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kyeungsoo · 3 years

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it’s gonna be forever (or go down in flames).

× pairings: oh sehun + oc: reader

× genres and warnings: fluff :/ are you bored yet lmao, angst? i guess? i wouldn’t really categorize it as that tho, slight angst i suppose, royalty au, bodyguard/knight au

× notes: no </2 bc this concept hurted and even worse i’ve been obsessed with them lately if you see a prince chanyeol fic sometime soon don’t @ me <2 also! (i posted this before a few months ago, but i accidentally deleted it then and lowkey forgot to ever repost it rip).

When he thinks about it, there are only a handful of memories Sehun can recall of a time in his life before you were in it.

Two and half year olds don’t understand much of the concept of pregnancy other than that it means a new, tiny human will arrive soon and that pregnant people’s stomachs get bigger. So when Sehun was a mere toddler waddling around the palace halls, he didn’t think much of the Queen’s pregnancy, other than that it meant that there’d soon be a baby around.

But since you were born, Sehun has spent every waking—and sometimes sleeping—moment by your side. As a kid, he didn’t know that his life’s purpose was to protect you, but if you’d asked him, he’d have accepted the role, regardless. And when he was eight, he did.

To him, you’re more than a princess that he’s learned to protect as a knight. You’re his confidant, his best friend, someone he might even love more than himself.

Sehun always took his job seriously. He trained diligently with the other knights, was brave and wise enough to choose to master the bow and arrow when swords hindered him, and always, always, always put you before himself.

It’s kind of scary, actually, to think that Sehun couldn’t begin to picture his life without golds and tulles of your dresses flowing about in his mind; without your mischievous smile when you convince him to go horse riding after midnight; without the soft touch of your knuckles against his cheek telling him he’s the bravest knight this castle’s ever seen. Without having you by his side.

Sehun watches you more than anything. He tries to not be creepy about it, but it’s kind of his job to keep his eyes on you. Not that he minds—you’re easy on the eyes, interesting to watch, and if he’s speaking honestly, if it weren’t for his… supervision, you’d have at least broken a leg or two by now.

He watches you now, in your bedroom suite, his legs folded criss-cross atop your bedding whilst you pace back and forth against your ceiling length windows. Sehun almost chuckles—you can be such a cliché, wander-lorn princess when you want to be.

“You’re zoning out again,” he grins, eyebrow quirked when his voice startles and stops your pacing, “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

With a smile he pushes himself forward, laying on his stomach atop your bed now, elbows pushing into your mattress and chin in his palm as you look at him with a less than impressed visage.

He knows you hate when he lays in your bed with all his armor on, but being your knight and best friend of over two decades has its privileges—one of many being that Sehun is one of about six people in the world who can annoy you without immediately getting an arrow to the throat.

“What are you thinking about, huh?” he questions, a sly smirk playing on his lips, “Smartest princess in the lower region?”

“Where did you learn to flirt?” you retort with a scoff, tossing a decorative pillow in his direction. The attack does little though, as Sehun catches it with a single arm extended in the air, then tosses his behind him without flinching.

“Must have been from you,” Sehun smirks, swinging his legs around until he’s sitting upwards and they’re hanging off the edge of your bed.

He extends his left arm with his palm facing upwards, and waits until you pace forward to accept his hand. Sehun gingerly wraps his fingers around your hand, an action in complete contrast to what comes next—when he pulls you into himself, and effectively, onto the bed with little effort on his part at all.

Sehun laughs over your screeching as he tosses you until you’re flat on your back in the middle of the mattresses and he’s laying beside you on his side, head propped up by his bent arm, cheek resting into his palm.

He looks down at you with a bratty and mischievous look in his eyes, but you succumb anyway, slowing turning your body until you’re mirroring his own. Sehun’s grin only widens—he knows that if he weren’t all suited up, you’d have jabbed him in the ribs by now. Or, at least, attempted to.

If anyone had been caught roughhousing you the way Sehun just had, it’d be grounds for execution on sight. But he was the exception. He always way,

“You wanna tell me what’s wrong now?” he hums, “I can almost smell your anxiety.”

You sigh, and Sehun watches as your eyes dart everywhere but to his own. But while yours are flittering around, he’s reading them. He knows you want to lie to him, tell him nothing’s the matter, but he knows that you know that’d be futile.

Eventually, slowly, you come to terms with the fact, shifting your body slightly and using your free hand to push away some of the lower fabric of your dress.

“It’s the council,” you begin, and Sehun’s eyebrows are already drawing together, “They think I should be married before I take over for mama and—”

“And you don’t want to,” Sehun finishes for you.

But Sehun finds you shaking your head and biting your lip in opposition. His eyebrows crinkle further. Those are two telltale signs of a princess who is about to let some old people make decisions for her.

“It’s not that I don’t want to—I want to be married, eventually,” you clarify, meeting his eyes at the latter half of your sentence, “It’s just… their list of bachelors.”

“List?” Sehun sits up now, one leg bent to support his weight as he looks down at your figure. “Are they actually expecting you to get married to someone they picked for you?”

“It’s not a list, really,” you correct him, and he’s lost your eye contact. He hates that, and he hates the defeated tone in your voice, “It’s more like… a single request.”

Sehun’s lips purse at the new information. The council is easily his least favorite thing about the castle, and the kingdom in general, so it doesn’t surprise him at all, but that doesn’t mean he’s any happier to hear it, either. He knew that the royal council would be instant on you marrying eventually—at some point in your late twenties, much like the tradition of women before you—not now. And not to—

“No,” Sehun all but growls, “Not him.”

“Sehun, I—”

“You hate him,” Sehun continues, sitting up more straightly with every word that leaves his mouth, “He’s not good enough for you—and he barely knows you!”

“Junmyeon is a prince, Sehun,” you sigh, sitting up to level your posture with his, “An exemplary one at that. And that’s all it really takes, unfortunately.”

Sehun huffs. Exemplary? As if. If not the council, then Prince Junmyeon is easily Sehun’s least favorite thing in this life.

He has no real reason for this distaste. Well, no, real, concrete reason, but Sehun likes to think he’s pretty good at reading people. Particularly when people don’t like him, and Prince Junmyeon has made it clear that he doesn’t like or trust Sehun one bit.

“He’s a bit childish,” Sehun had overheard the Prince talking to a few of his noblemen on a visit to the castle, “He doesn’t seem fit to be a knight.”

The memory alone is enough to make Sehun furious. Childish his, ass. He’ll show him childish. Putting an arrow straight through his forehead would show him childish.

Not to mention that you and Prince were acquaintances at best, and that’s being generous. The council had no reason to push you two together other than for financial and agricultural benefits, and Sehun would be damned to see your freedom signed away for a piece of land a sack of gold.

“Sehun, they just want to make sure I’m being looked after,” you pull him out of his thoughts, “Junmyeon and I aren’t friends, but he’s kind and wise. He prioritizes the protection of his family and kingdom above all and the council thinks that I’d be safe with him.”

“And what about Junmyeon himself, huh?” Sehun grits, “How is he to look after you when all he does is work and talk and work all day? The last time he visited the castle he could hardly offer you the time of day, much less hold a conversation.”

“He’s a prince, Sehun, he has many duties and—”

“And if he is to be your husband, you should be his most important one.”

Sehun’s words escape his lips before he can catch them, but he has no regrets about letting you hear them, either. Your eyes are solemn, yet full of affection as you take his words in. Sehun thinks they’re beautiful, even if a little lost.

“They just want me to be safe,” you repeat, words soft as you reach a hand you to rest against the cold, metal armor wrapped around his body, “You know with the tensions from the west, and Jongdae’s alliance growing it’s—it’s not easy, Sehun.”

Your thumb swipes against his armor, but Sehun swears his can feel your touch on his skin.

“Are you to insinuate that I am not good enough security for you?”

“Absolutely not,” your words come quickly, without hesitation—he almost smiles, because he knows you mean it. “You are. Enough, I mean. A little bratty, but still, there’s nobody better suited than you.”

Your words pierce his heart, true and full. “Then what?” he asks, extending a hand to cradle your elbow.

And you look up at him again, and Sehun doesn’t want you to look away. “They… mean civil protection, Sehun. Legal protection, too, I guess. A husband to suffice for that.”

Sehun pulls his lips together, tilts his head back and upwards to look at your ceiling, letting your words and his thoughts permeate the room instead.

He’s always liked the paintings on your ceilings. Hyperrealistic constellations that make him feel like his out in the garden on a clear night looking up at the sky. It’s gorgeous, fitting for a princess such as yourself, and while Sehun can’t take credit for the art itself, he can for the idea.

“Then marry me,” he says, still looking up at your ceiling. He only tilts his head back down to meet your gaze after he feels the weight of his words cement in his chest. He meant them. He means him.

“Marry me,” he repeats, eyes now searching yours for an ounce of disagreement (to which he finds none). He glides his hand down your forearm, slips it into your own, “Who better fit to protect the princess than her own knight.”

#exo smut #exo scenarios #exo reactions #exo imagines #sehun smut #sehun fluff #sehun x reader #exo x reader #chanyeol smut #chanyeol fluff #junmyeon smut #junmyeon fluff #exo fanfic

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violetwolfraven · 3 years

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Willie Headcanons

So I actually came up with this like a month ago and forgot to post it. Anyway enjoy my headcanons about our favorite sk8er boi. Be ready for feels.

Tw: death, car accident mention, emotional manipulation.

...

In my mind, Willie had a good relationship with his parents. They were supportive and everything. They both loved Willie very much.

And Willie has youngest child energy so I’m saying he has a sister who’s 2 years older and a brother who’s 5 years older. Their names are Delilah and Austin.

AND ALL THREE OF THEM ARE ADRENALINE JUNKIES.

Seriously imagine the worst possible combination of head empty only skateboarding and you’ve got Willie, Delilah, and Austin.

Austin started skating when he was 7 and got Delilah hooked on it a year later.

Their parents kinda didn’t like the idea of it but those two had already started teaching Willie basic stuff by the time he was 3.

But... the other two had other interests. Delilah was into art (painting) and Austin played piano (like, really well).

For Willie, skateboarding was his thing. And it always was.

He had fun with it when his big brother would put his hands on his and teach him to play a bit, or his sister would give him some paint and a spare canvas and they’d doodle together, but it wasn’t like skating.

As far as I’ve seen (which admittedly isn’t that far) it’s widely accepted that Willie has ADHD so I’m leaning into that here.

And Willie inherited his brain from his dad, who had a bad experience with meds and so wouldn’t let any of his kids go through it.

So Willie grew up unmedicated but probably better off for the time period. His dad taught him coping mechanisms. Him and Austin. Delilah didn’t inherit it but she was taught to empathize with her brothers and recognize when they needed her help with something.

She’s a badass who can and does beat up anybody who’s mean to her brothers for missing social cues.

But anyway while Austin had piano (and skating as a side thing) Willie got even more hooked on skateboarding than either of his siblings because his brain latched onto it from a young age and couldn’t let go.

We all have our outlets. The chaos in our brains has to go somewhere. For Willie it goes into skating.

When he’s young he and his siblings will skateboard to school and then after school they’ll skate all around Hollywood for hours.

They do their homework in random McDonalds and Denny’s and tbh become local cryptid customers. Like they’re just these 3 super friendly skater siblings who tip really well and visit every fast food place within a 20 mile radius of their house with varying frequency.

They also find e v e r y skatepark, empty pool, and vacant lot in that 20 mile radius that they can possibly find.

Their parents have to bail them out of jail for trespassing and the occasional vandalism every so often.

Sometimes one of them has stuff to do and it’s just two of them out skating but if two of them are busy the other one never goes out alone cause it’s dangerous. We’ll get back to that later.

So anyway when they’re 17, 14, and 12, Delilah comes out as a lesbian.

And the family is supportive of course because they’re a good family.

But her coming out gets Willie thinking. About how some of his friends have crushes on girls but he just... doesn’t see the appeal.

Like he has a couple friends who are girls and they’re great and he likes hanging out with them at recess but he doesn’t get the hype. They’re just more friends. So he doesn’t really see what his big sister is so interested in either.

In my mind Willie actually is from around the same time as the boys (dying in like 1999) so one day while nobody else in their house is home he and Delilah are watching Star Wars: Return of the Jedi and Willie’s again wondering why people think Leia is so hot cause she’s cool and all but Luke is right there and he looks really good and—

Willie: I think I might be gay.

Delilah: Yeah I know.

They talk about it and Willie does decide to tell the rest of the family but he’s a bit wary about anyone else because he saw how some of Delilah’s friends turned on her after she came out. He doesn’t want that to happen to him.

He does end up telling a few of his friends but he doesn’t quite not care what people think of him the way his big sister does.

Austin is the only straight one and he’s like. So awkward about it but in a sweet way.

Austin: So, Britney Spears is hot, right?

Delilah: Stop.

And

Austin: So I saw you hanging around Chris the other day are you two..?

Willie: ...no...???

Austin: Cool, yeah I didn’t think so. Just had to make sure. Not that I’m doubting your ability to get boys but I’d have to shovel talk him if you were.

Willie: If I ever do get a boyfriend, please don’t.

He tries. He’s a himbo if that wasn’t clear. Where did you think Willie learned it?

So anyway fast forward a couple years and they’re 22, 19, and 17. Austin and Delilah are both in college and Willie’s the last one left at home and things between their parents start getting... tense.

Like they don’t fight exactly but they’ve fallen out of love and things are awkward.

Even Austin and Delilah can tell and they’re only home on breaks and some weekends but for Willie it’s right there and he’s watching it happen. He has no option but to see.

They used to have a rule that they don’t go skating alone because it’s dangerous but Willie just can’t make himself stay home so he goes out skateboarding.

At first it’s never too far from home or anywhere where there’s too much traffic but as things get increasingly awkward at home he goes out farther and farther, chasing the adrenaline high he used to get from going anywhere and everywhere every day after school with his siblings.

Then his parents officially tell him they’re getting divorced and

And it’s not like he couldn’t see it coming, but... it still hurts.

And neither of his siblings are coming home any time soon so

So he goes out skating on his own, way too far from home. He keeps going until he doesn’t even know where he is anymore.

He isn’t really paying attention the way he should but that’s not why he runs into trouble.

The driver of that red pickup is drunk and he rounds the corner out of nowhere.

If Delilah or Austin had been there they could have yelled for Willie to jump out of the way, or maybe up on the hood so the impact wouldn’t be as bad, but he’s alone.

So he gets hit, and the car was going fast enough that he’s dead before he even hits the pavement.

After that there’s a lot of confusion but once Willie figures out he’s a ghost... it’s too painful to think about going home, so he just... doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to see his family mourning him, so he just distracts himself, skating everywhere he couldn’t before without getting busted.

Plus some old routes where he used to go with Delilah and Austin, just for something that’s familiar but not too familiar.

He’s on one of those more familiar routes a few weeks after his death when he’s skating down Sunset Boulevard one night, singing along to Toxic by Britney Spears blasting from a nearby club and a man dressed in a purple suit comments on how he’s got a good voice.

Honestly Willie is just so relieved to have someone to talk to that he forgets about stranger danger completely.

Plus he recognizes an Elder Gay in Caleb and assumes he can trust him because the Elder Gays he met at pride that one time he went with Delilah were so nice and understanding of how reassuring it was to see queer people of older generations who got a happy ending.

Caleb barely even has to try. He just lets this 17-year-old obviously-queer ghost rant at him for a few minutes, asks a few questions and finds out that he also can play piano, and convinces him to come to the Hollywood Ghost Club the next night.

From there it’s not like Willie has anyone to save him so of course he has to join the club.

At first he’s completely alone because the other performers scare him almost as much as Caleb does.

Then slowly, he sees how they give him space because they know he’s scared of them. How they turn a blind eye when he leaves the club without permission. How they don’t critique his mistakes with the same sarcasm they show each other.

Willie starts to realize that the other performers are doing their best to look out for him, and he starts being less afraid.

They’re all too concerned with their own survival to really protect him but if they draw some attention to themselves occasionally so Caleb doesn’t notice Willie being slow to pick up some tricky choreography, that’s not too risky.

The others are all like 21 at the youngest and they really don’t appreciate Caleb tricking a literal child into working for him no matter how talented said child is. (Cause Willie is good at singing and piano. It’s just not his passion.)

The twins are 22 but they died in 1925 and before that they were performing to support a younger brother who they never got to say goodbye to so maybe they see Willie as a kind of second chance.

Lyssa (what I decided to name drummer woman because I don’t know her real name if she has one) is 25 and she died in 1984. She had a daughter who’d be about Willie’s age now and... who knows? Maybe they were friends.

Fuego is 24 and from 1951 and he had a childhood best friend who enlisted and died in WWII that he thought he might get to see when he died but that boy moved on and so... well, Willie’s just a little younger than his friend was the last time he saw him.

In short Willie becomes everyone’s baby brother and they do what they can to look out for him even if they’re just as scared of Caleb as he is.

And the better adjusted Willie gets to (after)life at the HGC and the better they get to know him, the guiltier the others start to feel about him being stuck there.

Eventually a combination of guilt and worked-up courage leads Fuego tells him about the whole unfinished business thing, in hopes maybe he can figure his out and get away from Caleb.

It doesn’t take Willie long to think of his family, how hopeless he felt about the divorce, how worried he was it would change everything and then how scared he was to see his family in pain because of his death.

He realizes his unfinished business is probably seeing them. Letting himself say goodbye.

He almost gets away with it.

Caleb catches up and stops him in the driveway of his house and poofs them back to the HGC.

He convinces (gaslights) Willie into believing that saying goodbye was never his unfinished business and even if it was it’s not like it would matter because Caleb wouldn’t let him do it.

The next morning he ships the HGC out to Tokyo. They stay on the move for a long time and when they are in town, Willie is basically locked in his room.

The next time he’s allowed out in Hollywood, his parents don’t live in their old house anymore and he has no way to find them.

As a coping mechanism, he just starts making the best of a bad situation. Becoming better friends with the other ghosts. Helping soften the blow whenever someone new comes along.

None of that means he stops checking the faces of passing skaters or keeping eyes on restaurants his folks used to like, but it does mean he more or less gives up hope.

That’s what he’s doing when he bumps into Alex.

Look, Willie loves his friends at the HGC. He really does. But there’s a big difference between 17 and 20-something. Like the others will drink alcohol some nights and technically Willie was born over 21 years ago but he still feels weird enough about it that he doesn’t drink.

He hasn’t talked to anyone his age in a long time so Alex is a breath of fresh air.

Also he’s like. Really cute. And sweet. And funny. And shit, Willie’s fallen for him before he even has time to think about it.

He keeps thinking about how Alex doesn’t seem like he’d be physically capable of hurting someone on purpose so Austin would approve and every once in a while there’s that sarcasm that pops out which means he’d get along great with Delilah.

In general Alex is the kind of guy he would’ve loved to take home to meet the family. Them not included, he’s kind of... everything Willie’s missed about Hollywood in the form of one person.

Then they hang out more and Alex is still everything he’s missed but he’s also so much more than that and...

It almost feels like a part of Alex is still alive. And for the first time in years, a part of Willie feels alive, too.

They’ve known each other for like a week tops and Willie is already in love.

Not that he’s admitting that to anyone, because he’s learned the hard way that anyone you care about can be used against you.

