#both of my other crochet shirts are now too big?? somehow???

[rocknrollinbitchforu]

im trying to make this stupid little crochet shirt for my birthday thats less than two weeks away and god damnit i should NOT have used colour shifting yarn. I am on trail cup #3 and i cannot for the life of me get two cups that look half decent together. will update you on hour this plays out

[tealenko]

Never Have I Ever (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3: I Feel Good about my Chances

Here it is!!!! Sofa seeex looking at the galaxy!!! What else could you want in a fic? ehehehehehehe

Summary: Shepard and Kaidan, way too drunk and horny, together in the same room. So... Stuff happens.

Words: 2527 Rating: Explicit Warning: seeex

Previous chapter -> [link] Read in AO3 -> [link]

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The walk from the starboard to the port observation takes way longer than it should’ve taken under normal circumstances, but way less than it would take to get there to anyone in their current state.

As Shepard and Kaidan are used to supporting and helping each other in the battlefield, they manage to work together to go through that corridor fast enough to not be seen by anyone and, most importantly, they somehow find a way to not fall to the ground while they do it.

Once they are finally inside of the room, and the door closes, Shepard takes a second to let a sigh of relief come out of her body before resuming her main mission.

“EDI, block this door.” She says out loud. “And all calls, including yours, unless it’s a real emergency.”

Her eyes are locked on Kaidan as she waits for an answer, watching him walk into the room to stand right in front of the big sofa, getting lost as he contemplates the deep darkness and the shimmering stars through the immense glass.

“Understood.”

“Especially from Garrus.” She adds with a snort. “That’s all.”

“Logging you out, Shepard.”

Before Kaidan has the opportunity to say anything she walks to where he is, taking off her hoodie on her way there, and throwing it to the ground, pushing Kaidan a little to make him fall and sit on the sofa right after.

“Mio…” He gasps, surprised by the rate in which the situation is escalating, as she sits on top of him once again, although this time straddling him.

“Yes?” She whispers to his ear, causing a shiver to travel through his body.

“We…” He coughs to clear his voice, not sure if he’ll be able to finish his sentence for a few seconds, eventually managing to do so, but not without difficulty. “We… Should stop.”

“You are kidding me, right?” Shepard, who was already planting kisses on Kaidan’s neck, backs a little in order to seek for his eyes. “Oh no, you are serious.”

“You’re too drunk, Mio.” He argues, fighting all the signals his body is sending him to rip off her clothes and get lost into her body.

“So?” She replies as she lets her hands wander through his chest.

“I’d be taking advantage of you.”

She can’t avoid laughing a little when she hears his answer, finding his behavior both touching and annoying at the same time.

“So?” She smiles at him while her hands start to travel downwards.

“Mio, please...” His voice quivers as she starts to pull from his shirt so that she can untuck it. “You’re…”

“You’re drunk too.”

Once she manages to gain access to his body she doest waste a moment, eager to feel Kaidan under her fingers.

“Yeah… But…”

“No but Kaidan.” She laughs a little at the whole situation. “Only you are able to behave like a complete gentleman after 3 bottles of whiskey.”

As her hands travel to his back, her caresses start to evolve into soft scratches and, every single one of them, gives room to a low moan from Kaidan that seeks to reply to her teasing.

“Mio…”

“And anyways… What do you think we’d be doing if we were sober? Crocheting?” She snorts at her own comment for a second. “No, we’d be totally fucking right now.”

“Well…”

Her hands move now to his torso, and start to move downwards at a slow pace, taking her time to get where she wants them to be.

“In fact, if we weren’t, well, that’s a clear sign for you to shoot me right on the head, because that will only happen if I’m indoctrinated.”

He gives her a big smile, rewarding her comment with a deep chuckle.

“I don’t deserve you...”

“No, no you don’t.” She giggles. “Now, take your shirt off.”

“Another order?”

She laughs as her hands travel even lower and start to unfasten his belt.

“A strong suggestion.” His smile gets even bigger but he doesn’t obey her demand. Instead, he takes a few seconds to look at her before speaking again.

“And… If I don’t want to?” His hands caress her thighs on their way to her butt, grabbing her once they get there so that he can pull her closer.

She laughs at his comment and his reaction, being now so close that she can feel way too well the effect her words and her touches are causing to Kaidan’s body.

“I won’t force you to do anything you don’t wanna do...” She whispers, letting her words caress his neck. “Say the word and I’ll stop.”

Despiste her speech, she takes the opportunity, while Kaidan fights with his inner demons and angels, to rise ever so slightly to be able to pull down his pants and his underwear a little bit, just enough to free his hardness before resting her weight again on top of him.

“Mio...”

“Yeah?” She resumes her attack, leaving a trail of kisses and bites from his clavicle to his ear.

“We…” His hands develop a mind of its own, wandering inside of her shirt to unhook her bra, which causes Shepard to smile against his skin, feeling more victorious by the second.

“So… Should I stop?”

Kaidan’s body replies to her before he’s able to do so, making her moan a little as she senses him getting harder against her.

“Would you? If I ask you to?” He inquires, curious to hear what she will answer.

“Of course” She says, with a big smile on her face, completely delighted about what Kaidan is not saying, but his body is telling her.

Kaidan moves one of his arms and grabs her chin so that their eyes can meet, while the other wraps around her and pulls her as close as his able with a quick motion.

“Why are you smiling like that, then?” He asks with a deep voice, which causes her smile to get even wider.

“I feel good about my chances.”

“As you should.”

That's the last thing he says before leaning in for a kiss. A long and passionate kiss, borderline desperate, that leads to Kaidan finally taking off his shirt as fast as he can so that he can help her out of hers.

Both shirts fall to the ground to be followed a few seconds later by her bra.

His hands are now the ones busy, unfastening her belt while she distracts herself exploring with both her hands and her mouth all the new areas of Kaidan’s body that are now available to her.

He unzips her pants as fast as humanly possible, but, given her position on top of him, he’s unable to lower them, so his hands take another route and travel to her breast, watching her shiver and moan the second they reach their destination.

“Kaidan...” She says faintly against his skin, pressing against him as a reply to his touch, and getting a shiver and a moan back from him to answer to hers.

And, following this way, they take a path, or better said, a roundabout, of teasing, shivers and moans that lasts an eternity, to the point where she cannot endure it any longer and stands up in order to get rid of her pants and what’s left of her underwear.

Even though Shepard gets completely naked in record time, she decides to spend a long minute standing still in front of him, all her clothes on the ground in a big puddle next to her, with her hands resting on her hips as she takes her time to take in the view of Kaidan’s body.

Her eyes trace meticulously every inch of his skin, letting the eagerness build little by little around them. Basking in the sight of him while trailing and rediscovering new and old details, completely lost in a soft and rough canvas, embellished with the resulting constellation of all scars that the wear and tear and the battles have sealed across him with the passage of time.

Kaidan smirks at her and gets both flushed and cocky as a response to her behavior, leaning his arm over the back of the sofa and resting his right foot on top of his left knee, making himself comfortable as he waits patiently for her.

The smile on his face deepens by the second, which causes Shepard to bite her bottom lip as a reply to what she’s seeing, finally letting her eyes abandon his body so that their gazes can meet.

“Come here...” The sweet and low tone his voice acquires as he says this is almost powerful enough to melt Shepard’s body and destroy all her self control but, against all odds, she somehow manages to remain standing in place and, most importantly, develop a comeback.

“What if I don’t want to?” She teases him, crossing her arms and watching him lose eye contact as she does this, perhaps given to the fact that this last action is offering Kaidan a whole new view of her breasts, squeezed together thanks to her new pose.

“Well...” Kaidan does his best to get his words back, finally succeeding after a few tries. “Then I guess you’ll have to stay there...” He replies, letting a big smile unleash little by little with every word that comes out of his mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be sad at the thought of that?” She says, starting to close the distance between them.

“What can I say?” He replies once she’s in front of him. “I feel good about my chances.”

And that’s what finally manages to turn off her self control.

She gets on top of him once again and, guiding him with one of her hands, she lets gravity do the rest of her job for her.

They both moan as he enters her and, while Kaidan’s arms surround her body to bring her closer, she leans into the embrace as her mind tries to catch up with all she’s feeling.

She freezes for a few seconds, enjoying the sensation of having Kaidan inside of her, the strength of his heartbeat beating against hers and the sense of security she feels while being held in his arms.

In the meantime, Kaidan buries part of his face in her hair, getting lost in her smell and how she feels under his touch, letting his hands roam through her back and all the way back to her legs, tracing, and mapping in his mind, every little scar he founds in her body.

The kisses and the movement start at the same time, surprising Kaidan a little bit and causing a soft moan to escape his body as she resumes the pace with hers.

At the beginning, she matches every move with a new kiss, taking her time in each one of them, but, as her rhythm starts to increase, the kisses start to fade in order to leave room for endless pants and moans from both of them.

Kaidan tightens the grip on Shepard’s legs and starts to support her movements, synchronizing to perfection every one of his pulls with each and every of her rams.

Her hands anchor onto the back of the sofa to find support as she increases her speed while her eyes close out in pleasure, feeling way too many things at the same time to be able to keep them opened.

His, on the other hand, are locked onto the view of the vast galaxy outside the window, fixed on one of the many stars that shine bright in the jet black horizon.

“I...” He whispers to her ear. “I’m not gonna last much longer.”

Without decreasing her speed, Shepard tangles her hands on his hair, lowering her body a little to get even closer to him.

“Then don’t.” She softly replies to him, changing her rhythm right after, starting to ride him even faster and harder than before.

He laughs and moans at the same time as a response to both her words and her actions.

“Mio...” Her name almost slithers out of his mouth, causing her to tighten even more around him which, in turn, is followed by another moan from him.

He tries his best to concentrate on the view, to hold back as long as he’s able, failing miserably to so because, just as she could read him like an open book, Shepard’s mouth finds his neck making the whole challenge much more difficult.

“M...”

“Let go...” She pulls back a little so that their eyes can meet one more time. “Stop holding back, Kai.”

He smiles and lowers his head a little before his mouth starts to open a new path along her neck, tightening the grip on her body and starting to press even harder against her.

“Kaidan...” She moans his name, increasing her pace even more, which wins her a low growl from him as a reward.

“Mio...” He stutters. “I’m...”

“Let me see you.” She demands, with her legs already trembling for what’s about to happen. “Come for me, Kai.”

They synchronize almost to perfection for this part too, with him reaching his climax just a second before her, both of their voices tangling into a single chant of pleasure.

As Shepard lets all her body fall to rest against his, he moves his arms and hugs her, turning his eyes once again to look at the stars, scanning every single light one by one while he tries to recover his breath.

“It’s… almost hard to believe.” He whispers to her ear.

“Hmm?”

“Countless planets, places...” He tightens the hug even more. “And here I am, against all odds…” He gives her a chaste kiss on her shoulder before turning his sight once again to look through the window. “How can I be so lucky?”

“To be here?”

Shepard moves a little and smiles at him.

“To be with you.” He replies without a second thought.

She nuzzles his nose with hers before planting a soft kiss on his forehead, starting to move back once it's over.

“I should...” She begins to speak. However, he replies before she’s able to finish her sentence, knowing way too well what she’s about to say and not willing to let it happen.

“Don’t go. Stay...” He pleads, giving her a sad look before blinking his eyes a couple of times. “Please?”

His reaction makes her laugh right away, and she rolls her eyes and smiles at the whole situation, not truly believing he’s being able to pull something like that on her.

Kaidan grabs her by the arm and brings her closer so that they can share one more kiss, and once it’s over, his gaze locks again onto hers while his mouth starts to mimic her smile.

“You’ll see, you’ve never slept with better views.” He states, knowing way too well he’s won this battle.

Shepard laughs and shakes her head a couple of times, surrendering herself to the whole situation.

“I haven’t agreed yet, Kaidan.” She states, letting a big smirk form on her face.

“I know...” He answers, smiling back at her. “But I feel good about my chances.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Hurt Prompt:

'You're not dying, it's only a sprained ankle' - widomauk (aka: Molly hurt himself and is now trying to get Caleb to pity him) 💜🧡

I am so sorry this has taken so long! But my lovely gf chose this out of my prompts list for my next little fic so here it is, some modern au widomauk family cuteness!

This fic is also on Ao3 if anyone would like to leave a comment!

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Caleb had gotten too used to solving his problems with spells.

He wasn’t very strong so he used a levitation spell to carry his books and papers. His daughter Una wouldn’t sleep so he conjured dancing lights to soothe her and help her forget her nightmares. His son Trinket fell and skinned his knee so Caleb dropped the temperature of his palms and held them to the injury to soothe the pain and still the sniffles. Frumpkin wouldn’t stop scratching the arms of the sofa so a quick prestidigitation made sure Molly would be none the wiser. Caleb was very good at magic, after all.

But it meant that, when he found a problem that wouldn’t bend to any spell, he was a little lost.

At least he could float the mug of tea up the stairs without spilling. It bobbed just above his finger as he made his way up the stairs, deftly dodging toys left scattered by their children and several socks that had escaped the laundry basket, managing to make it unscathed to their bedroom. Frumpkin padded after him, bell on his collar jingling.

“Liebling?” he called softly as he pushed the door back, “I brought you some tea.”

A low groan from the bed was his answer, from the bundle of blankets that had replaced his husband. It shifted, a few crocheted throws sliding down in a wooly avalanche, the curved tops of two horns appearing, followed by a sleepily blinking set of red eyes.

Caleb smiled sympathetically and moved closer into the dim room, only a sliver of afternoon light coming in through the drawn curtains. With his free hand, he summoned a small ball of light and sent it drifting above the bed so he could see better. It was the same cluttered room he’d left an hour or so ago, the same cluttered room they spent every night in. All his books piled in neatly organised stacks that made sense only to him, Molly’s scented candles filling different corners of the room with different smells, scarves draped on nearly every available surface, a closet stopped with equal numbers of thick woolen jumpers and crop tops. Frumpkin sprang onto his usual perch, which was wherever Molly’s favourite cardigan was resting so he could get the maximum number of ginger hairs on it.

“I’m sorry to wake you but the healers said I should check on you every hour,” Caleb set the mug down on the bedside table, perching on the edge of the bed, mindful not to sit on his husband’s tail which was thrashing unhappily, “How are you feeling?”

“Depends,” Molly’s voice was even more raspy than usual, muffled by his blanket horde, “Help me decide which kid gets the high heeled boots in the will and I’m sorted.”

Caleb swallowed his chuckle as best he could, “I don’t expect Una will ever grow big enough to fill them so Trinket will probably get more use. But you’re not dying, Liebling, it’s only a sprained ankle.”

“Only,” Molly scoffed, sitting up straighter, more blankets falling away. He was wearing one of Caleb’s shirts from the university. He'd always preferred to sleep in his husband’s clothes, “You don’t go to the hospital for only anything!”

Caleb smiled sympathetically and moved closer, though he was careful not to jostle the brace wrapped foot that poked out from under the duvet at the bottom of the bed, balanced on a pillow.

“That is true,” he allowed, “Pike did say you were lucky not to break i t.”

“Exactly!” Molly pouted, reaching over for the mug, “And it hurts…”

Caleb patted the tiefling’s uninjured leg, “You can have some more painkillers in forty three minutes. And at least now we have learned a lesson about watching where we’re going on a stage, ja?”

How someone could look so haughty when their injury was entirely their fault, Caleb didn’t know, but Mollymauk managed it.

“Take me through it again?” he chuckled, still rubbing his shin, “Yasha didn’t quite give me all the details.”

In fact, all she’d said when she’d called Caleb to tell him Molly had been carted off to the emergency room mid-rehearsal was that he’d ‘been an idiot’. Not that Caleb would be repeating that.

