#I'd be dead of alcohol poisoning

[bebebelll]

does anyone know her dad? | dn3 x reader (part 3)

paring: daniel ricciardo x toto's daughter!reader, daniel ricciardo x wolff & shcumacher!reader warning: nothing (google translated german because i studied that language for 2 years and dont know a single word anymore) notes: part 1, part 2 and part 4 are recommended reading

ynquads god i love what the us grand prixs do to this man. there's something in the air and the cowboy hats are hot. i truly feel really blessed to have met you, to spend my life with you, to have been by your side and to have had you by mine. i just really love you ❤️❤️❤️

liked by danielricciardo, susie_wolff and 1 184 537 others

username haha jumping off a building now bye

danielricciardo you really love me ❤️

ynquads i really really love you danielricciardo really really really? ynquads really really really really danielricciardo wanna sneak out and go makeout? ynquads YEAH alex_albon no please dont we're on the same plane the restroom is small the walls are thin

maxverstappen1 gross

username sobbing screaming throwing up (fuck i am jealous)

danielricciardo i am so obsessed with you baby

ynquads i fucking adore you

f1wagsupdate as we all know that the figure skater and danny ric's girlfriend yn shcumacher is the child of toto wolff and michael shcumacher's sister, we decided to go on a deep dive. these are really the only photos we could find from facebook. we could only find this one photo of katarina shcumacher and not a single one her and toto together. but isn't toto just adorable with baby yn? and enjoy baby yn and max verstappen looking super cool!

liked by 46 956

username MAX VERSTAPPEN

username how is mick not using that last photo every year on their birthdays like i would print a pic like that of my siblings and put them up around school hallways and on the fridge

ynquads do not worry, auntie sophie and vic show that photo around every christmas

username ooh its too bad theres no photos of them together

username same bro i cant stop imagining some summer love ynquads they met a bar in berlin and got so fucking drunk that its a miracle they didn't get alcohol poisoning. i am so truly so really serious when i say that i'd be surprised if they even exchanged names before i was already cooking in my mom's stomach username what the fuck you saying ynquads i've seen an old homevideo about the morning after. i talk about it in therapy every week

username i love how yn is just lurking around every post about her and her parents

yt video: YN SHCUMACHER ATTENDS COTA - BRUNDLE GRIDWALK

comments:

username love the passive aggressive attitude to every camera she saw

username truly a lovely experience. yn kissed daniel before the race. she kissed max's cheek when he won and said something scandalous in german/dutch based on everyone's faces. i also saw a video of her laughing on the ground when lewis dsq was announced

username WHAT THE FUCK ARE THEY SAYING IS THAT GERMAN

username yn: they are filming you, dad. you are very popular. toto: dont give them too much attention. you had a long flight. you just go and take a nap before the race. brundle and toto talk yn: well see how intact our relationship is after the race username intact 😂😂 lord that really is torger's kid

danielricciardo this woman is the single reason ive survived some darker times. she's so beautiful, lovely and sweet. elegant on and off the ice ❤️❤️the day i do not gush and drool about her is the day i'm dead. so in love

liked by ynquads and 2 487 577 others

username why am i crying

username cant come to the phone right now busy driving through concrete walls and off a cliff

ynquads i am THE luckiest girl ❤️❤️❤️

danielricciardo if youre lucky then ive been blessed by god ynquads dont you dare i win this danielricciardo youre not the one who was just on their knees i win ynquads come here and ill wrestle you danielricciardo only if you kiss the booboos better after

username am i the only one getting real suspicious about these "i love you much" post that they've been putting out for the entire month??? like what you doing all this for

username EXACTLY username they've been together for like four or five years too sooooo you know what people do around that timestamp 🤭🤭🤭

username just what the hell is that comment about being on their knees daniel

ynquads instagram story

danielricciardo funny thing about vegas

liked by ynquads, lewishamilton, maxverstappen1 and 3 483 573 others

username BITCH WHAT

susie_wolff if you got married in a las vegas chappel, you are grounded till your 80th birthday yn - toto wolff

ynquads i didn't actually expect to love being engage this much

danielricciardo whats got you excited about this then? ynquads the fact that im gonna get to marry YOU maxverstappen1 stop being gross maxverstappen1 i already suffered through watching the proposal

username love this i want to snort this i want to inject this into my blood but did you get engaged and then eat junkfood while watching princess diaries 2

ynquads don't tell anyone 🤫 danielricciardo really dont tell anyone that amount of junkfood was not in the diet plan

@topguncultleader @eternalharry

#formula 1 x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo insta au #toto wolff #f1 x reader #formula 1 social media au

[inkblotsandpapertrails]

Loves Me, Loves Me Not [A.D]

Pairing: Albert DaSilva x Reader

Description: Working as a florist means expressing a person's love for them, writing out their love story in an array of petals and blossoms and messages hidden in between it all. It does not mean falling in love yourself. But then the newsie starts selling outside your shop, and your whole routine goes out the window.

Tags: Oblivious reader, shy reader, flustered Albert, canon era, florist au, flower language/floriography, gender neutral reader, oneshot

A/N: OHHHH you didn't think ol ANGSTY MCGEE could write 10k of sheer toothrotting fluff now didja?? hm?? didja bitch?? well jokes on you cause i wanted to branch out with my reader types and there's nothing i love more than turning the token Tough Guy character into a squirming flustered puddle of a man. anyways i'd say take a shot for every repeated motif in this thing but you'd probably die of alcohol poisoning so just sit back and enjoy the self indulgence!

It is important to note that this happened entirely by chance.

You really can’t stress that enough. There are a thousand things that could’ve caused it, and another thousand things that could’ve led to the whole thing being avoided altogether. But of all things, it had to be chance. And newspapers, you suppose.

Yes, newspapers, har-har. It’s ridiculous, such a simple cause for the whole thing. Something that, again, could’ve been entirely avoided. You know it’s not especially pretty to wrap your painstakingly arranged bouquets in newspapers of all things. It’d be better to use parchment paper – something plain, but rustic, something that drew attention to the blossoms without looking too vulgar, perhaps lined with coloured tissue or lace if you were feeling particularly showy – rather than the same wastepaper the fishmongers used to wrap their catch. But you can’t help it. It’s an in-joke, of a kind; the idea of something growing out of yesterdays news brought you comfort, absurd as that is. So you don’t care if the ladies and businessmen wrinkle their noses at the crinkling paper and running ink wrapped around their lush roses and baby’s breath – they could stand to be humbled some, in your opinion. A rose by any other name, after all.

So, yes. Newspapers. Not the grandest way to start a story, but it’s yours. You like reading them, when the days get long, looking over yesterday’s stories. It became a game, almost – you’d read about the horses favoured to win at Sheepshead and laugh, knowing full well that Admiral Shucker would stumble and come dead last, leaving Zippy Skip to take his first ever victory and render every gambler at Sheepshead penniless. It’s a comfort, knowing exactly what was going to happen. Knowing precisely how the story ended before you read the first line. Which is why, when you ran out of newspapers for your bouquets, you were entirely unbothered – because you knew precisely what you were going to do. You would close for a few minutes, go down Park Row, grab a cheap and terrible hotdog lunch from the park vendor, and then walk until you reached the Promenade, where pack of newsboys would no doubt have stacks of papers ready for the taking as they waited for the double-whammy lunchtime rush of the University and City Hall. And then you’d hurry back, cramming your hotdog into your mouth, and re-open for the lunchtime rush yourself. Same as every Friday.

So you shut your register. You flip your sign to closed. You walk outside and lock the door behind you, and fuss with your pockets distractedly as you cram it back, because that is what you always do at lunchtime on a Friday.

Walking directly into someone’s back, however, is not.

“’Ey, watch where ya-!” Someone snaps as you stumble, tripping over your own feet. You make a rather embarrassing squeak and shut your eyes as you brace for the floor, reaching out blindly for something, anything-

“Whoa – Jesus-!”

You grab the something between your fingers, and then the something grabs ahold of you, hands squeezing your waist tight enough for you to feel rough callouses through your clothes. You open your eyes and – ah.

Well.

That is unexpected.

The boy’s your age, thereabouts. He’s pale, underneath the freckles and sunspots, with eyes cornflower blue. His face is close enough for you to make out the little threads of colour in the iris, like the veins of a petal, and the feather-down of his lashes – orange, you realize, orange and fluffy, like celosia plumes.

You both stare at each other for a moment, as the initial panic subsides. And then you remember the hands on your waist. And you feel the rough wool of a vest clutched between your fingers. And you realize he’s holding you at an angle from where you fell, so you’re dipped just a bit backwards, the way you’ve seen gentlemen dip their lovers for a chaste kiss after they proffer their bouquets.

You clutch your hands to your chest with a small squeak, and the boy leaps back as if you’d burned him.

“Sorry!” He says hurriedly. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t – I wasn’t-“

“No, no!” You say, equally panicked, as you wipe imaginary dust from your clothes. “My fault, entirely my fault, I should’ve been looking, I-“

You both stammer over the other, fumbling apologies and excuses, until you both seem to simultaneously trail off, realizing the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. You laugh sheepishly, and the boy chuckles with you.

“I-I really am sorry.” You say sheepishly. “I, um – people aren’t really around here before lunch, they’re usually working…”

The boy raises an eyebrow and jostles the bag he has slung over his shoulder.

“Well, s’pose I am workin’.”

You frown, glancing from him to the bag of – newspapers!

“You’re a newsie!” You gasp, clasping your hands together. The boy blinks, his cheeks dusting pink, and you bite your lip anxiously – you suppose he must find you quite strange, knocking into him and then getting excited over newspapers, of all things.

“Uh – yeah…” He says awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, um – I was lookin’ for a new sellin’ spot, heard this place was kinda up an’ comin’, and, uh… I like… Lambs.”

You blink at him, turning to glance at the wooden sign that hangs over your shop door. You’d always loved it, the wee lamb snoozing in a meadow with the words Little Lamb Flowers painted below in curly lettering – perhaps some would find it cloying or childish, but you liked it found it adorable. Still, the idea of this newsie, with his big arms and rough hands and his hat on backwards, being drawn to your shop over a painted lamb… You couldn’t help but find it charming.

He's somehow even redder when you turn back to him, looking at the floor like he’s begging it to swallow him.

“Uh – not, not that I, not to say, y’know, I’m not – I ain’t, like-“ He flounders, and you try not to smile. “The sign’s… Good.”

It’s so awkwardly charming that you can’t help but giggle. He full-body jerks, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Yes, well.” You smile, bunching the hem of your shirt between your fingers. “I like pretty things, I suppose.”

The boy makes a stifled noise, something a bit too sheepish to be a laugh.

“Yeah, s’pose you would.”

“Hm?” You cock your head, and he flushes.

“Uh – nothin’!” He says quickly, looking away with a wrinkled brow, as if the sidewalk had personally offended him. “I just – I-“

“No, um – You’re right!” You try to smile reassuringly – you hope you aren’t making him uncomfortable. You know you can be a little over-the-top, but you wouldn’t want to frighten him off, not after he helped you. And, well – perhaps you were a little intrigued by the gruff, abrasive newsie that liked paintings of lambs. “I mean, I’d hardly be a good florist if I didn’t.”

The boy is silent, glancing around at the quiet street. You fidget with your hands, opening your mouth, then closing it, your body quietly reminding you that you’re supposed to be going to Park Row, because that’s what you do every Friday, and if you don’t get back in time you’re not going to have time to eat lunch, but why would you go to Park Row when there’s a newsie right here? It’s not your routine, perhaps, but – even you can’t deny the convenience.

“Could I-“ You say, stuttering over your words. “Could I perhaps – goodness, this is going to sound awful strange, but, um – I-I don’t suppose I could take a hundred, could I?”

The boy’s neck jerks towards you, hard enough to make you wince.

“Only if you have it!” You say quickly. “I-It is a tall order, if – if you don’t, I can just run down to Park Row-“

“A hundred?” The boy manages to splutter. “What’cha need a hundred for, a pape for every flower?”

You’re sure he’s not angry, just confused – it’s a peculiar request – but it’s enough to make you duck your head anxiously.

“I, um.” You try to laugh, but it sounds a bit pathetic. “I-I like to – wrap the bouquets with them? It’s sort of a… Personal joke, I suppose? It’s silly, sorry, I didn’t mean to bother-“

“No!” He says quickly – you chance a glance towards him, and you’re almost shocked at how scarlet his face has become. “I, uh, no, no, I mean – I’d be a lousy newsie if I said no to a hundred papes…”

He pulls his entire stack out of his bag and pushes it into your arms. You grin, cradling the papers like a prize.

“Gosh, you’re my hero!” You laugh without thinking as you fish the change out of your pocket. “I sure hope you stick around, that just saved me twenty minutes!”

You slide your hand over his and slot the coins into his palm. You try not to shiver as you feel his callouses brushing your skin. He’s staring at you, you realize, mouth parted and eyes wide, and you feel your face beginning to warm up. Goodness, what a state you’ve made of yourself – there’s still pollen on your fingers, no doubt there are stray petals in your hair, and you’ve gone running into a newsboy and taking all his papers and – Lord, this is not how Fridays are meant to go.

“Sorry.” You say sheepishly. The boy quirks his brows, chuckling inquisitively.

“F’r what?” He asks. “Ya just sold me out and the lunch rush ain’t even hit yet, I…” He swallows and tangles his hand around the strap of his bag. “Thanks, uh…?”

“Oh!” You gasp. “I beg your pardon, I’m so rude – [Y/N].” You stick your hand out, curtsying as best you can with a stack of papers balanced in the crook of your elbow. “[Y/N] [L/N].”

The boy makes a noise, half-chuckle, half… Something else, and clasps his calloused fingers around yours.

“Albert DaSilva.”

Now that he’s looking at you properly, not ducking his head or avoiding your gaze, you can make out the subtle twinges of bluebeard-grey that dapple around the ring of his iris, little gleams in the sunlight. DaSilva, indeed.

“Well,” you smile sheepishly, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Albert DaSilva.”

