for it. But this seemed good, like the best possible reason, really.

They get an apartment in a town in New Mexico with a name that doesn’t mean anything to either of them. Something they could both agree on, the hard bake of the sun and the dry air. 

They both get jobs in the first months. She works at a grocery store, smiles bright at the mothers that bring their daughters along on their weekly errands. He works with his hands, and comes home in the slow slump of the afternoon smelling like cedar and salt. She licks it off his skin and runs her fingers through his damp, darkened hair most nights. 

Those first few months, there is a mattress, and not much else. It is enough. They put it in the middle of the apartment. They eat and they sleep and they talk and they laugh and they fuck and they watch the sun rise and fall in the harsh way it does from that mattress. They are very happy. 

And then they get some more furniture, and then they start saying hello to their neighbors when they pass them in the hall, and their neighbors start saying hello back. Normal slips into the corners of their lives like the most gracious guest. 

At the end of that first year, when it seems like normal is going to stick, Joel sends a letter to his daughter with a phone number scribbled in hope at the bottom of the page. He waits by the phone the whole week after it’s sent like an anxious ghost, makes himself sick with waiting. And when she does call, Maeve catches glimpses of him from the end of the hall, a smile, and quiet wonder in his voice. He’s not interested in going to church any more because now his daughter calls every Sunday. He sits down on the floor with his chin tilted to the side to accommodate the stretch of the coiled phone cord and he talks all morning with her. 

In the second year, Maeve finds that she likes to paint. There’s an art supply store in town, so she quits her job at the grocery store and goes to work there, gets enough of an employee discount that she can buy paints and brushes and canvases and an easel over the span of a few months. She likes the desert, likes its colors and its quiet assertion of life, so that is what she often paints. And Joel likes to watch her in the evenings, she sets up her work in front of the crooked palm of windows in the living room, an errant hum in the back of her throat to whatever song is playing on the radio. Eventually, every night, when she is doing more swaying than painting and her eyes are starting to squint shut, he gets up off the couch and pads over to sway with her, her head falling back to rest against his shoulder as he coaxes her tired body into his arms. And from the faint glow of the windows stacked and ordered alongside a few dozen other glowing windows of the apartment complex, it looks like love, because it is. 

She finds that she likes routine, likes being bored and boring. She likes that the things she worries about now are small things, like what they're going to have for dinner, or whether they’ll go to the weekly tenant meeting on Thursday nights. She likes waking up in the same bed every morning, and she likes that he sleeps on his stomach when he’s actually comfortable in a space, splayed and cheek rumpled on his pillow, an arm always extended toward her, draped over her. She likes the weight, the reassurance of it. And in the mornings he is slow to wake, all soft murmurings and soft eyes, still shut even when she presses her lips to his temple, though a smile will usually start to curl smug when she does. Good morning, good morning. It is good, all of it, so good that it makes the dormant hunger hurt a little bit less.

They eat breakfast together, leaning against the kitchen counter. Eggs and their golden tears splitting and spilling on their plates, strong coffee that he takes black and she takes with cream. Their mouths work hard around normal. She packs lunches for them both, late summer again, tomatoes again, sandwiches again, the way that he made them. And on her break at work she does her best to get it down, pinching the crust off first before eating the rest. But no, that other hunger doesn’t go away. It makes sounds a little sharper, and lights achingly brighter, it makes the steady beat of the sun fierce. But she thinks she can manage it, because she wants all this normal so much more, hunger for hunger, and want for want, a careful game of tipping the scales. 

Joel’s birthday is in a few weeks. She’s been working on a painting for him, difficult to keep it a secret with the way he is always over or under her shoulder, a hum in his throat because that’s beautiful, baby, you work so beautiful. But somehow she’s managed to keep it hidden. And today she picks up two fresh tubes of paint, pigments that she needs to finish her work. She’s painting a sunset for him, a landscape that they both know, a wound in the earth, that canyon that they visited once. She hopes he’ll like it. She thinks he will. 

She always gets home later than he does these days because he got a promotion, baby, big man, good man who got a promotion, baby, who’s a boss now, baby, working with his hands, baby, good, honest work, baby. He's already showered, hair damp and dripping dark down the back of his t-shirt, the small slide of muscle as he stands over the stove and stirs something that smells good. That same hum in his throat when she twines her arms around his stomach and presses her face into the back of his neck, deep inhale because he smells like that good, clean soap he always uses. 

And it’s all the quiet, normal things, greetings, and how was your day, and it was good, baby, how was yours, and mmhmm, good, this looks good, you look good, good, good. He turns in her arms and smacks a kiss to her mouth that makes her laugh, makes her hungry. 

“I got some new paints.”

“Oh yeah?” Somehow, squirreling around each other, he tucks her into his side, arm easy and slung around her shoulders while he continues to stir pasta and sauce in simmering pots, steam and savor washing over their faces and turning skin tacky and flushed. 

“Mmhmm.”

“Gonna paint something beautiful, baby?” Baby, baby, baby, his cheeks round with the word every time. She especially likes it, usually late at night, or early in the morning, when he slurs and stumbles over Maevey baby, Maevey, Maevey, Maevey. Heavy and sweet like thick syrup in his throat and it nearly brings her to tears it’s so nice coming from his mouth. 

“I’m gonna try.” 

“Always beautiful, always make things so beautiful.” It’s almost absent-minded the way he says it, intent on getting food on plates with only one free hand, but it still makes her stomach swoop and buoy something awful. 

They eat dinner, and they sit on the couch, and he watches her work on a different painting until the sun slips under and washes everything down dark. And they get ready for bed, moving around each other in a routine they don’t even have to think about, settle down around each other and turn out the lights, quiet whisperings of love, touch that expects more of itself for a very long time, easy, patient, soft. When she feels and hears his breath slip into that slow resonance of sleep, she moves as quietly as she can in getting out of bed. She’s been hiding his painting in the hall closet where they keep their winter coats tucked. They have winter coats now. 

She works in the quiet clutch of the night, eyes squinting in the dim light she allows for herself, working partly from memory, and partly from  mythology of a place in their shared past. The painting will be finished soon. She thinks she’ll have to give it to him early if that’s the case, giddy with the idea of finally sharing it with him. 

When she’s satisfied with her progress, still night, still close and dark and quiet, she tucks the painting back into the closet, careful not to let anything brush against it while it dries. And when she returns to bed, Joel is still asleep, on his stomach now with his arm outstretched toward her side of the bed. Nothing is easy like it is to slip back under with him. 

She’s going to finish the painting tonight. The thought makes her rush a bit in closing the store. It takes her three tries to finally get the key to click into the lock. If she does finish it, she thinks she might have to wake him up right then and there to show it to him. And she floats home on the prospect of that, smiling, easy greetings to the people she passes on her way up to the apartment. 

“Joel?” A fine whisper of worry when she doesn’t find him in the kitchen making dinner. He must have had a longer day at work, she figures, just now getting home and getting cleaned up because she can see the light slipping down the hall from the bathroom. 

And the rest happens in a strange, slow unraveling. 

Later, much later, he will tell her that she screamed when she opened the bathroom door. She will not remember that. What she will remember, the awful resignation, that understanding like a small death, that she was never going to be able to walk out of her own myth. And the blood on clean, white tile that had never seen blood before. And blood on him, on his hands and on his face and down his shirt and all over and all over and all over. 

Later, much later, he will tell her that he thought he was going to die when she told him not to touch her, when she skittered back so hard she tripped and fell in the hallway when he reached for her. What she will never tell him, she sometimes wishes she died then and there.

From the glimpse she caught, there is very little left of what he has done, only remnant viscera in the bathtub. But she doesn’t see any more than that, because she is on the ground and she is pressing her back up close against the wall as far from him as she can get and she is sobbing and yes, she is screaming. Ruinous, wretched ribbons of sound ripping through her chest. It is a mourning sound. And he drops down to his knees, reaches in the space between them, but thinks better of it with the way she shrinks away from him. Pink streaks of tears down his face, he pulls at his hair in something that looks like agony. He cries with her, and he prays to her. Like a chant, like an invocation, like one last plea for salvation, I’m sorry, I’m so tired, I’m sorry, I was so tired, I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I’m sorry, I love you, please, I’m sorry, please. And she cries harder at the broken sound of his wails, fingernails clawing at her chest like she might be able to plunge through skin and muscle and find the sick, stuttered beat of her heart that is in such perfect pain. The horrible truth is she had already forgiven him the moment she opened the bathroom door. The horrible truth, they are in this myth together. 

Eventually, when there is little left for her to mourn, the cries stop, everything swollen and slumped and sodden. She doesn’t wince or recoil when he reaches for her now, crawling to her on his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing the crown of his head into her stomach, still shivering in his sobs. And because she has already forgiven him, it is hardly difficult for her palms to find the shake in his spine. She doesn’t even have to think about it, holding him a little tighter when his hands grasp at the fabric of her shirt. 

Still, pain. Later, much later, she does not let herself think of that day too often. Of the painting that was never finished. That was left in the hall closet to dry with a sunset that wasn’t yet complete. Because if she does think of it for too long, that pain will tear open inside her all over again, and it will turn her hateful, and she doesn’t want that, not for him, not when he tries to show her how sorry he is every day. Sorry that normal ended like that. Sorry that there was always going to be another leaving. 

They leave, together, the next morning, silent as a grave. And in all the years of wandering that follow, they never return to New Mexico, a space sealed off like a tomb of the past, of a promise that could never have been kept. 

…

“Are you cold?” 

