#bex answers

[babybluebex]

Okay I finally watched final destination and now all I can think about is Erik fucking his gf, hand over her mouth to shut her up with his family home 😤😮‍💨

oh my god dana. holy shit.

fuckin u from behind, and he's like pressed forward, molded to your back, it's a lot less fucking and more just rutting into you, and he's biting at the shell of your ear as he's got his palm slapped over your mouth, whispering warm breath "gotta be real quiet, baby, don't want the whole house hearing, do you?" quiets down for a second, wrinkles his nose as he fucks hard into you, making you squeak "they might hear your wet pussy taking me so fuckin' deep before they hear anything else" and like yeah you're dripping and the sounds of it are truly obscene, and he chuckles and it rumbles deep in his chest against your back and

oh this is gonna be a whole thing isn't it

[thedarkestgreys]

⁹¹⁾ six missed calls

if you’re still taking them

sorry for the delay sam!

☎️📱📞☎️📱📞☎️📱📞☎️📱📞☎️📱📞

(1)

(Missed Call - Lexi Howard)

“Hey Fezco. It’s uh. It’s me. Um Lexi. Howard. Uh in case you didn’t realize that. Sorry. Um, so I know we talked after Mr. Jacobs left but you told me to let you know when I got home and I was going to text you but then I walked into my room and I realized I totally blanked on half the reason I wanted to stop by the Dairy to begin. Your sweater, from New Years, the green one? I have it. Which might sound weird but like, you took it off with such care before you went after Nate so I don’t know, I thought it was important. So um. Yeah. That’s all. Uh. Let me know how I can return it I guess? … bye.”

It’s not like Fezco missed Lexi’s call on purpose. It’s more that his phone started ringing and he saw who was calling and he thought that there must have been a mistake happening because why on God’s green fuckin’ Earth would this girl be hitting up his line a coupla hours after she was almost victim of a shoot out in his goddamn shop at the hands of her classmates deranged pops?

He’s not even thinking when he immediately calls her back after listening to the voicemail. Okay, listening to the voicemail for the tenth time and properly saving it for later. You know, just in case…

“Hello?” her sweet voice says quietly into the line. “Fezco?”

Surprised at how quickly she answered, all he can do is respond dumbly. “Yo, uh. You called?”

-

(2)

(Missed Call - Lex 🩷)

“Since you won’t answer my calls, guess I’m left with no choice but to do this here. If you and I are going to work, you can’t fucking freeze me out when you’re pissed about something. It’s not fair to me at all Fezco. If you can’t talk shit out with me, what are we even doing here?”

She pauses there long enough that Fez thinks that’s the end of the message. Honestly for the first time since he asked Lexi to be his girl last year, things feel bleak, like they won’t make it after all.

Just as he’s pulling his phone away from his ear he hears a deep intake of breath and instantly feels like more of an asshole than he already did because he can tell Lexi was fighting tears.

“I don’t want that. I love you too much to end this. Please call me back.”

The message was from a few hours ago and despite the way the moon hangs overhead, Fezco calls Lexi, knowing she would be awake.

“I’m not going to apologize,” she begins, foregoing any greeting. “So don’t expect one.”

Fez sighs, tipping his head back onto his headboard. “Nah baby. This one is on me. I’m the asshole here an’ I’m fuckin’ sorry.”

“And?”

“Imma be better at communicating witchu. Icing you out ain’t cool.”

“That all?”

“I love you Lex. I’d rather we talk this shit out in person though, if you wanna come over.”

He can practically hear his girls smile - knowing she’s going to grab his olive branch with both hands.

“Gimme fifteen minutes. I gotta snatch the keys from Suze.”

-

(3)

(Missed Call - Lex 👩🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏼)

“Fezzzzzcoooo! Why didn’t you pick up? Didja know I’m drink… drunk? I went to a party like you said. Are you mad at me? Pleeeease don’t be mad at me. I would hate that. I’m just drunk ‘cause I miss you. And your dick. I really, really miss your big dick. It feels so fucking good inside me, Imma ride the shit outta you when you visit next week swear to god. After you eat m-“

The drunken rambling voicemail abruptly ends but not soon enough because it’s 7am and Fez is fully hard in his boxers. Lexi is in college, a sophomore, and spending a semester across the country in a theater intensive. The distance sucks, both the physical and timezone one, but they’ve managed to make it work.

Plus Fez is boarding his first plane next week to visit at Lexi’s halfway done mark. The course is only twelve weeks, but it’s about eleven weeks too long in his opinion.

Looking at his straining erection, Fezco chances it and calls back his girlfriend, praying she’ll pick up even if she’s hung over.

“Please tell me I didn’t leave a voicemail while trashed,” Lexi moans into the receiver. “I only remember like, part of it.”

“Which part?” he asks, sneaking a hand down his boxers to squeeze at his dick. “The part where you said you missed my cock or the part where you was practically begging to ride me?”

“Fuck.”

“Don’t get shy now pretty girl,” Fez grunts, stroking his cock. “Got me hard as fuck an’ I know yo’ panties are soaked jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

“You couldn’t possi-”

“Nah, I do,” he continues, pushing his boxers down over his dick finally, gripping it harder than before. “Gonna need to get to work if you gon’ catch up.”

Lexi lets out a sudden gasp before he hears some rustling over the line. Without asking he knows she’s stripping out of whatever bottoms she has on to play with her pussy for him. The sound of Lexi’s breathy moan fills his ears and it’s all he can do to not come on the spot.

-

(4)

(Missed Call - Lexi Howard 👩🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏼🆘)

“Oh my god Fezco, please don’t laugh at me when you get this message. But like,also like call me back ASAP. Cause umm… Wenny snuck out the door as I was letting myself in and I dashed outside to grab her and Ion know? I left the keys on the counter or sumn and locked myself out. Again. So I’m just sitting against the door holding the cat. Yeah. Uh. Please call me back, this is so embarrassing. Love you bye.”

“Imma have to get a key for under the mat or sumn,” he teases when Lexi picks up on the second ring.

“Even I know that’s a break-in waiting to happen,” Lexi snorts. “And I wasn’t the one between the two of us that ran a criminal enterprise.”

“Taught you well,” Fez replies as he slips into his car. He’s about fifteen minutes from their new apartment building, fresh out of class. “That cats a menace baby.”

“Wednesday has never done anything wrong in her life, thank you very much,” his girlfriend replies haughtily. “She’s been framed!”

“Lex, baby. She’s given you the jump like, six times now.”

“Yeah but it’s only the second time I’ve locked myself out.”

“This week.”

“I’m not taking her back to the shelter,” Lexi sniffs, knowing that’s not what Fez is suggesting at all. “It’s an adjustment phase.”

“I know ma, that’s why I ordered her an AirTag for her collar. So next time she gives you the slip you don’t have to chase her down the hall before you lose eyes on her. Can set yo’ shit down an’ grab yo’ keys.”

Lexi absolutely will not not do that, but it’s worth the try. Her refusal to acknowledge his response tells him as much.

“How far out are you?”

“See you in five baby.”

-

(5)

(Missed Call - Lexi Howard 💍🆘)

“Hey so, I was going through all these bridal magazines that my mom and Cassie brought over and I got to thinking. Weddings are expensive and planning one sounds exhausting. So we should just elope… Think about it. Love you.”

The thing is, Fez knows Lexi is just blowing off some steam. When they got engaged four months ago his girl was chomping at the bits to plan her dream wedding, but that was before moms and big sis got involved.

“Did you think about it?” Lexi asks as she picks up his call. He can hear her typing away on her keyboard.

“I did,” he replies, leaning up against the wall outside the building of his next class. Fez is off in a far corner with the rest of the students with a nicotine habit. “And it’s a terrible fuckin’ idea Lex. You know I’ve dealt with some scary ass motherfuckers but Ion wanna take no heat from Suze.”

“But if we tell her it’s your idea, she’s gonna love it,” Lexi protests. The Howard sisters have long complained that Fezco is Suze’s favorite child. “And then we don’t have to do any of this shit!”

Wedding planning does seem hella complicated, but high key Fez has been thinking about what it would be like to marry Lexi Howard since she sat her ass down beside him at Virgil’s party. So yeah, fuck it, he wants the big ass party and having all they friends there.

“Maybe I want a wedding, have you thought about that pretty girl?”

“Do you?”

“Wanna see my girl walking her fine ass down the aisle to me in some white dress that’ll make her look like a princess? Fuck yeah Lexi. Want all that shit forreal.”

“I. Um,” Lexi stammers, speechless. “Okay. Yeah. We can have a wedding.”

—

(+1)

(Missed Call - Fezco O’Neill 💍🆘)

“Shit ma, usually it’s the other way around ain’t it? You prolly gettin’ yo’ beauty sleep already after you got done pouting that I wouldn’t sneak into yo’ hotel room tonight. I know I ain’t the picture of traditional, but I want the first time I see you tomorrow to be when you’re walking to me ready to become my wife, you feel me? Pretty sure I’ve loved you since the first time I laid eyes on you Lexi Howard, knew I wanted to wife you up nearly as long. Can’t wait to spend forever witchu baby. See you tomorrow pretty girl, I’ll be the one waiting at the altar.”

