#jonesy and nelson

[hearts-hunger]

Also I forget people didn’t follow you from Queen to GVF, I mean technically I didn’t but I’m still peaking in from time to time. But I was going to say, I saw I snip from a GVF performance and the train from Queen to GVF is not a long one! The stage presence is serving and I can understand your enchantment.

i actually would love to know how many people fell victim to the queen to gvf pipeline because i think there's a good handful of us. gvf has that 70s glam rock charisma (not to mention a sparkly lovable queer front man) and i am fully enchanted 😌

[bairdthereader]

Heartstopper Mini Arc: Charlie and Tara

From Charlie's resentment and reluctance and Tara's confusion . . .

. . . to heartfelt, reassuring conversation that helps them understand each other (and themselves) better.

Two people who care so, so deeply about their friends were bound to become friends themselves. 💕

[vexwerewolf]

Recruiting a team in Lancer

[iwritestuffzs]

Whumptober 2023 Day 1: Swooning

Fandom: Heartstopper

The first thing Darcy noticed was that it was hot. Like really fucking hot.

The Paris Squad were all hanging out at Nick's house and he decided to teach them all how to play rugby. Since nobody knew the rules and really just went to the games to support Nick.

And the experience had been a pretty sucky one.

The sun was blazing down on them and there was no wind or clouds. Also despite the multiple asks from Tao to get water break Nick wouldn't stop his lesson. Darcy'd hate to admit it but she also kind of need a water break. Well more of a lunch break. It was a bit hard to get food with her parents ignoring her at home. And also her being grounded and stuck there with them.

But she didn't ask. Nobody could know why Darcy hadn't eaten in like 2 days.

It was actually kind of impressive at how well Nick was at teaching.

Hell, even Tao started to learn the roles.

After working in the basics Nick shifted into tackling, which everyone had fun with.

"Umf," Darcy hit the ground as Tara tackled her for the 6th time. Probably would have been less if Darcy had food in her system.

"Wow I'm pretty good at his rugby stuff," Tara boasted, helping Darcy to her feet, "maybe they should make a team at Higgs."

"I'm just letting you win," Darcy said, "that's what good girlfriends do."

"You're just a sore loser," Tara said.

Darcy playful stuck out her tongue, to which Tara responded with another tackle.

After a while the tackling lesson just turned into complete chaos and Nick decided maybe it was time to go in.

Where things got a hundred times worse. It happened as soon as she stepped inside,

Darcy's mild discomfort turned into a full blown wave of nausea.

"Fuck," she cursed.

The world felt like it was tilting. She held onto the back of a chair to keep from swaying on her feet.

"Hey Darcy? You okay," Charlie asked with concern.

"Yeah," Darcy answered, hiding her discomfort, "it was just hot outside. Probably just need some water."

"Oh ok," Charlie said, but he was less than convinced. He knew Darcy had a habit of lying so that others wouldn't worry about her. "How about we go get some together."

Her face briefly flashed to panic but she quickly switched to her normal calm face. But Charlie saw it.

"Yeah sure!" She said, a bit too perky.

She left her support hold of the chair and started to head to the kitchen with Charlie in front of her

Leaving the chair was a big mistake.

Barely a couple of steps without it, and her steps faltered. Black spots invaded her vision and she could barely stand.

Charlie turned around, feeling something was off "Darcy? Are you-" he saw his friend's state, "Darcy!"

But she could barely hear him. Her ears were ringing too loudly. She made blurry eye contact with Charlie, who rushed to her side, before her knees buckled and eyes rolled back. She felt a sharp pain in her head then everything went dark.

Darcy woke up achy and confused.

The first thing she noticed was that she was laying on Nick Nelson's couch instead of the spot where she collapsed on the floor.

And second was that there were two pairs of hands touching her head. One putting a bandaid on her head and the other stroking her hair.

She groggily groaned.

"Hey there... Took you long enough to wake up"

Darcy smiled and looked up to see Tara stroking her hair. "Hey Jonesy." She smirked.

She also saw Charlie above her with a bloody tissue and band-aid.

"Hey Spring," Darcy acknowledged. "What's with the blood?"

"It's from this nasty gash, after you collapsed in my arms. I might of accidentally dropped you and your hit your head. " Charlie said, glancing at Darcy's forehead and winced

Darcy touched her head and pulled her hand back to see blood.

"It's bleeding like crazy," Charlie said, grabbing a tissue and dabbing away the blood. "You've bleed through 3 Band-Aids already."

"It's not my fault Charlie's got the strength of a frail old woman," Darcy joked trying to lighten the mood.

Charlie giggled a bit. But Darcy noticed Tara hadn't said much since she'd woken up, "what wrong Jonesy? Jealous that I fainted in Charlie's arms and not yours."

Tara looked away and still absentmindedly stroked Darcy's hair. Like there was something burning inside of her to ask.

"Tara? What is it?" Darcy asked.

Tara took a deep breath and asked," Why did you pass out?"

"Oh. Um I don't know," Darcy answered, "I was fine when we were outside,just a bit hungry. Then when we came inside it got worse."

"When's the last time you've eaten?" Tara asked.

"I don't know? When's the last time I saw you?" Darcy answered, "like two days?"

Tara suddenly looked very concerned and glanced towards Charlie, who wore the same expression.

"What?" Darcy asked feeling out of the loop

"Darcy, the last time I saw you was 2 weeks ago."

[marysweetwine]

A little bit about Faith! 💫

(Art is from Saxon's character maker from picrew)

Good day, tumblr folks!

I'm Faith Jonesy 💫 people can call me either by my name or surname 😊 I am a student, and an enthusiast of many things! But my main interests are Film, and Books.

Films

What got me into loving movies is mom. We had this tradition where mum, along with my siblings and I would have movie nights every time we came over on the weekends when I was young (though we still watch whenever we can). I got more interested in it when the pandemic started. Some genres I like are a bit of horror, fantasy, drama, and queer and coming-of-age films.

Here are some of the movies that sticks out to me the most! 🎥🎞️

Books

A book I never shut up about is “I'll Give You The Sun” by Jandy Nelson. It reminds me of a calm summer, and a love I wish I had. This book is my first love and was introduced to me by my older sister.

“We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.”

Another favorite of mine is "How To Be A Wildflower". A book illustration about the magic of the natural world. 🍂🍄🪻

---

Other Stuff 🌛

Other than movies and books, I do a little bit of art as well using gouache and watercolor. I like to daydream and when they get vivid, I put them on an empty paper. It's very rare when something I imagine looks the same when I paint them.

Here are some of it that I'm actually proud of:

I did this while listening to a Sea Pearl playlist. I thought about pastel sea creatures. 🐋🪼🦑

A mini watercolor portrait for Arca from 2021

I called this "The Glowing Man". Painted this for a poster making contest. 💫

---

Yep, I think that's everything...for now. I gotta do my homework lol.

