#so i'm terrified of even posting snippets

[zackmartin]

Can I just say that I love your writing and you always inspire me! I love you! 💜

I literally love you with my whole heart and this means so so much 💕💕💕

[embrosegraves]

𝔻𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕝𝕪 𝕊𝕞𝕦𝕘

(request) Carlos Sainz Jr x Reader "Are you decent?" "Probably not morally, but I've got clothes on, if that's what you're asking"

Dating a Formula One driver meant that life would never be smooth sailing. For a lot of people, this was terrifying and if you were honest with yourself, it did scare you a bit at first. However now that you were a few years into it, it wasn’t as bad as you once thought. Sure there were moments that you wished you could live even a tiny bit more privately, but such is life unfortunately. One thing you were grateful for about this chaotic spin on life (besides your boyfriend of course), was that your career was thriving. There was no way your career wouldn’t thrive. You were a lifestyle vlogger with access to the unadvertised side of a world famous athlete. 

You had been filming snippets of your life long before you had crossed paths with Carlos. Having been in the vlogging business for 8 years now, you had been dating Carlos for 3. Carlos was well aware of your career choice and while it had taken him a while to get used to you filming every other week, he eventually came to terms with it. He even managed to start having a bit of fun with it. Your fans always loved when Carlos made a cameo in your videos.

Currently, Carlos was getting dressed in your shared ensuite, having just finished showering after his training session, while you were filming in the kitchen. Today had been a filming day for you. You had taken the camera with you as you went grocery shopping, explaining that you were planning a home date for Carlos and yourself. You filmed as you went shopping for a small gift to give Carlos and you filmed as you prepped the food you planned to cook with Carlos later. 

Originally, you were content with waiting for Carlos to be done before you even went near the bedroom but you had forgotten something that you had left on your vanity. Camera in hand, you thought why not record the retrieval as a sort of spy-esque montage. It would be fun for the fans and yourself, and who could say no to pretending to be a spy? Opening your bedroom door, you moved the camera in a way that made it look like you rolly-pollied your way across your room. Making sure the camera was facing you, you began to ‘sneakily’ rummage through everything on your vanity in search for the “hidden jewel that had been stolen by pirates”. However it was nowhere to be seen. 

“Alright guys, I think we’ll have to give up on being spies. I’m pretty sure I left it in the ensuite because it’s not on my vanity.” You explained to the camera. “There’s just one problem. Carlos is currently in said ensuite and I have no idea if he’s naked or not. Which isn’t normally a problem but I’m selfish so I’m gonna gatekeep that from you all.”  

You quickly made your way to the ensuite door and knocked loud enough for Carlos to hear over his music. You could hear him turn off his music. 

“Yeah?” He called from inside. 

“I’m filming.” You said. “Are you decent?” 

“I mean probably not morally, but I’ve got clothes on if that’s what you meant.” You heard him laugh to himself as you opened the door. You poked your head through first, just to be safe. Seeing that he was indeed dressed, you moved the camera to face him. 

“I’m keeping that in, I hope you know that.” 

“I would hope so, that was hilarious. The people need to know that I’m funny.” He walked up to you and gave you a kiss. “Did you need something?” 

“Mmm.” You hummed as his hands came to rest on your hips. “I honestly don’t even remember what it was.” 

Carlos chuckled before he grabbed something from the bathroom counter. He held it in front of you with a smirk on his face. 

“It wouldn’t happen to be the mini ring light that you always forget to put back on your vanity, would it?” 

Your sheepish smile told him everything he needed to know.

overall, I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. With twitter in shambles over what happened, I thought I'd post the Carlos request I had in my drafts, as a treat/distraction.

I hope you all enjoyed!

Likes, replies and reblogs are always appreciated!

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: A banner-style graphic featuring a coyote's open mouth on a dark black background. Orange all-caps text near the bottom of the image reads: "happy birthday Greenwarden." /end ID]

Happy birthday to my firstborn problem!! I'm trying really hard to not think about how long it's actually been, but to celebrate Greenwarden being mysteriously old I'm posting a former Patreon snippet! I'm also announcing that 1) I quit me day job, and 2) I'm going to be compiling a bunch of Greenwarden shorts that would have gone up on Patreon if I had kept it up. More on that to come when I get all my ducks in a line.

GRAVEROBBING AND NECROMANCY FOR DUMMIES

Marianna & Tracker. 16+. Grimdark Fantasy AU. Scofiddle Pepper Rating: Bell Pepper.

Content Warnings: Blood, minor wounds, implied mind-control, mentions of death.

Mausoleums always have a certain smell — mold, mildew, cracking damp stone. The decay of rock and mortar, but never flesh. The sarcophagi are tightly sealed with both wards and wax, partially to keep the smell at bay. No air, nor Light, nor hands will ever creep inside them. The Silent Mercies do their grim work and do it well, keeping them locked up tight. Then they leave — that's the extent of their dues to the dead.

They can count themselves lucky. Corpses don't exactly make great company. Particularly when some of them are itching to come back.

You can't help but feel like there are eyes on you, your torch cutting through the dark, damp guts of the tomb. An intrusion. Indigestion. The violent, flickering orange light makes the shadows greasy. You'd use a magelight, but you're already dancing on the razor-thin line between bravery and stupidity; you don't want to risk waking something. Someone. 

They were people once, allegedly, but you know what pride morphs people into.

Particularly powerful necromancers resist even the cleansing fire of holy Light, their sentience existing in each molecule of ash, slowly piecing themself back together with sheer will and hate. It may take hundreds — maybe thousands — of years, but eventually they will come back. So, the Temple does what it can. The liches are bound, still conscious, and placed in a sarcophagus. The sarcophagus is sealed — with prayer, with wax, with chains and locks both physical and magical — and a mausoleum built around it. The Silent Mercies make their rounds indefinitely, strengthening the wards and installing ever more complex locks. Hundreds of years turn into thousands.

The hopeful end result is a stark raving mad lich warlock that will, if all goes well, blissfully prefer the judgment of the Light before they suffer one more second of silent, unmoving, stagnant solitude. Time and again the methods of the Temple are proven effective. Terrifying, and effective. Most choose to vacate their own bodies than live in the dark for an undetermined amount of time. Unable to move. Unable to see. Slowly withering away, mummifying, rotting in your own skin. Whatever you’re going to find will not be human anymore – if it was ever human in the first place.

You cross the dusty, time-ravaged stone floor to the sarcophagus at the far end of the room. It's a short walk. Mausoleums are traditionally small, most especially the ones outside of temples, reserved for the vilest of the old guard, the lichkings who dared to try and defy death. Beings that rejected humanity, even rejected immolation, and should not under any circumstances be within spitting distance of a residential area.

Zoning laws: the bane of all undead tyrants. 

There's only one — which is nerve-wracking. It sits placidly on a raised dais set with small, half-melted candles, as if it’s waiting for you. A frozen slime trail of old wax meanders down the dais, caught in time. The thrum of magic tickles your fingertips. Brushing, like a cat would, up against your palms and skittering up your arms. Both a beckoning and a warning. Temptation.

It's wrong. A singular coffin is like finding a singular roach. Not wholly uncommon, but it sets your teeth on edge. 

It means one of two things: either the Temple managed to burn the master’s undead servants, even the stubborn ones. Or, worse – they’re afraid of what it might do with nearby corpses, even sealed away.

Your arms itch. You set your torch in a conveniently placed wall sconce and start working to get your mind off things.

The Temple of Light may not like to admit it, but what they do is magic. The prayers wielded by their paladins and clerics are incantations; the talismans created by their monks are charms, woven out of somewhat less mathematically inclined sigils. Magic. They hang and burn people for it in the streets, but it keeps their mausoleums tightly locked and their church in power.

Like any spell, a prayer can be broken with a little bit of reverse engineering. And you are very good at breaking things.

Maybe it's the uniqueness of your situation, or maybe you were just created with something special, but seeing the patterns in the weave and weft of magic comes second nature to you. Almost like a physical thing. A golden projection of arcane artistry.

It's a complicated spell; the Woodsman lived hundreds of years ago, long enough that even its very name was forgotten. The ward is centuries of layers, each one getting more and more complex as the Silent Mercies learned what incantations and motions were most effective at keeping the dead at bay. Trails of cold, melted wax dripping down time. A beautiful puzzle, just for you. You're always half-giddy, knowing that you may very well be the only one who can truly see the work, the history behind it, and that you might be the only one smart enough not just to break it to pieces, but coax it open.

Enough. You need to be fast.

Your forehead tenses, brows knit as you start reversing half a millennia of spellcraft. Delicately, slowly, you work out the motions, but in reverse. A twist of your hand, fingers curled, your arm moving in hypnotic diamonds and stars and spirals. Shapes designed to trap and contain. The fingers on your other hand open and close in the same fractal rhythm half a canto ahead, parsing out the right steps in the dance before you walk the dancefloor.  You're a conductor, ripping carefully crafted sheet music to shreds. The torch flickers.

There's no sound but your own short, elated huff of laughter when your hand slides into place at the ward's terminus. Deep in your hindbrain, a lock falls open with a satisfying click!

“Don't move.” 

Oh. That's a sword — you feel the tip of it caressing the nape of your neck. Slowly, carefully, you raise your hands to the sides of your head. You’re unarmed, and thankful you have gloves on.

“Turn around.” 

It’s not like you have room to argue.

You’re face-to-face with the tip of a shiny, well-polished blade. The silver coating makes your back teeth itch. You feel it vibrating, still coming down, hypersensitive to atomic changes in the air. You’re also face-to-chest with an extraordinarily tall cleric in their classic white and gold armor. An immediate, violent chill settles into your spine.

