#i remembered this little snippet i wrote a while ago

[drabblesandsnippets]

Snippet #3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female character (unnamed)

Background: Edited scene of something I wrote for a friend

Summary: All Bucky wants is to make his girlfriend’s day better.

Warnings: 18+ Only. Sexual content. Romance/fluff. Praise.

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From the second she walks in the door, Bucky can tell things had only gotten worse in the couple of hours since they talked. He knows better than to bombard her with questions, giving her space after they share a brief hello, letting her come to him after she changes into her normal oversized shirt and sweatpants. 

He gives her a warm smile when she reappears, the sight of her never ceasing to make his heart race, even with the messy bun atop her head and the t-shirt that’s seen better days. He loves every single part of her, and his favorite moments are when he gets to see the parts of her that she only shares with him. The vulnerable moments, the small pieces of her that she hides from others, scared of their judgements. She gets to let go of all the masks with him, and it’s one of the most beautiful things he gets to witness.

Bucky can tell all she needs right now is for him to listen, without the need to offer any sort of advice, and he's more than happy to be her sounding board. He actively listens to all the silly frustrations that managed to get under her skin today, the stupid things that made her ready to pull her hair out.

By the time she’s released all the pent up feelings, she’s finally beginning to relax, but Bucky’s still not satisfied. He ignores the old-fashioned part of him that wants her to quit her job, leave all the frustration behind, and be a house wife. He blinks away the brief image of coming home to her wearing nothing but an apron, his cock twitching at the thought, and instead talks her into a massage.

It doesn’t take much convincing. Within moments, she’s laying on their bed, Bucky straddling her legs as he rubs the tension out of her back and shoulders. She loses track of time, allowing him take care of her, happily letting all other thoughts leave her, only vaguely aware of the almost pornographic noises coming out of her.

Bucky’s far from wanting to complain though. He’s getting to touch her, make her feel better, and listen to her moan - three of his favorite things. He ignores his growing erection for now and keeps his focus on the massage, paying attention to all her sore spots while easing up on the sensitive areas of her back. He smiles at the soft sounds leaving her with each movement of his hands, suddenly feeling grateful to have her trust. 

He slowly works his hands back up to her shoulders, leaning forward slightly as he rubs the tension there, telling her, “Thank you for letting me take care of you.” There’s no need for her to speak, her little noises of appreciation more than enough to satisfy him, his hands never stopping their magical touch. She can barely remember her name at this point, let alone anything else that’s happened today, and that’s exactly how Bucky wants it.

“You’re always taking care of everyone else,” he continues, the palms of his hands moving down the center of her back, letting up on the pressure just a bit. “But, I know it’s hard to let people take care of you, so thank you.” She turns her head slightly to hear him better, but keeps her eyes closed as a slight blush colors her cheeks.

She loves being praised by him, almost as much as Bucky loves praising her, but it still makes her flustered, especially if they’re not in the middle of sex. Sometimes even then too. She can’t see it, but Bucky’s smile grows at her reaction and he changes tactics, his fingertips starting to lightly trace up her back, sending a shiver down her spine. 

“How about you let me keep taking care of you?” he asks, the tenderness of his voice matching his touch, making her heart flutter. Coherent words left her a long time ago, but she still manages to voice her consent. And the moment she does, he leans forward again, his hand sliding up to rub against the back of her neck. “I’m gonna take my time,” he tells her, his breath warm against her ear, “give you everything you need tonight.”

She’s not even sure she responds, other than with a loud moan of need as her hips lift to reach him, his words making her body pulse with pleasure. Bucky’s body reacts to her desire, his own hips grinding against her, letting her feel how hard she makes him. As much as his cock wants him to just push her pants down and take her like this - she’d be more than willing - he’s a man of his word.

With the same measured pace, his hand slips underneath her shirt, the soft touch of his fingers along her waist causing goosebumps to spread across her skin. He undresses her slowly, his lips touching every inch of skin he exposes, whispering words of praise, leaving her panting for more. When he finally turns her over onto her back, he repeats the process, taking his time to pull her sweatpants down her legs, kissing a trail to her ankles.

“I’m so proud to call you mine,” he tells her once he settles back between her legs, his eyes roaming over her flushed body. She watches as his hand reaches down, almost subconsciously, to grab his cock through his jeans, clearly trying to relieve some of the pressure. She wants to tell him he’s too overdressed, that she wants to feel more of him, but all she can do is look up at him, silently pleading for more.

There’s time for teasing, but not tonight. With a quick pull, Bucky removes his shirt and tosses it off the bed, barely giving her a chance to appreciate his body before he’s on her again, meeting her in a passionate kiss. They lose themselves in the intimate connection, their need for each other growing until they finally part and Bucky rests his forehead gently against hers, breathing heavily. “You’re so incredible,” he tells her. “You’re so strong.”

He starts peppering kisses along her skin again, across her jaw before dipping down to her throat. “Intelligent.” His kisses move to her collarbone. “Kind.” With each word, her mind starts to fully relax again, accepting the praise, her body trembling with need. And just before his mouth closes over her nipple, he reminds her, “And the hottest fucking woman I’ve ever seen.”

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I know this is a lot more tame than my previous post - y'all really seemed to like that one, which makes me feel like I found my people lol - I promise I have spicier stuff I've written, I'm just working up to sharing it!

(I'm also open to prompts/requests)

[mediumtires]

Toto is in his office, the distinct sounds of sharing a space with someone dulled by heavy wood, and he’s staring at his bright screen, and somehow his throat has closed up enough for him to clear it, twice. There’s a strangely tight feeling right behind his sternum, in the middle of his chest, one that he can’t quite seem to reach.

short sequel to Growing Pains, from Toto’s POV. 2.6k

Christian has crow’s feet. On the right, it’s eleven deep lines, four of them curving upwards when he smiles, the rest fanning down, and off to the side of his face. Left, it’s seven. A few less, but still just as deep. They pull in his cheeks when he smiles.

Toto loves those lines. He was there when there were only four on the left, six on the right. Deeper though. They were even deeper back then, for some reason.

Toto was also there for the teeth. He was there when Christian started to let his stubble grow, he was there for the first grey hairs that led to a life changing haircut. He was there when Christian quietly started to size up his jeans.

He was there when Christian got appendicitis on New Year’s Eve, was there for food poising more than once, was there for broken toes and bruised fingers when they were renovating the farm. He was there when Christian’s brother got diagnosed with cancer. Was there for the party too, when he was finally cancer free.

What Toto wasn’t there for was Christian winning his first title in eight years. It’s not a secret, he knows, Christian knows. Of course they know; it’s one of the biggest hurdles they ever had to overcome, the fact that he wasn’t there for it.

He’d made his position crystal clear; December 2021, and the months after shaped by the decisions he had made. Toto had his team to worry about that night. Lewis, Valtteri, Bono, Andrew, James, everyone else. Himself. He’d had enough to worry about. He didn’t think about Christian very much that night. Not about his crow’s feet, or the ring on his left hand, or the fact that they were in big big trouble. He’d done it deliberately, knowingly. And he doesn’t regret it. Hasn’t, since, mostly because he can’t allow himself to. He’s regretted many things, the aftermath, the months of fighting. But he doesn’t regret standing up for his team that night.

Only now… Now Toto is in his office at home, behind his big desk, with the door closed, the distinct sounds of sharing a space with someone dulled by heavy wood, and he’s staring at his bright screen, and somehow his throat has closed up enough for him to clear it, twice. There’s a strangely tight feeling right behind his sternum, right in the middle of his chest, one that he can’t quite seem to reach.

There’s a video playing, one that he’s not sure he even clicked on himself, one that he really shouldn’t be watching. What he should be doing is preparing for his meeting with the Petronas people first thing tomorrow morning.

Instead, his eyes follow Christian, champagne soaked, shaky handed, teary eyed, on his way from the pit wall to the garages to the podium back to the garages. He looks—Toto can’t think of the right word for it. He can only think about the look on his face, equal parts mind shattering relief, pure joy and pure devastation, though Toto knows that part is only for him to see. And his crow’s feet. Eleven deep lines accompanying his watery smile.

He looks devastating to Toto. It’s a strange realisation because until now, Abu Dhabi has only ever been painful to think about. And it still is, in most ways. Only now that he’s looking at his husband through a screen, watching him getting celebrated, congratulated, touched by a million other people, Toto is kicking himself that he wasn’t there to see him like this when he had the chance. He never got to see this joy on Christian’s face in real life. Instead, what they did was so much worse, so much more painful.

Toto has trouble swallowing around the knot in his throat. Suddenly he has the stupid urge to put his hand to his computer screen, touch his fingertips to the bright lights and follow the soft lines of Christian’s face, sweaty and champagne wet, teary eyed and grinning so wide it must’ve hurt his cheeks. Toto wants that version of him, badly, so badly in fact, that his heart seizes in his chest, thudding hard.

Christian is in the kitchen. He’s making dinner, the dogs at his feet following his every move with big hopeful eyes. Christian doesn’t turn around when Toto comes in, his voice drowned out by the extractor fan as he says, “Dinner’ll be another few.”

Toto couldn’t care less about dinner right now. He stalks up to where Christian is watching over sizzling eggs in a pan, and a second later he’s got him pressed to the counter, licking into his mouth. Christian makes an undignified noise at the back of his throat and the spatula he was holding topples to the floor. Toto doesn’t care. His hands are on Christian’s cheeks, and he can feel his crow’s feet beneath his thumbs. He tastes salt and the tangy sweetness of cherry tomatoes.

Christian presses his palms flat to his chest and pushes. “Hey!” He tries to bring distance between them, and Toto lets him, of course he does, but he still curls himself around Christian’s body, tucks his face into his neck, kisses the leathery skin there too.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?” Christian’s arms come up around Toto’s back only reluctantly. “I’m going to burn the bloody eggs!”

“Sorry.” Toto should be letting him go. Christian has put effort into making dinner, and Toto respects that. Still, he has a hard time moving away from him.

“What’s—” Christian’s face is one big question mark. “Darling? You alright?”

Toto bends to pick the spatula up from the ground and turns away to give it a quick rinse in the sink. “Ja,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Christian’s expression is critical when he takes the spatula back. He goes back to stirring the eggs, stocky and yellow, then turns the heat down with a flick of his wrist. Toto wants to kiss him so badly. The images of Christian, victorious in Abu Dhabi won’t leave his mind. Nor his chest.

Christian turns back around and this time it’s he who pulls Toto in by the hips, presses their bodies together. He leans in and there’s a kiss to the corner of Toto’s mouth, feathery light. Toto can’t help but wrap himself around Christian again, breathing him in, relieved. “What’s going on?” Christian asks carefully, fingertips dipping beneath the waistline of Toto’s chinos. 

He feels so familiar in Toto’s arms. Toto has so many regrets right now, but he can’t possibly tell him. Not with everything they’ve been through. Not with how hard they’ve worked to come out the other side, he can’t bring it all back up again. 

“Nothing,” he murmurs into Christian’s hair. Eyes closed. He smells familiar too. Toto would recognise him anywhere by this alone, the musky notes of his cologne, a hint of leather from the wristband of his watch, undertones of sweat mixed with laundry detergent. “I just wanted to kiss my husband.”

“Come here then.” This time it’s Christian’s fingers on his jaw pulling their faces close, and then it’s gentle brushes of lips, painfully meaningful, tongues coming together in deep licks, Toto brushing the roof of Christian’s mouth, the back of his teeth, tasting everything. He wants all of it and more, and he’s so mad at himself for everything that happened in 2021. He wishes he could turn back the time, make better decisions, just a couple. Not even to win, it’s not about that. Just. For them. He should’ve done better.

Christian kisses back with the same intensity. One of his hands is on Toto’s cheek, fingertips brushing into his hair, lightly stroking his temple, his cheekbone. His stubble rubs against Toto’s top lip and Toto wants more of it, wants this forever.

 “‘m sorry.”

Christian pulls back, confused. “Mhm?”

Toto wants to kick himself. “Nothing.” He leans in again, but Christian doesn’t let him get away with it.

“What do you mean, you’re sorry? Sorry for what?”

Toto breathes around a deep sigh. He lets his forehead tip to Christian’s but keeps his eyes shut. Breathes him in. So familiar.

“It’s nothing.”

“Toto,” Christian warns.

“I was watching something. That’s all.”

“Porn?”

Toto pulls back with an offended puff of breath and when their eyes meet Christian is laughing. “Darling, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“I wasn’t watching porn in my office, Christian.” He’s genuinely offended Christian would think— “I— Come on.”