Faith Jonesy, zoning out. 🚀

[ulkaralakbarova]

When Manny Singer’s wife dies, his young daughter Molly becomes mute and withdrawn. To help cope with looking after Molly, he hires sassy housekeeper Corrina Washington, who coaxes Molly out of her shell and shows father and daughter a whole new way of life. Manny and Corrina’s friendship delights Molly and enrages the other townspeople. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Corrina Washington: Whoopi Goldberg Manny Singer: Ray Liotta Molly Singer: Tina Majorino Jonesy: Joan Cusack Sid: Larry Miller Jevina: Jenifer Lewis Jenny Davis: Wendy Crewson Grandma Eva: Erica Yohn Grandpa Harry: Don Ameche Brent Witherspoon: Brent Spiner Bratty Boy: Tommy Bertelsen Repeat Nanny: Lin Shaye High Heels: Noreen Hennessey Shirl: Lucy Webb Miss O’Herlihy: Juney Ellis Rita Lang: Mimi Lieber Liala Sheffield: Karen Leigh Hopkins Mrs. Wang: Pearl Huang Tommy: Marcus Toji Joe Allechinetti: Louis Mustillo Wilma: Patrika Darbo Delivery Man 1: Don Pugsley Annie: Lynette Walden Business Associate: Bryan Gordon Club Singer: Jevetta Steele Woman in Audience: Yonda Davis Percy: Curtis Williams Lizzie: Briahnna Odom Mavis: Ashley Taylor Walls Frank: Harold Sylvester Anthony T. Williams: Steven Williams Lewis: Asher Metchik Howard: Courtland Mead Mrs. Werner: Sue Carlton Gregory: Kyle Orsi Mrs. Rodgers: Maud Winchester Mrs. Morgan: K.T. Stevens John Brennan: Christopher Chisholm Chubby Boy: Bryan A. Robinson Mrs. Murphy: Roz Witt 2nd Delivery Man: Sean Moran Film Crew: Screenplay: Jessie Nelson Editor: Lee Percy Producer: Steve Tisch Executive Producer: Ruth Vitale Original Music Composer: Rick Cox Producer: Paula Mazur Executive Producer: Bernie Goldmann Director of Photography: Bruce Surtees Music: Thomas Newman Stunts: Ben Scott Stunts: Kym Washington Longino Associate Producer: Joe Fineman Line Producer: Eric McLeod Casting: Mary Gail Artz Casting: Barbara Cohen Music Supervisor: Bonnie Greenberg Costume Design: Francine Jamison-Tanchuck Production Design: Jeannine Oppewall First Assistant Director: Phillip Christon Second Assistant Director: David Minkowski Second Second Assistant Director: Peggy Hughes Production Accountant: Gwen Everman Script Supervisor: Benita Brazier Camera Operator: Geary McLeod First Assistant Camera: Heather Page Steadicam Operator: Kirk R. Gardner Still Photographer: Suzanne Hanover Gaffer: Alan Brownstein Best Boy Electric: Steve Reinhardt Key Grip: Charles Saldaña Production Sound Mixer: David Kelson Boom Operator: Randall L. Johnson Key Makeup Artist: Michael Germain Makeup Artist: Deborah La Mia Denaver Key Hair Stylist: Candy L. Walken Hairstylist: Julia L. Walker Hairstylist: Michael Pachal Property Master: Barbara Benz Assistant Property Master: Michael D’Imperio Art Direction: Dina Lipton Set Designer: Louisa Bonnie Set Decoration: Lauren Gabor Leadman: John Maskovich Construction Coordinator: Lars Petersen Construction Foreman: Steven C. Voll Transportation Coordinator: Billy G. Arter Additional Editor: Lynzee Klingman Supervising Sound Editor: Steve Richardson ADR Voice Casting: Barbara Harris Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Matthew Iadarola Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Gary Gegan Color Timer: Mato Dialogue Editor: Lewis Goldstein Dialogue Editor: James Matheny Dialogue Editor: Kimberly Lambert Dialogue Editor: Jim Brookshire Dialogue Editor: Alison Fisher Supervising Sound Effects Editor: Joel Valentine ADR Editor: Darrell Hanzalik ADR Editor: Mary Ruth Smith ADR Editor: Jeff Watts Assistant Sound Editor: Paul Silver Assistant Sound Editor: Catherine Calleson Assistant Sound Editor: Tony Cappelli Foley Artist: Alicia Stevenson Foley Artist: Zane D. Bruce Foley Mixer: David Jobe Foley Recordist: Don Givens ADR Mixer: Charleen Richards-Steeves ADR Recordist: Greg Steele Music Editor: Will Kaplan Set Dresser: Mike Malone Movie Reviews:

[westernwoods]

When you get this you have to answer with 5 things you like about yourself, publicly. Then send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers. (Tagging others is negotiable, positivity is cool but if you’re shy that’s understandable)🥰🥰

thank you love!! five things i like about myself are:

1. my enthusiasm for holidays

2. my sense of humor

3. my taste in music

4. my ability to fall deeply in love easily and stay that way

5. my affinity for collecting tchotchkes

[hearts-hunger]

You can just put “Bella from twilight core” in the tags like that and walk away like come back

LKDNKDHBJH every time jake does that thing i fear for his spinal cord like hon are you. are you giving birth to a vampire baby

[moonlithush-and-stardust]

Happy Birthday to you Tara :)

Thank you for always being there to help out our confused lads, Nick and Charlie <3

[planet-neptune]

i’m literally vibrating with excitement at the thought that darcy might call tara ‘jonesy’ in the show

like in real time, and actually voiced. can you imagine it?? because i can

i can’t believe they literally invented the concept of love

[fuckyeahgifheaven]

Backstage of Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 12. January 1995.

So. This is backstage and the band with friends are listening to Ahmet Ertegün's introduction droning on before Arrowsmith steps forward to induct Led Zeppelin into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Robert: “Shh-shh!”

Ahmet: “They were not only inventing the most important rock and roll music of their time. But they were also inventing the new rock and roll lifestyle.”

Robert: “Oh no...!”

Jimmy: “Hahah! That’s correct!”

Ahmet: “...Apart from that, this turning includes that to remain. Nor it doesn’t mean that..."

Robert: “You're chanting!”

Ahmet: “...revolutionary music at a time of organisation... American blues and R&B. They refused to limit their imagination, drawing on rock, reggae, rockabilly, funk, Arabic, and Indian influence...”

Jason: “Can I have your cigarette?”

Ahmet: “...to create unique music, unprecedented power and grace...”

Jason: "Here."

Jimmy: “Oh, cheers.”

Ahmet: “...of exhilarating contrast. Robert Plant, Jimmy Page, Jonesy, Bonzo. They were playing true world music before they began to chart on Billboard.”