Still... when Alex asks for help getting revenge on Bobby, he can’t bring himself to say no because he needs to keep Alex in his (after)life and the only way he knows how to do that (or to make people be nice to him in general) is to be as useful as possible.

That turns out to be a big mistake, because Caleb sees right through him in an instant, targets Alex to confirm it, then immediately starts the process to trick the boys into committing to eternity at the HGC.

Willie feels like an idiot for thinking he could actually get away with it. Doing something good for someone he cares about.

He hadn’t thought Caleb would be interested in them because he’d never actually heard them play. The assumption was that he’d make them do some small favor and then let them talk to their bandmate for 5 minutes. A clean deal where they never have to commit to anything. Willie forgot to take magic into account.

He almost manages to convince himself it was all a bad dream, but when he seeks out Alex and his friends to check on them, he can almost feel the jolts himself, and seeing Alexthem in pain feels terrible.

Willie knows that theoretically they could figure out their unfinished business and cross over, but that all depends on finding it and doing it fast enough and if they failed...

People you care about can be used against you. And Willie does not want to be used against Alex again. He doesn’t want to see Alex used against him.

So he keeps his distance, in hopes Caleb will think he lost interest. He’s pretty sure once the boys find out about the stamp they’ll hate him, anyway.

And plus, as he’s been taught by his friends at the HGC, you have to look out for yourself because no one else will do it for you. Maybe you hurt somebody by not standing up for them, but you can apologize later and hope they forgive you. You can’t apologize if you’re gone, and it’s not like it would make a difference anyway because Caleb is too powerful for anyone to beat.

The thought of how spending eternity with Alex might not be so bad even if it has to be at the HGC does come up, but ironically that’s what makes Willie decide to screw his courage to the sticking point and tell them.

Because he has seen what decades at the club has done to his friends.

They’re all great performers, and they perform happiness well even to each other, but Willie knows them enough to know how tired they all are. How they have been doing the same thing over and over again for decades and they are sick of it.

They’re young, talented tragedies lost to drug overdoses, or AIDS, or accidents, or suicide, and they should’ve gotten to rest after everything they went through in their lives. Instead, they got a curse disguised as a blessing. They got to stay on a stage, got to keep performing and soaking up applause, never got to stop.

Willie has been there a shorter time than most of them and he feels it. The exhaustion, because ghosts are supposed to haunt for a few years then figure out their unfinished business and move on. They’re not meant to be trapped for decades, used as party tricks.

A part of Alex still feels alive and being trapped in the Hollywood Ghost Club for years on end would kill that part of him.

Willie can’t let that happen, so as hard as it is...

He tells the boys what’s wrong with them. And by that hurt, betrayed look in Alex’s eyes, he’s honestly expecting him to never forgive him.

But then Alex does. And that almost hurts worse because whether he figures out his unfinished business or not, Willie doubts he’s ever going to see him again.

He honest to God almost cries when Alex hugs him because... shit, he hasn’t gotten a hug since he was breathing.

He goes back to the HGC and tries to go about his day, and keeps replaying how good it felt to have Alex’s arms around him, hoping that memory will get him through the next few decades on his own.

The ghosts at the club do actually gossip a fair amount and by this point all of them know about the 3 dead members of Sunset Curve.

So when Willie admits to Helen (what I’m calling one of the twins) that Alex hugging him was the first time he’d gotten a hug since he died, she hugs him tight for a good 20 seconds, telling him she’s sorry he has to lose him, and if Willie closes his eyes he can almost pretend it’s Delilah.

The next thing he knows, he’s locked in a closet.

Caleb comes to talk to (intimidate) him a few hours later, saying he knows what Willie did.

He’s magically locked in his room alone for a couple weeks after that and it’s essentially psychological torture.

Helen, Anna (what I decided to call the other twin), Dante, Fuego, Lyssa, and everyone else tell him not to test Caleb for the next couple years, but Willie has a heart full of love and a head full of fuck it, so he doesn’t listen.

He gives it exactly one day of being/acting scared and obedient, then goes out without permission again, fully intending to scream in a museum alone to let out all his feelings.

Remember: Willie didn’t see the Orpheum performance. He doesn’t know the boys didn’t cross over but by Caleb’s mood he has a feeling the outcome of that scenario was not in the magician’s favor.

He gets there and it’s literally this comic by the very talented @williessweatycherrysocks

He can’t stay long but he and Alex scream in each other’s faces, talk a bit, maybe sing a duet.

After that, they sneak to see each other when they can but don’t get to see much of each other for months.

It’s hard on both of them but they don’t give up on their relationship.

Through long and complicated events which I will outline later, Willie eventually gets free of the HGC, hugs his friends goodbye already making plans to take down Caleb for good to free them, too, and promptly declines an offer to stay in the Molinas’ garage.

As much as he wants to be close to Alex he’s done being confined to one place.

He still comes and visits like every day tho.

He knows a lot more about ghosting than the other boys do so he and Carlos get along amazingly like:

Carlos: So do you know who Jack the Ripper was?

Willie: No? How old do you think I am?

Carlos: I dunno but I thought it might be Caleb cause that would explain how he never got caught.

Willie, taking notes in his Things To Potentially Use To Take Caleb Down notebook: You’re a tiny genius.

No one was expecting it but everyone is in awe of how well he and Carrie get along. Between the two of them they know so much celebrity gossip. (and it’s definitely a good thing he’s on good terms with her cause she and Alex are close)

On the angsty side, Willie also bonds with Nick over how they both know how it feels to be manipulated and used by Caleb.

Also it takes a long time before he’s able to trust him, but he does get adopted into the Molina clan by Ray.

Ray reminds him a lot of his own dad, once Willie’s able to see that he’s nothing like Caleb.

Ray’s honestly just 100% happy to Dad™️ anyone who needs a dad so it works out great once Julie and the boys figure out how to make Willie visible.

But anyway back to important stuff.

Now that they don’t have to hide for any reason, Willie and Alex can both breathe a little easier. Or... they both feel better. Ghosts don’t really breathe.

Willie can finally let himself get used to feeling alive again.

The whole ghost gang goes (invisibly) to the Los Feliz Homecoming dance and maybe it should make him feel a little on-edge with the kind of club-like environment but...

He’s got Alex there, and they’re dancing to some corny pop love song from the 90s that Flynn probably put on because she knew the ghost boys would be there so how could he feel anything but safe?

For a minute it almost feels like actually being alive and there’s yellow and pink and blue lights coming from everywhere reflecting in Alex’s eyes and Willie is suddenly very aware of the fact that though they’ve been together for a long time now, they haven’t had their first kiss.

Then the Cha Cha Slide starts up and the atmosphere switches and Willie totally forgets about the whole romantic tension thing because it’s the Cha Cha Slide everybody has to dance along.

Dirty Candi performs towards the end of the night and the ghost boys cheer the loudest despite how Julie’s laughing at them. They don’t care that Carrie can’t even hear them, they’re being supportive!!!

Everybody screams even louder when Flynn runs up on stage and kisses Carrie and Willie feels a big burst of affection at how Alex shouts ABOUT TIME!

Then he gives Willie a quick hug and leaves cause he and the rest of Julie and the Phantoms have to go get set up for their performance.

Since Alex was able to flip Carrie’s hair in All Eyes on Me I’m saying that ghosts can touch lifers if they focus and believe it will happen hard enough, so the ghost gang has developed a system for alerting their non-Julie lifer friends to their presence.

So while they’re waiting in the crowd Willie taps Carrie on the shoulder like: • - - one short tap, two long taps, a Morse code ‘W’ and Carrie lets Flynn know that he’s there.

(Nick can see him too but Nick’s off somewhere with his date {one of his lacrosse teammates you know the one})

Anyway so Julie goes out and starts up the song and then the rest of the band poofs in but

Something’s unusual.

Cause it’s not Luke on the lower main vocals.

It’s

Alex

Singing while he plays the drums and fucking killing it.

Willie totally bluescreens for a second but then when he actually focuses on the lyrics...

It’s a new song about beating the odds and being with the person you love in spite of the challenges that come with them.

And yeah there are Julie elements in there, (and she’s definitely making heart eyes at Luke even as he sticks to backup vocals) because of course there are since she has to start the song up, but

But Willie might not have any formal music training, but he was at the HGC long enough to know his stuff about music and recognize different artists’ styles.

And there’s a time signature switch on the bridge that’s a little off from how Luke would write it. There’s a swing to the melody that’s a bit more ‘pop’ than the band’s usual songs. Julie’s harmony doesn’t go as high as it normally would, as if whoever wrote the song didn’t have as high of an upper range to work with as she does.

The song is so unmistakably Alex that no one else could have written it.

Flynn and Carrie are quietly making smug comments on what they bet his face looks like right now but Willie’s not listening to them.

On the last chorus, Alex fucking winks at him right before poofing out.

Willie has whiplash like how did they go from him having to psych Alex up to break into a museum even when there’s zero chance of getting caught to Alex openly flirting with him from the stage?

He poofs backstage right as the boys get back from dropping their instruments back in the Molinas’ garage and he honestly doesn’t know what he even wants to say to convey how amazing that performance was.

Then Alex just smiles at him.

Alex: So I take it you liked the song?

Willie: Can I kiss you right now?

They both kinda freeze after he blurts that out and Reggie goes wow really quietly before he and Luke poof out to give them some privacy and whoops now they’re both flustered but

Alex: Wow, didn’t expect that. That’s... um, wow. But yeah.

They kiss and it’s a total romcom moment.

And the story’s far from over, but to Willie this definitely feels like happily ever after.

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pub-lius · 3 years

Text

De-Georgianizing George Bickham’s Penmanship Made Easy (Young Clerk’s Assistant)

I got this idea a while ago after I made my post about Weird History’s video on Alexander Hamilton, and after @quillsink complemented my post on 18th century penmanship and boosted my ego (you really shouldn’t complement me or I might have self esteem). So, here’s another informal post where I basically just profit off of an old, dead man’s work :D

In the 18th century, people weren’t just given crayons and told to write their name and figure it out from there. They learned from workbooks, like the Young Clerk’s Assistant, that showed them how to from the letters, how to sit properly, and gave example sentences to copy. For purposes of improving my god-awful handwriting and to see what it was like to learn how to write in the 18th century, I purchased this book and went through it, doing only the Round-hand because it looked the easiest.

Georgie starts by dictating every aspect of your entire life. Here’s a dumbed down version of his silly little list:

-The size of letters is determined by O and N, so make sure you know how to write those ig

-Georgie wants you to suffer so your down-strokes should be THICC and your up-strokes should be very tiny, done with the corner of your pen. Idk if it’s just my quills or if I’m stupid (probably both) but this is impossible and I gave up on this a long time ago

-NEVER TURN YOUR PEN OR THE POSITION OF YOUR HAND

-He says something weird about your up and down-strokes being proportioned and “answer one another” so I would just say uh... make it pretty

-Letters without stems (e, m, u, s, etc.) MUST be even at the top and bottom, so like the same width and height

-Your stems (d, h, etc.) should be equal in height to lowercase L, except t. This drives me crazy because I’m so used to making t the same as the other letters with stems, but its supposed to be shorter, like closer to i.

-Stems going below (y, q, etc.) should be equal in length to j. As you can tell, symmetry is key

-Capitals should be equal to lowercase L, but “a little stronger”, so I’ll leave that up to your interpretation

-The space between words should be twice the difference between letters, and the spaces between lines should be twice the distance of L, so that low hanging stems don’t intersect with the line below. I, apparently, forgot this rule lol

-Hold your pen between two fingers, almost straight (???) and the thumb bending. The nib, or point, of your pen should be flat

-Put your paper directly in front of you and your hand should be supported by your pinkie finger (gotta do some finger gymnastics jesus).

-Rest your arm ~lightly~ between the wrist and elbow (okay then)

-Sit up straight you baby and keep your elbow close to your side

-Rest your body on your left arm, keeping the paper down with your left hand. And eat food by chewing and breathe by taking in air through your nose and mouth

-NEVER LEAN HARD ON YOUR PEN (make me)

-write slow at first :)

-this one is stupid. make the nib of your pen (”for the round and round hand text hands”) the ~breadth~ of the full stroke, and the part close to the hand? shorter and narrower. I don’t understand this so I don’t listen (omg do I follow any of these rules jesus-)

-for the Italian Hand, make the nib ~finer~ and the slit? longer (if you chose to use the italian hand you’re asking for these confusing rules i can’t help you)

-when numbers appear with letters, the numbers must slope

-numbers should also be bigger than letters

-when you’re writing numbers in columns (because you do that all the time) make them upright

For fun, I’m going to include some moral maxims because I thought some of them were pretty good and they’re good for practice and for examples of how the youth were educated. They had to copy these a bunch when they were learning so they at least subconsciously learned them

-Art polishes and improves nature

-Beauty’s a fair but fading flower

-Fortune’s a fair but fickle mistrefs [mistress]

-Knowledge is a godlike attribute

-Necefsiy [necessity] is the mother of invention

-Variety is the beauty of the world

-Zeal misapply’d is pious phrenzy

I also copied a couple exercises in this book such as copying the days of the week, the months and their amount of days, and a list of Christian names. There’s also this funny little passage that I copied, so I’ll include that as the conclusion to this post. BTW it’s sounds a bit misogynistic but I can’t exactly discern a moral? Like it’s just like “you know how water moves with wind? Yeah women are like that but instead of junk being in the water, the dirt and stuff is men.” and im like “...okay? is that... is that it?” Idk i hate poetry.

“In a dull Stream, which moving flow, You hardly See the Current flow. If a Small Breeze obstructs the Courfe [course], It whirles about for want of Force; And in its narrow Circle gathers Nothing but Chaff, & Straw, & Feathers. The Current of a Female’s Mind Stops thus, and turns with every wind. Thus whirling round, together draws Fools, Fops, & Rakes, for Chaff & Straws.”

#18th Century #1700s #1700s literature #historical writing #18th Century Literature #literature #writing #Handwriting #calm down george #im not doing hand gymnastics for a man #women are like water #i learned that chaff means like the husk of corn #idk why that fact disturbed me

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all1e23 · 4 years

Text

Chocolate Dipped

Pairings: Sugar Daddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Steve has finally had enough of these two idiots.

Warnings: Angsty stuff.

A/N: I am feeling better! Just in time to make you guys cry for Christmas. This is in Steve’s POV at the start. I think I grabbed everyon’s tags but I was pretty sick this week. If I forgot to add you please shoot me an ask and I’ll correct it today. Also, half edited. I got lazy. lol If you like it come sing me a song, write me a story or scream at me! This is the sixth part of my series Sugary Sweet. Make sure you catch up!

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!***

“You goin’ home tonight, buck?”

Steve hung around the doorway to Bucky’s office, hovering like a worried parent. The small room was lived in. Two weeks have passed since they attended Stark’s gala, and Bucky made it a point to work himself to death every single day since. There were cartons upon cartons of takeout, guest pillows from his penthouse on the leather couch that sat under the large windows on the south wall, and Steve caught Bucky wearing the same white button-up three days in a row.

Bucky was avoiding something, and Steve had a decent idea of what that ‘something’ was.

“Hm?” Bucky mumbled, barely looking up from his computer as he did. “Uh, no. Not tonight. I want to get this done for the Danvers account.”

Steve sighed as he spun his keys around his fingers, debating how far he could push this before he drove Bucky away.

“We have people who do that now, Buck. Go home and get some sleep. Wash your hair.”

To Steve’s delight, Bucky looked up, humor lighting up his eyes and smile curling up the corners of his mouth.

“You sayin’ I look bad, Stevie?”

Steve forced through his concern long enough to grin.

“I’m saying you haven’t been home since you broke up with Y/n. Are you ever going to tell me what happened?”

Bucky’s smile fell the moment Steve said her name, and his eyes fell back on his computer. He wasn’t going to talk about Y/n or their arrangement. There was nothing to say. It was never a real relationship as much as Bucky wanted it to be, so there was no reason to treat it as such.

“I don’t have anything to say about it. There was no break-up. It was a temporary situation, and it’s passed. Let’s all move on with our lives.”

“Bullshit.”

“Goodnight, Steven.”

The quiet tug of the door and the hitch of the latch echoes in Bucky’s empty office, leaving him alone in the darkened building. He knew Steve was trying to help, but Steve wasn’t. Bucky didn’t need to be babysat. He needed to go back to that coffee shop, pay for your coffee, and walk away before he let his heart fall yours. Yeah, he knew sulking in his office wasn’t going to fix anything, but he couldn’t face going home. Your toothbrush was still hanging next to his, that drawer in his dresser was full of your clothes, and there was the picture of the two of you resting on the nightstand. Taking down the pictures in his office was bad enough; at least here, the sheets didn’t smell like you.

It has been weeks when the hell was he going to get over you?

Bucky really hoped it would be soon.

The bar was packed. No stool was empty, and the floor was full of kids half his age waiting for what was probably their first beer. Steve groaned. Dealing with grumpy Bucky and now this was completely unfair. The loud cheering made Steve wince as he pushed towards the middle of the crowd, it was hard to see through the crowd of twenty-year-olds, and he has never felt quite as old as he did at that moment.

When did he become this grumpy old man? He blamed Bucky.

Steve caught his wife’s whistle and grinned when he spotted her in one of those half booths that no one actually enjoys sitting at.

“How is he?”

Steve sighed and placed a kiss on her cheek as he squeezed into the seat next to her. That was a loaded question. He gripped his wife’s legs and pulled them over his lap, tucking her under his arm. Steve was going to make the most of the dollhouse-sized booth.

“He’s… a mess. I know he misses her, but he won’t talk about it. I’m not sure what happened, but I don’t think it was a clean break like he’s making it sound.”

“Do you think she left him?”

He shook his head.

No, Steve knew Bucky well enough to know guilt when he saw it.

“I think Bucky didn’t speak up when he should have is what I think, and maybe she got tired of waiting to be more than a game.”

Steve took a sip of Sharon’s red wine and made a face. She grinned and ran her fingers through his bread, scratching gently until he hummed softly and leaned into her touch.

“Well, I think,” Sharon whispered, watching the sleepy smile tug at Steve’s lips. “We are stuck sitting at the bar. The dining room is full of what appears to be teenagers. Somehow when we weren't looking, we became the oldest people in the room. It's a tiny booth or share a table with strangers.”

“That’s alright. We can stay right here.” Steve nudged her chin up with two fingers and smiled. “I like being stuck with you.”

“You think that sweet talk is going to get you somewhere?”

“Pretty confident. Bucky taught me all I know."

Steve grinned and pecked her lips.

A loud voice interrupted Steve’s train of thought and he couldn't help but listen in.

“Look, if fancy man bun can’t see how awesome you are, then you don’t need to waste your time on him.” Steve tried to fight his smile. Whoever that was, he wouldn’t mind sharing a table with them.

“But… I think I love him.”

Steve froze when he heard your voice, and he subtly peeked over his shoulder to find you sitting at a table nearby. You weren’t alone. There was a blond guy he didn’t know, his arm was around your redheaded friend that scared the life out of him sometimes, Nat he was pretty sure, and another red-haired woman he didn’t know. He turned back around before you caught him spying, and he tried to listen over the boisterous shouts and loud, obnoxious music.

