#maybe the flower is a euphemism

[homoesia]

#bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu #bsd #dazai #soukoctober #soukoku #skk #right why is this tagged skk #im glad you asked #maybe the drawing is a euphemism #maybe the flower is a euphemism #(its chuuya's chrysanthemum) #nyway as usual zoom in to see the drool lol #g #bsd fanart #my art

[esouliie]

AN ANGEL FLUNG OUT OF SPACE

(natasha romanoff x fem! reader)

– synopsis | falling in love with your childhood bestfriend might have been one of the best yet scariest things to happen to you. but what happened in the summer of ‘97? what happened to your darling natalia?

– warnings | little fluff & a lot of angst, kind of au (no avengers), child abuse, mentions of: attempted suicide, self harm, body mutilation, burn marks, severe malnourishment (18+)

– notes | this was supposed to be a oneshot but, as usual, i spiralled out of control and now it has two chapters… potentially three? merci, mon alice, for the header @wandasgf ♡

[ word count: 4.4k ] Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

JULY 1992

The sun had begun to set and yet the warmth of the day still lingered. The glow of the street lamps cast an amber hue on the pavement, outlining the familiar houses that lined the quiet street. The air was filled with the scent of summer, a blend of fresh grass and the distant fragrance of blooming flowers. In one of the houses on the street, a family gathered in their backyard for a summer evening barbecue. The smell of sizzling burgers and sweet barbecue sauce wafted through the air, and the faint laughter of children chasing each other echoed, while the adults lounged and swapped stories.

Meanwhile, across the field, two girls were beneath the sprawling branches of a willow tree. A patchwork quilt, covering a section of flattened grass, held a tea set long forgotten as they had rounded the thick trunk, the littlest one already perched on the wooden swing.

“Push me higher, Natty!” You exclaimed, voice full of glee. You were only a small girl with wild hair and a toothy grin, but your spirit was boundless.

Natalia smiled brightly, her own eyes sparkling with joy at her friend's excitement. “You’re already so high you could see the Empire State Building.” She teased, her laughter blending with the sound of chirping crickets amongst the long grass in the distance.

“I know!” The wind whipped against your face, and you couldn’t help but let out a joyous laugh.

Inseparable since Natalia moved in next door, your friendship blossomed under the protective branches of the willow tree across the street, where a swing hung proudly in the breeze. Its gentle leaves whispered secrets that only the two of you could hear, dreams of the future etched upon its bark, as unadulterated laughter rang true with its sway.

She whistled as your head swung back, the carefree spirit of the summer evening enveloping her in its warm embrace. And as she gazed up at the tree’s opening, she found twinkling stars above and the imaginary distant silhouette of the Empire State Building visible on the horizon. She couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder at the vastness of the world she had yet to see.

"Whoa, this is amazing." You shouted, feeling your stomach drop with each swoop. "Let’s swing all the way to the moon!"

“Maybe not the moon,” She pushed harder, her hands gripping the thick plank of wood beneath you, “But let’s try for the stars."

You shouted with as much euphemism as your little body could handle as the swing reached its peak. Weightless under its motion, you were suspended between the sky and the ground.

 An angel flung out of space.

 "I can almost touch the stars!"

She smiled. Despite her hands being rubbed red raw from rope burn, she was happy. She was always happy to be with you. While she had her younger sister, Yelena, whom she cared for deeply, it wasn't the same as having you. A friendship of her own creation. She yearned for the summer days when she could run around like a child with you.

“That’s good, that means you’re almost home, little star.” She shouted, her accent slipping out ever so subtly.

Carefully, your hand stretched toward the night sky – a poor attempt to touch the boiling balls of gas above.

You both were happy.

It’s sad what became of you both.

All too soon, reality intruded once more. The distant sound of a heavy door opening cut through the air, a gentle reminder that all good things must come to an end. With a final push, Nat stepped back and held onto the plank, commanding it to a halt. She knew what was coming.

At first, you didn’t notice her disappear around the wide trunk. But the gentle clink of pottery against one another told you enough as you followed in her footsteps.

“Natalia,” You whined, hands on your waist at the sight of the older girl cleaning up. “No, it’s your turn to swing.”

A whistle pierced the air, its familiar shrill sound gaining both of your attention. The sound of home time. “Natalia, come. Time to go.” Her mother’s voice carried just as loud, urging the redhead to leave playtime behind.

She turned to you, her expression softening as she looked down at your smaller frame. With a mixture of reluctance and understanding, she pulled you into a tight embrace, the warmth of her arms wrapped around you, the gentle press of her lips against your forehead lingered for a moment before she released you and ran off into the gathering dusk.

Alone now, you watched as the field fell silent, the only sound being of the insects hidden in the dark. The swing on the other side croaked gently in response to the light breeze and the redhead’s swift departure. For a moment, you considered sitting on it, perhaps pushing yourself back and forth on the points of your feet. Instead, you find yourself standing there: the absence of your best friend ever so palpable, a void that sunk deep into your bones.

Without Natalia by your side, the swing held little allure, and you decided to make your way back home. With your large basket in hand, you reached your own doorstep and paused, casting one last glance towards the girl’s house. The lights were on inside, casting a warm glow against the darkness outside.

You almost missed it, but a glimpse of red hair appeared out the window, followed by a hand waving at you. As soon as you waved back, she was gone. Window shut. Curtains drawn.

You went to bed with a cheesy grin plastered on your face.

You’ll see her again tomorrow.

--

AUGUST 1997

“Natalia, stop fighting me on this. You look like a popsicle.” You laughed and shoved the girl playfully from where you were sitting against the willow tree.

“It's cool.” She defended, as her hand tugged at her blue-dyed ends.

The years had rolled by, but the memories of that swing under the willow tree lingered on in your heart. As the seasons changed, so did your life. You made new friends, explored different interests, and navigated the tumultuous journey of adolescence. Being older than you, Natalia was already in high school, but she didn’t go to any in the district, as she was home-schooled and sometimes had to leave for a while. She never really told you why.

Even so, your bond deepened and an unspoken connection developed between you both. Under the tree's comforting shade, you discovered a warmth in your heart that went beyond friendship. Those lazy summer afternoons spent laughing, dreaming, and sharing secrets created a bond that you wanted to explore further.

You’d never felt like this before for anyone.

Only Natalia.

Life as a pre-teen was so confusing.

You snorted, “Yeah, okay, you leave for a month and come back with half of your hair a different colour.”

But it wasn't just the hair colour that captivated you. It was the way she carried herself - a wisdom wise beyond her years. She was the same goofy redhead of course - her eyes sparkled with mischief when she laughed at you, her hand held the same warmth in yours as you walked together. But there was something else lurking beneath, a sadness more notable than her usual melancholy. You noticed the slight furrow in her brow, the way her fingers tapped nervously against each other.

Something was weighing on her mind, something significant. So, you asked, “What’s wrong?”

She let out such a soft sigh that you almost missed it.

“I’m leaving.”

Dread washed over you, and a knot formed in your stomach. "Again?"

She had just returned the other day. Your mind raced with questions and uncertainty and the tears already clustered your lash line. You, a child with no need to mask her emotions, no need to hide her soul, unlike Natalia, who always seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, her laughter always accompanied by a subtle sadness, as if she were trying to conceal her true feelings behind a façade of cheerfulness. But today, as she sat you down with a gentle tug, her eyes betraying a mixture of resolve and sorrow, you sensed that she could no longer hide what she'd been keeping inside.

"It's for good this time," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the ground as if unable to meet your eyes. "My parents want to go back to Russia. They don’t like it here.”

Though unspoken, you sensed the weight of what she meant. They don't like you. It stung, a silent acknowledgement of the barriers you've fallen blind to. The odd glances from her mother, the subtle disapproval from her younger sister—all pieces of a puzzle you've tried to ignore.

Her admission hung heavy in the air, the reality of separation sinking in with each passing moment. She drew closer, her delicate fingers brushing away the tears that cascaded down your cheeks. You lifted your gaze to meet hers, noticing the weariness etched into her features, the telltale signs of tears already shed hours before.

“I’ll miss you.” She whispered, forehead flushed against yours, before leaning down to kiss the corner of your lips. An almost kiss. One of many shared underneath the cover of the willow tree.

You tasted saltiness and noticed the fresh tears that had now sprung from her eyes.

“I'll miss you too. Forever.”

The next morning, you stood outside her house, as the sun cast long shadows over their lawn. It was your last full day together so you arrived bright and early, not wanting to waste any time. You reached out to knock on the door, but your hand hovered, hesitant. The house remained still, as if holding its breath, waiting for something that would never come. You glanced around, searching for any sign of life, but the windows stared back at you blankly, revealing nothing but darkness within.

“Natty?”

 Nothing.

A sinking feeling gnawed at your stomach as you realized they must've left in the night, slipping away like shadows fleeing from the dawn. The same way they joined this neighbourhood.

With a heavy heart, you turned away from the empty house, feeling as if a piece of your soul had been torn away with their departure. The world already seemed colder, lonelier, devoid of her warmth and laughter that once filled it.

In the days that followed, you found yourself drawn to the tree – yours and Natalia’s safe haven. You sat there, surrounded by memories, as the rope swayed in the wind - empty and forlorn. Though still magical, the willow tree could no longer shield you from the loneliness that settled in your heart, as the summer months stretched on endlessly, a blur of empty hours filled with longing and regret.

That night, you slept with a permanent frown, a puddle of tears staining your pillow.

You won’t see her again tomorrow.

--

APRIL 2001

From afar, she looked different. Almost unrecognisable.

Eighteen years old and she was here: barely an adult yet taller and slimmer, with a cascade of auburn curls framing her face that replaced the short blue hair you remembered. The years had engraved themselves onto her, carving the once-round face into a pointed visage that spoke of both experience and loss.

Just as beautiful as you remembered.

You sat on the swing under the tree with a book in hand, lost in its pages until light danced between the branches and a flicker of movement caught your attention. Glancing up, you froze as you saw her across the street.

Natalia?

Your heart quickened its pace, memories flooding back in a torrent. But this woman was different. She’d changed. She’d grown.

She noticed you too, her gaze locking onto yours for a moment. There's a flicker of recognition, a spark of something in those eyes. For a heartbeat, it feels like time hasn't passed, like you're still the same two little girls taking on the world together. But then, just as quickly as the connection formed, she averted her gaze, choosing instead to continue on her journey. She walked with purpose, footsteps marching in a steady rhythm that both connected and distanced her from you. She couldn’t get caught up with you. She had a job to do.

Realising she was going to walk away, you pushed yourself off the swing, a mix of hope and nerves swirling inside you as you discarded the book somewhere in the grass.

None of that mattered. Natalia was here. She was back.

“Hey, wait!” You shouted, practically running after her. You reached out to grab her wrist, but she jerked away, shoving you back a few steps with surprising force.

Up close, the difference was unquestionable.

The once soft and kind Natalia had evolved into a hardened version of herself, sharpened by strong fists. Her eyes once filled with innocence, now harbour shadows of pain and resilience. She exuded an aura of toughness, and a guarded silence had replaced the laughter that used to be a melody in her voice.

“Natalia? What are you doing here?” You inquired, tentatively closing the gap between you both. You watched as she winced at her name falling from your lips.

And yet, this time, she didn’t evade your touch. Her hand trembled slightly as it met yours, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. In that fleeting silence, you took in the toll life has taken on her. Her arms bear the marks of countless scars, remnants of battles fought in shadows, and bruises of varying hues.

“What happened to your arms?” Your voice is gentle, a soft inquiry borne out of concern.

But, the sudden confrontation had her retreating into herself, defences rising once more like impenetrable walls. You mustn’t know. She could never do that to you. “Let go.” She demanded sharply, her tone cutting through the air like a knife.

Caught off guard, you hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to proceed, but that’s long enough for her to decide to rip her hand out of yours, sharp and abrupt.

“Are you okay?” Your voice was barely a whisper as you watched her practically flee, disappearing around the corner of the street.

 You don’t follow her.

--

OCTOBER 2012

Funny how throughout life, fate seemed to play a game with you, pulling Natalia in and out of your orbit like a cosmic dance.

At twenty-seven, you found yourself entrenched in the fast-paced world of trauma nursing. After the arduous journey through medical school, you packed your bags and set your sights on the East Coast. New York City welcomed you with open arms, its vibrant chaos becoming the backdrop to your new life. From your boss’s office window, the silhouette of the Empire State Building stood tall, a symbol of strength amidst the chaos below.

You thrived in this environment, relishing in the opportunity to connect with and assist people in their most vulnerable moments. The adrenaline rush of the emergency room, the delicate balance between life and death—it fuelled you in ways nothing else could. Not since that summer night. Not since you tried to touch the stars.

Today, however, the hospital was enveloped in an air of secrecy and quiet urgency. Paramedics had rushed in with a new patient a few hours ago, shrouded in mystery as they were rushed straight into surgery. Usually, you're first on-site with incoming patients but you had been busy working your rounds to be able to assist, and there were enough on the trauma team – with the security clearance - to handle such a situation.

Stopping by the bedside of your oldest patient, Mrs. Dinton, you smiled sweetly. “Hey, Mrs Dinton. How are we today?”

"Ah, there you are, dearie," she said, her voice crackling with age. "I was just telling Nurse Molly here about the delightful hospital pudding they serve on Wednesdays. It's simply divine, don't you think?"

You chuckled softly, waving a hello to your colleague. "I'm afraid I'm not much of a fan, Mrs. Dinton. But I'm glad to hear you're enjoying it."

She laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. "Oh, well, means more for me then."

Before you could continue the conversation – could reprimand the elderly woman about how she needs to watch her sugar intake - Dr. Cho appeared at your side, her expression serious. "Excuse me, ladies. But, Nurse Y/N, is needed elsewhere." She says kindly but with a hint of urgency, no room for questioning. You and Dr. Cho were great friends, having graduated med school together and now working at the same hospital.

“What is it, Helen?” You asked, following her footsteps out the ward, navigating the labyrinthine hallways of the hospital.

“I’ve been assigned postoperative care for the Jane Doe and I want you with me...” Your heart dropped at the mention of the mystery woman.

All day, the hushed tones and covert glances exchanged among your colleagues hinted at the gravity of the situation. Their whispers that followed you through the hospital corridors spoke of a failed suicide attempt. While the hospital had sadly seen its share of such cases, this one was different – a Jane Doe, requiring an unusual degree of privacy.

“…while I don’t know any more than you about what happened, I trust you the most to help me with her. So I got you clearance. Go grab us a pair of gloves, I’ll meet you inside.” Helen finished with a nod before entering the private wing.

You donned your own pair of latex and made your way back to the private wing, the click of your shoes echoing down the corridor. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation and concern. The weight of the unknown pressed upon you as you approached the room where the troubled soul awaited treatment. Few years being a trauma nurse, you had seen it all… but not a Jane Doe. Never a Jane Doe.

Upon entering, you found Helen already studying the patient's chart. The subdued lighting in the room cast a sombre mood, and the machines hummed softly in the background. The Jane Doe was laid on the hospital bed, head secured in a neck brace and a tube down her throat, a silent testament to the ordeal she had endured.

“Thanks,” Helen whispered, making her way over to retrieve her gloves. "I've gone through everything in the notes. The attempt was pretty severe."

You nodded, taking in the gravity of the situation. The silence was broken only by the soft beeping of the monitors as you both began your work. Each movement was deliberate, and each procedure executed with precision and empathy. You adjusted the IV drip, checked the vital signs, and made sure everything was in order.

Sometime later, Helen had left, her pager going off as her presence was needed with another incoming patient.  The room seemed to hold its breath, but it was only you. The machine to your right, making sure the woman was still breathing.

You read over her notes once more.

