#it's been a rough few days and I'm fucking tired of coming on tumblr and everyone is just rude

[goldenworldsabound]

I'm really not a fan of the recent influx of jokingly (I assume jokingly) rude posts. I don't like being called a "dipshit". I don't like posts that insult the reader. I don't like polls that encourage being assholes to people with a specific hair color (the comments on that post are insane... it's not funny to call back to the time when everyone treated blonde people like they were stupid just for being blonde). Sorry I'm not any fun anymore but damn I really feel like the old person yelling at the kids to get off my fucking lawn. But ffs be nice to each other??? Be nice by default! Calling people rude names doesn't make you funny it turns out (it just makes you rude).

[pashminalamb]

TW: ✨spicy✨ thoughts ahead 👀 you’ve been warned 😌

Belle. belle. bElLe. BELLE.

what. RIGHT. do you have. to make me malfunction like this??????

WASHOUT???? I am. Just. I cannot okay.

The lifting their chin with your forefinger???? The caging them to a wall???? The making them suck on your thumb????? ✨magnificent✨

Isagi is actually a babygirl. My man’s acts like he’s all that and then some on the field but we all know he’s eager to get home and whining for you at the end of the day. Like TELL me that this man doesn’t love being degraded and put in his place. UGH.

AND RIN!!??? He hates losing so much but yet here he is, flustered and desperate in front of you. And he was so so so determined to win too, awwww poor baby. I just KNEW jealousy was gonna play a factor into his cause come on now, Rin gets so jealous so easily and it’s the cutest thing ever. Almost cuter than him in a crop top.

BACHIRA. BACHIRA. BACHIRA. First of all. Your first Bachira fic was amazing and definitely worth the wait. But seriously. Baby thought he was gonna get away with teasing you all week? Sweetie, there are consequences to your actions you know? THE WAY HE WAS SO OBEDIENT AND GOOD. UGH. I can literally SEE him smirking up at you with your thumb in his mouth, all hard and desperate, while in his knees. The messing clay hands makes it even more fun. Toki is an interesting nickname, I’ve never heard it before. What’s it mean? OH!!! And have you ever seen that kind of fanart with a ship where it’s a two part?? Where one is talking to their friends while the other it talking to theirs?? And it’s a light shading to highlight the handprints on their bodies??? Which are also the others signature color??? UGH THAT BUT WITH YOU AND BACHIRA. PLS I CAN SEE IT NOW. Have I mentioned that Bachira is my favorite?

How are you btw?? How’s the other blog coming along? Uni still tiring? Are you taking breaks 🤨?? Eating 🤨?? Drinking water 🤨?? Don’t forget to take care of yourself love 😤😤. (I saw all of this with aggressive concern and affection btw).

As for me, Im doing pretty good. I’ve got midterms and final exams coming up. Ive Gita a few assignments to do tonight but nothing too hard, just kinda long. But winter break is almost here so Im really excited for that. Im currently craving fresh bread atm. Specifically with broccoli and cheese soup 🥹🥹. Anyways. I hope you’re taking care of yourself!!! (pls take care of yourself 😭❤️) *sending aggressive virtual hugs*

- ✨ anon

forgot to include in my last basket but like Belle 😭😭😭. you’re turning me so dominant. in THAT way. what am i supposed to do now huh 😭😭😭. all this dom energy and no pretty boys to take it out on 🥹🥹🥹. i blame you (lovingly). take responsibility (affectionately). - ✨ anon

I um (°ー°〃) ... i don't regret it (kiss it better slowed and reverb made me do it and its my fav song now) and i had a panicky moment cause washout wasn't showing up in the tags - turns out if i use links it doesn't show up in the main tag- smh tumblr. you had 1 job. just. 1 job.

Giving back character analysis of how i see the boys-

Rin got two fingers shoved down his throat ( ᵘ ᵕ ᵘ )... hes lucky i didn't make it three

Isagi (sub leaning switch) is babygirl material. On the field he plays mean and rough, but when you're in charge? You can make him whimper. He is very shy when it comes to being in bed and on some days he just doesn't care (you'll see that when the other version is out) coming to terms with subby 'sagi; he is so innocent and cute, he will get turned on from the simple things you do.

Thigh fucking is his fav cause he whines and moans, begging you to let him cum.

Rin (dom leaning switch) - i have already decided on a nickname for him (sequel to my tears your comfort) but i'm caught between the two- so i gotta toss a coin to see which one we're rolling with. You wanna incite a reaction from this guy? Make him jealous. It's actually surprising that despite doing meditation and yoga, his patience snaps like a twig when he sees you dancing with another man despite knowing that you're loyal to him.

Rin wears designer clothes, but if we think abt him wearing a fishnet vest under a crop top for a second... time to fuck his brains out

He subbed his way through this one if you get it you get it Bachira (sub leaning switch fite moi) This is the first time I introduced him properly on the blog and poor baby ended up getting punished. He can already pull off a pretty good ahegao face for a start, so... convince me that he isn't a sub leaning switch. And YES! I know that image of handprints over each other- Bachira's would be orangey/ red and your's is white/gray , Bachi got less on us tho- there is more of it on him. I gave so much of a spoiler away for my tears, your comfort for Bachira and his edition of your words my hurt is not even out yet smh.

So for the nickname in Meguru's case... I really wanted it to be 'Harry' - cause harry POTTER (ik you get it- Bachira is the least creative when it comes to nicknames) and for me, I don't see names as a way of categorizing gender? but i thought some people wouldn't like being called Harry so i played safe and used toki instead which is the japanese word for pottery. or i was thinking abt keeping the nickname as 'nendo' which means clay as well- but Harry clicked... (might change the nickname to that when i release your words my hurt + sequel bachira edition)

ik bachira was your fav- i put it first for a reason (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و

coming to the part of establishing the reader as the dominant one in washout... it was purely self indulgent and i'm gonna let myself a little loose and say that i'm not a submissive person is a dom/ major dom minor sub and since i've writing a sub reader for too long, my patience snapped and... uh yeah dom came out.

(and i like the fact that we're making people dominant here)

I'm doing alright! Uni is going great, i was late to class by twenty minutes and had a girlboss moment with answering questions (yes i am THAT girl) forgot to take my gloves today and i had to wash out the dirt again (these books are too old like 1940s old) i finished drinking over 2 bottles of water - i don't know how many gallons it was but i knew i needed it cause staying hydrated is important

٩꒰｡•◡•｡꒱۶

I actually ate more than usual today- lasagna, ice cream (gave me a sore throat- very smart isabelle. just had to eat something cold in cold weather when yk its not good for you), fries and chocolates. sausage and rice too but we won't talk abt that

as for the other blog...yk the drill moot; crying abt oliver and becoming mutuals with people who are active on my main blog and interact with me (∩˃o˂∩)♡

Oof exams! Good luck with that- and take it easy okay? *thinking if i should make a set of hcs for stuff like this* broccoli and cheese soup T-T (wants to have soup too) i hope you have your meal and savor it.

And yea i'm taking care! *busy watching moomin*

*sending back hugs*

[conretewings]

sure. resending. basically vander successfully drowns silco to keep the peace only for a few days later for some kid who turns out to be silco's child comes to the last drop saying their daddy hasn't been by for a while and told them if anything ever happened to go find "A nice man named vander at a place called the last drop...."

-Thanks for the resend and sorry again for Tumblr's bullshit broken system 😒 Now onto the ANGST and I am so fucking sorry this took so long

**CW for darker subjects including: drowning, accidental murder, implied strangulation **

There were three days of silence, save for the ticking clock, the constant murmuring heartbeat of the city outside and occasional muffled sobs. Three days of drinking himself unconscious trying to chase away the demons, only to have them haunt his nightmares and awakening to start the cycle over again.

One lone man sat slumped at a corner booth of the empty barroom, a spent bottle next to his ragged form and another clutched in his shaking hand. His hair and clothing were a disheveled mess, his hands still raw and red from scrubbing them dozens of times. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, stared ahead into nothing, trying to avoid closing them for too long because every time he did he could see him-

Flailing, eyes wide in terror and shock, struggling and clawing at the water, at anything his slender hands could reach, streams of bubbles ripped from his throat as they and he slowed and slowed until-

Groans morphing into hiccups and quiet sniffles, he lowered his forehead to the table, his thoughts a howling whirlwind of guilt and fury; at himself, at him, at all of this. Try as he might he couldn't get the images, the screams out his head...

He was gone; his best friend, his brother, drowned by his own hands after months of disagreement, arguing and eventually back-stabbing had resulted in one final fight, fueled by blind rage and frustration. It had been a horrible accident; he hadn't meant to, hadn't wanted to go so far, he just wanted him to shut up and listen for once but he'd held onto him underwater just a little too long, squeezed just a little too hard-he clutched his hair then with a roar of despair, whirled to fling the bottle at a wall where it exploded in a shower of glittering shards and liquor before collapsing back to his seat, now sobbing outright...

