#where skin ends

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 1

Updated Every Other Thursday (hopefully)

Foreword:

Hello and welcome. This is the first piece of fiction I'm posting anywhere public since grade school, and I'm pretty excited and nervous about it. It's about a lot of things, many unsettling and esoteric, and is set in the BattleTech universe. However, I'm trying to not get too overbearing on the lore, for everyone's sake (including my own). Also, fair warning: these characters are stolen from my other, more central projects, so don't be surprised if they show up in a completely different setting. All in all, thank you for having a look!

links: ao3 masterpost

cw: alcohol abuse, vague mental illness, vomit mention

"I had just one quick glimpse out the porthole, to see the frosted dot in the distance becoming slowly massive, before the alarm went off. Sirens and red lights flashing all around put me and my lance into a run toward the 'mech bay. We stripped to reveal our um... coolant vests, and scrambled up the ladders into the cockpits of our veritable killing machines. The 'techs sped through the startup checks and then my Hatchetman, Jester, came alive. I felt Her warming me in livid spite of my wellbeing. Then, the commander came in over the comms, 'get those asses in gear, Alpha Lance! We've got Marik ‘mechs at the drop zone, so break a leg!' Jester spun around in her bay, and the world went silent."

You spent two months running patrols on some planetoid so devoid of life it couldn't even be considered backwater. Though, the mining company operating there was scared to shit of the inter-House war that had just broken out, even when it had just been rumors and speculation, so it was good money that got better daily. The patrols were so desolate. You only had the massive snow drifts and whoever was on comms to keep you company the whole time. Being so alone was perfect.

"The bottom of the bay dropped out and sent me into the fray. I came in right on top of an Atlas (you know what that is right?), and embedded my axe directly in his cockpit. Those fuckers are tough though, so it threw me off, and I got a torso-full of lasers at close range. It wasn't enough to take me down, though, and I got another chop in with a blast from my own weapons. That's when the rest of my lance got a good shot, and the ‘mech was lost in a barrage of shells and missiles and lasers. But, shrouded in the smoke coming off his melting armor, he kept coming. I used my other arm to get up close and push the weapons in his torso off angle, pulling the Atlas into a grapple. That sent his autocannon shots wildly off, but his missiles still got a bad hit on one of my lancemates. I knew at that point it was do or die, so I shoved my torso cannon right up against his viewport, and boom!!"

House Marik had arrived in just one dropship and launched an assault on the mining complex. It must’ve been producing something important, because they sent a lot of firepower at you. You had been out on patrol at the time they first popped up on sensors, and while the rest of the crew scrambled, you made the right choice to beat a hasty retreat. The truth is, you never stood a chance. In the following skirmish, it took all the skill your lance could muster and losing your hatchet arm to take down a single assault ‘mech, and the engagement had just let the other enemies slip by and annihilate the target. You probably could have taken at least two more, but not without losses.

"The blast almost tore my arm clean off, but the Atlas went tumbling into the ground, quiet as the void. Then, we turned our sights to 'mech two, a slightly smaller one that was trying to flank us. It was a bitch to hit, but we adapted-"

You ran and left them to burn. Another city to ashes.

"Mat! What the hell are you on about!?"

Your surroundings come flooding back into focus. You're at a bar somewhere you can't quite remember right now. How many drinks has it been? Last count says two, but that's beyond doubtful now, making your ability to rattle off that story coherently a feat in itself. There's a woman opposite you at the table. She's picking at a scratch in the finish and is almost certainly checked out of the conversation. You're sure there was a reason you were telling her about this encounter, and that it's extremely important that you make it impressive. However, the lack of oxygen in your brain had lost that reason paragraphs ago. Ashe, the lancemate who interrupted your flow, is certainly less far gone than you and looks bemused. She continues, "If you're going to be spinning tall tales about our exploits, at least make them believable. Who the hell’s going to think you actually chopped an Atlas in half like death from above?"

You feel the heat of embarrassment overtake that of inebriation. She could have just stayed quiet, because you have a good ending planned out and everything. What's her problem anyway? She has enough friends to go bother in the company, and her boyfriend is like right over there… somewhere. The woman across from you, who you'd neglected to get the name of like a prick, looks up with a bit of surprise and chimes in, "Oh! Sorry, I was listening, promise. It's a nice story and all. I mean, nothing like what it's actually like on the front, from what I know, but it would make a good story for one of those pulpy war novels or something."

This makes you indignant. You huff and say something stupid, "And, how would you know?"

She smiles back at you, barely wounded, and replies in practiced rhythm, "Corporal Hannelore Geelen, 57th Lyran Armored. A pleasure to meet you, MechWarrior."

Ashe laughs her head off in the background, while you- Wait are you crying? Why are you crying!? Ashe and Hannelore both look at you in different flavors of mortification. You didn’t even do anything that bad, but now you're saying sorry over and over again, while insisting you were a complete asshole. Be thankful your spontaneous bout of sorrow is quiet enough to avoid the attention of the whole damned bar. Some fear of predatoriness has clearly flitted into your mind and been amplified by alcohol, since you keep apologizing for being a dick, and a bastard, and a whore and really any bad word you can think of, without a care for relevance. The pair of voices in the background started to sound like a chorus,

"Hey hey, it's ok. The story wasn't that bad."

"Mat, what the fuck? Are you ok?"

Et cetera.

Et cetera.

Then, after some quick consideration, Ashe says something akin to "fuck it" under her breath and scoops you up into a fireman's carry to whisk you out of the public eye. That's quite the blow to the barely smoldering embers of your self esteem, and as if to spite you a fifteenth time over, the corporal you had accidentally been trying to have sex with gets up and follows along with you. A brief conversation occurs in the twilight of your perception. It's just mumbling to you really.

"I'm very sorry for this, Corporal. I can take care of them from here."

"It's no problem. I was bored anyway. Plus, I'm sure they'll be better company sober."

You pass out after that, which is likely for the best.

The air flees your lungs, as if they were cursed. You cough and writhe on the grassy hill you had been dropped upon not too softly.

“…and you didn’t have to drop them.”

“Didn’t mean to, but they’ll live.”

They’re talking about you, probably. You still feel the embarrassment lingering from the bar, but there that anger, still present and bubbling to the top. Being manhandled out of a public breakdown is a disgrace, but despite your clouded take on things, it’s clearly your fault to begin with. The figures towering over you are out of focus and haloed in blinding artificial light. Your brain cobbles together a pretty, angelic simile, which just makes you more angry. 

“Are they always like this?”

“Only in port, usually. They're a normal amount of feckless in a ‘mech.”