She’s hard-faced, hair cut bluntly short; she gives you the impression that her only expression is scowl. You prepare yourself to fire and run. It’ll set your research back months – maybe even a year – but you’ll live.

“Explain yourself.” You’re taken aback by that – you do a quick three-point look around the room and with your head and then spread your hands out a little further.

“I mean,” you say, “I think we both know I’m not supposed to be here.”

She doesn’t like that. Her hands choke a little tighter around her sword grip, leather squealing and platemail clicking as she shifts even deeper into a fighting stance. The sword gets a little closer to your face. A sweat breaks out between your shoulder blades.

“You’re a mage.”

“And you’re a cleric.” Impasse. Stand off. Stare down. Neither of you are willing to make the first move – maybe she’s hoping for a peaceful resolution. That you’ll go gracefully to the stake.

Fat chance, but something changes when she opens her mouth to reply.

You don’t like the look that falls over the cleric’s face – wide eyed, eyebrows to the hairline, mouth half-open. The blood leaving her face. The slight tremble in her steady hands. Fear.

Slowly, you twist your neck to look behind you.

The Woodsman’s coffin is open – a deep, yawning blackness slides out of it, liquid trapped inside thin film. On the coattails of the light-drinking sludge, a skeletal hand slides, damn near leisurely, out of the sarcophagus. What follows is a horror of ancient science. Half human, half… something else.

The antlers crown its head, but the head is canine, deep pinpoints of light inside empty sockets. Mummified skin knits across bone, thin as paper and patchy in places. Its teeth are bare to the world and yellowed with centuries. You watch the slick, black flesh form an amorphous mass beneath the skull, the arms nothing but bone haphazardly slapped onto an overgorged slug.

You were hoping it wasn’t in there – everything you’ve learned told you it had probably vacated its body years ago. There had been no activity for so long – no plague of nightmares, no major possessions, no strange activity in the flora and fauna  – and yet. The Woodsman slithers out of its unlocked tomb on a tide of melted void-flesh, rises on it until it has to bend, its shoulders scraping the ceiling of the mausoleum. It opens its mouth wide – skin and gristle clinging to its jaw in loose strings – and shrieks.

It’s shrill and piercing. You’re concussed, briefly, slapping your hands over your ears. You feel it – in your head. Scraping the inside of your skull, dark wordless whispers in your hindbrain. It knows you. It sees you. It’s in your head.

The cleric pushes you behind her, nearly to the door in the tiny mausoleum. You’re confused – still concussed. You don’t run.

“Go!” She shouts, swinging and hacking at the growing sea of rotting flesh. She swings too wide – the silver-steel scrapes against the walls of the mausoleum and sparks. The Woodsman just keeps growing. One by one, the candles and torch are swallowed whole. A deep, endless black. A tidal wave of nothing. 

You’re not about to argue. You turn tail and run out the door.

Two steps past the tomb, you stumble to a stop. A quick, hard-breathing glance behind you lets you know that the cleric already isn’t doing well. She’s fighting like an animal, punching what she can’t cut. Every slice is swallowed up by more reeling, lightless flesh. You still feel the Woodsman’s scritching little claws, furrows in your soft, pliant brain. Every iota of you recoils away from it. But that cleric – she let you go. 

You look down at your hands. The dark leather gloves, fingertips worn, the edges frayed.

Shaking, you slip them off your hands and leave them in the grass.

You grab the back of the cleric’s breastplate and yank her back into fresh air, swapping places in one smooth transition. You don’t know what she sees. If she notices the dark, blue-black corrupted skin of your hands or the bright runes squirming over your arms while you reach deep in yourself for something destructive. The bands around your wrists and throat mark you as a Thing – something broken loose. The Woodsman tugs at your tattered ghost leash with an interested spiritual hand, head cocked. Your programming demands you kneel for consumption, and your knees twitch before you get yourself back under control. You almost see a wink of recognition.

Little homunculus, the Woodsman whispers, curling around the base of your skull like a cat, so far from home.

“Shut up,” you say, and light up the room.

The Temple of Light has claimed the lichkings reject holy fire and immolation – they just haven’t tried something hot enough. Your fire is pure destruction, white with heat, blinding against the greasy black corruption sludge coating the walls. The Woodsman shrieks – pain, rage, confusion. Spikes of pain explode behind your eyes, and you burn them away too.

You wade through the muck, scorching it all to ash, beating the Woodsman back until it tries to seek refuge again in its sarcophagus, huddling in the pit. A child taking refuge in a cellar.  Curled at the back of a cell. Useless, useless.

You reach out with a flame-licked hand and clamp down hard on its muzzle.

“Shut up,” you hiss, and watch fire make cracks in its skull. It rakes your arms with bony claws, opening bloody gashes in your flesh. The blood sizzles and evaporates almost instantly. 

The Woodsman’s head explodes with a loud crack, bone shards ripping through the skin of your cheek. The rest of it goes limp in a heap. What’s left, you turn to coal dust, just in case. When you’re done, all that’s left of the Woodsman is a greasy soot stain coating the floor, walls, and ceiling. It’s a little gruesome. Reminds you uncomfortably of blood.

You coax the flames back in, lower and lower, wobbling with exhaustion, until a comfortable, warm dark swallows you. There’s light in it – ambient, soft reflections of the moon outside. The sarcophagus is a welcome resting spot, using its high lip to stay half-standing. Even then, you see little spots in your vision, the edges going blurry. A few drops of blood slide out of your nose and splatter on the ground. Your ears are ringing.

“You’ve got red on you.” You jump.

The cleric is standing there, wiping blood and slime off her face. One of her eyes is nearly glued shut, an open wound on her brow pouring red down her cheek and under her collar. You give her a once-over before you weakly tilt your chin up.

“So do you,” you say. She nods – holds out her hand.

“Marianna.”

Cautiously, you cross the floor on shaky legs to take it, and give her your name. The one you picked for yourself – it feels nice. To introduce yourself, for once. She almost crushes your hand. You’re comparatively weak.

“You saved my life, mage,” Marianna says. You grin with a mouthful of bloody teeth, an acknowledgement.

Then, your body finally gives up. You’re blissfully unconscious before you hit the ground.

[rriavian]

So I don't usually post writing for other fandoms but I was testing ideas for Dead Boy Detectives to try and think about character voices and I may have started a bit of a fic. So thought I'd share :)

Spoilers for season one below, but aside from being a Charles & Edwin focused fic I am still not quite sure what this snippet is going to turn out to be (or what I'm calling it).

-

The Cat King puts a binding spell on Edwin.

A binding spell.

Edwin—previously escaped from hell, previously traded between demons, Edwin—and the playful menace can’t have known any of that but oh does it make his blood boil anyway. Charles can see how it winds Edwin up, a tension outside of whatever other reason his friend finds the Cat King unsettling, can see the anxious way Edwin fiddles with the metal when he thinks no one is looking.

How he twists and twists at the band around his wrist.

The chain.

That's what it really is, after all, and Charles does his best not to trip over it. He tries not to tug, doesn’t want to force Edwin to constantly think of that while he’s trying to focus on escaping the trap. It’s not always possible, there are times when Edwin raises his arm to his face, jerky, eyes wild as they lock onto the metal around his wrist. There are times where it creeps into conversation. Charles tries for playful, tries for a teasing calm and doesn’t know if that’s right, waits as Edwin’s haunted eyes find his and can't relax until he watches the glimmer of panic abruptly dissolve.

It's only when Edwin scoffs with his usual dignified affront that Charles can breathe again.

But there remains a shadow in his friends green eyes.

And Charles still doesn’t know its exact shape, doesn’t know for sure what's tormenting his friend—has seen him with dolls, in houses, on cases, has seen unflappable, steady handed Edwin shaking as he turns their heads away—but through it Charles sees the silhouette of a nightmare. There's a part of this he knows enough of to understand. Charles can see a journal rendered useless, a trap sealed all the way, a maze constructed so that no matter how precise a map is it will never, ever matter. An oversight corrected by a monster that’s only saving grace had been it never saw escape as a possibility.

The Cat King’s gift introduces a terrifying what if.

One that replays over and over in Edwin's eyes, whispers every time he looks at it. The creeping, niggling fear that perhaps the second time his captor will be smarter.

And Charles can’t soothe that.

He can’t change it. He can only listen to the tightness in his friends voice, how sometimes it goes high and sharp as if he’s forgotten to breath, as if Edwin has forgotten that he doesn't need to. Charles can only listen and seethe and wish that he knew how to break that fucking binding spell.

He watches Edwin realise he's trapped in one place without the assurance of being able to run.

Even in hell he’d had that.

Even in hell Edwin had at least been able to run.

[killerandhealerqueen]

✨ weekend wip exposure club ✨

rules: post 7 sentences/a snippet of an unfinished work

@hyperbolicgrinch and @theotherwhybietoldmeso (happy weekend my lovelies!!)