Molly hunched his shoulders, “Um...we were rehearsing for the show, we’re doing Romeo and Juliet for the summer production. And I was, ah...paying very close attention to Vax’s choreography for the ballroom scene and just wanted to make sure I was getting it absolutely right, exactly as he was telling me to do it over and over and over again…”

Caleb tilted his head knowingly, “You were taking the piss out of him.”

“I...might have been doing an impression,” Molly started to hunch back into his blankets, “Allegedly. You’ll have to question witnesses.”

“Uh huh,” Caleb noncommittally rearranged the covers around Molly’s legs to keep out drafts, “And then?”

“Then. I wasn’t looking where the edge of the stage was and I fell into the orchestra pit.”

So Yasha had got it pretty accurate.

“And now my ankle is all gross and swollen and I can’t walk on it and I’m bored and it hurts!” Molly put more emphasis on that part, throwing his hands out exasperatedly and newly upending his tea.

Caleb smiled in sympathy, moving so he was leaning against the headboard too, stretching his legs out next to his husband’s. Instantly Mollymauk slumped against him, resting his head on his shoulder.

“It’s really shitty,” he mumbled into Caleb’s cable knit sweater.

“I know, Liebling,” he turned his face to kiss the top of Molly’s head, “And I’m sorry I don’t have the spells to fix this, I did look them up but they’re just not my domain and if I got something wrong...but you’ll be feeling better before you know it. And until you do, I’m right here for you.”

“Even if I’m a bit of an idiot? Not that I’m saying this was my fault or anything…”

Caleb grinned, “Come on now, Mollymauk, if I’d cared about you being a bit of an idiot we’d never have had a second date.”

Molly’s tail immediately flicked him on the thigh but he could have sworn his husband was muffling laughter against his shoulder.

Caleb paused, hearing a clatter that was rapidly increasing in volume, a smile growing on his face as the sound of two little feet and four scrabbling sets of claws got louder. He threw an slightly apologetic glance in Molly’s direction, “Sorry, Liebling, I said they had to wait a little and then they could follow-”

He was interrupted by the door bursting back and their children tumbling in, giggling and whispering to each other. Una ran in on all fours, as usual, she hadn’t mastered the wobbly toddler walk the same way her brother had.

“Daddy!” Trinket yelled before clearly remembering Caleb had told him that Molly would appreciate some peace and quiet, dropping down to a still loud stage whisper, “Daddy!”

“Hey there kiddos,” Molly smiled, brightening a little as Una pounced up onto the bed and curled up tightly under his arm, Trinket needing a magical assist from his papa to join them at the foot of the bed, “Sorry if I scared you there, I promise I’m okay.”

“Hurt bad?” Una murmured, staring at his support with wide yellow eyes like two gold coins.

“Well,” Molly ran a gentle hand through her dark hair, smiling demurely, “It’s not exactly comfortable...I’ll be okay, darling.”

“You will!” Trinket beams, bouncing on his knees excitedly, pulling something from behind his back with a flourish that meant he could only be Molly’s son, “Cos we got this!”

The tiefling blinked, eyes widening as he took the card in his hands, bringing it close with the kind of reverence people usually reserved for pieces of priceless art. It was made from a folded piece of paper, that Caleb unfortunately recognised as one of his marking sheets from work, that was already bowing under the weight of all the glitter and glue on it. Somehow it was both simultaneously dripping glue and shedding glitter on the blankets, the adornments surrounding a lovingly drawn portrait of someone very purple, with enormous horns and a tail curled into a heart. One of this figure’s legs was wrapped in a bandage and words were scrawled in a heavy hand around them. We love you daddy!

Molly gave a soft chuckle, closing his eyes a moment so they didn’t look quite so full of tears. He reached out to bring Trinket close to him too, bundling both his children close.

“Thank you, babies,” he murmured, voice a little thick, “That does make me feel so much more okay.”

Caleb watched them fondly before folding them into his arms too, so he could embrace all of his little family at once.

Maybe he had gotten too used to fixing problems with spells, maybe he did struggle when he couldn’t just wave his hands and knit everything back together. But fortunately, he had two experts who were willing to show him how.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Michael Myers x Reader || Oneshot

Title: I’m Weak

Notes:

Could be considered the second, much later part to the smut oneshot I wrote but only if you want it to be.

Based off this quote, which has bene used in the Oneshot: ‘You’re scared of the way I make you feel because you don’t want to feel anything.’ by Maya Banks.

I dunno where all this inspiration for Michael is coming from. 

I love how acclimatised to all of Michaels insanity reader is

Plot: 

Dating, or whatever the relationship can be classified as, the infamous Shape reaches its horrendous peak. You’re frustrated and if he doesn’t help you out here, then not even the truest, biggest love in the world can stop you from leaving- because if he isn’t really there, it isn’t worth it. 