"I-I'm sorry Silco...I'm so...so s-sorry..."

On the fourth day, waking up on the floor of the sparse bathroom next to a puddle of vomit that'd missed the toilet and a searing headache, he lay staring at the ceiling for some time before deciding he had to make some sort of effort. After he acceptably cleaned up the mess he dragged himself into the tub, hissing and cursing as the cold water ran over his sore, tired and dirty body.

He tried not to think too hard about the water.

On the fifth day, realizing if he didn't get the bar up and running again he'd likely lose it from lack of funds, he shuffled into the main room and began slowly to pick up the chairs he'd knocked over or thrown and sweep up the broken glass. A lot of folks relied on this place for a warm, decently safe refuge from the outside world, somewhere they could get a drink and find some sort of comrade among the other customers. News, gossip, business transactions, tall tales, all of these and more flowed through the place like the alcohol that was served, creating a sort of haven for the people of the Lanes, rough as it could be. Losing it would letting them all down, and he just couldn't bear the thought of that. He'd let people down enough for two lifetimes already.

He paused frequently, taking deep breaths and trying to calm the storm still threatening in his mind. The raging, boiling despair of the past days had partially given way to a sort of creeping numbness that was gradually seeping into his very bones. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse. What he did know, was that it had happened and it couldn't be taken back. He had considered seriously the notion of turning himself in to the authorities and spending the rest of his life rotting in prison, he deserved it, but then remembered how much people still looked up to and relied on him...if he did that even more would suffer, thus he was stuck now with the gift and burden of what he'd worked to become.

There was no way to remedy things, make amends for what he'd done, but perhaps...he could do what was possible to continue the dream of a better, safer, more independent city for everyone else.

As he worked he thought he heard a faint knocking at the front door. At first he was sure he'd imagined it, but then he heard it again, and again until eventually a small, insistent voice joined in. Sighing, he leaned his broom against a table and slowly made his way there. No doubt a child was looking to either try and sell him something, or play a joke, or ask for their parents when the place would reopen. He had not the strength or patience for any of these but regardless unlocked and cracked the door open. Immediately he spotted a small girl on the doorstep who couldn't have been more than six, her slender frame swimming in clothes that were a couple sizes too large and her auburn hair pulled back with a length of silk ribbon. But it was her eyes that truly grabbed his attention; pale blue-green and oddly intense, they caught his and didn't let go.

"...Can...I help ya?" he muttered after an awkward moment of staring at each other.

She took a couple steps back to look upwards at the building, gave an assured nod, then approached him again, "You're Vander, right?"

Vander tilted his head, immediately regretting it with the headache he still had, "I am...and who might you be? This ain't exactly a place for kids."

She fished around in the inner pocket of her coat; it looked like it had once been a fine piece, likely belonging to some well-off child topside, but was now worn and patched, the brick-red wool faded to a dull brown. Her pants and shirt were of similar condition; it seemed someone had put considerable effort into clothing her in the finest castoffs they could manage. Finding what she wanted, she straightened herself and held out an envelope with an air of grave importance.

"My name is Olivia, and I was told to come here by my papa if I didn't see him for more than four days. He told me to find the Last Drop and a nice guy named Vander and to give him this letter."

She recited all this with a practised tone, as if she'd gone over it dozens of times. Vander's brow furrowed; what was all this? Some sort of prank? A trap? Who had sent her? And why him? Who did he know that had a daughter? All these questions swirled in his fogged brain until he spied several men nearby leering curiously at Olivia. He clutched the doorframe a little harder; he didn't like the look in their beady eyes whatsoever.

Whatever the reason for her showing up she wasn't safe out here, and with the tiniest, faintest flame reignited in his heavy heart he opened the door wider, "C'mon love...it's gettin' cold out. I'll get you something hot to drink 'n we'll get this sorted out yeah?"

Soon Olivia was seated at a table, sipping a mug of weak but much appreciated hot chocolate as Vander sat across from her and turned the letter over repeatedly in his hands, trying to glean some sort of clue from the outside alone. The only mark on it was a neat 'V' in the center in bold, black ink. He glanced up at this mystery child, again wondering what in the world this was all about and with a reluctant sigh, tore the seal off and unfolded the couple-page length letter.

The moment he saw the handwriting the air was knocked from his lungs. The quick, graceful pen strokes and neatly straight sentences across unlined paper were instantly recognizable even before he'd registered a single word...but then his eyes traitorously began reading on their own and he couldn't tear them away.

"Vander; I despise sounding cliche, however if you're reading this, it means I am either somehow incapacitated, or tragically, I've met my end. In either case, I'm certain you're wondering who the girl is that gave it to you. There's no point in playing games or sugarcoating things, so to cut to the chase, this is my daughter, Olivia-"

'My daughter'

Here Vander stopped reading for a moment, of all the words scrawled on the page to tear at his heart those nearly made it stop. Silco had...a daughter? He pried his gaze from the paper to glance up at Olivia, feeling dizzy and sick all over again. Her attention seemed to be focused on the jukebox at the moment, those bright blue-green eyes wide with curiosity. Her father's eyes...

Vander shut his own tightly, drawing a slow, deep breath before reopening them to continue reading.

"-who as of my writing this is nearly six. If you're wondering how, I trust you recall the time we decided it would be great fun to visit that new brothel in Piltover just over the bridge? In a moment of youthful weakness I, well, even you can figure it out. I put it out of my mind entirely until several months ago, when a woman approached me with Olivia in tow, insistent I was her father. Of course I didn't believe a word of it, and called in a favor to have a test performed to prove it...and much to my shock it was true. I'm still trying to sort out my thoughts on this whole matter. Gods know I'm no man to be a father. Though, I must confess, my fondness for her has increased greatly these past months. She is a highly intelligent and inquisitive child, with a natural instinct for problem solving and a strong sense of justice. Paternal feelings are not something I'd ever expected to experience, yet here I am. I'm certain you're wondering many things right now, first of which why I haven't told you until now-"

Here the pen appeared to have stopped, multiple dots and specks of ink seeming to indicate he had been tapping it on the page as he paused to consider his next words. Vander felt his eyes well at the mental image of Silco sitting at a table or desk, chin resting in one hand as he tapped his pen and stared at the paper, Olivia curled up asleep in his lap clutching a puzzle toy. He exhaled mournfully, blinking the tears away and continued reading.

"-At first I didn't quite know how to, but then I concluded it would be best for all if her existence was kept quiet. We've become successful Vander, perhaps too much in some ways. We have our enemies, and can't risk them learning of anything, or anyone, that could be used against us. The less people knew about her the better. Secondly, about her mother well, she's not the reliable sort, and often vanishes from their meager apartment without a word or even a note. I question how much she truly loves Olivia versus how much she enjoys holding my purse ransom for her care. She's been disappearing more lately, which brings me to the most critical part of this letter. I need to do something to ensure her safety and wellbeing, even if I can't be there personally. I know we've been at odds for some time, but should you still hold any affection for me-"

Vander had to stop again for a moment to gather himself, pressing his knuckles to his mouth. Of course he did...but did he have any right to? He could hear Silco's voice in his head, narrating the words as clearly as if he was standing over his shoulder right now. For a brief, mad second he was certain if he looked, he really would be there, those bright eyes he'd gifted his child boring critically into him.

Now Olivia noticed, and blinked at him, "Are you okay mister?"

Vander let out a quick gasp, wrung from his dark thoughts and trying to force a smile, "Y-yeah sweetie just...was thinkin'. Gimme a moment gotta finish readin'..."

"-I ask you, with utmost sincerity, to do this one, vitally important task-I need you to bring her to her grandparents in Piltover, where she'll be safe and well cared for. I've included the address at the bottom of this page. Her mother refuses to do this out of stupidity and stubborn pride, but since she refuses to be a proper mother, I must be a better father and I know the grandparents would be thrilled to take her in. I have included a second letter for her to give to them explaining all relevant matters so you needn't worry about talking to them more than strictly necessary, if at all. Lastly, as for explaining to Olivia what's become of me, be honest. If I am locked away, tell her. If I am dead, be gentle, but tell her. Better her heart is broken now so she has more time for it to heal. Please do this for me, brother, and for her. She deserves the chance we never had, and if all my efforts in this world amount to lifting this one child from the muck and poison, then I can leave it with pride. Farewell, for now, or forever, and thank you for everything. -Silco"

Vander sat and gaped in stunned silence at the paper in his trembling hands. Would he help her? Without question. He'd utterly failed Silco already, and though helping his daughter wouldn't erase his sins or bring the man back, at least he could honor him by fulfilling his last request. That numbness had cracked, letting the howling storm of grief back in, especially when he dared look up to find Olivia staring at him in both concern and curiosity and had to look away again; her eyes, so alike Silco's, were too much to bear right now.

"What...does it say?" at length she wondered, "Does it say when mama or papa will be back?"

