@twistedwit: finally kissing the person you’ve been pining for . (soldier)

The pub is a haze of smoke and laughter, a blend of music from an ill-tuned guitar played by a shy owner with a quavering voice and the shouts of a crowd that insult and encourage with equal fervor... and from his chosen table in the back corner, Killian watches through a warm fog of drink. Dimly he's aware of a sharp crack on a what should've been easy note, and a small voice in the corner of his mind wonders why someone hasn't put the poor sod out of his misery already, phantom fingers plucking at invisible strings as an aching wrist is shoved further into his jacket pocket. Smee laughs at one of Starkey's jokes, a loud and raucous noise followed by a flush of embarrassment as he realizes too late that he's reacted too soon ... so afraid of being left in the dark by those he considers friends that he's willing to risk the part of the fool. His eyes flicker toward their appointed leader, the glue that holds their band of misfits together despite the jagged thundercloud that so often lashes out like a whip, as if awaiting Killian's judgment - but the Irishman is too lost in the weight of the knee currently nudging against his own to give a damn about poking at the easy target that is William Smee.

A single brow arches as that leg nudges his all the harder, stubbled features giving way to the grin that slides slow and easy across rum flavored lips. Fingers seek out the older man's own, interlacing in a tangle of warmth and acceptance that sends his heart thudding against the hollowed cage of his chest while he does his best to feign interest in whatever the fuck Starkey and Cecco are arguing about now. It's the same really - aye, it's as if nothing has changed. Poor acoustics and a packed pub giving way to a night where they all spend many a hour talking over the top of one another and doing their best to drown less important people out. Smee is confused as always, head swiveling this way and that and brows furrowed as if he's trying to work out whether or not any of them are having the same damn conversation... Cecco is loud and boisterous, thumping the table in emphasis of some strongly held opinion that no one gives a shit about while carefully avoiding the reach of any punch that Starkey might decide to throw at him.... and Starkey is that ever stalwart presence, the one who watches the castle fall down around him and spends every waking second patiently repairing it, stone by stone meant to bolster his best friend's ego and keep their half rotten dinghy afloat. Killian watches it all with fascination, wonders how things can feel no different when so many things are (the loss of a hand, the gain of a new addition), and carefully avoids that knowing grin that his best friend (first mate, as he likes to say) sometimes throws his way.

Later, when they've all stumbled their way out the door and into the cold night air (some more gracefully than others), the Irishman holds back, pretends an attempt at regaining his balance by leaning against the rough brick wall, hand and wrist shoved firmly into pockets. He plans on apologizing, maybe saying something vague and offhanded in the chance that his date has spent the last four hours trying to plan an escape from the three ringed circus that is Killian Jones and his band of misfit followers, but he remembers the playful nudge underneath the table and the way his fingers felt wrapped in the other man's own .... so when Guy steps in front of him, a presence he can feel as if the very air is charged between them, forget-me-not blues open to meet ones so akin in color to their own.

"Hello, gorgeous." It's a playful greeting, a slur of words carried on a drink flavored lilt.. but before he can offer up anything else (a joke maybe.. or an offer to use the measly amount of money in his wallet to buy them a pizza or something..), the other man is catching his chin with a grip that he is fairly sure sends his heart leaping from his chest and into the middle of the bloody pavement.

Fuck.

The kiss, when it comes, is everything he had always wondered if it would be - a promise sealed in mint and scant beer and the taste of something that he will later come to know is distinctly Guy and the Irishman feels the what was give way to what will be. Somewhere the shadow of his life before the desert heat and the harsh flames of a vengeful god evaporates into the night, and some new part of him leaps at this chance of hope and rightness that weaves its way into his bones. When the older man moves to pull away, fingers creep out from their hiding spot inside his coat to curl around the nape of the taller man's neck, drawing him down until their foreheads rest against one another. The pub has emptied now, the last few stragglers have made their way down the street, unheeding of the two lives that are changing a mere meter or two away from them, and as a hush falls around them, blue eyes meeting blue, Killian is almost certain he can hear the moon overhead whisper his earlier statement, stars echoing it with a playful chuckle.

Hello, Gorgeous.

❝ 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑔𝑛𝑖𝑧𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑦 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑏𝑦 𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑙; 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡ℎ. 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑. ❞

GUY OF GISBOURNE & KILLIAN JONES – for @piraticalwit & @twistedwit

WRONG BLOG BUT I DON'T CARE. happy birthday to the knight to my pirate and to the best friend and deepest love I have ever had. The world broke the mold when it made you and did me an even bigger solid when it looked at the two of us and said yeah.. i guess i can ship that...I remember celebrating with you over skype for the first time and little 23 year old me was trying to convince you to do shots and pull an all nighter with me and you were like "little gremlin, some people have responsibilities. not me though." You are the most compassionate person in the world, the kind of compassion and love and mercy that requires strength in showing it (the story about the rabbit in the road comes to mind here). Real love is sacrifice, even when its painful, and real love grows stronger through any obstacle life can throw at it. Thank you for talking about figurative language at random times (like waiting in line at the grocery store and practicing different ways to describe things we see), always being willing to hold up a good theoretical and/or philosophical debate and for sharing as much of an insane passion for learning as I do. Your eidectic memory makes things fun (and interesting) and your ability to recognize faces and voices is truly out of this world. I love you for being you. I love you for being passionate, open, loving, NERDY AS HECK and one of the best singers I know. I'm glad you turned down being famous so you could cuddle in bed with me instead (not that you knew that was gonna happen, but ... I like to think im a good consolation prize). You are the love of my life, my best friend and soulmate and I can't imagine this world without you. I simply just would not want to live in it. You're still the best writer I know. There are so many things I want to say to you / about you but my words are not working. Just know I love you so much, my elvish speaking freak. happy birthday, @twistedwit !!

so TELL ME ABOUT WEREWOLF HUGO PLS THANK

ABSOLUTELY YES. HAPPILY.

he’s turned at 14 on a camping trip up in the woods of northern nj.

he absolutely hates full moons if he doesn’t have someone else around to either keep a safe watch on him or go through the change with him.

his wolf form is very shaggy. he’s ended up with a Lot of leaves in his hair the next morning.

he’s part of a local “non-traditional” pack who meets up for brunch twice a month — once just before the moon and once just after. it provides comfort for the wws that crave that connection, it also provides resources to its wws who adhere to more of the “lone wolf” ideal.

we all know hugo can eat — his normal eating is nothing compared to hugo the morning after his change.

his best friend, tony, has known he’s been a werewolf since after hugo’s first change and was the person that helped him get in touch with the local pack.

before he eats anything the next morning, he takes a scalding hot, twenty minute minimum, shower. it just makes him feel better about things, whether or not he necessarily remembers what happened the night before.

he’s actually kinda nervous he might attack / kill someone, one day.

@twistedwit​ spoke: ღ  *snicker* ( attraction meme / / accepting ) 

Romantic attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Sexual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Aesthetic attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Sensual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme

can I just say that the depth of thought you put into the Intimacy and Relationship thing you just posted absolutely blew me away. the amount of detail you put into it? I'm in awe. I just wanted to say that I really appreciate how accurate and real you portray her, and how acutely the damage to her psyche can be felt with every word. beautifully done.

hunter oh my gosh !!! thank you !!! i’m always a little bit in shock that people actually READ my ramblings about ms. harleen ❤️ i have to shout out @crimeroyalty here for developing the harls & joker relationship so much with me & always letting me bounce ideas off of her -- it makes it so much easier for me to flesh out what the aftermath of that relationship looks like for harls. her thing with joker is so fucking significant that it affects literally every single aspect of her life going forward & i don’t ever wanna erase that,  ya know? like, being in a relationship with harls post-joker is going to be difficult and there’s gonna be so much to work through. don’t wanna wrap things up all pretty with a nice little bow just because some new lover came along because that’s not how trauma works !! she needs the time and space to HEAL and things are gonna be messy along the way. 

@twistedwit​​: "you're not invincible." 

       “Most people aren’t. Doesn’t stop ‘em from putting themselves on the wrong end of my blade.” If they sounded cocky, it was only because they’d already survived so much. But the luck couldn’t last forever, even Hawke knew that. “I’m sure someday I’ll find out just how breakable I am, the hard way. In the meantime, I’ll keep carving my way through any poor slobs stupid enough to get in my way.” It had been working out for them so far, after all. 

“Screws fall out all the time, the world is an imperfect place.”

@twistedwit -  sent me a ✐ for a random sentence starter from my muse (accepting)

I would like to see headcanons for Eddie's haircare routine. How does he maintain those luscious locks of his? Inquiring minds want to know. <3

Been saving this Hunter because it made me giggle. Prepare to be horribly disappointed with your question.

First of all, the hair comes from Eddie's mother, Annie O'Connor. Who is not a Munson. So, there's no one else in the Munson fam with unruly hair like Eddie's. What I'm saying my friend. Is that Eddie's look is au naturel. He has been genetically gifted that hair and I'm sure it's of envy for some, especially girls lmao.

BUT..... HE DOESN'T DO SHIT TO IT.

He uses a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. That's it. 🤭 No products, no nothing. Those locks are not luscious. As my good chum @chivalrites pointed out. Touching Eddie's hair is like touching a crisp/chip bag. Those strands are drier than the Sahara. But hey, at least he brushes it.......most of the time.

@twistedwit

RP WISH LIST

Send "RP Wish List" to hear something I would like to do with my muse

SOLDIER FARAH, SOLDIER FARAH, SOLDIER FARAH. AKA THE DAYS BEFORE ASTER DELL.

@twistedwit this is the worst thing I have ever written but you’re stuck with it, bye.