Jimmy: “Hm!”

Ahmet: “They toured the world and they went everywhere. Aaand there were fast midnight dinner parties..."

Robert: “Hahaha...!”

Jonesy: “We were heroic...”

Ahmet: “...uuuhh groupies...”

Robert: “Thanks Jonesy.”

Ahmet: “...jazz chorus swapping, groupies...”

Joe Perry: “He said groupies twice...”

Ahmet: “...protection from imaginary devil imposed by Richard Cole, groupies... TV sets thrown out the window and groupies...”

Jonesy: “Groupies thrown out the window...TV sets...”

Ahmet: “...ranked hotel rooms, Phil Carson jokes... and Earl McGrath. Shoes thrown out the windows and groupies...”

“Five times groupies.”

Robert: “I thought he was making a mistake.”

Ahmet: “Stories that we cannot tell, and groupies... and the great Peter Grant...”

Willie Nelson: “Six times...” (They’re all counting now.)

Ahmet: “...sitting like Buddha watching it all. Great days I’ll never forget. A time in my life I’ll treasure. The music they made is the music of today. Their influence today on young musicians is greater than ever. It is through their music that many of the young people are discovering the old blues’ pioneer. We all came through the tragic death of John Bonham."

Ahmet: "I am proud to have been associated with this extraordinary band who are more revered today than ever. Whose music is timeless, and whose members like my brothers. To induct Led Zeppelin into the ‘Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’, I would like to present Joe Perry and Steven Tyler of Arrowsmith.”

(Last minute changes.)

Jimmy: “...coming in. I-I can do that.”

Robert: “In ‘The Levee Breaks’?”

Jimmy: “Yeah, I can do that.”

Robert: “In the tuning?”

Jimmy. “You’ll have to get a little bit up from before but not much.”

Robert: “Okay.”

Jimmy: “...since we’re all gonna be standing tuning, right?”

Robert: “You should explain it...” (points at Jason Bonham.)

Jimmy: “I’ll just go. I’ll just go for it.”

“...started up, right?”

Jimmy: “Well, to a degree.”

Robert: “But can we do something else after that? That’s a bit more standard and popular?”

Jason: “Sure whatever you want.”

Jimmy: “Yeah..”

Robert: “This ‘Night Flight’ or something like that?"

Robert: “Is there anything you can do that we know that we can do?”

Jimmy: “Who? Me?”

Robert: “You and I starting off and everybody joins in?”

Jimmy: “Yeah. Yeah, there is, yeah.”

Robert: “Okay, but give us a clue what it is!”

Jason: “Tell us beforehand.”

Robert kisses a baffled Jimmy.

Jimmy: “No. I’m not gonna tell ya!”

Jimmy: “What are you talking about now?”

Jonesy: “Train. Train.”

Robert: “Why don't we start with that? That is a bit more structured?”

Jimmy: “Not still with me! Hahahaha!”

Jonesy explaining a lot of intricate stuff that Jimmy totally understands.

Jimmy: “Yeah sure, I’ll start it, mate. Just...there’s no problem.”

-

ps. Thanks for the nice kudos <3 Transcribing this was no chore at all :D

[aggravatetheaxe]

OH! OH! REQUESTS!

Bo and those hands 🥺

-imbleedin-out

I started trying to think of how I would do this, and then I just got way out of control and wrote not one, not two, but THIRTEEN vignettes about Bo's hands. I like some of them more than others, but I didn't want to omit something someone might enjoy.

The protagonist became indigenous somehow, it kind of just happened.

Here's the order:

Bo holding your thigh

Bo after work

Bo choking (NSFW)

Bo petting Jonesy

Bo handling something delicate

Bo putting pressure on a wound

Bo braiding hair

Bo sewing something

Bo trying to play guitar

Bo rubbing you when you're sick

Bo fixing something you broke

Bo reading a book

Bo with busted knuckles

Enjoy!

Masterlist

***

1.

The radio was blasting, the windows were down, and the old Chevy was pushing seventy down the first paved road for a couple miles.

The music was Marilyn Manson, you thought, but it could just as well be Skinny Puppy—you were only vaguely familiar, given Bo listened to the alternative station off and on throughout the day. The beat was intense, and it had your boyfriend driving like it was his job, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

You gazed at him. You didn't mind the music, but you knew it was what he listened to to focus, not relax. There was no need to focus; there wouldn't be many other cars, and you had all the time in the world.

After a moment of consideration, you reached out and turned the dial on the radio. It only took a few clicks to find your preferred country station and a crooning Willie Nelson.

Bo glanced over, annoyed for a second and bemused the next, then, finally, grinning at you. That grin, warm and genuine, meant everything. He glued his eyes back on the road but took one hand off the wheel, covering your thigh and squeezing affectionately.

You put your hand over his, relishing the way his skin moved over his knuckles, and closed your eyes against the summer breeze.

2.

The sun beat down on the pavement as you approached the garage—the first nice day after a couple of heavy rain. You'd woken up alone, but the smell of gasoline and the thump of bluesy rock had led you to where you'd find Bo.

Sure enough, the garage door was open. You couldn't help but smile when you saw him with his back to you, digging around in the hood of a beat-up Honda.

"S'cuse me, sir?" You smiled wider when he straightened and turned in a hurry. "Any idea where I can find a mechanic?"

After a beat, he matched your grin, adjusting his hat. "Well, you came to the right place, beautiful. I can do whatever you need done."

You held up the brown paper bag in which you'd packed his lunch, shaking it around. "Thought I'd bring you a little something."

His eyes brightened slightly at the thought of food, and he forgot all about the Honda, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. You couldn't help but admire them, strong and rough and currently covered in a layer of black grease. The rag didn't cut through much, but he didn't seem to notice, gesturing for the paper bag.

You shook your head, holding it away. You'd seen him eat with mostly blackened hands before—he'd do it if you let him. "Soap and water?" When he scowled, you added, "Please? For me?"

"Fine." In a huff, he took off his cap and chucked it onto the nearby workbench. "Wouldn't want anyone ta see you bringing lunch to some dirty redneck, wouldja?"

You sighed. His tone would have you believe he was being lighthearted, but there was an edge to his voice that you recognized. It wasn't the first time he'd projected his insecurities onto you, so you were quiet as he brushed past to go to the bathroom.

When he came back, you held the bag away again, instead reaching for his hand. You brought it to your face, nuzzling into it before placing a lingering kiss on his palm.

"I love these hands," you murmured, watching him through your lashes. "No matter how filthy they get."

A grouchy expression remained, but it didn't quite meet his eyes.

With a snort, you added, "Let's just try not to ingest any motor oil, all right?"

3.

"Fuck— Bo—"

Your breath hitched as his tongue skimmed over your nipples, followed by his thumbs. The rough pads created the most beautiful friction, sending sparks through your torso and down between your legs.