"I-" Vander choked, coughing out a breath then took a slow, deep one to steady himself, sniffling back more tears. The girl's face fell, seeming to understand his expression and Vander winced as she spoke again, quietly with a wavering voice.

"...Did...something happen to them...?"

"Sweet'art, I-I don't know 'bout your mom, but...but your dad...he..." Vander swallowed the lump in his throat preventing him speaking, forcing himself to look at the girl with every thread of calm sincerity he could muster; she deserved that much, "He's..."

Some time later, Vander gazed hollowly out a window, watching the raindrops occasionally spatter against it as he slowly blew puffs of smoke into the still air. He glanced at the small figure dozing fitfully and curled into a ball in a nearby booth. He had honored Silco's wish. He told her the truth...but not the whole story. She was grief-stricken and traumatized enough; telling her the man her father had trusted, the one sitting across from her and from whom she expected help and protection was the one that had taken his life wasn't something he could put her through. Perhaps someday he would tell her the rest, and should she choose to take revenge, well, he wouldn't blame her.

After hearing the grim news she had thrown herself onto him, seeking comfort and burrowing into his broad chest as she sobbed, but he'd been unable to return more than gingerly 'hugging' her with his forearms. Holding her with the same hands that had killed her father seemed, at the moment, far too cruel. She'd then crawled into a booth and eventually cried herself to sleep, so he'd taken up a vigil and draped his jacket over her for extra warmth. A small comfort perhaps, but one he could stomach easier.

Now she suddenly stirred and awoke, rubbing her red, swollen eyes and sniffling as she clutched the heavy leather garment around herself. Neither spoke, and Vander stood, going behind the bar and fetching a soft cloth and a dented cup, pouring the cleanest water he had into it. He then brought the items to Olivia, who took the cup with a whispered thanks. He gently dabbed her eyes and nose, cleaning her up the best he could.

She glanced at him with glassy, scared eyes then the floor, "...What's gonna happen now...?"

Vander hesitated for a second before laying his hand on the letter, "Don't worry, Olivia...I'm gonna take ya to your grandparents, safe 'n sound. You'll be a'right...your papa made certain of that."

She only nodded, still sniffling as Vander stood, "I'll be right back love, then we'll head out so we can get there b'fore dark. Ain't safe after dark..."

Vander adjusted his vest and pulled his overcoat a little tighter around himself to ward off the evening chill, keeping a close eye on his charge as she trotted beside him, and ignored all the sharply curious glances they received. He had changed into a set of more 'respectable' clothes he kept stashed away for whenever a trip topside was necessitated and he didn't want to draw any attention to himself. Well, once they crossed the bridge anyway; down in the Lanes still they garnered quite the variety of looks. Olivia's small fist was balled tightly around the hem of his coat as she kept close, and soon, after climbing flights of cracked stone and metal stairs and taking a rickety elevator, they found themselves on the surface level just as the hazy, clouded sun was sinking into the horizon. The drizzling rain had stopped for the time being, with a blanket of fog settled over the area. Vander strode down the muddy, trash-littered road leading to the bridge when he felt an insistent tugging at his pant leg, and looked to see Olivia gazing longingly up at him.

"What's the matter, sweet'art?" he inquired, and she stretched her thin arms toward him, "I'm tired...please?"

In an instant he realized what she was asking but this time, instead of feeling ill at the thought, although a stab of shame still coursed through him he was overcome by a sort of mournful bitter sweetness. Here was the daughter of his friend, a friend now heartbreakingly gone but here in front of him was a part of them. He couldn't apologize, make amends, but he could do this much.

'...if all my efforts in this world amount to lifting this one child from the muck and poison...'

Mustering a reassuring smile, he gently scooped her into his arms, holding her securely to his chest and shoulder and she curled herself into him with a content, if not equally melancholy, sigh.

In this way he made his way to and across the long, imposing structure, the fog obscuring then completely hiding the dark and toxic city behind them as he carried her toward a better life than her father ever had...

EPILOGUE:

Some time late in the night, Vander stood in the bathroom with his hands braced on the sink, staring blankly into the mirror at his exhausted and scruffy face. Dark blueish bags hung under his tired eyes and he could see the grey beginning to creep into his hair and messy beard. Insomnia and vivid nightmares had again claimed any attempt to sleep, so after pacing the empty building he'd ended up here.

Giving his reflection a disgusted snort he grumbled, "You're a right fuckin' mess..."

He turned the faucet on, gathering a palm-full of water to splash on his face and reflecting on the shock and emotional rollercoaster of the day. Silco had had a daughter he'd known nothing of until she appeared at his door, and though not her fault had only helped to deepen the wounds of guilt and shame in him. Still...

He recalled now showing up at the home of her grandparents, though clearly being not especially wealthy were quite comfortable, and how the older couple were obviously overjoyed to see Olivia and grateful to the man who introduced himself as a friend of her father's for bringing her there safely. Though they didn't speak much Vander realized they were well aware of their daughter's...unpredictability and Olivia would benefit from staying with them. The last he saw of her, and likely would ever, was when she waved to him and expressed her thanks before being led into the house.

He'd fulfilled his duty in escorting her safely there, not that it should have ever been under the circumstances it was. He had to grip the sink again as one more question crossed his thoughts, one she had every right to know but one he was praying she wouldn't ask and that just dug the knife further into his heart. While making their way through Piltover Olivia had abruptly asked what had happened to her papa.

"....He drowned..." had been his only reply, and seemingly satisfied the girl fell quiet again.

"...and it's my fault..." he now whispered to the empty air, scooping up another handful of water.

Before he could douse his face however, he felt a sudden and violent chill start at the base of his spine, and as it raced up his back all the hair on his body stood with it. A wave of creeping dread followed and he slowly lowered his hand, the water falling through his fingers to splash in the sink and onto the floor...wait. There was so much water on the cracked tile where had it...?

Then he was aware of something else...a presence of sorts, the sensation that someone was there, just at the edge of your conciousness. Braving the slightest upward glance-he quickly dropped his gaze back to the sink, nauseous and terrified to look up fully at the reflection he could just see in the mirror behind him out of the corner of his eye and certain he'd finally gone mad.

Silco stood there, ghostly pale, soaking wet with water dripping from his hair and clothing and glowering at him. A ring of dark bruises encircled his neck, and his hair clung to his face such that his left eye was barely visible-but the right absolutely burned with fury.

After the initial shock, shaking and heart hammering, Vander addressed him, "If you're...here to kill me too...I know I deserve it..."

Silco remained silent, unmoving except for the eerily unnecessary rise and fall of his chest with his 'breathing'. Vander felt his own chest tighten with the continued confusion and horror of this situation coupled with the guilt of what he'd done. He tried another line of conversation.

"Silco the-there's a million things I could, that I wanna say but it all feels...inadequate and stupid. You're gone and nothin' I do or say will change that. I...I'm so sorry..." his throat tightened but he coughed to clear it, a jumble of words he needed to say flooding out, "I wish ya'd told me 'bout Olivia...she's somethin' special. But especially now I understand why ya didn't...ya know what fucks with me? That not only did I-I take your life but I took the time ya coulda had with her...gods I-"

He drew several deep, calming breaths, unfair as it felt before continuing, "I did what ya asked. She's with her family, and they'll see to it she's well loved..if she's half as smart 'n resilient as you she'll really be somethin' one day..."

He dared to look upwards, feeling he owed Silco that much, "...And if she ever comes seekin' answers or justice, I'd rightfully give 'em to her..."

Vander saw his expression had gone from cold rage to still angry, but now blended with almost a regretful sadness. He gave the slightest nod, then slowly raised a hand as if to reach out to him...

And suddenly Vander couldn't breathe. He panicked, coughing and gasping for air, then braced himself on the sink before collapsing to his hands and knees. Falling onto his side, his vision swam with the water that filled his lungs and eyes and the image of Silco standing over him as he lost consciousness-

He awoke with a strangled, terrified shout and bolted upright, grasping at his neck and heaving in deep breaths, the realization that it had been a nightmare gradually settling in. Though that one had been a figment of his guilt-ridden imagination, the true nightmare of reality, of having to live every day with the knowledge and weight of what he'd done would be neverending. Eventually, he fell back into the sagging and worn mattress, staring at the wall and knowing sleep would likely allude him the remainder of the night.

[angry-geese]

hello, how are you? so i don't remember very well how it went, but yesterday i found your tumblr and i was amazed and you write so well 🥺💗

but then i'm a bucciarati simp (i will never get over your end) and i would like to know if you can write a scenario where the reader is just an ordinary citizen who admires bucciarati (because he helped her a while ago) and wants to join the passione and he's just against it because he doesn't want to expose her to danger, he just wants to know her real reason, so he uses his ability to find out if she's lying, which is very helpful as there's a sexual tension there and well, everything ends up in sex.

ok that was very specific lmao maybe if you want to change or are not willing to write, that's fine with me.

anyway thanks, you are amazing 💗💗

aww thank you <3

don't ever worry about being too specific, I always love seeing what other people come up with :)

Tomorrow - Bruno Bucciarati x Reader

warnings: nsfw/minors do not interact. mutual pining, fluff. minor mention of violence. unprotected sex, quickie, fingering, hickeys, hair pulling, body worship (??? if you squint???). afab reader.

word count: 1.7k

It's hard to believe it's almost been a year.

