#happy pride to all the people working through their layers

[can-i-ship-in-queering-peace]

i just had to say this.

no, but, i really want y’all to say it with your whole chest. why is it cool for straight people to reminisce about their childhood crush and dream of what could have been and that's romantic, and you can gain sympathy. but if you make it queer then we’re weird, creepers with some agenda? you just always want to demonize us and push us into the box of pedophiles, go ahead, just say it say it!

despite almost every straight presenting, straight agenda pusher, closest case out there, in and out of the church being usually the pedophiles of the world. it’s almost.. ironic.. it’s almost like... gaslighting or something. like you’re calling us what y’all are. 

(listen, most actual queer/gay people tend to actually never experience childhood and teen years normal development because we are so afraid of so much, and for good reason. so yeah, we also like to reminisce like y’all.. only we have even more layers there.. you can’t imagine the depth of all the things we are trying to work through in doing so. often times alone with no other help with these aspects.

so, “missed opportunities”, an understatement for us. i mean these ships for us are all the life we’ll never get to get back, time lost feels so heartbreakingly different in the closet. “years wasted”, again, an understatement. so, y’all think we’re silly for caring so much about ships when we can see ourselves in these ships but i cry thinking about how much i can relate to so much and it brings me back there. but instead of repressing all of those feelings and looping those memories i can never undo or change, i attempt to, through fanfic. i write and read fanfic, and love fanart because it’s my do over. not to mention, we never get actual representation that’s fleshed out the same way. i know plenty can relate so i just had to vent this since pride is here and i’ve been an absolute emotional wreck over so much and this has been weighing on me.)

[jolapeno]

sunrise

francisco morales x santiago garcia

GIF credit to @perotovar

summary: after mixed messages, pope asks frankie if he'll watch the sunrise with him.

wordcount: 1.1k warnings: none. jo doing jo things with words. just two boys, mixed messages and a bit of hope. an: happy pride. this fic is dedicated to the lovely, wonderful @perotovar who not only is a great friend, but also has never made me feel like i'm not part of pride. it's been a long time since I've written m/m, but erin, your kind words (and gif) filled me with joy. i hope this fills you with joy too.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz—

He doesn’t need to look, to smack his hand around the bedside table, Frankie knows where his phone is.

Retrieving it, pressing it to his ear—old sleep crusting in his eyes—Frankie lets out a soft groan, the weight of lingering thoughts still pushing heavily against his mind. With a reluctant sigh, he mumbles a tender hello, his voice heavy, gruff.

“Hey,” Pope says.

It elongates, stretches out like a fragile thread suspended between them—as though another word should have followed but isn’t spoken.

“You awake?”

“Am now.”

He doesn’t miss the chuckle that’s embedded into the breath. Nor, how it brushes down and through the phone. A sensation bubbling across his skin, his body remembering how it feels to have it against him.

“You’ve not been replying—in the group chat.”

He rubs his face, the motion all a hopeless attempt to awaken his mind, wishing the act would spur on words. Something. Anything to bridge the aching void between them.

It doesn’t.

It just adds to the other things churning inside him, layering over doubts and questions—the ones that linger unanswered, even when they are alone, haunting the spaces between their moments together.

Sliding the phone back against his cheek, he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Just… wasn’t checking things.”

“Yeah, thought so.”

He hums, and then releases a heavy breath. Needing to fill the silence before it begins. Not wanting to find out if today it’s comfortable or the opposite.

“You busy?”

“At 3 in the morning?”

Pope laughs—and Frankie hates how much he likes the sound. Despises it, almost. Loathes it, like he detests how he feels.

“Didn’t know if you wanted to watch the sunrise with me.”

“I’m a whole flight from you, Pope.”

“Don’t have to be in the same location to watch the sun come up, Fish.”

“We fuckin’ do if it comes up at different times, cabrón.”

There’s a pause, then a chuckle. One that begins with Pope and then ends with him. It fills the air, the space, the area between them that they pretend not to notice or ask about whenever they come home.

Because home isn’t out there, where they’re adorned in layers that barrier against artillery and threats; home isn’t where they help the other free from it all in the comfort of a base room or a tent in the middle of nowhere. Home is real. It’s chosen paint on the walls and picked out bedding; it’s photographs filled with only the best and souvenirs that remind of good times.

And, right now, the only evidence of Pope here is the memories—

That first kiss. How fuelled it had been, how he’d done it purely to stop the tide of ifs and buts that Pope had been flinging, angrily darting in the hope to hit the bullseye and wound him further than his foolishness had.

And it’s not that Frankie wishes to hang up, it isn’t that he hopes to shove things further into his soul. He’s had his crisis—had it when he’d had Pope pressed against his spine, breath fanning out over his neck, making the hair curled from their earlier activities twitch and tickle.

But, he’s at least come to terms with the fact this isn’t a home thing. A thing which doesn’t exist when he steps on the plane to go back to a life where people call him Francisco. He’s made his peace with it, accepted it—as much as a person can.

He’s done the work to rationalise and reason. So, whatever this phone call is, it feels counterproductive. It feels like sinking, falling through those steps and nets he’s built until he’s drenched in the will-they-won’t-they he’s clambered far away from. The hopes seep into his skin, worming into his brain, threatening to paint shadows on the back of his eyelids at what the two of them could be—

“What are we doing, Pope?”

There’s an exhale. It’s likely a sigh, but it’s hard to assess without the facial expression. The way he wears his feelings in his body language.

“I‘m not sure.”

Frankie expects that, somehow. Yet it still stings, hurts—ripples out like a lashing he’s braced for. Rolling onto his side, he grinds his jaw. Staring at the gap in the curtains, the one that’ll allow light to bleed through in a few more hours, nostrils flaring as he shakes his head.

“I can’t watch the sunrise with you.”

“‘Cause of the time difference?”

Rolling his eyes, he blows out a harsh breath. “No. Because if we do, I’ll confess something that’ll make it hard for you to do that compartmentalising shit that you do about the fact you and I fuck.”

The silence that follows is painful, excruciating. It’s devoid and barren, dull and full of nothing. There’s no background noise to drown it out, the night too quiet, the hour too dormant—to the point it almost makes Frankie feel guilty for disturbing it.

“What if I told you I’m at the motel on 22nd—”

Frankie sits up. Bolt upright. The suddenness of it forces the sheet to fall from his neck to pool at his waist, the air cool flurrying over warm skin, heat blooming in his cheeks.

“—the one you talked about—”

His heart hammers. Pounds.

“—the one you go to when home is a bit too… home.”

“Pope…”

“Fish.”

Swinging his legs from under the sheets, elbow resting on the place above his knee, hand wiping down his face, awake, blood pounding in his ears.

“Por favor no bromees.”

Sighing, blowing it right into his ear. It’s far more soothing, rooting, than it has been before.

“Wanna watch the sunrise with me, Fish?”

Swallowing, fear threatens to poison the joy that is trying to fill his chest. His hand clamps around his knee for leverage, for strength. Squeezing, likely making his skin paler—it returning to colour when he releases as he tries to get his brain to calculate the percentage of how much of a good idea this is.

But then he hears his name. It whispered, with more of an infliction, a question to it.

And so he takes a breath. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’ll… get dressed now.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

A silence unfurls, one nicer, more bearable than any of the others before—

“Well hurry then, Fish.”

And then, as Frankie suspected, Pope ends the call.

tagging: @morallyinept (for your collection)

[stellar-skyy]

Could I order a hot white tea for Aventurine? If you can also add angst to confort please 👀

“order up! i have a white tea for aventurine, fresh and hot!”

☆ — if you're craving a drink, make sure to stop by the teashop!

i. SUMMARY: At a work event, your coworker offers you a dance. ii. CWS & NOTES: no warnings applicable. aventurine x gn!reader. reader & aven are coworkers. mild angst & fluff. 1.6k words. iii. A/N: thank you for the order! i hope you enjoy!

It wasn’t their plan to hide in the corner all night, but it was where they ended up; drink clutched in both hands, shoulders hunched tightly, and eyes cast to the floor. All around them, their colleagues and fellow members of the Interastral Peace Corporation mingled and danced, filling the night with a dull drone of chatter and laughter. Around the groups and pairs scattered across the hall, were those few idly loitering on the outskirts like shadows, themself included.

They could busy themself for a while pretending to survey the hors d'oeuvres arranged on the table, but soon enough they would catch someone’s attention. Then would come the questions of why they were avoiding people, and the feeble attempts to drag them into a conversation they had far too little energy to engage in.

A charity ball, organized by their colleagues and funded by the ICP themselves. It seemed like a perfect idea when it was pitched, all up until they were standing alone in a crowded room, trapped in layers of formalwear the dug into their sides. The festivities grew all too much after a while, leaving them exhausted and weary of every greeting and smile.

It was much easier to turn their back on the other guests and ignore them for however long they could manage. That way, they weren’t forced into mindless small talk, or dragged into a half-hearted dance with any of their coworkers. They were fully content on spending the rest of their evening on the sidelines alone, without anyone to disturb their—

“Ahem.”

Peace.

The voice tore straight through their attempt to sink into the background, silky smooth and laced with the slightest trace of amusement. They lifted their head up, hands tightening around the drink in their hands and lips forming his name before they even had to look at him.

“Aventurine.”

The man smiled. He was dressed much more formal than usual, decked out in a three-piece suit with a deep green tie. It was tailored, cut and shaped around each part of his body to fit him perfectly. The outfit was simple, but it suited him well; even in a room of people dressed in their finest, he managed to outshine every one of them.

“You’re certainly hidden well, aren’t you?” Aventurine remarked, plucking a canapé off the table beside them and popping it into his mouth. “How long have you been here? An hour? Two?”

“I wasn’t hiding—” They tried to say, before they were cut off with a laugh.

“You can lie, but not well enough to fool me.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t make excuses. I really don’t care that much.”

The music changed suddenly, turning from a light jazz to a slower tune, complete with sweeping violins and deep echoes of a cello. Like clockwork, the few folks dancing in the centre paired up—both actual couples who had attended together, and coworkers who hurriedly joined together in time for the song to start.

Aventurine cleared his throat again. When they turned to him, there was a look in his eye that told them he was planning something.

“I did have something I wanted to ask, however. May I have this dance?” he asked with a small smile, hand outstretched.

They bit back any retort that might have been on their tongue, as he stood waiting their response with a glint in his eye. It was a challenge, like everything was with him; a bet to whether their pride outweighed their self-consciousness. They could almost see the dice rolling behind his eyes, breath held in anticipation.

If it was a game he was playing, they would be happy to indulge him, if only for an evening. It wasn’t as though they had anything else to do, other than waiting idly in the corner for the music to die down and the guests to leave. They could spare whatever was left of their energy for a few minutes of dancing.

“Of course,” they said, taking his hand. A look of surprise crossed his face for only a moment before it was replaced with a wider grin.

“Ah, I knew I came over here to a reason,” Aventurine smiled, leading them away from the corner and into the lights.

They were uncomfortably aware of each eye fixed on their back, but Aventurine was unfazed; his hand was firm in holding onto theirs in a surprisingly gentle grip. His gloved thumb softly stroked the side of their hand, a move that was much too close to romantic for their liking.

“Are you ready?” he asked, when they reached the floor.

“Yes,” they said instantly, and hoped it wasn’t a lie.

He laced his fingers through their hand, sliding his other over their hips. A heat flushed across their face—the result of the stuffiness inside the venue, no doubt—and they fumbled to place their hand on his shoulder.

“You act like you’ve never danced before,” he laughed.

The music swelled, and Aventurine began to lead their dance. One step, then two and three. He was surprisingly adept at sweeping them across the floor, out of the way of the rest of the dancers, while keeping up their pace.

Together they twirled and spun, in time as the music sung a chorus for them and them only. The rest of the guests faded away, until the two of them were alone on the dancefloor, held tightly in each other’s arms. It crossed their mind, for a moment, that the scene was something more suited to a couple than a pair like them. They wondered if he was thinking the same, whether he thought it odd that they were so close. Was he regretting his choice of dance partner, or feeling thankful he asked them?

They found themself glancing around them throughout, but oddly enough Aventurine’s eyes never left them. He seemed transfixed, watching them carefully as they seemed to melt into the dance.

“Are you ready?” He asked abruptly, just as the music reached a crescendo.

“What?”

“Are you ready?” He repeated in lieu of an explanation.

“Ready for wh—” they tried to ask, but were suddenly pulled into a spin. He let go of their waist, long enough to twirl them around as they squeaked in surprise. Their head was reeling by the time he pulled them back, holding them even tighter so they didn’t fall over.

“Ready to be spun,” he clarified, a moment too late.

“Yeah,” they breathed, hand clinging tightly to his shoulder to balance themself. “Yeah… I got that, now.”

The two of them whirled and spun for some time more—was it minutes? Hours? It was long enough for the music to change again, into an equally slow but slightly more melancholy song—before he spoke up again.

“You’re not a fan of dancing?” Aventurine asked, an eyebrow raised. The question was posed in his usual lilting voice, but there was a note of concern in his tone that wasn’t present in the moments before.

“Why do you ask?”

Aventurine paused to spin them past another dancing couple—a woman who was giggling far too loudly, and a man who seemed like he would rather be anywhere else—before continuing. “Well, for starters you haven’t made eye contact with me for more than a few seconds this entire time. You keep looking down at your feet.”

