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goodluckclove · 1 month

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Migration Pattern Sneak Peek: Scott and Edgar

Is this spoilers? Kind of? I mean, if you don't want to know any cute developments in the relationship between Scott and Edgar you can skip this one. This does reveal a small element of their shared past, but if you don't consider spoilers to be literally any element of the story give it a shot.

I don't know, man. It's cute as fuck and I want to share it. Read more below!

Edgar’s mouth quivered in a hesitant smile. It broke free a while after that and he grinned fully, staring down at the bed. Scott willed himself to remember this moment and its entirety. The fading light of an early winter’s evening. The musky warmth of the room around them. His lover’s hands, still lightly squeezing his leg. If he had to crystallize one inch of the wild expanse of feeling he was capable of on an hourly basis it would be this one – the pride and affection, the shy hope like fresh-peeled oranges.

“What are you going to do with it?” Scott asked.

“Huh?” Edgar looked up at him, still blinking away the daze provoked by his praise. “Oh. Hah. You...You can have it. If you want.”

Scott smiled. “No. I mean – yes, obviously. But,” he looked down at the words again, almost as if confirming they were still there. “You’re going to submit it somewhere, right?”

“Submit –?” Edgar made a breathy scoff. “Come on, Scott. I haven’t written poetry in years, I’m not about to publish it.”

“There’s a birthright literary journal. Two of them, actually. I’ve only been checking the online one, but I think the magazine is still sold in Witch Town regions,” something occurred to him, and Scott perked up. “And the elders organize a yearly grant for emerging creatives! They used to, at least. When I was growing up.”

Edgar relaxed into curiosity. Maybe in hopes that he could change the subject. “Did you ever get it?”

“No. Yes – well,” Scott frowned, a little embarrassed. “They tried to, at least. I said no.”

“Seriously? Why?”

Scott allowed himself to drift into the grounding lucidity of Edgar’s presence. He thought of those snapshot moments – all he really had left of his past at the moment – where he woke up from sleep and immediately dove for his notebook to write the words fresh from his dreams. That time, alone in the silence of his small bedroom, was a completely different kind of inspiration than what he felt playing the piano. It felt like being cold and having someone who loves you wrap their coat around your shoulders.

The words weren’t his. He always knew that. When he tried to explain it to others they took it as the ravings of a muse-crazed artist. Scott didn’t know how to explain it any clearer than what he said. He had no idea how he arranged the lyrics that he did, but he knew with abject certainty that those were not his words.

“Can I show you something?” Scott asked.

Without waiting for an answer he shifted out of Edgar’s touch and went to his bookshelf. He knew in the back of his mind what he was looking for, but it took him a long while before he found where he left it before leaving home. Then it was there – the thick, battered composition book that contained every song he – or they – ever wrote.

It was so old. The spine was long ruined and held together by duct tape frayed along the edges. A lot of the black and white splotches on the cover were worn into soft, blank card stock. There was a mailing label stuck to the center where Tenzin drew a little doodle of him with his hair put up the way he liked it as a teen.

The shyness was odd. He was sure by now that he wasn’t showing Edgar anything he’d seen before, and yet his chest felt tight with anticipation. Because once Edgar would see this, he would know. He of all people would know. And even the thought of his understanding how Scott spent years weaving together their minds so intimately that he barely understood what he was doing...it brought a physical quality with it. A hand on his waist or the small of his back.

He took a deep breath and turned around. It was time they understood each other.

“Here,” he said.

Edgar didn’t look like he understood what was about to happen. Still, he took the book, and after smiling at the state of the outer cover he opened to the first page.

His smile didn’t fade. He wasn’t upset. Edgar’s expression did freeze in place for a while, and for a moment or two it was clear that he stopped breathing entirely. His eyes didn’t blink as he carefully flipped through the pages. A few times he stopped like he was about to read through a page, but then he would quickly swipe away.

After some time he closed the notebook and put it down on his lap. Edgar still stared down where it once laid open. He wasn’t upset. It just looked like he was thinking.

Scott felt naked. Skinless. Just bare, shamefully-pulsing meat shivering in the still air of his bedroom. It was unbearable.

“These are your songs?” Edgar said, quiet and a little vague.

“I know they’re…” Scott coughed softly into his hand and tried again. “I know they’re not…”

“Are these the only ones you wrote down?”

“No, I – I’d think of more. But…” he smiled weakly, even though Edgar wasn’t looking at him. “Those were my favorites. They were the ones that I could think of a good melody for.”

“Because you’d...sing them,” Edgar’s voice got even softer. “You would – would sing my...sing your…”

Edgar’s chest was beginning to rise and fall at a slightly faster rate. Scott wanted to touch his chest. He craved the heat of his bond’s skin warm against his cheek and the sound of his heart beat thumping in his ear. But if he did that now Scott would leave damp, sour-smelling stains on Edgar’s shirt, because at the moment he was still a pile of skinless meat.

“You…” Edgar let the word grow, bloom, ripen and fall in the air above their heads. “You liked it?”

“It meant everything to me,” Scott said.

A small smile touched Edgar’s face. “I-I’ve never – I mean, I never showed my poetry to anybody. But some of this…” he made a noise that was between a laugh and a sigh. “A lot of this are things I’d rip out and burn as soon as I finished them.”

“They’re so precious to me,” Scott whispered. “You’re so precious to me.”

Edgar lowered his head. He took one hand and ran the thumb up and down the inner crook of his opposite elbow. Scott remembered the first time he did that, right as they stood by Edgar’s open bedroom door on the night they meant. He could still feel the ghost of what he felt back then, but overlaid on top of that was the new determination of what he had to do next.

He crossed the small space between them and got down on his knees in front of Edgar. Just as his lover started to lift his hand, Scott carefully took his hand from off his arm and pressed it to his lips. He held it there, then cupped the palm against his cheek. Scott closed his eyes and felt the slight roughness of Edgar’s touch, the grazing of callouses, the raised line of his bond scar.

In the darkness of his closed eyes he head Edgar’s voice begin to tremble. “You’ve been waiting for so long…” he began.

“I’d do it again.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You survived,” Scott said.

Edgar huffed a derisive laugh through his nose. “Look at you, Scott. I’m nothing like you –”

“I know,” Scott breathed. “That’s my favorite part about all of this.”

He felt Edgar’s hand move on its own, fingers tracing down the side of Scott’s face. He opened his eyes when he felt Edgar tilt his head up to look at him.

“It isn’t fair,” he said. “It’s not fair to you. I’m pretty much a normal human being, and you’re this goddamned painting –”

“Then let’s be normal together.”

Edgar furrowed his brow. “What?”

In a sudden burst of passion Scott rose up higher and kissed Edgar, gentle and long with his lips relaxed. He pulled back enough to see nothing else of reality other than the vibrant brown of Edgar’s eyes. Scott smiled, immersed in the color.

“Teach me how to tie my shoes,” he said.

Edgar was torn between laughter and charm. “I – you know, I had a feeling…”

Scott kissed him again, moving forward until he had Edgar fully reclined across the middle of the bed. He felt Edgar’s hands on either side of him – not obstrusive, more stabilizing than anything else. Which only fueled his fire even more.

“Let’s go grocery shopping together,” he whispered in Edgar’s ear. “I want you to show me how to drive a car.”

He heard Edgar shudder a breath and tighten his grasp on Scott’s waist. Just weak – no, not weak. Not Edgar. Just surrendering.

Scott kissed his forehead. “I want to register to vote,” he said.

“Are you not..?” Edgar’s breath hitched as Scott kissed each of his cheeks. “Have you never voted?”

“Security measures.”

He started to kiss Edgar again when his bond stopped their faces from fully meeting. Edgar steadied his face about a foot above him and stared deeply into his eyes. Scott felt his fingers graze the bridge of his nose and run across his lips. Edgar took every part of him in, seeing with such clarity that Scott could almost use him as a mirror.

Scott let this happen. He let himself be seen.

“I don’t want to go back,” Edgar finally whispered.

“Okay,” Scott said. “Then you won’t go back.”

“I don’t know what else is out there,” Edgar lowered his hands and let them fall on the mattress above her head. “You’ve been all over the country, haven’t you? What’s it like?”

They were lying across the bed, Scott straddled over Edgar’s waist. In another life, and with another person, Scott would be stripped and in the middle of ravishing or being ravished by now. But Edgar was apparently open for a casual conversation. If the depths of Scott’s devotion for him in that moment had a physical presence it would be an ocean without a bottom.

He moved off from on top of Edgar and laid down beside him across the bed. They stared up a the ceiling. After a moment, Scott moved to interlace their fingers.

“Vermont’s nice,” he said.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #authors of tumblr #queer writers #on writing #writing #writing community #migration patterns #actually writing #asexuality #asexual #acespec #asexual smut

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smokeys-house · 1 year

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Puukko’s Travel Log 2

Passage from Puukko's Travel Log

I'd ne'er put much thought into flying. Snork has though, it seems. A ship that can fly, quite the thing! Imagine, another golden age fer piracy, all the way up in a different wild blue. 'Cept o'course if ye fall overboard, it's less Davey Jones an' more broken bones. At least the burial's still free! I Imagine the hole you'd make oughta be at least six feet deep. Maybe they ought t' tie rope to one another so they just dangle over the side a bit instead? [A small doodle of a grumpy looking moomin with an eyepatch dangling from a rope in the clouds below a flying ship fills the gap before the next line]

Apologies on the grim jokes. Somethin' 'bout adventurin' brings back a bit o' the old me. Beneath my admittedly cuddly exterior these days, turns out I'm still a rough ol' sea dog at heart. Moominmama stuck a big ol' jar of things in my bag when I weren't lookin'. Lots of thoughtful things, little though they may be. A fine letter, as well. Her handwriting's a mite prettier than mine. Gon' stick it the next page over. She's a kind woman, and I've no doubt within her lies a raucous beast. Her husband writes about his "stormy youth", but I'd bet Moominmama's got some memoirs of her own t' write.

Made landfall somewhere flat and dry in what I assume is Italy. Bound t' be a long trek to civilization, but that's all part o' the journey. Snork dropped me off, headed somewhere else. He said somethin' 'bout "making some adjustments" afore he goes off t' find his precious cargo. It's not often I find myself feeling that perhaps I'm in over me head, but if I'm not over me head, I'm at least over me snout. Got to thinkin' so much on people, and being in a strange place, and whether I'll like the food or what have ye, I ne'er even thought on where I were landing or even where I were going. Fixin' t' make camp fer now and see that I can't find my way toward something a lil more populated come morning. The adventure's only just begun.

Day 3

Signed Puukko

To Miss Puukko, from Moominmama

Hello dear. It was lovely to have you, if only for an evening. You're always welcome at Moominhouse. Moomintroll seems to think you a legend like from his fairytales! How fun an idea. I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I've left with you some treats to help you feel more at home on your journey. I'm sure Moominpapa won't mind missing a pinch of tobacco or a drop from his still. You'll be gone before he notices, anyhow. There's a number of things here, but don't be hasty to enjoy them right away. You'll know when you need them! Stay safe out there, dear. The world's changed a lot since you came to the valley, and pirates aren't quite as common as they used to be.

I hope whatever you're looking for, you find it. Or maybe you're hoping it'll find you.

Warmest regards,

Moominmama and the Moomin family.

A large glass jar with a red cloth pinned under the lid. It's filled with a variety of things, most of which are labeled in Moominmama's handwriting. Some have a small note attached, as well. Below the letter, Puukko has inventoried the jar's contents in her journal.

A satchet of tobacco from Moominpapa's pipe bag

A small portion of raspberry jam

A pouch of loose tea, it smells sweet but medicinal. "should you feel ill, or for sour moods"

A dram of whisky, courtesy of Papa's still. "just a taste, don't go overboard!"

A tin of some kind of balm or poultice. "one of grandma's recipes, for cuts and bruises"

An off-white kerchief with a rose embroidered on it

A few cookies. "filling, but not too much"

A single serving of spices with a fish drawn on its wax-paper bundle

#whetstone's whispers #moomin oc #moomins #still no clue if I'm writing moominmama well at all. thankfully for now we're taking a little break from canon characters #hope the formatting is OK it was a real pain to get it on to tumblr

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nateascendingskies · 1 year

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REFLECTING ON AN INDUSTRY THAT CHANGES WITH ME

So, the Writers Guild of America is on strike again, demanding, among other things, proper pay and living standards for those working on streaming shows, properly assembled writer's rooms for them, and more scrutiny for AI tech in mainstream film and television writing.

Now, the last time they went on strike, I was but a dreamy seven year old with more than one hyperfixation trying to figure out his place in the world. Nowadays, my mind is leaning towards the worlds of motorsports journalism, social media posting and promotional content creation, and maybe even archiving old storyboards and concept art to keep handy for future productions at places like DreamWorks and Pixar.

Back then, though, I was just doodling to my heart's content and playing with my diecast like any animated film and NASCAR obsessed intermediate schooler would at the time. The idea of watching and streaming anything online was frankly quite absurd, and I was on the cusp of my nonstop Titanic appreciation tour and film music CD and iPod binge that still continues to this very day.

I wasn't a very avid TV watcher back then, so I probably didn't pay much heed to anything being out of the ordinary, let alone the fact that many of my soon to be favorite creators were busy striking for many of the same fair and proper conditions that still remain desperately needed today.

15 years later, much has changed. Now, you'd be hard-pressed to ask what my favorite show on TV or favorite film is, because I have many. I consider myself extremely grateful and thankful to have a roof over my head, a good-paying job, and no debts to speak of. And, perhaps most notably of all, I have found myself playing with technology and tools that I could have only imagined back in 2007.

And through all that, they strike again - and I wait for that phone call or email with each new application or post that changes everything. There are jobs that still don't exist yet, mediums and industries yet to be explored or even invented. With each new picture I doodle, photo I take and edit, or post I write, I find myself both behind and ahead of the curve, always looking to evolve my work with those in Hollywood - and perhaps stand by and hope that some of that magic finds its way to Seattle as well.

Sure, I am but one drop in a pond that links to a massive ocean of studios, unions, and creatives. But here's the funny thing - that drop can make ripples. Be it big or small, those ripples will eventually cross paths and make their way towards those writers striking, those directors filming, those animators dreaming.

I mean, who's to say that their demands on this industry aren't some that I share - and that the benefits that they're fighting for won't get me somewhere? It's always a little fun to think about.

After all, 15 years have already flown by - who's to say where I'll be in 15 more?

#wga strike #reflection #hollywood #nascar #tech #streaming #titanic #ipod #cd #music #dreamworks #pixar #hyperfixation

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theskywaslookingback · 3 years

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[AO3] - [read the rest of the series here]

Martin has the TV set to a low murmur, letting Bake Off reruns play in the background as he combs his fingers through Gerry’s hair. It’s warm in the flat, the summer worming its way in through the cracks of the place and turning everything hot and tight. The fan is louder than the TV, oscillating back and forth between the two bodies slumped on the sofa and the one on the chair.

Jon grumbles as the movement rustles his papers, his glasses low on his nose and gaze intent on the paper he’s reading.

“You know,” Gerry says from his comfortable position on Martin’s lap, “if you didn’t assign so much work, you wouldn’t have so much to grade.”

Martin pinches Gerry’s ear in admonishment as Jon makes a noise of protest from his comfortable perch on the arm chair. Gerry yelps and then laughs, swatting at Martin’s hand.

“I’m just saying, you do this to yourself.”

“Hush,” Martin says, tugging gently on a lock of black hair, “It’s too hot to deal with you.”

Gerry hums, picking his head up enough to wink at Jon who just sighs in reply. Gerry settles back in and Martin resumes his petting. It’s nice, despite the heat, one of the very few days they have to spend together. Jon had offered to help out with a summer class at the university that had been overbooked and Gerry had recently been promoted to manager at the bar he’d been working for, which was all phenomenal and Martin was so proud of them both, but it left them all with shockingly little time together.

Martin’s thumb strokes down Gerry’s neck, rubbing over an old tattoo of an eye, pressing down slightly at the pupil. Gerry huffs a breath into his lap and turns just enough to look at him. “Hi,” Martin says.