A mumbling starts to burble out from your lips, growing louder as you focus control into your fricatives and plosives and whatnot. It gets to a point where one of the angels stops mid-sentence to address you, “Care to share with the class, Mat?”

You think very hard about the words you want to say next. They have to be finely crafted and powerful enough to win you a quiet evening to recover from whatever this was. You take a deep breath, steel your gaze, open your mouth and rasp just barely audibly, “Fuck you. I am prestige. I outrank everyone here.”

Why do you keep claiming honor that's not yours? It's insulting.

The blindingly bright angel snickers, and its duller yet equally holy counterpart cocks its head in curiosity. 

“Is that true, Ashe? I took you for lance commander.”

“Maybe it was, but sure as fuck hasn't been for a while now.”

“Really? How's that?”

“Well, back in the Third Succession War…”

You feel their insolence radiating into you. It's unthinkable that you, the champion but inches away from nobility, the company commander with so many medals you jangled like a children's toy, the only mechwarrior with more than half a brain cell in this whole system, could be so debased. But, who are you to argue with heaven? Because, despite their angelicness being only a ruse, they can see you for what you really are in this moment.

“Wait a second, do you know if they've been drinking anything other than shots?”

“Wouldn't know. I was doing my best to avoid babysitting this time.”

“I see. But, in that case, I'll be back in a second.”

Once the other had left earshot, the remaining harbinger turns to you and speaks, “I swear to fuck, Mat. You're lucky she's nice. Otherwise, I would've dropped you in a drainage ditch and called you in M.I.A. Between the shit you and Ed pull, they wouldn't even question it.”

You say sorry.

“I don't really care about apologies. We have drills tomorrow, and you better be on point or I’ll make you as armless as your damned ‘mech.”

You say sorry again.

“I don't know what your problem is, but you really have to start thinking about how you're not the only one with them. I try to help, but I'm reaching my limit. We all are.”

You say sorry again. And, again, and again, and again, and again. You're curled into a ball now, trying to block out as much sensation as you can. A fleeting thought hits you, letting you know you'd make a good physics test question right now. It was kind of funny, but you find the idea insulting. You ask yourself where you're going from here, as if you could even stand in your state. You wonder what catastrophe will play out tomorrow, assuming tomorrow ever comes. You ponder if the ground could just swallow you here and now. A hand lightly taps you on the shoulder.

“Hey, Mat right? I got you some water. I suggest you drink now, before you regret it later.”

She set a bag of water next to you with a crinkle. It's probably one of the three litre ones they have in the stores here, the ones with the scenic river on the label. You should be thankful for this. You agree and say thank you as audibly as you can. She probably hears you. You take the water as an opportunity to distract yourself from the noise of thinking for a second and take a series of greedy sips from the plastic pouring tip. 

“Hey. Hey! Slow down! I'm not helping you back to housing if you piss yourself.”

You comply, and that's probably for the best because in your haste, you upset your stomach. You vomit about a third of the bag of water and a year’s worth of alcohol onto the grass. God knows how you were able to hold it back until now. 

“Eugh…”

“They haven't eaten, looks like.”

“Corporal, with all due respect, gross.”

Hannelore shrugs. You don't remember not eating, but you don't remember eating either. That's probably not a good sign. You try to push yourself up off the ground, so you don't have to sit next to the mess you made anymore. You do a decent job of putting your feet on the ground. The balance is harder, and you start to careen just as Ashe catches you by the shoulder.

“Alright, Sergeant [that’s you], that's enough embarrassing yourself for one night. I think it's time to get you home.”

“That's probably best for the both of you. It's a big day tomorrow.”

“Seems like it. I'll see you then, Corporal.”

“Stay safe, you two.”

You take a second to process the detail left so casually in that farewell. When you finally get it, you look at Ashe with a panic and say, “Wait, what!?” She laughs back at you and just says, “Tomorrow's going to be a weird one for you, that's a given.”

You think of all the different ways to get out of drills tomorrow. There's plenty, many of which involve some fairly unnecessary self mutilation, but you won't act on any of them. It's clear the thought of being in your warm bed all alone is too tantalizing to be interrupted by even the strongest self hatred. Outside your head, the walk home is quiet. Ashe seems to soften toward you along the way, but probably from fatigue over anything else. She leaves you alone, and you just try your best to focus on the path ahead of you.

Before you know it, you're back in your dormitory room, double locking your door behind you. You hold a heavy debate over whether you can handle a shower, but something distracts you, another stray thought. This is a bad idea, but you won’t be dissuaded. Now, you’re digging through your duffle that had been tossed into a corner and lived out of for the past couple days. Toward the bottom, there's a slightly crumpled piece of photo paper. You almost instantly notice a few creases that had appeared since the last time you saw it. That hurts you. It reminds you that this fragile memory will be gone one day. You cry again. It's ok to this time; it won't hurt anyone. I silently accompany you because, despite the fact I never held a name that wasn't yours, it’s impossible to not miss how I looked in those royal guard dress whites. It was commissioning day. She was there too, looking happy for the both of us, but like me, She also lost her name somewhere down the line. I feel bad now. I wish I could apologize for being judgemental and cruel, but you didn't hear me say it at first so can't hear me repent. I wish I could hold you and you me, so we could mourn together and maybe you would hear me say, “it's ok.” Then, things might get better, even slightly. However, that's not possible, so you suffer drunk and alone. I’m sorry. 

Thankfully, sleep catches you at some point, despite you being fully dressed and leaving your lamp on. I hope beyond hope that you have a better day tomorrow.

[starry-bi-sky]

i have been unmedicated for the entirety of spring break and thus have had little interest in writing this down, but i have been thinking about this for the entire week (as well as a dpdc clone danny au that resulted in it becoming its entirely separate batman au that includes a teenage vigilante bruce wayne, an ocarina, and me entirely incapable of making a batman au without making bruce dirt poor but we're not talking about that) and so i've finally went 'fuck it' and forcibly grabbed my laptop. I will get this done in one sitting even if it kills me.

BUT. This is about neither clone^2 danny nor about who i am calling Ocarina Batman. This is about my Danyal Al Ghul Au and more SPECIFICALLY it's me thinking about his relationship with Sam and Tucker specifically.

Tucker and Sam? Adore this asshole (affectionate) with every fiber of their being. And it is very much a reciprocated feeling, but Danny's thoughts will not be delved into much other than he would kill for them.

Tucker? The only person currently capable of getting a deep, loud, belly laugh out of Danny. Sam can get him to smile and to laugh, but it's the kind that's a chuckle-under-the-breath. The quiet, looks-down-while-huffing laughter. Snorts once with laughter and then grins stupidly.