From my newest F1 fic, Mama I'm In Love With a Criminal. A Loscar mafia x doctor au (my favorite kind of mafia au to write). And for anyone curious, it's Mafia!Logan x Doctor!Oscar

            “Well well well…what do we have here?” a voice purred, making Oscar look into the eyes of the man who grabbed him before he shook his head.             “Look, I’m not looking for trouble, I’m just trying to go home” he explained, just as the man trailed a finger down his jawline, a predatory grin on his face.             “Aren’t you a pretty thing?” he cooed, just as another man stepped into the alley and grinned.             “Oh, who’s this?  Is this going to be our new friend for the evening?” he asked.  The first man chuckled and nodded.             “I believe so” he replied before he looked over at the other man.             “Isn’t he pretty?” he asked.  The second man nodded as he walked over and looked Oscar up and down.             “He is” he agreed before he reached out and took Oscar’s face in his hand, turning his head so that he could look at him better.             “He has pretty eyes…and such pretty pink lips” he observed before he ran a thumb over Oscar’s bottom lip and hummed.             “They’d look quite nice wrapped around my—” he started, just as a figure appeared at the entrance of the alley.             “Now I know you boys aren’t causing trouble on my turf” they called out, making the two men stiffen before they, and Oscar, looked over to see a tall man, who looked to be rather young, maybe around Oscar’s age, with dirty blonde hair and eyes the color of the sea during a storm, standing there, dressed in all black.  At the sight of the young man, the two men cursed softly before the man holding Oscar’s face quickly released it and took a step back as the tall man slowly walked over to them and stopped before them, staring pointedly at the hand still holding Oscar’s arm until the man quickly removed his hand and took a step back.             “Sorry, Sargeant.  We didn’t…we didn’t know—” he started when the man, Sargeant, narrowed his eyes.             “Don’t hit me with that “we didn’t know this was your turf” bullshit, you knew.  You knew this was my territory and yet you still decided to do something like this” he growled, making the two men flinch as he turned and looked at Oscar, raising an eyebrow.             “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked.  Oscar blinked, surprised that he was addressing him, before he nodded.             “I’m…I’m fine” he assured, making Sargeant nod before he turned back to look at the two men, who immediately flinched and lowered their gaze, and huffed.             “Get out of here while I’m still being nice” he ordered.  The two men nodded.             “Y-Yes sir.  Thank you” one of them thanked before they turn and ran, only for Sargeant to pull a gun out of his waistband and fire two shots, hitting them both square in the back.  As they fell to the ground, dead, Sargeant tsked and shook his head before he turned back to look at Oscar, who looked at him with terrified brown eyes, and smiled slightly.             “Sorry about that” he apologized before he looked him up and down.             “You sure you’re okay?  They didn’t do anything to you?” he asked. 

Tagging: whoever wants to play

[f1amboyant]

we used to interact a lot, but then it stopped and now i'm scared/embarrassed to do that, so i'll use this way to tell you i'm excited for your single dad Charles au :)))

Hi there 🩵

I know it's easy to say, but please don't feel scared or embarrassed to interact again. I'm always open to interactions. But if you feel more comfortable sending anon asks, that's okay too 🥰

And the single dad charles au? This story truly has taken over my life at this point. I love this stupid little story so much 🥹 But I have to admit, it's really longer than anything I have tried to write before so it's taking a lot of time and energy from me. So thank you very much for being excited about this little story 🥹

Please, I would be very happy if you reached out (through asks or dms or whatever) about this story because I have already written 22k words that I cannot post yet and I'm itching to talk about it. So yeah 🫣

Anyway. Maybe I can give a little snippet? 🥰

.

Charles walked back to the leaving room where the game had finally come to an end. Charles didn't know if Gabriel's favorite team had won or not, but his son was still talking with Carlos excitedly.

Charles glanced down at his watch and sighed. It was way past Gabriel's bedtime but it didn't seem like the boy would get tired any time soon. That was okay. Tonight was a weird and special night.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking at the two: this beautifully tender man and his son. Something squeezed in Charles' heart. This image looked too perfect. He wanted this to be his reality so much. Carlos took such good care of Gabriel and it seemed Gab really liked spending time with him.

"I really like you, Carlos," Gab suddenly said, like he could read his father's mind.

Charles smiled. Of course his son who never stopped talking would say exactly what he had on his little mind. Like father, like son. But it seemed like Gabriel didn't want to stop there.

"Are you going to be my new dad?" the boy asked. "All the other kids have two parents. Can you be my second dad? My other dad didn't like me and left me," he added with a slight pout.

Charles' heart broke, right here and there. He had gone through a lot in his younger years but nothing, absolutely nothing broke his heart faster and harder than seeing his little boy say he wasn't loved by his genitor. Charles could go through hell and back. But this? This was unacceptable.

Charles stepped inside the room, ready to scoop Gabriel right into his arms in the tightest hug possible, but Carlos beat him to it. The coach put his big hand over Gabriel's head and ruffled his hair, eliciting a laugh from the boy.

"Ah, Gabi," Carlos sighed. "I'm sure your other dad didn't know you. If he had, he would have loved you, cielo. I'm sure."

He looked up, meeting Charles' eyes. Charles gulped down.

"Pi–" his throat tighten too much for this name to come out. "He wasn't ready to be a dad," he explained poorly.

"But Carlos can be my new dad, right papa?"

What was Charles supposed to answer to that? That yes, he would very much like to include Carlos in their lives? That yes, please fuck yes, he would very very much like to have Carlos with him and all that entailed? But that also no, because that was terrifying and Charles couldn't risk his heart getting broken again? That he couldn't risk Gabriel's heart to get broken?

Lost, Charles looked to Carlos. That bastard's smile grew more smug by the second. And if Charles looked back at Gabriel, all he could see were those bright blue eyes full of too much hope. Truly, Charles' life was ridiculous.

"Yes, Charles," Carlos probed. "Am I going to be Gabi's new dad? That's a very good question."

Charles felt himself blush harder and brighter than ever. His hair probably turned red too at this point. He hadn't stopped blushing all evening. This was utterly ridiculous. And there was only one escape.

"We can talk about that later, it's time to go to bed, Gab."

[otts-the-verminqueen]

SBG Headcanons!

I'm making this because it'll put some context into the first snippet fic that I'm going to be putting on here later today. These are all very random. There is no linear thought process to any of these. Lol.

~~~

Ashlyn

Prefers hot coffee over iced coffee.

If someone scares her while she's asleep, she will kick them. (Pay attention to this one. Lol.)

Favorite fruit is apples. Mainly because they're easy to eat on the go. (She runs late a lot.)

She has accidentally shut her own braids in doors on multiple occasions, and each time she does, she thinks about cutting them off.

Aiden

He was always a night owl, even before the Savannah trip, but the trip and the phantom dimension have only worsened his already terrible sleeping habits.

He either hugs something in his sleep, or tosses and turns a lot. Has accidentally smacked and kicked people in his sleep before.

Has broken/sprained his legs/ankles multiple times in the past doing risky tricks, and despite this irritating Ben to no end, he still manages to convince Ben to carry him around so he doesn't have to use crutches.

He once tried to slide down the stairs in his house on his mattress. It did not end well.

Ben

Often drums his fingers/pen/pencil against whatever surface he can while he's listening to music.

When he's unsure of what to do in certain situations, he'll copy whatever Aiden does (as long as it isn't something risky).

Once hit Aiden in the face with a pillow so hard that he made Aiden's nose bleed. (Aiden drew on his face with a marker while he was asleep.)

He sleeps like a log and will not move once he's asleep. He once scared his aunt into thinking he was dead when he first started staying with them.

Logan

He has an interest in gene splicing, especially in plants and bugs.

He knows many different herbal remedies. And if given the chance, he will go on for hours about the best plants for herbal remedies of various sorts.

He loves hot tea, and is practically an expert at steeping the best hot tea.

He has no fear of spiders. He will go and pick them up and let them crawl on him, and he knows which types of spiders to avoid and which ones are okay to mess with. (He has saved spiders from Tyler, who tries to kill them on sight.)

Taylor

Loves tea, hot or cold, though drinks more iced tea because her brother doesn't like hot tea.

Hugs whatever is within reach when she sleeps.

Terrified of spiders. She screams if she sees one, and she has fainted when one touched her once.

She used to do a lot of birdwatching, and even has old notebooks that were full of notes on different birds she liked. She doesn't go birdwatching as often anymore.

Tyler

Similar to his sister, hugs whatever is closest when sleeping.

Hates hot tea, will only drink iced sweet tea.

Kills spiders on sight because of his sister's fear of them. (How dare they scare his sister?)

Doesn't mind snakes, and has even caught a few random wild snakes in the past. (Taylor does not like snakes very much and refuses to touch them.)

~~~

And that's all I've got for now. I may come back and do a ship headcanons post for my favorite ships eventually. For now, this is all there is.

[prettyboybuckley]

Fuck it Friday

I started a fic last night before bed that hopefully isn't gonna end up super long and that I want to finish and post today 🙈 So therefore I'm starting FIF with this snippet to hold myself accountable to that Trans!Buck/Tommy: what if the reason Buck is tense on their first date isn't (only) because it's his first date with a guy?

Evan is his legal name, the name he changed it to when he finally had the chance to change it. He'd chosen something close to his birth name, his dead name, simply to please his parents. Even that wasn't enough.

Philip and Margaret Buckley said 'Evan' as if it tasted like dirt in their mouths, and over time the name that should have been his new beginning became tainted.

He'd experimented with different names during his travels, but never found one that stuck around. Until the fire academy, when it was proven that he hadn't been all that creative and there were two other Evans in his class.

Somehow Buckley had morphed into Buck, and he ended up appropriating their nickname for him as his own.

The point is, Tommy says his name like it tastes sweet.

It's what makes Buck want him more, makes Buck want to hear Tommy call him 'Evan' again and again.

However, it's also what makes Buck terrified. Terrified to tell the truth and hear his name turn bitter on Tommy's tongue.

✨ tagging for FIF: @monsterrae1 @rogerzsteven @saybiwithme @loserdiaz @bi-buckrights @eddiebabygirldiaz @elvensorceress @honestlydarkprincess @princessfbi @betty-boom ✨ (For anyone who would like to be tagged when I post this fic and future bucktommy fics: look here)

[tadpolesonalgae]

Friday 13th: A collection of Sneak Peeks!