Lexi’s already bursting into tears and her alarm doesn’t go off for another three hours. Fezco was right when he said he figured she was asleep, she’d pretty much zonked out as soon as she hit the bed after the rehearsal dinner. Wedding planning had somehow been both a marathon and a sprint all at the same time. But here they are, almost husband and wife.

Finally.

She listens to her almost husbands sweet words once more for good measure before she decides to return the favor, fully intending to leave her own voicemail for Fezco to wake up to. So it’s a huge surprise when he picks up his phone at quarter after four in the morning.

“You good baby? No cold feet?”

“No, they’re nice and toasty.”

“Then why you awake gorgeous? It’s early as fuck.”

“I could ask you the same.”

Fezco yawns loudly in her ear. “My phone started ringing goofy. I was passed the fuck out.”

“I had to use the bathroom, and then I saw your voicemail,” Lexi replies easily, honestly. “Pretty sure I loved you since that first night too, in case you're curious.”

“Yeah?” Fez asks, voice full of wonder. “How about that. Finally got proof there is a God.”

Lexi lets out a tired giggle. “What do you mean?”

“The Big Guy had us fall in love on the same night Lex, that’s on some soulmate shit.”

Lexi hums tiredly, in no mood to argue Fezco’s so called proof. “Whatever you say handsome. I’m gonna go back to sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too. Meet you at the altar?”

“They couldn’t keep me away if they tried.”

[babyboywilson]

Hilson request!! Cuddy keeps on playing matchmaker without them knowing which leads to the ducklings joining in!! The rest is up to you

cuddy had been watching and waiting for years. she’d seen the spark as soon as she’d hired wilson (with a surprisingly authentic recommendation from house about how she needed to hire this up and coming oncologist). she’d watched the two of them be drawn together, push each others buttons to the breaking point, fall apart in a catastrophic implosion, and then be drawn back together like the earth and the moon drawn into each other’s gravitational pull.

this last set back had been the worst she’d ever seen. amber’s death had shifted wilson and house’s relationship into devastation. she’d never seen wilson ice house out that way, and she’d never seen house unravel the way he did without wilson in his life.

but then house’s father passed away, and wilson dragged him to the funeral. and suddenly house and wilson were houseandwilson again. they were pranking each other again. wilson was following house around. everything was back to the way it was.

except that wasn’t enough in cuddy’s mind. that spark was like a live wire between house and wilson, threatening to electrocute both of them and everyone around them. and that was why cuddy had made an executive decision. it was time for her to take on a new role. lisa cuddy md, dean of medicine, chief hospital administrator, and matchmaker.

step one.

cuddy walked into house’s office, hesitated, then moved back towards the door as if she were unsure. house glanced up, giving her a questioning look. “if you’re going to profess your love for me, you might as well spit it out,” house said. cuddy rolled her eyes, and instead strutted forward. “i shouldn’t be giving this to you. he was back and forth on if he should even go through with the idea.” that piqued house’s interest. “give me what?” he asked. cuddy hesitated again before reaching into her pocket and placing the tickets onto the desk. front row monster truck rally tickets. house cracked a smile and reached out for them, but cuddy pulled them back. “if wilson asks, you bullied me for the tickets. and you tell him that he’s going with you,” cuddy warned. house grinned, snatching the tickets from her hand. “as if i’d want to go with you,” house said. cuddy quickly walked out, as if she was scared of second guessing her decision. once she was around the corner, she laughed to herself. and that was how you set up a first date.

step two.

a week later, cuddy went to wilson’s office, knocking cautiously. “come in,” wilson called. cuddy cracked the door open and peeked inside. “you got a minute?” she asked. wilson nodded and she stepped into the office and sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “i need a favor,” she started, waiting for wilson to nod again. “there’s a charity event this weekend, and i was going to go on behalf of the hospital, but now the board needs me to attend a conference instead. the board wants house to go. show face since his department takes most of the budget. i need you to go too. he won’t go otherwise, and i need you to keep him in line,” cuddy said. wilson’s eyebrows scrunched together. “he’s not going to go for that and you know it.” brushing her hands down over her skirt, cuddy replied, “i know. that’s why i’m willing to offer him pick of any case he wants for the next couple weeks with no clinic hours,” cuddy said. sighing, wilson shook his head. “wouldn’t it be better for the hospital if he goes with you? he flirts with you enough that it’ll be entertainment for everyone,” wilson pointed out. cuddy hesitated, glanced down, and half shook her head. “not when he told me to my face he prefers your company over mine.” she let those words linger for a minute before looking up again. wilson was blinking rapidly, as if in shock. “it’s a 7pm on saturday. make sure he behaves,” she said, knowing wilson would do as she asked. she saw herself out of his office….

and ran right into kutner as she closed wilson’s door. “there isn’t any conferences this weekend, is there?” kutner said. cuddy squinted her eyes at him. she really wasn’t surprised that house’s new team was as sneaky as his old team. “they don’t need to know what,” she said, starting to walk away. kutner hesitated for a moment, glancing towards wilson’s office before following after her. “what’s your goal here?” he asked. cuddy scoffed, “not any of your business.” kutner jogged a couple steps ahead of her and stopped in front of her. “it could be. because if you’re trying to set them up, i can help with that,” kutner replied. freezing, cuddy darted her eyes up and down the hall before pulling kutner to a quieter hallway. “how did you know about that?” she asked. offering her a grin, kutner replied, “i’ve been trying to get them together for weeks now. but my efforts haven’t been enough. but if we combined forces…” he offered with a half smirk which mirrored house far too much. she should say no. she’d known house and wilson for longer than anyone else in this hospital. she could do this by herself. but… if she got the underlings involved, it might get house and wilson together quicker which would mean she wouldn’t have to deal with their ridiculous version of pining anymore. “fine,” she agreed, “but don’t make me regret it.” with a bow, kutner replied, “you won’t. now just to get taub and thirteen involved.” before she could say anything, kutner disappeared. yep… cuddy was already regretting it.

the next morning, cuddy found her office filled with house’s ducklings. “what’s the plan, boss?” kutner asked with a grin. luckily, cuddy had had a feeling she’d be faced with the team coming to her to scheme about ways to set wilson and house up. and she’d already come up with a great plan. “alright… this is what we’re going to do,” she said.

house glanced around the charity event, looking for cuddy. she said she’d meet him here in exchange for no clinic hours for a month. that was the only reason he was here and not out doing something more enjoyable; preferably with wilson, but wilson had said he was busy this weekend. he caught sight of the rest of his team. they were huddled in the corner of the room, whispering; flashing glances his way as if he were the target of some prank they were about to pull. knowing his luck, that’s exactly what was about to happen. he’d already decided he was going to tell cuddy he was firing them all immediately… when his eyes fell on wilson. wilson who was walking his way with two drinks in his hands. he offered one to house and house raised an eyebrow. “thought you were busy this weekend?” house asked. wilson ducked his head. “cuddy bargained with me to come in her place. said you would prefer my presence over hers.” house huffed out a sigh, glancing back over to his team. taub looked away, thirteen held his gaze, and kutner flushed and turned away. suddenly the pieces fell into place. “i think we’ve been parent trapped,” house said. wilson’s eyes snapped up to house’s. “we’re being set up? together?” he stuttered out. “that manipulative little… she’s been setting her trap for weeks,” house muttered. taking a large gulp of his drink, wilson asked, “do i even want to know?” flicking his cane against the ground, house pointed at wilson. “you didn’t buy those monster truck tickets, did you?” wilson shook his head. “she’s been playing matchmaker,” house huffed. he glanced up to wilson, who had a puzzled look on his face. “you think the team was in on it too?” wilson questioned. house glanced back over to the team, who were all deliberately ignoring them while casting furtive glances their way. “definitely.” and then wilson was moving, stepping closer into house’s space. “then let’s get even,” wilson said, dropping his head down fractionally and darting his eyes down to house’s lips before looking back up to meet house’s eyes. house laughed, placing his drink on the counter behind them. “wilson, i like the way you think.” and then house leaned in and kissed wilson. when they broke apart, house caught sight of the team staring at them in shock. looks like they hadn’t expected that. house grinned smugly to himself.

cuddy may have been winning up until that point… but house was pretty sure with that move, he’d just tied the game.

[elsaspants]

who's the doll next to elsa? is that one of the cicoconia girls?

aaaaah yes she is!! this is Naima!

(I was shy about officially Declaring Her Naima at one point but I have exclusively thought of her as Naima ever since, so how can I deny what is true to my heart?!)