“Female, 5’7…” You ramble aimlessly to no one as you find yourself unable to voice the rest.

The laceration on her neck caught your attention. The wound stretched across her delicate skin, a jagged seam where the surgeons' skilled hands had meticulously stitched the deep gash closed. The edges of the cut were puckered slightly, evidence of the trauma dealt with by the knife paramedics found next to her unconscious body. Judging by the shape, it seemed like she plunged rather than sliced, the offending weapon, then, pulled out instead of left inside. She was quite malnourished, her cheeks hollowed out, collarbone visible as the gown drowned her thin figure. She lacked a sufficient amount of muscle. You wondered how someone could go unnoticed without eating for several days. It was as if she had become a ghost, fading away in plain sight.

The woman looked ill - eyes sunken with abnormally pale skin. Drifting down her body, you noticed her legs. A horrified gasp threatened to leave your lips.  Raised red lines covered the expanse of her legs, some scabbed up, some clear burn marks that had turned into blisters. Her arms were just as bad, marred with a history of wounds that ran from her wrists to her shoulders.

Behind all the equipment, her face was almost unrecognisable. Her hair was what stood out the most, the auburn curls matted with blood. A sense of familiarity washed over you, the red striking your curiosity.

You couldn't tear your gaze away as you watched her stir. Unsure if she was waking or simply moving unconsciously, you remained still, not wanting to startle her. But then her face contorted with pain, and her lashes began to flutter open.

The sheets rustled as she tried to turn, her discomfort evident from the way she struggled against the tubes and wires tethering her to the medical machinery. You couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her, lying there in such a vulnerable state. No identity. No family to be there for her.

"Stay still, please.” You whispered softly, stepping closer to her bedside. “You're in the hospital. You’re safe."

Her eyes, clouded with pain and confusion, met yours for a fleeting moment before flickering away. She seemed to be trying to process where she was and what had happened.

“Paramedics found you unconscious and rushed you in.” You explained gently, hoping to offer some semblance of clarity amidst the chaos of her thoughts. “You had a wound to the neck. We’ve managed to close it, so don’t move around too much. Otherwise, you might open the stitches.”

Her gaze drifted back to you, and for a moment there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes. It was fleeting, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, but it was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You saw as she went to speak, only to find pain and a heavy weight against her tongue. “Careful. You shouldn’t try to speak yet. We’re not sure how much damage has been done to your vocal cords.”

As if she didn’t hear you, she continued fidgeting, fighting against the intrusion in her mouth, panic overriding.

“Hey, listen to me,” you coaxed, voice soft but firm, your hand reaching out to settle over hers, the glove long forgotten. “I need you to calm down, please. You’re going to be okay. You just need to rest your voice.”

Her eyes darted to you, wide with fear and frustration, and you squeezed her hand gently, offering what little comfort you could.

“It’s going to be alright, just take slow breaths. Focus on that.” You started to breathe deeply, deliberately, hoping she'd follow your lead. Inhale... exhale... in a steady rhythm, like waves lapping against the shore

As you continued to focus on stabilising her breathing, your eyes inadvertently met hers, and in that moment, you were drawn into the depths of those vibrant green orbs. They held a world of pain, swirling like a tempestuous storm beneath the surface. Yet, amidst the turmoil, there's a glimmer of familiarity that tugged at the corners of your memory.

There’s something about her you can’t make sense of.

 Why does she look so familiar? Who is she?

“Do I know you?” You almost asked, but then suddenly, the door to the waiting room clicked open, and Helen strode in, her expression wavering as she noticed the woman awake. “She’s awake already?!” Shock and bewilderment visible on her face.

She advanced, quickly spewing off questions in your direction, as her eyes narrowed in on the woman, assessing her condition with a quick, practised glance.

"She's awake, a little panicked about being in a hospital, but also a bit disoriented," you explained, voice calm despite the urgency of the situation. "Vitals are stable for now.”

With that, you stepped away, dropping her hand you had forgotten you were still holding, as Helen went to introduce herself. Your lunch break was coming up and before you could turn to leave the room, Helen stopped you. "Thank you for staying with her," she said softly, "There was a car accident. Two little girls rushed in for surgery. They needed me."

You nodded in understanding. You couldn’t fault her. Every day seemed to bring a new challenge, a new story, and today was no different. This Jane Doe was no different.

Before you could delve deeper into your thoughts, she interrupted, “Anyways, I’m here now and pager is off,” she drew your attention to the device in her pocket, “Boss’s order...  now go take your lunch break.”

With a small smile, you left the room, the door softly closing behind you. Walking down the hallways, your mind buzzed with curiosity about the woman. Her face – those eyes - nagged at the edges of your memory, like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Where do I know you from, Jane Doe?

#my fics! ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader

[daughter-of-sapph0]

okay so this was left on the poll asking about people's urls, and I wanna explain this

to the term "daughter of Sappho" has existed for decades as refers to a homosexual woman. it's a euphemism in the same way "friends of Dorothy" is.

however, there is a single fragment written by Sappho that may (emphasis on "may") suggest she had a daughter. fragment 98 refers to a girl named Kleïs.

My mother said that in her youth, binding your hair in a wrap of purple was very fashionable. fine embroidery from the Ionian city of Sardis. She said that hair the colour of fire should use a lighter shade when binding it. And handsome wreaths of full-grown flowers served as headbands and always fitted perfectly. These wraps, these headbands, remembered by the exiles of the Kleanactidae, reminders of the past— For you, Kleïs, I have no headband, Nor know where to find one.

now it's not outright stated, but it's heavily implied that this Kleïs is Sappho's daughter. it should be noted that Sappho also had a mother named Cleïs (which I'm spelling different only to differentiate between the two. in ancient Greek they're the same I'm pretty sure), and the supposed daughter of Sappho might be named after her. again, it's unclear. it could also be that Kleïs is lover instead of a daughter, and translators just assumed that she was a daughter based on lack of some untranslatable context. maybe Sappho simply loves Kleïs the same way a mother loves a daughter, or something similar to that. (mommy kink?) sorry

it's important to recognize that not all scholars and translaters accept the theory that Kleïs was Sappho's daughter. so much has been lost to history and mistranslated that we might never know all the answers.

some think Kleïs is Sappho's daughter. some think that she's her lover. some think she doesn't exist and the name is a clit joke, just like how Sappho's "husband" is Kerkylas of Andros, aka "Penisguyfrom Man Island". personally I think the most probable answer is that Kleïs wasn't Sappho's literal daughter, but perhaps a follower or even a servant or slave, who Sappho might have loved and treated like a daughter.

#dostxt

[quietlyimplode]

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: day 7 - Radio Silence

Warnings: character death

Word Count: 1.9k (gif not mine)

Summary: Tony can find anyone, unless they really don’t want to be found, or they can’t be.

A/N: (character death pertains to none of the core team or associated, but to me feels just as tragic. There was no other way this could go.)

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

2013

NEW YORK

Tony sits staring at the computer. There’s a video recording of his friend in police interrogation, being accused of killing a man.

He watches closely and still can’t work out how he gets out of hand cuffs, but the most interesting part of the interrogation is when Agent Coulson arrives.

Tony watches in interest as Clint all but ignores the offer to join Shield and stalks off.

He’s so young.

Not that Clint is an old man now, but he just looks so small as a teenager, maybe early twenties. Likely by the stamp date he should know how old.

The video recording stops, and Tony turns to the next one.

Clint is older. It’s obvious by his demeanor and posture.

More like a military man.

Tony doesn’t like it.

He seems sadder, more serious and adult even though there’s only a year between videos.

He wonders what happened after that first one, because clearly something did.

Turning them off, he returns to the picture of Barney.

Steve had done a good job, given Clint’s description, and the picture had bounced across databases.

There had been exactly three hits.

One police record.

One military record.

And one picture he found out in Wichita Falls with a man matching his description as a drivers license.

It meant one of two things.

Barney was dead.

Or…

Barney really didn’t want to be found.

.

Natasha finds Pepper sitting at the window.

The expanse of it, makes it ones of Natasha’s favourite places.

She knows it’s one of Pepper’s as well.

They’d had many conversations at it, and she almost walks away as she sees Pepper reading.

Sometimes peace is hard won, especially for Pepper who seems to always be pulled in a thousand directions.

“Hey,” Pepper greets her and Natasha nods in responses

Apart from Maria, Pepper lends herself to be one of Natasha’s closest friends, even though she’s sure the red head does not feel the same.

It’s okay though, Natasha never feels like she expects the relationships to be equal.

“You look deep in thought,” Pepper comments, moving over and placing her book away.

Natasha sits as offered; and thinks for a moment.

She sought her out, and now… she wasn’t sure.

But who else to have this conversation with?

“I. Clint and I,” she starts, “we want to get married.”

Peppers face morphs into one of sheer delight and happiness, and she hugs her spontaneously.

“Nat! That’s great news. Seriously? And you said yes? And he asked?”

Pepper smiles, the words tumbling out of her mouth.

Natasha sits, just far enough away, so that she doesn’t get another hug.

“Yeah, he asked, and I said yes, but we have to do some things before we can, you know.”

“Tie the knot?” Pepper supplies.

Natasha cocks her head.

“What?”

Pepper laughs.

“Sorry, euphemism for getting married. Continue, forget I said anything.”

Natasha nods.

“What’s the conditions?”

“Family,” Natasha says quietly.

“I have a sister, and Clint has a brother,” she confesses.

“Oh, I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

“We want to see if we can find them,” she says quietly, “maybe they can come.”

Pepper seems to understand, her quietness gentle as Natasha looks up.

“Where are they?”

Shrugging again, Natasha finds herself wanting to talk about Yelena. It seems safe here, and she rarely allows herself the luxury.

“Do you think people can be forgiven?”

The question is cryptic, deliberately so.

Pepper doesn’t answer.

“Do you think that there are things that are unforgivable?”

Unsure how to answer, she waits for Natasha to elaborate.

It’s a safe bet.

In the silence, Natasha tells her a story; a story of two girls in a strange land, learning how to be Americans. That she, in all her grief had made herself forget, forget the time they spent with each other, to make it through, lest it be held against her.

Pepper is sure she’s leaving out details.

But when she takes her hand and assures her that survival demands something else of people, Natasha looks grateful for the words.

“She’s alive,” Natasha says as though it’s the first time she’s allowed herself to say the words out loud.

“I just want to help her,” she whispers.

Pepper’s eyes well at the confession.

“Do you know where she is?”

Natasha shakes her head, hands in her lap.

“She’s alive though.”

“What about Clint’s brother?”

“We don’t know.”

Pepper frowns and bites her lip.

“Nat, you do realise you’ve set yourself an impossible task, or set of tasks?”

“Why?”

“You don’t know if they’re alive, let alone how to find them, and well, what if you can’t? Does that mean you can’t follow your own path? Get married?”

Natasha doesn’t answer.

“Tony’s looking for them, if he can’t find them, we’ll make a different plan,” she pauses.

“It is my path though, to find her, and for Clint to find him. Now anyway; and after the last year, there’s no time like the present, and if they can be; I want them to be there.”

She looks to Pepper.

“And you too, if you’ll come.”

Pepper grins and nods.

“I’ll be there, and I’ll help too, in anyway I can.”

They both look out the window, Natasha unsure what to say. They both know though, that if Tony can’t find them; no one can.

.

Tony finds him in the gym, he watches as he punches the speed ball, his agility his friend displays is mesmerizing.

The rattatatta of the bag is repetitive and Tony tries to wait with the information he’s holding.

“Clint?” he calls.

Nothing.

“Clint? Can you hear me?”

The speed ball stops and Clint turns around.

An easy smile greets him.

“News?” he asks, grabbing a water bottle.

There’s blood on his hand wraps.

Tony wonders just how long Clint has been punching the bag for.

He holds up the folder.

“Depending on how you look at it.”

Clint sits and opens the file.

Disappointment passes over his face, hope fading, as there’s no clear location.

“You couldn’t find him?”

Tony knows when to admit defeat. There was no leads no matter how much he searched over the last four days.

“I can’t find him, but I have a last known location, somewhere I think he was.”

Clint doesn’t say anything.

“Clint?”

Tony feels he knows. He’d had hope and now it was fading.

“Where is it?”

Clint asks.

“Wichita Falls,” Tony laughs. “A town that has many people and none at all.”

Clint nods, “yeah he would go there, he’d be invisible but there’s enough space for him to do his own thing.”

Tony points to the picture he found, and Steve’s sketch.

Clint is silent, deep in thought.

“Are you going to go?” Tony asks.

“How can I not?” Clint replies.

“The world almost ends, and I don’t know if my brother is dead or alive. Maybe it’s about time I go see if I can find him.”

Tony sees the serious soldier, and it’s at odds of his friend the joking archer.

Whatever this is for Clint, it changes him.

“I can go with you?”

Tony offers it, trying to add conviction. He knows it’s not his place.

Clint looks through the pages again, almost desperate. Tony wishes there were more.

“No, I think, it’ll be okay, Nat will be there, we can.. We got this,” Clint replies, scattered as he gathers the pages.

He looks up, face serious and guarded.

“Thanks Tony, for all of this.”

He stands.

“Any news on Yelena?”

Tony shakes his head.

“That’s going to take me a bit longer I think, there’s a server that keeps making the information bounce. I’ll catch it though, and maybe when you’re back, I’ll have more information.”

Clint nods.

“Our plane is fueled up and ready to go, you can fly right?”

The generosity isn’t lost on Clint, and he stares at his friend, he’s lent him a plane and called it “ours”.

“Why?”

Tony shrugs.

“It’s what I’d want someone to do for me, I guess.”

Clint holds his hand out to shake Tony’s and when Tony clasps it, he pulls him into a hug.

“Thanks, man,” he whispers.

It takes Tony a second, but he hugs him back

“Uh, no problem.”

.

2013

WICHITA FALLS

Clint sits pilot seat, staring as the plane is moved into the hanger.

Natasha hands him a water and they sit in a comfortable silence.

“Do we have somewhere to stay?” she asks finally.

Clint takes a second.

“Barney used to sneak candy into the house to give to me when I couldn’t stop crying. He’d tell me to suck on it because it would stop my sobbing.”

He pauses.

“My sobbing would aggravate my father to follow me and tell me he’d give me something to cry about. I grew up with Barney, and loved him, and then we just… never saw each other again.”

He stares, and bites hard on his lip.

Natasha watches, as she’s so good at doing.

“What if his radio silence was better for the both of us? Together we were chaos. Alone; maybe we had more of a chance. Do you think he knew that?”

He doesn’t wait for Natasha to answer rhetorical questions.

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t come back for me.”

Natasha feels the stab.

“Maybe he just couldn’t,” she responds, slightly defensive.

He softens, feeling the blow he’s landed on her.

“Yeah, maybe he just couldn’t.”

.

There’s a small pub out on the edge of town.

It turns out they knew Barney.

The bartender is an older, wisened man whose beard is as long as his arms.

Natasha stands back, as Clint asks the question, and they both hold their breath.

“Why do you want to know about Barney?” the man asks, suspiciously.

Clint swallows.

“He’s my brother,” he responds.

The man softens.

“Oh.”

He stops wiping the bar.

“You’re Clint?”

The man talks of Barney as a friend, and throws the keys to a woman, Natasha assumes to be his wife.

“I’ll be back,” he tells her.

He takes them on a walk to a small apartment on the outskirts of town, he has sadness in his eyes, and he tells him Barney was here. That this, the little apartment on the first floor, was where he lived.

“We served together,” the man tells him, “I convinced him to come here… some difficulties with memory, some impulse issues… he needed someone to watch his back, until… you know.”

Up until his death.

A quiet death, and a loud life.