“A little, but it feels nice.” Still, he doesn’t think twice about offering his shirt to her from where it had stayed dry and folded at the edge of the lake, warmed by the sun and clinging to the pearling damp on her skin. It’s summer again, and they are in some in-between like they always are, and he is trying to find what joy he can for her like he always is. And it is a good day, one of their better ones, so she tries for what she can of a smile from behind the tuck of her knees up against her chest, squinting in the bright halo around him. He smiles too, a shy, small thing that looks like relief, and when he curls his arm around her shoulders, she lets him, tucks  into his side, and they sit at the edge of a lake in the in-between, soft grass and mud and the mild kippering of insects all around them, baking in the sun. When he holds her like this, when normal starts to creep in, so do the tears, but she tamps them down with a hum in her throat, some song that he sighs at, tucks his face into the hollow of her neck so he can feel the thrum of it from the source. He holds her like he is waiting for her to shatter, something desperate, but something fragile. And she drags her fingers through his hair, now drying in fine waves beneath the sun, and it is a moment that will have to be enough. She is learning what to hold onto, and what to let go.

“Joel?” He hums his listening, though he keeps his face ducked down to let her continue her ministrations. 

“We should probably leave soon.” 

“Yeah, we should.” And it is this string of words over and over again, the finely stitched pattern of their lives held in the cradle of these few words. She thinks that she has accepted this, settled around this, grown around the rot until it has become something else. Sometimes, she wonders if they are real, if she is real. Watch two myths walk away from the edge of a lake. It is summer, and  two myths are holding each other in their arms. It’s only real if you watch. The rest of the time, they define real for themselves. Real in touch, in sun on skin, in mouths and hands on skin. They make each other real within their own myth. All of the time, they are in love. Some of the time, they are happy. 

But before this, before now, before all the miles they have crawled in the time following that staying that turned into a leaving, she refused to eat for another two years, despite his coaxing and cajoling. And it weakened her, made her mean and sharp, and eventually withdrawn, curled like a corpse in the coarse sheets of motel beds, letting her eyes glaze and glass in the glow of the television. Lover turned patient, any care and keeping was done by his hands, moving her in a pleading pattern of preservation. Please, baby, I need you to eat, I love you I know you love me so eat, all you have to do for me is eat. All she offered in response when he would start to pray to her like that, her palm lifting in the air, and dropping back down as if judgment had been passed.  In the night, he curled his body around hers, and it was the strongest she got to feel, him weeping against her spine.  And in the waking day, death seemed inevitable, seemed like grace, and one day, she told him in what voice she had left that she would like him to, to her, of her, if the time came soon. And she hoped the time would come soon. And he got very angry, it shocked her how angry he got. Voice like thunder and lightning in his hands, shattering whatever would break against the walls of their motel room. The vision of a man who did not know what else to do. The vision of a man losing. And that broken, beating thing inside of her lurched because she loves him. Loves him, loves him, loves him. And so she eats with him. And so she lives with him. And so they walk through this myth together. Her in the passenger seat and she takes one of his hands in both of hers and keeps it for herself in her lap and he lets her. How could they be monsters? How can this be called monstrous? They are in love. They are in wretched love.

And before this, before now, when a new couple moved into that apartment in New Mexico, clean, white tile clean and white again, ready to fill the rooms with their own kind of love, full and good, they found a near-finished painting in the hall closet. A painting of a wound in the earth, and the flame of a sunset. They thought that it was beautiful. 

[cetaitlaverite]

Why All This Music?

Masters of the Air - Rosie Rosenthal x OC

happy VE day!!! masterlist is here <3

15. Best and Worst

New Year's Eve. A night in a packed pub instead of the officers’ club. Warm fire in the fireplace and warm lighting spilling over the pub-goers. Laughter and the squealing of young women being twirled around the dance floor. Loud music and a glass smashing somewhere. The heckling of the British crowd in response.

Meatball sat at Freddie’s feet, as he always did, leaning his head against one of her shins. She sat on Rosie’s lap in the absence of enough chairs. Most of the other Riveters were standing. Millie was sitting on Jem’s lap and Amy was on Paddy’s. Cecelia had managed to secure leave to see her boyfriend. And Emma, it seemed, was currently in the process of falling in love with an officer of the RAF who had asked her for one dance and given her six.

Everything was a little bit fuzzy, the effect that just the right side of too much alcohol tended to have. Freddie had had a few glasses of wine to celebrate the occasion. She kind of really hated New Year’s. 

“You know who would love this?” Freddie said to Rosie, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck with the arm slung over his shoulders. 

He was in the middle of a sip of beer but turned his eyes to her nonetheless. “Who?” he asked once he’d put the glass back down.

Freddie grinned. “Earnie.”

Rosie laughed. “He would.” That little dog loved to be the centre of attention and there was no shortage of people to give it to him here. Rosie could just imagine him running beneath people’s legs and yapping as he searched for his next victim, then demanding to be picked up and carried around like one of the glasses in everyone’s hands.

Freddie smiled. She loved that she could share things about home with Rosie now. That when she spoke of her dogs he could imagine them, could hear their barks as well as see their eyes and feel their fur, just as she did. That when she spoke of different rooms in her house he knew where they were. That when she spoke of her parents he could speak back.

“I miss him,” Freddie said, leaning her head against Rosie’s. “And Bruno and my parents, too, of course. But I miss getting to cuddle Earnie so much right now.”

Rosie smiled sadly, aware of her resentment of the occasion, and gestured towards the tiny puddle of wine lingering in her glass. “You want another drink?”

“Come do a shot, Fred,” Millie called across the table. “You, me, and Jem.”

“Yes, let’s let the recovering alcoholic toss back whiskey like it’s water again,” Jem drawled around a sip of her beer. “That sounds like a great idea.”

“Shut up, Jem,” Millie snapped even as Freddie laughed. “You would’ve done the same if you were me.”

“I would’ve done worse,” Jem countered.

“I certainly did,” Freddie supplied, just because she wanted to make Millie feel better.

Mercifully, Millie giggled. “I so wish I would’ve gotten to see you street racing in stolen RAF jeeps.”

Pappy, standing beside Millie and Jem’s chair, choked on his sip of beer. “What?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Freddie brushed him aside with a flick of her wrist. 

“That why you’re so good at dogfighting, Fred?” Rosie asked around a smirk. “And here you had me believing you were a rookie.”

“Rosie,” Freddie whined, nudging him with her shoulder. “Would you stop bringing that up?” He loved to tease her about the night he’d ‘taught’ her to fly a B-17 and she’d insisted on pretending to dogfight in it. Though she’d been plastered at the time, unfortunately she remembered the event in vivid detail if only because between them Rosie and Millie had refused to let her forget.

“Come do a shot,” Millie insisted, redirecting the conversation. “Just one.” She pouted, holding up her pointer finger and making puppy-dog eyes.

Jem snorted. “You stick that lip out any further and birds’ll shit on it, Mils.”

Freddie tipped her head back as she laughed.

“Fred,” Millie insisted.

“Fine!” she exclaimed, giggling. “One shot.”

“Yay!” Millie cheered.

“Who’s buying?” Jem asked as she waited for Millie to climb off her lap before standing herself.

“The barman fancies Fred,” Millie said dismissively as she reached to help Freddie detangle herself from both Rosie and Meatball.

Rosie guffawed. “I’ll pay -”

“No,” Jem snapped. “You can let Freddie have a little flirt for free shots, Rosie, it won’t do you any harm.”

Freddie and Millie giggled as they linked arms.

“Non-boyfriends don’t get boyfriend privileges, Rosie,” Millie taunted over her shoulder. With that, she linked her elbow with Jem’s on her other side so the three of them wouldn’t get separated in the crowd and started dragging Freddie and Jem to the bar.

Bailey chuckled into his beer as Rosie frowned, petting Meatball briefly when he looked up at him but mainly attempting to get eyes on the girls at the bar.

“You’ve got your hands full there, Rosie,” Bailey said, sharing a smirk sidelong with Pappy.

“You buy one you buy the lot,” Paddy commented, grinning.

“All three of them are as bad as each other,” Amy put in from Paddy’s lap. “No idea how Brady ever handled Millie. The two of them used to be forever at each other’s throats. Next thing you know, she’s in a downward spiral because he’s gone down somewhere over Germany and we’re all finding out for the first time that they were together.” 

“What about Jem?” Bailey asked.

Amy and Paddy both turned their eyes on him, slow and sly. “Why?” Paddy said. “You interested, Bailey?”

“Wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you,” Amy said, taking out a pack of cigarettes from her bag and shaking one out.

Pappy hummed, thoughtful. “I always thought she and Bucky might -”

“What?!” Paddy cut him off. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on. The way she used to slap him around and stuff -”

“Absolutely not,” Paddy repeated resolutely.

“Absolutely not what?” Jem asked, returning from the bar with a fresh beer even though the one she’d left behind was still half-full.

“Nothing!” Amy and Paddy insisted at once.

Jem rolled her eyes but didn’t inquire further. Rosie got the impression she didn’t altogether care very much.

Millie returned to the table a moment later and stared at Jem expectantly, waiting for her to sit down so she could sit back on her lap. She, too, had a fresh drink even though she hadn’t needed one.

“Where’s Fred?” Rosie asked.

“Some locals were having a go about her wireless ops speaking German to each other. She went over to have a word,” Millie said. She sipped her new beer and then her old beer in turn, holding one in each hand.

“She alright?” He didn’t like the thought of it.

“She’s fine,” Jem dismissed him. “She’s got it handled.”

“Now listen here, you Jerry bitch -!” an older man barked from the other side of the dance floor.

All eyes shot to him and found Freddie in his face.

“Oh dear,” said Millie.

“I was born in Oxford!” Freddie insisted, refusing to shy away even when he was getting closer and closer to her. 

“Don’t speak that filthy language around here,” the man threatened her, nostrils flaring. His beer was sloshing all over his hand as he held it aloft.

“Us speaking that ‘filthy language’ is saving Allied lives,” Freddie spat. “I have been working for the RAF for almost five years, how much have you been doing?”

“Fucking spying on us, are ya?” The man scoffed. “I wouldn’t go around bragging about that if I was you, love.”

“Spying on you?” Freddie laughed. “You don’t know piss all about the Allied war effort. I’d be better off asking Adolf Hitler.”