The music swelled. Aventurine abruptly pulled them into a low dip, leaning down so their faces were close enough that they could taste his breath. Their heartrate spiked, loud enough to drown out the music, but not enough to mask Aventurine’s voice.

“Is something wrong, [Name]?” He whispered into their lips, and all of a sudden they couldn’t breathe.

Not while you’re here was their first thought, but it was something far too raw to speak out loud, and only a half-truth. Aventurine’s presence had managed to quell some of the discomfort eating away at their stomach, but he was only a pretty distraction to the uneasiness that threatened to sweep them off their feet in the worst way. It whittled away at their already cracked mask of indifference, leaving them desperately holding the pieces together.

The eyes were still there, watching. They tracked their every move, noting each way they tilted further into his body to shield themself from their sight. He noticed too, pulling them up and out of the dip and turning them away from the people staring.

“Can we just go?” They whispered hollowly. He blinked, seeming to be caught off guard by the defeat in their voice. The shift in his demeanour was immediate, like a switch had been flipped.

“Of course, let’s—” Aventurine cleared his throat, standing straighter. “Let’s go.”

His hand rested on their lower back, guiding them out of the ballroom. The eyes never left, but Aventurine met them with a glare, and slowly they turned their gaze.

 “After you,” he said, opening the wide doors and beckoning them through. And in the open air, they remembered to breathe. “Now, is something the matter?”

They shifted in their steps, tugging on the edge of their sleeves. Was something the matter? It was a perfectly reasonable question, especially since they dragged him out of the event so suddenly, but they were at a loss for an answer.

“I don’t know. I just—” They let out a shuddering breath. “I just wanted to leave.”

Aventurine hummed. “I suppose that’s something enough.”

“I’m sorry,” they whispered.

“No apologising,” he chided, flicking them lightly on their arm. “You can’t be expected to want to be social at every moment. It’s not like I was inclined to spend my entire evening talking to my coworkers.” He shook his head. “Let yourself breathe once in a while, okay?”

“…I guess.”

“Come on. Let me walk you home.”

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[aviiarie]

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ FLESH AND BLOOD — platonic douma & reader !

synopsis. douma’s child knows there is only one way to truly escape: killing their father. warnings. kny-typical blood, death & yknow... eating people. knives, threats of violence. unhealthy family dynamics. douma is his own warning tbh. notes. PLATONIC. (terrible) father figure!douma. gn!reader. they/them used. angst. 3.6k words. read warnings pls! @romaritimeharbor you were right, i couldn't write a happy ending. this man was made for horror, not fluff.

Every step [Name] takes is heavy.

There’s a knife strapped to their belt, hidden under several layers of clothing. They swiped in from the kitchens one night on a whim, sneaking behind two chefs who were too engrossed in an argument about spices to notice them. Once they left—with neither chef noticing them at all—they took to work fashioning a strap to attach it to their belt, and tucked it under their clothes. When they were finished, it swung on their hip, occasionally bumping against their thigh if they ran too quickly. Secure, but still accessible; exactly how they wanted it.

It isn’t the most ideal weapon. They haven’t had enough experience wielding it to even know what to do with it if their situation called for a fight, but it hangs by their side like an anchor. The slight pressure, with the glint of metal separated from their skin by a single layer of fabric, grounds them.

Every night, they make sure the edge is sharpened, before tucking it under their pillow with one hand slotted underneath. Idly, their fingers trace the edge of the handle, prepared to close around it should they wake up to an attack.

And yet, even with the care they have to make sure the knife is always close to their side, they have never once used it. It’s a safeguard more than anything else; a reminder that no matter what happens in the lion’s den they call a home, they are ready and prepared to fight their way out to safety. It didn’t need to be withdrawn; a simple pat to their side to make sure the weapon was still safely attached to their belt was enough to steady their nerves.

As they walk through the halls with feather-light footsteps, their heartbeat pounds with the wings of a hummingbird. They force their breath to even out into a steady pattern, squeezing their hands into fists to stop them from shaking. They were not the apex predator in this place, but they’d be damned if they were reduced to mere prey.

Through the halls of their home, they pass countless faces that greet them with big smiles and waves. They don’t stop for a single one, only nodding slightly and murmuring a greeting for each. One woman in particular gasps as she sees them, peeling away from her group to catch their arm as they walk by.

“Ah, [Name]! I was speaking with Lord Douma earlier, and he requested that you join him for dinner tonight!” The woman smiles brightly at them. They bite back a sharp retort, instead forcing a smile.

“If you see him again, tell my father that I might be late,” they say smoothly. The words feel like poison on their tongue, but they spit them out anyway.

Father was once a word they used with pride. It was babbled through lips that barely knew the sounds they were making, but the title was met with a blinding smile. Douma seemed to take pride in the word as well, if the way he scooped them into his arms every time they called him it was any indication. He’d press his cheek to their hair, squeezing them against his chest like they were a stuffed toy. A laugh, brimming with almost childlike glee, and an excited, “Yes, yes, that’s it! I’m your father, and you’re my darling little child.”

They were happy as his child, for a long time. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t their family by blood; he was the one to take them in when they were only a baby, giving them all they could ever want or need and spoiling them beyond comprehension. He adored them, more than anything. That was what he promised, at least.

Their childhood was happy, as happy one can be when raised in a cult. The followers loved them as much as they loved Douma himself, showering them with attention and gifts when he wasn’t there to give them it instead. [Name] learned to look past the smiles, to not get attached to the voices that spoke their name with reverence, because it was almost never the same face that greeted them twice. It didn’t matter too much, because Douma was always there to fill the gaps with his warm embraces.

But they grew older, as children do, and the haze of paradise slowly cleared. The mysteries of their youth that once felt like exciting secrets to unearth began to weigh on them, and they found themself pestering Douma with endless questions. Questions like ‘Why do people keep disappearing?’ and ‘What’s beyond the Eternal Paradise?’

To their frustration, his responses were vague and dismissive, never leaving them satisfied. The only answers they received were ‘They’ve achieved Paradise.’ and ‘Nothing. There is nothing worth seeing beyond here.’

Douma always said they were naturally inquisitive, but that burning desire for answers only brewed a frustration in their chest that never seemed to be quelled by his distant answers. He was hiding things, they could see it on his face. There were too many things that he kept secret to be coincidence, too many details that didn’t add up.

Their fervent pursuit of answers led to one place: the door at the end of main hall. It was locked at all times, the only place they were forbidden from entering. Douma was especially serious when he informed them the room was off limits, his eyes turning sharp when he questioned him about it.

“This is my home and yours, and you are free to roam everywhere else, but that place isn’t for you, little one.”

The words might have deterred them as a child, but they couldn’t let their curiosity fester any longer.

There was one key that opened every lock in the cult, hidden in a secret compartment in the main room that Douma didn’t think they knew about. One night as slipped through the door and locked it behind him, they stole the key, slipping it in the lock and turning the handle.

The first thing they noticed was red. It covered the room, spilling across his table, dripping steadily on his tiled floors and splattering across the walls in an angry scarlet. The second thing they noticed was that their father was covered in it. The colour was smeared across his face, trickling from his lips and down his chin. It stained his robes and coated his hands, but he barely noticed; he was too busy swiping his tongue across his lips to soak up the excess droplets.

Among the carnage was the lifeless figure of a woman, her body mangled and thrown carelessly at his feet. Douma himself was lounging on a chair, his legs crossed, unbothered by the nightmarish scene surrounding him. One of his hands clasped a severed arm, bringing it to his teeth and tearing off a chunk of flesh. He hummed as he ate, licking his lips like he was savouring the taste.

In all their years of growing up by his side, they’d watched as Douma had ignored the gifts of food his followers brought him, yet now, now he seemed to find his appetite. Their skin crawled, memories of rejected meals and his claims of already eating echoing in their ears. When he locked himself in the room, was this what he was doing? Was this where their missing followers ended up?

They clutched their arm, pressing their nails hard enough to leave marks against their skin. The sight was something out of their worst nightmares, yet the sting of pain was a sharp reminder that it was reality. Nausea bubbled up in their stomach, but they forced it down long enough to close the door with a quiet click and lock it again.

They never confronted him after that day. They could barely look him in the eye long enough to do so. But one thing was clear: as long as he lived, they and all of the followers of the Eternal Paradise faith were in danger.

Their hand brushed against their hip. The cold press of metal through their clothes eased their nerves.

A proper fighter would have a sword, and use it to slice his head clean off, but they would have to make do with a simple kitchen knife. Eventually the moment would present itself, eventually he would be off his guard, and they would have the chance to ambush him. The edge of the blade was sharp, all it would take is one slice across his throat and his life would be snuffed out.

They ignored the nagging part of them that told them it wouldn’t be enough, that Douma had to be something inhuman, something powerful, something that took more than a slit throat to kill. It whispered that a creature so heartless that it would slaughter and consume innocent humans couldn’t possibly be an ordinary mortal being.

They especially ignored the part of them that blanched at even the thought of harming him, the man that brought them in and doted on them every day of their life. That was the part that wished they could go back and never look through the door, maintaining a fragile bliss that wasn’t wrought with fear and uncertainty; the part that urged them to forget, to close their eyes and let him be their adoring father again.

Their footsteps haltered as they approached the open doorway that led to the main room of the building. Even the entrance was ornately decorated, with delicately painted screens separating it from the rest of the rooms.

“Is someone there?” A voice called out sharply. Their breath caught in their throat, and they patted their side instinctively. With a careful glance around the door, they saw him, sitting in the centre of the elaborate room on his usual cushioned seat.

“Are you hiding?” Douma asks, his eyes glinting with something dark and unreadable. He leans his head on his hand, smiling at where they are half-concealed behind the doorway. “My child, is that you? Come on out, don’t be shy.”

There was no point trying to pretend they weren’t there. With a deep breath, they step into the light.

“It is my child!” He laughs, in a voice that could be mistaken for delight. If they were a little younger they would have beamed at the sound, but their maturity had earned them the skill of seeing right through his cheery demeanour. “[Name], have you come to visit me?”

“Yes.” They say stiffly, forcing a neutral expression. They ignored the way his smile softened; it was a lie, it had to be.

“Aren’t I a lucky father?” Douma pauses to wipe away a fake tear, the sight making something curl uncomfortably in their gut. He pats the area beside his chair. “Come, sit down.”

When they were a baby—back when the brightness of his smile felt genuine—he would sit them on his lap, letting them play with his fans while he spoke to his followers. They were too old for that now, so instead they tiptoe inside and settle beside the chair, sitting with their knees tucked to their chest.

“How are you today, [Name]? It feels like forever since we’ve caught up.” Douma asks them as they sit, smiling over at them. They pick at the edge of their clothing, not meeting his eye.

“What does the writing in your eyes mean?” They suddenly ask, instead of answering.

“Curious today, are we?” Douma chuckles. He taps his nail just below his right eye. “I’m sure you know what this one is.”

They nod, recognizing the numeral. “It’s… two, right?”

“Yes, it is! Such a smart child I have.” Douma’s grin widens, and he points the other one. “What about this one?”

They squint at his eye, observing the thin brushstrokes over the rainbow-coloured iris. It wasn’t a character they recognized, even after their studies. “I don’t know.”

“This one—” Douma tapped his nail against his skin. “Is a combination of two characters. Together it means Upper Rank.”

“Upper Rank…?” They echo. “Upper Rank Two? What does that mean?”

“It’s my ranking.” Douma hums, not bothering to explain further. “Is it my turn to ask a question now?”

Their posture stiffens. “If you want.”

Douma clapped his hands together. “Oh, how fun! What to ask… what to ask…”

He pauses to think, tapping his finger on his chin. “Oh, I have one! What have you been doing with your days?” Douma leans his head on his hand with a smile. “I’ve barely seen you recently. You used to spend so much time with me.”

They swallow down the anxiety that bubbled up at his question. The truthful answer was that they had been carefully avoiding his room, not bothering to stop by unless they were called specifically. The rest of their days were spent sneaking around, scoping out potential escape routes, or making sure their knife was sharp and ready to kill.

“Just… things.” They say vaguely.

Douma stares at them with a pleasantly puzzled expression. “Things…?”

“Yes.”

“How fascinatingly mundane!”

“I guess I’m just a boring person.” They shrug.

“And what about that knife you’ve been carrying around, hm?” Douma asks, his smile not faltering, even as their heart stopped. “I would love to know what you’re planning with that one!”

His eyes are crinkling with the force of his smile, but there is no warmth behind it. They narrow their own eyes, quickly rising to their feet and taking a step backwards. His gaze tracks their every movement, following their hand as they fumble at their belt to pull out the knife from their makeshift sheath.

“Guess.” Their hands shake, but the ready the weapon anyway. “Take a guess as to what I’m planning with it.”

One slice at his throat. One slit, and he’s dead. One cut, and this whole nightmare will end, and he will never be able to hurt anyone again. This was what they'd been preparing for.

“Are you going to kill me?” Douma coos, standing from his chair and grinning. “How adorable!”

“Sh-Shut up!” They hiss, gripping the handle tighter. “I know what you did! I know about that poor woman, the one you murdered and devoured! How many followers have you killed, huh? Was I next? Have you just been raising me like a pig for slaughter?”

