untracked

[untracked]

"I think so, too." His fingers work deftly, nearly done. "Dad always said so, anyway. But I was happy with you..." Shaw's brows furrowed, his hand pausing momentarily in its work. He corrected himself with an: "...I remember being happy with you."

He wasn't sure if it made a difference.

It'd be easier if Shaw had more concrete memories of who he was when Dorothy was with him, or of who they were together. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew'd been happy then. And what he felt now-- sat with his sister in this dreamy meadow, putting flowers in her hair-- was a mix of memory and something new. it felt right to think she brought him joy. He may have never had the dexterity to do this for Dorothy before, but staying with her like this felt like the only place he'd ever truly belong.

Finishing the braid, Shaw lifted it ever so slightly towards himself to kiss it. This was sacred because it was Dorothy he did it for.

"Here," he said, gently sweeping his art over Dorothy's shoulder. His fingertips brushed the side of her neck as he pulled away, more for fascination's sake than anything else.

"What do you think? Not bad, right?" Shaw's smile was boyish. His hand, not wanting to let his sister go, moved to rest over Dorothy's hip.

soon enough, her body is unwound to pry her touch away from him, settling back into the familiar pattern. shaw speaks of her like he knows her, down to the bone, and she sighs. nimble, slight fingers reach for the hem of her white gown and begin to rub at the fabric restlessly.

guilt, uncertainty, and all the rest of it is interrupted by his compliment and she breathes the softest laugh. her body sways, only slightly, not out of his reach but enough to hide her smile from him.

"you're the only one who sees it, you know." there's pride in her voice. there normally is, when she speaks to her brother, but especially so now, as she thinks of how he loves her.

cyril would be scandalized by the way she allows a body so precious to be touched by a man so far from his ideas of enlightenment. he would say that whatever beauty he admires in her, dorothy has no claim to it. it's only shaw that sees this beauty as her. ironclad as ever, cyril's judgment bolts itself into the back of her mind.

"the rest, they, uh..." perhaps she shouldn't speak of it. she swallows thickly. there's a quick shake of her head and then dorothy leans into him, resting herself against his chest, her eyes shut.

"i hope i'm not so different now. i think i was..." off in the distance, nestled between the trees, a girl walks hand in hand with a boy. she sees it, even as her eyes are shut, and she wonders if he can see it too. "i think i was good back then..."

[untracked]

Jacob had done his usual for the holiday : made a dinner of pork and beans with whiskey ; crafted flowers of newspaper pages and twine that he quietly tied to Shaw's belt loops ; and pressed a kiss to Shaw's cheek when the sun fell. For this year, though, he added something.

Gently, he captured Shaw's hand and slipped a ring onto his thumb. It was a shining, silver - colored piece that appeared to be made of two nails that had been cleaned and hammered together. The sharp ends were closed, wreathed, while the heads joined atop Shaw's knuckle.

"Used to make 'em all the time," Jacob said softly, tapping the ring with his fingertip affectionately. "Y'take old shoe nails from your horse and do this - for good luck. Reminds ya . . . where you been, on the way to wherever you're goin'." He grinned, gray eyes sparkling.

It takes a long, long time for Shaw to look away from the gift that Jacob slipped onto his finger. The solid weight alone was enough to move him, but the story that comes with it makes him feel... God, it's making him feel happy.

He's never been happy like this before, though, at least not in recent memory. Brows furrowed, he turns his thumb to take in every aspect of Jacob's creation, until finally he lifts his head to meet the other man's eyes.

Christ, he thinks, sudden and sweet, you're incredible.

"It's beautiful," he murmurs. Shaw's smile is soft and his voice is low. "But you say that like I could ever forget you."

Palm pressing to Jacob's cheek, his brows dip slightly as his thumb strokes up the line of bone there. Shaw looks at him with a mix of reverence and affection, stomach fluttering like he's ten again. It's funny how, even years later, a part of him still struggles with believing someone like Jacob could even exist. That someone as pure as him could pick Shaw time and time again.