Bare feet stamp restlessly against cool wood as Killian peers at the nearest clock,  gaze squinting to make out the numbers so blurred by the lingering fog of sleep. “Three - “ Bloody hell. A jaw splitting yawn cuts off his forthcoming comment and the Irishman runs ringed fingers over his own stubbled features before trying again. “Three thirty in the morning and we’re doing this now?” One brow arches at the lanky form that is now half hidden under his kitchen sink, forget-me-not blues glancing wistfully at the bed a mere meter or two away, and Killian lets out a loud sigh - dramatic for a first date, aye ... but how else is a man supposed to get his bloody point across?

Guy doesn’t reappear, instead he simply holds out his own hand, palm up as if waiting for someone .. and for a single panic filled moment, the Irishman wonders if he’s supposed to do something ridiculous .. like a high five ... but ... that doesn’t fix sinks. Does it? “Uh. Mate?” Teeth catch at a kiss roughened lip, one palm rubbing against the ache of marks along his collar bone. “Are you askin’ me to hold it for good luck or something?” There’s a reddish hue blooming across his features, aye, he’s sure of it ... and the younger man says a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity is responsible for keeping the other too busy to see it. He wraps his arms around himself tighter, giving a shiver against the chill of the air and setting his jaw against the very ... intriguing...sight of his guest...date..thing .. fixing a leaky faucet as if he’s lived there all along.

Fuck.

DIALOGUE LYRIC STARTERS @twistedwit​ - Where Does the Good Go by Tegan and Sara

❝ Look me in the eye and tell me you don't find me attractive. ❞

“You’re a hard game to catch. You fight and refuse, oh .. you’re a wild little bruise.” // @twistedwit s.c 

‘ THE WAY i see it, you have two options, and you seem like a smart man despite your lack of taste in men, so i think you’ll make the right one. ’ she shrugs, ‘ either get your little boyfriend to corporate and behave like an adult so we can get through this single and its promotion or he gets his ass kicked by a girl. your choice. ’

@twistedwit​ / / sc

Poptarts? I'm afraid I desperately need to hear the story behind this.

Ah! This is a tidbit from Rachael Allen's Harley Quinn: Reckoning. (Spoilers ahead for anyone who's planning on reading this book!) 

Pop-Tarts on the towel rack, box getting emptier. I’m seven years old, and I’m crying, and I’m telling him I’m scared of small spaces and please don’t lock me in the bathroom again. I can take care of myself. I’ll be good, I swear. There’s a box of Pop-Tarts on the towel rack like usual. I try to scramble past him, but he picks me up by the back of my overalls and throws me in the bathtub. I’ll only be gone a few hours, he hollers through the door. Gonna meet some friends. He’s lying. If he was only going to be gone a few hours, he wouldn’t have put the pillow and blanket in the bathtub. That time—he didn’t come back for three days. I was down to half a Pop-Tart. And I couldn’t stop thinking that he had gotten into trouble—worse trouble than usual—and he wasn’t coming home, and I was going to die in that bathroom. I remember banging on the door, crying, screaming, hoping somebody—anybody—would hear me. I think I had a panic attack. It’s hard to say. I was only seven.

It's used as a narrative device throughout the book to represent Harleen's claustrophobia - the 'Pop-Tarts on the towel rack, box getting emptier' line pops up over and over again whenever she feels trapped. We only get the full story behind it when an eighteen-year-old Harleen spots her father being attacked outside their apartment -- this memory plays through her mind as she decides to walk away instead of attempting to rescue him. 

My dad is still taking a beating at the other end of the alley, but I pretend I don’t see him. There’s ice cream waiting down the street.

Of course, this is the day that Nick Quinzel dies, burdening Harleen with a lot more regret. 

“I saw him in the alley with a couple of men. He…often has gambling debts.” I look down at my hands. I could have intervened. I could have stopped this. You didn’t know what was going to happen. Didn’t I? “Did you call anyone?” asks Officer Montoya. “No,” I say, still unable to meet her eyes. “I was angry. About our fight.” “I see.” Officer Montoya doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to. This is all my fault. His death is on my hands.

"You're protecting someone, aren't you?" The words are delivered with the tone of flat accusation, chased by a furrowed brow as if the young detective still can't quite believe it. They're surrounded by piles of fabrications, each note scrawled across the boards nothing but a painted lie, and Joe allows himself to glance around, taking stock of the empty desks in the midst of the other man's domain. Do they know? The men who trust you? It sits on his tongue, bitter and resentful, and his teeth clench in an effort to conceal it against the imaginings of other men and women hard at work, faithfully following a supposed leader to their own doom. Hints and warnings hover at the edge of the detective inspector's mind, jeering as they dance away from questing fingers... he can't put it all together yet, can't say how he knows .. but he can say that he's never been more certain of anything.

"Why? Why would you do that? Don't you understand what you're doing? The cost of betrayal?"

@twistedwit s.c