“Hey.” Comes the soft reply, warm and fond.

Martin would very much like to kiss him, but that would require a level of flexibility he’s never possessed, so he settles for bringing his own hand up to his palm and kissing the center of it before setting it back down lightly over Gerry’s mouth. He can feel the smile tugging at Gerry’s lips before his palm is being kissed in return and Martin brings it back up to his mouth. “Tea?” He asks after finishing the ritual.

“Christ,” Jon says, letting his papers and pen fall onto the small table at his side. The pen jumps at the small shock and rolls off onto the floor. “Please? If I don’t take a break I may actually start pulling my hair out.”

“Well we wouldn’t want that.” Martin says.

“Mmm, I don’t know.” Gerry says, tapping his finger to his chin as if in indecision, “Bald can be sexy. I seem to recall a time when you shaved your head and it didn’t look that bad.”

“Oh?” Delight suffuses through Martin like honeyed sunshine, “Now that’s something I would have loved to have seen.”

Gerry’s face lights up and he sits bolt upright. “Wait here a second,” he says before hopping off the couch and bounding toward the bedroom. There’s a loud crack, like the door has banged off a wall, and then the sound of things hitting the floor in a hurry.

Martin looks over at Jon, bewildered, but Jon just gives a helpless shrug, looking just as lost as he feels. He’s about to get up and go see just what the hell Gerry is doing when he comes tearing back into the room, clutching something in his hands.

“Look!” He crows, clearly pleased with himself, and hands out a book to Martin.

It’s not very large, about the size of a standard journal, and bound in worn, brown leather. The front of it is scuffed, the top corner bent inward like it’d been stepped on or stuffed somewhere and left like that for a long time, forgotten. “What is-“

From the chair he hears Jon say, “Is that-“

But Gerry drowns them both out with his plea of, “Open it!”

So Martin does.

Inside the front cover is a mess of pen drawings and doodles. A stylized eye, a moth, an anarchy symbol, a middle finger, half of them overlapping and the lines blurring. There’s a burst of black in the top right, a dark blot like a burst pen. In the center of the mess are big blocky letters, all caps.

PROPERTY OF GERRY KEAY

Below that, in a much smaller font that Martin can only decipher from years of recognition and practice.

and Jon Sims.

Martin looks up at Gerry who just grins and flops back down on the couch next to him, pressing hard up against his side like he’s eager to watch. Martin flips to the next page.

There’s a polaroid taped to the center, two young boys staring up at him with twin grins of mischief and joy. The boy on the left has chestnut brown hair cropped short. His mouth and hands look sticky and stained a bright red, the likely cause of which being the ice lolly stick still clutched in his right hand. The boy on the right is much smaller, with unruly black hair and red stains on his button down shirt and a matching red mouth. At the bottom someone had written in a tight, cursive script ‘Gerard and Jonathan, August 1999.’ Someone had drawn an ice cream van on the bottom of the page. At the top, in Gerry’s capital letter font, were the words PARTNERS IN CRIME.

The following pages are similar, photos taped onto the pages, sometimes overlapping each other. Some were clearly taken by Jon’s grandmother - the two of them dressed in suits for some function, the two of them sitting at a table and studying, the two of them asleep in the backyard. Others were clearly taken by the two themselves - Gerry smoking a cigarette and flipping off the camera, Jon holding a bottle of beer, Jon reaching for the camera and looking angry, Gerry riding a skateboard, Gerry on the ground with his skateboard upside down next to him. Some of them held commentary - WE LOOKED LIKE TWATS we were eleven!, Gerry has never once landed a kick flip HEY!!!!, we stayed up waiting for the meteor shower, BEST MATES FOR LIFE. Even more held doodles - ocean waves crashing against a rock, a pair of doves, zig zag mazes and tic tac toe, a lit cigarette and a bottle of beer.

“Ah-ha!” Gerry exclaims when Martin is more than halfway through the book, jamming his finger down at the picture taped there.

Martin jumps and looks at him.

“I knew it was in here,” Gerry says smugly.

By this point it looked as if Gerry had already started dying his hair black and growing it long, almost past his shoulders. His eyes were rimmed in black eyeliner and he had at least two piercings that Martin knew hadn’t come with parental permission. Next to him was Jon, hair buzzed down to his scalp and scowling impressively at the camera, wearing a too large leather jacket and a t-shirt for a band Martin had never heard of.

“Oh!” Martin says, grinning, “It looks so good!” He looks up to gauge Jon’s reaction, maybe even tease him a bit, but the words die quickly in his throat.

Jon’s looking right at Gerry, his face a mass of emotions that Martin is at a loss to try and describe. His eyes look wet.

“Jon?” Martin asks, concern tugging away his amusement and leaving it raw.

Gerry’s head snaps up, his own smile rapidly disappearing in the weight of Jon’s gaze.

There’s a long moment where none of them say anything and the room is stifling from the heat and tension. Martin looks between the two of them, trying to piece together what on earth could possibly be wrong, but he’s coming up short on pieces to work with.

It seems like forever before Jon finally says, “You kept it?” The tone of his voice is raw and brittle.

Martin very gently closes the book and sets in down on the coffee table.

Gerry’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, confused noises eeking out like the squeaking of a rusted hinge. He seems almost as lost as Martin is. Finally his words take shape and land on, “Yes? Yeah, of course I did. Why wouldn’t I have?”

Jon’s eyes flicker away, to the oscillating fan and then to the TV kindly asking if they were still watching. He picks at a loose thread on the chair, fingers working anxiously. “I thought…after your mother- after you left- I thought that…”

Gerry’s eyebrows pull together, his lips tipping down into a frown. “What? Did you think I’d thrown it away?”

Jon shrugs, first one shoulder and then the other, like the collapse of a building. “Just kind of...assumed.” His hands were wringing together now, picking at the skin gently and scratching at his wrist. “After the...after the funeral we weren’t really talking, and then you were just...gone. Thought maybe…” Jon shrugs again, this time lower, hunching himself down smaller, “maybe you didn’t want to remember.”

Oh, Martin thought distantly. Gerry’s mother, Mary, had died when he was only 16, apparently by suicide. It had been a sudden, violent thing that had sent Gerry’s childhood spiraling in a direction he couldn’t control. Less than a week from the time his mother had died, Gerry had been uprooted from the home in Bournemouth he’d always lived in and made to move in with a distant relative named Gertrude up in London. He’d barely had time to process any of it, let alone let Jon know what was happening. It was over ten years before they’d seen each other again, and the gap had always been a sore spot for both Jon and Gerry.

Gerry makes a choked noise and crosses the room in quick strides to kneel in front of the chair. He gathers Jon’s hands in his own, cradling them together. “No,” he says, so softly Martin can barely hear him, “Not you.” He brings their hands up so he can kiss the backs of Jon’s hands, brush his lips over the knuckles. “I never wanted to forget you.”

Jon’s breath hitches.

Martin watches Gerry hold Jon’s hands to his face and mumble something that he can’t make out. Jon’s fingers twitch in response and he huffs out a breath. After a moment he gets up and goes into the kitchen to make them all some tea, flicking the switch on the electric kettle and rummaging through the pantry to find the container of lemongrass tea that he knows Jon likes and the mint tea that Gerry prefers. It doesn’t take long, but he likes the ritual of it anyway. He gathers their two mugs in one hand, and his own mug of a spicy black tea in the other and heads back into the sitting room.

Jon has moved over to the couch, tucked under Gerry’s arm with the book in his lap.

Martin smiles and sets their tea down.

When Jon looks up, Martin bends down and kisses his forehead and then grins wider when Jon’s nose and forehead scrunch up.

“Okay?” Martin asks.

Jon waves at him dismissively but makes a grab for his shirt when Martin turns like he’s going to take the chair. “Yes,” he says, exasperated, “come here, please.”

Gerry squishes himself into the corner and pulls Jon closer to make room, so Martin sighs and fits himself in next to them on the sofa. It’s a cramped fit, but ultimately worth it for the way Jon relaxes against him, flipping absently through the book of memories on his lap.

“Gerry had a point, at least.” Martin says.

“Hm?”

“You looked good with a shaved head,” Martin says too lightly, “might be a good summer to try it again.”

Jon’s protests are drowned out by Gerry’s instant and joyous peal of laughter.

Jon says something about ‘nothing being sacred’, the tips of his ears burning, while Martin tries to hide his grin in his cup of tea. He almost succeeds.

#fic #my fic #visible world #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerard keay #jongerrymartin #((here I’ve been writing for like three hours))#((you can have it))#((edit: just realized this was missing a whole ass paragraph??))#((also added a keep reading since apparently no one will reblog anything anymore))

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kyoupann · 4 years

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Please do more of the writing head canons. It’s really interesting to see other people’s ideas on the topic, so if you can be bothered, I would highly appreciate more, thanks bye <3

Y’all don’t know how happy I am to talk about these headcanons, they are my babies and I love them so much :’) thanks for asking g <3

Handwriting Headcanons

Same dynamic as before, try to guess whose handwriting it is before reading and tell me how many you got right! <3

You can find the first post here (no need to check it tho)

Quick disclaimer: halfway through making my initial notes, I remembered I had one (1) single lesson of graphology in my applied linguistics class, but that was a year ago and some information might be off. I just thought it was neat to include.

Another quick disclaimer: I don’t know much about Hylian, but I like to think it has a similar stroke system to Japanese, so the pressure and accuracy of your strokes play a major role in your handwriting (among other things, ofc.) so there are some parts where I focus more on that

(First Row, from left to right)

Sky

Our first boy is mother hen! Believe it or not, he has the prettiest handwriting out of all of them! Sky: probably has nice, even elegant handwriting because Sun forced him to practice when they were little. In the end, that paid off because his handwriting is the prettiest one. There’s no pressure, but he is confident in what he writes that his lines aren’t thin. Mistakes? what is that? this boy has impeccable grammar and spelling. No mechanic errors to be found in his letters! I’d like to think that many of Hyrule’s classic/staple poems were originally written by the firt king aka sky child. Like, imagine, after a retiring from being a Person of Power (as the first ruler), Sky finds comfort in the arts: revisits his old woodcarvings and starts writing poetry about the world he still doesn’t fully understand. wowie. tldr: sky writes poetry and you can pry it from my cold dead hands.

This is what one of his letters would look like:

Next one is the one and only, our Hero of Time

2. Time

I’ll die on the “Time didn’t know how to read and write” hill. His handwriting is simple, not pretty but not messy. It has some grammar and spelling mistakes here and there. Can become unreadable if writing in a hurry, he sorts of forgets spaces between words are a thing/letters have different sizes and lowercase letters end up the same size as capital letters. I’m not saying he sometimes forgets to write articles: he just doesn’t want to. Honestly, he just has this dad-neat handwriting. He is a gentle dad and writes like a dad, if he puts too much pressure onto the paper, his handwriting become too sharp/angle-ish and ends up looking ugly. And as much as he would like to not care about it, in the end he does (:

Malon taught him how to write and it was quite the experience. At first he didn’t want to because he was ‘too old’ to learn and it was torture at first, but now look at him devouring his cowboy novels.

A chunk of his handwriting:

*sniff* such a dad quote.

3. my mansss, your 4x1 deal at Target: Four

Look, my boy is patient! He could do some nice and fancy lettering if he wanted to. He was taught that handwriting and spelling said a whole lot about him as a person, you know, like a first impression kinda thing; so he always proof reads more than twice before sending a letter. Super rare grammar mistakes.

The faster he writes, the more slant his writing becomes. Under stress/ when not sure how to write things down, run-on sentences are everywhere and his handwriting is inconsistent in general (I don’t headcanon each part of him having completely different handwriting because handwriting becomes muscle memory over time. It’s just slightly different variations of the same, like idk Vio’s handwriting is neater than Green’s and Red writes hearts instead of any dot/circle and no, I do not take constructive criticism on that, jk i do.) Adding on to each of the colours’ handwriting, I’d think Red and Green write with words slanted to the right( inclined), Vio is a mix of the opposite, so reclined and straight, and my mans blue a true neutral writes straight (kinda like Time’s).

The logic behind this is that inclined writing supposedly means honesty and need for giving (and getting) affection; reclined means, as you can probably imagine, defensiveness and repression of true feelings, but also shows great concentration; straight handwriting means self-control, observation and reflection as well as distrust and indifference. But as complete being (tm), Four just writes as in the image example which is not too straight and not too inclined, and I believe that’s a good middle for him

HOWEVER, if I’m feeling in the mood for crack, I totally accept this boy to have the ugliest, chicken scratches-looking handwriting! :’D It’s just funny to think that someone like him, who has to be precise and careful in his work, can't write neatly to save his life.

One of his letters would look like this:

Also I just LOVE how his hero titles look in this font ksksks

and that’s

(Middle row, from left to right)

4.- Mister Bunny Boy - Legend

His uncle taught him how to write. I’d call his handwriting pretty and neat at a first glance, but he presses too hard on the paper, most of the time staining the back or the following page. Sometimes will retrace some words if he doesn’t like how it looks (which only makes it messier). According to my notes, a thick or strong handwriting represents determination/commitment.

As I also headcanon him to know many languages, mechanical errors are more present than grammar ones; that is, weird capitalisation of words. Punctuation is somewhere in between; uses too many commas when he should just cut the sentence. he mixes punctuation from two languages or more in writing when too distracted (or too focused, because, well, pressure.); when he writes for himself, he has almost no problem following said language’s punctuation rules. Also, this is just polyglot culture, and I’m projecting a bit, but when he forgets a word in the language he’s writing, he just replaces it with its equivalent in another language because we don’t care about fluency, but rather functionality. in this household (more on that in my language hc, ksksks).

An example of his writing:

so powerful

4.- Mr. Wolfman, howl me a song - Twilight

I don’t have much for him because 1) I don’t think he writes a lot and 2) he is a hands-on/visual learner, I’ll die by that. He only learnt how to write because Ulli insisted it was important and he was not about to disrespect his momma; he IS That Guy, but doesn’t really write enough to have neat handwriting.

Many people seem to overlook the fact that his house is filled with books and write him as completely illiterate (which if not explored properly, ends up feeling a bit disrespectful and full of prejudice, but go off I guess; and that’s on my core Headcanons for Twi); however, he sticks to simple sentences. Knowing how to read and understanding a text is different from knowing how to write them. Like, when we would see a semicolon and understand its position in the text, but didn’t understand the nature of it. Is this clear? idk i’m sorry. So yeah, boy reads a lot, writes very little.

As for his Actual Handwriting, as opposed to Legend, his handwriting is thiccc but not because he presses into the paper; he is just that messy, he has no sense of ink-flow-control, he does what he can with what he has. To the untrained eye, his handwriting illegible letters like v, n, u are very similar; when he makes notes for himself he does it in the form of doodles or small ‘icons’. But! He reads a lot, so he rarely makes spelling mistakes (: he is your go-to guy when you don’t know how to write a word.

An example of his writing:

He keeps a journal, sue me.

3. My first born- Warrior

Okay, first off... I accept this is completely biased. I saw the idea and said “That’s True”. If you haven’t, please read Effective Communication; or The Lack of Thereof by htruona, a fic where the boys reflect on the language barriers between them. It’s incredibly funny and probably what made me start making these silly notes. So, if you’ve read that fic, you know where I’m going.

My man, Warrior, can’t fucking write. I mean, he physically can, but it’s very bad. Here’s the reason for it, tho, and it’s not his fault: Technically, he knew how to write alright but he joined the military and whatever note he had to write had to be concise or in the worst case coded. He mixes capital and lowercase letters. If we consider that he joined the military at around 15, his handwriting and grammar had yet to continue developing. Just think about how after summer break, your handwriting was always slightly worse than before because you didn’t write for an entire month. Now think what 2 years can do to that. Hmm, not cool, dude. He makes quick notes, when writing he’s all gotta go fast. he is the lighting mcqueen of writing; good for emergency messages, not ideal for love letters. His punctuation also suffered a lot, he only know full stops and commas and hardly uses them. A sentence for him is either one word or fifty without a single comma, no inbetween.