"You're part of me now, sweetheart." He tucks Jacob's hair over his ear, then draws his hand lower to curve over the back of his neck. "You have been for a while." The kiss he presses to his lips is chaste. "I feel you in my heart, my head. In my fucking guts, too.

"You're home."

Shaw pulls back, meeting Jacob's gaze, and matches his grin.

"I'll carry you with me wherever I go."

And that's love, isn't it?

[untracked]

[untracked]

Awed doesn't even begin to describe what it feels like to see Jacob in his clothes as he leaves the building with his trusty kettle in hand. If there's any benefit to the man's tendency to lose himself, it's that Shaw always gets to see this the morning after-- whatever makes Jacob lose himself means he's always woefully unprepared, and Shaw isn't above reaping the benefits of knowing someone so innocently helpless.

"You say that like I put you in cuffs." An interesting thought, to be sure, but untrue. "I told you-- we're not scaring the morning hikers any more than they have to be, and since you always make your fucking coffee outside..."

In the end, Shaw chuckles, shoulders lifting up in a quick shrug. "Unfortunately, not everyone appreciates how nice you look dirtied up the way I do."

Then again, not everyone gets to see how sweet Jacob becomes with his jaw held fast in a man's hand.

"C'mere, cowboy. I'm just about done with the fire." Shaw lifts his pan up, cocking his head in the direction of the open flame and moving from the dirt towards the grass closer to the trees. He'd already set out metal plates on a flat rock, both of them holding a bed of rice. The omelettes he put together, with some leftover meat and vegetables from last night's Chinese takeout as filling, are laid atop them.

Shaw made sure everything was ready for Jacob's use whilst he was away: the kettle, the beans, the water (still in jugs so Jacob could handle every little detail himself), and he sits contentedly on the grass he watches Jacob be as particular with his drink as he likes. There is, of course, a kitchen inside the building, but there's something romantic about Jacob's affinity for the outdoors, and far be it for Shaw to deny him his comforts, especially when they make him so happy.

"Your hair's a mess." His smile gives his fondness away, though. Elbow on the rock at his side, Shaw props his cheek up on his palm. "Bet that shower felt amazing, though, right?

"Go on. Tell me I made the right call making you go."

SHAW'S HAND AROUND his caused any further identifications that Jacob would have made to get stuck in his throat. He sniffed, pulled his hat lower to cover the flush painted across his cheeks, and fell neatly into step behind Shaw. The bit of slack in his arm that required Shaw to tug at him was intentional, in some way ; it was nice to be guided, for a change, especially when the weariness and filth in Jacob had sank bone - deep ( as it always did ).

Inside of the building, he retreated to the shower as requested — only after one last reminder ( accompanied by a toothy grin ) that Shaw promised not to touch the kettle. Specifically, the white - flecked blue enamel one that Jacob had long since burned the bottom half black of with his antiquated brewing methods.

The water that Jacob used was scalding, enough to cut through the grime on him. He rubbed his skin until it appeared raw and red, knowing that the topmost layer would heal. As he dressed himself in Shaw's extra sweatpants and t - shirt, both bearing the SAR name, he felt it : the unmistakable crawling of flesh, weaving itself along his body to recover from the damage. Jacob scrubbed his hair semi - dry, further worsening the mess of it, and threw his towel onto the pile of clothes he would clean later. There was an old bag that he kept stashed here for such purposes.

Jacob worked out the worst of the residue on his hat and the dark bit of cloth that he had used to cover his neck lately. Both went under the hand dryer briefly while he tended to other grooming. Once they were passable for use, Jacob carefully folded the material around his throat. He kept the hat in his hands on his way back out to Shaw — surprisingly clean, for the state he had left in, though still smelling thickly of the forest. Shaw's top was tighter on Jacob, emphasizing his comparatively broader torso, but their similar height meant that the outfit did fit well enough.

"Thanks," he said once he found Shaw again. He bowed his head in the absence of his hat and smiled. The gesture used his teeth, his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes — Jacob's heart was not on his sleeve but etched into his face, where it could never hide. ( i ain't asking you to keep doin' this, ) the sentiment added. A hand wormed into Jacob's hair, highlighting how snarled it was. "Alright, sir, with all due respect . . . I ain't lettin' you put anything else in the way a' coffee." Another laugh, too loud and too bright to suit the morning, and Jacob pathed toward his goal.