His grip tightens by a fraction as his eyes widen, just a twitch. You frown at his sudden awkwardness, glancing at your hands and-

“Oh!” You pull your hand away – he immediately yanks his own back like you’ve pricked him. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, I got pollen all over you!”

Albert blinks, holding up his fingers and peering at the yellow dust clinging to his skin.

“Oh, uh – nah, ain’t no big deal,” he says quietly, glancing at you through his feathery lashes. “I pro’lly-“ he blanches as he looks at your hands. “Aw, shit, I got ink on ya! Ah-!” He tenses again, his whole body going suddenly ramrod straight. “Fuck, I said shit – dammit-!”

You can’t help it – you laugh. It’s all just so absurd, so strange, so not what was meant to happen today. And you like it. It’s ridiculous and stupid and, against all reason, you like it, this bizarre newsboy who’s landed on your doorstep. He watches you as you giggle, positively perplexed, and chuckles awkwardly alongside you.

“I, um,” you manage to say between little giggles. “I-I should really get back inside.”

Albert nods, swallowing hard enough to make his Adams apple bob.

“Yeah, uh – s’pose I should go back to the Square.” He smiles smugly to himself. “Hell, I got a whole day off today!”

You snicker again, feeling just a bit proud of yourself for being the one to make him smile like that.

“Well…” You hug the paper stack to your chest, trying to hide your expression – you must look like a dope, giggling like a fool over a boy you just met. “Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Because it would be convenient, of course. That’s the only reason you ask, for the convenience – it’d beat walking all the way to the Promenade and walking all the way back with a stack of papers, having a newsie so close. That’s why you ask. Not because of lambs or cornflowers or any other ridiculous reason. Still, Albert looks almost surprised that you asked, eyes wide and pretty and nooononono, that’s not what you should be noticing right now!

“I – Yes!” He says it far too loud, and realizes that unfortunate fact quite suddenly, slapping a palm over one red cheek. “I mean, uh, yeah. Cool. Sounds good.”

You bounce on your toes and offer him another sheepish farewell before ducking back into your shop, feeling far too warm despite the breezy spring weather – and you realize with a twinge of fear that your routine is about to become very, very different, in ways that you can’t possibly expect.

You bite your lip as you fuss over your arrangements. This was why you always read yesterdays paper, for goodness’ sake – there’s no surprises when you know what’s coming. Now, you’re going in blind, and it’s – it’s scary.

But then you think about Albert. All the little peculiarities you’ve found out about him in the span of just ten minutes.

It could be a bit fun, too, you suppose.

You go on like that for a while, you and Albert. He becomes a fixture of the store, as permanent as the dried flowers in the window, or the Little Lamb sign swinging overhead. You hear him when the door swings open, barking a headline, and you see him through the window, wandering up and down the storefront, his dandelion-mane ruffling in the breeze.

You try not to get to attached. It’d be like naming a freshly picked flower while knowing full well that within a week, it’d be withered and gone. But you can’t help it. You liked your old routine, you really did – you liked the gentle monotony of your cozy little shop, you liked wandering the shelves and fussing over the flowers, you liked making polite conversation with the customers, from the bashful lovers planning a proposal to the suave businessmen looking to surprise their spouse, to even the flustered housekeepers running errands for their mistresses. But now there’s Albert, rough and unkempt Albert, sprouting between the cracks of your life like a stubborn thistle, prickly and rough around the edges, but… Then he’ll hold the door for you when you’re stumbling out, juggling an armful of flowers. Then he’ll persuade some passer-by on the street to stop in the shop after they buy a paper. Then he’ll lug a whole stack of papers over every Friday and drop them off at the door for you, offering you a stiff smile as he tips his cap.

“You’re an angel.” You say gratefully as you press the dimes into his palm. “I used to have to walk all the way to Park Row and back for these. I’d barely have a lunch break at all!”

Albert nodded wordlessly as he fumbled over the coins, almost dropping one before he shoved them into his bag, face flushed and rosy. Perhaps you were being clingy, but you were beginning to get a bit concerned over how red Albert was all the time – sunburn, perhaps? You knew he was pale, but it didn’t seem right for him to be so flushed all the time…

“Try walkin’ all day,” he chuckles, a bit stiltedly. “M’ready t’keel over by the time the second bell rolls ‘round.”

And that sticks with you as you fidget around your little apartment above your shop. You know Albert didn’t mean anything by it – you’d never heard him complain once, not after a long day’s work, not when he heaved a stack of papers all the way down to the Financial District every week, not even when you got distracted by your keys or your flowers or whatever else and went knocking into him as you exited the Little Lamb. Perhaps he just didn’t want to tell you about stuff like that – it’s not like you know him particularly well, you suppose. Still, it didn’t feel right, having him work so hard for so little.

You frown at your butterknife as you prepare your lunch, and chance a glance towards your open window. If you strain your ears over the bustle of the street, you can hear Albert hawking away.

You shouldn’t get attached. You really shouldn’t. You can pick a flower and sear the stems or press it between books or dry it from the ceiling but eventually, it’ll still wilt.

Against your better judgement, you poke out of your shop with a wrapped sandwich in one hand and a tin mug of coffee in the other.

“Afternoon.” You try to smile away the tension in your shoulders. Albert glances over his shoulder, then double-takes, spinning around like a puppet whose strings have gotten tangled.

“Uh – yeah!” He blurts, then stiffens like he’s stubbed his toe. “I mean – afternoon! Again. Not, not that it’s afternoon again, just I – I already – you already-“

“No, I got it.” You say gently, bouncing anxiously on your toes. “Afternoon, again.”

You bite your lip and, before you can lose your nerve, shove the food towards him.

“For you.” You mumble towards the floor. “Y’know, a – a lunch break. Since you don’t normally… Get one.”

Albert stares from the sandwich to the coffee to you and back again. You can feel yourself sweating. God, this was a ridiculous idea. A newsie doesn’t want charity, for goodness’ sake, they just want to finish their shift and rest, like any other working kid in this city, they don’t want someone – waiting on them like a nursemaid, they-

Albert tentatively wraps his hand around the sandwich, his fingers brushing yours as he does so, leaving a little static twinge in their wake.

“Thank you.” He says softly, staring at you like you’re something he’s never seen before. You can feel your face warming up, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“It’s only chicken.” You ramble. “A-And lettuce, I didn’t – I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just-“

“It’s good.” Albert smiles at the paltry sandwich wrapped in parchment paper, and glances up at you with those cornflower eyes. “It’s really good.”

You feel your throat go tight. With stiff limbs, you shove the coffee towards him, a drop spilling over the rim.

“And coffee!” You say far too quickly. “I, um – I hope you like milk.”

Albert cups the tin mug between his hands and blinks.

“It’s hot.” He murmurs. His nose twitches – bunny-like, you think distantly, and then you chase away that thought with a stick because that is not what you’re here to do – and he beams. “It smells good!”

“Oh!” You smile. “Well, um – I hope it tastes the same, then.”

“I ain’t ever had coffee that weren’t stale.” Albert looks at you with a wide grin. “You’re… Thank you.”

You can feel warmth blossoming in your chest, bursting outwards like snowdrops after winter-

“Haveagooddayniceseeingyoubye!” is all you manage to blurt out before scurrying back into The Little Lamb.

Not getting attached, you tell yourself as you sweep the shop floor (to no avail, there’s not a speck of dust left, you’ve been sweeping for nearly thirty minutes now to avoid looking out the window). You are not getting attached.

(But if you chance a glance at Albert sipping his coffee and sighing, or smiling as he savours a bite of his sandwich… Well, who’s to say?)

Despite your best efforts, Albert becomes a fixed part of your routine. You bring him lunch every day. Sometimes you’ll even eat together, leaning against the window display and chatting about nothing at all. You’ll usher him into the shop when it rains (“Honestly, Albert, who would buy papers in this weather?” “Someone without an umbrella, I guess.”) and you’ll show him your floriography books, from Floral Poetry to Les langage des Fleurs (although you try not to read that one too often, since Albert’s face goes all funny when you read the French – perhaps it sounds strange to him). You’ll point out the different meanings, the different messages that can be spelt through each blossom, and he’ll nod and watch you like you’re actually saying something important. It was nice, being able to talk to someone and knowing that what you said mattered to them. You’d even brought him an aloe plant one morning.

(“For your skin.” You smiled, breaking off a leaf and scooping sap onto your finger. “See?”

Albert frowned, wrinkling his nose at the gooey gel.

“My skin?”

“You know.” You gestured to his cheeks. “Your sunburn. I’m sure it’s uncomfortable to be selling like that – this’ll clear it right up! Here, just like this…”

You swept your fingers over Albert’s face, rubbing in the gel as gently as you could, so as not to irritate his skin. He was already going crimson, the poor thing – honestly, you loathed to think about how uncomfortable he must’ve been.

“I – uh – yeah!” He squeaked. “Yeah… Sunburn.”)

It’s stupid. It’s so incredibly stupid, you know precisely how this story will go. Albert’s a newsie, the entire nature of his job is temporary. As soon as the spring crowds die down, he’ll go looking for a better place to sell, and then a better place after that, and another after that. It’s simply the way of it. But selfishly, you like having him here. You’ve grown used to your little lunch visits, to the Friday drop-offs, to his permanently red cheeks and his cornflower eyes. You tried to be sensible, you really did, but Albert had gone and nestled himself in your chest anyways, creeping around your heart like morning glory – and you just hadn’t the strength to cut him away.  

Seasons change. People change. Flowers bloom anyways. But you’ve gone and grown around him like ivy on oak, except oak doesn’t get to wander off to greener pastures when it needs to, so… So where does that leave you?

Well, you didn’t know the answer to that question just yet. You suppose you’ll just… Have to cope. So you cope. You go about your day, you tend to your flowers, you arrange your bouquets – and when the Little Lamb sign starts creaking around a patch of rust, you fix that, too.

Replacing the chains is always a pain. It’s finicky work, and you hate having to use the stepladder on the street – it sways with every little breeze, teetering left and right as you sway for balance. You grit your teeth and tighten the chain link around the clasp in the sign, gripping your pliers with white knuckles and pointedly ignoring the painted dandelion in the corner of the sign, absolutely not thinking about what the fluffy orange centre reminds you of.

“Right.” You mutter as you pull gently on the chain. It holds secure, without a creak, and you smile to yourself. “Job done.”

And now to-

“Extry, extry, sweetheart leaves idiot gawkin’ on the sidewalk, read all about it!”

You shriek at the sudden noise, the stepladder lurching beneath you as you stumble backwards, and the sign’s slipped out from under your grasp and your pliers have gone flying and now you’re falling and God, this is why you hate chain-repair days-!

You land with a soft – soft? – flop, a firm something stumbling beneath you as it braces, holding you close. Arms, you realize. Strong, bare arms, which is ridiculous because only a fool wouldn’t wear sleeves in spring, and-

Oh.

Oh, dear.

You glance up, your nose bumping against another, as your eyes meet cornflower blue.

“Y’okay?” Albert asks hurriedly. “I was gonna wait, y’looked busy, but fuckin’ Racer, he’s… Um…”

His rambling begins to slow as he peers down at you, and you’re overcome with a very silly urge to trace a fingertip over his freckles.

“Hi.” Albert says quietly, close enough for you to feel his whisper on your skin.

“Oh…” You manage to squeak around your dry throat. “Hi.”

“Oooh, hold it right there, Albie!” You hear someone say, their smile imprinted in the words, and you know Albert’s realized at exactly the same time you have that he is holding you the same way a groom cradles his newlywed. You both make a similar bastardized shriek as you scramble out of his arms and Albert backs away like he’s about to get attacked, holding his hands up in a gesture of apology or surrender or – oh, hell, who knows?!

“Al-bert!” That same voice whines petulantly – you whip around, face flaming, to see another newsie, tall and curly and grinning like a mischievous sprite, who’s holding his hands in such a way that his fingers make a rectangle, kind of like a camera. “I coulda gotten you’s on the front page with a shot like that! Perfect li’l pit’cha o’ domesticity, eh?”

“Wouldja shaddup?!” Albert snaps, and you don’t have to turn around to know his face is redder than a rosebud. “God, this is why-!”

“Racetrack Higgins, m’darlin’!” The other boy says just on the verge of obnoxiously, striding up to you and proffering his hand with an exaggerated bow. “A veritable pleasure to meet’cha!”

You can’t help laughing awkwardly at the way he stretches his voice over the unfamiliar words – very-table play-sure – and slip your hand into his.

“And, um, you as well, Mister Hig-“

You barely finish before he’s pressing the back of your hand to his mouth with an over-the-top smack of his lips. You squeak and yank your hand away hard enough to make you stumble, bumping into Albert’s front.

“Race!”

“Aw, was that Mister Higginsya called me?” Racetrack – Racetrack, what a peculiar name – grins at you, and you feel rather like a lamb about to be eaten. “Albie, ya hit it outta the park w’this one!”

“Oh, just-!” Albert slaps his shoulder, forcing the other boy away from you. “Lay off’a them, wouldja?!”

“M’only bein’ a gent, Albie! Maybe y’should learn a thing or two, might impress ‘em-!”

“Racer, if you don’t stop talkin’ right now-!”

“Well, whateva’ happened t’romance-!”

You watch, dumbfounded, as the two begin to scuffle, jabbing elbows and kicking shins until Albert manages to lock Race’s head under his arm and Race is snapping his teeth to try and bite at Albert’s wrist (“Ah, ya shit, get offa me!” “Y’gerroffa-mm!” “Quit talkin’ w’my hand in ya mouth, ya freak!”), and then they spin awkwardly in your direction, tangled in their playfighting, and realize you’re still stood there watching.

“Hello.” You wave your hand awkwardly. With the decency to look a little bit ashamed, Race spits out Albert’s wrist.

“Sorry to cause a scene, darlin’!” He laughs sheepishly. “Only that Albert talks about this place so much, I had to see it for myself – and c’mon, have you seen the fella?” He gestures vaguely in Albert’s direction. “Fuckin’ brute. Only natural for him to start wailin’ on a guy, y’know?” He twirls his finger around his temple. “Unhinged.”

“I – Race!” Albert yelps. “Don’t say shit like – stuff like-!”