His hero title and an example of his writing.

(Bottom row, or what I like to call “fuck cursive” row)

7.- Magic man - Hyrule

I’m basic and I do agree with the popular headcanon of he not knowing how to write because well, y’all know his Hyrule. He only knows how to write his name because that’s important, same with numbers. I don’t see why would he write/read except checking the roadsigns. (he can even use this as an excuse for getting lost frequently; he thought it said something different.) But I do think that because his habitual reading consists of roadsigns, his ‘punctuation’ is weird af and places full stops/points/periods at the same level of his words and his commas/question/exclamation marks below them. Yk, creative license. Sadly, I don’t have much about my magic hands man so here’s what his writing would look like if he actually wrote a paragraph:

Man, I love Hyrule.

8.- Man, I don’t understand this boy - Wild

Cursive? ain’t nobody have the time for that. He woke up and had to save the world in his underwear while not knowing how to read nor write. He learnt during his journey and was taught by multiple people from different regions, that explains his inconsistent spelling of things and names for them. So Wild knows language variations for many items and uses them interchangeably (even if they aren’t exactly the same). Another headcanon related to writing/language skills that I’ve been thinking about is that if the shrine was able to cause amnesia, I’m sure there were other areas in the brain affected which leads us to language disorders such as agraphia and aphasia. But that’s a story for another day ksksksk

An example of his writing (after relearning)

9.- The best of sons - Wind

I don’t have much for him and that makes me sad. Look, he’s a kid, doing kid things like stabbing dudes on the head. This boy was taught cursive by his grandma, but could never do it and no one needs it anyway. His handwriting is good enough for his pirate life, Tetra is the one to handle Official stuff, he just gotta sign. Spelling and grammar mistakes abound. He is still relatively young and can correct his handwriting if he desires. But same as Wild, with how many times he’s been thrown out and hit his head, I’m starting to consider some language disorder for him as well.

An example of his writing:

aaand that’s it.

Thanks, y’all for showing interest in this silly thing uwu it was fun to finally talk about this. If you ever want to discuss ideas/headcanons(especially if they are related to language and culture), I’m your person (: I’m always happy to hear new headcanons. Feel free to add anything to this post either in a reply or in a reblog, I’d love to hear from y’all <3<3

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sunshinereversed · 4 years

Text

𝙙𝙮𝙡𝙖𝙣’𝙨 “𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡”: 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙨

I think it’s eerily prophetic how the song “Flowers on the Wall” (performed by the Statler Brothers) radiates so strongly with Dylan Klebold. The country tune has already been associated with Dylan because it appears in the background of the video where he and Nate are driving to school. But if you really listen to the lyrics and reflect on Dylan’s inner struggles, they coincide strangely well.

Let’s take the very first line of the song.

I keep hearin' you're concerned about my happiness.

The constant ‘Are you okay? Are you sure you’re okay? You seem so down lately’ from his parents, especially Sue, is reflected here. His mother sees that Dylan is ‘moody and irritable,’ often withdrawn, spending time hauled up in his room. She notices the tightness of his voice, which is unlike him, and she offers to make him French toast or an omelet. This must be about something small, she thinks. Yet his sullen demeanor stays as days turn to weeks, and she must ask again in vain, ‘Are you okay?’

But all that thought you're givin' me is conscience, I guess.

It doesn’t even cross Sue’s mind that her son may be unwell. She is simply asking out of concern for him looking unhappy, believing whatever it is will solve itself out. His mother wears her heart on her sleeve, and it pains her to see him so sad. But what can she do if he refuses to talk about it? All she can do is ask and wait for it to pass. He’s a good kid, after all. He’ll do the right thing because she’s worked hard to instill her morals into what he does.

If I were walkin' in your shoes, I wouldn't worry none.

Dylan reassures her repeatedly. ‘I’m only tired. I have a lot of homework. Nothing’s wrong. No one gives me a tough time, I’m 6’4”.’ He wishes she would leave him alone. He thinks she wouldn’t understand; she wouldn’t listen. He tells his parents not to worry. ‘You can trust me,’ he tells his mother one evening after the prom. Dylan goes out of his way to prove that he is the golden child. It works, and they worry none.

While you 'n' your friends are worried about me I'm havin' lots of fun.

Dylan’s social life serves as a mask for what is going on in his mind. He goes over to his friends’ houses, bowls on Friday nights, makes videos after school, plays catch with his dad, and even watches old movies with his mother. He has pictures of good times with friends. Outwardly, he is smiling; life is a dream. This makes his parents rethink their concerns. He’s a happy kid who does normal teenage things. What is there to worry about? He’s assuring those around him that he’s fine.

Now here comes the chorus, which is a bit tricky but makes sense when you consider these things:

Countin' flowers on the wall.

If anyone is familiar with the book The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, this might be a clue. Like the protagonist in the book, Dylan is trapped in his four-walled cell (his bedroom) which is where he does most of his thinking and spiraling downwards. This is where he writes in his journal and vents his frustrations. It’s a toxic environment for his brain. His room is where he cries himself to sleep; hugs his pillow in loneliness; gets drunk by himself. Most importantly, it’s where he blurs fantasy and reality. While not as plainly mad as the poor woman from Gilman’s novel, Dylan is mentally tortured by what he perceives to be ‘an unfair/miserable existence’ and being ‘stuck in humanity.’ He rejects both, and often retreats into his fantasy where he is with his love and away from the world. The ‘flowers on the wall’ symbolizes his own deception of life when he is alone, and might not only symbolize his bedroom, but also his brain.

That don't bother me at all.

Unlike the real world, Dylan very much prefers to live in the fictional one he’s conjured within his mind. It’s his safe place. Paradoxically, his mind is also where he tears himself down and others around him. It’s a poisonous escape. Yet he is already so far gone in that escape, he can’t see the damage he is doing to himself. And he continues to do so, unbothered, and unaware.

Playin' solitaire till dawn with a deck of fifty-one.

‘Playing solitaire’ could be a metaphor symbolizing his isolation and loneliness, his solitude. Solitaire is a single-player game, and Dylan feels alienated most of the time, especially when he is sulking in his room. Thinking, always thinking. Sometimes, as the line implies, until dawn. He is a night owl who cannot sleep because his mind is constantly awake. Playing music, conversing in chats on the computer, formulating poems in his notebooks, doodling, or just thinking (negatively). He oversleeps often because he is up late doing these things. He is alone, in the middle of the night, consumed by his own sadness. Something is missing inside him, and that is why he plays with ‘a deck of fifty-one.’ He thinks a significant other is the thing that is missing, and if he finds her, he will finally be playing with fifty-two cards, figuratively.

Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo.

For Dylan, this is a dichotomy. An everlasting contrast. The balance between two things, lightness, and darkness, good and evil, etc. He’s doing grown-up things like holding a job, applying to colleges, driving a car, and as the lyrics say, smoking cigarettes. Marlboro, preferably. At the same time, Dylan is caught between acting his age and longing for simpler days. This is where ‘watching Captain Kangaroo’ comes in. It’s a kid’s show and is intended for such an audience. Dylan thinks back with nostalgia for his childhood, when life wasn’t full of disappointments, stress, high school bullies, responsibility. He hangs onto items that remind him of his youth: his stuffed koala, origami, classic movies, his trademark baseball cap, his love for fixing old cars with his dad. Dylan is stuck somewhere in the middle of the two, never truly satisfied with one over the other.

Now don't tell me I've nothin' to do.

Again, Dylan tells those around him that he is perfectly fine by engaging in normal teenage things. He hides how depressed he feels. Dylan becomes increasingly irritated the more people ask if he’s okay. The repetition of this line throughout the song is more like a cry for help than a reassurance.

Last night I dressed in tails, pretended I was on the town.

This could symbolize several things, but what comes to my mind is Dylan’s prom night. The fact that he even goes to prom is a pleasant surprise to his parents, confirming that there’s nothing abnormal lurking on the horizon. His father helps him get dressed in his tuxedo, struggles to figure out how the bow tie works, and he pulls his newly washed hair back into a neat ponytail. His mother thinks he looks quite handsome, comparing him to a character in a movie they are both fond of. For a moment, he is just a normal high school kid going to a dance. Nothing out of the boring ordinary.

As long as I can dream it's hard to slow this swinger down.

For one night, at the prom, Dylan pretends this is his life. He is good at blocking out what he considers evil, and Dylan allows himself to enjoy the moment. He’s had a lot of practice at ignoring his pain. If he can retreat into the fantasy he’s created in his mind, he is capable of anything, good or bad. It’s like an out-of-body experience. He’s not there when he’s there. Nothing can stop him. He has two settings at this point, 0 and 100. An unhealthy dreamer can be deadly not only to others, but to the dreamer himself.

So please don't give a thought to me, I'm really doin' fine.

As mentioned previously, Dylan flies under the radar to not be asked about his well-being. He holds out his arms to point to all these social activities he’s engaging in with his friends as if to say ‘Look what I’m doing. I’m fine. Do not worry.’ It’s a cruel deception, and he doesn’t even realize he is being deceived as much as those around him are. Dylan starts to believe what he’s telling others. He doesn’t think he is worth the worry.

You can always find me here; I'm havin' quite a time.

‘Here’ can mean one of several places: his bedroom, his mind, or perhaps his existence. Either way, ‘I’m having quite a time’ is a sarcastic remark. He’s drowning in his harmful thoughts, yet that’s where he feels the safest. It’s his protective shell that he puts up against the world. Dylan entertains the idea over and over in his mind that his love is waiting for him in another existence. No matter where he physically is, he’s ‘always there’, lost in his thoughts.

The chorus repeats. Dylan outwardly seems okay. Left to his own devices, he is not.

It's good to see you, I must go, I know I look a fright.

This is a goodbye. Even though it is a casual farewell, it has deeply painful undertones. He says he didn’t like life too much but hopes he will find peace in the next one. He offers a final goodbye to those he loved, family and friends. ‘It’s good to see you’ displays how detached he feels toward the end. These are no longer people he knows fondly; it was simply good to see them. The thoughts must end, and he must leave before they worsen. Like the lyrics suggest, he doesn’t want to stick around and knows he must go. A big part of his self-esteem had to do with his self-image. The line ‘I know I look a fright’ symbolizes how negatively he thought of his own appearance. Dylan couldn’t see his own attractiveness. He felt awkward due to his height, long facial features, shaggy hair, and the way he dressed.

Anyway, my eyes are not accustomed to this light.

This is the trademark dark sunglasses that Dylan wears almost everywhere. He hides behind them, shielding his tears from the world. The light comes from the sun, and he cannot withstand the same light that others can, a nod to him feeling isolated from humanity. Though he is called the ‘sunshine boy,’ his eyes are not meant for its light. So, he dawns the shades to (metaphorically) keep it out.

And my shoes are not accustomed to this hard concrete.

Unlike the sneakers worn by the jocks at his high school, Dylan sports black combat boots. They are unusual among the other students, but Dylan feels comfortable in them. Again, he separates himself from the rest of humanity. He is not meant for it. He knows he must go somewhere he feels free.

So I must go back to my room and make my day complete.

By the end of the song, it becomes clear that Dylan now lives inside the world he’s created in his mind. It almost becomes odd for him not to retreat there at least once a day if not all the time. But like the final lyrics, he goes to stay there forever and never to return.

The final repetition of the chorus only emphasizes the truth. He was not ‘doing fine’, despite all the work of convincing others the opposite.

The last line loops again before the song ends. The upbeat and happy tune only makes the message more haunting.

Don't tell me I've nothin' to do.

And no one did.

#analysis #flowers on the wall #dylan klebold #american tragedy

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niphredil-14 · 4 years

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Napoleon, Leonardo, Arthur, Vincent, Theo, Dazai, Sebastian, and Comte With an S/o Who Wants 2 Birthday Gifts (Because it’s also Valentine’s Day)

bellasakamakimt

said:

I am a girl who is born in Valentines Day (which is 12th of june where I live). So, if I am dating one of the ikeboys, how it would be, for example, I say I want 2 gifts (one for the birthday and another for the Valentine's 😂😂), how would they celebrate the date and other stuff? Take this as a headcannon about me, I can't wait to see the answers 😂😂😂

Of course. Happy Belated Birthday, I’m actually also born on Valentine’s Day, though where I live it’s on February 14. Nonetheless, I hope you had a great day and got some awesome gifts! Sorry this is posted so late, I tried to finish this earlier, but had several technical difficulties, sorry again! Also, they tend to get a bit shorter towards the end, sorry about that.

Napoleon: - He’ll gladly give you a second gift! -He will probably pack you a picnic, and then take you out to the field to eat it. - After that he will give you his first gift, a new journal for you to write in, because your old one has probably already been filled up -He will spend the rest of the day out with you in the town, going place to place, maybe buying you a few trinkets he notices you staring at. Finally, at the end of the day, he will take you up the the attic where you two will look at the night sky while cuddling by the window. - That’s when he will give you his second gift, either a small sword with a scabbard that connects to your belt, or a dagger or a pocket knife. He will explain that they are if you are ever in danger and he isn’t there to help you, though he will always do his best to be.

Leonardo: - This man lives to please you, so if you want two gifts, then, dammit, you’re gonna get two gifts. - One of them will probably be something more Valentine’s day related, like a stuffed bear along with chocolates and your favorite flowers. - These will probably be presented to you earlier in the day. - He will bring you to the dining room, where he asked Sebastian to make your favorite foods - After the two of you have breakfast, he will treat you to a lazy day, where you spend the day cuddling and feeding each other sweets. - Later, right before bed he will give you his second gift, inspired by some of the technology of the 21st century that he has heard about from Sebastian. - It will be a (somewhat) digital camera, that connects to one of those tablets that display different pictures that switch every minute or so. - All of which he has been working on building for months, and then sneakily taking photos of the two of you during sweet moments and dates without you noticing. Those are the photos that will be displayed on the screen.

Arthur: - This man’s first gift is going to be a beautiful outfit for you to wear out to town with him that day. - He will take you all over town, buying you anything he sees you stare at for more than three seconds. - He had Theo babysit Vic so that his parents (You and Arthur) could have a nice day out - He will take you out to a fancy restaurant for dinner, and then will take you somewhere to overlook the city as the moon rises. - After dinner, he will take you somewhere secluded and high up to watch the sun set and look at the stars. This is when he will give you your second gift. - His second gift will be a book. Not one that will be published or tat there are multiple copies of. No, this one is just for you. - It is a journal that is filled to the brim with entries detailing dates you’ve been on and cases you’ve solved, as well as lists of things that he loves about you, that he’s noticed about you, or things he’s thought about you randomly. There are even a few doodles in there, though they aren’t very good (He tried, okay?!) - He will take you to a hotel room that night, where you two won’t get a wink of sleep.

Vincent: - This pure sunshine boy wouldn’t hesitate for even a moment before buying you a second gift. - He will provide you your first in the morning, right after breakfast, when he takes you up to the hill he took you to within your first few days at the mansion. - It would be a bouquet of flowers, and a scarf (He is all for that matching couple look!) - He will then take you out to lunch, and you two will walk around town for a while before returning for dinner. - After dinner, he will take you out to the garden and give you his second gift. - It is a beautiful locket, in which there is a miniature painting of the two of you (Which is very impressive, especially considering its small size!)

Theo: - When you first bring up that you want to gifts, he pretends to be against the idea, teasing that his ‘hondje is being greedy, now, hm?’ - But on your birthday, he will surprise you by giving you two gifts, both at the same time. - One of which is a choker necklace that bears your name engraved on the small stone in the center (Looks a lot like a collar, what a coincidence, Theo...) - The second of which would be a collection of small paintings, drawings, and images of different places all around the world. - After he gives you his gifts, he will take you out to a cafe to treat you to your favorite snacks.

Dazai: - First of all, Dazai will most likely write you a poem, about all that he loves about you. - He will also, though it isn’t necessarily a ‘gift,’ call you by your actual name, all day. - I think that he would also give you a bow, or ribbon for your hair. - Dazai would like to spend the day reading to you in the gardens.