A grin spreads over Christian’s face, making his crow’s feet crinkle, fanning deeply up and down the sides. “Whatever you’re doing in there is fine with me, darling. No hard feelings.”

“Just—shut up,” Toto tells him even though his heart is still cracked wide open. He turns away. Walks over to the stove to stir the eggs. They look a little more brown than yellow now.

“Hey.” Christian brushes both of his palms down Toto’s back, then wraps his arms around him from behind to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Sorry. You’re upset. What is it?”

“It’s nothing.” Toto sighs softly.

“It’s clearly something. You ambushed me in the kitchen. Something’s up.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Toto. Darling.” Christian’s arms tighten around him, both palms pressed to the softest part of his stomach now, left and right to his navel. He tingles from the inside out.

“I was watching a video about Abu Dhabi.” He admits to it quietly, half of him hoping Christian won’t hear him over the sizzling of the pan. “I don’t even know… It just popped up, it was attached to an email. But I didn’t mean to bring it up again, I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it again.”

Christian doesn’t say anything for a few very long seconds. He holds Toto in the same manner as before, his face mushed to the planes of his back, his body warm against Toto’s, over a decade of familiarity to the touch. Then he says, “You said.”

Toto’s face scrunches up in confusion, but he doesn’t move, just keeps staring down at the pan.

“You said you were sorry,” Christian clarifies. “For watching the video, or for what happened in Abu Dhabi?”

Toto’s chest smarts, pulls into a tight hard knot. “I don’t think… Let’s not talk about it again.”

“Because you’re uncomfortable?” Christian asks. “Or because you’re afraid I haven’t forgiven you yet?”

Toto doesn’t have an answer. The only thing he knows is that the eggs are burning. Christian doesn’t let him go but now his hold feels like it could crush Toto any second.

“I know you’re sorry,” Christian goes on. “And we’re past Abu Dhabi. Things are okay, yeah?”

Toto swallows hard. “Yes.”

Christian presses another kiss to his back, soothing this time. “Good. So why are you sorry?”

“I—” Christian doesn’t let him go. “I didn’t see you.” Toto’s voice breaks on the last syllable. “That night in Abu Dhabi. I was too concerned with other things, I didn’t watch the podium, I didn’t even leave the garage. So I didn’t know what you looked like that night until just fifteen minutes ago.” Heart in his throat he adds, “And I regret that. Not being there for it. Because you looked—”

Beautiful. Proud. Relieved. Real. Heartbreakingly authentic.

“I could’ve shared that with you, that night, the win, your success, but I didn’t. And I regret that. More than anything I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I—” And now he’s fucking choking up.

“Oh.” Christian moves then, unfreezes and untangles himself from Toto’s back to turn him around by the hips. “Oh, darling, no, come on.”

Toto can’t look at him, but then again, he can’t really look at anything because tears are blurring his vision.

“No, darling, no, come here.” Christian wraps him up in a hug then, pulls him in, one arm wrapped around his middle, the other around his shoulders, and he presses the side of his face to Toto’s neck. “It’s okay. We’re past that.”

Toto doesn’t say anything. It doesn't feel like they’re past it. This is the first time he has allowed himself to cry about any of this in front of Christian. It’s been months, and it doesn’t feel like they’re past it.

“I know you would’ve been there if things had been different. But it was complicated, I know that. I’m not mad.”

“I’m mad,” Toto croaks, and as he says it, he realises it’s true. “I am so mad, Christian. I’m mad I didn’t get to share any of it with you. It was such a significant moment, and I wasn’t there with you. We won’t ever get that back.”

Christian takes a moment. “Okay,” he then says quietly. “Now I understand. I get it. I’m mad too.” Toto stills. “Not at you. At the whole thing, the circumstances leading up to it. It’s no one’s fault. We knew it would be difficult to keep things separate, and in the end, we didn’t manage. That’s okay. And it’s okay to be mad about it.”

“I’m not trying to bring it all back up again, I know we’re past it. It’s in the past.” Toto curls his arms around Christian’s back and pulls him in tighter, noses the side of his face, the imprint of the lines around his eyes. “I just didn’t realise how much I missed out that night. You looked so—”

“What?” Christian probes, curious.

“Sexy,” Toto croaks and there’s a second of silence before Christian breaks out into a loud, husky cackle. 

“Are you— Toto, are crying because you didn’t get to fuck me that night?”

“Maybe.” Toto cracks a small grin and smothers it in Christian’s hair. They both know it’s more than that. But they also know there’s no way they can turn back time. What happened happened. It’s in the past.

“Oh fucking hell. You have no idea how badly I wanted you to be there that night.”

“Ja?”

“Yeah,” Christian says, and then he pulls back and looks Toto in the eyes and says, “Yes, darling. Of course I wanted you to be there with me. I wanted to—Look, I wanted to come and find you too, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. So I get it. I have regrets too.”

Toto has to pull him in again and Christian goes willingly, presses their foreheads together, noses brushing, and kisses Toto once more, deep. “I get it,” he murmurs to his lips. “But we’re okay, yeah?”

“Yes,” Toto agrees. Eyes closed. Christian smells like home. “Next time.”

“We’ll do so much better this year,” Christian agrees. “I’ll even let you spray me with champagne in front of everyone.”

Toto rolls his eyes, a small grin pulling stubbornly at the corners of his mouth. “You will let me, yes? That is very generous of you.”

“I know,” Christian agrees smugly. “You’re allowed to do it in front of everyone, too.”

“If you’re not careful, I will be doing something very different than shower you in champagne in front of everyone, darling.”

“Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time, darling.”

Toto hates him a little bit, his pleased smirk, the self-satisfaction, the green of his eyes twinkling, daring, his crow’s feet so deep, seven on the left, eleven on the right.

Toto doesn’t stand a chance. Not this season, but more importantly, not tonight either.

[you-til-i-die]

wishin’ I could write my name on it

f.odair x fem!reader

summary: a sneak peak into you and finnick’s lives

warnings/content: I wrote and edited this all in one sitting so if it’s absolute shit that’s why<3 district four victor!r, r is said to have throw up a few times, but none of it is graphic. mentions of blood and sex trafficking, cannon-typical shit really, swearing

song: august - ts

wc: 1.9k

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺

You and Finnick have one rule.

Don’t talk about it. Don’t ask about it. Don’t acknowledge it.

When the two of you are together, you can just forget about it. You can hang out on the beaches of District Four and pretend like these aren’t your lives.

But they are.

And it always somehow seeps through the cracks.

It’s in the way Finnick’s eyes are dull and empty the first few days after a trip to the capitol.

It’s in the way your laugh has morphed into a short bark.

It’s everywhere and it’s everything.

There’s no escaping it.

It haunts your dreams, it probably haunts Finnick’s too, even though you’d never ask.

Because that’s the rule. No asking. Ever.

————————————————————————

It was August. The sun seemed to slowly be getting the message that fall was getting nearer, the rays a little less intense then they had been a few weeks ago. The water was even the tiniest bit cooler, soothing a stubborn sunburn on your shoulders.

You were laying on the beach, face down on a towel, trying to ignore the stick of salt drying on your skin. You can’t help but let out a yawn, exhausted from the still persistent heat and trying to win against Finnick in a swimming race all day.

You were so relaxed. Focusing on the waves crashing against the shore. And the presence beside you that you knew was Finnick.

You honestly were about to fall asleep before he speaks. He mentions it so casually, he might as well have been asking what you wanted for dinner.

“Snow needs me in the capitol. I’m leaving on Friday.”

His voice is completely flat, devoid from all of its usual humor. It made you nauseous. You consider asking if he feels the same way, but you don’t. That was the rule. And you know the rules.

You push yourself up onto your elbows to get a good look at him, to try and decipher the look on his face. You could almost always read him. You hadn’t spent four years attached to each other to not learn the subtle mannerisms of the other. But this was different. It always was.

You and Finnick could talk about almost anything together. The games, the fear that you could never seem to shake, the nightmares, the way it was sometimes hard to stomach killing even a fish. But you never talk about this.

You never talk about how Snow will whisk one, or sometimes both, of you away whenever he needs a favor. You never tell him how afterwards you have to scrub your entire body raw before you can even begin to feel clean again. You don’t tell him how the first couple of times you would sob until you threw up, but now you just curl up and do your best to avoid the pit in your stomach.

Well, truthfully, you had talked about it once. But never again.

You had just been crowned victor of the 69th Hunger Games, District Four’s second victor in four years. It was no surprise, really. You were seventeen, and one of the oldest in the arena. You were strong, quick, and smart. So, so smart. You had won through pure trickery, and everyone loved you for it.

It’s hard for you to remember what happened the week after you won. There’s little snippets, of course. Looking down at the blood on your hands, blood that wasn’t yours. The booming of a voice in the arena, announcing that you were the victor. You had won. You did it. You had made District Four proud. And then you threw up.

You must have blacked out afterwards, because the next thing you remember is being back in your suite in the training center, sobbing in Finnick’s arms while he held you. Most of what you can remember is centered around him. Gripping onto his hand like a lifeline while your stylists buzzed around you. Glancing over Snow’s shoulder at him while the president crowned you. Watching him standing in the wings of the stage while Ceasar Flickerman went over a highlight reel of your time in the arena. Finding your way back into his arms on the train. You’re pretty sure Finnick didn’t say more than the same couple words the first week. It seemed to be a constant variation of “I know honey, but you’re safe now. I’ve got you sweetheart.”

It wasn’t until your victory tour that he told you. You doubt he ever would have, if he didn’t know for sure it would happen to you.

He had sat you down on the train after a party in District Two and told you everything. How Snow would practically sell him to people. How he didn’t have a say, and how you wouldn’t either, unless you wanted everyone you loved to be dead. He had grabbed your hands, shaking hand in shaking hand, and apologized profusely. He told you how he would do everything possible to keep you safe, he would offer himself instead of you. But you knew that wouldn’t work. Snow gets what Snow wants, and if Snow wants you to fuck his friends for some sick favor, there was nothing you, or Finnick, could do to stop that from happening.

“Oh.”

“Yah.” Was all Finnick said, refusing to meet you gaze as he stared out at the ocean. He’s working one of the muscles in his jaw and you have to look away before you grab his face and do something stupid.

“When will you be back?” You don’t say it, but you’re sure he understands the meaning. Please say it’ll only be one night. Please tell me they won’t put you through it more than once this time. Please tell me you’ll be back to hold me through the nightmares soon. Please don’t make me wait for you more than I already do.

“I’m not sure. Snow said a couple of days.”

No no no no no no no please no.

You didn’t respond. Scared that if you open your mouth the bile collecting in your throat would spill out.

You just look over at him. Take him in. It’s no wonder why the capitol loves him so much. Although not for his humor, his kindness, his strength, the way he’s always looking out for everyone but himself. None of that. Just because he’s a pretty face. But in the bright, golden sun, you find it hard to disagree with them. He’s all broad shoulders and a strong jawline. Bright green eyes that always seem to shine when they look at you. Sharp teeth hiding behind that perfect fucking smile. Salty hair you wanted to run your fingers through. Credit where credit is due, the capitol knows how to pick a sex symbol.

But you don’t see a sex symbol. Not right now. Right now all you see is the person you want to hold on to, and never let go of. The person you’d throw it all away for, if he asked. The person who seemed to always have another layer for you to work your way into, but you’d be damned if you ever stopped trying to get to the root of him.

You’ve been staring for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Finnick notices, of course, because Finnick notices everything.

“Honey?”

You tear your eyes away from where they had been tracing the veins in his hands. “Hm?”

“You ok?” And there it is. That fucking wolf smile. All sharp canines and slightly raised eyebrows because he knows. He knows he’s got you in between his teeth and he knows you’re happy to stay there because it’s him.

You pause, but just for a moment, trying not to give him the satisfaction of winning, of successfully flustering you. But his eyes are boring into yours and it’s so hard to look away from him, but you do. He wins. He normally does.

“‘M just thinking.”

“What about?” He asks. Flopping down on his side, trying to get on eye level with you because it’s never just enough for him to win, he has to make sure you know that he knows it.

You just roll your eyes at him, there’s nothing else you can do.

“About how we’ve been out here since nine in the morning and it’s after noon now, and you haven’t reapplied sunscreen once.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes now.

“I don’t burn, honey, you know that.”

