#surprise luci writes

[lucius-the-literary-lunatic]

Callings - Blood Bound

it wasn't unusual for Astarion to catch Florin staring at him, either with homicidal hunger or adoration. tonight it was an odd combination of both, the former fading into the latter as the night carried on.

A: You're staring again, my sweet.

F: Not accustom yet?

A: Oh, I am. However I'm still get used to the wide range of your stares. Not even ten minutes ago you were looking at me like you wanted to skin me alive, now it seems like I'm the most precious thing in existence.

F: I can't see why both can't be true.

lopsided smile on his face Rin didn't bother moving his gaze, he was enjoying his view too much; how the elf was laid across his lap, caressed in moonlight. rolling his eyes astarion looked up at his partner, reminding himself not to get lost in the green flames staring back at him.

A: You look as though you wish to be my mirror again.

F: As willing as I always am to call you beautiful, that isn't what's on my mind tonight.

A: Oh? Well now I'm just oozing with curiosity.

florin's smile faltered for a second, tongue mindlessly tracing his fangs as he looked at his star while his his fingers toyed with the laces of his shirt.

F: What do you think your name would've been? If you hadn't died when you did.

A: No one would have called me 'Stari', that's for certain.

astarion hadn't realized he missed florin's true meaning until the tiefling spoke up.

F: It means Little Star, right? Astarion?

A: It does... Yes...

slowing coming to understand what his lover was asking, astarion's hand met florin's at the collar of his shirt, fingers fidgetting with the rings on the other mans hand.

F: You hadn't even lived half of your elfling life, you were always their little star. What do you think your parents would've called you as an adult? Astar, since you wouldn't be so little anymore? Maybe they'd change it up completely and go with something like Arcas, hoping you wouldn't be a lone star any longer but a captivating constellation...

realizing his usually vocal vampire hadn't offered any sass or quips in a bit florin let the question hang in the air; while he had asked florin was more than okay with the silence. neither of them were good with their pasts, both choosing to brushing it away than let the memories remain.

[why-am-i-here-someone-save-me]

Holy shit Luci wrote something for the first time in *checks history* JANUARY FIRST JESUS CHRIST-

um anywayssss. Have some Signora content because we stan a girlboss in this household-

TW: Signora is dead, technically SAGAU, Reader is implied to be a deity/supernatural entity, character death, flower symbolism, platonic relationship between characters

Flowers & Fated Reunions

The woman knew she had died. That much she was certain of. In a way, she supposes it wasn’t too painful of an end. It was certainly less painful than many of the deaths she had been responsible for carrying out through her life. The electro energy had killed her before the sting of the blade could reach her. But if she was dead, then where was she? The place she found herself in seemed to stretch on forever in all directions. What might have been a sky was nothing more than a featureless white void, contrasting boldly with the scenery that surrounded her. For as far as she could see there were beautiful purple flowers blooming and swaying in an unseen breeze. They were gorgeous, but unfamiliar. She had amassed no small amount of knowledge over her long lifetime, and yet she could not begin to recognize this strange flowers.

“Lovely aren’t they?”

She whirled around, her eyes locking onto the form of the one who’d spoken, the guarded light in her eyes fading slightly as she recognized them. A million questions filled her head, and yet the words that escaped her lips were not one of them. “What are they?”

The familiar (e/c) eyes broke away from the field of flowers and met Rosalyne’s, filled with a warmth she had not felt in a very long time. “They are purple hyacinths. They are considered a symbol of a love ill-fated…” The creator’s eyes returned to the vast landscape of violet petals once again. After a brief moment of silence, they spoke once again, softer this time. “Such a flower seems to represent your story all too well, doesn’t it?”

Before Rosalyne could answer they knelt down and cupped one of the many blooms in their hand, a bitter smile on their face. “…I’ve never really liked them. To love so deeply, only to lose it… Isn’t it just too cruel? Perhaps some believe it better to have loved and lost it than to have never loved at all. But I have never been able to share such sentiments.”

The flower seemed to start to wither in the hold of the creator, as if it knew it was unwanted, the countless other plants that grew around them beginning to do the same. In mere moments the endless field was nothing more than a barren stretch of earth, the purple flowers having left no trace of themselves behind. The creator stood and turned to the woman, eyes full of light and a small smile on their lips.

“Perhaps they ‘La Signora’ yes, but you are more than that alone. You never overcame the loss of your loved one, but neither did you ever give up on that love. Not once did your affections falter, not once did you hesitate to follow through with that which you believed would return him to you. You loved, you lost, and thought it is a part of you; you are far more than that alone; you are Rosalyne.”

The creator knelt down once more, motioning for the other woman to do so as well. They reached out and laid their hand upon the soil, a faint warmth filling the area before, quite suddenly, sprouts began to emerge from the empty earth. Sprouts quickly became stems, growing taller as buds began to form. Before long the new buds bloomed, small rounded flowers hanging down from the stem which bent to the side under their weight. The petals were a soft white, and although she was not sure why, a sense of longing that she had carried for so long she’d forgotten it was even there lifted from her heart. Hesitantly she reached out and brushed her fingertips against the blossoms, the softness of the petals calming the racing questions that filled her mind. These flowers were also unfamiliar to her, yet they brought a sense of peace to her that she could not help but relish in.

“…They are known as the Lily of the Valley. While purple hyacinths might represent La Signora, they are not destined for you Rosalyne. The Lily of the Valley stands for a returning happiness, the reunion of love that was once lost. They stand for the next chapter in your story.”

The flowers began to sway more fervently as the once gentle breeze grew stronger, the sound of the creator’s gentle laughter dancing within the wild winds.

“You’ve kept him waiting long enough, don’t you think? The two of you belong together after all, so there’s little point in lingering here.”

Rosalyne felt the field begin to grow distant, as though she were seeing it through a foggy mirror. The creator embraced her as the surroundings steadily faded away.

