#Scotch Revival

[grape-souffle]

Just been doodling lately

[froody]

me: I have no direction in life. I’m out of options. Do you have any advice?

my Scotch-Irish hillbilly ancestors: I’ll tell you what you need to do, boy. Drink moonshine from a fruit jar. Go to a tent revival. Do a little jig for our amusement, you’re boring us half to death, that’s no way to live. Get with the woman with the biggest jugs in town, have 9 children. That help?

me: Not at all. Thanks guys.

[edosianorchids901]

Somewhere Beyond the Sea

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "count the days"

Crowley drummed his fingers on his desk, then sighed at himself. This was ridiculous. He shouldn’t be this impatient, or this needy.

“Used to go bloody ages without seeing each other,” he muttered. “Years. Decades. Just went seventy-nine years. A month isn’t that long.”

It felt long now, though. Even a week felt long. A month… that was torture.

He grabbed a bottle of scotch and flopped in bed, miserable. He hadn’t been this miserable in years, not since he and Aziraphale reconciled. The past decade had been terrific, loads of time spent with Aziraphale. They talked constantly, went out to lunch together, even went for drives. It was amazing.

But Aziraphale was in America right now, on assignment to encourage the revival movements. They’d talked on the phone off and on, which was at least better than only being able to send letters.

And, of course, it was loads better than not talking at all. He’d slept through a lot of that time, too lonely to stay conscious.

Maybe he should try that method again. Take a solid nap. Sleep through the last three days before Aziraphale boarded a plane and crossed the sea, coming back to him.

“Right. Enough consciousness for now.” He sat up just enough to grab his calendar and pen that could write underwater. Glum, he marked off another day on the calendar, counting down until Aziraphale would be home.

---

Aziraphale gazed out across the sea and sighed. It was awfully silly to be in such poor spirits, particularly after how much time he’d spent around very cheerfully singing humans lately. One might think their enthusiasm would be contagious, especially considering how pleased Heaven was with his current mission.

One would think wrong, though. No matter how hard he tried to be joyful, he simply couldn’t manage it. He was too lonely.

“Which is quite silly all on its own,” he said to himself. “There are people absolutely everywhere. How could anyone be lonely with so much company?”

There were indeed many humans around right now, all over the boardwalk. Families with ice cream, groups of friends chattering, lovers meeting to gaze out at the ocean together. And even others like Aziraphale, who were currently alone.

It wouldn’t be too much longer, though. Only three more days, and he could go back to London.

Back to Crowley, if he was being honest with himself.

And at the moment, he was. Oh, he missed his bookshop, with its comfy armchair and endless books. But he only wanted one thing right now. To be face to face with Crowley, basking in the comfort of his familiar presence.

Aching, Aziraphale pulled a little calendar from his coat pocket, and then fished for a pen. He found a bookmark, an old tuppence, and a lovely rock first.

But at last, he found his pen. Carefully, he marked today off on the calendar, and then gazed wistfully out at sea. Only three more days to go.

---

Three days later

Jittery, Crowley paced the bookshop. He straightened a stack of books, smoothed the blankets on the sofa, tugged Aziraphale’s armchair into a better angle. One facing directly towards the sofa, all the better for conversation.

He glanced at the clock. He’d started with counting down weeks, then days, then hours. Now, he was counting minutes.

“This is ridiculous,” he said to himself for what had to be the billionth time today. “Calm down. He’ll be here soon.”

But it couldn’t possibly be soon enough. Every second was agony now, almost unbearable.

Swallowing hard, Crowley stomped to the kitchenette. He took the tea strainers out of the teacups and added just a splash of milk to Aziraphale’s. His own got milk and sugar. Then he took both cups out to their spots.

There was a cab outside the window. Crowley froze, waiting. Was it Aziraphale?

As soon as the fluffy light hair emerged from the cab, Crowley relaxed. He grinned, not caring at all about whether it was dignified or not, and then rushed to the door.

He wrenched it open and waved. “Hi, angel!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s whole face lit up. He bustled to the shop, hauling his luggage. “Goodness, I am so happy to see you.”

“Me too.” Crowley grabbed the luggage and set it inside the shop. Then he grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels, pulled him inside, and kicked the door shut.

Aziraphale quickly jerked the shade down, and then they were kissing. Crowley wasn’t actually sure which one of them started it, but he didn’t care. Aziraphale was back, and they were together, and all was right with the world.

When they drew apart, Aziraphale was blushing furiously. “Oh my. That was quite the welcome home.”

“Mhm.” Crowley kissed his brow, delighting in the familiarity of Aziraphale’s smell. “Missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, my dear. So very much.” Aziraphale gave him a shy look, then reach in his pocket. “Here. I brought you this.”

Crowley held out his hand, and Aziraphale placed a vaguely heart-shaped lump of granite in his palm. “Ooh! You brought me a cool rock.”

“I thought you would like it.” Aziraphale smiled shyly. “It’s pretty.”

“It is, yeah. And I do really like it.” It would be a good addition to his collection of other cool rocks that Aziraphale had brought back from his travels. “I didn’t go anywhere, so I don’t have a cool souvenir for you. But I did make tea.”

Aziraphale chuckled and took his arm. “Thank you, Crowley. But really, your company is all I need.”

Crowley groaned at the soppy comment, but he couldn’t mind it too much. After all, it was true. As long as they had each other, they didn’t need anything else.

[curiositydooropened]

Late Checkout • Teaser

The cursor blinked.

A writing retreat at an exclusive 5-star ski resort. A New Years Eve party in the moody lodge bar. A handsome heir. A bratty bad boy. A snowstorm blocking every guest from the outside world.

Pairing: Rich!Steve Harrington x Writer!Reader, Eddie Munson x Writer!Reader

Wordcount: 1328

Warnings and Tags: Modern AU, femme!reader, strangers to lovers, angst, smut, voyeurism, fantasizing, longing, isolation, snowstorm, skiing, writer's block, murder, blood, gore, recreational drug and alcohol use. This is an 18+ blog, minor DNI please and thank you. Please check chapters for further warnings.

Navigation • Masterlist

Fic Masterlist • Moodboard

---

Your thoughts drifted back out to the veranda. Sun poured over the mountain side and bounced off stark white snow. Golden rays cast down and carded through his chestnut hair. Your fingers ached. 

He tilted his face into it, eyes closed, lashes fluttering freckled cheeks, ecstasy evident as his features softened.

You licked your bottom lip. 

The woman with him reached for his cheek and procured an eyelash, holding her finger skyward. 

His eyes opened, amber and honey. A smile pulled at the corners of his pink lips before he pursed them to blow. His cheeks puffed up and hollowed, dotted with freckles, bone structure immaculate. Wish sufficiently made, his face lit in amusement, brows raised.

What did man like him wish for? He had the money, the looks. You hadn’t seen his car in the lot, but you were sure it was as luxuriously as the parka stretched over broad shoulders. The woman by his side was stunning, a Scandinavian supermodel with legs and curves for days.

So what was it then?

He swirled his glass in an ungloved hand, tips of his fingers reddening as he brought the amber liquid to his pink lips for a drink. What did a man with mid-afternoon Scotch wish for? Maybe he wished to bag a new account at the firm. Maybe he wished for his offer to go through for that rental on the Cape. Maybe he wished for his secretary to wear that YSL skirt again, with those pantyhose he could tear off with his perfect teeth.

You sputtered a cough, accidentally inhaling some of the saliva filling your mouth. Face warm, you mopped at the corners of your lips with a sweater cuff.

At your bistro table, your laptop screen had gone to stand-by. With a sigh, you clicked the track pad until the screen revived. On the blank page, the cursor blinked.

“You done with your coffee?” A busgirl approached, cheeks pinched pink and a smile across freckled features.

“Oh,” you handed her your mug and saucer. “Thank you.” 

“Sure,” she nodded, and you were surprised when she leaned in. She smelled of espresso and vanilla. “Hey, this guy in the corner? The cute one with the man bun and the leather jacket? He paid me a really big tip to give you this,” she slipped a drink napkin in front of you. 

Beneath the lodge’s bright orange logo were chicken scratched letters in black ink. 

I hope the novel you’re working on has a better ending. 

“He also offered to buy you another drink,” the barista informed, taking in your reaction with wide eyes. “But if you’re totally disgusted, I will be more than happy to call security and get his ass escorted right out of here.”

You snorted and glanced over your laptop at the far corner of the room. Your Critic from the previous day sat in his same corner, long limbs draped over the sides of the furniture like he he lived there. Slender hands folded the spine of a new novel, decorated in silver rings. His curls were pulled up into a loose bun, exposing a prominent widow’s peak, and a playful smile pulled at the corners of plump lips. 