So, since it's Friday 13th I feel it's appropriate to share snippets from some of the fics I've completed and am working on for the spooky season! I'll be posting a few as the night progresses, so keep an eye out if you're interested to see what's in store! <3

First up is the Naga!Eris x reader piece I'm working on! I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: monsterfcking, naga!Eris is dual wielding, monster cum possesses aphrodisiac qualities, suggested somnophilia

Dividers used are made by the lovely @throneofsapphics 🧡💛

“You want me to ask you for it? Is that what you want?” You’re pleased with the snappiness of your voice. Eris’ eyes gleam with hunger, snaking closer, the head of his cock almost slipping inside of you and it’s a feat of pure spite that keeps you from bucking your hips to get him deeper, fighting off the aphrodisiac that’s already sunk its claws so deep. You incline your chin, desire bubbling away in the pit of your tummy, so desperate for him to stuff you full again. “Make me.” 

Eris’ pupils nearly swallow his irises with hunger, then a deep-throated laugh is rolling from his chest, breathless and lined with strain. His serpentine tongue flickers out once before he’s pulling back, enough for you to desperately bite down on a whine. “Alright,” he muses, rough-voiced, “if that’s what you want. I can do that.” 

You yelp in surprise when he twists you around, so you’re now spread out on top of him, thighs straddling his powerful serpentine body. 

A heady rush of pleasure goes straight to your cunt, finding the view of being seated atop such a terrifying creature a power trip all on its own. He’s massive. Probably eight times your height, from head to tail. 

Eris holds you atop him, and there’s the teasing press of him between your thighs, his tip just nudging at your entrance. “It’s only going to get worse for you,” Eris reminds with a cocky smirk, keeping you suspended just out of reach of what you need, perched on the very tip of his cock, the second, thicker one lying flat against his stomach, a definite swell at his base. He’s not allowing you to feel even an ounce of relief. What have you gotten yourself into? You’d thought asking him to make you would result in Eris pounding you into the bedspread, but instead it seems you’ve started a challenge you have no chance of winning. How are you supposed to outlast him? 

As if he can read your mind he grins. “I can’t imagine how you’ll cope once the symptoms start presenting. Heightened sensitivity; influx of arousal fluid; increase in temperature…” He laughs, eyes glinting. “You’ll be begging me to fit both into your poor cunt, if you aren’t too careful.” His lips curve and his tail rattles, tongue flickering out in that menacing way of his. Eris’ eyes darken, grip tightening, voice softening to a whisper as he croons, “If you ask sweetly enough, I might even give you a break when you pass out.”

[mediumgayitalian]

fic rec friday 3

hi!! welcome to fic rec friday. every week, i pick five fics i have bookmarked and rec them with a little review. check them out!

Memories Made by zjass06

"Hi! I'm Will! You're my new neighbour!" the blonde boy beams; Nico frowns in turn, peering curiously at this Will. "My ma' says not to talk to strangers," Nico replies as he sits himself upon the grass. Will plops himself down next to the dark haired boy, who giggles so purely it makes his smile contagious. "I'm not a stranger, I'm your neighbour! You live next to me now and we can be friends!" Or A few snippets of Nico’s life and how his friendship develops with Will, all within a much treasured treehouse.

childhood friends to lovers will ALWAYS be elite. to me. and the centrality of this treehouse in this fic is so fucking cute bc they absolutely are the type of nerds to have a treehouse they use well into their late teens lol

2. Mafia by @buoyantsaturn

Nico is the most terrifying mob boss in New York, and Will is his live-in doctor. A Mafia Au

MY FAVE SOLANGELO SERIES TBH. like is it toxic a little bit? yeah. did the second one make me squeamish? yeah. in the 6/7 years since its been posted, have i read it literally DOZENS of times?? you betcha. idk man theres something about the danger of it all. the insane mob boss and the doctor hes whipped for. SO SO much fun and so so so romantic

3. you stormed into the battlefield (of my heart) by fedyaism

“Doctor Solace,” he says, “would you be willing to tend to a foe?” Will blinks. (He had practically expected everything but this.) “I’m sorry?” “I need you to heal an enemy for me. Can you do that?” Grace asks in a tone that lets Will know that he wasn’t really asking. “An… an enemy, sir?” “Yes. I will send him to you.” “Of course, General.” (What else could he say?)

this ends ambiguously but i am Choosing to believe they find each other again and live happily ever after for ever and ever bc im a weenie. its just...man fuck the military and i got no fondness for war BUT this isnt real and ergo i can sigh dreamily at love that is inherently kind of tragic and all the more desperately beautiful for you, yknow??

4. It's a Process by @oh-hush-its-perfect

When Nico comes out to Hazel, she really isn't sure how to react. Of course, she loves her brother to pieces, but something is holding her back. It takes a while to get over old beliefs. It takes a while to become accepting. It takes Hazel a while indeed. A.K.A. Nico is gay and Hazel can't wrap her head around it.

contrary to what the summary may lead you to believe, hazel is NOT at all homophobic in this fic. in fact her number one goal at all times is to be supportive, even as she struggles, and you know what? thats more important i think. her love for her brother is so transparently obvious in this one, she spends like 8k words doing everything she can to make SURE she is loving and accepting!!! hazel i love you. also the campfire scene had me giggling fr

5. three times everyone thought they hated each other by lizamarri

and the one time everyone realized they didn't ~ ft. capture the flag, big three kids sparring, will healing nico and being sassy about it, and more. enjoy!

NOTHING hits as hard as flirt fighting. truly nothing. also 3+1s are my weakness i stg, theres just something about outside pov and the sheer clarity of how much they love each other and love driving each other up the wall lmfao

thank you for joining me this friday!! happy reading!!

[ladysomething]

could we get a lestappen snippet please

this is worded so vaguely that I'm using the opportunity to hard launch a fic that I've been crazily writing for three days and that I'll be posting in the next 24-48 hours.

my apologies in advance to people not in the server, because this is going to seem insane.

Max is lying on his stomach on his lounge, face pressed into the cushions, trying to tempt Sassy over with treats, when there’s a fierce banging on the door. 

The noise scares off Sassy, and makes Max jump in fright, rising up onto his knees to look over the back of the lounge towards his door, wondering who it could possibly be at the door. 

There’s another knock, even louder than the last, and then his phone starts to ring. 

Max looks down to his coffee table, see’s Charles’ face, and swipes it off the table. 

“Hey,” Max greets, lifting himself off the lounge to start to walk towards the door. “What’s up? There’s someone at my door, so I can’t talk—” 

“Yes, I’m at your door,” Charles says, a little breathlessly. “Open it. I need to talk to you.” 

Max blinks at the back of his closed door, then opens it up, dropping his hand to end the call as Charles storms inside. 

“Thank God you’re home,” Charles says, sounding completely relieved. “I need to talk to you.” 

“You mentioned,” Max says, closing his door and following Charles slowly. “What’s wrong?” 

“Do you know what fanfiction is?” 

Max blinks. “Yeah?” 

“Oh, good,” Charles says, even more relieved. “Do you know people write about celebrities?” 

Max rolls his eyes. “I’ve been briefed by PR, yeah.” 

Charles flops down on the lounge, Sassy and Jimmy long gone, and props his feet up on the coffee table. Max rolls his eyes again, then sits down next to him. He and Charles are friends, closer now that they’ve ever been before, but he’s never really witnessed Charles having a PR-related meltdown before. They’re not that close. 

Oh, well. A first time for everything, he supposes. 

“Great!” Charles says cheerily, then unlocks his phone and shoves it in Max’s face. “Do you also know that we’re ranked second on Archive of Our Own?” 

Max can’t say he actually knows what Archive of Our Own is at all, let alone what we’re or ranked second means. 

He takes Charles’ phone from his hand carefully, holding it a little further away from his face so the screen isn’t blurry, and then see’s a little grey menu tab with a variety of drivers listed in pairing. 

What Charles said starts to make sense, because he can clearly see Max Verstappen/Daniel Riccardio (3897) ranked right above Max Verstappen/Charles Leclerc (3453). 

“Okay?” Max says, perplexed. “And?” 

Charles stares at him like he’s crazy, which is pretty much how Max feels right now. 

“And? Max, we’re second. We’re losers.” 

“Actually, I’m first and second. I’m a winner, twice.” 

“Max, this is serious!” Charles snaps, then snatches his phone back. “I can’t be a loser. I can’t.” 

Max has genuinely no idea why that’s his problem, or why Charles is trying to make it his problem. He really doesn’t think they’re close enough friends to try and help Charles through this—he’s not sure he knows Charles well enough to be well-equipped enough for it. 

“A loser at what?” Max asks, trying to be patient. Maybe if he realises the problem, he can help Charles by calling Pierre or something. 

“At fanfiction!” 

Max sighs deeply. “So you want us to be number one on this website? Why?” 

“Because—I—can—not—lose,” Charles says slowly, carefully, staring deeply in Max’s eyes while he does it. “You don’t want to lose either, do you, Max?” 

“Right, but I am first.” 

“With Daniel.” 

“Charles, I really—” 

“You barely even talk to him anymore!” Charles presses, resting his hands against the cushion between them to lean closer. Max leans backwards, a little terrified of the crazy look in his eye. “And what if he loses his seat? Then you’ll be number one, but with someone who’s not even a driver. That’s loser behaviour, Max.” 

“Oh my god,” Max murmurs, eyes wide. “You’re crazy.”