“Why don’t you run and fucking ask him then, little snitching bitch -”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Rosie said, stepping between the two of them to force them apart. “Come on, Fred, calm down,” he insisted when she wouldn’t look at him, just carried on staring past him at the man smirking his toothless smirk.

“Yeah,” the man goaded, “come muzzle your Boche bitch.”

Before Rosie could get a word in, Jem had punched the man in the face. One snap of her arm and the blood came pouring. No one had seen it coming, not least the man who fell victim to it. With a cry and the windmilling of his arms he stumbled backwards, dropping his mostly empty pint of beer and clutching at his nose, taking a few other men down with him as he went crashing into a table.

“You watch that filthy mouth of yours or it’ll get you worse than that, so help me,” Jem snarled as she moved to stand over him.

“Enough!” shouted an authoritative voice. Imelda, the owner of the pub, was scowling as she approached. “You can go home,” she told the man still clutching at his bleeding nose as he half-draped himself over the table. “Should be with your wife and children anyway, you poor excuse for a man. And you -” Here she turned to Jem. “You cause chaos in my pub one more time, Jemima, and you will be banned for good, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jem said but she was grinning. 

“I’m serious. I know he’s a prick but I can’t have you throwing punches at the first sign of trouble.”

“Filthy mouth on him,” Jem muttered, shaking out her hand.

Imelda sighed. “Come get some ice.” She saw to it that the man who had started the trouble was escorted out before placing a hand on Jem’s back to lead her to the storeroom. Before she went on her way, however, she turned to Freddie. “Maybe go and get some air, Freddie, love, you’re all flushed.”

“I’m sorry for causing trouble,” Freddie told her quietly. Gone was her earlier fury, replaced with all the guilt of a child being told off. 

Imelda smiled both indulgently and reassuringly at her. “I know it wasn’t your fault, Freddie, dear. Just let’s ask your colleagues to keep the German to a minimum when it’s this crowded, ay?”

Freddie cracked a smile at this, nodding. “Yes, of course. I will do. Thank you.”

Imelda nodded, reached out to give her arm a squeeze, and then led Jem away to get some ice for her hand.

Millie, behind Rosie, sighed. “Take her out the back way, Rosie,” she said, sounding exhausted. “Just in case the bastard’s still out front.”

Rosie nodded and Millie turned to leave. 

Freddie frowned, hugging her arms around herself. “I left my drink.”

Millie rolled her eyes but she didn’t quite manage to hide her smile in time. “You don’t need to drink any more wine tonight, Fred,” Millie told her. “Apparently it makes you feisty.”

Freddie scoffed. Rosie laughed.

“Your wireless girls are doing fine,” Millie assured Freddie next. “Go and take a breather, alright?”

Freddie nodded, docile now that the chaos had passed, and allowed Rosie to lead her out the back door of the pub into the beer garden.

It was empty in the middle of winter and dark against the blackout blinds. The stars were out but the moon wasn’t, not really, not for all the light it was giving them. The stars, though, were bright, allowing them to make out first the rows of empty benches, then the trees at the far end of the garden, and then each other, standing close together beside the closed door as they waited for their eyes to adjust.

“It’s chilly,” Freddie said, just to say something, really.

Rosie leaped into action, reaching to unbutton his jacket.

“No!” Freddie exclaimed, giggling softly at him. “No, it’s okay, keep it on. You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll be fine -”

“I’ve got my own jacket,” Freddie assured him. “I’ll be fine. The alcohol is warming me up, anyway.”

Rosie cracked a grin. “Right.”

Turning away from him, Freddie surveyed the nearest bench in an attempt to gauge whether it was wet. Satisfied that it wasn’t, she moved to sit on it and Rosie followed behind her, sitting by her side.

“I hate what the Nazis have done to the German language,” she spoke up after a while. “Those girls in there - Anneliese and Jana - they represent everything the Nazis hate. Jews who escaped their grip and are now using their own language against them. And yet they’re insulted like they’re the worst of them just for using the language, even in the country they’re trying to help.”

Rosie sighed. “That guy - he has no idea about anything anyone’s doing in this war. No idea what we’re all out here fighting for. But you said it yourself - he’s doing nothing while you and those girls are working tirelessly to bring bombers like me home again. And you can only do that because of your German.”

Freddie smiled sadly as she looked over at him through the darkness. “I love German. I’ve always loved it. Because I spent so much of my childhood in Vienna, in some ways it feels more natural to me than English. I just hope the Nazis don’t turn me against it. It’s a beautiful language, really.”

“It is,” Rosie agreed. “When you speak it, at least.”

Freddie gave a little laugh, hitting him lightly in the arm. “Flirt.”

Inside the pub, the music changed. Instantly, Freddie perked up. “I love this song,” she breathed.

Rosie watched her face as she listened to it. His eyes got stuck on her gentle smile. “Fred,” he began shyly, “would you like to dance with me?”

Freddie’s eyes shot to him and searched his face. He watched a multitude of emotions pass over her.

Dancing. She still hadn’t done it since Daniel. But maybe she was tired of not dancing. Maybe, in the midst of this war that just kept on coming, that didn’t ever seem like it was going to end, what she really needed was to dance. 

And here was Rosie, all sweet and shy and charming. So, so patient with her. He was hanging on even though she knew she’d given him little reason to. No kisses, no dances, no lingering touches and scarcely many hugs. Why did he keep on waiting for her? More importantly, why did she keep on making him wait?

Freddie reached for his hand and took it, smiling at him through her lashes. “I would love to dance with you, Rosie.” She stood and led him over to the small clearing between the benches and the door, placed one arm around his neck and left her other hand in his, smiling as he wrapped his other arm around her waist.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” she admitted as she found her footing. Once upon a time she had danced all the time. Now she was unsure of where her feet were supposed to be going.

“I’ve got you,” Rosie reassured her, using his hand on her back to bring her closer. “Not letting you go anywhere.”

“I don’t want to step on your toes,” she confessed with an embarrassed laugh.

Rosie’s eyes sparkled as he shared her smile. “If you’re stepping on them it’s because I put them in your way, and that’s my problem, not yours.”

Freddie laughed, loud in the quiet, and rested her head on his chest right over his heart. It was racing beneath her ear. She would have liked to make some smug comment about making him nervous but she knew hers must have been just the same.

They danced in silence for a while, listening to the muffled music reach them through the walls. Freddie shut her eyes and let Rosie guide her, trusted that he wouldn’t lead her astray.

Wanting to be closer to him, all of a sudden much too far away, Freddie lifted her head and rested her forehead against his cheek. She smiled as she felt his muscles twitch where he clearly wanted to smile as well.

They swayed gently even as the rhythm picked up speed, curled into each other like they’d always been that way. Their breathing synched and so did their heartbeats, both of them committing the feeling of being pressed so close to memory.

“Feeling brave, Fred?” Rosie asked quietly as the song approached its crescendo.

Freddie smiled. “I trust you.”

Rosie pulled just slightly away so he could use her hand to twirl her, then caught her as she came back to him and grinned at her smile. 

“Again,” Freddie insisted, laughing.

So again he twirled her, and then again, until she was so dizzy she had to stop and lean her weight against him once more.

They swayed together into the next song, both of Freddie’s arms around Rosie’s back and both of his around hers. Her forehead resumed its perch against his cheek. Rosie ducked his head to make it easier for her to reach.

“It’ll be midnight soon,” Freddie whispered after a long while of silence. The muffled songs in the pub were getting jollier and jollier as the end of the year approached. But jolly though they felt, Freddie and Rosie kept on dancing like the music was slow and romantic, pressed together like they were trying to hold a feather aloft between them.

Rosie hummed his acknowledgement of this fact.

“Mils, Jem, and I have a tradition at midnight,” Freddie informed him. “They’ll kill me if I miss it.”

“Five more minutes,” Rosie whispered, holding her closer.

Freddie smiled. “Two.”

“Three,” he bargained.

“Done.”

But they stayed out there for ten, until the sounds of increased movement inside the pub informed them that midnight was well and truly on its way, unstoppable in its approach.

Rosie guided Freddie back inside with a protective hand on the small of her back, making sure no one gave her trouble as she navigated their way back to the table.

Millie and Jem jumped to their feet when they saw her. “Finally,” Jem said, now with a bandage wrapped around the knuckles of her left hand. “We thought you may have forgotten.”

Freddie scoffed, affronted. “Never.”

“One minute to midnight!” someone in the crowd announced.

Rosie resumed his seat while Pappy slipped into the one Millie and Jem had vacated. Freddie, Millie, and Jem formed a circle beside the table.

“Best and worst,” Millie said. “Go.”

“Best when Jones fell down the stairs,” Jem said, snorting just at the memory. “Worst, that Münster mission.”

“Best when I met John,” Millie said with a wistful smile. “Worst when I lost him.”

“Best when I met Rosie,” Freddie said, blushing because she knew he could hear her. “Worst when we lost all our boys in Münster.”

“But next year…” Millie started.

“But next year will be brighter, happier, healthier,” they chorused as one. “And we’ll see each other through.”

“Ten,” the crowd in the pub started chanting, “nine…”

“I have a good feeling about this one,” Millie said.

“Six, five…” 

“1944 will be our year!” exclaimed Jem.

“Two, one - happy new year!”

All at once, the three of them pressed a kiss to the cheek of the girl to their right. Freddie kissed Millie, Millie kissed Jem, and Jem kissed Freddie. “Kisses!” they all exclaimed once they’d pulled back with an exaggerated smacking sound.

They all laughed and hugged, bundling in tight, swaying from side to side as they told each other how much they loved each other and how they just knew the next year was going to be kind to them. And when they all eventually let go and moved to hug the rest of their group, and Freddie let Rosie wrap her up in a warm bear hug, she thought for the first time that she might actually believe it.

[pineapple-cheese-bread]

Hey! I noticed your OC requests are open, could you do my night/sea lad Mindsoother? If not it's okay!!! Here's some pictures some friends did of him for me, if it helps any!!