Naima is incredibly strong and sweet, and firmly believes in the goodness of the future, the divine, and her loved ones.

she may come across as naïve, but that’s a misreading of her character! her optimism is, like Waymond Wang would say, strategic and necessary.

in Ciconia, she is stewarded by a French-speaking Naomi (à la Naomi Galaxia) and my most guarded blorbo, Stanisław.

[doodleclownbunny]

I've been thinking about Eddie Dear and the implications of him planting lavender in the spring update. Not the gay implications, that's obvious. I mean the implications that after such a bad Homewarming, maybe he realized he DOES do too much for others and needs to have something to spend time doing for himself. I even noticed that Eddie was actually awake delivering mail and packages before Julie and Frank in Springtime Salutations. Maybe after spring came in he decided to get into gardening and plant some lavender for himself. And yes lavender is symbolism for queerness, but it's also a herb used to treat stress. Which seems fitting for a workaholic like Eddie.

Bro

Eddie did need a break

He does constantly work himself too hard and he does put his all in when no one sees or appreciates it. So I do like that theory of him also planting it to relieve stress and actually calming down.

I mean I know I would if I were him.

Also just to ramble about Eddie Dear,

I feel like a lot of people think that he's a people pleaser or doesn't have a back bone but while I agree to an extent, I feel like he is genuinely a caring person. I feel like restraint is strength, I feel like him still being kind to others despite not gaining the same kindness in return is a real strong thing for him to do.

Thank you for sharing buddy

[baekhyunnybyun]

saw an oomf make a poll to ask if they're a kpop blog (something that I absolutely know that I am) but it made me wonder...

which fandom does my blog actually belong to? regardless of url or theme. like when you think of bex, which fandom do you think I represent the most on tumblr dot com?

[banisheed]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Axis Investigations PARTIES: Siobhan (@banisheed) & Emilio (@vengeancedemon) SUMMARY: Boobs Realperson needs help from Emilio! CONTENT WARNING: implications of child death, implications of past domestic abuse (child abuse). PREVIOUSLY: (mentioned) Siobhan Dolan and Ingeborg Endeman teamed up to kidnap and torture Rhett Tangaroa in an abandoned factory, where Siobhan joyously claimed his leg. Emilio Cortez burst on to the scene, bargaining for Rhett's life, ultimately saving him. [ part 1 & part 2 ]

Siobhan strangled someone while Double Indemnity played on his CRT TV once and so, she knew a thing or two about noirs. There was a certain style about them: long trench coats, dark glasses, curling plumes of cigarette smoke and a dame with blonde hair. Though there was no saxophone playing in the background, and her blonde wig left much to be desired, she was sure that Emilio would be none the wiser. She’d gotten the look: she had the coat, she had the hair, she practiced her French accent, her large sunglasses obscured most of her face. And, anyway, Emilio was an idiot. 

“Bonjour,” she said. The sniffles and the meek voice were intentional, though aided by the sheer volume of dust around her. Had the building always been like this? Didn’t he have the money to hire a maid by now? Siobhan straightened out her brown coat. “It is moi, Boobs Realperson…” Siobhan had always been terrible with fake names; for all the lifetimes she’d lived, she’d always insisted on using her own. “...we spoke on ze phone? Monsieur Cortez? Are you in?” She tapped her foot. Fates, she hated being French but she’d still take it over being British. Would it be too late to change her accent? 

“Seal voos play—” She rolled her eyes. “—it is so scary here and I am a…woman.” 

—

The first time he’d been seriously injured on a hunt, he’d been thirteen. It was less than a year out from Victor’s death, and grief made him sloppier than he’d ever been before. He’d had close calls before that one — moments that would have been worse if he’d ducked a heartbeat later than he had, injuries that would have lasted longer if his healing factor weren’t willing to work overtime — but at thirteen, he came the closest to death he ever had at that point in his life. He remembered thinking his mother might worry over him, and then he remembered wondering why he’d thought that at all. She hadn’t, of course; she’d chastised him for his mistake not because the idea of his death nauseated her, but because his injury had left Rosa unprotected in the remainder of the fight. When you make these stupid mistakes, it isn’t just you who suffers. You have a job to do. Why can’t you just do it? 

He’d been on another hunt less than a week later, still aching and unsteady. Cortezes didn’t let silly things like near death experiences slow them. And maybe Emilio was a blight on the family name, but he still followed that philosophy. He still had a job to do, still clung to it. He was dead. He was dead. He was dead, but couldn’t he be useful, still? 

It was less noble than that. He knew it, deep down. He didn’t want to be useful, he wanted to be distracted. He wanted to think about anything other than the stillness in his chest. He couldn’t be alive, couldn’t claw his way back to a heartbeat, but he could make it so he didn’t have to think about the absence of it. He wanted to forget, needed to. Axis had always been a good method of doing that.

So, when his phone rang, he answered it. He listened to a painfully French woman complain, and he thought, this is good. He thought, this is better. He told her to meet him at his office — the one in Worm Row, the shitty one, the only one he was planning on using now — and he hoped that whatever she brought to his desk would be interesting enough to let him forget he was dead for an hour, or maybe two.

He was in the bedroom when she arrived, sitting on a dirty mattress he no longer needed and staring up at a stained ceiling that had almost grown unfamiliar in his absence. There were new stains there, different ones. He was trying to work out which he remembered when he heard her enter, her voice calling out through the empty apartment. It was familiar; more so in person than it had been on the phone. He didn’t know who it could belong to, but… his recent experience, the case that ended with him dead in a dumpster, had him moving cautiously out to the living room. 

“It’s a fucking apartment,” he called out gruffly, irritation clinging to the words. “Don’t have to be nervous about —” He cut himself off as he entered the living room, narrowing his eyes. The wig was bad. The jacket was ugly. The accent, he was realizing, was fake. (How was he supposed to know? He’d never spoken to a French person before.) The name was… one he probably should have clocked, sure. But he’d just died, and everything felt so goddamn heavy all the time.

Still… it was a little embarrassing that it had gotten to this point. He stared at her with a sigh, rolling his eyes. “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” he ordered, fingers itching for a knife. He probably needed to be careful here; he remembered, in the van with Eve, how easily he’d been consumed by rage, how hard it was to control himself after. Control was still a fickle thing, even now. He needed to try not to lose it.

—

Siobhan waddled into the apartment, it was hard to move with all the knives she had in her coat. She didn’t want them to start clanging around, lest Emilio begin to wonder why she sounded like a coin purse. Something was…terribly warm. Under her coat, through her skin, between her ribs, her slow heart hummed. She blinked. Emilio didn’t have a dead body in the apartment, did he? How dare he keep that from her; dead bodies ought to be disclosed at the door. No matter, she was here now and she would liberate the body from Emilio’s grimy clutches. Where was it, exactly? She waddled forward, her wig tipped over. She was being led towards Emilio. She stepped forward again and again, her heels clicking. Eventually, she was facing him. He was telling her to leave. Her heart was singing. Her skin tingled. The concentration on her face broke and her lips twitched. She fell over, laughing wildly. 

Siobhan was terrible at fake names and accents and picking wigs, sure, but she’d always had a talent for finding humour in things no one wanted her to find humor in. You couldn’t be an outcast for forty years without learning to laugh a little, or a lot. She threw her head up to the ceiling, clutched her stomach and wheezed with uncontrolled amusement; she was crying. A knife clattered out of her coat and she didn’t care. It was the irony that tickled her most—an undead slayer! Fate did agree with her idea of comedy, or rather, she had always agreed with Fate’s ideas. She threw her mind into Emilio’s and laughed harder; oh, how he must hate himself! Oh, how it must feel to become the thing you hunted! She’d offer all her coat-knives to read his mind just this once. Everytime she glanced at him, her laughter was renewed.

What flavor was he? A vampire? While the funniest option, she couldn’t imagine that he’d allow that to happen and she wasn’t sure it was possible. A zombie? When had he gotten bit? Would he have let it go this far? A mare? Could he have left his dreams so unprotected? No, he didn’t look like he slept. Well, he didn't when he was alive, now he couldn’t sleep even if he wanted to. A fury? It would fit his general sad-angry demeanour. If he was an upior, would he show her how long his tongue was? She wiped her tears and drew her knees to her chest. Her wig had fallen off during their fit of laughter and so she was sure she didn’t need the accent anymore—a small mercy for them both. “Oh, you poor, poor thing,” she said, setting her sunglasses aside. He could keep those, and whatever knives fell out of her, he could call it a Death gift. She stood up and brushed herself off. 