Your shop had been open for barely a month. When you first moved to your neighborhood, it was made known to you it was a dangerous place. But rent was low, and the building was just too perfect to pass up on. Not many places had room for a bakery, and a space to live upstairs.

You were in over your head. But you were too stubborn to admit it.

It had caught his eye the moment he saw it. Maybe it was its cozy nature; a small shop tucked away, full of plants, a cat dozing off in the window. Or it could have been your inviting smile, the way you lit up as the door opened.

Every day he got the same order. By the end of the first week, you made sure to have it ready for him.

From the very beginning you faced issues. A business like yours attracted a lot of attention; good and bad. The local gangs knew you were bringing in money. They wanted a cut, and you weren't willing to give it to them.

You should have given it to them.

You were warned. They told you they'd come back. You were warned but didn't listen.

They trashed your shop. You swept broken glass from your floors for weeks before it finally came out. They were persistent; more than you ever thought. When you stood up to them, they threatened to kill you. They probably would have, had Bruno not stepped in. While you were willing to lay down your life for your business, he wasn't going to let you.

You're not quite sure what Bruno did, but you never saw those men again.

You never charged him for food again. If it meant he would keep coming back to your shop, you would do a lot of things. You said you owed him. At first, he was willing to accept. Weeks went on as you still refused his money. It got to the point where he felt bad. He hid money around your apartment hoping that you'd take the hint. But you never did.

You could never pay him back. Bruno claims you already have—with all the free food—but truly it's a debt that can't be repaid. Putting it lightly, you owe him your life.

The mess was cleaned up, but you'd never feel safe in your home again.

Over the past few months, Bruno had become one of your closest—if not your closest—friend. His little free time was spent at your shop. The two of you could talk for hours about nothing in particular. Business would come and go, but he was always there. If you called, he'd come running. You really didn't have to call. At the first sign of problems he was by your side.

Bruno's influence only works so much. He could only pay off those thugs for so long.

He was worried when you missed his call this morning.

His stomach sinks as he sees the broken glass.

You're not crying. You really don't look too upset. To you, this is the final nail in your coffin. You only notice him as he stops. You motion for him to sit next to you on the steps.

The people in this town are like vultures. They can sense any bit of fortune. Any money you have can't be kept for long. Stashing it away is never a good idea.

"What happened?" He asks.

"I didn't get my protection fees paid in time."

He takes a seat next to you. For the first time in his life, he feels speechless. As far as he knew, he'd taken care of this. Those thugs would have hell to pay.

"I want to join." You say.

"What?"

"I'm taking Polpo's test." You say. "I want to join Passione."

"Why?"

It's finally occurred to you how close your faces are.

You ball up your apron and toss it aside. You don't have a better answer for him. As much as you wish you did; you don't. You want to tell him anything but the truth. Really, he feels betrayed. Has he not done enough? Has this all gone to waste? He's tried all he can to keep you away from the gangs.

It seems it wasn't enough.

His grip on your arm tightens. You don’t dare look him in the eyes. As if you couldn't be more obvious. You nearly jump out of your skin as he licks a long stripe up your cheek. Instantly your face goes red. Your cheeks burn at the heat that sends right to your core. You're stammering out a few nonsensical sentence fragments.

"That's the taste of a liar, y/n."

You whip around to face him. "I want to be able to defend myself!"

The look in his eyes isn't what you expect. It's more a look of betrayal than anything. To be honest, you didn't expect him to have any reaction at all. He's rather adamant about keeping you away from Passione.

"I can protect you." His voice has gone oddly soft. "I'll take care of you."

Bruno's grip on your arms loosens.

He leans in for a kiss. It's soft, but his warmth lingers on your lips long after he's pulled away. He smells like fancy cologne, and almost like a restaurant, strangely enough. It's a weird, comforting mix of cooked food and expensive men's cologne.

He's wanted to do this since he first met you.

His hands move to cup your cheeks. They're so warm. It's hard to resist his touch. He looks at you with such longing that it makes your chest swell with affection. The heat in your face returns, but it's in less of a lewd manner. He admires every dip and curve of your clothed body; how your waist is cinched in whenever you wear your apron, how your strong hands work pastry dough into shape.

He leans in for another kiss. It's deeper this time, and leaves a longing ache in your chest. The rough muscle of his tongue presses past your lips. He tastes faintly of alcohol.

You're too impatient to get to your room. He'll settle on bending you over your apartment's kitchen counter. He wants to take his time with you, but for now, he's content with this. Maybe there'll be a second time.

His long fingers work to undo the buttons of your pants. You don't take a lot of prep work. You're already soaked. Two of his fingers press into you. They’re long, but fairly thin, and slide right into you. His fingers stroke against your g-spot as his thumb works circles around your clit. It doesn’t take him long to figure out just what makes you weak. Bruno has you a shaking, moaning mess in no time.

You lean against the counter, propping yourself up on your elbows. He wastes no time in freeing himself from his pants. His cock is built like the rest of him; long and dark. It’s girthy, but not intimidatingly big. The hairs towards the base are neatly trimmed, and the same color as the hair on his head. A vein runs up the bottom, only getting more prominent as he gets harder. He shoves your pants down to your knees.

Bruno groans as he sheathes himself in you. The feeling of your warm, wet cunt is intoxicating. Maybe he’s a bit more pent up than he thought. His hand buries in your hair. He leans forward to nip at your earlobe. Bruno coos words of praise into your ear, telling you how good you take him, how good you feel around him.

He rolls his hips against yours in desperate, quick motions. Bruno can't decide what to do with his hands. They're gripping your breasts, then your hips, then settling in your hair. He’ll have you like this again, he’s certain of it.

Heat pools in your stomach. His touch leaves you with an aching need for more.

"Fuck- I've wanted this for so long," he says, "you’re so beautiful.”

His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. He sucks a dark mark into your shoulder—one where you won’t be able to see it. It sends a whole new heat to your core. While his cock isn't the biggest, it curves in just a way that makes your toes curl.

He makes it known just what he thinks about you; babbling about how good you feel around him, about how long he’s wanted to do this.

The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room. If you had any neighbors, you'd certainly be getting noise complaints. Your moans are like music to his ears. You don't worry about being quiet. Let others hear you, what do you care?

"Harder Bruno!" You cry out.

He can't resist something as beautiful as you.

His free hand moves to your clit, tracing circles around the bundle of nerves. He works you up in a way you never knew possible. Your skin feels feverish, and sensitive to the touch. The heat in your stomach only gets more unbearable. You want to beg him to cum inside. You need him to cum inside. Your mind is too hazy to think of much else but him and the way he fucks into you. He leaves none of your sweet spots unstroked.

Something in you snaps. There’s not one specific thing that sends you over the edge; it's everything. You clench around him as you cum, crying out. The way you suck him back in is almost enough to send him over the edge.

His thrusts get sloppier as he nears his own orgasm. He scrambles against the counter for purchase, gripping the edge of it so tight his knuckles turn white. He doesn't want to risk cumming inside. He pulls out, giving himself a few pumps before cumming into his hand.

Bruno presses a kiss to the exposed flesh of your shoulder. Your skin is sticky with sweat. A tired, but pleased look spreads across your face. His hair tickles your neck. The sight of your shaky, sleepy form is almost enough to make him hard again.

You lean back into him, giggling. “We made a mess…”

“Want to make another?”

"Are you suggesting a round two?” It’s a joke, but you carry some seriousness behind it.

"Anything for you,"

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Hey, I'm doing a fanfic universe where neither Tim nor Jason get involved with the Batfamily what lives do you think that their lives would have turned into without getting involved with Bruce?

oh my fucking god i wrote an entire thing for this and then tumblr fucking DELETED IT and i’m pissed as hell and rewrote it. forgive me if i left anything out.

but anyway. hey babe. if tim or jason never got involved with the batfam?? hmm. interesting question

so for jason, i see either one of two things happening

a) jason’s a smart kid. clever, wily, quick. that’s what the librarian and the auto smuggler and the working girls say. they’ll give jason whatever change they can spare, and jason uses it wisely. along with that, he’s got quicksilver fingers. stealing the tires off the batmobile??? one hell of a confidence boost, and he starts taking theft a little more serious. 

he refuses to be part of a gang. they want him bad: he’s slippery and smart and rough and fast. but he’s seen the way the older gang boys act. he’s seen the way they laugh like lunatics and get high off whatever they can find, beating up little kids and taking what they want from women just for the fun of it. and jason will do whatever it takes to never become one of them.

so he steals. he jacks car parts and smuggles other things, harmless things, till he knows his way around mechanics pretty well. the guy that paid for all of jason’s goods died early, and gave jason his shop. he tries his best to run an honest business. granted, he’s still a thief and a liar, but kids know that he won’t throw them out if they come in there looking for a warm place to sleep, and girls know that he’ll slam the door behind them, locking the door tight and getting out his gun if any motherfucker has them shaking and scared. 

he scrapes together enough money every month to pay for a shitty little apartment. it’s crumbling and cold, but it’s his. maybe he stays in that little auto dealer for the rest of his life. maybe he starts visiting the library again, learning everything he couldn’t when he was a kid. either way, he survives. sure, his isn’t all that impressive or meaningful, but gotham never meant for him to make it past fifteen in the first place, so jason’s alive and breathing and has a few things he calls his own. that’s good enough for him.