"Yeah, I love that," Bo whispered, pinching your swollen nipples deeply and firmly. "Love watchin' that pretty mouth say my name."

The sight of his fingers toying with your buds, of his hands running over your chest and squeezing, drove you so wild you couldn't help but groan. His tendons flexed, knuckles shifting, fingertips making indents in your soft flesh.

He saw you watching. He glanced, following your gaze, and when he realized what you were looking at, he grinned wickedly. "You like that, huh? Like watchin' what these hands're doin' to you?"

You did. Fuck, you did. You couldn't understand how hands that were capable of so much hurt—hands that had hurt you—were also capable of making you feel more pleasure than you ever had in your life.

"Tell me," he grunted, apparently unsatisfied with your nod. "Say it, tell me."

"I lo-love the way your hands make me feel. I love watching you play with me..."

"You wanna taste 'em? Huh? Betcha do."

A shameful thrill shot through your body, pushing your answer out in a gasp: "Yes!"

"Okay. Good [ girl / boy / baby ]." He couldn't hide his own excitement as he raised his hand to your lips, breath heavy. "Go on."

He splayed his fingers, and you started there first, licking up and down each digit, taking them between your lips and sucking slowly. You licked between his fingers, too, running your tongue along his knuckles, then lapping at them like you were starving for him.

He chuckled, watching you kiss and taste every inch, every groove. "Look at you ... worshiping those hands. The hands tha' killed all your li'l friends. Such a slut for them now."

You gave a throaty groan, the flat of your tongue paused over the delicious tick of his pulse on the back of his hand. Those words were so wrong, so cruel and hateful, and yet they stoked the fire in your core, making you throb.

Bo inhaled deeply through his nose, bracing himself as he shifted you slightly. Without warning, he shoved two fingers in your mouth, two in your entrance. Then a third joined the ones in your mouth, hooking downward so he had a hold of your jaw.

You had no choice but to hold it open for him as he finger-fucked both your mouth and your slick, needy hole, murmuring praises all the while: "Such a soft, pink tongue in there. Such pretty lips. Look at you droolin' all over me. My hands really taste that good, sugar? Make ya drool like a braindead li'l whore..."

You sealed your lips around him, grunting and shaking uncontrollably. Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he removed both hands. You tried to focus your vision, gazing up at him, and met blue eyes beaming with a cold intensity.

"Stay still." His hands locked around your throat, thumbs overlapping, and he squeezed—gently at first, progressively getting tighter. "Good. Stick your tongue out. Goooood. Lemme see that..."

He didn't let up, and your vision turned to static, pulse thudding against his palms as he choked the breath from you. He watched with a terrifying mixture of fury, fascination, and affection in his eyes as you began to struggle, tongue quivering...

4.

"Jonesy! You stupid mutt, don't roll in— that, fuck!"

The yelling was undeniably Bo, and the exasperation in his voice made you giggle. Whatever Jonesy had just done, your poor boyfriend clearly didn't have the time or energy for it.

You wiped your hands off on a nearby dishrag and headed out the front door, figuring you'd have some mercy on him. He wouldn't hurt the dog—you'd never seen him give her anything more than a hard shove or a smack—but it was in everyone's best interest to avoid a grumpy Bo.

As you rounded the house to locate man and dog, you could hear him firing off a string of curses—"Jesus Christ gahdamn fuggin' dumbass"—and the jingling of Jonesy's tags. The way his accent came out when he was pissed was always so cute, despite everything.

By the time you found him and the dog on the other side of the house, he'd already stripped off his shirt and connected a hose to the spigot near the cellar door. You stopped and watched as he tried to wrangle Jonesy, who thought dodging him was the funnest game she'd ever played.

"Git— back here! Yer covered in shit, ya li'l— bitch—"

His back was to you as he feinted left then dove right. Jonesy was still able to get by him, however, and ran to say hi to you, a big doggy smile on her face.

"Hey, baby." You scratched her on top of her head. "Did you get stinky?"

Bo's grip on the hose tightened, face twisted bitterly, but he looked too tired to be too furious. "Will you bring 'er over here?" he asked impatiently. "Caught 'er rollin' around in some deer shit."

Now that you were looking, she did have some awfully suspicious stains on her white fur. You hooked your fingers through her collar and led her over to Bo. "All right, baby girl, you need a wash."

With a grumble, Bo leaned to open the tap, then turned the hose on the dog unceremoniously. The water pressure wasn't great, but Jonesy tried to bite what spray there was out of the air, wagging her tail.

Bo still looked like something had crawled up his ass and died. "Musta got it deep in her coat, it ain't all comin' off."

"I'll get it," you offered, kneeling so you could scrub your fingers through the dog's short, bristly fur.

As you did, Bo straddled her back legs, trapping her haunches between his knees so she couldn't bolt if she changed her mind about the water. "Just sit still," he murmured, with a hint of desperation but still much gentler than you expected. "Good girl."

You watched his hands as he patted her back, scratching her exuberantly behind both ears, slapping her flanks like bongo drums. Jonesy was loving it, her eyes little slits, tongue lolling out of her mouth. Bo brushed his calloused thumb her between the eyes, then turned off the hose and gave her a final vigorous rub-down.

Watching him love up on the dog, watching him handle her, made you wonder how he'd do with a kid.

5.

He didn't get it at first. You supposed you shouldn't be surprised—after all, he was white as Wonder Bread and not known for being very reverent of other people's belongings.

But, as you eventually found out, Bo was nothing if not sentimental. Hadn't thrown anything of his parents' away, kept more than just trophies of his victims—the junk stored in the mill proved that—treated heirlooms like they were sacred objects. So it didn't take him too long to come around to the idea of your star blanket.

In Lakota culture, quilts with the Morning Star pattern were one of the most valued gifts you could give someone, often gifted for major life events. Your maternal grandmother had made yours to signify your birth, with vibrant red and yellow diamonds making up the eight points of the star, and you'd slept with it almost every night of your life.

It reminded you of the home you and your parents had left behind when you were a kid, and was important enough that you'd begged Bo to let you send for it. Just your luck you hadn't packed it on your ill-fated road trip.

"No one's s'posed to know you're here, sweetheart," he'd said the first time, a sneer. "You're off the map, baby. Might as well not exist. Now you want me givin' out my goddamn address?"

But it hadn't taken him long to bow under your pressure, especially when you talked at length about it, and when you could barely sleep at night without it. He'd finally consented to have the blanket—and a few other things—sent to a P.O. box in the next down over.

With the few things you'd requested, instantly, you'd felt much more at ease in Ambrose. Bo must have noticed, too. Over the past few months, he'd let you send for a bunch of other stuff from your parents', and not once had he complained about the extra quilt on the bed. Not a high bar, but something you'd gotten from white partners before.

Still, you had no idea how seriously he took it until you walked in on him one morning.