You laugh, and the two go quiet.

“That’s funny,” you smile, hoping to make a good impression after – all that. “I can see why you’re such good friends.”

“Uh.” Race blinks owlishly. “I weren’t jokin’. He stole my cigar this morning.”

You frown.

“Albert doesn’t smoke.”

“Well – yeah.” Says Race, like it’s obvious. “He just… Takes shit.”

You laugh at his joke, rolling your eyes.

“Yep, that’s Albert!” You giggle. “Reeaaal barbarian, huh?”

Race stares from you to Albert, who’s blush is growing darker by the second.

“What kinda fuckin’ witchcraft have you been sellin’ this kid-“

“Park!” Albert yells, clutching at his friend’s collar as if Race were a priest offering salvation. You stall, taken off guard again – truly, what is happening today? – when Race snaps his fingers with a smile.

“Oh, yeah!” He grins, digging his elbow into Albert’s side. “Yeah, that’s what we came for, ain’t it, Albie?”

Albert’s face drops, as if he’s suddenly realized something terrible.

“Wait, noooo,” he hisses, tugging at Race’s sleeve. “Nonono, Race-!”

“What you came for?” You ask curiously. Of course, it’s Sunday – everywhere’s closed for the Church services, that’s why you chose to do the repairs today. They couldn’t be here to sell. Perhaps they were buying flowers for a sweetheart? You felt your stomach drop. Please don’t let Albert be here for flowers.

“Well,” Race drawls as Albert yanks desperately on his sleeve. “We was just in the neighbourhood, y’know, it bein’ Sunday an’ all, an’ the fellas were all thinkin’ we’d hit up the park! And then Albie here-“ he smirks, draping an arm over Albert’s shoulder, who’s staring at the floor like he’s praying for it to eat him, “goes and mentions how close that is to his new favourite florists! So we was wonderin’-”

“Racer-!”

“If this favourite florist o’ his would wanna accompany some humble newsboys,” he places a hand on his chest and bows comically deep, “to the good ol’ City Hall gardens.”

“Favourite?” You laugh sheepishly – your stomach flips as you fixate on the word. “Well, I – I don’t suppose there are any others, so…”

“Oh, but of course!” Race says emphatically, as if the two of you are telling a joke together. “You’re just irreplaceable, ain’t they, Albert?”

Albert slaps a hand over his mouth and makes a noise like he’s in pain. You wince sympathetically, stepping forward to take a look.

“Albert, your face! Have you been using the aloe I gave you?”

Race’s head perks up like a dog smelling a bone.

“Well, aloe there,” he grins, “what’s this I hear? Givin’ gifts, are we?”

“No, no, not like that!” You say quickly, your voice trilling with nerves. “I just – well, Albert always gets so sunburnt, poor thing-“

“Oh, does he?” Race’s voice pitches high with glee as Albert makes another pained moan. “Well, we can’t have poor Albert getting sunburnt, can we?”

“Racer, I am begging you to shut! Up!” Albert snaps, and you realize – oh, damn it all, you’re embarrassing him. The last thing Albert of all people would want is someone fussing over him in front of his friend.

“Um – the park!” You say quickly, trying to change the subject – Albert shoots you a soft, grateful look, and you can’t help but melt a little. “Yes, I’d love to go, if – if it’s not too much trouble…“ You glance towards your closed-up shop, clicking your tongue. “Would you mind terribly if I brought some work with me? I-I just got some fresh flowers, I wanted to make them into crowns come Monday – it won’t be too distracting!”

“Weeell, we’ll just have to see about that, eh, Albert?” Race smirks, and you frown as you try to decipher what he means – apparently, it’s deserving of a quick smack to the shoulder, though, because that’s precisely what Albert gives him. “Ooh, someone’s testy! Don’tcha worry, I’ll leave ya to it.” He makes his way up the street towards Park Row. “Don’t go gettin’ distracted, though!”

You feel your cheeks warming as he presses on the word, distracted – goodness, had you really been that obvious? – and Albert grumbles under his breath as you duck into your shop for your flowers. You gather the bundles in your arms, your eyes just peeking out over the various blooms, and skitter out the door, not wanting to keep him waiting. You walk in awkward silence, avoiding each other’s gaze as Race prances ahead of you both, and you curse yourself for getting so stupidly attached.

You don’t talk for what feels like ages, not until you reach the park. The newsboys are all eager to meet you, grinning and shaking your hands and making comments that you don’t quite understand, but seem to drive Albert up the wall. You wince every time one of the boys says something to you that makes Albert grit his teeth – you don’t know what you’re doing wrong, but it has to be something.

It's only later, when you’re sat on the grass fidgeting with your flower crowns, Albert sitting cross-legged and stiff next to you, that you just can’t take it anymore.

“Sorry.” You say quickly, stumbling over the words, and Albert looks at you, his tense face suddenly soft.

“F’r what?”

“I, um…” You clear your throat into your fist. “I-I didn’t mean to be so… You know. Clingy? I just – you’re my friend, and I don’t want you getting hurt, I mean, hawking’s got to be hard work, all that walking, and you said you don’t get much lunch-“

“[Y/N],” Albert says firmly, enough to make your voice catch in your throat. He pinks as you look at him and glances at the floor instead. “Don’t go worryin’ ‘bout that, yeah? Just the fellas bein’ jerks is all, never know when to shaddup.”

You hum, not quite a response, and make sure to keep your hands clasped in front of you so you don’t invade Albert’s space. You can feel him watching you, his stare burning your skin, and he sighs frustratedly.

“Aw, c’mon, [Y/N], I…” His voice stops and stutters in his throat. He sighs, choosing instead to knock his shoulder against yours – the touch sets you alight. “You don’t gotta be worried ‘bout that, it… It’s nice. That’cha wanna take care o’me. Ain’t many folks that do, so…”

You smile, warmth blossoming in your chest.

“Well, that’s nonsense, then.” You say matter-of-factly as you weave the stem of a red tulip around your fingers. “Caring for you’s rather easy.”

The two of you go quiet again – a comfortable silence this time, simply basking in each other’s existence. You pluck a lady’s mantle from your collection of blooms, twisting the dusky pink against the red of the tulip.

“Those, uh…” Albert says quietly, so as not to break the peaceful tranquillity that’s grown between you both. “Those mean comfort, don’t they?”

“They do.” You nod, your heart fluttering in your chest – he remembered.

“And the tulips,” he continues, his voice getting a bit steadier, “those mean ‘good health’, right?”

You giggle under your breath.

“Almost. Those were pink tulips – these are red, see?” You hold the crown up to his eyeline. “Red tulips mean, uh – true love.” You have to look away as you say it, can’t bear to look into Albert’s eyes as the word love falls out of your lips. “And I’m going to add some Sweet William, too, for gallantry – the meaning’s a bit more masculine for that one, so if you put them all together, you get…”

Your eyes flick towards Albert, landing on his freckles before you force yourself to look away again.

“You get, um… Well, a hope, I suppose.”

Albert says nothing, only cocks his head towards you in invitation. Keep going. I’m listening.

“A hope for… For someone kind,” you say quietly, “and chivalrous, who – who comforts you and… Keeps you safe.”

You can feel him staring. You grab a Sweet William and start threading it into the crown, out of sheer need for something, anything else to do.

“How d’you do that?” Albert asks curiously. “The crowns n’ stuff.”

Thank God, you think to yourself, eagerly snatching up the subject change.

“It’s quite simple, actually – look, I’ll show you.”

You smile as you press his fingers underneath yours – you so loved sharing your knowledge of flowers with Albert. You were certain he didn’t understand a lick of it, but he always listened no matter what. Like it mattered.

“So, you just twist here,” you murmur as the two of you hold the crown together, “and you sort of – lock it under the second stem there, and you…”

You try to help him weave the stems around each other, your fingertips skimming over Albert’s knuckles, but you suppose doing such finnicky work with two sets of hands overcomplicated the whole thing, because the crown fumbles out from Albert’s grip.

“Ah, shit, sorry!” He winces. “God, it ain’t broken, is it?”

“Don’t worry about it!” You pat his shoulder reassuringly as you rescue the crown. “It’s difficult at first. Oh, I know!” You point at a cluster of sunshine-yellow growing in the park. “Would you grab me those dandelions? They’re much easier to work with. The stalks are more flexible, and they don’t snap so easily – it’s how I learned when I was a kid.”

Albert nods obediently, scurrying off to gather two fistfuls of dandelions.

“There we are – here, do what I do.”

The two of you crowd into each other as Albert follows your movements, looping one stem underneath the other and then weaving it back around the blossom, locking it into place.

“Hey, I did it!” Albert grins triumphantly. You knock your shoulder against his, just as he’d done to you.

“See? Easy.”

You half expect him to leave it after that – most boys didn’t find weaving flower crowns to be a particularly manly activity, and after how embarrassed Albert had been today, you were sure he wouldn’t want his friends to see him playing with flowers – but he stays. He grabs another stem and repeats the movement, chaining them together, one after the other. You smile to yourself – you can’t bring yourself to not be charmed. It’s sweet, how eager he is, the way his tongue pokes out as he threads the stems into loops.

“I just love dandelions.” You say quietly into the breeze, almost unaware that you’d even said it. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Albert looks up from his work and frowns.

“Seriously?” He quirks a small smile. “Didn’t think you’d like weeds all that much.”

You scoff, the sound drawing his attention.

“Weed is a word made up by debutantes.” You say pettily. “It’s their way of separating what’s common to make pretty things seem prettier. But they’re all plants at the end of the day.”

You glance over at Albert’s clumsy crown and smile, tracing a finger over the fluffy centre of a dandelion.

“And dandelions are so cheerful,” you murmur peacefully, rubbing pollen between your thumb and forefinger. “They grow wherever they like, and no one can get them not to. Ask any gardener – you pull one up, and ten more grow back. They’re resilient. I bet the next time we come back here, they’ll be everywhere.”

You lift a loose blossom to your nose and breathe in the bittersweet scent.

“They don’t even have meanings, you know.” You say wistfully. “Not in any of my books. People just decided, oh, that’s a weed, and now… Now they don’t mean anything.” You brush your thumb over the feathery petals and smile as they tickle your skin. “But they mean something to me.”

Albert’s quiet beside you, and you suddenly feel exposed.

“Sorry,” you chuckle, drawing away from him. “Suppose that’s a bit strange, um – I’ll just-”

You’re about to turn back to your flower crown when a calloused hand slides against your jaw. Your breath hitches as Albert turns your face towards his, his thumb drifting over your cheekbone until it brushes over your nose – and as he pulls away, you see the pad of his thumb’s stained yellow.

“You, uh,” he says quietly, his cheeks going pink in the sun, “y’had some pollen.”

“Oh!” You laugh stiltedly. “Gosh, um – sorry.”

“Nah,” Albert shrugs as he fiddles with his crown. “S’cute.”

You feel yourself going warm, even with the evening breeze. Your throat makes a small squeaking sound, and you try to make yourself focus on your crown when you hear Albert make a dissatisfied noise next to you.

“Problem?” You ask tentatively, and he holds up a little white puffball in response.

“Think this one’s shot.” He mutters, about to chuck it when you grab his wrist.

“Don’t waste it! It’s a clock.”

Albert blinks and turns to frown at the flower.

“Uh…” He tilts his head as he examines the fluffy ball of seeds. “How?”

“No – not that kind of clock,” you explain, “a dandelion clock. Here, hold it here-” You pull the little bloom between the two of you. “We’ll share it, see? Make a wish and, on the count of three, blow off the seeds. Ready?”

“I, uh-“ Albert stammers. “I guess?”

“Great.” You shuffle a bit closer and close your eyes. “Okay – one, two, three.”

You lean forward and blow softly, the tiny seeds billowing away on the breeze. You feel one tickle your nose and you laugh softly, opening your eyes to bat it away when- oh.

Albert’s… Close. Closer than before, even closer than the first time – the naked bud of the dandelion rests between the two of you, the only thing separating your slightly parted lips from his. In the evening breeze, it sways just enough to brush against your lower lip, Albert’s eyes flicking toward the movement, and you can’t help but think about how easy it’d be to just shift forward ever so slightly and-

“Well what’cha waitin’ for, Albie, don’t leave ‘em hangin’!”

You jolt backwards, nearly falling onto the grass as Albert leaps to his feet.

“Racer, I am gonna teach you such a lesson-!”

He sprints across the green to tackle the other boy to the floor, and while you quietly mourn the loss of Albert’s warm weight next to you, you can’t help but be grateful for the distraction – at least this way he won’t notice you flopping into the grass and groaning pathetically.

After you somehow regain your composure (and Albert as appropriately pummelled Racec), he walks you home, the two of you walking dutifully on opposite ends of the sidewalk, as if simply brushing one another’s clothes will set you both aflame.

“I had fun,” you say quietly as you reach The Little Lamb. “Even if it was…”

You try to find a word to describe how being around Albert makes you feel, but nothing seems to capture it.

“Yeah.” Albert nods, smiling sheepishly at the floor. “Um – hey!” He says quickly, just as you turn to open the door. “I, um – I…”

“Albert?” You frown as he flounders. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” He nods vigorously. “Yeah, I just – I was wonderin’… Say if I, uh, wanted a flower that – that said, uh…” He stares at the step under your feet so intensely you worry he might shatter it. “That I – liked someone. A-A flower that said I… I really cared ‘bout someone and, and that maybe they cared ‘bout me, too. What…” He swallows, honey-thick, and chances a glance at you through his lashes. “What flower’d I need for that?”

You feel your stomach begin to sink.

Oaks and ivy, alright.

Morning glory around your heart.

“Well,” you try your best to smile, “if you want to be traditional, you’d only need something small – one or two flowers and a couple of herbs. White roses are a good one, they’re very…”

God, it felt like you were choking.

“Innocent.” You manage to say. “Sweet. A sort of – tentative love.”

Albert’s lips quirk into the softest smile.

“Yeah?”

“And – and hyacinths,” you say quickly, because you can’t bear to look at him smiling like that. “Blue ones. Those would work. And then you could cover it all in heather and lavender for good luck.”

