leerentouls

[leerentouls]

the good life

A brief snapeshot of Angel's life on Sanctuary.

i just wanted to write something and i have ideas but ough... writing's hard 3 and also im sick rn. rip. also! shocker, but i'm writing during the day...??!?!?!?! usually it's at like. 3 in the morning LOL also shoutout to MoodiestMags love the Rise to Grace series o7 <3 cw for mention of suicide

there's some stuff i wanted to mention in this ficlet - like the difference/similarity between Lilith + Angel wrt eridium addiction, and Moxxi and/or Roland at all (or a bit more) - but alas :'3 maybe in another ficlet or so

"Hey Angel, pass me that wrench?"

"Sure."

Angel's half-there in the moment, delving deep into code for additional defences for Sanctuary, but she still grabs the tool Gaige asks for and waves it in the other girl's direction.

"Thanks."

"Yep."

Six months and still Angel doesn't feel totally comfortable here. Mostly, but then, occasionally, she'd catch a glimpse of someone looking at her. Hyperion's Siren, she'd heard from one of the residents, and she'd never wanted to rid herself of her own face as much as she did then. She understands it, and it was more out of surprise then condemnation, but...

Then there was Lilith. And Mordecai and Brick. And Tiny Tina. And- to be honest... everyone. Everyone. Every Vault Hunter, every resident, everyone who knew of Handsome Jack-

But it's not like they go out of their way to make her feel unwelcome. Anymore.

Angel backs out of the code, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. Progress has been made, she reminds herself; people don't quite regard her with such revulsion or contempt anymore (but they remember), and people talk to her, whether resident or Crimson Raider.

(She almost wishes Tim was here. She feels bad about that. She could fix it, if she just talks about it.)

DT beeps, and Angel hears Gaige shift out from where she was fixing up. She knows what's next; it's familiar now.

"You OK, Angel?"

"Yeah," she replies, rote. "Overthinking. You know."

She flinches when Gaige reaches out to rub her shoulder in comfort. A flinch, or trying to shrug her off, Angel could call it either-or, and for whatever reason: her father's ghost hangs over her shoulder like when he would try to calm or restrain her, and that's why she's flinching or rejecting this comfort, or perhaps because she doesn't deserve it, at least not yet. It's been a hard and steep hill to climb in such a short time.

Gaige isn't to be deterred, so wraps an arm around Angel's shoulders fully, pulling her into an awkward side hug. Angel acquiesces.

(She thinks of Tim's face in the shuttle.)

"You wanna come with me next time?"

"Vault Hunting?"

"Yeah! Or just hunting."

"Oh! Yeah, actually, I'd like to get out for a bit, whenever you go next."

(Her voice, cool: He's on his way to kidnap your Siren, sir.)

"Cool," Gaige says, grinning and playfully punching Angel's shoulder. The Siren fakes a pained groan. They both re-settle into the groove: code and machinery, side-by-side. Angel keeps a half a mind fantasizing about Vault Hunting for the pure joy of treasure-hunting, rather than as a means of exerting control over a planet's people. They're not even here of their own will, usually: prisoners or children of them, or deserted here. It's not their fault. Ah, c'mon now, back to the joy of hunting for fun.

(At the precise point where Handsome Jack could only deal with so many interferences at once, so he had Tim posted on the Jackpot. He'd live - for a time, at least.)

It'd be cool to see everyone in action while also being on the same playing field, instead of watching from "above". There again, Angel would be too busy keeping up to actually watch them. But it'd be cool all the same - being part of the team (so long as she doesn't fuck anything up, or not too badly), and proving her worth.

... Or just proving her potential as a Vault Hunter. Angel nods to herself; yes, potential. Maya said that her worth is more than what she can do for other people, that she is inherently worth being respected as another person. That was nice.

(He'd even outlive Handsome Jack.)

... Maybe... maybe after this next outing, whenever that is, she might mention Tim and the Jackpot. Moxxi'd be interested, she thinks.

(But not her.)

It's not a bad life here. She hopes to make it up to Tim.

[leerentouls]

link to hoverview vale lore writing collection

link to "milton, the mossy pohip"

[cross-posted from the creative corner forums, link in rb]

1. milton, the mossy pohip

summary: the coliseum team - rosie, florence, and belvedere - spar with beastclans, and come up against a mossy pohip.