“It’s okay Rosalyne. You can take off your mask now. It’s okay.”

The rest of the world faded away into a soft white light, before she felt herself drift off into a dreamlike sleep.

———

(E/c) eyes slowly opened and adjusted to the light, a yawn escaping from their form as the sat up. A bittersweet smile formed on their lips as they caught sight of a familiar white flower in the corner of their eye. Turning towards it they sighed softly. They hadn’t been able to save Rosalyne, but at least they had done what they could to help her find peace.

A/N: It’s ya gurl Luci back writing apparently! Is this an official return to writing fanfiction, or is it a one time thing? Hell if I know! I guess only the future will tell. Regardless, we stan Rosalyne reuniting with her bby in this blog! @dunno-why-im-here-either yuyu i wrote a thingy again how much worse did my writing get after my hiatus I need to know plz-

[edmione]

The universe has it’s favorites, I guess…

[lucydoodlessometimes]

Down the rabbit hole we go!

I know what I said about the rest of the Lunar chronicles art, but have you considered: I wanted to rewrite Miraculous Ladybug to my tastes instead?? so here. have bunny miraculous felix, or better known as Lapin Blanc.

[enixamyram]

One thing I love about Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is that Lucy Gray is so different from Katniss yet equally as interesting to read. On top of that, they're both strong and powerful characters in their own way. I honestly believe Katniss would not have been particularly fond of Lucy Gray if they had been around at the same time, but she would have certainly respected her ability to survive.

[princess-of-purple-prose]

HIII writing prompt “monster” and 7? 💕

Giggling the teensiest bit, I love you <3 No, really, I love you, because 7 was, amusingly, the wildcard number, so randomly picking landed me on TIM STOKER, and I don’t think I’ve ever written in his pov before but this CONSUMED ME?? I haven’t written this much in one go in weeks, forget this fast?? This also, uh, turned into full-out jontim, which was a complete accident because this was SUPPOSED to be a meditation on him mid-Research era. Aha. Enjoy!!!!

“—and that,” Jon declares, “is why it’s so vital to continue establishing Hope Spots, not just in spots ripe for ecotourism, but across the world.” He takes what must be his first breath in ten full minutes, and it’s only then that he seems to register Tim and Sasha’s twin gleeful expressions. His own expression goes a little funny. “Tim, Sasha, please tell me you weren’t—”

Sasha is already stabbing at her phone, fumbling a little before she actually hits the right button. “Twelve minutes and forty-six seconds! A new record!”

“The man’s a monster!” Tim toasts Jon with a whoop, and Jon—there’s really no other word for it: he fully pouts at Tim, wrinkling his nose so primly it makes Tim want to bear-hug him right then and there. He sublimates the urge by being even more over-the-top, trying to see if he can make Jon’s nose scrunch up even more. “Attenborough who! I want all my documentaries voiced by this man!” Opposite him, Sasha dissolves into tiny giggles, sweet and delicate as a spray of mayflowers.

“Sasha missed the ‘stop’ button about five times, you can’t call that—” Jon snorts, but his cheeks have turned the rich cherry of his desk back at Research, so he can’t be that mad about their subpar timekeeping of his latest incredibly disorganized, incredibly endearing overview of the last documentary he watched.

“Jonnnnnn, take the win!” Tim cries, and he gives in and slings an arm around Jon’s shoulder like it belongs there. God, the man’s teeny, they need to make sure he gets some carbs in him. On that note— “Take some chips, too, you’re built like a bird!”

“And you’re built like,” Jon grumps, “a—a—” He scowls and takes a chip, presumably only to cover the fact that he’s too drunk to come up with a simile. Contrary little bastard, he is. “Get off me, you arse.”

Tim makes a complaining sound even as he immediately pulls away—only for Jon to jolt and then practically butt up into Tim’s hovering arm, far more housecat than bird. Tim freezes, not putting any pressure against Jon even though they’re skin-to-cardigan again.

“Jon…?”

Oh, there it is, there’s that wrinkled nose. Tim loses his breath, a little bit. “I didn’t mean it,” Jon says, scowling even harder than he’d been before and refusing to look Tim’s way. “It’s—It’s cold in here, alright?”

As a matter of fact, it is a comfortable degree of stifling in here, and Jon is in a cardigan that’s more than enough to ward off the mild autumnal chill and drunk besides. Jon seems well aware of this, or maybe not aware at all, because as Tim settles tentatively against him again, he grabs for his long-forgotten glass and downs the rest of it. Tim gives Sasha a wide-eyed look, only for her—traitor! Disloyal turncoat!— to smirk back, propping her chin up with a hand and arching her perfect eyebrows at him.

“Oh, shut up,” he snips, cheeks warming, just as Jon sets down his now-empty glass. Jon turns to him curiously, having entirely missed the exchange, and Tim turns his brightest beam on him and coos, “Not you, you’re a delight and I’m glad you’re sitting next to me and not”—he aims another scowl her way, and Sasha sticks her tongue out at him—“Sasha over there, because she gives me a hard enough time without you there to egg her on worse.”

Sasha smirks harder. Tim wishes he could kick her under the table without Jon noticing.

“I’m perfectly capable of siding with her even while sitting practically on top of you,” Jon sniffs, drier than anyone should be capable of being with that quantity of liquor in them, and Tim gapes in outrage even as delight fills him up to the tips of his ears to match Jon’s still-red cheeks.

“That’s what I like to hear, Jon!” Sasha cheers, raising her own empty glass to him. Jon quirks a wicked little grin and does the same.

Tim emits a high-pitched squawk of disbelief. “With friends like you, who needs enemies?” He sags dramatically against Jon, relishing in his little grumble of annoyance as he gets crushed. “What’s a guy to do?”