He tells them stories of Barney’s ability to drink anyone under the table, and laughs as he reminisces on how they stayed up one night and just threw darts.

“I lost so much money that night, did you know he had good aim?”

Clint swallows and nods, trying to take on the information.

His brother.

He wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t a bad one.

Bachelor for life and a contradiction at that - someone who spent all his time gambling and smoking; but also taught basic martial arts to kids at the local YMCA.

No children. No partner.

But a legacy all the same.

There are no words for panic and grief Clint feels.

His brother.

His protector.

It’s too late.

He’s gone.

He’s gone.

He’s gone.

#whumptober2023 #no. 7 #radio silence #character death #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #barney barton #Tony stark #Steve rogers #marvel fic #avengers fic #avengers tower #Clint barton x Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanoff x Clint Barton #whump fic

[i-did-not-mean-to]

ℍ𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕞𝕒𝕟

The people have spoken in this poll.

Here is the Bonus chapter to my TSF (S)wiped out.

True to the spirit of the story, the title is a song title. (Honest Man by Ben Platt)

Words: 4.8 k (I've tried to make it worth your while)

Characters: Thorin x Bilbo

Warnings: Some internalised homophobia, some insecurity, a kiss

Bilbo looked up in surprise when Thorin ambled into the bar on a Thursday night, dressed to the nines, and holding a pitiful bouquet of daisies in his broad hands.

“Did one of the ladies convince you after all?” he asked and almost set the glass he was drying down beside the counter in his puzzlement; there was a sick, unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t want to investigate.

It was but surprise, he tried to tell himself. He had been at the garden party, and he had seen the women completely forget about Thorin within half an hour of their arrival.

At least the first date was having a good time, drinking Dwalin under the table, while the sopping wet cat of a lady had been utterly engrossed in telling her whole life story to a very sympathetic looking Ori who had awkwardly patted her hand at regular intervals.

“She’ll get him to marry him before the day is over,” Bilbo had whispered.

Visibly surprised, Thorin had narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “Better him than me, I’d say.”

“It’s not the crystal-peddling one, is it?” Bilbo now asked and shuddered at the thought of the woman who had been kicked out from the festivities after conning Kíli into buying a whole stock of utterly useless stones and oils.

“What?” Thorin blushed; he had not listened to a word Bilbo had said because he was so relieved to see a friendly face. “What about her? I’m sure she’s in jail or in an institution by now—ask me if I care.”

“Do you care?” Bilbo complied with a crooked grin.

“No, maybe the dragon lady can get her off lightly—why are we talking about my failed dates again? It’s done, it’s over—Dís had a funeral for my potential and we’ve all wept.” Thorin gave a short bark of laughter and gingerly put the flowers down on the counter in front of Bilbo.

“Either way, Bofur has invited the last one to an exposition on doilies,” he then explained slowly. “He was so thankful for the introduction that he…his cousin has a restaurant, did you know?”

Sniggering, Bilbo shook his head. He had been delighted to meet Thorin’s friends and family, but he was far from remembering everyone who had attended the garden party, let alone recall what they did for a living.

“So, I’ve got a reservation—very sought after, I’ll have you know—courtesy of Bofur…and I wanted to invite you.”

Picking up the same glass again and polishing exactly one hand width of the rim, Bilbo stared at Thorin in confusion. “Me?” he finally squeaked. “Why?”

“You’re the only good thing that has come out of this ordeal,” Thorin admitted sheepishly. “You had my back through the whole thing, and I wanted to show my…gratitude.” It was but half a lie, a euphemism really, he told himself encouragingly as he saw Bilbo’s face cycle through a multitude of contradicting feelings within a few seconds.

“Would it be too sad to invite your sister for dinner?” Bilbo quipped, but his voice was a little unsteady on the delivery of the snarky undertone.

“Oh, if I have to sit through another evening with a demanding, dissatisfied, disapproving female anytime soon, I’ll run mad,” Thorin groaned, “be she my sister or the currently reigning Miss Universe.”

“All right then,” Bilbo agreed, forcing his cheery nonchalance to the surface with all his might. “I reckon it cannot do me any harm to eat in another establishment for once. When is your reservation? I’ll see if I am free.”

“Whenever you are free,” Thorin replied just a little too fast and too fervently. “I’ve not settled a date yet—I wanted to check with you when you’d be available.”

Bilbo blushed furiously. It hit him like a ton of bricks that Thorin had not invited him because he had not found anybody else to go with him on a particular night—he had wanted Bilbo specifically to spend the evening with him in a fancy restaurant and had taken precautions in his planning of the outing to make it so.

Having watched Thorin jump through every imaginable flaming hoop in the name of being a good date, Bilbo of course knew how dedicated the other man was to these things, but he had never considered the possibility of ever being on the receiving end of such generosity and kindness himself.

“Tomorrow? I can find someone to man the fort for me—I’ve not taken time off in years, I think I deserve that,” Bilbo mused out loud.

“Tomorrow it is,” Thorin said, confident that he’d get a table for the next day. Bilbo could appreciate and even envy that kind of self-assurance and faith.

“Do I meet you there or…”

“I can pick you up here or…”

Lifting a slightly trembling hand to his burning cheeks, Bilbo scribbled his home address on a cocktail napkin and handed it over jerkily—it was surprisingly hard to pry his fingers off the cheap paper though.

“Shall we say 7 o’clock?” Thorin asked, his eyes gleaming with triumph and boundless joy.

Bilbo nodded, feeling increasingly like a wooden doll that had been turned into a real boy unexpectedly.

“Good, I am looking forward to it. Wear something nice!” Thorin chirped and turned to the door without having ordered a drink; usually, this went against the house rules and would have merited a stern scolding by Bilbo but, on this one occasion, the flustered barkeeper decided to make an exception.

“Thorin!” he called faintly. “You do know that I am gay, right?”

There, it was out. Bilbo thought that it had been implied and referenced often enough for Thorin to get the hint, but he wanted to make absolutely sure that neither one of them was misconstruing what would happen the next day.

“Hmmm,” Thorin hummed over his shoulder, winking at Bilbo with a flash of charisma he had not lavished liberally on his female dates. “That’s why I brought you flowers. There are more where those came from, you know?”

“I love flowers,” Bilbo exclaimed passionately before he could remember his good manners and remind himself not to look overeager or spoiled.

“Then you shall have them,” Thorin grinned. “See you tomorrow!”

Bilbo snarled like a feral creature at this wardrobe; the old, weathered wood did not think his frustration worthy of a reply though and merely kept gaping at the fool its owner was making of himself out of its open drawers and doors.

“Wear something nice,” he muttered under his breath as he discarded the cream-coloured shirt he had been wearing for the last 5 minutes—he had given that one a longer chance than the five that had been tried and rejected before.

Picking up the third shirt again, he eyed it suspiciously. He liked the rich green colour and the fabric felt nice under his fingertips, but the cut was rather unfortunate as it would allow Thorin to see the smidgen of pudge he had not been able to get rid of. Pilates and conscious eating be damned!

Thorin was not a monster, he tried to remind himself; he had sat through dates with five women who had looked very different from one another, and he had not cancelled or aborted any of his meetings on account of their appearance.

Surely, he would not hold the negligible lack of perfect fitness against a man he had mainly seen only partially as Bilbo tended to hide behind the bar whenever he got flustered.

Nevertheless, Bilbo wanted to look his best, lest Thorin suspect that he was taking this date less than seriously. Maybe, he thought uncertainly, that would actually be for the better—just in case the brooding beauty had merely joked about the flowers.

Better not get his foolish hopes up! And he should hurry. And he had forgotten to comb his curls after the shower and now they had dried in a tangled mess. And it was almost time. And he had not even started on the trousers…

Just as he was about to have a panic attack on account of all the things he had clearly not considered well enough beforehand, Bilbo was interrupted in his downward spiral by the sound of his doorbell being rung.

Necessity and urgency made him jump into a nice pair of light brown trousers and pull the tight, green shirt over his unkempt head while shuffling towards the front door.

“Oh hey,” he huffed as he pulled it open, feeling like a proper romance novel hero.

Instead of the expected face—chiselled, bearded, and gleaming with mischief—he looked into a luscious bouquet of multi-coloured flowers.

“Good evening. Am I early?”

Checking his wristwatch and suppressing another groan, Bilbo assured Thorin that he was right on time. “I had a hard time choosing what to wear. Is this nice enough?”

The flowers were lowered instantly, and the electrifying glow of those startlingly blue eyes washed over a woefully agitated Bilbo appreciatively. “Absolutely perfect,” Thorin praise and extended his elbow to Bilbo. “Shall we?”

“2 minutes,” Bilbo promised, took the flowers, and dashed into the kitchen to put them into a vase. As he heard Thorin rummaging in the foyer, he allowed himself to bury his face in their fragrant beauty for a short moment before running back out and valiantly trying to slip into both his shoes at the same time.

“Don’t let my eagerness put any pressure on you,” Thorin said kindly. “We have time. I just thought we’d go there early so you can order the most complicated cocktail on the menu and watch someone else make it.”

“I am hardly that pitiless,” Bilbo snorted and shot back up as if pulled by a string. “I am all ready. Let’s go!”

In the end, Thorin did convince Bilbo to order a fancy cocktail while ordering a beer for himself.

“Bottle of that one,” Bilbo tapped the fancy card laid out in front of him, “I’ve seen what you’ve got on tap, and I think this one will be much better appreciated!”

The barkeeper stared at him for a moment before shrugging and complying.

“Ah, to have one’s own barkeeper,” Thorin sighed contentedly. “This is already a better date than any of the others!”

“Glad to be of service,” Bilbo laughed and moved the basket with peanuts resolutely out of Thorin’s reach. “You’re snacking me out of a home,” he explained with a wink, “and we’re here to have dinner, so I won’t let you ruin your appetite by gorging yourself on nuts! They only put those out because they make you thirsty.”

Staring longingly at the snack, Thorin nodded nonetheless and turned his hungry, intense gaze fully on Bilbo.

While waiting for their table to be ready, they talked about their families, their friends, and their plans in life.

“I’ve always wanted to work with people, you know? I love the bar, but it’s not as if that was all I’ve ever dreamed of…” Bilbo said dreamily, berating himself only vaguely for having downed that cocktail much too fast on an empty stomach—he rarely indulged in alcohol himself as it made him emotional and much too honest.

“I know a guy who works in construction,” Thorin replied candidly. “If you ever want to expand the business, I can give you his card.”

“Sure thing,” Bilbo giggled and leaned back, only to realise—a moment too late—that the barstool did not have a backrest. A broad, strong hand kept him from toppling from his chair though and then, Thorin’s warm breath ghosted along the shell of his ear as he pushed a discreet card over.

“That is your card,” Bilbo snorted after a single glance. “Couldn’t you simply have given me your number?”

“After all the time you’ve spend fiddling with my phone, I think you could have simply saved yours in it!” Thorin shot back, a bit miffed.

“How do you know that I didn’t?”

“I’ve checked.”

There was not much Bilbo could say to that. “All right,” he grinned and pocketed the card. “I’ll call you. About the expansion. And other things. Depending on how this evening goes…No, actually, I think I’ll call you anyway, if only to yell at you!”

“Deal,” Thorin quipped and nodded at someone across the room. “The table is ready.”

Surprise and amazement surged within Bilbo as soon as he saw it—there were slim, white candles and pale pink roses. This truly was a table laid for an intimate date rather than a friendly dinner, and he couldn’t keep his cheeks from warming visibly.

For a single heartbeat, the world seemed to stop in its tracks and every truth he had ever accepted placidly slid out of place—Bilbo suddenly longed for more. He wanted to be brave enough to turn around and simply kiss Thorin, in front of a full restaurant and his extended family, he wanted to expand his business into serving real food and maybe even offering a few rooms for rent, he wanted more than the comfortable life of a well-liked bachelor. He wanted this—this table, this atmosphere, this man—forever.

And then, that uniquely fragile and heart-wrenching moment passed, and they went back to discussing everything and nothing.

When the first course was served, Thorin realised that there had not been a single uncomfortable silence in their conversation and that he felt relaxed and happy instead of tense and miserable in a potentially romantic setting which was the first time in long years.

“So, no news from your ladies?” Bilbo circled back to the subject that haunted him.

“Hmmm? Oh yes, some keep me posted about their life. I am a great listener and a cool friend to have,” Thorin replied easily, snatching a piece of bread out of the basket Bilbo had tried to move out of his direct line of sight.

“I know,” Bilbo commented dryly and gave the breadbasket back with an apologetic shrug.

“It’s all the same,” Thorin explained slowly between bites, “friendship and love, I mean. Most of the time, it just doesn’t click and then you’re better off as friends, wouldn’t you agree? No need to throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

Bilbo nodded cautiously. “Do you think the opposite can happen as well? Falling in love with a friend?”

Instantly, Thorin’s eyes lit up like a chemical fire. “Isn’t that the dream? Falling in love with a friend and being loved back? That’s what dreams are made of!”

For someone who had just dragged himself through his dates as if bearing a calvary, Bilbo thought. Thorin seemed very convinced of his theory and enthusiastic about the prospect that such a thing could happen to anyone.

“So, there’s still a chance for some of them?” Bilbo couldn’t believe his own words—why couldn’t he just let it go?

“No way,” Thorin immediately assured him. “Romantic, then platonic, then romantic again? I’m afraid that goes a bit too far. No, I just want to find someone I am comfortable with.”

He should not have agreed to the delicious bottle of wine Thorin had ordered and from which a discreet waiter kept filling up their glasses, Bilbo realised at the very moment his treacherous tongue went off like a shot. “Indeed,” he heard himself say, “I am convinced that you deserve so much better than these women. None of them has even tried to get to know you or has cared even one bit about whether you wanted a refill or were hungry, or bored, or uncomfortable.”

His voice kept growing louder and more animated and yet, Thorin merely grinned at him as if his clumsy rant was pure poetry. He looked so handsome in his white button-down and dark trousers that Bilbo somehow couldn’t stop himself from complaining about how he thought none of the women deserved a second chance as they had failed to express the appropriate level of appreciation for the kind, handsome, and charming man with whom they had had the honour of spending the evening.

“My glass was always full,” Thorin reminded Bilbo gently, “thanks to you. Moreover, you’ve healed my heart by pouring all the compliments you apparently thought I missed out on upon my undeserving head right now.” His sturdy hand came to rest on Bilbo’s pacifyingly. “They are no longer important; let’s talk about something pleasant instead. Did you like your flowers?”

“Of course,” Bilbo replied and nodded his head so vehemently that his curls fanned out like a golden halo. “That was a very nice gesture. What would you like to discuss then?”

Pressing his lips together to prevent any stupid, premature outburst to ruin his chances, Thorin collected his thoughts for a moment; he was astonished and delighted to notice that he had indeed learned something during the martyrdom of his recent dating history.

He also found that he didn’t really care at all—his tense shoulders relaxed, and his smile softened gradually as the stress of the last weeks just melted away. “Anything is fine by me, anything but them. What do you have planned for this weekend?”

“Work,” Bilbo snorted. “As any other day. I’ve thought about maybe trying to get a Sunday brunch thing going.” He tapped a finger against his plush, inviting lips pensively.

Thorin’s eyebrows travelled up his forehead as a new idea took hold in his head. “If I come by to look around the premises and tell you what is possible in terms of expansion, I’d take a test-brunch as my payment.”

“Is that so?” Bilbo cocked his head. “It would only be you and me though.”

“It’s only you and me now,” Thorin commented astutely. “Just the way I like things, as it turns out!”

“Well, then, by all means, be my guest. I’ll prepare a spread for you that you won’t forget!”