And yes, he do have the teardrop scale, he's a mind reading Animus!

Also sorry to infodump on you but don't mind my ramblings-

He's about as old as dark stalker, so he's very LORGE, how did he live this long, you may ask? By playing pretend and staying at the bottom of the ocean and deciding to be a Leviathan. In his day, though, he was a very kind and helpful, or at least, he tried to be, dragon. His whole thing was taking the bad feelings and bad memories from people's brains and turning them into physical objects for said people to hold. What people do with the objects was their decision, but by the end of what he did, the person would feel at peace, somewhat.

Also he has no wings bc his parents ripped them off when he was a hatchling. (✨Trauma✨)

But for the most part all he wants to do is make presents for people and just be friends, lol.

If ya don't wanna draw him, it's perfectly okay!!

Here you go, Sorry it took awhile.

I really like their story and the fact that they are just a massive dragon trying to help others.

[blondeaxolotl]

omg thank GOD you’re rewriting claude. aside from the obvious creeps like druitt he is probably my least favorite character in the series😭😭 could you share some of your headcanons for him?

YES OFC, I have a few headcanons about him that I'm using to fix him, most of them are basically family headcanons since yk family ocs gotta shove them down there, so here we go I'm gonna first share like family oc headcanons about him to make the other headcanons make sense:

He's the eldest son of 7 kids (one set of twins, two other kids, and a set of triplets), he's actually one of the twins but because he was first born he ends up with the older brother role and duties given by his mother, instead of them being shared equally with his twin brother, they get thrown at him mostly. Like one major thing is that he helps take care of his younger siblings.

Now that we got that headcanon out of the way, I can mention because Claude was the one (mostly) raising his siblings, it actually helped him gain a good memory to what everyone likes and what their schedules are in the Trancy household example like: he knows Alois likes being read to before he goes to bed, he knows that Hannah likes to sometimes nap between 6pm-8pm so he distracts the others from bothering her. He also knows what type drinks each of the triplets like, Timber likes hot drinks, Thompson likes cold drinks, and he knows that Canterbury prefers it somewhere in between. Small details like that he memorizes because it's what he did with his siblings

Also since I'm not really a fan of Claudad and don't really view him as a parental figure to Alois (That's mostly Hannah's role imo), that doesn't mean Claude doesn't have like a familiar bond with Alois, because I'd imagine Alois probably reminds Claude of one of his siblings, he probably treats him like one, mostly when they're alone because I know damn well he'd be embarrassed if someone walked in while he was holding Alois upset down in the air because he tried to trip him (Alois is laughing don't worry he's okay)

Oh right should mention that Claude here is not fucking creepy or weird like in the anime he's just, some guy that's very overworked (workaholic who believes if he's not doing something every hour then he'll explode and fail everyone), but he cares about the trancy household since in his eyes they're technically his only family right now, he just doesn't like to admit it because he thinks it's embarrassing that he views a bunch of "other" people as family than ones who are actually blood related to him.

He fucking hates Sebastian btw, not because of whatever reasons the anime gave (because fuck that). But because 1, Sebastian has a better and close bond with his mother, and 2, Sebastian doesn't seem to be embarrassed about the thought of being a family with the servants and Ciel. Which makes Claude envy him, because he wants to be as equally as happy as him, without his inner thoughts eating him alive for even thinking about that and having to pretend he hates everyone around him because he was raised that way

Anyway I think that's about it for now? I'll definitely do more after I design his parents but that's about it for re-vamp Claude headcanons (long story short Claude is just very fucking insecure)

[ghostedeabha]

i read the family fic you wrote and OOHHHH MY GODDDD I LOVED IT i swear fluff family fics have my heart i love them too much!!!

and reading the author note i would love to see how bug chose their name! :3

ahhh i'm so glad you liked it !! like seriously, this ask has me giggling, twirling my hair, kicking my feet. i die for the smallest bit of praise so i'm truly so so happy you liked it. MWAH MWAH, platonic kisses on the forehead for you nonnie <3 (and anyone else who read and liked it, all of you get platonic kisses too)

now, as requested, a cute blurb of how bug chose their name (and came out to simon and reader)

simon "ghost" riley x child!OC (bug riley)

word count: 824

warnings: a teeny bit of angst (bug is an anxious baby), but mostly just sweet sweet cotton candy :3

a/n: bug is 13 in this fic, it is told from their perspective. their dead name is mentioned twice.

a/n 2.0: i wrote this really quickly so it might not be that great, i'm stoned as fuck and it's like 10 to 05:00 rn but i really wanted to get this idea out for you guys bc i love this lil oc sm🥺 created them literally a day ago and i would die for them already

--------

it'll be fine, it'll be fine. mum and dad are so accepting and loving, mum is always telling me she'll always love me no matter what. i siked myself up as i walk into the kitchen where i hear my mum and dad making dinner again.

i wanted to come out to them before dad left for work again, but every time i got up the nerves i backed out, not this time.

"uh, mum? dad?" i spoke up as i walked into the kitchen, catching the attention of my parents who gave me their signature loving smiles.

"hi my little bug, how was your day at school?" mum asked me, opening her arms for her a hug, which i happily gave her.

"hey ben, how was school bud?" dad asked, making my stomach churn a little at the sound of my birth name.

"it... it was good." i replied with a heavy sigh, mum's face immediately contorting into worry at the sound. "i actually wanted to talk to you two about something. can we sit down?"

"yes, of course." mum says as soon as the words are out of my mouth, she gently grabs my shoulders and walks to the dinner table with me, making sure dad was following behind.

as we sat at the table i felt a lump begin to form in the back of my throat and my heart begin to race. this was really happening. oh god this was really happening, i'm doing this.

"what is it benjamin? did something happen?" mum asks me with worry in her voice.

"if someone is hurting you just say the word bud, i'll deal with them." dad says gruffly, standing behind mum with a hand on her shoulder.

"no, no it's nothing like that," i begin, mouth running dry as i try to for words. i try to think of what to say, but the words wont come out right.

"i don't think i'm a boy!" i blurted before i could realize what i was saying. this was not the course of action i wanted to take.

"huh?" dad said with a raised brow. "what.. what does that even mean?"

"simon!"

"it's a legitimate question babe!"

"it's rude to ask it like that though!"

"guys! please! just," i sighed. "i don't... feel right as a boy. i'm nonbinary."

their silence makes my stomach drop, but my heart stops when dad just leaves the dining room to return to the kitchen without even looking at me. fuck, he hates me now.

"we'll be right back my baby, don't worry. stay there." mum says softly, putting a gentle hand on my head before she gets up to follow my father. leaving me to sit in silence. i just disappointed my fucking hero. my dad hated me now, i never should've said anything.

it's only five or so minutes before they both come back, dad seems... calm. i didn't expect that, in a way that scared me more.

"first off, we want to say that we love you so much baby. and we're so happy you felt comfortable enough to tell us this. we wont pretend we understand what that means but we are prepared to learn." mum says softly, taking my hands in hers and rubbing her thumbs over my knuckles as she speaks.

"wait... really?" i ask, feeling tears of relief welling in my eyes.

"of course, you're our son- our child, and we want you to be happy. we love you for you." dad said, putting a rough hand on my head.

that's all it took to break me, the waterworks flowing freely as i fall into my mother's arms. i feel her wrap them around me and she rubs my back, whispering sweet affirmations to me and kissing my head.

"this means you'll want to change your name, right? have you decided on one yet my little bug?" mum asked sweetly, causing a wide grin to spread across my face.

"yeah, i have. i picked it because it means a lot to me. you know, you've been calling me this my entire life when you realized how intrigued i was by bugs as a baby. so i went with bug. because mum always calls me her little bug." i explained to my parents, this time it was apparently my mother's turn to cry.

i watched as my mother began to sob in joy, pulling me to hold at arms length and look me in the face. "oh sweetheart, that's amazing. that makes me feel so special. i love you so much, bug."

my heart swells as mum calls me by my name, as she pulls me in for another hug i feel dad wrapping his arms around the two of us and giving my head another rough but loving pat.

"we both love you, bug."

"i love you both too."

what the hell did i ever have to be worried about?

[clearcloudlesssky]

*sips tea* WHY, HELLO THERE

I am here to inquire about your writing! (I just want to give you an excuse to make a tumblr post about it because you're an amazing writer)

Who's your favorite oc and why?

What two characters do you think have the most interesting dynamic together out of the ones youve written?

What tropes do you use the most?

Do you have any ocs you think youd get along with irl? Any you think you'd hate irl?