2) he tries to stay away from the gangs. he tries so hard. becoming like them is one of his biggest nightmares. they’re jagged and cruel, they take what they want and laugh at what they leave behind. but he doesn’t have a choice. he’s starving and cold, and carjacking isn’t cutting it. 

just for the money, he tells himself. just for the money, and nothing else. he’s never going to become like those boys, never. that promise doesn’t last very long. they give him a gun, and for the first time in his life, jason knows what it’s like to get drunk off power. he can shoot whoever he wants. the guys that leave women in the alleyway sobbing, the guys that kick innocent animals just cause they can, the guys that used to try and hurt him. he can get revenge for everything. he starts using, too. it’s better than he ever thought, letting himself go for a little bit, untouched by the weights dragging him to the ground every day of his life. he shoves all thoughts of his mom away, and lets himself forget life.

he ignores the stares of the librarian and the auto smuggler and the working girls, shaking their heads in pity and fear, wondering what happened to him, what happened to the boy they used to love? that boy was weak, jason thinks, and he won’t ever be week again. 

soon enough, he starts working for the big names. penguin and scarecrow and even black mask. it’s with black mask that his story ends. batman busts in on an operation, and it’s chaos. jason gets shot somewhere between black mask using his goons as human shields and everyone shooting blindly through the smoke bombs, trying and failing to get a shot on the vigilante. jason falls to the ground, riddled with bullet holes and regrets. batman doesn’t bother to even learn his name.

now, for tim? i really only see one outcome. 

tim’s been obsessed with batman and robin for as long as he can remember. robin’s nightwing now, but he and batman still work together. less dynamic duo and more experienced and knowing colleagues, but they’re still together. he follows them for the rest of his life, his childhood dream leaving the barest mark on the rest of his life, but puts away the hopes and dreams of ever meeting them, of them seeing something special in him. then, he turns his focus to what his father wants.

he doesn’t really have much of a choice. his parents have already slated him as the new head of drake industries. and they’ve been grooming him to be the perfect heir ever since he was a kid, forcing him to go to galas and network, form future connections that he calls upon now. he remembered trying to work up the courage to go say hi to bruce wayne. he never once did it, and it’s far too late now: bruce thinks of him as an opponent, an enemy.

he’s worthy of it. there’s a voice in his head that’s kind of hysterical, telling him that he’s worthy of being someone batman treats as a threat. the opposite of what he always wanted, but he’ll take it. he’s cutting and brilliant, exactly what his parents wanted him to be. 

he leads drake industries higher and higher until it’s the a competitor on the same scale as wayne enterprises, as lexcorp. at board meetings, bruce looks lazy and bored, but tim always notices the way the other man looks at him with a cold, calculating gaze. 

for the rest of his life, he tries to work up the courage to tell bruce wayne that tim knows he’s batman. he tries to work up the courage to say he’s known since he was 9, but he’s only ever kept their secret, sometimes even helping in what small, discreet ways he could. he never does, and he takes the secret to his grave.

anyway yea that’s just my take on it. i wish you good luck with your fic!

[thatfemininetouch2021]

So.

Lately, I have been thinking about disconnecting from tumblr for a bit. Possibly indefinitely.

I'm tired of politics; still invested, just tired. I'm tired of bitter feminists attacking me and my mutuals. There's no reasoning with them; they have collectively lost their minds and EVERYONE is an enemy, I guess. Even though we (the tradwife/tradfem community) just want to live our lives and be left alone.

I'm tired of feminists, atheists, and "progressives" going after religious blogs. Predominantly the christian ones (nothing like taking scripture out of context to suit your own arguments, am I right?), but also fellow pagan blogs. If I have to endure one more emo witchcraft newb saying we aren't "real pagans" because we choose to be stay-at-home wives and mothers, or just enjoy a male-led relationship, I swear to the gods...

But where I really just CANNOT take anymore is hearing pro-choice wingnuts come up with endless excuses for chopping up a helpless baby in the womb. Their cases for abortion are baseless, self-serving, and utterly cruel. I'm tired of pro-life rape and abuse survivors being chastised and othered from the conversation just because they have a viewpoint the leftists don't want you to hear. Fucking pisses me off.

Tumblr aside, my anxiety has been getting worse. I have been having issues with my mother for a few months now, and I am about ready to cut her out of my life, I'm sorry to say. We'll see how that pans out. I've had increasing stress from my job, feeling overworked and underpaid, with some coworkers simply not pulling their own weight. I want to quit. And more than ever, I just want to be alone. My boyfriend and I are doing well, but he's the only one I genuinely want to spend any time with. I've even lapsed on returning dear friends' snaps on snapchat. I feel bad about that, but they know I'm having a rough anxiety patch and that I'll get back to them.

Needless to say, I'm done here. I have other things on my plate, bigger things to worry about. Like the future, building a family, trying to navigate this increasingly crazy and at times hostile world. I've got enough toxic people in my personal life, I don't need the toxicity that is rife on Tumblr. I don't need embittered feminists or narcissistic atheists. Hell, most of my toxic relatives fit into one of those two groups.

I will not be deleting this blog. Just letting it sit. I may one day come back to it, if I can remember the password for it. Any deranged feminists reading this can feel free to reblog, howling into the void. It'll give somebody something to laugh at, at least. Just know that I will not be replying, so it'll be like screaming at a brick wall.

To some of my favorite blogs: @patriarchalfemininity, @myhappyhomeoflove, @homeiswherethewitchcraftis, and @gods-girl, keep fighting the good fight. There's a lot of crazy out there, and you ladies have the most sensible voices on this godforsaken platform. To those of you who know your latin, numquam nothi te deorsum.

[thehallstara]

tumblr said that was a bad request and deleted it. fuck u tumblr im trying again, but sorry if this comes through twice. idk if youve done zack and edric yet but yknow... them... soooo zack and edric 30 <3 ty love u mwah

30. laying their head on the other’s shoulder

(cw for brief weed mention)

It isn't the pounding at the door, or the threats to break it down, or even the vines creeping underneath that make him get up, in the end. It's the guilt, deep in his stomach, when Zack starts to scream.

"-Edric, if you don't open the door right now I swearing to FUCKING god-"

He opens the door, and she nearly stumbles into him.

"You're going to wake up half my neighbours."

"Just half? Too bad, maybe if you opened your goddamn door-"

"Point taken."

"Gonna let me in, you weirdo?"

He doesn't budge from the door, and neither does she.

"Why are you here, Zack?"

"You're moping."

"Does it count as moping when you're actively grieving, or..."

"Fuck, are you really going to make me say it?"

"Maybe."

"I'm fucking worried about you, Edric! It isn't the type of night where you should be alone."

"What if I just didn't let you in?"

"You would never."

Finally, he steps back, letting her into the apartment. Without even looking back, she beelines for the kitchen and starts putting away the dishes that had piled up in the past few days. All of a sudden, the energy it took to get to the door dissipates, and he finds himself sliding down the door to the floor.

"Did you even bring any weed?"

"Nuh uh. None of that today. We are dealing with our feelings entirely sober."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. You could never hate me." She turns around and sees him sitting on the ground. "Oh, babe."

He can't help but frown, embarrassed. "I'm so tired, Z."

And in a second she's next to him, back against the wood and hand in his.

"I know. I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it? Or them? Either of them."

"It's not just that. I can't stop crying and the world is ending and being back in the shadows is making my skin itch and a whole team just died and I'm worried about the Firefighters and you and Bertie but Bertie's fucking dead and I keep forgetting and every time I remember it's like a stab right through my chest."

"Come here."

And he does, shifting closer before leaving his head on her shoulder.

“What the fuck are we doing at this point?”

“Trying, I guess? It’s kinda all we can do.” She sighs, leaning over and brushing a tear off of his cheek. “It’s end of the world, baby!”

“Out with a bang and not with a whimper?”

“You know it.” She squeezes his hand. “I know the Mints aren’t, but Bertie? Are you going to their funeral? Are they even having one?”

“Not that I’ve heard? Even then– well, we all know my track record getting to funerals."

“It’s been a rough couple years for you, huh?”

“Understatement of the year.”

“God, what a pair we are.”

“You can say that again. Zack?”