-----

Rosie clacks her teeth, gnashes at the air, making that wretched sucking sound with her tongue against the back of them. Her nerves, her anticipation, and Florence is more than understanding, but the sounds grate at his nerves and if she carries on for much longer there'll be a friendly-fire tussle about it. Belvedere will watch, nonplussed, possibly calculating whether it'd be worth it to patch either one up afterwards - should there be any wounds at all, that is, which is unlikely despite the aggravation.

"Rosie."

She pauses, eyes wide as she tilts towards him. She blinks once, twice, thrice, in rapid succession - the absolute picture of innocence.

"My dearest..."

"Ye-es, sweet Flori?"

She teases him, rotten Tundie. He lunges at her with a snap at the air near her face, and she laughs, giggles, half-stepping back. Crowds in closer, as though he's about to nip at her face, then-- drags his tongue flat across her face. Rosie splutters and laughs again, trying to get away.

"You do that on purpose, dear."

"Oh, sometimes!" Her grin is as wide as a summer's day is long: unabashed.

"You two should get ready," comes in Belvedere's even tone, "I see a couple of Deer getting bored."

"A throuple of Deer," Rosie 'corrects'.

"... yes... of course."

Rosie hums, pleased with herself, leading the way, and the two larger dragons follow suit.

***

Wood Ear and White Rot Deer; Lilium and Petalmane Floron; Travelling Garden and Terra Tortoise; Rosaline and Buttercup Strangler; Fingi of Moonlight and Sage; Alstroemeria and Myosotis Foxes; Aspen Gall Dryad and Barkskin Watcher; Five-toed and Venomtooth Pilco; Frostbite and Sunbeam Dryard; Maned and Flora Cerdae; Palefoot and Ruffletail Tadhop; Grove Piper and Spotted Faun - all fought, all vicious, all for the sake of fun. Some were more willing to talk afterwards (but offered little in the way of contacting them again), others preferred to move on immediately post-spar.

And still, after a good long afternoon of sparring, Rosie still itched for another round. Belvedere was tending to a minor wound, and mulled it over, and Florence was in two minds about it: go home to rest, or finish with one last round, a flourish.

They agreed.

Such hubris granted them the audience of a Mossy Pohip.

"... Ah."

"Mm."

"..."

The Mossy Pohip grinned at them, lumbering closer to the coliseum clearing.

"Good evening, little hatchlings." The voice booms, low and bassy across the clearing, and he receives a muted chorus of 'good evening' in return. "Let us fight!"

Rosie nods, shaking, but still hoping for the best - whether they win or lose (and quite frankly, she's sure they'll lose), it should be fun.

The Pohip surged, a beast of such phenomenal power that it didn't matter if he was accurate or not, his attack still shook the ground and caused even Belvedere to tremble and waver. Rosie's Mana Bolt and Enfeeble was little use against him; both Florence and Belvedere's Scratching seemed to slide right off of the Pohip, barely giving him pause; Eliminate just about worked, but even then the Pohip never faltered. His jaws would come close, incisors large and crushing, as he'd sling a Mist Slash at either one of them, or cast Shroud to blind the two Arcane dragons, leaving Belvedere to flounder unassisted.

They lost, of course, with Belvedere being the last to collapse on his side, exhausted and on the verge of passing out; Florence was still clawing at the ground, despite being so winded, and Rosie had already lost consciousness, limp on the ground. The Guardian watched as the Pohip came closer, apparently wanting more from his winning.

"I must say, little hatchlings," he boomed again, only just causing Rosie to stir with a groan, "you all gave quite the fight, but I have won, and so must collect my prize."

Prize? Belvedere frowned; this was all for the sport of it, there was no prize.

"And I must say... I am rather... hungry."

Oh. Oh no. The Guardian struggles, manages to skitter backwards, only bearing both Florence and Rosie in half a mind, hoping the Pohip focuses on him rather than his wards (his friends), even when his heart is hammering away in a panicking hummingbird rhythm. He doesn't get far, too exhausted, and the Pohip too persistant even if he wasn't. His breath hitches as the Pohip gets closer, jaws wider again, teeth glistening with saliva, closer, closer, closer--

Then the Pohip pulls back, holding his head aloft and his mouth now mostly closed. Hm?

"But... I am a... vegetarian." Then the Pohip grins, and laughs, and it is as booming as his talking voice, so much that Rosie claps a paw over her ear, and it disturbs nearby birds from their resting places.

"A good fight from you all! What a good fight!"

He stays for a little while as the three dragons recuperate some, allowing Belvedere to rest against him. Tells them his name is Milton, and it's more than even the friendliest of previous sparring 'enemies' had given, so they lean into idle chatter for an hour: chatter about preferred climes; talk of ideal holiday destinations; favourite vegetables and fruit; Milton mentions a crush on a Flowering Pohip called Florentina.