“What about that time you were out all day, didn’t put sunscreen on once, and then I had to rub aloe vera on your back for a week because you burned like hell and all of your skin was peeling off?” You ask, smile working its way onto your face. You know you’ve got him. You’re winning now.

He pauses, he doesn’t back down easily. “It was a fluke. A glitch, even.” He says, trying his best to shrug his shoulders even though he’s lying down. He fails. It looks ridiculous. You have to try not to laugh. “I honestly think the sun just had a vendetta against me that day.”

You’re failing at biting back a smile now. “At least let me get your back because there is literally nothing you could say or do to ever get me to help you with a third degree sunburn again.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just makes a big show of groaning and rolling his eyes at you before rolling onto his back.

You’ve won.

“So dramatic? You know that? It’s like being friends with a child.” You say as you root around in your bag for your sunscreen. Trying to ignore the disgusting feeling you know it will leave on your hands as you squirt it out.

He props himself up on his elbows to look at you, surely about to counter with some story about you being much more dramatic than him, before you shove him back down, face in the sand.

“Ow.”

“You’re fine. A little sand never killed anyone.”

You decide to ignore his grumbling, focusing on spreading the sunscreen on his back. However, you can’t ignore the growing pit in your stomach that you know will be there until Finnick’s back from the capitol.

Still, they can’t take this from you. You’ve earned it. You deserve to be here, definitely not checking out your best friend who you know you can’t have.

You lose yourself for a moment. Letting yourself focus on the way his muscles feel under your hands. Maybe, one day, this could be real. The capitol will find new, attractive victors, and they’ll move on. You and Finnick can fade into the background, and just live.

You pull back, and grab the tube again, squirting it directly on his back. You start to rub it in before pausing for a moment, why not?

Quickly, you write your name in the sunscreen on his back. Snow has cameras everywhere. Maybe he’s watching. Maybe he’s not. But either way, at least for a second, you can say mine. All mine. You can’t take him from me, not really.

He feels it, lifting his head up just as you’re wiping away the evidence.

“Are you drawing on my back?”

You flash him your own smile. A little less wolfish, a little more coy.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺

A/n: Hi omg I wrote this in one sitting😭this has just been rattling around in my head for weeks now and I had to get it out lol. Constructive criticism and feedback is always appreciated, I hope you all enjoyed<3

[dendrochilums]

little murderbot fic snippet I wrote inspired by the discord a while ago! it appears the cracker wrapper incident from rogue protocol left some lasting damage...

"Oh SecUnit! You're early!"

To be honest, Ratthi hadn't actually expected SecUnit to show up, but he was still pleasantly surprised to see it here. Since Gurathin's apartment on the station was too small for him to host his own birthday party, Ratthi had volunteered his own for the occasion. SecUnit had returned from its latest trip with the Perihelion quite recently, and Ratthi had figured that it would still be working on recharging its limited social battery, and unwilling to subject itself to even the small crowd that would be here. He gestured with an enthusiasm he hoped it would pick up on and said, "Come on in!"

SecUnit didn't reply verbally, but it sent an acknowledging ping to Ratthi's interface as it marched past him, followed by a small flock of its surveillance drones.

"I'm still getting some things ready in the kitchen, but feel free to make yourself at home," he called after it. SecUnit's idea of making itself at home involved more patrolling and hazard assessments than the average person's, but it was nice to see it feel comfortable here, in its own way. Ratthi hoped that the way he had arranged the decorations this time wouldn't get him another written notice about unsafe obstructions to the automated fire suppression system.

He closed the door, making a point to lock it behind him, and followed SecUnit down the hallway and into the kitchen, where he found it standing completely motionless, staring at his sink wearing the most appalled expression he could ever remember seeing on its face.

"SecUnit?" he asked. "...You okay?"

"There's a cracker wrapper in your sink," it said, pointing a finger at the offending wrapper. Its voice was flat, a striking contrast to its face, which now looked like it had when Ratthi told it that the newest season of Sanctuary Moon had been kind of boring.

Ratthi was too afraid to ask what kind of horrible security hazard could be caused by a stray cracker wrapper, but he carefully reached past SecUnit and fished the wrapper out of the sink and put it in the waste bin.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't know you were so tidy," he said, flashing a smile towards its shoulder. "I'll get things straightened up before the party starts, don't worry."

SecUnit was apparently too shaken to even acknowledge this. It kept its eyes focused on the now empty sink, which Ratthi quickly checked himself just to make sure there wasn't some insanely poisonous spider or something hiding there. Nope, nothing but some crumbs that he didn't think deserved this kind of horror.

The silence stretched on awkwardly. Ratthi broke it to say, "I'm just gonna--"

"I need to go check the perimeter. I'll be back soon," it interrupted, and it was out of the room before Ratthi could muster more than "Okay?" as a response.

Well, he supposed that everyone had their own eccentricities.

[hypnotisedfireflies]

I miss Lachie! I specifically miss Tess and Lachie, their family friendship warms my heart every time. Would you perhaps consider giving us a snippet of the two of them? Perhaps a late night conversation while they’re camping out on their way towards Jackson? (I’m desperate to hear anything more about their road trip)

(Also will Lachie make any appearances in IO???)

Hi anon! Thank you for your ask (and giving me the chance to pop back into Driftersverse!)

I don't think Lachie will be appearing in IO. I tend to keep the OCs to their respective universes, DD/SQ, IO, Charro, etc. But who knows??

Hope you like this little ficlet. It's set during the events of TLOU while Ellie and Joel are off Ellieing and Joeling and Tess is making the trip across country with Lachie. This is as they begin to reconnect after the Firefly crew has perished, and Lachie is experiencing the earliest trouble with his lungs that later leads to something worse.

Autumn, 2023 Wisconsin.

In Little Hope, Wisconsin, Lachie did something that he hadn’t done in years.

Dear Mum, Dad and Col.

Lachlan Maynard had penned letters on scraps of paper up and down the USA and posted them in every undamaged mailbox he could find.  He was very careful to address them neatly and correctly.  If everything got back on track – one day, eventually – those letters might make their way home.  Somebody had to empty the mailboxes eventually, right?  And when that happened – if, if that happened – then Lachie wanted that chance of some small piece of him finding his way home, even if he was long-dead and nobody remembered his name anymore.

Some time ago – when exactly, who knew – Lachie had stopped.  The hope that those letters might one day find their way across the ocean had not dwindled (however increasingly unlikely it seemed) but there were fewer things to say.  Sometimes, he didn’t really want his family to know what he’d done.  It was increasingly difficult to explain or justify the confusing nature of the Firefly cause, which sometimes seemed so righteous and other times seemed like a poorly organised terrorist chapter. 

There just wasn’t much he wanted to write home about anymore.

But on this bright, golden autumn day in Little Hope, Lachie felt the urge tickling his fingers once again.  He dug around until he found a pencil.  Lachie sharpened it carefully with his smallest knife and lifted the shavings to his nose.  He breathed them in.  Fresh, new pencils!  His cousin, Shannon, had a box of Derwents that she only used for special occasions.  Nobody else was allowed to use them, but sometimes Lachie liked to lift up the tin lid and have a good, long sniff. 

I am in Wisconsin, he wrote.

“Lachlan.”

He looked up.  He was sitting on the bonnet of the truck to soak up the sunshine.  Tess only called him by his full name when she really wanted his attention.  He looked right and saw her standing against the vibrant backdrop of autumn leaves.  Many were still doggedly clinging to their branches like they could outlast winter.  Lachie could feel its cold, deadly little talons digging deeper into every day.  It made him cough in the mornings.

“Everything okay?”  Lachie pined the paper to his thigh with the side of his hand.  The wind buffeted up a little whirlwind of dry, crackling leaves.

“Your … friend,” she said with as much tact as he could expect, “has a much warmer jacket than mine.  I’m gonna take it.  I just wanted to … tell you before I did it.”

“Oh.”

Lachie glanced at the low ditch on the side of the road where Toni lay.   She’d fallen and suffered a terrible gash to her leg the day before, and had died in the back of the truck during the night.  Catastrophic blood loss.  Lachie used to think Toni was all right, but Toni hadn’t liked Tess, and Toni had made it clear – loudly and often – that Tess would be easier to transport with her vitals preserved in jars.  Dev (before he got himself ripped up by two clickers) told Lachie Toni’s prejudice was rooted in fear, and she was convinced Tess would turn eventually.  Some of the others were, too.   Toni also wanted Tess on reduced rations, and she wanted her restrained at all times. 

Tess gained her full freedom when the numbers of their team dwindled so pitifully that they desperately needed the extra, free hands.  Toni mouthed off only once more after that.  Tess decked her with two hard, savage hits, breaking the other woman’s nose.  The others just looked on – Toni had said some shit, after all.  And Lachie grinned as he gathered up some supplies to treat the injury.  He suddenly felt just that little bit safer.

Tess never had held back.

“I’ll help you,” he suggested.

Lachie jammed the paper in his pocket and pencil behind his ear.  He followed Tess to the ditch and helped skin the thick, fleece-lined jacket down Toni’s arms. 

“You want her boots?”

Tess considered it.  “No, they’re too small for me.”

“Let’s take her jumper too, just in case.”

“Jumper,” Tess repeated, grinning at him.

“You know what I mean.”

“What happened to your accent?”

“It has its moments.”

They completed the grisly task of stripping Toni for the last of her worth and then covered her body with leaves.  The ground wasn’t too hard yet.  They could bury her.  But Lachie didn’t see the point in going to that effort.  They needed to conserve their calories.  And Little Hope was a nice enough place in the world to become bird food.  Toni could do worse.

“Guess that makes you two even for the hard time she gave you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tess muttered, shedding her own jacket and dressing in Toni’s.  She emptied the pockets of meaningless trinkets, then turned up the collar.  “Thanks for making that easy.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“I know she was your friend so … I’m sorry.”

Lachie squinted as another squall twisted a pile of leaves up into a new dance.  “It doesn’t matter.”

The breeze lifted Tess’s hair.   She had long, silver strands throughout now.  It was still kind of hard for Lachie to believe she was really standing there, really alive.  He’d never had any doubt that she’d made it through the years – if anyone could, it was her – but the fact that their paths had crossed again was a miracle he couldn’t overlook.  It was almost more incredible than her surviving becoming infected, for fuck’s sake.

“We should make camp,” Lachie suggested.  “I reckon we’ve come far enough today.”

Tess was scanning the handful of crumbling old buildings.  This must have been a charming little town, once.  There was next to nothing here, but it had a postcard-selling vibe. 

“You feel up to trying a building or two?”

“Sure.” Lachie shrugged.  “What are we looking for?”

“I want to get you out of the cold, for starters,” Tess said, already pulling out her handgun and checking the load.  “The coughing in the morning’s getting worse.”

“Nah, that’s just – yeah, nah, that’s nothing,” Lachie tried to wave it off.  “That’s just – I had asthma kind of bad when I was a kid and sometimes it acts up a bit, that’s all.”

“Well, the cold can’t be helping.  Let’s find something with a bit more shelter tonight, okay?”

He was kind of stoked that she gave a shit.  Tess had looked out for him when they were in Indy, too.  He was definitely just an afterthought behind Joel and Tommy and Rachel, but the fact that she’d given a damn at all had meant something to him then, and it still did now.  And well – hey.  It was probably just strategy on her part.  Two of them stood a better chance of making it cross country than one alone.  But then she met his gaze and he recognised a softness entirely separate to survival. 

“Okay?” 

Lachie nodded.  “Yeah, okay.”

“Let’s try that one first.”

“You’re the boss.”

Tess, who had already turned away, stiffened.  Lachie looked on ahead.  Had she seen something?  And then Tess snapped the cartridge into place and plowed on ahead to the building.

“Come on, move.”

The town had been abandoned by living, dead and infected for a very, very long time.  The general store had been turned over of absolutely everything of value and there was a single, crumpled human who had perished at some phase of infection.  They were almost skeletal, their body and ragged clothing ruptured by powdery, dry fungal plates. 

At the back of the general store was a room claimed by the sky.  Half the roof was missing.  Tess and Lachie built their fire here, where the smoke could pour up into the air, and the walls around them would provide some warmth against the coming night.  Lachie pulled out two FEDRA-issued dinner ration packs.  The grade was excellent.

“Do you want Butter Chicken or Beef Ragu?”

“Have we got any of the Chicken Italiano left?”

“Nope.”

“Ragu, then.”

They prepared the meal packets in boiling water and ate inside their sleeping bags on two sides of the fire.  Tess had been right.  He felt warmer with the wall against his back, and there was no wind in the old structure, save that which whistled through the cracks.