It was true that the undead were vile, disgraceful creatures but Emilio had also been that in life. As far as Siobhan was concerned, the only thing that changed was how funny he was, and how much more useless. She snorted and covered her mouth, hoping to stop herself from descending into laughter again. She wanted to insult him; a thousand and one things to say fluttered across her mind. “I suppose you don't want to hear about my treacherous husband anymore, do you?” She wanted to tell him he was a mistake. She wanted to remind him that the thing he was now was the culmination of everything he hated. Yet, she was gathering the sense that he knew these things already. In fact, he must’ve known them better than her. After all, he was the one stuck inside his own corpse, dragging it around. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I failed you.” She hadn’t meant to say it; through the laughter and the realization that nothing she could say to him was worse than anything he was already thinking, a truth slipped out. With a banshee in town—with two, even if Regan was as much a banshee as Emilio was currently a slayer—one needn’t develop into a mockery of nature. If a slayer was a fix for an existing problem, a banshee was preventative care; or they could be, should be. If Siobhan had been there, if she’d screamed, if she'd seen it, would she really have offered Emilio a proper death? Siobhan shivered as she tried to imagine herself doing something nice for Emilio. 

“Do you want me to finish the job?” Siobhan asked, pulling out a knife. “Or have you got unfinished business?” In truth, she didn’t like killing (could it be called killing?) the undead. For a surety, they needed to go back to Death, but it wasn’t the same as taking a life. What was true—what would always be true—was that something was better than nothing. Some Emilio, no matter how putrid, was still an Emilio. He was himself, whether he liked it or not and from where she stood, it seemed he didn’t like it much. But then again, he’d always seemed miserable to her. “Your next family reunion should be fun.” 

—

Back when he’d slept, Siobhan Dolan had been a common feature in his nightmares. It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d share with anyone, least of all Siobhan herself, but in the privacy of his own mind, it wasn’t something he could deny. Siobhan had once been responsible for one of the most harrowing moments of Emilio’s life, had tortured someone he’d loved for days on end for Emilio to find and torn a promise bind from his throat to stop it. Seeing her here, in his apartment during the newest most harrowing time of his life, was not a welcome surprise. 

Her laughter made it worse, of course. It cut through him with the same painful force as the blade that had ended his life, shoved itself into his ribcage and shredded everything in his path. The pain of it wasn’t even a useful thing anymore, was it? Pain was a signal sent to the body to warn it of damage, to warn it of something wrong, and what good was that to a corpse? It was as useless as he was. Siobhan’s laughter only drove the point home.

She was on the floor now, the force of her laughter having felled her and torn away whatever flimsy pretense she’d come here with. Gone was the bad wig and the strange attempt at an accent; he wondered how much of it had been a real attempt to fool him and how much of it was something she was doing only to prove to herself that she could. For the first time since his death, Emilio wished he’d been dragged back into his body as something else. A vampire could sink teeth into her throat and drain her dry; a zombie could tear into her skin no matter what she threw to protect herself; a mare could flitter away into the astral and attack her from behind. But Emilio wouldn’t gain the strength a fury boasted until he fed, and he hadn’t done much of that. He was weaker now than he had been in life. He wondered how on earth something like that was fair.

Rage burned through him, making it difficult to concentrate on anything but. He felt the claws trying to push through his hands; it was hard to remind himself why he shouldn’t use them. All Siobhan had to do was scream, and he’d be incapacitated at the least. His left ear was still dulled from his last banshee encounter, death not enough to repair it. If she took the building down, other people would suffer, too. Emilio could excuse petty rage bringing about his own demise, but he had a harder time allowing for it to doom his neighbors. 

She talked about her husband, about the fake case she’d invented to push her way into his apartment. He wondered why she’d bothered. She could have barged in without it just as easily, could have shown up with no pretense. Was it a game to her, then? Was everything? 

And then, the strangest part yet — she said she failed him, and his fingers twitched. He’d spoken to Regan often enough to know that banshees thought death a duty that belonged to them and them alone. Emilio disliked it with Regan, but he hated it with Siobhan. “Fuck you,” he snapped harshly, the rage making his voice loud enough to echo. He used to be afraid of her; he didn’t think he was now. What more could she do to him? There was nothing worse than what had been done already.

She held a knife, and he thought about the one in the alley that had ended his life. Would it feel the same going in now as it had then? He still felt pain, despite the fact that the signals it sent were no longer necessary. Would his body remember the blade that killed him? Would it recreate the feeling? His stomach twisted into a knot, his hands clenched into fists. She talked about his next family reunion, because she didn’t know enough about him to know that he had no one to return to. He kept his eyes on the knife, which was the only thing that could grant a family reunion. “I want,” he said lowly, “for you to get the fuck out of my apartment. Or maybe I rip your throat out. Either one is fine for me.”

—

“Such anger!” Siobhan clutched her chest. “Is that it? Is that what you…” She leaned in. Being a fury had a bit of a redundant stink to it. Did he really need to shove more anger into his tiny body? “Do you want revenge?” She flipped the knife around, pointing the hilt towards him, offering it out like the morsel of food it was. “I did hurt that man, didn’t I? Your brother? What was his name…” Rhett. She could never forget it; she had his foot. And she adored his foot, really, it was a great foot. Part of her wanted to ask Emilio how he was. Part of her hoped he was doing alright—she always hoped for it, like wishing good luck upon an old friend. The people she hurt were more her friends than anyone else. Torture was the most intimate act she knew; violence was a love language. But most of the time, it was just violence. She hoped the post-torture sentimentality was one of her more charming quirks. 

“Is this not the bounds of your curse?” She continued, “what do you want? My blood? My brain? Go on.” She whistled low at him, like a dog. “Come. Rip my throat out. What are you going to use? Do you have claws? A tongue? Is there metal fused into your skin now? Magic—oh that would be dreadfully boring, say it’s not that.” 

Siobhan wasn’t afraid of pain; all her life she had endured it. When she possessed enough shame to beg, no one listened. She stopped hoping that someone would. Her life could be catalogued by scars and blood and the last place to feel sudden shyness was on the precipice of something interesting. Meaning had been stripped from her life but she knew a place where she could find it again. It was inside Emilio’s mind, running down his cold skin and sitting on the tips of his fingers. It was what he could give her. 

Siobhan wanted very simple things: bones, knives, home (never happening), appropriate worship for her attractiveness, fun. She was ravenous for fun. In any place she could find it, she hoped to pull it out roots and all. But even fun was secondary to this. “I want to hold your idea of me in my hands,” she whispered. And then she could know it too, and then she could have it. He could give it to her. Siobhan wanted a very simple thing: be told who she was. If Emilio could say it while giving her a show, it was all the better for her. 

“Go on,” she said. “Come on. For what I did to Ringo.”

—

She leaned in, and he wondered what she knew and how she knew it. He knew so little about banshees; like furies, they were a rare thing. Even Rhett had known precious little about them beyond the most basic of facts. Emilio had learned a little more thanks to Regan (who was hardly a standard, when it came to banshees) and Siobhan (who never had any intention of helping him understand more), but his knowledge remained so full of holes that what he knew far outweighed what he didn’t. Siobhan seemed to know, as soon as she entered his apartment, that he was undead. Did banshees have a sense like slayers, then? Something that alerted them to a thing that was moving, but not alive? Was theirs more specific?  Did Siobhan know exactly what he was, and how he’d become it?

He knew he’d get no straight answers from her. To Emilio, everything in this apartment was an apocalypse. To Siobhan, it was a game. This was a common theme between them, something that had been true in the warehouse where she’d tortured Rhett and in their online conversations where she frequently brought it up. 

Of course she was bringing it up again now, too. Of course she’d mention it, would drag it out of the shadows and drop it on the floor between them. Look! She seemed to boast. Look at how easily I tore your world apart. Wasn’t the boasting proof that she could do it again? He’d exchanged a bind, made her promise not to hurt Rhett again, but weren’t there other people she could go after? Was the promise he’d fought so hard for even still in place now, or had it expired when he had? Were the dead bound by things they’d promised in life? He wished, for a moment, that Rhett were here to ask. But if Rhett were here, Emilio wasn’t sure he could count on his brother not killing him for what he’d become. The undead weren’t a warden’s usual target, but Rhett had never been picky. 

The more she spoke, the more impossible it seemed to hold his anger in. It grew with every word, made itself bigger and bigger like a snowball rolling down a hill. Emilio hadn’t been good at controlling his rage when he was alive, and he was useless at it now that he was dead. Siobhan whistled, like he was a dog she could call, and the hilt of the knife was pointed towards him like an invitation. And wasn’t there something poetic about that? Stabbing Siobhan with her own knife, when it had been his blade that took his life in that alley… The thought sent a rush of something unrecognizable through him. 

Her ‘misremembering’ of Rhett’s name provided a straw big enough to break the camel’s back, and Emilio didn’t realize he was moving until his hands wrapped around the hilt of her blade. He rushed forward with a hoarse, guttural cry, fueled by the rage burning in his chest. Nothing about it looked human, but maybe that was to be expected. After all, there were no humans in this shitty apartment, were there? Only monsters.

—

As the knife plunged into the soft skin of her abdomen, Siobhan realized that the issue with the knife was that it didn’t give her any new information. A vampire could stab her just as well as a zombie which was probably as well as a mare which was certainly about the same level as a fury. Did it look like he was slurping up the vague idea of revenge? Her blood gushed out over his hand, streaming on to the floor. Well, he wasn’t one of the vampires, that was certain—but she already guessed that. Did his dramatic battle cry mean anything? Was that the rage of a fury or the rage of a sad man? Honestly, it was so hard to tell with Emilio; it looked just about the same as when he skewered poor Ingeborg with a sword. He really hadn’t changed much. 