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

The Role of Daddy Charming--A birthday gift for @jrob64

The Role of Daddy Charming

Rating: PG

Relationship: Daddy Charming and Captain Swan

Summary: 4x2 “deleted scene”.  David Nolan had played many roles in his life, but by far the one he's found most important was that of “dad”. The fact that he hadn’t been able to be there for Emma throughout the first 28 years of her life was one of his greatest regrets, so when he noticed the infamous Captain Hook’s interest in his daughter–and even more concerning, her returning that interest–he was determined to intervene. That is, of course, until she was trapped behind an ice wall, and David saw just how deeply and sincerely Killian Jones truly loved her.

Also posted here: ao3

Tagging a few people who may be interested (Let me know if you want to be added or taken off the list): @sailormew4 @annaamell @flslp87 @emmateo26 @bethacaciakay 

@ultraluckycatnd @effulgent-mind @ilovemesomekillianjones @brooke-to-broch 

@missgymgirl @galadriel26 @the-lady-of-misthaven @charmingturkeysandwich 

@jennjenn615 @laschatzi @kimmy46 @snowbellewells @iamanneenigma

@daxx04 @nickillian  @gillie  @britishguyslover @ginnyjinxedandhanshotritafirst

@kmomof4 @linda8084 @golfgirld @captain-swan-coffee @searchingwardrobes 

@hollyethecurious @laughswaytoomuch  @allyourdarlingswans  @winterbaby89 @facesiousbutton82 

@therooksshiningknight @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree @jrob64  @anmylica 

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @i-will-sing-no-requiem @bluewildcatfanatic @laianely

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It's finally done! I'm sorry your birthday gift is 11 days late @jrob64, but I hope you've at least enjoyed the little snippets I posted on discord as I wrote this! Happy belated birthday!

And without further ado....

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Throughout his life, David Nolan had played many roles.  He’d been a son, a brother, a shepherd, a prince, a vet tech, a sheriff’s deputy, but by far, the roles he took most seriously were his roles as husband and father.

If there’s one thing he’d known all his life, it was that he wanted to be a better father than he’d had.  He wanted to be present in his children’s lives.  He’d vowed never to abandon them.

And so it was the greatest regret of his life that he’d done just that mere minutes after his daughter was born.  

Granted, he was forced into the action; it was necessary to protect Emma and give her her best chance.  Still, the shame and heartbreak of that decision had haunted him for the past twenty-nine years.

Surprisingly, during the first curse he’d felt it still, even if he hadn’t known what it was.  More often than he cared to recall, he’d had vague dreams of the black knights, of the wardrobe, of being ripped from someone vitally important to him.  The gloom and near despair of those dreams hung over him like a thundercloud. He’d woken feeling–knowing–that he wasn’t enough, that he’d failed at the most important task of his life.

Once he’d regained his memories and once he realized Emma was back in his life, he’d vowed to make up for lost time, to be the father she’d always needed, to protect her at all costs.

And so it was, when he sat at his kitchen table silently sipping his coffee and staring sightlessly out the window on the morning after the incident at the ice wall, he felt relief…but also helplessness.  He’d almost lost her.  Again.

Snow came up behind him, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek before taking a seat next to him.

“That’s quite the bleak look on your face,” she whispered. Elsa was, after all, presumably still asleep behind the curtain they’d draped in front of the sofa to give her a bit of privacy. “Yesterday really shook you up, didn’t it?”

He blew out a long breath. “She came this close to freezing to death on my watch, Snow.”

She took his hand and squeezed it.  “But she didn’t.  From all I’ve heard, you were magnificent.  Took charge and found a way to save her.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “I was terrified, but Killian…Killian was, if anything, even worse.  Never seen a man so completely panicked.”

“He loves her,” she said simply, a radiant smile on her face. “I wouldn’t have believed it when we first met him in the Enchanted Forest, but he’s a good man, and he truly loves her.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that impression,” David agreed.  “Did you know I gave him that ‘What are your intentions with my daughter?’ speech yesterday before…well…everything?”

“Really?  What did he say?”

“First he gave me hell for being old-fashioned, and then he told me he wouldn’t risk his life for someone he considered loot.  And if there was still any doubt in my mind before the ice wall incident, his reaction removed it.  Whatever else I could say about him, I know he loves her.”

Snow sipped her coffee.  “Maybe you should tell him that.  Give him your blessing, if you will.”

David grimaced.  He may be–grudgingly–willing to admit it to his wife in the privacy of their own kitchen, but admitting it to Hook’s face…well, he wasn’t sure.  “Yeah, maybe when I see him again,” he hedged.

“Perfect,” Snow said.  “You’ll probably have the opportunity any minute, whenever Emma and Hook get up.”

“What?!”

“He stayed the night with her,” Snow said with a grin. “You didn’t know?”

As if to confirm Snow’s statements, Emma and Killian emerged together from the loft. David felt his innate protective dad instincts flared to life.  If Hook had taken advantage of Emma in her vulnerable post-nearly-freezing-to-death state…

“Remember what we just talked about.  He loves her,” Snow murmured only loud enough for him to hear.

David let out a long breath.  She was right.  Reacting badly now would likely only make things worse. “Fine,” he murmured back.

“Morning!” Snow called sunnily to the couple entering the kitchen, as well as Elsa who had just emerged from behind her curtain.  “Anyone want breakfast?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get to the station,” Emma said, “I’m sure the phones were blowing up last night with calls about the ice wall.”

“I also must decline,” Killian said, scratching behind his ear.  “I should…get back to Granny’s.”

“See you later for lunch?” Emma asked, looking up at Hook with an open–and what David thought was rather nauseatingly besotted–look.  At his answer in the affirmative, she headed out.

Snow nudged David, and he rolled his eyes.  No time like the present, he supposed.  “Let me give you a lift back to town, Hook,” he said, “I’m headed that direction anyway.”

Hook gave him a wary look, and for a moment, David hoped he was about to decline the offer.  

No such luck.

“I’d appreciate it, mate.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first minute of their drive was passed in silence.  Killian side-eyed David uncomfortably, wondering when the questions–or probably more precisely, the accusations–would start.

His first inclination was to rile the man up further with sly grins and insinuations about what went on in the Charming’s loft the night before–after all his dashing rapscallion persona was a clock he’d worn as a shield for more years than he could count–but he quickly dismissed it.

This was Swan’s father.  If he truly wished to have a relationship with her–and he did; he wished for a relationship lasting roughly in the neighborhood of forever–it wouldn’t do to antagonize her father.  There was also the fact that he genuinely liked the man, and so…

“You know nothing…untoward…happened last night,” Killian said.

David glanced at him before turning back to the road with a grimace.  “Didn’t ask.  Don’t want to know.”

“Nevertheless,” Killian continued, “Your daughter and I certainly have more respect for you and Snow than to…engage in certain activities…underneath your very nose, not to mention the fact that her lad slept not ten feet from us.”

“Like I said, I didn’t ask,” David repeated, although Killian noted the way the other man’s face relaxed slightly at the reassurance.

“She was still cold,” Killian continued, somehow feeling the need to continue his justification.  “She asked for me to hold her, and I couldn’t refuse.  After coming so bloody close to losing her…”

David pulled into a parking spot in front of Granny’s but didn’t yet kill the engine.  The look he gave Killian this time was sympathetic, understanding. “Almost losing the woman you love does things to a man.”

“Aye,” Killian agreed.  “It was the same feeling of dread, of helplessness, as when the Crocodile crushed Milah’s heart in front of me.  If it had happened again….”

David placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “It didn’t,” he said firmly.  “I’ve been trying to remind myself of that all day.  It didn’t.  You didn’t lose your love and I didn’t lose my daughter.”

There was a long silence, in which Killian wondered if he ought to simply exit the vehicle.  He’d just reached for the door handle to do so when David spoke again, this time looking determinedly out the front window, rather than at him.

“There is….something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Aye?”

“That conversation we started to have yesterday, right before everything went to hell…” he continued, “look, I think I was wrong to ever question your intentions.”

“There’s no need to–” Killian began.

“I think there is,” David replied, finally turning toward to him. “It’s been obvious for a while that you love Emma, and it’s not a love that’s going away anytime soon.”

“It’s not a love that’s going away ever,” Killian said firmly.

“Yeah, I’m inclined to believe that” David said. “Anyway, if there ever had been any question about your feelings and intentions, yesterday got rid of them.  I saw how willing you were to do anything to save her.  I supposed what I’m trying to say is…I apologize for ever doubting you.”

Killian’s eyes widened.  Of all the things he’d expected the prince to say to him “I apologize” was rather far down on the list. “Apology accepted, although it is wholly unnecessary.  As someone who does truly love her, I’m pleased she has a father who cares enough to be a touch over-protective.”

David gave a quick, decisive nod.  “I won’t be old fashioned enough to give you my blessing,” he said, “but…I won’t oppose your relationship.”

“That means a great deal to me,” Killian said, “and I know it would mean a lot to Swan as well.”

“Yeah, well,” David said, “just so we’re clear, if you ever hurt her, I’ll run you through with my sword.”

Killian nodded.  “Mate, if I ever hurt her, I’d let you do it with my own.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that night, Emma was vegging on the couch when her dad finally made it home.  After tossing his jacket onto the coat rack, he joined her, gave her a quick hug and kissed the top of her head.  She was slowly but surely getting used to this casual affection from her parents, and it always gave her such a warm, fuzzy, loved feeling.

“Crazy day, huh?” he asked wryly.

Emma chuckled.  “I guess that depends on what you’re comparing it to.  For Storybrooke it was ho hum.”