Warnings: Slightly Yandere themes, I guess? I mean, if this were a Hetalia Oneshot I would say severely yandere themes but this is already a horror character so. Yandere, I GUESS??

~~~

“You’re scared of the way I make you feel because you don’t wanna feel anything.” I say, not like it’s a revelation or because it needs to be said. But because it makes me feel better. Because I’m spiteful, because I’m allowed to be. Because it makes Michael breath- you can see his chest rise and fall as soon as it sinks in, and it is a glorious feeling to know that I’ve made his unfaltering, never ending emotionless composure stutter. “And I don’t understand it, but I know that engulfs you.” I take in a breath, stepping back. Every word that gets past my teeth and bashes off my lips is steely and cold, wholehearted. “And I know you’re failing.”

He doesn’t move apart from the breathing, but he will. He’s feeling more then he has since- probably since he was a kid. And I’m feeling more then I want, then I ever thought possible because by some twisted miracle I love him and I’m gearing up to leave him. And he’s aware.

“Well guess what, you can’t go through life that way, Michael, you’re human. You have to feel, it’s like breathing. And sometimes you have to feel your guts get ripped out but that means you care, and that can feel really, really great.” Its worth every tear. “Now, I care about you like that. But all I get from you is the pain and that’s just not good enough, I’m sorry.”

And I am sorry. Not for him, but for me. Because I know if he lets me go and I get out like I want to right now it is going to h u r t. But I’m not going to kid myself into thinking that it’s the end all be all of my life. He’s just a man, and he won’t kill me.

Michaels fists clench tighter and moves from the doorway -he was about to go out for the night, - back into the room. But only momentarily.

As if he didn’t even need to think about it, like I didn’t mean a thing to him, he reaches forward and yanks and drags his black t-shirt off of me, leaving me in the long sleeve I was wearing underneath. “Michael!” I gasp, as the collar scrapes up my face and the warmth and his smell disappears from me. My present and my memory.

And then, with that nasty little act, before I can even really focus on him again, the door slams closed and it feels like it shook the floor and the walls around me, and he’s gone. For a moment, I dumbly look at the door. I’m shocked- I mean, I knew it was coming. I initiated it. But there’s a big difference between waiting and experiencing and it is awful. I can’t believe it’s over. Michael’s gone. The behemoth that eats all my food, squishes my fingers until I let go of the TV remote, and keeps me tight against his chest at night is… gone. And all that, with it.

All of a sudden, surprising tears blur my vision and sobs clench at my chest and I feel… so, alone.

___TIME SKIP___

A week later, it still hurts that he’s gone and I desperately want him back. On the way to work and on the way back, the highlight of my day is driving by the places I know he would hide out, to look for any sight of him as I slowdown and drive by, and I can’t sit and watch TV, or… or, sit and anything because that leads to thinking about him because, evidently, my brain can think of nothing better then the most painful thing for me at the moment. But I’m not crying about it. I have a life, I bake. I work. I walk. I bought expensive ear plugs so I can blast nightcore in my ears as a distraction so loud that my brain goes white and blank. And, there’s always this dull, terrible aching deep in my chest full of dread because, ha! My heart just can’t get a grip and understand that he’s gone.

I’m just crocheting a scarf or… maybe a funny shaped blanket, with my loud ass music on-its some YouTube playlist of those frighteningly painful and addictive nightcore songs. The one I’m listening to now is a Carrie Underwood redo. ‘Choctow County Affair’, - and occasionally glancing up at the TV to see the news headlines when my fingers suddenly go spectacularly numb at a certain picture.

No, its not of Michael. But Loomis. That bastards on the telly, probably griping about how he shot Michael however many time’s and Michael isn’t human, but I have to wonder why he is on TV. They only bring him out when Michael’s been caught again and it causes me lose the breath in my throat for a second and hurt my ears as I rip out the earplugs. My ears ring as I try to listen in to what Dr Loomis is saying, as the headline at the bottom says ‘Deadly Scrape with the Shape’- news anchors think they’re so clever. Fucking hell, poor taste.

The newsman, Clive Weatherman-yeah, this guy gets made fun of a lot. Went into the wrong area of news,- waffles on with the same question and my head hurts. “What was he wearing, Dr Loomis? We heard he wore the same Captain Kirk mask he has the last consecutive times he’s broken free of the hospital- is this true? Does this say anything about his mental state? Its pretty freaky, to me. The viewers want to know.” Oh my god, shut up! I need to hear Loomis’ information, that’s trustworthy at least.

“Yes, he was wearing that terrifying mask, concealing his soulless eyes from me. He should still be wearing it, so if anyone watching sees a man in a mechanics uniform and a bleached Captain Kirk mask you should immediately alert the authorities.”

A relieved breath escapes me at Loomis’ warning. Michael hasn’t been caught, he’s still out there. I don’t know why that relieves me, he’s a menace to society and is better off in an asylum- I just know he’s free.

And… while he’s free… he can find m-

“I shot him twice, also. So, the man you’re looking out for will be bleeding quite badly.”

“Oh, fuck.” I exclaim, pushing off the couch immediately and zipping up my jacket, barely stopping to put shoes on before I’m at my front door ready to search for him- but a heavy thump at the door before I can even touches it stops me immediately in my tracks. Damaging, floor shaking bangs vibrate against the door harshly, and I open it. Michael nearly falls through it because of the loss of solid wall to keep up his weight, but stands up tall again, heavily.

My eyes go wide as a look on. He certainly is bleeding a lot, both his hands covering the wounds just above his rib cage and holding tight, shoulders rising and falling at a steady, much faster rate then usual. But, still solid and tall. Somehow.

But that’s not surprising.

Swallowing my fear and a good portion of air at the same time, I take him by the wrist and drag him the rest of the way in which is heartbreakingly easy to do due to how weak the blood loss has made him and close and lock the door behind him. Then I get to work stitching up the wound the best I can.

When you’ve known Michael for… I dunno… even just a couple weeks? One week? You learn the basics of surgery quick, so this is routine. Once its over, and my hands are idle again is when things get hard.

I’m pissed that he came here, after leaving like that. Because it was me, too. I wanted to him to piss off, and he wanted to piss off. We made a decision and he can’t come back and take it back whenever it fits for him!

And, I’m… also, glad he’s here. I don’t know how I’ll let him leave again when he has to. I sure won’t be letting him in ever again, after this.

At least that’s what I tell myself. I truly do not know if I’ll ever get better from him.

It mustn’t be more then an hour later when he truly shatters my soul and my heart. God, how did I ever think this would be easy? Not just breaking up with him, but loving him. Not because he’s a killer, either. Or unstoppable force. Just, plainly because he’s Michael, and my hearts done the worst thing ever in loving him.

He’s all stitched up and I’m getting ready to leave the room, go to bed. Pretend I’m pretending he isn’t here on my couch. This is when he gently, so gently, so heartbreakingly gentle compared to his… everything. Like this, this gentle, he takes my hand in his. Not even my whole hand, actually. Just his fingers, wrapped around my fingers, and as the moment goes on his thumb starts to rib circles into my palm. I try not to melt.

“Michael… what, the hell are you doing here.” I ask, and try to be firmer then his hand around mine. His grip twitches.

I watch, curiously and unsure of what to do, as he shifts on the couch and digs with the hand that isn’t holding mine into one of his pockets, and brings out a folded sheet of paper. He hands it to me, and as we hold hand’s he watches me assess it.

On one side it’s a Chinese restaurants menu, written in clichéd curly red script and clearly he found this in the garbage somewhere or in a gutter because its dried all bubbly like it was wet and there’s a yellow colour formed on the top half. But on the other side is familiar handwriting that I could recognise anywhere.

‘Y/N’, it says. And he’s written my name the biggest out of all the other stuff and twice as bold. Like he wrote it over a couple times. The rest is in messy scribble like he couldn’t get it down fast enough. ‘I didn’t know I could miss someone, but I do. I hate it. Not only do I miss someone, but I also wish to take something back that I did. I wish I hadn’t left you alone.

I’m going to let Dr Loomis shoot me, and then you’ll know I won’t do it again. And neither will you.’

Well… It could be worse, I guess. Slowly, darkly, I turn to Michael. “Michael… “Holding the note up, my hand steady from many months of Michael and his ways. “You can’t do this.”

He pulls his mask off and looks me in that vague, insane way. No emotion.

Coming back to him, because I’m weak, I lower the note and furrow my eyebrows. “You can’t get yourself hurt to prove a point.” Kneeling down by the couch and running a hand through his hair, I sigh. “I’ll worry.” I whisper.

Not even a quiet moment passes, of me petting his hair, before its not enough for Michael and he lifts me up onto the couch with him, our chests and everything else tight together as one of his arms hooks under and around my middle. Like it used to be, like I needed it to be. I’m weak.

Letting go of any last remining reservations, because even if I did want to leave or kick him out which I most certainly don’t he would never let me, I lean my face up to nuzzle in his neck. He shudders out a sighs, and tries to bring me impossibly closer. Its so warm and I missed this and I’m weak.

Finally, I’m weak, and this will be the rest of my life I think.

[eliasbouchardisarobloxthot]

you keep your socks on in bed

i wrote more fic! this is jonmartin, au where Everything Is Fine, contains mild spoilers for s3 and s4 but nothing plot-related or major. it’s very soft and fluffy and contains gratuitous descriptions of minuscule details about the apartment jon and martin share. also they’re both trans

The flat is small. One bedroom, one bathroom, half a kitchen, and a room that was probably meant to be a closet that they've converted into a makeshift recording studio for Jon. There's an empty corner in the kitchen where a table might fit if they really pushed it in close, and another empty corner that's big enough for a couch. 

The bedframe is cold metal, bought from a local Ikea and put together with great difficulty even after Jon used the power of the Eye to read the instructions. Their mattress is used—a gift from Georgie after a sponsorship—and their sheets are brand new, ordered online. Martin had insisted on ordering a novelty bedspread, one with cats and a galaxy print, and Jon hadn't protested, so their bedspread currently features a very dramatic-looking cat staring up at a planet orbiting above it. The pillowcases match, two cats wearing astronaut suits gracing their pillows with their helmeted heads. 

The walls are mostly bare, aside from a large abstract painting bought secondhand from a thrift store. It's vaguely orange, with a blue circle beneath it that Martin said looked like a blueberry—which was, of course, why they'd bought it. Jon has absolutely no taste in art, so he hadn't protested when Martin had taken the lead and bought everything he liked. Besides, the whole store was quite cheap, and he didn't mind if Martin wanted to decorate. 

Their kitchen, too, features some abstract art. Something that vaguely resembles bread, arranged in aesthetically pleasing uneven lines. The table crammed into the corner has a secondhand wooden napkin holder in the center that reads "Bless This Mess" in curling white cursive. Jon still laughs at it whenever he sees it. Martin insists that it's "homey", though they do usually agree that it is quite cheesy. 

Martin's poetry collection is stacked up in one corner of the living room, boxed up neatly and lovingly. They're each painstakingly labeled in slightly smudged pen, the same handwriting that labels most of the other tapes in the house—though those tapes have dates and statement numbers, and these have titles with tiny hearts filling wherever there's an empty space. The boxes themselves are labeled by year, again in the same handwriting, neatly arranged in the corner by the couch. 

The couch itself is dark red corduroy, secondhand from the same thrift shop where they’d discovered the kitschy napkin holder and the bread painting. It’s missing a button from the decorative buttons on the arms of the couch, and the bottom looks like it’s been chewed by several different varieties of tooth, but it was cheap and it fit, so it was perfect. Martin’s decorative style could generously be described as “eclectic”, and so their apartment looks like it’s been decorated by a grandmother with a penchant for keeping absolutely everything. 

One of the pillows appears to be made by hand, cross-stitched with a gorgeous picture of bluebirds on a tree. The pillow itself is white with tassels, and sits comfortably on the couch where it can easily be picked up for impromptu pillow fights or tossed aside to make room for cuddling. The other two pillows are from a matching set, which would be perfect if not for the fact that they match nothing else in the house. They’re magenta and teal and covered in slightly matted faux-fur, and most likely belonged to a middle schooler with a penchant for bedazzling things, if the rhinestones along the side of the pillows are anything to go by. 

The blankets they’ve piled up on the couch do not match anything—not the couch, not the pillows, not even the terrible curtains they’d put up. One is all black and crocheted, and one reads “THIS IS MY HALLMARK CHRISTMAS MOVIE WATCHING BLANKET” in all capitals. It was on clearance, and the whole way to the checkout Jon made jokes about how awful it was to sell this for such a low price, how undervalued this poor blanket was. Martin had just rolled his eyes and sighed, but though neither of them would admit it, the terrible blanket had somewhat grown on them. 

Moving in had taken them nearly a full week and the help of Georgie and Melanie—with some additional comments on how ‘even though I’m blind, I can still tell this apartment looks like shit” from Melanie. They didn’t spend a night in their new apartment until everything was fully moved in, and when they finally did they were too excited to sleep. Jon had scoffed at this at first, saying something about how they were just like kids at a sleepover, but the realization that he and Martin were finally, really, actually living together struck him as soon as he had, and it had taken him far longer to get to sleep than he will ever readily admit. 

He wakes up first. Not from nightmares, which surprises him greatly. He actually feels well-rested, too, which surprises him even more. And then he rolls over in bed and his face is centimeters away from Martin’s and he can feel his heart skip a beat because oh god, they’re really doing this, they’re really living together. 

Leaning in, he presses his forehead to Martin’s. It’s early enough that he’s still sleeping, so Jon can curl up as close as he likes without having to worry about the gentle teasing he would otherwise get. 

Jon’s hand finds its way around Martin’s waist and he nestles into the blankets with a soft sigh. Though the apartment is a disaster and he’s a disaster and life is a disaster, there is still a sense of calm in this, in a morning undisturbed by anything other than the gentle sound of cars whooshing by outside and the rhythm of Martin’s chest rising and falling, his heartbeat steady against Jon’s. 

He stares up at Martin until he feels like he’s nearly going to cry, because god he loves him so much, and then he only looks away for a moment before he returns to gazing up at him. Without his glasses, Martin is hazy, and Jon reaches over to find his glasses before he starts to think too hard about what that means to him. Glasses on, and Martin is in focus once again, and though Jon knows it’s ridiculous, he actually breathes a sigh of relief. 

The blankets shift, and Martin wakes, blinking the sleep from his eyes and smiling as soon as he sees Jon.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs quietly. “You sleep well?”

Jon nods, leaning up to give him a kiss. “Your hair’s a mess,” he says, ruffling the sleep-flattened curls that are sticking up on the side of Martin’s head. 

“So’s yours,” Martin replies, sitting up and climbing out of bed. “I’m going to go make us some tea, alright? We can go get breakfast if you’d like, too.”

“Yeah. Just… let’s stay in a little while longer. Just give me a minute.”

Martin nods, leaving to start making them tea. From the bedroom Jon can hear him in the kitchen, the teakettle clattering against the stove as he places it down, the hiss of the burner, the bubbling of water, the clink of the spoon against the sides of the mugs as he stirs. There’s something magical, Jon thinks, about the honey-golden light filtering in through the bedroom window, the city waking up, the quiet of a weekend morning. There’s something magical about being in the same apartment, sharing a space, waking up side by side in a place that’s theirs and only theirs.

He gets up, throwing on a cardigan over his pajamas, and walks into the kitchen. There are two mugs of tea sitting out on the counter, and Martin’s adding sugar to his as steam rises from them. 

“Jon!” He turns around, beaming as if it hasn’t been literally two minutes since they’ve last seen each other, and Jon can feel his heart melting. “I made tea!”

Jon takes a mug and sits down at the table, smiling softly. “I noticed.”

They sit in silence for a moment as Martin finishes up with his tea and joins Jon at the table, running his fingertip along the edge of the mug as he thinks. A car horn honks, but it sounds distant—like they’re somehow separate from it, on another plane of existence altogether. 

“It’s nice,” Martin says. “This. Having a home with you.”

“Yeah.” Jon can’t think of anything else to say, because it is nice. There are other things, but how can he say that he loves the way that nothing matches, the way Martin always looks so happy when he sees the boxes of cassette tapes Jon organized, the stupid napkin holder and the awful throw pillows and the ridiculous space cat pillowcases? How can he describe in words the way that it makes him feel to know that it’s their stupid napkin holder, their awful through pillows, their ridiculous space cat pillowcases—the way that it makes him feel to know that they’re together? 

He doesn’t have to say it. Martin reaches across the table, like he knows what Jon’s thinking and agrees, and takes his hand with careful affection. 

“I love you,” Jon says under his breath, the very act of saying it curling his mouth into a soft smile.

“I love you, too,” Martin replies, brushing his thumb over the ring Jon wears on his right middle finger, turning it gently. A small, quick reminder that he’s there, present and solid and real, and Jon could cry from just this simple thing. It’s not uncommon—Martin does this nearly every time they hold hands—but now it feels different. Like he’s promising something, promising to stay here with Jon, promising to love him no matter what.

The morning draws on, and they get dressed. It’s intricate, the way they somehow already seem to anticipate the other person’s routine and make accommodations for it. Jon somehow knows the order Martin does things in, the way he takes a moment to fix his hair before putting on his shirt and then fixing it again. Martin can somehow tell what Jon’s going to do, can somehow hand Jon the right bottle at the right time when he’s finished shaving. They fit into each other perfectly. 

As Jon struggles into his binder, Martin puts a hand on his shoulder and gently helps him into it. A tiny gesture. Nonetheless, it’s comforting, and strangely meaningful.

“You ready to go?” Martin’s voice is blocked by the wall as Jon looks through his shirts. 

“Just a sec.” He finishes getting dressed, then heads out into the main room. “Where are we headed?”

“There’s this coffeeshop and cafe that I saw on my way here yesterday—looked really cute. I think it’s open this early, we could go get something to eat there and then maybe let everyone know we finished moving in? If you want we could do a little housewarming party, I feel like that’s fun.”

“Yeah. That sounds nice.”

And with that, they start off from their new home.