“Buy us more drinks?” Sasha suggests innocently to the tune of Jon’s sniggering, and Tim groans theatrically even as he flags down the waiter for another round. Monsters, the both of them! he laments to himself. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

[sunnyscript]

[ID: Picture is a lineless piece depicting Vox from Hazbin Hotel in the CCTV (Closed-Circuit Television) control room inside his lair.

Vox is standing slightly on the left behind a table. He smiles deviously and slightly look up toward a light source that is casting a glow on him and the table. His left elbow is on the table. Behind him is the round platform of his evil lair. On left, you can find computers and cables. Behind the round platform is a bridge over some pit. Further back is another platform. Above said platform is a bunch of blue and red pop-ups. The walls of his lair are red.]

[ID: Picture is a lineless piece depicting Vox from Hazbin Hotel in the CCTV (Closed-Circuit Television) control room inside his lair.

Vox is standing slightly on the left behind a table. He smiles deviously and slightly look up toward a light source that is casting a dimglow on the table. His left elbow is on the table. Behind him is the round platform of his evil lair. On left, you can find computers and cables. Behind the round platform is a bridge over some pit. Further back is another platform. Above said platform is a bunch of blue and red pop-ups. The walls of his lair are red.]

____________________________________________________________________________

Apparently twitter voted and decided this tumbler sexy-manified tv head was the most attractive male character in Hazbin. So there you go.

(I don't complain he's my favourite male character)

Edit: I finally stopped being lazy and added ID on text and in alt!!!

[devereaux]

SIMONE KESSELL as FAITH COOPER (part 3 of ? because i have no self-control) My Life Is Murder | 3.10 - Killer Fashion

[burnthatbridge]

seven sentence sunday

So I was tagged by @rewritetheending (tysm 😊) and I figured, since I posted the sfw version of this fic yesterday, that I could share the branch point of the, ah, decidedly nsfw variant, which I’m still working on.

“Better luck on the next one,” Lucy says to Buck, sly smile belying her best wishes. Buck scoffs and waves her off. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, lips losing their pout and curving into a smirk, “I’m better with my mouth elsewhere anyway.” Ravi, in the middle of taking a drink, chokes. Eddie’s very glad he has already swallowed his mouthful or he definitely would would have too.  Lucy reaches behind Ravi and thumps him on the back while she says, “Funny. So am I.” Ravi sets his glass down with such a thud he likely dropped it, but Eddie is too busy staring in horror, fascination, dread, anticipation, at the lock of Lucy and Buck’s gazes, the challenge on both their faces. As one, they turn to look at Eddie. 

Tagging @clusterbuck @oneawkwardcookie @henswilsons @hattalove @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels @eddiediazes @buckleysibs @colonoscopys @homerforsure @like-the-rest-of-la if you have something you'd like to share and haven't already :)

[dylanconrique]

thinking about tim surprising lucy AND tamara with eras tour tickets all so he can fill his camera roll with pictures and videos of his girls looking all bejeweled while singing and danceing at the show.

[lucius-the-literary-lunatic]

Save Him - Blood Bound

spoilers for the kill your lover dark urge scene.

i had so much fun writing this, i learned a lot from this session about Floring as a character outside of the dialogue options of the game. this is mostly un-edited and in a different writing style than my other work bc i had originally written it for myself. i did just copy some of the game text, again this was gonna be a private work, but i had the courage to share something so here i am

Another sleepless night haunted Florin, but this one was different. Instead of the usual restlessness, this one was full of pain and aching. His stomach churned, the bile held within unsettled, and with each passing moment, the feeling worsened. After one particularly violent surge, Rin got up, attention drawn to his companions sleeping soundly. His head throbbed as he craved to reduce them all to sinew and viscera. Before he could stop himself Florin found himself outside of Astarion’s tent, faced with his butler. 

SF: He is so afraid. So, so afraid. Of everyone, besides you, who he ought to fear most. You could do so much better, Milord. 

F: What in the Hells do you want? I don’t exactly remember asking for you or your input.

SF: I am here to watch your moment of triumph, my loathly Master. Your clever mind is penning tragedy as we speak. Your repressed Urge yearns to kill. And kill you will. Tonight, the moment you close your eyes, your favorite person will be brutalized. 

F: I didn’t touch Isobel, I have more self-control than you give me credit for. I won’t be repeating the bard.

SF: It is precisely because you didn’t touch her, that you are insatiable. Your Dark Urge will have death, one way or another. Tonight. You like him for more than his looks, but he will never believe that. Why not make him a pretty corpse?

The thought made Florin’s hair stand on end; from excitement or fear, he didn’t know.

F: He’s not dying. I haven’t-...

He cut himself off, not yet ready to cross into such unfamiliar territory. Unfortunately for him, Sceleritas knew his unspoken words and was more than happy to combat any merciful thoughts Florin was having.

SF: Why not whisper it while you twist the knife? Or have a love confession be the final words between you? It is my duty to ensure you are making the right decisions, Master. There was much….. Disappointment at your reluctance to kill the little Moonmaiden. You could kill this one deliberately. I’m sure it will be considered a great show of goodwill. The tithe could still be yours. 

F: It wasn’t reluctance, I would have loved to hang her with her intestines, but it was smarter for her to live. I aim to end her when she’s outlived her usefulness.

SF: I do sincerely apologize, Master, that your Urge does not use the same calculations that you do. The wheels have already been set in motion, there will be blood on your monstrous hands. Good night, sweet Lord.

With Sceleritas vanishing into a flow of red, Florin was alone with his thoughts, and his Urge. For a few moments he watched Astarion rest blissfully without a fear in the world. It was the most at ease he’d ever seen the elf, he didn’t want to ruin it, but his Urge said otherwise. While he still had some common sense Florin reached to wake the vampire, wanting to save him from himself, but his hand wavered; longing to wrap around his throat, or better yet claw it to shreds. Fighting his Urge only brought Florin pain, head pulsing as red seeped into his vision.