But Tucker? Tucker can crack a slew of stupid jokes and Danny will be incapacitated for the next five minutes because he's laughing so hard that he can't breath. He lands one well-timed pun or quip and Danny will be close to tears. His laughter is their favorite sound in the whole world.

Sam is lowkey jealous of this ability, and she's gotten a belly laugh out of Danny a few times. But alas, it is Tucker who wields this power and has gotten it the most times out of the two of them.

-

They're also both physically affectionate with Danny as much as possible. It started roughly around when they were 12-ish, a year since they befriended Danny, and they noticed that he sought after touch but never seemed to initiate (and was in some ways repulsed by it). They started slowly being more touchy with him. Hooking a finger around his to lead him somewhere, tapping his wrist, looping arms. Little touches, grabs, etc, to get him used to it, and once he started doing it back they started increasing it.

It's gotten to a point where he will now just. Lay on them. Like a lizard sunbathing on a rock. Leaning on their backs when they're sitting in class before the bell rings, his chin on their heads. He'll talk about anything with his arms looped around their shoulders.

If they're sitting on a couch at either of their houses, he'll lay his legs on theirs. Him and Tucker will press their feet against the other's and try and push against them (newsflash: Danny always wins, Tucker claims its the ghost strength but Danny's been winning since before his accident)

-

Naturally, both Sam and Tucker know where Danny keeps his weapons on his person, and are allowed to grab them off of him if they need it. His only requirement is that they don't lose his weapons if they take it and forget to return it immediately.

They both understand how big of a thing this is from Danny, and so they do their best to treat his weapons with a lot of respect and care because they know its his way of saying he trusts them.

-

Sam and Tucker are so fond of Danny it's insane. Like fr. That's their goddamn best friend, and they are so protective of him. Emotionally, physically, you name it. They will tear the head off a grown man if they need to, Danny's had scars since he arrived in Amity Park and Sam and Tucker both are going to find the person who put them there and make them pay for it.

One time, Tucker overheard a bunch of upperclass girls speaking nastily about Danny and about the rumors surrounding him, calling him names like 'freak', 'monster', etc. Danny was with him and heard it, and seemingly appeared unbothered by it, even telling Tucker that he was used to such rumors.

Tucker was so furious that hacked into the school system later that night and tanked those girls grades. They were kicked out of their clubs and had to go to mandatory tutoring for the rest of the year. He made sure to leave some way of letting them know it was him who did it.

And Sam doesn't like using her money for things, doesn't like abusing that wealth. So instead, whenever her parents talk bad about Danny, she causes a media incident that has her parents scrambling to deal with. She does something wild, outrageous by her parents' standards.

She heard some boys on the basketball team making fun of Danny once, similar to those girls had. She kicks up a fuss about something eco-unfriendly at school and forcibly holds a protest on the same day of the big home basketball game, forcing them to cancel the event and reschedule to a visiting school.

She anonymously donates money so that there's new uniforms for the team but oops! Looks like she "forgot" to donate enough money for them to get uniforms for all the team members, and strangely enough those boys in particular didn't get them! Looks like they'll have to wait until more money gets donated for the basketball team to get their new, nice uniforms. The old ones look so ratty in comparison, right?

And since the football team gets most of the sport money, that might just take awhile. And if (and when) they kick up a fuss? oops! Off the basketball team you go, :) such unsportsman-like behavior is unfit for the team.

(The only good thing about how corrupt the school system is is that she can use it to her advantage too.)

The both of them know that Danny suspects them for the sudden misfortune falling on these people, but he doesn't call them out on it. He's kinder than he used to be, but not kind enough to vouch for people who speak badly of him. Sometimes, he might just congratulate them on not getting caught.

Because Danny is their wonderful, hurt friend with a "slightly" Blue and Orange Moral code, and enough scars that people have been calling him a criminal (and worse) since he arrived in Amity Park when he was ten. And they'll be damned if he gets hurt anymore.

[sillyfairygarden]

she’s literally not even 2cm tall,,,

[rapidhighway]

No seriously check yourself for ticks. I feel like a make this psa every year but everyone always ignores the fact that they've been hanging around tall grass or bushes. Check your body, check your siblings and kids who won't do it as carefully as they should, and stay safe!!

[ryllen]

i always think jade in his formal pajama is so cute ♡

he insists to exchange

[valtsv]

i fully believe that when fitzjames interrupted him in the middle of his epic tuunbaq soulbond story and embarrassed him in front of his captaincrush that was the moment when hickey mentally drafted him onto the list of people to survival cannibalize first once shit gets truly #real. like girl we don't even know each other but i am Going to skin you and wear you as a coat actually.

[stuckinapril]

By God I am never consuming any celebrity product ever in my life. Never

[book-lover85]

fics where Inej tells Kaz it's ok if he can't always touch her or can't always bring his full armor down as long as he's trying >>>>>>>

[wlw-cryptid]

thinking about being a sheepgirl with a big butch guard dog whose finally broken the tension between us and started kissing marks into my neck.

them growling about how they've wanted to for so long while my voice wavers and my arms wrap around their shoulders for stability. theyd get on top of me and be everywhere, caging me in with their arms braced on either side of my head, helping me shut out the world n just focus on trying to grind against their bulge. Id get to feel their back muscles work as they leaned back n helped me wrap my legs around their waist.

I want them to look down at me and get lost in the needy look in my eyes and the flutter of my long eyelashes, only to lose their swagger when I blurt out "fuck me. I want you- I've wanted you to fuck me." I like to think they'd never expect me to be so vulgar and direct about it. either way i want to hear them let out a strangled, surprised little noise. i want their eyes to drop down to between my legs, biting their lip a little, and instinctively bucking their hips ever so slightly. all i want is to whine n pout n clutch at them and force their hunger become too great to resist

[usahanna]

feeling sad about springbonnie

[where-is-goodtimeswithscar]

Scar is in the Boatem Hole! (S8)

He's in the boatem hole!

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 6

Updated every Thursday (I missed the release date for this chapter like three times I'm so sorry. However, this is a particularly long chapter so hopefully that makes up for it.)