Somehow, Thorin did not doubt that for a single second. Bilbo was a man who truly enjoyed food; he had become the mesmerised witness of the profound and otherworldly pleasure his guest could take in a well-prepared meal, and he yearned to see that blissed-out expression on Bilbo’s soft, mobile features more often.

There were many things he longed for, now that he came to think of it: the amused little side-glance Bilbo gave him when he got extraordinarily huffy about something utterly irrelevant, the beaming smile a slightly buzzed Bilbo cracked whenever Thorin said something even remotely funny, and—more than anything else—the quiet gaze of solidarity and affection he had caught from the corner of his eye at times. Somehow, Bilbo seemed to intrinsically feel or know just what was needed to save Thorin from a disagreeable situation or an extended session of senseless brooding.

“Any allergies?” Bilbo asked, interrupting Thorin’s realisation that he could not remember ever having enjoyed a date half as much as this dinner.

“Hmm? No…sorry, I was miles away in my thoughts.”

“I could tell. Are you tired, do you want to skip dessert?” Bilbo asked gently, patting Thorin’s hand to make him understand that he was neither angry nor disappointed. “I feel like I’ve eaten my own weight already anyway.”

“Maybe,” Thorin replied with a wink, “next time? I have been told that Bombur’s chocolate soufflé is to die for.”

Bilbo’s eyes lit up at the word “soufflé” and, true to his nature, he didn’t need any more convincing or coaxing after that.

“By the way, I am not tired, no,” Thorin said when he saw a thickly laden spoon full of gooey deliciousness be ensconced firmly between Bilbo’s lips. “I was just thinking how much I like being here with you.”

“You don’t think I am a gluttonous pig?” Bilbo mouthed around his spoon, his eyes twinkling with good cheer and sugar-fuelled ecstasy.

“I don’t,” Thorin assured him; he had never given the gender of his potential partners much thought before. He had always surmised that he was just the kind of man who was only attractive to a select group of people that kept dwindling fast as the years went by—that set had been comprised of mainly women by chance or accident thus far, and Thorin had had no say in the matter or reason to contest that.

If that was about to change now, he thought placidly, he wouldn’t object to changing his habits and adapt his expectations to the reality of his prospects and desires.

Never in a thousand years would he have presumed to find such a comfortable and yet exciting potential lover in a surprisingly prim barkeeper with a wicked sense of humour and a deep love for flavourful food. Bilbo evidently loved life and—seeing him celebrate others’ successes without reticence or envy—reminded Thorin of how much he had sacrificed throughout his own existence.

“You make me feel alive,” he confessed, “the way you eat, the way you talk, the way you smile at me. It’s as if you could turn back the time and make me believe that it’s not too late for me to be happy. Is that cheesy?”

“Yes,” Bilbo nodded, licking his spoon, “but I love cheese. Actually, the olives they served with the bread. Do you know where they get them from?”

“They pickle or brine or marinate them themselves,” Thorin replied sheepishly. “I do not know. I am a mediocre cook.” That was a bold lie; his cooking was positively awful, but he didn’t want Bilbo to know. After this charming evening, Thorin would crawl to his sister and implore her to impart her valuable wisdom to redress that flaw as soon as he could.

“Hmmm, I wonder if they’d share the recipe,” Bilbo mused aloud. For a moment, Thorin was taken in by his casual musings, but then he realised that Bilbo’s eyes were just a smidgen too feverish now even though his initial inebriation had worn off long since.

“What is the matter?”

“Are you playing me, Thorin?” Bilbo asked in a quiet, shivering voice. “I am not like those women; I don’t put my heart on the line recklessly.”

“I am not. Why do you say that?”

“I’ve watched you go on dates with 5 women in about as many weeks,” Bilbo exclaimed, clapping his hand over his trembling lips when a few other stragglers turned to him in startled surprise or outright annoyance. “I…Do you even…”

“I don’t care,” Thorin said firmly, the conviction that he was on the right track constantly growing within his heart. “I just know that you make me feel good about the world, life, and myself. When you’re around, everything seems a little brighter and less fatal than I’ve always thought it’d be, and I want that in my life.”

“A friend,” Bilbo muttered. “I can be your friend—you’re an amazing person to be around and you’re, as always, too hard on yourself. You’re actually not so bad yourself and you’ve been the only source of entertainment these last few weeks—I really have to get something new going to spruce the old dig up.”

Me, Thorin thought desperately. In his mind, he could see it—a crystal clear vision of perfect bliss. He’d come to the bar after work and sit by the counter, telling Bilbo about his day.

His friends could come, and maybe his disastrous dates could become regulars as well, who knew? He certainly wouldn’t mind keeping them in his life as casual acquaintances.

Saturday sessions on the job site, Sunday brunches. Everything—his plans of letting his nephews slowly take over more important clients and bear more responsibility in the firm as well as Bilbo’s designs for his own place—suddenly made sense.

Despite the late hour, Thorin felt invigorated and refreshed as after a long and restful night.

“Bilbo,” he interrupted the frantic babbling about avocado toast and different swatches of pastel colours gently but firmly. “I am not asking you to be my friend.”

Thorin took out his wallet and left a generous tip, knowing that Bombur would send the actual bill to his office for discretion purposes. “Let’s go; it’s a fine night and I think we could both do with a little digestive walk, don’t you think?”

Nodding dumbly, Bilbo allowed himself to insert his hand into the crook of Thorin’s elbow and be led out of the fancy, by now almost entirely empty, restaurant as if he was indeed the guest of honour of the night. A soppy smile struggled to take hold of his mouth and distort it into an unforgivably silly expression of emotion, but he managed to bite it back just in time as Thorin’s luminous gaze fell upon his face.

“Oh, you were made to be seen under the stars,” Bilbo whispered as all the blues, blacks, and silvers of Thorin’s complexion melted into the background of a starry night sky to create an ephemeral work of art that was painted by the hands of fate just for his own momentary enjoyment. “If only I had known—I’d opened the outdoor seating for your dates.”

“Humbug,” Thorin chuckled. “They’d have fallen ill and I’d have had to foot the bill for their medical expenses. Thank you, but no, thank you.”

Steering Bilbo confidently, he took him to an outlook platform over a small river and they felt the cool night air make their hair dance in the fragrant breeze. The whole scene felt absolutely magical and otherworldly to Bilbo who sighed longingly under his breath.

“As much as I love your bar,” Thorin said in a low, vibrating voice, “there are many places I’d want to take a date outside of it. This is but one of those.”

Bilbo hummed patiently, turning up his face to bask in the beauty of his companion—he had only ever seen Thorin in the pub and, now that he had spent a whole evening with him, he had to agree. Indeed, he himself desired to see Thorin in other contexts: illuminated by flickering candlelight and bathed in the pale gleam of the moon, sitting in the blazing afternoon sun…and waking up to the first, shy rays of the nascent morning.

“I think,” Thorin went on, lifting his hand to grip Bilbo’s chin tenderly between his thumb and crooked index, “that I want to take you to those places. Are you game? You don’t have to…I mean…There’s no need to spare my feelings now out of pity only to break my heart later.”

Instantly, Bilbo’s own heart started throbbing in empathy and affection; Thorin had experienced so much rejection and disappointment lately that he came to simply expect that things would end badly for him.

Nonetheless, he had been brave enough to try something completely different and ask out someone who was not at all in the usual pool of potential partners for him—and he had done marvellously. Bilbo could not remember having ever gone on such a beautiful and utterly bewitching date before, and every fibre of his being dreaded the end of this night.

What if it had all been a dream?

“I’d love that,” he replied breathlessly, resolving to match Thorin’s reckless courage and giving in to foolish hope against all odds.

“Good,” Thorin grinned winningly.

A moment later, his lips—warm and sensual—brushed against Bilbo’s in a tentative kiss that felt like a caress and tasted sweet and refreshing like a splash of spring water.

Damn it, Bilbo thought hazily, and threw his arms around Thorin’s neck, giving his massive frame a vigorous tug until they collided in the stillness of the picturesque night scene like two meteors burning across the endless black backdrop.

Their kiss turned feverish, thrumming with words unspoken and questions unasked, while their hands roamed forcefully and desperately across each other’s backs and sides as if in search of something to hold on to as the world spun out of focus.

“I’ll come by on Sunday,” Thorin promised as he finally pulled back; his face radiated with joy in the ambient obscurity and his thumbs brushed caressingly against Bilbo’s shivering ribs. “And I’ve changed my mind about the price of my consultation. A brunch, yes, but also about two thousand more of these kisses. Generous as I am, I shall let you pay them off by regular instalments."

"Sounds like a deal,” Bilbo agreed, dizzy with relief and anticipation. “How about you come by Saturday night and allow me to make a down payment after closing time?”

“Ah, you’ve got a sound mind for business,” Thorin cackled, pulling Bilbo into a tight, warm embrace and leaning his bearded cheek against the top of the curly head of the shorter man tenderly. “I can see that we’ll get along just fine.”

@lordoftherazzles, @mysandwichranaway thank you for your encouragement and your support.

Lots of love from me!

And all my gratitude to the Bagginshielders for having voted so fervently for their OTP; I hope I could bring this story to a satisfactory close for y'all.

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #TSF #(s)wiped out #Bagginshield #Thorin x Bilbo #Thorin #Bilbo #romantic #fluff #crack

[beloved-belittled]

Random Shinnok Rambles (X Reader)

A/N: Alright, back to Shinnokposting. My Tumblr is really just a Shinnok x Reader blog at heart lol. So, this is the closest I'll get to posting general headcanons. It's a part character analysis part x Reader I suppose? I just wanted to give more context on his thought process and personality in my stories. I don't really know what to call it hence the title. Might turn this into a series. Anyways, enjoy!

TW: Heavy abuse, slavery, manipulation, implied rape/coercion, cussing, NSFW, mentions of oral and anal sex

18+ to interact

Speech/Mannerisms

Shinnok does not cuss. There's no way you're getting a “fuck” or “shit” out of this man. He finds cursing to be crass and a sign of low intelligence. However, he would use variations of “damn” and “hell” (ex: damned, damnation, hellspawn). But those aren't really cuss words depending on who you ask. The most vulgar words you can expect from Shinnok are “bastard” or “whore”, but those have stipulations for him to say it. For example, he'll only call someone a “bastard” if they were truly born from unwed parents. And even so, he phrases in a way of it being more like a statement than anything. (Ex: “Ah, the bastard of Argus.”) As for whore, he doesn't just call any woman that. They have to use their sexuality to some notable benefit like money, power, etc. 

He doesn't enjoy crassness in the bedroom either. He'll never utilize the words “pussy” or “cunt”. Those words are beneath him, so he sticks primarily to the anatomical words for genitals. But, I could see him on occasions when he's especially excited to use “cock” when referencing his penis. He'll also use euphemisms for your vagina such as “flower” or “petals” for your labia. He'll also probably just refer to your ass as “behind” or “rear”, as he dislikes the words “ass” and “butt”. Overall, don't expect a lot of dirty talk from this man. And even if he does, you'll probably need a thesaurus on hand for all the euphemisms.

So with his sentiments on speech, how much does this affect his darling? Umm, a lot. He won't be able to tolerate a s/o who curses or uses a lot of “low intelligence” words. Whether you're his lover or his pet he expects you to use your voice with dignity. If not… He can just beat it out of you. A pet/slave will learn to hold their tongue much quicker as from day one he's clear with his expectations. A willing lover on the other hand gets a few warnings -then it's straight to the dungeon with you until your speech improves.

Aside from speech he has high expectations with how you carry yourself. This differs depending on how he views your relationship. For pets, a submissive stride and downcast expression is expected at all times. Try not to take up too much space and look ashamed of yourself -it will please him despite his harsh comments. As for a lover, make sure that you walk around as though you own all the realms. He will notice if you skulk around rather than act confident, and it may just get you demoted from being his lover.

Also, people with shrimp-like posture beware -this man has no tolerance for hunchbacks. Get that spine straightened up or he'll straighten it for you. Seriously, he'll tell you to sit up maybe once then he'll manhandle you into a proper position. Have him do this too many times and he'll just start hitting you every time he catches you slouching. “Why insist on straining your back, mortal?” He'll say while “fixing” your posture.

Your “Relationship” with Him

I'm sorry but, unless Shinnok was purified or otherwise changed to become a better person -you're in for one hell of a toxic relationship. The main problem with him is his pride. There is no one like him, no one on his level of strength, intelligence, and ambition. (In his eyes at least.) So whether you're his pet or lover he'll always see you as a lesser being. It leads to a lot of problems should you accept the opportunity to willingly date him.

For example, you won't have any say over his plans for invasion or utilizing his demonic army. “Did you think an offering of my bed was an offering of being commander?” He says, face grim as he awaits your answer. You tell him no, but you can't help the thought that maybe as his partner you could aid him better in battle. Another point of contention would be the boundary pushing. Oh, you don't want to give him a blowjob? “My dearest (Y/N), you will get on your knees for me. Your Lord demands it.” You can certainly refuse, but is it worth the wrath of Shinnok?

Oddly enough, following through with his demands when he gets pushy like that will lower his respect for you. In his mind, all it takes is a few harsh words and threats of punishment to get you to obey? Those are the motivations of slaves -not of someone who is his equal. His treatment of you will change the more you submit. He gets more degrading with his speech, and he starts to doubt your abilities to help him conquer the realms. He may even stop you from going out on missions, telling you to simply stay in the cathedral with him. Do not accept this if you value your freedom. Once he traps you in his castle it's GG.

Honestly, it's very easy to slip from being his lover to his pet/slave. I would say 99.9% of the time that's what your relationship would devolve into anyways. His disdain towards others and his pride would warp any feelings of genuine affection into desires of ownership. The 0.1% chance is that you somehow become more powerful than him and flip the script on him -making Shinnok your pet instead. (Foreshadowing)

And you know what? You go through all of that and this fallen Elder God doesn't even say “I love you.” :( You'll never hear those words even after existing for thousands of years. It's the one lie he won't tell you -all due to his ego viewing love as a weakness. At the end of the day, mortals exist for his use and he does not have to offer anything in return.

Sexual Deeds/NSFW

So… Does Shinnok have kinks? Absolutely! (Even if he doesn't acknowledge them as such.) For one, he absolutely loves praise and worship in the bedroom. Tell him how grateful and honored you are to touch his body -he'll reward you with a hardy reminder as to why you're beneath him ❤️. Oh yeah, aside from praise he's super into degrading and humiliating you. This man will tear apart your entire identity and want you to take it with a smile.

He also really enjoys eye contact during sex -specifically being able to read your emotions/reactions. Sometimes you feel as though he's glimpsing at your soul when he stares into your eyes, and in all honesty maybe he is. He also is a fan of asphyxiation. It makes him feel powerful when he controls your breathing. You can't even say anything when your throat is constricted. How perfect.

But there's also quite a bit of stuff he's not into either. For example, he'll never use toys during sex unless you count those bone constructs of his. In his eyes, he's not sure why he would need such toys when his body and magic alone is more than enough to pleasure you. Don't ask him about using toys either. He'll just finger you with his summoned skeleton hands until you apologize for bringing it up.

He also isn't a big fan of somnophilia. His pleasure comes from you being aware of what he's doing and the dominance from that. If you're fast asleep, how is he able to enjoy that? Unfortunately for you that means being woken up when you're in the throes of sleep, either when he is roughly pumping into your body or demanding you to leap up and service him. 

Also for AFAB readers he wouldn't be interested in anal -at first. Why use your ass when you've got a perfectly ok vagina? But after quite a bit of time passes and seeing your butt jiggle he gets curious. Maybe one day after doing it doggy-style he'll pull out of your pussy and start grinding against your cheeks. Then another day he'll actually slip in between the globes of your butt and start rutting against you. Finally, you know your luck’s run out when he starts lubing up your asshole, telling you how you'll learn to accommodate him here too.