ALSO...CAN I MARRY ORPHEUS??? (and eule i love them both)

WHY, HELLO TO YOU AS WELL

thank you for inquiring about my writing!! it means a lot seriously

i am so so sorry i didn’t answer this sooner i literally did not know that there was a inbox until today sobs

well anyhoo questions

1) who’s your favorite oc and why?

my favorite oc at the moment is levine. mostly cause depressed doctor with a missing inventor childhood friend, who disappeared after a morally wrong experiment, but then the subject of that experiment appears at his doorstep and what tf is he supposed to do now.

plus i just like his personality (me saying he’s quiet and hates interacting with people just like me frfr)

ok but on the legitimate side of things

levine tends to portray himself as a misanthrope who dislikes spending time with others, but in reality he uses it as a mask to cover up the fact that he doesn’t actually hate people, rather he ends up caring too much, so he just withdraws.

he pretends to be the first option, but ultimately he’s a bleeding heart disguised as a cynic. yes, he’s bitter and somewhat jaded by certain events, but that doesn’t stop him from feeding the scrawny cat on the side of the road or taking in a child? automaton? person? that was left to him.

plus his relationship with childhood friend aka local crazy woman camille who is his exact opposite is fun to write

2) what two characters do you think have the most interesting dynamic together out of the ones you’ve written?

hmmm out of the characters that i’ve written so far the relationship between yuna and neva is probably the most interesting to me, seconded by marion and cinna.

in yuna/neva’s case it’s the mixture of childhood-friends-turned-reluctant-enemies-but-not-really, and the thing about their vibe that i like is that they just keep making each other worse. they love each other, they adore each other, but they also hate and despise each other, and whenever one falls it’s inevitable that the other follows.

yuna is usually the one to take the first downward plunge, without any hesitation, and she always looks back at neva like “are you coming?” —and neva always looks at her, and something inside her whispers that this is wrong, she shouldn’t be doing this, but another part says yes this feels good, and enjoys the thrill, and it’s that side that wins over like all of the time.

because when it comes down to it yuna just does what she wants in the moment, without much regard for the future or the people around her. maybe a different person could reel her in, or clean up her messes, or tell her hey this is wrong, but that person will never be neva. neva is kinda apathetic to both life and people, she’s just plodding through life. yes, she has a better moral compass than yuna, but she’s not pressed enough to follow through on that bit of conscience within her and stop what they’re doing, so everything usually just spirals and spirals until it explodes.

that was basically them in their teenage years, and when the story starts as reuniting adults, the pattern just. happens again but on a larger scale. i told you they’re my toxic lesbians and i love themmmm

3) what tropes do you use the most?

erm i would say that i use “childhood friends” AKA “knew each other in youth” wayyyy too frequently. also a sucker for the parental figure and traumatized child relationship

4) do you have any ocs you think you’d get along with irl? any you think you’d hate?

i think that i’d get along with eurydice (wow i should probably rename her) mostly because she’s a chill lady, runs a tea shop. i’d like to get a drink from her and just relax. i also think i’d get along with doll but let’s be real, doll gets along with like 99% of the people they meet. they are my sunshine porcelain automaton child. (i coparent with levine.)

erm i would probably dislike hanging around yuna, enough said about that. i kinda want to say marion but i wrote him to be fairly charismatic and i don’t think that i would be immune haha

5) can i you marry orpheus (also eule)

STOP MARRYING PEOPLE’S OCS ASHER >:(((((

you have permission to marry eule. but marion comes as a side piece. this is non-negotiable.

as for orpheus, ask anil lmao

suddenly occurs to me that nobody knows who these people are. oH well maybe i’ll post more later TwT

i wrote this at 2AM coughing so if this is incoherent i sincerely apologize

[midnightmah07]

fiiine if you say so, but I'm still gonna make you something!

Plus I said it'll probably make you cry! No guarantees it will!

Anyway, I wanted to ask you if you've ever thought about how Rigel is essentially doomed to be alone for his whole life*pushes away the OC made to be his gf*

Just think about it, Rigel age regresses and reverts back to acting like a child when in overwhelming situations, making me viewed as childish by peers and strangers. The only people that actually know why Rigel is this way are Idia, Ortho, and the other STYX workers(I don't think Perse would know what happened to his uncle, she'd just know that Rigel acts childish and doesn't ask why). He was a child when he lost his uncle in front of him and no one, except the Shroud boys, were the only people to comfort him, until they were gone, he lost his friend and had no one else to turn to, because his only source of comfort is now gone for good.

So he's now manipulated himself into thinking the death was his fault and that it's now his duty to carry on his legacy, even if he doesn't want to, even if it's not who he is. He's lost himself in trying to become the image of his uncle so as to pretend he's still with him and that he still has a family, because due to the neglect of his parents, he's forgotten what they even look like whilst they are trying to reignite the long dead relationship of parent and child.

However things changed when he and Perse became siblings, he finally had someone who'd be able to lift him up, allow him to be himself, and finally have a family member who'll stuck by his side and reciprocate his love

Everything is finally going right. Except for when it doesn't. Book six.

Ortho convinces Rigel to join him in resetting the world by promising the reunion of him and Charon, his uncle, or his father because the two are so similar in every way, they might as well be father and son

The plan fails of course, which deepens Rigel suppressed depression, true Perse yelled at him, but she still loves him, she wouldn't hug him if she didn't because no one who didn't love him hugged him

But when Perse eventually leaves and Idia and Ortho take over STYX, he's not going to have anyone left to stick with him, and with his and Perse's argument and the hurtful words said, did she actually love him or was it just pity for the hurting boy? Was everything fake and he was just being ignorant as she went along with it? Or was he just being delusional into thinking that he could actually have someone who loves him so much where he could be called their family? That's up for debate

But the blot that has compiled ever since he was six certainly knows the answer, or so it thinks. It just wishes to feed and give him the reunion he's always wanted.

Maybe he is the splitting image of his uncle with the repressed depression and the love of boat rides on the river

I'll have you know that I'm definitely going to make some sort of drawing of Rigel's pov of Perse during his overblot *bats eyes cutely*

Literally why are you guys so mean to your OCs... Like let them be happy people oh my Gosh y'all are messed up😭

Also wait as I read this I'm unsure if I made Perse's roles with the Shrouds clear, Perse is basically another worker at STYX! Her family has served the Shrouds for generations and she's basically stuck to Idia and Ortho's side ever since she was a child! Plus not only that but when she's older she ends up marrying Idia (which yes basically breaks the Achillea-Shroud relationship but like... She's "stuck" with him now but willingly) and this basically solidifies that she's not leaving his side lol

Granted, she does travel for work a good amount of time, so maybe in those instances Rigel could've felt alone? But other than that she doesn't really have a reason to leave STYX/the Island of Woe and by consequence Rigel's side

[calmlythrilling]

GET TO KNOW ME MEME

Name: Prinny, or on a very select few gaming platforms, Ele Pronouns: She/he/they Sexuality: I prefer to not label it Single/Taken: Taken, I think it's been 5 years? (i'm horrible with time)

THREE FACTS

- I technically made one singular game sprite for a pokemon fangame when I was in highschool. - I really like ciphers. I blame Gravity Falls, genuinely. The one cipher I've never seem to get right is Affine. It uses two different algebraic equations and it frustrates me to no end that I was in advanced math classes but never could properly understand how to use those equations. Every now and again I try again anyway to understand. Affine's my mortal enemy and I will defeat her one day. - I own like thirty different Olaf related Things. As in the Frozen snowman, yes. My favorite is this off putting garden gnome you could only nab at Kmart. Here's a picture of one if you're curious on what it looks like. I love talking about him.

EXPERIENCE

HOW LONG - Since out of the womb. I'm...almost not kidding, preschool age I did a lot of "playing pretend" and it was usually as pokemon with this one other pokemon obsessed kid, and at the time I was really obsessed with Chatot. Otherwise, my brother really liked starting up larp sessions with his nerf toys well into 7th grade I want to guess. For text based roleplay I'd have to guess when I was about 10 or so - parents gave me early access to facebook and at that time undertale was really popular.

WHAT PLATFORMS - Facebook was my first one, and then after that was either deviantart or minecraft - I don't really recall. After that I went to discord for rps and eventually twitter, and now I write on here!

BEST EXPERIENCE - Discord was really good functions wise if that makes sense(the organization you can put into it seperate chatrooms themed roleplays stuff like that) but I think I met the wrong group of people - they had it drilled into me for a WHILE that writing characters from canons was the equivalent of stealing someone else's stuff and you deserved to be bashed for doing such. You could only ever write and make ocs. If you wanted to write a canon character they endorsed just using the guy as a faceclaim and using a different name though! Twitter was where I have met my current friend group, and that has to count for something I think. Tumblr's has been the best in terms of people though.

MUSE TYPE

FEMALE OR MALE - Males. I guess my favorite types of characters tend to be men? As a kid I always loved the neurodivergent coded nerds or those that said they just say they were inventors, scientists, journalists, etc, or those labelled as evil/villains. The media I watch typically have these guys be men.

FLUFF, ANGST, OR SMUT - if anyone comes to me anymore about writing smut i think I'd just block them on the spot. I think otherwise I tend to write angst over fluff - even though writing angst can make me worry more over not writing properly, if that makes sense.

PLOT OR MEMES - memes. 100%. I can plot if needed but once that's been done I find myself having a lot of anxiety about "doing it right" and it's worse with plotted dynamics - I think I rush them because I know the end goal is X thing. With memes I find myself a lot less worried - I go with the flow and just writing on instinct and find myself more focused on getting the reply done and what could happen in the future - maybe this, or this, or this.

LONG OR SHORT REPLIES - I find myself writing longer replies whether I want to or not. For others, though, I just want a length I can respond to - I never really want people to both trying to match my length.

BEST TIME TO WRITE - I'm at my computer and phone a lot, so I think I'm pretty flexible? It's moreso however the day goes for me, if I end up sick or if my mood is really low or if I'm just mentally exhausted. So I can't really say for certain. I do have more struggles when it's winter though - seasonal depression issues - so hopefully when summer comes about it won't be so severe.

ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSES? - Half of the time I don't like answering this - I don't like being told I'm just like my villain muses, my anxiety tries enough to convince me I'm a terrible person when I'm likely not, so for mental sanity I will be saying no in regards to those people. There's my other half of muses though that are like Stanford or Zane, that I'm a lot more comfortable with saying yes I am like them, even if just a little bit.

[alj4890]

Sparks of Hope

(Thomas Hunt x OC) in a Choices Red Carpet Diaries Drabble

Thirty Kisses in Thirty Days Challenge with the prompt: a kiss shared underneath fireworks

Rating G for fluff

Masterlist

@hopelessromantic1352 @krsnlove @trappedinfanfiction @my-heart-beats-for-ya ​ @aworldoffandoms ​​ @flyawayboo ​​ ​​  @sophxwithers @twinkleallnight @tessa-liam @choicesficwriterscreations @harleybeaumont

A/N Special thanks to @trappedinfanfiction for requesting this couple with this particular prompt. I guess this is a sequel to this drabble a while back 😂 I loved the subterfuge Thomas and Amanda did in pretending to be in a romantic relationship. His family not only bought it, but it ended up being true in the end. For this drabble, the pair have been together for about five months or so and are going (with his pushy yet well intentioned parents, sister, and brother-in-law) to his cousin's wedding.