“You don’t need to kick him out,” you smiled, crumpling the napkin into your discarded mug in her hand. The last drops of coffee soaked into the paper. “But tell you what. Why don’t you and your coworker buy yourself lunch on his dime? I’ll double his tip.” 

“You got yourself a deal,” she flashed a grin and made her way back behind the counter. 

You went about closing your laptop and packing your things into your bag, avoiding the gaze on you from across the room. Zipper zipped, you schlepped the bag over one shoulder, adjusting your sweater beneath the strap. Your table was cleared, save the pen you capped. When you finally looked up to leave the little cafe, you found yourself leveled under a honeyed stare.

Mr. Harrington, the handsome stranger on the veranda, had noticed you through the window. Well that, or the windows were tinted enough to capture his attention, and judging by the darkening of his eyes and the soft smile etching itself onto the corners of his perfect lips, he enjoyed his own reflection. He waved, almost imperceptibly, and mouthed a hello. 

You smiled and nodded. 

Then, the women he brought with him came into view, all freckles and blue eyes, stunning, full lips. 

You turned on your heel and left before you had a chance to wither under her scrutiny, staring at the orange and cream hexagonal tile as you walked through the threshold and back into the lobby. 

“Hey,” another voice startled you, impossibly close, the sting of cigarette smoke mixing with espresso in the air. 

“So the last book inspired you after all.” You sighed, halting before a head-on collision with a family of seven. 

“What?” Your critic crashed into you, capturing your shoulders in large hands to stop you both from barreling into the last set of twins. 

You huffed him off with a shrug. “The Vanishing was about a stalker.” 

“Oh,” he flashed that charming grin of his, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “How do I know you aren’t stalking me?”

You snorted and swept past the convenient store, the pro shop, narrowly avoided a sled dog near the exit to the veranda. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

Your stalker barked a laugh and managed to trail you past the bar and ballrooms and into the back hallway. “Alright, sweetheart, you caught me. I’ve been following you for weeks.”

You stopped in front of the resort gym. Two middle aged women chatted on ellipticals in matching leggings. “What?”

He didn’t seem like the usual incel fan of yours. They were less clean, less put-together. The ones who managed to weasel your real name and location through hours of research on the dark web usually showed up to a local coffee shop and sent a text message to your laptop from a restricted number. 

This guy had a charcoal sweater made of cashmere and designer cologne. His jacket smelled of real leather. You spotted the glint of a silver watch beneath one sleeve. 

The Cheshire Cat grin fell from his face when your reaction sunk in, and he shook his head, eyes going wide. “I’m totally kidding. That’s probably creepy and terrifying, I’m sorry. I promise I’m not stalking you. I don’t even know your name.” 

Instead of offering it, you turned and headed back down the hall. 

“Hey, okay. My name’s Eddie,” he scrambled to catch up, all the bells and whistles jangling on his leather jacket, “and if you want me to leave you alone, I swear I will. But if you’d be at all interested in letting me buy you a drink tonight, can you let me know? Because I’m scaring the spa receptionists.”

You glanced at the two girls behind the nearest desk. They giggled behind their hands. 

“I’m sorry I insulted your favorite book.” Eddie’s voice softened.

With a sigh, you tucked yourself into a nearby alcove. “It’s not my favorite.” You’d published a handful of others you liked better, all of them less popular.

“Well what is your favorite?” The smile slid itself back onto his features. He remained a few paces away, giving you a respectable amount of space.

You weighed your options. You’d planned evening room service and sweatpants and drafting, endless drafting. Or, you could let someone else pay for your martini, and maybe his refreshing (albeit rude) perspective on your library of work could spark some much needed inspiration.

“I’ll tell you over drinks tonight.” 

“8 o’clock?”

Your stomach flipped at the proud look on his face, and you nodded. 

“See you then, princess.” He bowed so low his bun flopped, and he backed out of the alcove, wagging fingers at the giggling spa receptionists. He whistled as he left.

[vivianne-is-tired]

First time watching Umbrella academy, kinda nervous ಠ◡ಠ

SO! my friend kinda introduced me to this show, and I have some feedback to share on the first(and only first)episode since I'm a slow watcher :<

the scene starting w/ the indoor pool? hell nah. pools irl are classy, in movies and tv shows tho? depressy and murdery. 0/10. no thank youuuu. I saw the girl kiss the guy and jump in being like-welp, it was nice knowing you for 0.5 seconds, enjoy that sea monster!

then the blood staining the water starts and I'm like, yep. just as I suspected, here we go-AHHH OHHH WTFWTFWTFWTFTFTFWTF WHY IS SHE PREGNANTTTT?!?!?!!?!11

she js kissed the guy. that's all that happened, why is she pregnant??t

his is why you should use protection kids ⇎_⇎

now, here are my few comments Abt the show so far, strap in, its a doozyヽ(｡ゝω・｡)ﾉ

let's start off with a few things(spoilers for episode ahead, read at your own risk):

Luther being #1(oldest sibling) and being the tallest??unheard of. make him short. we love older siblings who are short kings.queens :333

Second, can we talk abt Klaus overdosing then high fiving(?!)the paramedic that revived him like it was a normal Tuesday??? sir, I don't think you're even remotely human anymore. that's an eldritch being if I've ever seen one●_●

Also, Diego.....man am I abt to beef with this man if it's ever on sight. he defeats the thief's and LEAVES THE FAMILY THEY TIED IN THE BONDS!!! like-0 stars, would not recommend his services to no one >:(((( I wouldn't let him save me, cause what's the point? he's js gonna leave me there to rot without freeing me ;n;

now, Vanya might be my fav so far, cuz the violin performance at the beginning? chef's kiss, she's my daughter now(until further notice) :) makes me so sad that no one was there to applaud her tho, I would've been her biggest supporter being louuuud asf, lowkey

now, I personally don't trust the father since, hello? billionaire adopting a bunch of supernatural kids instead of supporting the parents/gaurdians? BUYING THEM??? immediate red flag. he don't give Tony or Bruce vibes. I feel as though he only mansplains and manipulates. not even malewife since he has 7 diff women pushing the strollers like-brother eughщ(ಥДಥщ)

allison being the normal one has got to be the funniest shit I've ever witnessed. i get that's she's also famous but get this, one of her siblings is a "recovering" addict, an introvert, another introvert who dresses up like daredevil and batman's secret lovechild, and an astronaut. can we pls make it make sense?

Diego breaking into the coroner’s to get his “father’s” report? The dis-fucking-respect??? No. On. Sight.(i rlly like coroners and any disrespect to them is a personal insult)

HOLD UP! Why is there a MONKEY BUTLERRRRR?!?!??!!11 I thought it couldn’t get weirder. Help 🙁

Vanya making snacks for 5 hoping he would come back, aw, my heart js imploded. Thank you.

Bro couldn't even spare a second to bid goodnight to his kids. Ew.

Klaus is a silly little guy, thats my impression of him so far. Using humor to cope, that's me. I kin him now(also him being glad his dad’s dead, me frfr) “exsqueeze me” fav klaus line :)))

Allison and Luther making fun of Diego has got to be my fav thing ever! they’re me your honor  :3333

Oh Alison, my poor baby mama. PATRICK STAR, give claire back you son of a nice woman >:(((((

*awkward silence ensues*

Klaus in the background:*aggressively pouring expensive ahh scotch into a cup*

Kalus also:Wearing his sisters skirt like a girlboss(while high)😤

Luther, baby, pls dont accuse your traumatized siblings of murdering your very not so brat dad.(edit:he had every fucking right)

The way Allison just walks up to the shooter? Very mindful, very cutesy, very demure<3

*The man getting yeeted through the window*

The news anchor:now i've been in many situations such as this-

It's the kids walking out like they didn't just commit homicide to the nth degree….also, there’s an octopus child. Idk what to say.

Also, REGINALD HARGREEVES. CALL MY NOW ADOPTED DAUGHTER NOT SPECIAL AND I'LL SHOVE YOUR OWN FIST SO FAR UP YOUR ALREADY STUCK UP ASS🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬

Not Klaus spilling the urn. He's such a queen for that tho

Luther blasting music for the whole house to hear? Like, that player is blasting music loud enough to be heard through a literal mansion. I need to know how that works??? Are the walls that thin???????

And everyone started to dance. High School musical who??

And the mom folding laundry like-oh well, at least they’re happy!

Klaus’  “Daddy??” when the lightning started😂😂😂😂😭😭😭

*a weird blackhole portal thingy exists*

Klaus:throws a fire extinguisher at it.

Everyone else:bruh.

Five’s first reaction to coming back to make a sandwich is so real to me tho.(although what he made is an abomination, i do not stand by that)

It’s his nonchalance and everyone else shitting metaphorical bricks.