“You know what really pisses me off about these?”  Tess said, poking around her bag with a fork.

“That they’re better than what ration cards could buy?”

“Yes,” she answered, sounding mildly annoyed that he guessed right. “The shit we used to eat in Boston sometimes, you know?  We knew what they were feeding the soldiers was better than what we got, but this is something else.”

Always we.  We did this, we did that.  Tess couldn’t name Joel, but he was always moving in and out of the conversation. 

“Fireflies didn’t have this stuff most of the time either,” Lachie admitted.  “Think we were eating better than most civilians though, if you were stationed outside the zones, that is.”

“Like you were.”

“Yeah, like I was.  Funny when you think we were only a few miles apart for years.”

Tess didn't respond.

“Anyway,” Lachie continued.  “Fireflies were raiding stuff all the time, but when they got their hands on premium rations like these, they stockpiled them for the big ticket events.”

“Like a cross-country trek?”

“Yeah. Build up the strength, that sort of thing. Speaking of.  We should reach that Firefly supply cache tomorrow, all things going well.”

“White Earth Reservation?”

“Yeah?” Lachie shot her a suspicious glance. “How'd you know that?”

“I've been listening. My ears weren't handcuffed.”

“This is gonna be awkward for awhile, isn't it?”

“Till the day you die, Lachlan.”

He coughed softly and set his meal aside. They'd argued about this many times already:  he'd plead his sorry case and she'd stonily stared him down.

“White Earth Reservation,” he confirmed, pulling out a map.  He held it up to Tess and followed a general route along the top of the country with his finger.  “So we’re … like … hereabouts.  We come up north into Minnesota – avoid Minneapolis, I’ve heard shit from there that’d make your hair curl – and come at the Reservation this way.”

Tess was studying the map with great interest, so he passed it into her custody. “Is anyone stationed there?”

“Supposed to have been deserted for a few years. Unless they sent someone up there from the east, I dunno. Seems unlikely, though. So yeah, nah. We'll scoop in and grab the gear, then go down through the Dakotas.”

“To Salt Lake City?”

Lachie held his breath while he calculated his answer. He sighed and picked up his chicken. That had been the original mission. Evacuate Massachusetts, empty the final Firefly caches cross country and regroup with the dwindling remnants of the cause out west. Deliver the subject - Tess - to Salt Lake City for further study.

There was nothing in that mandate about locating Tommy Miller out in whoop-whoop Wyoming or reuniting the subject with her spiritual husband.

“Maybe after,” Lachie mumbled around a mouthful of rations. “See if that dickhead Tommo’s all right first, maybe.”

“How… how was he last time you saw him?”

“I didn't know there was a problem till he fucked off without saying goodbye. I knew he wasn't happy but … shit, is anybody? You really think he's in trouble?”

“Maybe.”

“This trip was really for Joel, huh? He needed to know what was what.”

“It was for us both,” Tess quietly answered. “I don't know if we ever meant to stay so long.”

“In Boston?”

“We had an apartment,” she continued, eyes on the fire. “Living every day in a fucked up dollhouse for thirteen years.”

“A lifetime.”

“A parody.”

“Why didn't you leave?”

“Go where?”

“I dunno. Tommo said you'd come from some place up in the mountains. South? Could've gone back, tried for it. If anyone could've made it, it was you two.”

Tess shook her head slightly. “Bit past happy endings by then, Lachie.”

“Well,” he finished his meal. “Guess it's a good thing it's now. Hey Tess? Can do shitloads with now.”

“You're still painfully optimistic.”

He laughed a little. Sure. It was easy to have hope in and for other people. The heat was off.

He waited until Tess was asleep before digging out his letter again. He deliberated over the cordial lines and wondered what he could add. So deep in concentration was he that the bottom of the page caught on an ember and smoked. He swore softly and smothered both flame and another coughing fit.

Going to Yellowstone.

He didn't write any more until the following morning. Tess helped him sit up as a more aggressive spate of coughs woke him.

“This is asthma?” She asked, passing a flask of water.

“Woodsmoke doesn't do me any favours,” he managed, rubbing his watery eyes.

Tess didn't seem convinced. She did most of the packing up and loading while Lachie got himself together.

“I'll drive,” Tess announced.

“Yeah, no worries.”

“You ready?”

“Yeah, just give me a sec.”

Lachie looked down at his measly letter. He glanced at Tess, who was circling the truck and checking the tyres.

Catching up with some old mates.

He pushed the letter into a mailbox as Tess turned the ignition over.

[abcwordsurge]

what old work[s] you've made is your favorite and why? and now what's your most favorite recent work? smile. i love ur writing i wanna hear u talk abt ittt!!

:D hi marley

this took a bit because I had to go through all my stuff and, like, make a tournament out of it, but here I am! with answers!

for old works, I've gotta go with "October 15th" (link here). it's a fic with little snippets from an average day in the statehouse. a pretty healthy mix of fluff and angst and humor. I remember writing this and just grinning to myself, like, "yeah, I'm so clever, this is so neat." it was one of the very first fics I posted in this fandom, way back in October (shocking /s). wow, wait, is that over half a year ago? huh. it feels like I haven't been in this fandom for that long. well, I'm glad to be here!

honorary mention: "Something That Matters" (link here), two connected wiscowa (wisconsin / iowa) drabbles. posted even earlier than "October 15th," and was far shorter and simpler. this one is just a lil thing and it makes me happy no matter how many times I reread it

outside of fandom, I'd go with "Bigger Than Jesus" (link here), about Big Time Rush (yes, that kids show boy band), and carlos and logan's opinions on the Beatles. I thought that was comedic GOLD. still makes me giggle rereading it

as for recent fics, I'll say "The Five Nonsenses" (link here). it's a queerplatonic floui fic, and this is perhaps the first time that I felt totally confident while writing a fic about a qpr. I've never been in a qpr (despite my best efforts /hj), but after writing this, I just knew that this is the sort of thing I should write when writing queerplatonic fics. I dunno, I just feel like I've cracked the code or something like that. I'm pretty proud of this one

this ask makes me so happy. usually when I reread something I wrote, it's because I'm looking for things I need to fix in it, but in order to give you an answer, I had to look for things I like. it improved my mood quite a bit. thank you <3

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 7/11/23, timezone change edition

the last time i wrote one of these things, i was not quite fully packed up in ma. now, i am technically temporarily homeless in houston, bc the apartment i originally signed on was completely unlivable. crashing in an acquaintance's guest room for a bit while i have a very bad time with apartment hunting round 2

i have lived in south florida, staten island, and various shithole student housing. i understand seasonal bugs in hot places and things such as different kinds of roaches and palmetto bugs. when i say that apartment had the worst roach infestation i've ever seen i fucking mean it. in theory i will get my full deposits back, but they're taking their sweet fucking time about it.

but having that full yes-i-know-about-seasonal-roaches conversation with new acquaintances and leasing agents takes too long so i've resorted to saying it had a horrific bedbug problem, which everyone seems to go Oh Okay Yeah Reasonable For You To Leave much more quickly.

listening

a lot of early aughts dance pop standards, to chase away the agonies as i drive to and from apartments only to get ghosted, find they were rented a week ago, or find that they look absolutely nothing like the pictures. i was really torn on which britney song to pick for this week until my sister sent me Twin Flame by Maude Latour, which i can only describe as "douchebag get the girl back song but for lesbians". spotify

also how do we like the "featured link from bandcamp or soundcloud with additional spotify link" format? in an ideal world i would buy all my music directly from the artists but realistically i use spotify 90% of the time. i don't know what your life is like, tell me if this is helpful or not.

-

reading

my best friend made sad faces at me until i read The Flatshare by Beth O'Leary, and it was a little nice to see someone else's dire housing situation get resolved neatly and with thematic consistence in several hundred pages. it was also nice to text her snippets with "WHAT?????" every so often. this is a reading experience i don't have very often bc our current reading tastes don't overlap even a little bit.

i don't have much to say about it bc i didn't have particularly strong feelings and don't really read mainstream straight romance, so i can't point out what this did differently or well compared to its peers. if nothing else, it was a fluffy bit of distraction, and i think that's kind of the point?

(image from Tor) also read Saad Z. Hossein's Kundo Wakes Up novella in a waffle house while eating some of the best scrambled eggs i've ever had in my life.

this novella was the closest thing i've ever read to "aging English professor has an affair" without actually containing any of those elements. generally i enjoy his work, but this was sort of a way to check up and tie off many characters from previous works with a sort of light frosting of "my wife left me and i don't know why [ rot13:v pna znxr fbzr thrffrf ohg gurer vf ab zbzrag bs frys-ernyvmngvba, bapr ur svaqf uvf jvsr ur whfg perrcf ba ure sebz nsne naq nsgre qrgrezvavat fur'f abg jvgu nalbar arj znxrf gur gerzraqbhf fnpevsvpvny qrpvfvba gb yrnir ure nybar op fur'f zhpu unccvre jvgubhg uvz. gurer vf ab zbzrag bs frys-ernyvmngvba nobhg jul fur zvtug unir yrsg uvz. xhaqb arire trgf bhg bs uvf bja shpxvat urnq bapr.]"

while The Gurkha and the Lord of Thursday novella (TREMENDOUS) and Cyber Mage book (fun but with some dire pacing issues) are fairly standalone, i cannot imagine you'd get much out of Kundo Wakes Up if you haven't read the other two. for some reason none of the libraries i have access to have his other book Djinn City, so we'll have to procure that elsewhere.

-

watching

the dnd movie, the day after i broke my lease on the roach apartment. i don't remember a ton about this movie. do generally like a heist. michelle rodriguez was hot

-

playing

genshin. listen. it is a free and familiar way to turn my brain off by doing open world exploration and puzzles but CRUCIALLY! most of it is completely new to me. i have not played this game in a year and a half. i have not played this game since right before enkanomiya. there was no chasm. there was no Sumeru. i have absolutely no idea what’s happening lore-wise.

i pulled for the fancy ice claymore lady and got a catboy archer (at least i think it is a catboy? the ears do give a pharaoh hound vibe... he is distinct from the extant dogboy archer). not terrible but not my vibe.

i have been enjoying the shit out of the temporary summer event carnival space. they really did pull out several stops by introducing a ton of genuinely interesting and innovating little new mechanics and mini games. delightful!

-

making

altering the worst shorts ive ever seeeeeeeeen with a demure little two-inch side slit on both legs bc my thighs simply will not quit. mens shorts are so much better than womens shorts in nearly every way except for the catastrophic physical fit issues.

when i got ghosted by two different apartments on saturday i bought myself a spoon ring so chunky it makes my other chunky rings look positively delicate by comparison. not very comfy to drive in but fine to wear while tippy tappying on the spreadsheets

a girl i saw for one singular awful date in 2016 called my hands "coarse but honest" and i think about that every time my hands are in a photo. what did that even fucking MEAN, [REDACTED]?

[laundrybiscuits]

Omg okay that ask list is so much fun I'm overwhelmed with choices. This isn't small enough to count as "for want of a nail" but if you ever wanted to write palm split where Eddie gets the cut ... I'd love to read. Otherwise, purify our misfit ways - time after time - Eddie or Steve noticing the other at any point before the story begins ?

I do already have a snippet with that first premise here, but I wrote a little more:

Hey, idiot. You fucked up.

Eddie can kind of remember writing those words, but it’s blurry and remote, like he’s remembering a scene from a book he read years ago.

Docs say I’ll remember most stuff but not the emotions. Something like that. We never were too good at paying attention when it really matters. So this is me, telling me to listen the fuck up: DO NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH STEVE HARRINGTON AGAIN. He’s just a guy.

There’s something else written after that, but it’s scribbled out so heavily, the paper’s a little bit torn. Eddie searches his memory for what it might be, but he’s coming up blank.

Probably for the best if you stay away from him until you get a real boyfriend or something, if that ever happens. You’re just being lonely and pathetic  No. That stays in. You’re just being lonely and pathetic, so get a fucking grip. Stay away from him like he’s the plague, because he is, for you.  Also this is REALLY IMPORTANT so pay attention numbnuts: he doesn’t know you have a thing for him. HAD a thing, by the time you read this, I guess. If you don’t die on the slab. 

There’s a little doodle underneath of zombie-Eddie going “BLAH.” It’s pretty good, if Eddie does say so himself. 

Guard this secret WITH. YOUR. LIFE. Munson. If he figures it out, you might as well be dead. 

Huh. 