#shinnok x reader #yandere shinnok #shinnok #mortal kombat x reader #x reader #my writings

[helianskies]

Frain - 16?

you know what. i haven't written a ficlet for frain since the winter prompts last year. and this is perfect. here you go! >:)

Friends

“You know something,” Antonio begins as Francis sits down opposite him, having brought them both their second hot drink (a hot chocolate for Antonio, who really doesn’t need any more caffeine in his life, and a vanilla latte for himself). 

“I know a few things,” Francis quips. “Go on, though. What is it?”

“Well,” his friend continues as he claims his cup and starts to warm his hands on it, “I was just thinking that… I’ve been on a lot of romantic dates in my time, and yet, I still think the best ‘dates’ I’ve ever actually had have been with you.”

Francis is not sure where this has come from or why, but he’s curious. Antonio has had his fair share of liaisons and short-lived relationships, and has heard all sorts of stories. So he supposes that this thought of Antonio’s is a bit random, out of the blue, unexpected. 

“You’ve had some good ones, no?” Francis therefore remarks, before he gives his latte a taste—perfectly sweet. “They can’t all have been bad.”

“Francis.”

“Mmh? Yes, w— what?”

“We are sitting in a café. At a spa. For a ‘romantic weekend getaway’.”

“And what of it?” Francis responds (though, admittedly, he hasn’t thought of it like that, and feels a bit embarrassed that Antonio has pointed it out). “I had a voucher! I had to bring someone.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Antonio says, nevertheless. “I just think… on top of the spa, there’s the fancy meals out, the botanical gardens, the picnic, the pottery class, the art galleries, the family dinners…” A warm smile has bloomed on his face. “Why is it that you manage to take me on better dates than anyone I have ever actually dated?”

To that, Francis lacks any real response. He doesn’t know how to feel. He… can’t think of an instance where it’s ever been intentional, to invite Antonio to do so many different and fun things with him that, from the outside looking in, probably did look like romantic gestures. 

Upon reflection, though, Antonio is no less guilty of such things. 

Sometimes he turns up to Francis’ place clutching a bouquet of flowers (‘I just thought the colours would look nice in your kitchen’; ‘I remember you saying you like calla lilies…’). Sometimes he texts randomly in the middle of the day and says things like, ‘i heard there’s a new restaurant by the docks’ followed by a flurry of emojis of wine bottles and hearts and winking faces…

It’s like how Antonio would offer to do Francis’ hair before going out, to sit and listen as he offloads a bad day at work, to do some tidying in his garden (that is not a euphemism!) because it isn’t Francis’ priority. He’d even agreed to have a look at Francis’ car when he’d had issues with it starting, popping up the bonnet, playing mechanic for him. 

He’d gotten so messy, but had fixed whatever the issue had been, and… well, that is what friends do, no? Help each other? Have a laugh with each other? Go out with each other?

It isn’t that Francis doesn’t care for Antonio. He’s… He’s certainly had his moments of feeling like he cares too much for Antonio, like he’s overstepping or walking a fine line at best. But he doesn’t want to ruin what they’ve got. He doesn’t want to put twenty years of friendship at risk just because he may or may not sometimes believe he lo—

“Take me on a date.”

Francis sputters on his latte. He moves his cup away as he begins to cough, and Antonio hurries to pass him a napkin, apologising profusely for saying such a thing at what was clearly the wrong moment.

“It’s fine,” Francis replies, giving his mouth a quick wipe as he tries to compose himself. “It’s fine, it just— it just caught me off-guard, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” Antonio says again. “But I… I do kind of mean it, you know.” He gives a gentle sigh, and holds onto his hot chocolate again in both hands. “I dunno… Maybe it shouldn’t surprise me, but I just always seem to have more fun being around you than I have with… Well… Don’t worry,” he dismissed in the end. “Forget I said anything.”

But how can he? How can Francis pretend that he didn’t just say something like that?

Even though Antonio is trying to hide behind his drink, Francis feels that hiding is an impossibility for both of them. So, he reaches out and steals away Antonio’s hand, having to pry it carefully away from porcelain.

Despite Antonio’s wariness, Francis says, “Maybe we can talk about it later on, in our room.”

Antonio looks meek, if not disappointed. “For the best,” he replies. “Sorry for bringing it up.”

“It’s fine, really,” Francis assures him. 

He gives Antonio’s hand a pat—all he can think to do in the moment to try and comfort him, knowing that… things may now be awkward between them—before Antonio pulls his hand back, returns it to his cup, and instead decides to talk about their next shared session. A ‘sleep and reset treatment’. Maybe that is what they need. A reset. A hard reset…

[ full ficlet collection here on ao3! ]

#helia writes #hetalia #hws france #hws spain #frain #just two friends chilling at a spa five feet apart and hngggg

[thescoobyscholar]

The History of Zoinks (Essay)

Includes an etymological and cultural analysis of the usage of "jeepers," "jinkies," and "zoinks." Another post will include the follow-up study.

If you grew up watching Scooby-Doo, it may be easy to assume that groovy green tees, ascots, and vans painted with flowers were all standard 60s fare. However, recall that these teens were not written by teens; when the first episode aired, character designer Iwao Takamoto was 41, main writer Bill Lutz was 47, and creators Joe Ruby and Ken Spears were 36 and 31, respectively. Were they already out of touch? As put by Paul Dini, writer on Scooby-Doo! Abracadabra-Doo: “When you look at those characters, they are characters frozen in time. They’re not really what hippies or hipsters or cool kids were like. They’re what 50-year olds thought cool kids were like” (“Scooby Doo! The Whole World Loves You”).

The most iconic quantifiers of how close these characters were to the “cool kids” is their catchphrases: “jeepers,” “jinkies,” and “zoinks!” When we hear the cartoon’s catchphrases, which claim to characterize this era, we must ask: Did people really say these things? Even though these terms are almost exclusively associated with the franchise today, these words were not born for marketing. The writers were pulling from memories, trends, and histories which, if we trace backwards, may glean some evidence as to their cultural accuracy.

Daphne’s classic “jeepers” is said to have been first penned in 1928 by cartoonist Billy DeBeck, whose popular Barney Google strips coined similar terms as “heebie-jeebies” and “holy moly” (Chakraborty and Dosad 117). The true origin of the word is likely several decades earlier, as Google’s catchphrase “Horsefeathers!” was already coming out of fashion among the construction workers that used it when DeBeck revived it in his parody of Appalachian colloquialisms (Funk and Funk ix-x). At the time DeBeck picked up “jeepers,” it was used as a euphemism for “Jesus!” (Harper, “Etymology of jeepers”).

However, the Scooby-Doo writers were more likely to be familiar with Al Donahue’s song “Jeepers Creepers” (as in, “Jeepers creepers, where’d you get those peepers?”). The song jumped high enough in America’s popular music charts in 1939 that it was covered by Louis Armstrong, Larry Clinton, and later Frank Sinatra (Whitburn 533). As an alteration of “Jesus Christ,” the flexible phrase was perfect for bouncy love ballads (“Oh, those weepers, how they hypnotize!”) and as a horror movie motif in Jeepers Creepers. The fact that the film was released in 2001 speaks to the staying power of “jeepers.”

As for Velma’s catchphrase, “jinkies,” it may be a variation of a number of old Scots terms dating around the 18th-19th century, so you may as well pick your favorite: a synonym for “jauntily” (as “jink,” to dodge or flee; nowadays “to juke” may be applicable), a nonsense word in nursery rhymes (e.g., “Eetum, peetum, penny pie / Cock a lory, jinky jye”), or a child’s nightgown (Dictionary of the Scots Language); a type of knitted fingerless glove (see Kate Davies Designs); or yet, as a derivation of “high jinks,” a drinking game that dates back to at least the 17th century (Harper, “Etymology of jinkies”).

The term was first recorded as exclamation “By jinkies!” in the newspaper strip “Ella Cinders” in 1936. The first recorded use of the term by a human (assuming comic characters can’t mail in letters to the local paper) was in a 1938 edition of the Northern-Courier in the sports section. Ray writes: “By jinkies, on my next pass day I will surely stop and see that 178 foot wheelbase, fire truck. If I can’t make it in one day maybe I can get an extension. Some truck.” (How many feet is the Mystery Machine’s wheelbase, I wonder…?) Again, “jinkies” is preceded by “by,” which Velma, as we all know, would choose to omit. By Scooby’s birthday, the term was popular among college students and “overly earnest” speakers (Iseli), fitting for the youngest of the gang who is always piping up with a clue to prove her intellectual merit.

Unlike “jeepers” and “jinkies,” which have decent pedigrees preceding Scooby-Doo, neither “zoinks” nor “zoink” directly appear in any written work before 1969, although they have a number of distant cousins. The closest approximation comes from television: a famous bit in 1958’s “Robin Hood Daffy” where Daffy swings from tree to tree, calling, “Zoiks, and away!” with each jump, only to crash face-first into a tree every time. His iconic lisp makes it difficult to parse whether he’s saying “zoiks” or “yoiks.” The latter would seem more likely, as “yoiks” and its sister “hoiks” have a long history as hunting words. On a bright and early morning in 1843, Sir Godfrey calls for his friend to hurry and saddle up: “Hoik, 'squire! . . . hoik, hoik! High wind him! Drag on him, yoiks, tally-ho!" (Mills 125). On the tail of a fox chase in 1774, a hunter in pursuit exclaims, “Yoiks, hark forward!” (Kelly 6). Contextually, neither sound too far from the modernized “Zoinks, let’s scram, Scoob!” The first “zoiks” was penned around 1584, in a sonnet of all things: “With mightie maters mynd I not to mell, / As copping Courts, or Comonwelthis, or Kings / Quhais craig zoiks fastest, let tham sey thame sell; / My thoght culd nevir think vpon sik things” (Montgomery 1–4). I can’t claim a clue about what the rest means, but “zoiks fastest” leads me to think this is a “jink”/”juke” situation; in “zoiking”, the narrator is fleeing from the cowersome courts, commonwealths, and kings. Coincidentally, “mynd I not to mell” sounds almost adjacent to “meddle,” another word popularized by Scooby-Doo. All of the “zoinks” family are employed as interjections preceding movement.*

In sum, while “jinkies” appears to have had some relevance at the time of Scooby-Doo’s inception, “jeepers” is a bit dated in comparison, and “zoinks” has a vast etymological tree but no direct precursors. The advantage to having a cast of characters who are, in the words of Paul Dini, “frozen in time,” is that they are living time capsules. We can choose any point within 50 years and see unique perceptions of culture, politics, music, style, and our focus: vocabulary. But how well do these perceptions line up with reality?

*All, that is, except one. “Yoiks” may also be used to refer to egg yolks, as in a cookbook from 1762: “Take a large Fowl, or a Pound of Veal, as much grated Bread, half a Pound of Sewet . . . Mace, two Cloves, half a Nutmeg grated, about a large Tea Spoonful of Lemon-peel, and the Yoiks of two Eggs” (Glasse 38). Add an olive toothpick on top and you have a Shaggy sandwich!

References

Chakraborty, Pritesh, and Anuradha Dosad. “Comic Monthly 1922: Exploring Form and Themes.” Department of English, Vidyasagar University, vol. 15, 2022, pp. 112–125.

“Ella Cinders.” Montana Standard, 29 Sept. 1936, p. 11.

Funk, Charles Earle, and Charles Earle Funk. “Foreword.” Horsefeathers, and Other Curious Words, Harper & Row, New York, 1958, pp. Ix–x.

Glasse, Hannah. “Made-Dishes.” The New Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy, John Exshaw, 1762, pp. 38–39.

Harper, Douglas. “Etymology of jink.” Online Etymology Dictionary, 28 Sept. 2017, https://www.etymonline.com/word/jink.

Iseli, Marcel. “Jinkies! You’ll Never Believe What Velma’s Catchphrase Means.” Linguablog, Iseli International Commerce, 18 Sept. 2022, linguaholic.com/linguablog/jinkies-scooby-doo/.

"Jinkie." Dictionary of the Scots Language, Scottish Language Dictionaries Ltd, 2004, http://www.dsl.ac.uk/entry/snd/jinkie_adj

Kate Davies Designs. “Jinkies Pattern.” Ravelry, SARK, Nov. 2021, www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/jinkies.

Kelly, Hugh. “Epilogue.” The Romance of an Hour: A Comedy of Two Acts in Prose. G. Kearsley, 1774, line 6.

Mills, John. “A Meet of the Olden Time.” Ainsworth’s Magazine, edited by William Harrison Ainsworth, vol. 4, Chapman and Hall, London, 1843, p. 125.

Montgomery, Alexander. “To R. Hudsone (Sonnet 2).” The Poems of Alexander Montgomery, edited by David Irving, James Ballantyne and Company, 1821, pp. 76.

Szymborska, Wislawa. “Moment.” Monologue of a Dog. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2005, pp.11-13.

Ray. “Diamond Dust.” The Courier-Northerner, 29 July 1938, p. 8.

"Scooby Doo! The Whole World Loves You." Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! The Complete 1st and 2nd Seasons, produced by Hanna-Barbera and Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc, 2010. DVD.Whitburn, Joel. “The Songs.” Joel Whitburn’s Pop Memories 1890 - 1954: The History of American Popular Music, Record Research Inc, Menomonee Falls, WI, 1986, p. 533.

#essay #SDWAY #catchphrases

[scifrey]

Hold Tight (1/6)

Status: Complete. Unbeta'd, we die like Hob doesn't.

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse, but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death. Also includes some erotic content. Please curate your internet experience accordingly.

Relationships:  Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Past Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past), Hector Hall/Lyta Hall (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Matthew the Raven, Desire of the Endless, Lyta Trevor-Hall, Daniel Hall, Rose Walker, Jed Walker 

Summary:

Hob is tasked with his first quest as Vassal of the Endless, Morpheus is bad at using his words, Destiny thinks he's so clever, Desire makes a confession, Rose Walker meets her Uncle's boyfriend, and Lyta Hall punches Dream of the Endless in the nose. Or, the one where Hob Gadling turns into everyone's therapist, and honestly, he ain't mad about it.

Set at the end of Cling Fast - after the premiere of “Elizabethan Manor”, but before the Epilogue.