[untracked]

The brilliance of Jacob's smile is only highlighted by the simplicity of his joy. Blackbird, he says, like it explains everything, and Shaw's hard-pressed to disagree with him when he sounds so certain.

"Mmhmm." God, you're simple. The thought flashes through Shaw's head with a fondness that skirts the edge of incredible affection. "How about you point stuff out to me while we walk, huh?"

So Shaw reaches down, takes Jacob's hand, and then leads him the rest of the way, holding him firmly to keep the man from wandering any further. Despite the inherent selfishness that comes with their interactions (Shaw isn't above disliking when other people hold Jacob's attention, even), he really did mean it when he said he didn't want Jacob scaring any of the early morning hikers. The rest of his fellow officers work hard enough trying to keep the bizarre nature of the wild as hidden as possible; frankly, whatever ecosystem the forest is keeping, Shaw isn't interested in upsetting it by making the whole world aware of its unexplainable nature.

The trek to base ops isn't a long one-- a blessing, especially since Shaw's tracking led him to believe Jacob found his prey much farther than when he woke up. He lets Jacob go once they enter the surveillance perimetre only to save him enough grace from not being seen getting led by the hand by another adult.

Jacob's occasional volunteer status required some aura of respect, after all.

"Shower," is the first thing Shaw says once they enter the building, turning to offer Jacob a pointed look. "You can wear my extras after" -- and then, because Jacob is terrible at receiving one-sided kindness -- "just give 'em back washed tomorrow."

THE HAND ON his back killed whatever retort Jacob would have had. He didn't think would ever grow used to it ; Shaw's touch would forever give him butterflies and stain the skin under his beard with color. To distract himself, he reached for his smokes — only to realize, after pawing at the inside of his duster, that there was nothing on him.

"Sure, Mr. Shaw. Your cookin' ain't bad. I'm kinda fond . . . " Jacob grimaced, hands spreading out his coat. "The hell did I . . . "

( he didn't remember, in the last moment before the sky and his head split open the evening prior, that he had placed his book of matches and cigarettes down outside while he smoked. )

The easily distracted nature of the cowboy shone through. He stopped, all thoughts of coffee and getting clean pushed to the side, and leaned down. Jacob broke several stalks of long grass, bent the ends around a finger, and pushed the wad between his teeth. Sweetgrass would have been better on the tongue. In the absence of good taste, though, this gave him something to chew. Green scraps hung far past his lips. While it was not a piece of hay . . . there was no denying the truth in the stereotype, evidently.

Jacob moved to step forward, but his progress was interrupted by a shrill call nearby. He glanced up, brim of his hat casting a shadow across his face, and grinned. Never mind the blood that had stained his thick, white shirt pink ; the gore mixed with mud on his boots ; or the damp seeped into his clothing.

"Blackbird," he said, eyes returning to Shaw — with the broad smile of a man who could find a year's worth of happiness in even the simplest things.

[untracked]

Normal guy voice . I need to watch him lose consciousness in a vulnerable position

[untracked]

The Vicious Kind (2009), dir. Lee Toland Krieger

[untracked]

random [53]: up to no good, the hoosiers. // @stingslikeabee, from here.

WORDS DRIP LIKE HONEY, DEAR, HOW SWEET IT IS TO HEAR.

Call him calculated, but Shaw is nothing if not self-aware. The way Melissa spoke to him in the lessons they had-- using his first name as if they were familiar, laughing as sweet as sugar, and always giving him those crinkly-eyed smiles-- has become an addiction, and it's one he isn't ready to part with yet. Even at the end of their pottery class, and even as Shaw received the piece of paper certifying he was some kind of proficient, he refused to accept he'd never see her again.

All he was was smart about waiting before shooting her a text message-- Shaw waited a little over two weeks, as if mulling over how best to convey the combined concept of gratitude and I'd like to know you as a friend now. Then, when a suitable amount of time had passed, he used that innate, troublesome confidence to invite her over to his place for dinner.