“Oh.” A tilt of his head, and a saddened expression that looked… almost real. Almost. They tighten their grip on the blade, reprimanding themself for nearly falling for his act. It wasn’t real, none of it was. They couldn’t forget that, no matter how hurt his expression looked. “I don’t want to kill you, my child.”

“I don’t believe you!” They yell back.

Douma tilts his head to look at them, his face still twisted in that same mask of pity. He took one step towards them, then another, until they were face to face. Before they could blink, his hand was gripping their wrist tight enough to bruise.

“I’m not going to kill you, [Name].” He says sadly, twisting their wrist to seize the knife and holding it up out of their reach. “I am not going to hurt you, nor am I going to let anything else hurt you. It makes me sad that you can’t see that.”

“You’re a monster.” They hiss, their eyes filled with tears. They stumble a few steps back, putting some semblance of distance between them.

Douma chuckles slightly. “And you’re my child. What does that make you?”

They flinch as if he had struck them, stumbling back even further at his words. “I am nothing like you!”

“Aren’t you?” Douma says, his voice thick and sweet like honey. “Oh, we aren’t related by blood but I raised you from birth. Why do you think I would spare such a frail creature like yourself, if I didn’t see a part of myself in you? We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I. You’re my child, through and through.”

“I’m nothing like you!” They cry out. “You’re a murderer!”

“Yet you’re the one who was plotting my death.” He waves the kitchen knife in front of their face with amusement dancing on his lips. “That sounds an awful lot like the work of a murderer to me.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it though? It’s still homicide.”

“It was self-defence!”

Douma chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “Killing me isn’t self-defence if I haven’t laid a hand on you. I’m afraid that’s just called murder.”

“You’re—” Their words died in their throat. No matter how cruel he sounded saying them, he was right. They were planning to kill him. Maybe they were no better than him after all. “You’re… you’re a monster… I had to kill you. Before… you killed me. That was why I had the knife.”

“Oh, I’m afraid this little thing wouldn’t do much,” Douma laughs as he waves the weapon. With a smile, he drew back the sleeve of his robe and pressed the edge of the knife to the back of his arm. He drags the blade across it, smiling serenely as a line of bright red blood drips down his skin. In seconds the cut is knitting itself back together, leaving only a stain of scarlet over his fully healed skin. “It’s adorable that you thought you could hurt me, but simple weapons like these don’t leave a scratch on me.”

Their heart stopped, watching the mark smooth out and fade into nothing.

It… didn’t matter. All the nights of cutting their fingers of the edge in their haste to make sure it was still under their pillow didn’t matter. The comforting weight at their side wasn't worth anything; it never would have achieved a thing in the first place.

They were a sheep wandering around the den of a wolf, confidently thinking their blunt hooves would be enough to pierce its hide. A painful feeling washed over them—powerlessness.

Their eyes began to burn, along with their chest. As quickly as the rush of adrenaline filled their body, it left, knocking all the air out of their lungs. Tears slowly started dripping down their cheeks, quietly at first, before they were followed by heaving sobs.

“I do love you, my child.” Douma sighs. Lie, it was a lie. “I wish you wouldn’t have done something like this. I was so happy to watch you grow up, content keeping you alive and human. Now what am I to do?”

Their shoulders hitch, hands scrubbing desperately at their eyes. There was a calculating glint in his eyes, before Douma stepped forward again and pulled them into a cold embrace.

“What am I to do with you…” Douma muses, holding them against his chest as they sobbed. The front of his robes were covered in tears and snot but he paid it no mind, just sighing softly and running his fingers through their hair. “My poor child…”

The feeling of his fingers through their hair made them shiver. Were his nails always so sharp, or was his touch just soft enough to hide it?

“What was your plan?” Douma pulls them away to look at their face properly, a sparkle of amusement in his eye. “Where were you going to go, after you killed me, hm? You know there’s nothing out there for you. No one would want to take in a murderer, especially one who killed their own father in cold blood.”

“I would have found somewhere.” They mumble, slowing their sobs to quiet sniffles.

Douma shook his head fondly, like they were discussing something trivial. “Oh, my sweet child, who put such an idea in your head? There is nowhere you can go. Here, it is safe. Here is happy. Why would you ever leave?”

They wanted to scream their anguish, kicking and clawing at him until his face was red and bloody. This man—no, this monster masqueraded as a loving father for years, all while blood spilled behind his gilded doors. But the saccharine sweetness that his voice carried wormed its way into their ears, poisoning their thoughts and—

Such a disappointing, ungrateful child they must be. He welcomed them into his arms, and they were planning to—

Their mind was split. All of their instincts screamed at them to run, run until their lungs burned and their feet bled, but there was a gnawing part of them that clung to his honeyed words. At least when they were in his favour they were safe; they could turn away from the truth and cling to their fractured picture of family. Maybe if they fell to their knees and begged him for forgiveness, he would forget all about their betrayal and welcome them as his child again.

They weren’t anywhere near strong enough to kill him. The least they could do was survive.

“What do you have to say for yourself, [Name]?” Douma asks gently, and something in them snaps.

They fall forward, burying their face in his chest and clutching onto the back of his robes with a wail. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“That’s what I thought…” Douma sighs in almost amusement. He places his hand on the top of their head, ruffling their hair gently.

“I’m sorry… I’ll never do it again, I promise. Please… please don’t leave me! I don’t know what I would be without you,” they cry, the words spilling out so easily they can’t tell if they’re a lie or not.

It wasn’t the end. One day his guard would drop and they would seize the chance, taking everything they own and running away into the night. They will run, not knowing where they will end up but knowing they need to be anywhere but there. Even if it means spending the rest of their life shying away from dark corners and patting their side to check on their weapon, they will escape.

For now, they weep in the arms of their father.

© aviiarie 2024. do not copy, repost, translate or use my work to train ai.

[halestrom]

I made this gifset in an attempt to try not write the fic. It backfired. And I am really happy with the first scene so I felt like sharing 🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️

Warnings for: blood, violence, pain, underground fighting. It’s mob boss Jake and fighter Bradley.

The first punch was always the worst. The feeling of knuckles against his skin; the way his head snapped back as pain spread across his synapses; the sudden urge to run filling his bones until he felt jittery with the need; the way thought fled his mind but the training ground into his very being had his arms coming up to defend himself from a second punch. All of it happening in a split second as the crowd roared around them in muted joy at the blood he could feel trickling down his face and then the world rushed back in and Bradley was moving, dodging the next punch and instead throwing one of his own, catching his opponent high on the chin and watching as his head snapped down and he went down in slow motion.

The ref was there, arms as thick as tree trunks pressing against Bradley’s chest to push him back, the tattoos wrapped around his skin telling his story as easily as the scars on Bradley’s body told his. Still, his opponent kept falling until he hit the mat and laid there, bleeding, eyes closed as his team screamed at him to get up, to get moving, to do something as the time wound down in flashes as the crowd screamed along with the coach because they wanted more blood than they already had, spattered around the ring that looked nicer than it should have for the world it belonged in.

But that was the nature of this world. Shiny, pretty things covered in blood, a veneer over the dark underground Bradley had found himself in. It was easy to forget, sometimes, what this world could do, with its brightly lit parties, the men and women dressed to the nines with flashing jewelry and perfectly done hair, outfits that cost as much as a new home. It was all a cover for the darkness, for the jockeying for the front row on the off chance some of the blood would fly over them, a badge of pride to wear for how close to the violence they could get. Bradley had been at more than one afterparty, face bruised and nose broken, again, only to talk to people who had blood splattered over theirs, some of the women with that blood splatter having smudged lipstick which told a tale as easily as the swollen lips of some of the men.

Violence and sex, a tale as old as time.

“Ten!”

The crowd screamed it’s joy as the ref grabbed his arm and raised it over his head, bare knuckles swollen and sore, his shoulder aching from a hit he had taken, the bruises over his ribs mottled and layered in various stages of healing. But all of it faded in satisfaction as he watched the other team pull his opponent out of the way of the rush of people, clamoring to get closer to him as his name was chanted.

“Your winner for the night ladies and gentlemen, Rooster!” the MC screamed into the mike, mouth twisted in a rictus grin, tall and thin and looking like the Grim Reaper himself in his black suit and pale skin.

Bradley knew his job, he knew what he needed to do to keep the favor as he shove his other hand up in the air and dropped his head back, crowing his victory, again, and spitting out the mouth guard, grinning with bloody teeth and split lips, his cheek aching even as the ref dropped his arm and people swarmed, hands clapping him on the back, hitting muscles covered in bruises as he worked his way through the crowd, accepting congratulations and smiling for flashing phones with his arms draped around women who let their hands drop lower than he wished, like he was just something else that was part of the setting and not a real person.

Sometimes, he doubted they thought of him as a real person. It probably made it easier.

He made it back to the corner, hands still clapping him on the back, fingers finding the sore spots and bruising them but he ignored it as he took the towel from his cutman for the night, wiping his face clear, the fabric ripped away from him as soon as he was done and he let it, bracing his arms on the ropes and letting his eyes slide from the cut man who was talking to a man in a fancy suit to a man dressed in a pair of jeans and a white shirt, looking so out of place with the rest of the peacocks but despite that, he looked like he belonged.

And he did. After all, this building belonged to him, the money that changed hands came with a tax that fed back into him, securing his empire with each punch thrown and real time bet made. Jake Seresin was at the top of this world, and like every other thing in this room, Bradley belonged to him.

“Good enough for you?” Bradley asked, forcing himself to smile around aching lips.

Jake smiled back at him, small and sharp and at odds with the coldness in his ice green eyes. “Better than, sweetheart,” Jake said, voice smooth and warm and it was a balm on Bradley’s bruises as he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

A good fight meant a good paycheck, something better than could mean a bonus. Something Bradley could use to chip away at the bills and put some money away so when his day finally came, his parents wouldn’t be left with the debt.

“Good,” Bradley said, folding his arms and resting his chin on them.

“Taking the hit at the end was inspired,” Jake said, taking a step closer until he was looking up at Bradley, head tilted back but Bradley knew who held the power here.

Crouching until they were eye to eye, Bradley left his hands on the top rope, keeping himself steady as Jake stepped ever closer, reaching out to brush a thumb over the bruise Bradley could already feel swelling his eye closed. “Half the idiots in the room upped their ante on you getting KO’d. Idiots.”

The derision wasn’t masked, but Jake never needed to mask anything. Not with his power, not with the three bodyguards Bradley could make out, and the loyalty of half the room. Bradley shrugged when it seemed like Jake was waiting for an answer. “Wasn’t thinking,” he said, telling the truth.

Bradley didn’t think when he fought. He had an objective. Win. That was all he needed to do and anything else would get in the way. Once upon a time he had thought more, building up the tension until he struck. But that was a long time ago, a different person. He couldn’t risk being that person anymore, not when he needed to keep standing.

Jake smiled like Bradley had said something funny and leaned in, hand still cupping Bradley’s jaw, thumb pressing down on the edge on the bruise until Bradley hissed at the bloom of pain, ignoring the way his pulse pounded. “Regardless, a fight like that deserves a reward. So what do you want, darlin’?”

Money. A way out. A year without something going wrong. To get rid of the axe hanging over his mother’s neck as each month passed and her cancer stayed in remission. To go back in time and beg God a little bit harder for a miracle so Bradley wasn’t drawn into his life. He wanted a lot of things. Jake Seresin might be god in this world, but Bradley knew better than to pray to the devil.

“A good days sleep,” he said dryly, smiling at Jake who huffed, a ghost of something Bradley might almost classify as a real smile ghosting his lips for a second.

“Oh, I think we can arrange that,” Jake said, moving his hand and rubbing a thumb over Bradley’s bottom lip before dropping his hand, but not before Bradley saw the red smeared on it. He licked his bottom lip and tasted salt and copper where there had only been copper before.

“Oh yeah?” Bradley asked, tilting his head to the side, wondering what Jake meant.

Jake gave him a once over before he nodded. “Finish up and then clean up, Rooster. Meet me in my office. We’ll get you out of here before dawn.”

Bradley knew a dismissal when he heard it and he nodded, standing and ignoring the ache in his muscles as he turned back to the crowd, aware of eyes on him, once again aware of the role he needed to play as he thrust arms up into the air and crowe. It was all the crowd needed before they surged, content with the knowledge Bradley had paid his dues to the man who owned all of them and now he was fair game.

Hands grabbed him and he was pulled into the crowd, the world reduced to flashes and half heard comments and Bradley focused on it, letting himself get drawn into it so he didn’t have to think about an opponent he would never see again, and a meeting in an office that had turned him down this path and taken him from aspiring MMA fighter to Jake Seresin’s prize fighter.

[callofdudes]

I've got a pride month request coming along as well, I'm just getting lots of writing juices back. So don't mind me, sorry, a little "fun" mental health post. Don't take all of this as 100% as I'm not a mental health professional but I do study psychology for leisure.

Dissociation and indifference.

While able to crack jokes and engage with others, he's generally learned to keep his hands out of hot water, and if he does, he doesn't show that it burns him. On top of many mental health medications causing fatigue, distance, and emotional lows, Ghost does his best not to express the stress that work brings to him. Which is something that can be seen either as a strong male role model, or the less healthy version, evasion of one's emotional needs over physical.