As unpredictable as he could be in so many ways, Bo was a creature of routine. He got up every morning between 7:00 and 7:30, made coffee and something to eat, showered, brushed his teeth, got dressed, then made the bed. Always in that order, or else he was in an ass mood the rest of the day. That was how it was every morning, so you'd gotten used to it. And though he didn't expect you to get up at the same time as him, you always found yourself rising about fifteen minutes after he did.

Usually, you showered after him, and the bed was already made—with your star blanket folded at the foot of your side—by the time you came back. Today, though, you'd woken up with horrible stomach cramps, and had decided to get something to eat instead of showering right away.

When you came back upstairs, Bo had just gotten out of the bathroom, but you decided to skip the shower for now. You went to the bedroom instead, to at least change underwear, but stopped dead in the doorway.

Bo hadn't noticed your presence yet. He had just finished laying out the sheets and duvet and had two handfuls of your star quilt. Normally, you wouldn't have thought anything of it; he touched it all the time, to move it around the bed or pull it back or place it somewhere else. But...

Something about this moment, the way he was folding it, gave you pause.

He whistled softly to himself, some jaunty tune. But his strong hands were steady and slow as he took care with the blanket, folding it along its familiar creases and gently, as though he was swaddling a baby, patting and smoothing it out.

You'd never noticed before how perfectly square his folds were, but that jumped out at you now. Where most people—including you, admittedly—would have just underhand chucked the folded quilt to the end of the bed, he framed it deliberately.

That was when he finally noticed you in the corner of his vision.

"That was quick," he commented, moving onto folding another quilt—much more casually than he had yours, you noted.

"Huh? Oh." You shifted. "I didn't shower. I'll do it later."

"Suit yourself." After a second, Bo paused, frowning up at you. "What're you starin' at me for?"

You weren't sure what to say. You didn't want him to stop handling your things with care because he was embarrassed you'd pointed it out. "Nothing." When he continued to frown at you, clearly not buying it, you added, "Thanks for being so ... respectful of my blanket."

He looked bemused for a moment, then averted his eyes, shrugging. "Not a big deal. S'your stuff. Not like I knock your shit around for kicks on a regular day."

"I know, I never said that, it's just— Well, you asked."

He had already turned to the dresser, grabbing the Sinclair family ring and slipping it on his finger. He flexed his knuckles, tendons twitching, as he considered it. "You said them blankets are for weddin's 'n' whatnot, yeah?"

"Yeah. It's usually draped around the shoulders of the couple. Why?"

Bo shrugged and brushed past you. "No reason."

6.

You were already lightheaded. God, it had only been a matter of seconds and you were already lightheaded.

That thought alone sent adrenaline pulsing through your veins, heartbeat speeding up—not exactly the ideal condition when you were bleeding out.

You hadn't even seen it coming. The crossbow bolt that had split your shoulder open had been meant for Bo, and then, like an idiot, you'd acted on instinct and pulled it out. Now ... Christ, you weren't sure how much longer you could stay conscious.

Bo had gotten you on the ground quick, in the grass, kneeling above you. The guy who'd fired the shot was ... you didn't even know where, and you found you didn't care, only able to focus on Bo and his voice.

"Stay with me now," he breathed, fogging the night air. He bore down, pressing all his weight against the wound, his gaze heated. "Come on, stay with me, keep those pretty eyes a' yours open—good [girl / boy / baby]."

Still, despite his efforts, blood spurted between his fingers, staining his square knuckles ruby. With a curse, he shifted and pressed harder, scowling. Sweat poured down his temples.

As darkness closed in on you, a stray thought floated by: after everything, this wasn't such a bad way to finally have your blood on Bo's hands.

"Don't— Stay awake, Y/N, come on! Don't leave me. I can't— lose— you..."

7.

"I fucked it up again." Bo grunted in frustration and tugged gently on your hair, undoing the work he'd done so far on the braid.

"It's okay. Just try it again." You spared a smile back at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

When you'd discovered that Bo didn't know how to braid hair, you'd been a little shocked. You had honestly been under the impression that everyone knew how to braid hair—but, as he'd explained, he'd never had any sisters or little girl friends, and he didn't have a kiddo to learn for.

Now was as good a time as any, you figured. It was a rainy morning and neither of you had anything to do. More importantly, you found yourself ready, even excited, for him to touch your hair. It was a big deal in your culture, something only spouses and immediate family were supposed to do.

Plus, you had ulterior motives.

"Remember to think good thoughts," you reminded him. "I'm gonna be carrying them around with me all day, and I don't need more negativity than I already have, okay?"

"I'm tryin'," he mumbled, separating half your hair into three sections like you'd taught him. His nails scratched lightly against your scalp, rough fingers stroking your strands delicately and rhythmically, as if he was playing a harp. You could feel all the bumps and mistakes he was making already but said nothing, sitting patiently.

"Fuck. Dammit." With a growl, he combed his fingers through the braid again, undoing his work.

Poor guy. "What'd you think of this time?"

"Just some ... stupid shit I forgot ta do like a idiot. Wax stuff. Forgot to tell Vince—"

You didn't turn, but you reached over your shoulder to squeeze his hand. "You can tell him after we're finished, okay? I gotta have my braids."

He held your hand limply. "Why's it such a big deal I do it? You're better at it than me—you oughtta be ... you do it."

You were better at it, by a lot. But you weren't about to admit this exercise was more for his benefit than yours. "I like how you do it better. It's annoying when I do it by myself; the position is all weird. Plus, touching my hair is a big step. Like a step above being my boyfriend."

Nothing like stroking his ego to get him to do what you wanted. With a grudging sigh, he gathered your hair again.

"Okay, now just ... clear your mind. Forget about all the stuff you have to do. Just think good things with me."

Again, he sighed. Then, within a few seconds, he began to braid, strong hands twining your hair slowly and deliberately. You held your breath as he neared the end of the braid. Would he actually finish this time?

"Fuck— fuck it!"

You hesitated. "What was it this time?"

"I thought about Enya."

You sighed. Well ... it was a work in progress.

8.

You probably should have seen something like this coming.

Something frustrating always happened when Bo tried to put the tent up by himself, but like hell you were gonna try and help him. The only person you'd ever seen successfully help him pitch a tent was VIncent, and even with the same brain, they'd bickered the entire time. Best to just stick to the fire pit than get between Bo and that thing.

So, you were disappointed but not necessarily surprised when he trudged up to you, hat pulled low over his scowling brow, and asked, "You bring a sewin' kit?"

You glanced up from your attempted fire, over one shoulder. "Yeah, why?"

"Rip in the tent. Somethin' musta chewed through it durin' the winter." He exhaled in a puff and began digging through your bag.

He could be telling the truth, but he just as easily could have torn that hole himself on accident. It was sometimes unbelievable, the random things he lied about.