“Hope.” Albert says quietly, staring at the flower crowns you have cradled in your arms. You clear your throat and shove yourself against the door, forcing your way inside – you have to get away, you just have to.

“Yes, well,” you slap a tight smile on your face, “perhaps you can come by tomorrow and – and I’ll have some for you.”

Albert stares at you through the threshold like he can’t believe his luck. Your chest aches.

“You’d… You’d do that?”

No, no, no-

“Of course!” You laugh, on the verge of hysterical. “I mean, if you’re going to go – go courting someone,” (the word tastes like ash on your tongue), “then who’s better to help you than your favourite florist?”

Albert blinks, his smile dropping.

“What?”

“Yes, I’ll have the perfect selection for you!” You smile, because you just don’t learn, do you? “Not like it’ll make much difference, of course, they’d be a fool to say no to you…”

“I-“ Albert’s eyes flicker back and forth, as if he’s watching something unravel and can’t quite stop it. “Wait, but-“

“I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You slam the door, and try to shut your stupid, horrid thoughts out with it.

God. You should’ve just gone to Park Row.

You spend that night lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself. It’s pitiful, yes, and painfully childish, but damn it all, you’re sad. You deserve to curl up and wallow for a bit. It serves you right, you suppose, doing exactly what you knew you shouldn’t’ve. It’s better to just stick to what you know. Colours and meanings and silly little facts that no one else but you care about. Getting your papers on Fridays, working alone on Sundays, not going around making lunch and getting attached to newsboys.

Why didn’t you just stick to yesterday’s news? To living in the background? To being the author of someone else’s love story? No one gets flowers for the florist, after all.

But then it’s morning, and… And Albert’s your friend. And if he loves someone, really loves someone, then you’re going to do your darnedest to get that person to love him right back. It’s what he deserves.

“There you are!” You smile as Albert pokes into the shop like a stray who’s unsure if he’s allowed on the furniture. Ugh, damn it all, he’s cute. “I have your flowers right here.”

You present them with a flourish, a pair of white roses entwined around a pale blue hyacinth, decorated with heather and lavender. You’ve trussed them up with lace and pretty pink tissue paper and they look splendid, thank you very much, because Albert deserves the best.

He smiles, something small and private and a little bit sad, and holds them preciously in his hands.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, looking at you from over the blooms, and you try to keep your pulse from racing.

“Yes, well!” You say quickly, fumbling your fingers over your little pet project. “There’s also, uh-“

You shove it into his vest pocket before you can lose your nerve. Albert blinks, reaching up to brush a petal between his thumb and forefinger, the pads of which come away slightly smudged with ink. It’s a flower – well, not a real one, it’s actually a newspaper you’d fiddled and folded with until it took the shape of a rose, but… Well, you’d thought it’d look charming. Perhaps it was silly.

Albert chuffs out a small, disbelieving laugh, wrinkling his brow at the paper rose.

It was probably silly.

“Any fine gentleman looking to court needs a good boutonniere.” You mumble, a bit defeated. Ridiculous.

“I love it.” Says Albert, voice tender. He purses his lips, glancing from you to the bouquet for a moment before he plucks a sprig of lavender from the arrangement and slips it behind your ear.

“I – oh.” You murmur, feeling suddenly off-kilter as your cheeks begin to warm – and then your sensibilities come back to you. “Albert!” You scold him halfheartedly, swatting at his shoulder. “This is supposed to be for your sweetheart, you shouldn’t just go around wasting it! Go on, now, tell them what you want to say.”

“You’re perfect.” Albert says, then blinks suddenly as if waking up from a dream. “I – I mean-“

“Yes, yes, we can save the camellias for your next gift,” you mutter with a wave of your hand, as if you could brush away all your selfish thoughts. “Off you go, now!”

The next time Albert comes into the shop, you slap a smile on your face and ask him how it went, because you’re a good and not at all selfish friend, and Albert is very pleasing on the eye when he looks so wistfully in love.

“I just – I…” Albert flounders under your gaze, fidgeting with his hands, and your heart aches. Lovely boy, so nervous – you try not to envy whoever gets to see him this way. “What I wanna say – what I need to say-“

He tangles a hand in his puff of dandelion hair and groans.

“God, I just wanna be with ya!”

You’re almost taken aback by how desperate he is – and oh, don’t you just feel terrible now, envying the person who’s driving him so crazy. Honestly, you’re meant to be his friend. You smile sympathetically and pat his hand before you grab a cluster of rockfoil and press it between his fingers.

“It’s a bit peculiar,” you say reassuringly as he stares at the little white bells, “but rather charming.”

Albert makes a wounded noise, staring at you like you’ve just slapped him.

“Yeah, well – you’d know all ‘bout that, wouldn’tcha?” He huffs, more to himself than to you, before rushing out of the store and leaving you with a thousand different questions.

“Good… luck?” You try to say, but he only offers you a frustrated yell in return.

After that, Albert comes into the shop almost every day.

“I’m crazy for ya.”

You’d offer him a yellow pansy.

“I think about’cha all the time.”

You’d smile and hand him a blue salvia.

“I think I like ya more ‘an anyone else I ever met.”

You’d tuck an apple blossom into his vest.

“I’m sure they’ll love it.” You’d say every time, offering him a reassuring grin – and every time, Albert would look at you as if he were drowning and all but sprint out the door.

This goes on for a while – Albert will burst into the shop like a man on a mission, report whatever message he wants to give his love, and you’ll dutifully hand him a flower that matches. You never made him pay – a fact you’d beat yourself up about later in bed, when you’re tired and feeling sorry for yourself – but you can’t help it. It’s sweet, how eager he is to get this right, how badly he wants to impress whoever this mystery person is. You can barely bring yourself to be jealous (which isn’t to say that you’re not, but you at least have the decency to feel bad about it).

And then one day, as you’re fussing over a cluster of stubborn chamomile blossoms, Albert bursts into the shop wielding an armful of flowers. It’s a veritable cacophony of colour, reds and purples and yellows all mixing together in a chaotic muddle of petals, leaves and stamens – and as you note the wrinkles on some of the petals, the bits of blight on some of the leaves, you wonder just how many of the flowers did Albert keep?

“Alright.” Albert says gruffly as he shoves the array of flowers onto your counter. He hovers a hand over it for a moment before grabbing one at random.

“Honeysuckle!” He snaps, shoving the yellow-pink blossom into your hand. “Devotion.”

Before you can ask how many he’d like, he hands you a gillyflower.

“And that – that means ya beautiful.” He picks up stem after stem, slotting them into your fingers. “Pink camellia, I – I-I’m longin’ for ya. White lillies, m’love’s pure, bluebells, my love’s constant, and, um-“ He flounders for a moment, staring stubbornly at the wooden countertop before he shoves a red carnation at you.

“My – m’heart aches for ya.”

You stare at the nimbus of flowers in your hands, glancing from it to Albert. He’s redder than his hair, up to his ears and down to his neck, and he looks downright terrified, fidgeting on the spot, his eyes darting between you and the floor.

“I mean…” You say slowly, and he stares at you with wide eyes. “It’s a little chaotic, but… I can make a bouquet? I-I might have to charge you this time around, ‘cause there’s so many, but-“

Albert shoves his heads into his hands and lets out a noise between a groan and a downright scream.

“Alright!” He snaps, planting his hands on the counter. “What flowers ya got that say I love you, ya stupid florist, now please, God, please can you understand what I’m tryna tell ya, ‘cause I can’t keep on bringin’ flowers t’the lodgin’ house wi’ nowhere to put ‘em!”

You freeze, rigid-still. You open your mouth once, twice, and nothing comes out. Your hands tremble against cool stalks and you realize suddenly that Albert’s muddled bouquet is still in your hands.

“One… One moment.” You say quietly with a raised finger, before scurrying to the door. Cradling your bouquet in the crook of your elbow, you use your free hand to close it, then lock, then latch, then flip the sign to ‘closed’. You take a shuddering breath and turn around – Albert’s still watching you. He’s wide eyed, his fists clenched at his sides and his jaw held tight, as if it’d been wired shut – and you almost laugh giddily because all this time, you’d assumed he was posturing, trying to big himself up because he felt uncomfortable being in such a frilly, dainty shop, surrounded by petals and lace, but no. All this time – all this time – he’d been nervous.

You take careful steps toward him, like approaching a stray dog. His spine goes more rigid with each clip of your foot against the hardwood floors, his entire body bickering between ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ and landing on a confused, frightened ‘freeze’ instead. As you reach him, you pluck a single garden daisy from the fragrant shelves and tuck it behind his ear.

“That, um,” you murmur, realizing a touch too late how close you’ve become. “That means-“

“I share your sediment.” Albert breathes, and you duck your head with a small giggle.

“Sentiment,” You correct – his blush goes ever-darker and, out of fear that he may combust if you don’t, you quickly add, “but yes.”

Albert sways forward, almost unthinkingly, like a reed in the wind. He catches himself and clears his throat, but before he can sway away, you duck forward and, gently, featherlight, press your mouth to his. It’s soft and shy, barely lasting a second – more of a petal-brush than anything else – but the noise it pulls out of Albert – something half-blissful, half-wounded – from deep in the hollow of his throat adds more weight to the gesture than you could’ve ever hoped. The tension rushes out of his shoulders in a heavy breath as he all but staggers, slapping his hand against the counter to keep himself upright and pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Hooooly hell,” he says raggedly. “God, I ain’t dreamin’, am I?”

He says it to his hands, staring at them suspiciously like they’re trying to fool him – you slip your own hand into his and squeeze tight.

“Feels real.” You smile gently, a smile that he returns tenfold.

“God,” he says again, and you’re inclined to agree. He leans in hesitantly, looking carefully into your eyes until you nod, and he kisses you – still chaste and sweet, but firmer than the previous. It’s not a questioning touch, it’s something that roots you to the spot, grounds you, whispers yes, this is real.

Albert’s grinning when you separate. He brushes a fingertip over the daisy in his hair and chuffs out a breathy laugh.

“I weren’t kiddin’, y’know,” he mumbles. “Got too damn many o’ these things.”

You roll your eyes.

“You could’ve just not asked for them.”

“Yeah, well, I tried that, and you thought I was askin’ for flowers anyway!” Albert huffs, pouting at the floor. “The fellas ain’t lettin’ me live it down. Keep sayin’ I’m the one meant t’be gettin’ you flowers, not the other way ‘round.”

You giggle, knocking your forehead affectionately against his.

“So that’s true?” You ask coyly, grinning as he blushes again. “Flowers at the lodging house with nowhere to put ‘em?”

Albert tips his head back and groans.

“They’re everywheeeere!” He whines. “Next to my bed, on the fire escape, in the kitchen-!”

You laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Why didn’t you just give them away?”

“Wh- I weren’t gonna do that!” Albert says indignantly, as if you’d suggested selling his firstborn child. He blushes once he realizes his overreaction and looks away, pouting at the wall. “They were gifts.”

You giggle, making him groan towards the ceiling.

“This ain’t fair.” He huffs, slumping forward so that his chin rests upon your shoulder. You’re struck by the image of a tired beagle flopping its head on its owner’s lap, and can’t help but giggle again. “I ain’t usually like this.”

With just a touch of hesitation, you reach your hand upwards to fiddle with his dandelion hair. Albert hums, pleased, nuzzling against your temple.

“Like what, petal?” You say quietly against his ear, and with him resting his cheek against you, you can feel the way his jaw clenches.

“Like – argh, c’mon!” He whines. “Y’can’t just – say stuff like that! God, only you…” He mutters petulantly, wrapping his arms around your waist as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. “Swear, if you were anyone else… Jus’ some stranger on the street, I’d have no problem gettin’ ya t’blush, but noooo!” He tips his head back with an exaggerated eyeroll. “No, you just gotta go fallin’ right into me, lookin’ all cute, talkin’ all pretty, makin’ me forget which way’s up!” He glares at you with no true heat. “Unfair.”

“You’re unfair!” You laugh around your astonishment, raising up a hand in a poor attempt to hide your darkening face. “Catching me like something right out of a novel, being so – so…” You close your eyes with a soft sigh and lean forward, bumping your nose against his and savouring the contact. “Unexpected.”

You feel more than hear Albert’s scoff, a warm puff of air against your lips.

“Like you can talk.” He mutters, shifting just enough to nuzzle against you. “Race’s been makin’ fun a’me for days, tellin’ me to get my shit together, but how’m I meant’a do that-!” You laugh against him, so close, the warmth mingling between your mouths. “When you’re always fuckin’ – flower crowns and dandelions and…”

His hands skim over your waist, his callouses brushing your skin through the fabric, and you can’t help but gasp lightly. You’re close enough that the movement brushes your mouth against his, your cupid’s bow just barely catching on his, and another noise blossoms from his chest, wanton and desperate, as he presses your lips together, as if it’s the only thing he could possibly do. You flutter against him, your hands skimming down his shirt, and he hums softly, the noise running through you until it settles inside your chest. He traces the seam of your lips, slow and soft, savouring the feeling, and gently, as if afraid to spook you, brushes the tip of his tongue against yours. You gasp into his mouth, but he doesn’t take advantage – he pulls away, just barely, enough for your cupid’s bow to rest on his bottom lip, not quite breaking the kiss, but not quite continuing. Your eyes slip open – just barely – as his do, the two of you looking at each other for reassurance. He chuckles breathily, looking away in a manner you now realize is shy.

“God’s sake, [Y/N],” he whispers, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, “m’only human.”

Bashfully, all too aware of your inexperience, you nudge forward to meet him again. He hums once more, sweet and low, and presses a rough hand to the back of your head, tilting you just so. Tentatively, as if you’ll fade away if he moves too fast, you feel his tongue brush shyly against yours again. You make a noise you can’t quite describe, something small and soft, clinging to his shoulders while he presses a hand to the small of your back, trading tender, sipping kisses. It’s awkward – a bit foreign, a bit confused – but oh, it’s lovely.

Something sparks as he leans forward enough for you to bend backwards slightly at the waist, supported by his hand – and you can’t help but giggle.

“What?” Albert smiles curiously, the two of you still so close that your nose still bumps against his with every laugh. “Hey! C’mon, what is it? Ya makin’ a fella nervous, here.”