Let's be honest, Ghost spends most of his time in the gym rather than talking to a therapist. And while working on yourself physically can be a breath of fresh air, sometimes it's good to let the mind breathe too.

It takes him a lot of time to open up. For a lot of people, recognizing that trust is trust no matter how close you are to the person. Ghost's lack of trust does not distinguish between blood or friend. It has to be him that makes that step, but it's working through the indifference that helps get to the core of his pain. As indifference to topics like mental health discussions can be a coping mechanism against how one feels.

"Simon, can I get you some tea?" You asked when you looked over at him and saw him sitting silently on the couch. He rubbed his knuckles as he stared at the wall, then shrugged.

"Are you hungry?"

Another shrug. "Depends what you're making." He finally responded, deadpan and unenthusiastic. You frowned softly and decided to make him some tea. Soon heading to the couch, you set down the cup and sat next to him.

You quietly relaxed. "Would you like to talk about anything?" You knew you had to let Simon come to you. It was difficult, but extending that offer and reassuring him you were there was always the first step.

He was quiet for a moment. "No."

"Ok... When you're ready." You gently rubbed his shoulder. You relaxed next to him and turned on the tv. The faint glow of the passing frames flashed against his pupils but his reactions to it were minimal.

After some time, he reached for the tea and took some sips. "Y/n...?" He shifted slightly.

You looked over at him and nodded.

"Can we... Talk about something?"

You paused the movie and shifted to sit facing him some more, giving him your attention. "Of course, what do you need to talk about?"

His shoulders relaxed slightly at the reciprocation, and slowly brought his needs and feelings out, letting you see the inner workings for a little bit. And you listened.

Dramatic emotional switches.

Sometimes this is harder to analyze or to catch, but this can be a sign of stress or like indifference, a cherry aversion to the hectic world around us.

While this can absolutely just be someone's nature, mental health is most times disguised within layers of regular everyday emotion that not even the person doing it may realize.

I think Johnny's cheerfulness comes from his nature, but under stressful circumstances it can come out as a way of attempting to feel in control of his hectic environment. We don't see this often, but it is common amongst individuals struggling with stress and anxiety.

But after these stressful happy sprints, it can lead to an emotional low due to stress catching up, or being too much to ignore and push aside. Leading to days of not feeling happy at all. Common themes of depression can be random emotional highs, followed by feeling like the world is horrible and you'd rather die than do anything else.

Like with Ghost, this can absolutely be a character trait to boost morale in friends, not wanting to see them fall into the emotional state they are wishing to ignore. During work, Johnny comes off as a strong and intelligent role model, and I think he knows how to distinguish work and personal life better than the others. Willing to confront the bulk of his feelings and stress when in an environment where he doesn't feel the need to constantly be the last line of morale.

It had been a while since you'd seen Johnny. You'd recently come back from a pretty excruciating mission and you couldn't blame him for wanting rest. When dinner rolled around you headed to his room and knocked. "Johnny?"

A minute of silence before Johnny perked up. "Come in."

You shifted the door and headed inside to see him relaxing on his bed with his sketchpad. "Hey y/n." He smiled warmly, sharing his warm presence with you.

"Heh Johnny, food is out in 20, guy hungry?"

"Yeah! I'll be out in a bit. I've just gotta finish this drawing."

"Cool, can I have a look?"

He hesitated slightly, then nodded, his smile returning. "Yeah sure." He sat up and let you come over and see his sketchbook. You looked down at the drawing and smiled softly. "I keep forgetting you're so good at that."

He looked up at you, the smile on his lips not fully translating to the lost expression behind his eyes.

You looked at him, and gently touched his shoulder. "You good? I know you had a close call, even if the medics said you were good."

"Yeah, I'm feeling good. A little sore, but it comes with the territory." He closed his sketchbook.

A moment of silence came between you two, and the look you gave him made tears spill into his eyes. "Johnny..." You opened your arms.

Johnny hesitated before hugging you tightly. You held him back, gently stroking his back. "You're ok... We're all ok." You assured him as his tears wet your shoulder. "You did amazing.."

Johnny let out the burst of emotion, finally allowing himself to come down from that false high, and rest in the knowledge that he was ok here.

Overworking, trouble distinguishing work from personal life.

Price has a tendency to overwork himself when he's feeling stressed or agitated. Oftentimes indulging in one or more cigars to momentarily get a hit of relief for a much more extensive problem. When growing up with role models that pushed for perfection and hard work it can make it hard to distinguish the stresses of work from personal life. Price ends up taking a lot of the work stress home, and vice versa.

This can lead to him feeling even more stressed or striving to trap the things going on around him in both personal and professional settings under his thumb. Burying himself in his work can help him feel like he's being productive or that he has control over what happens in that space.

He's constantly reassuring his team, as captain even if he feels out of control it's his job to keep his head on and make sure his team feels like he has both hands on wheel, which can be stressful. Over time this is a tactic that has been branded into his behaviour and he is always doing this.

In his home life this can affect how he acts in the home, including feeling a need to take control more often to feel that people he loves in his environment are properly taken care of.

This can also lead to his underlying anger and tendencies to push down his frustrations and work it out through physical activity or cussing at a wall until he's tired. But, also not the type of person to go to therapy about this, as he may not even realize it's a problem if it's so deep in his routine.

You leaned on the doorframe of Price's study as he worked away. He'd had dinner in there, and the plate was still stacked on the edge of the desk where he'd mentally told himself he would take it back.

"You doing ok, John?" You asked, and walked over to him.

"Mhm. Got stuff to do for Laswell..."

"Important report?"

He shrugged. "Something like that. Just need a bit. I'll come away soon."

You nodded and gently rubbed his shoulder. "Well, don't work yourself stiff, ok?"

He nodded after a moment, his eyes not leaving his computer. You didn't say anything else and left him to his work. Around an hour later you came back. "How's it coming?"

"Mm... More stuff to finish." He muttered, still glued to the screen.

"It can wait, you're off duty... I'm sure Laswell knows that."

This time Price didn't respond, and you knew you needed to step in. "John." You came over and gently touched his shoulder. Finally, he looked up at you, searching your eyes for anger.

You gently squeezed him. "Why don't we play a game together?" You gave him a soft smile, and his shoulders tempted to give way under your touch.

"Why?"

You gently took his hat off and brushed his hair away. "Because, I know you need to do something, so come do something with me. I want to spend time with you."

He leaned slowly into your touch, allowing you to close his laptop. "Can I pick the game?"

"You know you can."

Price stood and you wrapped your arms around him, and he hugged you back. "We can do this together, you're home..."

Mistrust, underlying frustration and vocal outbursts.

Life can be extremely stressful in their line of work and from my perspective, this shows in Gaz's contrast between his calm collected nature and the vocal outbursts he has. This is no doubt because of stress and building frustration that he is struggling to control.

His mistrust in authority or inability to understand or rationalize his surroundings can lead to these outbursts. Kyle's calm and collected side is something to be desired, but when he's alone and has nothing to focus on, that anger can quickly turn unchecked. Whether it be beating a punching back or spending most of his time angrily analyzing interactions or comebacks to conversations in his head for hours.

It's a constant loop, while working, while trying to relax, he's always got an interaction that irritated him running through his head. Or feeling like he isn't smart enough because he couldn't come up with the answers for the conversation at that moment.

Kyle was beating himself up. He felt like such an idiot. I had the bastard right in his hands. He frowned, throwing another furious kick at the punching bag. "Bloody- stupid bastard!" He ground his teeth angrily.

By that point his frustration was obvious. You went over to check on him. "Everything ok, Kyle?"

"I fucking had him!"

You nodded a little. "Hey, can't blame yourself, we all have mishaps."

"Not this time." He said with exasperation. "I had him right there! I had him in my hands! And he still got away..."

You reached over and gently took his arm. "Kyle,"

He moved away, but you gently touched him again. "Kyle, look at me, please."

He exhaled heavily and looked at you, the frustration evident. "I know it's frustrating. But we'll get him. We always do."

"I know..." He hung his head. "I wish I could have done more... The look on the captain's face.."

You gently took his hand and squeezed it. "You're strong, Kyle. You're the best of the best." You gently rubbed his knuckles. "But even the best of us make mistakes, and mess up. You don't have to worry about being perfect."

He blinked, his frustration filtering out from anger, to tears. "Bloody... Hell.."

"Can I give you a hug? You look like you need one."

His shoulders dropped, and with that you gently hugged him. "We'll get him... I promise. But we aren't pinning this on you, ok?"

He squeezed you, a tear rolling down his cheek. You'd stand there as long as he needed, as long as he knew the weight wasn't on him to be the perfect soldier.

[bitumz]

Title: A withered Rose still has its thorns

Pairing: Cooper Howard / Lucy MacLean

Word count: 4k+

Rated: T [angst, depictions of past violence, hurt/comfort, mentions of death and loss, happy ending]