F: Astarion… Star.

Seeing the elves' eyes gave Florin just a bit more stability.

A: Well, hello. Looking for a cuddle? 

Astarion’s almost hopeful smile was quickly replaced by a look of concern.

A: Although you don’t look entirely… yourself. What’s going on in that head of yours? 

Something in Florin’s chest curled tight, he didn’t like this. It wasn’t fair. He hated being laid bare before Astarion, being so thoroughly known at just a glance, and yet he found comfort in it… 

F: Now isn’t the time. I need to protect you.

A: Alright, talk quickly then.

F: There’s… Fuck..

As he begins to speak Florin’s head swims with a pounding headache, fatigue filling his body. 

F: I wasn’t in control when I killed Alfira, and it’s going to happen again. Tonight I’m going to kill the person I care about most: you. Unless you can stop me. 

A: How flattering. And disturbing. 

Despite his nonchalance Astarion sat up a bit straighter, clearly taking the words to heart.

A: You could have talked to me before things got murderously bad, you know. We are technically in this together. 

There it was again, that tightness in his chest that only the elf could evoke. 

F: Speaking, I’m good at. With honesty is where it gets complicated…

Words trailing off shadows crept into Florin’s vision, pulling him under faster than he could realize. 

When viridian eyes open again, they don’t belong to Florin. He isn’t himself, he has no control here, tied up beneath the watchful eye Astarion. 

A: This thing won’t have you. It won’t win.

As he spoke the elf leaned ever so slightly closer, clouding the Urge’s thoughts with blood as it tried to bite him.

A: Ah ah ah. We ask before we bite. You’re cute, you know. If you didn’t want me dead, we might’ve been friends. Well, that and the fact that you’re taking control of my dearest deadly flower.

Florin continued to squirm, wrist raw and bloody as his Urge fought against his bindings. 

A: Easy now, darling. You’ve got this. And I’ve got you.

Growl escaping, the Urge spoke its mind freely.

F: Your blood will clot for me like liquid rubies.

A: A little too late, but good effort. Now just relax, dawn will be here soon. 

The night passes painfully, Florin feverishly trying to break free and end his torment. But in the end Astarion remained unharmed, no blood to be shed in camp. 

As the sun slowly started to rear its head, Florin was back in his own mind. Heaving himself into an upright position he shook his head, trying to get rid of the shadows at the edges of his vision and the nausea rising in his throat.

A: Welcome back. 

Once cut free Florin sat across from the vampire, mindful not to pay attention to his wounded wrists lest he trigger another bloodlust.

A: I felt for the bard, seeing you like that. Poor Alfira never stood a chance, did she? 

F: No… I always felt there was a reason I stayed away from my blades when I could. Now I know why.

A: And why is that, exactly?

F: All I know is that I have this Dark Urge that requires me to kill, and a butler who encourages it. Not that I need much encouragement. I’m fine killing, I enjoy it, what I don’t enjoy is that it tries to dictate who I kill and when. I didn’t know until after I killed Alfira. The following night he arrived to congratulate me.

A: Your butler.

F: Sceleratas Fel. He said he’d been waiting for my return, found me from the smell of a particularly vicious killing. When we arrived in the shadowlands he came back, instructing me to kill someone named Isobel and I’d be rewarded. I agreed, thinking it’d be easy and of no consequence. When I realized killing her would be more trouble than it was worth, I put the thought aside. Burying the temptation every time we spoke with her. I hadn’t completely given up the idea though, deciding I’d kill her when she wasn’t as useful.

A: Let me guess, neither your Urge nor your butler cared much for that idea.

F: No… At first I didn’t mind the Urge, now… I’m not so sure. 

Looking away from Astarion Florin admitted the last part, unsure how he felt speaking it to himself let alone the man he’d reluctantly come to care for.

A: You’re not alone in this, you know.

Hearing that got the tieflings attention. He looked back to the vampire, surprised when he didn't see any of the pity he was expecting.

A: None of us are. We can even compare notes if you like.

Florin scoffed, half thinking he’d wake up from this cruel dream soon.

F: If your next words are “it’s alright”, I might reconsider keeping you alive.

A: They aren’t. You tried to kill me, of course it’s not alright. But nothing is ruined either. After all, what’s a little attempted murder between friends? Look at Wyll and Karlach, best of buds now. 

Rin couldn’t help but chuckle.

A: But whatever this is, you will get through it. And I’ll be here to make sure you do.

The honesty in his eyes had the warmth returning to Florin’s chest, this time without the lurking thought of him bathed in his own blood. Rin almost enjoyed it, if only it had been a little more familiar.

A: Anyway, it’s a brand-new day. I’m sure we’ll find lots of people for you to kill.

F: I can’t wait.

A: The murders can, however. Until you’ve gotten at least some rest.

F: I-

A: As much as I’d hate to tie you up again so soon, I will if I have to.

After a short staring contest, Florin realized Astarion wasn’t backing down. With a sigh he gave in.

A: See, that wasn’t that hard. If it’s any consolation, the offer for the cuddle still stands.

[snowangeldotmp3]

til the mockingjay sings 👀👀👀

ofc!! anything for u alex <3

“Lucy Gray Baird!” It doesn’t surprise me when the Mayor steps up on the stage and pulls my name for the reaping. My stomach swoops, my palms are sweaty, but the people of District Twelve and the Capitol expect a show.

make me write <3

[kennysbirthday]

Blinding Lights

(Read on AO3 here!)

“You’re being very touchy-feely, George. Are you worried about me?” he joked, and Lucy’s eyes followed the blush creeping up George’s neck and ears.

“Oh, shut it. What was it you said at Kensal Green? ‘It’s a medical necessity; it doesn’t mean a thing.’” George quoted, but there was no cruelty there, and he made no move to move his hands.