“Sorry,” you smile, and then you realize again, and burst into even more giggles. “It’s just – we did this before.”

Albert blinks at you owlishly.

“I, uh – don’t think we did?” He smiles, brow still furrowed, like you’re a puzzle he’s delighting over solving. “Think I’d remember if we did this-”

“The first time,” you’re wheezing now, because it truly is hilarious, “when we first met, when I fell and you grabbed me, I-“ your giggles trail off as your face begins to warm, “I-I remember thinking…”

You look away nervously, your laughter becoming shy.

“I was thinking it was awfully – awfully similar to, um – to the gentlemen who come into this shop… The way they hold their lovers after they give them their flowers.”

Albert blinks, glancing down at how he’s holding you – one hand behind your head, the other pressing on your spine, the slight bend of your waist – and his face burns red, from his roots to his neck.

“Uh – yeah,” he laughs breathlessly, “suppose it is a li’l… Yeah.” He draws away, making sure you’re upright before quickly stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I-I kinda…”

You smile as he stares stubbornly at the wall, one hand rubbing his neck sheepishly.

“I kinda thought the same thing.” He mumbles. “Not – not when it happened, when it happened I was thinkin’, y’know, wow, this person’s close, a-and beautiful, and – and…” His face looks almost painfully red now, carnation-crimson across the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, um – was on’y when I was havin’ dinner at the lodgin’ house I ach’lly realized that – that it’d – happened.”

You purse your lips into a line, trying to keep your smile from going too wide, and step forward, tapping your shoe against his shin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head. “I, um – I-I was pourin’ the gravy so long I spilled it all over the table. We ran out. Fellas all had to eat their chicken dry. Jack still won’t let me pour my own gravy.”

You laugh again, and so does he, less shy and more… Well, he still seems shy, but less scared, if that counts for anything.

“You, Albert DaSilva,” you grin at him, “are not what I expected you to be.”

He cocks his head.

“Well, now ya got me worried,” he smirks, “what’cha expect me t’be, sweetheart?”

You roll your eyes at the pet-name. There’s really no use in him trying to be suave now, not when you knew the truth.

“Big, bad newsie with his sleeves cut off, wandering around in nothing more than a vest and an undershirt?” You ask with an arched brow. “Wearing his hat backwards in spring, like a show-off, snapping at me to watch where I’m going before you go and catch me… And then you go and say I like lambs, like it’s obvious.”

Albert’s face goes almost comically blank as he remembers.

“God,” he cringes, pressing a hand over his eyes. “Shit, I can’t believe I said that. Only even tried to sell here ‘cause I figured it was a butcher place.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He nods shamefully. “Was hankerin’ for a leg o’ lamb, figured if I played my cards right I might land some mutton. Only stayed ‘cause I thought the sign was cute. Jesus, can’t believe I told’ja that.” He laughs beneath his hand. “I like lambs. God, I’m an idiot.”

You roll your eyes at your most ridiculous boy, and wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him close as you nuzzle against his neck.

“My idiot.”

You feel him clench again, as if the words had sent a bolt of lightning through him.

“I – you’re – yeah.” He settles on saying, sounding almost strangled. He holds you, runs his hands down your back, and lets the tension seep out of him. “Yeah…” He chuckles. “Your idiot.”

You both stand there for a moment, enjoying the warmth, swaying slightly as you breathe each other in.

“[Y/N],” you hear him say tentatively, “y’think, maybe – if you want – we could go to Jacobi’s?”

You try to not roll your eyes, because honestly, ‘if you want’, as if you could possibly want anything else. Ridiculous boy. Impossible boy.

“I-I get off work at noon,” Albert rambles, pinching your shirt between his fingers and rolling the fabric, committing every detail of you to memory. “So maybe I can swing by one day when you’re closin’, walk you down… If you want.”

You pull away with an exaggerated gasp and clutch your hand to your chest.

“Why, Albert DaSilva!” You say like a scandalized dame. “Without buying me flowers first?”

He stares at you for a moment as you hold your pose – and then you both laugh, full-bodied and creasing at the sides, and you must look like lunatics, laughing amongst the flowers, with rumpled clothes and messy hair and kiss-sore lips, clinging to each other like you’re about to collapse, but neither of you care. It’s just you two here, unexpectedly, by sheer chance. Chance and newspapers. It’s a ridiculous story, truly, but it’s yours, so who’s to care?

(And if that laughter turns to one, then two, then twenty more kisses – well, who’s to care about that, either?)

#newsies #albert dasilva #albert dasilva x reader #newsies x reader #oneshot #albert x reader #newsies imagine

[zodiacs-web]

You write for Chainsawman? If so, may I ask for a platonic Kishibe and reader as his trainee? Maybe reader-chan sees him as a father figure perhaps?

Father

𖥔 Kishibe x Gn!Reader

𖥔 Synopsis: Kishibe and his trainee

𖥔 What's in the web: Platonic, hurt/comfort, mentions of alcohol, OoC Kishibe (?), barley edited

Part II

The first day you both met, he was sitting hunched over on a bench, tears stung your eyes as you watch him take a swig of his drink. You were at a park, not far from the building you just left. You were only a teenager when you met, his dull eyes staring back at your bloodshot ones.

"You look horrible," He said. "Were you sent here like that?"

Stifling a laugh as you looked away, not knowing why you found that so funny but nonetheless you found it funny. You were so young and innocent looking besides the eyes yet she told you to join the organization and Kishibe had to take care of you whether he liked it or not.

"Let me ask you a few questions." He patted the seat next to him. "But sit first."

You hesitantly moved near him, holding your breath as you neared closer, step after step. Finally sitting next to him after what felt like years, he let out a sigh once his mind started racing of what made them send you to him.

"Are you sure you want to join? I mean risking your life just to kill a devil."

"..."

"Or did she make you join?"

You glanced over at him, his face telling that he got it right. He sighs as he can already see Makima's smile in his mind, her morality ceasing with every step she takes. The youngest she took in was Denji so making her feel bad about you was not an option, nor was it ever an option.

He felt like he was supposed to make her feel that way but seeing her past behavior signaled red flags. He placed his hands on his knees and lifting himself from his spot, motioning you to follow him.

"Where are we going?" You asked, bare feet kicking up the dirt.

"To go eat." He responded.

"Oh."

He watched as you shove a hamburger down your throat, hunger stinging you for the past few days. It kind of reminded him of a dog eating anything even if it was poison, a dog who follows those who even show the slightest of kindness.

He wouldn't treat you that way, he would treat you like a human, not a dog who's only purpose is to die. Not like Makima who sought you as one. He doesn't want to be like her.

Your relationship grew as time went on he'd barely pay attention to you, eyeing the scars yet never saying anything. Seeing your eyes grow dull like his and he couldn't stand a teen like you growing up in an environment like this one. So he changed his method, he'd talk to you after your mission, asking what happened and what you wanted to do afterwards.

You'd give him weird looks but decided to just follow. After a while this became a standard thing you two had done, to keep your mind away from the growing pain. When you were on a mission, his hands shook with fear that'd you'd be dead. But you only returned with scars on your body and a smile that told him that you wanted to share the entire experience.

He never smiled, but he was still happy you were alive even as he watched shoved food down your throat.

"Hey! Can I call you dad?" You teased as you held a bottle of alcohol, a red ribbon tied around it, in your hand.

"I'd rather not." He scoffed as he took the bottle out of your hands. "We've only known each other for a few months, wait a few years then comeback."

"Oh? So you're not against the idea of being called dad."

"I'd rather marry a pretty lady and have her child call me dad than you."

You pouted as you took back the bottle and started walking away.

"You'll get arrested if you hold that bottle out so open. You're not of age."

"Let them take me."

He scoffed once more as he stood up to follow you.

"You're annoying."

#csm #chainsaw man #kishibe #kishibe x reader #chainsaw man kishibe #kishibe x y/n #kishibe x you #platonic #gn reader #gender neutral reader

[cerberuscommissions]

𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐘 ––  𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐑𝐒.  below are lyrics from green day album saviors!  feel free to edit pronouns and situations to fit your asks better.  tw for drug/alcohol, death themes, language, and suggestive material.  likes and reblogs help out tremendously to spread it around!

❝ it's all double talk of conspiracy. ❞

❝ kiss me, i'm dead inside. ❞

❝ maybe i'm in love with a deviant. ❞

❝ i think i'm gonna lose my skull. ❞

❝ i'm special and i don't need your help. ❞

❝ do you wanna be my girlfriend / boyfriend? ❞

❝ i'll take you to a movie that we've already seen. ❞

❝ there's no other place i'd wanna be. ❞

❝ we'll walk the cemetery, i'll kiss you again, and make all our dead friends blush. ❞

❝ you can drive me crazy all over again. ❞

❝ i'm making an offer that you cannot deny. ❞

❝ you won't be laughing when i'm making you cry. ❞

❝ you son of a bitch, i'm gonna make you beg and cower. ❞

❝ vendetta is a friend of mine. ❞

❝ revenge is sweeter than wine. ❞

❝ get on your knees when you are kissing my ring. ❞

❝ i can remember all the bad memories. ❞

❝ i never forget a face that's quite so ugly. ❞

❝ welcome to my problems. ❞

❝ it's not an invitation. ❞

❝ i was sober now i'm drunk again. ❞

❝ i'm in trouble and in love again. ❞

❝ i don't wanna be a dead man walking. ❞

❝ welcome to my nightmare where dreams go to disappear. ❞

❝ here's to all my problems. ❞

❝ i just want to drink the poison. ❞

❝ she's throwing punches to the beat to the sound of cable tv. ❞

❝ she is a cold war in my head and i'm east berlin. ❞

❝ coffee and cyanide for lovers in disgrace. ❞

❝ my head is under my pillow. ❞

❝ my spirit's broken and my face is in the gutter. ❞

❝ you're going to say goodbye and let it go. ❞

❝ some days are holidays; some days you call your mother. ❞

❝ some days you're sober but you're still waking up with a hangover. ❞

❝ broken pieces from a busted heart. ❞

❝ living in the shadows where we lurk. ❞

❝ i just want to be your nobody. ❞

❝ there's no such thing as promises. ❞

❝ lonely boy with a heart made of hate. ❞

❝ you're a lighthouse in a storm. ❞

❝ i'll never break your heart. ❞

❝ somewhere i can rest my head and take it on the chin. ❞

❝ flowers all in bloom in my rubber room. ❞

❝ scratching at the wallpaper in my solitude. ❞

❝ getting stoned and lazy. ❞

❝ howling at the moon in the afternoon. ❞

#rp meme #rp memes #writing prompts #rp prompts #inbox prompts #inbox memes #rph #*my resources

[shxrpest-lives]

This Is How I Disappear and The Sharpest Lives are sister-songs, they’re about the same character of The Black Parade as they go from being obsessed with a loved one and succumb to addiction.

Disappear is about them being left by someone they love possibly because of their addiction and they beg for their lover’s forgiveness before giving in fully to their addiction. The first verse

“To un-explain the unforgivable

Drain all the blood and give the kids a show

By streetlight this dark night

A séance down below

There're things that I have done

You never should ever know”

implies they’re a musician or a performer in some way, and partake in things they aren’t proud of and try to hide. They have to “drain all the blood and give the kids a show,” a metaphor for believing they are only able to give a performance worth anything when intoxicated, mirroring Gerard’s life pre-sobriety.

The second verse

“Who walks among the famous living dead

Drowns all the boys and girls inside your bed

And if you could talk to me

Tell me if it's so

That all the good girls go to heaven

Well, heaven knows”

is them mourning their relationship and themself as their addiction take more and more of a hold on them. In this low they’re at, they sleep around (the boys and girls inside your bed line), and they’re aware they’re losing more and more control over themself and could be close to killing themself (“tell me if it’s so that all the good girls go to heaven?”)

The chorus

“And without you is how I disappear

And live my life alone forever now

And without you is how I disappear

And live my life alone forever now”

is them begging their lover to stay, demonstrating their obsession and beg them to stay with them, almost guilt-tripping them.

In the bridge/third verse (?)

“Can you hear me cry out to you?

Words I thought I'd choke on figure out

I'm really not so with you anymore

I'm just a ghost

So I can't hurt you anymore

So I can't hurt you anymore

And now, you wanna see how far down I can sink?

Let me go, fuck

So, you can, well now so, you can

I'm so far away from you

Well now so, you can”

they beg for their lover to stay and forgive them (“can you hear me…”) and recognizing they’re not who they used to be (“Im really not so with you anymore”), only to flip on them and go from one extreme to another, breaking down and leaving their lover (“so I can’t hurt you anymore,” “you wanna see how far down I can sink? Fuck!”)

The chorus after this reflects this as well, repeating over and over in a much darker tone (musically and vocally) “And without you is how I disappear, and without you is how I disappear.” The last chorus omits the “and live my life alone” because they can’t guilt-trip their lover anymore since they’ve pushed their lover away completely, and can no longer keep their addiction at bay.

In The Sharpest Lives, they fall deeper and deeper into their addiction, which is what caused them to join The Black Parade.

In the first part

“Well it rains and it pours when you're out on your own

If I crash on the couch, can I sleep in my clothes

'Cause I spent the night dancing, I'm drunk I suppose

If it looks like I'm laughing

I'm really just asking to leave this alone

You're in time for the show

You're the one that I need

I'm the one that you loathe

You can watch me corrode

Like a beast in repose

'Cause I love all the poison away with the boys in the band

I've really been on a bender and it shows

So why don't you blow me

A kiss before she goes”

it’s demonstrated how their self control is slipping away, as they spend their time out and self destructing (they literally say they’re on a bender.) They beg for any affection they can (“you’re the one that I need, I’m the one that you loathe,”) and use sex to get their “poison” (using the word poison to reference drugs reminds me of the alcoholism metaphor in Vampires), and disregard everything else.