A/N: this was written for the incredible @valeriarts for this beautiful fanart they made me, and was heavily inspired by this insane Beauty and the Beast Ghoulcy Fanart they entered into the Ghoulcy Atomic Blast Event! As such, this responding work is absolutely riddled with BatB references, but is lovingly set in the Fallout canon world because I am an absolute goon for the old music and wasteland setting. A tale as old as time... Ao3 link

~~~~~

One year has passed since Lucy pulled the trigger on her own decayed mother, withered away and rotted from the inside out by the inevitable cruelty of the wasteland. A necessary evil she still tries to console herself with on such a gruesome anniversary, though these days the grizzly voice chiding her in her mind doesn’t sound like her own anymore. And Lucy thinks she's starting to realize exactly how decay feels.

One year of failed leads. Shattered expectations. The growing pains of being remade into a woman more familiar than she should be, even well beyond the reflection of a mirror. 

The old shopping center she and Cooper find themselves in that evening is almost painfully similar to the Super Duper Mart, old clothing and clocks, and half burnt candles and varying arrays of other decorative knick-knacks scattered about like hastily flung debris across the rotting floors. But unlike the mart, high walls divided large sections of the space, reminding her even harsher of the vault rooms back home, centered just so by a long, splaying hallway that seemed to go on for miles into the shadowed corridor. An old mall Cooper had called it, but to Lucy that meant nothing. 

She'd done what she could to keep her distance from him that day, him never being one to appreciate her foul moods, and instead of calling out the blood curdling hypocrisy of that whole idea (and the inevitable fight that would follow), she bit her tongue and did her best to sulk alone, in only the company of a few blessedly silent clothing displays and dusty bedroom furniture. 

One of the former caught Lucy’s attention more than the others, a headless mannequin donned in a flowing silk gown, royal blue cut through the middle with a bright yellow sash that drew in the curves of the waist and cascaded floor length at the rear with the rest of the flowing hemline to trail like a river of molten gold across the moldy tile. 

Her mother had always disliked her in dresses. And Lucy can't help but remember the hazy bits and pieces of her fifth birthday. Of her father presenting her with a beautifully boxed up gift. Her mother's disbelieving scowl over at the man as Lucy held the soft floral material up against her chest and beamed at her own reflection in the vault bathroom mirror. They way her father twirled her around the room in it for many a birthday after that, with only Norm, a few aging Cooper Howard movie posters, and blinding fluorescents overhead as audience, pride already flashing even brighter in her father’s eyes as every year she grew more and more into the perfect daughter she was expected to be. And though Lucy had been too young to consider yet just where that gift could have come from, those memories now scathed in the shadows, somewhere deep beneath her bones like a bustling city of thousands of people being blown to nothing more than ruin and ash. 

And at this point, after fighting through all the many foul factions of the wasteland for just over a year and searching for a sense of fairness and freedom for so long before, she was so so far beyond sick of monsters masquerading as man. 

It was why slipping from the confines of her vaultsuit and stepping into the rolling blue and gold layers of silk felt something like lying. Like putting on that ill-fitting wedding dress again and continuing to do as she was told. Adding her name to the list and filling the role set upon her from the very moment she came out screaming like a wild beast into her mother's arms and a carefully crafted existence. 

She tugged her own suit up the slender plastic hips of the mannequin in trade. Zipped it securely closed with the final brush of her hands tenderly across the shoulders.

The worn leather slacked too big around the petite figure, and Lucy felt her own muscles clench the slightest bit in her newly exposed chest and upper arms. Her time away from the vault had made her only stronger. She could feel it in the easing of their long days trudging through the sand and restless nights with Cooper beneath the stars. In his harsh lessons and even harsher truths. But looking back at her mother’s last little hand-me-down gift as it sat wrong on the headless figure before her made her feel a bit like a child again; lost and alone in a world that was still so very much too big.

So she did just as she would when she was little. Turned the oldies station on low on her Pip Boy. Sat cross legged upon the cold dingy floor. Sought out her mother’s advice.

“I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do here.” Lucy said, eyes falling to her mismatched fingers in her lap. She curled them loose into the soft pile of golden fabric. “I wasn’t so sure I was going to make it through mourning you the first time around…” she admitted soft, swallowing at the pain rising heavy in her throat. “But this… now… knowing everything I do… I- I understand why you left. And I’m sorry I couldn’t help sooner… I’m so sorry…” And Lucy had long run out of water to waste on tears so she only clenched her fists tighter over her thighs. Waited quietly for a reassurance that would never come again, receiving only silence in answer apart from the lilting voice of Skeeter Davis softly reminding her from her wrist that the end of the world had already long since passed. 

Lucy could only blame her time above for being able to sense him well before she heard Cooper’s spurs clanging softly up the hall. And had it been even just a few months ago, she would have moved. Rose from the ground and stuck on a fake sunshine smile to avoid his prodding. Stood tall and still in the shadows like a predator in wait. But if he was going to continue to track her down every time she sought out solace, he was going to get what he got. Real and raw and just so very tired. 

“There ain’t shit for supplies,” his rumbling voice started before rounding the corner, “but I did find somethin’ interestin’ you may wanna have a look at wh…” Cooper stilled like the dead in the shattered frame of the once glass door. Rendered entirely silent, though she could feel the burn of his eyes across her newly bared arms, the curves of her shoulders, her dark hair falling loose and wild down her back. “What the fuck are you doin’?” He finally managed, sounding much farther away than he actually stood.

“Oh you know, just talking to my mom.” Lucy spoke flat to the mannequin, unmoving. “You’re interrupting.” She added in dismissal after a long dead-silent moment, but she only heard his boots close in closer behind her. 

So she held her breath and waited for the snide response to drawl from his lips. Something like ‘radaway’s losin’ its touch huh?’ she imagined first, or ‘Rose musta not took all the crazy with her when she left that fuckin’ vault...’

But as the pair of taunts grew hotter in her temples, nothing of the sort actually came from him... Which was odd enough in itself to make her finally look back over her shoulder. 

What she found was a world weary man who looked as lost as she felt. The darkness of the decaying building clinging to the protective cloak of his duster like a long drawn curse that was pained to let go. He carried the weight of his own deep in the lines of his scalded face, wearing his own many anniversaries of suffering in scattered jagged scars, jaw tense as if he fought not to set free a rising snarl at the sight before him, browline drawn beneath the shadow of his hat like she’d spoken a foreign language he couldn’t quite grasp. 

He eyed her hallowed vaultsuit as if personally affronted… Looked back down right at her, dark eyes sparking with something near that impenetrable mask of anger he so easily slipped on as they trailed slow down across the gathered yellow silk she fidgeted with at her waist, to the elegant tendrils of blue haloing in a wide puddle around her on the floor, shielding nearly as much of her body as the suit had, but still leaving her feeling so incredibly exposed to his studiously searching eyes. 

“What is it?” Lucy asked after a moment, unable to take the scrutiny any longer, heart rate rising as she shifted where she sat.

And Cooper blinked as if hearing her for the first. “What’s with the getup?”

Lucy forced the breath from her nose, long and heavy. Tugged a bit of the fabric up in a false curtsy. “Oh this old thing?” She tried to tease but fell flat. “I've never had a dress of my own, you know? Always something borrowed… and Mom used to say blue was my color.” Lucy smoothed the silk back down over her hips, missing the way the claim struck Cooper’s expression like the hail Mary of a well aimed brick. “My eyes, I guess.” She shrugged away.

“No.” Cooper disagreed low after a long beat. “It ain't your eyes.” Then he took the two last steps to stand near her side. Reached down a hand. “C’mon I wanna show you somethin’.” And for a moment Lucy sat unmoving, glancing away from Cooper’s gloved offering up to the plastic shell of her mother one last time. “She ain't goin’ anywhere.” Cooper promised soft after a while of watching her struggle, in a way Lucy now knew that only he had every right to vow. And it's what finally drew her hand out slowly into his. 

“Alright,” she breathed. And she rose.

—

The shop Cooper led her into was stacked floor to ceiling with disheveled shelves of books. Old wooden tables and chairs lined the front walls. Rows of cabinets had once cut lines through the center, now tipped and scattered by previous scavengers who must not have appreciated the incredibility of the rare bounty before her. But Lucy, however, was already mentally sorting through the contents of her pack and deciding what could be left behind to make more space.

It was the candlelight that eventually distracted her from the task. Lit aglow and sparsely set across the floor and on a few of the sturdier looking bookshelves all around the room, burning just bright enough to clear the murky darkness from the space…and it was the consideration of such a thing that emptied her chest, had Lucy steepling her hands over her mouth and gaping wide eyed all around her at the beautiful sight, the sheer number of books alone putting the vault’s ample collection to shame. But it was the man stood behind her in the darkened doorway that stopped her eyes. Silhouette framed in the soft glow of fire, features hidden almost entirely from view, but like the constant pull of the moon on the tide she could feel the weight of every ounce of his attention on only her. 

“Cooper,” Lucy called low, letting her hands fall slow to her sides. “This is incredible. I've never seen so many books in my life.”

And he ambled forward at his name like a bloodbug drawn to the life pumping quick through her veins, sharp features softened by the warm glow.

“Really?” He drawled in that way that preambled the rudeness she'd so long been awaiting. Downplaying the situation every time it got too close to - something. And he was never one to disappoint. “I thought all that Vault Tec propaganda down there would at least rival a two bit bookshop.” 

Lucy raised her eyes and turned away. Took another look about the room. Made her way to the closest shelf of books and let her fingertips brush lovingly across the dusted spines. Stacked a few aside that she had every intention of not leaving without. 

“It wasn't just propaganda,” Lucy informed, his jab unable to reach her properly through the soft flickering of flame. “Vault distributed media was delegated and traded by the overseers.” She sought him out again with the turn of her neck. “And as you know, ours was particularly fond of fairytales and cowboys. Villeneuve and Wister. That sort of thing. Not to mention the movies…” her smile was mean, a brazen curve of her lips.

And Cooper said nothing in riposte, instead simply closing the space between them with slow, lazy steps. Rested a hand against the shelf on either side of her head as she turned to face him, closing in and casting his shadow across her in a way that once would have made her feel small. 

Lucy only raised her chin, held his eyes above with the fire flickering hot in her own.

“Is that really what you wanna be doin’ today?” He asked her, a near growl as it rolled so close from his chest. “Defendin’ your daddy?” 

And the reminder twisted in her ribs like a spike, aimed and true; memories of laughter and life and being twirled around in loving arms slowly, agonizingly morphing into something more fowl in her gut like her father's guiltless eyes as he'd finally confessed aloud his many many sins down the barrel of a gun… Her mother's meatless corpse sagging gaunt in a chair nearby…

“Dance with me.” Lucy blinked, only truly registering the words as they settled skewed into her own ears. The violins dipped and drew out the start of Billie Holiday's, Crazy He Calls Me from her Pip Boy between them like a taunt and there was no better title for the way Cooper’s sharp eyes searched her face.

“Do what now?” 

“Dance with me.” Lucy repeated, just as unshaken. “You're right.” She nodded in truce. “I'd rather make new memories today than dwell on the old ones and my options are you or the mannequin.”

Cooper gauged her expression from mere inches above. Looked as if he awaited the splintering of her sanity beneath his glare. For the flinching call of her bluff as he raised his chin and thinned his eyes in a move she’d watched him use on countless others to sweeten a deal or seal a sentence. But Lucy only popped open the latch of her Pip Boy. Sat it nearby on the shelf. Held her hands out to him palms up in the dwindling space between them…

And Cooper took a step back and away. Squared his shoulders as if she had thrown a fist instead of anything near the beginnings of a dance. 

“Mannequin would suit better.” He said in faint protest, stilling only a moment longer to meet her unyielding eyes before sighing, shrugging his duster from his shoulders and draping it over the back of a nearby chair. Pulling his gloves off and dropping them unceremoniously into the splintering seat. 

And Lucy felt an altogether new sort of apprehension as he neared this time, sturdy arms straining against the worn fabric of his rarely seen sun-bleached undershirt. His bandolier of hastily crafted bullets glistened like sharp teeth across the visible rise and fall of his chest. He held a single bared hand out to her in offering, allowing her to take either that last fateful step forward or a silent final out…

And the thrill of it all was the best distraction she could ever ask for.

The fine hairs at the back of her neck rose in warning as she took this newest challenge in stride, just as she had the many before. “I don’t doubt it.” Lucy returned, resting a ruined-fingered hand over the solid curve of his shoulder. Cooper slipped her left into his and she couldn’t help but stare at that way her own something borrowed still looked pale and small against the rest of Cooper’s hand, wrapping warm and rough around her own. His other burned like a brand against her waist just as Billie sang of her own willingness to walk through fire and with it they were moving.

Cooper was a startlingly natural lead, sure in step and direction, guiding her along in soft curves of motion as if on instinct alone, whereas she stepped between his boots in thought absorbed angles, and it was a pre-war skill Lucy would not have imagined he cared to retain until that very moment. He’d always spoken so little of that time of his life, apart from Janey. And even if they weren’t spending an evening attempting to forget, she at very least knew better than to outright ask why. 

The thought brought her foot down hard on his for what she guessed was the second or third time judging by his growl.

“That supposed to be a two step?” Cooper rumbled over her instead. “‘Cause you’re movin’ like a goddamn sheet of plywood down there.”

And Lucy laughed a breathy thing at the very real exasperation in his tone.

“I’m distracted is all.” She forced herself to meet his eyes, so close and scalding in the candlelight. Reminding her even more of the last time she’d seen him display such a talent. The same way her father had taught her so many years ago… and she just couldn't help herself. “I remember this from the scene right after you killed Joey… Where you went back to town and danced with the widow in -”

“Deadhorse ya,” Cooper scathed in answer, spinning her silent in an almost violent twirl out to arms reach before snapping her back, her spine pressing flush against the buttons lining down his vest so that the “don’t start,” was hissed directly into her ear. It effectively scattered her thoughts and sent gooseflesh rising down the exposed skin of her arms for a much different reason than she knew was intended. But then he stilled them. Kept a forearm wrapped firm across the front of her waist. “Kick them boots off so you don’t take my fuckin’ toes too.” He nodded down over her shoulder, the brim of his hat brushing against her scattered hair. 