(Judging by the look on George’s face and the abundance of lingering touches, Lucy guessed it did mean something, but the emotionally-constipated boy just didn’t want to admit it.)

-

Lockwood gets a migraine, and George knows how to help. Lucy follows his lead.

The post-job routine proceeded as normal, just as it always did, when the door of 35 Portland Row was shoved open and three knackered agents spilled into the hallway. Shoes were kicked off, rapiers were deposited in the umbrella stand, and questions of “cuppa?” were passed from agent to agent with nods of agreement in varying energies before the trio squeezed their way through the hall and split to tidy themselves up.

Lockwood, the unlucky bugger who had gotten the brunt of that evening’s grave dirt deposited on him, headed straight for the shower, while Lucy took the stairs to the attic two at a time, desperate to get out of her rain-sodden tights and jumper. George, last to separate, moved towards the kitchen to make a start on their tea and snacks, towelling his curls as he went.

All in all, a regular night in the Portland Row house.

George could have kicked himself for not noticing the subsequent deviations sooner. He wanted to snap at Lucy, ask her why she didn’t pick up on the signs too, but he had to cut her some slack; she hadn’t been at Portland Row even half as long as George. She hadn’t learned how to notice those subtle tells of Lockwood’s.

The first indication that something wasn’t right came from Lockwood’s hair. No matter the time of day, or if he was bounding down the steps in a suit and tie or his comfy pyjamas, Lockwood had the particular habit of always blow-drying his hair before he left his room. On more than one occasion, George had found himself awoken at a stupid hour by the familiar whirr of Lockwood’s old hairdryer (that he’d learned once belonged to Jessica, and was astounded that it hadn’t packed in or simply exploded by now, given it’s age). It never bothered George, though. If anything, he found himself comforted by the sound; hairdryer noise meant Lockwood had showered, and that, in turn, proved he was still in a well-enough headspace.

The second clue wasn’t as discernible if you didn’t know what to look for. But George; attentive, observant George, had years of living with Lockwood under his belt - and he knew from experience that the other boy was a self-proclaimed prodigy when it came to the fine art of dunking biscuits into a cup of tea. Through years of miscalculations and mishaps (and some fervent note taking on the Thinking Cloth that had made George’s little research-loving heart sing), Lockwood had mastered the perfect timings for submerging each different biscuit type into his tea, managing to pull them out just at the right time before they broke and slumped to the bottom of the mug.

As he watched Lockwood’s digestive disintegrate sadly and plop into his drink without so much as a blink from the boy, he knew that something was definitely amiss.

The third sign (and the most telling, in George’s eyes) was the simple fact that Lockwood was sitting quietly.

This in itself wouldn’t have been a strange sight, but paired with the first two observations and the knowledge that that evening’s job had gone better than planned, he was quite honestly surprised that Lockwood wasn’t peacocking around the kitchen and crowing about how his quick-thinking and superior rapier skills had saved the day once again. Because he had saved them all at the last minute - Lucy had been blindly scrambling in the dirt with George as they searched for the source, while Lockwood kept the Spectre at bay and managed to drive it far enough back so that Lucy could cover the finger bones unearthed by Lockwood’s shoes in a silver net. Yes, he’d lost his balance almost immediately afterwards and landed in the dirt with a heavy thump, almost smacking both of them with his flailing limbs - but he’d done so with laughter on his lips and his sunglasses sitting crookedly on his nose, despite the breath being knocked out of him as he fell. He’d been high on both adrenaline and their victory, the recognition of a job well done and the assured safety of his teammates banishing any exhaustion from his body as he let the rain fall on his face.

Lucy had noticed the change in Lockwood’s demeanour too (though her observations weren’t as astute as George’s), and she couldn’t help but compare the Lockwood from earlier in the evening to the one propped sadly at the table now. He’d started sitting upright, smiling with his hand curled loosely around the steaming mug of tea, but as the early hour stretched on he’d slumped forward more and more until his head was pillowed on the table by his arms, one pushing his hair up every which way and the other hand pressing his thumb into the point between his nose and his right eyebrow. The mug sat forlornly next to him, tea left to go cold.

“Lockwood? You alright?” Lucy asked. All she got was a muffled groan and a half-hearted thumbs up in response. Concerned, her eyes flicked to George, who was staring at Lockwood with a calculating look on his face.

“When did the migraine start, mate?” he asked, and Lockwood’s seemed to sag in… not quite relief, but comfort, almost. His attempt to hide his pain had not gone unnoticed, and he didn’t have to keep up the false pretence anymore.

“In the cab home. Thought the shower would help, it usually does.”

“So, about an hour ago, give or take?”

“Have we been home that long already?” he mumbled into his elbow.

George shook his head in fond exasperation, scribbling down something on the Thinking Cloth. “You were in the shower for almost half an hour. Any longer and Lucy would have been kicking down the door and yelling about you using all the hot water.”

“And checking you hadn’t managed to wash yourself down the plughole somehow,” she added with a soft smile. She leant over to see what George had written - some approximate timings, obviously so he could track the length of the migraine. “But yes; also yelling about the hot water usage. We all need to shower, you know.”

George got to his feet and moved to stand behind Lockwood, immediately reaching out to start massaging his neck and shoulders, deft hands working in methodical and clearly habitual motions. Lockwood visibly relaxed, and let out a small sigh.

“Do you want some black tea? The caffeine might help a little,” George asked. He responded with a slight nod and a quiet noise of affirmation. However, when George moved to go and refill the kettle, one of Lockwood’s hands frantically grasped his own, stopping him. George huffed out a laugh, lips ghosting over the crown of Lockwood’s head. “Can’t make it if you won’t let me go.”

“Lucy can do it. Don’t stop, please, this is actually helping,” he all but begged, voice muffled by his arms.