Hunt Family Home, Stowe, VT

"You're bringing Amanda with you to the wedding, right?" Susan asked.

Thomas rolled his eyes over his mother's need to remind him to bring Amanda with him wherever he went. It was as if she doubted he knew how to act in a relationship.

"Yes. You know she arrives tomorrow to travel with us to Ben's wedding."

"I know that." Susan rolled her eyes. "I only wanted to make certain that you weren't going to send her back home before the ceremony."

He didn't know why his mother was making such a big deal out of seeing his cousin get married, but here he was back in Vermont, instead of his Los Angeles home, and surrounded by his parents, sister, and brother-in-law .

"It would be a missed opportunity." His sister, Rachel, grumbled.

"A missed opportunity?" Thomas snapped, not particularly liking his sister's tone, "for what exactly?"

"Are you serious right now?!" Rachel snapped back. "Tell me you aren't this clueless."

"Rach." Her husband, Stephen, tried to get her to calm down.

"I can't believe you don't see it!" She ignored her husband pulling on her hand.

"See what?" Thomas raised his voice.

Before things got too out of hand, their father stepped between them.

"The wedding," Richard explained before his daughter had a chance to throttle his son, "is an excellent opportunity to bring up the subject of marriage."

"For what purpose?" Thomas demanded. "Ben must be all for matrimony since he's the one getting married."

"Idiot." Rachel smacked the palm of her hand to her head. "The purpose is for you to bring up matrimony to Amanda!"

She sat down in a huff.

"Honestly Mom, are you sure we're related."

"Trust me. I was awake the whole time. There's no denying the relation." Susan teased.

She leveled a disapproving stare upon her son. "Though I do wonder at times where our DNA failed in making you hurry Amanda to the altar before she has a chance to meet someone else."

Thomas had to bite his tongue. First off, he knew he shouldn't be disrespectful to his parent. Secondly, he couldn't very well admit that he'd only been truly dating Amanda for about five months, unlike the lie he gave last Thanksgiving that they'd been dating for a long while.

By his calculations, that meant that his family was still under the assumption that they were nearing their one year anniversary as a couple.

Though he was in love with the lady from Cordonia and could honestly see himself taking that massive step forward in their relationship, he didn't know what Amanda would think of the notion.

Weddings were highly emotional anyway, he argued with himself. Who could trust any decision made under an event practically dripping with romance and sentimentality?

He prided himself on being one of the few to see past the heartfelt vows and such. He'd attended a number of weddings in the past where he'd seen weaker individuals succumb to the moment and end up either engaged themselves or claiming they were madly in love with their dates. Most did not work out once the ceremony concluded.

He wasn't about to chance what he had with Amanda with a suggestion that they give it a try.

The problem he now faced though was keeping his family from suggesting it to her before he did.

******************

Burlington Airport...

"There's that greeting I love." Amanda mumbled against his lips.

Thomas kissed her again before taking her luggage from her. "How was your flight?"

"Good." She looped her arm with his as they made their way out of the airport. "How's your family?"

He rolled his eyes in response.

Amanda began to laugh. "Oh no. What have they done this time?"

"Since they are still in the dark over when our relationship officially began," he grimaced with having to tell her what had been the main topic of conversation ever since he arrived a few days earlier, "they want me to take advantage of the wedding."

"Take advantage to do what exactly?"

He eyed her quietly.

Her eyes widened with realization. "Oh!"

She began to smile at the notion. "That's actually really sweet."

Thomas snorted while opening the passenger door for her. "More like manipulative."

"I think it's sweet. Clearly they see we're happy together." Amanda wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close for another kiss. "And they like me enough to want me as part of the family."

"They adore you." He deepened the kiss. "Almost as much as I do."

"I've missed hearing you say things like that in person." She sank into another kiss of his. "I love what always follows such declarations."

Thomas smiled against her lips.

"So?" She said a touch breathlessly. "Shall we at least pretend to give the notion of marriage a fair try or should we be upfront and say that you aren't quite there yet?"

"I think we should--" his eyes widened. "What do you mean, I'm not quite there yet?!'

"I don't mean anything other than that. Thomas, you've said yourself that you never saw the need to rush into any institution, especially marriage."

Amanda's brow furrowed over the dark expression forming on his face.

"What? Is something else wrong? Is it something I said?"

She didn't know why he would be upset. The entire world knew he preferred the life of a bachelor. He'd certainly said so in more than enough interviews in the oast to prove his point.

"I..." He trailed off as anger choked him.

Thomas refused to let his first moment reunited with the woman he loved be one where they argued.

He gestured silently for her to get into the car.

"Thomas?" She reached for him when he pulled away from her. "I didn't mean--"

"It's fine." He bit out. "Let's be on our way, shall we?"

Amanda reluctantly got into the car. She didn't know what to do or say when he was in this type of mood.

The two spent the next forty-five minutes in tense silence as they made their way back to his parents' home.

***************

"Perhaps I should say I have an emergency back at home." She mumbled while helping get her bags out of the car. "Then, you won't have any worries over the wedding."

If her visit here was going to be like this, she didn't want to remain stuck in the same room with him, much less the suite he'd booked for them at the wedding venue. It was already killing her to be at odds with him, especially when she didn't understand what she'd done to make him so angry. She'd expected nothing but romance after nearly a month of their schedules conflicting and keeping them apart. Now that seemed as likely to happen as her sprouting wings.

Thomas jerked around in surprise. "I don't want you to go."

Her eyes narrowed. "You certainly don't act like you want me to stay either."

"Of course I do!" He snapped, slamming the trunk closed. "I've missed you, damnit!'

"I missed you too." Amanda fought back a smile over him cursing about it.

Thomas grimaced once more as he realized she was the last person he should be angry with.

It was himself he was furious at. He'd been the one to live his life in such a way that the moment he believed he'd possibly met the one, he'd given her the illusion that marriage was not for him. He didn't know how to rectify this assumption of hers without it appearing as if he was giving in to familial pressure.

"I apologize for my outburst." He tugged her into his arms. "I'm not angry at you."

"I hope not." She slid her arms around his neck. "Because I couldn't wait on seeing you again."

"Neither could I." He hugged her close.

His lips brushed against her ear as he whispered all he'd missed.

She moved closer within his embrace with each spoken attribute of hers he missed. She stopped his list with a heated kiss.

Stephen clearing his throat had them both turning to him with irritated expressions.

He held his hands up. "Sorry to interrupt, but I was sent out here to see what was taking you two so long and to help with the bags."

He quickly swiped up the luggage and led the way in.

Amanda went through all the warm hugs and questions from the family she'd gotten close to that fateful Thanksgiving. Thomas watched the interaction with a slight smile upon his face. His family truly loved her. He knew that if he were to ever feel the need to propose that they would be beyond overjoyed with his choice of wife.

Perhaps one day, they might all get what they wished for.

******************

Lake Placid, New York, three days later...

"How do I look?" Amanda twirled around, checking all sides in the mirror. "Does the dress hang right in the back?"

Thomas stopped her twisting about by placing his hands on her hips. His eyes met hers in the mirror while he took in her figure.

"You look beautiful." He kissed the side of her neck.

"You're just saying that." She sighed as she critically took in her features. "I wanted to look my best tonight since I'm meeting your extended family for the first time."

"You do." He pulled her back within his arms when she huffed in disbelief. "I've always loved you in teal."

"You say that about every color." She teased, slipping her arms around him.

"I happen to love you in every color." Thomas admitted. "But there is something about teal that makes it my favorite on you."

"Really?" She smiled at him. "Then I'll just have to wear it more often."

He kissed her, softly groaning at the knock on their door.

"If that's my sister, she won't survive the rehearsal dinner." He muttered.

Amanda's laughter was smothered by another kiss.

Rachel's voice came loud and clear through the wooden door.

"We're going to be late! Mom and Dad already went downstairs!"

Thomas glared at the door.

His date eased out of his arms and gathered her wrap and clutch. Taking his arm, she tugged him out the door.

Ignoring the smug expression on his sister's face, Thomas followed Amanda towards the elevator.

He began to make plans for how to spend their first night in their suite as they all made their way to the wedding pavilion.

*****************

The night was filled with speeches, good food, and a great many toasts. Ben and his soon to be bride, Bailey, were everything a picture perfect couple should be. They never stopped smiling and they stole kisses every chance they got.

Guests soon took to the outdoor patio to dance and mingle.

"It's beautiful out here." Amanda leaned back in Thomas's arms to look up at the night sky. Stars twinkled above and shimmered on the lake's surface.

"Yes, it is."

He rested his chin on her shoulder while watching his family members. Everyone was distracted with either discussions or as in his parents' case, slow dancing. Though now was the perfect chance to slip back upstairs, he knew his family would never let him live it down.

"Would you like to dance?" He instead asked.

"I'd love to."

Thomas set his hand low on her back while taking her hand in his. He pressed her close while leading her in a slow box step.

The entire party stilled with the first firework shooting out over the lake.

Oohs and Ahhs followed with every burst of colorful light.

Heart shaped sparklers were passed around in honor of the bride and groom.

"How sweet." Amanda said to Thomas after Ben claimed that Bailey was his spark in life.

Thomas thought it was a corny line, yet kept that opinion to himself. He instead focused on Amanda's face lit up from the lights of the fireworks.

He tipped her chin up and pressed a tender kiss to her lips.

"Speaking of sparks," she teased him, kissing him once more, "I'm very happy you invited me to this, Mr. Hunt."

His lips curved. "I'm very happy you accepted, Lady Bridgerton."

She rested her head on his shoulder as the fireworks continued.

Thomas couldn't help but notice how right everything was at this moment. His family was distracted. He'd just shared a kiss with the woman he loved. The setting couldn't be more perfect to at least hint at what he hoped might happen soon.