You turned. "Here, let me." It only took a moment to find the kit—you knew right where you'd put it. "Do you want me to do it?"

He paused. "Naw. Give it here."

You placed it in his extended hand but couldn't hide your skepticism. "Do you know how to sew?"

"Enough to mend somethin'," he replied defensively before disappearing behind the half-pitched tent.

You watched for a few moments before turning back to your fire. It wasn't long, however, before whispered curses coming from behind the tent caught your attention. You hesitated, but ultimately decided you couldn't stand seeing him struggle over nothing, and went to join him.

"Bo?" You paused, surveying the scene before you.

It wasn't a big rip, but it was definitely big enough that you'd wake up covered in mosquitos and spiders if it didn't get fixed. It was also obviously fresh, made by one of the tent poles. Bo looked up and froze like you'd just walked in on a crime scene.

He recovered quickly, though, shuffling closer on one knee to begin stitching a patch onto the canvas. "I'm fine," he said with a big helping of annoyance. "Just go work on the damn fire."

Well, he had managed to thread the needle, but his sewing skills were clearly rusty. Each stitch was small and calculated and clustered—it was almost comical, watching his large hands do such finnicky, detailed work.

"It doesn't have to be so precise," you offered. "It's just a temporary patch."

He shot a glare sidewards. "Will you let me do what I need ta do? Go do your job." No sooner had he said it than he slipped, pricking his finger deep. "Ow! Shit."

Instinctively, you went to him, taking his hand in yours. He tried to pull away once, but gave up at your insistence, simply frowning. He'd poked himself bad enough that a bead of scarlet blood already formed.

"Let me get you a band-aid."

"I'm all right," he grumbled, pulling his hand away more gently and sticking the finger in his mouth.

His fingers had been in your mouth plenty of times, but there was something so cute—and maybe a little hot—about seeing him sucking on his own finger. He must have caught you staring, because he paused for a moment before popping the finger out of his mouth and offering it to you.

"Wanna taste?"

Cheeky bastard.

9.

The guitar had been sitting in its case by the door for a while now, unused. It'd been a gift from your father, and though you were decent enough, you rarely played anymore. In fact, the only reason you'd brought it roadtripping in the first place was to impress one of your friends and ... well, there would be no impressing them now.

You'd seen Bo eyeing it, though. He glanced at it often on his way in and out of the house, and every few days, he seemed to really scrutinize it from across the room, like he was scoping someone out from across a bar.

Those were looks you knew well. The first thing, in your experience, people did when they saw an instrument was try to play it badly. But Bo was more careful than that. You almost wanted to use the word shy, but it sounded so odd when applied to him.

In the end, it was you who brought up the subject, one night when you were both a couple drinks in.

"Do you play?" you asked, gesturing to the case.

He blinked at you as if he'd never considered it before. "Uh ... not much. Haven't tried in a real long time."

You took another sip of beer and shrugged. "Why not try now?"

He looked between you and the instrument, loosing one of those incredulous laughs of his. "Yeah ... I try not ta make a habit of embarrassin' myself."

"It hasn't been played in a while ... I'm pretty rusty myself." You offered a boozy smile. "So either you play it or I do. C'mon, you know you want to."

He shook his head and breathed another laugh, but after a long draw from his bottle, he stood. "Guess I could see how much I remember."

Your smile only grew as he crossed to the guitar case and unlatched it, carefully withdrawing the instrument. It was an acoustic guitar with a golden varnish, well taken care of. Bo schooled his expression, but you could see a little shine in his eyes. You'd been right; he did want to play it.

It looked a lot different in Bo's large, calloused hands than it did in yours. He sat, half-facing you on the couch, and shifted until the guitar was resting on one knee. The way he looked down at the frets bordered on ... reverence, you thought for a moment, before realizing it was more like bashfulness. Despite his cool-as-a-cucumber expression, he was avoiding your gaze.

He strummed a few notes, mouth twitching into a frown. It didn't sound great.

"Sorry, it probably needs a tune-up. Here, let me..." You scooted closer and fiddled with the pegs. "Try now."

Wordlessly, he strummed a perfect C, then a G, his brow furrowed in concentration. G, A Minor, C ... G, A Minor, C, G ... he struggled like that for a few harrowing moments, trying to remember the chord progression he wanted before, like a baby deer taking its first steps, he began to play for real.

His brow never smoothed, but he mumbled the lyrics, or what he seemed to remember of them anyway. An old Judy Collins song, you were pretty sure, probably something his parents had liked. He had a beautiful, deep, rich voice with a nice twang, though you could tell he wasn't using it to its full potential here.

You watched his fingers as they moved along the fretboard: right hand pressing the strings, shifting with each new chord; left hand strumming using his nails and fingertips. You could see the strength in his hands, in his movements, but the way he played was so timid and careful, like he was afraid someone would laugh at him if he messed up a single note of "Both Sides Now."

Eventually, Bo struggled his way to the end of the song, now red from his forehead to the unbuttoned collar of his flannel. As if the guitar was suddenly boiling hot, he set it aside quickly, leaning it against the recliner. "Told ya it's been awhile."

You only smiled, looking from the guitar to his hands before taking another swig of beer. "You should play it again."

10.

The Sprite was not the miracle cure Bo had advertised it as. Now, not only were you sick to your stomach, you were sick to your stomach and filled with burps.

To his credit, when it came to illness, Bo wasn't the worst boyfriend you'd ever had. He'd frowned when you'd told him you had a headache, given you some pain meds, and set you up on the couch with a pillow and blanket. When it had become clear you had a stomach bug, he'd even fetched you a bucket and that Sprite.

"Don't even know where you coulda got it," he mumbled, standing above you with his hands on his hips. "Supermarket or somethin' ... you better not be playin' possum."

You glared at him. "Yeah, Bo, I made myself puke just to cause a problem for you."

His expression softened. "Well I didn't mean..." He trailed off with a sigh, throwing his hat onto the pool table before sinking onto the couch beside you. He stared at the TV for a few seconds before looking over and gesturing wordlessly.

"What?" you asked, barely able to look at him for your pounding head.

"C'mere."

"Why?"

He frowned and insisted, "Come here."

It was too damn late and you were too damn sick to argue with him. You crawled out from under your blanket to get closer to him and, to your surprise, he opened both arms to you, letting you crawl into his lap.

"I'm gonna get you sick," you mumbled, staring up at him in confusion.

"Naw. I'm healthy as an ox. Get on up here."

Bo nudged you, forcing you to rest your head against his chest, and turned his attention back to the glow of the TV. You watched from the corner of your eye, head below his chin, floating in and out of consciousness every few seconds. You hated being sick. Sitting around was the worst part, but what else could you do?

The TV was looping re-runs of Quantum Leap, and after about an episode and a half, you were aware of pressure on your stomach. A gentle, steady warmth that calmed your thrashing innards just a bit. It wasn't a sensation you felt often, probably not since you were a little kid.