“Oh, I can, can I?” Lucy said incredulously, but was already halfway across the kitchen and reaching for the kettle with a smile. His cold tea was poured down the sink before she gave the mug a quick rinse.

“I know it helps, that’s why I’m doing it.” George told him in a matter-of-fact tone, tangling his fingers in the short hairs at the nape of Lockwood’s neck. “No need to sound so surprised. ’S not like I’ve nursed you through dozens of these post-job migraines, or anything.”

“Oh, don’t word it like that, George… ‘Nursed’ makes it sound weirder than it is. Sounds like you should have a little hat, or something.”

“You’re the one making it weird, imagining me in an outfit like that,” he gently flicked Lockwood’s ear, but didn’t move away.

They stayed that way for a short time, a blanket of calm quietness filling the kitchen as George massaged Lockwood’s neck while Lucy fussed with the kettle and teabags. Once the kettle had popped and she’d mixed together his preferred ratio of milk and honey, she gently placed the mug down on the Thinking Cloth, tapping Lockwood’s outstretched hand to get his attention. “Tea’s ready.”

“You’re a gem, Lucy Carlyle,” he beamed as he pulled himself back into an upright sitting position. George's hands lingered for a moment, a look of worry flickering briefly across his face before it was replaced by a relaxed grin as he glanced across at her. She smiled softly back, her cheeks warming.

As her gaze slipped away from George, Lucy couldn’t help but stare, fascinated by the subtle shifts in Lockwood’s expression. She’d vehemently deny it if you ever asked her, but she’d found herself staring at his face more and more recently when she thought he wasn’t looking. As such, she had begun to recognise the minute differences that hinted at his feelings, no matter how hard he tried to hide them. The briefest scrunch of his nose, the way his brow furrowed as he opened his eyes and blinked slowly at the light, the smile that didn’t quite light up his face the way the prospect of danger or a good challenging case did; all these small things painted the broader picture of Lockwood’s pain, and she knew George could sense it too.

It reminded her a little of Norrie. She’d always hidden her death glow-induced headaches behind a smile or a scowl when she was with the lot from Jacobs’, and only let her guard down when she was alone in her room, face-planted on her bed and thanking Lucy for helping her home. Lucy had spent enough time with her to recognise the twitch in Norrie’s eyebrow and the slight grinding of her teeth which signalled an impending migraine attack. She had been like Lockwood; an incredibly gifted seer, but Lucy knew his Sight far surpassed anything Norrie could sense, and so could only imagine how much worse a migraine would be for him.

As Lockwood sipped his tea, George’s hands resumed their ministrations on his shoulders. The three of them sat in relative silence, broken only by the sounds of tea being slurped, when suddenly Lockwood piped up:

“You’re being very touchy-feely, George. Are you worried about me?” he joked, and Lucy’s eyes followed the blush creeping up George’s neck and ears.

“Oh, shut it. What was it you said at Kensal Green? ‘It’s a medical necessity; it doesn’t mean a thing.’” George quoted, but there was no cruelty there, and he made no move to move his hands.

(Judging by the look on George’s face and the abundance of lingering touches, Lucy guessed it did mean something, but the emotionally-constipated boy just didn’t want to admit it.)

Before she could interrupt with a teasing remark of her own, Lockwood let out a quiet groan. Two sets of worried eyes were on him in an instant.

“I’m okay,” he grimaced, clutching his head. George scoffed.

“No you bloody well are not, mate. Room started spinning?” He asked with a smirk, before picking up the pen and noting down some more notes on the Thinking Cloth.

“… Maybe.”

Lucy bit back a grin at the sight of them. She felt like she was witnessing something often unseen; a side to them that both boys did their best to hide from the public eye behind snarky words and cheshire grins. George, with his casual and soft touches; Lockwood, sans his mask of unflappability.

“I think we should all call it a night. We can leave the dishes ’til morning, right George?”

Though George did not want to agree, he finally relented when he saw the pitiful look on Lockwood’s face. He hauled himself upright with a weary sigh, and Lockwood visibly deflated at the loss of George’s hands in his hair. “I suppose we can do them after breakfast. Bedtime?”

“Bed sounds heavenly.” Lockwood agreed, wincing as he opened his eyes and promptly slammed them shut again.

“Think you can walk it?”

Lockwood nodded gently. “If I keep my eyes closed. I think adding the light to the movement will just make the nausea worse.”

George nodded too, before remembering Lockwood couldn’t see him. “Good. It’s been a long night, and poor Lucy looks in no state to fireman-carry you up those stairs.”

“Ah, who said I’d be the one carrying him?”

“I have the upper body strength of a wet spaghetti strand, and Lockwood has received enough bruises this evening. He doesn’t need me dropping him back down the stairs or bumping his head off the bannister,” George snorted, and Lucy couldn’t help but laugh at the mental image too.

“We’d be the one getting bruises from his lanky arse. I don’t know what’s sharper; my rapier, or his elbows!”

“I am right here, you know,” Lockwood mumbled, interrupting their laughter as he moved to push himself to his feet. Though he tried to hide his wince being his usual megawatt grin, they still noticed it in the draw of his shoulders.

“Up you get, then. Lucy, get his other arm, will you?” George swooped in and looped Lockwood’s arm over his shoulder. “I’m not having him avoid getting ghost touched only to end up in the hospital anyway ‘cause he’s collapsed and cracked his head off the corner of the kitchen table.”

“Oh, come off it, George. I’d be way more dignified than that. I’d swoon dramatically and pass out on the kitchen tiles, at the very least,” he argued back. “Giving myself an admirable concussion as I went.” Lucy pinched his arm. Lockwood squawked in indignation, swatting blindly at her hand.

“Alright, enough of the pain and aguish talk. One foot in front of the other, Lockwood, or we’re leaving you to sleep on the bleedin’ tiles,” she told him sternly, but with no malice weighing down the words. Lockwood looked like he was genuinely considering it - at least the tiles would be cool against his aching head. “You ready, Georgie?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he murmured. “Off we go, then.”