Sebastian: - Sebastian, unfortunately, can not take the entire day off to spend with you, though he would like to. - He will, however, give you the day off. - He will make your favorite foods all day - Later, before you go to bed, he will show up at your room, bearing two things. - One of which, a small cupcake with a singular candle in it, on a small plate. - The second is a dainty silver bracelet. - He will apologize profusely for not having the opportunity to spend the day with you, but tells you how glad he is to have you around, what a huge help to him you are, and how much he appreciates you.

Comte: - Bold of you to assume you were ever going to get only one gift while being with this man. - Not only will he buy over a hundred gifts on his own, he will also take you out, and will buy everything that you so much as look at. - But, oh, you that that was it? HA! - Oh, no, there will be a ball in your honor, and each gift is strongly “encouraged” to bring a gift for you. - (Comte please, I don’t have room for all this, I only wanted two, not two thousand!!)

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 4 years

Text

Mountain Man: Part 4

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: None

Summary: You never thought you’d love again. Then Arthur Morgan came into town. Fate continuously has you meeting each other in odd ways, and a troubled past is something you are both familiar with. Perhaps that’s what will make this time different.

-----

Valentine was, first and foremost, a run-down, muddy livestock town. It constantly smelled at least slightly of manure, and rest assured that every person’s shoes were caked in mud and shit by the end of each day. There were very few children or families in town, and thus little entertainment for anyone who was too young to drink or play poker. Gossip ran through the town as fast as whisky in the saloon, which is coincidentally where you had heard about the upcoming auction.

At the large Livestock Auction on the outskirts of town, a small troupe of men were to be riding in, followed by nearly two-dozen sturdy-looking horses. Luckily for you, Ben loved animals - especially horses. He really did take after his father in that aspect. So, there was naturally no better entertainment for the five-year-old than taking him to watch the small herd ride into town.

The two of you sat on a bench outside the back of the train station, close enough to see the action, but far enough away to stay safe in case any of the poor animals were suddenly spooked. Ben was dressed warmly in the crisp morning air, huddled up in a sweater as he sat on the bench, swinging his short legs back and forth in excitement. He held the last half of his chocolate bar tight in his fist, watching in awe as the horses were separated into groups and led into the corrals. Occasionally, he would smack your arm in excitement and point at a specific horse, admiring their coat or gait or hooves or anything else he found interesting.

After nearly an hour of watching from a distance, the horses were all herded into their pens, and Ben looked up at you with wide, excited eyes. “Mama, can I go to the fence now?” he asked, practically bouncing from his place on the bench. “Please?”

You gently pried the chocolate bar from his hand, and nodded. “Go ahead,” you agreed, “but watch out when you cross the road.” The end of your sentence was called to the back of the child, who had immediately dashed to the fence of the Livestock Auction.

With a small smile, you stood and slowly followed him over. You had been so focused on your son that you didn’t notice the familiar face of the man riding towards you until he had called your name. “Well, I shoa didn’t take you for a rancher,” came Arthur’s voice from your left. There was no way you could hide your smile.

He had been tying his own horse to the hitching post by the train station when he called out to you. He gave the horse a gentle pat and whispered something to it before walking towards you and Ben, who was far too distracted by seeing the horses up close to take notice of him. You let out a laugh as he made his way to you. “Hello again, Mountain Man,” you greeted, putting your hand on Ben’s back as he climbed up the first rung of the fence. “I certainly ain’t, but I figure Ben may be when he’s older.” You patted Ben’s back affectionately has you spoke about him. He didn’t notice. “Thank you for dinner, by the way.”

Arthur reached up with a large hand to tip his tattered hat in your direction, which also made it slightly cover his eyes. “It weren’t no problem, miss. Really,” he explained, now standing behind Ben with you at his side. The awkward energy that had overwhelmed the end of your conversation the day before was now completely gone. It was amazing what a good night’s sleep could do.

Ben suddenly called to you loudly, bouncing up and down on the fence, “Mama, there’s a baby horsy! Do you see?” He held up his right arm and pointed enthusiastically at a small pony towards the back of the lot. It had stubby legs and a long, black coat, contrasting significantly with its nearby cousins.

You reached forward and shushed him gently, not wanting him to spook the nearby animals. “Yes sweetheart, I can see it,” you confirmed, keeping your hand behind his back in case he lost balance and fell backwards in his excitement. “Regardless, it was very kind. Thank you.”

Luckily for Arthur, your eyes were still trained on your son, so you missed his small smile and light blush. “You’re welcome,” he responded, before he cleared his throat and took off his hat, holding it at his side.

The three of you watched the horses together for a moment as they kicked up mud in front of you, both of you glancing down occasionally at Ben with small smiles on your faces. You had to admit, it was nice, standing there with him by your side. Any passerby who didn’t know you would have reasonably thought the three of you a family.

Ben continued to ramble on enthusiastically, “How old do you think it is?” He finally tore his eyes away from the small pony and looked around the lot at the other horses. “Which one is it’s mama?”

He looked around for another pony, raising one foot up to the next rung of the fence, for a better view. As he searched, Arthur moved to his side and bent down slightly, so that his head was at the same level as Ben’s. “Which baby horse you talkin’ ‘bout?” he asked, looking in the same direction as your son.

Ben, thrilled to have a companion with the same interest, removed his hand from the railing and grabbed ahold of Arthur’s shirt. He nearly lost his balance, but Arthur’s strong arm swung up just in time, keeping the boy upright as he once again pointed toward the pony. There, that little one in the back.” After regaining his balance, and using Arthur’s shoulder as leverage, Ben clambered up to the second rung with both feet.

Arthur grinned when he saw the little horse. “Well that one there’s a Shetland Pony,” he explained, keeping his arm around your son’s back to help him maintain his balance. You couldn’t help thinking that Arthur looked good like this. With an arm wrapped around your son, teaching him about the animals in front of him, he looked like a father. “They’re bred to be real little, and they stay that way their whole lives.”

Ben’s eyes went wide. “Wow! So it’ll be a baby forever?” he asked, looking to Arthur for confirmation.

There was that barking laugh again from the man, the one that was accompanied by a wide grin, the one that made him throw his head back, the one you were now hoping to hear on almost a daily basis. “Not a baby,” he responded, patting Ben’s back affectionately, “but yeah. It’ll stay little forever.” He nodded toward the horse, and Ben turned his attention once again to the creature. “‘Cause they’re so small, they’re used in the mines, usually. I bet this one is on its way to Annesburg or maybe somewhere up in the Grizzlies.” With his free hand, he gestured at the horse. “See its thick coat? That means it’s real easy for ‘im to stay nice and warm up in the snow.”

The boy stared at the pony in awe, mouth slightly agape. “How come you know so much about horses?”

Arthur chuckled at his wonderment and reached over to put his worn hat on Ben’s head. It sunk low and covered the boy’s eyes, forcing him to reach up and tilt it backwards - but he didn’t remove it. “Was always fond of ‘em, I guess,” Arthur responded, reaching to the satchel at his side with his newly free hand. “They’re good, strong beasts, and real loyal if you treat ‘em right.” As he spoke, he pulled a worn, leatherbound book out of the bag and began to flip through the pages. You caught glimpses of long, handwritten texts, plenty of doodles, and several large, intricate drawings. That was certainly surprising. “Here,” he continued, holding out the book to Ben when he had found the page he was looking for. “I found a real pretty, snow-white Arabian up in Ambarino a while back. Wish I had one of them cameras so I coulda’ taken a real picture for ya.”

You looked down at the page, where a large, intricate image of a snow-white horse was drawn in pencil. Somehow, you managed to hold back the gasp that threatened to escape. He drew that? It was one thing to defy the stereotype of a rough-and-tumble mountain man by having a journal, but he took it to a whole different level with his sheer talent. You glanced up at him as he proudly showed Ben the image.

“Wow!” Ben gasped, turning from the fence to run the fingers of his right hand over the page. “It’s so pretty!” You reached over and helped him down before he fell, and he immediately moved to stand between Arthur and the opened journal.

Immediately, Arthur moved to squat behind him, his head again level with Ben’s as the boy took hold of the journal. “She shoa was,” he said into the boy’s ear. “Almost missed ‘er ‘cause she blended right in with the snow.”

After a minute of entranced study of the drawing, Ben turned his face toward Arthur’s. “You drew her real good!”

He laughed again and stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. If you didn’t know better, you would have sworn his cheeks looked slightly redder than they had been a moment ago. “Thanks, boah. But it ain’t much,” he replied. His self-doubt once again bubbling up.

“No, he’s right,” you chimed in. Your eyes met his as you smiled at him and nodded toward the book. “It’s really a beautiful drawing.”

He paused for a moment before taking the book gently from Ben’s hands and reaching for the edge of the page. “Thanks,” he responded, and began to gently tear the page from the book. Your hand immediately rose to stop him, there was no need to tear it out. But before you could reach him, he already had the paper in hand and was handing it over to your son. “Here ya go. You can keep it.”

For the hundredth time in a single day, Ben’s eyes went wide. “Really?” he asked in awe, eyes again going wide as he gazed up at Arthur. This was surely going to be the highlight of his week.

Arthur nodded, chuckling. “Shoa,” he agreed, closing the book and slipping it back into the satchel at his side. “Can always draw another if I want.”

Ben’s face immediately lit up as soon the drawing was in his hands. “Woah! Thanks, Mister Mountain Man!” exclaimed Ben, who immediately dropped to the ground next to the fence to analyse the paper in more detail.

Arthur responded with a chuckled, “‘Course,” and ruffled Ben’s curls. For some reason, looking at the adorable scene brought back that familiar lump in your throat. Was this what it would have been like if Andrew were here to watch his son grow? Was this what it looked like to have a child with a father?

Seeing Ben this happy was more satisfying than anything in the world. Seeing Arthur smiling down at your son, fingers again looped in his gun belt, also brought out a strange fondness that you didn’t think you would ever feel again. And then, inevitably, the memory of Andrew floats back into your mind, flavoring the entire situation with a strange sort of bittersweetness.

“He’s a good kid,” Arthur’s contented voice brought you slowly back to reality. His gaze had moved from your son, still sitting on the ground, carefully holding the paper to prevent wrinkles, to your own. A small, bittersweet smile was aimed in your direction, and in that moment you knew - he understood.

You nodded, not having the willpower to take your eyes from Arthurs. “He certainly is,” you said, affectionately. “Thank you, really.”

The self-doubt that ate at Arthur every day reddened his face. “It weren’t nothin,” he finally looked away from you and plucked his hat from Ben’s head and slipped it back on his own, shading his eyes from your view. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“No, no,” you weren’t having any of that. Not today, when he had made your son happier than you had seen in ages. “You probably just made his entire week. That’s not nothin’,” you continued, stepping closer to him and teasingly pushing his shoulder a bit.

He chuckled. “Well…”

But you weren’t about to let him continue, especially if he was only going to degrade himself. “How about I thank you by finally getting you that drink tonight? No price negotiations necessary,” you cut in, reaching up to straighten out his collar like you had done at the saloon on his first night in town. Again, your fingers brushed his bare skin at the collar of his shirt. This time, you were certain you felt him tense.

After a second of looking down at you, so close to him, feeling the brush of your fingers on his skin, he smiled and nodded. “Shoa. That’d be nice.” You grinned back up at him and dropped your hand from his shirt, missing the feeling of it as soon as you did.

Arthur left shortly after your conversation, confirming that he would meet you at the saloon later that evening. You stayed for a while longer, sitting in the grass on the side of the road with Ben as he moved his gaze back and forth between the real horses, and the picture he had gotten from Arthur. After a half an hour or so, when all of the horses were penned and the sun was high in the sky, you finally stood, ruffled Ben’s hair and told him it was time to go home for the day.

Slowly, the two of you made your way back home, taking the road through the center of town. On the way, you heard the familiar call of the newsboy, and looked over. Immediately, the headline and image on the front page caught your eye.

“SNAKE OIL MURDERER CAPTURED” was written in large bold font above an article and a photograph of a man, whose face you recognised. You quickly walked over and purchased a paper, opening it to read the entire page with Ben by your side.

Looking again at the photograph, angry heat swelled in your chest. There was no mistaking those eyes. You had nearly forgotten them, but now they would be burned into your mind for the rest of your days.

The memories flooded back to you like a dam had been broken in your mind. Andrew’s hacking coughs. His pale face, burning with fever. Worry about Ben. Worry about the Harvest. Resigning yourselves to wait the illness out and skimp on food during Winter. Hearing about a travelling doctor in town. Picking up the medication. Hope.

And then? Finding Andrew’s lifeless body in bed next to you in the morning.

There was no denying it. It was too much of a coincidence to not have been true.

Benedict Albright, the Snake Oil Murderer, had killed your husband.

#Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur Morgan #RDR2 #RDR2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader

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subtlereferencetomyinterests · 4 years

Text

Something to Uplift Us

Ao3, MasterPost

Relationships: Romantic DLAMPR (Roman-centric, kinda Remus-centric), platonic Creativitwins!!!

Do I like this??? Meh. Is it something that I wrote? Yes. I will heal myself from SVS-R with Fluff.

Warnings: Remus Typical Nonsense, swearing, mentions of being in Quarantine, all sympathetic sides, non-sexual Pole Dancing

Word Count: 2,667

Roman was the essence of romance and it showed. For his entire existence, he'd been well acquainted with the hypothetical. If he were his own person, if he had a prince of his own, if he had the chance at a romantic relationship, he knew what he would do. Roman knew relationships, he always had, and it had tortured him to know that he'd never have one.

Which was why it frustrated him to no end that he hadn’t been the one to ask out his fellow sides. He’d honestly never thought that it would be an option. When he first developed his feelings for the others- Virgil, Patton, Logan, Janus, in that order- he had felt nothing more than excitement. He was giddy, he was light-headed, just to know that he could feel that way. He would spend hours daydreaming, just musing over the way they made his heart stop, but he never hoped for anything to come of it. He wasn’t sad, or mournful, or pining per se- just so caught up in the joy of feelings that he forgot that he could do something with them.

So he thought about it a lot, suffice to say. And all he had now was time to think; it was nearly month three of quarantine. Roman had wrung his brain out like a sponge for anything new to think about- The Imagination was practically turning gray! He tried to tend to it, truly he did, but it was getting harder every day. Creativity's fellow sides had all busied themselves taking up new hobbies- Virgil was teaching Patton to draw, Janus had learnt embroidery, Logan took up knitting, Remus made trash sculptures… They all seemed to be having their own little renaissance (complete with plague), and what was Roman doing? Wasting valuable free time!

In a fit of desperation, the artistic trait dived under his large canopy bed, rummaging around until his hand caught on the lip of a cardboard box. With no small amount of effort, he pulled the enormous container out from under his bed so that it could be properly examined. There, piled high in the box, were dozens of notebooks and sketchbooks- all of which filled to the brim with writing, drawings, and poetry. Having no clue what he was specifically looking for, Roman upended the box and watched the contents crash to the floor. Something in here would surely spark his mind! Perhaps some old work would catch his eye and inspire some redraws!

The side hadn't needed to search for long. Right at the top of the pile- bright pink, its cover dotted with puffy heart stickers- sat a large, spiral-bound sketchbook. You could almost see the light bulb pop up over Roman’s head as he squealed and snatched up the sketchbook. Flopping down onto his bed, he flipped it open in one hand and placed the other against his chest.

“Ooh, some of my best,” he cooed to no one in particular, gaze turned to the dozens of love poems surrounded by little doodles of hearts that filled the pages. This was the journal he’d confided in before the sides had all officially begun their relationship, filled with flowery prose about anything from Janus’ scales to Patton’s smile; from Logan’s laugh to Virgil’s freckles (a rare sight, usually hidden by make-up). Roman was so lost in nostalgia that when the ideas hit him, he nearly fell out of bed in excitement at his own thoughts.