It goes on for a while, laying out some key facts about how Eddie got here like one of his campaign journals. It feels like getting a briefing from some super-secret headquarters on a spy mission, except his handler is also Eddie and therefore kind of a dick. 

The guy who gave him the notebook in the first place is gone by the time Eddie puts two and two together to deduce that he must be the fabled Steve. Eddie doesn’t see what’s so fucking great about him that Eddie had to get a whole actual surgery to stop mooning over him, but—he did pay for the surgery, so. Yeah. He’s probably a little different from how Eddie vaguely remembers him in high school. 

Still, it can’t be that hard to keep from falling in love with Steve Harrington again. He just has to get through the drive home, and everything can go back to normal.

palm split with a flower with a flame on AO3

Fic-specific asks

[gigglemugger]

Mandy Goes to Med School.

Fandom: “Saw” Franchise

Pairing: None.

Synopsis: Amanda Young had no idea she'd have to become a surrogate cancer doctor, but then again she had no idea she'd start killing people for a living either.

Basically a character study of Amanda, my own take on her, through snippets of scenes from the movies all the way to Saw III.

Word Count: 4,127 (used to be less but I added a few things after a reading pass, lol, nothing major).

CW: All canon typical violence PLUS the horrors of being Amanda Young. So it's a bit heavy on the depression, self-harm, even a little bit of OCD.

AO3 link.

Notes: So not to sound totally pretentious but remember when Joan Didion said that she wrote Play It As it Lays to be a complete blank space of a novel? This fanfic is sort of like that. It's a bunch of snippets like the synopsis says and what Amanda might have been thinking during them. Title is from the Dresden Dolls song where they perform back alley abortions and while Amanda and Lawrence don't go around doing that in this fic, man did I think about writing that too. The timeline was borrowed from the wiki but boy is the Saw timeline complicated. Also things are not completely faithful. I hope you have a good time anyway!

When Amanda decided to join Jigsaw in his ‘business affairs,’ she didn't know that she would double as a medical orderly, but in retrospect she should have known better by the looks of everything.

She was presently standing in the middle of hers and John's shared working space, looking at him as he put one piece after another together in their newest contraption. He wanted to make a chair that twisted the limbs of the person sitting on it. It was still a long way away, this being more of a prototype at this point, and he was working meticulously at it, but all Amanda could see was how washed out he seemed. 

John didn't seem that sick when he met her at her apartment, all those months ago, but now, it was too plain to see that things weren't so hot. He'd cough more often. He'd also walk slower. Sometimes, he'd need longer time to breathe from one project to another. 

When they were preparing the bathroom game, dragging bodies, making sure everything was right and John told her he wanted to be in the center, she remembered being worried about him simply because he was, well, older. Nowadays though, she thought that if he did lay down in another bathroom for hours, he'd probably never get up. 

So, the decision to talk to Lawrence came from her. 

“I see,” John said, briefly looking up from his work, but focusing back on it again soon enough. 

Amanda went from one foot to the other.

“Maybe it could help.”

“I'm dying, Amanda,” he said, slowly. “Nothing can help.”

“I know. But you don't have to suffer just because of that.”

In the background, in the many televisions John and Amanda had in their space, people screamed while having their limbs torn out. 

...

John decided to let her talk to Lawrence, so he knew she was coming. She sat there on a chair at Saint Eustace Hospital, and could see the nurses passing her by, making sure other patients were okay. It reminded her a lot of the Homeward Bound clinic Jill used to run and her arm started to itch.

“Amanda?” A nurse asked. She looked up at a kinder face than hers. “The doctor is free for you now.”

“Thanks,” she said, getting up. No one knew she was Jigsaw, or at least an apprentice Jigsaw, but that didn't make it easier. As she walked, it was as if they knew. She wasn't, obviously, ashamed of it, or at least not as much as her rational brain told her she should be. That being said, the brain is weird, she would know.

Besides, if all the apprentice Jigsaws in this hospital were discovered, Lawrence would probably be in way deeper shit than a former drug addicted felon would be. That brought her some level of comfort.

“Amanda,” Lawrence greeted from his desk when she showed up. He pointed at the chair. “Close the door, will you?”

“Yeah,” she said, doing just that, before making way towards him. She didn't wanna sit down, not yet. “I'm assuming John told you why I'm here.”

“You want to make sure he's OK.” It was a statement. She nodded. “You understand that people go to medical school for years before they can do this stuff right?”

“You're saying I'm not capable of it?” Obviously not. Why are you challenging him? He's a doctor. He would know. Maybe this is stupid.

“No,” Lawrence said, cutting her thoughts. “I'm simply saying that I can't exactly teach you how to operate on someone. Not on the spaces we have,” and she knew he meant “we” as a team here, not “we” as the hospital he worked at “Not with the resources we have. The most I can do is give you books, talk you through treatments John was already going through that ended up interrupted because of his… Well. New status.”

“Yeah. I'd like that.” Lawrence never stopped looking at her. She thought she knew why.

“Alright. I'll see what I can do. I'll gather some resources, I'll… Steal some medicine.” She looked at him up and down, in that expensive suit, the expensive office, the job. The only thing out of the ordinary was the divorce, but then again how really out of the ordinary was it for a man of his age to be divorced from his first wife? Almost perfect or too perfect. And he's was gonna steal meds for her.

Apprentices come in all shapes and sizes.

“Thanks, Lawrence,” she said, and turned around. 

“Wait…” Slowly, Amanda did an about face. She knew her hair was getting longer, but her clothes were still, alternative enough. So she could guess at what he was thinking, or remembering.

“It's ok, you know. I suppose it's not easy to look at the person who kidnapped you and put you in a bathroom for hours. But if this is about him, he didn't suffer. Not really.” You know, apart from the three days of complete starvation.

Lawrence looked relieved. Amanda always thought she probably reminded him of Adam. Well… Who knows what he really thought of her or of Adam. Neither she, nor John actually knew what went through Lawrence's head about that. He hadn't even recovered completely when she went back down to the bathroom to kill him, considering Lawrence had been battling general infection and dehydration at the time. However, the first thing he asked about was him, and when John told him he was dead, he never asked again. Whenever they saw each other, she felt like he wanted to, though. They barely talked, so no chance. Not without John hearing. 

Amanda nodded and left the room, with no more words, but still thinking. John wasn't dangerous. Not really. Still, it was better if he didn't know that Lawrence was still hooked on Adam. Probably. Again, who knew what went through Lawrence's head. Amanda thought he probably caught feelings and snorted through her nose a little bit at a middle aged man's gay awakening being in a kidnapping situation. She'd plead insanity if she hadn't heard him in his sleep before, one time when John let him stay the night. Apparently he had problems with his wife, no new apartment yet, all of that. Amanda had slept with her arms on top of the workbench, her head against the cold metal, all of which helped to keep her sane, so the pain didn't matter. 

He, Mr. Perfect, had slept on the couch, another dent in his façade. 

Lawrence was lucky John wasn't around when he murmured Adam's name. Amanda was, though, half asleep. She wondered if Adam knew that he haunted not one, but two apprentices’ nightmares. That's gotta be worth something. Who knows, maybe he even haunted that little asshole friend of his, Scott whatever, who tried to harass her that one time. John didn't let her make a trap for him, because it would be a waste, but Amanda was increasingly of the opinion that people like Scott are a waste. 

...

Lawrence kept good on his word. He came by the workshop while she was alone. She did point a gun at him, though. It had been a lonely day at that particular workshop. The cop, Hoffmann, was nowhere to be found, and John had to take a break, so Amanda was antsy and stressed by a number of things, John's new treatment one of them. She even forgot she went up to the hospital until she saw him, a ghost with blonde hair and pale skin, almost too perfect to be there in the fifth and rust.

“Shit. Sorry,” she put the gun down, scratching her arm idly, going from one foot to the other, noticing how Lawrence didn't even flinch. She didn't see the usual fear in his eyes, the one she was used to.

“It's ok,” he said, and approached her, cane hitting the floor with each step, handing her a bag full of things: Books, pills, syringes. “How was the game?”

“Eventful,” she said, shrugging. “Joan survived.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Lawrence said, sounding sincere. She gave him half a smile, before turning around and dumping everything on the metal table with a distinctive loud sound. Both were unimpressed. “Where's John?”

“He's at home.” She stopped herself. How much can I tell this guy? “He's uh… Doing research about a thing, preparing to go to Mexico.”

“Mexico?” Lawrence repeated. “Why?” Amanda shrugged.

“It's a new medical thing. Cause John wants to find other ways to treat his cancer. It's… I just let him do it. It can't hurt. He wants to live, even if these people don't.” Amanda saw that Joan survived, yes. But people like her were an increasing improbability. 

She looked down at everything on the table, the books, the pills and wondered if she was gonna need all of that. If John came back cured from Mexico, or whatever, there might be no need. That would be a relief. She wanted John to live. Still, how much hope could she really put into an experimental treatment?

“We survived,” Lawrence spoke, making her turn her head. “We wanted to live.” Amanda snorted.

“Yeah well, great stuff.” The corpse of Adam might as well have been between them.

“As John's doctor,” Lawrence began, despite the stench of rotting flesh, “I have to say I cannot recommend any alternative treatments…”

“Last time you said that, he put you in a trap,” Amanda said, opening a particularly thick volume. “Maybe it's best if you stay in your lane.” She didn't mean for it to sound like a threat, but increasingly she found that most things she said did. It's better than the desperate, lost tone she had before, she guessed. Lawrence chuckled.

“Yes, maybe.” He then approached the table and Amanda looked up. “Let me teach you how to use some of this stuff anyway. Just in case.”

...

“Just in case” turned out handy, as John's bogus treatment turned out, well, bogus and their trip to Mexico was way worse and much more nerve wracking than Amanda could have anticipated. She was silent looking out the window down to the world below. She wondered how many people in those houses deserved to die. 

“Amanda,” John called, and she turned to look. “Did you speak to Dr. Gordon recently?”

“Right before our trip, yeah,” she answered. John stopped for a second, pondering.

“You were right about asking for help,” he finally said, looking at her. “Thank you.”

She nodded and he went back into silent thinking while she turned her face towards the window once more, trying not to cry.

Amanda really, really, didn't want him to die.

...

John's fate sealed, Amanda watched as he prepared instructions and tapes for a lot of tests to come after he was gone. The tapes were supposedly for her and the cop. He seemed to be around more and more.  

“Do you like that guy?” Lawrence asked one day. They both looked at an unconscious Michael Marks on the table. He was supposedly that fuckass Matthews’ informant. She was happy to kidnap him, to put him in a slab, to make him suffer just a little bit. She wished that he was conscious for his procedure, but John thought differently. In any case, Amanda was there simply to learn how to administer the drugs John needed, how to hook him to a machine, anything that she could while Lawrence was away on a trip with his daughter, which would last a while.

She was also aware she was on tape, but she knew her body and face were concealed from the camera lenses, considering she helped install the thing.

“What? Who, the cop?” Amanda asked, disgusted. Lawrence smiled.

“I guess not,” he said, threading the needle one final time, before he observed his handy work.

“Good job,” she said, strained, in lieu of anything else. 

“Thank you,” Lawrence said, dignified. She looked at him the same way someone would look at a particularly intimidating teacher. “So, shall we?”

...

Amanda is sitting at the Wilson Steel Plant, looking down at her hands, shaking. John's supposed to welcome the cops in a few hours. She's panicking, slightly. 

“Is this comfortable?” Lawrence asked, still there for this last checkup.

“As much as it can be. Thank you.” Lawrence took a last look at the bags and made sure he had enough oxygen in his tank, before nodding. 

“Alright. Guess I'm going now.”

“Yes, go spend time with your daughter.” John said, somewhat painfully. Amanda raised her head to look at them both. “These are precious moments you have with her.”

These are precious moments… The sentence was precisely what she had in mind too. Precious. She needed so much to get up and leave the room for a second, and it didn't matter if John followed her with his eyes all the way outside or if she felt so tired she could barely push the door.

Lawrence met her at the hallway.

“Amanda. It is my understanding that you're going to participate in this next game.” John didn't tell Lawrence everything, just the basics. She nodded anyway.

“Yeah. I'm supposed to make sure this kid is ok. And to make sure everybody knows the rules.”

“A valuable addition,” Lawrence gracefully added. “Who's gonna take care of John while you're gone?”

“No one,” Amanda said. “He's gonna be alone for a while. I trust him, though,” she said this, but looked down. Where she comes from, that was an admittance of guilt. 