When the three are able to stand without wobbling, Milton bids them a goodnight, and they the same to him. On the way home, they consider whether or not to fib a little - say they won every fight, yes even against a Pohip. Rosie decides against it, deciding a little humility for one's hubris - her own, no-one else's (although Florence would call it arrogance) - would be worth it.

-----

can't end these things satisfactorily enough to save my life lol but anyway this was a fun little exercise :^)

[leerentouls]

i feel like i've lost so much time. + character of my choosing (télesphore + westen) cw: suicide ideation discussed, past abuse, off-screen death for Vampire-Zombie + Werewolf munching + gore, and a mild/implicit sexual fantasy (very brief, not as upsetting as the others but jic)

The full moon of the month has come and gone, but Télesphore can still feel the ripple under his skin, the bristling and prickling of wolffur threatening to break out at every moment he’s not otherwise busy, the salivating and sharpness of his wolfteeth as the hunger still seats itself in him. But he is in control, and it will fade, as it always does after a denied night’s hunt -- until the next full moon. Only twenty-nine-point-five days between. According to Google, anyway. His dad makes fun of him, good-natured like, because he has to keep checking now and then when asked if he knows; ‘a werewolf should know its schedule so innately,’ or whatever.

It’s grating. Pulls at his nerves, makes him more snappish, more brusque than is necessary. That’d be the time that Western, should the pair of them be at one of West’s gigs, would pull him aside gently and remind him to breathe in, breathe out, so on and so forth. Ever patient (mostly, and nobody’s perfect -- God knows West’s got it’s own issues going on), even when Télesphore snaps at it. Sometimes snorts and says, “Yeah, I get it, and so do you,” rather pointedly. Abashed, Télesphore -- Telly, that daft nickname that West will never stop using -- will listen, and breathe.

There are plenty of other things besides the full moon that agitate his wolfhunger, and damn them, damn it, that hunger rising in response to anything that crawls beneath all his skins, regardless of the moon’s phase.

Some upstart at a gig or club? Hunger. Feeling morose on a wet and windy morning? Hunger. Dad being just a little too jokey? Hunger. Missing his kids? Hunger. The divorce between him and Stella, shortly after coming out to one another, and having to push down the fact that he was still in love with her? Hunger. (But of course, he’s over it now, or at least reconciled it; they just don’t match like that, is all.) The fact that, currently, West isn’t picking up its phone after going radio silent for two days? Fucking goddamn hunger.

And it’s a scary fucking thing, even knowing he can and does control himself -- the ‘envy of monks’, his mum says -- because that hunger is directionless. It’ll go in a three-sixty if he ever lets loose of the leash on it. He couldn’t forgive himself if he hurt someone he cared about, or even an innocent unknown bystander.

As it is, he’s trembling in his seat, driving to where he guesses West might be. It’s one of the few places that’re lonely, although West calls it a ‘peaceful piece of solitude’. What it really is is woodland -- easy to get lost in if you just wander off all willy-nilly, and even Telly gets turned around sometimes despite relying on his sense of smell to direct him back to the car park near it’s edge.

What directs him now, as soon as he opens the door, is the smell of freshly spilt blood. And flesh-becoming-meat.

Oh dear.

Wolfhunger propels him, more stomp in his step, more purpose and direction in his line ever-forward, and he knows he should rein it in because he doesn’t know for sure what West has done (as if West isn’t the same as him -- rather suffer and dissolve than harm someone innocent), but the blood is tantalizing, the meat makes him salivate, and there is his friend, dear Western Slate. A meal to share, blood to spill, to wipe off its face delicately, or perhaps more roughly, passionately -- their bellies full and sated, oh, well, they could indulge, maybe, among the fallen autumn leaves and crawling creepies and ash bark, grey sky overhead, and what is more--

Oh, put a pin in that. It’s stomach-wrenching to focus on such a fantasy when now, in this little dingy clearing, Telly finds West openly sobbing over its meal.

“Western.”

It shrieks, whipping its head over its shoulder to spot who the interloper is, and even when it spots Telly -- your good and ever-steady friend, Telly! -- it still stumbles and falls over backwards to get away. Almost a comical sight, dead body’s gaping-wound of neck still squeezed between West’s fingers, if only West weren’t so frightened.