It took them a moment to find their footing, what with Lockwood towering over the two of them and neither of their footsteps quite falling in sync, but they managed to shuffle awkwardly towards the stairs like some drunken, lumbering six-legged beast without accumulating any injuries. The real worry, Lucy thought, would be getting Lockwood up the stairs without him tumbling back down. He’d already taken a few knocks on the job that evening and despite all their jokes about concussions, Lucy would much rather avoid a trip to A&E.

To her surprise though, it was no trouble at all. Even with his eyes closed, Lockwood’s feet seemed to instinctively find the stairs and climb them without too much bother, and it dawned on Lucy then that he and George had done this numerous times before. Of course they had. They’d lived together all this time, and it was like George had mentioned earlier - this wasn’t the first post-job migraine George had helped him with. She could suddenly visualise the two of them stumbling in after a job, keeping each other upright as they followed the familiar actions through before effortlessly arriving at Lockwood’s bedroom, no issues whatsoever.

If anything, she was the one disturbing their well-polished routine.

As they reached the first landing, Lucy disentangled herself from the boys and took a step back. George raised an eyebrow, and even Lockwood’s head tilted towards her in an obvious question, arm flopping at his side without Lucy there. “Everything okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah, just goin’ to grab some painkillers from the bathroom cabinet, you go on ahead. You’ll manage, right?” she told them, despite knowing they’d be completely fine without her, if their footwork on the stairs was anything to go by. “I’ll meet you up there?”

“Sure, nothing we haven’t done before. Bring a glass of water, too,” George shrugged without argument (just as she’d suspected), before continuing up the stairs with Lockwood. She watched them go, noting how they seemed to fall in sync as soon as she stepped away, George’s arm looping around Lockwood’s waist to steady him, drawn like a magnet as if it had always meant to rest there. She ducked into the bathroom with a strangely bitter taste in her mouth.

She flung the mirrored cabinet open without preamble, rooting around until she found the painkillers and stuffing them into her pocket. She spotted some cooling pads, and so they went into her pocket, too. She remembered how Norrie used to have a ridiculous amount of them dotted around her room, never all in one place, because everything in Norrie’s room was as scattered as her personality. She’d lie face down on her bed; directing Lucy with her voice, telling her “there’s one in the second drawer, I think- wait, no, I used that one. Try under the book. What do you mean what book? The only book on the desk! That’s a notepad, not a book, c’mon, Carlyle! See, knew you could do it!”, and crying gleefully as Lucy lobbed the packet across the room at her with a huff. There was no such thing as neatness in the White home, only organised chaos, and Lucy loved it.

God, she missed Norrie.

Shaking her head slightly as if to physically shake away the memories, Lucy left the bathroom and headed back to the kitchen to grab a glass of water before climbing the stairs to Lockwood’s room, painkillers and cooling pad safely tucked in her pocket. She could hear the sound of the boys arguing from above - Lockwood clearly just wanting to climb into bed and pass out, while George insisted he wait a few more minutes for Lucy to arrive with the painkillers, knowing he’d sleep much better without the constant pounding behind his eyes.

By the time she joined them, George had somehow wrangled Lockwood into actually crawling under his duvet instead of just starfishing on top of it, and she was left looking at a very familiar scene as Lockwood lay with his face smushed into his pillows in a vain attempt to block out the light. She knocked gently on the doorframe and called out; “Delivery!”

“Oh look, Arif’s new girl has appeared,” George grinned, and jostled Lockwood’s shoulder to get his attention. Lucy chucked the packet of painkillers at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Oi, what was that for?”

“Your cheek.”

“You didn’t hit my cheek though, you hit my chest.”

“Obviously, she meant your cheekiness, not your actual physical cheek,” Lockwood’s voice interrupted their bickering, the noise dampened by his pillow.

“No shit, Sherlock,” George sighed as he popped two painkillers out of the packet and made a grabby-hand motion in Lucy’s direction as he spoke. “C’mon, sit up, Lucy’s brought the water. Once you’ve drank it, you can lie down and you won’t have to move again for the rest of the night.”

“Promise?”

“Jesus, what are you? Five?”

“And three-quarters,” he smirked, but obediently sat upright, the duvet pooling around his waist as he patted the empty spot beside him not occupied by George. Lucy pressed the glass into his hand as George passed him the painkillers.

“I can feel the two of you staring,” he huffed, eyes still shut tight as he drank.

“What can I say, we’re attentive nursemaids. Now drink the whole glass, I’ll go refill it for you.” Lucy told him sternly.

A maddening grin crept over his face. “Oh, so you’re a nurse now, too? I’m so lucky to have Nurses Karim and Carlyle at my beck and call; little hats and all.”

“Any more comments like that and I’ll pour the next glass over your head.”

“Alright, message received and understood.” He held his arms up in surrender, but the grin remained, even as he handed the glass to Lucy, their fingers brushing as he blindly searched for her hand. One he was sure she had it safely in her grip, he flopped backwards onto his pillows and brought one arm back up, resting it over his eyes to block out the light again.

“I’ll be back in a moment, I’m just gonna refill the glass,” she told the two boys, before padding silently back down to the kitchen. By the time she returned, someone (she assumed George) had turned the bedside lamp off, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the gloominess of the room. It wasn’t totally dark though, as the light from the hallway spilled in and illuminated the bed and the mess of the floor and desk.

Lockwood had shifted to lie on his side, and George had crawled under the covers too, she noted; he was settled behind the taller boy, practically spooning him, and he’d resumed the gentle massaging of Lockwood’s shoulders. Another component of their Lockwood-has-a-migraine routine she was imposing on? She bit down on her tongue, leaden and coated with the bitter taste she’d felt in the bathroom. Why did she care, anyway?