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 59

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 26. Go to previous. Go to next. TW: Body horror, nightmare sequence, unreality, incongruous chronology. Self-absorbed.

Lol, we haven’t had a flashback episode yet in Second Instar, have we? Have fun, ‘cause ‘Choly’s not. In the future this becomes another installment in ‘Choly’s Rexford Press Originals. (:

_________________________________

As he muddled through prescription fulfillment, Carey looked over his shoulder yet again. He saw the customer he anticipated finally entered the drugstore, and hastily finished up his current order. The thirty-some man he’d called earlier that morning had dusty blond side-parted hair, and stood as short as Carey, but seemed more sawed off than grown that way. Owing to the nature of the medication, as the head chemist, only he could take the customer. He pulled the pencil box size prescription carton from the cage, and confirmed it did in fact indicate it was for ‘Sal Mendez.’ He watched Angel busying itself in the front end straightening aisles, and waited until Sal was next in line before hopping onto the other register to wave him over. Mentally unable to set down the box on the counter, he kept it in both hands.

“Apologies, again, Mister Mendez, how it took weeks to get this filled. Calmex is one of the most rationed chems in the country at the moment.”

“I know. I know. But it. I talked to my doc.” Sal frowned to himself, and repeatedly smoothed at his short sleeve silk button down shirt as he eyed the various hard candies at the front counter at length. He eventually looked up at his chemist with a crumpled resignation. “The Milque wasn’t cutting it. You... you sure you don’t need it more? You look peaked, Doc.”

Carey glanced down, at the lab coat tossed over his favorite ochre jumpsuit, the cobalt scarf tucked like a cravat into his collar, and his navy oxfords. He lingered on the unfamiliar braces on both wrists and both ankles, but readily dismissed their explanation as unimportant. What mattered was that he didn’t look the part of his vocation, and a head chemist had to command reassurance and reliability. It was one thing to be haggard, but another altogether if he looked it. Well, that just wouldn’t do! He thought to what Hawthorne could usually put his hands on pretty quick, and weighed his choices against what he thought Sal might find most useful. With a big, wide grin, he straightened and patted at the Milquetoast display on the counter.

“Milquetoast is completely and totally safe. Fantastic for insomnia, shakes and nerves, headaches, nausea, you name it. But... I wouldn’t recommend using it alongside this prescription. Or with alcohol, were you to have access to any.” He leaned in and turned off his customer service voice, to discuss the consultation more privately. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you some Day Tripper, if you can water me down. I’ll even take moonshine at this point, Sal. Between you and me, I thought I was done having this war effort kill me inside-out.”

Sal’s jaw dropped a moment before he, too, leaned in with a nervous smile.

“For you, Mister Carey, I will find you something very nice. Really, though. Should I be worried? To take this? My doctor said it’s tranquilizer. She explained it all to me, but that was weeks ago...”

“Alan!”

Gretchen Nordstern didn’t seem all that gangling from where she sat on the far counter in a Peter Pan collar tea dress with the confidence to match a pair of trousers, chewing a lit cigarillo and taking notes against her lap with the phone receiver wedged between her shoulder and cheek. Her low, dark bun wore a colorful crocheted snood.

“You’ve spent half an hour with that client.” She didn’t have to look up to impose, waving him off with her free hand. “Let Mary and Trudy handle front end already.”

Carey hemmed a spell, unsure how that could be true. But he didn’t want to question his boss. He stared off in her direction as he addressed Sal.

“I, I’m sorry, Mister Mendez. I’ve got others to see to. If you’ve any questions...”

When he turned to his customer, he trailed off. Sal had vanished.

Gretchen shoved into his hands a letterhead with a handful of scripts. He stuttered, glancing it over. Med-X. Clarimentin. Immunoluxe. His eyes glazed over the usual orders until he encountered the words Psycho (Cyclomorphine Chloride). His heart hiccuped, and his eyes briefly lost focus.

“Wh-- Gretchen, please. Please. Please tell me this is some kind of-- How did this-- How did-- It’s on the--” He cleared his throat and whet his lips, but it didn’t help. He shakily pointed to the line on her invoice. “How is this on the market, ma’am.”

“Don’t be such a worrywort. It’s government approved. It underwent rigorous testing before it hit the market. What could possibly be wrong with the stuff!”

He couldn’t argue without breaching military confidentiality. Walden Drugs had to make ends meet somehow, right? And if whoever was getting the Psycho had a prescription for it, at the very least they’d be taking it under a physician’s supervision. He knew the dwindling prescription numbers didn’t mean people weren’t getting sick or injured less often: it meant more people were dying. Between the malcontent of the Canadian annexation, the endless crisis against the Chinese causing the deepest economic depression the country had ever suffered, and the mounting volume of riots taking place on home soil, the United States teetered on a second Civil War. And yet, these factors didn’t explicate in his mind why people had begun to drop like flies as of late.

Usually hear from Jacob by now.

He frowned as he dialed the Lexington branch to call in the Psycho prescription order, and got to completing the invoice Gretchen had given him. He and Jacob had planned that morning to have lunch together at the malt shop. He decided to go check on him and Sal. He hung up his lab coat in the mudroom, and waved to his coworkers to let the two ladies know he’d be stepping out.

“Angel, I’m going on break.”

“Right along, then, Sir!”

The Mister Handy followed at his side.

He popped his head into the small bed and breakfast across the way, wedged between the Wright’s Inn at the corner opposite the drugstore, and the bookstore further down. When he didn’t see Sal, he approached the check-in and asked after him of the young attendant in a chignon and sheath dress. She indicated no one had seen him since the morning. He declined her offer to take a message for him, shook his head, thanked her, and left.

It sat uneasy with him, but he chalked it up to still feeling awful about the local call for cyclomorphine. Nothing that he wanted as far away from him as possible ever stayed very far away for long.

Once a Pick-R-Up passed, he jaywalked with Angel to the hardware store at the corner. Only a few customers loitered, some genuinely lost without advice from an employee, others genuinely considering unattended theft. He got to the foot of the employees-only stairwell, but stopped short of scaling it. His gut quivered.

“Angel, be a dear. Pop up and see if you can find Jacob.”

“Certainly!” It came back quickly. “Not a soul on the roof, Sir.”

He frowned and gestured that they leave. His leg felt tight and stiff, but he shrugged it off.

Hm. Was I limping earlier? No, I’ve had this limp a long time already.

On his way back down the street, Carey glanced in the windows of the malt shop. Jacob wasn’t there either, nor Sal. Jacob’s car was still parked outside the hardware store. The repairman was disinclined to go anywhere on foot all that much if he could avoid it, so Carey doubted his roommate had gone home for lunch without saying anything about it. He gave up on the idea of malt shop food, as he preferred to share it. Instead, he sat down across the street from the drugstore, on the Wright’s Inn’s spacious porch, with a Nuka Cherry from their vending machine and an order of three arancini from Piretti’s Bakery. Sometimes the texture of the rice balls reminded him of ezhiki, and he got a bit homesick.

I should just stick to Melancholia. There’s only one flavor of toska to it.

He noticed the construction sounds in front of the municipal plutonium well had ceased. He glanced up with his mouth full to see there were no workers in the street. He supposed it was their lunchtime, too. When he finished eating, he required Angel’s help to stand again.

Am I starting to feel my age, or am I just that full?

He returned to work. Once he had on his coat again and come back out to the front end, he saw some kids poorly picking the lock on the adult care case. He side-eyed Angel, who handed him the keys. Spinning the wrist coil on a finger, he strolled up with confidence that belied his limp.

“Hey there, gentlemen! Looking to buy some No-Gesta today, I see. A fine choice in preventative care!”

The boys sputtered in embarrassment at being caught trying to shoplift. Angel simply hovered behind them to cut off their back escape route out of the drugstore, while Carey withdrew an entire case of product. They followed the veteran in service uniform speechlessly to the counter. The older one scrambled through his pockets along the way, desperate to figure out if he even had enough to buy what they’d intended to steal.

“I’ll tell you what!” the chemist announced--in his stress of recognizing he’d put on the wrong white coat, a little too loudly--though they seemed largely alone all the same. “They’re usually fifteen dollars each, but if you buy six, I’ll give ‘em to you for seventy-five.”

“Gee, that’s awful generous of you,” the older one started, urging the younger one to play along, so as to curb the possibility Carey might call the police on them. “Bruce, you wanna go in on this with me fifty-fifty?”

“Only if that’s the only thing-- never mind. Lemme count how much I got.” He produced a fistful of wadded papers Carey could tell weren’t money. “I’ve got twenty-eight bucks. What about you, Jeb?”

“Thirteen. Awful.”

Carey smiled with a twisted, cool benevolence as he set two out of the case and nudged what was left toward the boys.

“How about just four, then. Hm?” He wagged an eyebrow and held out his upturned palm expectantly. They uncertainly exchanged all their cash for the prophylactic kits with entendred packaging which resembled an exclamation point but reminded of something else entirely. He tucked them into a paper bag and folded it off lackadaisically, then handed it to them. “Off you are, then!”

Mary walked up soon after he shooed off the boys. The older squared, thick woman, in a pencil dress and cardigan, held a hand to her mouth to hush herself, aghast.

“You sold No-Gesta to some high schoolers?”

“You’d rather they have stolen it?” He shrugged at her. “Age means nothing whether someone needs that sort of care. They’ll copulate, whether or not they can get things like No-Gesta--and wouldn’t you rather they did so safely?” He tucked the vaguely paper-like wad into the register, and his glasses dipped off his nose, caught from falling by his eyeglass chain. “Besides, a sale’s a sale, and customers get scarce.”

Why haven’t I been more worried where everybody’s gotten off to?

He looked out to find Jacob’s car had been left, abandoned and askew, run up onto the sidewalk. Like it was, morning of the bombs. The cognitive disconnect insisted he had no idea what he could have meant. He slipped his glasses back in place.

“Hey, Angel...” He cleared his throat. “Have you-- Have you seen Jacob?”

“What a silly question, Sir! Just look down!”

He did, and succumbed to fever, short breath, and sweats. His legs writhed, granular, tumescent, and grotesque, more like a filariasis than the countless bodies he knew comprised them. The tightness and swelling paralyzed him from the waist down, and kept him upright in substitute of bones or any meaningful ligature. He identified Duchesne among the clumped, corpuscular rivulets, and choked up.

He looked up. Gretchen, Mary, and Trudy were nowhere to be seen.

He didn’t have to look down again to understand he’d soaked them up as well. He dry heaved, to no effect. Desperate to reach help from someone, anyone, he tried to walk to the phone at the other end of the counter, only to fall after a single step. And he continued falling, into himself, having become an infinite labyrinth of flesh, a Klein bottle of grief.

Concord’s empty because I subsumed everyone. He cried, slipping through narrow, trembling corridors of sopping tissue. I’m the sole survivor of Vault 111 because I stole survival opportunity from them all. I stole this from my customers and coworkers. From my neighbors. From Jacob. Everyone gave their lives, so I could keep living.

And for what!

Go to Next »»»

[rmg91]

The Woes and Antics of Living Together-5

This chapter behaved much better than 4 and I'm really happy with it as this is just one of the many scenes I've been wanting to write. Also I still love writing Branch when he starts to freak out XD

Enjoy! And A big huge Thank you! to all who’s read so far! I can’t tell you how happy it makes me~

Previous Chapter/Next Chapter; AO3/FF.net

@writerofberk Chapter 5 is here!! And I’m nice to Branch for once! And to answer your question from last time, Creek is currently just an annoyance but we both know he’s a creep and that will come out later.

                                                        ~*~*~*~*~*~

It was another dreary and overcast day in Bergenville and the last few weeks had a been a test for Branch's patience. He had found out that Poppy loved to sing or just play music late at night while she stayed up studying or scrapbooking. And, sure, Branch could admit he loved her voice to himself, but he really disliked being unable to sleep because she couldn't keep it quiet enough. He even threatened to throw her radio out the window! It had worked...until the next time it happened and she got caught up in the music as she claimed. He had made a mental note to invest in some ear plugs.

Then there was the 'Laundry Incident' where somehow some of her...unmentionables had somehow wound up in his hamper. Branch hadn't known how to react to seeing the lacy scraps of fabric settled among his clothes so he had turned around and walked out of the laundry room. He had returned a few minutes later, a confused Poppy in tow and gestured to his basket as he told her to remove the offending articles. She had at least looked a little embarrassed as she picked them out and claimed she had no idea how they got in there but Branch had already been ignoring her excuse and trying to forget it even happened. He later found out it had all been some sort of weird prank by Smidge and Cooper as he returned to the apartment.

Mix in the normal stress of university and trying to find a new job and you'd get a very irritable Branch who was going just the tiniest bit stir-crazy. Gristle had managed to tempt him out of the apartment a few times to hang out and play video games but Branch needed something to do besides the chores around the apartment. Something to keep him from letting all his pent up feelings for Poppy flow out into poem after poem or even the grey thoughts that circled around in his head somehow finding their way onto paper and making him feel worse for having acknowledged them. And having the means to pay his half of the rent that was coming up would be nice too.

Branch felt himself bring the knife down on the carrots he was chopping with a little more force then was necessary before he focused once more on the task at hand. Right, dinner. He was making stew and needed to concentrate so he didn't cut himself and have to be sent to the hospital. Finishing up cutting the root vegetable, he threw the pieces into the pot alongside the onions and celery, giving everything a little stir afterwards. Branch then started to prep the rest of the ingredients just as the door opened and the pink haired party girl flounced in.

"Oh, Roomie~! I'm home!" Poppy sang as she dropped her purse on the foyer table before skipping into the kitchen, bracelets jingling, "And guess what?!"

Branch rolled his eyes and continued with his food prep, "What?"

Poppy giggled before slapping down a piece of paper on the counter, "I picked you up an application for a job I think you'll like!"

Branch paused and looked at her before glancing down at the application, at a loss for words, "...You, uh...didn't have to do that."

"I know." She chirped, "But I was heading home after getting some more streamers for Biggie's big photo exhibit and I saw this sale at this cute boutique on the way home." Branch rolled his eyes as she started to ramble. "Anyway, on my way back to my car I noticed a place advertising for some help wanted and I thought it'd be perfect for you! Guess what sort of place it is?!"

"I'd really rather not," Branch sighed, "Just tell me."

"No fun." The pinkette mumbled before she continued, "It's a camping-outdoorsy sort of store! Sells all that equipment and stuff and I figured what was the harm of picking up an application for you, cause you always liked camping when we were kids and being in the garden and such!"

"That..." Branch was once again at a semi-loss for words, impressed she remembered that, "I'll...give it shot. ...Thank you."

Poppy smiled happily at him, "No prob, my dude. So!" She then clapped her hands together, looking at the unassembled ingredients, "What's for dinner?"

Branch shrugged as he stirred the vegetables, "Nothing fancy. Just some stew."

"Still sounds great. Can I help with anything?"

"No!" He vehemently refused, "I'm not letting you anywhere near real food again! Not after last time!" Said last time being when she decided to experiment by adding too many spices to the sauce for a lasagna he was making. He swore never to let her near his cooking again.

"It was a mistake! I didn't mean to add that much!" Poppy cried in her defense, hands flying to her hips.

"Don't care."

Poppy huffed and crossed her arms, "Not fair..." She then hummed as a thought hit her and Branch suddenly felt fear as she went to grab her camera.

She fiddled with it for a moment as she turned it on before she started talking to it, "Guys! Branch is being so unfair! He won't let me help with dinner because of one little mistake!" She brought the piece of equipment over and almost thrusted it in his face, "Tell them, Branch! Tell them how mean you are to your precious roommate!"

Branch ignored her as much as he could as he started to cut up the meat, "Poppy, we've been over this. I'm not talking into a camera to people over the internet. Now turn that thing off and get it out of my face. I'm trying to cook."

"Rude!" She exclaimed before pouting into the camera, "Guys, comment below and tell Branch how rude he is."

"Quit involving me in your internet shenanigans! I want no part of it!"

"Too bad~ As my roommate you are contractually obligated to appear in my vlogs."

Branch gave her a flat look, "I remember nothing about that in our deal. No where did we talk about you trying to film me!"

"It's one of the many unwritten rules of friendship, Branch, duh. And no where did we talk about you being such a sour puss all the time and yet..." She trailed off with a shrug.

Branch rolled his eyes, exasperated, "Go do something that's not bothering me."

She grinned cheekily, "Aww, but it's my favorite hobby! The 'Bother Branch' game is fun for all ages."

"Poppy..." He groaned.

She giggled as she turned off her camera, "Fine, fine but only because I don't want you to cut yourself."

"Gee, thanks so much."

Giggling, the pink haired whirlwind skipped away to her room and Branch thought maybe he'd get to finish cooking in semi-peace until she came back out, arms laden with scrapbooking materials. She dumped all of it on the coffee table before turning the stereo on and bouncing in her seat to the pop song playing. Branch heaved a sigh and tried his best ignore the overly preppy music, reminding himself to invest in a pair of earplugs as soon as he could.

                                            ~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day found Branch standing in front of the store Poppy had told him about, application in hand. He had to admit as he looked though the windows it definitely looked like a place he would have loved to explore when he was younger. He had always loved the outdoors and the sense of accomplishment whenever he managed to succeed in a task that would aid him if he ever had to face the wild alone. He also remembered spending almost all of summer camped out in the backyard and begging his grandma to let him stay there just one more night whenever the new school year started to approach. But that had all stopped when-No. He wasn't going to think about that or any other time before else he'd never get this over with and right now, finding a job was more important than thinking back on times that were never going to happen again.