And she continued to follow his lead, shaking off one and then the other. Turned around again with minimal restraint as he took notice of her intention to face him once more. Lucy filled her lungs with the faint scent of old leather and smoke as his coarse fingers dragged slow patterns across the soft silk gathered at her hips. This time she brought both hands up to his shoulders. Felt his own slide home in a near perfect fit into the soft curves beneath her ribs. 

Then they were moving again, easier, a more natural sway that brought him the slightest bit closer. Allowed her to truly see his features painted warm beneath his hat in the firelight. Those most others would deem ugly, the proof heard often enough in wretched slurs and slithered curses from near every small bit of civilization they passed. But here in the safety of their solitude, the candles flickered deep against the rugged hollows of his face and brought somehow more life to his hazel eyes. And though they had always been so incredible to her, those eyes, something about the way the glow sparked in them now, subdued and scorching back at her in equal measure, was almost another distraction worthy of misstep. 

And she’d been doing so well until her eyes dropped to the side. Focused on the scattered splotches across his shoulders that proved his threadbare shirt had once been blue…

The music built and curled around them unimpeded by the realization, trumpets joining in with the strings to round out the repeated claims of being insane for all a number of reasons and Lucy couldn’t help but look down at her own feet again, strained and self deprecating as she focused on not stepping down onto his with the way her heart sped and cheeks flushed. His hands flexed at her waist.

“Relax.” Cooper bid low, undoubtedly sensing her struggle in her missteps and the growing tension of her muscles. “I ain’t in the mood for sparrin’ today and my drawin’ hand’s otherwise occupied, so you’re only fightin’ ya self.” 

The upward curve of his bowed lips and drawl of his words spoke only truths, something almost sad touching his eyes, and Lucy found trusting in him still came all too easy. She watched as the rise of his browline painted a told ya so look across his face while she focused only on her own breaths and the warmth of his tender hold about her waist, her movements growing more and more fluid between those very same hands that she’d seen reap death and destruction with ease for just over a year now in search of her father and the answers they were owed. Coming up just short on near every lead and tumbling almost as violently into each other's arms in one way or another so often now that it seemed only necessary for survival. 

“Perceptive.” She said finally. 

But this was something else… It was just so…

It was simply different, Lucy decided, rising up onto her bare toes to press her lips against Cooper’s just because she wanted to. Taking unapologetically in a way that he had been forcefully tearing into her from the beginning. And she softly parted her lips over his unmoving ones. Waited for the beast to surface and rear its fangs or draw its claws. To push her away with a shove or back her forcefully against the nearest surface in a deliciously dizzying coin toss of chance. Because, yes the beast was in there somewhere she knew well enough, but it was Cooper who had pulled her up from the floor of her vigil. Cooper who’d lit the candles that warmed the air around them; of a bookshop of all places. Cooper who still distracted her from her woes now in dance… 

And it was Cooper who kissed her back. Took her face into the sanctity of his hands to tilt and deepen it, his lips a hot brand across her own as he held her steady and tasted her slow in languid shallow swipes of his tongue along her lower lip. He parted from her just long enough for Lucy to draw a greedy breath from the shared air between them. Then he kissed her again, another sweet short press of his mouth over hers before he whispered “I gotcha somethin’ else,” near voiceless into the corner of her moony grin. 

Then he leaned back just enough to meet her eyes, his own expression sobering like he stood on the precipice of some great divide, and Lucy dared him to jump with the slight tilt of her head in question. 

Then he pulled out a drooping flower from the pocket of his slacks. A sun-bleached plastic rose that must have once been red before the end of the world and the crushing hands of time; petals welting and half melted... And her heart did a funny painful pair of skips in her chest at the sight of it held out to her in his own repeatedly scarred and sewn together hand. 

“What? It ain't enchanted or some shit.” Cooper said harsh, shifting an inch on his own two feet. A first misstep since they started this new dance. “I just know what it's like to not have a grave to mourn is all.” He tried again. “Don’t read too much into it.”

And what a feint it was to reach for in a room set aglow, filled to the brim with warmth and music; bound leather and parchment... 

Lucy’s smile was all straight white teeth.

“Of course not,” she succumbed, taking the rose from him carefully and tucking the stem safely away into the sash of her dress so that her hands were free to reach back out for what she really wanted. “I never really liked reading anyway,” she soothed, wrapping her wrists loose about the back of his neck and looking past him at a few new titles that would be soon added to her pile. “Though my bag has been feeling awful light lately.”

And Cooper chuckled soft, a deep rumble from his throat. 

“Fuck the books,” he said, breath ghosting warm against the sensitive skin at the side of her neck. Then his hands slid heavy through the silk pooled low at her back, drew her in close against his chest. “Pack the dress.” 

And for a long long while they danced together and forgot. 

[sleepingdeath-light]

fashion designer s/o hcs ; wally

requested by ; anonymous (27/05/23)

fandom(s) ; welcome home

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; wally darling

outline ; “Hello! Could I request Wally darling from welcome home with a Fashion designer! reader? (Headcanons)”

warning(s) ; none, just fluff!

the two of you are a match made in heaven: a traditional artist with a unique and distinct sense of style, and a fashion designer happy and able to adapt it

you have stacks upon stacks of sketchbooks at home, which you keep in a room alongside all of wally’s paintings for safe keeping

you’re always admiring and (when asked) offering suggestions about each other’s projects — colour corrections, fabric combinations, and so on

he is your main model for the first draft of any clothes you produce — whether you intend items for a male or female audience does not matter to him, he’s happy to help regardless

any articles of clothing that you design for him are kept clean, pressed and neat at all times — he’d hate to spoil such a lovely gift after all, so he takes great care to keep those items safe

he does wear them of course, he’d hate for your work to go to waste, and he’s always happy to show off your work — he’s just very meticulous about cleaning and ironing after the fact, that’s all

eternally praising your skill and talking to anyone and everyone about how amazing and talented his partner is — this genuine bragging is only made exponentially worse if they happen to compliment something that you’ve designed

the epitome of ‘proud boyfriend’ and he wears that title with pride

if your designs make it to the stage for shows then you can guarantee that he’s bought front row seats to support you

and if your clothes appear in magazines then he’s going to be buying each and every new entry

has painted and sketched these models in your designs, their bodies and faces indistinct as he focuses on your work specifically: the colour, the cut, the layering, the shapes and the textures of the fabrics

you and your passion inspire him immensely and he isn’t afraid to admit that, always being the first one with you to celebrate your achievements — but he’s also there to support you when you reach a creative block

sharing techniques and exercises that he uses to help you out, and if all else fails bringing you your favourite warm drink so you can cuddle up on the settee and vent out your frustrations

because he gets it and you get it and sometimes it’s nice to just be understood

wally is with you through the good and the bad, the highs and lows of your career, cheering you on from the sidelines and helping you find your feet when you stumble

attending every interview and show, witnessing your sketches come to life, standing by you as you come into your own in this competitive environment and helping you stay afloat even when you feel you’re drowning

that same smile always on his face no matter what — even if it does get a bit strained when you take his measurements for the 97th time (it’s only 8am let the poor man put his hair up already, he doesn’t want to be picking blue hair out of his teeth before breakfast)

doing whatever he can to support you because you’ve done the same for him — because that’s what you do for the people you love

and because, to wally, you really are the absolute most

[prince-liest]

oh my god…. prince……. you can’t do this to me. you’re saying next fic has vox getting fucked, focuses on vox’s transness (AH), AND ALSO HES ON THE OFF SEE SAW OF HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH VAL?????? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL MEE?!!?!!????? I THINK I MIGHT ACTUALLY COMBUST. and bc another anon asked abt how alastor views the violence in voxval’s relationship, i have Another thought on the matter. as much as alastor looks down on vox, they can be Very similar sometimes. they are both egomaniacs and very prideful. i don’t think vox, without outside interference, would ever ADMIT that the violence he faces is 1) something he truly hates AND 2) out of his control. he can’t admit he hates it, because then why isn’t he stopping it? that would be admitting to not being powerful enough or strong enough. and hello, 50’s toxic masculinity coming through, he CANT be a victim of domestic violence. he’s a powerful, rich, and important man. it all comes down to perceived weakness. so, the solution is to pretend he’s mostly fine with it. sure, he can act disgruntled and upset in the moment, but i don’t think he’d ever let himself take it seriously. because then he has to start drawing lines in the sand, and what happens then? will val look down on him? will he lose val? yeah, he is not risking that over a problem he mostly refuses to acknowledge exists. and as you said, this is all happening in the setting of hell, where ultra violence IS the norm, and vox himself is excessively violent. it’s the most delicious 50 layer cake of fucked up-ness.

RANT ASIDE THO. i have a question. 2. do you ever plan on having vox interact with the hotel crew outside of angel? ANDDDD what would charlie’s reaction be to their friendship/situationship/ kinda love affair. i think she could add SOOOOO much hilarity and Intense Emotions to this series. not that the boys haven’t been doing their part in that so far. charlie just intensifies everything she does, god bless her. -🌓

The "getting fucked" bit and the trans conversation bit are directly related to and relevant to each other, and frankly I'm just very happy to be out here writing the specific flavors of deeply queer shenanigans that I'm writing, and to have people actively enjoy that. It genuinely means a lot to me that I've strayed so goddamn far out of the bounds of good old top/bottom yaoi archetypes that introduced me to fandom and yet have a wildly enthusiastic audience nonetheless. So, that was my long way of saying that you bring me a lot of fucking joy, anon, hahaha.

As for everything you're saying about Vox, power, and masculinity: YOU! points dramatically at you YOU GET IT! YOU GET IT!!!!!! Everyone just read this, this is it, this is the thing. I have no notes to add. There is a reason that the main point he raises the moment he actually says something vulnerable about it (before he immediately cuts himself off) is a complaint that he's an overlord, so why—?

And with regards to your questions: I'm not gonna lie, my actual planning for 666 is usually, like, extremely by the seat of my pants. I plan nothing except, "Oh, shit, had an idea for the next one. Lesgoooo—" and that's been the case for literally every single installment. It's all just been evolving naturally and building on top of itself. So! I can't say that I plan to have Vox interact with the hotel crew or Charlie, but I also will never say that I'm actively opposed to it.

That said, I do think a lot of this fic is kinda structured around hitting specific topics that come up in intimate settings between Vox and Alastor specifically, with occasional tag-ins from Angel Dust, so I don't really know if there's anything in particular I'd like to write that I think would work better in this series if more characters got involved. But, hey! Never say never!

[jamdoughnutmagician]

A Cut Above The Rest

Mechanic!Eddie x Fem!Hairdresser!Reader

Back To Work (Part 6)

Summary:You make good on your promise of giving Steve his haircut, whilst also learning a few things from him about Eddie.

Word Count:1, 131 (sorry it's a short one this time!)

<-Previous Part Next Part ->

Masterlist Series Masterlist

You drive your way over to Steve’s home, a modest little place, an apartment on the edge of the town not from where he works in the coffee shop.

You knock at his door with your hairdresser’s kit in a bag slung over your shoulder.

“Steve! It’s me!” you shout from behind the door. 

He opens up the door, dressed in an old, well-worn t-shirt and a pair of shorter than you expected shorts. So this is what Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington wears on his day off, huh?

“Hey! How are you?” he says, welcoming you into his apartment.

“Good thanks.” you nod. “So where do you want to do this? '' you ask, gesturing to your heavy bag of haidresser’s equipment.

“Oh you can put your stuff right here, it’ll be fine.” he says, tapping his hand against the small dining table in his kitchen.

You set down your bag as he pulls out a chair from underneath the table and sits down.

“So what are we doing today, Steve?” you ask, as you swish a hair-dressing cape around his shoulders to stop the hair going all over his clothes.

“Anything you can do that doesn’t involve any kind of clippers going anywhere near my head would be deeply appreciated, thank you.”

“Don’t worry you’re in safe hands with me.” you reassure, as you rake your fingers through his tousled mess of hair. “You’re going to feel like a new man once I’m done with you, Harrington.”

You grab your water bottle and begin by spritzing his hair just enough to wet everything down, before turning to grab your comb to slick through his hair. Then you reach into your kit to pull out your scissors to start snipping away at the longer strands. You alternate between snipping the hair and combing your brush through to ensure that everything is the right length.

“I drove past a perfectly good barber’s shop on my way here, so what’s this hang-up you have over hair clippers and going to the barbers?” You ask, easily falling into the natural chatter that you used on all your clients. It was one of the skills you prided yourself on, to put people at ease 

“Well, it’s just that when I was a kid my mom would always take me to the salon with her when she went, and I would get my hair cut there too sometimes. Then, one day, my dad took me to a barber shop, said it was about time that a boy like me should be going to the same barber’s as his old man, said that my long hair made me look like a girl, then they clipped my hair so short. I cried the whole time.” he says, the hurt in voice still present even now. "I even have a little scar at the back where the guy got a bit too trigger-happy with the clippers." He huffs.

Sure enough through the layers, there it is. A small line of scarring where the base of his skull flows down to his neck, where the hair refuses to grow.

"I guess I wanted to grow my hair out as an act of rebellion?" He offers, as some semblance of explanation. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you suit longer hair in my opinion. I’m just here to tidy you up.” you reassure with a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks. Anyway! Enough about me, a little birdy told me that you went on a date with a certain metal-head yesterday?” he asks, his voice raising slightly in a teasing tone. 

“A little birdy, huh? You mean Robin.” you poke back with a laugh. “Yeah, Eddie took me out to the Maple Bridge fall festival. It was nice.” you answer, with a slight smile playing at your lips as you begin to refine Steve’s layers.

 “Maple Bridge, huh?” he retorts with a smirk that despite the fact that you couldn’t see his face, you just knew was gracing his features. “Interesting.”

“Yeah, we picked pumpkins and had a quiet drink in the barn. I had a nice time with him. Why is that interesting?” you say, unsure what Steve was getting at with his line of questioning.

“I’ve known Eddie for a few years, and if it’s one thing I know about him is that he loves the fall, like, all of it. Halloween, Pumpkins, Pumpkin Pie, everything. The whole shebang. He goes to the Maple Bridge festival every year. Never misses it.