The chorus

“Give me a shot to remember

And you can take all the pain away from me

Your kiss and I will surrender

The sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead

A light to burn all the empires

So bright the sun is ashamed to rise and be

In love with all of these vampires

So you can leave like the sane, abandon me”

furthers the point of the narrator being left and abandoned/having pushed away everyone who loves them to delve deeper and deeper into their addiction. It also has another connection to Vampires Will Never Hurt You with the narrator falling “in love with all of these vampires” or people who are helping fuel and enable their addiction.

“There's a place in the dark where the animals go

You can take off your skin in the cannibal glow

Juliet loves the beat and the lust it commands

Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands, Romeo”

This part illustrates how deep and how much their addiction has progressed and affects them, becoming almost animalistic. The Romeo and Juliet part shows how corrupted their sense of love has become, going back to them using their body and sex to further their own corruption.

The song ends with the chorus repeating, ultimately ending with the words “abandon me,” concluding their story with their addiction controlling their life to the point of welcoming their loneliness if it means they can remain intoxicated. Musically, the song also ends with the guitar progressively slowing down, much like a heart beat slows as you die, implying that the narrator overdoses and dies alone or “abandoned.”

#this has been bouncing around in my head for years #it’s 11pm I’m probably incoherent #my chemical romance #mcr #my chem #the black parade #tbp era #this is how i disappear #the sharpest lives #gerard way #ray toro #frank iero #mikey way

[kumalimited]

if I had to take a shot everytime a song in the French dub of the Awakening movie said "être moi/be myself" or "plus forts ensemble" I'd be dead from alcohol poisoning

#the lyrics are not very good to say the least #although as a lot of ppl say the movie has good ideas #But plus forts ensemble sounds like a slogan from some kind of political party #and my sister catch ourselves singing dramatically “etre moi serait la mission de ma vie” #aka “being myself could be my life's mission” #isn't it everyone's mission? on the contrary as ladybug it might be quite the contrary in a wah

[boxwinebaddie]

okay, so in the vein of writing again ft. someone asking me for peppermint content, i thought i'd share this which i wanted to tack onto the end of chapter nine of pep ( where dying lovesick stan shows up on wendy's doorstep & #bendy rehabilitates bender!stan ) but that chapter was too long and i was unsure about it...

but i mentioned ravenstan's upper, inner thigh sh scars and that's an important universal headstannon to me...which i actually wrote extensively about bc of how important it is to me </3.

-- so given that i'm not posting, i felt like i should share it w/ you. :')

it's not style...per say, but it is platonic soulmate stendy and goes into stan's sh journey. there is some triggering imagery, so tw for obvious mention and discussion of self harm, suicidal ideation and a heavy blood tw, also i wrote this five months ago so be nice to me, but! ya!

tldr; i love you pep stan <3 hope you heal, baby <333

“But….Wait, Stan, there's something…”

Wendy squinted suspiciously at Stan's clavicle where right next to that faint tracheotomy scar that Kyle had made saving Stan's life, was a mark that was not made for business, but for pleasure. She ran her finger along it agonizingly, expression starting to simmer with discomfort.

“...On your neck.”

Her previously playful expression had dissolved into dead seriousness. She looked cautiously over Stan's shoulder at Bebe, who was completely distracted, shooting the shit with the Postmates delivery driver.

“You’re not…” Her voice was a horrified whisper.

“You’re not h u r t i n g yourself again, are you?”

And the very first time that day, intrepid, unbreakable Wendy Testaburger looked truly terrified.

Because Stanley Marsh was a product of harm...

And he harmed himself.

/ ***

With expensive kitchen knives that would go missing after the dishes were done, with cheap corner-store razors that cut more than just his hair, with too-hard, touchdown technical tackles, with the lighters whose artificial flame was the warmest touch he'd felt all week, with potent liquid poisons,

with words,

with words,

with w o r d s. 

Stan's alcoholism was a poorly kept secret because he was loud about that one as a decisive diversion tactic. But he was dead silent about his self-harm. Dead. Silent. When you drank, you looked cool, you made people laugh and everyone liked you. But if you hurt yourself in an ugly, disquieting way, you didn't look cool, people didn't laugh and everyone hated you. That was Stan's worst fear: that people would grow to hate him as much as he hated himself. 

Perfect Boy Next Door, High School Quarterback, Prom King, It Boy, Small Town Treasure Stanley Randall William Marsh had a disgusting secret and while it was hard to hide with the hungry eyes of everyone you knew on you at all times, Honest Stan learned how to lie.

And well. 

It was a secret he kept from everyone. He had fooled his whole family, blindsided his best friends, even Kyle. Especially Kyle. His favorite person on planet Earth, who he was scared would find him so monstrously hideous and disfigured that he would never speak to him again in horror and disgust. 

This list of people Stan had lied to also regrettably included his long term girlfriend, who knew the back of his hand better than her own.

Wendy Testaburger was summertime fine. She was as scary as she was smokin' hot. A regulation South Park High babe and betty. 

Given even the whisper of a chance to sleep with her, people would go to war, but the second Wendy tried to take off Stan's pants he waved the white flag and floored it. Cartman and Kenny gave him regular onslaughts of shit about having the hottest girlfriend in the world and never nailing her, but he always insisted that they were just "waiting for the right moment." 

But that moment would never come.

Because Stan wouldn't let her see.

Wendy couldn't know.

No one could ever know.

So, horny teenage boy Stan, who was actually quite skilled at baseball, never got past second base. Well, on him anyways.

He did a n u m b e r of scandalous things to Wendy, but he never let her return the favor. Ever. And more notably, he'd done all those sexually deviant things almost completely clothed. Stan nearly never took his pants off, so if you caught him in his boxers, it was high praise because that was a serious undertaking. A mishap that usually only happened when he wasted and even then, his guard was up enough that his pants never came down. 

Until one day when they were sixteen. It was their anniversary and Wendy had given Stan a little card with five things on it: an address, a room number, a key card, a time and a magenta lipsticked kiss as a signature. Strawberry Seduction. Wendy's favorite. 

And Stan had just hoped to take Wendy around the hotel gift shop, hit the arcade while Wendy got her nails done, eat at the fancy French restaurant and soak in the hot tub until they were both gross and pruny. But Wendy...had a different idea. Because when Stan finally flung open that hotel door, holding a teddy bear and a bouquet of roses, Wendy was waiting for him...in bed, in lacy lingerie, staring seductively, sinfully strawberry scented.

Stanley Marsh was living every South Park high school student's wet dream and it was his fucking nightmare. 

Which quickly escalated as Wendy tried to rip all of Stan's clothes off and backed against a wall, Stan had front-flipped over her shoulder before locking himself in the hotel bathroom.

It was the worst fight Stan and Wendy had ever had.

And they had had it between a bathroom door. 

At the emotional end of it, Wendy's throat was raw from screaming, her eyes were raw from crying and her heart was raw from trying and trying and trying as she yelled: "Is some sick joke to you? Am I a fucking joke to you, Stanley? Why won't you let me touch you? WHY? Are you fucking with me? Are you using me for something? For my body?! Or is it because you think I'm ugly? Is that why you won't sleep with me? Is it because I'm some kind of horrible monster?"

To which Stan promptly unlocked the door and stepped out. 

"No, it's me. I'm the monster."

And the only sound that interrupted that insidious silence was the sound of a complementary hotel razor falling out of Stan's shaky, bloodstained hand and clambering to the floor.

Because Stan was completely naked, vulnerable and exposed in a way that he had never been with anyone else before. And every square inch of skin on Stan's legs that could be covered with a pair of boxers or swim trunks was marred with an hideous white scar, which stood out starkly against Stan's skin, jagged and odious. Save for one. It was brand new and the blood it beckoned ran down Stan's naked leg and shallowly pooled by his left foot. 

But Stan didn't faint. No, the ironic and heartbreaking twist that Stan's fear of blood took was this: He only fainted when it was somebody else's blood. When someone else was bleeding, it devastated Stan, but when he was bleeding, it d e l i g h t e d him.

It was his only way out.

Wendy had finally seen it. His secret. He looked as ugly on the outside as he felt on the inside.

And he figured she would point and laugh, run or hide. But she just threw her arms around him and held him. And after a long pause, simply said. "You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen."

Sixteen year old Stanley Marsh did not have wild, crazy, animal style sex with his girlfriend that night. But she did give him a bath, where she lovingly lifeguarded him, washed away all the blood and tears, threading her hands through his hair, baptizing him for new beginnings.

She wrapped his wound up with gauze and sealed it with a Strawberry Seduction kiss before Wendy dressed Stan to the nine's in her oversized Nasty Woman sleep shirt and pink fuzzy pajama pants before they climbed into bed, without a note of sexual innuendo. 

Stan did not smash his super sexy significant other on the night of their anniversary, but they did share uncomfortable silences, cry cathartically, talk for hours, devour room service breakfast for dinner, laugh at stupid game shows on the dinky hotel tv and start some Matt Damon movie that they'd never finished because they had accidentally fallen asleep, ironically, during the romantic part.

And since that day, Stan has been two years sober from cutting.

But when his father screams in his face, Stan notices that his pocket knife glitters golden in the low light. Or one particularly bad days, when Stan is shaving his face, he holds the razor blade a little too long over his carotid artery.

When that happens, Stan puts the weapon down and texts Wendy, who always talks him off the ledge. 

And while the past two weeks had been absolute hell, Stan had not broken his promise to Wendy on the night of their anniversary. 

Stan had not hurt himself.

Not with a b l a d e at least.

/ ***

He shook his head adamantly.

“No! No, nothing like that. I promise.” He met Wendy's frightened eyes earnestly, before smiling at the ghost of a memory. He looked a little embarrassed as he traced the line. Man-made. But not by him. “Kyle actually left that…when we kissed the other night. He got me pretty good, but you should see the other guy.” 

Stan winked charmingly, disarmingly, but Wendy's guard never fell.

“Okay, but you’d tell me if you were. You’d --You’d tell me if you felt like you wanted to again…” She insisted, her words desperate and haunted. Wendy's grip tightened as her voice came undone. 

“S t a n . You’d tell me, right?”

Stan smiled softly and knowingly.

“Of -- Of course, Wen.” He coaxed gently, carefully detaching her fingers from his forearm and placing the softest kiss there.

“You’re my girl.”

#i just remembered where that hc came from and i cried lmao #self harm tw #blood tw #ANYWAYS I LOVE PLATONIC STENDY #I WANTED TO POST AND TALK ABT THIS FOREVER #BUT I COULDNT SO HERE U GO #i love stan so much my poor baby like he is so lovely #and does not think he's lovely at all i am sick #also not wendy trying to jump him and stan being like #an olympic gold medalist in hurdling trying to get away #amazing #i love you pep stan healing arc #idk why i posted this im sorry or ur welcome #i never proof read it so we just gotta cope im sorry #but yeah if we can remember when kyle was thinking abt #how he constantly checks on stans arms and stuff #for marks but never finds any so he thinks hes okay #yeah...yEEEEEEEEAH #i hate my life #me: reads my old writing #me: cringe

[toadbreath]

dear john;

simon keeps a journal to grieve johnny's death and we all have to suffer for it..

✒ w.c: 3,5k

✒ pairing: ghost x soap // simon riley x john mactavish

✒ rating: m

✒ archive of our own: link here

✒ genre: angst

✒ warnings: mcd!! soap is dead in this fic. suicidal thoughts, alcoholism, implied self harm, emotional distress

✒ author's note: this is only the first chapter, the rest is on ao3, i might add more to it but i'm not sure yet. all ur comments and tags mean the world to me omg

JANUARY 19th, 2024

They call it longing because it takes forever. It is a yearning without an answer and a desire without a satiation. But that is not the whole truth. Longing is only the beginning of it. Longing is a seed in your belly that sprouts the roots of love, but even as the plant begins to grow, you don't know if it's going to bloom a red rose or a poisonous weed. When you're a kid, you think you will know the difference when the time comes, and you will choose the rose, but the older I get, the more I realize that it's not up to me. There is no rhyme or reason to who blooms a flower and who is pruned instead.

I never thought I'd find myself standing among the dead waiting for the flower to bloom. I always assumed I'd be the one with my hand on the sheers, trimming back the branches that would never bear fruit. But I am a soldier, not a gardener.

It’s been three months since your funeral, Johnny. I know you're not listening, and even if you were, there's no way for me to send these to you, but the psychologist said it would help, and I'm running out of ideas.

I'm not used to having something to lose. You changed everything, you changed me. You were a brother, a comrade, a friend, a leader. But you were never just any of those things, and now I don't know how to find my balance again.

I didn't know how much of my weight you were holding up until the ground fell out from beneath my feet. And now, every morning, I wake up, and I forget. Just for a moment, I forget, and the world is right, and the sun is shining, and then I remember. And the loss is the same as it was the day you left, only, now, the wound is festering. I'm rotting, and nothing I do is enough.

There is no honor, no pride in your loss. I cannot make a martyr out of the memory of you. Your death was senseless and meaningless, and I cannot find peace in the knowledge that it was in the name of a noble cause.

There was no nobility in the way he killed you. He didn't kill you because you were a soldier or a terrorist or a man. He killed you because you were in the way. The only comfort I have is that you went out the way you would have wanted, fighting, saving lives, being a hero. But the way you died doesn't erase the way you lived, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot separate the two.

The first time I met you, I saw the same thing in you that I see in myself. You were a killer, and I didn't want to like you, but you made me laugh. It's hard to hold onto your ideals of goodness and righteousness when you've had your hands around the neck of a man begging for his life. But you reminded me what it was like to have a heart, to be human. You made it okay to be the things I was.

There's not a lot of things in this world that scare me. I've stared down the barrel of guns. I've been beaten, tortured, starved, shot, stabbed, burned, and I've survived. I've faced down monsters in men's skin, and I've killed them all, and yet, I don't think I've ever been as afraid as I am right now. I'm scared of who I'll become without you. I'm scared that the last few years will have been wasted, and I'll turn into the kind of man that I would kill. I don't know who I am without you. I don't know how to be alone.

You told me once, after our first mission, that there was no room for regrets on the battlefield, and that there was no point in dwelling on things that could not be changed. At the time, I thought you were being flippant, but I think, now, you were trying to prepare me.

You knew, didn't you? That one of us was going to end up buried.