If the bounds of their student-teacher relationship were no more, and considering she knew him (which she must to some degree after all those lessons), he believed there wasn't any harm in offering. And the sweet thing that Melissa is, it's no surprise at all when she shows up at his door.

At the sight of her, Shaw lights up. For a moment, it feels like a hit of nicotine after quitting smoking for years.

Then his expression calms, his smile a little more polite. "You made it," he says, stood in the doorway with a black apron over his clothes. The scent of his cooking wafts from inside; Shaw had opted for basil porkchops, and whilst the meat had yet to be cooked (it'd be quick after the marinade), the buttered vegetables he prepared earlier gives off a pleasant scent as they roast in his oven.

"Come in." The door is opened further, and he waits for Melissa to enter before offering to take her coat. "You said you came straight from work, right? I don't want you standing outside any longer than you have to."

From the entrance to his house, he leads Melissa up a short flight of stairs to where his living room is. His house is clean, and far more decorated than the bachelor stereotype would entail. Though he's got a couch same as anyone else, Shaw also has art on the walls purchased from various markets; clean, forest green curtains complement the pillows on his dark grey couch, and a dark wooden coffee table with books stacked in the shelf underneath rests comfortably before it. Notably, there's a stereo system with CDs flanking either side of it, just begging to be played.

"Make yourself comfortable-- the couch is yours, unless you want to sit at the island and watch me cook." After hanging Melissa's coat in a closet close to the stairs, Shaw faces her with his hands resting loosely on his hips. "The only condition I have is I won't accept constructive criticism until after you've tasted the food."

[untracked]

"Coffee turns you into a real fucking diva, you know that?" Shaw muses, but with a hand settling easily in the space between Jacob's shoulder blades, he starts to urge him on.

"But yeah, sure-- I won't touch the damn thing." A beat. "Long as you prepare my cup for me when you're done brewing it."

This, between them-- the bartering of seemingly inconsequential things, the looks and the teasing and the cheesy twang of Jacob's voice-- has, despite all odds, become part of Shaw's normal. He has no-one but himself to blame; Jacob fascinated him so much that he manouevred to keep the man in his life in more controlled ways than just waiting for him to show up again.

Even after the revelation of his destruction (and whatever form Jacob took when he became like that-- making cuts so jagged Shaw knew he couldn't be whatever it was that lurked up the stairs to nowhere, even if he was close), in the fucked up underbelly of his mind all Shaw feels is vindication. Jacob's undoubtedly something far from human... but he's loyal to him, and that's all that matters.

Offering Jacob's fragmented life some stability means that Jacob will always come back to him, and seeing the man smile each time he recognises him has Shaw feeling the closest he's ever gotten to bone-deep joy.

He turns, looking at Jacob's profile. "Will you let me cook you breakfast, at least?"

JACOB STOOD WITH a grunt, hand held tight to Shaw's. He winced at the protest from his back ; his cross always seemed to hurt more after he collected a bounty. For a moment, Jacob remained close, chest pressed to Shaw's shoulder — but then he seemed to become aware of where he was. A bit of pink touched his cheeks, always too pale for the amount of time he spent in the sun, and Jacob stepped away. Nails scratched at the back of his neck, mindful of the fabric loosely wrapped around it.

" . . . the hell's old timey ?? " Jacob asked, though the question was aimed at himself. He bent down and picked up his Stetson ( and in doing so unknowingly defined the concept rattling around in his skull with that final piece of his outfit ).

"Nah, Mr. Shaw," he finally replied, voice purposefully raised for Shaw to hear this time. A breeze moved his twisted waves and the edges of his duster ; the smell of cigarette smoke and viscera temporarily filled the air. "Y'don't — get to dangle coffee out there like that and take it back."

Jacob dug his fingernails into his beard next. The layer of dirt in the thick hair prompted him to reconsider, and he sighed. Jacob gave Shaw a pointed look from beneath the brim of his trademark hat. " — but I may be persuaded to change my tune, sir, so long as you swear you ain't touching the kettle." His laugh, as always, was too loud.