Links: ao3 masterpost

cw: nothing of note

The following morning, you wake up without issue. It's mostly out of the desire to avoid sleeping more than the bare minimum, though you're always a slave to physical training regardless. After a mile and the usual reps, you're tempted to complain about how MechWarriors technically don't need to be in peak physical condition, but you bite your tongue after Alex steals that time to complain about not being assigned any active contracts. You cringe at the implication. It's your Hatchetman that's still in for repairs. She needs it, but the lance could be working right now if it weren't for your lack of skill. Edward seems to take notice and helpfully notes that everyone is generously on a garrison contract in the meantime. That does nothing to calm your nerves and you stalk off again. The anger doesn't last long because it’s rooted in petulance, so you wander. You weren't awarded any further responsibilities, so you do so without repercussion. You track over the exterior of the base, setting new walking paths in your mind while avoiding that pond from the night before. When mealtime comes, you eat, and when colleagues call upon you for one thing or another, you oblige. Following dinner, you take an indulgent trip to the ‘mech bays. It's difficult to reenter the lustful fugue state you entered the last time, because the head ‘tech is still mulling around. The fleeting groundedness you have in that moment allows you to talk with her for more than one sentence. You learn the local ‘mech production facility specializes in incompatible engine designs, so they were forced to order well out of system. She apologizes when saying it would come out of your account, but you don't care. It will never be about C-Bills for you. Afterwards, a brief trip off-base rewards you with a bottle whose label you barely read and some freshly laundered clothes. The purchase is disgusting, but you frame it as a reward. After a half bottle and not nearly enough water, you clumsily turn in for a dreamless night’s sleep. What a pointless day.

The following morning, you wake up full of regret. Your head is pounding, and you have no one to blame but yourself. You swallow mouthfuls of water directly from the sink, in hopes that it will save you from the headache. It helps enough to get you to physical training only slightly late. Ashe comments on it snidely, as she has a right to, but you catch Alex giving her a look about it. She stops afterward. You perform suboptimally at the exercises, but that's to be expected. The wandering that follows isn't any better than it was the day before. Enlisted members of the LCAF wander around base, often in a rush but sometimes leisurely. You catch a moment of gossip between two grunts about how, “MechWarriors get all the special treatment, but they'd never survive a real firefight.” You want to interrupt to say you've done more than your fair share of footsoldiering, but it's not worth the inevitable argument. However, you do lose yourself in a theoretical debate and thoroughly defeat the poor imaginary grunt with your vastly superior intellect and valuable real-life experience, such that I'm sure he feels the psychic beating you give him. This takes you away from navigation, though, and you fade back into reality to discover you’re near the pond from your most recent round of night walking. It puts you on edge, despite the fact it's inhabited by a few soldiers in casual clothes who seem to be perfectly happy. You nervously glance to the bushes, in fear of a blinding light that never comes. Later, you take a very light dinner to your room and avoid drinking yourself to sleep this time. Luckily, no dreams come. What a pointless day.

The following morning, you wake up just fine. It's almost as if a metaphysical fog had previously rolled in and is just now receding. In fact, you don't remember much of the past couple days. The bottle sitting on your side table is most likely the cause of that. You dress yourself in your exercise clothing and make short work of today’s physical training. While jogging, you and Alex discuss the state of the war and how odd it is that your lance is stationed on the complete wrong side of the Commonwealth for their attacks on the Draconis Combine. Regardless, the Commonwealth seems to be doing well in their Operation Götterdämmerung with the assistance of your Bravo and Charlie lances. The Federated Suns are doing much the same on the lower side of the Inner Sphere. This is all very insightful and you nod along dutifully but don't develop any real opinion on the state of affairs. After a shower and some food, you find yourself with nothing to do again. This lack of direction is crushing to you, and you promise yourself that you'll protest garrison contracts in the future. So, you sit on the pavement with your back against a warehouse. You start to settle down and tell yourself that maybe you'll nap for a while in the middle of a military base and surrounded by people trying to work. Luckily, you barely get a minute to yourself before a voice breaks through the crowd,

“Oh, Sergeant, is that you?”

You track the source of the voice, and of course, you find none other than Hannelore Geelen. You take the opportunity to be snide,

“Ah, Corporal. I assume I missed another of your dinner invitations?”

She chuckles, and you find it reassuring.

“Well, not this time, and I can't say I'm that hungry either.”

“That's a shame. I was just starting to think that awful story I made up worked.”

She laughs fully this time.

“Well, I wouldn't say that's the part that ‘worked,’ but sure it was a great story.”

Your unaltered brain stops you from going down another regrettable route.

“Ha, though I think I have to clarify and say I wasn't actually trying anything. I was just drunk and stupid.”

An emotion passes over her, but it's hard to catch.

“Ah, yeah I figured as much. It didn't seem like your specialty, no offense.”

“None taken. But anyway, why did you stop by?”

Hannelore makes a show of thinking for a moment.

“Well, I was just going to say hi, but if you're so positive that I need something from you, then maybe we should do something before I have to turn in for curfew.”

“What would we do?”

“I don't know. We could find a place to sit and talk?”

You find yourself being contrarian out of necessity.

“You're not hungry, I don't feel much up to leaving base, and military installations don't often cater to casual seating, so I'm not sure where we’d go.

“Oh, right, hmm… Wait! Don't mercs have their own rooms here? I think I heard that somewhere.”

“We do.”

“Then we could use yours, if that's alright.”

“Oh I see. Maybe that story worked a little too well…”

It's subtle, but Hannelore’s cheeks redden as she rushes through her response,

“Oh, nono, that's not what I meant! It's just convenient. Sorry, I didn't mean anything weird.”

You reply with a protective bluntness,

“I didn't think you did. It was a joke. We can do that, if you'd like.”

“Ok… Great! Lead the way.”

You get up and gesture matter-of-factly for her to follow. She does.

An awkward silence hangs between the two of you, as you walk. However, the base isn't too large, so it's only a few moments before you manage to make it worse. A few doors before your own, you realize your room is just as you left it (a mess), so you panic slightly. The only reasonable conclusion you come to is that you'll have to make Hannelore wait outside while you tidy,

“Sorry, Corporal, but I need to take care of something quickly. Please wait here.”

She looks at you with a cocked head, but you slip inside before she responds. Your room isn't that large, and in honesty, it's been worse. However, the duffle bag that holds the remnants of the clean laundry from a few days ago and the growing pile of discarded clothing are sitting out, looking as unappealing as ever. You rush to throw the dirty clothes all directly on top of the clean ones, only barely stopping to lay a shirt out flat to delineate the separation. Then, the bag is zipped and thrown into a corner with no consideration for what damage you could've just done. This is why I try to tell you to store important documents better; it's not like you listen anyway. You find solace in the only other visible issue being an uncleaned mirror, which you file under “things everyone has.” Then, you're back at the door. You decide there's tension and that it needs breaking, so you open the door and say,

“No solicitors.”

Hannelore jumps at how suddenly you reappear, but recovers quickly with a half-hearted chuckle. You wave her inside, and she follows, visibly nervous. The both of you stand in the only room that's not for bathing. You feel cramped with the extra company, but Hannelore seems to disagree,

“Oh, wow. This is way nicer than anything they give us.”

“It's better than I usually get. The dropship only has bunks.”

“Well, you should take advantage while you've got it.”