Basically what happened was; 

“You’re 58?!”

“Yeah, like it's a big deal?”

Ok, hold up. Who’s ben? Did I skip a chapter? A book? A whole movie?? Who tf Ben??

Ohhh, nvm js remembered he’s the octopus child.

Ok, klaus is rlly js pretty princess atp

I need Diego to stop trying to be different. You ain't built diff for shit. Get an umbrella you kook. 

The mom is now suspicious to me. Not so sigma of her to forget that her darling husband is dead.[sarcastic]

The monkey is lying cause what??you’re indebted to someone who turned you into a reverse animorph🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨 bitch pls, bsffr

I now have beef with Diego, aka number 2, aka a crusty musty bitch who doesnt shower and wears kevlar all day. Why are you acting that way?? #justice for ben statue ✊😔)

Is the mom a robot? A slave? Why does she behave like that, i'm concerned now 🙂

DID THIS BITCH AS MF FORCE HIS KIDS TO GET TATTOOS??? Ohhh it's on, old man. I will hunt you down to the end’s of earth itself. Wait he’s dead, nvm. I will instead hunt you down to the end’s of the planes of the afterlife, you degraded sun glare. you overdrafted bank fee. You unnecessary movie sequel. Built like an easy bake oven cooking a broken bedazzled gnome.

Fun fact: the “dad” watches his kids while they sleep 😀 pedo pedo pedo pedophiliaaaaa~

Ok, the moneky butler is kinda ok to me now. Like-he may be dumb giving his life to raginald but he tried to comfort Vanya, so he’s ok in my books.

Allison asking where vanya is makes me soft

5 is a menace, according to the level amount of sass he holds in his little body.

The mom is a robot…..whoopdedoo(im not even surprised atp, just downright exasperated)

I feel so bad for the waitress ngl, imagine assuming some kid dressed in a uniform out that late is innocent and turns out he can take down 6 different men armed to the teeth with guns, and you served him black coffee too. I feel like she’ll never give kids black coffee again….

Me vibing to music while 5 commits murder:even old new york, was once new amsterdam, why’d they change it, i cant say, ppl js like it better that wayyyy

There’s a tracker implanted in 5?man this just keeps getting better, and stupider

Diego….idk wether to punch you in the face or kiss you for (probably) killing your father<333 

Also klaus, i do not in fact like waffles 😣

Also, we just found benny boy!! he ‘d dead and emo

5 and vanya being bestiessss, okkk im following

this shit show keeps pulling plot twists out of their asses and I'm concerned for my little remaining sanity ಠ╭╮ಠ

So far, i like it. Sorry for the whole reaction channel vibes i was having this whole time but i had to share :3333

[dreamgothgirl]

So She Goes: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! Reader

A/N: listen, this is probably going to be so fucking bad but I was high and found an old Lana Del Rey song (Prom Song (Gone Wrong)) which is 1) what you sing and 2) idk it made sense in the moment and I didn’t wanna delete anything :((

So She Goes by Geskle also feels like how Simon would see the reader who’s drunk as shit.

Warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of blood, alcohol, suggestive touches and descriptions, Ghost being confident out of anxiety.

I really hope you enjoy this one, the next will be better! This is something I just couldn’t resist writing even if it was on a whim ÓwÒ”

POC friendly as always 💕

———————————————————————

“Oi! Get back in the truck, you’ll die of cold before a bullet can get you!”

You inhaled bliss while the wind’s veil covered your face in godly euphoria. A wide grin stretched your gorgeously plush and shiny lips from the lip balm you’d rubbed on them. Thick, cold drops of rain showered your body and soaked your black thermal long sleeve. Ghost kept a close eye on you as he drove the truck through the muddying dirt road as the storm’s rain began to cloud his vision.

After finding and examining a stray phone while investigating an abandoned civilian house, you’d taken it upon yourself to have a taste of nostalgia. A comfort you haven’t been able to experience since you were enlisted. Music. A tool to revive your daydreams instead of replacing them with brutal memories. Your special morphine. Tomorrow was said to be a brutal mission. One where Price shouted and prayed for the team to win.

The chances of making it out with no casualties or deaths was incredibly low. It was hard to process at first. You never expected to not get hurt or die…but having it almost being certain for once, even with the best of the best, was the hottest and messiest bullet to ever pierce you.

The boys headed to the bar. A mournful but loud last hoorah. The atmosphere, though melancholy, was as upbeat and hopeful as it could be. You smiled as you listened to Soap and Gaz talk about things only they would really understand. Price and Ghost conversed quietly next to you while the music of the bar filled your hyper sensitive ears and the lights became amplified through your tipsy eyes. 

Feeling a slight wobble, you leaned on Ghost’s shoulder to which he didn’t resist. Instead, he’d protectively wrapped his arm around your shoulders, holding you firmly. You closed your eyes and smiled, hearing a stupid song you loved way back in high school. It always made you dream of your ‘perfect man’ so vividly that your heart would ache of yearning.

You took in his scent mixed with the smell of the cups of scotch and whiskeys across the bar. It sent a fiery warmth in you that was equivalent to drinking a whole bottle of Ghost’s favorite liquor. You muttered its tune to yourself, “You will never see my face, if you don’t get me out of this place.”

Ghost’s ear perked up a little, thinking he heard you drunkly mumbling. He looked down at you and questioned, “You alright, Y/N?”

You loved when he said your name. He made it a hymn while you wanted to turn his into a sinful choir. The song of the devil’s temptations taking over. Beautiful, glossy e/c eyes stared up widely at him. A look that unexpectedly made his stomach twist and his boxers shift in his pants.

Ghost would never be as grateful as he was now for the mask as his face became flushed underneath. Price looked at you and chuckled, “I think she’s out of it already, mate.”

Ghost nodded as you giggled dumbly and stood up, “I’m fine, thank you,” you began to hum as you covered your mouth from the side and softly sang into the internally panicking man next to you, “I’m leaving, are you coming with me?~”

You can guess where that led.

Now, here you were. Sitting in silence and staring at Simon with dripping features and drunken eyes from the sips of beer you’d taken from a brand new can that was floating around in the truck. His jacket swallowed you as he sat in a thick black turtleneck on the side of the road. The water ahead flooded the dip in the road, creating a pool that the two of you would never be able to go through. He put his half sleeved arm around your headrest, “I’ll have to turn around.”

You pouted slightly, “Mmm. Why’d you turn my music off?”

He hummed, “Because you’re too excited and we’ve heard it 3 times already.”

Your cold fingertips touched his warm, untatted forearm, “So then you know the tune already, right?”

Ghost rolled his eyes as he straightened himself out but paused, “You’ve got to be bloody fuckin’ kidding me.”

Quickly, you turned around in your seat and internally shouted in excitement. The other dip you’d just gone over was flooded as well. You laughed a little and hugged Ghost’s forearm, “I guess we’ll be here for a while then.”

He reached for the walkie on his jacket, placed perfectly between your breast and your shoulder. His face heated again at the thought before you huffed and held his hand, “Why’re you so eager? Are you scared of me or something?”

In a way, yes. He was.

Ghost sighed, “You’re drunk and bloody soaked through to your teeth. If you were sober, I wouldn’t be in such a rush.”

You stared blankly before heavily sighing and straddling his lap. Ghost’s eyes widened as he quickly held your unstable waist, “Th-…The fuck are you doing, Y/N.”

“They say a person’s drunken babble is what they wish they could say sober, Lieutenant. Is that why you’re scared? Because you don’t want me to s-“

“Stop,” Ghost commanded.

Your brows furrowed and your lip pouted in an innocent, begging look, “Why? If you wanted me to, you would’ve thrown me off already and connected with comms. Don’t lie, Lieutenant, it hurts my feelings.”

Ghost’s body tensed as he stared at how your soaked shirt stuck to your body. He could already imagine the beautiful damp sheen covering you from head to toe. He already saw the yearning lust and need in your eyes yet he was praying you couldn’t see it in his. But being a man was bound to be a death sentence in this situation.

You giggled in his ear, something that made his heart melt and his fingers twitch, before whispering, “I can feel you.”

He already felt like he was being edged. Ghost gripped your waist and sighed deeply, “Y/N…we can’t do this. I don’t want to lose you tomorrow. I can’t…I can’t let you give me something I don’t deserve. And not like this, on a whim. That’s not what I want for either of us.”

A heavy weight made your heart sink into your stomach and your nostrils burn. You couldn’t control the warm tears streaming down your cheeks now. Instead of getting off, you wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your head in its crevice, “Ghost…I understand. But…if we die tomorrow, I want to die happy. Not in agony from gunpowder or watching you sacrifice yourself. You’ve…you’ve always made me happy. It’s you, that’s kept me going. You’re my heaven on earth and all I want in life is for you to tell me all the things you wanna do.”