READ ON AO3 or below:

~~~

It’s not like Hob’s been walking around with a ring in his pocket.

After six-hundred and sixty-seven years of… well, he wouldn’t call it pining, obviously he hasn’t been steadily and consistently lusting or moping after Morpheus for the better part of seven centuries. And he’d been married and very much in love with his late wife, thank you very much. 

Maybe better to call it ‘carrying a torch’, or ‘wistfully wondering’ or, or any other euphemism to explain the tender affection and exasperation he felt toward the King of Dreams and Nightmares before he actually got to know the anthropomorphic personification. 

The point is, Hob hasn’t spent the greater part of his life wishing he could formalize the tying together of his life and heart with that of said affectionate and exasperating anthropomorphic personification.

At his most bold, Hob had imagined himself as a liegeman, or a romantical knight-errant experiencing the adventures and quests of human life on behalf of his otherworldly Lordling Stranger. He’d worn his Lord’s colours in gallantry without knowing his name, and ached for their once-a-century meetings, and never dared to daydream for more than that. Except for in 1789. But if you had seen Morpheus in those breeches, you’d hardly have been able to keep your lewd little fantasies from springing into existence, either.

But then had come the TV show, and the resultant scouring of Hob’s soul, and the missed messages of flowers, and hideous bouquets, and vaguely kinky monsterfucking sex on the shores of a sea full of dreams and nightmares. And after that had come a year of experiencing the joys of the Dreaming together, exploring the Waking together, and reaffirming their passions in the liminal space between the two that was Hob’s bed, and then a promise of retirement and domesticity, and honestly, you can’t blame Hob!

Being both Unaging and Immortal, and therefore obligated to move on from his established life every forty-or-so-years, Hob Gadling gets to keep so little: only his name, his memories, and his word. So now that he has Morpheus to call his own, he wants to keep him as close as possible, for as long as possible.

Hob Gadling is, and always will be, a clingy bastard.

But it’s not like he’s carrying a ring around in his pocket.

“Uh-huh,” doctor Harriet Butler says from the other side of the table in the university’s canteen.  Everything about Harri’s expression–the twinkling gaze, the mirthful curl of her lips, the little shake of her head–makes it very clear that she’s taking the piss.

She’s popped by the school to pick his brain and leave him a copy of her new manuscript for him to review. It’s a narrative nonfiction about court life in the heyday of Elizabethan England, and while Hob didn’t personally know the courtier the tale follows, he knows that his red pen will likely be of some use to Harri. And he’s delighted to do it, besides. He can’t wait to see what their time together on set has wrought in her prose.

“Should I be getting a ring?” Hob asks, derailing himself when he realises that he’s been banging on about this for the whole of their little lunch date. “I mean, he was married before, but that was to a Grecian goddess.”

“The ancient Greeks wore wedding rings,” Harri points out. 

Hob lets the noise of the crowded canteen wash over him as he contemplates that… that Morpheus would know what it meant if Hob ever presented him with a ring. 

It’s too soon!

Is it too soon?

Hob’s already pretty much demanded that Morpheus move in with him. And to be fair, while he hasn’t been pining for the last seven centuries, now that they are together, he is as sure about Morpheus as he is about not wanting to die.

But does that mean that Morpheus is sure?

The rambunctious shouts of excited students, the clatter of lunch trays and flatware, the muszak playing gently over the tannoy, it’s all just so noisy. He sometimes forgets how quiet the world used to be. Taverns were loud. Festivals were loud. Full churches were loud. But the ever-present music and white noise permeating every moment of existence hadn’t been woven into all the terribly small and mortal parts of his life.

It reminds him, all of a sudden, of how… well, how not grand Dr. Bob Gadlen’s academic little world is. What time isn’t taken up by marking and preparing lectures is devoted to guiding malleable young minds, or to influencing city and historic councils (which takes a lot of research and a lot of passionate speeches at after hours meetings), or to researching and practicing guest lectures, or to spending a weekend with cobwebs in his hair and a hammer in his hand and sweat on his brow as he personally repairs the disintegrating parts of The White Horse, or putting on a stupid suit to go into the City to sort out his real estate investments and charitable donations, or taking a spare shift at the Inn to cover for a sick employee, or… or any manner of small, boring, uninteresting mundanities that make up the life of Doc Bob.

And maybe that’s not something that Dream of the Endless, Morpheus the God of Sleep, the Lord Shaper, the Prince of Stories, the King of Fantasy and Nightmares, the Oneiromancer wants.

“Maybe he doesn’t even want a ring, maybe that’s not something that…” Hob says, slouching back in his chair and feeling very suddenly like a small, silly, over-excited child. “That anthropomorphic personifications of the human unconscious do.”

Harri points at him with her salad fork. “You also said that you didn’t think that he would want down-and-dirty sweaty animal sex and–”

Hob groans and covers his face with his hands. “I can’t believe you got me drunk enough to tell you about that.”

He could drown himself in his soup. That could be a thing. It would get him out of this conversation. Unfortunately, it would not deter the only mortal friend who knew what he was. She’d just wait around for him to wake up, probably with her camera out to catch the pieces of noodle sliding from his cheeks.

“Be honest, Hob, is this angst about Morph maybe not wanting a ring? Or is it about your fear that Morph may not want to be tied down before he’s even really lived as a human? Or are you worrying that once he is human and free of his function, with all the world at his feet, he may not want marriage with you?” Harri asks, painfully astute, as ever.

Painfully.

“Godswounds, I didn’t even think of that,” Hob groans and swirls his soup dejectedly. “I mean, I told him that I’d take care of him, when it was all done and he was… you know…”

“Dead?”

“We’re not using that word,” he says sternly.

Harri shrugs and doesn’t let his grumpiness get to her.

Hob tugs on his ear. “But it never occurred to me that… that he might deserve the chance to live apart from me, you know, get his own flat, cook his own meals, travel, maybe meet someone else, someone–”

“Okay, okay, this is spiraling,” Harri says, and slips around the table to wrap Hob in a crushing hug.

Hob lets his verbal torrent dry up, and presses his forehead into her shoulder. She gives him another good hard squeeze, and then sits back to meet Hob’s eyes.

“Listen, you asked him to move in, and he said yes, so don’t second-guess yourself. He’s made it abundantly clear how much he enjoys being yours,” she adds with an eye roll. “I’ve never ‘accidentally’ caught sight of so many bruises and hickies in so many interesting places as I have in the last six months.”

“He could make them go away, you know,” Hob mimics Morpheus’ dramatic sand-flinging finger wiggle. “Before he wears a low-cut shirt or reaches up for something on a high shelf.”

“And he doesn’t, so what does that tell you?” Harri squeezes his shoulder once and shakes him a little. “Come on, Doc Bob, you’re supposed to be the wise old one here.”

The thing is, Hob is human. And therefore he has that very human urge to find love and cleave to it. And Morpheus is very slowly, very gradually becoming human himself. Night after night, a little more of Morpheus’ power trickles from him into the infant Morpheus has only ever called “the child” or “my heir” as the little boy sleeps.

It’s literally a trickle, and Hob knows this because the day the baby was born, a massive hourglass appeared in the middle stained glass window behind his lover’s throne. 

In the left-hand pane, a stylized depiction of Morpheus-as-Dream gazes magnanimously down upon any who enter the hall. The rightmost pane depicts an infant dressed all in white, hair and skin as colourless as his clothes, eyes the colour of shamrocks. And every night, when Hob meets Dream at the seat of his power, the lad in the right-hand pane appears older, brighter, his gaze more otherwordly. And every night, the Morpheus in the left-hand pane appears more human, his eyes less fathomless, his skin less eldritch-white and more pink with health.

 And every night, there is more sand in the bottom of the hourglass than there was previously.

Hob still hasn’t met the child, nor Morpheus’ mortal niece and nephew. He hasn’t insisted either, figuring that Morpheus will share his family, and his successor, with his lover when he’s ready. But he’s becoming less and less the master of the Dreaming with each passing hour, and Hob can’t help but wonder if maybe Morpheus doesn’t want him to meet them. That maybe he’s deliberately keeping his Endless life separate from his soon-to-be-human one.

So that when it’s all… all over, then there will be nothing tying him back to his Endlessness.

Maybe that’s what Morpheus wants.

Or… or maybe Morpheus just doesn’t trust Hob with his own Endless family. Maybe he’s keeping them from Hob, the way that Hob hoarded Eleanor, and Robyn, and Wee John (though he hadn’t, not really; if Morpheus had appeared in the welcome hall at Gadlen House at any point of his marriage and demanded to be introduced to Hob’s wife and children, he would have fallen all over himself with pride to do so.)

No, Hob’s being ridiculous. Morph’s just busy. Turning over the entirety of your kingdom and selfhood to an entirely different person, while also training that other person how to be you, while they are already, in essence, completely you, is… well, it sounds like a lot. Morpheus has just been distracted, that’s all.

“It’s too soon for rings, anyway,” Hob hedges, voice rough and brain spinning. Although, Too Soon has a different meaning nowadays. He’d met and married Eleanor within the span of three months, and they’d only waited that long because the banns had to be read on three consecutive Sundays before they could be trothed.

But in the twenty-first century, it seemed like dating for anything less than a year before popping the question was considered inordinately fast. And as much as Hob likes to tease his lover and call their centenary meetings’ ‘dates’, they weren’t. Not really. Not in the way that it means now.

“And there’s so much happening, I don’t want to be a distraction, or a… a burden, or–”

Harriet pinches him.

“Okay, okay,” Hob capitulates. “I’m overthinking it.”

“You are,” Harri agrees, and goes back to both her seat and her salad. “You want to be with him. And he wants to be with you. You will be. You are. So there’s no rush. You both have literally all the time in the world.”

If Hob had to bet which of the Endless would ask a boon of him first, his money would have been on Desire. He knows Desire and Dream have a rivalry, which Hob figured the former would have capitalised on the second they had free reign.

And to be honest, Hob spends a lot of time in their realm since he’s worked out how to translate Morpheus’ overdramatically, swoony Victorian flower messages. Hob is obviously pretty well known to the each of the Endless, and thought Desire in particular would have a favour or just a prank or a snipe they’d want to pull.

Yet, it’s been months, and none of Morpheus’ siblings have formally introduced themselves to him. That he knows of, of course. He wouldn't even begin to guess at what they looked like in human form—though he figures they’d all be as Otherworldly beautiful and easy to pick out of a crowd as Death and Morpheus had been. 

No one has approached him for strange little favours, or pulled him aside for awkward conversations, or appeared mysteriously over his shoulder while he’s marking in his office. The only folks who’ve buttonholed him lately are some of his students wanting him to sign autographs or chair their Alphabet Army Club, now that it’s been splashed all over the media just how terribly queer Hob is.

(Hob had been right, and that photo of him smoldering at Morpheus on the red carpet had put Oscar Issacs and Jessica Chastaine’s similar shot to shame. He’d had it professionally printed and framed to hang in his bedroom.)

But like the tinny, annoying buzz of the fridge on days when a headache or stress has made the white-noise impossible to ignore, every once and a while, Hob remembers that he’s pledged to service to six entities he doesn't know, doesn’t trust, and doesn’t have any way to contact. Having been made vassal to each of the Endless, Hob was at their beck and call, sworn to serve them where he could, in exchange for permission and approval to be courted by Morpheus. And yet…

Hob hadn’t actually been party to those negotiations, which at that time had felt insultingly high-handed of Morpheus. His lover had not only made promises of subjugation on his behalf, but did so without Hob even knowing the talks were happening. Acts of Service, especially in the guise of feeding people and wheedling his lover to try new foods, might be Hob’s love language, but being sworn to serve something and someone without his consent had been… he’d been well and truly miffed.

Especially since he hadn’t been present to negotiate limits. Hob was willing to do pretty much anything and everything Morpheus asked of him (or any other iteration of Dream of the Endless who came calling, honestly), Hob was not about to fuck someone for Desire, or kill someone for Death, or slip roofies into someone’s drink for Delierum, or… or whatever else an anthropomorphic personification may ask of a human.

He was absolutely unwilling to harm anyone else.

But Morpheus had reassured him that whatever boon may be requested, it would not be in service of hurt or pain, either to other sentient beings, or to himself. Mollified by that at least, Hob had begun to envision what sorts of heroic quests or deeds he may get to embark on in the name of his de facto in-laws. Perhaps saving some damsels, or participating in a spy sting, or going on an epic adventure to retrieve a lost artefact.

So far though... nothing.

So when his first Endless comes knocking, so to speak, it takes Hob a few minutes to figure out what it is that he’s looking at. He had assumed messages from the other Endless would come on scrolls, or sealed letters written on parchment, or through some sort of animal herald like Matthew.

But no. And it is not via a herald.

It is not Desire.

Destiny contacts Hob through, of all things, text message.

Hob is enjoying the mild evening out back of the Inn, in the section of the property that is Hob's private garden.

Out front and around the side of the building, the gravel parking lot is peppered with more picnic tables, bike racks, and flower-choked planters than spaces for cars, which is Hob's subtle way of encouraging his patrons to not drink and drive. The forsythia that Morpheus' regard had caused to spontaneously grow all along the borders is just starting to show little yellow buds, and it's quite pleasant out there this year.

Pleasant. But busy.

At the back of the building, Hob's garden is ringed in with an old-fashioned bramble hedgerow, planted with blackberries, raspberries, and roses. Matthew had eaten his roly-poly fill the previous autumn, competing with the New Kid, who'd foraged fresh ingredients for cocktails and tarts. The carpet of clover that makes up the yard is thick, resilient and just beginning to spring back to life from its time crushed under the winter snow. In the centre of the little green field sits a circle of flagstones and fine red graven, just large enough for three curved loveseats and a small fire cairn.

It's an excellent place to watch a brisk spring sunset, and right now Hob is torn between wanting to start a fire, and being terribly comfortable cozied up on one of the loveseats under a blanket. Morpheus won't be back from his heir’s afternoon nap for at least another hour, and it's starting to grow too dark to proofread any more of Harri's manuscript.

Hob's just decided that maybe he'll pop inside and pester Patrick for a laugh when his phone pings. He doesn't recognize the name or the number, and when he swipes the message open, he has to read it three times over before he clues in who it might be from.

Vassal - I task you with this quest: heal the rift that lies between Rose and Jed Walker’s friend Lyta Trevor-Hall, and Dream of the Endless. It would behoove us all to strengthen the ties that bind.

The contact appears in Hob’s phone as D#1, which makes Hob snort. Sure enough, when he opens his Contacts, he’s got Ds 1 through 7 listed, though D#4 has no associated phone number. He immediately changes D#3 to Best Beloved. Morpheus has no cell phone, of course, that Hob knows of, so he wonders how the Endless are actually managing texting.

He considers showing the text first to Morpheus, and then to Matthew, and after deliberating both possibilities, decides to undertake this doing for Destiny on the sly. After all, if he’d wanted his brother to know, the Destiny would have looped either one or both of the fussy black birds Hob calls his own into the communication.

This is a task for Hob, and Hob alone.

The call of adventure thrumming in his blood, Hob collects up the manuscript, blanket, red pens, phone, and empty pint glass, and patters inside. He knows Rose Walker and her brother Jed live in New Jersey, are the grandchildren of Desire and the late sugar heiress Unity Kincaid, and they became the sole benefactors of her fortune when she died. Beyond that, he has no idea where they might be, or what they might look like, or even how he would go about getting in contact with them. 

And through them, this Lyta Trevor-Hall.

But he is a researcher in profession, and a horrible nosy busy-body in life, and wealthy enough to hire all the private detectives he might need. So he drops his stuff on the sofa, slides his laptop out of his hunter-green leather satchel, and gets to work.

Turns out, though, that Hob needs none of those advanced research skills or wealth. A single Google search turns up Rose's social media profiles, a dozen news articles about Unity and the Sleepy Sickness, a further seven articles in industry magazines about the Kincaid Sugar Trust, an announcement in Publisher’s Weekly about Rose’s forthcoming YA novel, and a single newspaper article about the brutal serial-killer death of a couple named Barnaby and Clarice.

He spends the next hour reading and making notes. He stops only the once to punch a sofa cushion while wishing it was Barnaby's face, then pour himself a careful measure of whiskey. Not too much, though. He wants to do this next bit sober. 