This was getting ridiculous. He was getting too old to go to places like this.

“And that sucks,” The guy continued."He’s shit for dragging you along because he knew how you felt. Everyone knew. I’m not saying marry Johnny Lightning--”

You were talking about Bucky.

“Storm.”

“Storm. Whatever. I’m not saying marry him, but it will help take your mind off the asshole who broke your heart.”

“First of all, I only know his name. I don’t have his number because I don’t want to go out with him, Clint. I don’t want anyone else. Can we just stop talking about this, please? It’s bad enough you drug me out of my nice warm bed and made come here. Please stop talking about Bucky.”

“I wasn’t going to let you hide in bed for the rest of your life,” The woman -- Nat, said with a hint of venom in her voice. “I wish you would have talked to him like I told you to. Something is off about this whole thing.”

“I didn’t have time! Things were over before I realized they were.”

“You could go talk to him now?”

“What’s the point? He’s obviously done with whatever we were. I haven’t heard from him in days.”

Bucky was the one that broke up with you? Steve hadn’t expected that, but perhaps he should have.

Steve fidgeted enough to wiggle his phone out of his pocket, silently quieting Sharon before she could make a fuss and draw your attention. He snapped a picture over his shoulder, even though he shouldn’t. You were staring at rose necklace Bucky gave you in Boston while your friends chatted amongst themselves, your eyes were red and puffy like you had been crying non-stop for days. You looked incredibly lonely for someone sitting in the middle of a crowded bar and surrounded by friends.

He dropped the image into a message and sent it off to Bucky.

“I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

Steve placed a kiss on Sharon’s head and slid out of the booth, smiling at her confusion. He walked straight to your table and stopped next to you, making a point to get his shoes and black dress pants in your line of vision. You looked up, and your fingers slipped off the necklace, your mouth fell open and stuttered incoherently.

“Y/n, I think we should talk.”

-----------------------

Across town, Bucky sat in his office, still sitting at his desk hours after Steve left him only now he was staring at his phone instead of his computer. Bucky hasn’t been able to look away from the damn thing since Steve’s text came in over twenty minutes ago. You looked good. Great. A little sad, maybe, but beautiful. He read Steve’s words one more time, and his heart clenched again.

She doesn’t look like someone who moved on. I think you left a few things out of the story.

So he did leave some things out. It was his right to leave out whatever he wanted to. Steve didn’t need to know why things didn’t work out. It wouldn’t change the outcome.

“Hi.”

Bucky’s fingers shook at the sound of your voice, so much so he dropped his phone back onto his desk. You stood in the doorway to his office, fidgeting and uncomfortable. You were still in that little black dress you were wearing in the photo, so you must have come straight from the bar. Bucky slowly leaned back in his chair, his eyes glued to yours.

“Hi… what are you doing here? How did you get in?”

You looked guilty, and Bucky had to fight back a grin.

“Steve gave me his ID.”

You held up a little white card as an explanation and gave him that same shy, nervous smile you gave him when he offered to pay for your coffee all those months ago. Steve could never just mind his own damn business. Nosy little punk.

Bucky should probably thank him for meddling this one time -- depending on how the rest of this night goes.

“Of course, he did.”

You took a few steps in, just enough that you could place the card on Bucky’s desk a keep your distance. Bucky watched your eyes scan his desk for your missing pictures, and he wanted to jump in and tell you they were on the bookshelf behind him now. They were hard to look at it all the time now. He saw relief flood you as you spotted them.

He still didn’t understand why you were here.

“Is everything okay, sweet girl?”

The name just slipped out. Bucky hadn’t meant it to. You weren’t… well, you weren’t anything anymore, and he didn’t have a right to call you pet names, but he couldn’t help it. Bucky wanted to call his sweet girl forever. Would have, too, if only the stars had aligned the way Bucky had wanted.

Bucky watched you as hesitated. You took a step forward and then stopped as if you were trying to decide where to go, towards him or out the door. He saw the conflict in your eyes as you fought with yourself, and then you stood up taller with your shoulders squared, having made your choice. You strode towards Bucky with determination, walking around his desk, and Bucky pushed off from his feet, letting his chair roll back enough to give you the space you needed-- wanted.

He hoped it was what you wanted.

Bucky didn’t move or make a sound. Just held his breath and waited.

You sank down on his lap, straddling his waist as you’ve done during the hundreds of times you’ve visited him in his office. Bucky waited until you settled comfortably, and his hands came up to wrap around you and rest against your backside. Your own find their favorite spot tangled in his hair, and the tears catching in your lashes were caught right away.

It took every ounce of strength he had not to lean in and kiss those tears away.

“You left.” You whimpered. “Just disappeared and stopped talking to me like we were never… something.”

Bucky’s heart twisted into something dark and ugly. He hadn’t thought there was much to say. Things had been off since he came home from Boston, and then that boy, he didn’t think there was anything left after that.

“I thought--” Bucky’s arms tightened around you, fingers pressed into your skin as he forced himself to admit what he was scared of since he first met you -- you didn’t really want him.

“I thought maybe you liked that kid from the gala. He's closer to your age and… he could be someone who wants the same things you want. I didn’t want you to feel like you were stuck with me if you didn’t want-- if this was temporary. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“No, that’s not what I want.”

Bucky swiped his thumb under your right eye, wiping away the tears he could no longer stand to see. He didn’t know how to ask if you loved him or how to tell you that he wanted more, but this? He knew this. Bucky’s spent the last eight months asking you want you wanted and doing everything he could to give it to you.

He could do this.

“What do you want, babygirl? Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

There was only one thing you wanted.

“I want you to love me,” you choked out in a desperate, hopeless plea. “I want you to love me like I love you. I want you to be in love with me.”

“Oh, baby.”

Bucky cupped the back of your neck and let the other rest on your back, firmly holding you in place on his lap. This was something he should have said months ago.

“I’ve been in love with you for months. Maybe since I bought you that first cup of coffee and you looked at me with those sweet lips and pouty eyes. You’ve had my love, sweet girl.”

You sniffed and took a breath, your bottom lip still trembling as you twisted over his words.

“But-- I, I heard you telling you Sharon you didn’t want a future with me.”

Bucky’s nose crinkled, and his brow furrowed. “What? What are you talkin’ about, baby?”

“In Boston. That night you were drinking at the bar. I came down to… to see you, and you said you didn’t want a family right now and not with me.”

Bucky was smiling, and he could tell by your pout you were about to jump off his lap because of it. He couldn’t help it. This was good. The best news he has heard in weeks. This was all because he was an idiot, and he could fix that. He could stop being an idiot. Bucky took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around your waist, letting the chair lean back all the way, so you fell against his chest, and your feet came off the floor just enough to make you unstable if you tried to get up on your own.

He needed you to stay put a little longer, and if you wanted to leave after he said his peace, he would let you go.

"Did you hear what I said after that?”

“No," you squeaked. “I ran back up to our-- your room.”

“Our room.” He corrected.

"Our room." You amended. "Then you came up and we-- Well, we made-- we..."

Bucky didn't need you to say anymore. He remembered. Bucky absolutely remembered making love to you. He held you against him and carefully explained what really happened that night.

“I did say that, but that wasn’t what I meant. It came out all wrong, and you'll be happy to know Steve and Sam would beat my ass to defend you without a second thought. What I meant and what I explained to them that night was I wanted to wait until you were ready for all that because if I’m going to do all that? Get married and have kids; I only want to do it with you.”

You groaned and thumped your head against his chest. “Why is Nat always right? She said you didn’t mean it. That it was a mistake.”

Bucky chuckled quietly. His fingers gently rubbed at your scalp, and his lips found your skin, pressing soft kisses to your temple. “Probably because she could see it written on my face. According to Sam, I look like a lovesick idiot every time you’re near me.”

Forcing yourself to lift your head, you met his eyes and whispered,” Bucky, I do love you, and I don’t want that dumb bellhop from Boston or any other guy. You’re all I want, but I’m not ready to get married right now. I know you are, and if you want all that right now-- I don’t know, okay? I graduate in May, and then I want to work and-- and --I don’t think I can--”

Bucky’s thumb settled over your lips, stopping your panic.

“I know, and that’s why I said I wanted to wait. Let you find your footing in a new job and get yourself settled there before we even talk about it. I wanted to tell you all this in Boston. Tell you how much you mean to me. How you’re all, I think about, every damn day and the nights that I’m not with you are like torture.”

Your eyes twinkled with someone Bucky didn’t like, and his cheeks warmed right away.

“So that was the whole picnic thing? And renting out the skywalk?”

Bucky nodded sheepishly.

“I might have chickened out. I was worried you didn’t feel the same, and I wasn’t ready to lose you.”

One thing was certain; you were made for each other. You were both idiots.

“So, you do see a future with me?” You asked, nerves showing through your shaky voice. You needed to be sure. You couldn’t go through all that again.

“You weren’t just changing the subject with sex every time?”

Bucky barked out a laugh, the chair under you shaking from the force of it. You pursed your lips. He didn’t have to laugh so hard. It was a serious question. Bucky gave your hip an apologetic squeeze and shook his head.

“No, I didn’t mean to do that. It was incredibly sexy to hear you say you only wanted... me. You could have asked me for anything, and you just wanted me. I like that."

“It’s true, though. I don’t want any of that other stuff. You’re the only thing I want, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, and his hand slipped under the hemline of your dress. “Somethin’ you want… right now?”

Your slender fingers gripped his wrist, and you shook your head. “Nope. What I want right now is to get you home, shower, and maybe sleep till late tomorrow. I haven’t-- I haven’t been sleeping great lately.”

The confession made Bucky remember how terrible he probably looked from his own sleeping habits over the past eighteen days. The last he saw in the bathroom mirror, the dark circles under his eyes, were getting pretty hard to hide. His beard was unkempt and thick and Steve wasn’t wrong about needing to wash his hair. He raised the arm you were still clutching and pressed a kiss to your fingers.

“This how it’s going to work from now on? Just goin’ tell me what to do all the time?”

“Yep. That’s how it works when I’m your girlfriend.”

Your eyes widen dramatically, and Bucky grins.

“I am… I mean, it’s okay I said that, right?”

“Well, you are my girl.”

Bucky can feel your tension deflate, and he really likes the smile on your face.

“Mmm, and you’re my sugar. My sweet fella.”

#sugardaddy!bucky x reader #sugar daddy!bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #alternate universe #sugar daddy AU

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lynnie-s3all · 2 years

Text

Uhm hi everyone welcome to my page

So this post i will be talking about myself so you can get to know me better.

What's my name?

My name is elisha (front name)

How old am i?

13 (in 2021 and started going to middle school )

Gender?

Female.

Sexuality?

Im cisgender and straight

Im just a regular teen girl

Where im from?

Malaysia

My likes and dislikes

Likes:

Drawing

singing (sometimes crappy)

talking to herself (it's been 4 years i guess)

barely reading fanfics

stayed up late (sleeps at 2 am. Sometimes sleeps at 3 am)

Dislikes:

My dad (i dont think i wanna talk about this for now on)

school (stressed)

homework (history homework is hard and math)

i dont even know anymore

I'll add more later

Some things that i want to add up cus those are facts

I don't draw digitally

Fails to draw hands

Definitely a peeson who likes gay ships but just less

Likes wattpad and tumblr (those are my best friends at night when i can't sleep so i use them to read x reader fanfics so i can have my dreams about non existence characters but it turns out to be a black void with nothing on it)

Use a unicorn w/ wings plushie or a pillow to pretend that the character is real (i do this every day)

Kinda passive aggressive i guess

I scream like an idiot when playing games or horror games sometimes.

Easily gets distracted and forgets everything cuz adhd. (i was finding a quiz to see if i had adhd so that's why.)

I haven't study for months.

Has been in a Chinese primary school for 6 years and still cannot speak chinese (now i forgot how to speak)

Back when i was in a chinese primary school, i was an introvert at that time because i was toooo shy to talk. Because everyone in my class speaks Chinese. But there's one friend that can speak malay so i make friends with them until now (since you know i can't speak chinese and stuff and i need help)

And yes i am a middle schoooler now and i had friends but my class is a ghost town. (only me and my new friend responded to our teachers sadly)

I dont even know what to talk about so here's some screenshots of the highlights in my instragram.

Oh yeah forgot to mention that i don't eat black pepper seasoning anymore because that is too much (its a habit that i used to do a few months ago)

thank you for reading this

#talking about myself #myself #Hi

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tearsofgrace · 4 years

Text

Ragged Angels

starting a new fic for anon :) ima post in three short chapters probably, but here’s chapter one

warnings: none, tags: mafia au, modern setting, fluff, angst, established relationship rating: t (violence)

also posting on archive

The soft crunch of wheels on gravel sent a shiver down Cas’ spine and he looked up slowly, drawing his knife back from the throat of the man tied up below him. It was an interesting blade--silver and shaped more like a short sword than anything. He’d got it out of a deal years ago, and it had become his trademark.

“Looks like your friends are here,” he said quietly, tracing the man’s hairline with the cool metal. Cas noted distractedly that his hair was sloppy, like he’s cut it himself months ago and never bothered to try again. From behind him, he could see the drops of sweat running down the sides of his face, but not the man’s eyes. He needed to see his eyes.

Cas walked around to the front of him and lowered himself to look straight into the man’s eyes. He let a small smile creep onto his face and traced the man’s throat with his knife, letting the smile grow as he did.

The veins in the man’s neck bulged as he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “They’ll kill you,” he muttered.

“I doubt that,” Cas said.

“Just give me more-”

“I guess they’ll have to get the money,” his voice was still soft, but he let a slight edge creep into it.

The man sucked in a deep breath, but before he could let it out Cas slammed the blade through his throat. A small noise escaped the man, and then he was silent. Cas pulled out the knife and wiped it thoughtfully with the handkerchief in his pocket before stepping back. Then he turned and walked from the warehouse.

He heard shouts behind him, chaos erupting as the body was found. He smiled grimly to himself and rolled his eyes. Then he hopped into his truck and drove away.

His hands were loose around the wheel, and he could see out of the corner of his eyes that he’d gotten a little bit of blood under one nail. It glittered slightly in the fading light, taunting him, and he tried unsuccessfully to dig it out. Right when he was about to pull over and fix it, a soft buzzing pulled his attention away. His frustration mounting, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

As soon as he saw the name, it all melted away. All the frustration, the nerves that he would never admit still wracked him whenever he killed a man, the sound of tires rolling up still echoing in his mind. All of it gone, replaced with a single name: Dean.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. You almost done?”

He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. Dean sounded so young, so innocent. He only let himself get like this when he was talking to Cas. That’s when the wall came down. “Yes.”

“And you can still come tonight, right?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Dean let out a contented sigh, and Cas could almost feel his warm breath against his ear. He moved the phone to hang up, but he heard Dean grunt on the other end, like he was going to say something and then he stopped.

“What?”

“Did-” Dean took a deep breath in and then started again with a new steel in his voice. “Did everything go okay?”

“You know you don’t need to worry about my work.”

“I know, and I don’t care, honestly. I just-” Dean hesitated again and Cas smiled in spite of himself. He was adorable. “I worry about you.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time, Dean. Everything’s taken care of.”

There was rustling on the other end, and then, “Okay. I love you.”

“I know,” Cas said with a smile. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Then he hung up, the glint of blood under his nail catching in the light as he hit the red button and he cursed quietly to himself and set his phone in the cupholder, rolling his shoulders back before turning his full attention back to the road.

-------

The smell of champagne and snobbery wafted through the air, and Cas sucked it all in with a smile. He knew almost everyone here of course, though most of them would never admit to knowing him. It was bad for business.

Not that it mattered; tonight was Dean’s night.

Speak of the devil (or angel, in Cas’ mind), Dean was weaving through the crowd toward him. He’d rented a black tux--Cas would have bought him a nicer one, but he’d refused--and it hugged his form tightly. Dean so rarely dressed up, Cas felt his pulse tick up slightly at the sight. But even if his breathing increased slightly, he looked perfectly calm from the outside. Staying calm under duress was one of his many specialties.

“Cas,” Dean breathed as he reached him. And Cas almost let a smile slip out, just at that one simple word. The smile he reserved for himself, when no one else could see him. The smile that he even hid from Dean, most of the time anyway.

So he suppressed it, keeping his face a perfect taciturn mask. “Hello, Dean.”

He reached out for a flute of champagne from the passing waiter’s tray, but Dean’s hand snaked out and caught his. He took a step in closer and Cas took in another deep breath, determined to stay in control. Dean twisted his hand so they could both see it and slowly traced his nail. The nail with blood still caught underneath it.

“I thought you said it went well?”

Cas drew his hand back and pressed a short kiss into Dean’s forehead. “And I thought I said not to worry. Don’t you have places to be? People to introduce me to?”

Dean let out a little huff--Cas had to push back that damn smile again--and then took Cas’ offered arm, leaning into him slightly. He nodded to an older couple standing in the corner. The woman had a floor length red gown on, completely with a sparkling diamond necklace wrapped around her neck.

Cas’ eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of it. He’d sold it just weeks ago after taking it off a high-ranking government official. He’d almost bemoaned the loss, regardless of the profit. Dean had looked amazing with it and nothing else on. He glanced down at Dean and saw the blush rising in his cheeks. He pulled him a little closer to his body then guided him over to the couple.

“Mrs-,” he paused for effect, even though he never forgot a name, “Autry, was it?”

She glanced up, and to her credit, gave no sign of recognition. “Yes, it is. And you are…” she trailed off, with a quaint raise of one brow.

“Mr. Novak. And this is my husband, Dean Winchester. He organized this whole event.”

Her companion’s eyebrow raised at the word husband and Cas rolled his eyes slightly, forcing a civil expression.

“This is my husband, Charles Autry.”

The party lapsed into awkward silence, and Cas felt Dean shift beside him, clearly searching for a topic of conversation. Cas squeezed his arm a little and looked straight ahead with clear eyes. They could handle a little silence. And Dean needed to remember, even if this was his event, Cas was in control.

Mr. Autry cleared his throat and took a champagne before glancing between them. “So, ah, how did you two meet?”

“At an event just like this one,” Cas said softly, as if daring further comment.

“And it really,” the man glanced at his wife, then back at them, “It really works? I mean how much older are you?”

Cas sighed. It was inevitable that they would get asked questions like this, but it really did nothing to help his already roused anger. “Twenty-two years,” he answered, tugging Dean’s arm gently. “Excuse us.”

They walked to the front of the room where a table was set up, their names displayed at two of the place settings. Dean felt stiff beside him, his movement mechanical, and Cas unhooked Dean’s arm from his own, stopping to face his husband front on.

He leaned in close, putting his ear right beside Dean’s. “I don’t care how old you are, Dean. You are mine. And they all know it too.”

Dean shuddered visibly, but then he seemed to relax, an easy grin spreading across his face. “You sure about that, angel?”

Cas reached up a hand and slowly trailed it down Dean’s cheek, noting how quickly he leaned into the touch. “I’m sure.”

He pulled Dean’s chair out and gently guided him down with his hands on his shoulders before pushing the chair in for him. He took his seat right next to Dean, and then sat in silence as the rest of the table filled up.

The people at these things always looked the same. Black tuxes, plunging necklines, scandal practically oozing off of them.