Of course! He could take all of these old writings and compose them together, into one eloquent amalgam that would illustrate perfectly all those things that he’d been unable to articulate in the beginning! And it seemed only fitting that such a soliloquy be delivered in The Imagination- in the most gorgeous scenario he could fabricate! Somewhere open to a starry sky, for his left-brained loves- but it had to have ornate architecture, of course, and it had to be cozy. Oh, it was all coming together now.

Roman leapt out of bed, posing with his hand above his head and sinking deeper into The Mindscape extravagantly. He didn’t waste time looking around at the depressing half-formed scenery, sweeping his arms up and erasing the entirety of his half of The Imagination. Time to get to work.

Remus was stretched across the Commons couch, his head in Janus’ lap and feet in Logan’s. The TV hummed with whatever show they’d thrown on as background noise, and a few feet away at the counter, Patton and Virgil were hovering over some sort of scrapbook. Nobody had the energy for conversation; nobody had the energy for anything.

It was magnificently boring. The Duke already filled up an entire sketchbook, written half a dozen shamelessly smutty self-insert fanfictions, constructed and subsequently destroyed eldritch beings in his room, and bothered his boyfriends. So, all that was left to do was doze.

It didn’t help Remus’ tired state that Janus was running his fingers through his hair. The monotonous waking world was finally slipping away. Maybe there was something buried in his dreams that could hold his attention.

But just before sleep took hold, a white-hot energy ran through the trait’s body, jolting him so suddenly that he tumbled off of the couch and onto the floor. His arms and legs were all pins-and-needles as he looked up at his very concerned partners.

“There’s fuckery afoot!” Remus announced, wide-eyed. He pulled himself up and grinned, “You guys stay here!”

Without so much as a good-bye, Remus threw himself into the ground, saving himself the time of sinking out properly. After a moment’s silence, Janus resumed working on his embroidery.

“Should we go see what that was about?” Patton asked tentatively.

“Meh,” the three other sides responded in unison. After a moment, Janus added, “It is Remus, after all.”

Roman’s structure was coming together beautifully! Wide marble columns rose up and held aloft the glimmering silver ceiling, the middle of which was a sky-light open to thousands of stars and a brilliant full moon. Surrounding the opening was a spiral of stone roof- through the gaps of which even more astronomically accurate stars shone!

The inside of the building consisted of an immense mahogany stage, currently cloaked by thick velvet curtains and overlooking plenty of seats. Rather than traditional theater rows, Roman had arranged the seating like lovely cafe tables, all of which were given generous space from each other (Except for two at the very front, of course). Lanterns hung from the walls, casting the space in warm lighting. Creativity currently stood at the very back, thinking that it could use just a little more of something. With a smirk, the side snapped his fingers and the wall of the room was pushed backwards several yards. With a few more flicks of the wrist and dividing columns, a little lobby was formed.

He’d given the theater room maroon carpeting and rich gray walls, but the new back section needed brighter lighting and a more cream-canary color scheme. Now he could just finish the decor!

Or he would have, if not for the fact that at that moment someone crashed into his ribs with all the grace of a flaming motorbike.

“BRO!!!”

“ACK-!” was all Roman managed, as all the wind was knocked out of him. He glared up at his brother, who was sitting on his chest.

“I knew you were up to something! You wiped half of the whole fucking Imagination! What is this!?”

Roman wheezed, pushed Remus off of his chest, and finally pulled himself off the ground to catch his breath. His brother was spinning around the room already, eyes sparkling as he took in the building.

“I had to blank it, I needed my full focus,” Roman explained, back to work and filling the back wall with tall bookshelves, “and it’s a surprise, so don’t tell the others.”

“Oh, I won’t. Provided you let me in on whatever this is,” Remus had an ear-to-ear grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet. After a moment’s consideration, Roman hummed.

“I’m doing something nice for our boyfriends. I think we all could use a little pick-me-up, so do not ruin this!”

“I wanna do something nice for them! Lemme help!”

“You don’t even know what it’s for! Plus, it’s personal!”

“I already asked what it was for, Stupid.”

Roman huffed.

“I wrote them something. Hence the stage.”

“So, what, you’re gonna bring them all into your fancy library-opera for your poetry orgy and I sit in a corner somewhere and be quiet?”

“Ideally.”

“Not a chance, Whore!” Remus swung himself up onto the concession stand that Roman had just created, tearing into a box of candy (food made in The Imagination always tasted weirder than food or ingredients they conjured elsewhere in the Mindscape, but he didn’t particularly mind).

“Fine. What do you want to do?” Roman challenged, hands on his hips.

“I. Want. To. Help.”

Roman raised his eyebrows doubtfully. Grumbling, his twin started gesturing around the room as he spoke.

“The stars are too bright, they take the focus away from the stage instead of accenting it. The color of the curtains are too similar to the carpet. You’ve got Corinthian shit in there and bookstore lobby vibes in here, which is garbage and inconsistent.”

Roman blinked, his eyes following along with Remus’ criticism.

“Hm. You have a point.”

“I’m Creativity too, you know. I have some taste.” The Duke said, gnawing on the cardboard box that had contained Imagination Candy moments before.

“You’re wearing crocs and jorts, simultaneously.”

Remus waved his hand dismissively, hopping off the counter and rushing across the room.

“Whatever. Come on, I’ve got an idea how I can accompany your performance, too.”

“Oh, goody.”

Hours had past and little had changed in the Mindscape living room- Virgil and Patton had finished up their scrapbooking and were curled up together in an armchair, so Logan was sitting at the counter space previously occupied by the two and clacking away on his laptop, and Janus hadn’t moved. The muddled energy of the room had remained pervasive.

That was, until the door to the imagination slammed open, the doorknob cracking against the wall. Four heads shot up to see Remus and Roman, standing side-by-side (quite looking the part of identical twins, matching smiles and all).

“Oh god,” Janus groaned instinctively, carefully setting his embroidery on a side table, “What did you two do?”

“Yeah, I don’t trust that look,” Virgil said.

The twins scoffed in mock-offense, continuing their odd coordination.

“We try to do something nice,” exclaimed Remus.

“And not so much as a ‘thank you,’” added Roman solemnly. Eyes were rolled, but Patton perked up considerably (just as planned).

“Ooo, what are you talking about?”

“It’s a surprise!” Said The Duke, bouncing up and down. Creativity Prime gave a sweeping motion to indicate the still-open door to the Imagination, which had been steadily seeping into the common room with a bright new energy that it had been lacking for days.

“Follow us,” he instructed, disappearing through the door once more with Remus at his back. Patton bounced after them immediately, grinning.

The three left-brained sides exchanged glances, shrugged, and followed suit.

The twins were backstage in an instant, trusting their partners to figure out where their seats were on their own. Roman began pacing around as soon as they finished warming up.

“Are you sure you can do this? I’m still not sure if your performance is well-suited to acoustic guitar-”

He was cut off by Remus groaning exaggeratedly.

“I can work with anything, bitch.”

“Right, right,” There was a beat. “You’re sure you’re ready?”

“I’ve been ready. What’s going on with you?”

Rather than responding, Roman did another lap around the stage.

“C’mon! Stop pacing before I take a bonesaw to your legs!”

“Okay! Alright! I’m ready!”

Before Remus could come up with any more gruesome threats, Roman snapped his fingers and the curtains began to rise. He took his place half-sitting on a stool up front, a guitar in his arms. Behind him, Remus stood between two sturdy metal poles that rose from the stage and into the ceiling. You can already see where this is going.

When the stage was fully revealed, the lights above the audience dimmed. Figuring that the show would be rather awkward if said audience consisted of four people, the Creativities had The Imagination render dozens of prop-people. They moved and acted like a crowd of humans, but each individual was too vague to focus on for long. Thus it was made very clear where their fellow sides were, sitting right up front with a wide array of expressions from amazed to amused to bewildered.

Roman took a moment to steel himself and then began playing. Originally, he’d planned on spoken-word for his loves, but traditionally there is music involved in pole-dancing, so he’d made a few adjustments in order for Remus to be able to contribute.

Roman started singing, melting as the gazes of the real audience members turned awestruck (and also very flushed, likely from whatever surprisingly impressive poses his brother was pulling behind him). He liked to think that he poured his heart out into every performance, but for this one it felt quite literal.

Roman’s voice picked up gradually, and he could vaguely hear metal clanging behind him. It went on like that for a good few minutes- because if there was one thing the Twins weren’t, it was brief- before the show finally concluded. Roman stalled for a moment as both the imaginary and real components of the audience applauded uproariously. Remus swung down from the pole and hopped over to him.

“We bow now, Dumbass,” he hissed, noticeably out of breath.

“Oh- right.”

They took hands and took a couple bows as the clapping died down, standing back up with wide grins and red faces.

As soon as the auditorium was relatively silent, Patton rushed the stage. He outstretched his arms and hopped up and down excitedly.

“Lemme up!”

Roman grabbed his hands and pulled him on stage while Remus was still attempting to catch his breath. Morality leaned down to give The Prince a brief kiss, and then bounced over to the much more exhausted half of the act to give him the same treatment. He was grinning so wide that it looked painful, his face a bright pink. The Duke wore a matching expression, but the smile was much more unnatural in that preferred way of his.

“So you liked it?”

Rather than verbally responding, Patton grabbed the hands of both Creativities and made a cheerful ribbiting sound.

“It was wonderful,” Logan supplied, climbing the stairs on the side of the stage to meet them, Virgil and Janus right behind him. He was much less outwardly enthusiastic as the other spectacled side, but no less appreciative.

“Yeah, did you guys put all this together today?” Virgil asked, throwing an arm around Roman’s shoulders.

“What else did we have to do?” Remus answered with a shrug.

“Good point.”

Janus cleared his throat lightly, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. His eyes were noticeably rimmed with redness, a small smile on his face as he outstretched all of his arms.

“Here, all of you, now.”

Patton cooed.

“Group hug!”

Fitting six people into one hug may seem awkward, but it always seemed to work out for the sides. At least, Roman thought so. Virgil would fake exasperation at the affection, but they could all tell he loved it. Logan would try to maintain his dignity and fail miserably. Patton was a ball of warmth and energy that seeped into the rest of them. Janus was by far the best at giving hugs, though it could be considered cheating to have extra limbs.

At that moment it hit Roman that, perhaps he hadn’t started this relationship, but he was still a part of it. And that was all he could ever want.

These Performances inspired Remus’. They are oddly calming to watch, and super impressive!

@shrimp-crockpot

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missmorosis · 3 years

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UMMMM MOROSIS CONGRATS ON 600!!!!!!!!!

(I know this isn’t congratulatory but it has strawberries and I wanted it to match your theme)

*ahem*

I am female, my pronouns are she/her, and id prefer a male matchup!

I’ve gotten every single _NF_ MBTI at some point or another but I think I’m probably somewhere between an INFP and an INFJ! I try to let empathy and compassion guide my choices. My friends call me grandma because I’m an old soul who loves tea and tends to dote on people. I can be very chaotic at times, but I like to think it’s a chaotic good. I am way too hard on myself and always overthink, but I’m working on it! I’m also a big daydreamer, I’ve always got my head in the clouds

Writing, hiking, napping (if that counts), philosophy, reading, finding little nooks to go think or write in, cuddling with my dog, collage, journaling, scrapbooking, poetry, crafting (especially needle felting)

Im someone who needs reassurance and patience. I get insecure and tend to bottle it up, so I always appreciate someone who is willing to be open and emotionally vulnerable. I love someone who takes me out of my shell and out into the world. Just someone who makes you feel loved and vibrant and alive, you know? I want a relationship that’s deep and passionate and fun, I want a partner who will be my best friend too. My love languages are physical touch and words of affirmation, so that is great too!

Ahhh Im not good at picking superlatives, but right now I really love Easy Baby by Denyah, Happy Things by Molly Burman, and Nobody by Mitski (I also secretly love Gold Digger by Kanye west but I’m not proud of it)

Im gonna send you a picture of me privately 😌✨

light or dark / love is pink or love is red / introvert or extrovert / movie nights or beach dates / slow dancing to slow songs or dancing like nobody’s watching with your s/o

(That last one was tough I’m a terrible dancer but I love both)

Ah sorry for writing so much 🤧 I hope that you’re taking care of yourself! Don’t forget to drink water and get some fresh air if you can.

Sending lots of love,

Elle (*^▽^*)

now playing!

Love with Hinata Shoyo sounds like the soft cutting of scissors and light humming coming from your boyfriend. The light, gentle summer breeze flew through your hair as the two of you lay stomach-down on a picnic basket, working on a scrapbook together.

Both of you decided on a shared scrapbook, and the scrapbook was almost filled to its max. Granted, around 20% of it was done by Shoyo, therefore looking like a kindergartener got their hands on some markers and construction paper, but you always smiled at the thought.

“Elle- Look!” Hinata proudly presented his little doodle of you and him together, which he had drawn in the corner of the next new page.

“I love it!” You stuck a heart-shaped sticker onto it, adding the finishing touch.

extra notes!

ELLE ELLE ELLE ELELLEFKJLEKAJLEE ILY SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG

ALSO PERFECT TIMING ITS SHOS BDAYYYY

#now playing: what love sounds like- missmorosis

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fmfinley · 3 years

Text

* hi guys ! it's pheeb , finally rolling in with an intro ! i did write this with major brain fog from my new meds so if it's shit we'll pretend it's not <3

❛ ♫ · » lorenzo zurzolo, cis gender, he/him « wow … finley monaghue just told me that their band, cold stare, got accepted into that battle of the bands thing. wait, you don’t know them? i could’ve sworn i saw you two together at keith’s pub. well, nevermind. they’re twenty four, and they’re the vocalist of the band. when they’re not playing music, you can usually find them unsubtly sleeping at the back of the humanities lecture hall. i think you’d like them— they’re so equable, but … also kind of negligent, i suppose. you’ll know it’s fin if you ever meet them, because they’re the walking embodiment of tripping over your shoelaces but never taking the time to retie them, sullen eyebags paired with a mismatched beaming grin, & falling into infatuation with a stranger on the train.

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ;

while i can by keaton henson .

to feel good by swim deep .

momentary bliss by gorillaz , slowthai , & slaves .

boys don’t cry by the cure .

tescoland by jamie t .

snap out of it by arctic monkeys .

how soon is now by the smiths . ( we don’t stan morrissey )

laid by james .

list of people ( to try and forget about ) by tame impala .

bad contestant by matt maltese .

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 ;

full name : finley joseph monaghue. nickname/s : fin. age : twenty - four. dob: dec 5th. zodiac: sagittarius. gender & pronouns: cismale & he/him orientation: no labels.

𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ;

he's barely one years old when he’s faced with his first goodbye . of course he doesn't remember it - the raw pleas from a fragile woman bargaining with her father before she does something she'll regret . he'll never see or hear from the woman again - but he likes to imagine she's somewhere nice , that she's happy .

for sure , he is far more optimistic about the whole abandonment thing than his grandfather - a stern man that rarely produces a smile , who he has never seen crumble ( or at least finley will allow him to believe so ) . in all truth , leonard monaghue was far past the age in which raising a child came smoothly . in fact , he barely resembles a grandparent as it is - he’s sharp tones & rough edges , and he certainly didn't have the patience for a rambunctious blur of curls . even now , affections & i - love - yous don't come easy for the pair ( with leonard often fondly referring to finley as 'shitbag' ) , but they know they're all each other has - and finley is eternally grateful for the huge sacrifice his grandad took just to give him the life he has now .

ultimately , family for finley is something that is chosen rather than a birth right . it’s his friends , his bandmates , those that somehow still haven’t grown tired of him .