Ghost didn’t know what to say anymore. He didn’t know wether to touch you, kiss you, or call for help. Never did he allow himself to enjoy the simple pleasures of human life. It was always ruined by the grim thoughts of upcoming missions or what he wanted to do next to appease his past sins or lost comrades. You held his face and stared tearfully, whispering, “If I could run away with you to somewhere better, I would.”

“That’s quite childish.”

You nodded, “Isn’t it? I miss having that freedom. But when I’m with you…,” you sniffled and laughed a little, “You fill me with a childish joy that no one can beat. So, why not let yourself have a little fun, right?...”

Ghost’s heart raced at the tension filling the car. You stared at him while you leaned back against the steering wheel, careful not to set the horn off while you turned the radio back on. He kept a hold on your waist and massaged your hips with his thumbs and mumbled, “You’re fuckin mad.”

You gave a tear stained grin at him as you stretched, letting him paw at your tight stomach, “I haven’t heard this song since highschool. Sorry, I know you’re tired of it but it’s so pretty, y’know?”

Ghost watched you cling to him as you sang. You weren’t a professional but to him, you were quickly becoming his favorite radio. You massaged his hair over his mask while staring into his clear, stormy blue eyes. If the sun was out, you were confident the skies would be in his eyes like the world you always saw in them.

You stroked and traced every art piece on his tattooed forearm as you sang with the radio, “I know that they think I’ve come undone. But I’m in love, I wanna run run run away,” sweetly you spoke against his covered lips as your forehead pressed against his, “I’m leaving, are you coming with me?”

Without really thinking Ghost stroked your cheek shyly, afraid you’d shatter under his touch, and chuckled breathlessly, “If I knew you back then, I’m not too sure I’d be here.”

You hummed, “I’d rather fight with you than wait. I can take care of you here. And love you all you want.”

Ghost’s brow twitched as he quickly looked into your eyes, “you…what?”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, “I love you, Ghost. You think some horny friend would say what I said just to say it? Really?”

He stayed silent while you turned the radio down and skipped to a new song. A soft string of acoustic cords softly rang through the truck. You spoke with a blank face and slowly pulled up the bottom of his mask after he nodded, “I’m not gonna force or beg for anything from you,Simon. But if we die tomorrow…I want you to know I always cared about you.”

Ghost’s heart felt like it was going to pop from the amount of emotions he was feeling all at once. An overwhelming mix of confusion, disbelief, hope, shock, and a desperation for you to stay like this. For both of you to stay just like this. There was no tomorrow. No death. And for once in his life, there was peace. Temporary peace. But peace.

The use of his real name rolling off your tongue almost made him feel like he’d been reborn again. A new man determined to protect than avenge. A weight was lifted off of his shoulders, now being replaced with the comforting warmth and weight of your body instead of the world.

He remained silent. You closed your eyes, “Have you ever been kissed?”

Ghost bit back a small smile, scared you’d be weirded out, “Have you?”

You chuckled, “No. Not by you.”

This time, he did let it slip. Your eyes widened and a sleepy looking grin filled his body with an intense heat, “You can smile. It’s beautiful.”

Simon’s hand cradled the back of your head while the other remained at your damp torso, “Not as beautiful as you.”

When you woke up, you squinted at the sunlight burning your face. You looked around, noticing the sandy planes around and ahead of you. You quickly looked over at the drivers side and shot up at the missing body.

“GHOST?!”

Just when you shouted, your door whipped open while a large skull faced man pulled you out, “I’m here, love. There’s a vehicle heading our way right now. Lets get ready for them.”

You furrowed your brow and looked around, relieved but breathless, “What…happened?”

Ghost stared through his binoculars in the truck’s trunk, “You fell asleep on me. Got a headache?”

Confusion contorted your features, not feeling even a tinge of pain, “Actually…I don’t…?”

Ghost nodded, “Good. I snuck some hangover medicine into you. Did you know you sleep with your mouth open?”

“WHAT?!”

“They’re here.”

His nonchalant statement was all you could think of as you sat by his side in the infirmary room. His blood on your face while your own stained his bicep.

[anoddworld]

Been thinking about Mercurial Knight being Silent Salt’s vessel so here’s some more about it :)

I think once he accepts his hopeless situation, Mercurial Knight would try and tell someone. Would they believe him? Would they ignore him in favor of focusing more on Shadow Milk? I think it’d be more upsetting if they did ignore him, leaving him with a situation he’s in no way equipped to deal with.

He tries to set up precautions to prevent as much damage as possible. Mercurial Knight orders knights to keep an even closer eye on the tree, keeping his distance from whoever was on the mission to stop the Beasts (likely the Ancients, Gingerbrave and co, and maybe Silverbell), etc. He would never admit it aloud, but he’s terrified about what Silent Salt would do while in control of him and he will not allow them to hurt anyone if he can help it.

As time goes on and he keeps fighting the silent Beast, his health seriously declines. He barely is able to stay standing up, his body is more liquid-like as he’s unable to keep himself together, he struggles to keep up with even simple conversations, etc. If Pure Vanilla’s there, maybe he’d try and help his pitiful condition. It doesn’t help, maybe makes it worse. Silent Salt relentlessly makes fun of him while he’s trying to get even a small amount of sleep. Maybe for being weak or maybe for being helpless, but it certainly makes it worse.

After a long struggle, Mercurial Knight’s strength finally gives out and Silent Salt takes over his body. It wasn’t as painful as he imagined, honestly. Now, it’s up to heroes to stop the obviously possessed commander and deal with the consequences. It quickly dawned on them they’d likely have to seriously hurt (or even kill) him to draw out Silent Salt. It hurts to do it, but they’re forced to go through with it. By this point, Pure Vanilla may have already awakened his full power, and maybe he tries to save him. Whatever happens, everyone is a wreck, because Mercurial Knight told them so. He told them this would happen, and they did nothing. They start making plans of what to do after PV do what he’s doing (like if they need to bury him and what they’d say about what just happened)

And what’s Mercurial Knight (like his ghost/soul/whatever) doing all of this? He’s having a heart-to-heart, either with Elder Faerie or maybe a mentor figure, about what’s been happening lately. He tries to play it off as something that was bound to happen, nothing was going to stop it. Then they say something, something that finally breaks the dam he’s been holding together with metaphorical scotch tape and he finally talks about how he felt during the whole thing.

If PV revives him, he’s barely awake but he knows he’s been fussed over, like a little kid who got hurt in public. When he properly comes to, he’s filled in with what happened. It’s swiftly interrupted by Silverbell tackling him into a hug out of relief that’s he’s finally awake (I headcanon them to have a brotherly relationship), followed by White Lily, who’s also very worried. It’s actually a very touching moment. He manages to get back to work fairly quickly and stays at the home front to protect the tree (and stay away from Shadow Milk). He also doesn’t see Silent Salt anymore! All is well! … for now.

If he dies, well… it doesn’t go well. Shadow Milk messes with more grieving people! His ass is kicked extra hard!

Hope you enjoyed :}

[jagawriterr]

Hi sweetie! Sorry, English is not my first language. But I would love to read about Ghost, in love with the reader, both being very close, but when he decides to declare himself, he discovers that she is in a serious relationship with Konig. A little angust is always welcome. Thanks!!!!

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!reader x Konig Warnings: blood, mension of war and sex, chaotic mind, alcohol A/N: Hope u like it, anon.

It was Ghost. He held you exactly the same as when he tried to revive you. You were half-conscious, bloody, trying to take a few breaths. It caused you the most pain. The wound on his head was bleeding the most. He tried to stop it with the handkerchief he had tied around his neck earlier.

He stared at you with worried eyes, so penetrating. You couldn't say anything. You were on the edge of the abyss. Every second was precious.

"Don't close your eyes! Stay with me, please!”

You didn't protest. You were with him completely, you could feel his heart beating fast. He felt more for you than you thought. He loved you. You were his whole world. When he held you in his arms, he felt like he was losing touch with the world.

It was driving him crazy. Fuck. He was so in love with you.

The wound above his left eye always reminded him of that. A thick line starting at the temple and ending above the left eyebrow. He would stare at that scar every time you went on a mission.

You felt his warm hands around your hips. He was your salvation. A rescue from oppression. You didn't think you'd get so involved in this relationship. You were his friend. For good and bad.

You wanted happiness for him. You wanted him to experience at least a little love in his life. He was your greatest friend. Counselor. The destroyer of worries, failures and bad decisions that you bet on while on missions.