One of the black tuxes leaned forward and nudged his partner, pointing at Dean. “Hey,” he started, “you’re the one who organized this whole thing, right?”

“That’s me.”

“I think it’s really amazing. What you’re doing for all these women…” he trailed off and Dean nodded slowly, his eyes glittering with amusement. The guy coughed into a handkerchief and then went on, “it must be nice getting to be around them all the time too.”

In an instant, Dean’s eyes narrowed and he raised slightly in his chair. Cas put a steadying hand on his arm and Dean looked over at him, the anger slowly fading from his face. “That’s not what this is about. This about helping survivors of abuse and if you-” he cut off as his voice started to rise and he took a deep breath.

“What Mr. Winchester means,” Cas stepped in smoothly, “Is thank you for coming tonight.”

The gentleman nodded and gave a small shrug before turning to his wife.

“You okay?” Cas said with a hand on Dean’s knee.

“Fine. I know we need their money… but these people are dicks.”

Cas tilted his head and looked up and down Dean’s face. “Yes… yes I suppose they are.”

Dean grinned over at him and picked at the salad that the waiter had just brought. “We are so going out for burgers after this.”

“You’re insatiable,” Cas said with a roll of his eyes. But anyone who knew him well could see the ghost of a smile dancing around his lips.

-------

The cold air bit into them the second they stepped out into the busy New York street. Cas wrapped his coat tighter around himself and slipped Dean’s arm through his own.

A limo pulled up to the curb but Dean looked up at him, and as so often the case with them, he understood exactly what he needed. “We’ll walk,” Cas said to the valet.

Their steps echoed off the walls as they left the din of car horns and squealing tires and entered the relatively quiet alley behind the venue.

“That went well,” Cas started.

Dean’s face lit up like it always did when he talked about the shelter. He wet his lips the answered, “Yeah. It really did. We made $7,000 more than our goal and there was lots of press there. If we follow it up… we should get all eight women into apartments by the end of the month.”

Cas pressed a kiss into Dean’s hair. “I’m glad.”

He could see the next street opening out in front of them, barely one hundred feet away. Cars sped by and people milled about under the glow of the street lights. Barely one hundred feet to go, and Cas felt all of his senses suddenly go on edge. He wasn’t sure what he’d heard, or even what he’d seen, but something was wrong.

The gun he’d tucked in his waistband (despite Dean’s protests) felt cold against his skin, and he reached back for it without thinking. Dean glanced down at the weapon and his eyes widened. Still, he rolled his shoulders back and glanced around the alley, his eyes narrowing as quickly as they’d opened up.

The soft sound of fabric rustling sent them both whirling around, instinctively twisting so they were protecting each other’s backs.

“Hello, boys,” a gravelly voice tinged with a British accent whispered as a man wearing a black trenchcoat emerged from the shadows.

Cas felt his lips part just barely and he sucked in a deep breath. “Crowley.”

“You took something from me today.”

Dean moved next to him, shifting slightly so they were both facing Crowley. He felt Dean pull the knife he kept inside his jacket out and let it hang loosely at his side.

“The groveller you sent to beg forgiveness? Pardon me if I’m not bowing before you,” Cas said, letting his voice drop into its lowest registers.

“Gavin was family.”

Cas kept his face composed, but inside he felt a little thrill. Family? He’d thought it was just another of Crowley’s goons, one of the indisposable goons he called on when he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.

Dean took a step forward and rotated the knife slowly in his hand. “What was he? Some bastard son from an affair with a whore?” He snorted and looked back to Cas with raised eyebrows before turning his attention to Crowley.

Cas had to give him credit. He didn’t even know who Crowley was and still without hesitation he went after him. Although, Dean always did have a temper to him.

Crowley shuffled his feet and didn’t respond, and this time Cas did let his expression show. Just a single quirked eyebrow as he stepped forward to join Dean.

“He is your son,” Cas said, his tone growing more light-hearted. “Well in that case, my sincerest apologies.”

“You took something from me,” Crowley repeated, “and now I’m going to take something from you.”

Cas felt the blow to the back of his head before he could even turn, and immediately pain shot through him, his vision dancing with black spots. Instinctively, he turned to find Dean.

He was grappling with a masked man against the wall, but he seemed okay for the moment, so he turned to the person who had hit him. She tried to slam the walking stick into his head again but he grabbed it, twisting it from her grasp.

He stepped forward, his breath settling and becoming smooth before he struck her on the temple with her own weapon. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth dropped open. For just a second, she stood there, swaying, Then she crumpled to the dirty ground.

To his left, a body dropped, and he felt a cold hand wrap around his heart. But as his eyes readjusted to the dim light he saw Dean standing over the body, his chest rising and falling rapidly as a trail of blood dripped from his knife.

Cas moved toward him, but before he could even take two steps, the cool rush of electricity jolted through his system and everything went black.

-------

When he came to, his cheek was pressed against an advertisement for a weekend getaway to Cabo that had been dirtied by its time outside. He peeled himself off it and sat up, head ringing as he glanced around the alley.

A sleek black cat jumped down from a garbage can and disappeared into the night, but there was nothing else. No sign of Crowley, of the people who had jumped them, of the body Dean had dropped, of-

His train of thought came to a crashing halt as he leapt to his feet glancing around frantically.

Dean was gone.

tag list {as always feel free to ask to be added or removed!}:

@fandomstuff67 @menjiiii @chaoticdean @vought @flowersforcas @starlightcastiel @larryforeveralways @starclaire @tlakhtwritesdestiel @wanderingcas

#i don't write au's #what am i doing #requested by anon #anon #requests #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #spn fan fiction #destiel fanfic #deancas fic #destiel fic #destiel ficlet #my writing

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xiao8-bb · 4 years

Text

Man, I Feel Like A

A Linked Universe fic

[chapter 1]

Chapter 2: A Sticky Situation [posted on ao3 here]

At what point is it considered appropriate to tell your travelling companions you’re actually a man, and at what point are you supposed to take the secret to your grave? Wild has no idea and it’s driving him mad with anxiety. He’s kinda waffling towards keeping it a secret forever at this point.

It’s not like he’s a man all the time. He was genuinely just having a lot of girl days at first and so forgot about the problem, and he didn’t bother to correct anyone on a boy day when they happened. But now it’s been a few months, he’s been a boy consistently for at least a week now, and if anyone calls him “she” one more time he thinks he might solve his problem purely through violence and yelling.

This is such a weird problem. He’s used to the opposite in his Hyrule, where he’d be having girl days and be constantly called “young man” or whatever.

The funniest part? He wasn’t even a girl when he first met them. He came straight out of Gerudo Town after talking with Riju on a boy day and didn’t think to correct them, and now look. It’s been months.

Gender is an awful curse sent down by Hylia Herself for using Her name in vain too often, and now Wild has to reap the consequences. What a vindictive goddess. He endeavors to use it all the more wastefully whenever he has this thought.

Usually it’s not much of an issue. He calls his ever shifting moods “girl days,” “boy days,” “goron days” for the times he feels more neither than anything. Almost always, he feels like… half a gender at most. Like he took a bite out of an apple and found that enough.

On girl days she fixes in an earring Issha recommended and calls it a day. She hardly ever bothers correcting people, like how the Gorons won’t mind if you call one sister instead of brother. On boy days, he puts in a different kind and knows it’s enough. Even if the Gerudo call him Little Hylian Vai (as they’ve taken to nicknaming him), he feels about the same as he always does. Goron days are the easiest, where they forgo the earrings entirely. There’s the little thrill when someone gets it right, but it’s not a big deal. Link is Link, after all. At his core, no matter if he’s called Wild or Link or Champion, no matter if he’s called a boy or a girl or, once, a hellion menace to society, he’s always solely himself. Gender feels more like an accessory than it does part of his identity.

Except it’s been months, and Wild is going insane. He didn’t realize how much he depended on the occasional slivers of—validation? insightfulness? understanding?—having someone call him correctly. His friends back home knew, at least in few in almost every major settlement, and they always referred to him correctly after checking his ears.

At the risk of being redundant: Wild has gone months without that. In one go, he solved the problem of being referred to almost solely as a man and ended up with the problem of being referred to solely as a woman.

And now the second problem: how in the name of Hylia (blessed goddess who is the source of all his troubles) is he supposed to tell the others?

Hey, I know you’ve been under the impression I’m a woman this whole time, but surprise, I’m actually a man! Except it’s not all the time, but today I am and have been for the past week.

Could you do me a favor and call me he until I tell you to stop, and to keep doing that if I ever ask again?

You know when that man in the town two portals back said to grow some balls and take up his gambling challenge? Might’ve found a solution to that.

“What’re you muttering to yourself?” Twilight asks, and Wild nearly drops his armful of mushrooms back to the ground with a squeak. He turns with wide eyes to see the rancher raise an eyebrow at him.

“Nothing!”

He gets a disbelieving sigh at that, but he’ll take it. Better Twilight believe he’s planning to dump Goron spice into someone’s bowl than hear what he’s saying before he’s found the words.

Wild stands up from his crouch, disappearing his haul into the slate. “Did you get the herbs I asked for?” At Twilight’s affirmative, they start heading back to the camp in companionable quiet. They hadn’t wandered too far off, but it’s still a walk back.

It’s Twilight who breaks the silence first. “Say, Wild…” He stops, both verbally and motion-wise, forcing Wild to stop as well. Wild looks up at the man’s face. There’s hesitance writ in the uptick of his mouth, and his gaze is unreadable. “You’re a good kid, you know that?”

“Huh? What brought this on?”

“Ah, it’s been a few months since you’ve joined our group, hasn’t it? Got thinking, ‘s all. You’ve got a good heart, so don’t hesitate to let us know if anything’s bothering you.” He reaches out and ruffles Wild’s hair, smile widening into something genuine when Wild protests and pulls back. “You’ve been looking a bit down.”

He… hadn’t realized his mood has been that obvious. Wild looks down and kicks the dirt under his feet, hoping his ears aren’t as red as they feel. A sincere, well-intentioned talk about his feelings? Horrible. Worst experience of his life. “I’ll—” His voice catches. “I’ll be fine, Twi.”

He doesn’t need to look up to know Twilight is giving him that look, the one Wind calls the Big Brother Face. “If you say so. Just know we’ll be willing to listen and support you,” he says, gentle as if Wild is one of his goats.

Wild runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling warmth and dread in equal amounts prick at him. “Of course.”

And he’s not lying. They’re all kind people at heart. No one will care. You don’t know that for sure, a little nagging voice says. You lied to them for months, another hisses. Should’ve spoken up earlier. He can imagine the twinge of hurt in Hyrule’s face, the particular furrow in Legend’s forehead, the way Wind’s smile will drop a little if he tells them he’s been lying for so long and, worse, that they might’ve been hurting him, unintentional though it may be. They’re too kind, is the problem.

It would’ve been one thing if he’d told them earlier. Easier to laugh off, to brush aside as something that hadn’t crossed his mind until just then. Like it wasn’t an intentional farce—it wasn’t! Wild isn’t different at all, not where it matters. Clothing doesn’t factor into it, because he’d wear whatever regardless of gender. Neither does the way he acts, because a sashay is fun to pull off at any time, and as a girl Link has no problem swimming shirtless. He’s just been going with the flow.

It feels like a farce though. He never lied, not really, but he didn’t fix any of their assumptions, didn’t say anything, for months. It’s a lie of omission that sits sour on the back of his tongue.

Twilight clicks his tongue, waiting until Wild looks back up at him to speak. “Is it dangerous? Whatever’s bothering you.” He doesn’t seem stern or any more solemn than earlier, just an open, neutral expression on his face.

Uncomfortable, yes. Dangerous? No, not unless they run into a monster that feeds off conflicted guilt and pent up frustration. Wild shakes his head.

“Then I’m not gonna pry. I’ll keep Time from trying to dad you too, if you want.”

Unbidden, a giggle slips out of Wild. “‘Dad’ me?”

“You didn’t think I’m the only one who’s noticed you’ve been down, did you? I just got first dibs.”

Wild lets himself laugh fully at that, ignoring the stone in his stomach.

Warriors flicks his gaze to the campfire, where a still-smiling Wild sits in front of a cooking pot. She and Twilight had returned a while ago, snickering like mischievous children while sneaking looks to Time. Old Man’s probably going to get some nasty purple chu jelly in his dinner tonight, he’s assuming. A bit of a surprise she’s got Twilight in on it, though.

It’s good to see that Wild’s in a better mood than before. She’s been… not sullen, but a tension none of them can ease has been sitting on her shoulders for a few weeks now. There’s nothing obvious that brought it on, but it’s heavy enough that even Legend will have worry flashing across his face whenever Wild pulls away from their group with no indication as to why.

“She’ll say something when she’s ready to,” he hears Twilight murmur to Time. They’ve got some mentor/mentee plan going on to get Wild out of her mood. Successful, he supposes; she’s been dropping off into frowns whenever left alone in her thoughts for too long, but right now she’s almost definitely brightened up enough to pull a prank.

Still, he can’t help but scoot over to insert himself into the conversation. “It’s not anything dangerous, right?” He trusts that she would tell them if it were; Wild is the least team friendly player in their group, but she’s got enough sense in her to know what’s necessary.

Twilight shakes his head. “Confirmed it wasn’t.” Here he hesitates, and his words come out slow, deliberate. “I’m not sure if it’s… one of her memories? I don’t remember there being one before she started acting weird, but it might’ve come as a dream.”

Warriors purses his lips, thinking. It could be. He’s certainly entertained the thought before. Wild doesn’t fall into a memory too often, but they’re hard to hide, so everyone became aware of her amnesia and subsequent flashbacks sooner than later. Almost always she’ll draw into herself a bit, hidden away in a large cloak until the world stopped being too loud and bright for her, and even then Wild would still be withdrawn until something coaxed her out of her shell.

It doesn’t feel like it, though.

He takes another look at Twilight’s face. It says it all. “You don’t think that’s it.”

The rancher really is a farm boy through and through, honest as the day is long. “I overheard her talking to herself earlier, but I’m not sure what I heard and it’s not my place to say anyway.”

A sigh, and Time hauls himself up to his feet. “Then we wait,” he says decisively. They watch him amble over and strike a conversation with Four about the forest they’ve landed in. Twilight goes back to sharpening his sword.

Warriors’s mind is still stuck on Wild, though, and he’d bet a bag of rupees so is Twilight’s.

He prides himself on being a good commander. Quick to judge a situation and quick to notice if anything is wrong, able to lead squadrons of forces with only minutes to prepare. Often, his command was too numerous for him to know everyone, but he did his best to be there for anyone who needed it. Perhaps it’s foolish of him—too many faces, half-familiar from life, unmistakable in death haunt him to this day—but he refuses to give up caring. It hurts, but to hurt is to be alive, and he carries his ghosts with him even as he locks eyes with a new trainee.

Here, their motley group is a lot smaller than the armies he used to command. He’s never been an older brother before, but he finds himself falling into it naturally. It’s easy to tug on the back of Hyrule’s tunic to keep him from wandering off, normal to nudge Four and encourage him to keep talking about smithing, effortless to pull Wind into a friendly scuffle. With Wild, he finds himself looking after her like it’s instinct.

Maybe it’s because she’s still young at heart. The scars riddling her face and body age her up years, but there’s something heartwrenchingly childlike about the way she’ll wander off from the group to catch a bug or pick a plant, not understanding why they’ll scold her to stick with them. She’ll often show her finds off, grinning like there aren’t a million twigs in her hair and mud on her face.

It’s painful to see someone like that pull away without any indication as to why.

He sighs, leaning back on his palms to look at the evening sky. The brightest stars are beginning to shine, flickering around the rising moon. The smell of sweetly roasted vegetables wash over him. Quick headcount: Sky and Wind sparring; Twilight sitting nearby; Legend checking their perimeter, Hyrule with him; Four and Time talking about where to go; Wild at the campfire, standing up and stretching.

“Dinner’s ready!” she announces, loud enough that Legend and Hyrule should hear. Without waiting, she begins pulling out plates from her slate and spooning out portions. Warriors watches her closely enough that he sees the glob of something purple being hidden under some greens.

Definitely purple chu jelly from Twilight.

It travels down the line, Warriors hesitating before handing it off to Time, who’s last. It’s all in good fun though, and Wild’s figured out (after much trial-and-error) how to make sure the jelly doesn’t kill anyone, so he keeps quiet, only checking his own plate to make sure he’s not going to be a victim as well. Wild catches his eye and winks. Twilight, across the campfire, has a little feral edge to his grin.

Warriors watches with bated breath as Time takes a scoop of his food. It’s riveting, seeing his expression go from pleased and content to I-will-kill-whoever-did-this. Reminds him of the little pissed off kid he knew before meeting him again as an adult.

Time raises his head to glare balefully at Wild. “Why did you do this.” It falls flat of being a question.

“Do what?” Wild asks back, eyes wide and confused. “I thought you liked carrots?”

Wind giggles into his own meal, shoveling another bite into his mouth when that earns him an unamused look. “I didn’ do nothin’!” he protests before Time even starts saying the accusation. “Yer face wa’ funny.”

“Don’t talk while chewing,” Sky reminds him. “Time, what’s wrong with it? Mine tastes fine?”

Without speaking, Time takes another scoop and presents the purple chuchu glob. The camp falls into hysterics, speaking all at once.

“Some weird seasoning you’ve got there, Old Man.”

“Are you going to need a potion?”

“Where did someone even get their hands on that?”

Warriors sits back, letting the rambunctious laughter and chatter surround him. Wind denies it some more, pointing to Hyrule, who was apparently looking at Time’s dinner too intently. Hyrule denies it right back, pushing the blame to someone else too. There’s shouts of protest as accusations go flying. He tunes it out, just smiling to himself. A small prank, but a big reception. It’s nice to see spirits so high, especially Wild’s.

He’s too busy feeling reassured at Wild’s bright, impish grin that he nearly misses the accusation thrown at him.

“—paused before giving it to Time, too.” Legend says this nonchalantly, but one’d have to be blind to miss the smirk he shoots Warriors as he says it. “Seems suspicious to me.”

Twilight makes a faux thoughtful noise, failing to hide his laughter as Warriors whips his head around to stare in betrayal. “He was rummaging through our bags earlier, could’ve taken it from mine or Wild’s packs then.”

Warriors splutters, “I was taking inventory! You know, the thing I do every other night?”

There’s a little gasp from Four, too theatrical to be natural. “He was staring at Time when we started eating too…”

Betrayal! Ganged up on by the miserable lot he dared call his brothers!

Clearly they’ve figured out it wasn’t him. Wild’s just about collapsed with laughter at the sight of his panicked face, but it’s obvious no one wants to spoil her fun. Time gives him the sternest, most I-am-your-father-listen-to-me face he can muster and says, “What do you have to say for yourself, Warriors? Why would you put purple chu jelly in this delightful meal Wild worked hard on?”

Warriors is speechless. Wild titters, looks up to see Time raising an eyebrow at Warriors, and breaks back out into gleeful wheezing. Wind and Legend don’t seem to be far off, delighted at his misfortune.

Golden goddesses, the things he does for family. “You’ve done it,” he says, strangled, “you’ve caught me in my dastardly tricks. Oh woe is me, what punishment will I be given?” Sky is the next to break, hiding his laughter behind a hand.