You don't often look people in the eyes, but you catch Hannelore’s flick to your side table before she makes a deserved off-colour joke,

“Or, maybe you have already, haha.”

“Oh, right, sorry…”

You shamefully grab the remnants of the alcohol from where you left it and slide the thing under your bed. Hannelore looks slightly embarrassed the whole time. You anxiously push onward and state matter-of-factly,

“You can sit on the bed, if you want.”

“Oh, ok. Thank you.”

She does as you offered, and seems unsure as to whether she should make room for you or not. You make sure to answer her unsaid question by leaning against an open space of your completely undecorated wall. She shifts to the middle of the bed and starts off with the formality of smalltalk,

“So, how’ve you been?”

“It's been boring, mostly.”

She nods knowingly.

“Ah, yeah. Perimeter patrols will melt your brain after a while.”

“I don't get that even. I'm not sure your brass knows what to do with me.”

“Oh, huh. I guess because your ‘mech is still in for repairs right?”

You shrug and reply bluntly,

“My own CO doesn't know what to do with me. It's a bit of a pattern.”

She doesn't seem to know what to say to that so instead pulls a small, pill-shaped object from her pants pocket, followed by something more circular with a cable hanging off it.

“So, are you into music at all?”

You hesitate but respond honestly,

“I'm a musician.”

“Oh really!? That's so cool! What do you play?”

“It's um- It's called a ‘tiorbarrón.’ It sort of takes elements from a guitar, a bass, and a lute, if that helps.”

Hannelore thinks, trying to imagine the thing you could have just physically demonstrated. She seems to find some logic in that explanation and nods happily,

“It sounds interesting! But anyway, I just got a bunch of new music from a catalog I follow. Do you want to hear some of it?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Great! One second…”

She plugs the cable into the oblong device, which you guess is a music player, and fiddles with its controls. You hear the beginning of a few songs flicker by until she settles on one. She introduces it as the song fades in,

“Ok, this one is called ‘Walls Crumble Under the Weight of Judgement.’ It’s off the new album by the Forgotten Tides Orchestra, Ashes From Faraway Fires. It's probably one of my favorites of theirs.”

When she finishes, the wider instrumentation seems to take a cue, and what was once a single somber distorted guitar grows to a sudden crescendo of noise. The harshness slowly dies down as its memory reverberates through the hall it was recorded in. The percussion section seizes this lull and strikes you with a driving beat. Vocals soon join for the first time, a chorus filled with rage and ragged at the edges, same as all the strings. They sing about destruction and war. The harmony is clean and speaks of shallow mourning and pallid reassurances from the lips of an oligarch. Another rise precedes a somber section. The first chair guitar duets with a single vocalist. Allegory to some religion you're unfamiliar with accentuates the feelings of despair from being alone in the face of a hungry war machine, but as the pair's soliloquy reaches its conclusion, the rest of the performers rejoin the song one-by-one. You mark this beginning of a new movement at about eight minutes in, and prepare to be here a while. The renewed energy brings with it a sense of solidarity, as the choir sings of just that. You slowly start to lose track of the song, becoming overwhelmed by first time analysis, and when you come back to it, a long, synthetic note screams out the end of the song, fading like the hopes of trillions. Upon reflection, you find the subject and composition immature and malformed, but it's earnest. Hannelore looks at you expectantly,

“Well, how’d you like it?”

You hide your true feelings on the matter with a deflection of sorts,

“It was… interesting. I've never heard anything like it, but I wasn't necessarily ‘classically trained.’ Regardless, I’m sorry House Steiner dragged you into their war.”

She looks at you confused,

“Wait, what?”

You rightfully feel like an idiot but are unsure why,

“Because of the music; you were drafted right?”

Hannelore takes her turn to be embarrassed now,

“Oh, no, I uh- I enlisted a few years ago. I guess my music taste is a little weird given that…”

“Sorry, I just thought that since, you know, the whole theming of the song.”

“I… yeah. I'm a bit of a poser if you think about it.”

“It's still a good song.”

“It is! Neo-orchestral post hard-punk is probably my favorite genre right now.”

“I'm sorry, neo what?”

“Ah, right, I forget most people aren't as well versed in modern music.”

“I'm learning that I'm far less well-versed in music than I thought today.”

She laughs with a tinge of nerves before launching into a kind of spiel that she must have practiced in her head countless times without being able to say it to anyone,

“So, I guess I'll start with the basics. I'll assume you get what the ‘neo-orchestral’ part means?”

“I think so.”

She takes a deep breath; you've gotten in too deep.

“Ok, good, well the other parts go back to a few movements in the late 20th century that kind of made a comeback after parts of them were discovered in various Star League caches –can’t thank those guys enough for having good taste, haha. The easiest to explain is probably the ‘punk’ part. You know the angry simple chords and heavy distortion and vocals about how the government sucks? That's kind of what punk is in a way. And, the cool part is the subculture never really died, but that means there's now a whole debate about whether classical punk or current punk is the ‘real’ thing –which is a debate that also never died, I think. So, there's that and a little while after that scene developed on ancient Terra, another movement split off from it called hardcore. To really oversimplify things again, it was kind of like punk but pure anger, so it ended up being almost incomprehensible walls of noise with vocals that would rip my throat to shreds if I tried to sing them. And from that genre of hardcore, evolved a subgenre called post-hardcore and- Are you familiar with A Silver Mount Zion?”

You shake your head,

“Not at all.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. But ok, they're a particularly good example of early post-hardcore, I think. And if it helps drive the connection home, they went by a lot of different names, including ‘Thee Silver Mount Zion Memorial Orchestra.’ So, that's kind of how people made the jump to combine all these genres. And, it helps that whoever was stationed on that old Star League research station was a big fan, so we got a pretty complete discography. That, plus the pretty constant state of war that we’re in, directed some artists away from the more esoteric lyricism of post-hardcore to some more direct calls to action. All in all, the genre is a pain to classify, but it produces some of the best music around, at the moment. For example, you have Forgotten Tides, and Ample Reason to Lose, and-”

You again are overwhelmed by analysis. You deign to find yourself interested in this, but at this point, the band names all blur together, and you're unsure whether ‘Combat Wounded Veteran’ is the name of a song, an album, an artist, or someone you used to know. You keep nodding along regardless, which is practically lying through your teeth. Eventually, she slows down, and you catch the social need to show your interest with a question,

“You seem really dedicated to this, so why are you still in the military? It seems like you should have the moral imperative to leave.”

That is possibly the worst question you could have chosen. You've mortified your guest at least three times this evening. It's a surprise she's still here.

“Oh, well, yeah, uh, it's weird, but I don't know. I guess I'm just stuck in it.”