She snapped one hand over his wrist and the other around his forearm. Her blunt nails dug in. She wanted to keep him there, looking at her, looking at what he’d done. There was always a moment of painlessness while the brain was catching up to the body. Siobhan could count the seconds to the exact moment her stomach would burn up and her legs would buckle. She’d been stabbed more times than Emilio had ever stabbed people, she guessed. She had about ten seconds before her need for medical care became too obvious. The knife was a terrible idea; what idiot thought the knife was a good idea? Ten seconds. “How does it feel? Does it feel good? Do you feel better? Describe it to me.” 

She stumbled back, clutching the knife. Pain rammed into her, blossoming from her stomach. It wasn’t the pain she minded. Fates, there was so much blood. “Ha, I’m going to be inside your floorboards forever now.” Her back hit a wall and she laughed. The knife was small, the coat caught most of it, and it didn’t feel like he hit any of her jumbled organs, but she didn’t feel great. It was odd how stabbing had that effect. It was odd that some piece of her mind really believed she’d get a crumb of his catharsis. He was being so selfish about it. “I could scream,” she said, but she wasn’t going to. There was a terrible truth about love, it existed like a cockroach. Rhett loved him so dearly, and where there was one, there were more. So many loves spun out from his pathetic body, inside his pathetic life. She wanted to know them desperately. She reached out, grasping air; she could take them, they could be hers. 

Her hand dropped. To Emilio, she was evil. The stabbing and that impassioned cry of rage made it all very clear. She had what she wanted to know and yet, all she could think about was fighting it, simply because it was there. Why was it that nothing ever seemed to be enough for her? “I know it’s disgusting,” she said, “what you’ve become. I know how you hunters think, it’s all monsters and innocents to you. But there are no monsters, Emilio. There never have been. Life is predictable and boring and undeath is just the same…” She trailed off, trying to find the door. Her hands were shaking. “How does it feel?” she asked again. 

—

The knife sunk in, up to the hilt. Blood splurted out, got on her blouse, on his hands, and somehow, he thought it would look different. Somehow, when he’d imagined Siobhan bleeding — and he had imagined it, hadn’t he? So many times, in so many different ways now — he’d pictured her blood as something so completely unlike his own. Black, like a vampire’s or glittery, like a mare’s. But it was red. Like Rhett’s in that factory, flaky and half-dried. Like Flora’s on the floor of his living room, seeping into the floor. Like his in that alley, spilling out so quickly that his vision was going black around the edges before he realized he was losing it at all. Siobhan’s blood was red; he wondered if it was supposed to be.

It took him a moment to recognize that the color of her blood wasn’t the only unexpected result of the ordeal because normally, this felt different. Normally, Emilio sunk a blade into someone looking for solace and found emptiness instead, found nothing but more grief and anger swirling around in his chest with the already substantial amount of it that lived there full time. It never felt the way he wanted it to, never felt better. 

He still wasn’t sure it felt better now, but it felt… different. Felt… good, maybe. It sent a surge of something through him, felt like a gust of wind on a hot day cooling his sweaty form. He swore his fingers were tingling with it, though Siobhan’s grip on his arm prevented him from pulling back to check them for changes. There was a hollow in his stomach that felt a little fuller now, he thought; an emptiness that still existed, but wasn’t quite as vast. 

How does it feel, Siobhan asked, does it feel good? And it did. Fuck, it did. It took him a moment to realize why, took him a moment to understand it. Siobhan had wronged him, and he’d fought back. This wasn’t a temper tantrum, wasn’t an angry man lashing out against something bigger than himself and making no difference at all, wasn’t screaming into a void. This was a meal. 

She stumbled back, and he watched her. Her back hit the wall behind her, and he clenched and unclenched his fists as if it was an experiment, as if he was figuring them out. Would he be stronger now? How much? For how long? He couldn’t unsheathe his claws in front of her without giving away more than he wanted to, so he shoved his hands into his pockets instead. The burst of energy that had come with the rage of the conversation was faltering now, like a brief rush of adrenaline that was difficult to hold for long. Numbness seeped back in. Siobhan threatened to scream, and he nodded. “So scream.” She would have done it already, if she were going to. He figured they both knew that.

She talked a lot, for someone who’d just been stabbed. He hated that he could relate, hated that he was just as mouthy when he was in pain, hated having anything in common with her at all. He hated it, too, that her assessment of him was right. It was disgusting, this thing he’d turned into. He’d spent his entire goddamn life knowing it. 

He let out a laugh, sharp as the knife, when she continued. There are no monsters, said the monster bleeding on the floor to the monster who’d put her there. There never have been. 

“You’re wrong,” he told her. “In here, there are only monsters.” But that wasn’t all she said. There was that question again, hanging pretty above his head. How does it feel? A good man would say it was harrowing. A hunter would say it was necessary. Emilio, when his heart was still beating, would have said it was empty. But he was none of those things now, was he? He’d never been a good man, and he could no longer claim the title of hunter. His heart no longer beat, and he wasn’t even sure he felt like Emilio now. So how did it feel? What would the monster say? “It feels pretty goddamn good.”

—

Siobhan slid across the wall, groping wildly. The door was here somewhere. Wasn’t the door over here? She croaked and sputtered. Standing in front of her was the man that had turned Ingeborg into a kebab, but she couldn’t find the other one. She was waiting for the man who cried, the man that begged, the man that would’ve thrown his life aside for a man who didn’t deserve it. The man whose desperation gave her a promise. The man who had loved so strongly that it was still Rhett and Emilio that came to her mind when she heard that cursed 4-letter word. Did Emilio seem flushed? Did he seem filled? Or was it that she’d finally reached the stage of being stabbed when her vision decided it wanted to swim?  

“Not monsters,” she said. “Just a sad man and a…” She swallowed back her blood. “...sexy woman.” But he seemed so sure of what he was saying, that it felt good to him. Where was he? Where was the Emilio that Rhett had begged for? The one he swore was “good”? She found the door at last, her bloody hand slipping off the handle, again and again as it pinged, useless. “How lovely for you. Feeling generous with that ‘good’ feeling?” Even if he could transfer it to her, he probably wouldn’t. The door’s handle pinged again as she failed to find her grip.

“Was Rhett a monster too? Is that why you begged for him? You loved him.” Despite what he was, despite what he had done. She didn’t understand it then and she understood it less now, with this man staring at her. “Where is he?” She swallowed. “That… That Emilio. You said… You said…” Siobhan replayed the scene. Rhett was his brother, he said. He loved him, he said. It didn’t matter why, there was no why, he said. He wasn’t good, Rhett wasn’t good, she wasn’t good, Ingeborg wasn’t good, he said. Rhett said Emilio was good, though. Siobhan certainly thought Ingeborg was good, despite everything, though she’d never say it to her face. “Does it still feel good?” Finally, the door swung open and the sudden pull tossed Siobhan’s body against the frame. 

She was watching him, she was still waiting to see it. “Still?” she asked in a whisper. There was always that moment after, when the victim started to look like what they were: a life, a person. When all that was left were the actions, and all of one’s past unfurling to join the present. One person could look so much like someone else; one drop of blood could so easily transform into the memory of another. It was the inevitable humanity. Siobhan had learned to work despite it. “You begged for him.”

—

She was sliding, was flopping, was moving with none of the grace she usually boasted, and Emilio wondered if he’d looked like this. Everyone wanted to imagine their final moments as a noble thing, wanted to believe they’d face it valiantly and bravely with their chins held up high, but no one ever really did. In the end, when death came knocking, all anyone ever was was afraid. Emilio had been, in that alley. He’d thought it so strange at the time, thought it preposterous. He’d spent years chasing death, longing for it, and when it came for him, it hadn’t come with relief. It hadn’t welcomed him with open arms, hadn’t embraced him and laid him down to rest. It chewed him up and spat him out as something else, something worse. 

He wondered if it would treat Siobhan more kindly. She loved it, didn’t she? She talked about death like it was a god, like it sat at the head of every table and bowed everyone’s heads with a stern look. If he took her knife and slit her throat, would she die smiling? Or would she, like he had, learn that death was so much crueller than you’d imagined it would be? 

She insisted, again, that there were no monsters. He stared down at the blood seeping into the floorboards, felt the stickiness on his hands, and remembered Rhett on the floor of that factory, his leg already starting to rot a few feet away from his body. If that wasn’t a monster, what was? The things he killed in the woods, the ones that didn’t look human anymore? Things like spawn, or ghouls, or wights that only ever wanted to eat? What Siobhan had done to Rhett wasn’t about earning a meal; what Emilio had done here had fed him only by coincidence. If this didn’t make them monsters, then the word had no meaning at all. 