Time, the little snot, looks at him with thin, disappointed lips and mirth dancing in his eyes. “This,” he intones gravely. The purple chu jelly jumps from his spoon and smacks into Warriors’s face.

Even Twilight is losing it now.

“ARGH!” he squawks, not expecting Time to actually go through with it.�� It’s to the others’ cackling that he slumps to the ground, groaning at the sticky feeling on his cheek. He can deal with a little grossness (no matter what Legend says), but it’s not a nice feeling when he could be clean and not sticky.

Someone hands him a clean cloth. Hyrule, bless his heart. It’s one of Twilight’s cloths, so he feels no guilt in scrubbing off the jelly and throwing it at the traitor himself. Twilight takes the assault with a grin, the infectious mood lingering even as the laughter calms down.

“Here.” A scarred hand dips into view, and Wild refills Warriors’s bowl with some fried greens fresh from the pot. Steam rises up lazily. She smiles at him through it, cheerful and alive like she hasn’t been for the past week, and he instantly forgives her for pulling him into her prank.

He takes a bite and sighs. Fresh, still sweet yet crispy from quickly frying it. “Delicious as ever,” he compliments, trying to force some grudge into his tone. Wild sees right through him and beams wider. “Oh, shove off.” He wipes a hand, still a little sticky with goo, across her nose, grinning himself when she shrieks a little in delight.

“Be careful, mister, or else the goo’s going in your meal next!” she teases before scampering off to her own meal.

It’s sometime after dinner that Time approaches him. “Thank you for playing along.”

Across the clearing, Wild’s wide grin has dropped to a faint upturn of her lips. She’s scuffling with Wind and the large wolf that follows their group every now and then, trying to claim a sleeping spot. She’s happy, and after the past week of halfhearted interaction, it feels like everything.

“Ah, it’s nothing.”

The sun’s rays are beginning to skim past the treetops when Wild wakes up. Legend notices immediately; there isn’t anything hostile in the area, so he’s been sitting closer to camp for the past hour now. He doesn’t say anything when she sneaks out—at least, not at first. When she doesn’t return after 10 minutes, 20, he shakes Twilight awake to keep watch before following.

She hasn’t gone far, just within hearing range if someone shouts. Legend stands at the treeline, watching her pull and put back different earrings from that slate of hers. Studs, hoops, drops, different fashions he can’t name, all reflective of masterful craftsmanship. They gleam in the early morning light as she holds each pair up for examination.

“You can choose today’s accessories from the camp, you know,” he calls out. Wild, to her credit, doesn’t react other than her shoulders raising a few centimeters. “Pretty sure Wind won’t try stealing them.”

That earns a short laugh. “He wouldn’t dare unless he wants his breakfast burned. Besides, I’m just… trying to decide how I feel today. Hard to do that around that noisy lot.”

Legend stops in his tracks. Normally he’d like to tease, but there’s something brittle about her voice. “Want me to leave then?” he offers. He may be a prick, but he’s not about to inflict his presence on someone who needs some time alone.

Finally, Wild turns to look at him. “No, stay,” she says, and even she looks surprised at how firmly she says it. She pats the stone next to her. “C’mon, sit with me for a while.”

It’s nice and quiet in the spot Wild’s chosen. He sits with his back to her, not wanting to crowd. Faintly, the tittering of birds sweeten the air, and if he closes his eyes and focuses he can smell the rich petrichor lingering from yesterday’s early evening rain. Wild goes back to picking out earrings, the faint chime of her slate’s magic rhythmic in its repetition.

It’s like this often, Legend finds. They’re both pretty silent people on their own, and perhaps not as close as they are with some of the others. Sure, they jibe and bicker, but to avoid too much tension they end up not seeking each other out. Legend isn’t even sure if he wants to be close to Wild anyway; she’s almost guaranteed to die violently young and violently so, given her track record of scars and reckless combat techniques.

Still, his treacherous heart cares, and he heaves a sigh as he thinks of her recent melancholy. A conversation wouldn’t hurt, right?

“You’ve been wearing a lot of stud earrings lately,” he says. He doesn’t turn to look, but the chiming stops. “Maybe one of those dangling ones? The amber gems give a nice glow to you.”

Quietly, so faint he almost misses it, Wild replies back, “...Maybe.” He risks a glance to guess her expression; she’s staring distantly at her hands, eyes locked on a struggle Legend can’t see. “Change things up a little, right?”

He raises an eyebrow, though she doesn’t see it. “You don’t have to go with my suggestion,” he points out. “If you want to wear studs, wear studs. They get tangled up less in the twigs and branches you insist on jumping headfirst into, at any rate.”

“And if I don’t want to wear any at all?”

What an odd question. Legend fully turns around to squint at her. “Then don’t? What, am I missing some watchmen that will arrest you if you don’t put some metal in your ears?”

Wild huffs a laugh at that, but it’s half hearted. “No, I don’t think so. Don’t mind me, I’m just overthinking things.”

“Overthinking… types of earrings?” He doesn’t mean to sound so doubtful, but Wild is both a ridiculous fashionista and someone who could not care less for her appearance. She’s got a multitude of outfits, sure, but she’s never exactly cared if they matched or how she looked as a result (leading to a very distressing time where she sprinted through Twilight’s Castletown wearing her Barbarian shorts, clunky torso armor that glowed, and an odd mask that looked like a fish was eating her head. He’s pretty sure they’re banned from the inn for life).

She shakes her head. “No, forget it, it’s… related, but it’s not—” This time, her head shake is harsher, more aggressive. “It’s got some meaning for me,” she reveals reluctantly under Legend’s interrogating stare. “What type of earrings I wear, I mean.”

He considers this, lining it up with the past week. He almost wants to ask “why would you ever wear earrings that make you feel horrible?”, but obviously that isn’t an option. Choosing wearing a specific type probably isn’t an option she has, either. Something dictates the type she wears regardless of how she feels, but how could a type of earrings make one feel bad…?

Hylia, this is giving Legend a headache.

“Are the earrings hurting you?” he settles on asking. There’s no way he’s getting the full story out of her anytime soon, but the important answers need to be established first.

“Wh—? No, they’re fine.”

“Do they upset you? Is that why you’ve been weird this past week?”

“... it’s not the earrings, not really. Kind of? It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it, then.”

He gets a jab to the side for that. “I don’t know how to,” she admits, bitterness sharpening her tongue. “I’m working on it, okay? I’m… I’ll be fine, just give me some time to figure it out.”

Legend jabs her right back, tickling her sides for good measure and ignoring her squeak. “Well, figure it out faster,” he says drolly. “Whatever it is you’ve got going in your head can’t be that bad, considering it’s mostly empty in the first place.”

Now that earns him a tackle right off the rock, and they tussle around like children for a few minutes before wordlessly agreeing to stop, flopping onto the grass to stare at the brightening sky. Neither of them are breathing very hard, but Legend thinks he can hear Wild’s become lighter, less burdened. He bites his tongue to focus his thoughts.

“Just wear whatever you feel like wearing, you menace. If it’s not the earrings making you feel bad, then deal with whatever is making you act like a kicked puppy.” He kicks out blindly and catches her ankle. “If it’s one of us, or something we’re doing, or, I don’t know, maybe you’re just allergic to the grass here, tell us. If it’s something from your past, then however you deal with it is up to you, but between the nine of us we’ve got all sorts of trauma covered, it’ll be easy to commiserate with someone.”

He rolls over to speak and finds her already looking at him. “Uncomplicate it. Whatever it is, either you’ll get past this or you won’t, but things will only get worse if you let it stagnate.”

Wild breaks eye contact first, sitting up but gaze fixed low. At this angle, he can’t see her face. “Get it over with, basically. I guess that’s good advice.”

The sky looks bright enough that the others are probably awake by now. “Of course it is,” he says. She’s not going to take it, at least not right now, he can tell. “Decide on the earrings yet?”

Clacks of fingernail against glass. The now-familiar chime of the Sheikah slate. “Studs again today.”

“Amber?”

“Amber, yeah. You made a good point.”

“I always make good points.”

A snort, and they fall back into silence. It feels like a moment in eternity before Wild speaks up again. “We should make it back to camp.” She sounds almost regretful, and Legend feels it too. The area is warm and peaceful, and it feels like a crime to have to spend the entire day trekking their way through an adventure no one signed up for.

Neither of them move. He closes his eyes, feeling the morning sun warm his skin.

“Legend?”

It takes a moment to respond, the siren call of sleep beginning to pull at his senses. “Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He hums, not resisting the lull of the little bubble they’re in. “No problem.”

#linkeduniverse #botw #fic #lu wild #lu warriors #lu legend #lu twilight #theyre all there but im pretty sure those're the big ones #man i feel like a (fic)#did i forget to post this on tumblr! maybe. who knows. haha...ha........#yeah i forgot #cw misgendering #i dont think i should uhhh @ the prompt tumblr so i guess. uh. hope theyll just find this on their own #i Will edit ch1 to include the link to this tho #<:3c enjoy!!!! hopefully

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peakyblinderswhore · 4 years

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Can you do Thomas Shelby x reader imagine where they are married couple and have children together, basically imagine where they are looking after their kids and do parents job, or you choose it, something to do with them and their kids.

A/N: i forgot to say sorry for the long delay, wednesday i had until the afternoon to myself and finished up the finn one and posted it and started this one but had to go out. then thursday i fell so ill i hadn’t slept properly all night but i still had to go out for the day so i didn’t write a thing! a big fat apology from me and please know i am very excited for what’s to come :)

W/C: 2.2k

You open your eyes, the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains that adorned each window of your room. Your hair was lying around your face on the pillow that your head rested on, making you look like a sleeping angel.

Of course, you’re not self-absorbed like that, but Tommy always tells you how much you look like an angel, swearing that you saved his life for many reasons over the years but mostly for just existing – he says.

You smile at the thought of him, you remember the day the two of you were married. You’d been fucking for years on and off and then one day Polly pushed him into it, well that’s your suspicion since she’d given you odd looks every time you stood side-on or complained about your breasts aching. Polly always had an eye for knowing when someone was pregnant. You hadn’t even known yourself until Polly pointed it out to you after he had proposed.

Sighing in content at your memory you lifted your left hand – Thomas didn’t hold back when it came to someone that he loved as much as he did you.

And then came the twins, your greatest pride and deepest pleasure at heart, something that you and Tommy had created, wholly you and wholly him too, something that you would never have imagined to come true. Emma and Charlie. Charlie sometimes scared you with how much he reminded you of Tommy but secretly Tommy thought the same thing about Emma and you. They’re four years old and the light of your lives, brightening it more every day.

You pulled yourself up and out of bed and the sound of Charlie running in and calling after you, “Mama, are you up?”

You chuckle, “Yes darling, where’s your father?”

“With Emma,” Charlie replies, “what do you want for breakfast, Mama?”

“Whatever Margaret is cooking, darling, you know I’m not fussy,” you pause, pulling a robe around your shoulders and hold Charlie’s hand in yours, “are they in Emma’s room?”

“In Dad’s office, Mama.”

The two of you walk down the beautifully decorated hallway, you walk past a sideboard table with a picture of you and Tommy from when you had first started seeing each other exclusively in between a picture of Emma and one of Charlie. You smiled, more than content with what your life had become.

“Tommy, love, you in here?” You say, entering the office.

Tommy had plenty of room in his office, the walls were full of books that he probably hadn’t read but you had insisted on having them in there so that you could spend some time together while he continued to work from home. Despite all of the room, the two chairs opposite his own in front of his desk, Emma was perched on his left leg watching him as he wrote down small bits here and there on whatever he was doing.

“Yes, love,” he looks up from his desk smiling at your beauty, before noticing Charlie stood next to you.

Charlie let go of your hand, running over to his father he called out, “me too!” holding his arms out to be lifted by Tommy onto his leg also.

Tommy turned on his chair and caught Charlie as he jumped into his arms before placing him next to his sister.

You smile and laugh at him smiling at his children. Your children. Everything in your life had to lead up to this, this one beautiful moment.

“And you, my love,” Tommy ushers you over waving his hand, a grin evident on his face.

You giggle at his grin, watching as it widens as you approach him with your own grin adorning your face. You were completely and utterly in love with him as he was with you. It was undeniable and every single one of the Shelby’s supported the relationship whole-heartedly. Grace had been a mess of a story and she had momentarily turned his head in her direction before Polly had held his face in place, directed at you but after he had his head screwed on straight he’d been undeniably focused on you and only you. You were his long-term goal.

Sitting proudly on his desk was a hinged double-photo frame, one side there was a picture of you with the twins resting on our lap, taken two years ago with you smiling directly into the camera, and on the other, a picture of you in a casual dress, looking off to the side in front of the estuary that backed onto your home.

Tommy puts down his pen and opens out an arm for you, offering his hand as you perched on his other leg. He kissed your jaw and leant in to whisper something into your ear, “How about we try making some more?”

The twins were oblivious to the two of you whispering to each other, merely enjoying being sat on their father’s lap as he held them close.

You lean away from his face, capturing his gaze and smiling flirtatiously, “I think I’d like that, after this one of course; you know that I may be an angel but I’m no miracle worker, only a couple more months Mr Shelby and you can start making more,” you rest your forehead on his, enjoying your moment, “after all, we were so good at making those two, weren’t we?”

Tommy kisses your lips lightly before replying, “Emma’s got the face of an angel, like you.”

“And Charlie’s got the charm of a gentleman, unlike you,” you continue smiling and watch his eyes lower.

“Don’t you go saying things you know aren’t true,” he begins, he pulls his head away from yours and faces the twins, “Charlie, Emma, let’s get Mama for telling lies about your handsome Father.”

The twins instantly agree with enjoyment and hop off of his leg and all begin to tickle you until you cry. Of course, you’re laughing the whole way through it.

The twins just stand at your side and lightly tickle your ribs while Tommy holds a firm grip around your waist so you don’t fall over whilst tickling you with his other hand. You’re involuntarily laughing hysterically at it all.

Tommy lessens the tickling and with quick thinking, you swoop up Charlie and place him under an arm and Emma under another before waddling as fast as you could across the room and out of there to the top of the grand staircase. You place Charlie down on the bannister, sit down next to him and lift up Emma to your other side, holding both of their hands as you slide down it for a hasty escape.

Shimmying into the drawing-room, past the front entrance, the three of you duck behind a long sofa, waiting for Tommy to find you.

You hear Tommy ask a maid where the three of you had run off to and she told him that she didn’t know to which the twins giggled at. Tommy thanked the maid and played along with the game of hiding and seeking for a bit until he leant over the back of the sofa and called, “Got you!” grabbing the twins and playing around with them, one on each arm.

You carefully stand up and smile at the sight of them before declaring it was time for your breakfast. You and Tommy had agreed the day before when he had come home from the office that the two of you and the children would be spending a day together with a makeshift picnic down by the estuary. Maybe Johnny Doggs and his lot would join later on since they lived on the stretch of land a few miles over – the one that Tommy had so kindly bought them so they didn’t have to be moved along every other night.

After you had all finished your breakfast you told Charlie and Emma to put on coats in case it was cold whilst you dressed in a comfy light blue dress and heels that matched. You wrapped a shawl around your hair and walked down the stairs to fetch the picnic that you had asked Margaret to make for you the evening before.

You thank Margaret and pick up the wicker basket and the blanket folded neatly on top before calling out, “Tommy, can you fetch my coat for me, please?”

You turn the corner only to bump into him offering to hold the basket and help you put your coat on, “Let me help you, love.”

You blush at his kindness and slip it on, you then turn to him and kiss him full on the lips, “What did I do to deserve you?”

“I ask myself that every day,” he smiles down at you, holding your waist, the basket now resting on the floor next to the two of you, “you do know,” he begins to whisper into your ear so the maids around couldn’t hear what you were talking about; in a husky voice he says, “just because you’re a couple of months away from a new baby doesn’t mean that I don’t want to fuck you… hard.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Is that so, Mr Shelby?” you ask, close to his ear, a suggestive tone flowing throughout your words.

“Most definitely, Mrs Shelby,” he replies, gazing down at your lips. He doesn’t break contact as in one swift motion he is looping an arm around your waist to hold you close and leaning in to kiss you at the same time. His cap brushed the top of your head when he leaned in close to you, clearly not wanting to let it end any time soon.

At this moment, Charlie and Emma come galloping through one of the rooms with a worn-out Alice trying (and failing) to keep up behind them, “Apologies, Mrs Shelby, Mr Shelby said that it was okay for them to go out in their wellington boots.”

The two of you break apart, a lingering lust still within Tommy’s eyes.

“Oh, Alice, my dear, I must’ve forgotten to tell you that we’re having a picnic down by the river,” you gasp, “the twins will most likely enjoying themselves down by the river, looking for frogs and faeries alike.”

Alice smiles, “That’s okay, will you be needing me?”

“No Alice,” Tommy says, “you may help yourself to a sandwich of Margaret’s and go home when you’re finished. Thank you.”

Alice thanked the two of you and ducked out of the entryway through a door and into the kitchen. You smiled up at Tommy before smiling down at your children, “Ready, my darlings?”

It was a sunny day but it was still March so it was still chilly sometimes because of this, you pulled a hat onto Charlie’s head and a pair of earmuffs onto Emma’s.

Tommy held Charlie’s hand and the basket whilst you held Emma’s hand as you were walking down to your designated picnic spot.

“Alright,” Tommy says, gaining everyone’s attention, “you be good now and find loads of frogs,” the twin cheer and run off to the river, “we’ll be sat here and call you up for dinner when it’s time,” he calls out to them.

You throw the blanket down as you giggle at the fact that they continued screaming as they ran down the hill, eager to splash about in the river. Tommy waves his hand in dismissal and turns to look at you, “As beautiful as ever, I see.”

“Thank you, m’ lord,” you curtsey, “would you mind helping me sit down?”

He offers his hand and helps you sit on the blanketed grass. Right before your bum hits the blanket he pulls out a pillow from inside his coat and slips it under you so that you would be more comfortable.

“Thomas, did you bring a pillow?”

“I did,” he replies, setting himself up next to you.

You laugh lightly at him, “You know that I love you, right?”

“As I hope that you know that I love you too,” he replies, smiling at you before leaning back on his hands and drinking up the sun.

You smile, after everything, you had the man, the children, the house and the scenery to look forward to every time that you opened your eyes in the morning.

The air was mildly cold but the river was flowing and the grass was a lush green colour dotted with patches of wildflowers here and there. Closer to the river there were reeds growing, which Charlie enjoyed hiding in for Emma to find him. The sun was warm on your skin and the wind rustled the trees in the distance.

Everything that you had ever wished for had come true.

You lay down next to Tommy and lean your head on his chest.

“Don’t ever go away, this is perfect.”

He opens his eyes, smiles down at you and kisses the top of your head, “Never, love, never.”

#peaky blinder imagine #Peaky Blinders #littlemissshelbyreplies #reader x tommy shelby #tommy shelby #tommy #thomas shelby #reader x thomas shelby #thomas #love #romance #family #arthur shelby #John Shelby #finn shelby #michael gray #polly gray #aunt polly #polly shelby

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michael-weinstein · 3 years

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What depression tells me

NOTE: The title is a paraphrase on titles Mahler used to give to movements of his 3rd Symphony.