You at least have the grace to apologize,

“Sorry, I shouldn't have asked.”

“Nono, it's ok. I asked about you being a merc after all.”

She chuckles to diffuse the situation and buy her time to think of an answer.

“And just so you know, I’ve thought of it, leaving that is. I think I would do it, if I had anything else to do with myself.”

“I'm sorry. I know the feeling, in a way.”

“I can see that. And well, it's just that I fucked up my chance at school, and they didn't let me finish that training when I enlisted. I haven't died yet, and maybe if I last long enough, they'll give me a pension or something.”

She says that profanity with such vitriol that it catches you by surprise. You haven't heard her angry at all, especially not enough to curse. After that first night, you assumed she was incapable of anger. How presumptuous of you.

“Can’t you use what pay you have already to try again?”

“Maybe, but I don't get mercenary pay, much less Lyran ‘mech pay. And, I feel like I lost my chance anyway.”

“I'm sorry then.”

She laughs as if something’s funny,

“It's ok. But, back to music, you said you play, right?”

This conversation is becoming half diversions at this rate.

“I did.”

“Well, sorry for prying, but is this an instrument case?”

She taps the rounded corner of the case accompanying your bottle underneath the bed. You nod,

“That's my instrument, yes. Please don't kick it, I've had it longer than I've had a ‘mech.”

“Ah! Sorry!”

“It's ok. I doubt you damaged it this time.”

She hops off the bed expectantly, and you abide. The case slides out from where it has sat since you arrived. The second of your two allowed pieces of luggage is blank but not pristine. You've seen the occasional traveling musician or busker at dropship terminals or streets corners in the past, and your case bares almost no resemblance to the scratched, stickered, and storied cases of those artists. The scratches it does bare are few and far between, and you would hope so since you rightfully insist on hand loading it whenever it's needed. There is also not a single sticker on the thing. Framed by expectation, the question had been asked. A blunt response highlighted how decoration was unprofessional and unbecoming. Hannelore seems to notice your deliberation and politely implies you should stop,

“It's an interesting shape.”

She's referring to the way the neck of the case cuts off at half the length of a normal guitar neck. You nod with the borrowed confidence of an expert and open the case to illustrate,

“The neck folds. It's actually quite long.”

You remove the instrument from its berth, careful to slide the protective flap out from between the neck pieces as you do. Then, you gently unfold it. The neck resembles a merging of a guitar and a harp. The bottom ten strings, two single and four doubled, are set on the fretted part of the neck and serve the part of melody and rhythm, while the top five are suspended on the harp-like section of the neck and provide a droning bass line. Both sets are made of gut, which is excessively difficult to source outside of your home, and they terminate in a bridge on the body that is styled much like a large acoustic guitar. This is all characteristic of the instrument as a class, but what makes the one you hold above the rest is the shape of the sound hole. In the center of the body, a classical ermine coat symbol is cut. Within the shape, a lattice structure highlights the curves of the cut and ensures its structural stability. You know all these details by heart, but you retread them every time you look at them because this is the second or possibly third most beautiful item you'll ever lay your hands on.

“Wow… I've never seen something like that before.”

You return your focus to the conversation,

“You probably never will again. It's a local specialty, I've come to learn.”

“Oh, you mean from your home system? Where is that?”

“It was somewhere on the periphery, but I don't think it would be worth the trip anymore.”

She seems to catch your implication and doesn't press,

“Well, maybe learning about it from you will be good enough then.”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, not to be that person, but can you play something? I'd love to hear it!”

You nod, because why wouldn't you? It's one of your most redeeming features that you can play and now’s the time to use it. You choose a song, a simple tune with accompanying lyrics about the changing of the seasons, and you begin using the ever-sensitive geared tuners to put the instrument in key. Your ear is rusty, so half the notes are slightly flat, but it's serviceable. Hannelore watches the process with a keen interest that unnerves you.

“Sorry for the wait, Corporal. Should I start?”

“Of course! Whenever you're ready, Sergeant.”

You nod, and begin. A slow strum of a chord on the bottom strings heralds the song. The bass strings join in soon after, and you find yourself mimicking the grace of a tiorbarrón master. The longer the song draws on and the more your fingers struggle to tap out a melody on the frets, you feel increasingly weighed down. Despite the song being a friendly appreciation of seasons experienced lightyears away, you’re beset by a horrible weight. Your guest doesn't seem to notice, but a tear wells against your eye. You find it hard to concentrate now, and your rhythm begins to stumble into the lead. You don't let the song drag you along and end it suddenly.

“Oh, what happened? Are you alright?”

You force a laugh to stifle the tears,

“Ha, I'm ok. It's just been a while, and I can feel how rusty I am.”

“That makes sense. Maybe you should take your time here to practice then. It seems like we might be here a while.”

You nod, knowing fully well that you won't. A silence follows, and you try to be kind and hold the instrument in a way where Hannelore can see. She looks perhaps too closely and reinitiates,

“So, what's the meaning of the design in the middle? I assume it has one.”

That's not a question you expected and certainly not one you wanted. It's not something you can easily deflect from, so you refuse bluntly.

“I’d rather not say.”

She takes it a little personally, and that shows on her face. It's the better result in your mind. You take the opportunity to break the neck of the instrument again and restore it to its home. During the process, you check the humidifying pack stored in the case. It's fine. Just after the lid thumps closed, Hannelore announces her leave,

“Well, um, I guess I should probably head out now.”

“I'm sorry for keeping you.”

“You weren't! I asked you, didn't I?”

“I guess.”

“Anyway, I'll see you around then.”

“Have a nice night.”

She waves. You wave. She walks out the door. A pit in your stomach forms. You don't know why, but when you slide the case back under the bed, you trade for the bottle to try and fill it. What a pointless day.

[turtledotjpeg]

I don't know anything about the hunter x hunter mobage aside from the art I see people post on tumblr, but it seems like Melody isn't in any of the cute seasonal outfit card sets and it makes me sad

So I scribbled some of my own beach Melodys o/ I think she deserves a beach day

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 21

PREVIOUS

“What made you think taking on a mafia hitman was a good idea?” Andrew asks as he and FF were positioning themselves the best the could for an ambush on Romero.

Since, they APPARENTLY had time to talk.

Romero had gotten the text Andrew had sent him and INSTEAD of coming out right away to progress the whole SCHEME to kidnap and murder Andrew’s Junkie like any sensible goon Romero went to the BAR. Romero went to the Bar to get him and Jackson a round of CELEBRATORY drinks. Romero is still there at the bar waiting to be served by an INCREDIBLY nervous Roland if the number of exclamation marks and puking emojis is to be believed.

What the FUCK is there to celebrate?