Telly takes a step back, half-confused -- that evil old prick that held West under his boot for thirty years had never addressed it by this name, and West’s never mentioned any other cruel thing -- but holds his hands up. “It’s me, West! Telly! Télesphore!”

“I--” Something seems to clear: it stands, still sniffling, dropping the body unceremoniously to the woodland floor. If it were any other time -- if Western weren’t so fucking miserable, for whatever reason -- it’d look beautiful. “... Rotten.”

“... I’m sorry.”

//////

//////

//////

After they’ve eaten what’s left (and quite honestly, West looks all the better for having a meal -- livelier-looking, much less haggard), Télesphore leads Western back to the care. West had mumbled something about the body having been full of awful thoughts, cruel things, entirely of their own volition, and the fucker was just chilling out in the woods, like they were untouchable for their cruelty.

“It wasn’t even the same thing,” West had gasped between hiccups, “not even the same thing but it--” Its face scrunched, attempting to stop crying. “Hateful motherffffffucker.”

Telly opens the car boot to grab a bottle of water and a washcloth; at least make an attempt at washing West’s hands and face before they both head home.

Think of something else, he tells himself as he washes West’s hands and face, wiping over West’s face with the washcloth gently, watching far too intently when it closes its eyes. This is not the time or place, for the love of fucking God. It’s easier to rip himself away from that type of hungry thought when West starts to sway, at risk of falling over. “Hey, watch out.”

“Mm.”

“Sit in the car, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Telly can’t even feel relieved that he’s found West.

//////

//////

//////

Still in the flat’s car park for a good five minutes, radio on quiet, when West finally speaks again.

“I’m not even... I’m not, like, properly suicidal, but oh my fucking God, it’s like-- I’ve been alive-- nah, not even that, been around too fucking long.” It sniffs, thumbing at its nose and staring into nothing. “Thirty fucking years of my life just fucking gone, and I-I, I don’t even-- I don’t eve-even remember most of it, do I? And I’m too much of a fuc-fucking coward to try and see my mum, ’cause-- ’cause look at me! I haven’t aged, have I? My mum’d fucking pass away in shock -- if she isn’t even al-- if she isn’t even alre-already d-dead, because she is so fucking old-- and my sisters! My aunt! Everyone I fucking loved before then all just think I’m proper dead, like, at-peace dead, but no I’m fucking killing and eating-- eating-drinking people!” It pulls on its hair and grunts. “I was meant to be an uncle, or whatever, my mum’s son, even if, you know -- but I don’t even get the choice. I don’t even get the choice, the chance, to actually have my life.”

It’s something Ezzie’s said before, about being blindsided by whoever it was that turned her; it’s something that Stella told him, in the time they were still married; it’s something that Griselda had mentioned on a night out; it’s something that neither the Dempseys nor Echo even needed to say. Neither of them were offered a choice, it was simply their bad luck.

“... I’m sorry, West.” What else can he even say? He’s shit at comforting people with words. Instead, he reaches to touch West’s shoulder, watching it lean into the touch. “C’mon,” he says softly, “we’ll go up, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Piggy-back?”

That manages to wring a smile out of it, strained as it is. “Yeah. S’long as it’s not me carrying you.”

“Course not.” And Telly wants to kiss it so badly, chaste and on the cheek like they’re a couple, as if they’d even talked about it (instead of talking around it, glanced but never maintained that kind of eye contact).

Telly always forgets that West is heavier than it looks -- lanky, yes, not as built as it used to be when it was alive, but tall and not even that skinny -- but he always manages. Still be handy to have the elevator fucking work, but the council is for shit anyway, and the landlord’s a cunt, so Telly takes his time up the stairs to the top floor, with West half-snoozing against his back.

“Home at long frigging last.”

“Mmm.” West wiggles and hops off Telly’s back, opting to slump towards the settee, flopping face-down on it unceremoniously. “... Thanks, by the way,” it says, after turning its face to look at Telly as he turns the TV on to check the news. “For letting me just... get it all out.”

“Never a problem with me, mate.” Telly scoots West’s legs out of the way to sit down, before letting West lounge out properly. “I just...” Is there anything he can actually say? Will it help, or make things worse? “I just think that... with what you have now-- what we all have, no matter what-- is to try and make the best of it. With our friends, and... all that.”