Well, I got my depression back. Again, school is to blame for this (mainly). Tons of assignments and expectations. This arrived almost at the most terrible moment. Yesterday (I’ll keep it short, for means of privacy), 2 members of our server left, and so would a third were it not for the fact that she founded the server, and didn’t want it to go to dust. No fights really (at least as I understand it), but simply mental health, anger and study preoccupations. As the ego-centric person which I always hope never to be, but deep down always am (which is frankly human and almost natural), I needed support this time, and the three that decided to take the time off, two are the better-acquainted with me from the entire six. In addition, they will feel missing, that something is wrong.

That’s absolutely the right thing to have when I have a monstrous history assignment to hand in in 3 months from now (in stages), trying to catch up with math homework, and having a Bible assignment, which is not as big, but is still annoying.

Now, I have a confession to make, and it’s the first time I’m letting out in a public sphere (or people that aren’t closest to me): I have autism. Always had it. Rather low on the spectrum. But here’s the interesting thing: whenever I panic, or suicidal or whatever, I never think first of autism, or at least I don’t consider it seriously. I always think I’m wrong because I have some kind of neurotic psychological disorder which needs to be cured. Or maybe I belong to the psychiatric ward. My mindset is that I am mad, but I don’t have autism. I’m just a regular madman.

Anyway, because of this specialty (that is, the autism), ever since 1st grade I have been with a small number of kids in a seperate group along with also participating in the main class. Over ther years, the number of classes spent with the seperate “little” class (as it’s used in our lingo) diminished in favor of the “regular”, “big” class, but it never entirely disappears.

Why did I tell you all of this? Because a shutdown started in September (it kinda finished now, but not really?), and during it, the “little class” members could arrive to certain hours in the morning to study online from there, and get assistance in homework and assignments. Until the beginning of this month, I denied going there, because I wanted to avoid school physically as much as I could. The problem was that, even though I could go to synagogue on holidays (more about that probably in another post), and I would walk the dog nearly twice a week, I didn’t get out of the house, and I became depressed. Eventually, on the 1st of November, I decided to take the day off. I had nearly 12 math homeworks to hand in, as well as nearly 6 Bible assignments. I decided, eventually, to try to go to school the next day and see how things go. I came back home that day much more relieved and useful. I felt this could really help me.

My “little class” teacher, however, has been much more nudging than she had been before the pandemic. This just got on my nerves, she became irritating. My first days in school learning online were fine, because I was feeling better mentally, but now I just want her to leave me alone (remember that phrase, don’t you?), and have her stop asking me what assignments I have left, and telling me to get done with them.

Last night, I needed to do some math (geometry, unfortunately, as it is my weak point). While doing it, I decided to draw out a musical doomsday weapon I haven’t used yet. For the past few weeks, I have been looking outside the obsessive Shostakovich box, looking a bit for the Second Viennese School and Mahler, looking for remedies in Wagner, Schubert and (briefly) Bruckner, as well as Berlioz and Liszt. I decided to draw a work incredibly important for me, ever since I came to know of it 2 years ago, but which I haven’t actually listened to in a long time - Alban Berg’s opera Wozzeck.

Wozzeck, an opera based on a somewhat-unfinished play of roughly the same name by Georg Büchner, is named after its title character, a soldier, who goes quasi-moralistic tirades from his captain, and earns money as a subject for the experiments of his merciless military doctor. After some while, he begins to hallucinate and turns mad. In addition, his life partner Marie (they’re not married, but they have a son, declared “illegitimate” by the captain) starts flirting with the better-looking (though not necesarily younger!) drum major. Wozzeck recieves these news step by step, first by further humiliations from the captain and doctor, then he sees Marie and the drum major waltzing in a tavern, and finally with a humiliating boast of the drunk drum major himself that night in the barracks. So, driven to his nth degree of insanity, he murders Marie, and while trying to hide the evidences, drowns in the nearby pond.

Marie, however, isn’t a selfish whore. She has been trying to hide the affair from Wozzeck, and feels sympathy for him. In addition, she has a real love to her son, and has deep religious feelings, as illustrated in a scene where she reads from the Bible on Mary Magdalene and Jesus, where he forgives her, and Marie (notice the symbolism?) cries out for forgiveness. In the same scene, however, she practically prophesizes the son’s future (I made a photo with that caption). The last scene, straight after Wozzeck’s drowning, is preceeded by a 3-minute orchestral interlude, based on a sonata fragment that Berg composed while he was studying with Schoenberg. It’s a practical lament for people unrecognized, not treated properlly, and having this opera being composed in the aftermath of World War I, it’s also a funeral to the old world, being crushed by global war and then by the Spanish flu. The curtain then rises, on a scene of children, among them Wozzeck and Marie’s son riding a hobby horse, singing a German equivalent of “Ring-a-ring-a-roses” (guess what this is subtexting). A group of other children then runs in, telling they found Marie dead in a pond. Despite having been told it straight to his face, he keeps going on the hobby-horse, uncomprehending. While everyone else rushes to investigate, he limps on with his hobby horse to discover the bad end. It is simply heartbreaking.

I’ve come to know Wozzeck nearing the end of 8th grade (I’m currently in 11th), and fell in love with it, and also studied it partially from the excellent book written on it by George Perle. Both its music with its Mahlerian legacy (Berg has often been called the most “accessible” member of the Second Viennese School), and the plot, with its anti-glamorous location and short cut scenes. And I also immediately identified with the character of Wozzeck. A man with a highly wild sense of imagination, crushed by the norms and conventions of society, not taken care of properly, somebody who’s cared about only to be condemned. It’s an identification both potent and dangerous.

I’m now currently fearing that I am becoming a Wozzeck myself. I always had that fear to a certain extent, but now I understand better the grave consequences of this. To begin with, coronavirus itself made us locked at home and all our basics which we used to take for granted are now elevated to a high degree of importance, all while trying to keep through a world of Kafkaesque hypocrisy and alienation. Then the education system reacted to that in a bad way, either intentionally or unitentionally, and I’m currently being swamped with assignments and homework. And remember this is 11th grade, there are lots of tests to arrive too, and how are these going to take place? In short, it’s hard to keep yourself intact.

All of these are just potent ingridients for disaster and insanity, and I’m feeling more than ever before the idea of becoming a Wozzeck, and I don’t want that.

PS: This post was originally written last week. Somehow I forgot to submit it until now, when it was in my inbox! (lol)

#alban berg #wozzeck #corona time #coronatime #submission

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babblingblondegenius · 5 years

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You Can Take the Girl Out of Vegas (but you can’t take Vegas out of the girl)

Hi fam! In lieu of doing a Mancrush Monday post, I decided to write a little something for Fictober. My muse and real life have been uncooperative for quite some time and every word has been a struggle. But I saw the prompt for ‘it will be fun, trust me’ and managed to string about 1500 of them together in a way that I hope makes sense and a fun fanfic. Hope you enjoy! :)

Fandom: Olicity Rating: T Warnings: Tipsy Felicity. Also, no beta. Plot: LOL. It’s Olicity and strip poker. Felicity is winning, until she isn’t. Can she regain the upper hand? (aka there is no plot. Just good old banter and silliness with our favorite couple). Set during Olicity’s summer of love world tour.

"Take it off."

Felicity huffs a resigned sigh at Oliver's request as she deftly removes the stiletto heel from where her left foot is tucked behind her, dangling the silver strappy footwear from her finger before tossing it in his general direction.

"Just so you know, you only won that hand because I was distracted by your...your..," Felicity slurs the words and gestures wildly at his half-naked body,"...ev-er-yyyyyyy-thing."

Secretly relieved he has some tactical advantage against his girlfriend's superior poker skills, he gives a self-satisfied smile in response to her petulant pout. Felicity is still slightly buzzed from her rather lucrative win at the blackjack table earlier, not to mention all the complimentary cocktails bestowed upon his high roller. But that alcohol-induced impaired judgment hasn't stopped her from dominating every hand they've played since returning to their suite from the hotel's opulent casino and she suggested a 'friendly' game of strip poker. “It will be fun, trust me,” she purrs in an attempt to be flirtatious but is just adorable when accompanied by her signature wink-blink. Either way, he can’t ever say no to her and that’s an offer he doesn’t want to refuse.

The game started in his favor, or so he thought, since Felicity didn't appear to be wearing as many articles of clothing as he was. Just the deep-vee neck curve-hugging like a second skin hot pink gown that has been driving him crazy all night and the shoes she referred to as her ‘lucky heels.’ She only gave a coy smile when he inquired about undergarments. The vast amount of cleavage make him pretty confident that she isn't wearing a bra and lack of panty lines conjure up an image of her favorite black lace thong but he really wants to find out firsthand.

Instead, her gown is still covering those luscious curves and he's only managed to get one shoe. Conversely, she is in possession of both his shoes, along with his socks, suit jacket, bow tie, suspenders, and white dress shirt, leaving him barefoot and bare from the waist up.

"It's your turn to deal," Felicity reminds him tersely, holding out the deck while trying to look anywhere but at him. Taking the cards from her, he manages to not-so-accidentally brush his fingers along the soft skin of her inner wrist. He can't help but notice the involuntary shiver and the goosebumps that skitter up her arm. Her reaction to his touch only fuels his desire to win.

He shuffles the deck, showing off with a couple of fancy techniques, one of the few things he learned in college, and flexing way more than necessary. She doesn't seem to be paying attention, still looking everywhere else except at him, but the lip bite is one of her tells and he knows she noticed the bulging of his biceps.

Oliver deals the cards and peruses his hand. As luck would have it, he has three sevens, the best hand he's had all night.

He is so getting her other shoe.

Carefully schooling his features so Felicity won't see the excitement that is bubbling up in his chest, he casually glances at her, noticing that she is still worrying her bottom lip and studiously avoiding his gaze.

Oliver has spent the last seven weeks since they drove away from Star City learning everything he didn't already know about Felicity Megan Smoak and every piece of newfound knowledge, down to the most minute detail, is embedded in his psyche.

Seemingly forever, if their history is any indication. Like the exact day they met. What color pen she had in her mouth that day. Her fear of heights, kangaroos, and all things pointy. The way she would dance and spin in her chair when she didn't know he was watching through the glass partition at QC. The sound of her loud voice when she's angry.

The fact that he noticed everything and could never forgot anything he knew about her tormented him all those days, weeks, months, when he was struggling to deny his feelings for her, when he was convinced she was better off without him.

But now, finally, today is the day his Felicity-centered eidetic memory is working in his favor.

Because that particular lip bite, coupled with the subtle peeking out of her tongue to moisten that plump, kissable bottom lip, means that she is aroused.

He watches for a moment more, as she rearranges the cards in her hand and shifts her legs, seemingly pressing her thighs together under the constricting fabric of her long gown.

Oh yeah, definitely aroused.

Bracing his elbows on his knees, he leans forward to get her attention. "Fe-li-ci-ty," he murmurs in that special voice that is only for her, "it's your turn." Not able to resist taunting her just a little, he smiles and asks sweetly, "Are you going to hold on to what you have?"

She purses her lips and tilts her head, reminding him of the day he walked into her life with a bullet-ridden laptop and a bad lie that she saw right through. When he thinks about that, it makes perfect sense that she is beating the pants off him, almost literally at this point, because she could always tell when he is bluffing. She discards one card and draws another. Seemingly satisfied, she waits for him to fold or hold. He tries to build up some suspense but he only lasts about 30 seconds before declining to draw. Felicity eyes him up and down and he feels the heat from her gaze inflame his skin. Her smile is a feral combination of sultry and smug as she lays down her cards and reveals she has two pair.

Oliver nods in acknowledgement before he lays his cards down on the carpet in front of him, showing Felicity he has the winning hand. Again. Her outrage, as evidenced by her narrowed eyes and heaving chest, at his second consecutive win does not escape his attention but he is more focused on her foot. More particularly, how to remove her shoe from her foot. There are only three straps holding it on but he can't find any buckles and the straps don't give an inch when he pulls on them.

“Could you just…,” he pleads.

But she just shakes her head. "Okay, Cheaty McCheaterson, how'd you manage to stack the deck without me noticing, huh? Were you letting me win earlier? Was being naked part of your strategy all along? "

Wow, he’s not sure whether to be insulted or flattered. But he loses track of her rant when she reaches for the back of her shoe and slowly unzips it, easing it off her foot. He reaches over to collect his prize and can’t resist wrapping his hand around her foot, skating his thumb across the arch up to her toes.

"Felicity, I didn't--I wouldn't--cheat," adding under his breath, "no matter how much I want that dress off of you."

Her eyes widen at his admission and she licks her lips. "That's it...you're going down."

Abruptly letting go of her foot, he chokes on her choice of words but she seems oblivious to her double entendre. His throat is suddenly as dry as the Nevada desert they drove through just a day ago so he turns over on his hands and knees, crawling over to the mini-bar to grab a bottle of water.

He doesn’t even have the cap off before he feels her hand on his ass. She plasters herself to his backside and whispers in his ear, "This dress could be off in the next five seconds if you'll concede that I won."

Oliver steels himself against the onslaught of her soft curves pressing into him and her enticing ultimatum. "Nope. No way, not conceding. We each have two pieces of clothes on. It's a tie."

Felicity giggles and somehow manages to press herself even closer to him. Her hands glide around his waist, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, and wrap around him in a makeshift hug. Her warm breath tickles the nape of his neck, the words whispering across his sensitive skin, "It's only a tie if I'm wearing panties.....which I'm most definitely not."

Desperately trying to tamp down the sudden surge of arousal at that piece of information, he grits out, "You do realize you just admitted that I'm actually winning and gave me incentive to keep playing, don't you?"

Felicity responds by stroking her palm straight down the middle of his abs, until her finger reaches the waistband of his pants, giving the button a tug. "Or I just gave you incentive to forfeit this game for much more fun one. Dealer’s choice, Mr. Queen."

FIN

So, fam, what do we think Oliver decided to do? ;) Hint: if I could write smut, this would have been a lot longer lol. Thank you so much for reading! I <3 you all! Since I didn’t do Mancrush Monday, here’s a visual of shirtless Oliver staring at Felicity while she tries to ignore him.

Also, here’s a pic of Felicity’s lucky heels. They are very lucky indeed! ;)

#fictober19 #olicity fanfiction #olicity fic #olicity #i just want them to be happy #even if i have to write it myself

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marmaladedtoast · 5 years

Text

Cross posted from AO3

"And of course it was completely ridiculous. So I said-" Crowley cut himself off as he watched Aziraphale try to surreptitiously scratch his back against the doorjamb again. Normally, he would just move and help scratch the itch, but this wasn't the first time he had done that today.

He had knocked over a pile of books earlier without even touching them when he had turned around today too.

"Go on, my dear," Aziraphale called as he went back to puttering around the bookshop. "I'm listening."

"What? Oh, that." He waved his hand dismissively. "Not important, forgot all about it. Are you alright?"

Aziraphale started, taken surprise by either the question or how quickly he had shifted to it. "Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?"

Crowley pursed his lips before he decided he really didn't have the patience for this game today. "What's wrong with your wings, angel?"

See, the thing was, Crowley knew wings. He was nearly an expert on them. Most of the demons got rid of their wings when they fell, a sort of last fuck you to the Almighty. But not all of them. Crowley certainly hadn't, and he took pride in caring for them, black feathers and all.

The other demons who kept their wings... didn't take such good care of them. Most took a strange kind of pride in keeping their wings nasty and disheveled, but there was only so far that could go before it stopped being aesthetic and started being supremely painful.

And most demons had let it laps so long that they had forgotten how to care for them at all.

All of this is to say that even after the botched end of the world and his general banishment from hell, Beelzebub still showed up at his flat at least once a year for him to do up her feathers.

So he knew the signs of someone who had gone too long between preenings.

Aziraphale, for his part, didn't know about Crowley's expertise, but he wasn't arguing the point. He was just shifting self-consciously from foot to foot.

"They're just a little itchy, my dear. It's a bit hard to reach the back ones."

"You want me to help?" The question was innocent enough, but Aziraphale looked at him like he had been electrocuted. Crowley instantly realized the problem.

Just because he was used to platonic grooming, didn't mean Aziraphale was. And allopreening was, and always would be, one of the most intimate things two angels could do together.

That didn't mean they didn't share a certain intimacy. They had been together for decades, faced the end of the world together, but they were still an angel and a demon.

Wings were a part of an angel or demon's true form. They were fairly sensitive limbs- made to sense the changing winds. Exposing them to anyone, letting another person grab handfuls of feathers, it was the most vulnerable they could be.

After the apocalypse, their relationship had become more defined, but Crowley had always preened his feathers himself. His snake form gave him more joints that just happened to help him take care of his remaining angelic limbs. He had always just assumed Aziraphale had his own routine, and he didn't need any help.

Now he was thinking Aziraphale hadn't been ready for this... step in their relationship.

"I'm not trying to pressure you, angel, just... just wanna help."

Aziraphale had been avoiding his gaze, and it was actually starting to hurt Crowley's feelings a bit, but then he finally broke the silence. "I don't want you to see."

Crowley cocked his head in confusion. "What?"

"It's... it's just been a long time. I didn't... I've never been good at taking care of them myself. We used to, well, I suppose they still do, but, anyway, I used to go to the department heaven had specifically for this sort of thing. They used a sort of... comb thing. Took care of it all rather quickly, actually, but now..."

He trailed off and Crowley stared at him in shock. "Angel, are you telling me you have not had your wings properly groomed since the apocalypse?"

"Well, a few months before, technically."

"That was five years ago!"

"I am well aware," Aziraphale snapped, his voice threatening towards a whine.

"Why haven't you just asked them-"

"Don't you think I have?!"

Crowley stepped back like he had been slapped. Aziraphale crossed his arms and glared at the floor.

"You... Aziraphale, are you telling me heaven has... denied you help grooming your wings?"

Aziraphale just shrugged.

That was amazingly cruel. Not even hell would do that to a person. It was... abhorrent. He knew better than most how uncared for wings could fester, but he had no doubts that those bastards in heaven knew exactly what would happen.

"...let me help. Please."

Aziraphale wrung his hands together.

Five years. Crowley couldn't even imagine. Couldn't believe he hadn't noticed until now.

"It's... it's rather bad, my dear. I really.... I'll figure out how to take care of it."

"Angel, I've helped demons take care of their wings. I'm sure I've seen worse."

Aziraphale looked up at that, but he still seemed wary. "Did you really?"

"Well, my kind didn't exactly have a whole department for this sort of thing. Somebody had to do it."

"I suppose... if you're really sure?"

Crowley moved closer and pulled Aziraphale close, cradling his face between his hands. "I would wade through holy water for you. I think I can manage a little grooming."

Aziraphale chuckled just a little and pressed his forehead against Crowley's. "Alright," he whispered.

The trouble with grooming angel wings was that they couldn't just be miracled clean. The wings were themselves made of a kind of miracle, so they resisted any miracle-ing. You needed to care for them the old fashioned way or not at all.

And, as with all things, the old fashioned way took a lot of time.

So they closed the shop and moved upstairs. Crowley brought a chair from the kitchen and set it up in the middle of the room.

It wouldn't be the most comfortable situation, but it was the most practical. If Aziraphale laid down on the bed, he wouldn't be able to easily reach the underside of his feathers, and an actual armchair wouldn't be work at all.