These two idiots want to kidnap NEIL and so far the only thing Romero knows (thinks) that they’ve caught are two people that Neil would come for but even in Andrew’s text he’d been clear that he needed help getting ‘The boyfriend and the new friend’ to talk let alone getting them to call ‘The Wesninski Brat’ out. Andrew had hated typing the name in reference to Neil but it was the only thing the two ever referred to him as in their chats.

Is it some insane mental game that Romero thought he and Jackson were going to play on Andrew and Smith? Toasting to their torture so they’d give up Neil? Who knows.

He realizes that FF hasn’t answered him, his eyes focused on the door when Andrew’s thoughts had drifted. A reliable guy, steady in a pinch, and focused like most the others weren’t.

(Andrew does not know that FF is thinking about how one would go about becoming a Mafia Hitman. What is that career path like? Do they show up at job fairs? Do you get a job as a short order cook at a business that acts as a front and see to much but you’re also the only one that knows the secret spaghetti recipe the boss likes so you have to sign yourself to the family? Are you out doing your own freelance crime and someone higher up sees your work one day and literally head hunts you? Is it like in Saw where you survive an ordeal and then-)

“Smith?” Andrew draws FF’s attention away from the door.

“I didn’t think it was a good idea at any point.” FF says and Andrew is surprised by the admission and is more surprised by the twist of FF’s lips into a frown, “I just did what I thought I needed to do.” He adds.

(Andrew does not know that the twist of FF’s lips has more to do with the fact that he is realizing that Romero likely STILL has not washed his hands. Romero hasn’t washed his hands and he is going to hand Jackson a DRINK with those hands. Ugh. Honestly a contract killer AND someone who doesn’t wash his hands? Who RAISED him? What does his grandma think of this? FF hopes she’s disappointed in him.)

“You thought you needed to lure a hitman into an alley?” Andrew asks because the plan is stupid even if so far it has worked out for FF. The fact that Romero hadn’t just come out when he sent Jackson the signal is only due to FF’s good luck and their stupidity.

“I didn’t have a lot of time to think up anything more than the first plan I thought of. I saw him looking at Nicky on the dance floor.” FF says with another twist of his lips as he self-consciously rubbed at his cheek. It��s never fun to have someone who has time to pick apart a plan that you barely had time to form. Andrew can understand the irritation and is glad that FF isn’t lashing out at him for it.

(Andrew does not know that FF is not irritated he is just remembering that he had held up his broken toilet bowl phone to his face to pretend call Captain Neil. He’s contemplating asking if Andrew maybe possibly has a wet wipe? Actually the murder van probably has bleach to clean up evidence, maybe he can just dip his face in there for like a minute.)

“Don’t use a plan where you martyr yourself. I already have to deal with Neil’s bullshit tendencies.” Andrew says instead of thanking him. “You should have just called me.” He says.

FF just holds up his phone, “Dropped into a club toilet. Completely unusable.” He says and yeah that makes sense. FF would have probably just texted Andrew but coming out and seeing a hitman going after Nicky probably made it impossible for the freshman to go get help without drawing all the attention to himself first if he wanted to make sure Nicky stayed safe.

Still.

“You dropped it into a toilet? You haven’t even had anything tonight.” He says because that clumsiness is not something he expects from FF.

“You try taking a pee next to someone on the FBI’s most wanted list and see how dry your palms remain when he’s talking about grabbing one of Captain Neil’s friends to lure him out.” He says with a brow raised.

That’s fair.

He figures that Romero hadn’t even noticed FF standing there. FF was incredibly good at just making himself unnoticeable (to Andrew’s occasional great annoyance and to Kevin’s great desire to study him for Exy related purposes).

“You recognized him?” He asks.

FF’s gaze slides to him, “I looked up a lot about the Foxes after I signed.” FF answers before his gaze slides back to the door. Roland had just texted Andrew that he’s getting Romero’s drinks ready (Two bud lites. Those are the celebratory drinks he waited for?? Embarrassing.) “I really looked up to Captain Neil. So, I read a lot more about him than anyone else.” FF admits but the fact that FF looked up to Neil was not in any way shape or form a secret.

FF was the only one who was ALWAYS paying attention to whatever Neil was saying and never argued with it. Even Andrew tended to just get lost in the sound of Neil’s voice when he’s going over Exy plays and not actually listen to the plan. FF’s eyes were always right on Neil and his actions on the court showed that he had been paying attention and knew what he was doing. Kevin also listened but he tended to fight Neil on the finer details of plays, strategy or anything else. FF was the one who would just nod and do his part in whatever possible play Neil had broken down for them.

FF was also categorically incapable of referring to Neil as anything other than Captain Neil.

Neil had bristled early on at it. He had thought it was a mocking title, something FF was saying to rile him up because that’s what Freshman Foxes did. That’s what Freshman Foxes always do. FF slid into the team without a whisper of rebellion and it hadn’t taken long to realize that FF was using the title with sincerity even if his monotone did not perfectly convey that.

It’d been that sincerity and that ease that had FF be the only option he’d considered when Bee said he should consider expanding his friend pool.

So if FF looked a little deeper into Neil’s past and sees Neil’s part in it as something to respect, something to admire?

Well, he personally thought he always had great taste in people. (He ignores the voice in his head that sounds like Nicky complaining about Kevin still not knowing German despite it being the family language.)

“You sure you don’t want one of my knives or the knife Jackson had?” It was pretty big and Andrew didn’t think it would work well with his general style but maybe FF could use it somehow. He was uneasy that FF was going into this fight unarmed. FF still hadn’t talked about how he’d taken out Jackson when the man had a knife like that.

“Do I look like Crocodile Dundee to you?” FF asks with a raised eyebrow and Andrew has to pause a moment for the movie to load into his brain before he offers an amused quirk of his own lips.

FF is a funny guy.

His phone dings. “He’s on his way.”

***

Aside from thinking about how nice the conversation he was having with his friend Andrew (his friend! His friend Andrew! God how is he going to admit to Gran that Andrew was never planning on stabbing him? She threatened to come over and square off with the ‘mean young man’ bullying him. He’s gotta go grab the makings for a secondary pie to even start to make up for this. Maybe Andrew would prefer a cobbler? He should ask his friend his preferences.) he was thinking about how he really wished they hadn’t had a cut away from Gracie Hart showing all the various forms of self defense she knows in the movie.

He had no idea if he could do a repeat performance of S.I.N.G. with Romero.

It’d be nice to have a few more things in his repertoire because all he has is striking Romero with the heel of his hand in the nose, getting grabbed from behind to throw him over his shoulder (which what if Romero is shorter than him? How will THAT work. Gracie Hart guide my steps!), and of course S.I.N.G.