You weren't the type of woman to give in. You stood your ground, even in the worst moments.

There was Konig. your man. your beloved. Your beacon that kept you afloat. You were the apple of his eye. His sweet little mouse. You loved him deeply.

However, it came unexpectedly.

The numbness that puts you in this state. Disgrace. The chaos that drove you crazy. You were confused. Ghost and Konig.

The air in the room thickened. You felt like you were suffocating. You feel tingling in your fingers, muscle spasms, lumps in your throat. Ghost. Despite his mask, you can read his emotions perfectly. You've seen his real face.

He showed his true face when he confessed his feelings. You remembered it perfectly. You remembered all too well that numbness in your limbs, causing spasms in your intestines. Your feelings exploded. You couldn't stop yourself. Despite your feelings for Konig, despite his love for you and the fact that you were so close to him. You did it. You threw your arms around his neck and kissed him passionately on the lips, taking in his every breath. Every brush against his chapped lips felt like coming home. His every touch was like a touch of hurricane. You were all his.

Even then you noticed that he was wearing the same scarf that he used to collect excess blood from your forehead. All you could see was fireflies in his eyes. Pale face, slightly rounded eyes from lack of sleep and that feisty smile hiding under his mask. You didn't think it would go this far. After every mission you met him at the bar where you drank scotch. One glass, then another, another, and another. Yes, until the next day. A repetitive ritual. The reason you could be with him not only on the battlefield. On the field he is Ghost. Here, he's Simon.

Riley stared at you as you tipped your glass half full of whiskey. His silhouette shimmered with the light of the neon hanging on the wall by the bar.

You were both sitting at the bar sipping another glass of whiskey today. He turned towards you.

He looked at your thoughtful face. You were there with Konig. You were supposed to come home early today, you wanted to be with him. You wanted his touch, tenderness, kisses on plush lips.

"You will tell him?" He asked, impatiently waiting for an answer. You didn't know what to say.

His gaze was eloquent, making many promises. Shimmering with fever from the lights and thirst. Your silence was extremely dangerous. You slowly opened your mouth.

"I'll tell him when the time is right"

You swallow another shot of whiskey and just smile as Ghost puts a hand on your shoulder and pulls you close. He places a kiss on your wet lips. He can smell and taste alcohol. The mask covering his mouth tastes similar. She is permeated with his scent. The taste of salt, sweat and perfume he used on a daily basis.

You come home after midnight. The lights of the lanterns gently illuminate your hair, shimmering with a faint, pale glow.

You think about it all. You entered the house. As you closed the door, you saw him waiting for you. You looked at his stained face. Blue eyes sparkled with lamplight. You sat down next to him, now he can't get enough of looking at your face. The flush on your cheeks showed off the faint freckles.

You can't help but flinch at the thought of wanting to tell him. Ghost suddenly pops into your head. But all you do is get closer to Konig and snuggle into his soft body. You close your eyes. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, kisses your forehead tenderly. She smiles, the more guilty you feel about getting involved with Simon. Fuck. You felt like a traitor. Konig didn't deserve this. He was too gentle, too skittish, and social anxiety made it even more difficult for him to deal with the fact that you might leave him.

You lifted your head to look at his face. The scars blended charmingly with the wrinkles on the warm skin. You took him by the waist. "I need you something tell…" He kept the last words in your mouth as he kissed you passionately. Sweet, delicate lips, you felt their tart taste that made you drown. He shoved his tongue down your throat, gripped your waist tightly, pulling you closer to him. You remembered Ghost's touch when he fucked you for the first time. Shit, you were just thinking about him at that fucking moment. Raw sighs, rapid hip movements, the salty taste of sweat running down his hot body. Fucking hell.

The fucking thoughts wouldn't let go. All you cared about right now was being with Gosth right now. Fuck him in an armored car in the middle of nowhere. It was all you wanted.

All you wanted was Ghost. His warmth, smile, scars on his face and body.

[graceful-starker]

I Need You to Come Over

Notes: Y'all remember when I used to write angsty shit and put it all in one fic? Revival time. Maybe this can count for whumptober or something :p

I think this could fit nicely into my college AU, but I'm not going to add it to the collection or anything. This can be read as it's own story, there's no overarching plot.

Warnings: Suicidal ideologies/thoughts, alcoholism, drugs use, abuse mention. Please do not read if you'll get triggered!!!