Aziraphale didn't fuss about the seating arrangement, just sat backwards on the chair and leaned his head against the back of the chair. He took a deep breath and then he unfurled his wings.

"O-oh," Crowley gasped before he could stop himself.

Aziraphale sat straight up and drew his wings in close to his body. "Oh, I told you this was a bad idea!"

"No, no!" Crowley nearly tripped over himself to place a comforting hand on his angel. "I just realized I forgot some stuff we'll need. I've seen way worse."

He hadn't.

Aziraphale's once pristine, white wings were now a dingy gray. Crowley might have been worried about the state of his lover's soul, but he was pretty sure it was dirt, and not an indication that he was falling from grace. Nearly every feather was split and kinked out of place, or just plain broken, and there was... there was a smell. He had seen all of these things at one point or another, but never all on the same set of wings.

He had worked in hell for six thousand years, and he had never seen torture like this.

But he could hardly say that. Aziraphale was clearly embarrassed, but Crowley could not stand by now that he knew about this. So he miracled himself a chair, a warm bowl of water, a towel, and sat down to work.

"Is that a bowl of water?" Aziraphale asked, craning his neck to try and see behind him properly.

"Yes of course it's a bowl of water, what else would it be?"

Aziraphale pouted, his wings drawing up close to his back. "Crowley, I hate getting my wings wet!"

"....Clearly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Crowley sighed and ran a hand experimentally through Aziraphale's feathers. "Angel, a lot of this could be fixed with a bath."

"... I tried a dust bath."

Well that would explain the grayness. He dislodged a few broken feathers absentmindedly as he tried to figure out the best way to fix this mess. He didn't want to make the angel more uncomfortable than he already was, but there was really no way around it. "I need to use at least a little water, angel. Can't clean 'em properly if I don't."

"It just feels so... icky."

The demon fought to think of a solution that would let him fix Aziraphale's wings without making him upset. "Well, maybe I can waterproof them first and then-"

"No!" Aziraphale jumped from the chair as Crowley's hands got close to his oil glands. Crowley snatched his hands away like he had been burned and looked up at the skittish angel.

He wouldn't say anything, but this constant rejection hurt more than a little bit. He didn't understand why he was having to work so hard just to take care of Aziraphale. He didn't understand why Aziraphale wouldn't let Crowley touch him.

Clearly the angel didn't trust him as much as he thought.

The hurt must have shown, because Aziraphale's face crumpled.

"I didn't mean... Oh, Crowley, I'm sorry, I... it just hurts so much! Please don't try to use any oil. I can't..."

Crowley frowned so hard he was a bit worried he might get wrinkles. "Your oil glands hurt?"

"Horrendously. But only if they're touched."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. He needed to stay calm. "Alright. Angel, I need you to go lie down on the bed so I can look at them."

"Do you really have to?"

"Now, Assssiraphale," Crowley snapped. Aziraphale startled, but shuffled over to the bed, his damaged wings twitching nervously.

Crowley didn't want to be mean, but that wasn't something he could just ignore.

There were few things in the universe that could actually cause an angel or demon to become sick. Really, properly sick. Wasting away, rotting from the inside out, sick.

An infected oil gland was one of those things.

Crowley knelt next to Aziraphale on the bed and gingerly pushed away the feathers to look. He wanted to comfort the angel, but he couldn't find the words. All he could do was hold his breath.

He knew how to groom wings but that didn't make him a doctor. There was only so much he could do if it had gone past a certain point.

He didn't know what they would do if it was bad.

The feathers parted and Crowley let out the breath he had been holding. It was bad. It was still really bad. But it didn't look infected.

Crowley gently pressed a finger against the swollen gland to gauge the reaction. Aziraphale yelped and arched off the bed. The sound felt like a punch to the gut, but Crowley had to ignore the feeling. He was going to have to cause Aziraphale pain to help him, no matter how much the very thought of hurting the angel hurt Crowley.

Making soothing noises, Crowley brought his fingers up to eye level and rubbed them together. There wasn't a drop of oil on them.

"They're impacted," he said softly, rubbing at the space between Aziraphale's wings. "But I don't think they're infected."

"Can you fix it?"

"Yeah, I should be able to..." Crowley's eyes snapped towards movement, and he parted some errant feathers to confirm his suspicions. "Sssson of a bitch."

"What? What's wrong?"

"You have mitessss." He should have suspected at least that part. For whatever reason, the space where wings were kept when not in use was also home to itty bitty bugs. And as annoying as it was, interdimensional mites were a common affliction.

He had thought it was the out of place feathers that had been causing the itching, but it had probably been these bastards.

"Oh good lord!" Aziraphale slammed his face into the mattress and covered his head with his hands.

"It'sss fine, angel. Juss-" he stopped and took a deep breath, trying to reign in his hiss. "Just another thing. I can fix it. It'll just... take a while."

He made the water he had miracled much, much hotter and dipped the cloth into the water. The first thing he had to deal with was the impacted glands. Those were causing Aziraphale actual pain. Everything else was just discomfort.

He placed the damp cloth over the left wing gland and ran his fingers through Aziraphale's hair.

"Ah, hot," Aziraphale muttered, but he didn't arch away in pain again, so Crowley counted that a win. He looked over his shoulder and glared at the damp cloth. "My sweater's going to get wet."

Crowley rolled his eyes and miracled the garment away, ignoring Aziraphale's resulting squeak.

They sat that way in silence for a while as Crowley waited for the impacted oil in the gland to soften from the heat.

Aziraphale peeked at him over his shoulder again. "I'm sorry, my dear," he murmured "I should have asked for help sooner, and now everything's... well, I've made quite the mess of my wings."

"You didn't know I groomed wings," he replied, just as softly.

"It's not about that. We... we've been together for a long time. I should have asked you for help. As my partner."

Crowley pursed his lips. He couldn't really argue about that. He couldn't pretend that he hadn't been hurt that Aziraphale hadn't even considered him with things this bad. But he still understood. A bit.

"Well, I could have brought it up. Asked you for help, too, instead of just taking care of it myself." He took Aziraphale's hand and squeezed. "We could make this a regular thing. If you wanted."

Aziraphale chuckled and squeezed Crowley's hand back. "That sounds nice." He shifted his wing and winced. "Fixing this is going to hurt, isn't it?"

"Probably." Crowley lifted the cloth and prodded at the gland. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, but he didn't jump, so it seemed like it had softened up as much as it was going to. "Ok, angel, I'm gonna try and clear this one out. I need you to not move, ok?"

The angel nodded and took two fistfuls of the bedding under him. Crowley took a deep breath, and then squeezed.

Aziraphale screamed, but the blockage was coming out.

The glands were up near the joint where the wing met the back, and they were hard to reach. Since Aziraphale hadn't been grooming his wings, the oil the gland had produced hadn't had anywhere to go. Trapped in the gland, the oil had solidified and gone bad.

A nasty, yellow sludge crept out of the gland and smelled like the depths of hell, but it was coming out. Crowley grit his teeth and kept pressing until his fingers were coated in clear, clean oil.

He pulled away and miracled the soiled cloth to the farthest point away from them as he could think of. That point being a particularly nasty pit of hell. They probably wouldn't even notice, really.

Aziraphale had done his best not to move, but at some point he had half curled into a fetal position. Crowley murmured comforting nonsense as he rubbed the tight muscles of Aziraphale's back, trying to ease the pain he had caused.

"I can't do it again, Crowley, I can't. Please don't do that again. Please don't."

Crowley was surprised he didn't break right in half at the sound of the angel's broken pleas. "It's almost done, love. Just one more."

"I can't, I can't, I can't."

"We can take a little break," he soothed. "We don't need to go again right away. But we have to take care of it. You know that. We're lucky they're not infected already."

Aziraphale didn't respond, he was shaking and Crowley wasn't sure he even could respond at this point.

It wasn't the best angle, but Crowley started to do some standard grooming, pulling out the broken feathers and straightening the crooked ones.

It didn't really count, since he still needed to deal with the mites before he could actually put the feathers in place, but it would feel good, and he needed something to draw Aziraphale out of the memory of pain.

He was a demon, pain was kind of their thing, and for all that Crowley had worked to avoid that part of the job, he still knew how to cause it. And to cause pain properly, you needed to know what things made pain a distant memory.

Crowley ran his fingers down individual feathers, occasionally reuniting barbules to smooth down a feather and fix a split, but mostly he was just... petting. He watched Aziraphale's body language carefully, waiting for him to uncurl and for his muscles to relax.

It felt like an eternity, but eventually the angel did uncurl, turning boneless under Crowley's ministrations.

"Does that feel better, angel?"

"Hmm," he blinked up at him, dazed. "Oh, yes, it feels... quite nice, really. I might fall asleep."

He chuckled and stopped going through the feathers. "Not just yet, angel." He had put another hot cloth over his other wing when Aziraphale had started to relax, and he removed that now so he could look at the impacted gland.

Aziraphale stiffened up again, and Crowley waited for him to relax against the bed again.

"I won't start until you say," he said softly.

The angel took a shuddering breath, but he didn't give Crowley the go ahead, so he still waited. He could have been worried that Aziraphale would never be ready; that he would try and avoid fixing his other oil gland because he knew how much it would hurt, but Crowley knew he wasn't stupid. It was a problem that needed to be taken care of, and they would take care of it.

Just as soon as Aziraphale was ready.

"Alright," he said, with only a slight tremor to his voice. "I'm ready."

Crowley squeezed.

The second time went better than the first, if only because Aziraphale passed out. It took a lot to make an angel or demon pass out, but extreme pain in a sensitive part of their true body would do it pretty good.

Crowley was just glad Aziraphale wouldn't have to feel the pain anymore.

He cleaned out the gland, thinking murderous thoughts about heaven. He didn't want another apocalypse; humans didn't deserve to die over a fight between heaven and hell, but if he got the chance to storm heaven's gates, he wouldn't exactly say no.

This was cruel. This was a death sentence that was so much worse than hellfire or holy water. A slow and rotting death that no one ever deserved.

But it was over now. They had dealt with it in time and Crowley would never let Aziraphale get to this point again. He would never hurt like this again.

With both glands cleaned out, Crowley arranged Aziraphale's wings and covered him with his favorite blanket. They still had a lot of work to do, but they both needed a break.

Crowley didn't care how long it took, he was going to make sure his angel was happy and healthy.

Crowley had miracled Aziraphale a more comfortable chair. Something that was more like a massage chair, but with a place for him to set a book. Crowley was currently bug hunting, and he couldn't tell you how long he had been doing it. It was monotonous work, but he was determined to win the war.

Aziraphale had one of his favorite books, but he would stop reading every once in a while to talk to Crowley.

"So how often do you... do this? For other demons?"

"Hmm?" Crowley looked away from the mite he was chasing and swore under his breath as it escaped. "Usually at least once a year. Most demons like the disheveled look, so they don't ask too often."

"No, I can understand. It certainly takes a long time."

Crowley snorted. "It doesn't normally take this long, angel. I just can't get rid of the mites the way I normally do."

"How do you normally do it?"

"Burn 'em off with hellfire."

"Ah. Well, yes, that wouldn't work here, I suppose." He turned back to his book, but Crowley could tell he was still feeling tense. It was all through his wings.

"I actually haven't ever fully groomed wings that aren't mine. They just ask me to fix, like, you know, a few broken feathers or something and then leave."

"Oh," Aziraphale said brightly. He twisted his head to look at Crowley. "It would be okay if it was more, of course. I know it's purely a professional courtesy."

Crowley pressed a kiss to the nape of Aziraphale's neck as a response and they lapsed back into a more comfortable silence.

Once he was sure he had crushed every last damned bug that had the misfortune to think it could make Aziraphale's wings its home, he moved to the actual preening.

He trailed his hands through the feathers, seeking anything out of place. He ran his fingers along every barb on every feather, from the primaries to the coverts, going back and coating them in oil once they were in their proper place.

Aziraphale sighed and melted into the chair. Crowley was sure the pain and itching was taken care of, and for the first time in who knows how long, the angel could finally, truly relax.

Crowley wanted to catalog every spot that made Aziraphale sigh, every ticklish and sensitive spot, but he knew that his wings must be getting oversensitive. He couldn't give an exact number, but he knew this process had taken at least a couple of days. Having anyone's hands in your wings for days, no matter how gentle, would get to be too much. So he did his best not to linger.

"There," he said, finally. "Good as new." He sat back to admire his handiwork. Aziraphale's wings had been restored to their white, shining glory, not a pinion out of place. It was his best work yet, if he did say so himself.

Aziraphale pulled them close to his back and they winked out of existence. He rolled his shoulders experimentally, a grin spreading across his face.

"Thank you, my dear. That feels so much better."

"Let's not wait five years to to it again."

Aziraphale pulled him close and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. "No, I don't think we will.... I could do up yours tomorrow, if you wanted."

Crowley smiled and wrapped his arms around his angel, a coy smile playing on his lips. "I think I could clear a place in my schedule."

#good omens #aziraphale/crowley #wing fic #wing grooming #hurt/comfort #tw: hiding medical issues #tw: painful medical issues #tw: painful and gross medical procedures #tw: pus #tw: bugs #tw: mites #tw: medical neglect #it sounds really bad #but it turns out ok #just don't want to take anyone by surprise #it does get a little gross in the middle #My writing

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bxstiae · 4 years

Text

⚜ ; [ TWILI LANGUAGE / HC.4 ] WORLDBUILDING │ LANGUAGE LANG. POSTS: HYLIAN /

alright, so... in my last post about the hylian language. i talk about like.... its roots and what it would really sound like phonetic wise and whatnot. && if you haven’t read it, then go ahead and click the ‘hylian’ link above. I do go into some detail about it. but to sum it up: it’s latin based. granted thats a lot to really cover and very generalised but i mean i can’t go into detail about the different dialects of all hylian. just know that there are different dialects of hylian: zelda speaks differently than link as link was raised in a village in ordon and zelda is a princess and comes from a different region. ganon also speaks a bit differently since he is gerudo and yet from ANOTHER region.... like all three of them speak hylian: but they have different words & phrases. but... i mean in general hylian is latin based with a bit of japanese and/or arabic in there too ( it just depends on region )

but i want to talk about midna speech && the twili language! cause it is different! all going under a read more cause i don’t know how long this will be.

as always, you guys are free to look at this, but please try not to take what i’ve researched without asking. with the twili language, i have a lot of sources that i’m looking at. a majority (if not all) of this stuff i have written is stuff that i have made ( or at least taken into consideration for ). The videos/people i source just happen to she the same exact thoughts and can put it into better words than i can.

PLEASE DO NOT TAKE OR USE WITHOUT PERMISSION. DO NOT REBLOG OR REUSE THIS FOR YOUR OWN HC.

regardless of game.

I work hard on my HCs, i do not want this to be snatched up. if you want to discuss, then lets discuss. I have similar HC for many of the LOZ games mainly in Skyward Sword & Breath of the Wild. I am more than willing to share if you come and discuss with me. otherwise, DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING from this post without permission.

The other day i found this page. while i always kinda knew that midna talking was always garbled & scrambled, i never really had the patience to really.... sit down and look for actual videos where they unscrambled midna’s lines. that and i honestly forgot too cause it’s been a hot minute since i played tp.... so im glad this was actually on my recommended the other day -- it’s like chrome knows that i am looking for things like this.....

anyway.... so i bring it up to attention cause i had been honestly looking for resources & stuff for the twili language. I mentioned that it was a little primitive in nature because it is! i just didn’t know how to correctly consider it without straying TOO far from canon. i like to make meta out of stuff that’s formed from the game. but like to go into more detail about it.

anyway. like i said. twili is technically still considered hylian! its.... like how midna’s voice suggests.... very scrambled/jumbled. it’s not backwards per say... its... just jumbled! it’s a bit like... typoglycemia but the phonetic version of it. ( if there is a phonetic version of it ). mind you, this is NOT the same as the twili language written out. twili has its OWN scriptures!!! that’s different than hylian!!! just that their SPEECH is garbled/jumbled.

Think of it like.... in Spy Kids. when they make the clones?? yea and they can’t talk so it sounds garbled?? LIKE THIS. yea exactly like that. okay but here: have that video that shows midna talking though:

youtube

she.... just.... i love her... anyway.. so yea. anyway...

the twili language is really weird cause their speech patterns are very.... different. it’s not as... sophisticated as the standard hylian but that’s because it’s more ancient & didn’t have much to evolve over the years. it’s pretty standard comparing it to the more.... older languages. but yea.

also another side thing to conisder, because i said this in my last post:

Let’s also not forget that i also mentioned that twili is a FORM of hylian ( so possibly you can see latin & arabic roots there ). But we aren’t talking about twili language this is strictly hylian. so back to hylian.

Now without really talking all that much about the gerudo ( cause honestly..... thats also a language/dialect in itself ), let me present you guys with this theory video:

youtube

to sum it up: the video considers that.... the twili are gerudo or at least have some part of gerudo in them ( mixed races, etc. etc. etc. ) It also brings up the idea that.... Gerudo are capable of magic, which the twili are known for ( in this case it is dark magic ). Its a bit of a stretch, and im going down an even deeper rabbit hole, but i bring this up because.... i do, in fact, see twili to be a bit more arabic than any other language at least in TP.

so... say it simply: twili is a garbled-ish form of arabic with some latin roots.

Lets also look at the fact that the twili world can only be entered through a MIRROR. a world in a state of perpetual dusk. a world that is on the opposite side of the coin. in a way... a world almost like a mirror to hyrule: but smaller and... a bit different. whats funny is that in english ( or latin ) words are written from left to right. and justified left. arabic: to my knowledge, is the the other way around. and in manga: the correct way to read things is from right to left.

IM not saying that the twilight language is a BACKWARDS language. cause it’s not. it’s way more complex than that, but you cannot look at it directly in the normal way. I bring it up cause the scriptures... are very different than hylain. while it may be easier to understand what a twili says, it’s HARD to read what what they’ve written. because its.... not normal.

twili do not write or read in straight lines. Midna, when she comes to hyrule, understands that hylians write in straight lines. and she can pick it up cause... its... different... and honestly easier despite it’s sophistication.

but thats the difference!! normal hylian is simple & easy cause it isn’t all over the place. Twili honestly is what a 4 or 5 year old would draw or write. i.e.: it’s all over the place. I would show you some twili font, however, i cannot due to the fact that there isn’t much. and by that i mean, there is literally nothing that i can go off of. however, I would like to show you guys this:

This is the CURTAIN OF TWILIGHT. while i don’t think it was their intention to make this look like a language let alone words ( i think they just tried to make it seem look archaic ), i do have to say that the twili language LOOKS like this. by this, i mean that its everywhere. there isn’t a single line for it. it’s.... everywhere. normal people wouldn’t be able to read twili: they would consider it just scribbles and random designs. however, twili can read it. I would have to look for a comic that shows link looking around and finding twilight artefacts, but its a lot like the cave art that we have in places that bring up our own ancestors.

an artist actually...??? made up their own design for a twili font that i actually like?? HERE is that link for the font. and I really do like how they have the radicalised twili syntax because it’s very, VERY similar to how i would probably want to see the twili written as. Please know that this is Undying Nephalim’s tribute to the twilight language. this isn’t something that i made or even discussed with them. I just found this like months ago. i am using it as a guide to show you what i can see twili looking like.

i’ll end it here for now cause im kinda at a lostt to what else i should say but.... please feel free to let me know what you guys think and if you guys like this. I’m sure i’ll have more some other time.