Someone was ... rubbing your tummy?

You opened your eyes to glance down. Bo had wrapped one of his arms under yours, hand braced against your stomach. He moved it up and down slowly, then in circles at intervals. Eventually, he was still except for his thumb, stoking rhythmically just under your sternum.

A chill shot through you, and you snuggled closer.

"You a'right?" When you didn't answer, he nudged you. "Need another Sprite?"

"No." You groaned, despair weighing you down as you began to salivate like crazy. "Bucket."

11.

It had been an accident.

You'd told him it was an accident, of course, but that didn't change the fact that the damn thing was broken. And it certainly didn't change the fact that he was beyond pissed.

It was just some knick-knack: a blue and white ceramic figurine of a little Dutch girl holding a yoke and buckets, not exactly something you'd expect a guy like Bo to care about. You weren't even sure of its significance, just that it had been his mom's—but apparently that was enough significance for him.

You'd said sorry but had removed yourself from the situation before you could say much more. It had been quite a while since Bo was this angry at you, probably since you'd first come here. But even then, that hadn't really been anger so much as predation.

This? This was directed at you, for something you had done.

If you'd learned anything, it was that Bo was a stewer. He didn't want to be around anyone when he was truly emotional; he just wanted to be left alone to think. Eventually, he tended to come to the right conclusion, which was usually to apologize to you for some horrible thing he'd said, but it took a while if it happened at all.

This time, though ... it had been your fault, you thought as you lay on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn't yelled or said anything hurtful beyond a few curse words. You'd apologized and left the room before he could. But maybe your apology hadn't been quite adequate. If he broke something of yours, said a quick sorry, and ran away, you'd be even more pissed off in the long run.

With a sigh, you rose from bed and crept down the hall, standing at the top of the stairs. You thought you heard a drawer opening in the kitchen and so, as quietly as you could, you descended to peer through the doorway.

Bo stood with his back to you, hunched over the counter. In front of him, the broken ceramic girl sat in pieces on last month's newspaper. To his right, the junk drawer was pulled almost all the way open. It looked like a very localized tornado had gone through it, but Bo had found what he was looking for: a small bottle of superglue.

He had it pinched between his thumb and forefinger, fingertips white trying to keep it steady. With the other hand, he worked slowly, painstakingly, picking the shards up piece by little piece and trying to put them together just like they had been before.

He was zeroed in on his task completely, breathing steady and slow, like he was defusing a bomb or something. You could feel the anger rolling off of him—intense enough that you had second thoughts about coming down to apologize.

"I ain't angry."

His voice made you jump. So ... he'd heard you come downstairs, he'd simply chosen not to face you. You were unsure how to respond, especially to such a blatant lie.

"You oughtta be more careful with other folks' things."

Awfully rich for him, of all people, to be saying such a thing—Bo Sinclair, who broke pretty things for fun all the time. You ground your teeth to bite back your initial reaction.

His tone became just a touch softer. "This was Momma's. All I got now are things."

All I got now are things. You glanced back at his steady hands, eyes catching on his scarred wrists.

All he'd ever had were things, 'cause he certainly hadn't had her heart. No wonder this whole town was cluttered with old junk.

12.

"You're an animal," you said through laughter as you watched him open his book.

It was a paperback of Stephen King's Salem's Lot, and boy was it ... well-loved. That had always been your mom's polite way of saying beat-up. The spine was almost completely white from cracking, the cover was veined and torn, and the pages were so soft they felt more like cloth than paper.

"What the hell're you sayin' that for?" He'd paused in the middle of unfolding the dog-ear in his page, though dog-ear was generous. The page was practically folded in half.

You grinned. "What's the big idea, treating it like that? What did Salem's Lot ever do to you?"

Bo rolled his eyes, smoothing out the page. "Don't tell me you're one a' them. Books are tools. Tools are meant to be used, no?"

"I guess so. That's a hell of a lot of use, babe."

"I've read it a lot." He shrugged defensively, the bridge of his nose pinkening as he looked down at the page. "Now, if ya don't mind..."

"Right, right. Sorry." You opened your own book, crossing your legs and leaning back so you wouldn't have to crane your neck to read.

Minutes passed. You tried in vain to focus on the page, but you found yourself reading the same paragraph over and over again, way more interested in what was going on across from you.

Sometimes it was fascinating to just watch Bo, and this was especially true when he was reading. There was no question as to how the book had gotten as mangy as it was. When he read paperbacks—which he preferred—it was like origami, with him folding them completely in half. He held this more compact shape in one hand, other palm pressed against his mouth, a focused scowl on his face.

Every so often, he'd remove his hand from his mouth and pull his focus back slightly to turn the book over or flip a page. It was during one of these times he caught you staring at him, and raised a brow.

"Why don't you go 'head an' take a picture, darlin', it'll last longer."

13.

It had been a bad fight. You could tell because he refused to talk about it, simply stewing on the toilet seat as you knelt in front of him, cleaning his hands. His skin was red from the shower he'd just taken, veins standing green against it, and he hadn't quite scrubbed all the blood from under his fingernails.

His knuckles were raw. Raw in a way that you knew meant there'd be so much puss and scabbing that he wouldn't be able to clench his fists properly for a while. As you dabbed hydrogen peroxide over the wounds, it foamed, and he issued a deep growl. His fingers twitched, tendons in the back of his hands jumping.

You dared to break the seething silence. "What did you punch?"

"Some asshole," he snapped initially, before cooling his tone. "A couple assholes. A car door, a window. Dragged myself up off the pavement..." He raised his other hand to wipe at his nose. A little blood still crusted one nostril.

You said nothing in reply, giving his knuckles another pass with the hydrogen peroxide solution before smearing on bacitracin. His fingers continued to twitch as you wrapped his knuckles, every little movement warning you how strong he was. Tonight alone, he'd killed at least one person before Vincent could get to them.

These were the hands of a killer, and yet you knew them as so much more than that. These hands could do normal, everyday things. Beautiful things, even.

It wasn't until you were in the process of wrapping his other hand—he held them out so readily for you, so astonishingly willing to be vulnerable with you now—that you spoke.

"I hate this."

It was a simple statement; not a request, not a complaint, not a plea or a nag. Simply the truth.

He raised his eyes to stare at you. For a few moments, you could see him trying to be angry, brow drawn tight. Then he gave up, nothing but exhausted.

"I know."

***

Masterlist

Tip Jar

[doodleddaisies]

Heartstopper x omgcp

Okay, so I just saw that there is an omgcp au for heartstopper, and as someone who firmly believes in the hockey idiots to British idiots pipeline, this made me very happy. 