Summary: Sometimes, when he’s trying to fall asleep, but his brain won’t turn off, he plans it out.

~~~

Tony doesn't like feeling this way. It scares him, a little, makes his stomach feel like it’s tied up in knots. It keeps him awake at night, and lingers in the back of his head during the day. 

But he does feel this way, and he wants to make it stop. One way or another. 

It started off small, in ways that didn't even really worry him at first. Just the underlying belief that he wasn't ever going to make it true adulthood. That he would die before he got there, by accident or otherwise. He’d get himself in too deep of trouble to be saved, maybe. He’d piss off the wrong person, become another number in the statistics of gun violence in America. He’d race one of daddy’s cars and crash, a tragic accident of youthful arogance. He’d drink too much and drown in his own vomit, just another victim of the underage drinking epidemic. He’d find a way to die, somehow, and no one would ever know he wanted it.

That was fine, back then. Back when he was a kid and he didn’t really understand how valuable life was. How important him being alive is to certain people. Because dad hits him and mom doesn’t remember he exists half the time and all his friends at school only like him because of his money.

In the present, Tony brings the bottle of scotch to his lips and takes a sip, too used to it by now to wince. It burns going down, and Tony enjoys the way it makes him feel something, anything. He’s spent most of his life feeling nothing, and chasing a way to feel. Just feel, even if it’s bad. 

He chases the feeling of adrenaline when he gets behind the wheel. He chases the pain of getting hit, purposefully pissing off his dad just to enrange him enough to leave a mark. He chases the high of alcohol, the floaty happiness that accompanies a good hit from a bong or blunt. Or, more recently, a line of coke. 

He’s not supposed to be on the roof. It’s not allowed, and it’s way too cold to be outside on a windy night like tonight anyway. He should have brought a jacket. But the lights are so pretty and the cars passing outside his building make satisfying noises as their tires roll over the pavement. 

New York is so beautiful. The city is beautiful. Tony has seen it all; he’s seen the mountains and he’s seen the desert, he’s seen beaches all around the world and he’s seen forests and he’s seen plains. Nothing beats the city lights and skyscrapers and billboards. It’s so uniquely human, in a city. Nature belongs to the animals, to the earth, and humans plague it with their presence; but not here. Here, in cities, the area belongs to humans alone. And it’s beautiful. 

Tony pulls out a new acquisition, rolling it gently between his fingers. He heard it works faster, but doesn’t last as long. But he can keep smoking it until it burns out, if he wants. He grabs his whiskey with his other hand and takes several gulps, staring at the coke. 

He puts the bottle down next to him and lights it, taking a long drag and feeling it before he even blows out the smoke. He stands up and looks over the edge of his building, smiling, the bottle hanging limply at his side. It doesn’t scare him, when he’s high, the height or his thoughts. 

I could jump, right now. I would splat on the ground, and the building is tall enough that I would die on impact. I wouldn’t feel a thing. It would finally be over. 

He puts the roll back to his lips and takes another drag, sitting on the edge and dangling his feet over the side. The wind is so strong, and he feels like if he opened his arms out wide he could fly away. He puts his bottle down next to him after taking another swig, and the taste of it combined with the taste of smoke isn’t pleasant. 

Sometimes, when he’s trying to fall asleep, but his brain won’t turn off, he plans it out. He doesn’t even have to race, really; he could just be going fast enough on the interstate, ‘lose control’ of his wheel, drive himself right into a concrete barrier. Wouldn’t even have to risk anyone else’s life, like jumping right now would. He could do it late at night, wait for a stretch of road when no one else is around him. 

He takes another drag, holding it in his lungs longer this time. Blows it out into the city air, breathes in deep through his nose. It’s such a unique smell, here. The way the wind smells cold, crisp. The smell of vendors wafting up, almost unnoticable. The stench of the sewer system, the litter and trash on the streets, the ever-present smell of gasoline. 

Sometimes, he thinks about finding pills and swallowing enough to stop his heart. Doesn’t even have to be anything illegal, just some heart medication, maybe some sleep medication. His mom takes enough ambian to put out a horse, he wouldn’t even need half of her stash. He could just swallow a handful and spend the rest of his life just like this. A little drunk, a lot high, smiling and feeling free for a few minutes at a time.

He takes several gulps, enjoying the way it hurts his throat on the way down. Loves the way it makes him feel warm inside, warm enough to combat the cold of the wind. It starts in his throat and goes down his chest and tricks him into thinking he feels love or loved. Settles in his stomach, warming him from the inside. He puts the bottle in between his legs, keeping one hand gently curled around the neck. 

It would be a nice way to die, he thinks. Going out feeling like this, feeling like nothing could hurt him and nothing matters and no one would miss him. He’ll be gone anyway, he won’t have to feel guilty. 

He takes another hit, resting his hand back on the roof beside his hip when he’s done. He blows it out, watching the smoke and sighing. 

It would be better than getting sick. He thinks about that, too; about letting himself get sick, maybe cancer or maybe liver failure. Just a natural way to die that doesn’t count as suicide. But that takes forever, and it hurts, and it would draw out the process. If anyone would miss him, if anyone would care that he’s dying, they would have to watch as he died slowly. He’d have time to feel regret. But he almost wants to get sick; just so they won’t blame him. Won’t hate him, even if he still did it to himself. 

Tony realizes he’s crying when a tear drips off of his face and onto the hand holding the bottle. He looks down, staring at the tear drop on his hand and swallows thickly. 

He doesn’t want to do it in a way that’s obvious. He doesn’t want to slit his wrists, or shoot himself. He’d rather it be ambiguous. Did he mean to do it, the headlines will ask, or is it just a tragic accident? Poor Mr. and Mrs. Stark, losing their only child to the tragedy of youthful immortality syndrome. 

Tony’s hand shakes as he takes another drag, before putting it out angrily. He puts it in his pocket, chasing away the taste of ash with whisky. He’s always loved fire, he thinks randomly. 

He’s staring at his phone, unaware of when he took it out. But his thumb is hovering over Rhodey’s contact information, ready to call. He wants to die, but he also doesn’t. He wants it all to stop, he wants to stop. It scares him, when he isn’t high or drunk. When he’s trying to sleep and he can’t, the thoughts keep him awake and they scare him. 

The coke and the alcohol, it was supposed to stop him from feeling this low. The distractions were supposed to work; Peter and his boyfriend, Steve and the girls he beds, Rhodey-

I don’t care what time it is, and I don’t care how sure you are that you aren’t going to do anything. You call me. 

Tony takes another swig, wipes his face of his tears, and dials. He holds the phone to his ear, wishing he had checked the time before he called. It’s probably closer to time to wake up than time to go to sleep. It rings three times, and Tony almost hangs up. 

Almost. “Hello?” Sleepy, disoriented. Tony feels bad for waking him. 

“Rhodey?” Tony asks, and he can hear how broken he sounds. He looks away from the ground, from the cars driving past and the pretty lights. He looks up instead, to the cloudy sky and the invisible stars hiding behind them. “I think I…” he takes a deep breath, hears shuffling on the other end of the phone. “I think I need you to come over.”

[letterstomonkey]

Blackboard Boy

I keep a guitar pick scotch-taped to the back of your face

In the fold of my white, leather wallet;

You keep score of us,

Tally marked in white chalk dust,

Falling like snow on the carpet.

You addressed me incorrectly, renaming me Polly

Sewed shut your Pocket as I slept inside it;

A tally for every single time that I spoke,

A tally each time I fell silent.

Kept in the dark and stitched tight to your skin,

I found solace upon learning to artfully listen;

Without the aid of sight to track your climbing scoreboard,

My ears shouldered the burden of perfect pitch to account for

Your counterfeit songs, against Pitchy strummed chords,

Leaving me leading me headfirst believing your

Rigidity provided security, enlisting my New Name,

Playing your skewed game

of attaining impossible rewards.

Time, still it passed, in a Polly Pocket sized hourglass, while

I believed you would play a fair game on your blackboard.

Time spoke your truth for me, in dog whistle frequency,

Only ears trained ruthlessly could perk up acutely,

Thus unravelling your thinly fabricated story-

The blackboard keeping score of me,

Never had your name on it.

This pocket-sized prisoner of war kept invisible

Tore out one stitch for each lie unforgivable;

My plastic doll-face now plastered in tears,

Reviving every fight I laid to rest along the years

Unbeknownst to plastic battle scars, I competed short of an opponent

Fueling doll fingers to unravel the jail cell You had so delightedly sewn in.

I relapsed amid the aftermath of being a fraudulent veteran,

Buried beneath the blackboard keeping my story and I condemned;

Here lies an abysmal score of tally-marked reasons you wanted to leave me,

Designed with the grave purpose in mind of perpetuating my desire to defend.

[maggzblair]

2023 year in review fic writer asks: 8, 19, 21? please and thank you.

First of all, hello friend! Hope you’re well and I miss talking to you. Hopefully we get to more in the new year.

Second of all, thanks for the questions! Let’s get to them, shall we?

8. Did you write for a new fandom or ship this year?

I actually did not write for a new fandom or ship this year, surprisingly enough! I thought that 2023 was the first time I wrote Gilmore Girls fic, but I guess the summer/fall of 2022 just completely slipped my mind. So, no, but hopefully I will further expand my horizons when it comes to writing in 2024!

19. Share your favorite opening line.

Now this is definitely a difficult task, to choose a favorite of many great lines from this year. I

can honestly say that there is not one opening line that I don’t like, but there is one that rose above the rest this year. It comes from my latest fic actually, a post-series Gilmore Girls AU called “If Twenty-One Was the Loneliest Number”.

If twenty-one was the loneliest number, twenty-three was perhaps her darkest sister. 

21: Share your favorite piece of dialogue.