“Yes, babe?”

“Thank you for coming. Sorry I was being a bitch.”

“Eh, we’re both bitches. That’s why we’re friends. Now,” she says, standing up and reaching out her hand, “I may not have brought weed but I did bring stuff for soup. You want?”

He grabs her hand, letting out a wet laugh. “God, please.”

[nekrophoria]

OC Asks for Serena

requested by @goldenlegacy

Thank you so much! And again, sorry for the format. I hate the mobile tumblr version...

✨- which fictional character (book, show, or movie) do you relate to most?

That switches on like a bi-weekly basis but...right now I'd go with a mix of Chloe Price (Life is Strange) and Diane (Bojack Horseman)

I fucking hate Diane...okay I don't hate her, I hate the way she acts sometimes...but I see a lot of familiar traits in her. Dunno what that says about me to be honest but...ah well.

🐝- describe your aesthetic in emojis

🧟‍♀️👾🙃🍕🌚🎃

🍼- what is your favorite memory?

Our group home used to do these trips to the sea every summer, kinda like class trips if you will.

And I don't have a particular memory, it's kind of a giant blur at this point...but these times were really special to me. Probably the happiest I've ever been.

💖- have you ever been in love?

Yep...it happens.

🎂- if you had 3 wishes, what would they be?

1. a week off

2. a new desk chair

3. a giant meatlover pizza with cheesy crust.

...what can I say I'm a simple man...woman...whatever.

🌧️- favorite thing to do on rainy days?

*moans* Honesty, rain makes me so fucking tired. I just wanna crash on the couch and doze off while the telly is running or something.

🍩- current mood?

Ooof... I dunno. It could be better. I'm a bit under the weather. It has been raining for days and *laughs* I just wanna barricade myself in my room until it's nice and warm outside.

❄️- what is your favorite season?

I have a sort of...love/hate thing going for all seasons *laughs*

Dunno...I like them all, but I get sick of them quite quickly. Right now I'm in a real summer mood but that'll probably change once it gets warmer. *shrugs*

💅🏻- do you like being spoiled?

In theory...yeah.

But I think I'm a bit too tense for that. *shrugs* at least that's what people tell me.

I just...i guess I don't enjoy that mushy stuff quite as much as I'd like to.

🕊️- 3 habits you have?

I'm a smoker...I...hmm...

*thinks for a bit* I talk to myself, especially when I'm doing chores I just sorta tend to narrate everything I do, but only when I'm alone *laughs* it's weird.

Umm...oh yeah and I tap my fingers on cups...or glasses when I'm holding them.

🦄- how do you perceive yourself?

Oh! I got the perfect picture for this right...here:

There we go. That's pretty accurate.

🦋- how do you think others perceive you?

I've got no fucking clue.

I feel like like people are intimidated by me? Which is weird because I'm like as harmless as it gets...if you don't piss me off.

But I guess I can be a bit...overtaking sometimes.

🌈- things I find attractive in girls/guys

I really don't give a shit about the personality, it's more of a subconscious thing, if it clicks it clicks.

As for looks. Soft eyes are really important to me...not the colour just the look...i can't really describe it.

I don't care too much about the rest. Not too clean cut though...kind of a ruffed up puppy look? Think David Duchovny or Mark Sheppard...

It's weird...I feel like I have more of a preference when it comes to men? I have yet to find a type of woman I find like super unattractive *laughs*

Curves are a huge plus! In general a bit of pudge doesn't hurt...big eyes...I'm a sucker for eyes, okay?

I prefer women who look a bit more...harsh though. Okay not harsh but...rough around the edges? Imperfect? *laughs* I'll leave it at that.

⛅- what is your morning routine?

Umm absolute chaos.

I usually curse at my alarm for like 20 minutes...by the time I get up I'm most likely late for work already so I just grab some clothes, and coffee, slap on some eyeliner and hair spray and make a run for it.

💗- who do you miss?

No one in particular.

I...*smiles and shakes head*...nah nevermind.

🔪- scariest/creepiest experience?

*exhales*

I...okay...i'm not gonna go with the scariest one for this cuz...i don't really wanna think about it. *laughs nervously*

But...*contemplates for a few minutes* Alright. It was around Christmas time and one of my mum's boyfriends/dealers/I don't even really know what he was to her...I don't even remember his name...showed up at our group home and demanded to see us...me and my brother.

He was clearly on some shit and he was livid...Roy was hiding upstairs but I couldn't take it and snuck down...

One of our caretakers was trying to calm him down. But he went on about how he was gonna get us and that what they were doing was child abduction... and he tried to make his way inside.

I...i don't remember everything but the cops showed up and...he got a restraining order or some shit...I don't know...

Our caretakers gave us the "light" version of what happened and I spent the next couple of weeks being scared shitless that he might come back for us.

*smiles bitterly* Good times.

💤- date someone younger, older, or same age as you?

I definitely have a thing for older men.

I feel like there's a certain...power imbalance when I'm dating guys my age...I don't wanna generalise but from my experience a lot of younger guys perceive me as a like...substitute mum? No. Just no...

As for women...i haven't made quite enough experience there to have a preference. But...theres something about older...mature women that makes me feel things.

Huh...I guess age is a bigger factor for me than I initially thought.

[reciprocityfic]

a slight return home, chapter 6

Title: A Slight Return Home Fandom: The Walking Dead Pairing: Rick x Michonne Rating: T Summary: Rick’s death shakes Michonne’s world to its core. With her daughter and her remaining family, she tries to navigate her changed life, and all the struggles and surprises that come with it.

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the incredibly long wait for this update. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble, but I hope the final product turned out okay.

The title of this chapter comes from June by Florence + The Machine, from her most recent album, High As Hope. Florence is my favorite musical artist, so I really recommend checking out all of her work. But when I wrote this chapter, I actually mainly listened to Sia - specifically, the piano versions of I'm In Here and Elastic Heart.

Also: Please read the author's note at the end of this chapter. It's important, and will help you understand where this story is going from here on out.

read chapter one on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter two on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter three on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter four on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter five on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net  read chapter six on archive of our own or ff.net

those heavy days in june

"Momma?"

She stirs, begins to open her eyes and then closes them tightly. She expects the bright sunshine of a new summer day to greet her and nearly blind her, and she throws a forearm over her eyes in preparation.

But the brightness doesn't come when she squints open her eyes, and she moves her arm, lifts one eyelid curiously and finds the dull gray light of early, early morning.

"Momma?"

She blinks, and then turns her head towards the sound of the small voice coming from the foot of her bed.

And there is RJ, on her mattress, balancing on his hands and knees, looking like a tiger ready to pounce.

She can't help but smile, but then her brow furrows.

"RJ? What are you doing up so early?"

"I'm hungry," he tells her, tentatively crawling up the bed and settling next to her. She lifts up the covers so he can burrow under them, and he cuddles into her side.

"Hungry?" she questions teasingly. "It's not breakfast time yet."

"But I'm hungry now," he protests, drawing out the w-sound. "Can we have breakfast early today?"

She grins down at her little boy. At her baby, who isn't much of a baby anymore.

"Sure, pumpkin."

A serious look suddenly crosses RJ's face. He sits up, and folds his arms in front of him.

"Momma. I am not a pumpkin."

"Hmm, I don't know. You have a nice, round head," she says, running her hand sideways over his curls, down his cheek and under his chin. "And a big, bright smile."

She takes her two index fingers and pushes up the corners of his mouth. He giggles, and it makes her giggle.

Then, he rolls away from her and off the bed.

"Come on, Momma. Race you to the kitchen! I want scrambled eggs!"

"Be careful on the stairs!" she shouts, but he's already off, his footsteps pit-patting on the hardwood floor.

She gets out of bed, and grabs her robe from the hook in the corner. As she's tying it together, Judith wanders into her room clad in pink pajamas, rubbing at her eyes, her long, brown hair a mess.

"Up already?" Michonne asks.

"RJ," Judith mumbles sleepily in explanation. "What's for breakfast?"

"Scrambled eggs okay?"

Judith nods.

"I'm gonna go brush my teeth."

"Hey," Michonne says as Judith turns to leave. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

She turns back around, and smiles, walking to her mother and wrapping her arms around her waist.

"Good morning, Mom."

"Good morning, Judith," Michonne answers, returning the girl's hug. She leans and places a kiss on the top of her head.

"Love you."

"Love you, too, little bird."

Judith squeezes her once more, and then turns and leaves the room. Michonne's smile lingers as she puts on a pair of slippers.

Today is going to be a good day.

She laughs once, and then goes to make her way downstairs. As she does, she catches eye of the bed.

Of the left side, specifically. Made and ready for sleep.

Perpetually made and ready for sleep.

Her heart skips a beat, and her smile slips.

***

They've been seeing helicopters.

The last winter had been a long one, that started with an unusually chilly autumn and only got worse from there. December through February was plagued by below-average temperatures and frequent snow squalls and blizzards. Heat sources dwindled at a rapid pace. Rations ran dangerously low. At times, it seemed like it wouldn't end. Not soon enough, at least.