“I see.” Lawrence said, knowing she was hiding something. “Well, good luck.”

...

Fuck fuck fuck!

“What happened to him?” Hoffmann asked Amanda as she brought a seriously injured John in.

“That animal Detective Matthews," she shouted at him, vitriol in every word, face horribly contorted. "Or should I say your fucking partner?!” Amanda asked, while Hoffmann helped her with John. “He fucking did this!”

“Amanda…” John murmured. “Don't.” She looked at him, feeling her eyes water, feeling herself to be ridiculous for this. Her only consolation was that Eric Matthews was gonna die. He couldn't survive what she did to him. 

“Where is he?” Hoffmann asked.

“I left him in the bathroom, like you said,” she lied, making sure to hook John into the IV, making sure to look for the right pills.

It's not heroin, but it might take the edge off. It's not heroin, but it might take the edge off. It's not heroin, but it might take the edge off. 

“Here,” she said, bringing the pills back instead of taking them, one by one until she was full. “Give these ones to John, it'll numb the pain. Then we'll hook him on morphine.”

Morphine, morphine, morphine…

“Are you telling me the truth?” Hoffmann asked. Amanda looked up again.

“What are you implying?” She asked, this time the threat being real. As insane as making an unlikely friend in a man you helped tie to a pole, Hoffmann was different. She had no idea why John let him stay for as long as he did. Why did he trust him so much? He smelled like a rat. 

“Nothing,” Hoffmann said with a half smile, and Amanda went back to making sure John not only stayed with them for now, but took some damned painkillers. 

...

Hoffmann disappeared somewhere, thankfully, and Amanda stayed to watch over John. She made sure to count the pills, the few bottles Lawrence brought, plus the stuff they already had, and she made sure to brush up on some reading. Turns out cancer wasn't as complicated as everyone made it seem. Didn't make it easier on anyone's body though, and John being as old as he was and as advanced as he was… 

There's not much time.

That was the crux of the matter. She bit onto a very sensitive skin on her lip until it bled and tasted it. She wondered where Lawrence was, if he and Diana were having fun. He was so removed from all of this, with his little suit and his little medical practice. 

Maybe in another life she could have had a Diana. Not that she felt particularly motherly. Cecil was the last man she fucked and he wasn't really a fatherly type, either. She wondered how it would be to fuck Lawrence and laughed a little at herself, a little secretive silent laugh, while reading the same sentence over and over. It would be like fucking a very specific type of white concrete wall. It would probably suck too. She wondered if he'd cry. Nothing wrong with it, she cried on most days now.

There was no way she could have a relationship like this. John coughed on the slab, and when she looked up his vital signs were stable. It's just a cough to indicate he's dying. No big deal.

...

Gordon is back from his trip just in time. Amanda was working on her own trap, the Angel Trap as she called it. It was supposed to rip a person to shreds unless they could get the key in a minute. It was poetic in a way, somewhat beautiful. John approved of it. What he doesn't know, he can't feel.

She kept working at it so she didn't have to hear the coughing, so it was incessant work by now.

“Amanda.” Lawrence said behind her, and she didn't point a gun this time. Instead, she just turned around.

“Hi.”

“Your hair grew.”

“Yeah,” she said, touching it reflexively. He looked somewhat sad. I look less like him by the day, huh? “How was your trip?”

“Good. Diana was particularly fond of the beach.” She smiled and turned back to her work.

“I liked the beach when I was younger.”

“You went with your dad too?” Amanda stopped. 

“No, not really.” She retrieved a screwdriver from the table. “John wants to talk to you. He's in his office.” There was a pause.

“I see. Thank you.” 

She watched as he made his way towards the door and went back to her work. Her dad really didn't do much good. It was useless to try to talk about him or even think too much . She looked at the office and could see they were talking through the window, wondering what it was about.

“So that's it?” Lawrence was crossing the room. He stopped to answer her.

“I'm supposed to come back for another stitching procedure.”

“I see.” Amanda stretched her back. “Is he OK?” His expression softens.

“Yes. He's alright.”

What a lie.

...

Troy's trap is set. He will not survive. Amanda is giddy, but tries to hide it, when everything goes as planned.

“What a waste,” John says, looking at the footage. He's sicker. More frail. She checks the bottles every day. She makes sure he has enough supplies, enough rest, food, water… 

“Yeah,” she agrees vaguely, pushing John, now in a fucking wheelchair. Everything has been hectic lately. John's worsening, Hoffmann being around more, the cops closing in, the kidnappings increasing. All of that. A Lynn Denlon is supposed to be around next, Lawrence suggested her. Amanda didn't get why, but John told her she's a neurosurgeon. The best. 

How convenient, a neurosurgeon who happens to be great at what she does and who is also throwing her life away. 

Amanda's thinking all of this while reading and looking at her trap from time to time, just to make sure it's still there, as if it would disappear. Turns out the cop is useful after all. He helps her put that bitch Kerry into it and she is elated to see as her creation finally takes her ribcage apart, revealing everything about her, good and bad.

John is wrong about killing. This can't be bad if it feels so cathartic. Some people just deserve to die. 

Did you? 

The illustrations in her medical books are beyond accurate.

...

Lawrence comes back, sews Art and some other guy's eyes shut. Amanda helps. She also helps Hoffmann kidnap a bunch of other people. John says they're human beings, but truthfully she can't remember who is who. She likes when Hoffmann gets a snide comment though. She doesn't like when Jill comes to see them. She can only remember the baby.

Hoffmann is looking at her weird, but Amanda is finishing yet another book, the last one Lawrence brought her. What was it, five books? She read some multiple times. She checked the bottles again.

“Amanda,” John's weak voice awoke her from her counting trance. “Are you resting?” 

“I'm alright.”

“I don't think so. I think you should have a good night of sleep.”

“How can I sleep when you're here?” She asked, distraught. His vital signs were so weak. She couldn't even fool herself about it.

“You have to accept what you can't control.”

“But I can't…” Amanda said, knowing her voice came out as a weak murmur.

“Counting bottles won't keep me from dying, but it will keep you from doing an acceptable job tomorrow. You must rest.”

But the letter was waiting for her. And her knives.

She cried the whole night through.

...

Everything smelled like a hospital. It was just a matter of time. John was laid down, at his likely final resting place. Hoffmann's letter kept ringing through her head.

Kill Lynn Denlon. Kill Lynn Denlon. Kill Lynn Denlon.

“You did a good job,” Lawrence said after checking John's heartbeat. Amanda’s wet eyes went to his face. He had a firm smile. “You could have been a good medical student.”

“Amanda is very bright,” John interceded. “She has a bright future ahead of her.” Lawrence nodded.

“I have no doubt about that.”

...

An hour later Amanda is screaming at a doctor about drugs and having a collapse. The room is somehow green, somehow closing on her and she wondered if these were symptoms of anything at all before coming back to reality.

Too many medical books.

“He needs surgery,” Lynn keeps repeating but honestly she needs to shut the fuck up before Amanda puts a hole through her head. 

She grabs and pulls hair, she cuts, she bleeds, nothing seems to be really enough. Everything is coming down. John is dying in a room, people are dying in the game and Lynn Denlon needs to die too.

Will John even survive? Why would I do what he says when he won't have time to tell him?

Because she wanted to kill Lynn. Why did he keep smiling at her? Why did he choose her? She was the best, right? That couldn't be it. That was one of the reasons, he said.

Then why? Was she special?

Amanda went out to get more drugs. Lynn wouldn't be stupid enough to try to escape. She was a smart type, a pretty doctor. Just like Lawrence, but even more put together. She had brains and even more. Lawrence didn't even look like himself halfway through his game, but Lynn was holding up fairly well. It was sort of impressive. She herself would be a pile of nerves.

In fact, she couldn't even put the key in the ignition. Could she run to Saint Eustace? That would be stupid. 

She tried again. And again. 

“Jesus fucking christ!”

Amanda, get a fucking grip. Now! John's gonna die! Get your shit together!

She drove to the hospital and back in record time, even if people screamed at her from their cars. Fuck them.

...

Lynn cut John's head open like she was cutting meat for dinner. Amanda had been lucky that Lawrence was on duty. Lynn couldn't even suspect he put her through this. 

“How is she?” Lawrence had asked. Amanda shrugged.

“We'll see.”

The machines were beeping. They were so loud. Oh my God. John.

“Amanda, I need your help!” Lynn screamed and her eyes were alert again.

...

Getting shot was as intense as she thought it might be by the looks of everyone else. Not that she had time to think about it as she collapsed to the floor, a relief considering the last few months or even years. Amanda wondered when was the last time she stopped thinking. John kept telling her things. She had failed. She looked up at the counter, at the bottles she had counted. She looked at him, she looked at Lynn. She couldn't see through the tears and she felt the warm blood gushing through her wound, through her fingers. It was her own this time.

She thought about Lawrence. She thought about her dad. She thought about Adam. 

You're dying, Amanda. She looked at John one last time. Maybe he would forgive her before she went.

“Game over.”

Yeah. It surely seemed that way. 

[m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s]

so I wrote something :)

for the first time in forever, I wrote something, and it’s about this one AU I’ve had in my head forever, so here it is.

I hope you enjoy, and instead of my taglist, I’m just gonna tag some peeps I think would like to read it (my taglist is so outdated fr)

—

Word Count: 886 words

Warnings: mentions of death, angst and fluff mixed together, mentions of past trauma (not detailed, but mentioned)

Genre: Angst, fluff, comfort

Notes: This relates to snippet #12 on the “That One AU” master post, you don’t have to read it, but it gives more context. This is also an OC within Marvel I’ve created (V), so when I say “that one AU”, this is the general idea I mean :)

—

chronicle I - tissues

—

“I’ll stay.”

V had meant it when she said it, even if that had been 3 days ago.

Sick super soldiers were nothing to mess with.

Snotty tissues, those rattling coughs, the fitful rest. Nothing about it was pleasant, sickness was just that.

Yet V remembered that night he had taken her in, when the nightmares tantalized themselves into shadow figures on the walls. One’s that followed her, slithered up the walls, snakes ready to dip their fangs into their prey.

V was prey that night.

She would have been eaten, venom injected, poison filling veins until nothing was left but a rotting carcass, and memories of all the blood spilt by her hand.

James Bucky had saved her that night.

In his room, with that soft sage green lamp, nothing could hurt her there.

V was indebted to him, whether he knew it or not.

So taking care of a sick super soldier?

That was just a simple token, a small step in the debt she felt she owed him.

“You know you don’t have to take care of me, right?”

In the days V had taken care of the super soldier, she’d cleaned up the mess of tissues, helped him become more comfortable, given him medicine, even gone as far as making him stew today.

She shrugged as she carefully set up the little table on his bed, where he was laying now. Better looking than he had in the previous days, but still grasped by the vices of the cold he had.

“I know. But I want to.”

He smiled.

He did that a lot when she was around.

It was almost like a different smile, one only she was privy to see.

V didn’t dwell on it.

“What’s this?”

She had talked to him more than she ever had.

She thought at first, it would be strange. To be so silent, only to speak in large amounts while taking care of him. While she would have preferred to stay in the silence of her world, she knew it would be unavoidable to speak while taking care of him.

She was also finding she didn’t mind it so much.

“Chicken stew. Jarvis helped me with the recipe.”

She had no clue what she was doing in the kitchen, and thank god that billionaire genius had the technology to help her.

“Chicken stew?”

A blank stare met his eyes, tender movements as she set it on the table.

She didn’t understand.

“Chicken stew is my favorite. My mom used to make it all the time, back when…”

There was that strange understanding they both had. Lives lived, but somehow forgotten, through the torment and tragedy of memories stolen and traded. Lives where choices were made for the two of them, where things called blenders still stung to the core, and always fearing the cold would catch up eventually.

“I didn’t know that.”

He smiled.

Again.

“Just makes it all the more better.”

She helped to prop him up, fluffing pillows behind him, allowing him to sit up.

Then the silence.

Sips of stew, soft breaths, no cold.

She didn’t smile, she didn’t know how to truly do it.

But taking care of this sick super soldier, watching as he sipped the stew that had almost burned down the entire building because it had been so long since she’d cooked?

Something within her made her want to smile.

She just-

“My favorite color is green.”

She looked up to him, the tissues covering the ground losing her attention.

They weren’t that interesting anyway.

“I couldn’t tell.”

That was one thing she had learned about the super soldier in the days she had come to be his caretaker.

Green.

Everywhere.