[untracked]

"Oh, it tastes like shit, does it?" Teeth bared, Shaw leans ever so slightly. His balance stays settled even with the way he remains crouched over Jacob's form, nice and practised. "What happened to being good and saying 'yes, please' and 'thank you, Mr. Shaw, sir'?"

Releasing Jacob from his grip, however, the quirk of his lip gives his unserious amusement away.

"Whatever. I don't want your dirty ass scaring any hikers out here-- if drinking old timey coffee's the price to pay, I guess that's easy enough."

Then he holds his hand out, gaze pointed in that you're gonna let me help you up sort of way, and gets Jacob up without much bother. With the insistence of a lack of cold, Shaw doesn't push it; he stopped trying to make sense of Jacob's physicality months ago (and that was before he ever saw him kill anything-- before he started digging graves, burning bodies, and taking boats out into the lake).

"Shower first. You're at least gonna give me that, right?"

GOD'S VOICE WAS gone. Stripped out of him, with all of the elation and love that accompanied it — and all that was left in Jacob was bone - deep exhaustion. The same that he fought against as Shaw's voice washed over his senses. Gray eyes opened, still glazed over. Dust ( and blood ) covered him, from the crown of his tangled mane to the toe of his boots.

you just gotta wake up for me, cowboy.

Shaking fingers grasped Shaw's wrist. Jacob's lips parted. His gaze moved to the other man. Slowly, his face filled with recognition. I know you, he mouthed silently first.

A deep inhale. Then, Jacob smiled. Storm - colored irises, which shared the same color as the coarse silver waves in his hair, glittered with life. "Mornin', sir," he said hoarsely. The slow drawl and his accent almost sounded comical ; it had been a century, at least, since anyone spoke that thickly without it being an attempt at an exaggerated character.

"I'm not cold, y'know," he murmured, lips curling up into a proper grin. " — but you've got me on coffee. Just . . . let me do it. Yours tastes like shit. Whole world's does, it's not just you." Jacob's broad chest swelled with air, and he squeezed Shaw's flesh instinctively.

[untracked]

A gloved hand catches the angles of Jacob's jaw, thumb and index pressed firm enough to hold without hurting.

"Jacob." Shaw's voice is as steady as it is clear, purposeful in its attempts to snap the other man out of his groggy state. His index finger rubs a half-inch down the curve of his jaw, and through the thick fabric of his glove the blunt end of his fingernail presses dully into skin. "Come back to me, man."

He's done this enough times it feels like a routine. While Jacob lies in the grass, a mess of blood and dirt all over his boneless body, Shaw continues his attempts to wake him as if he'd simply found the man oversleeping in bed.

Poor, stupid thing. Even as he thinks it, though, Shaw's eyes soften. Poor, poor baby.

"It's morning, Jacob. C'mon, we gotta get you somewhere warm, yeah?"

(The blood all over him cooled down hours ago.)

"We'll clean you up, get you coffee." Shaw's fingers squeeze where they hold him. "You just gotta wake up for me, cowboy."

@evilsontherun // semi-plotted starter, lmao 🥰

[untracked]

Miller's Girl (2024)

[untracked]

random [14]: up the wolves, the mountain goats. // @bloodypuzzle, from here.

THERE'S BOUND TO BE A GHOST AT THE BACK OF YOUR CLOSET, NO MATTER WHERE YOU LIVE.

Shaw never expected to be in Lawrence's life for as long as he has, and in a way it's almost surreal. That the man was his first stairway survivor-- no small feat, either-- already made him memorable. But here Shaw is, sat on Lawrence's floor and resting his temple against his calve, silent in the shared grief of a lost little girl. Lawrence Gordon has, in some way or other, become more than a good result in a report Shaw wrote... and, frankly, he's not sure what to do about that.

Diana wasn't his, and it wasn't like Shaw ever got to become particularly close to her, but the way loss has shaped Lawrence is palpable, both in his misery and his rage. He contemplates telling him that he hasn't given up looking for her, but what good would that do? Whatever he attempts in his free time doesn't matter when there aren't any results to show for it.

So instead, Shaw's thumb strokes the bit of skin that peeks between the end of Lawrence's trousers and the sock on his one good foot. As his gaze drifts to the prosthetic attached to his other leg, he tries not to think about how saving Diana once upon a time didn't save her from the second time she was taken away.