Steeling himself up with a deep breath, Branch entered the store and took it in. A display for a tent sale sat in the front with aisles of supplies stretching toward the back, all manner of camping items in stock. Tents, sleeping bags, lanterns, chairs, portable stoves and just about anything else one could possible need was there, which was just a little impressive for how small the shop appeared on the outside. Off to the side was a single check-out counter and a cashier wearing a green and brown vest, playing on his phone. He glanced up and put it away before addressing Branch.

"Hey. Welcome to Clever Camping. How may I help you?"

It was now or never. Branch cleared his throat, "Uh, yeah. I saw you were hiring so I filled out an application." He hoped that didn't sound as awkward as it felt as he handed over the piece of paper.

"Great!" The blonde exclaimed, "I'll give this to the manager. He's actually in the back right now if you want to wait a few minutes. He may be able to give you an interview today."

Branch sure wasn't expecting that but nodded anyway, "Sure. No problem."

"Nice. Be right back!"

As the employee scampered off to the back of the store, Branch let out a slightly panicked sigh. Okay, sure, he could do this, it's not like interviews were nerve wracking already! He just had less time to prepare that was all! He quickly brushed off his shirt and tried to make himself look somewhat presentable as he paced around. He could do this, it was fine, this could be good! Or bad, very, very bad.

As Branch continued to try a fight off the impending urge to run and hide, he failed to hear the little bell above the door chiming. He was completely unaware of no longer being alone until the other person spoke up.

"Excuse me, young man?"

Branch tried very hard not to yelp as he turned to face an elderly woman. She had grey haired wrapped up in a bun, a crocheted shawl around her shoulders and was holding a cane. She smiled at him, wrinkles crinkling as she did so before adjusting her glasses. She had a very grandmotherly aura about her and Branch tried very hard not to think of his own at that moment.

"Um, yes?"

"Do you think you could me?" She asked before pulling out a list from her purse, "You see, my grandson is going on a camping trip with his scouting group and I'm afraid we don't have much of anything that he'll need. Could you help me find them?"

Wait...Did she think he worked there?! He had to tell her she was mistaken! But then another traitorous thought of his own grandmother slipped though and he knew she would be very disappointed in him if he refused to help this lady. She had raised him to be a gentleman after all. Sighing, he nodded and walked closer so he could take the list from her.

"I can try."

"Oh, thank you so much~" She grinned at him.

Branch nodded awkwardly and unfolded the piece of paper she had handed to him. Tent, extra tarp or canopy, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, repair kit, pillows, extra blankets, headlamp or flashlight, lantern with appropriate energy source and a plethora of other items. Branch was impressed by how thorough this list was, it was almost as if he'd written it. Glancing around the store to figure out where to start first, he grabbed one of the hand baskets and began leading the woman around.

The first aisle they went down had portable stoves and the like, making Branch wonder if maybe he should have chosen a different aisle as there didn't seem to be anything they needed down this way. However just when he was going to suggest they try a different row, he spotted the lanterns and flashlights. He had a brief thought about how it would be more efficient if perhaps these items were put toward the front of the row but pushed it back as he looked at the different items, wondering which would be best to suggest.

"So, uh...How old is your grandson?" Maybe knowing the age of the kid would help him determine the item.

"Oh, he's nine going on ten." The old woman gushed, "He's so excited for this trip. The first time he's ever been camping."

Branch tired to flash a smile at her before nodding toward one of the better battery powered lanterns, "This one would probably be best then. It runs on batteries but it's a good sturdy plastic and waterproof, so no one would have to worry about fuel or rusting. It's also in a good modest price range, in case you're wondering."

"Well then that sounds just perfect." She grinned brightly, "I truly appreciate you helping me."

"It's..uh...it's no problem."

They continued like this up and down the aisles, Branch pointing out the products he thought would be best, remembering more of his own experiences with camping. He suggested an extra raincoat. insect repellant and a small first aid kit, stating that it never hurt to have some back-up in case something happened to whatever the scout leaders brought. Branch was just double checking everything so far before they went to look at the tents and wondered where the employee that had greeted him was and if he was going to come back anytime soon.

"Ok, so it looks like all that's left is a tent and maybe a sleeping bag? Was this already checked off?"

"Oh, I thought we had one, so yes it was but it turns out it was horribly moldy after getting wet somehow. So yes, we do need a new one."

"Alright, this way."

He was perusing the different styles of tents, trying to find the best one for a kid when a tall, broad shoulder man came around the corner from the back. He had chestnut hair, brown eyes and wore a grin and vest like the other employee, the only difference was he also had a pin that dubbed him the manager.

"Hello, there!" He greeted warmly, "So sorry for the lack of greeting when you came in. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Oh, no. Your employee here has been so helpful and has given so much advice for my grandson's upcoming trip."

The manager smiled down at the woman, "I'm afraid he doesn't work here...yet." He then turned his grin on Branch, "Tell me, son, are you the one who turned in the application Denis brought me a little while ago?"

"Uh, yes?" Stupid! Don't sound so unsure!

"Reed Langley!" The man proclaimed, offering his hand to Branch.

Shocked for a second, Branch startled before shaking his hand, "...Uh! Branch Hawthorn, sir."

"Well, Branch, you're hired!"

"Huh? But, uh...What about an interview?" Was this really happening?

Reed laughed, "I think helping this lovely lady here when you didn't have to speaks volumes more than me asking you some questions. So what do you say?"

What did he say? Oh right! "Um, sure. Yeah! Of course! Thank you?"

"Not a problem!" Reed laughed again, "Denis! Go take the sign out of the window!" There was brief 'yes, sir' from the other worker before Reed continued, "So, Branch, why don't I let you finish helping our customer here and then while Denis is ringing her up, we can talk and set up your schedule. Alright?"

"Yeah, sure. Okay." There was no way that just happened, right?

                                            ~*~*~*~*~*~

A few hours later, Branch had wandered back to the apartment, still somewhat in a state of a shock. He just couldn't believe he was hired right on the spot like that just for helping someone! That just didn't happen! Of course he wasn't going to kick a gift horse in the mouth, it..felt kind of nice to have a job again and the store really wasn't the worse place to be in. Still, Branch couldn't help but be wary of the universe and wonder what it would do to him this time to knock him down again.

Sighing to himself, he was grateful Poppy was gone as he needed a few moments to gather himself and to work out a new plan. He wandered over to the couch, flopped on it, and flinging an arm over his head went over what had happened after he helped the old woman find a tent and new sleeping bag. His new boss didn't mind that he would be working part-time, said Branch going to school was great thing and that if he ever needed to take an extra day off to study for a test or midterm to just let him know ahead of time. He would start his new job in two days and he'd have a twenty percent store discount, which would be nice if Branch ever decided to go camping again. However that meant he'd have to work out some sort of chore chart with Poppy as he wouldn't be around as often, even if that would mean trying to trust her in the kitchen with actual food now.

Making a few mental notes to himself, Branch yawned and shifted on the couch, finding a comfortable spot. He felt himself grow drowsy and knew he probably shouldn't fall asleep on the couch, he didn't want to temp Poppy into pulling some sort of prank. But as sleep claimed him, he decided he just didn't feel like caring if she drew on his face or covered him in glitter.

                                                      ~*~*~*~*~*~

Yay! Branch has a job again! And at a much nicer environment! I can't tell you guys how much I've been wanting to write Reed (even if he didn't have a name until I started writing that part XD) and that whole scene. And to be fair, Poppy can cook, she's just better at baking and accidents with overly large holes in spice containers happen.

I hope you enjoyed! Stayed tuned for the next installment!

[hermannsthumb]

Hi! it's me again, the person who named their cat after Newton. Just wanted to share a thing that happened today I let him out and like 20 min later an older gentleman calls me to say that my dumbass of a kitten had followed him home. I had to drive over there to get him (he was fine btw, the man was really nice and even gave him some food). But like, newmann au where Hermanns cat runs away and attractive stranger Newt takes care of the kitten until Hermann comes to get him.

Anonymous said: i hc that 1 of many reasons hermann loves cats is bc they're like tiny lil mathematicians!! calculating angles n trajectory before they jump, evaluating the way things move etc. no-kaiju au hermann has 2 clever cats n finds out that newt loves cats too, so they kind of hook on to that as a small talk prompt so they don't kill each other. but one day herms has to drop smth off @ newts n finds out his cat is The Most Stupid Orange Boy Ever bc like what did he expect. ofc he loves them both anyway.

i loved both of these messages so much and i love newt and hermann and cats so im....making a little ficlet combining the two (with some stretching of the anon message)...this is SO hallmark channel original its atrocious

Hermann’s never been the type for pets, not even when he was a child. Nor has he ever been the type for caring for really any living thing. He’s not the nurturing type. He had a small terrarium with a turtle as a child (a birthday gift from a relative who’s long dead at this point) and kept a houseplant for a month (a housewarming gift from an overenthusiastic neighbor in the flat next door), but his sister claimed ownership of the turtle when he went off for university and he hasn’t seen it since, and the plant quickly withered and died from lack of natural sunlight. 

But the winter months always hit Hermann the hardest (seasonal depression compounded on top of regular depression compounded on top of Hermann’s semi-self-inflicted aching loneliness), and moving across an ocean and even further away from everything he knows is hardly helping, which is why his new therapist suggested he get a pet. An emotional support pet, he thinks they’re called. Something for Hermann to look after and have as his companion so he doesn’t spend every moment he’s not lecturing at the nearby university staring out his bedroom window at the ice and the frost and the snow and contemplating his own existence and the aforementioned aching loneliness.

So Hermann got a cat. It was either that, or try to make friends, and he’s never been good at making friends either.

It’s a nice little cat, a small grey-and-white tabby, and Hermann took a shine to it immediately at the local humane society when it peered through the cage at him with big brown eyes and mewed. If Hermann were another man, he might say he took a shine to it because it was cute.

It’s a clever cat, and fairly easy to co-habitat with, too. Hermann feeds it twice a day (morning, before lecturing, and evening, after lecturing) and buys it a scratching post and toys so it doesn’t ruin his furniture. In return, the little cat sometimes curls up on his lap as he grades assignments and on the great empty space in Hermann’s bed every night when Hermann lays down to sleep. Often it will lick Hermann’s hand, as if it’s trying to groom him, or present its plush mouse toys to Hermann as gifts in return for a head scratch. Hermann’s rather fond of it, to his immense surprise. He thinks it’s fond of him.

It’s why he’s near frantic now. He had his front door propped open for a single moment--just long enough to balance his cane with his grocery bags--and his cat took the chance and bolted past him down the hallway. By the time Hermann gathered his bearings and tore after it, it was completely gone. No way of telling where it may be, whether it ran up or down the staircase, whether it ducked into the elevator with another renter, whether it’s even still in the complex.

Hermann didn’t even name the bloody thing yet. How is he supposed to call for it?

He heats up a miserable dinner of leftover pasta and considers what to do next. His cat hasn’t a name, but it does have a collar with Hermann’s cellular number and name on it (suggested by the humane society, and Hermann, ever paranoid, was all too happy to go along with it). If someone finds his cat, they’ll surely call him. He hopes.

There are no phone calls through dinner. Hermann is too worried to grade the stack of assignments cluttering up his kitchen table and spends the evening staring out the window at the ice, and the frost, and the snow...

His cell phone rings; Hermann answers it immediately. “Hello?” he says.

“Uh, Hermann Gottlieb?” someone says.

“Yes,” Hermann says. “Yes, that’s me. Hello.”

“I think I found your cat.”

Newton, as the man on the other end of the phone introduces himself, lives a mere two floors below Hermann (Hermann is out the door and in the elevator before he’s even hung up) and found Hermann’s cat wandering the ground floor when he came home from work. Also at Hermann’s university, to Hermann’s surprise, but biology. (Newton is very talkative; he learns a lot aout him very, very quickly.) He hadn’t even meant to take it home, he explains, it just sort of...followed him.

“Maybe he smelled my cat on me,” he laughs, once he’s shown a still-frantic Hermann into his flat. It’s messy and a little cramped, with coffee mugs and open textbooks and half-finished crochet projects strewn about, movie posters and anatomical diagrams and sketches of plants plastered up all over the (lime green) walls. Messy and cramped, and somehow immensely, and strangely, appealing.

Newton himself is strangely appealing, too. He’s about Hermann’s age, short and scruffy, with tattoos and pierced ears and thick glasses, but he smiles brilliantly at Hermann, touches his shoulder and back companionably as he steers him into his sitting room, has a loud laugh that makes Hermann feel warm and pleasant.

(Newton, Hermann admits to himself, is also cute.)

“This your little guy?” Newton says, picking up Hermann’s cat from his dingy couch. He scratches behind its ears, and it starts purring and nuzzling Newton’s chest immediately.

It is, indeed, Hermann’s grey and white tabby cat. “That’s him,” Hermann sighs. “I really am sorry about this.”

Newton smiles. “It’s fine, dude. He and my cat were chilling.” He nods back to the couch, where a fat orange and white cat is chewing on one of the tassels of Newton’s pillows. Hermann almost hadn’t seen it. “He’s such a dumbass,” Newton says, looking at the fat cat fondly, and then turns his smile on Hermann again. “Anyway, wanna stay for a bit?”

Hermann blinks in mild bewilderment. “Stay?” he says.

Newton has not stopped scratching Hermann’s cat behind the ears. “I just made a pot of coffee,” he says. “I have beer, too. Or,” he starts talking faster, clearly embarrassed, “you can just go if you want, obviously, sorry, you don’t have to--”

“I’d like coffee,” Hermann says. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Ha! Cool!” Newton says. “Lemme--” He thrusts Hermann’s cat back at him. “Get comfortable. I’ll be right back. Half and half? Sugar? Coffee, I mean, how do you want it?”

“Black,” Hermann says, holding his purring cat with one hand. “No sugar.”

Newton shoots him two thumbs up and scurries off into his kitchen, and Hermann eases himself down onto the sofa next to the fat orange cat. “What an odd little man,” he says to it. It blinks at him, then continues chewing on the pillow happily.

Hermann can’t seem to stop smiling. He catches sight of the window (nearly obscured by gaudy curtains and window gel clings that are five holidays out of season), and--for the first time in weeks--can’t seem to bring himself to care about the dreary grey winter, either.

Hermann leaves Newton’s flat two hours later, warm, happy, his cat tucked under his arm and Newton’s cell phone number (signed with a long string of x’s and o’s) tucked into his shirt pocket, a dinner date looming on his horizon.

(He moves in with Newton a year later.)

[writing-in-grey]

We Were Invincible

I met you my senior year of high school. You had turquoise hair and talked to me as if we’d been friends a lifetime. That first day, the day I met you, you told me we were going to the mall after school. The final bell rang and I got in your car, a Volkswagen Jetta older than we were, passed down to you from your sister, who had gotten bored of the plain white paint and spray-painted a Duck Hunt mural on the sides the way bumptious boys adorn their cars with flames. We drove with the windows down and the radio blasting, and even in your ancient Jetta we overtook every car we met.

I had never before walked into a building feeling like I owned the place, but that’s exactly what we did. We walked into the mall with our arms linked and our heads held up high, ready to take the place by storm. Seventeen years old with the world at our fingertips. We dressed up in lavish outfits, posing for each other and fitting room mirrors. We stuffed our toes into the highest heels we could find, strutting back and forth with our hands on our hips and drowning in raucous laughter. We even went into a photo booth, our arms draped around each other, making faces at the camera. When the mall closed, you drove me back to my house and parked in my driveway. The stars were out, and we lay on the hood of your car, talking until the wee hours of the morning.

That is what I think of when I remember you: high heels and photo strips and lying on your Duck Hunt car as we looked up at the stars. And, of course, that feeling – like nothing in the world could possibly touch us. Like we were invincible.

We became inseparable, you and I. At school, we were above the mass populace. We were smarter, we were more charming, we had our shit figured out. We were special. While the rest of the class continued to struggle with the assignment, we whispered and giggled in the back of the classroom, because we’d already finished. While the rest of the school had to each lunch in the cafeteria, we had special permission to eat in our advisor’s office, just us two. While everyone else got caught up in petty high school drama, we were off in our own little world, above it all.

After school, we’d spend hours at the mall. We’d have countless fitting room fashion shows, each trying to outdo the other. We’d search for the goofiest accessories we could find in the Dollar Store and model them for two-minute photo shoots. We’d race each other from one end of the mall to the other, weaving in and out of shoppers and ducking into alcoves to avoid mall security telling us off for running.

I don’t think I spent a single weekend at home the whole of my senior year. Friday nights we’d hole up in your bedroom, queue up some romantic comedy or other on your laptop, and paint each other’s nails. We even learned how to make fun patterns and designs. We’d stuff ourselves with ice cream piled high with syrup and whipped cream, stay up late, and sleep in later. 

Sometimes I’d have a change of clothes with me, but usually I’d just borrow something of yours when we finally did wake up on Saturdays. Then we’d head to Michaels and each find a craft project to work on, which we’d take back to your house and start in on with more romcoms playing in the background. That year I learned how to draw, how to paint, how to knit and crochet and cross-stitch and sew. We’d spend the whole day just crafting, half-watching movies we’d already seen or didn’t care about, and talking. Talking about anything and everything. About boys and school and all that drama we were so above. About our hopes and our dreams and our plans once we graduated.

Every other Saturday night, I’d help you dye your hair, which was ever-changing. We’d sit in your tiny bathroom in our underwear, covered in spilled color and trying hard not to choke on bleach fumes. Once I even let you dye my hair, but I picked a bad color and had to dye it back a couple days later. We got it right later, though, when I finally dared to try again.

The summer after we graduated was full of late-night adventures and sleepovers that regularly turned into two or three or even four nights in a row. Sometimes you’d text me at 10 or 11pm, asking if I wanted to spend the night. I will forever associate that summer with late-night drives down the deserted country roads between our houses, windows down, moonroof open, and music blasting.