It had certainly been a busy day.  As she’d expected, they’d had more calls than she could count about the ice wall and the snow monster–or whatever it had been–that had crashed through the town yesterday.  While she and her dad had both been working, they’d been so busy with calls and patrols, they’d barely had a chance to exchange a word all day.

“I guess you’re right about that,” David laughed.  “Any day that doesn’t involve a new villain, monster or crisis is a win around here.”

They lapsed into silence for several moments before Emma spoke again,  “Killian told me about your conversation this morning.”

David gave her a wary look.  “Before you say anything, I do know you’re a grown woman who can make her own decisions.”

She grinned.  “That’s what Killian said at lunch when I started ranting about you treating me like a teenager.  Nothing happened last night, by the way.”

“I know.  Killian told me.”

“Dad,” she said, and her heart turned over at the joy on his face at her use of the word.  “I just….I just want to thank you for, you know, caring and doing whatever you had to to save me.”

“No thanks necessary,” he said.  “You’re my daughter.  I’m always, always going to do everything in my power to help you, no matter the situation.”

She felt the tears come to her eyes.  “I think I’m finally starting to realize that.  Sorry it’s taken so long.  It’s just…I’m not used to having a dad, someone in my corner no matter what.”

Pain came into his eyes at that, and Emma realized how her words had come across. “I’m not blaming you,” she said quickly.  “I know you did what you had to to give me my best chance.”

“Still,” David said, “I wish more than anything that I’d been able to be the father you needed and deserved from the beginning.”

“I wish that too,” she murmured, almost under her breath, “but the past is the past.  You’re here now, and that means everything.”

“And I always will be,” David vowed with a decisive nod.

They lapsed into another silence, broken only by a few soft whimpers from baby Neal as Mary Margaret worked to put him down for the night–or at least as much of the night as he was willing to sleep at any one stretch.

“You know, I wasn’t the only one working frantically to save you last night,” David said slowly.

Emma felt her heart stutter and then soar as she thought of the man to whom her father was referring.  “I know.  Killian told me he’d been worried about me too.”

David blew out a long breath.  “Worried is an understatement.  He was absolutely frantic.  Emma, that man loves you.”

Emma felt the butterflies, that swooping half-excited, half-terrified feeling one gets when she falls head over heels.  She would have to be blind not to see that Killian had fallen in love with her, and she had the sneaking suspicion that somewhere along the way she’d fallen in love with him as well.  Was she ready to admit it?  She wasn’t sure.  That level of vulnerability was scary as hell.

“Yeah, maybe so,” she hedged, trying to make her voice as even as possible, “and I…I…appreciate it.”

David gave her a long look.  “Emma, I know it’s hard for you to trust.  I know it’s hard for you to let yourself believe, and I will have your back one hundred percent whatever you do, but for what it’s worth, I’d give him a chance if I were you.”

“So does that mean you think he’s good enough for me?” Emma teased, uncomfortably aware of the momentous nature of the topic at hand and feeling the need to lighten the mood..

David chuckled.  “You’re my daughter.  No one’s good enough for you, but I suppose if you have to be with someone, he’ll do.”

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippet (or chapter?) Thursday

Viper: Exodus

Jak, now a captain in Spargus's infiltration division, has been gathering people who have helped them in the past, and Daxter has convinced whole sections of the slums to trust the Wastelanders over the Grand Council. (LONG post warning, it's basically a whole chapter)

240 people crowded around the narrow road in front of the Naughty Ottsel, murmuring nervously to each other. They had been slowly preparing for this night for weeks -- hardly enough time to uproot an entire life. But then, many of them had been uprooted already. Many carried young children, only recently reunited with their families after Praxis's mass kidnapping orders during his hunt for Mar. They varied between terrified silence and hungry wailing as the people waited for their chosen leader to arrive.

It had been a difficult, and at times acrimonious, task choosing someone to lead them once beyond the walls for good. Fifty people had withdrawn from the evacuation entirely when a Lurker was ultimately chosen. But Brutter had lived among the people of the Water Slums for years. They knew him. They trusted him.

His deputy, the blonde barmaid from the pub, seemed like an odd choice at first. But as preparations progressed, it became clear that Tess had a way with people -- and with weapons. Her confidence put them all at ease.

The murmurs quieted when Tess appeared with Brutter, Jak, and Daxter. More people gathered in the pub doorway behind them to watch, but it was clear that they were on team "leaving Haven is mutiny or cowardice".

"This is everyone?" Brutter called, furrowing his fuzzy brow. "Water Slum friends?"

"Here!" One of his former neighbors called, waving from a section of the crowd.

"Good! Saltpeter Row?"

The inhabitants of the row houses made varying sounds of acknowledgement, and Brutter nodded, continuing to call out the names of streets who had agreed to join the secession.

"Morgan street!"

"Redcap Row!"

"Shark Flats!"

"4th Street!"

Only a few groups were unaccounted for in the end, though this wasn't as much of a surprise as expected. They'd known from the beginning that some would probably back out when it was time to go. Better the devil they knew than the one they didn't. But everyone else had shown up.

They shuffled restlessly, meager belongings in carts or on their backs, and waited to find out what was going to happen. Surely they weren't all going to walk to the abandoned temple!

Brutter nodded to Jak, and the boy stepped forward and raised his voice.

"Okay! Here's what's going to happen! Anyone with small kids or trouble walking is going to take the air train to the foot of the mountains. The Babak are waiting with balloons to get you to the temple. It's going to take a few trips, so don't crowd. You'll all get there, I promise."

Daxter took over as soon as Jak finished.

"Everybody else: we're formin' a convoy of four groups! If you know how to fight, yer on the outside of the column. If you don't, stay in the middle! We're gonna stop for breaks sometimes, but we're hiking straight through the Industrial Sector, folks. It's gonna be a good hour or two before we get everyone into the Power Station teleport ring."

Jak nodded and pointed left in the direction they'd be heading. "Tess will be leading Group 1 with the gyro-burster to clear out any threats ahead of us. Jinx is taking Group 2. Group 3, you're with Mogg and Grim. Everyone else, you're with me. For now, everyone with kids move to the right."

The shuffle was tedious, and it was close to ten minutes before everyone was divided into the five groups. The thirty-five people with elderly, children, and mobility issues huddled together as the rest split into crowds of roughly fifty each. Even fifty civilians was a massive number to protect from Deathbots and metalheads. Tess and Jak shot each other grim looks, each worrying about the same thing:

How many people were they going to lose on their way to the power station?

"I'm coming too!"

Jak turned to see Keira pulling her arm free of Samos's grip. His heart leapt: he'd hoped against hope that she would flee the city with them. That she would wrench herself out from under the sage's thumb.

"Keira, no!" Samos gasped, "This is madness!”

He turned a stern look to Jak. "This has gone too far, Jak! You are out of control!"

"Out of your control," Daxter corrected sharply, "That's what you mean, right?"

"You're leading these people to their deaths! I will not allow my daughter to be one of them!" Samos snapped.

Jak felt nerves crawl up his throat. He wanted to vomit. It didn't matter how confident he was as a Captain of Spargus, Samos had programmed his behavior for years and standing up to him was hard.

He swallowed back bile and cleared the trepidation from his throat.

"You didn't have a problem sending someone else's kid into hell for your own gain. You're not doing yourself any favors by waiting until now to have a problem with it."

Keira gestured to him. "See? Thank you, Jak."

"Keira, that's enough," said Samos sternly, "I know it seems harsh to you, but someday you will understand that I am simply doing what is best for you!"

"No, I'm doing what's best for me," Keira retorted, "I'm helping people."

"Keira, I forbid you to step out that door!" the sage cried in a panic.

Keira swung a bag up onto her shoulder.

"I'm no good to anyone in a gilded cage, kept out of danger. And you have no right to fight about it after what you put the boys through."

"Of course I have a right! You're my daughter!"

Keira set her jaw. She closed her eyes and took in a long, shaky breath. Then she stepped out the door.

"Goodbye, Daddy."

Tess squeezed her shoulder as she passed them to gather her platoon. "Hang in there, kiddo," she murmured.

Brutter also eyed her with sympathy as he followed.

"Let us go, friends!" He loudly croaked, "Before we are losing the moonlight!"

Jak frowned thoughtfully. "You got a gun?" he asked Keira quietly.

She shook her head, still trembling with the same adrenaline he felt.

"N-no. But I've got some EMP grenades I've been working on. In case of bots."

Jak's eyebrows rose, and he grinned. "Can't wait to see 'em."

"Yeah well. You probably won't have to.”

÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷

Two days after the exodus

"I hooked the generator up to the temple, so we should have working shields in a day or two." Keira collapsed onto the ledge beside Jak, utterly exhausted.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and dropped an impulsive kiss onto the crown of her head. "You're a miracle worker, you know that?"

The butterflies in Keira's stomach made an unwelcome encore appearance, beating their little wings to fan heat up into her cheeks. She liked this new Jak. He was more open with his feelings. Braver about touch. But Precursors if it wasn't an adjustment!

Still. She needed the comfort just now. Keira had just uprooted…everything, for the second time in her young life. She'd walked away from her own father, and no matter how justified she knew it was, it still hurt. She felt small, and lost, in a world far too large for her. Had she really stopped to fully count the cost of joining the formation of the refugee village?

Yes. She had. Keira forced her mind away from the betrayal in her father's eyes, back to the joy that was in Jak’s eyes when he whispered to her that he'd found freedom.

"I don't feel like a miracle worker," she confessed after a few minutes, "I feel like a fraud. I'm- I'm just shy of completely overwhelmed. We have almost nothing, and if Haven decides they don't like us being up here, I don't know how long my shields will even work. Why are they looking to me for all the solutions? Why not Brutter, or Tess?"