"Amanda?" He murmured near her ear.

"Yes?" She looked up at him.

"I love you." He tugged her back from the crowd.

"I love you too." She bumped into him when he stopped in the shadows.

He cupped her face to kiss her passionately.

Amanda gripped his dinner jacket to remain upright.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked up at him.

Thomas swallowed and then spoke from his heart.

"I want this one day."

"Want what?" She asked a touch breathlessly.

"I want our loved ones around us, celebrating the fact that we are about to be married." He admitted.

"Thomas." She couldn't quite believe he said something like that.

Not one family member was near enough to hear what he was saying, so she knew it wasn't an act on his part. The flashes of colored light from the fireworks revealed his somber expression along with the vulnerability reflected in the dark depths of his eyes.

Knowing she wanted nothing more than that with him, Amanda rose up to kiss Thomas once more.

He clutched her to him, wishing she would say something to keep that spark of hope alive.

She smiled against his lips as their kiss came to an end.

"I want all that with you, Thomas." She told him. "And I can't wait until that day comes."

[cumbertunita]

London trip

Benedict Cumberbatch x oc

London, that magical city where everyone wants to leave and maybe have a chance to meet the Queen, study English or practice it, well���lots of things and lots of dreams…but not for me at all. I came to London because my best friend, Cristel asked me to come with her as a “best friends trip”. I’m not a mean friend so I said yes and here I am.

Cristel is in love with the country since we were little, so when we finished university, her parents gave her this trip as a present for her great development.

She was obsessed with the Sherlock Holmes stories and freaked out when she found the BBC tv series. I don’t know how that series has become so famous when it’s not even that accurate to the original stories!! But anyway, it’s just my point of view. And gosh…everyone became obsessed with the star of the show, a guy called Benedict Cumberbatch.

-Why does everyone love him so much? He’s not even that good looking- I told Cristel while she was showing me her new laptop wallpaper.

-First of all, he’s British. Second, his eyes change of color with the light. And lastly, he’s so talented, he’s the perfect match for the role! Now I’m asking you WHY?? Why don’t you love him?? Look at him!! He’s so cool and a gentleman!-

-I don’t know, maybe he’s not a match for me-

-Well, you have to find him handsome as fuck because guess what…- I looked at her with expectation -I bought tickets for Frankenstein! Benedict Cumberbatch will be the creature!!-

-Ok, I do love the book Frankenstein, so I hope this Cumberbatch guy does not spoil it at all-

-You won’t regret it, I promise. In fact, I’m pretty sure you will fall in love with him-

The play was at night so we changed our clothes, make up, perfume…and voilà!! We were ready to meet this Cumberbatch guy everyone is talking about.

We took a cab and arrived to the theatre. I don’t know but I felt kind of nervous, like if something was gonna happen.

The play started and it was kind of a great surprise for me! The lights, scenography, costumes, make up!!! The language, the story, everything was perfect!! But I couldn’t appreciate Benedict Cumberbatch so called beauty because of the make up he was wearing…but something weird happened: our eyes met in one scene…I can’t remember what scene because that moment was…unique, I don’t know, just weird. My heart started bumping so fast and felt my cheeks on fire. And he…he forgot his lines, he had to improvise and he did it pretty well indeed.

-I saw that- Cristel said in my ear

-The play is good, right?- I replied trying to pretend nothing happened.

-don’t play dumb with me…-

-shhh! You must be quiet in a play-

The play finished and all actors came out to thank the public for coming. We all stood up clapping in joy and again…our eyes met and he smiled to me. He left the stage and Cristel and I left the theatre.

She pulled me so hard while walking so but so fast that I thought I was going to break my ankles and fall.

-What’s going on???- I asked and then she stopped in front of a small black door with some barriers in the front. And more people were coming behind us. -What are we doing here?-

-We’re gonna wait for Benedict-

-Wait is he…is he coming out to meet his fans?-

-Look, I saw what happened between you two when he found you in the public during the play and when it ended. He smiled to you!!! That doesn’t happen very often-

-I-I don’t know w-what you’re talking about-

-And now you’re hesitating…you like him-

-I don’t like him!!- I shouted in disagreement and suddenly the door opened and he came out. He looked at me and smiled again. I think my heart stopped for a second.

-Is everything ok?- he asked us and we nodded. Cristel took her leaflet and lend it to him so he could sign it. He came close the barrier to sign it.

-How are you? Did you enjoy the play?-

-Yes, we did! It’s an honor to meet you, I’m your biggest fan, I loved your work!-

-Oh thank you for your kind words and for coming to watch the play- he took her leaflet and asked her for a pen, which she didn’t have, so I look on my purse and had one…for what? I don’t know, my purse keeps so many unsolved secrets. I took the pen and lend it to him.

-There you go-

-Thank you- our fingers touched when he took the pen and I felt like shaking inside. We stared at each other for just a couple of seconds that felt like eternity for me and then he brought back his attention to my friend. -What’s your name?-

-Cristel- she spelled it to him.

-That’s a beautiful name, Cristel- a bit of silence was made -and what’s your name?-

-Dude, he’s talking to you!- Cristel said while pulling the sleeve of my blouse. I was lost looking at him signing my friend’s leaflet.

-Oh, sorry! I’m Amaya-

-Did you enjoy the play?-

-Yeah, in fact I’m a big fan of the book! It was nice to see you as the creature, Mr. Cumberbatch-

He gave my friend back her leaflet and came close to me, took my leaflet and signed it, even if I didn’t ask him to. He’s such a weirdo…and I kinda love it.

-Amaya…more than a beautiful name. Where are you from?-

-We’re from Mexico- I answered

-I’ve never been there, I’ve heard it has beautiful landscapes and that food is good-

-It is one of the best in the world, indeed-

-Are you on your own? No boyfriend, girlfriend…? I mean, it’s so dangerous for two young woman walk at night alone-

-No kind of attachments, Benedict. We’re single, specially my friend- Cristel replied and I didn’t know where to hide.

-Good to know. Sorry, I mean…could you wait until I finish signing and meeting all fans here? It may take a while but I’ll try to make it fast-

-It’s ok, we can walk- I said

-No way! That’s so kind of you, Benedict. We’ll wait for you at the pub that is around the corner- she started pulling me to the pub -Come on, walk, walk, walk!-

Hope you like it! Do you want a Part 2? 💓

[obwjam]

heyy girlie (gender neutral) I’ve become way too invested into ur OC Petra and their story .. Just wanted to share some HC’s i thought of over fangirling over them <3

• Petra picks up Spanish from Miguel (Can’t decide if they learn on their own or Miguel takes the time to teach them)

• Possibly sleeps in web sometimes? or web hammock??

• Their suit also has some kind of sugar glider style fabric stretching out from under the arms that help them glide/get around. (appearing as needed)

• ^^ I’d like to think they wouldn’t use it all that much, but every once in a while they just whip it casually and everyone’s like “so they can just fly?” (Material’s sum similar to that whole cape thing Miguel had on at Gwen’a earth)

• They’re extremely in tuned with their spidey sense. Helping them stay ahead from accidental/intentional mishaps from bigger ppl. (Maybe did training/meditation to develop it over the yrs?? Karate kid type beat) Also has really good intuition in general.

• (To go with that ^^) Some individuals who become close with Petra find that their spider senses become instinctively more aware of them and keeps them from accidental mishaps.

(From here on is basically Petra and the gang bc yes to interactions with them )

• Petra becoming part of the “Team Miles” gang >> (Them practically kidnapping Petra into one of their own and making sure they feel included and etc >>>

• Like, they’re 100% in the groupchat

• The gang send all the “short friend” tiktoks in there (They pretend to be annoyed by this)

• Sleepovers >>>>>>

• Petra would melt Rio’s heart.

• Imagine the gang having dinner at Miles’s and Petra’s already pulling out their own tupperware from home. (not wanting to create a fuss or any awkwardness) and Rio just sets down a saucer in front of them with just the tiniest of tamelas all tied up perfectly and it’s just <3 (and you KNOW Rio’s sending her back home with leftovers)

• Spiderbyte has at least once or twice adjusted her avatar to be their size for Petra’s comfort. (Petra said they were fine but Margo insisted.) ((I’d like to think she’s one of their 1st close friends outside of Miguel and Jess))

• Petra offers to add bluetooth to miles suit after overhearing him complain how uncomfy airpods are under his mask. Under the condition that he shares his playlist with them.

• They falls in love Earth 1610’s (Miles’s earth) music. (I feel like this is how they hit it off??)

• Also Miles and Petra bonding over being “different” in their own ways >>>

(I could literally go on and on but i’ll just stop right here for now lol. Love this character and the backstory you’ve created. Looking forward to anything you decide to put out with them. Take care <3)

I’M… IM LITERALLY IN AWE OF THESE OMGGGGGGG I WANT TO WRITE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE ARE YOU KIDDING ME???? THANK YOU FOR SUBMITTING THESE AND I WANT TO EXPAND ON THEM OK

im literally obsessed with miles and petra bonding in that way. miles is just so nice and is like the fun-loving brother petra never had, and they both just have such a string desire to help people

miles does not look down on petra in any way. like he’s so chill they think there’s a catch but there isn’t. he’s just miles

miles is honestly in awe of petra and thinks they are SO COOL but will never admit it (gwen can tell right away)

spider byte making petra their own phone and petra is like bruh. what the hell is this thing and where has it been all my life

the “omg how are you so small” meme gets sent every day

petra is obsessed with the !! react on imessage

already loving how accepting miles’ parents would be of them in the perfect world where they know everything like. rio is SO motherly to them

petra would LOVE miles’ music so much omg. they would be a “always training to a specific playlist” typea bitch

the suit thing is SO good because i had the same thought. just making crazy jumps and gliding around

they have this weird relationship w miguel bc he saved them so they have a soft spot for each other but the way miguel sees miles is of course questionable…… so they’re in a weird middle ground

peter b. would be a menace to them of course. sort of like a love/hate relationship but they will never admit they like each other

petra picks up spanish from miguel and them and miles speak it to each other to practice 🥹

tiny people having superior senses is like my favorite trope that i use with every time so it’s a no-brainer here, they know shit like a few seconds before the others sense it

miguel is so protective over them it’s insane. they pretend it bothers them but deep down they rely on that security

[strangermask]

Aight ya know what? I’m gonna say this now cuz I will forget later.