But it did end, in the nick of time. Late April brought thaw. Spring happened upon them, finally, and with it brought relief. Gray gave way to green, gave way to growth, and everyone crawled out of the holes they had made to survive the winter and lived in the open once again.

It was only a few weeks later that it started to happen.

At first, there were only whispers. Rumors running through the community, as individuals and smaller groups saw something here, or there. No one stated it plainly, though, for fear that they'd be thought insane. Helicopters weren't real - not anymore. Right?

Right?

When Michonne sees one for the first time, it jogs her memory, to a time not long after the end of the war.

"I think...I saw a helicopter."

Rick's words don't even make her pause at first, as she rustles through her top drawer, looking for the sock that matches the one clutched in her left fist. He offers no follow-up, and she's about to brush past the comment with a simple hum before his statement sinks in. Her face scrunches in confusion, and she turns quickly to find him at the window, fingers parting the blinds so he can look out into the sky unobstructed.

"Wait, what?" she asks. "Now?"

"No," he says, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. "No. It was...awhile ago, now. During the war."

"In the air?"

"Yeah," he confirms. "It flew overhead."

"Are you sure?"

She doesn't ask because she doubts him. The question is more of a reflex - it has to be asked, because the notion of seeing a helicopter, flying in the sky, doesn't compute in her mind. And by the tone of his voice, it doesn't compute in his, either.

"No," he says, "I'm not sure. I mean - that's impossible, to see a helicopter now. Isn't it?"

She doesn't respond right away. It does seem impossible.

"You think you imagined it?" she asks, her tone steeped in skepticism. "Hallucinated?"

Her inquiries are almost blatantly sarcastic, but he shrugs, and her heart sinks. His confidence is shot, and he hasn't been trusting himself lately, even though their war has been won, and the vast majority of people have come to terms with their plans regarding Negan.

He's still reeling from Carl's death. They both are, but Rick especially, and more openly. He's always had the tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve.

And he's never lost a child before. He doesn't know what to do.

A chill runs down her spine.

"I doubt you imagined it," she tells him slowly, walking across the room and over to him. She places her hand on his back and stands on the tips of her toes, so she can peer over his shoulder and in between the blinds at the sky with him. "And if you didn't imagine it…"

She lets her statement, along with all its implications, hang in the air. If a group out there had the means to pilot helicopters, what else could they have? And what could happen if that group were found?

What could happen if that group found them?

"Rick," she breathes, as her eyes widen and her thoughts race. "Rick, this could be - big."

She waits, but he doesn't answer. So she tries to prompt him.

"Do you remember where you saw it? Or where it seemed to be headed?"

Again, he's silent. She can sense that he wants to drop the subject, but she can't shut off her mind.

"Was there only one of them? And you said it was during the war. You don't think it had something to do with Negan, do you? And that's why we haven't seen any since. Or -"

"Michonne, I'm…"

He lets out a rough breath, and then removes his fingers from the blinds and turns toward her. His blue eyes are tired, and slightly wet, as they always seem to be these days. Her heart sinks, and suddenly, helicopters are miles from the forefront of her mind.

"Rick."

"Michonne, I'm not even sure that it was real, let alone what it was doing or where it was going."

He runs a hand through his curls, mussing them, knocking one from behind his ear so it hangs over his forehead and into his eyes.

"I just don't...I dunno. Maybe it wasn't real."

He shrugs, and her heart aches.

She hates seeing him like this: sullen and unconfident, heartbroken and unsteady, like he's lost in some dark, empty space, ambling in no particular direction, stumbling over his own two feet.

She hates it. She detests it, with every atom of her being.

So instead of asking about helicopters, she pushes that stray curl from his face, tucks it back behind his ear.

"Your hair's getting long," she comments idly, just as a statement of fact.

"I've been thinking about cutting it, actually."

For a moment, her heart sinks. She loves those curls. She fell in love with them the first night they came together - fell in love with how silky they felt on her skin, with the way she could tangle her fingers in them and pull him closer to her, with little moans and groans she could make slip from his mouth when she tugged on them as he fucked her. And her obsession with them is still so potent that the prospect of losing them sends an irrational sadness coursing through her veins.

"Would you do it for me? Cut it, I mean?"

His question pulls her from her thoughts, and she refocuses to find him staring at her with eyes so vulnerable that it almost brings her to tears.

It seems like such a simple request, but she's aware of its significance. She remembers Carl telling her stories of Saturdays at the Grimes' household of old, when Lori would herd her two boys into the master bathroom and trim their matching chestnut hair. It's the reason Carl always refused haircuts, no matter who was giving them - the boy had told her as much, in their early days at Alexandria, when some strange lady from down the street had offered.

This isn't Rick's first haircut since Lori, she knows, but it is his first haircut in awhile. It's the first time he's cut his hair since they've been together, and of course, the first time he's asked her to do it for him.

His eyes dart from hers as they stand in silence, her mind still processing his request while he anxiously awaits her answer. He turns his head towards the window.

"I mean, you don't have to," he fumbles. "I might not even end up doing it. I don't - "

"Rick."

She places her hand on his cheek, over his full, gray beard, and guides his face back to hers. He gazes at her, and she can see his whole soul.

"I'd be honored to cut your hair for you."

He stares at her for a moment, then nods. His eyes leave hers once again, as he looks at his feet, but she can see one corner of his mouth tick up into a small smile. She grabs one of his hands and laces their fingers together, and starts to pull him towards their bathroom.

"You know, the last time I got a haircut, I cried."

She continues on, grinning, because she can hear the amusement in his voice. She stops in front of the entrance to the bathroom and turns towards him.

"Well, you feel free to cry during this one, too. Whenever you want."

"I just might take you up on that," he warns wryly, and they both let out soft laughs. She goes to flick on the bathroom light, but he pulls back on her arm, stopping her.

"'Chonne?" he murmurs.

She turns around again, a curious look on her face.

"What is it?"

"I love you," he tells her, his expression so earnest and honest that it makes the first hints of tears begin to well in her eyes. She steps towards him, melts her body against his and stands on her tiptoes so she can press their foreheads together.

"I love you," she murmurs, then places a quick kiss on the bridge of his nose.

They close their eyes, stand there together and breathe.

She'd filed that moment away in her brain for a reason wholly unrelated to helicopters; it was one of their first instances of healing after they lost Carl. It was a day that made them smile more than it made them frown. And she treasured it with her whole heart.

The admittedly-strange start to the conversation seemed unimportant with the knowledge she'd had then, and she'd tucked it away in the corner of her mind. It resurfaces with a jolt, but when it does, she keeps it on the quiet side. She tells Aaron and Rosita, Ezekiel, Carol. Not anyone else.

Because it doesn't really matter who saw them first, or when they saw them. What matters is that they're seeing them now, with ever-increasing frequency.

Still, they don't know what to do. How to solve their new problem. They don't really know if they even have a new problem; so far the helicopters haven't bothered them, nor have the people inside them. They've just been viewed from a distance, with awe and a healthy dose of suspicion.

In the end, they decide there are more pressing matters hanging over their heads: stabilizing The Hilltop, reuniting the communities, dealing with The Whisperers. They agree to put off helicopters, either until they have more time and freedom, or until their hand is forced.

For now, they resign themselves to looking on from afar. To staring into the sky and watching in wonder.

***

Her life changes with a frantic knocking on her front door one June afternoon, on a rare day that she's taken for herself. She's on the couch painting her toenails a deep shade of teal when the abrupt noise startles her, making the brush fall out of her hand and onto the carpet below.

She swears under her breath, and curses whoever is pounding incessantly on her door. Picking up the brush and twisting the bottle of nail polish closed, she gets up and rushes to the front of the house, hobbling on her heels so she doesn't blemish the fresh coat of paint on her toes.

She throws the door open mid-knock, and finds Eugene and Gabriel standing on the other side, the Father's fist still raised in the air.

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. This isn't the first time this pair has shown up on her doorstep, frazzled and wide-eyed. You see, Father Gabriel and Eugene like to fiddle with radios. Their technology is still in its primitive stages, and while it's improved communication between the communities, there haven't been any other significant results as of yet. However, that hasn't stopped the two men from rushing to her house a handful of times, hectically prattling about some bit of static in terms she doesn't understand - static that has always turned out to be nothing, so far.

She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms across her chest, and waits. However, their normal, frenzied words don't come. Instead, they stare at her like she's grown a second head, mouths agape, chests still heaving from the jog to her house.

"What?" she asks, her brow furrowing.

Gabriel's mouth opens and then closes again. He blinks hard, and then looks at the ground.

"Michonne…" he chokes out.

But before the man can finish, Eugene interrupts.

"A new transmission on our radio has given us reason to believe that our long-lost leader, Rick Grimes, is in fact alive and well."