Hob writes and deletes about five different versions of an introductory email before deciding to YOLO FOMO YEET whatever-it-is-the-youth-say-today is, and slides into Rose Walker's DMs.

Hi! You don't know me, but my name is Bob Gadlen and I'm a professor at the University of York in London. I'm reaching out because my boyfriend is a buttoned-up, emotionally constipated twat, and though he'd never say it, I think he misses you.

It’s enough information for Rose to Google him, and get a good idea that he’s who he says he is, and is a public enough a figure that he may be trustworthy. Hob then attaches a selfie he took downstairs in the pub of The New Inn. In the photo, Hob is laughing with crinkled cheeks and an open-mouthed smile, leaning back against the banquette. Morpheus is tucked in behind his shoulder, scowling at the camera with glacier-blue eyes, face resting against Hob's neck. Matthew is visible in the corner of the photo, perched on the sill of an open window, beak stuck in Morpheus' glass of wine.

It's just coming on the end of the work day in New Jersey, so Hob assumes that he's not going to get an answer right away. Especially if Rose has her privacy settings jacked all the way up. So he sets down his phone and starts researching flight costs and hotels. 

A few seconds later, though, his phone pings.

Yeah, Rose Walker has replied. That sounds like Uncle Dream.

NEXT PART

#scifrey #losyark #hob x dream #dream x hob #hob gadling #hob adherent #the hob adherent series #the sandman #sandman fic #dreamling fanfic #dreamling #dreamling fanfiction #dreamling fic #sandman au #professor hob gadling #monsterfucker hob #dream of the endless #morpheus needs to learn to use his words #lord morpheus #hob x morpheus #morpheus x hob #morpheus #netflix the sandman #rose walker #jed walker #daniel hall #lyta hall #lyta trevor-hall #desire of the endless #destiny of the endless

[thelastspeecher]

Look I'm as shocked as you that I'm posting ANOTHER Foster Ford AU ficlet, but what can I say? I had a lot of time to write today and I was inspired to write more Foster Ford stuff, so I did that. Here's the introduction of the daughter Stan didn't realize he had, @agent-jaselin's OC, Molly. Happy Sunday.

——————————————————————————————

              Molly followed the CPS officer up to the house her dad lived in.  It was going to be an adjustment, for sure.  She’d lived her entire life in an apartment, for one thing.  The house had light gray siding, a well-manicured lawn, and a thriving flower garden in front.  Molly slowed to look at the flowers more closely.

              Whose are those?  My stepmom’s?  Molly was apprehensive about meeting her dad’s wife, but if she gardened, maybe she would be willing to let Molly join her.  Or at least tell me what the different plants are.  The CPS officer, a tall, middle-aged, red-haired man, rang the doorbell.  After a few moments, the door opened to reveal a young boy.  The boy was wearing blue shorts, a T-shirt with a UFO on it, and glasses even Molly could tell was thick.  Judging by his twelve fingers and large ruddy nose, features Molly also had, he was the cousin Molly had been told about.

              They didn’t say how old he was.  But he’s gotta be close to my age.  The boy blinked owlishly at the two people on the doorstep.  The CPS officer smiled at him.

              “Hello, Stanford.  Is your uncle home?” he asked.  Before the boy, Stanford, could answer, a man appeared in the doorway.  He scowled at Stanford.

              “Ford, how many times do I have to tell you?  You can’t answer the door on your own!” he scolded.  His New Jersey accent immediately reminded Molly of her mom.  Stanford hid behind the man’s legs.  The man looked at the CPS officer.  He paled.  “Uh.  Something wrong?”

              “Why would there be something wrong, Stan?” the CPS officer asked.  The man, Stan, laughed awkwardly and ran his hand through his thick, curly brown hair.

              Just like mine.  Molly cast a side-eyed glance at Stanford.  And just like his, too.

              “Just my instinct when I see any sorta cop, y’know?” he said, trying to sound lighthearted.  But Molly could hear the anxiety in his voice he was trying to hide.  “Ford’s really happy here and Angie and I love having him.  We don’t want to lose him.”

              “Oh, I’m not here to take Stanford away from you!” the CPS officer said.  Stan’s shoulders drooped in relief.  “I’m here to drop off Molly.”

              “…Molly?”

              “Yes.  Your daughter.”

              “I don’t have a daughter.”

              “You do.  With Carla McCorkle.”

              “I…huh?”  Stan seemed blindsided.  The CPS officer gently nudged Molly so that she was in front of him, rather than behind him.  Stan stared at her, taking in her features.  When he got to her six-fingered hands, his mouth dropped open.  “I- I’ve got a kid with Carla?” he said weakly.

              “This shouldn’t be a surprise,” the CPS officer said.  He looked down at his notepad.  “We called a few days ago and spoke to Angie on the phone.”

              “Oh, shoot.”  Stan sighed.  “Angie’s been crazy busy with work and school lately.  She must’ve written it down and forgotten to tell me about the note or whatever.”  He paused.  “So, uh, does Carla suddenly wanna share custody or something?”

              “We were actually hoping you would take full custody of Molly.”

              “Full custody?  Why?”  Stan’s eyes widened.  “Carla isn’t- she’s not dead, is she?”

              “No, she isn’t,” the CPS officer said.  “But she has decided to give up her parental rights to Molly for, um, personal reasons.”  Molly scowled.

              That’s a fancy way to say she got sick of me.  Stan seemed to pick up on the euphemism as well.  A sour look settled on his face.

              “Mind sharing what those personal reasons were?” he asked.

              “She felt she couldn’t tend to Molly’s needs anymore.”

              “I see.”  Stan chewed on his lip, thinking.  “I mean, I’m not gonna leave my kid on the streets.  Even if I just found out about her.  Come on in.  We’ll iron out the details.”  He stood to the side, allowing the CPS officer and Molly to come in.  Molly looked at her surroundings carefully, trying to piece together what she could from the décor.  Like the yard outside, everything was tidy.

              Probably ‘cause of my stepmom, since Mom said my dad’s a messy person.  She followed the adults into a kitchen.  The kitchen table had piles of paperwork on it, but it seemed to be an organized mess.  A few photographs, a mixture of people and animals, hung on the walls.  They said my stepmom is getting a doctorate in biology.  Maybe she took the pictures.  All Molly knew about her stepmom was what CPS had told her.  She knew a bit more about her dad, thanks to her mom telling her stories, but even that was probably outdated.  For one thing, CPS said her dad was a gym teacher, and her mom thought he didn’t even graduate high school.

              “We can talk in here,” Stan said.  He looked down at Stanford, still clinging to his legs.  “Why don’t you go play for a bit?” he suggested.  He carefully pried Stanford off and nudged him towards the adjacent living room.  Stanford reluctantly did as he was told, wandering out of the kitchen.  Stan, Molly, and the CPS officer sat at the kitchen table, Stan across from Molly and the CPS officer.

              “If you are hesitant to take Molly, due to having your hands full with Stanford, we understand.  We can place her with someone else,” the CPS officer said.

              “Like who?” Stan asked.  “My mom?  Shermie?”

              “Your mother and brother aren’t licensed foster parents yet, so while Molly might eventually end up with them, she’d start off with an unrelated foster family.  Given her intelligence, she’d likely be placed with Stanford’s first foster family.”

              “What?”  Stan shook his head.  “No!  Sure, Wyatt and Madeline are great, but she’s got family who can take care of her.  She’ll stay with us unless she decides she wants to stay with someone else.”  Molly felt her shoulders slump in relief.  Part of her had worried she would be pawned off over and over again.  Stan looked at her with a weak smile.  “You’re a smarty-pants, huh?”

              “Very much so,” the CPS officer said.  “We recommend enrolling her in the same school as Stanford.”

              “Sure.  What grade will she be in?”

              “First grade.”

              “Like Ford.”  Stan looked at Molly again.  “How old are you?”

              “Six.”

              “Like Ford again.  When’s your birthday?”

              “November twelfth.  I turn seven this year.”

              “Ford’s birthday is April twenty-second.”

              “So he’s younger than me,” Molly said.  Stan nodded.  “He’s my cousin, right?”

              “Yeah.”  Stan crossed his arms and glanced away.  “He’s my twin brother’s kid.”  He frowned.  “And he’s about your size, so until we get a chance to run to the store, you two might have to share some clothes.”  Molly shrugged.  She couldn’t care less about sharing clothes.  All she cared about was staying out of dresses and skirts.

              And they probably don’t have any of those for Stanford.

              “Do you have a room Molly will be able to stay in?” the CPS officer asked.

              “We’ve got a coupla extra rooms.  Angie and I will talk about which one we give to Molly, but until then, she can stay in the guest room,” Stan said.

              “I get my own room?” Molly asked.  Stan raised an eyebrow.

              “Uh, yeah.  I’m not gonna make you stay with Ford.  Kids need their space.”

              “We have a few more things to discuss for Molly’s residence with you,” the CPS officer said, “as well as some paperwork you’ll need to sign.”  He began to place manila folders on the table.  “And it would be a good idea to go over how this situation will be different than fostering Stanford.”

              “I don’t see why it would be different,” Stan said with a shrug.  “They’re the same age and I’m taking care of them.”

              “Legally, this will be different,” the CPS officer clarified.  “I understand you plan to pursue formally adopting Stanford, but you are still technically his foster parent.  However, you are Molly’s legal parent.”

              “If we’re gonna talk legal things, then I might wanna call my lawyer.”

              “Feel free to,” the CPS officer said.  “Actually, it’s probably a good idea.”  He looked at Molly.  “Did you bring your book with you when we came in?” he asked.  Molly nodded.  “Maybe you could join Stanford in the living room while your father and I get the finer details figured out.”

              “If you don’t wanna read, Ford’s got some LEGOs that he’ll share if you ask,” Stan suggested.  Molly shook her head.

              “I’ll read my book,” she said.  She slid off her chair and went into the living room.  The coffee table in front of the light brown sofa was, much like the kitchen table, covered in paperwork.  Molly skimmed the words on the papers, but it seemed to be incredibly technical scientific terminology.  She couldn’t understand much of it.  There was a meow from behind her, startling her.  She turned.  A multi-colored cat sat on the sofa, watching her, tail twitching idly.

              “That’s Dr. Whiskers,” Stanford said.  Molly turned her head.  Her cousin was sitting in the corner, building something with LEGOs.  He smiled, but it was clearly forced.  “He’s a nice cat, don’t worry.  He might try to eat your food, but Aunt Angie and Uncle Stan are working on that.  And he makes up for it by snuggling really well at night.”

              “…Good to know, I guess,” Molly mumbled.  She climbed onto the couch next to Dr. Whiskers.  Dr. Whiskers promptly began to rub against her, purring loudly.

              “Ford, check if Molly wants a drink or a snack,” Stan called from the kitchen.  Stanford looked at Molly.

              “Did you hear him?” he asked.

              “Duh.”

              “Do- do you want a snack or drink?” Stanford asked timidly.  Molly shrugged.

              “I guess.”

              “Do you have any allergies?”

              “No.”  Molly frowned at him.  “Do you?”

              “No, but Aunt Angie does, so she likes to check with guests,” Stanford said.  Molly bristled.

              “I’m not a guest,” she said firmly, crossing her arms.  “I’ve got as much of a right to be here as you.”  Stanford opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.  He rubbed the back of his neck.

              “You’re right,” he mumbled.  He got up.  “I’ll get some juice or something.”  Molly watched him go into the kitchen.  As he walked past the table, Stan ruffled Stanford’s hair, making him smile.  Molly frowned.  She could feel herself getting jealous of the affection her father was showing towards her cousin.  But that wasn’t a surprise.  When she found out her father was fostering a different kid already, she suspected she’d have to compete for attention from him.

              I didn’t think my competition would be so much like me, though.  And so weird!  Stanford came back.  He placed an apple juice box on the coffee table, smiled awkwardly, and returned to his LEGOs.  Molly opened her book but couldn’t focus.  She kept glancing at Stanford sitting in the corner, building some sort of structure.  There’s something off about him.  I don’t know what it is, but I’m gonna figure it out.

#Gravity Falls #Gravity Falls AU #Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #Molly Pines #Foster Ford AU #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks #should I space it out and post this like tomorrow or something? maybe #but I'm excited that I got this done today so I'm posting it TODAY #(rip in peace to my multichaps which I should've worked on today instead of this)

[tarnishedinquirer]

Location: Morne Tunnel

Working my way west, the next point of interest was a tunnel, conveniently marked on my map. First I had to pass a near solid wall of poison pollen from those giant flowers, but I just held my breath and spurred Torrent through.

Are these flowers native to here? Or are they an invasive species gone completely out of control?

Unlike the Limgrave Tunnel, this one was not just populated by miners. Instead, they were overseen by Misbegotten. I wonder if that's why it's called the Morne Tunnel instead of the Weeping Tunnel?

Okay, not that one. That sounds like a euphemism.

I wonder if the Misbegotten in here even know or care about the events at the castle. At the very least, they don't seem to be bothered by the miners, so they clearly don't all have a grudge against humans.

Another thing I found noteworthy was the fact that they weren't at all affected by the meteor madness like the miners and maybe even the Starcallers. Just like with the Frenzied Flame. Perhaps their chimeric nature affords them some resistance to things that would change their mind or body?

Hmm...scratch that about them not being involved. I found three of them in the main room on the lower level, butchering some unfortunate. Was it a miner? A commoner? By the time I got there, it was hard to even tell. They were holding an Arteria Leaf though. I found a treasure chest holding some Exalted Flesh, a delicacy of the badlands, and Arteria Leaves are a vital component of that. Maybe they killed him just to get the leaf? Nah. There's easier ways.

The final chamber was guarded by a Scaly Misbegotten. It's possible the meteor may have enhanced his strength somewhat, but not enough for me to notice.

However, what he was guarding... that, I took notice of.

an ancient, rusted anchor. It was stylized to have a snake wrapping around it, with the snake's head being a bearded man in agony. Provocative imagery, to be sure, but then the voice chimed in.

When the Tarnished left the Lands Between with their Lord, one boat alone was said to have been left behind.

So when my ancestors and their Lord were exiled, one ship was left behind? Presumably, this is that's ship anchor. So some tarnished remained in the Lands Between?

Questions:

Why so many poisonous flowers in this region?

Why are Misbegotten immune to madness?

What happened to the missing ship?

Who, if anyone, does the anchor depict?

What was the name of the Tarnished Lord?

Why would a misbegotten be guarding the anchor?

#elden ring #elden ring lore #in character #in character blog #in character post #let's play

[phoenix-is-the-hottest-thing]

ch38~39 hot take

At the end of chapter 38, Vita dies in a weirdly random data disintegration moment.

At first I thought she got teleported bc we see her again later, but it looks like no, she actually does die.

She says more or less “this body couldn’t escape its fate to decay”

The word for this is one for dead/inanimate things (such as a corpse, so she’s basically saying this dying/dead body)

The word for decay is a common euphemism for death, literally it means like a flower fading, I saw it used in a sentence for a generation dying out as well. It seems to carry an underlying meaning of expiration but I’m not an expert.

The fact that she dies right when Susannah has succeeded and the bridge gets destroyed at the same time shows that Sa has started interfering directly, possibly in reaction to Susannah reaching Earth to ask for help?

In other words, she might’ve gotten shanked for helping the gang a little too much.

When she comes back, it’s as an antagonist, but she does apologize and says she “has to” do what she’s doing. So that’s kind of suspicious. Did she get scolded? What happened?

The fact that she came back at all from the “dead” makes me think it’s part of the rebirth theme too. What she says during that spell of hers is:

"Without passing through the hands of Sa, no one shall know a new life/rebirth"

And she says it again at the end of the act as a reaction to Seele’s revival.

This makes me think that’s also something she undergoes. In between the times we see her, she might’ve been reborn through Sa. Her memories seem to be intact at least, but so are Misteln’s, and she’s not the original Hare either…

It could be a way for Sa to facilitate her job to destroy a bubble she got attached to, or a way to restore some power for her to fight with since the original Vita we met seemingly wasn’t all that personally powerful, or maybe she just has multiple vessels…

…but the reborn thing definitely seems to apply to her, I think.

Maybe that’s why Hua got rejected from the bubble? She’s revived without Sa’s help before, banned from the server hahaha

#honkai impact #hi3 #honkai spoilers #vita

[hide-in-imagination]

Well, after reading the last question asked about whether Ambar and Simon had sexual experiences before, I have to ask when do you think they had sex for the first time? like in which episode and do you think they even slept together during the series? Anyway, I love your work and can't wait for your next updates <333

Hello!! Thank you so much for your support, I hope I can update soon🙏🏻