Steve keeps talking as you start to ruffle a texturising clay through his now freshly cut hair, listening intently as he speaks.  

“..And for the past few years he’s always gone alone. We’ve all offered to go with him, of course, but he always insists on going by himself. So, he must really like you if he’s taken you there on a first date.”

“I don’t know what to say.” you stammer at the revelation of this news. 

“Look, I’m hosting a Halloween party next week. Robin's gonna be there, you can invite Eddie, it’ll be great, I promise.”

“Alright. I’m down for a party.” you say, as you reach for your hairdryer.

“Good. Of course it’s a costume party, so I expect to see you all dressed up.” he laughs.

You cut Steve off with the loud sound of your hairdryer, completely ignoring him.

“Alright! That’s you all done.” You say as you gather your kit up.

“Thank you so much, you’ve done an awesome job of it. Better than any other haircut I've had before, that's for sure." he says with a smile ruffling his fingers through his freshly styled hair. “This is for you.” he nods, pressing the money into your hand.

"Oh thank you!" You smile, slipping your money into your back pocket.

"Seriously! I'm going to be coming to you for my haircuts from now on!" Steve praises.

"Anytime! It was a delight to work on such a glorious head of hair such as yours" You nod.

"I really do hope you come to the party, it'll be nice to have some more friendly faces there!"

"I'll see you then!" And with that, you wave him goodbye as you make your way out of his apartment. 

You burst through the door to Robin’s apartment, dropping your bag on the floor as you come in.

"Robin. I need your help." you rush out in a panicked tone.

"What’s going on?” she spluttered back, matching your alarmed nature.

"Steve invited me to his Halloween party next week and I need to find a costume."

Robin breathes a sigh of relief, you always did have a flair for the dramatics.

"Don't worry, we'll find you something, We can hit up the mall tomorrow, there's gotta be something there."

@penguinsandpotterheads @xxhellfiregirlxx @sunflowerdaydreamer @mmunson86 @avalon-wolf @ali-r3n @jesssssmaybankk

[yuurivoice]

Happy pride month! I was wondering if you would ever make a trans character or if its ok to headcanon any of you characters trans. I really headcanon faust being ftm cuz i relate to him so him

I never mind anyone headcanoning a character as trans. I think it's dope. I think in terms of my content specifically, particularly characters I voice, I shouldn't just make and portray a trans character as most of my boys are particularly geared to sell smut in addition to the plot, and that's a whole additional layer of stuff to consider because it's like...yo why is this cis guy profiting off something that should be handled with thoughtful consideration.

That being said, I'd like to explore my creativity outside of the bounds of just the audio roleplay medium. I'd like to write and tell stories in many ways, some of which absolutely involve creating characters that don't look like me, and have very different experiences from me.

When that time comes, I'll be figuring out a process for sensitivity reads, talking with all sorts of people to gain further insight and understanding before just...making things.

It's something I try to be conscious of. I don't think a creative has to only stick with whatever lived experience they have gone through, but I think it is the bare minimum to do the legwork to understand people and whatever stories you tell, know that you may be waving flags that are not your own, and that comes with responsibility. It might also come with shutting the fuck up. You won't be able to please everyone in a scenario like that, and sometimes you just have to accept it.

I've been very lucky to have spent a pretty significant part of my life getting to know people who aren't like me. That's only scratching the surface, but if I have one strength, it's listening. I don't always get it right, or know all the things, but that awareness is why I'd take those extra steps to grasp wtf I'm about to tackle in my work.

And if I think it's beyond me, I'll also know when to hang my hat up and move along.

All of that being said, I certainly have no issue with a trans Faust headcanon. I've spoken before about how he's about as close as I'll get to publicly exploring my own complicated thoughts on my gender and whatnot. I don't think I'll ever be comfortable enough to delve top deep into that in my public facing work just because while I trust my core audience to be great to me, that's the sort of thing that I don't think I'd want to go out of my regular orbit and leave me explaining myself to strangers on the internet. 😂

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

Charlie Morningstar Redesign! (4/7)

It’s the girl herself!!!

I could NOT stand the red in her suit so i made it a much nicer soft cream colour! I think red is a lovely colour but in the case of someone like Charlie who wants to brand herself as approachable and welcoming, a strong harsh red all over is not the way to go. The red of her horns and lower hooves and vest is already more than enough red and it pairs very nicely with the yellows and gold accents in the rest of her design in my opinion!

I always tend to draw her with this big hopeful eyes to contrast the kind of scary look that rectangle pupils give and I think it reflects her character pretty well. Charlie is absolutely a sweetheart but when angry her eyes become flatter and more threatening. She’s literally offered to kill a guy for Angel once so she has to have some kick in her, plus horns are good for stabbing! And accessories!! Like cute chains!!!!! My original Charlie redesign had her with a little apple cuff on her horn and I do miss it a little, but I think she looks alright without it too :3 she keeps it in a dresser somewhere

I’ve never drawn or designed a character with cloven hoof hands but I think I might do it more often after this. Thinking about her writing or typing with the little clicky sounds makes my brain happy and honestly walking with hooves has that special flair that heels just cannot achieve. Since she’s the hotel owner/staff she also gets her own custom little nametag like Niffty (the rest if the staff have them as well but not all of them wear them all the time like Husk, Van/Vaggie, or Alastor) I personally think Charlie made them all herself and let everyone write their own names, but she enjoyed picking colours and all that :)

Her red cheek things were a bit strange to me and I gotta be honest I didn’t like them very much so I replaced them with a softer peach gradient on her cheeks and hips to give an extra warmness to her. I want her to seem like the kind of person that can give a REALLY firm handshake and also a very good hug and talk about anything. Oh her little wave is supposed to look kind of like that weird royal wave I see those royal people do sometimes. I thought it’d be a cute little thing to add slightly-off regal mannerisms where I could.

I hope the goat motifs came through well enough, I really like abnormal legs (you will begin to notice this soon) and they really just add so much personality to me I love working with them. I wanted Charlie to be kind of chubby and soft looking hence the colour choice leaning more towards warm rather than hot and trying to use less pointed shapes with her like the little gold ball tassels on her bolo-tie. About the bolo-tie! The little gem on the inside is purple to symbolise the pride ring, but it also allows direct transport to other layers of hell. Sinners cannot use this even if they get their hands on it, but it’s still incredibly rare and valuable because of materials and such. It’s like an eco friendly private jet. Maybe Taylor Swift should get her hands on one of these! :)

And if anyone was wondering yes I did want the purple to also look a bit like a nether portal.. it was a good opportunity.

The last little details I want to note are the faint heart motifs on her ear and hooves. For the hooves it’s really cheesy but I think the metaphorical idea of leaving a tiny bit of love wherever she goes is cute and I like being sappy. The ear heart being a tear has always meant some kind of “hurt to get what you love” thing to me. I don’t fully know how to describe it but it’s not in a toxic mentality, she just does a lot of stressful stuff to get her dreams and passions going and I think shes great for that.

I plan on drawing her true form eventually and maybe showing a little animation of transformation (I just want an excuse to draw her tail again)

Overall Charlie is one of my favourites to draw and write for, shes just such a sweetie and I love her to death 🩷 she is quite literally the heart of the hotel and she is doing her best! Excited to post again later today :3 📻

[reashot]

Rw-By-oh ARC V/ Beware the Vermillion Flash/ The conclusion to Victor's matricidal urges.

The Arc Kids. For anyone that's not up to date:

Previously....

Victor: This is all your fault!!!

Weiss: *choked* (Please someone save me. Ruby. Please save me Jaune...)

Victor cannot believe that this is finally happening. He finally have the bitch's throat on his hands. All those years of abuse he and his sister had to endure by her after their father died. And all those atrocities he had to commit under her order. All of it will finally come to an end. And all he needs to do, is just to slightly tighten his grips on her neck... Or he could just do it quickly and snap her neck. Decision, decision... Victor then looks down at her and see she is struggling to breath as she gasping for air. And in her eyes he can see that she is slowly losing the light from her eyes. He smiled as she's finally about to die. But suddenly she raised a hand. Victor expected that she's trying to get away from him by hitting him. But to his surprise she instead reaches out to caress his face.

He's too shocked to even react to it. It is the first time in a long time that he felt something like this. His eyes went wide in disbelief by Weiss's action. He looks down at her one more and to his surprise He did not see Weiss dying face but instead he is greeted with a gentle smile on her face. A smile that's usually reserved for when a mother lovingly looks at her children.

(This can't be real.) He thought to himself.

But it is real and to add another layer of disbelief. Weiss is moving her lips trying to convey something to him. Not through sound because Victor is currently strangling her. But she say it through the movement of her mouth. Victor may not be a lip reader but he can still make out what she's trying to convey to him.

I. Forgive. You...

(This is not real. ) He thought to himself.

(W-why do you have to act like a mother to me now!)

'She's not her...' A familiar voice reaches out to him seemingly out of nowhere.

(I KNOW THAT!!! You think I didn't know that.)

'Don't kill her...' Again the voice said trying to stop him from killing her.

What ever the voice said to him clearly work. Because he starts to loosen his grip on Weiss's neck. But before he can completely let her go. Victor notices a silver flash coming right towards him in blinding speed. Using the reflex and quick decision making he hone during the war he let go of his grip on Weiss and swiftly dodged out off the way of the flash.

Victor: Show yourself!?

???: I gotta give it to you. You're probably the only few people I know that is able to dodge my Gintetsu.

Victor: Yeah. Then maybe you should get closer so you can congratulate me better.

The person that saved Weiss then walks closer a way to introduce himself to the two of them.

Victor: What it can't be?

Weiss: *cough* *wheeze* J-Jaune you came... Wait you're not him?

The person that saved her shares the same face with Jaune just like her son. But unlike Jaune he exudes more self-confidence, more prideful and he walks towards them with a swagger like he is the only person in the entire place.

???: The name is Vermillion Rose-Arc. It seems you're already acquainted with my useless old man. And you two must be Weiss and Victor.

Victor: How did you know our name?

Vermillion: My little sister Scarlett told me all about you two. You know when she starts talking she never stop. My little sister is cute like that. But anyway please step away from Mrs. Schnee. I know enough about you that you are too dangerous to be left alone with anyone let alone her of all people.

Victor: How about you go mind your fucking business. This is a family affairs. Stay out of it!

Vermillion: Geez. You try to be nice to people for once... Okay put your sword up. I don't want you to make excuse after I cut you down.

Victor: Not before I plunge Myrtenaster down your throat.

Weiss: *cough* w-wai... *cough*

As Weiss tried to stop the two boys from killing each other. The two of them are already in their respective battle stance. Victor with his Schnee's family fencing stance with his sword pointing at blonde boy. In contrast to Vermillion's sword which is still sheathed. Weiss notices that his stance is an Iaido stance. A sword technique that utilizes the quick unsheathing of a blade to attack. The two scan for each other's weakness. While waiting for an opening to come. Any loss of concentration would spell the end for them. That is how serious the two view each other's skill. Even a small distraction would prove deadly....

Scarlett: There he is. There's that ice jerk! 😠

Ruby: And he's with Weiss too... Oh no she's on the floor. He must have done something to her! 😫

Yang: I knew we shouldn't let you live!

Dusk: W-why Mr. Snowman I thought we're friend. How could you lie to us we even made pinky promise... *sniff*

Blake: (He makes my Dusky Wusky cry, he must die 💀)

Aurum: Oathbreaker!!! I will make sure you pay for this treachery!

Victor: I guess they finally here. Took them long enough.

Vermilion: Did Dusk just call you Mr. Snowman?

Victor: Do not let it disctract you from our duel.

Vermilion: Would not even dream of it. Mr. Snowm....

Before he could finish his sentence. Victor starts the opening attack by launching multiple thrust at his blonde counterpart. Vermilion can only react by deflecting and blocking the thrusts with his Katana. Vermilion tries to land a hit at him but Victor never let up in his attack. This forced Vermilion to take up a more defensive position. Their fierce battle causes all that watches them to stand still in awe. Weiss on the other hands are still trying to stop the fight, but when she tries no voice came out. Vermillion having had enough playing defense starts going on the offensive. Vermillion quickly sheathe and unsheathe his Katana releasing a flurry of slashes too quick to be seen by the naked eyes. Each slashes hit fast and true and Victor can feels that his Aura starts to deplete as fast as he can throw his slashes. Victor knowing he can't win against him in close combat decides to jump back giving him some distances to work with. Vermillion simply falls back into his Iai stance readying himself for anything Victor is preparing for him. Victor then summons a large dragon. The same kind of dragon that he summoned against the others the last time they fought. Fafnir. Unleasing his dragon Victor felt his victory to be assured.

Vermillion: *sigh* Taurus Hiden Ryū. Akatsuki.

Just as the large dragon appeared suddenly out of nowhere they also suddenly disappeared. Victor was shocked to say the least it's not the first time he saw his dragon being defeated but at least it took multiple strikes from the golden knight before it's defeated. Vermillion took the dragon out with just one strike.

It's not just Victor that's at loss for words everyone that watches it cannot believe what they just saw with the exception of his sister.

Scarlett: That's my bro.

But probably none is more shocked than Blake.

Blake: Adam?

Vermillion: So... You ready to call it quit now?

Victor: Shut up! This is not over yet. I don't like doing this but you forced my hand. I'm going to summon something that I never tried before.

Vermillion: Seriously take the L man... *sigh* oh all right I'll bite what Grimm I will be facing next. Nuckleave, Behemoth, Erlkönig? Mind you I beaten most of them already.

Victor: No... This not will be a Grimm you'll be facing unfortunately.

Unlike the usual white colored summoning circle however the summoning circle Victor used is Black. And what came out of it is something that no one expected him to summon.

Yang: Ruby?

Scarlett: Mom? 😧

Ruby: (Oh sweet Oum. I'm hot 🤯. Take that Yang. Who's going to end up as a pipsquak forever now.)

Blake: Wait a minute how are you able to do that? Weiss's Semblance can only summon Grimm that she defeated. She can't summon a person....

Aurum: You really did killed her?

Vermillion: You....

Victor: Yeah I killed the Ruby Rose of my timeline. And I only recently figured out how to summon her after my last fight with you clowns.

Vermillion: I change my mind. I will kill you now. You are too dangerous to be let alive.