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ;

finley's aura is one that initially appears wholly unapproachable , but once he cracks his killer smile , its evident that he's utterly harmless . he's quite the social butterfly - the kind of person to hold up a queue in tesco because he wants to hear about the cashier’s day , or to have a long list of friends yet still remembering each and every birthday . he loves to hear about peoples' stories & dreams , always finding inspiration from the smallest of things .

he may have a major slight ego issue - especially when it comes to the band . he fancies himself a younger alex turner ( the delusion ... anyway ) , & has long idolised the big names in the alternative / indie music scene ( why do i imagine him trying to pull a spike island esque stunt ) .

finley's biggest downfall is his restless nature . his mind is a constant whirlwind of about a hundred thoughts balled into one . he's 100% an insomniac , & can be spotted wandering around the streets at god knows what time in the morning . he's awful when it comes to jobs - has probably been sacked from more 9-to-5 jobs than you can count on both hands . in his view , what's the point of doing something if you're not passionate about it ? he’s , unfortunately , the same in relationships - falling in & out of love with worrying ease - but love & heartbreak make for amazing music , right ?

although he’s a big mouth approximately 99% of the time , he’s not the most open of books emotionally . he’s the type of person to evade all forms of confrontation , choosing rather to run away from his problems . the best way to decipher how he’s feeling is through his music , but there’s some songs he’s written that still feel too raw to put out there . he has a lil journal filled with lyrics & doodles that he’s carried around with him since he was around seventeen years old ; despite the jam - packed & tattered pages.

#bandsintro

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happikattwuzheere · 4 years

Text

the one where gansey befriends a deer: the au

hey remember that time ronan dreamed up a deer that was described with language suspiciously similar to how adam’s described, because i sure do!!! anyway

OK.

ok. so. this au’s actually evolved a lot since its initial already-pretty-fleshed-out inception one sleepless night, so me talking about it’s gonna be more than one post, but here’s the first one well actually the second technically yesterday’s warmup doodles were also from this au but i didnt talk about it at all so

and I’m gonna start with more or less the same pitch I gave to a couple people on discord

SO. starting out: it’s standard fantasy times, vaguely medieval but no specific time period because I don’t care enough to be digging into that quite frankly, but it is somewhere in England where this is happening. Story starts with just Gansey, Ronan, and Noah. Fey are very real and known entities and there’s been a conflict in England between the fey and humans, if not in the whole country then at least in the lands that the Ganseys are the lords of but probably the whole island tbh, and Gansey’s not inherited the lands yet but he’s going to and wants to maybe find a peaceful resolution to the conflict. It’s not open warfare by any means but it’s been a big problem.

To the effect of solving that, he heads to some little village that I haven’t named but it’s right next to a known fey forest called Cabeswater. This village has avoided being stomped by the local fey because, despite witches not being particularly liked by the nobility of the time, there’s a big old coven (the psychics of Fox Way, essentially) situated right by this village that’s kept things in check. Gansey’s made his excuses to his parents about why he’s officially going there but really he wants to talk to the witches and get a better grasp of the conflict from the people actually dealing with it. He and Ronan set out from home together, pick up Noah along the way--who is not a ghost in this AU, he’s a fey who owes Gansey a life debt, that’s a whole other post and THIS post is mostly about gansey and adam--but anyway they get to this village and NOBODY gives gansey the time of day.

the witches don’t let him into their house because they don’t like the nobility right back thanks and the next time he tries to visit Cabeswater won’t even let him get to the coven’s dwelling, the one witch’s daughter who regularly stops by the village for supplies and to check if anyone needs anything has a big argument with him the first time he talks to her so that’s going nowhere, and, well, the villagers are polite, but they clearly don’t take him seriously. He’s just the lordling playing at things and potentially meddling in their business to them.

So he starts hanging out just barely within Cabeswater, even though he knows that’s not wise, because he finds this perfect spot by a stream, and he’ll sit out there and think and work on the journal he keeps of all his thoughts and plans, and one day while he’s there has a straight up Disney princess experience when a deer stops by the stream and seems incredibly unafraid of him. he cherishes the experience but accepts that it probably won’t happen again.

and then it does. several times. gansey’s losing his mind. this deer??? apparently likes listening to him info dump?? it’s very therapeutic and also very magical and he’s amazed

a few times in, he names the deer “Pryderi” after a character from a welsh legend, because “such a handsome creature deserves a princely name,” [[muffled blue laughing and whispering “princely” in the distance]], and he tells ronan and noah about this experience but ronan doesn’t believe him at ALL.

one time after gansey’s particularly upset at how bad his attempts at getting along with the villagers, Pryderi actually lets Gansey touch him for the first time and gansey cannot shut up about it to ronan who’s finally like “i think you’re bullshitting me about this deer thing. im coming with you next time” and gansey’s like “well he’s a deer he might not show up if a stranger’s around and he doesn’t come every time i go down there anyway” and ronan’s like “this sounds like a lot of excuses, dick, you’re not making me believe you any more with this” and gansey’s like “>8\”

but pryderi does show up, and gansey is delighted, and ronan stares really hard at him and then goes

and gansey’s like what? nooo. but ronan keeps arguing it for the duration of the visit and the deer actually starts to look annoyed and at the end ganseys like ok maybe but i doubt it. and then hes like “well since you are a fey apparently (/sarcasm) i ought to say farewell with respect” and bows very mockingly and then the deer makes direct eye contact with ronan and bows back and gansey loses his shit

gansey continues meeting up with pryderi but even while his infodumping still happens it does so now with the knowledge that He Does Actually Understand What Im Saying, he may be a fey but he seems like a friendly one and hey that’s way more than gansey thought he would get out here, and also this deer is his friend now thanks,

he, ronan, and noah (who’s amused by Pryderi but keeps his main thoughts to himself for now) make some excursions into cabeswater, but the thing is noah’s not really native to england, he’s from the european mainland, again i’ll get to it in another post sometime, but. he can sort of help navigate cabeswater but not all THAT well so they get lost a couple times, and every time it does happen pryderi shows up and helps guide them out. there’s some very funny moments of a very jealous ronan getting into weird conflict w/ a very smug deer

anyWAY one day there’s like a festival, everyone’s drunk because its the middle ages and there’s not really a drinking age, gansey’s making another effort to make friends with anyone, and this one guy about his own age is like “ok look here i’ll teach you the folk dance everyone’s doing ok?” and gansey spends the night dancing w/ a handsome stranger, yes he will recognize the irony in the morning, but for now it goes. well badly because they’re both drunk but it’s fun, and then the guy says “ah, fuck it, i’ll finish teaching you next time we see each other” and gansey’s like “thats a little forward but ok!” and the guy (adam. its adam) panics and leaves while gansey’s back is turned and gansey doesn’t remember that last snippet of conversation the next day nor can he quite recall the stranger’s face. ronan does, because he was watching and not sure which of the two he was jealous of, but neither of them has any idea who the guy actually was.

and then like, 3 days later, gansey falls asleep at the spot he usually hangs out in in cabeswater and wakes up in the early evening just in time to hear people yelling and for Pryderi to burst into view with an arrow in his flank. he collapses in a bush. gansey snaps into “protect friend” mode and gets the hunters off his trail by being all “oh a strange buck? i saw it pass that way over there friend!” and then when they’re gone he comes back and is all “alright pryderi they’re gone, let me just--” except pryderi’s not a deer anymore. it’s a boy.

(Adam. its adam. the deer is adam.)

gansey takes him home, gets the arrow out, noah’s like “i mean he’s not a fey, i dont know what turning into a deer is about but if he were fey the iron in that arrow would already have him dead. he might be partially fey but so little that he’s human in the ways that really matter”, over the next couple days they figure out that pryderi is in fact from the village and is a young man named adam parrish who’s been labelled a changeling and is assumed dead since he was yknow shot, gansey decides for now its probably best to keep him that way, but adam’s not getting better--apparently even having had the arrow in him as briefly as he did has poisoned him, he’s desperately ill and on the third day is finally like “get persephone” so gansey tries again (he’s tried several times over these days, they’d worked out that to have survived this long he must have someone else with a small degree of fey blood teaching him the ropes and the most likely suspects are the witches, but he’s hoping adam specifically asking him to will grant him permission enough to go in) and runs into a very frantic blue en route who as soon as he makes it clear he’s got adam is like “move your ass over on that horse im climbing on too”

they get persephone, who turns into a fox rather than a deer, she saves adam, everythings cool except adam’s pissy now because he cant go back to the village and he has to give up on the attempts he had in the works to get out of town by working his way out and he takes it out on gansey who doesnt deserve it because this friendship is a mess, he’ll feel bad and take it back eventually but thats yet more posts ANYWAY YEAH theres our starting point

(also worth noting: due to cabeswater being Right There, p much everyone in this village actually has a small degree of fey blood, adam just won the genetic lottery)

tl;dr adam’s a fey-blooded witch’s apprentice and he’s been the deer the whole time and thats the start of this au ty for coming to this ramble

#longpost #trc #the raven cycle #lolsketch #gonna make separate posts w/ just the art in a sec #anyway i love this au with all of my heart its extremely self indulgent #deer boy au #because thats what ive been shorthanding it to

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the-awkward-outlaw · 4 years

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i’m so excited your inbox is open!!😁😁can i request an arthur x fem!reader where he’s insisting he’s “an ugly, old outlaw” and all that bs and she gets really emotional and gives this speech on how handsome (adorable) and loyal and caring he is? basically just tooth-rotting fluff😊😊love your work!!🤍

I hope I ticked all the boxes for this one, lol. But it definitely turned out very fluffy (which is good, because I live for fluff! They are my favorite to write, especially with Arthur). Enjoy!

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You stand on the edge of Horseshoe Overlook, repeater in hand, waiting for an improbable attack. Of course, you can’t be entirely sure there won’t be one. Arthur mentioned a couple days ago running into some Pinkertons while he was out fishing with Jack. Something tells you that if they found this place, they’d have no problems marching in.

An hour later, the sun’s beginning its slow descent into the sky and you hear something: a horse coming down the path. Just as you lean around a tree to see who it is, Arthur comes into view.

“Oh hey, Arthur!” you say excitedly. Not only does he carry heavy weight in camp, he’s one of the nicest men you’ve ever met (despite being an outlaw), and he’s also the man you’re in love with. You haven’t had the courage to tell him this, the thought alone terrifies you.

He gives you an adorable “gun” finger salute as he trots past, but you notice his eyes don’t crinkle the way they do when he smiles, almost like he’s faking it. He goes on towards the camp and you follow him, wondering if something’s wrong.

When you get to camp, you ask Karen to take guard duty for now, explaining you’ll make up for it later. She accepts, saying you owe her a whiskey, to which you agree. Arthur dismounts his horse, feeding her a treat. You hear him say, “rest now, girl. You did good.” God, he’s so cute the way he talks to his horse.

He continues on towards his tent and young Jack crosses his path as he walks. “Hiya, Uncle Arthur!”

“Hey there, Jack. You keepin’ safe?” Arthur’s been worried about him ever since he ran into the Pinkertons. Of course, Arthur’s always been protective.

“Yeah.”

“You still reading with Hosea?”

“Yeah! He read me a story about a prince! I did a page all by myself!”

“That’s excellent, son! Good for you!”

Jack skips off and Arthur continues on towards his tented wagon, his shoulders rolling as he walks. You melt at the exchange he had with Jack. He is the most adorable, gentle man you’ve met. How is it that he’s a wanted man?

Arthur shuffles around his wagon a bit, adjusting some things on his little table. Then he grabs the flaps of the canvas and pulls them down, clearly wanting some privacy.

Silently, you go over to his tent and peak in. The sight breaks your heart. He’s sitting on the cot, hunched over, his hands clasped together as his elbows rest on his thighs. You can tell he’s upset about something.

“Mr. Morgan?” you ask.

He looks up and clears his face. “Oh, hey there, Y/N. What can I do for ya?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to check on you. I was… I guess worried. You okay?”

He smiles a little, huffing a bit. “Oh I’m doin’ just fine.”

You can tell he’s lying, and you’re nervous to stay any longer. It’s clear he wants to be alone. However, you swallow your fear and walk into the tent.

“Can I ask what’s wrong, Mr. Morgan? Whenever I have something weighing heavy on my mind, I find it’s helpful to tell someone.”

“Oh trust me, no one wants to hear about my problems. I’m just… just a sad, miserable ol’ outlaw.”

Your heart feels like it’s going to break. How can he think such awful things about himself when every time you see him, he’s doing something good to those around him? Bringing Mary-Beth a pen, reading stories to Jack, giving that one-armed man in Valentine money. Every time you’re with him, he proves the exact opposite of what he’s saying now.

“You… don’t really think that’s true, do you, Mr. Morgan?”

“Oh trust me, I ain’t sayin’ bad enough about myself. I’m… a no-good killer, a fighter. And uh, just a bad man.”

A tear slides down your cheek and you go sit down next to him. “Mr. Morgan, forgive me, but that’s not what I see. Every time you’re around, I see you helping folk, making people smile. I see you doing too much good to believe that a bad man is all you are.”

“You don’t know me very well, Y/N. Hell, you only been with us a few months. Wait a few years, you’ll be sayin’ somethin’ different.”

“I don’t think so. If anything, I’ll probably be sayin’ even nicer things about you. And honestly, Mr. Morgan, I’ve never lied to you. I ain’t startin’ now.”

“Trust me, you won’t. No one does, everyone who spends any length of time with me knows how horrible I am.”

“I’ve spent plenty of time with you,” you say. “I don’t think you’re horrible. Sure, you’ve made some bad choices, but who hasn’t? I… I’ve made choices that I regret too. But you can’t look at the world with people split in two based on good and bad. People are complicated. You’re complicated. That’s how the world is, and you ain’t doin’ yourself any favors by seeing it that way.”

He sighs heavily, looking away from you. He doesn’t speak for a few moments and when he finally does open his mouth, you’re sure he’s about to tell you to leave him alone.

“To be honest, Y/N, I really am a bad man. The only thing I’m good for is fightin’. All I ever been good at.”

“Mr. Morgan, can I ask who told you this?”

“No one told me, Y/N. I… I always known. And the other night, robbin’ that train full o’ city folk. Well, I robbed and beaten plenty of people before, they was really no different. But… I was over near Strawberry earlier. Some guy challenged me to a race. Guess he just bought a new horse, wanted to show off. Anyways, ol’ Artemis and I gave him a run for his money. I won, of course.” He scratches his chin. “When that other bastard got there, he was real angry. So angry he shot his horse in the head, so I shot him. Don’t quite know why I did neither. When…. When I shot him, I realized I felt nothin’. Not joy, not regret. Just nothin’.”

“Maybe because there was nothing to feel, Mr. Morgan. After all, a man who can so easily shoot his new horse he was so proud of moments ago cannot be much of a man at all. Perhaps… perhaps you killing him was a good thing.”

“How do you mean?” he asks. He finally turns to you, his blue eyes searching yours.

“Well, if he can so easily shoot a horse in that fashion, something tells me he doesn’t know how to rein in his anger, that he lets it get the better of him. Who knows? Maybe he was constantly hurting his wife or kids if he had them. Maybe you killing them will send them relief, freedom. That’s the way I have to see the world, Mr. Morgan, that our bad deeds have a positive effect somewhere in the world.”

Arthur grunts a bit. “Maybe. But… but I’m still nothin’ more than a fighter.”

“No you’re not. Forgive me, Mr. Morgan, but I’ve been watching you probably more than you think. You’re a good man, a wanderer, a hunter. An artist too I bet.”

“How do you figure that?” He cocks his eyebrow a bit, staring at you from the side of his eye. Part of you thinks he’s on the verge of smiling, which encourages you.

“I’ve seen you sitting on the edge of camp, writing and doodling in that journal of yours. John told me Dutch taught the two of you to draw, but it didn’t take with him.”

“Hmm, a lot of things didn’t take with that boy.”

You giggle, but don’t really want to lead this conversation into a heated discussion about John Marston and his flaws. “I bet you’re good though. Could… I mean, would you hate me for asking if I could see your drawings?”

You are extremely doubtful that he’d give you that privilege. After all, you and Mary-Beth talked about journaling and she mentioned how Arthur is notorious for it, but how no one has ever seen the inside of his. However, Arthur surprises you by sighing heavily and taking his journal out. He flips through it quickly, finding a page that has a drawing of a large wolf on it. He hands you the book, though he seems nervous.

Gently, you take it from him and inspect the drawing. It’s beautiful, professional even. You can so easily see the textures of the wolf’s fur, the bristles of the pines behind it. It’d be impossible to not admire the strokes put down, each one with their own intention and purpose.