I wish we could go back, to those first days when the war was new and so were we. Back to the nights of playing cards and talking shit and watching cheesy American movies. We were young and invincible, and we knew everything. It feels like a lifetime ago. I was a different man then, and so were you.

Now, I look at myself, and I don't recognize the person staring back. I'm harder, colder, angrier, and there is a blackness inside me that I'm afraid will swallow me whole.

You were a light in the dark, a candle burning in a window that I could find my way home by. I was lost without you, and you found me. You saved me, and I will never be able to repay you for the debt I owe.

There was always a part of me that wanted more, a part that longed to burn up in the fire of you, to be consumed and destroyed. The only time I have ever felt alive was when you were in my arms. You were the only thing that made sense, the only thing that was good and pure and true, and now you are gone. And I'm left standing in the darkness, waiting for the storm to pass.

I hope that wherever you are, you are finally at peace. I hope that, somehow, you can hear me, and that, maybe, you understand.

I'm not sorry for loving you, Johnny, but I am sorry for saying it too late.

Yours, Simon Riley

read the rest of the chapters on the ao3 link up top~

#ghoap #angst #ghost x soap #soapghost #ghostsoap #cod fic #john mactavish #simon riley #call of duty #mcd #main character death #please read the warnings #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #emotion #grief #inrequited love #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #mw3 spoilers #cod spoilers #hurt #zero comfort

[jyndor]

About the Lula comment: I do wish he was doing more for the situation (trying to send help for Palestinians and actively going against Israel) but honestly the fact that he publicly recognizes it as a genocide of Palestinian people and not a "war" is already tons better than a lot of world leaders🙃 also with the way Israel is blocking any kind of aid trying to get into Gaza(most definitely with help from the US) I'm worried there might not be that much that can actually be done right now beyond condemning it... It's so frustrating.

I will admit my bar for lula is quite high lol in the same way that my bar for bernie is on the ceiling because they're generally so much better than most people.

but yes definitely lula is a real one and is far better than most world leaders on most issues, but definitely on palestine.

it's the us that I hold most in contempt (I mean along with israel ofc) and I am damn lucky I live in delaware where my vote for president does not count at all* because I will not vote for joe biden. I desperately hope that other world leaders step up like lula.

if I had a shot every time someone called this a war I'd be dead from alcohol poisoning three times over

*anyone who has ANYTHING to say to me, learn the fuck about the electoral college already and also respect that I know a little bit about the political workings of my state.

#lula da silva #a real one #asks #answered #palestine #gaza #pinkpepsican #btw why pepsi? im so curious about your url lol

[beargraphs]

Heathers the Musical | Sentence Starters contains. sex-references, insults, suicide-refs, alcohol & drug ref.

"I believe I'm a good person."

"What did you say to me, skank?"

"Yeah, you're on Jiffy Pop detail"

"She/He is a mythic bitch"

"For a greasy little nobody, you do have good bone structure"

"Why now are you pulling on my dick?"

"You just gotta prove, you're not a pussy anymore!"

"You're not a lame ass anymore!"

"Hey, mister no-name kid...so who might you be?

"It's fine if you don't agree...but I would fight for you, If you would fight for me."

"When everything numbs, who needs cocaine?"

"Does your mommy know you eat all that crap?"

"Freeze your brain, shatter your skull, fight pain with more pain."

"Let's rub each other's backs, while watching porn on Cinemax!"

"So, it's salt, and then lime, and then shot?"

"Fill that joint and roll it tight, ain't nobody home tonight!"

"I think that's what they call "Third base"."

"Showing up here took some guts, time to rip them out."

"People wouldn't hate you so much if you acted normal."

"There's no alcohol in here! Are you trying to poison me?

"I need it hard, I'm a dead girl walkin'!"

"I'm hot and pissed and on the pill."

You say you're numb inside, but I can't agree."

"Slap me! Pull my hair! Touch me there and there and there!"

"What is her final statement to a cold, uncaring planet?"

"No one sees the me inside of me..."

"I am more than just a source of handjobs."

"Once, you were geeky and nerd, now you’re flirty, freaky, and dirty."

"I bit my tongue so long, I learned to count to ten."

"Move bitch, this my song!"

"Our love is God."

"I worship you, I'd trade my life for yours."

"Oh, well, I was hoping you could rip my clothes off me, sport."

"What the fuck have you done?!"

"I've been thinking. Praying. Reading some magazines. And it's time we opened our eyes!"

"We're "damaged". Really "damaged". But that does not make us "wise"."

"Don't stop looking in my eyes."

"The revolution came and went, tried to change the world, barely made a dent."

"So [NAME]! I'm ending our affair, and I faked it, every single time!"

"We'll sink any minute, so someone must go."

"There's nowhere to hide."

"You don't deserve to live!"

"Here have a sedative!"

"Now we're all grown up and we know better..."

"But I believe that any dream worth having, is a dream that should not have to end."

"You don't know what my world looks like!"

"Knock! Knock! Sorry for coming in through the window. Dreadful etiquette, I know!"

"We'll watch the smoke pour out the doors, bring marshmallows, we'll make s'mores! We can smile and cuddle while the fire roars!"

"You left me and I fell apart. I punched the wall and cried.."

"Please don't leave me alone. You were all I could trust. I can't do this alone."

"This little thing? I'd hardly call this a bomb."

"I wish we'd met before, they convinced you life is war!

"I am damaged, far too damaged, but you're not beyond repair."

"Hope you'll miss me, wish you'd kiss me."

"You look like hell."

"I just got back."

"Are there any happy endings?"

"If no one loves me now, someday somebody will."

"We'll make it beautiful."

#rpc meme #rp meme #sentence starters #heathers the musical #had to couldnt help myself owo #(memes) #ask meme #indie rp #rpc

[sadsoftserve]

-Promises- An EE minific

(this is angsty. Really angsty. It's Bonnies backstory breaked down into a simple ~1,800 word one shot. This contains REALLY SENSITIVE CONTENT. The mentions of Domestic abuse, SA, and attempted murder. PLEASE IF ANY OF THIS TRIGGERS YOU AND OR MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. DO. NOT. READ. This is oc centric. Focuses on Bonnie, with mentions of her mom (Reseda) and her uncle, Ramsey..Not canon to EE. This is Fanwork)

Most of my early childhood was spent blocking out the screams of my parents, and hiding in the moist attic playing with whatever old anquite I could find. No matter what happened within the day, my drunk ‘dad’ would always find a way to beat me or my mother. I stayed as far as I could from them, out of fear it would happen to me. My mother was an amazing woman, Reseda Murdoch was her name, she worked tirelessly at a local library to support me and the drunk she was with. When she worked she often took me with her, she didn't want to leave me alone with the man who frequently beat us.

“Bonnie, baby, come on…” My mother gently cooed. “You know what happens when we’re late.” She loudly whispered as I sped up to match where she was walking. I didn't talk much as a kid, I had no need too. If I did speak it was because I absolutely had too. I shared a lot of physical attributes with my mom, the olive green eyes, and the red hair were the most prevalent. As we walked down the streets of the hood part of Sweet Jazz, my mother held my hand and prayed. Like she always did. She wasn't religious, just hopeful. Hopeful that one day the bastard would drop dead from alcohol poisoning or a drive-by. Me and my mother walked fast, the sooner we arrived the lesser the beating would be.

The closer we got to the house the more anxious my mother got. If we were lucky the bastard would already be asleep and we would go the day unscathed. 

Other days, we weren't so lucky. Like today, as soon as we walked through the door his abhorrent screaming was heard. From where I was standing I could smell the alcohol on his breath. The slurring I was used to, the smell got worse every time I inhaled it. “Wher’ the hell have you beeen!” He grabbed my mother's collar and she let out a yelp. “Keep yer’ mouth shut, whore!” He broke the bud light bottle over her shoulder as she dropped to the ground, holding back tears. She couldn't cry in front of him, if she did it would get worse. He spat in front of her and threw the bottle down next to her. “Get me another ‘ne."

My mother nodded as she quickly stood up and ran to the kitchen to grab the beer he had yelled for. He glared at me. He didn't like me. Not one bit. I was his plaything. Something he could manipulate and play with at his leisure. I didn't know it was a crime. Looking back on it, the nights he would beat my mom so bad to the point of unconsciousness, were the nights he used me. I was five. I was barely a child, and yet he found it amusing to make me do things for him and his friends. Things I didn't know were bad or taboo. He touched me In places I didn't know were private to me. He did the same to my mother, but worse. I could hear her screams, and his beatings as he brutally assaulted my mother. My mother often found herself confiding in my uncle. She called him on our old landline we kept in the attic.

“Ramsey… I can't do this anymore…” She sobbed out into the landline, I was never able to hear my uncle's voice on the other line. But I'd always imagine he sounded like a superhero. Like one from the cartoons. Looking back on it I should've known that's not what he sounded like, but the way my mother talked about him made him seem like a hero. “No… don't do that… he’ll- he’ll beat me worse…” Another unnervingly lengthy pause. She nodded and started to jot down a long string of numbers on an old bill. “O-okay… I'll try. Thank you…” She hung up. She looked at me. I was her pride and joy, she loved me more than she loved herself. Was as fiddling with an old doll I kept up there. “Bonnie… baby, come here.”

I obeyed her actions and went to her sitting in her lap, as she stroked my hair. “Love, your hair is getting so long… it almost looks like mine…” she sighed. “Bonnie, you can talk around me… you don't have to be quiet all the time…” I shrugged. I didn't like speaking. Everytime I did I would be told to shut up by the man who dared to call himself my ‘father’. She sighed once more. “We’ll be out of here soon. I promise. Its gonna be me and you against the world.” She smiled softly.

I leaned my head against her chest and closed my eyes. Listening to her heartbeat. It had an irregular pattern, but it was still soothing. I found myself falling asleep on her as she hummed a simple tune. 

A lot of my nights were spent like this. Cradled up in my mother's arms, years went by, repeating the same cycle of abuse. My mother, beaten and sexually assaulted, I, beaten and sexually assaulted. I was about 9 when ‘The incident' happened. That's what me and my uncle call it. It was December 27th, a cold, windy night for Sweet Jazz. Instead of spending my nights on the attic, I spent it outside. I would play with rocks, sticks, or any snake I could find. The usual screaming match was happening inside, bottles being thrown, punches landing, I was used to it. This particular night I was playing with a small wooden snake I had gotten for Christmas, it was small and bendy. I found myself growing fond of it. I was in my own little world, when the sounds of a gunshot were heard, and the blood curdling scream of my mother followed. The neighbors lights turned on as they heard the screams of my mother. 

The gates between our houses were simple wired fences. Missus Poppy lived next door, she was an older woman, about in her mid sixties. She ran outside upon hearing my mom's scream. Her bonnet and fluffy robe swayed in the late night chill. “Bonnie..? What's going on?” She asked me, I simply shrugged my shoulders.

“I don't know…” I said meekly. Missus Poppy ran around her house to the front door, which she banged on.

“Ray! Reseda! What on god's green earth is going on!” Her voice was loud, it awoke some of the other people on the block. We lived in the hood, hearing a gunshot wasn't rare, but it wasn't common either. We were a tight knit community, everyone looking out for one another, but my mom hid our abuse so well, no one suspected we were being abused. “I swear Ray, I have the police on speed dial!” My father answered the door, gun in his hand. He swung it open, letting the scene of what just happened be seen by everyone on our porch. Missus Poppys face fell immediately, and her dark skin turned a shade lighter. She put her hands over her mouth as she put her arm in front of me.

I saw it all. It was graphic. He shot my mother. Right in the stomach. She was barely clinging onto life. I pushed past missus Poppy, and my ‘father’. I didn't care if he shot me, do it, I couldn't care anymore. I ran to her side, stepping in the grotesque amount of blood spilling out of her. The authorities and my uncle were already being called. “Momma…?” I said, tears spilling from my eyes.

“...Bon-nie… baby…” She lifted a weak hand to put on my face. She gently caressed it. “Baby… I don't think mommas gonna make it…” she winced in pain as she held her stomach with her free hand. I could see the life slowly draining from her, and I didn't want that to happen.

“But… what about our promise…? You promised you'd always be here for me… you said everything would get better…”  I cried. My knees were soaking up the blood that was on the floor. My once purple leggings were now stained red, with my own mother's blood.

“B-baby… I'm sorry…” She said, her own tears spilling from her eyes. “I… want you to know…” The sounds of ambulances and police sirens were heard outside, along with the angry shouts of my uncle. “I want… you to know… that whatever happens… I'll still be here with you… and that… I'll love you no matter what… okay..?” 

I nodded. “Okay… promise?” I asked.

“Promise…” She gave me a pinky promise. The paramedics quickly came and scooped her away. Nine year old me was left on the kitchen floor, kneeing in a puddle of my mother's own blood. I was in shock… then I broke down. I let out blood curdling wails of pain and grief. I was nine.

No nine year old should go through that.

The police had to hold back my uncle from completely beating my ‘father’ to death. At this point in time, I believe he was out on parole. The police were trying to make sure he didn't break it. He was shouting curses, profanity of all kinds.

“COUNT YOUR FUCKIN’ DAYS RAY! JUST WAIT TILL I GET BACK INTO PRISON! COUNT YOUR MOTHERFUCKIN’ DAYS!” I had never seen my uncle so angry. He was usually a calm guy. His body was entirely gold, he was ready and wanted to fight. I went outside, still crying, upon seeing me, he immediately stopped his angry rant and shoved the officers off of him. He ran up to me and gave me something I desperately needed. A hug. I cried into his shoulder. Staining his bright red Hawaiian shirt with tears.

“Bonnie… kid.” He said softly. He stroked my hair, just like momma did. “It'll be alright. Just… let it out…” I could tell he was fighting back tears too. His nose was scrunched up as his eyes closed tightly. He held me close.

Somehow, I had a stroke of luck. My ‘father’ was charged with attempted murder, two counts of domestic violence, child abuse, rape of a minor, and rape. He got life in prison. But, my luck ran out quick. My mother was out in a coma, to save her. She hasn't awoken yet. I was put in the foster system until I was twelve. Bounced homes frequently, I became a delinquent, fights, juvie, you name it. Foster homes didn't want me, I was trouble. The city had no choice but to stick me with my uncle. Ramsey Murdoch had a criminal record, but it was all petty. Embezzlement, forgery stuff like that.