Vermillion pulls the trigger of his Katana/Gun hybrid. The blade shot through the sheath at blinding speed. He then angle the blade slightly in order to deliver an equally blinding slash at Victor. But his blade is then quickly blocked by the summoned Ruby's scythe. He looks at the moving corpse of his mother and felt disgusted seeing her like this. It's bad enough to know that she was killed but seeing her raised from the dead to serve as his slave. It's textbook sacrilege! He knows that this Ruby is not his mother but he still can't help feeling like she is. And if she is anything like her mother, that means she can kick his ass like she did the last time during weekend D&D family game. He doesn't want to do this but if she is half as strong as his own mom then he has no other choice but to use it. He slowly blink and then suddenly a bright flash of light appears from his eyes. Everyone that has their eyes fixed on him is temporarily blinded. And when they finally regains their sight. The other Ruby is gone. Leaving all of them confused as to how Vermillion managed to do that. But before everyone can process what just happened. In the blink of an eyes Vermilion's blade managed to break Victor's Aura. Caught by suddenness of the attack Victor can't react to it quickly in time. Without his Aura to shield him, Victor knows that he will not survive if Vermillion decides to follow through with his attack. Preparing for the next attack Vermillion sheathe his blade and prepare to pull the trigger. With the intention to kill him. But when he is about to do it. Weiss suddenly stood in front of him. Finally finding the strength to stop all of this madness happening in front of her.

Weiss: STOP IT!!!

Victor: M- I mean. Weiss what are you doing? You stupid bitch! You could have died!!!

Vermillion: Wow... Talk about irony. Mr. Snowman there is right, though. You could have been killed if I didn't stop in the last second. What were you thinking?

Weiss: I don't know. My body suddenly moved on their own.

Vermillion: I see... Anyway, can you please step aside for a second. I'm gonna cut his head off...

Ruby: Cut his head... You mean kill him?! 😱

Yang: Wow! Wait a minute, isn't that going too far!!!

Aurum: You are right mother. No matter how much of villain Victor is no one have any right to end people's life.

Dusk: No. Poor Mr. Snowman. Please someone, please save Mr. Snowman.

Blake: (He's just like Adam.)

Scarlett: Bro please don't... 😐

Vermillion: Look. I don't take pleasure in this. But you all saw that he tried to kill Weiss right? He's a threat and a danger to everyone around him. An animal like him deserves to be put down.

Blake: (I stand corrected. He's not like Adam. He is Adam.)

Weiss: I will not move from this spot and I will not let you kill him!

Vermillion: Weiss. I will only say this once. If you continue to protect him. I cannot be held responsible for what I'm about to do next...

Victor: Stay away from me Weiss. This is between me and him!

Weiss: No!

Vermillion: You do know that he tried to kill you, right? Twice in fact. What on Remnant possess you to defend him?

Weiss: That's because he is my son...

Victor: Weiss...

Vermillion: *sigh* Fine... You're off the hook snowball. (I'm getting soft like my old man.)

Weiss then turns around and gives Victor something he probably hasn't receives for a long time. A hug. Victor then burst into tears after receiving the hug. It as if a dam finally burst letting out all the tears he been holding out within him for all those years. His hand then slowly reaches out to her. Vermillion ready his sword in case he gets any idea. But he just hugs her and cried on Weiss's shoulder.

Jaune: What's everyone doing here... Wait. Scarlett and the rest of my kids are here too. Did I miss something?

Vermillion: We're just having a peaceful resolution to a long drawn family dispute. Nothing serious happened here, really.

Yang: He said that after he threaten to kill Weiss's kid.

Aurum: Honored mother. I don't think we should tell father what transpired here.

Scarlett: Absomundo bigger bro. The last thing we want is to give our dad more reason to worry about. And beside the situation already been resolved. Thanks to Vermy. 🧐

Ruby: I guess so, but I still don't like to hide thing from Jaune. 😔

Dusk: Yay! Daddy is here.

Jaune: I see... Well if you managed to solve Victor's mom issue then I guess it's all right then. But who are you supposed to be?

Vermillion: Oh! I'm also your son's from the future and Scarlett's brother.

Jaune: Of course the face should have given it away. I'm sorry. It just that I have a lot on my mind right now.

Vermillion: Don't be dad. It's my fault for not informing everyone here earlier. Ha, ha, ha..... Say dad how about the two of us and Victor spend some father and sons quality time together. I bet we have a lot to talk about.

Blake: (Who is this guy? He said he is Jaune's son but the way he fought and his weapon are closer to Adam than Jaune. And why is he asking to spend time with Victor. After trying to kill him earlier?)

Aurum: ... Why am I not invited to this father son quality time?

Jaune: Okay I guess but we have to do it some other time. Right now I have something important to do right now.

Vermillion: No problem dad. I can just pull up a portal with my silver eyes.

Ruby: (So that's how they all get here. 🤨)

Weiss: Wait Jaune I want to ask. Where have you been? We haven't seen you around in weeks.

Yang: Oh yeah that's right, we were just talking about this. Jaune why the F are you avoiding us!

Ruby: Why Jaune. Do you not like us anymore? 😭

Jaune: No! Sweet Ohm no! There's no way I don't like you girls... It's just that it's hard to meet everyone after everything that just happened.

Yang: Well, we're here right now. And we're not going to let you go until you tell us everything. If you don't want to see us anymore then it's fine just tell us why?

Jaune: That's what I'm about to do. I would prefer we do this with just the five of us. But with my kids being here. And as weird as that sound. This must be sign that I should do this in front of everyone.

Truthfully the reason I've been avoiding everyone lately is because I've been working odd jobs to buy everyone something....

Ruby: *gasp* Are you buying us something! What is it? I bet it's something wonderful. 😚

Jaune: Ruby, Weiss Blake and Yang.... will you marry me?

Everyone: What!!! ______________________

And that's the end of Jaune's (future children) Arc. And as usual I will only make a continuation or in this case an epilogue. if it gets enough traction. So some of you must be asking why is Vermy used the same weapon, fighting style and generally closer to Adam Taurus despite being Jaune Arc's son? Well there's the like and quote button below. Better start pressing it. Also don't forget to comment.

[rhinexstone]

Reginald Barclay is lowkey the most radical example of how true communist/socialist structures work on disabled individuals

Like it’s not secret Barclay struggles with addiction, paranoia, hypochondria, and OCD. He is capable of massive social conflict and ethical breeches, especially being a victim of harassment and bullying as well.

But his arc isn’t about exploitation, instead it’s about recovery and mental health, along with keeping people to the social standards they set for themselves.

More below!

His arc starts off with him one social media platform away from being an incel. He has immense social anxiety, an addiction to a fantasy outlet, and routinely exploits and violates fictional recreations of his female peers that are stripped of autonomy. He is bad at his job, bad at talking, always late, just….bad.

And his work is the symptom of his mental health. His superiors catch onto this, and dig deeper into realizing that he is struggling so, so much. And to do so, then help, is to confront the fact that yes Barclay breaks social taboos, but the empathy that these people pride themselves on must extend to those that chafe against them too.

This is especially difficult for those he has violated— fictionally, but nonetheless violated. Especially for Deanna, whose job and ethics require her to help and reach out, but knows exactly how her patient objectifies her. It would be so easy to transfer him out, but that’s not fixing the issue. That’s not helping him.

And then after all this? He still has his issues!! People with poor mental health have a bag of onions worth of layers they must peel back for them to heal and improve themselves. He continues to work with Troi, and we see time and time again that he’s now seeing her as human and working on building back trust and a healthy appropriate relationship between them. And Deanna gets to be uncomfortable, because Barclays been doing better and can take it when someone doesn’t perfectly like him.

With every uptick in paranoia or other mental issue, Barclay is met with support. Riker runs tests on him when asked, then explains exactly what is happening to soothe his medical anxiety. And people have a hard time helping him, but they work through it. People are under a social contract to help each other in Star Trek, and with Barclay we see this in tandem with social conflict. But Star Trek is what we CAN be, so we find a way to work through it.

And what I love? As he heals, he blossoms. He managed to get a job on the Enterprise, but with help, became famous for his work with Voyager, a local legend in Holodeck programming, and the only human unscathed by Spot. And he’s happy. He gets to be happy, have friends, do well, live a good life, and thus improve the lives of those around him as well.

[sadboi-writer]

Hello there :)

I just want to say that I am very new to tumblr and i dont know how this works haha

Can I request a connor murphy x reader where the reader stands up for him in the cafeteria at the first day of school? And that the reader kinda struggles with their mental health and they just comfort each other and stuff? I hope that's okay :)

An Angel In Disguise

Connor Murphy x Reader

Warnings: Cussing, mention of suicide

Summary: When Derek Fulton takes it upon himself to call out the "freak" of the school it's not Evan Hansen or Jared Kleinman who sticks up for Connor. No, it's the newest student at the school Y/N L/N who wrecks Derek's pride and defends the broody boy. Maybe it's because they can clock Connor's problems from a mile away.

A/N: Hello everyone! I'm so sorry for not writing in so long! I got really caught up in the first musical of my senior year. But, I'm on thanksgiving break now so I'll try to get out as many requests as I can!

A sigh fell from their lips.

Too loud. Y/N thought as they pushed through the crowd of students fighting to get to their first hours.

Looking down at their schedule Y/N saw the locker number and combination written on it by the counselor. They found it, but there were already four guys in front of it.

One was blond, he was wearing a blue shirt, and he looked nervous. Another had brown curly hair and boxy glasses, he wore a Galaga t-shirt under a black starry button down. Another looked like a stereotypical jock, letterman jacket, red close cropped hair, and a fuck-boy face. The fourth guy had longer brown hair, it was down to his shoulders, and he was wearing layers of grey and black.

It looked like the jock was giving them some trouble. Y/N rolled their eyes, So fucking cliche, they thought.

Y/N approached their locker, and the jock eyed them warily.

"Just kill yourself, Murphy." He said, seemingly to the longer haired one

Y/N straightened their shoulders, turning to the small group. Before the jock could continue Y/N placed a hand on his chest, pushing him away from the boys.

"Ew. No, sir." Y/N snapped, "Who the fuck do you think you are to say that to someone? How about you do everyone a favor, apologize to him, and then go learn how to be a decent person."

"And who are you?" The guy growled

Y/N smiled, "Y/N L/N. And your worst nightmare if you don't turn around and apologize to the tree that gave you the air to say that."

The jock huffed and walked away. Y/N turned back to the other boys. The proclaimed “Murphy” was staring at the ground. 

“So, he’s a complete asshole, huh?” Y/N commented

The boy in blue nodded, “Y-Yeah. Uh, thank you.”

Y/N softened at the nervousness of the boys. The one in the starry button down was looking anywhere but at Y/N. They stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Are you guys okay?” Y/N asked softly

“Uhm, yeah.” said button down boy

“Murphy?” Y/N cooed

He looked up, he was fighting back tears. Y/N could tell, they’d done that so many times. He was trying to not cry in front of his friends. 

“I’m fine.” He mumbled

Y/N nodded, “I’ll walk with you to class.”

The other two boys waved and walked away. Y/N took “Murphy”’s hand and walked him out to the front steps. A look of confusion donning his face. Y/N sat and patted the spot next to them.

“Don’t listen to that guy.” Y/N said, “He’s an asshole who wants to make you miserable because he doesn’t want anyone to be happy.”

He shook his head, “I wasn’t gonna-”

“Yes you were,” Y/N gave him a look, “I’ve been there, dude. It gets to be too much, doesn’t it?”

He was silent for a moment.

“Yeah.”

His response was quiet, almost inaudible. Y/N looked over and saw the tears had finally been released. 

“It just feels like it would be so much easier. That so many people would be so much happier without me.” 

Y/N nodded, they had been there. Had felt that exact thing.

“But they wouldn’t. Your friends? Those boys from the hall? Would be absolutely devastated.” Y/N replied, “Your parents would be crushed. All of your teachers would ask how they could’ve helped you more. Peers? They would think back on every single thing they said to you and regret not talking to you more. It seems easier, but it isn’t.”

He was silent, tears flowing. And Y/N wrapped their arm around his shoulder.

“It’ll pass. You wanna know how I know? Because I’ve been there.” Y/N continued, “There will be highs and lows. Times where all you want to do is go to sleep and not wake up. But, every day that you wake up and cope with all of those emotions. You’re winning a battle. A battle for your future. A future that is so, so bright.”

He sniffled, “Thank you.”

Y/N pulled him against them and let him cry into their shirt. And there they stayed for the rest of first hour. A new friendship blossoming.

[yaqamole]

Alright since I’ve got time before my last class for the day, I’m going to talk about Romano.

I’ve definitely changed up my interpretation over the years and molded him into something more than what canon gave, so I’d say at this point he’s an OC. But regardless, I just want to talk about him as a character with pride.

Lorenzo has a lot of things he has to work through and a lot of trauma that he just refuses to address. It’s for this reason that he always sees himself as a victim even when he’s in the wrong but also why he’s so stubborn and insists that he’s right.

It’s not like he hasn’t had his fair share of mistakes or misconceptions. 

But his pride is such an important aspect to his character.

He lacks a self-esteem, yes, but he has an incredible sense of pride in who he is and what he believes in. However, this isn’t always a good thing. Sometimes it means that you can get into arguments with him and he will refuse to admit that he is wrong about whatever the subject was.

It also means that he struggles so ask for help. He thinks that he’s already seen as someone incapable of taking care of himself and as a result he struggles to admit that there are times when he could use a helping hand. It’s much easier to pretend that everything is fine and seem like he has it together even when he clearly does not.

Lorenzo likes to feel like he is completely capable of managing the world on his own when it comes to his relations with other nations, especially with his siblings. You will never catch him admitting to his siblings that he needs help. He’d rather die.

But the thing is most people know he needs help sometimes, he just really is too prideful to let anyone in too much.

That is until it comes to the people that live around him. Then suddenly he is willing to do anything, he’s a part of a community, and he’s more than happy to accept the helping hand. You’ll catch him exchanging goods with the neighbors or letting the kids help him pick fruit. He seems so much happier.

A big part of that is that his pride comes from being so defensive over not being considered a real nation. He doesn’t get to do the work his brother does and is left to do physical labor and get his hands dirty. His contributions are little if any at all and it’s not because he doesn’t want to but that he isn’t permitted to.

He lets the humans in because they don’t pass the same judgement onto him and there isn’t pity from them that he feels like he gets from other nations. He’s allowed to be Lorenzo who owns chickens and makes peach jam and cookies. He is Lorenzo who always has a smile on his face and who is more than happy to join in a party and dance with the local people.

The pictures of him smiling and letting his guard down are all in environments where he doesn’t feel he has to put up a facade in order to be accepted or not seen as a mistake of some sort.

Would he be less prideful if he had more of a role in his nation? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe his pride would come from some different source. It’s difficult to tell. But what is certain is that he is a complicated person with so many layers and barriers and getting to see those glimpses of when he isn’t rough and angry is something special.

Prideful Lorenzo getting to be human too.