Realistically, I think they must have done it some time after they started dating, maybe a month or so (could be more if one of them was a virgin.) The last episode was Luna's birthday and we're lead to believe that there was a time jump between the previous episode and that one, but it's not specified how long it's been, so I can't affirm that they had slept together by then, BUT Ámbar did call him 'my love' by then, so maybe ?? I mean, if enough time had passed for them so say 'I love you' to each other, then it's a possibility. (Although she could call him 'my love' without saying I love you first, but I think that's weird.)

Now, the most fun option is to believe that they slept together after he gave her the white rose 👀 Sure, it would be a little fast considering they had just gotten together-- BUT THE SYMBOLISM OF HER LEAVING THE WHITE ROSE BEHIND BEFORE GOING DOWN THE STAIRS TO MEET HIM??

I MEAN, COME ON!! White roses mean innocence, purity, new beginnings-- And in Spanish (I don't know if it's the same way in English) 'flower' is sometimes used as an euphemism for a woman's virginity. Like "He took her flower."

So, yeah. I'm not saying they did it that night, but it sure as hell is fun to think that they did 😂 The cinematography seems to point to it and that's Disney's fault-- I wash my hands of it.

#simbar #anon #answered

[la-principessa-nuova]

My Secret Trans Room

One of the cool things about the layout of my house is that I have a walk in closet that is extremely out of the way and pretty much safe from any guest ever going in it, and so when I say I am a closeted trans woman I mean I’m literally hiding in a closet.

It started as just a corner in this closet where I put my fem clothes and my wig, but then I started jokingly referring to it as my “girl cave” (euphemism not intended) or my “trans room”, and slowly I started wanting to make it a safe space where I can be in girl mode and feel comfortable and girly.

Back when I was trying out the name Alice, I got this cute wall decal and then never got around to updating it. To be fair I also never got around to bringing some other colors of dry erase marker downstairs, so I never got around to updating my whiteboard to be prettier.

Fun fact about that whiteboard sticker is that I had a roll of that from a project years ago and then when I started my current job, I temporarily had to work out of this closet while I waited for my new laptop to arrive (they gave me one that didn’t work with the dock I have upstairs as a placeholder but I had another dock hooked up in this room for writing that I barely ever ended up using because I never work on my book). So one day while I was working in there I got stuck on a problem and needed to work it out on a whiteboard and so I went and grabbed that roll and stuck this bit on the wall.

You can also see here the corner where I have some D20 stuff that gives up more masc energy. I didn’t want to kick it out of the room because I still like it, but I didn’t want it affecting the vibe of the room so it sits in the corner. You can also see a little bit in this picture and the next one the corner of masc shirts because my other bedroom closet doesn’t have a hanging rod so I needed to hang a few shirts in here. They’re my attempt to phase in more color to make my choice of clothes after coming out seem a little less uncharacteristic to my family.

Next up is the area where I hang my dresses and sweaters. This spot used to just be where I hung my trans flag, but as my wardrobe expanded I needed the space. I’ve also crammed my mirror and lamp in here. The lamp has to be behind the mirror because otherwise I’m in shadow when I look in the mirror. But yeah, it’s really crammed in there.

My purses are also there. I got a couple different styles to try out, also because they’re really just to complete outfits right now since I’m not going anywhere in girl mode yet.

The red and black striped sweater is a really cute cat hoodie that I wish I took a picture with while I was up taking photos. I’m in bed now, but maybe tomorrow or something I’ll put together an outfit to show off some of my cute cat stuff.

Next we have the other side of the room. In terms of decorations, we have LEGO flowers in a knock-off lego vase, Blåhaj with trans cat ears, some trans and lesbian flags, a Korok (Yahaha! You found me!), and Boggy the Froggy. If you look back to the first photo in this post, you can see Peppermint Preston and Big Blåhaj.

Oh yeah, and how can I forget the three little Dvärgtall guys next to the books? (BTW I didn’t remember the name so I googled “ikea decorative men” and it came up).

In the middle is an epic gamer sit/stand desk that I have slowly been turning into a vanity. I just got it ready to actually use, so I haven’t brought my make up in from the bathroom yet. That will go in the bins under the mirror.

Zooming in a little closer, we can see my cute acrylic tape dispenser on the left of the mirror and the unicorn diffuser on the right. I don’t buy into the essential oil pseudoscience stuff but I prefer them over chemically air fresheners and scented candles for making a room smell good. I usually diffuse rose in this room, so it always smells like a mixture of roses and new clothes.

Past the vanity, I have a couple bookshelves. This is mostly LGBT books and a few books that just look a bit girly, plus some very trans-adjacent manga. They’re partially in here to hide them so they don’t out me, but mostly just because they add to the aesthetic.

Below that I have some shoes, but not much because I don’t go outside in girl mode yet. Then I have a hanging shelf thing where I keep most of my bottoms, and next to it all of my tops.

Beyond that is what can only possibly be described as too many wigs. Of the 15 wigs, I would say that 8 are wearable and maybe 4 are something I plan on wearing depending on what style I’m going for in the near future. Some of them are obviously more for goofing around dressing up, but some are just bad wigs. The bottom right one is tangled beyond repair, but I keep it because it was my first wig that I bought the night my egg cracked.

Honorable mention to the “MAKE YOURSELF A PRETTY GIRL” box one of my wigs came in and my Sundry Sidney poster, positioned almost like a call and response.

P.S.

I went to walk back into the room to put my glasses down and the only light was the red charging light on this galaxy moon. Way creepier vibe than usual.

#transgender #trans

[arizonapoppy]

Tangled Web Book Club: Blindly Wise

I wanted to understand more about the "Blindly Wise" chapter heading, so I read the poem that I suspect LMM is making an epigraph of. It is called "The Two Voices," by Tennyson. And boy, is it a doozy.

The main character of the poem is someone who seems to have really screwed up their life. They appear in vague Victorian euphemisms to be considering suicide. I'm picturing a Prodigal Son situation (since LMM was a pastor's wife) or in a more recent metaphor, a George Bailey situation.

The Dialogue

Similar to George Bailey, the Person wishes they had never been born. Then a voice, whom we'll call First Voice, with very flowery words spends several stanzas telling the Person "Yeah, you messed up." First Voice makes references to the myth of Ixion, who broke the laws of hospitality twice (!) and was doomed to eternal torment on a spinning wheel in the sky or in Tartarus for it. First Voice also may imply that the Person has been deceived when it mentions a "cloud," which is when Ixion had sexual relations with a cloud that he thought was Hera, but wasn't. (This resulted in the race of centaurs.)

The Person mentions that they made a valiant effort, and did everything they could to earn the praise and renown of their peers. The Person says "everyone will hate me after I die and remember my disgrace. I just wish I could drink a draught of Lethe" (the ancient Greek underworld river that wiped away memories of the dead). The Person wants a clean slate.

The First Voice prevaricates and says maybe people will forget them, but maybe not. The First Voice points out that dead people will never be able to do anything again in the world of open possibilities. Even after death life goes on- bees will still visit flowers, the sun will still shine after rain. By dying the Person will be giving up their agency to strive to turn the situation around. The First Voice says that the key is to set one's eye on the horizon and goal and keep climbing or rowing or walking.

First Voice says that "there is one remedy for all" which I am assuming means faith in the Christian God. After a lot more back and forth, dawn breaks and it is Sunday morning and the Person sees a pious family going to church. The Person is knocked out of their self-pity, wishing the family well. (I'm picturing a full church bells and "Regina Coeli Laetare" from Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana here)

The Person speaks again, but the First Voice is gone.

dunt

dunt

DUNNN

Is the Person alone and comfortless?

Instead, there is a new voice. Second Voice is softer and sweeter. (Confer 1 Kings 19:12-13, where the voice of God is not in an earthquake or a fire but a "still small voice.") Where First Voice was cutting and negative, Second Voice gives encouragement. Where First Voice used flowery purple prose and thee/thou, Second Voice speaks simply using "you." It urges the Person to "Be of Good Cheer." (This seems very similar to the albatross in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which was also a religious allegory.)

Person says "Who are you and what do you know anyway?"

To which the Second Voice replies, I don't. But I have hope.

From this the Person feels better after their spiral into depression and goes through the woods rejoicing. They regret listening to the one bad thought that sent them down a dark path. (But honestly, as one who struggles with depression, I sympathize with the Person and how quickly things can get bad and forgetting to hope.)

What Does Blindly Wise Mean Anyway?

I still don't fully understand the "blindly wise" part after reading it many times. I have a couple theories, neither of which I am settled on. One interpretation is that I think the First Voice is saying that the Christian God is the one who is blindly wise, reading the soul of each person and determining their overall balance of good and bad like Justice wearing a blindfold.

The other interpretation is that I think the one who is blindly wise is a human being, that people have an inner conscience that they can consult, if they are willing to listen. Even though a person might have "a baseness in his blood (a)t such strange war with something good" there is another option to choose good.

Where this comes into the story:

Several characters in this book have gone through Long Dark Nights of the Soul. Gay and Joscelyn have both suffered intense heartbreak and social humiliation. They both thought their lives were over with no hope of a second chance or future happiness. There are other things coming up that I won't mention because of spoilers. I think that LMM is making a reference to the various tribulations and revelations that the characters are going through. They have done foolish things and feel remorse, or awful things have been done to them, and feel that they are without hope. Now they are gaining new happiness out of sorrow, or at least Gay is. I won't say anything more, because

#tangled web book club #tangled web spoilers #meta #tw: depression #tw: suicidal ideation #hang onto your hats #this is a doozy #Youtube

[copingmechanizm]

Do you know you’ll never fly alone?

(steddie, hospital au)

*title from “Wings of Time” by Tame Impala*

Tw: mentions of suicide attempt, kind of illustrative so be aware

Eddie feels like shit. And that’s an euphemism in his dictionary. He got here only last morning and yet he already has enough. The walls are white, the ceiling is white, the sheets are white, fuck even the flowers on the window sills are white. Because of all this whiteness his head starts to hurt and if he won’t get out of this fucking room he’ll jump out of the window. Oh wait, he can’t, the windows don’t open because it’s a fucking psychiatric ward! Yes, that’s right. He, Eddie “The Freak” Munson finally is where he belongs. Or at least where people from his town always imagined him ending in. This or prison. To be honest this place somewhat combines the two. He can’t go out without someone accompanying him, even to the hospital yard. The only place outside of his room where he could go is the corridor and there is only so much to do in one fucking corridor. Since breakfast (that was like two hours ago?), when he finally had enough strength to walk on his own, he walked this couple of meters for something around ten times over. He would walk more but it started to annoy nurses and other patients and they made him stay in his room. Fools. They don’t know yet what it means to be annoyed by one Eddie Munson. But soon they will. If he’ll have to stay here for another day. And he will. That’s what doctors says. He didn’t have a meeting with miss psychiatrist yet (ironic huh) and really she’s the one to have a final say in this. He’s dreading the appointment and it’s scheduled in only few hours. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone about what happened, about why he’s here and what lead to this. He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone anymore, that was kind of the whole purpose of why he slashed his wrists. Well, maybe by Ouija board? But he imagined to answer only cool people trying to summon him. Anyway, the point is, he tried, he failed even this, and now he has to do exactly what he wanted to escape from- talking about his problems while being a burden to everyone around.

To try to distract himself from welling thoughts, he starts preparing for his Great Escape But Not Really An Escape by stuffing pillows and other stuff under his blanket so from the door’s window it would look like he’s sleeping in his bed. He also puts on his jacket and combat shoes and grabs his wallet. Satisfied by the results he peaks through the small window and when there’s no one around he darts to the corridor and then further to the elevator. He gets off on the ground floor, trying to look as unsuspicious as its possible given he still has his hospital gown on. After a bit of aimless wandering, he finally found what looks like some sort of back entrance or just entrance for staff only. Perfect. Now he can finally breath some fresh air. Well not that fresh as he takes his ciggs and lighter out of his pocket. He lights one up and takes a deep breath. That’s exactly what he needed. Really, this stay is kind of missing its point if they don’t let him smoke. His only joy in this life. Outside of weed but he won’t try that in hospital, he’s not that stupid.

As he stands there in peace, the door abruptly open scaring the shit out of the long haired. He already has million excuses on his tongue for why he’s out here but they die as his eyes land on the pretty (oh so so fucking pretty) man in polo shirt and jeans. So, definitely not a nurse or a doctor. His eyes meet the blue ones of the newcomer (and how can a man have so many lashes?), opened in pleasant surprise. He stops in half a step, looking right at Eddie. He swears he’s probably already red with all this attention from the blond haired boy (and what a hair he has, fluffy, shiny and styled with clearly much care). He’s not used to handsome guys looking at him with anything other than disgust.

“You probably shouldn’t be here.” The pretty boy breaks the silence and Eddie gets even more red because he’s clearly right. He’s also suddenly embarrassed by one: being here and two: wearing only a hospital gown under his jacket.

“Well yes, probably, but I needed a smoke and for some reason nurses would rather eat a bug that let me go outside alone and the windows in my room don’t open” He says quickly, with the urge to explain himself to this godlike man.

“Alright.” The blond says while still closely watching Eddie. “Can I get one then? I too need a smoke but my friend threw away my last pack.”

“umm…sure?” The man was too stunned to speak so he just reaches his pocket and hands the pack and lighter to the stranger.

“Thanks.” He smiles like Eddie just hang the Moon for him instead of giving one cigarette. “By the way my name’s Steve.”

“Eddie.” He smiles even brighter at hearing the name and they smoke in surprisingly comfortable silence, watching each other from the corner of their eyes.

“Soooo, you say your friend threw your equivalent of the gods nectar away?” Eddie suddenly asks stubbing the burnt out cigarette to the ground and throwing it away, Steve following his steps a second later. He never was good at keeping his mouth shut for too long. And if he made Steve smile again at his wording (pretty accurate if you ask him) in the process that’s a bonus.

“Hah yeah, she did. She hates when I smoke and she’s convinced that taking away my ciggs will make me magically quit.” His smile grows fonder as he talks about his friend. She must be really important to him.

“She truly is, the most important person in my life.” Ups, he said that out loud. Well, at least it’s nothing bad. He probably would have said it anyway. “I work with her here at the little store by the main entrance. And speaking of which, my break will end soon so I should go back.” The disappointment that floods him as he’s hearing those words is familiar and brings Eddie back to reality. These last not even ten minutes was the most relaxed he’s been in weeks if not months and now just like that it has to end. Like everything good in his life. Steve starts towards the door, but halts with one hand already on the handle. “When you’ll manage to sneak out again, come by if you want? I’d love to talk with you some more.” The blond says suddenly nervous, looking hopefully back at Eddie. And Eddie still stuck on his last thought, trying to wrap his head around the idea that this perfect guy wants to meet him again, can only nod in response. Seeing the dark haired reaction, Steve smiles satisfied and goes through the entrance back to his work.

Eddie stands there for a little longer, watching the door. Steve’s words playing on repeat in his head with the addiction of the picture of the blinding smile he had on when he looked at Eddie one last time. When he finally came back to full sanity (hah, you get the joke, full sanity in psych ward) he starts to go towards the elevator and back to his room. By some miracle (that’s the only explanation as he’s pretty sure he used all of his life’s worth of luck already back there with Steve) no one noticed he was gone. He cleans his bed from all this stuff he left there and throws himself on it with a long sigh. He’ll have to get up soon and write down somewhere what just happened because he’s certain he’ll think it was all just some kind of rare case of a good dream tomorrow morning. He definitely doesn’t want it to be just a dream.

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #au #ficklet #this idea hunted me all day so here you go