Jak made a sympathetic noise. "Yeah...I know how that feels. But apparently sixteen is "too young" to be carrying that kind of responsibility on your shoulders. So. I dunno, take it easy on yourself, I guess?"

Keira rested her head on Jak’s shoulder with a soft hmph, and noted with some amusement that she could hear how fast his heart was beating. Lucky for them Jak had already been in battle that day, clearing out the last metalheads, and had no more eco to react to the adrenaline. Dark Jak was much more snuggly than regular Jak, and much denser in mass, which made it fairly problematic if he happened to doze off while resting against her.

“Kee, I-”

Jak swallowed hard.

“I have to- we need- Mountain Clan is going to join the Wasteland Federation. You- everyone is going to have to get used to a new set of laws. A new. A new king.”

Keira winced. She'd had enough of overbearing authority figures.

“It's going to be…interesting,” she said begrudgingly.

“I have to report to him.” Jak sounded like he was trying to sound her out, gauge her reaction.

“I was going to call him tonight, actually. I just…I guess, don't freak out if he…when he gets here.”

Here? Keira sat up to look Jak in the eye.

“This king person is coming here?”

The buzz of the crickets down the slope seemed to rise, drowning out her thoughts. In a way, she'd known it had to be coming. Jak and Daxter wouldn't have been so insistent on evacuation if there wasn't actually a war coming. It just hadn't felt real.

She looked down at the tents and rudimentary huts their people -- Precursors, she had people now -- had spent the last two days setting up along the hill. So many people who couldn't fight, or wouldn't. If the Wastelanders really were a warrior people, would this king even accept them?

“He has to, Keira. Even if Haven hadn't-” Jak tensed, and a low anger rippled below his words. “Even if they hadn't tried to assassinate him, Damas would still have to come out here. He's the current head of the Federation, and all clans have to send representatives when someone threatens the whole.”

Leave it to Jak to speak of someone with that much power as casually as he spoke about Daxter.

“You all just call him by his name?”

Jak shrugged, and the grin he offered was a little sheepish. “Not to his face. Unless you're me, or Sig. Daxter could, he just likes to call him Spikes or King Lunatic instead. Damas doesn't mind.”

“Spikes?” Keira felt her eyebrows go up. "King Lunatic?!"

“You'll see when he gets here.”

Jak was entirely too calm about that. Keira grimaced, but reasoned that if he was more relaxed now than he was when talking about Ashelin or Samos, that had to be a promising sign, right?

“He um. He sounds…tough,” the girl said, gingerly searching for words. “Is…Is he-”

Keira gave up beating about the bush and decided to just ask the question honestly.

“Jak, you talk about him like you actually trust him. Do you?”

“With my life,” Jak answered, simply and openly.

“And I'd trust him with all of those people down there, more importantly. I'd trust him with Daxter’s life. With yours.”

What could she say to that? Even when they'd been little kids, when they had foolishly trusted Samos to have their best interests at heart, Jak hadn't trusted him around Daxter. And after the…the prison, Daxter was probably the only person Jak truly trusted. For some warrior king of a nation of Sigs to have earned Jak's faith so completely was hard to believe. Almost as hard to take as the respect in Jak’s voice when he so much as mentioned this man.

Who was this King Damas, and what had he done to make Jak of all people so devoted to him and his cause? And more importantly in Keira's mind, did he deserve Jak's loyalty?

“You look up to this guy,” she realized.

And Jak laughed. He rubbed the back of his neck, and looked embarrassed, and laughed.

“Yeah…I mean, I…yeah…he's kind of my hero.”

He covered his face abruptly as his ears burned scarlet.

“Don't you dare tell him I said that.”

“Oh right, because I'd totally get a chance to have a casual conversation with a king and squeal on you.” Keira rolled her eyes.

“If he's as cool as you think he is, maybe he already knows, anyway.”

“No!” Jak groaned, “Don't say that, I have an image to keep up!”

Keira cracked a smile and settled her head back onto Jak’s shoulder. His arm slipped around her waist, and she felt his cheek rest against her hair. An innocent closeness neither of them had felt in too many years, shared for a moment at the beginning of something new and a little frightening.

“When do you think your king will get here?”

Jak grinned into Keira's hair. She'd stopped calling Damas “this king”. The simple acknowledgement of how important he was to Jak felt a lot more validating than he'd anticipated.

“If I call him tonight, I'd say tomorrow evening at the latest. It's only about five hours from here to home by air train.”

Considering the commotion at dawn, when some hut building efforts were abandoned in favor of clearing a landing strip, Keira had her suspicions that the Wastelanders were already on their way before Jak ever placed that hushed and enthusiastic call.

“Clear the field!” Grim waved his arms wildly, scattering refugees into tents and back onto the rope bridge the Babak had built into the temple. “Make some room, everybody!”

Jak was out of his tent with Daxter on his shoulder before the craft had even begun its final approach. He darted to the edge of the makeshift runway and just waited. Brutter opened the door of his hut with a surprised croak, and Tess was already loosening her gun in her holster. Just in case.

There was a pit in Keira's stomach as she joined the people watching the air train land. This was it. Judgement Day.

Out of the air train seven heavily armored Wastelanders practically sauntered, six taking guard positions in a semicircle while the seventh strolled right up to where Jak stood ramrod straight.

It was unnatural, seeing Jak like that. Even more so seeing Daxter in the same attentive posture on his shoulder. Keira watched them nervously for cues.

Jak spoke about the leader of the Wastelander Federation like he was this great hero. Like he idolized the man. Keira suspected she'd get a better read on this new authority figure by observing how he spoke to the boys -- if he spoke to them directly at all.

The king of the desert was an imposing man wielding an elaborate staff. He didn't look like the type to suffer fools gladly. Keira watched his eyes sweep across the huts and lean-tos covering the slopes leading to the temple. They had already constructed fifteen small houses in the style of Sandover Village, and Vin and Keira had just finished setting up a basic eco grid for power. Was it good enough?

"By the forges boys!" The Wasteland king suddenly laughed aloud. "When you said you could find allies in the city, I thought you meant five or six, not an entire village!"

He clapped a hand to Jak’s unoccupied shoulder in a gesture Keira recognized -- with her share of bittersweet longing -- as pride.

"Welcome to Mountain Clan, sir," Jak answered, just as proud.

So. Jak wasn't exaggerating his admiration for this man. Not that Keira had thought he would. Jak wasn't prone to exaggeration and hyperbole. And while he still stood smartly at attention, if Keira looked closely she could see her friend practically vibrating with excitement. He behaved like a soldier -- the soldier Haven always wanted but could never have -- and yet at the same time he reminded Keira of nothing as much as a little boy whose parent had finally come home from a long journey.

That thought stuck in her mind as Brutter and Tess approached.

To her shock -- and the shock of the boys -- the Babak let out a jubilant cry when he recognized the man in armor.

"Brother Damas!" he trumpeted, catching the attention of the other Lurkers helping in the new village.

"Brother Damas lives! Our hearts are full!"

Damas looked taken aback for a moment, then a smile creased his weatherbeaten face and he reached out to clasp Brutter's forearm.

"You-! I remember you! It's been a long time, Bluefeather."

"Too long," Brutter croaked.

"Are your people safe?" Damas frowned. "I'm- I'm sorry. One operative wasn't enough to help free them. It was a poor repayment for the way you supported my family during the coup."

Sadly, the Babak leader shook his head. "We Lurkers were not saving your friends, Brother. We could not stop the executing after you exiled. Always my elders feel they failed you."

Damas squeezed the Lurker's thick forearm with an earnest expression. "You failed no one, Brother. Welcome to the Federation."

Beside them, Jak's face went from confusion to wonder to a barely restrained glee. Damas had organized the abolition efforts? That meant Jak had been working for Damas long before he ever heard the man's name! He exchanged excited looks with Daxter. This went beyond best case scenario for them. Their honorary tribe and their adopted people were now united.

"Now then!" Damas turned on his heel to raise an amused eyebrow at Jak.

"I've been getting extremely detailed reports from you, Captain. Come! Walk me through what you're doing up here!"

Jak practically scrambled to follow him, an almost silly grin stamped across his face. It made Keira's heart ache to realize she hadn't seen that smile since Sandover. Brutter broke into her thoughts with a gurgling chuckle.

"Once king, always king," he said fondly. "Brutter did not know he had offspring! Jak is very good son. Very loyal."

Keira jolted. "Offspring?! What do you mean?!"

Brutter looked confused, as though he thought his observation was obvious.

[sp0o0kylights]

Mimic Steve!!! at number Seven I see,,, was that, perchance, on purpose? :D

AYYYY you caught that! I'm so glad someone did lol.

I had to go hunt down what I already posted about the Mimic Steve AU lmao

It's honestly easier to read the first part here , but basically, it's an AU that centers around how the Steve we know isn't actually Steve Harrington; he's a replacement that his parents bought and paid Brenner/The Lab for.

What he actually is, is a being similar to humans with mimic-like abilities from another dimension. They kidnapped him at a young age and then later tortured him into being Steve when the real one passed away from cancer as a child.

There's a vast number of problems happening when the story starts but the biggest is that Robin and Nancy have accidentally discovered that the real Steve Harrington is dead and the house Steve lives in doesn't actually belong to the Harrington's.

In a panic-ridden attempt to prevent them from discovering he's a monster from an alternate dimension whose stuck, Steve taps Eddie for help on grounds that he has romantic feelings for Eddie and already thinks he doesn't deserve to be loved in return. I he loses Eddie as a friend over this then well-- chances were that was gonna happen anyways because he sucks at hiding that he's in love--but he can't lose Robin.