He can’t help, now, but squirm a little under West’s gaze. It’s an indecipherable look, giving away nothing but perhaps cold judgement, like it’s weighing whether Télesphore is talking absolute shite or offering some genuine hopeful crumb. Could end with West kicking him in the head, calling him a moron, giving false platitudes like any old arsehole, fucking waste of time--

But it nudges him under the ribs, causing Telly to jump, ticklish. “That is true. Because I love you lot, you and Stel and Ezzie and everyone. I just... miss everyone I can’t talk to, now.” There’s more than West’s family and friends from when it was human, Telly knows, but it hardly ever talks about those years, only ever mentioning that yeah there were vampires under Augustus’ sireship, and nothing more.

Telly pats its leg, and West hums.

There’ll be more, later, either this evening or tomorrow morning, when West will apologise for ‘going on and on about it’, and Telly will assure it that he understands, in his way, and you can’t bottle it up all the time, that it has to come out. And West, well, it’s getting better, he likes to think; no longer denies that it feels and relives its grief, no longer avoiding its friends, and it’ll probably stop short of denying itself comfort. Small steps.

“You are right,” it says, startling Telly from the TV. “Just wanted to say I appreciate it, too, by the way. Because you lot are an absolute God-send, despite the... you know, the circumstances we’ve all -- well, you know -- been through.” And Telly does know; his life has been fairly comfortable, never been foisted upon so violently as everyone else with the lack of choice. “And I do...” West fiddles with its hands, almost shy now. “I do enjoy what I do now. It’s fun. I have you lot as friends, and it’s... lacking a more appropriate phrase, it’s a good life. With you.”

West pretends to watch the TV now, falling quiet, and pulls their legs off Telly’s lap. There’s a selfish little thing in the pit of Telly’s stomach that wants to push for something.

“I feel the same. It’s a good life-- with you.”

Western almost glances at him. Almost.

[leerentouls]

your family seems to revel in strangeness. + the dempsey family

cw: past death/murder/manslaughter, including children -- discussed throughout, being that the dempsey family are ghosts; house fire

Well the whole god-be-damned thing was fucking strange. Death is not the end, it’s not even an appropriately-short epilogue. No, no, this whole thing is a fucking limbo, and Moira never paid much mind at church -- so little that she would honestly need a moment to recall whether her parents were either Protestants or Catholics, or perhaps one of each, and she forgets now, now that she can’t ever talk to them again -- but surely, for fuck’s sake, surely spending so long stuck in the living land but unable to live was too cruel. Not even for her own sake, or John’s, but their daughter and son. What had they done to deserve it?

But it’s not even about what is deserved. John tells her that from time to time, like he’s almost utterly tuned in to her frequency -- dead, ghost, yes, but married and loved far longer, attuned forever -- and it does a small wonder for the moment.

So why, then? Unfinished business? Maybe. Thieves accidentally knocking something over to cause that fire after they’d accidentally beat Duncan over the head with something heavy. God, that singular yelp of his woke her from that deep sleep; it never leaves her mind entirely. And Duncan, sweet darling boy, had said, sworn up and down, that he’d surprised the two (was it two? only two?) after getting up for a glass of water, and he’d been surprised in turn, in the dark. She doesn’t know what to make of that -- if he’s far too hopeful in people’s honest mistakes, or if that’s just how their lives ended. In a fucking accident.

It’s all in the dark, now.

“Don’t be so gloomy, dear, we’ve jewellery to mess with.”

Moira squawks, flustered. “John! Pity’s sake, we’re better than that!”

“It’s not like we’re really stealing it,” he says, cajoling, and damn the man, she always joins him despite arguing, every time, that it’s a bad influence on the kids. The kids who are dead, but at least they can’t be arrested. “Just some floaty gooferoony stuff.”

“‘Gooferoony’,” she parrots, rolling her eyes, but smiling. “Don’t half pick up some nonsense, you do.”

He grins so wide, gums-and-teeth, she can’t help but laugh, and the kids giggle.

Lucy leads Duncan off to the necklace case, both content to tap their fingers against the glass silently while their parents turn their attention to the more readily-free pieces, waiting for the moment.

Neither of them expect to see Echo (birth name not given, which Moira can understand; he’d only been dead since the 70s, poor thing, but it seems he’s given up on keeping his living name already) trailing in after Western (and there’s another fellow, birth name tucked away in the bittersweet corners of the mind -- whether no longer correct or a disconnect between that old life, she knows better than to pry. but perhaps to ask in invitation, maybe.) into the jewellery shop, but they all exchange waves. Even if gets Western a strange look.