"Eugene!" Gabriel scolds, turning around. "We weren't supposed to -" He scoffs, and then faces forward once again. "Michonne, we can't be sure what we heard, or what it meant…"

But Michonne isn't listening to Gabriel. Instead, she stares at Eugene, eyes narrowed. She stands up straight, and drops her chin to her chest. Her heart beats so fast it tickles like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

"What did you just say?" she asks Eugene, her voice dangerously low.

"Michonne," Gabriel tries again, "he wasn't supposed to say that. Not like that, at least. Listen, we can't be - "

"Shut the fuck up, Gabriel," she growls, never taking her eyes off of Eugene Porter. "Tell me. What did you say, just now?"

"I said," Eugene hesitates, his gaze bouncing around nervously. "I said…"

"EUGENE!" she shouts.

"I said that we have reason to believe that Rick Grimes is alive and well."

She stares at him, her breathing beginning to speed up. Her thoughts are sprinting around in her brain at record speed, and right now, she can't catch a single one.

"Of course, we can't know if he's actually well or not. I was using a common phrase to express myself, but maybe I should've - "

"Shut up," she murmurs, cutting off Eugene's rambling. Then, she turns to Father Gabriel.

"Tell me what you heard. Exactly what you heard."

"A little while ago, we picked up a conversation between two women on the radio," he begins, his hands outstretched in Michonne's direction, as if she were a lion on the hunt, and he was trying to defend himself. "At first it was only faint, but we made some adjustments and eventually got it to come in more clearly. After we listened for awhile, we realized…"

"You realized WHAT?" she nearly screams, frustrated with the pastor's constant hesitation.

"We realized that the voice of one of the women sounded like the missing Anne," Eugene finished. "Also known as Jadis."

Jadis.

The name brings back memories, of a strange woman who was an enemy then a friend then an enemy then a friend again. Of a woman who eventually abandoned her weird ways and assimilated into their community.

Of a woman who disappeared at the same time Rick did. Her leaving was mostly glanced over - mainly because it did happen at the same time that the bridge exploded - and Michonne had never made the connection in her head until now.

Now, it seems so obvious that she wants to give herself several swift kicks in the shin for missing it.

Jadis.

"What did she say? Tell me exactly what she said," she demands of the two men.

"We couldn't hear it perfectly," Gabriel warns.

But Eugene forges ahead.

"The unknown woman asked, 'This area is where you picked up that Rick guy, isn't it?'"

"Rick!" Michonne exclaims. She looks desperately between the two men. "You're absolutely positive she said Rick?"

Eugene and Gabriel glance at each other, before nodding.

"Yes," Gabriel murmurs.

"Then Anne's voice came in," Eugene goes on, "and confirmed that yes, she had found this aforementioned 'Rick' in this area."

"Then what?" she breathes.

The two men look at each other, and pause.

"THEN WHAT DID THEY SAY?" she yells. A person passing on the street before them stops, and turns their head in the direction of the three of them. The person catches the eye of Eugene and Gabriel, and they hesitate again.

"Don't look at them!" Michonne barks, reaching out and grabbing both men before pulling them closer to her. "Look at me! What did they say next?"

"The unfamiliar woman came through again," Gabriel finally continued, "and asked, 'So this is the home he keeps going on and on about?'"

'"Keeps'?" she whispers. "'Keeps', with an 's'? As in, the present tense of keep?"

"There was a lot of static - "

"Gabriel," Michonne warns. "Tell me what you heard."

Gabriel looks away from her for a moment, and bites his lip. Then, his eyes return to hers, his gaze resolute.

"We believe we heard 'keeps'. Present tense."

And she had known. All along, she had known.

"Don't move," she instructs the two men.

She turns on her heel and dashes up the stairs to her room so she can grab her boots. She pulls them on with trembling fingers, while words flow through her cells like electricity, swirl in her brain, travel up the contours of her spine, and sing in her blood, with every pump of her heart.

he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive...

She runs back downstairs, grabs her gun and katana from the living room and returns to the front door to find Eugene and Gabriel waiting for her, just as she had told them to.

"Follow me," she says now, as she pushes past them and starts down the stairs to her house. "The kids are over at Aaron's for the night, so we have some time. We need to get started right now. You need to tell me everything you've been doing for the past few days - hell, the past few weeks - and we need to figure out what our next steps are going to be."

he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive...

"And what exactly is it that we are starting on, right now?" Eugene asks from behind her.

She stops in the middle of the street, and turns to watch the two men rush to catch up to her. She looks them both in the eyes - Gabriel, then Eugene - holds each of their gazes for a few moments, and finally, speaks.

he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive, he's alive...

"We're going to find Rick. And we're going to bring him home."

A/N: There you have it. I was really nervous to write the moment in the last section, where she finds out Rick's alive, and I hope it ended up working. I also hope that this chapter doesn't seem too disjointed, since I wrote it over a long period of time, with significant breaks from writing anything at all.

Now, for the important part: I'm going to be skipping over the 'saving Rick' part of this story. The next chapter will jump to a time when Rick is home again. The reason why? Like I've said before, I'm not used to writing long, plot-driven pieces, and writing the actual events of the rescue seems a bit too action-y for me to be comfortable writing it (or to stay motivated and interested in writing this, if I'm being honest). Plus, I'm really craving some Richonne right now, and I'm anxious to get to the part where they're reunited.

But don't worry! You'll still get to witness all the important moments through intermittent flashbacks (like Rick and Michonne seeing each other again for the first time, Rick reuniting with Judith and the rest of his family/community, Rick meeting RJ for the first time, etc.). So I'm hoping you won't feel like you're missing anything vital. Because really, we're all just here for Richonne, right? ;)

As always, thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought through a review if you want.

xoxo, Rebekah

[lusilly]

Dearest Lucy, bright star, blessed soul - 'tis I, the desi anon who had to Google your bald cleaning icon. I've had a long tiring day doing stuff I didn't want to do that was good for me, and tomorrow I'm going to do more of the same. The last few days have been rough for you too, no? I share your hurt and disappointment in the SCOTUS decision. God knows the SCI makes me feel the same way sometimes. Anyway I wanted to tell you some nice things? To lift your spirits. Feel free to ignore these ok

hello i’m back on tumblr for 2 seconds for 2 reasons and one is because i had to address these beautiful asks. first of all this is. so sweet i love you i’m so mad that i got these and then the kennedy news broke and i had to Shut Down for a few days lmao you deserve a better recognition of your Kindness. so thank you!! these messages were like a bright bead of light in a really shitty week

Firstly, the Hindi word for sunset is "godhuli", meaning the dust raised by the feet of cows coming home. It makes me smile every time I think of it. It's so good to let myself sink into the person I am when I'm not speaking English. I like that I have a fistful of names and that I can be so many things at once. I have my formal name, I have my home name, I have what I'm called when I go to my mother's dusty North Indian village - a centuries-old word for a precious girl, it goes on. 

godhuli is SUCH a beautiful word evoking such a beautiful image! and these words are so beautiful wtf i wish i could read your words in hindi cuz i’m sure they’re even More beautiful

All this to say, L, that you are a thousand different things! You will have a thousand names for those too. That's the idea, I think - to never let anybody think they are only One Thing. I know you know this, but this is a gentle transoceanic reminder that you are wonderful and you inspire me regularly okay! I'm tired and not saying it right but I hope you get me. I'm proud of you and I think you're awesome. You're doing great!! Keep at it! Also this is badly written and creepy I apologise

forgive the outdated emoji but TT.TT lmao thank you. your words of kindness inspire me too i want to be a Better person and inspire positivity and gentle sweetness in the world so i’m proud of YOU and think YOU’RE awesome. you are my anon role model

Also!!! There was this fun Reddit thread some time ago on desi insults that I loved, because it had creative ones in a number of languages I knew. One of my favourites was "gaand mein jhadu ghusa doongi, mor bana phirega" which means "I'll shove a broom up your ass and then you'll walk around like a PEACOCK" which I think is fantastic in spite of the ass part, because I cannot imagine a bird more annoying than the mōr it's so fucking DUMB it just poses and scuttles away, spectacularly useless

I LOVE THIS i’m going to include this insult in Something i write i swear to god. peacocks are useless and BEAUTIFUL and i think that’s very Brave lmao because me too

All of that to say peacocks are fucking dumb and if anybody ever compared me to one I would stream rivers from my eyes, I tell you. I wish our national bird was the Bustard as was initially considered till the spelling made people go uhhhhh okay maybe not this one people are definitely going to fuck it up. We call it hoom over here, Lucy. I want a national bird called hoom god damn it anyway I'm just babbling now good night

i had to google what a bustard was cuz i was thinking like buzzard or something. they are not buzzards but they are Beautiful also and i Love them!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

anyway this is so...........fucking.............. SWEET AND NICE I DON’T DESERVE THIS. thank u and whoever you are hit me up on fb or skype or something cuz i may be spending Less and Less time on tumblr hopefully lmao