"I never did see it," Shaw comments, sitting up enough to rest his head against Lawrence's knee. He doesn't lift his hand from where it rests on Lawrence's ankle, though.

"Your nub, I mean. At least not without it all covered in blood."

His expression turns wry.

"Is it fucked up I kind of want to?" His head tilts up in an attempt to catch Lawrence's attention. "I always pictured it smooth-- the cuts people get out there always are. But you strike me as someone who's bad at healing."

[untracked]

Dorothy touches him, and it is the warmest touch Shaw's ever felt (whatever this says of his experiences in reality is ignored; real doesn't have her). He pauses, tilts his head, and marvels quietly at the ticklish feel of his sister's fingers against his beard. He's so used to his dreams being horrid that a part of him doubts this is a product of his mind-- for as long as he can remember, his subconscious has always been a right fucking asshole.

Dorothy, though? In what hazy memories he has left, and in the habits he has simply because some younger version of him had to make up for her loss (Captain always kissed his wounds because Dorothy used to do it, even if he doesn't remember her any more), he knows that she loves him. Had always loved him, and loves him even here.

So Shaw says, "I don't think you have a mean bone in your body.

"And it's okay, you know, that I'm hard to look at." Another flower is pulled from God knows where, it doesn't matter, and worked into his sister's hair. "I figure that's what missing someone does. When I tracked your high school yearbook down and saw you for the first time... like, the real first time, with me being old enough to keep this image of you in my head after...

"It was weird." He smiles slightly. "But at least you were already going through puberty then-- like, I mean, you don't look so different now.

"I guess you wouldn't, if my mind made you up." Shaw's head tilts. "I can't imagine you as anything but beautiful, though."

no, this isn't the first time, and no, she can't bear to look at him. she smiles, feeling his fingers thread through her hair with more skill than she could've imagined coming from her clumsy, boisterous little brother. dorothy can't help but wonder how her absence has changed him, what is her fault and what is simply his nature— if there's any difference between the two.

"it's still strange seeing you with a beard..." fondness swelling in her chest. he's become a man. blindly, she reaches for him. her palm cradles his cheek, thumb smoothing over his facial hair, feeling the reality that she can't dare to look at. this has to be real, then. this familiarity is only known to her here, could never be replicated with the patchwork of true dreams.

"is that cruel of me?" to deny him even her gaze after she left him behind... her hand drops to find his arm and give it a gentle squeeze. his opinion of her should have no sway here in the privacy of her mind, but the question came naturally.

"it suits you," she assures him, "just as your height does. i only struggle with the reminders of how long we've been apart."

[untracked]

CALEB SINCLAIRE & ROCKY | The Vicious Kind — 2009

[untracked]

37: ghosted, mother mother. // @trackd, from here.

HEY, WOULD IT BE SO BAD IF I STAYED?

"This isn't the first time we've done this, is it?"

Shaw's voice always sounds so light in his dreams. Most of the time it's because he's a child when he experiences them, but in dreams like these-- the ones where he gets to see Dorothy again-- he imagines it must be because he's happy.

Because he feels happy.

"I mean... being together like this. Seeing me like this." Shaw wets his lips, tentative. How much can a good dream tell him when he made his sister up himself? "You didn't seem as surprised as I was when I walked up to you, is all."

(She didn't start tearing up like Shaw did. She didn't lose her footing, didn't have to apologise like a fool.)

At the moment they aren't doing anything important: they're sat in the grass, and Shaw is weaving flowers in his big sister's hair. It's longer than he remembers, however accurate or inaccurate his memory might be; it feels like he's been doing this for her for years all the same. Callused though his fingers might be, they touch Dorothy with a deftness that can only be practised, even if she disappeared decades ago.

"...is that why you won't look at me?" A beat. "Did something bad happen last time?"

[untracked]

Send 🎁 to receive a starter based off a random song from my Spotify Wrapped

Remember to state who the meme is for/or from for multimuses.

Add a number (1-100) for the starter to be based off the corresponding song.