The day you turned eighteen, I held your hand as you got your first tattoo: a purple butterfly on your wrist. Purple, our shared favorite color, the color of your walls and your bedsheets and half your wardrobe and, quite often, your hair. And a butterfly to symbolize your favorite quote: Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly. You had that quote painted on your purple walls, and butterflies littered your life. They hung on your walls, painted or drawn; they decorated several of your t-shirts, skirts, dresses, even your socks; they adorned your wall-calendar and the cover of your journal; they were on your pens and the stationary that you only used for the specialest of occasions (which meant, of course, that not a single sheet had yet been used); and then there was the silver butterfly ring that never left your finger, not even for a moment. And now you had a purple butterfly permanently on your wrist, forever your protector.

I drew you a butterfly card for that birthday – sketched in pencil and filled in with soft pastels, the blues and purples blended together with my fingertips – and you hung it in a place of prominence on your wall before we left for the tattoo parlor. Sometimes I wonder if it’s still on your wall, one college dorm room and three apartments later. Somehow I doubt the card survived when not even the tattoo managed that.

We stood in your driveway on a scorching hot day in the middle of August next to your Duck Hunt Jetta, packed to bursting with everything you’d need at college. You stepped so close to me our noses were barely two inches apart, took both of my hands in yours, and said, “What distance?” You were still laughing as you slid behind the wheel of your car, slammed the door, and pulled out of the drive. I waved until you turned the corner out of sight, and you stuck your arm out of the window and waved back the whole time. Once you were gone, I got into my own car, parked on the street and also packed to the brim, and set off myself. Yes it sucked that our colleges were states apart, but I knew we’d remain just as close despite the miles between us. Like you said, what distance?

College was nothing like high school. It was loud and fast and full, and I was so very small and lost without you. I tried to make friends, but it seemed like every time I opened my mouth to say hello, everyone in my general vicinity would simply vanish, like smoke on the wind. I texted you every time I felt like crying, which was all but constantly. I asked you how you were doing, but what I meant was, are you still here with me? Are you still there to be my lifeline now that I’m finally drowning? You texted back that things were great. You’d joined a theater club and everyone in it was just so nice. They were mostly upperclassmen who had been friends for years already, but within minutes you were one of them. You said that you had bonded with three of them in particular, two junior boys and a sophomore girl. The girl and one of the boys had been high school sweethearts; you were sure they were going to get married one day, and you’d just love it if you got to be Maid of Honor. A wish you were granted, years later.

I tried not to text you every time I needed reassurance. I tried to give you space to be happy at your new school with your new friends. I knew all of that was important, so I didn’t blame you for no longer having time for me. But I still clutched my phone so tightly I thought the casing would crack, just waiting for a text to come through. I was sure that once the chaos that was the first few months of college calmed down, once you’d had time to settle into a routine, then you’d have time for me again. I could wait. I might have been drowning, but I would become a champion at holding my breath.

I even found my own group of friends. It felt like months before I did, but it was only a week and a half. I say I found them, but really it was the other way ‘round. They adopted me, just as you had. And they were wonderful, truly. There were three of them, just as you’d found for yourself. Natalie and Amelia were roommates. It was Nat who approached me first. She said that sitting alone in the cafeteria was “unacceptable,” and I was to join her and Amelia immediately – if that was alright with me, of course. They invited me to their room that evening, and, on a whim, I asked if I could bring along my own roommate, Penelope, to whom I hadn’t said more than two words in the week and a half we’d been living together. I don’t know why she came with me when I asked her, but she did, and the four of us just… clicked.

That night, once Penny and I had gone back to our room, turned out the lights, and Penny’s breathing grew slow and even, I texted you about my newfound friends. I was so excited I thought I’d surely burst, and I knew you’d be excited for me, too. I told you everything, from how we met to what we’d done all evening, and how we had plans to hang out all weekend, too. My fingers were trembling with the exhilaration of it all as I typed, and my thumb missed the “send” button three times. I watched as the words moved from the message box to the big blue bubble, as the word beneath it changed from “sending” to “delivered” to “read.”

I told myself I wouldn’t text you until you texted me, but I always broke first. I’d have some amazing adventure with my friends, or I’d get riled up about an annoying classmate, or I’d just see something funny I thought might make you laugh, and I’d tell you about it. Sometimes you’d answer – something short, like “haha” or “sounds fun” or “ok” – but mostly you wouldn’t. 

I tried to forget about you. I tried to lose myself in my new friends, these people who actually wanted to spend time with me. We spent just about every waking moment together, the four of us, making all sorts of fantastic memories. But still what I remember most about that time with them was my hand on my phone, waiting for you to miss me. And sometimes, finally, I would start to let you go, but the moment my fingertips were about to let go was always the moment my phone would ring. You were like a drug I would finally detox from my system, right before someone slipped you back in my drink.

I don’t think I’d ever been as excited for a school vacation as I was for winter break at the end of that first semester. Nor as anxious. I shouldn’t have been, but I was desperate to see you again. I tried so hard not to be, but I was. I think I just wanted to regain that feeling that you gave me, that invincibility, that feeling that I was important. I don’t know why no one else has ever been able to give me that quite like you did. Maybe it’s just because you were the first. But whatever the reason, I was like a child waiting for Christmas morning. Or maybe more like a lost puppy trying to get home.

I texted you weeks before school let out asking when you’d be home and if you wanted to get together. I’d been home for nine days already when you texted me at 10:47pm: “Do you wanna sleep over?”

I left a note for my parents and jumped in the car. The car thermometer said it was twelve degrees outside, but I put the heat on full blast, rolled down all the windows, opened the moonroof, and cranked up the music as I sped my way down the dark, slush-covered roads. I was about halfway to your house when it started to snow, snowflakes falling through the moonroof and drifting in the windows, the few that weren’t blasted immediately back out by the heaters settling on my hair and my eyelashes, but melting before they could do much more.

My safe arrival, despite my less than cautious driving in already unsafe conditions, was just more proof that, with you, nothing could touch me. I let myself in when I got to your house, as I always had. I didn’t even need to use a flashlight as I crept my way through the unlit hallways, so well did I remember them from the innumerable times I’d done this before, and I avoided all of the squeaky stairs as I made my way up to your room; your parents never minded me coming over late, so long as I didn’t wake them. When I rounded the corner of the stairs, I saw light spilling out from around the edges of your door, just like always, and that familiar light filled me the way the spirit of God fills some. I slipped in your door and shut it softly behind me, and there everything was – the purple walls, the butterflies, my sleeping bag and pillow tucked in a corner of the room. And you. You were lying on your twin-size bed, engrossed in your phone.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” you said, without looking up.

“Your hair’s brown,” I said.

“Hang on, I’m talking to Elizabeth.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay, no problem.” I don’t think you heard me.

One minute. Two. Three. I took out my phone and started playing a game, just so I wouldn’t have to stand there like a stranger in your room.

“Heeeey, what’s up!” Twelve minutes, but you finally jumped up and hugged me.

“Your hair’s brown,” I said again.

“Yeah, I decided to go back to natural for a while.”

“It looks good,” I said. “Weird, but good. I don’t think I even knew what your natural hair color was,” I laughed.

“Oh no, this isn’t my natural color, just a natural color.”

“Oh.”

“I was so happy you asked me to hang out,” you said. “I was worried you’d forget about little old me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Oh, you know, just with all the excitement of new people and places, who even has time to remember the little folk back home?” you laughed.

“I texted you a lot,” I said, “but I wasn’t sure if they went through a lot of the time.”

“I love how I don’t even have to reply but you still know I love getting your little updates.”

I swallowed, hard. “So, um,” I said, swallowing again. “Tell me about your friends at school.”

“Oh. My gosh. They are the best. Elizabeth and Benjamin just make the sweetest couple; they’re totally going to get married someday, but I told you that already, didn’t I? But even though they’ve been together longer, I still think me and Lucas are cuter–”

“Wait, you and Lucas are dating?”

“Um, yeah, where have you been?” you said, laughing again. “We’ve been dating for months. And, speaking of, guess who no longer has their V-card?” you asked, pointing at yourself with both hands. “I gave it to him after we’d been dating for a week. How. Great. Is sex?”

“So, did you just get home?”

“Oh no, I’ve been back for about a week and a half. It is so dull here; I can’t wait to go back to school. How did we survive here for so long?”

“It’s a mystery.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. All this boredom really takes it out of a girl, you know?”

“Right, yeah.”

“Sweet dreams, then,” you said as you turned off the lights.

I unrolled my sleeping bag in the dark, arranging it and the pillow in my usual spot. I crawled in and stared at the ceiling, not remotely tired. I was barely settled when the blackness of the ceiling vanished, replaced by the soft blue glow of the screen of your phone. Through the semi-darkness I could hear the tik-tik-tiking of you texting, a sound that was still ongoing when I finally fell asleep at quarter to four in the morning, and even then I heard it in my dreams.

I woke up before you – not a rare occurrence, but usually we were up within half an hour of each other. Then again, we usually fell asleep around the same time, too; lord only knows how long you continued to text your new and better friends after I fell asleep. I dressed in the dark – the morning light blocked out, as always, by your heavy curtains – and played around on my phone for about an hour, waiting for you to wake. When you didn’t, I grabbed a book off your shelf and made my way downstairs, where I helped myself to some frozen waffles. When I finished the waffles, I stayed seated at your kitchen table and read. It was an hour and a half before you came down, and maybe I imagined it but you almost looked surprised to see me.

Once you’d finished your breakfast, I followed you back to your room, unsure whether or not that is what I was supposed to do. 

“Close the door, would you?” you asked as I entered.

I stood by the closed door as you stripped out of your pajamas and rummaged around in your dresser.

“Do you want to go to Michaels today?” I finally asked as you were pulling a t-shirt over your head. It was deep blue and featured a stylized fox face.

“Listen, I’m so glad you came over,” you said, “because there’s something I wanted to give you.” You pawed through the jewelry box on your dresser for a moment or two, then turned around to face me, your hand outstretched, palm up.

Sitting in your palm was your butterfly ring. I hadn’t even noticed that you weren’t wearing it.

“Really?” I asked.

“Really,” you said. “I want you to have something special to remember me by, even when we’re far apart.”

The warmth of your palm against the tips of my fingers was such a sharp contrast to the cold metal of the ring as my fingers wrapped around it, taking it from you. It was heavier than I thought it would be. I slipped it on, internally crowing that you had given this ring to me, not to Elizabeth, not to anyone else, but to me.

That was when I noticed your wrist.

“Hey, what happened to your tattoo?”

“Oh, laser removal. I’m really into foxes now. It’s this thing Lucas and I came up with, where I’m a fox and he’s a bear. It’s so cute. I’ve got, like, fox everything now. See?” you said, tugging at the hem of your fox-face t-shirt.

I glanced down at the butterfly ring adorning my finger – so meaningful just a few moments prior, now little more than a small hunk of metal.

I wore your butterfly ring every day for four months. I would fiddle with it every time I was tempted to keep my hand on my silent phone, waiting for a text that was never going to come. That ring was my methadone, keeping my hands busy to help me kick my addiction. It worked, and it didn’t. I stopped reaching for my phone so much, but the ring became an addiction in and of itself, worse even than its predecessor. That ring symbolized my entire relationship with you – the friend I remembered, who loved butterflies and hanging out with me; and the stranger you became, so willing to throw away everything you’d cherished as soon as you found something –someone – better. That ring was so bittersweet, and possessing it caused within me such intense and conflicting emotions that I could not give up. The highs I felt when I looked at that ring were beyond anything I’d ever known, and the lows were so devastating I thought I was surely going to die. But the thing is they all came at once, those highs and lows together, so that each felt like the other, and I came to associate pain with pleasure, pleasure with pain. I had hoped, initially, that the hurt associated with your ring would help me to let you go; if I wore a constant reminder of the pain you’d caused me, surely I wouldn’t still yearn for your affection. Instead, I grew only more attached to you, desperate for you to love me again, yet still gaining some sick satisfaction when you’d inevitably wound me further. Each scar you gave me became, in my mind, proof of your affection.

After four months of anguish, I took off the ring. I no longer understood a single emotion I had, and I had long ago gone mad with longing. I didn’t know how to fix myself, but I knew that this ring symbolized everything that was wrong inside my head. I was walking back to my dorm room after class when I did it. I was walking over a storm drain, and I stopped. Both feet on the grate. I started shifting my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet and back again just to savor the feeling of the something-then-nothing beneath my feet. I remember thinking maybe shifting my weight like this was like folding a piece of paper back and forth along the same crease, weakening it until it finally rips. Maybe if I shifted my weight back and forth and back and forth for long enough, the bars of the grate would weaken and then snap, and I’d fall right in and disappear forever.

I don’t know how long I stood there, just shifting my weight between my heels and the balls of my feet, the rest of my body swaying almost imperceptibly with each shift, waiting to fall into the eternal void that surely lay just beneath the storm drain. I do know that at some point I stopped. Stood perfectly still, so still I might not have even existed at all. Maybe the people walking all around me couldn’t even see me anymore; maybe I was invisible I was so still. I was so still that even my thoughts stopped. For just a moment or two, my mind was a perfect blank, and I took a breath as I stood there.

Then I raised your ring, still on my finger, to my eyes. I stared at it for nearly a minute, and then I took it off. I crouched down on the storm grate. I took the ring between my thumb and forefinger and held it over one of the gaps in the grate. Time seemed to stop as I held your ring over an abyss, threatening to lose it from this world forever. I think I might have cried then, but I honestly can’t say for sure. I wasn’t aware of any tears rolling down my cheeks, but when the wind blew, it felt wet against my face.

I couldn’t drop it.

Time began again and I stood up and ran back to my room as though the Devil himself were chasing me, your ring clutched tightly in my fist. I flew into my room and slammed the door behind me, still not daring to stop and breathe. I strode across the room to my dresser, and the jewelry box sitting atop it. I flung the box open and dug through the tangled heap of bracelets and necklaces I never wore that lay within. I dug until I reached the very bottom, and there I placed the ring. I piled the old bracelets and necklaces over it again, burying your ring quite thoroughly. That is where I kept it from then on, hidden at the bottom of my jewelry box. Never worn, nor even looked at, yet still not thrown away.

I no longer kept my hand on my phone while out with my friends, but I still texted you whenever no one else was looking.

With the approach of each school vacation, I always told myself that I wouldn’t ask you to hang out. And as soon as I was back in my childhood bedroom, I would always text you to ask if we could. Every yes was the same: me, desperate to remind you how we used to be; and you, dangling me along on a string, gracing me with your presence but never your attention.

After a couple years at school, we each moved out of the dorms and our parents’ houses, and into apartments near our respective schools. Once you moved out, your parents even sold your childhood home and retired to a town by the ocean. I thought surely this was it, the end of you and me. After all, we only ever saw each other when we both went home for breaks, and, with the sale of the house I knew almost better than my own, you would never again have cause to return to the sleepy little town in which we met. I was devastated, and oh so relieved.

But, for reasons I may never understand, you were not yet ready to cut that string on which you held me. Instead, you encouraged me to drive up to your apartment on breaks. I would blast my music for the three-hour drive and arrive exhausted. The three of us – you, me, and Lucas, with whom you now lived – would sit on your couch for hours as you played YouTube videos on your TV, and every time I opened my mouth you’d say, “Shh, you’re missing the video!” Then I’d crash on your couch and drive three hours back the next morning.

We soon graduated college and got Real Jobs™, but not much else changed. You still texted me just often enough to keep me hooked on you, and I would still drive three hours up to sit silently beside you and your boyfriend and then three hours back about once every two or three months, whenever you had time for me. For years, this is how it was, and I was never strong enough to change it.

Then, I met a man.

It was my first time trying a dating website, and he was the first person I talked to upon signing up. The only person I talked to, actually. I messaged him because I lived in New Hampshire and he lived in California and who could be safer to talk to as I eased my way into the online dating pool than a man who lived three thousand miles away?

Falling in love with him was faster and easier than anything I’d ever experienced. A month after we started talking, I flew to California to meet him in person. By the time I flew home four days later, I knew I would spend the rest of my life with him.

Nine months into our relationship, the lease on my apartment was up, my car was packed to the brim with all my worldly goods, and the love of my life was on a Boston-bound plane, preparing to be my co-pilot on a two-week road trip back to California and our first shared apartment. Here it was: the biggest adventure of my life thus far. All I had left to do was to say my goodbyes.

You said I had to see you before I left. Of course, I agreed. Luckily, your apartment wasn’t even out of the way; it was directly on the route we would already be driving. I told you when we’d be passing through your neck of the woods, date and time.