Anyway, I started thinking about what the Heartstopper crew’s hockey nicknames would be so enjoy:

Nick: His legend nickname that the scouts and media use would be “The King” but his personal team nickname would be “Nellie” based on his dog, and because it’s the first syllable in Nelson. But yes, he probably never shuts up about his dog, so his teammates would chirp him about it. 

Charlie: “Springs” - A bit basic because it’s so close to his last name, but I feel like only the older guys on the team would call him this, everyone else just calls him Charlie. It also works because Charlie is the fastest guy on the team. 

Tao: Tao is usually just called by his first or last name on and off the ice, but his official nickname is the “Xu Keeper” because he constantly feels like he is looking after (babysitting) wild animals (the rest of the team” 

Elle: As a manager, the boys keep trying to find her a nickname, but none of them stick so she just goes by “Elle” or “Elle Smells” if you’re Tao

Tara: “Jonesy” is pretty self explanatory and practically canon

Darcy: “Munch” (a goblin name for a goblin girl) and because she always has a snack and will eat anything and everything that Nick cooks/bakes 

Aled: Purely bc his last name is Last, his name is “Snail” (an argument could also be made for Sloth). And because on and off the ice he is really calm and chill. Also fits his soothing voice too. 

Isaac: Isaac has the intimidating “Gutter” which the other team hears and is wary of him on the ice because they think he’s the team’s goon. Gutter actually refers to how he always has a book in his hand and takes his annotations in the gutters of the pages. 

And yes, I know that most of these people would rather die than play a sport (especially hockey), but this is just for fun. 

[fatehbaz]

Funny animals make tracks across American and European comics traditions, but [...] the offerings of the newly founded, “Indigenerd”-only Native Realities Press [...] reanimate the longer legacy of animal figures in Indigenous multimodal and multispecies storytelling traditions. [...] In the spring of 2015 [...] comics creator and self-proclaimed “Indigenerd” Lee Francis IV (Laguna Pueblo) founded Native Realities Press, a comics publisher devoted to Native American comic books and comics creators. [...] From the teen sheep Jonesy in Jonathan Nelson’s wordless comic The Wool of Jonesy to the Cherokee trickster Tsisdu in Lee Francis IV and Weshoyot Alvitre’s Sixkiller, [...] Indigenous animal figures roerient and reframe comics reading practices, generating a model of visual and popular culture that productively recenters Indigeneity and unsettles the settler discourses that circulate about Native peoples in mass culture. [...]

“Animals” [...] orients us on a long-standing crisis of categorization regarding the taxonomies and hierarchies of “species” [...]. The combinations of textual and visual representations of Indigeneity model the coordinated processes of settler occupation and Indigenous dispossession [...]. Drawing comparisons to settler cartography, which maps temporalities and territories, the arrangement of panels and gutters in comics featuring “Indians” orients readers on a visual grammar that raises (and often answers) the questions, who belongs in time [...], and to whom does the visual terrain belong. [...]

Native Realities is [...] home to some of the most innovative contributions to the contemporary funny animals genre, with titles such as The Wool of Jonesy (2016), Deer Woman: An Anthology (2017), and Sixkiller (2018), all featuring anthropomorphic animals. Rather than revitalizing the American tradition of funny animals in comics, however, I argue that the wordless “wooly” sheep (Jonesy), reactivated first beings (Deer Woman), and talking tricksters (Sixkiller) featured in the pages of Native Realities call for a [...] reorientation to the funny animals genre through Indigenous theoretical frameworks. [...]

Whereas The Wool of Jonesy creates a speculative soundtrack with its wordless protagonist, Sixkiller, written by Francis IV and illustrated by Alvitre, features many talking animals who aid and advice Alice Sixkiller, a teen Cherokee girl, who embarks on a journey to avenger here murdered older sister. [...]   With Alice and Tsisdu, the rabbit trickster of the Cherokee, the comic crosses dreams with reality [...]. As Tsisdu asserts, he and Alice coexist in the “same world together, girl,” as they engage in the mutual process of reframing their relational and relative positions in time and in place through and across the fence lines that become unstable markers of imposed separation, more chance than closure. [...]

Whereas Gardner asserts that “funny animals have the power to speak truths that might otherwise go unspoken,” in Nelson’s funny animal comic, truths are articulated, not through speech or writing (or “righting”), but, instead, through the suggestion of sound. Through speculative “sound tracking,” we hear the whir of fan blades oscillating in Jonesy’s bedroom and the buzz of electric clippers as he shears his unruly wool. We hear the creak and clatter of wagon wheels over cattle guards [...]. Jonesy has “just finished high school,” and, as a result, he “has been weighing his options for his future” [...]. Perhaps this is the “weight” Jonesy carries as he sits atop his hulking bundle of wool -- the heavy, unwieldy weight of an uncertain future. Temporarily relieved of the weight of the canvas  bag, Jonesy, the teen sheep from Hogback, New Mexico, does appear to be “weighing his options for the future.” However, the front matter declares, “he is in no rush to get moving.” [...]

 Funny animals might be the wrong name, much like Tsisdu is not Rabbit’s only name, or the way “Indian” misnames the diverse Indigenous peoples of what is now the United States. Ranging across generic and geopolitical territory, humor and history, the funny animals and first beings of Native Realities resist easy tagging, slipping through the fence lines separating species [...]. They meet human animals at treelines and fence lines, teasing imposed separations, remediating origin stories that cross over into original new media. [...]

-----

Joshua T. Anderson. “Re-animating Native Realities: The Funny Animals and Indigenous First Beings of Native Realities Press.” The Journal of the Comics Studies Society. Fall 2019.

[westernwoods]

I found a spicy x files fic 👀

oh BET??? link me 👀👀👀

[locke-writes]

Current Inspiration

The characters on this list are only the ones I feel inspired to write for. They are not the only characters I will be taking requests for. All characters are available to request.

House MD: House, Wilson

Marvel: Tony Stark, Scott Lang, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Rhodey

It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia: Mac, Dennis, Charlie, Dee

Trainspotting: Renton, Sick Boy

Daredevil: Matt Murdock, Foggy Nelson, Frank Castle

Clerks: Randall, Dante

Mallrats: Brodie

Law and Order SVU: Sonny Carisi, Rafael Barba, Nick Amaro, Mike Dodds, Amanda Rollins,

Stranger Things: Jim Hopper

Friends: Joey, Chandler, Phoebe

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Buffy, Xander, Spike, Giles

Brooklynn Nine Nine: Jake, Amy, Holt, Rosa, Terry

The Good Place: Eleanor, Chidi, Jason, Tahani

Cheers: Sam Malone

The Mindy Project: Mindy, Danny, Jeremy

It (2017/2019): Richie, Ben, Beverly, Bill, Eddie, Mike

Specify young or adult versions of the It characters

Letterkenny: Reilly, Jonesy, Dan, Daryl, Wayne, Katy

Requests are Open!