He's a great caregiver. He supports me, gives me a good life I didn't have when I was younger. Hell I think he's even talking to Micah's mom. Maybe rat man will get hitched? I'm glad I still have someone out there to take care of me. Sure, he sucks at it sometimes. But I love my Uncle, he's still that hero a dreamed of when I was little.

Maybe one day we'll be all together again.

Only time will tell.

#epithet erased #ee #art #oc #ramsey murdoch #reseda murdoch #Bonnie Murdoch #ANGST #REALLY ANGSTY ANGST #artists on tumblr #minific #fanfic #oc backstory #its her canon event #i couldnt stop it #i litterally croed when wroting this #fr #not even joking

[delicatestm]

bcffooncry asked: ❝ things are getting bad again. ❞

he knows. of course he knows. he could see it and he should have said something the first day he noticed and he didn't. and he may hate himself a little bit for it. and he hates to admit that he feels so useless - and that he's absolutely terrified of finding someone else dead because of alcohol poisoning or worse. eleven years old is too young to find your older sister like that and he wasn't sure he'd be okay if that were ever how he found hendrix. but hendrix doesn't know about that and maybe it's unfair that jesse knows so much about hendrix and hendrix doesn't know as much about jesse's past but it didn't matter in that moment, did it?

and he knows right now that just staring at the other isn't doing anything to calm hendrix's possible nerves but he's still trying to sort out what he should say. "okay." he finally stated, hands moving to rest on hendrix's shoulders. nothing's ever easy and that seems pointless to say so he doesn't say it as much as he wants to. he knows it won't help.

he also knows that he shouldn't suggest that they break up until hendrix got himself together. that he needed to take care of himself and not have to worry about someone else too but jesse was too selfish for that. there was no way in hell he would suggest that even if it meant hendrix actually would be okay. because there was no guarantee for that. unless he did... "okay," he said again, nodding. "what do you need from me, my love? if it's to spend the night with you, dump out any alcohol you may be hiding here, if uh... if me leaving's best for you... i'd do anything to try to make you feel okay again. just tell me what you need and i'll do my best."

#bcffooncry #* ˖ ·ﾟ jesse anderson ╱ answered ❣ #death mention cw

[words-after-midnight]

@cwritesfiction made this Share an Excerpt post the other day and I immediately thought of this segment from a truly ridiculous additional/deleted scene to Life in Black and White, which involves Jeff convincing Gabriel to steal a parasol from an old lady's balcony at two in the morning in January (2002). The segment I'm sharing takes place in the basement of Jeff's house. Contextual note: Jimmy is the owner of their favorite diner, who Jeff tells everyone has dementia even though he does not.

cw: suggestive, sexual content (mentioned/implied; minors DNI)

It’s just past one in the morning, and we’re sitting in the basement listening to Appetite for Destruction. Jeff’s lounging on one of the cinema chairs, face deadpan, staring up at the ceiling. I’m trying to decide if I want to do something else or just give up and go to bed already. I’ve been procrastinating on working on an assignment for one of my classes for four hours. It’s kind of late now.

Suddenly, as I’m gazing into the TV from my spot on the couch, lost in no specific thought in particular, I’m snapped back to reality by Jeff plopping down onto the couch beside me. I didn’t even hear him get up. There’s a weird look on his face - halfway between intense focus and like he’s trying not to laugh.

“What’s up?” I ask, somewhat alarmed.

In a fluid gesture, he grabs the large bottle of vodka that’s been hanging out on the coffee table since I brought it down here a few days ago. Hard to believe considering my complicated relationship with this particular liquid these days, but it’s still over three quarters full. He holds the bottle in both hands in his lap, looking down at it musingly, considering it for a moment. Then, he looks back up at me and asks me casually, "What if I drank this whole thing and gave myself alcohol poisoning?"

Well, that’s not what I was expecting, but okay. "I'd probably recommend not doing that," I tell him.

"I'll take that under advisement," he says, grinning - smugly - as he uncaps the bottle. Throws the cap carelessly to the floor. Watches it fall. "Okay, advisement over. I've just decided… I'm going to chug this whole thing right now unless you go upstairs and tell Daphne."

I frown, confused. "What do you mean, tell Daphne? Tell Daphne what?"

He just smiles. Gives me a brief, suggestive eyebrow raise. 

My heart drops into my stomach. "Oh, fuck no,” I exclaim. “Are you high?"

He chuckles. "I'm dead serious. Oh, yes. Go on. Go upstairs and tell her about all the times you've been down here sucking my dick while she was in her room two floors up. Otherwise I’m drinking this entire thing right here and now."

I imagine I must look a bit like a baby deer in a transport truck's headlights right now. I just look at him, dumbfounded. "I -"

He cuts me off. Smacks my arm with gusto, eyes wide, grinning widely, like he's just had the best idea since the lightbulb. "No, no, wait, even better - tell her about the time you fucked me in a cabin not two hundred feet from the tent she was sleeping in."

I can’t tell for sure because I feel like the connection between my brain and my body is currently being severed, but if I had to guess, I’d say I’m probably sweating like a malfunctioning fire hydrant at the moment. I just stare at him. "For fuck sakes… what is wrong with you?” I say practically under my breath, before adding at a higher volume, “Are you good?"

He ignores me, because unfortunately, he isn’t fucking done. "Mm, yeah, I'm sure she'd love to know all about how hard you made me come that night with my legs wrapped around your -"

At this point, I've all but lunged forward, smacking a hand onto his mouth in a desperate attempt to make him shut the fuck up. He's trying to fucking kill me. I'm convinced. "Stop. I swear to God."

He makes eye contact with me as he grabs my hand with both of his and half-seriously bites it before yanking it sharply away from his face. "What?" he says teasingly. "Don't tell me you already forgot..."

Hah. Haha. Very funny. Someone give the man an award for outstanding performance in comedy. I can’t quite keep the hint of a smile from my face. "You may have convinced Jimmy he has Alzheimer's, but I certainly don't."

He laughs. Shrugs. "Well. Anyway. If you ever want a repeat of that, you'd better make sure I don't drink all of this, hmm?"

I’m just sitting here, looking at him, completely baffled. I’m honestly just at a loss. "Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you right now?"

He lazily points to the ceiling. "Go on. Go tell her."

"Are you for -"

He snaps his fingers. "Wait, actually, I changed my mind. You have two options."

Oh no. I know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth again. "No," I say firmly.

"I want Linda Peacock's parasol."

"No."

"Come on."

"I'm not stealing that fucking parasol. Go get it yourself if you want it so bad."

The look on his face right now is just cruel. Feigning consideration for a moment, he says, "Hmm… no. I want it just bad enough to make you do it for me. Which you will."

"Oh yeah? How? Because I'll tell you right now, it's going to take a lot more than you pinky swearing not to give yourself alcohol poisoning." I reach out, grabbing the neck of the bottle and trying to pull it from his grasp, but he tightens his grip. Some of the vodka swishes out, falling into his lap. He frowns, then grins at me intently. 

"I'll let you sleep in my room," he says. 

Deliberately, I look down at the vodka so that his eyes don’t checkmate me right now. Okay. I see how it is. He's bringing out the big guns to this fistfight. Unluckily for him, I know an obvious bluff when I hear one. "Yeah, right."

"I mean it."

"Uh huh," I snap back, sarcastically. "I'm not stealing Linda's parasol. Get over it."

He manages to draw my gaze to his own again as he takes a couple of hearty swigs from the bottle. Then, he sets it firmly on the table, lies back on the couch with his head in my lap, one arm draped lazily overhead and the other across his stomach. He looks directly up at me, and says, "You're going to go get that parasol, because when you get back, I'll let you do whatever you want to me."

Ten minutes later we're in the front yard. He's pacing playfully in a circle around me, grinning victoriously, swinging the bottle around in his hand. He points intently to the apartment building two doors down. Cackles as he takes a swig. "Go on, then. Do it. Better hurry up, or I'll have finished this by the time you get back…"

I start walking across the lawn and hear him whistling gleefully behind me. Sounds like he’s having the time of his damn life out here. I sure hope he’s fucking enjoying himself. He can gloat as much as he wants. I’m going to get that goddamn parasol and then I’m coming back here and wiping that smug fucking look right off his face.

#snippet #libaw #libaw extras #writing #trying to decide if this makes the top ten most outlandish things jeff has done list but tbh probably not #minors dni

[throwawayforanaskcauseanxiety]

Some long thoughts on Angel Dust, "Poison" controversy and "Loser baby"

It's kind of incredible how divided people are on Hazbin. Two creators I follow for various animated media reviews have such different takes it's a bit surreal, but their arguments on SA and Angel Dust are wildly different, even though technically coming from the same place.

First things first, disliking a character, a ship, a song in the show or Hazbin hotel as a whole is fine. Yet, some arguments are better structured than others. There's a lot of discussion and some bizarre misinterpretations.

People who have been victims themselves have quite the different opinions on both "Poison" and Angel dust, and it's fine, as long as the topic is handled seriously and with respect. A lot of people loudly praise it and point out that "Poison" doesn't shy away from showing reality (coping via disassociating), while graphic, the abuse is shown in a 100% negative light, not pulling any punches (regardless of who was one of the storyboard artists). Others say it's gratuitous and uncomfortable. Regardless, Valentino IS an absolute bastard, the abuse is horrifying and its impact is immediately clear.

We can't have any kind of representation if we're too scared to be uncomfortable. Not everything has to be scrubbed clean and palatable, it can be nuanced. Hazbin hotel discusses some very adult topics in an adult way.

It's not "a weird choice for "Poison" to be a catchy pop song" or a mock music video, knowing most of what we were first shown as Angel's persona. Listen to the lyrics, he's literally having a breakdown. It's sugary catchy pop because Angel is trying very hard to disassociate. Just look at how "Angel Dust" acts throughout the series and how "Anthony" does, in most scenes he's scared, panicking or crying.

Secondly, "Loser baby" is very important to both Angel and Husk - it's Husk being both in your face honest, talking about himself, and playful (and self-deprecating). All bark and no bite, a taunt to drop the act cause Husk sees through it, worries about Angel and can relate. Angel doesn't have to pretend like everything's fine and he's this untouchable famous pornstar. I love how Husk is reaching out to Angel and then waiting for a response to take his hand, it's really all in the subtle details.

They're "both losers", however, Angel is not a loser for being assaulted and abused (Husk isn't a loser for being an alcoholic or a gambler), it's about identity. How others identify him, the mask he puts on, and how he should accept who he is on HIS OWN terms. Just as importantly, know that HE'S NOT ALONE.

The song is not comparing "their traumas, SA to a gambling addiction" (obv paraphrasing, still, what...?). Angel and Husk are in the same boat because they sold their souls to people who have disturbing amounts of power over them. They both have to dance to their whims, albeit in different ways, and come to terms with who they are in spite of it. Does Husk's silly song break away their chains? No. Does it help Angel find courage to stand up to Valentino and create some well-needed boundaries? I'd say yes.

Thirdly, twitter is a disease and media literacy is dead. In more ways than one, keeping in mind the countless debunked "accusations" and people getting harassed over valid criticisms (f.e., the pace, progress shown on screen and not or just not liking the show). Things are easily misinterpreted in worst possible ways, the mob mentality around it. Where people take the line "[Alastor] fled with his tail between his legs" and interpret it as "Alastor has a tail CONFIRMED". Goodnight sweet prince, rest in peace.

#hazbin hotel #read the tags please #purposefully keeping it vague #if you go out to harass ANYONE over fucking Hazbin hotel opinions you're flying straight into the sun effective immediately #hazbin hotel poison #angel dust #“we need more depictions of- more nuanced characters-” y'all couldn't handle SU #discussion of SA

[shibemuses]

@certitudinis - from this

Erika Furudo really was just... Such a worthless piece. But like a pathetic mangy dog, Bernkastel couldn't throw the thing away! She was just too cute when she squealed and begged for mercy, trembling and carrying on over how wonderful her Master was.

The witch was content to watch Erika struggle and squirm. The rage she had unleashed earlier upon her piece had mostly faded, leaving only the most sour umeboshi plum of discontent within her stomach.

But really, watching Beatrice fumble thanks to her own arrogance was just as sweet as the tea that Lambda insisted on serving!

A clawed finger dips into her own cup, poison souring the taste, turning what was once a honeyed black tea into something more akin to tar and sludge. Maybe even... the scent of alcohol?

"If you were in my place, you would be throwing a tantrum on the floor. And I'd kick you, just to see what color bruises bloom from your lily skin~." Sipping the sludge, Bern is quiet, that stoic face remaining a mask despite the glimmer of amusement and excitement in those dead doll eyes... Because imagining the massacre of her beloved, awful, putrid Lambdadelta was just too much fun~!

#certitudinis #;ic #;the witch of miracles (bernkastel) #;dog house is closed! (closed rp)

[lemonhemlock]

I have this feeling of deja vu, like we're back to Jonsa vs. Jonerys era. xd

Only now we have Alysmond vs Helaemond. It's so weird, I can't get rid of the feeling.

maybe some people don't feel comfortable without having an adversary in fandom, so, if such a thing doesn't exist, they make it up. i think jonsas have always been in the minority, however jonerys v jonsa was also a fundamental war over dany's character and fate. like, jonsas are most often than not dark!dany truthers, from what i've seen. since dany has many dedicated fans who refuse to believe she has a villain arc, it makes sense they get riled up by the existence of jonsa (not defending their behaviour, just tryna see how their mind ticks)

helaemond vs alysmond is just dumb since these ships don't even contradict each other and it's also a super niche thing. i'd wager that most hotd fans don't even care about aemond's ships. just a subset of (mostly) green sympathisers (let's not kid ourselves that TB care about this) acting like helaemond nation have established an agitprop bureau and are planning the world revolution (take a shot every time you hear "pushing an agenda". or not. you'd be dead from alcohol poisoning)

#ask #anon #shipping wars #helaemond