Was Rhett a monster too, she asked, and he thought yes. He remembered every terrible thing his brother had done, remembered loving him in spite of them. He thought of Eve, calling him her friend in the darkness of her van even as he snapped at her. He thought of Teddy, who he knew would love him just as much now as they had when his heart beat if only he would let them. And he thought about how he had no intention of holding himself back from snapping at Eve. He had no intention of letting Teddy love him, still. He wondered if that made him better or worse. 

Was a monster that knew it was a monster better than the one that didn’t? Was the beast with sharp teeth and deadly claws that called itself what it was more forgivable than the one that tortured and hurt while insisting that monsters were things of fairytales? How much did it matter that he accepted the definition if he spelled it out with blood, anyway? 

“He died,” he replied blankly, thinking again of that alley, of the knife in his chest, of the way death wasn’t an old friend but a mouth full of teeth that hadn’t bothered to swallow its meal. It was jarring, saying it aloud. He died. The Emilio from that factory, the one that begged for his brother’s life and would have fallen on the sword to save it, had died bloody and alone, with no one to plead for him. 

The surge of the brief feeding was fading now, the morsel too small to provide a full meal. If he finished the job and killed her now, would it be better? Would the feeling last longer, would he be stronger? Or would the only change be that the monster was well-fed for a moment instead of starving? A hungry monster was dangerous, but was one with a full stomach any better?

He could have done it, he thought. He could have taken the knife and shoved it in her throat, and maybe she would have screamed and brought the building down around them both, but maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe she would have screamed and killed him, and maybe the resulting explosives that came with a fury’s demise would have taken her out, too. It didn’t feel good anymore, he thought; it didn’t feel bad, either. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to.

“Would anyone beg for you?” He asked it slowly, watching as she crawled towards the door. Would it change his mind if they did? If someone showed up now, if they pleaded for Siobhan the way Emilio had pleaded for Rhett, would the guilt seep in? Or would he still feel what he felt now — this deep, endless chasm of nothing? 

He followed her towards the door, hands still shoved into his pockets. Maybe he’d kill her, still. Maybe it would make him feel better, make him feel something. Maybe the monster that felt anything at all was better than the monster that was empty. 

—

Siobhan couldn’t find him. Her eyes darted between his, snapped to his feet, watching his hands stuffed into his pockets. She clutched the knife in her stomach, comforted by its familiar hilt. She wasn’t expecting remorse; something like that would require Emilio to like her and she was under no delusions that he did. She wasn’t expecting sympathy; something like that would require her to be sympathetic, and it was much harder to be delusional about that. She had stood where Emilio was hundreds of times before. She liked to watch them. She liked to be standing where he was. Always, the spear of emotion found her in the end—for just a moment, for a minute or for days. It wasn’t remorse and it wasn’t sympathy but it was some nameless swirling pit inside of her. It was something. There was only one person she’d never seen hold that something but her mother was not someone she wanted to think about. 

Siobhan laughed. “Don’t be so dramatic.” She leaned against the wall and coughed, a stab (ha) of pain surged through her. “It didn’t die. You can’t—it’s still there.” She swallowed. She still had the sensitive child, the arrogant teen, the impulsive adult. She was still the girl that buried moths and drew wedding dresses into the margins of Austen. She was still the adolescent with the raw voice and the knife’s determination: steeled and sharp and carved into a line. She was still the woman who’d choked on dirt as her mother pulled her wings out. All of them there, screaming at her all of the time, inside her head. There was always something. 

What did you become if there was nothing? 

“I still see you holding him. They always—they always say they have family. Kids. They always beg for themselves. But I’d never seen someone… for someone else. For someone like him. For you.” Siobhan wasn’t afraid of Death; how could someone like her be? And yet, like everyone she had killed, she didn’t want to die. She limped away from him. She didn’t walk into his filthy apartment thinking he could kill her but she was certainly leaving it with that impression. No, no one would beg for her, she’d known it for more years than Emilio had been alive. Foolishly, she always seemed to hope that someone would. Even the twin scars down her back hadn’t worn out that optimism. 

“Why…” She smiled. “You’d beg for me, wouldn’t you? The knife is practically a marriage proposal. I don’t accept, by the way.” She swallowed and puffed her chest out, tensing against the pain. She sucked air into her lungs and turned to face him. “You’re a little too dead for me.” 

The scream was a weak one, there wasn’t much left inside of her to burst pipes or pop windows. She wanted a moment to limp down the hall and she’d always been skilled at tight, focused shrieks anyway; she could thank her mother for that, at least. She didn’t turn around to see if it’d worked. She pushed down the hall, out of Emilio’s path and away from his sight. Her nightmares would thank him for the fuel: his slow, steady walk; his hunched body; his blank face. She heaved, she winced and lurched around. She crashed into walls and groaned and dragged herself across gravel and dirt. She felt terrible. She felt hollowed out and reassembled. She felt foolish. 

Most of all, she felt sorry for the man who begged for his brother. 

—

Her eyes kept darting over him, and he wondered what she saw there. It had been years since he’d felt comfortable looking at his own reflection, but he’d avoided mirrors with a desperate vigor since waking up in the backseat of Eve’s van. Did he look different now? He thought, inevitably, of his daughter. He thought of his wife, of his mother and his siblings. He thought about how, even if you’d washed the blood from their corpses, they wouldn’t have looked like themselves. When a person died, wasn’t there something that left them? Not just the animated features of life dancing across their face, but something deeper. 

No corpse ever looked exactly like the person who had once inhabited it. So what did Emilio look like, now? What tiny differences was Siobhan cataloging, what small changes could she notice? He felt as exposed now as he had in that body bag, like a thing on display. She was the one with the knife sticking out of her gut, but Emilio didn’t feel much like the person in control anymore.

She insisted that it wasn’t gone, that version of him that had used this body before the knife tore through his chest. She sounded so sure of herself, because didn’t she always? There was a part of him that wanted to believe her, a part of him that yearned for it to be the truth. He could still be him, even without a heartbeat. He could still be him, even if he was dead. But that feeling in his chest, the quiet hunger that had been awoken by the smallest hint of a meal, was so loud. The monster didn’t leave much room behind for the man. It was always going to be one or the other. 

Had it really rattled her so much, the fact that he loved his brother? Was it really something that sat with her, still? If she were anyone else, some part of him might feel sorry for her. If something as simple as Emilio not wanting Rhett to die had tilted her world so fully on its axis, it must have meant that love was a hard thing for her to come by. But he could feel no sympathy for the monster that had haunted so many of his nightmares, could muster no grief for someone he’d hated so completely. Siobhan was unloved, and Emilio told himself it was because she’d deserved to be. He told himself that there were people who hadn’t earned any form of affection.

He told himself that monsters were unlovable, because wasn’t that easier than facing the people who loved him now? Wasn’t it better to pretend that he wasn’t capable of receiving that love? It would hurt less. He thought it would hurt less.

“I would never beg for you,” he said lowly, half-offended that she’d suggested it. He wanted to take it further, wanted to insist that he’d never beg for a monster, but hadn’t he begged for Rhett? Didn’t he love his brother, even now? He pushed the thought away, focused on this instead. It was easier, wasn’t it? Keeping the violence at the forefront of his mind, ignoring all the things that lurked behind it, that was easier. It had always been the thing he understood best. 

She said he was dead, and she was right, but he wanted to flinch anyway. He wanted to close his eyes to it, wanted to pretend. He wanted to turn it around and taunt her, wanted to say, you will be, too, wanted to make it true as much as he didn’t. He wanted to do a lot of things, but she screamed and he did none of them. His hands went to his ears, a curse clattered against his teeth. He ducked his head away from the sound and, by the time his ears had stopped ringing and he looked back up again, she was gone.

He could have gone after her. He wasn’t very fast, but she was probably a lot slower now. He could follow the trail of blood to find her, could track her down without much effort and finish what he’d started, but he stood in the living room instead, staring at the bloody floor. His hands dropped from his ears, his claws resheathing. He wondered, somewhat absently, if that desperate screech to ensure her escape counted as a banshee screaming for him. 

There were two monsters in his apartment, and now one. There were two monsters in his apartment, and now a lone corpse and a bloodstained floor. He stared at the red until his vision swam, watched it twist itself into imagined shapes. There was a monster in his apartment, still. It wouldn’t leave until he did.

Turning away from the bloodstained floor, he made his way back to the bedroom. The apartment door stood open behind him, but it felt like too much effort to close it, felt like too much effort to do anything. It was hard to worry that someone might come inside with poor intentions, hard to feel concerned that anyone might hurt him. Whatever damage there was to do had been done already, with a knife in a dark alley. Eventually, he’d probably face some kind of consequences for the blood on the floor for the same reason the open door didn’t bother him now.

Monsters, he knew, were hard things to kill. 

[incorrectgallaghergirlsquotes]

Do you think Bex, Cam or Macey or Zach will ever teach at the Gallagher academy in the future?