“I work Sundays,” you said. “Can’t you pick another day?”

“Don’t you get an hour lunch break, though?” I asked. “We can just get a quick bite to eat.”

“Saturdays are my day off,” you said. “Come up then!”

“But all our hotels are booked already. We can’t change them.”

“So just come see me on Saturday, go back and stay another night at your place, then start your trip on Sunday. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” I said, “is that we’re already going to be driving seven or eight hours a day, sometimes more, for two weeks straight. I can’t just add another six hours on top of that the day before, not when I’m already driving through that area anyway. Please,” I begged, “isn’t there any way we can make Sunday work?”

“I told you, I’m working.”

“Well then, you can come see me on Saturday. It’ll be fun; you never come to my place!”

“I would,” you said, “but I’m already driving down that way later that week. I’m getting a new tattoo! There’s a parlor that has great reviews just a couple towns over from where you are, actually. So I don’t want to do that many back-and-forth trips so soon after each other, you know? That’s just more driving than I think you realize.”

Saturday, the day before our trip was set to begin, you texted me: “So…?”

That was all you said. So much presumption in such a little word. The expectation that I’d move heaven and earth just to see you one last time before I moved.

I cried as I told you I would not. I told you I was sorry, that I wished I could see you before I left, but it just didn’t work out. You weren’t free when I was driving through, and you wouldn’t come see me, so it didn’t work out.

“I didn’t even know coming to see you was an option!” you said.

That conversation was so recent you barely would have had to scroll up to see it.

“I guess,” you said, “I’m just upset because I feel like I’m never going to see you again.”

It took me two days to respond to that message – two days for my fingers to stop shaking with anger, and with hurt, to be able to type. “I’m sorry you’re upset,” I said, “but let’s be real: I have never been a priority to you, and I am not going to put myself out now just to pretend to myself that I am.” I hit send, and my partner held me as I cried. I buried my face in his chest as I let out gut-wrenching sobs, and I felt his own tears fall into my hair as he bore witness to my grief.

When I finally sat up, wiping my puffy eyes on the backs of my hands, he asked me, “What do you want her to say back? How do you want this to go?”

“I don’t care,” I spat. “I don’t care what she says. I’m done with her, done with all of this. She’s never done anything to show me that I mattered to her, so I don’t care. I don’t care if she says she’s sorry or not; I’m just done.”

He squeezed my hand, not saying anything.

“No,” I said, “that’s not true.”

“Then, what do you want her to say?” he asked.

“Something,” I said.

My partner and I had an amazing road trip. We saw the New York City skyline from the George Washington bridge, and we explored Colonial Williamsburg. I met one of his childhood friends now living in Virginia, and he met one of my childhood friends now living in Pennsylvania. We explored the stunning botanical gardens in Atlanta, and a homeless man helped us change the flat tire we got as we tried to leave. We got caught in a sudden downpour as we walked the streets of New Orleans, as drenched the moment the rain started as we could possibly be. We drove through more ghost-towns than I could count, and we saw sun rise over the Grand Canyon. We stayed in 2-star hotels with comfy beds, free wifi, and free continental breakfasts, and we stayed in 5-star hotels with rock slabs for beds, $20/night wifi, and $15 plus 30% fees on room service. We played word-games to keep each other awake as we drove, napped in McDonald’s parking lots when that wasn’t enough. We drove through rain so thick we couldn’t see the taillights ahed of us, wind so strong it jostled the car, and skies bluer than I ever thought possible. And after two long yet incredible weeks, we finally pulled into the driveway that was ours-not-his, and parked.

“I guess that’s it then,” I said.

“Yup, home at last,” he said, knowing I wasn’t talking about the trip.

“Home at last,” I repeated.

“Still nothing?” he asked, glancing at my phone in my hands.

“Not a single word.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

“I didn’t want much,” I said. “I didn’t need her to apologize or say I was right. She could’ve yelled at me, called me names, told me she hated me, even. Because even if she got angry at me, you don’t get angry at people you don’t care about.”

He reached over and held my hand.

“She did the one thing she could’ve done to confirm what I said – that I don’t matter to her.”

“I know she meant a lot to you.”

I didn’t block your number from my phone, nor did I block you on social media (although I did remove you from my friends list). I don’t know why I didn’t block you. I think part of it is because I hoped you’d actually try to contact me someday. And I think part of it was because I knew you never would. And because sometimes, the only reasons I can remember for not messaging you are the two-hundred and sixty-one days and counting that you haven’t been blocked and have not said a single word to me. The truth is I miss you, and I’m not sure if that feeling will ever end. Because even though you were cruel to me for far longer than you were kind, still when I think of you it is of high heels and photo strips and lying on your Duck Hunt car as we looked up at the stars, back when we were invincible.

[themusicalhermit]

Request for Reader & Roadhog getting to know each other and bonding over something cute like being members of a crocheting/gardening club etc. please^^ Can be either romantic or platonic and doesn't need to be from The Mountain-verse :)

That particular reader (from that story) does need to interact with him in non-murderous fashions, this is true.

However I wanted to try my hand at writing romantic stuff. Have a long short that I am cutting off where it is because otherwise it would be entirely too long for a simple Tumblr request.

Reader X Roadhog: “Quilting Class” (SFW)

You hadn’t expected this to happen.

Or, rather, you hadn’t expected that you would be ever be asked to something like this.

This being, of course, accompanying Roadhog to some crafting class. You would have thought he’d only ask Junkrat or… okay, maybe only Junkrat. But no; instead, Roadhog asked you.

When you’d ask why, he simply shook his head and said, “Too impatient.”

Then you recalled that Junkrat had recently gotten bored with how slowly the microwave had worked. Had being the operative word.

“Yeah, sure. When is it?”

Roadhog handed you a flyer and almost patted you on the head before obviously rethinking that action. Instead he gave you a thumbs up. You returned it with a smile. Roadhog didn’t move for a few moments. Your smile slowly faded as you fiddled with the flyer in your hands, folding it up and putting it in your pocket.

Did he have something else to say, or was there something wrong? Was he okay?

He raised his other hand. Well, okay then. Now he was now giving you two thumbs up. You returned the gesture and promised to meet him at the entrance of the compound.

Then he nodded sharply and pivoted on the spot to rejoin Junkrat on the other side of the room. The younger man looked up at his fellow Junker. A smirk appeared on Junkrat’s face, then his gaze shot to you. His mouth moved he said something that had Roadhog cuffing him upside the head. Which didn’t do anything except result in loud, raucous laughter and two thumbs up to the big guy.

The gesture earned Junkrat another punch as he continued to laugh. You returned to work, the sound following you down the corridor.

The hectic activities around base left you unable to consider the class any further. In fact, you were so busy that you had forgotten entirely to look the flyer over. Later, when you were in your quarters and changing for bed it fell out of your pocket. You hoped that Roadhog hadn’t been keeping an eye on you somehow to see if you actually read the thing - you did like the man.

Sure, he was a bit quiet and had a violent reputation that almost matched Reaper’s, but he had only ever been calm around you. And he had given you a customised stuffed Patchimari for your last birthday. It looked vaguely like you, which had made you laugh when you unwrapped it. The handwritten card had said simply ‘limited edition’ instead of any normal birthday wishes, but that didn’t matter. It was a lovely gift.

He had, of course, gotten a couple for himself and Junkrat as well. Which made you feel less special, but that was fine. He was just being a good friend.

But that meant that this, whatever, this was, wasn’t Roadhog stealthily asking you on a date. Which was fine.

You and he were just good friends. And that was fine. You forced yourself to stop examining the situation as you bent to pick up the flyer.

Huh. A day long quilting class. That was somehow both surprising and yet not at all surprising.

Oh, good, and you were free the day the class was.

You spent the rest of the week looking forward to the class and wondering what in the world Roadhog was thinking with this. Did he just want to make something? Did he want to get to know you better? Did he like you like you liked him?

Why did this remind you of how much you’d excite yourself over your old high school crushes? You hadn’t been in high school for about as many years as you’d been in school in total.

These thoughts filled your head as you adjusted the simple ‘jeans and jumper’ look you’d chosen for the day. So what if it was one of your nicer pairs of jeans and your nicest jumper? You were going out in public and just wanted to look nice.

You were going out in public with Roadhog and just wanted to look nice. Maybe he’d notice that you’d dressed up and -

You were going out in public with Roadhog as friends. Which was fine. You were allowed to look nice if you wanted to.

Roadhog had already been waiting for you when you arrived. You nervously checked your watch as you walked up, only to see that you were on time. Roadhog waved to you as you approached, which you returned with a smile and a wave of your own.

He was wearing a vest and shirt. It was classy yet casual, but you weren’t sure if you preferred seeing his tattoos or seeing him look like someone who would be carrying a stack of wood in one hand and bringing you a cup of hot cocoa in the other. Why seeing him in a shirt gave you such a different impression of him was beyond you. It was just a piece of cloth.

Of course that piece of cloth did leave you wondering whether he was dressing up because of you, or because he was wanting to not get kicked out of the class for giving little old ladies more reason to clutch their pearls.

You greeted him with a nod and a grin, wanting to either shake his hand or kiss the sides of his mask, or hug him but unsure if he’d accept it. He nodded in return and raised a hand to hover it beside your arm before letting it fall again. Turning, he motioned towards the garage.

Along the way you chattered about your week and how much you’d been looking forward to this class. He didn’t say much, but did hum in an approving way at several points and chuckled whenever you mentioned something funny.

“Had a nice week myself,” he said as you entered the garage, reaching over and flicking a switch. The lights flickered on loudly as he led you to his bike. “Been looking forward to this, too.”

“Have you ever done quilting before,” you asked. You hadn’t, or if you had it had been so long you had forgotten everything about it. He looked up from opening a compartment on his bike.

Roadhog shook his head and pulled out a dusty and banged up white motorcycle helmet. “Here.”

You took the proffered helmet and put it on, looking between the bike and the sidecar. “So I’ll be in there,” you asked, pointing at the smiling sidecar.

Roadhog snorted, shook his head, and unhitched it. “Easier to park this way.”

He climbed atop his bike and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life loudly enough that you felt it in your bones and the air around you filled briefly with the scent of petrol. Most people these days used electric engines; the antiquity of the metal beast before you was almost awe-inspiring. Then Roadhog turned to you, cocking his head to the side as he gripped one of the handlebars. Gesturing with his other hand, he motioned for you to sit on the seat in front of him.

Right, of course. The customised seat he had left no where else to sit.

Sliding onto the bike never made you feel smaller, surrounded as you were by his warm mass. As he drove you could feel the thrum of the engine below you. You were also aware of him. How could you not be?

He was everywhere and you were unable to forget the incidental press of his legs on the outside of your own and the brush of his arms over your shoulders as he drove. Or how soft his belly was behind you, or the hard press of muscle just below those layers of fat.

You were also aware of the occasional small yet racking cough whose sound was stolen by his mask and the wind. Instead of asking after it, you filled the air by musing about how the class would be structured. What you were expecting, what you would do with the quilts you made when it was over.

Roadhog stayed mostly quiet throughout the drive, content with listening to you talk. Once in a while he’d say something simple, such as “Hadn’t thought of that” or “Good plan.”

“What will you do with your quilt,” you asked as he pulled into the car park of the centre the class was held at.

He waited until you had climbed off to turn off the ignition (which had been between your spread knees throughout the journey) and shrugged in response to your question. “Bedcover, maybe,” he said, sounding unsure.

You unclipped the helmet and handed it over. “That sounds like a good idea. At least then you fully appreciate it,” you said, rubbing your thigh absently. It was odd to stand for some reason - you could still feel the thrum of the engine beneath you. “I still don’t know what I’ll do with mine.”

Roadhog shrugged and stowed your helmet. “Decide when you have it.”

When the two of you walked into the classroom everyone had fallen silent. After a brief moment of awkwardness the teacher came over, asking if they could help you. Roadhog nodded and held out the flyer. The teacher had immediately become welcoming, smiling at the two of you and gushing over how nice it was to have a couple joining them today.

You had faltered, simultaneously wanting to deny their statement (because it wasn’t true) and wanting to see what Roadhog would do. Roadhog stood silently at your side, and the teacher smiled again before gesturing to two open seats.

The first hour or two was spent teaching everyone how to hold the needles, thread them, and other sewing basics. Roadhog hadn’t paid attention during this time, instead grabbing a hooked needle and practising various stitches as the teacher mentioned them. They eventually came around and asked if they could show his work to the class as an exemplar. As the scrap of cloth was passed around Roadhog quietly showed you how to do the same, fingers brushing your hands occasionally to adjust your hold or the angle of the needle.

Then the teacher brought out multicoloured scraps of fabric and soft downy materials. At last you had come to the meat of the class. The teacher clapped their hands together, looking out at the class’s blank faces with glee as they announced today’s theme.

The theme was apparently a ‘share stories in the round’ thing - something about traditions of sewing stories into the fabric. The finished quilt would thus posses scenes from stories important to the quilter, the goal being making the finished product more personal.

Of course this necessitated working in groups. Each table was large enough for four quilters to work at. You and Roadhog shared an aside glance (or you thought you did; it was hard to tell with the mask) and refused to move.

For your troubles you ended up having two random people join your table. You had seen them elbow other people out of the way, and weren’t sure how to feel about the mercenary way they looked at Roadhog and his sewing. He, however, seemed content to completely ignore their presence and respond only to your remarks.

You, however, nodded politely as the stories were shared. So what if you all but tuned them out in favour of cutting the scraps of fabric you’d need or passing things to Roadhog when he’d lean towards you and request them. They didn’t seem to mind, chattering away and looking with interest at Roadhog’s work (and jealously at you for some reason).

Then a brief silence fell over the table. You were focused on pinning a square in place, however, and didn’t notice until Roadhog’s warm hand covered your elbow. Looking up sharply, you saw that everyone was waiting for your tale. Apologising, you shared an amusing story someone in your family had told you once. It was nice, sharing the tale and reminiscing fondly of the transferred memory as you stitched it into your quilt.

Roadhog’s story was a simple one - his first day with Talon. And how everyone but someone who sounded suspiciously like you had been standoffish to him, taking his silence to be disinterest.

The four quilts at the table shared elements of the stories - the colours and small squares brought the stories to life before your eyes.

During the lunch break Roadhog drove you to a nearby café. It was a cute place decorated with colourful lights and plushes, and the hostess seemed to recognise your companion. You two were shown to a quiet corner table.

“Is this alright,” Roadhog asked, standing beside the table.

The seat was soft beneath you as you slid in next to the window. “Of course.”

He raised a hand toward you when you smiled, but pulled away to give a thumbs up. When the waiter came you ordered your favourite meal and Roadhog ordered a vegetarian pasta dish and expresso.

“So what do you think of this so far,” you asked.

Roadhog shrugged, the eyeglasses of his mask trained towards you. “Nice.”

You nodded. “You really know your way with needles. Did you see how surprised that snotty lady two tables over looked when the teacher praised your practice stitches?”

“If she thinks it odd that I can sew,” he intoned gravely, “let her come to Oz and see just what skills you need to live there.”

You looked up at him and smiled. “Well maybe you could tell some stories from Australia after lunch. Give her something to think about.”

Roadhog’s hand grew tight around the dwarfed cup in his hand as the mask’s eyes stared into yours. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he tilted his head to the side and gave you a thumbs up.

The class resumed with much the same sort of story telling. You paid about as much attention, joking with Roadhog under your breath. It was easier now, as he had moved his chair close enough that your legs sometimes brushed beneath the table.

You told your story. Something from your childhood that left Roadhog laughing.

But then came Roadhog’s turn for telling a story. Using few words he wove a tale of two beings called Wanampi, a father and a son.

The son was deformed. Why and how he was, Roadhog didn’t specify, beyond that one could not look at him without first noticing his deformity. Some of the nearby people had simply laughed at him, taunted him, and poked him with sticks until one day the Wanampi lashed out and swallowed them all. The remaining people retaliated and chased the two away, though the Wanampi eventually returned to dwell in a nearby waterhole.

“Oh, I didn’t know we were allowed to tell myths,” one of the other people at the table said. “If that’s the case, I think I’ll tell the story about how Odin hung himself to learn the runes -”

Roadhog tensed beside you as he quietly stitched two multicoloured snake-like creatures into the border of his quilt.

The class continued, though now Roadhog stuck to stories that sounded more like his own past. References to fighting in the Omnic Crisis, references to scavenging in the Outback, a brief tale about storming the Tower of London…

Your tales seemed boring in comparison, but Roadhog always gave you a nod and a thumbs up after you finished speaking.

And so the class continued. Through it all you and Roadhog softly talked to each other, making quiet jokes and dry remarks about how your quilts were going.

Then, all too soon in your opinion, it was over.

Looking down at your quilt, you traced your finger over the stitched smile of a long dead relative. “This was really very nice, Roadhog.” Your voice may have been overly warm and soft, but you no longer gave a damn. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Mako.”

You turned to see him carefully folding up his quilt so that the square depicting his arrival at Talon was on top. “Sorry?”

“My name.”