#headcanon tag.#[ i fucking love my headcanons ]#[ but the fact that i have a disclaimer is because... yes my shits been stolen before ]#[ i love it when people like stuff. but theft is not a compliment ]#[ anyway please like this i love this so much.... ]

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saadiestuff · 5 years

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A Dying Man, He Asked For You (Malex fic)

Summary: Alex in pain is breaking Michael's heart - and not in the way that he’s used to. (AKA yet another future fic post-1x13 getting Malex back together. Can't ever have too many!)

For the prompt from @hannah-writes: “I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.” - Post finale Malex, happy ending obvs, Michael's attempts at moving on failed miserably and Alex is still waiting because Alex is a gift?

“Are you Michael? Michael Guerin?” Both Michael and Maria are startled away from attempting to squint through the drawn blinds of patient room 305. “Yeah, I’m him,” Michael says, turning to face the doctor who’d spoken. He was old, with kind, well-lined, eyes. “Good. My resident is in there with Alex right now, but you can go in as soon as she comes out.” “Is he… is he okay?” Michael asks weakly, “You said I’m his emergency contact? Do I need to decide something--?” “No, no,” the doctor says, brows furrowing, shaking his head, “Like I said on the phone, he's pretty roughed up, but stable and awake.” “I’m afraid he didn’t hear much of what you said on the phone,” Maria explains, remembering watching Michael’s face turn pale as he’d received the news that Alex was hurt and in the hospital a town over. Just then, the door to Alex's room opens, and a young resident comes out. “There, now you can go see for yourself,” the doctor says, grinning. But Michael had seen as the door swung. He’d seen Alex lying on the bed, curled on his left side to face the door, looking small, with a large cast covering his entire right arm. "He hates me," Michael blurts out, eyes wide, when the door clicks shut. The doctor sighs. “Son, when he came here, he was in a lot of pain, losing just enough blood to be scared, really scared, and he was trying to be a brave soldier - I can see he’s been through worse - but he was asking for you . He was asking for you in a way a dying man doesn’t ask for some friend of his whose name he slapped on a medical form a few months back and then forgot to take off when they got into a fight.”

Michael feels like he might be sick. He doesn’t know why. He just wants to be in that room and he wants to be as far away from it as possible - at the same time. The doctor continues, “So you see, I told him, what I hoped was reassuringly, that he was not dying and would be able to call you himself.” “He didn’t,” Michael gulps. "That’s why I did,” the doctor says quickly, “Now, would you please consider going in there and trying to convince my patient not to leave against medical advice? I’d like him to stay overnight for monitoring, and so he can relax with stronger pain relief and heal, and he’s having none of it.” The doctor smiles, claps Michael gently on the shoulder and leaves without another word. Maria turns to him. Michael looks like he's about to break. He puts his face up to the window of Alex’s room and stares, even though the blinds are still drawn. "Guerin..." Maria says softly, reaching for him and turning him around. He stares at her, wide eyed, tears pooling. "Guerin, you need to go in there.” She speaks calmly, but it’s a order. "I-- I-- can't--" Michael stutters. "Pull yourself together. The doctor said he'll be okay. Have you still not heard that part?" she says a little briskly, hoping to get his attention. "I don't want to hurt him again. I can't. He’s already hurt and I’m just going to go in there and...” he trails off, drawing in on himself, hating that he’s back, yet again, at this place of not trusting that he won’t hurt someone he loves. Beside him, Maria takes a deep breath. Then her words rush out. "You and I are over." "What?" Michael asks, casually, like he hasn’t understood. “I’m breaking up with you,” she says firmly. “What?” Michael says again, this time his voice is soft and high, cracking over the single syllable. "You'll go in there, hold him, and forget that I even exist," she says explains calmly, "And that’s how it should be. You should be with someone who chases the whole world away. And that someone isn’t me." "Maria--" “I want you to be there for him and I don’t want you to feel guilty for loving him while you do it,” she tells him. "Alex needs you right now. And you need him. You've been needing him all these months.” It’s not an accusation, it’s just facts. Michael stares at her, his mouth opening and closing against words refusing to form; words of pleading, the kind you’d expect to say when being dumped by someone you genuinely like. Instead, a feeling like relief overwhelms him. “You don’t have to deny it. It’s okay,” Maria assures him. “It’s not okay,” he manages to get out. “It’s not,” she admits, “But that’s why we need to end things. Because it probably never should have started, especially not the way it did.” “It wasn’t meaningless.” He offers her the one truth he can. “I know. We care about each other and we work strangely well together,” she smiles sadly at him, her tone tender and wistful, “But there was never enough there.” Michael hangs his head, silent tears roll down his face. Maria knows it's not for mourning their four-month relationship. It’s about him realizing that he’s hurt Alex for this thing that isn’t even real, and that maybe they’ve only lasted as long as they have because they didn’t want to admit that. And it’s about him releasing his pent up terror of the last few hours since finding out Alex was hurt, that yet another of his small family might have died on him. Maria feels crappy about the whole thing, but the timing sucks especially. There’s no room for the debrief they probably both need, and now there never will be. But it’s more important that she get Michael to Alex. “I wish there was a better moment to do this, but every day longer I wait is just worse isn’t it? There’s so much more I wanted to say, but--.” “Wanted to?” Michael says slowly, a smirk nearly crossing his face, that annoying involuntary one that creeps up like a shield when he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the state of his life, “How long ‘you been planning on letting me go, DeLuca?” “I never really had you,” Maria says with a small shrug. It's sad, but she won't let the tears fall, not here. "I'm sorry,” he says, because she’s right, if he’s honest. And that was never fair to either of them. "No,” she shakes her head gently, “Let's save our apologies for Alex, okay?" Michael nods, with a sniffle. Maria reaches up to raise his chin, and wipe a tear off his cheek, knowing it's the last time she'll ever touch him like that. "Guerin, we're not going to talk about this later," she tells him, turning to walk away. ~~~~~ Michael forgets the entire world the moment Alex's room door closes behind him. Alex hasn’t moved since Michael had caught a glimpse of him a few minutes ago. Lying on his left side, curled almost up against the bed rail, one hand gripping it tightly, the other in a cast along with much of his arm, extending past his elbow. His eyes fly open at the noise of Michael’s cowboy boots on the hard floor. “Gu--Guerin?” Alex stammers, in groggy surprise. “Your doctor called me. You could probably sue him breach of privacy,” Michael jokes feebly. Alex huffs, and Michael isn’t sure what that means, so he moves closer, pulls up a chair next to the bed, and settles into it. "Hey," Michael says softly, resting his chin on the bed rail. Alex squeezes his eyes shut. He feels exposed, and it's the only way he has to hide. Michael thinks for a moment he's being dismissed - that the nice old doctor had it wrong - and that he is in fact the last person Alex wants to see. But then Michael notices Alex struggling to uncurl his shaky hand from the railing. Michael reaches for it and takes it in his, and with the other folds down the railing, allowing him lean in closer. Michael strokes Alex's sweaty hair, mindful to avoid touching the cut and bruise at the side of his forehead. Still, Alex flinches at first and clutches Michael's hand tightly, but he quickly calms as Michael continues with slow consistent movements. “Jumpy,” Alex says by way of explanation. "What happened?" Michael asks softly. “For the record? Fell down some stairs.” “Off-record?” “Beaten up,” Alex says weakly, knowing Michael will hate that answer if he still feels anything for him, and Michael's tear-stained face says that he does. Hot anger flashes through Michael's whole body. He’s going to tear apart whoever did this. “By who? And why?” Michael asks, managing to keep a lid on his emotions. “Three goons. I got too close to something I’m not supposed to know about, and someone wanted to scare me. Left me alive - even called me an ambulance - because they’ll be back asking for favours. They were impressed with my skills, I guess.” “Jesus, Alex.” Michael hates that Alex is making new enemies. Jesse Manes is enough. “Who are these people? What are you looking into?” “Shouldn’t talk. Not here,” Alex says, sounding tired. “Okay,” Michael drops it, though he doesn’t like it. “Are you in a lot of pain?” Alex tries to shake his head, not finding the energy to speak a convincing lie, but that hurts. He winces, and lets out an involuntary whimper that just about breaks Michael's heart. “Easy, easy,” Michael soothes, “Just relax.” Alex bites his lip against a groan as he shifts, trying to get passably comfortable again. “Look, I already know you’re a total badass. You can let it out,” Michael says, smiling fondly at Alex, trying to hide his own pain. Alex nods once, barely perceptible, and closes his eyes again, forcing a few tears through his eyelashes. Most run straight into the pillow - the others Michael wipes off the bridge of Alex’s nose. “So, what’s the damage here?” Michael tries, uncomfortable in the silence, “Broken arm obviously--” “Doesn’t need surgery.” “Head injury - I’m guessing concussion.” “Yeah. And twisted my knee and broke the prosthetic. Broken rib or two. Nothing much to be done about those.” Michael breathes deep. “Doc said you bled a lot?” “Head wounds will do that. And I gashed my back on something when I got pushed down. I don’t even know what. Nothing serious, just enough blood to be… concerning…” “Fuck, Alex, they could have killed you. You could have died,” Michael says, voice strained. “I’m fine. I’ve had plenty of close calls over the years.” “You can't just say that,” Michael starts, voice cracking, “You can’t just say that all casual like it’s nothing.” Alex smiles unexpectedly, “And here I’d thought I’d gone soft.” “What?” Alex’s smile fades, he drops his gaze, the hand clasped in Michael’s shifts to play absently with Michael’s fingers instead. “A few bruises and broken bones, some blood, a little light headed, and I'm babbling to some random doctor about needing you? Never happened before.” “Before?” Michael’s mouth is suddenly dry. “When I nearly died last year,” Alex continues, somehow feeling bold in the knowledge that he’ll blame the pain meds later, and it won’t matter whether Michael believes him. Still, his voice is quiet. “When I nearly died… I wanted you. I wanted you and no one else. But I didn't ask for you. We'd ended off so badly the last time I'd been in town… It wouldn’t have mattered anyways ‘cause my dad was hovering around my hospital bed, pretending like he gave a damn about anything besides another Manes family medal. And even in my drugged-up state I somehow knew I couldn’t ask for you. I couldn’t have what I wanted.” Michael shakes his head, “No,” his voice trembles, “You could’ve. I would have come. You can always call me if you're in trouble. No matter what. And if you think--” “Doesn’t mean I should,” Alex says, cutting him off, “You have your own life. It's not fair for me to--” Michael ignores that, “And if you think you're weak for asking for what you want? For taking what you want? It's the opposite, Alex,” he says forcefully. “You can't just take people, Guerin,” Alex answers softly. “Fine. But you get my point,” Michael says more gently. “And what about if-- what if what I want might hurt me?” Alex counters, voice a little stronger now as he meets Michael’s eyes again. Michael knows he's talking about him, but he takes his chance to steer the conversation far away. “You mean like wanting to go home now, against medical advice?” Alex sighs. “Your doctor asked me to convince you to stay the night for monitoring. And so you could have the good drugs.” “No. I don’t want to sleep here. I don’t want to wake up here.” “You’ll be safe. I’ll be here.” “It’s not that… I just don’t want to be in a hospital.” Michael frowns at him. “Don’t make me crawl in that bed with you,” he says, playing it off as a joke, though desperately hoping Alex will take him up on it, knowing it will make them both feel a little safer, despite everything. Alex's heart clenches. He hates how weak he feels for wanting Michael to do just that. He hates the thought that Michael might be doing it out of guilt. But he doesn’t care. Earlier this morning he got jumped by three guys and thought they were going to kill him - and now he wants to be held. That, he wouldn’t hold against himself. That he wants it to be Michael and only Michael? Fuck. He wants it. He still won't say it. “You can’t,” Alex tries instead. “Why?” “Maria.” Now is not the time to tell Alex about the breakup, Michael decides, rightly or wrongly. “Maria drove me here while I freaked out, and then she ordered me to get my ass into this room and cuddle you, so…” “Oh.” “Yeah. So I’m going to put this railing back up, first…” which Michael does, before walking around to the other side of the bed, kicking off his boots, and taking off his belt, which he knows from experience does not make for comfortable snuggling. The bed dips as Michael crawls in, spooning behind Alex. It’s cramped, but they’re a little bit used to it from the airstream, like never fading muscle memory. Alex's hospital gown gapes open at the back, and Michael can see a long bandage running up Alex’s back, the bottom disappearing under the sheets, and the top ending at Alex’s shoulder blade. There are bruises everywhere; it looks like he got kicked a few times. Michael’s anger threatens to boil to the surface again - a fury that could start an earthquake - but he touches Alex with such a gentle caress, hot fingers ghosting over Alex’s bare skin, and nothing could be more disparate. He wishes Max were alive so Alex could be healed, so he wouldn’t have to suffer. Much as it hurts to move, Alex sinks back into Michael, seeking his warmth. Michael does his best to arrange himself to envelope Alex without putting pressure on any of his injuries - it’s a tall order. “I'm surprised the doctors bought your fall down the stairs story,” Michael says, breath tickling the back of Alex’s neck as he speaks. “They didn't really…” Alex admits, “Especially the old guy. Asked me a ton of questions. He’s a real meddler.” “I dunno. I kind of liked him.” “Me too.” ~~~~~ The next morning, they take a cab to where Alex had left his car. On the hour and a half drive back to Roswell, Alex explains what he’s been investigating, why he’d taken a trip to this town, how he thinks his assailants found him, and what they want. “Why are you doing this? There’s no reason for you to risk your life for this shit. It’s not even your job, it’s like it’s your hobby!” Michael half shouts at Alex. “There are things in this world that aren’t right! Things I can expose,” Alex barks back. “Dammit, Alex, you’re too brave and righteous and smart for your own good,” Michael says through gritted teeth, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Alex slumps against the window, exhausted. “Just drive, Guerin. Please.” Michael does mostly only that, when he’s not trying to convince Alex not to go back to his cabin where he’ll be easy to find. “If they wanted to kill me, they would have,” Alex reasons, when Michael tries one more time as they pull up the driveway. “Thanks, that makes me feel much better,” Michael says, rolling his eyes as he puts the car in park. Michael gets out and goes around to help Alex. With a broken arm on the same side as his bad leg, and missing his prosthetic, the crutch the hospital gave Alex is pretty useless. It had been fine for keeping up appearances as Michael had helped him both physically and, secretly, with the aid of his powers, from the wheelchair into the cab, and the cab into Alex’s car. But now there is no audience. “I can just float you to the door this time,” Michael offers, as Alex slides off the seat and tries to balance on the ground. “Um, sure…” Alex says, but immediately regrets it as the strange sensation of floating hits him again. He grabs at Michael’s arm. “Actually, I think I’d rather hold on, like before.” They make their way into the cabin, Alex clinging tightly to Michael’s side, the crutch floating aimlessly behind them. Michael settles Alex in his bedroom, following Alex’s instructions to dig out his old prosthetic from the closet. Alex says it’s too big - it had to accommodate swelling - and he’ll have to make some modifications, so Michael leaves him to it and goes to make them some food. Michael is just turning off the stove when he hears a crash from down the hall. He drops everything and runs towards the noise. He finds Alex crumpled on the ground, next to his crutch and a large painting that been pulled out of its bearings when Alex had lost his balance and reached out blindly at the wall for support. “Alex! Are you okay?” Michael calls out as he rushes to his side, “Why didn’t you wait for me to come help you?” “Because you’re not always going to be here!” Alex shouts at him, lashing out, pushing Michael away with his uncasted arm, yelping as he makes contact and quickly pulling his arm back and drawing it against his body protectively. Alex’s push was nothing. Michael moves two feet away entirely of his own accord, recognizing his touch isn’t welcome right now. “Alex--” he starts slowly. “Stop! Just stop. Just leave me alone,” Alex cries at him. “Alex, please, let me help you. Just tell me--” “No! I know how you feel about me. And that’s nice for you that you can lock that away and move on. But I can’t. I couldn’t even be angry properly. So I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed. I failed miserably,” his voice is still shaking, but it softens, “So thank you, for coming to hospital. I appreciate that I can call you, I do. But you, here? Cooking at my fucking stove? Helping me? It just hurts. Knowing you’re going home to her? So just go. I’m asking for what I want. Go home.” The obstacle of Maria has acted like a protective layer between them, making sure nothing can happen, no lines get crossed, bad habits avoided. He knows it’s time to shed that shield. “Maria and I broke up,” Michael says gently, “We broke up because my home is you. Always been you. Always gonna be you.” There is resignation in his voice, but no hint of regret. “I understand if that doesn’t change anything right now, and you still want me to go…” But Alex’s face does change as he takes in Michael’s words, a glimmer of hope sparking in his eyes so bright that Michael almost panics, until he hears a quiet voice inside his head, calling to him with an unfamiliar name that used to be his. Hope is not the enemy. “Guerin?” Alex calls to him softly, because Michael’s eyes have lost focus and gone impossibly wide. Alex then tries to pull himself to sit up and lean against the wall. He regrets it immediately. “Fuck!” he gasps out a sob. Everything hurts. “Michael,” he whines. That broken sound from Alex’s throat snaps Michael out of it. He scurries over to Alex, touching him gingerly as he checks him over. “Shit, I think you ripped your stitches,” he says as he observes blood on the back of Alex’s shirt, “And this wrist might be broken...” The dam breaks. Hot tears, sharp of pain and bitter of frustration stream down Alex’s face as he buries into Michael. “It’s going to be okay,” Michael whispers against his hair, pulling Alex in as tightly as he dares considering his injuries, “Do you want to go to the hospital? Or should I call Valenti?” A sob. Michael feels a surge of emotion. Alex is breaking his heart, and not in the way that he’s used to. His hand on Alex’s newly-broken wrist feels suddenly hot. Then there’s the telltale glow. “Holy sh--” Michael starts, shocked, then too mesmerized to even finish the sentence. Alex knows what’s happening, but also, what the fuck? It takes a few seconds for it to really register with either of them. Then, Alex feels a twitch in his leg and-- “Stop! Stop!” Alex shouts, pulling away, because they could never do it - there’s no point in even knowing if it’s possible. It takes Michael a moment to catch up and let go. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t even know I--” “No, no, it’s fine. I feel good. It’s good,” Alex smiles as he mentally surveys his injuries, and finds they’ve vanished, “It just started to feel weird is all.” It’s not a lie - it did feel weird. “We’ve got to call Isobel and Liz and tell them I-- ‘m gonna be sick.” Michael barely gets the words out before he pukes. They make quite the pair, Michael too woozy to stand, Alex with a now-pointless cast on his arm and his old, ill-fitting, prosthetic abandoned. Together they crawl down the hallway to the washroom. Alex pulls a jumbo bottle of nail polish remover out from the very back of his sink cabinet. It’s too heavy to even comfortably hold up to drink. “Why’d you ‘ve that?” Michael slurs out between heaves into the toilet as Alex strokes his back. “So I’d be prepared… maybe helpful, even, if you ever got in some trouble. You know... in case you asked for me."

#malex #malex fic #my malex fic #hopeful ending #HannahEnables #prompt filled!

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