Honestly I could see all of them teaching there at some point. Coming in to teach coveops or another class for a semester or a year could be fun for Bex or Macey. I do think Cammie eventually takes her mom’s position as headmistress. And it is my personal headcanon that, rather than have Zach just be the Gallagher coveops teacher, I think he becomes headmaster of Blackthorne.

[superior-brain]

Black East Indian Duck, mallard, Cayuga duck...

ok I will review the ducks actually these pictures are alright

MALLARD: standard duck, good colors, painfully over-advertised. 2/5

CAYUGA: WHAT. WAS ANYONE GOING TO TELL ME THERE WAS A MYTHICALLY LUSTROUS WATERFOWL????? WHAT??

BLACK EAST INDIAN DUCK: WHAT!!!! THEY GET EVEN SHINER???? THEY CANT DO THIS

I HATE ALL OF YOU WHAT THE ENTIRE HELL

[disastersareajoy]

Oh, I got your trademark! A moot who can actually match my freak, beat for beat, without breaking a sweat. When I think of you, I think of you coming into my ask box to talk nasty smut, or fwb adventures, or any number of nasty things and I loooove and adore it! A truly awesome person, I fucking love whenever you show up because I KNOW you got me.

BEX, MY SHAYLAAAA 😭😭

The way this was literally beat for beat what I was gonna say for your trademark. Whenever I think of you it's all "now that's a mf that can match my freak."

This is exactly what I needed to read today and I am so endlessly grateful to get to be a moot that matches your freak, it's very fun to talk nasty smut or irl freaky adventures with you <3

[babybluebex]

I'm back in your inbox with more headcannons but this time I'm specifically talking about favorites.

Erik

Erik's favorite color is red, if anyone asks, it matches his aesthetic, his room, the tattoo shop. But every birthday present he gets is suspiciously teal (Crayola koala tree) and yellow (crayola dandelion).

Erik’s favorite movie is Click. He’s typically a horror and thriller movie guy, and sure, click is technically a comedy but ‘seriously, this fucker speeds through his life with a fuckin’ TV remote. He misses everything. That’s some fucked up shit’.

A lot of his music taste came from Howard, so it’s not a surprise that his favorite song isn’t from some obscure thrash or death metal band—though he likes to claim that whenever Bobby asks—but Don’t Fear The Reaper. Honorable mention: Beautiful Boy.

Alex (Wright)

Alex doesn’t have a favorite color. Not in a pompous ‘I’m unique because I love all colors’ way, but more so in a ‘I can’t pick because I can’t match for shit’ way. He tells people it’s green though. No specific shade, just the vague idea of green. Jennifer pressed him one time and he panicked, blurted out vermillion…which is red, as Jennifer pointed out.

A horror snob through and through, but his answer varies. In class, it’s The Exorcist, with Trevor and Jared, it’s American Psycho. He doesn’t fail to see how it’s a commentary on toxic masculinity with queer undertones, he just likes being able to quote a movie with his more popular friends. When he’s alone though? It’s something weird and lesser known, like May. (Which is really good if you like weird girl horror, i recommend!!)

Despite being a secret Swiftie, Alex finds his favorite song is Get It Up by MSI. He can’t relate to it, he’s never had the chance to even TRY to get it up, but at his core, Alex is kind of a douche. Honorable mention: Shots by LMFAO. I mean, we saw how he acted at that party.

Seth

His favorite color is black. He thinks it makes him edgy and different while simultaneously acknowledging that it’s the most stereotypical answer he could give. Besides, he likes that it matches with everything and can hide whatever he spills on himself.

Fantastic Mr. Fox. He never elaborates on why, nor does he keep the conversation going long enough for it to be explained naturally. But he has a soft spot for stop motion. Coraline, Fantastic Mr. Fox, the original King Kong and Godzilla. He’s tried it out himself, tediously moving amateurish clay and paper dolls in his room at 3 AM on a school night. He likes to think he’ll finish his short film one day, but everytime he goes to do it, his doubt and fear of disappointment weighs on him.

He is emo. Actual dorky emo. Like…religiously watches Crank that Frank and Dan and Phil. He likes the emo trinity, MCR is definitely his favorite, he finds Panic! too poppy after Too Weird To Live, Too Rare To Die, and he just never really got into FOB. His favorite MCR song is Helena, but overall, he’s really fond of EDM. Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites especially.

Tryst

Tryst is the type of guy to say sparkles are his favorite color and genuinely mean it. But if he really had to pick a color, it would be blue. Not like the sky, or the ocean, or anything of the sort. Like his daughter’s eyes, eyes he dreams about, eyes he sees looking back at him in his mirror.

Tryst doesn’t exactly have the attention span to watch a movie. Nor does he have the time to do so in his adult life. However, he does hold a very special place in his heart for Cinderella. He enjoys a good rags to riches, and he wasn’t ever told that princesses were for girls as a child. It’s something he appreciates about his mother, how accepting she is of his quirks, and letting him sing and dance around in Cinderella’s dress as a child was a precursor to that.

He can’t pick a favorite song, he finds something to love about all music. The beat in hip hop, the wordplay in rap, the catchiness in pop, the bass in rock. He’s not a picky guy. But when he’s alone in his car, sitting there trying to steel himself after another briefly lived, emotionally charged visit with his baby, he finds himself humming Somewhere Over The Rainbow. Like the duck plushy, it was dear to him as a child. His mother would sing it to him during storms, him curled in her lap with his hands over his ears as she rocked him. It was a comfort, a childhood song now a reminder of who he was as a child; it’s something he wants his daughter to have too, and more so, a comfort to his adult self. He wasn’t scared of storms anymore, he didn’t need to sing about birds flying and lemon drops when he heard thunder. But he was scared of never being in his girl’s life, and he sure as hell seems to hum it an awful lot when he hears his baby mama tell him that he can’t hold his little girl.

This is really long sorry bex !! But here’s the crayola colors I meant in Erik’s 😭😭

devin!!! always a pleasure to see you in my inbox! :)

all of these are insanely accurate but i wanna highlight a few specific ones that sparked thoughts:

re: erik's favorite color, he follows the dandelion crayola girl on instagram and thinks she's cool

erik is typically the go-to aux guy for family events bc he has a knack for creating very specific and specialized playlists and Curating A Vibe (as charlie said once), but once EVERY family event it does not matter what's going on, you're gonna hear don't fear the reaper

and howard and erik always laugh and make the exact same joke "we need more cowbell!!!" (please tell me everyone gets this joke and that i don't need to explain more cowbell) and it was funny the first few times but now whenever they do it, they're met with a chorus of groans from the family around them

i just love the thought that howard and erik are so incredibly loving and close

i love the idea that alex likes obscure weird horror movies bc of course he does (i mean he DOES have a tourist trap poster up in the dorm room, can't get much weirder and more obscure than fuckin tourist trap) and, roping in your comment about how alex is a little bit of a douche at all times, you would tell him you've never seen a certain movie and he sorta scoffs "yeah it's really underground, i wasn't expecting for you to know what it is"

(also alex as a closet swiftie, he likes the speak now era for the like sorta pop punk sound that album had, like better than revenge, haunted, the story of us, etc)(and he geeked when SNTV came out and electric touch has fuckin fall out boy on it, he enjoyed that immensely)(car karaoke with alex where you sing taylor's part and he gets INTO patrick stump's part, fist in front of his mouth like a microphone and all)

seth and the all-black outfits, YES, but his exception is that he paints his nails whatever color you ask for him to, even if its like purple or whatever — whatever to make his girl happy

seth being a YEEMO is so funny to me bc i was too (if only the tumblr page i had when i was in middle school/early high school still existed bc i was "smol bean"ing all over that damn blog jfc) and i would dare say that yeemo seth HAD a tumblr blog and STILL has one but doesn't post that sorta shit anymore and it's just his like photography account now (his username is still lordofdeath tho)

tryst's favorite color is sparkles: insanely accurate. sometimes he'll ask you to put some glitter on his face for certain raves and he always asks for the like chunky silver glitter on his cheeks

and tryst being excited to share cinderella with his little girl and she LOVES IT bc i don't wanna think ab the sadness of his baby mama not letting him see her and i wanna exist in a world where he gets to see his daughter

rocking her to sleep at night in his arms and he's softly singing somewhere over the rainbow to his sleeping little girl, not even really singing, that sorta whisper singing where you just don't try to hit any notes and only vaguely follow the tune, swiping at her little button nose with his pinkie and swearing to himself that someday he's gonna be good enough for her to take her away from what he lives in and give her everything he wishes he could and be the father to her that he so desperately wishes he could be

me thinking too hard ab tryst

[thedarkestgreys]

for the hundred assorted prompts:

59

59. A fresh manicure and bruised knuckles

💅🏻🥊💋💅🏻🥊💋💅🏻🥊💋💅🏻🥊💋 💅🏻🥊💋

Fezco’s pretty sure the last time he found a rager actually enjoyable - with the exception of the night he beat Nate Jacobs ugly ass mug in - was back when he was sixteen, nearly seventeen. He’d only been selling at parties for maybe three months, and not hittin’ ‘em up every weekend at that point ‘cause he didn’t have the supply to meet the demand an’ hated leavin’ Ash home alone for more than a few hours at a time.