Smiling, you repeated it. Mako. Roadhog drew in a rasping breath, and turned to you. Reaching out, he brought a hand to you and closed it over your shoulder with slight hesitation.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. You opened you mouth, looking curiously up at him.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he said, cutting you off. “It was… lovely.”

Your heart fluttered. “No problem.”

His hand squeezed your shoulder lightly before sliding off. His fingers shook as he took up his quilt and turned to leave.

You ignored the way your shoulder seemed to tingle and followed him.

The return trip to the compound was mostly silent. Upon your return, Roadhog nodded to you and leant down to reattach the sidecar.

You fiddled with the quilt in your arms. “Hey, Mako, maybe we could do this again sometime. I think I saw some posters for a cake decorating class at the centre next week. Maybe we could go. If you’re free, that is.”

The snout of his mask turned to you and tilted to the side as he said your name softly. “I’d love to.”

You smiled and turned to leave. Your hand had just closed over the door handle when Roadhog called out your name again.

Turning, you watched as he jogged over. He paused, wheezing slightly, before a flood of words came out of him.

“Listen, I don’t want to lead you on or be led on. I like you. A lot. I had wanted to ask you to this class as a date, but wussed out last second. I think you like me too, but…” He paused, scratching his stomach and looking aside. “I hope that this isn’t something you didn’t want to hear, because I value your friendship even if you don’t like me the same way. You’re one of the few people I’ve met who deserve better than the ruin that is our world, and I don’t want to ruin this like I ruined…”

Suddenly you couldn’t control your smile. Adjusting the quilt in your arms, you reached out and touched him lightly on the wrist.

“It’s okay, Mako. I do like you.” His body tensed at your words even as he bent towards you. “I like you a lot.”

Roadhog drew in a shaking breath and reached up to his mask. Pulling it away, he revealed a face that was at once nothing like what you had imagined and exactly that. But he was smiling at you and leaning down with your name on his lips as he asked if he could kiss you.

Your answer was to jump up, throwing your arms around his neck as you kissed him with everything you had.

[emilyelizabethfowl]

Fic Wars [LLSB] Chapter 1

This is the first chapter of a fanfic @littleladysongbird​​ and I are writing for the Fic Wars! The official event’s blog is @fandomficwars!

Fandom: Camp Camp Tags: Dadvid Ratings: G [general]

Enjoy!

On the last day of spring the camp was empty.

On the first day of summer there was two people and the Quartermaster.

Obviously, the campers weren't meant to come for another week or two, but the counselors had to prepare the camp and check if anything needed any repairs.

Or, to be precise, the counselor, singular.

Gwen still had some personal matters to tend to, and wouldn’t get to the camp until a day or two before the first campers would show up.

So who was the other person at the camp?

It was the one, who always came first and always left last, despite claiming to hate that place.

The one who always scoffed at his parents for sending him away for the whole summer and some more, even though he probably considered that their only good quality.

The person in question is, of course, Max.

***

“Ahhhh, I missed the camp!” David sighed, jumping out of the car. “Nothing’s better than some good old forest!”

“You literally take care of a park for a living.” Grumbled Max, clambering out of the car.

“But it’s not the same! Here… Here I just feel more alive than ever!”

The man enthusiastically circled the car and opened the trunk, revealing an old, neat bag and a small, freshly-bought backpack.

“I still can’t believe your parents let you go with your things in a trash bag!”

Max only shrugged, not looking at him.

“The backpack fell apart half an hour before you were supposed to pick me up, they had to improvise. And the trash back was the biggest bag we had at our place. Besides, you bought me a fucking new one, so there’s no problem now.”

David took the baggage out, letting Max take his backpack out of his hands. He closed the trunk, lost in thoughts.

“It really isn’t a good sign. Caring parents should always-”

“They literally called you to take me to the camp weeks before it’s starting, David. Which part of this is screaming caring parents to you?”

That seemed to get through the thick cocoon of optimism David submerged himself into, and his smile diminished a little.

“If I was your legal guardian, you’d be here now too.” He pointed out.

“Yeah, but you’d be with me and you’d actually want me to be with you. Knowing my parents they’re either on the airport or already at the plane to whatever place they chose to go to this year.”

They slowly made their way over to the councilors cabin. Few steps before the doors the smile came back on his face.

“Well, all that matters now is that you are with me and I want you to be here!” He said cheerfully. “Let’s settle down our luggage and prepare for the best summer camp ever!”

Max’s groaned, but there was no emotion behind it.

***

“Alrighty, the tents are up! What’s next on our list?” David asked, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

Max glanced at his pad.

“Checking the camp activities’ sites for any damage,” he read, “You’re seriously doing that? I thought these stuff are just left until they rot completely, judging by their looks.”

“We never had any proper funding before.” The man gulped down what was left in his water bottle. “We never could do much to fit the safety requirements, but somehow it never was an issue during the inspections.”

He picked up the tool set and made his way over to where the camp activities’ stands were placed. Max obediently toddled after him.

“Campbell bribed them?” he guessed.

“Possibly, yes.”

“So he got no money to fix the stands, but he’s got plenty of cash to bribe the inspectors not to see any problems?”

David laughed.

“Yes, it seems so.” He said. “Apparently the Camp Critic Committee is very eager to look the other way if they get to avoid paying taxes in Thailand.”

Max was so surprised he stopped dead in his tracks.

“What the fuck are they even doing in Thailand?”

“Language, Max,” David scolded gently, going more by habit than any real hope for change. “I guess they do something with really high taxes to need the tax relief.”

“That really doesn’t help at all.”

***

“The last on the list is… Did you really put in ‘Remember to eat and get a goodnight’s sleep!’?”

David put the last stone, creating a pull circle around the place designated for campfire at the opening day of the camp.  

“Eating and sleeping schedule is very important, Max!” He said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Besides, we need to check the mess hall anyway!”

Max just sighed and followed the way too happy adult to the most used building in the whole camp - second only when counting the bathrooms, especially after some more special meals made by Quartermaster.

But soon his mood got significantly better when they discovered that some of said meals got leftover from last year, and promptly took over the kitchen when no one was looking.

“No inspection will overlook this,” Max managed to gasp out while rolling on the floor, laughing his ass off.

David looked like someone just forced him to kick a puppy, looking around the molded shelves, trying to asses the damage.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly, “And it looks way to bad for us to handle alone. I’m afraid we’ll have to call a specialist.”

He tried to poke a particularly big piece of fungi, but reasonably decided not to when it attempted to eat his finger.

“Maybe two specialists.”

Max laughed so hard he started crying.

***

They ended up getting pizza that night.

Max ate silently, trying not to think about the last time they ate one together, and failing miserably.

Noticing his bad mood, David tried to cheer him up a little, or at least make him forget whatever was troubling him.

“Pizza might not be the healthiest of all meals, but it’s definitely one of the easiest to make and tastiest to eat!” he exclaimed, waving around his slice, ignoring the cheese slowly trying to escape on the ground.

Max stared at the poster on the wall, slightly irked by how askew it was. He was definitely going to level it the first chance he got.

“My parents say it’s the lowest of all foods and never let me get any.” He said out of social obligation not to leave David hanging.

The man gasped loudly.

“But it’s one of the very few things you genuinely enjoy!”

“Do you really think my parents give a shit about it?” he sneered, waving away some wisties that got to the cabin through the open window and very persistently tried to steal olives from his pizza. “I thought we established that already.”

David was silent for a while, sitting still enough for the wistie to try and steal the olive from his slice.

He obviously let the little creature have it, even though it was his favorite part. The man was simply too kind for his own good, literally.

“I just… I still can’t believe how anyone can treat their child that way…”

Max looked him directly into the eyes.

“I was an accident,” he said, voice unwavering. He took another bite of the pizza, feeding off of both the food and David’s disturbance.

“What?” he asked, probably still hoping he just misheard him, the damn optimist.

“I wasn’t planned. My mom didn’t want to marry dad, but she was forced to by her influential family. They didn’t want a scandal, they could’ve made her life a living nightmare if they wanted to, and she was perfectly aware of it. Mom never wanted to have kids too, and wanted to get an abortion, but she was having sex with anything that moved and grandparents wanted to punish her for it.”

David sat speechless, his pizza long since forgotten. Max continued before he could bet coherent enough to speak.

“And this is what she got. A sarcastic little shit. She was so ashamed of having me, that she forced her parents to let her move here.” He shook his head. “Can you blame her?” he laughed dryly.

“Yes,” David answered without a second of hesitation. “I can and I do.”

Now it was Max’s turn to look at him without a word.

“Are you serious?”

David didn’t even need to answer - the look on his face, more serious than any other time Max could remember seeing his face without a smile on it, said it all.

“She’s your mother. She should love you. She shouldn’t be ashamed - she should be proud of you.”

If Max opened his eyes any wider, he just new his eyeballs would fall out of the sockets.

“Proud of me?” he asked. “Proud of fucking what? Loving me? For what? I’m not exactly the loveable kind of a son!”

Knowing David, his hands itched really hard to reach and hug Max. But being aware the boy didn’t like this kind of behavior, he didn’t act out on this desire.

“Every kind of a son is loveable!” He said, every bit of passion he would’ve used in the hug going into that exclamation. “And you’re really intelligent and talented! Your crocheting is extraordinary!”

Max raised his brow.

“Newsflash, I’m an asshole.” He said simply.

“It doesn’t matter!” David countered, “You’re just a child! You deserve to be loved!”

That single word took Max back to all the hours spent on listening to his parents arguments. They never missed the opportunity to tell him he should be glad he was alive.

That he didn’t deserve the things they’ve been getting him. That he didn’t deserve the food, or the house he was living in.

That he didn’t deserve to be born.

“Max…?”

He couldn’t answer, but he didn’t need to; the man couldn’t stand watching the boy being miserable anymore, and wrapped his arms around him in what was probably the tightest hug anyone has given him.

Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember anyone but David even wanting to hug him before.

He let David hold him for a while, but all good things had to end sometime. He didn’t even know he was crying until he noticed the spot his tears left on David’s shirt. He winced, expecting to get punished for it, before he remembered it was David he was dealing with.  

“I don’t deserve to be loved.” He mumbled. “I can’t be loved.”

“Max,” David said quietly, “Max, look at me.”

The boy did so, however unwillingly.

He saw an emotion in the man’s eyes. Emotion he saw when other parents were looking at their children, but it was never directed at him.

“I love you, Max,” David said, his voice gentle, comforting.

“You love everyone!” Max tried to argue. He was used to disappointment, but this was too much. He didn’t want to be given love, just for the man to take it back at the end of the summer.

He wouldn’t be able to take it; He preferred to make it look like he hated David, like he couldn’t stand him.

Because when people don’t care about you, they forget. And when they forget, they can’t hurt you.

Max knew it far too well for a child his age. He wasn’t going to get his hopes up, and he wasn’t going to be let down.

Especially not by David.

“I do love lots of people,” the man agreed, “But that doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

That feeling, when you promise yourself that you won’t do something, and then you end up doing it. Max hated that feeling. But the hope he had, the hope for David to mean what he was saying, he hated it even more.

“And so what?” He said, as rudely as he only could, trying to discourage David from going any further. “So what? It won’t change a thing about my situation! Once the summer’s over, you and your precious love will be miles away!”

David looked like he wanted to say something about it, but he seemed to change his mind.

“But the summer isn’t over yet!” He said instead, “And it won’t be for another three months!”

Max couldn’t believe his own ears. He was doing everything he could to push the man away… But the man was holding on to him, and wasn’t letting him go that easily.

“You’re the bane of my existence,” he said dejected, for he knew it wasn’t going to end well for either of them.

But David just grinned, as if Max agreed with him.

“I love you too,” he said, confirming the boy’s suspicion. “But now, beds! We’ve still got lots to do tomorrow!”

The boy gladly accepted the end of their conversation, obediently going to sleep at Gwen’s yet unoccupied bed.

And soon the room is silent, save for the wisties stealing the remains of their food, the quiet sounds of two people breathing, and ominous sounds of Quartermaster moving outside.

[buffystylez-blog]

Angel

Written by: David Greenwalt

Directed by: Scott Brazil

Starring: Sarah Michelle Gellar, Alyson Hannigan, Nicholas Brendon, Anthony Head, David Boreanaz, Charisma Carpenter, Julie Benz, and Kristine Sutherland.

Slayerettes, welcome to just past the halfway point. Of season 1. And it is a doozy. There’s leather pants. And leather jackets. And other things. 

It’s a bit of a mixed bag if I’m honest, guys. The plot is A Story but the clothes are B Story.

The Master is back, but who really gives a shit? BECAUSE ANGEL.

Outfit 1

I do love a bit of black crochet. Puts me in mind of an adolescent Stevie Nicks. But with less top hats and more slut straps. But no cocaine, which I think is healthy.

The eyeliner is probably my favourite part of the ensemble now. Winged eyeliner is such a challenge for me. It’s like that guy in Bojack Horseman says, ‘it gets easier, but you gotta do it everyday. That’s the hard part.’ I get it now. I really get it.

Whoever said redheads can’t wear green can shut up now.

Whoever said Xander could leave the house looking good can shut up now.

But thank goodness after last week Xander has gone from attempted rape back to his regular shut-shaming Cordelia for this rather cute number.

Buffy sees Xander’s batshit sense of style and decides it’s time to call it a night.

There’s some unsettling parallels to Twilight, of which this is but one.

Buffy adds a jacket, but because it’s the 90s it’s a strange cut and length and fabric.

This jacket will come back in a future episode about nightmares coming true. That’s... significant.

Buffy lives most of the audience’s dream by inviting Angel in to her home.

This is definitely my favourite look from Angel so far.

The tattoo is... alright, I guess. I’m more critical now I’ve seen a couple of seasons of Inkmaster.

Joyce thinks this much older ‘tutor’ is sketchy AF. Rightly. 

I keep forgetting she’s wearing a halter neck under the crochet. And by forget I mean repress.

Outfit 2

For this unplanned innocent-ish sleepover Buffy’s gone with a cute singlet and I’m guessing shorts or whatever. And a bra.

Outfit 3

This jacket is off somehow. The motto of the late 90s.

Buffy is serving some spunky realness right now.

Willow is serving some adorable realness.

Xander is serving fries and burgers.

I always thought this shift was really cute. The pink ribbon headband is such a nice touch. Is the shift white or a really light blue? I like a pastel pink and blue combo. In my hair. Because that is what my hair currently looks like.

What I don’t like is the daisy trim under her boobs. And it makes me question the pink ribbon. And why he’s still in her bedroom. And why they aren’t making out right now.

KISSING. But also, does that plastic ring really work with this look?

Buffy discovers Angel is a vampire and it. Is. SHOCKING. Sort of. I remember TV Hits spoiling this before the show had even aired in Australia. Which I forgot watching this episode.

Outfit 4

A quick hashtag tbt to Buffy training at school with Giles before she learned Angel’s horrifying secret (that he inspired Stephenie Meyer).

I feel like the pants could be more practical. Also I watch this now wondering how I missed that the stunt double seems taller than Sarah Michelle Gellar.

I could never find these t-shirts in 1997. I can find it now, which is... fine. I guess.

Back to Buffy being fucked with by dudes.

Outfit 5

I thought this was the first time Buffy wore this jacket and it was a definite statement that she was getting rid of Angel. It’s... just because Angel’s bad doesn’t mean his jacket is. I’m pretty sure this is the same jacket she wore with the shift. Maybe Angel was hiding on top of his jacket and she couldn’t get to it.

Willow mixes patterns like nobody’s business. She seems as concerned as me by Buffy’s hair.

Buffy loves a white singlet with bows and a cute graphic. I don’t. But I sure did back then.

Both Willow and Buffy are as confused as I am by Xander’s refusal to dress nice.

Please teach Xander how to do a green patterned shirt  and not be a dickhead.

While the Scooby Gang try to ignore the fact Angel’s not that bad but also, like, a vampire or whatever, Darla is being consistent by wearing a school uniform all of the time. I’m scared to ask where she shops. I don’t think it’s Lowes.

You can’t really see it here but Joyce is textbook Art Gallery Manager right now.

Darla does a thing and it works and Buffy’s mad as hell at Angel. But at the hospital, something wonderful happens.

THIS PAISLEY REVELATION.

Outfit 6

Fuck this lighting, man.

Buffy’s dressed to kill. Gliterally. I’ve been binge-watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race.

I would've wanted this, looked for it, found it, and been too scared to wear it. I would definitely wear it now, but only if it were a sweater and not a button up.

She’s wearing leather pants and boots but I would not and will never wear leather pants. Too hard to get on and off. It’s bad enough trying to go to the bathroom after swimming in a one-piece. This is too big a challenge. I’m not Wonder Woman.

My criticism of Darla’s previous outfit was that the Peter Pan collar seemed too big. And that it makes her look insane.

Girl knows how to accessorise. I would’ve gone with a high pony. Maybe I just don't have the face for this kind of ‘tail. SMG definitely does.

Angel saves Buffy even though she could have just waited until Darla ran out of bullets and fucked her up, which I find a little annoying. But at the same time I also think it’s a sure sign to Buffy that Angel is ‘not like other vampires.’ 

The Master tells the Annoying One that it’s a big deal for a vampire to kill another vampire. Angel killing Darla, who is his sire or whatever, is his way of saying he’s on Buffy’s side. And also conveniently gets rid of his crazy ex-girlfriend.

Anyway Angel’s a vampire but he’s good, so yay! Sort of. Man, those Gypsies are brutal.

Outfit 7

Seriously, fuck this lighting.

This angle conceals the dumb clips she’s wearing, which is great. It was a dumb clip heavy episode for Buffy.

Angel is so handsome and broody but also creepy but also really hot. But I bet he doesn’t have a paisley scarf.

As a teenage girl I found this episode so romantic and sexy and heartbreaking and watching it now... I feel mostly the same. The kiss at the end still gets me. It really does. One thing season 1 does well is make the monsters of the week a metaphor for what it’s like to be a teenager. And Buffy and Angel’s romance is the perfect example of this. I doff my cap to Whedon.

Is that plastic ring right with this outfit?

Up next, Online Dating is scary. Mostly because of how the technology reminds me that I’m old as hell.

Until next time, Slayerettes.