First elemental masters canon facts!

They all were queer. They didn’t really know it at the time because the LGBT was not officially coined as words/community until many years later. It’s a new world and the beginning of Ninjago (plus “before time had a name” era), so everything was new and unexplored. Gender identity and sexuality included

But they were all still queer af. Just because gay and trans wasn’t a word yet don’t mean they never existed throughout history

And now to say what their sexuality + gender identity are.

Starting with Master of Lightning, Yoshimochi. This man is gay. And I mean heavily gay. He had a crush on Yukito, Sai, and Akiharu, and he didn’t even realize until way later in the departed realm. There were a few times he got flustered and stuttered of he saw a handsome man, but he mostly blamed it on nerves (he ain’t completely wrong). But he thought the feelings he held were strong platonic love, until gay/homosexual became an offical word and then Yoshimochi went: “Well fuck, this would have been helpful to know when I was alive.”

Now onto the Master of Earth, Akiharu. This dude is a trans man. He was born a girl and before he transitioned into a man, he lived with his parents. That is until there was a house fire that left him an orphan on that streets. In the beginning, he noticed that boys and men had more leeway than girls and women. Especially on the streets. So he decided to pretend to be a boy to help himself. But as years went by, he realized that he actually liked being a boy and being referred as such.

Does his team know? Yes, he accidentally revealed it while they were stranded. But he was accepted cuz hey, life is hard plus you’re happy. It’s not hurting us. Small lil facts, since Akiharu did not have the tools we have today to transition, he improvised his. He practiced lowering his voice to pass as a man, and he used medical bandages to bind. At least he used to do that until the Master of Reality (oc, not canon to the show) saw that wasn’t the best for Akiharu’s ribcage and lungs. So the Master of Reality gave Akiharu top surgery. Does it make sense, not really. But Reality is not letting his friend die from chest problems.

Oh, Akiharu is also pansexual. He thought finding everyone attractive was normal cuz everyone is hot. Especially Queen of the Departed. That’s his lover and he will gush about her + how lucky he is to have her.

Now onto the Master of Fire, Sai. Bisexual serpentine. And while his father was an asshole, the serpentine actually had more leeway on who they could love. They didn’t really believe in having people match them with someone compatible, you just love who your heart tells you to. It was common to find two women in love and two men in love. Sometimes the women even hand off their egg offsprings to other family who can’t kids. Now because of this, Sai did not see a problem with who his teammates found attractive. This was the norm for him.

Now, finally, the Master of Ice, Yukito. He doesn’t really have a gender. He just exists. He is more masc leaning and uses masculine terms, but his gender is just nonexistent. He is demisexual as well. When he first met his companions, he didn’t open or express himself to them. They were just mortals who happened to have elemental powers like him. That is until they complete their first adventure together, and he begins to grow a fondness for them. And that fondness grew into falling in love that he also mistook for platonic feelings.

With all that, I reiterate

If these guys did not marry their wives and they weren’t in the “before time had a name” era, they would have married each other.

Thank you for coming to My Ted talk

[breezypunk]

For the Edgy/misc OC ask meme ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ:

Can i have 3,7,19 for Maggie please? 🖤

Thank you! <3

Questions here

-

3. What is your OC's fatal flaw? Are they aware of this flaw?

I'd say it is Maggie's lack of self-control. After her adopted parent's were murdered, and she joined up with Maelstrom for revenge against the other gangs who committed said murder, the feeling of power she had after the successful takedown was almost overwhelming. It took her a long time to get over this feeling, and it caused a pathway of destruction. She wasn't able to stop killing after this. Any Tyger, any Animal she came across, it was a almost as if her urges and self control completely flew out the window, because she knew she could do it and get away with it. So yes she was aware of it, but she wasn't aware of how serious it was until she met Patricia, who is pretty terrible, but was more scared that Maggie would find herself in a situation she couldn't get out of if she didn't stop this warpath, it seemed to have completely taken over her thoughts. Once Patricia came into the picture, she was able to have a little more self control over her urges, and found a way to use this for good, by doing merc-work on the side for Brick, who in my HC became a fixer, specifically for Maelstromer's looking for work. Eventually the need to kill for revenge dwindled. She thanks Pat a lot for helping her see the problem, had she not met her, she'd probably be in a lot more trouble. But than again, this was at a time when her parent's were just killed and she just joined up with Maelstrom, she was finally able to be her true self and let herself get a little carried away. She's pretty soft now, LOL.

-

7. What's one way your OC has changed since you first came up with them?

I truly love talking about Maggie's big change since I made her last year. I made her to be this kind, sweet, caring and loving person who was all sunshine and rainbows, more of a corpo background, and I even paired her with Evelyn for a little bit. But I realized that's not who I really wanted Maggie to be. BIG Maelstrom fan here, and I decided I wanted to explore that lifepath a little more with Maggie, because being a Maelstrom enjoyer, I never really dabbled there before. So instead of completely wiping her old self off the table and pretending it never existed, I decided to make it a HC where her life did a 180 after the death of her adopted parents, and she was finally free of the person pretended to be growing up, to a person she knew she was all her life but could never be free. She breaks up with Evelyn, joins up with Maelstrom, avenges her parents, goes through a killing spree phase, meets Patricia, falls in love, Dum Dum becomes her bestie and they all live happily ever after! Haha.

A choice I'm very happy I made. Don't get me wrong, Maggie is still nice, she grew even after becoming a part of Maelstrom, she still has a soft side, it's just harder to get out of her.

-

19. How does your OC behave when enraged?

I love how all the questions go hand in hand xD

When she first joined Maelstrom, it was bad. She had no self control over her need to kill every Tyger Claw & Animal, who were the gangs involved in her adopted parent's murders. Enraged was an understatement, ever seen someone cry when their angry? Well this was Maggie tenfold. Even Dum Dum was worried, and even a little frightened. She had so much to learn, finally being unshackled from a life she didn't like, in order to please her parents. She knew they wanted the best for her, she grew up wanting to please them so much that she hid all of this rage, it was all pent up inside of her, when she was finally able to release it, she went wild.

Now that some time has passed, she's better and can handle her rage and anger in a way that won't scare off even the toughest of Maelstromer's. She does get the side-eye from Pat every once in a while though. xD

[sevicia]

^ the Thang. As u can see it's really rough still and that is because I am God's most indecisive soldier yes this constantly brings me great pain... like the amount of time I spent on her leg and also the strand of hair that doesn't fall on her arm is craaazyyy

There's like an entire story thing I made up along the way too which is funny cause 1st this was gonna be one of my new OCs then I thought of the TV girl from R1999 then I just went w/ said OC's looks but not personality/story and didn't know what to put on the TV and bc I kinda have Crash 1973 disease on my brain RN I thought of a car crash but I didn't really know what to put around her then so I just thought "Well I can just draw her room and do whatever with the TV afterwards."

Basically she was taking a break from art school after someone close to her died (IDK about that yet) and during that time she found out about this one guy that writes extreme horror and got really really into his books. & then a few months pass and she's still living more or less normally until this guy starts getting just like BLASTED from all sides cause someone went & fucking murdered another person to recreate a scene from one of his stories. And everyone's going crazy cause honestly what the HELL ... ? cause it's not like extreme horror as a literary genre has a HUUUGE audience when compared to other kinds of books & you never rly think someone's gonna dip another person in acid just cause YOU went "what if my character dipped someone in acid" (not actually what happened but ykwim) but yah he's getting the brunt of it.

It doesn't help that he's also kiiiind of a massive cunt like he just does NOT know how to pick a struggle. And Mary (temptative name will discuss) who really really likes this guy's writing starts keeping tabs on everything cause previously the only thing she could find was like, his name and age, so this whole thing's really making it easier for her to know more about him.

After that 1st murder a few more start happening & eventually writer guy is on The News having to say shit like "I don't know what's wrong with these people I am just writing words" but AGAIN he's rude and impulsive as all hell so it NEVER looks good for him.

The effect all of this has on Mary is really disruptive to her normal life routine/style like she becomes even more obsessed with him and with trying to find everything he's ever written, she's so fixated on this whole thing that she's not taking care of herself and has forgotten to do all the necessary registrations & emails & documents & other such things to reincorporate herself into the 2nd semester of school. She doesn't answer phone calls from her parents anymore and pretends to not be home when they come by, even after they threaten to stop paying her rent (really out of genuine worry).

The actual like, "main" story has the writer guy as its protagonist trying to figure out why people have started recreating HIS stories in particular out of anybody else's. He eventually meets Mary and she's kind of a sidekick I think. But idrc about him RN cause he's kind of a loser if I am to be honest with you my liege....

Also that mannequin bust thing has a picture of him taped to its head. Mary stole the mannequin from the fashion design department's workshop rooms (I was gonna call em labs LOL I forgor) and only managed to get a female torso so she went "Well he's a guy and he doesn't have boobs... hmmm..." and then she carved out the mannequin's boobs #GENIUS. And I am seriously considering making the loser guy trans JUST so there's a moment of him telling Mary he's trans and her muttering under her breath "FUCK I wasted a perfectly good mannequin..." and he's like "Did you say something??" cause they're like covered in blood or whatever and Mary just goes "Oh nothing ^w^" . W PERVERT WOMEN

I will really go three whole months barely ever opening Procreate and only ever scribbling on my sketchbooks and then my brain's like Hey what if we tried drawing something :]? and then I stumble out of bed nearly 7 hrs later covered in blood... and the drawing isn't even halfway done and I only stopped cause my pen ran outta battery