Lockwood groaned and adjusted the angle he was sprawled at, trying to avoid the light from the hall, so she quickly flicked the hallway light switch, shut the door, and gingerly picked her way across the floor in the darkness. Her hip bumped into the corner of the desk and she tripped over what she thought might be one of Lockwood’s shoes, but she made it over to the bed without spilling a single drop of water, and she inwardly applauded herself.

“I’ve put the glass on the bedside table. C’mon, move your arm,” she reached for him as she pulled the cooling patch out of her pocket. George moved back, allowing Lockwood room to roll over on to his back once more. She squinted for a few seconds, trying to find the correct corner to tear the packet open in the dim light of the ghost lamps from behind the curtains, and he flinched when she pushed his hair off his forehead, not expecting the touch. It was awkward, but she managed to place the sticky pad on without catching too many stray hairs.

“Thank you,” he huffed with relief as she smoothed his hair back down, ruffling it gently. “Both of you.”

“Can tell you’re proper ill, mate. I’ve never seen you give less of a fuck about your hair than you do right now,” George sat up slightly, his head propped up by his arm.

“It’s going to be an absolute state in the morning,” Lucy chuckled, and tossed the empty packet in what she hoped was the general direction of the bin.

“Never mind the morning, it’s an absolute state right now!”

“Yes, alright, enough talk about my fantastic hair,” Lockwood grumbled. “Concentrating on conversation is hard, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to slip into unconsciousness now so I don’t have to.”

“If only it was this easy to shut you up on a regular day-” George started, but was cut off by a gentle smack against his chest.

“Shh. Quiet time now, George.”

“Fine. Rub your own shoulders next time, dickhead,” George sneered. But despite his harsh words, he didn’t make any move to pull away.

Lucy pursed her lips, the bitter taste (she wasn’t jealous, she couldn’t be, she wasn’t-) threatening to spill out from behind her teeth and stain the scuffed floor beneath her feet.

"I'm goin' to head upstairs-" she began, her grip tightening on the comforter before moving to stand, but Lockwood's pleading whisper cut through the darkness, wrapping around her head in a gentle caress and lodging itself in her throat. She swallowed audibly around the lump that appeared suddenly there.

“Please stay.”

She sat frozen for a good few moments, unsure how to respond. Had she heard him correctly?

His fingers gently enveloped her wrist, and she startled.

“Luce?”

On one hand, she wanted to promptly accept and climb under the blankets with the boys, assured in the knowledge that they were close, and safe, and everything would be okay come morning. On the other, she wanted to flee to her attic room and put as much distance between herself and the boys as possible; afraid of intruding on their little migraine routine they had carefully curated over the years, afraid of destroying their bubble of serenity, afraid of ruining everything.

It was George’s voice that made her decision, in the end.

“Come on, climb in. You know we’re no strangers to nightmares, and he’ll sleep better with you in here. You already know he usually sleeps with the light on, and he can’t do that when he’s like this, obviously.”

“George!” Lockwood groaned, but didn’t deny the other boy’s words. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Lucy. I shouldn’t have asked-”

“Shove over,” she interrupted, tugging the duvet up and scrambling under its warmth. “If I wake up and the two of you are hogging all the covers, there is going to be hell to pay.”

Lucy heard Lockwood’s smile more than she saw it. “That’s all George. He’s a fiend when it comes to sharing a duvet.”

“Not my fault you need a room to be practically sub-zero before you can fall asleep in it,” George lamented, and Lucy bit back a giggle.

“Wear some bloody trousers then, mate, and you won’t be so cold-”

“Oi, I thought you said it was quiet time? No more talking,” Lucy snipped, but the stern effect was ruined as she let out an embarrassingly loud yawn.

“Quiet time,” George parroted.

“Night, guys,” Lockwood mumbled, letting his pinkie finger gently brush against Lucy’s on the mattress between them as George’s hands returned to Lockwood’s shoulders. Her hand twitched, and she shuffled forward to link their fingers together and rest her forehead against his with a smile.

It wasn’t long until all three of their breaths evened out, and they drifted off as the gentle hum of the ghost lamps and the rain pattering against the window panes lulled them into slumber.

And if George was awoken by two sets of freezing cold feet on his bare legs the next morning as they tried to wrestle the duvet back from him, well - the promise of extra biscuits for them both impeded any further attacks on his shins.

[verycorrectlegomovie]

Emmet: You read my diary?

Sweet Mayhem: At first I did not know it was your diary. I thought it was a very sad handwritten book.

[thethingything]

anyway on a less pissed off note, guess who managed to work through a bunch of stuff and finally figure out what's going on with an issue we've been having for years.

we sure as shit haven't solved the issue, but we do know where it most likely came from and how a whole bunch of stuff is linked together which is helpful for figuring out how to deal with it

[thelegendofmrrager]

I can't wrap my head around how trailer park boys depicts queerness bc

On one hand, more than half the series (I'd say like seasons 1-7) treats queerness so casually. Randy and Lahey's relationship is widely accepted and unquestioned. Upon first watch I was surprised how, despite the two of them being pretty much every other character's mortal enemies, there's never a jab thrown at either of them for being gay (fatphobia on the other hand deserves its own post 😬). Characters question their sexualities numerous times, and sexuality often depicted as something that is (in certain cases) subject to fluctuate and change.

All of the Swearnet produced seasons treat queerness like the plague. Minus the established relationship between Randy and Lahey, new queer characters like Donna and Candy are not only treated as alien and unnatural, but as a threat to the normalcy of the park. Wlw identities (thinking primarily about Barb, Donna and Candy in S10) are treated as an attack on masculinity at least, and predatory in more extreme cases.

It's such a weird departure from the almost unspoken natural queerness of the earlier seasons. When you think about One Last Shot and some of the earliest, most pivotal queer-coded scenes of the series, everything after season 7 is such a stark contrast.