Which may be a given -- already a tall thing, tousled jet black hair, pale as milk, and dressed... in a sort of gothic style? Goth? Emo? Something alternative. Not the kind one expects in a high street jewellery shop, one with CCTV, mind. And the stompy boots, too! Fantastic choice; if she were still alive and able to re-dress, she’d steal the fucking things, heaven help her hands.

“Hello,” they start, voice sweet and clear as always, polite, “I’m hoping to buy a necklace and a pair of earrings for a friend of mine.” The proprietor gives them a baffled look, but not outright contemptuous -- which is just as well, or else there’d be violence on West’s behalf, she swears it -- and so gestures towards a cabinet, talking about this and that, humming with West about maybes and perhapses. For themself or someone else, Moira does wonder who they’re buying for.

“Oi,” John whispers, as though any living person can see or hear them, “come jangle with me.”

“Go jangle yourself,” she says, following anyway, ignoring the mock-gasp Lucy makes.

“Now,” John starts, voice louder for all who hear it, “Let’s make some chaos.”

Jewellery is snatched and rattled and swung around; glass cases rattled and vigorously tapped so that even the living can hear that; the proprietor and staff are trying to retrieve them, squawking and yelling about this sudden activity; and one other customer is panicked, squashing themself into a corner away from it all. West, also pressing against a wall out of the way, looks equal parts thrilled and terrified, although the later is perhaps terrified of being caught in the face by flying jewels, especially if it’s the kind they have their eye on.

Where’s Echo? Dancing in the middle of it all. Spectating! Fine for him, fine for all in the know.

One outrageous thing per week, John said, for any level of ‘outrageous’ by anyone’s standard. Something to make their existence, such as it is (“oh no, dear, there’ll be ‘such as it is’-ing about all this, now come join the fun you miserable old wench.”), more bearable. Enjoyable. It’s not a life the way she’d imagined it several decades ago, but at least there’s no mortgage to pay off, and the worst is over, and there’s no more worrying about who will die first, and there’ll be no more worrying about what will become of Lucy and Duncan, and---

“My darling, my sweetheart, my little freckled egg.” A hand clasping hers; the crash-bang-wallop is over. Already? “Hello.” His face is like the centre of the universe: anchor. Well, it makes sense to me, she thinks, when he starts to crack up again -- like he can read her mind.

“Hello, yourself, twonk.”

“Oh! You’re so mean to me! Cruel old bag of a wife!”

“Silence! Silly little man!”

“Mean and cruel and so very not-nice--”

And then they’re sucking face in the middle of the high street. Lucy and Duncan express their BLEGHs and YUCKs and GROSSes, and stomp off somewhere further down, angling towards the pier and arcade.

West steps out sometime later, and to Moira’s abashment, she finds she can’t recall how long it actually was between their exit and West’s. Echo seems to still be inside the shop, watching as everyone puts things back to rights.

They nod at each other; Moira and John sweetly embraced, and West with a small bag of jewellery.

“You off, now?”

“That I am.” They gesture with the bag. “Something for me, something for Ezz, something for Stel.”

“Aww, I’m sure they’ll love it, dear, and it’ll look lovely on you.”

At that, West seems to go pink and bashful. What a feeling, she realises for the millionth time, to have such a friend -- someone who knows the worst like you, and yet can still take the time (since they’ve all got nothing but time) to partake of the small and mundane.

“I’ll see you later, then, you strange lot.”

A pretend protest: “Alright--!”

“I say that with nothing but love!” they promise, already walking off with that grin.

“... Hardly the strangest thing we’ve all done,” John says, still wrapped around her.

“Mmm.”

“And they’re an accomplice anyway.”

“This is true! Remind them, next time.”

“Shall so, dear.” A peck on the cheek. “Shall so. Now, to the beach?”

“Oh yes.”

“Sandcastles!”

“Sandcastles!”

Small joys make it easier.

[leerentouls]

* talk about your muse!

send 🍯 for a food headcanon

send🥛for a drink headcanon

send 🐢 for a mental health headcanon

send 🦄 for a physical health headcanon

send ⌛for a sleep headcanon

send 💕 for a love headcanon

send 💣 for a stress headcanon

send 😵 for a sickness headcanon

send 🤲 for a religious headcanon

send 🏡 for a home headcanon

send 🍬 for a family headcanon

send 💼 for a work headcanon

send ⛈️ for a sadness headcanon

send 😡 for an anger headcanon

send 💩 for a ridiculous headcanon

send 🌼 for a happiness headcanon

[leerentouls]

writing sideblog. jv; white, they/he/it/she, 30, agender + bi. carrd. old blog got deleted rip </3