Bedding that was green, and various articles of clothing that were green, even a few plants by the window that were, albeit between life and death, still green.

She didn’t understand.

“Why?”

He knew she wasn’t asking why his favorite color was green.

“Maybe I want to know yours.”

He wanted to see if it was still the same, just as it had always been.

Even if she didn’t remember everything else with it.

V hadn’t really thought of a favorite color.

Though for some reason she knew the answer when his statement, his curiosity, was made known.

“Poppy-”

“Poppy red.”

She stared at him.

How had he known?

A clearing of a throat, her stare more curious.

He should have held his tongue.

“I noticed you wear red a lot. I thought, well I guess I just- researched the type of red you wear. I guess.”

The tissues littering the floor were interesting suddenly.

He hadn’t meant to say it.

He knew he shouldn’t push it, shouldn’t push the boundaries of the memories and hopes and dreams he held.

Bucky knew he had stepped too far, the distance growing, gro w ing, gr o w i n g-

“So what’s with you and green?”

It was his turn to blank stare.

Tissues once again abandoned.

“I have to research now.”

Bucky wasn’t sure, he was bad at reading her, time passed too far and too soon.

He was fairly sure there was a hint, a small peek at a smile.

The distance was closed.

A strange softness settled between the two.

The tissues could wait.

—

some peeps I think who would like this: @hellothere-generalangsty @eyecandyeoz @monako-jinn-stories @rainydaydream-gal18 @emperor-palpaminty @ahsokasleftbicep @chaoticvampirejedi

[vivelarevolution13]

Hello & Happy Monday!

So...for the WIP tag game...I know I'm supposed to pick the one (1! ONE!) that I find most intriguing, but this is like a whole buffet of intrigue, so maybe I can have two? 👀 1) НОЧНОЙ РАЗГОВОР (FIGURE OUT) <- ngl, the 'figure out' cracked me up. Also, late night conversations? Yes, please!

2) what's a nice nutcase like you doing in a place like astoria 1203 <- this just sounds fun...and possibly like the title could be deliberately misleading

Thank you! <3

Hello helloo, happy Monday to you too! (but also Tuesday now I guess. It's a 2-for-1!)

Thank you for the ask, and thank you for indulging me with two (2! it's gonna be so long!) <3

НОЧНОЙ РАЗГОВОР (FIGURE OUT!!!) - Ooof, this fucking guy. I'm glad my stern instructions to myself in the title there were funny, because I do indeed need to FIGURE this one OUT and it's bugging me. It's essentially another chapter that's a part of a larger work (not naming names not pointing fingers but it's. The Work I'm Having Trouble Updating) and it was written a looong while back, which is why it's now a standalone file. I love the premise but I kinda want to tear it down and rebuild it entirely, mostly because I'm still deciding on whether I like the way I wrote the backstory for it. So. It's fun! It's challenging! It's giving me a migraine! The title's from this song about a tired traveler trying to find his way in the night. It's three conversations (Steve+Nat, Nat+Bucky and Bucky+Steve - although they barely talk at all) that happen in the night after a very not lucid, injured Don't-Call-Me-Bucky who's recently remembered the Red Room and also had a pretty rattling encounter with the code words seeks Natasha out in Europe for [redacted] something as a last resort, but instead accidentally walks straight into Steve who he's been staying away from like the Devil Himself since CATWS. And then basically bleeds all over him. (I am not immune to the wound care trope! However, this is unfortunately not that.) A lot of ugly feelings and defense mechanisms are brought up, some painful memories re: the war and the Red Room are brought up, and nobody's having a good time or really knows how to process jack shit. They all communicate/perceive love&protection in wildly different ways, and while all three dynamics end on some kind of natural conclusion it's still a lot of unfinished, unspoken business and just kind of sad. Hurt no comfort that's necessary for there to be the promise of comfort in the future, if you will. Tbh, I really want to finish/reincorporate this one. But it's just so *screams into paper bag*. Anyway. Snippet:

When Steve wakes up the next morning Bucky’s gone, like he knew he would be. Like a hurricane passing through, the foreknowledge doesn’t make the aftermath any easier. And then what? his own voice from so long ago echoes in his head as he waits for the water for Natasha’s tea to boil in the sunny little kitchenette of the motel’s lobby. 16 hours later, he’s watching the blinding stripe of the sun setting over the East River before the plane maneuvers onto the landing strip at JFK. The hell else? Then we march on, ace. We go home.

2. what's a nice nutcase like you doing in a place like astoria 1203 - oh good, thank god! So this one is a bit more fun, but it's only got a few disjointed half-scenes so far. The title is actually one of the most literal ones on the list - the fic does take place in Astoria, Queens, and it does involves a certain "nutcase". Several, even. They really don't get along, and then they almost do.

(Blame my recent rewatch of the Netflix shows for this one. Man. What a golden age that was.)

Excerpt under the cut:

It was easy to clock the combat training before, sure, but up close this guy’s… Keyed up. Wild-eyed, a little, and not in the twitchy way of the three idiots piled up outside by the ruined water hydrant, not just sheer adrenaline stoked by fear and booze and coke. More dialed-in, purposefully ruthless. Hungry. Getting up with an expression like an enraged bull in spite of the beating he just took. Nutcase, Barnes thinks bleakly. Not that he’s in any position to judge — glass houses, all that, but — “What’re you,” he croaks, “some kind of psycho?” “Says the guy who just mowed down six guys without blinking." The man spits, grimacing at the blood that lands on the stark white of the rooftop like it personally offends him. If he notices the similar spray across his busted face, his clothes, his military-short hair, he doesn't seem to give a damn. "Nice going, by the way— my man got away." "And my man's bleeding out on a fucking pool table downstairs," he grits out. He doesn't have time for this. This whole night has been one giant exercise in unpredictability, and the police sirens echoing off in the distance are problem enough without him having to duke it out over and over with some local homicidal moron who might or might not be HYDRA. "You wanna tell me what that's about?" The man levels an irritated look back at him and then shrugs, dismissive. "I don't play with my food." "Your food had intel I've been hunting for two weeks." "Tough shit. Maybe if you hadn't screwed up your goddamn trig—" His lip curls of its own volition, affronted despite himself. What an appropriate time for his ego to announce it's back from the dead and in the mix. How fun. “The hell I did. I don’t miss.” "Is that right? There's some real screwed up drywall down there that says otherwise." His voice picks up an edge of something dangerous, aiming for threatening and landing on feral as he takes a step closer, and Jesus, can he stay down already? "Unless you did it on purpose to let him know I'm coming because you work for the bastard, in which case lemme tell you, you and me have a whole different problem." "I don't work for anybody," he says, probably with more intensity than strictly necessary. "He was a civillian. I don't kill civillians." The words curl acerbic on his tongue. He doesn't. He doesn't. That, of all things, makes the man laugh, a bitter little thing that sounds like it clawed its way out of his throat, and only barely. Who the fuck is this guy. "Oh Jesus Christ, not this bullshit again— how many of you assholes are running around this place, huh?" he says, gesturing a little wildly at him. "You got a fancy catsuit under that hobo getup, too?" It's Barnes' turn to look at him like he's a few marbles short, which judging by all evidence he very well might be. The guy snorts at his confusion, shaking his head. "If you consider that criminal piece of dog shit a civilian, you’re way more out of your depth than I thought, kid.”

but also:

“Self-righteous, God's sacrificial lamb type-of-shit," he mumbles around the mouthful with distaste, staring off across the bridge. "Got himself a stupid fucking title and everything, if you can believe that. Major pain in my ass.” Barnes hums, considering, before taking a cautious bite of his own sandwich. The thick pile of fatty meat and melted cheese breaks apart in his mouth easy with a sudden, almost overwhelming explosion of flavours, his empty stomach singing praises despite the ache in his bruised jaw as he chews. He never thought he’d say this, but god bless Queens. “Catholic?” Castle grunts an affirmative. “Yeah, I have some experience with that.”

[backtothestart02]

FANFIC TAGGING GAME

I got (honorable) tagged by the wonderful @theartofdreaming1- thanks!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? - 321

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,322,068 words (at the moment)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Still writing for The Flash, but every once in a while a new show/movie grabs my fancy and I write a few fics for that.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

An unimpressive bunch but here goes: Muse (456), Replacement Scrunchie (393), Fallen Star (357), Inconvenient Inspiration (343), and Drabbles (277). Muse is a handful of one-shots based solely off spoilers before I saw the eps they were for. Replacement Scrunchie is my sole fic for the TATBILB fandom about Peter & LJ's first date (which was way less impressive than what the sequel movie gave us, WOW). Fallen Star is my most popular westallen fic to date, so that one's actually not too surprising. But both Inconvenient Inspiration and Drabbles are requested (the latter) and spontaneous (the former) brainstorming ficlets and snippets for The Flash/WA. Bo-ring.

5. Do you respond to comments?

Eventually.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh, gosh, I have so many unfinished fics that it's hard to remember the complete ones that I finished that didn't end so happy, of which there aren't many. Maybe...Breaking Point though.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All the others have happy endings. Go read them. Lol.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

When I wrote for another fandom I did, but not really in The Flash fandom, which is nice.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yep. And uh...descriptive, I guess? I'm def not the best out there, but I do my best and for the most part smut-lovers seem to enjoy.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I've attempted a couple crossovers, but I haven't completed any or gotten far with them, usually because there wasn't an audience for it.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yeah, I discovered a whole bunch on another website years ago.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

In the process of it!

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Stuck on Westallen atm, but I used to write Chair, and I was highly obsessed with them as well.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Oh god, I have SO MANY WIPs. One that I really want to finish but fear I won't though has got to be He's MY Barry Allen. I'm just stuck on what the next chapter will look like, and as of yet no one has come forward with a solution. Lol. The Problem is Tony Woodward is another one like that.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I'd like to think I can hook people into my fics fairly well and drop enough cliffies to keep them coming back for more. But ofc the smut helps too. Most of my fics include at least some smut, even a single scene.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Sometimes I have trouble making a chapter (or a scene for that matter) all that long. I've seen people write like 10k+ for a chap, and unless I'm crazy inspired, roughly 1-3k is what you're getting.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I actually dabbled in this a little bit for a westallen fic where Iris was learning Italian, I think? I did some research and managed to sift in enough for that one-shot, but I can't imagine I'd do it repeatedly or for a multi-chap.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

I believe it was the STAR WARS prequels, but it might've been The Day After Tomorrow.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

It's unfinished, but there's so much untapped potential in my Flashpoint fic. Lots of world-building that's present as it rides the line between canon divergent and AU. Hopefully one day I'll get back to it.

...

As much as I'd love to tag a bunch of people, I can't recall anyone who still writes fic that I follow on here, so I'll just shout out my bestie @simplylove101 who is prob done with writing but may want to answer these questions either way!

[hotcheetohatredwastaken]

7 & 11 for the ask game pls

7 -- Okay a specific scene/paragraph I am especially proud of is the below snippet from Broken (the chapter is actually called Little White Lies, all of my chapters are 20k words plus and I just split them up so they're actually digestible lol)

Twilight didn’t sit, but knelt in front of him on the tile floor. He clasped Wild’s uninjured hand in both of his own. “Wild, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but it’s a lot to explain, and I know that it’s going to sound absolutely crazy, and insane, but…” He looked away, his expression clouded.

Something was wrong. Both his and the Sheikah’s behavior was so abnormal, so off, that something had to have changed—Wild could feel it in the very air, like an invisible undercurrent of electricity.

And somehow, Wild knew that nothing would ever be the same.

“I thought after I lost them a few years ago—the portals, when I ended up alone here—I didn't that they'd—that you'd—Wild, I…” Twilight finally looked him in the eye. The utter despair there, staring back at Wild, frightened him. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

He began to speak, and Wild’s world as he knew it shattered.

11--Do you have playlists for any of your fics/wips?

I have one gigantic playlist of all the songs I've ever binge listened to while writing this fic on Spotify, going back over four years. It's named after Legend because I heard one song that sounded like it would vibe with him (I think it was Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons, real on the nose I know XD) and then I just never made another playlist. It has about 10 hrs of songs (which honestly is less than I thought it would be). But like, this thing is all over the place. You Do Not Walk Alone (choral) I remember was specifically listened to write Ch 77. Something Wild by Lindsey Stirling was used to write some of the early chapters of Arc 2. I was listening to Broken Arrows by Avici when I was writing Ch 57-60. And I wrote all of chapters of 63-69 (that count is after I cut 10,000 words XD) on a fever dream of a 10 bus ride (there and back) in high school while listening to Curtains from Beat saber XD on repeat. Towards the Sun from that weird alien movie was chapters 41-50. I also have all of the FMAB opening and closing songs in there as well XD.