Again, we find ourselves in another of the Gilmore Girls fics that I wrote earlier this year when the motivation was driving me. In this story, however, it comes with a possibly very divisive discussion of whether to continue with an unexpected pregnancy or decide to end it. I thought that it was very true to both the characters themselves and what could have happened if those infamous last four words had occurred at the end of the original series instead of the revival and I am still quite glad to see that the readers of this particular story have largely agreed. So, from the story “Falling Slowly”:

“Hey, Ace,” he finally said, pausing for a moment. “What’s going on? You said you needed to tell me something.”

The words seemed trapped on the end of her tongue, unable to come out. When they did however, it was in a rush only she could manage. “I know you probably didn’t want to hear from me again after your proposal, I mean…I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me. I know I didn’t give you much choice in calling me back either because I didn’t even tell you what was wrong,” she said, working herself up into a signature Gilmore ramble. As it turned out, that was the only way to push past the terror and finally admit to someone more than herself what was happening, damn the (hopefully) irrational fears of her inadequacy and that Logan would end up just like her father, leaving them both behind. Or maybe, just maybe …he wouldn’t. “I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant and terrified and the first thing I could think to do when the test turned pink was call you because I love you and I miss you.”

Silence reigned for what felt like an eternity, the only indication Rory had that Logan hadn’t ended the call was the sound of his breathing on the other side. She had shocked him, which wasn’t at all surprising considering she still felt the same way, but the longer he didn’t speak the more she felt uneasy. Was this the first heartbreak her child would experience, before she had even decided whether or not they would exist?

“Logan,” she asked softly, needing to hear him say something , even if it a less than enthusiastic response.

When he did finally reply though, it was entirely unexpected. “Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

How are you feeling? Was that all he could ask?

“I’m… I don’t know. I haven’t even left the bathroom yet,” she said, knocking her head back against the vanity when she heard exactly how that sounded. “I came in here to take the test but I can’t… I couldn’t make myself leave yet. If I leave, it’s real.”

Logan sighed and Rory could just imagine him, standing in the kitchen of the house he had bought for them, making himself a cup of coffee but wishing it was a scotch. Rory knew she wished she could have something alcoholic at the moment, or at the very least the biggest cup of coffee known to man, but the child currently growing inside her definitely wouldn’t like that. “I’m pretty sure it’s real whether you leave the bathroom or not, Ace. I don’t know much about kids, but I know that.”

“That’s the problem! I hardly know anything about kids, I’ve never really been around them! I mean, sure, Lane’s boys are really cute and Davey and Martha are fun to hang out with sometimes, but I never imagined having one of my own. Especially right now, just when everything seemed to be falling into place,” she said, standing and starting to pace. “I mean, I’m supposed to be in Iowa on Tuesday to cover the Obama campaign! How can I spend what I’m hoping is the next eighteen months on the road pregnant? Then with a baby?”

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

The question, simple and yet incredibly complicated, stopped Rory in her tracks. He was right, she didn’t have to do this, but could she stomach the fact that doing this meant…

“Are you saying you would..,” she said, voice trailing off before asking the question that would give her the choice she needed. 

Logan finished the question without a moment of hesitation. “Support you if you wanted an abortion? Yes.”

“Wow.”

[scotianostra]

On October 28th 2010 Scotland sadly lost the very funny man Gerard Kelly.

Everyone loved the mop of black hair, the half-length trousers, the bright Dr Martens and the cry of "Hiya pals", but you could spend hours figuring out exactly what made Gerard Kelly such a physically funny pantomime star. It was something to do with the knobbly knees, the way one leg would drag coyly behind the other, and the impression of Kelly having feet that headed in opposite directions. The actor Karen Dunbar, who appeared alongside him in three Christmas shows at the King's theatre in Glasgow, has her own theory. "I think it came from his hips," she said. "He used his whole body."

Whatever his secret, Kelly – who has died aged 51 after a brain aneurysm – was a consummate performer who reigned supreme at the King's theatres in Glasgow and Edinburgh for 20 years. To do this for a dozen performances a week required formidable energy. A fortnight into Sleeping Beauty, at the King's, Glasgow, in 2007, he began suffering from sciatica and amazed his colleagues by carrying on regardless of the pain.

Typically, Kelly played the Buttons-type character, a lovable clown who never got the girl but endeared himself to the audience with his rascally grin, gift for comedy and unerring democratic instinct. His generosity of spirit was addictive. Kelly could keep everyone, from children to pensioners, on side. "He knew exactly how to play the audience," said the director Tony Cownie, who staged several of the pantos. "You couldn't direct him. The minute Gerard walked on to the floor, I just sat back. You can't tamper with genius."

A private man who kept a low media profile, Kelly was a team player and commanded tremendous affection. Born Paul Kelly (he changed his name when he got his Equity card), he was brought up in a family of five children in working-class Cranhill, in the east end of Glasgow. His father, Charlie, ran a chip shop, and his mother, Rose, was a hotel waitress. A teacher at St Gregory's secondary school in Glasgow encouraged him to act. From the age of 12, he landed parts with the help of the agent Winifred "Freddie" Young. He appeared in adverts and the TV adventure The Camerons (1974), for the Children's Film Foundation.

Kelly built an accomplished television career, with early work including a part as a teenager with learning difficulties in Donal and Sally, written by James Duthie, which was broadcast in the Play for Today strand on BBC1 in 1978. That year he auditioned for The Slab Boys, John Byrne's celebrated carpet-factory comedy, at the Traverse theatre in Edinburgh, but was considered too young for the part. He was, however, cast as the designer Spanky Farrell in the Play for Today adaptation of The Slab Boys in 1979. He returned to the role at the Traverse in 1982 in all three instalments of what had become a trilogy (with Cuttin' a Rug and Still Life). That production transferred to the Royal Court in London and was a major success.

Here in Scotland, Kelly is fondly remembered for his leading role as Willie Melvin, a bank-teller with literary pretensions and dodgy friends, in the 80s sitcom City Lights, set in Glasgow. He made many guest appearances in programmes such as Rab C Nesbitt, Victoria Wood: As Seen On TV, The Comic Strip Presents and Juliet Bravo, and was a regular on the sketch show Scotch and Wry, starring Rikki Fulton. In 2006, Kelly teamed up with Tony Roper in Rikki and Me, a stage tribute to Fulton.

After bad-boy parts in EastEnders, as the violent Jimmy in 1994, and in Brookside, as gangster Callum Finnegan from 1997 to 2000, Kelly turned in a viciously funny performance as Ian "Bunny" Bunton, a camp panto director, in Ricky Gervais's Extras (2005). His other stage appearances included Neil Simon's The Odd Couple in 1994 (revived in 2002) for the touring Borderline theatre and Iain Heggie's A Wholly Healthy Glasgow in a production that opened at the Royal Exchange in Manchester in 1987 before transferring to the Edinburgh festival and the Royal Court.

Intelligent and politically engaged, Kelly ran the radical 7:84 theatre company in Scotland with David Hayman for three years in the late 80s. He directed Hector McMillan's sectarian drama The Sash ; Raymond Briggs's When the Wind Blows , about a nuclear attack; and an anti-poll tax farce, Revolting Peasants , for the company, whose name derives from athe statistic at the time that 7% of the population of the UK owns 84% of the wealth, it is probaly not changed much since then, if anything will have grown wider.

He had been due to revive his role as the narrator in The Rocky Horror Show at the King's in Glasgow. The part was taken by his friend and City Lights co-star Andy Gray. "He knew what worked," said Gray of Kelly's pantomime work. "I don't think 'Hiya pals' will ever be said again. He did it year in, year out, but 'Hiya pals' worked every time because he did it with such gusto and conviction." Sadly we also lost Andy following complications caused by COVID-19 in January 2021, the two will be having a ball together up there.

[pandorascripts]

I Love This Part.

summary; Kara and Lena fight, resulting in a multitude of misconstrued thoughts.

song: I Love This Part -The Wrecks.

note: Buckle up fellas, it’s been a while since I posted, but I’m getting back into groove. this was also proof-read once, so uhh….

THERE WILL BE A PART TWO!!

warnings: suicide thought, mentions of abuse, alcohol, Kara being sad (yes that’s a fucking tag, have you seen that bitch when she’s sad???), and Lena hating herself (yes that’s tag because that hurts me).

————

Lena scrunched her face in embarrassment. She took another swig of her scotch, hoping it would drown out her emotions. It didn’t. Her and Kara’s fight replayed in her head, bouncing around like a loose tennis ball, and hurting her head. Maybe the pain was due to the fact that she was on her third drink, but she ignored that. 

Lena was angry over the press finding about their relationship, the worry came from the right place. She didn’t want the press chasing Kara around, bugging her at work or at her home. Lena didn’t want Kara to deal with what she dealt with, that’s why she kept their relationship secret. 

Kara was sick of it, though. Only a few, select people knew, dates were rare and only inside Lena’s penthouse, and no PDA was allowed whatsoever. It was tough, but Kara loved Lena, and so she put up with it. She ignored the desire to grab Lena’s hand when walking, she ignored the tug of her heart when she tried anyway, and Lena slapped her hand harshly. It was hurting Kara, and she didn’t know if she could take it any longer. That’s why she snapped at Lena; she wished she didn’t, though, cause now she was fifteen potstickers away from a food coma, and drunk on her last bit of Barry’s special alcohol. 

Kara and Lena took a swig of their own beverages in sync, both of those fights numbing their senses. Kara was sobbing into a snot-filled blanket, Wizard of Oz playing in the back. Lena was staring blankly at a wall, her stone-cold eyes shooting daggers at the door when Jess would knock on it. Lena and Kara took another gulp. 

Lena sighed as she got up, filling her cup again. In her office, her phone rang, making Lena groan in distaste. She rubbed her temples. 

“Fuck off.” She picked up the phone. “Lena Luthor speaking.”

Kara paused. Maybe this was a bad idea. “Can we talk?”