It was the first time he met Rue - a scrawny fourteen year old with tight braids who snuck into a high school party a few weeks before freshman year started. She was looking for weed, and someone sent her his way. He took pity on the kid, instantly knowing she’d never smoked before, and offered to teach her how. He’d ended up flying in the process, more cross faded than he’d ever been in his life, laughing his ass off with this weirdly manic teenage girl he barely knew in the back room of some rich asshole's house.

But nah, getting high as a motherfuckin’ kite wasn’t the stand out moment for him. That shit belongs solely to none other than Lexi Howard herself, Rue’s faithful best friend who followed her to that party like a puppy and got ditched in the crowd in favor of Rue chasing her high. It mighta been the first time that shit happened, but it sure as fuck wasn’t the last.

The five foot sumn brunette had hunted them down in the back room, all self righteous indignation as she stood with her fists on her hips and berated Rue for running off without her and smoking weed with, direct quote here, “some druggie.” Deep in his high Fezco mighta been, but part of him kinda wanted the pretty girl to turn her anger on him. Despite the braces adorning her teeth and the impeccably white Keds on her feet, he could tell Lexi Howard (whose name he’d learn months later) was a force to be reckoned with and the dumb, horny teenage boy part of his brain really wanted to see if she was all bark and no bite.

Several long years and incredibly stupid choices later, he’s kinda regretting that. ‘Cause at least when Lexi was givin’ Rue the third degree, she was too afraid to use cuss words out loud. Seventeen year old Lexi has a much more colorful vocabulary.

“Goddamnit Fezco,” Lexi half shouts, eyes blazing as her hair swings around her shoulders. “Who the fuck do you think you are? I know you have a temper but Jesus Christ, you cannot just start swinging on every fucking guy who shows the tiniest bit of interest in me because you’re such a fucking masochist that you won’t date me yourself!”

“Ain’t like that Lex.”

They’re stuffed into a too small bathroom in some fuckin’ pool house, Lexi having half dragged him in here to clean him up (and yell at him apparently) after the dude he traded blows with was pulled into the main house by his friends.

Lexi scoffs, looking through cabinets for a first aid kit. “Oh okay. Then tell me what it is like Fezco. Because you cannot keep doing this fucking shit to me. This is the second time you’ve gotten into it at a party with the guy I’m attending it with, and for the life of me I cannot figure any other common denominator beside myself.”

He huffs roughly through his nose, disgruntled at the whole thing. It ain’t his fault Lexi has shit taste in dudes an’ someone’s gotta teach ‘em how to be respectful. Finally Lexi locates the first aid kit, pulling the white box out from a cabinet before placing it on the ledge of the sink. The thing is a little dusty but thankfully pretty well stocked, which is good considering Fez has split no less than three knuckles on his left hand and all four on his right.

Quietly Lexi gets to work, opening up antiseptic wipes and arranging her supplies of bandages and tape. In all the months that their friendship had teetered on the line of sumn more, he can’t recall her ever cleaning him up after a fight or when a deal went south and he needed to use his fists to fight his way out. Maybe she had watched him? But nah, that ain’t right either - he was careful ‘but when he let her come around back then and fresh outta collecting wasn’t one of ‘em times.

Distantly he remembers her tellin’ him about her pops being scrappy. But shit, she woulda just been a kid when Gus was around.

A soft hand sporting a fresh manicure (he can tell by the longer than normal length - it had Maddy Perez’s handiwork written all over it) tugs at his own bruised and beaten fingers. Reluctantly (only sorta) Fezco lets Lexi get to work, cleaning off the drying blood as she throws used wipes in the bin.

“I don’t understand,” she finally says. He can hear the frustration in her voice. “After you guys got raided and you missed the play, you told me I had you all wrong. That you just wanted to be my friend and you were sorry if I misunderstood your intentions.”

In his line of work, Fezco’s had to lie. A lot. And he’s fucking good at it too. But that lie? By far the biggest one he’s ever told.

“I did,” he gruffs, wincing as one of the knuckles begins to weep more blood as Lexi cleans it.

“Then why the fuck do you keep punching my dates?” Lexi asks, getting straight to the point. “Because when you said we could only be friends I was fine with that. I didn’t like it, but I did it anyway because I’d rather be your friend than your nothing.”

It was the selfless thing to do. Let the girl go so she didn’t get caught up in his shit. ‘Cept Lexi is still caught in his whirlwind ‘cause he ain’t that selfless, ya know? Selfishly asking to be her friend while harboring the secret that he’s definitely, most certainly in love with her.

“C’mon now Lex,” Fez murmurs, stepping just a touch closer, invading her space ‘cause he’s an asshole and maybe a lil bit a masochist like she said. “I ain’t ‘bout to let some guy talk all disrespectful ‘bout you within hearin’ distance of me. Not what friends do.”

Lexi levels him with a look. “You didn’t even tell me what Clinton said. Just called him a punk ass bitch and started swinging on him.”

“Jesus Lexi,” Fezco groans, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. He’d wipe a hand down his face if he could bend his fingers right now. “Overheard this dude talkin’ ‘bout how he was gonna fuck the virgin outta you tonight. You happy?”

“Maybe I wanted him to do that,” Lexi snaps bitterly, causing him to drop his head back to look at her instantly. “Maybe I picked this guy to come here with tonight with the sole intention of letting him fuck the virgin out of me in the backseat of his car. And you ruined it by punching him in the fucking face!”

Shocked, Fezco pulls his tender hand away from the girl. “You kiddin’ me right now baby? Cause this shit ain’t funny, forreal.”

They both flinch at the pet name - he’s never used it before and right now seems like bad timing.

“No, what isn’t funny is you thinking you have some say over who I do or do not fuck when the only person I’ve ever really wanted to fuck is you, you big fucking dummy!” Lexi cries, throwing her hands into the air in frustration.

Honestly, she prolly has more to say, but Fezco doesn’t give her a chance to articulate none of it because the moment the words leave her mouth he’s on her like a dog in heat. His hands fuckin’ ache but it all melts away the moment he threads his fingers through Lexi’s hair, tugging her forward at the base of her skull as he crashes his mouth down on hers. It takes Lexi a second to catch up, but when she does she’s clutching his shoulders, dragging him closer as he wraps his hands around her thighs and lifting her up so her ass can perch on the too small bathroom sink.

Fezco touches Lexi everywhere. Clutching her thighs and skimming under her blouse, finding the hot skin of her midriff as Lexi’s own fingers explore his scalp and beard, pulling a long moan from the back of his throat. They’re breathing hard yet they can’t seem to stop kissing, tongues sweeping into each other's mouths, teeth nipping at lips and necks.

It’s so fuckin’ good that Fezco could kick himself for denying them both this for so long.

“Come home with me,” he half pants, half begs when they finally break apart. “I’ll give you a bed. Don’t needa fuck some dude in his car, I’ll make that shit so good it’ll ruin you for anyone else, swear to God. I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want baby, s’long as you come home with me.”

Breathing hard, Lexi rests her forehead against his, grinning wildly. “I’ll settle for having you.”

[babyboywilson]

cas slips over on black ice and dean has to help him up. and slips too. and falls on top of cas.

dean tried to stop it happening, he really did. “cas, don’t. you’ll slip,” dean had warned, trying desperately to stop cas from getting hurt. but cas ignored him with a ‘angels don’t slip, dean’ thrown over his shoulder as he walked out onto the black ice; casual and unfazed as if nothing in this world was a threat to him. the first few seconds, dean was sure cas was going to completely wipe out and land smack on his ass. the following few seconds dean had to admit he was impressed as cas easily stepped across the black ice as if there was no risk or danger involved.

BAM.

it happened so fast dean had barely blinked before cas slipped and face planted on the black ice. he moved in quick, carefully picking and stepping over the ice to get to cas. “I told you not to walk out onto the ice,” dean said, walking the last few steps towards the fallen angel. “shut up,” cas muttered, accepting the hand dean held out for cas. except the second dean’s fingers wrapped around cas’, his foot slipped and he tumbled down down down. but instead of landing on cold ice, there was a muffled oomph as dean fell on top of cas. “my hero,” cas grumbled from underneath dean. “shut up,” dean echoed cas’ earlier words, leaning in close and ghosting his lips against cas’.

[doodle-do-wop]

the dizznne triplets mayhaps?? (including Rex with Henry the jackalope if possible)

- @the-magic-school-bus

Dizznee triplets mayyes

in order from left to right

Lex, Rex, Henry the Jackalope, and Bex

[erosmutt]

Kiss me rn

yes sir !!!!!!! mwah mwah