SO, uh. Yeah, to answer the question, yes, I have a playlist. I just had a commentor on BDOR recommend some Joel Sunny stuff, so I guess that's the theme of the next few prologue chapters XD

[saltydumplings]

Hi!! You wrote it ages ago but would you consider continuing snippet 2?? It was great, I loved it!!!

Snippet #2.1

Part 1

Oh my god, y'all remember Snippet Two?! HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME FEEL ALL FUZZY INSIDE-- I'M NOT CRYING, YOU ARE!!

If the hero would not look after themself willingly, then the villain would force them to.

Mind control was not a power they were overly fond of having. Indeed, sometimes even for them - a villain, whose morals were admittedly a little on the more questionable side of things - the idea of using it just seemed wrong. Invasive. For that reason, they only tended to use it in moments of desperation, and when they'd seen the hero approaching them looking every bit dead upon their feet, as though the whole weight of the world was pressing down upon their back, the villain had been more desperate than ever.

The first thing they did was force the hero to slip into a deep sleep, not moving until they were convinced the other was completely under their influence before picking them up and carrying them all the way back to their lair. There they laid them down upon their sofa, briefly waking them to ask if they were hungry. The hero said yes. The villain only kept them awake a while longer to take note of any allergies or dietary preferences before letting them rest once more, making them a simple sandwich with a side of fruit and setting it down upon the counter. With a mere thought, the hero was awake again and coming to sit down at the place they'd set - the villain hovering over them for a moment to ensure they weren't about to collapse until finally coming to sit opposite them.

"Eat as much of it as you feel you can manage," the villain directed. "You should also drink some of that water, but don't force yourself if you don't think you can stomach it."

The hero's gaze was vacant as they stared back at them for a second and then down at their food. First they took a small sip of water, hands shaking slightly but other than that they managed just fine. Then they started to eat.

It was a slow process - the hero's bites were small and they took a long time to chew and swallow. When they pushed the plate forward to indicate they were finished it was still half full, though they'd at least drank the entirety of the glass of water. It still troubled the villain though - they'd hoped the hero would have eaten far more than that but they really didn't want to force them: the hero couldn't lie when they were under their influence; if the hero was saying they didn't want to eat more then the villain would respect that.

Still, it prompted them to ask a few questions.

"How many meals would you say you eat on an average day?"

The hero stared down at the table, their face void of any expression or feeling.

"Two," they answered. "I tend to skip breakfast, sometimes lunch too."

"And how many hours a day would you say you spend working?"

"Fourteen."

The villain sucked in a breath, internally cursing themself for not having intervened sooner.

"How many days a week?" they asked.

"Every day," the hero responded.

"You have no days off?"

The hero simply shook their head. "Only if I've sustained major injuries."

"And what counts as a 'major injury'?"

"Broken bones. Severe internal bleeding. Severe head trauma. Third-Degree bur--"

The villain paused them there, getting enough of an idea to continue forwards.

"How many hours of sleep would you say you get per night?" was their next question.

A beat of silence passed, the hero considering it slowly.

"Anywhere between three to five hours," they settled on eventually.

It made the villain sick to their stomach - all of it: whoever had let this happen was a monster with no care for anything but the amount of money in their pockets. The hero should have put a stop to it themself a long time ago but the villain also knew that they wouldn't have had the heart to; that if they got the chance they would always choose the people over themself no matter what. Stubborn, selfless, idiot... The hero had been working themself towards the point of breaking.

But the villain was here now. They would look after them, and they would help them recover. And they would never let this happen to their hero again.

"Is there anything else you need?"

The hero blinked slowly and the villain felt the tiniest pull of resistance from them - a small tug at the back of their mind.

"I need to work," they said. "I should be working - I need to work."

"No," the villain said. "The last thing you need to do is work."

For a second the hero seemed confused, then their expression turned vacant once more. "I need to sleep. I'm tired."

Now that was something the villain could agree to. They stood and made their way over to the hero, carefully picking them up from their seat and taking them down a set of corridors to their bedroom. There the villain helped them out of their shoes and cape and convinced them to lie down. As soon as the hero's head hit the pillow their eyes drooped, slowly closing shut as the villain carded a hand through their hair, lulling them into a much needed sleep. After a while, the villain came to lie beside them. They did it slowly - eyes tracing the movement of the hero's chest rising up and down as they gradually retracted their hold upon the other's mind, their influence thinning out until it was nothing more than a fleeting thought.

It had been a while since the villain had held someone under their control for that long...

The weariness set in immediately, the toll of using their power in such a sudden, intense, burst left them feeling numb - arms as good as lead, they felt their entire body relax, no longer pulled taut over the tension that their own power caused. A little clumsily they reached out for the hero beside them and pulled them closer ever so slightly, letting their chin rest upon the other's head as they too shut their eyes.

When the hero eventually awoke, the villain would need every fibre of the power within them to convince the other to stay.

[amaiguri]

Dead Darlings Tag

I got tagged by @maiemorrae so thank you! I actually cut a HUGE chunk -- like 9-12 months worth of letters -- a while back. None of it was working, so very little of it was "darling" save for one part: The Paralogue about Arlasaire's adoption.

You see, I don't remember being adopted so I only know how other people talk about it... and I wrote it from Gilunique's perspective. Here's a snippet from 2019 (Christ, I cannot believe it was that long ago...):

The girl ran up behind me then and pulled my dagger from my belt. I was so stunned that I let her do it. Then, she ran for the crabs. The dagger flashed easily under their shells and pierced their soft inner flesh. One. Two. Three. All dead in three clean strokes. The smaller ones fled. And the observing crowd clapped and jeered at the soldier, outdone by the little girl. I looked to my father and saw the dangerous smile and the gleam in his eyes. The girl returned the blade sheepishly. I couldn't see her mouth, but I think she might have been smiling.

Ah, Gil... male-gazing all over the room! Ew!

Here's Arlasaire reflecting on the same moment, that I wrote really recently...

Then, one of the officers angered a nest of spider crabs. The villagers kept them as easy food before the Storm. Some survived the fire. And they were furious to be troubled again. Everyone laughed as the brightest crab — flecked in reds and blues and greens, grown large enough to outweigh a cat — chased the officer up a wagon and pinched at his flailing ankles. Gil looked to his father, who laughed with the rest. But Gil scowled.

Gi: It’s not right…

No one else helped him. So I did. I took the dagger from Gil’s hands before he could say, “No.” I charged in. I slid it between the creatures eyes. Pried off its shell. Drove the blade in the exposed flesh. Just as my mother had taught me. The crowd whistled and cheered.

Lord Einharde offered to care for me after I returned the knife. But if I had said, “No,” what other option did I really have?

You can 1) Tell the specificity of my writing is much stronger and 2) See the contrast between the different perspectives in sharper relief.

Okay, thank you for coming 💜💜💜 Please jump on this trend if you would like!

[9w1ft]

Taylor is an entertainer. She sings the songs with the appropriate emotion that the song evoked in her at the time she wrote it and/or in a way that the audience can appreciate and also feel emotion while watching. If she sang her sad songs with a huge smile and laughing all the way through, it would be weird and off putting. If she was feeling sad one day and she sang Bejewled with tears in her eyes and a frown, it would be incredibly weird. She isn’t always feeling the emotion of the song in her life currently. But in order to put on a good performance, she is able to remember and bring up the appropriate emotions that go with the song. This is especially true with the surprise songs, because it’s the most anticipated moment of the night and everyone is watching her to see what she’ll do, and she can choose songs based on what she wants people to think about (unlike the standard set list.) She uses this to create a great performance that everyone wants to see. But it’s still a performance and you can never be sure if what she wants you to think is the real truth.

Now, I’m not saying that she is never in her current feelings for real when she sings these. An example to me is when she sang The Lucky One, she described the song being about “how terrible it is to be famous”. That was a moment of authenticity and truth that she doesn’t always share (it’s obvious that this is what the song is about, but she’d never quite stated it so bluntly before, and now, when she’s more famous than ever 11 years after she wrote it, it really packed a punch.) And that statement put the crowd into a somber mood as they listened and they could really relate to Taylor’s emotions. Another example is when she very weirdly proclaimed she was happier than she’d ever been and things finally made sense, and then sang Question…? Her statement did not go with everyone’s interpretation of the song, but her statement may have made some people question their interpretation of the song, and what was going on with her at that moment. That was a very strange performance for everyone. Except kaylors who thought the song was about a long time ago with Karlie but now they are very happy. And I think she very much enjoyed f-ing with people’s perceptions. But she’s not going to be able to do that often. With ATW10, she sings it with a lot of emotion but sometimes she smiles or winks or air kisses the audience during the interludes, which does take audience out of the song a bit, but it works (partly because 10 minutes is an awfully long time to listen to a devastating song). But many noticed that on a day where the potential muse of this song did something shady, she sang did an especially angry version of ATW10 and then sang Breathe as a surprise song, giving us a little hint of confirmation as to who it may be about.

Maroon is a sad song about a devastating time. She will always sing it emotionally. I would encourage everyone to watch the entire performance. Don’t rely on little snippets that only show her looking upset. As 9w1ft said, there also were times during her performance when she smiled (during the first verse for sure, recounting the happy times -closest friend, see you every day now, rosé). And if I remember right, she ended it with what looked like a playful smile and piano flourish. To me this indicates that that devastating moment was in the distant past and whatever caused that moment has been moved past. And potentially she knew that her singing that was very devious on Karlie’s birthday, essentially confirming it was about Karlie, not the Red muse that most thought it was about (except most gaylors who thought from the start it was a Karlie song and the Red hints were red herrings of sorts. For us, it was just incredible confirmation.) That definitely warranted a smile when she was done.

Also if you know what 9w1ft’s interpretation of the song is, there’s anger in the song that has nothing to do with being angry at her lover. It’s anger at the world and outside forces. So she could still be using this lingering anger to access the right emotions to sing this song properly. If she was singing it on Karlie’s birthday in a way that was only sad/angry, and she looked sad after, or said something really sad before (like with The Lucky One) that would have told me that the song has only bad memories and legacy attached to it. But she didn’t. And much like when she used to sing ATW with tears in her eyes, but by the end of 2013 she was able to sing it with a small smile, things change. Time heals.

Also she sang this song 3 times, all in some way connected to Karlie: in NY (her and Karlie’s place - during a time on tour when she seemed really happy), on 8/3, and finally her last surprise song in August, Karlie’s birth month. Each time it was a very similar performance, with smiles mixed with anger and sadness. She does this a lot. Dancing With Our Hands Tied on rep tour: sad face, but smiling during the choruses. Cornelia street and Death By Thousand Cuts in Paris: serious face mixed with smiles. She also said that night that Cornelia street was a song about “happy memories”. But no one knows this because the story has become that these were the most devastating performances of her career (and there aren’t many videos of Paris, so people don’t know she was smiling.)

People have biases and they see want they want to see in Taylor’s emotions. Toes misinterpreted a million songs because they believed she was nothing but 100% happy with her perfect angel boyfriend. They ignored the haunting qualities of Rep and Lover songs, because a complicated relationship didn’t fit how they saw Toe. So they deluded themselves that the songs fit him. Only when they heard Peace and some other folkmore songs did they change the way they saw Toe, and all of a sudden they were both suffering from depression and had had a lot of relationship troubles along the way. People who believe kaylor broke up years ago did the same, but in an opposite way, ignoring the many marriage themes on Lover, and only focusing on the sad themes. Ignoring the little girl in the Lover video and only hearing Taylor say in Miss Americana that she wasn’t ready for children (and interpreting that as she never wants children.) All confirmation bias. Kaylors and people who ship Taylor with others do it too, of course.

Beyond just simple bias, people take things out of context and miss the whole picture and let incomplete information inform them. The vast majority of people who say she looked devastated while performing Maroon 8/3 have not watched the whole performance, only a 15 second snippet of the most devastating part of the song that was widely shared on social media and then the prevailing opinion that floated around afterward was based on that snippet. It became “canon,” even though it wasn’t based on reality. This happens a lot. It’s very hard to see everything that’s out there (who has that kind of time or energy?), and it’s easy to be swayed by bias, popular opinion, or even by people who have an agenda. So it’s good to ask questions like these of people who have different opinions.

good points all around!

let me tack on my maroon related posts