If he survives this he might write a letter to the writer.

The door opens and honestly FF and Andrew agreed that surprise and speed were going to be their best weapons. The two of them go in for a full body tackle but Romero must just be a higher class goon than Jackson was since he manages to body them away. The door shuts which is mostly what they wanted anyways. Romero can’t go back in and grab someone to use as a shield.

He sees Andrew pull out his knives and now FF realizes that any level of threatening Andrew had done before must have mostly been in jest or just as intimidation. When Andrew wants to stab someone it’s obvious that he’s aiming to stab them.

Romero manages to parry Andrew’s first stab with a move that FF had seen on the ‘how to handle someone coming at you with a knife’ videos. FF sees Romero go in to bash one of the Bud Lite bottles over Andrew’s head so he launches his water bottle at Romero’s hand. The bottle falls and shatters harmlessly on the ground.

He kicks Romero’s other hand since the water bottle bought him time to get close. “You fucking brat!” Romero hisses.

He sees Romero reaching for something at the same time Andrew is going in for the second round of stabbing. Romero dodges out of the way but FF can see what might actually for real be an entire gun concealed in his jacket.

He can see Romero going for it. Sees the same smile on his face he’d seen inside as his hand wraps around the handle.

FF doesn’t think.

FF doesn’t think because if he does he’ll freeze.

So FF acts.

“Gun!” He yells and runs full force tackling Romero as hard as he can but unfortunately he tackles Romero into Andrew.

The three of them grapple on the ground. It’s hard to keep track of what limb is who’s and he’s pretty sure he’s accidentally hit Andrew a few times instead of Romero but he’s also pretty sure that Andrew punched him in the stomach so he thinks they’re equal. Finally FF gets a hand on the gun that Romero had been trying to get the safety off of and he knocks it out of Romero’s hand. “You kids will-“

Romero doesn’t get to say anything else because Andrew manages to land a punch right to his jaw that has Romero go limp under the two of them. They look at one another and Andrew manages to pull the handcuffs they’d purloined out of the Van while they were waiting off of the belt loop they were hooked onto and gets them around Romero’s wrists.

They stare down at the second unconscious man on the FBI’s most wanted list in the alley.

Then they roll off of him and onto their backs. Both of them wheezing from a combination of exertion, adrenaline, and (at least in FF’s case) a fair amount of pain (Christ Andrew packs a PUNCH his stomach is already sensitive. It’s a miracle that punch hadn’t made him puke.)

“That was…so stupid.” Andrew pants.

“Yeah probably.” FF admits.

They lay there for about a minute and FF thinks that maybe someone will need to carry him because his stomach is KILLING HIM with all this.

“Alright let’s-“

Andrew is sitting up and looking at him when he stops talking.

FF doesn’t really know what the issue is but starts to sit up, “Don’t you DARE.” Andrew hisses and FF finds himself being pushed back down to the ground to lay flat. “Don’t move Smith.” He demands and is pulling his phone out of his pocket as he keeps a hand on FF’s shoulder.

FF doesn’t really understand what’s got Andrew so upset all the sudden. “Andrew, what’s-“ he tries to sit up again. Is there a third person and Andrew wants him to keep down? There’s not really cover here they should move towards the dumpster maybe?

“Smith, I told you to not move.” Andrew hisses before whoever he’s calling seems to pick up. “I need police and an ambulance. We’re at Eden’s Twilight in the back alley.” He looks to FF, “What’s your blood type?” He asks.

FF has NO idea.

“I don’t know.” He answers and Andrew makes a disgusted sound. “Andrew, what’s-“

Then he sees it.

He doesn’t quite get how he missed it before now.

“Huh.” He hears himself say.

That’s Andrew’s knife handle sticking out of his stomach.

It appears that Andrew Minyard may have stabbed him in the stomach.

“Well, that’s about what I expected.” He says and lets his head rest against the pavement.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

Per your requests:

@i-have-three-feelings @blep-23 @dreamerking27 @andreilsmyreligion @belodensetdust @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world @obscureshipsandchips @booklover242 @whataboutmyfries @sahturnos @pluto-pepsi @dreamerthinker @passinhosdetartaruga @leftunknownheart @aro-manita-muscaria @hologramsaredead @Chaoticgremlinswishtheycouldbeme @tntwme @tayspots @nick-scar @crazy-fangirl2524 @blue-jos10 @stabbyfoxandrew @splishsplashyouropinionistrash @sammichly @the-broken-pen @bitchesdoweknowu @very-small-flower @ghostlyboiii @its-a-paxycab @bisexual-genderfluid-fan @cheesecookie @theoneandonlylostsock @foxsoulcourt @blueleys @adverbialstarlight @elia-nna @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner @nikodiangel @foxandcrow-inatrenchcoat @hallucinatedjosten @satanic-foxhole-court @vexingcosmos @chalilodimun @insectsgetcooked @angry-kid-with-no-money @queer-crows @lillyndra @themugglemudperson @readertodeath @apileofpillows @mortalsbowbeforeme @hellomynameismoo @next-level-mess @youreonlylow @interstellarfig @notprocrastinatingatalltoday @percyjacksonfan3 @queenofcrazy27 @bsmr261 @ghostlyscares @spencellio @adinthedarkroom @harpymoth @sufferingjustalilbit @anxietymoss @oddgreyhound @ohno-myhyperfixation-itsbroken @ken22789 @atiredvampire @isoldescorner @not--a--pipedream @azure-wing @bushbees  @roonilwazlib-main @crumplelush @foldedaces-paperbirds​ @thesenseinnonsense​ @let-tyrants-fear​ @ketchupfriesandallthingsnice​ @legowerewolf​ @deadlydodos​ @but-we-respect-his-craft​ @cariniqe​ @zanypersonapricotbiscuit​ @lesbian-blackbeard​ @lesbiansupernatural​ @silvermasquerade​ @thepeachfuzz​ @minniemariex @kazoo-the-demjin​

The requests to be added to the tag list keep being spread out across a few different areas. If I missed you please just ask again in the replies I promise I just missed you.

As stated before if you’re up here and I spelled it right but you didn’t get a notification there might be something switched around in your settings that won’t let me tag you properly?

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads

The Spider And Her Demons

YA Australian urban fantasy/horror

about a Malaysian-Chinese girl who’s half spider-demon, just trying to keep her head down and survive high school

when she accidentally kills and eats a man in front of the most popular girl at school, they strike up a strange friendship and she starts to learn more about herself and the supernatural world

aroacespec/sapphic ish

[wisteria-whump]

thinking about an inexperienced caretaker seeing that some of whumpee's huge bruises have turned yellow/green and not being certain if it's just from them healing or if it's an indicator of something like an infection