“Mr. Morgan, this is incredible. I knew you were an artist, but I didn’t think you were this good.”

“Oh nonsense. Anyone can draw like this. Hell, I bet you ain’t that bad of an artist yourself.”

It’s your turn to raise your brow. “You wanna bet? Give me your pencil.”

He hands it to you and, in the lower right corner, you draw a small version of his wolf, which is far more than laughable. You’ve never been very good at drawing, but even this version is pathetic. After a few minutes, you hand him back his journal.

“There. Now your wolf has a badly deformed companion.”

Arthur takes one look at it and then he lets out a laugh. “I like it,” he says after a moment, his eyes meeting yours. This time, his eyes crinkle.

You can’t help but giggle. “I’m glad you like it, Mr. Morgan.”

Still grinning, he straightens up a bit. “Why you always callin’ me Mr. Morgan? You can call me Arthur on occasion, you know.”

“Oh I… I know,” you say, looking down at your lap, your cheeks burning. “I… I don’t know why I do.”

He admires your features for a moment. Arthur knows you’re sweet on him. He clued into it pretty quick when he first asked you to call him by his first name weeks ago and you refused. Then he heard Tilly and Mary-Beth joking about how they knew. He also noticed you did things for him no one else did: bringing him coffee in the morning, offering to clean his guns, how he was the only person you asked to teach you how to play poker and black jack. Other small things you did only for him. It didn’t take long for him to realize he felt something for you too.

He finds your behavior now endearing and you’ve helped cheer him up immensely. He grabs your hand and lifts it, placing a soft kiss to the back of it, which causes you to look up at him.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he says.

You’re blushing hard again. “You’re welcome. Arthur.”

Just as he’s about to lean over to try and place a kiss to your lips, Grimshaw’s shrill voice carries across camp.

“Where the hell is Y/N?! That damn girl, always disappearing! I swear when I find her…”

“Shit,” you say and quickly yank your hands out of Arthur’s grasp and then darting outside to subdue Grimshaw.

Arthur chuckles, his heart much lighter than it was before. He looks down at his journal, finding your poor rendition of a wolf. Little do you know that it brings him great comfort and always will. In the future, when things go bad, he opens to this page just to look at it, to remember the things you said. It’s a moment he’ll never be able to forget.

#rdr2 fanfic #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #awkward asks

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foxtophat · 3 years

Link

(still trying to figure out how i link these but whatever)

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!! i decided to just sit down and hammer out the last edits for this lil one-shot so i could get it out today!

i’m gonna be real with you: the only reason i wrote this fic is because i couldn’t get the idea out of my head. you weren’t supposed to see mercyverse for another month, honestly!!! but it’s been cold as fuck here and it’s made me fantasize about classic bed-sharing tropes, and so here we are!

this is a bit of a slice of life, to sort of give an idea of how day-to-day these guys all interact, especially now that carmina doesn’t have to pretend john doesn’t exist. plus, i’m starting to see how the caches might be involved in the overarching plot???? awesome!!!

as usual, the full text is below the cut for my friends who don’t wanna leave tumblr. i hope you enjoy -- feel free to leave a comment, i loooove hearing from readers. likes and reblogs are also great! kudos are fantastic! adding to the hit counter is just fine by me!!! anything you do to show support for fanfic is a good thing imo. i hope y’all have a happy wintereenmas or whatever and i will see you guys in 2021 with more mercyverse :)

The best thing Nick can say about the blizzard currently sweeping the county is that he could see that it was coming. They'd gotten almost a foot of snow the night before, which gets him worried about getting snowed in, and as the day progresses, the sky grows an ominous gray that Nick recognizes from a lifetime of living in the area. He knows that they probably only have a few hours left before they're going to want to get inside and avoid the worst a winter storm has to offer.

Nick and John spend the entire morning hauling wood into the house, while Kim does her best to clean out the broken chimney and ensure they won't die of smoke inhalation. They also pull in some pre-made stock that Kim had left in the freezer after it had gotten cold enough to use, as well as a few smaller pieces for miscellaneous projects. But with the storm rolling in overhead, they don't have long; they end up leaving a lot of things for later as the wind whips up around them and turns the snow sideways.

By two in the afternoon, they've closed the doors to officially bunker down for the rest of the blizzard. They have enough wood to last them three days, plus their military rations and plenty of coffee, so Nick isn't particularly concerned about their safety. The only thing he's really got to contend with is boredom, which is easier to stave off in the first few hours of captivity than it is later in the evening.

For the most part, Nick passes the time by sharpening their knives, cleaning their guns, and checking the radio every hour for any emergencies. The blizzard ensures that not many people are on, but at least he gets to check in with Jerome and make sure that Grace is safely in her bunker. It's unlikely they'll get in contact with the trailer park until after the worst passes, but that just means Nick's gonna worry about those jackasses all night.

Kim is probably the only one comfortable with the downtime, making the most of things as she chews on the radio's instructions. When the technical jargon gets to be too much, she switches to entertaining Carmina, who gets bored quick when her only job is to keep the fire going. The easiest distraction comes from card games; the deck they'd had in the bunker had shrunk to only 32 cards, but now that they've got a full deck to work with, Carmina is eager to relearn and master games like Go Fish and Old Maid. Nick doubts Jacob planned to be entertaining kids with his survival gear, but it's not like the guy's gonna complain.

Carmina isn't the only one that Jacob is keeping busy beyond the grave. Ever since they found that cache of his, John has been borderline obsessed with figuring out what the point of it could be. He'll go all day without mentioning the puzzle plaguing him, but any available downtime has him staring at the map and its coordinates. Nick and Kim have both been keeping an eye on it, just in case it turns into something worse than his usual tunnel-vision, but so far it hasn't gotten out of hand. If anything, John seems more aware and alert now that he has something to focus on, and now Nick can even pretend he's a normal guy for conversations at a time before being reminded otherwise.

Of course, the blizzard's making it impossible to find alternate distractions. John does spend part of the afternoon in his room, but eventually, he can't help but come downstairs to mull over the map. There's only one problem with that — they've hung the map up in the radio room, so there's about ten minutes every hour where Nick has no choice but to sit in John's presence. It probably wouldn't bother him so much if there was somewhere else either of them could be, but they're stuck for the foreseeable future. John's looming is just going to be part of Nick's life until the storm passes.

In the interest of keeping the peace, Nick reluctantly tries to have the same level of interest in the random dots that John shows. His attention, however, is distracted by the penciled-in changes that he, Kim and John have all been making to the landscape. The river's wider in some places now, and there are doodles of trees in spaces that were once open fields. A few X's mark places where bridges have collapsed, and Kim's circled anywhere they've made radio contact with. Their notations have scattered across the valley, and have even spread over to the river region thanks to Hurk and his raider gang, but they still don't know anything about the mountains, or even the spaces that are supposedly occupied by bow-wielding religious nutjobs. It's going to be a while before any of them get the nerve to go poking that particular hornet's nest.

John has his little notebook open, but he's not writing anything down. Nick's not sure what he would even put down, since they haven't gotten any more leads since early autumn, but he's always got the thing tucked in a pocket nowadays. Maybe Nick should be mad he outright stole that resource from the rest of them, but — well, come on. He can't yell at the man for taking up journaling, not without flying in the face of every therapist Nick had pretended not to listen to. It's just... well, what the hell is there for him to write down?

"Are you staring for any particular reason?" John asks, because of course he does.

"That's rich, coming from the guy lurking over my shoulder all day." Nick flips off the static-ridden radio frequency, leaning back in his chair so that he can get a better look at the map push-pinned to the wall. "I hear if you look at it just right, you can see a sailboat."

John's clearly not much of a Kevin Smith fan, because he only sighs heavily at Nick's flat joke. "If you have something better for me to be doing, I'm all ears," he says, revealing to Nick at last just how bored he really is. Weirdly enough, being in the same boat as John is somehow reassuring.

"Okay, fine. At least tell me what you're staring at, so I know what to fake interest in."

Even though it's mostly a joke, it lands softly enough that John doesn't take offense. Stuffing the notebook in his back pocket, he shakes his head, gesturing at the map. Getting John to explain himself is usually like pulling teeth, but right now he seems relieved to have someone to bounce his thoughts off of. It's a long way away from the guy Nick remembers saving, enough so that it almost catches his full interest.

"It's nothing in particular, really. I've already spent hours staring at this thing, but I'm... still looking for a pattern, I guess. Jacob was paranoid and secretive, but if there's a hidden code buried in these coordinates, it's beyond me to see it. And the snow was already keeping us from traveling too far — now with this blizzard, we're likely stuck with no new information until spring ..."

John sighs, rubbing his forehead as the pretense finally abandons him. "I just don't know what I'm supposed to do until then."

That's certainly a feeling that Nick can relate to. Nick is less of a workaholic than John might be, but that doesn't mean he won't go stir-crazy without his own set of chores. Hell, that's why he's been hanging around the radio in between games of cards with the girls and cleaning whatever he can get his hands on. It must suck extra for John; the guy's been spinning his tires in the dirt for years, probably, and being this close to having a purpose beyond doing whatever chores Nick sets him to must be irritating.

Nick props one leg up against the wall, tapping his boot against the wood as he ponders the dots scattered around the map. There are a few still in the valley, but there's no driving until they thaw out. The points in the mountains are probably inaccessible to anybody, and who knows when they'll get to investigate the old vet center or find the Wolf's Den. There are a couple points nearer the trailer park, though, and not for the first time Nick tries to measure the distance from Hurk to the various red dots. There's one near the lumber mill, and one near where that godawful statue was, and of course one right smack dab in the middle of the original Peggy compound.

Nick can't imagine his truck making it all the way there and back, not without more information about the roads. Hurk might not have the same trouble. "I could send the trailer park a couple coordinates," he points out. "They might get to search before us, and it could cut the work in half."

Despite John's scowl, he only sounds tired as he replies, "I've considered it, but I don't trust them. Then again, I hardly trust myself, so who knows."

"I guess you're shit outta luck, then," Nick says. John takes obvious offense at Nick brushing him off, but hey, what else is Nick supposed to do? "God's giving you a freebie with this blizzard. Maybe you should try catching up on your sleep, or something."

"And ruin the precarious schedule I'm keeping?"

"Jesus, then go read a book! Just — you know, quit hovering over me all day. Don't you know how to entertain yourself?"

John seems unphased by Nick's half-hearted outburst. "This is how I entertain myself. Maps, resources, legal documents — that's probably the only decent outlet I've ever had." He stares at Nick's boot, unwilling to meet his eyes. "At least, it's the only one healthy enough to keep."

That is probably a safe bet, Nick realizes, quickly trying to backpedal away from the open scab that is John's history. "Uh, well, what about before the cult?"

John surprises them both with a brief laugh. "If I could source some coke, then yes, I would be entertained."

"Jesus, John."

"I'm not known for my healthy self-care habits," John points out, a little too smug to be truly self-deprecating. At least he seems to understand what Nick had been getting at originally, deferring with a vague hand-wave. "Is my loitering in the kitchen going to be too smothering for you, too, or is that okay?"

Nick rolls his eyes, flipping the radio back on to scan the channels once again. "It's fine, whatever. Just as long as you've got something better to entertain yourself than snaking the whiskey Jacob left."

"I'm more of a gin guy," John admits.

"Of course you are."

It's still a relief, though, knowing they aren't keeping an alcoholic too near his fix. On top of that, John's relaxed disregard for his past vices settles nerves Nick hadn't even realized were rattled. Sure, there's probably a whole other box of American Psycho- esque worms waiting to be opened up from John's time before Eden's Gate, but at least he seems to have comfortably packed that part of his life away for now. Unlike talking about the cult, John has no trouble dropping the conversation, just as casually as he'd brought it up. He retreats into the kitchen to mull over whatever he's written down already, leaving behind no traumatic story or sad-eyed stare — just the casual admission that he would really like to do some drugs.

Weirdly enough, that is probably the most respectable thing about John to date.

Nick spends another fifteen minutes checking the radio, scanning the channels he knows people use most. He winds up with nothing to show for it — either the storm is making radio communication impossible, or everybody else has given up on their radios. It's only after he's cleared the range twice that he flips the radio off and escapes back to Kim and Carmina, leaving John in the kitchen with a broad, somehow-sarcastic gesture towards the now unoccupied radio nook.

Carmina ropes Nick into a game of Go Fish, which Kim seems keen on losing. Nick isn't surprised — Carmina is a wily player, which is to say that she tries to bluff her way through hands with all the grace of a sledgehammer. Kim's not as willing to put up with cheating as Nick is, but neither of them are capable of even pretending to believe Carmina's poker face. It's going to be a problem one day, but Nick isn't exactly ready to teach his daughter how to lie to his face.

Well, that is until she and Nick are on their third round of Go Fish, and Nick has had to pretend not to see through all of Carmina's gambits.

He asks her if she has any threes, and she scrunches her nose up as she glances meaningfully at her cards. "Go fish," she says, making Nick regret not having Kim sit right behind their daughter as a referee.

"Fine," he grumbles, "If you say so."

Kim blinks skeptically at the pants she's fixing, but she doesn't offer Nick any out. If it weren't for his clumsy hands, maybe he could use darning socks and patching shirts as an excuse to quit playing, but as it stands, the only thing he has other than getting trounced is staring at the map with John. And since he already tried that and found it to be mildly aggravating at best...

"You know, this would be more fun with more people," Nick says, desperately glancing at Kim.

Kim, of course, gives him no quarter. "Why don't you ask John," she suggests rhetorically.

"John," Carmina calls out, "Do you wanna play Go Fish?"

Nick opens his mouth to chastise Carmina, but he realizes there's nothing to discipline her for. Especially not when John flippantly replies, "I think your father's looking to play with fewer cheaters, not more."

"I'm not cheating!" Carmina exclaims, not-so-surreptitiously pressing her cards into her lap to ensure nobody's looking at them. Between that and her guiltily furrowed brow, there's no hiding it. Her poker face needs a lot of work.

"Go Fish isn't even worth cheating at," Nick sighs, gesturing for her cards. "If that's the way you wanna play, at least do it the right way. Here, gimme your cards — John, come over here so I can teach my daughter how to lie to your face."

As if playing a game of cards with John wasn't enough to excite Carmina, she's doubly over the moon when he tells her the rules. After all, a ten-year-old girl is the prime demographic for the game Bullshit, especially when she's given carte blanche to shout cuss words at her dad. On top of that, it seems like bluffing really is half of the fun for his daughter — which is a little intimidating, sure, but at least he knows she's smart enough to understand the utility of lying.

John is... unenthusiastic, to say the least, but that only makes the prospect of humiliating him that much better. A few weeks ago, Nick would've thought John was too fragile to be messed with, but now there's a bounce in his step that will make taking him down easier. He's got to do something to remind himself that this nearly-tolerable man is usually a miserable sonofabitch.

Unfortunately, John has a fantastic poker face. Nick figured that from the get-go, but it's still daunting to play against a bored, uninterested party. That's probably why Carmina avoids John in favor of hounding Nick, calling out "bullshit!" with delightful glee whenever she thinks Nick has dropped the wrong face card or played a nine instead of a King. On the one hand, Nick appreciates that he can read her as well as she can, but on the other hand, he'd really like a chance to beat John. So far, he's the only one who's called John out, and all he has to show for it is the extra six cards in his hand.

Although Kim is on standby for this round, she keeps flashing Nick amused grins whenever Carmina calls bullshit. Nick almost hopes John can hold it together to be mundane for two entire rounds of cards because he wouldn't stand a chance against Kim.

Case in point, John lays down two cards that are meant to be threes, and Kim clicks her tongue disapprovingly. Carmina frowns up at her mom, who only shrugs and suggests, "I would call him out, if I were you."

John's neutral frown doesn't change. "Last I checked, you weren't playing," he says.

Kim only shrugs in response. Nick furrows his brow at Kim while Carmina squints suspiciously from the discard pile to John and then back again. Of course, encouraging a ten-year-old to swear is always going to win out, and so Carmina wrinkles her nose and calls John out with a slightly uncertain, "Okay, bullshit."