In his head, that means Robin can't learn that he's not human

Snippet:

“Sweetheart, you are Steve.”

He frantically shook his head. “No, I’m not. I’m a copy of Steve, one they forced so hard that it--it overwrote the real me. I don’t know who I actually am, Eddie.” 

Besides a fucking monster, from somewhere else. 

(At his lowest, in the dark of the house in the middle of the night, Steve turned himself back into his base form. 

The thing he was--or at least thought he was--before he’d been kidnapped. 

Stared at himself in the mirror and felt only terror, because he didn’t recognize himself. )

Eddie stepped up, gently took one of Steve’s hands. 

Threaded their fingers together. 

“Okay.” He said, eyes searching Steve’s own. “What can I do to help you find yourself?” 

Steve stared back. 

“I haven’t--I never…” He trailed off faintly, all thoughts of who he had been and who he was impersonating vanishing in the face of his reality. 

That Steve’s life had been so preoccupied with keeping himself safe by living within a lie, he never actually spent any time trying to figure out who he was. 

Eddie seemed to realize this, and nodded once as if Steve’s expression was an answer in and of itself. “It’s okay. I mean it. It’s a big thing, and it’ll take you some time, but I’ll be there with you if you want me to be.” 

Steve sniffed.

“Even if I turn into a car again?” 

Eddie laughed softly. ‘Yeah Sunlight. Even if you scare the shit out of me by turning into a car again.” 

“They’re emergency purposes only.” Steve said--and he meant it. 

(The fear of getting stuck as something non-human had terrified him so badly the car incident had left him puking up his guts for two days after, nerves shot.) 

“Now about changing into that courthouse clerk…”

[softboynick]

wip wednesday - 5/15/2024

leika? posting a wip wednesday??? i promise i'm not dead!!! to make up for the weeks i've missed, i'll share TWO snippets because i love you all, one from a beautiful chance and one from my @aroyallybigbangrwrb <333333 tags are under the cut!

excerpt from chapter 8 of a beautiful chance:

“Alex?” The alpha’s name falls from Henry’s lips with such reverence that he may as well have been genuflecting at his feet if he weren’t confined to the hospital bed. Even in his current state, he reaches out for him, for his alpha, in desperate need for something soft, something familiar.  Relief floods his chest, a tight squeeze that gradually releases to let in the air that completely fills his deprived lungs. Cutting through the sharp stench of disinfectant is the familiar aroma of cinnamon, magnolias, and burning wood, and there is a sudden stinging in his eyes that he can’t ignore. Home. That is what he smells when he breathes in Alex’s scent. He is home.  “Alpha,” Henry says, a whimper falling from chapped lips.  For one terrifying moment, he thinks Alex will turn away from him, will leave and disappear through the door, never to return, but then, the alpha closes the distance between them. Three long strides, and there he is, collapsing at his bedside.  “Baby.”

excerpt from It's all in my head (I fuck up again and again):

That is when he notices Bea in the corner, sitting on the floor with an acoustic guitar on her lap.  “You’re playing again,” he says, not even trying to conceal his shock.  “I am,” Bea answers with a shrug, her left hand tight around the neck of the guitar. She looks down at her fingers and smirks as she strums a C chord. “Someone inspired me.” Henry silently steps further into the room and joins her on the floor. David doesn’t seem like he wants to leave his side anytime soon, and Henry doesn’t want the old boy to leave either, so he lets him settle in his lap, warm and comforting. And for a moment, time comes to a standstill and rewinds, back to the days when life was much simpler and when happiness meant more to them than just an unattainable fantasy.  “Play something for me?” he asks her quietly.  Bea nods. “Sure. Any requests?” “Surprise me.” 

for my honeys and lavenders who've tagged me in the past: @taste-thewaste @onthewaytosomewhere @firstprincehornyramblings @duchessdepolignaca03 @bitbybitwrites

@tinyarmedtrex

also tagging: @henrysfox @bigassbowlingballhead @eusuntgratie @captainjunglegym @lfg1986-2

@luainthewild @henryspearl @england-would-fall @anincompletelist @wordsofhoneydew

@itsmaybitheway @sheepywritesfics @theprinceandagcd @anchor-bird-94 + OPEN TAG <3

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

tagged by several people over the course of the last few weeks since the last time I posted one of these including @imogenkol @kyber-infinitygems and @thesingularityseries last week. Thank you all and tagging you back! cod tag list opt in/out

I am still stuck in my cod-verse with Rory, so sorry everyone!

This week I've got a snippet from a much later chapter in "Evening of Score" which is Rory's POV of the first MW game, and this is a lead up to the interrogation with the Butcher in Russia (for reference). AKA proof of them both being assholes and thus more reason they ended up together. Rory knows he's a dick and still chooses to be with him, this is due to her shitty taste in men

warnings for mentions of: Price manipulation and intimidation tactics and general morally grey war criminal behavior, kidnapping mention, and a toxic dynamic of two people in love who are both kind of shit human beings, swearing, and smoking

“When were you going to tell me about the wife and child?” [Rory] mentioned the fact quietly, out of earshot, as she lit her cigarette, the dancing light of the flickering flame reflecting in her eyes as she stared at him. “Were you waiting until I couldn't back out? Was this another classic Captain Price manipulation tactic?”

He didn't move, didn't falter, not even for an instant. Arms crossed over his chest, jaw set tight, Price was a foreboding presence that seemed to tower over her. “You know we have to do things like this, Rory.” His voice was kept low, flat. No flares of emotion in his tone. This was John at his most terrifying, ruthless and uncompromising, expecting his soldiers to either fall in line and step up to follow his lead or prove themselves unable to keep pace. 

“I'm aware.” She pinched the bridge of her nose as she took a drag of her cigarette. “Doesn't make me feel like any less of a fucking hypocrite though.”

“How – it's not your call, is it?” 

“I can turn my conscience off for a lot, haven't quite gotten there with women and children yet, John.” She hid the mild tremor in her hand by slipping her lighter into her jacket pocket. “Not after the things I've seen,” she muttered under her breath.

His eyes glanced down to where her hand receded and she knew he had caught on, but he didn't show it, his stare more steely than usual as it cut through her frailty. “Don't have to explain the reasoning to you though, do I?” He tipped his head to the side, jaw lifting. Dominant and imposing. Challenge in his tone. That cold, unflinching stare from powder blue eyes that could twinkle with so much mischievous intent when they were in private. 

“No.” Blunt. Direct. The way they spoke to each other when on a mission belied all the love they had for one another when free from the strict collar of rank and duty.

“That's a good girl.”

“Don't give me any of that patronizing bullshit right now,” she snarled, jutting her fingers that held the cigarette between them toward him, punctuating her words with a stabbing motion with her hand.

His eyes didn't narrow, there was no furrowing of his brow, he stayed still. There wasn’t even a clench of his jaw or a tic of the vein in his forehead. The stone mask was all he was presenting to anyone at the current moment. “You'll do it though, won't you?” He husked, holding her gaze captive, testing her limits.

“Yeah,” she said bitterly. “Always do. Wouldn't be the first interrogation you've had me take the lead on, now would it? Even if our methods differ.”

He chuckled darkly, the cold gleam of the merciless predator that resided inside him rose to the surface for just a split second. “Didn't pack the plastic or the brass knuckles this time, love.”

“Ha!” She responded, acerbic as always. Her gaze flickering over to the young sergeant Price had taken under his wing, before returning to the man before her. “You sure you want the Sergeant taking part? Might be a little green, don't you think?”

“He'll do fine.”

“As long as he does what you say…?” Her large hazel eyes lifted from the spot on the floor she was silently glaring at to look up at him. Normally warm and gleaming with life, her stare was now darkened by what was expected of her, the dark spots on her conscience visible in the depths. There were a lot of shitty things she’d been asked to do in her career, it made it worse coming from the man she shared a home and bed with. 

Price nodded, not replying with words. There's always more to what he didn't say than the words that were spoken. His body language never conveyed much either when he was like this, the eyes hardly giving anything away. But there was the underlying threat of the fact that John knew he was a rarity in this world, the things he did weren’t always easily digestible by others’ standards, he carried skeletons in a closet that went deep into dark recesses, and with that came the fact that there was a heavy gravitational pull that emitted from him, one that drew others into his world and either tainted them with his way of thinking or they were spat out and deemed unwilling, too weak to enter his orbit. It was the worst part of him, and one she tried her best to ignore despite falling prey to it herself. Two years with a man like that had irrevocably changed her, she was the lamb to the slaughter no more. 

“Right.” She tossed her cigarette to the floor, stomping her boot down on it, crushing it into the cement below. “Well, this ought to be interesting.” “Sure you can handle it?” The little added push, pressing her buttons and playing the right notes to get her to fall into step with him in this monstrous dance. She snapped back to looking at him, her glare easily conveyed how much she wished he’d piss off right about now. “Do you have any reason to doubt?” Rory had no fear of offering her own challenge towards him, she was one of the few who ever would.

He turned his head a little as if to shake it, his lips pursing slightly. “Never.” Reaching up, his calloused fingers wrapped in leather gloves brushed the wisps of smoke curling around her face away, and he gently tugged on the strand of hair clinging to her cheek, pushing it behind her ear. “Impossible to doubt ya, my girl.”

“Fucking hell,” Rory scoffed. “You are such a piece of work sometimes.” Shaking her head and shoving her hands into her jacket pockets, her eyes lifted to the ceiling with a heavy sigh. “Lead me to him, John.”

Tagging : @g0dspeeed @simplegenius042

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