Lena dropped the phone back into the reviver, walking away. She turned on her heel, ripped the cord out of the phone and chucked it through her window. Unfortunately, it bounced off the bulletproof glass, which only made her angrier. 

“FUCK!” she screamed, grabbing a bottle of scotch and chucking it at the window. It shattered, not even denting the glass as Lena panted. 

Lena turned around, a hesitant knock halting her anger. 

“What?” Lena snapped, too far gone in her emotions to even care about her tone. 

The door opened, Jess stepping through. “Ms. Luth—“

“Out, Jess.”

Jess nodded, swallowing harshly as she stepped out the door. It clicked shut, and Lena walked over to lock it. She slumped back into the couch, now feeling saddened by her outrage of anger. A dark, sickening thought made her stomach twist. 

You’re just like Lionel. 

Lena shook her head, wiping off her forehead. No. I’m nothing like him. 

You’re drunk out of your mind, angry at people who don’t deserve it, and throwing bottles around because you can. You might as well start hitting Kara, then you’ll be a perfect match. 

Lena slapped the side of her head, hot tears scalding her face. No, no, no. 

Lena curled herself into a ball, lazily kicking off her heels as she did so. She sunk into the couch, falling through it and into her thoughts. This was one of the reasons she loved Kara, she never stopped talking, which meant it was never silent. If it was never silent, Lena couldn’t fall prey to the sadistic thoughts she had. Unfortunately, Kara wasn’t here, Kara’s talking wasn’t here, and Kara’s warm embrace wasn’t here, but Lena’s thoughts were. And her thoughts welcomed her into a dark hell, dragging her down and down and down. 

Kara shoved three potstickers in her mouth, ignoring the intense taste of salt from her tears, as she hung up on Alex for the third time tonight. She just wanted to be alone. That was a lie. She didn’t want to be alone, she wanted to be with Lena, but Lena clearly didn’t want to be with her. She tried calling, asked to talk even, but Lena simply hung up a moment later. Did she not care? Kara cried harder at the thought, maybe she was just easy. Maybe that’s why Lena kept her away, cause she was embarrassed. After all, Lena was a badass CEO, and Kara was just some loser journalist. Kara understood her embarrassment, sometimes she hated herself for how she was. She didn’t deserve Lena, look at her! She snapped at Lena for something minuscule, something that paled in comparison to what she had now lost. It was stupid, Kara should be fine with having a secret relationship, it didn’t matter if Eliza didn’t know, or even the team for that matter, it didn’t, and it couldn’t. Because if it did matter, then she lost Lena, she lost what she had tried to hard so get back. It was a miracle Lena had even agreed to be her girlfriend, after all, she had betrayed her. Everything was Kara’s fault. 

She curled herself into a ball, picking up a  small photo of herself and Lena, and tucked it into her chest. Kara cried harder, not caring about the pain from where the frame was cutting into her throat. It wouldn’t kill her, but she wished it would’ve.

[adeathsentence]

BASICS !

NAME:    Andrea Labonair Hayley Marshall NICKNAME/S:    Little Wolf (Klaus Only), Hales, Her Wolfiness AGE:   Eternally 21. SPECIES:  Originally werewolf, now werewolf/vampire hybrid.

PERSONAL !

MORALITY:    lawful  /  chaotic  /  good  /  neutral  /  evil  /  true RELIGION: Zilch. SINS:    greed  /  gluttony  /  sloth  /  lust  /  pride  /  envy  /  wrath VIRTUES:    chastity  /  charity  /  diligence  /  humility  /  kindness  /  patience (with her daughter)  /  justice KNOWN LANGUAGES:  English and a little French/Spanish from her home and travels. SECRETS:  It's kinda the worst kept secret because anyone who knows what she is knows how she became it: to activate the werewolf gene, she had to kill someone. It happened when she was an adolescent and changed her life entirely. Other than that, she's quite the open book with those in the fold; only humans wouldn't know her true nature.

PHYSICAL !

BUILD:    scrawny  /  bony  /  slender  /  fit /  athletic  /  curvy  /  herculean  /  pudgy  /  average HEIGHT:     5'8" / 1.72m SCARS / BIRTHMARKS: Her Crescent Pack birthmark on her right shoulder blade. ABILITIES / POWERS: If you know, you know. If not: she's a hybrid, so she's got everything in one package and she's resourceful even as just a werewolf. RESTRICTIONS:  Rip her heart out and dead.

FAVORITES !

FOOD: Blood, Cajun cuisine, and an entire list of places she dined in during her time on the road. DRINK:    One bourbon, one scotch, one beer. PIZZA TOPPING:   No Hawaiian. Banned. She keeps it simple: cheese. COLOR: Nothing too bright, but she has a range of attire in many shades. MUSIC GENRE:    Classic rock, but she's secretly partial to 90s boy bands. Shh. BOOK GENRE:    Dime Store Romances. She's a secret sap. MOVIE GENRE:  Used to be Horror, but then she met Klaus. Now? She'll settle for kids' films with Hope. CURSE WORD: KLAUS (Derogatory) SCENTS: Depends on when: after a Change, it'll be the scents of nature, of the bayou. On a normal basis? Natural scent, very few fragrances, her nose is too sensitive as a hybrid.

FUN STUFF !

SONGS: "Rock On" by Def Leppard, "Shattered" by Trading Yesterday, and "Born on the Bayou" by Creedence Clearwater Revival AESTHETIC:    Combat boots, comfort, and attitude SINGS IN THE SHOWER: She's more the carpool karaoke type, but yes. And it's not too bad? LIKES PUNS: Yes, but will she admit it?

tagged by: @deceptivemorals tagging: @cursedbcrn, @therebekahmikaelson & @crescentmoonqueen, @bloodxxandxxspirit (Star), @xxgotthedevilinsidexx (Caroline), @pnnthr, @normaltothemax (Riley), @demcnsinmymind, @unbearablyindifferent

[spikeinthepunch]

if you told me a few years back i was gonna revive @single-malt-scotch and not drop it in a week and enjoy it genuinely i would have never imagined it. as much as i consume "cringe" content and enjoy things like hot wheels or barbie unironically, there has been a strangely complicated relationship between me and mcyt- for those who have only followed this blog (and even the one i had before this) youd have no idea i was incredibly involved with and enjoyed the old mcyt smp, mindcrack. after my early fandoms in 2010-2012 mindcrack was my thing, for years (the url of that side blog was what i used to have).

no matter how much i try to throw out the disclaimer "if you remember my mcyt days understand i was a teen and im not a weirdo about these people", the reason i even detached further and further over time wasn't purely that i fell out of it (i did, the server started to dwindle) but the.... shame in never wanting to look back at those days came from the automatic association people gained about mcyt over time, and tumblr's rampant witch hunting culture over calling people out for liking "problematic things".

should be said im talking about this shame and callout culture in the context of 2015 tumblr- to now. i was 16 and that stuff was ingrained in my head. it ruined my consumption and joy for media for years. i liked a lot of stuff without problem but i liked them all with intense, fear filled awareness to not unknowingly be ~bad~ but just touching something people could deem problematic. the moment i registered that my behavior as a 13 year old was "bad" bc i wrote mcyt fanfics was the moment i closed off all of that past and decided it was bad, and i was bad, and i could never ever look at it the same way again.

even as i stayed subbed to some of those people out of not wanting to let go of subs i made almost ten years ago- there was no way i was every going back i thought. i looked at mcyt fandom stuff and cringed, and that increased when the distaste of dreamsmp arose-- which ever valid to dislike dream, the wave of cringe culture over dreamsmp and the general concept of mc smps only furthered my shame in the last years. i was told even more in the present now, that mcyt fandom is Bad because its all weird people shipping real people and its strange and youre obviously bad for associating in any form at all. nuance in enjoying gamers on youtube was suddenly lost. even in that period of dsmp getting popular, i couldnt imagine myself getting to this point again, it really was so engrained in me to never consider mcyt a point of joy for myself, when my inability to do so was always tied to shame.

it sounds silly-- but applying this to a broader range of interests? it doesnt matter if im talking about mcyt or something else. it was so hard for me to decide in my head that there was nothing morally egregious about watching people play fucking minecraft on youtube. even if i draw fan art. even if i indulge in the characters they play in a way that isnt strange or crossing their personal boundaries. im not sure what happened to make people decide "mcyt" was a catch all for the Worst of the bad examples for people within such a large community but the moment that happened it made it so hard to feel like i was allowed to like this ever again. i made my existing sideblog in the early summer and i didnt say anything about it. i had it for months and i said nothing. i was so afraid of considering i might have fun, and find joy in this, i wanted to make sure if i destroyed it, it wasnt tied to here and there were no strings attached.

i slid away to enjoy this in peace. and im glad i did in the sense i took away any stressors of just posting straight to my main with little time to decide my feelings. but through the last months i have on and off added it to my pinned post. added it because fuck it, took it down because anxiety. back up, i have nothing to lose.... back down because i saw some post that made me feel bad again.

i am tired of it. the effect of early tumblr culture stress hangs over me even still and it fucking sucks. ive sat here drawing stuff for months on this sideblog unable to tie it to my name for reasons that dont even make sense, out of fear of a reaction from people id never regard or listen to in the first place. that being said im keeping that blog, its on my pinned, im queueing the art to post here whenever i share it, and taking all my old DA art out of storage was a big one to covercome as it uplocked all my old mcyt art to the public again even stuff i felt the most shame for-- by no means was this fandom what it was when i enjoyed it with 30 other people on tumblr 10 years ago... but im finding joy in this again, and my heart swells for every old mutual i see again and im not denying myself that anymore.

[zer0bar]

Thanksgiving Cocktail Menu

Monsoon Martini (cocktail)

Vodka, Espresso, Walnut Bitters, Ancho Chili Liqueur, Honey

Vanilla Saffron Old Fashioned (rocks)

Bourbon, Agave, Orange, Bitters

Dead Poet (snifter)

Espresso Walnut Allspice Bourbon, Rye, Agave, Clove Smoke

Catcher in the Rye (rocks)

Rye, Honey Chamomile Cordial, Amaro, Peated Scotch

Corpse Reviver 2.0 (cocktail)

Gin, Cointreau, Lillet Blanc, Lemon

Blackberry Bramble (rocks)

Gin, Creme De Mur, Simple Syrup, Lemon

Sentimental Gentleman (rocks)

Blended Scotch, Walnut Liqueur

Milk Punch (rocks)

Cognac, Rum, Milk, Simple Syrup, Nutmeg

[SOLD OUT] The Marge (cocktail)

Rum, Cognac, Pineapple, Lime, Simple Syrup, Apricot