Without so much as a grimace of defeat, John lets Carmina flip his played cards — one three, and one dirty, rotten, lying, bullshit seven .

"That's what I thought," Kim says, flippantly triumphant. "Guess you're not as hard to read as you thought."

Nick sure can't tell what John's thinking as he lifts one shoulder noncommittally. "I stand corrected."

"Wait," Nick asks, "What gave it away?"

"I'm not helping you too , Nick," Kim laughs. "That wouldn't be fair."

"It's not exactly fair to help Carmina," John points out. Nick bets he's just as interested in what tell Kim noticed, although he manages to be less obvious about it. At least he can't crack Kim's smug smile any better than Nick, which is some small compensation.

Nick manages to win this hand, if only because his play strategy involves lying as little as possible. That seems to work against Carmina no problem, but Nick suspects John threw the game out of personal disinterest. If it weren't for the howling winds whistling through the roof and second story, John would probably excuse himself from another hand by retreating upstairs, but as it is he manages to sit through one more round of cards, this time with Kim joining in.

Carmina's poker-face doesn't improve by leaps and bounds, exactly, but she manages to fool Nick into picking up a fat stack of cards, so that's something. Too bad he'd been trying to teach her to lie to John , not her parents. Well — at least she's a nice enough kid to only do it for fun. He hopes, anyway.

Kim makes John's loss look more organic, at least, and she doesn't rub it in too badly when she wins. It's extra kind of her considering Nick is the one who called her last play bullshit, leaving him to rot in miserable third place after both his girls. Well, fine . At least Carmina seemed to have fun, even if Nick is now sitting with nearly half a deck in his hands. If the blizzard keeps up for too long, they might have to graduate to poker.

Before they can play any more card games, though, they take time out for dinner. It's almost normal, sitting around the fireplace with their military rations and some hot broth — if they were eating Marie Calendar pot-pies and watching Christmas movies, Nick would even be able to ignore John's presence sticking out like a sore thumb.

The next best thing to watching movies is talking about them, which has become something of a tradition between the Ryes. It all started in the bunker, where Kim and Nick ran out of normal Christmas stories and began taking turns narrating whatever holiday movies they could remember. They've run through all the memorable Rankin & Bass flicks, as well as a couple more contemporary ones, so they're starting to reach for their personal favorites or the very bottom of the barrel plots.

Nick intends to be paying Jingle All the Way a tribute tonight, but as soon as he mentions that the Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle is one of his favorites, he's interrupted by John snorting derisively.

"Let me guess," Nick snaps, "You're one of those jackasses who pretends Die Hard is a legitimate Christmas movie just so he doesn't have to watch good, family-friendly content."

"It is a legitimate Christmas movie," John responds, just petulantly enough to tell Nick he hit the nail on the head.

"Look, Kim and I have already had this discussion — just because it takes place during Christmas doesn't make it a Christmas movie . Set dressing alone isn't enough!"

John raises his eyes towards the ceiling, which is as subtle as his eyerolls can get. "Whatever you say, Nick."

"What's Die Hard about?" Carmina asks, excitedly guessing, "Does Santa get to shoot people in it?"

"That would be a good Christmas movie," Nick replies. "No, it's just about some guy who has to fight bad guys in a building."

"During Christmas," Kim points out.

"Okay, fine during Christmas. But nobody's dressed up like Santa, nobody sings any carols, and there sure as hell isn't any Christmas magic that saves the day, so it doesn't count!"

"So what does happen?" Carmina asks.

Damn it — Nick should have known that talking about an action flick would immediately disinterest her towards any sloppy story about consumerism. She doesn't even know what a mall is — but she knows how to shoot a handgun, and now that Nick's thinking about it, she might need to use the duct-tape shoulder holster trick one day. It would be pretty bad-ass if she knew how, anyway.

"Okay, fine, I'll do it real quick. I don't remember all the parts, so Kim, you gotta help."

Real quick turns out to take almost as much time as the movie itself had. Kim interjects whenever Nick forgets a plot point, but at least he remembers the core conflict. Sort of, anyway — by the time he's done recounting John McClane's tale, John looks visibly dissatisfied, and Kim has a "well, sort of" expression on her face that implies he didn't quite nail the execution. Well, who cares what they think? All that matters is that Carmina is entertained, and of course she is. After all, narrated or not, it's still Die Hard . Just so long as she doesn't ask about the sequels, they should be okay.

The wind is still whipping overhead, and Nick can see nothing beyond the windows. There's no telling how late it's gotten. Although his internal clock insists it can't have been that long since sundown, Carmina has been yawning for a while now, and the fire's gone down again. It looks like sleeping through the storm is the only pastime left for Nick to try.

Carmina takes over stoking the fire for the final time before bed, while Kim makes her way upstairs to gather as much of their bedding as she can carry. John follows reluctantly behind, clearly unhappy with the prospect of facing his own cold room, but Nick figures he can deal for five damn minutes. For his part, Nick busies himself checking the radio one last time, just in case there's an emergency. He doesn't know what they'd be able to do if there was one, but that doesn't stop him from checking anyway.

With the radio situated just under the stairs, it's easy to listen in to Kim stomping around in the room above, desperate to keep her temperature up. Nick had put off too many attic repairs before this winter — he's going to have to make up for that in spring, when he and John can worm their way into the rafters and ensure that their next winter won't turn the bedrooms into a cold wasteland. Of course, even if they did patch up the gaps in the floorboards and do their best to insulate the attic, not much can beat a genuine fire in the middle of a snowstorm.

Nick isn't even paying attention to the radio, so he flips it off and trusts that everyone can keep themselves safe for another night. He hears the whump of fabric as Kim tosses their two biggest, least moldy blankets down for Carmina to start with, and the creak of footsteps on the landing overhead. Kim's voice isn't raised, but it carries down to Nick clear as a bell.

"John, you'll freeze if you stay up here," she says. "Get your stuff and come downstairs."

"It's not that cold," John says, attempting to deflect from one weak excuse with another. "I doubt Nick approved that suggestion."

Well, not technically, no, but Nick had sort of assumed they were already all on the same page. What does John think Nick's gonna do, force him to freeze upstairs so he can hog the fireplace all to himself?

Kim doesn't give the excuses a chance to breathe, replying with parental exasperation. "He and I both agree it's too cold to sleep upstairs." Nick can hear the teasing plain as day when she adds, "Just don't be weird about it."

Sure enough, suggesting John might be making things awkward is enough to get him to shut up and follow orders. Nick briefly longs for the days when John would mutely nod and do as told without any additional goading, but only for a second. Even that is long enough retrospection to remind Nick of how creepy and genuinely alarming it had been. Sure, John might get argumentative or exasperated now, but at least there's an actual person to communicate with. Nick might want to kick his ass more now than before, but he absolutely hated dealing with the hollow-eyed monster John had been.

Besides, it's way more satisfying being a dick to him now that he actually gets offended.

Despite John's furrowed-brow glares, Nick doesn't comment whatsoever on him trailing downstairs after Kim, clutching two actual blankets and a tarp that's weather-worn enough to pass muster. He stands and waits for someone to point him in the right direction as Kim and Carmina do their best to bundle together a soft place on the floor, but Nick studiously ignores him until he makes a decision himself. John takes a spot close to the fireplace, off to the right of where the girls are setting up. It's still plenty removed enough, so that nobody will get the wrong idea and think John is supposed to be welcome down here. Nick wonders who he's trying to convince, but there are so many damn demons in the man's head, it's anybody's guess.

With the fire roaring for the last time that night, all the blankets arranged and everybody looking exhausted despite not doing anything all day, Nick finally gets to crawl into bed and put this whole goddamn blizzard behind him. Hopefully, the weather has the common sense to clear up tomorrow — for now, it's time to shut out the cold entirely.

He must be tired. Nick barely stays conscious as Kim and Carmina climb under the blankets, the cool air rapidly warming as they begin to shift around and get comfortable. He rouses a few times at first as Carmina kicks his leg and Kim bumps into him, but eventually, he finds himself dozing in the silence of a quiet house. Far above them, the wind is whipping through the attic, but from down here, it sounds like a generic white-noise machine; coupled with the crackling fire, Nick is lulled to sleep by the sounds of peaceful normalcy.

Who knows how long it is before Nick finds himself conscious again. Even then, he only wakes enough to hear the dying fire popping by his feet. Maybe he should stoke it. But that would mean moving, and Nick is weighted down on either side beneath warm blankets, so that's a hard no. He tries first to roll towards Kim and Carmina, ready to curl into a ball and conserve even more heat, but his right arm is stuck. It takes a few bleary-eyed blinks to realize what's pinned him down, but he's barely coherent enough to make sense of it.

Sometime in the night, John must've migrated from the no-man's-land he'd made for himself towards the Rye's pile of blankets. Unsurprising, really — but more than a little awkward, given how he's pressed into Nick's side, pinning Nick's arm in place. Worse yet, half of his blankets have been absorbed into the mess that Nick's been using to keep warm, which is going to make extracting himself tricky if not impossible.

While he tries to figure out how to avoid making this mortifying situation worse, Nick watches John for any signs of consciousness. The guy usually sleeps light, but Nick watches his breathing for a solid minute and doesn't catch anything. Either his poker-face is just that good, or John is actually asleep. Deeply, peacefully asleep. Nick had assumed that was impossible.

If Nick were a better person, he'd probably be thankful to see it. Glad to know that John's insomnia might finally be coming to an end. But Nick is mostly just an exhausted, anxious mess, and now he's just wondering how to get out of the situation he's found himself in.

John shifts, and like a guilty ten-year-old, Nick immediately closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. If he's lucky, John will roll away of his own volition, or at least move enough to let Nick roll over himself. If only he'd decided to sleep on Kim's side — she wouldn't have the same trouble Nick has. She'd just kick him away and be done with it.

Slowly, John moves away from Nick. The relief is short-lived as John pulls back the covers enough to send a cold chill down Nick's side; it's a split-second decision that John immediately regrets, hissing under his breath and letting the blankets fall back into place as he recoils from the freezing temperatures.

Nick can't help his quiet huff of amusement — which is enough to break the illusion that he'd been asleep in the first place. He could probably still fake it, but if he does, John will definitely try to move his blankets, and that is going to be a much bigger problem than tolerating John in his personal space.

"Quit squirming so much," Nick mutters. "Gonna let in the cold."

John is silent and tense beside him, but he does stop squirming. It's like lying near a tense bar of iron. After a brief struggle to figure out what to say, John's embarrassment catches in his voice as he apologizes. "I'm sorry," he rasps. "I — must have been tired."

Nick sighs. "Just don't crush my arm again."

Even though John moves as though Nick threatened him, he stops short of retreating from the blankets entirely. Nick can only imagine how cold it must be — every breath of his that makes it above the blanket-line comes with a faint puff of visible air. No matter how humiliating it might be to cuddle up to Nick, it doesn't seem like John had much of a choice in the matter.

Before John can decide to try escaping again, Nick repeats, "Whatever you do, don't let in the cold."

In for a penny, Nick decides, worming deeper into the makeshift bed so that John can have more room. Rolling over is the easiest way to avoid the mortifying process of finding a comfortable sleeping arrangement. Eventually, they wind up back-to-back; Nick normally wouldn't be able to stand John touching him, but the additional body-heat does a lot to soothe Nick's reservations. Who knew all he needed to tolerate John's physical presence would be cold weather and exhaustion?

The Deputy, probably, which only makes Nick grin in tired relief. At least they would be glad to know that Nick's grown as a person. They'd probably be glad to learn he's finally gotten on-board with not murdering the Seeds in cold blood — even if it took an apocalypse to get there. If they could see the shit he's gotten himself into now, they'd probably...

He sighs. It must be a heavier sound than he imagined, because John whispers, "What?"

"Nothing," Nick says immediately, as default an answer as John's yeses are. But that's not fair, he doesn't think, because they never let John get away with his obvious deflections. As late as it is, it's easy to blame his guilt on his exhaustion. "Just thinking about Rook," he admits.

"Oh."

John is clearly uncomfortable with the topic, but he doesn't react when Nick continues sleepily, "They'd get a kick outta this, is all."

John hums. It's a quiet noise, but Nick can feel it vibrate through John's shirt. If there are two people Nick hates bringing Rook up around, it's Sharky and John. Sure, Sharky's crush was the one that was reciprocated, but Dep had always treated John's flat-footed overtures like creepy compliments instead of outright threats. They'd probably figured John's crush was superficial, whereas Sharky's had been more real than probably anything else Nick had seen the poor sap go through. John's infatuation had been about power, control, and Joseph goddamn Seed. Still, Nick can't help but wonder just how much of it might've been real to John at the time.

"They had a bad sense of humor," John finally responds, quietly enough that Nick almost misses the hurt.

"Terrible," Nick agrees.

When John sighs, Nick recognizes it as a sign of defeat. Whatever he's debating with himself, he's clearly lost. Although he doesn't speak up again, Nick isn't sure he's gone back to sleep. He sure hopes he didn't just instill another restless night in the guy, but that's John's burden to bear. Maybe he can use it to finally find some common ground with Sharky.

Nick isn't even sure that he can fall back asleep, but that doesn't seem to matter. Before he knows it, he's being woken up once more — this time by a glance of sunlight coming in through the upper part of the windows. It's just enough light to wake him, but he spends an exhausted minute staring at the wall over Kim's shoulder as he debates whether or not he's really committing this time. He's going to need to use the bathroom sooner or later — and just thinking that is enough to tell Nick that he's not getting back to sleep again.

John's back is still facing Nick, and Kim rolls away as soon as Nick starts to squirm, which leaves his path to escape much more open than it was a few hours ago. He manages to pull himself free without waking anyone else, but as soon as he does, John worms into the warm spot left behind. Nick should probably be upset, but mostly he just needs to pee. He can kick John out of his spot after he takes care of himself.

Nick leaves the rest of them to sleep as he tiptoes across the living room to the front door. Unfortunately, the door only wedges open an inch before it hits a wall of snow. Unwilling to wake anyone else up with catastrophic noise, Nick heads upstairs, going for the broken window in John's room. It's freezing up here, cold enough to keep meat until spring, and Nick pulls his flannel closer as he crosses the room, trying not to take too much stock of his surroundings. He doesn't care about the tallies John used to carve in the wall by his bed, and he definitely doesn't care to snoop through the pile of clothes that John's been growing in the corner. What he does care about is how easy it is to crawl out onto the roof from the window — after all, this isn't the first time Nick's been snowed in, and he's made escaping his childhood home an art-form.

There's a good three and a half feet of snow on the ground below, blocking any exit from the first floor. At least the gray sky above is calm, and the weather seems to have calmed down some. They'll have to prepare for another couple of inches before the week's out, but Nick bets the worst of it is over. Now he can think about breakfast — more specifically, coffee — and debate the best way to clear the doorways. They need a path out to the hangar, although they can wait another day or two before they'll need to press the matter. Nick's still convinced there's a set of tire chains hiding away in there, but it's not like the roads will be in any condition to drive on for a while yet...

Nick spends so much time thinking about what he's got to do, he forgets to consider how willing the rest of the house will be to pitch in. The top-of-the-snow sunlight isn't enough heat to make up for the lack of a fire, and getting Kim out from under the blankets is gonna be like pulling teeth until he does something about it. Worse yet, John's rolled into the spot Nick had occupied — not exactly sprawled out, or anything, but the guy is irritatingly close to Kim's sleeping back. If he decided to roll one more time, he'd probably end up smacking his face into her shoulder.

Nick considers throwing a fit on principle, but honestly, that's too much work. It's much easier to sulk, glowering at the bed he's definitely not getting back into before getting some logs to stack in the fire. He drops them noisily by John's feet, although he makes every effort not to accidentally pull a Misery on the guy.

The sound of hollow wood clattering on the ground is enough to stir John, who wakes with a sharp inhale, and cause Carmina to groan and turn away from the noise. Kim has probably been awake for a while now, but it won't make a lick of difference until the fire's on.

He turns away to toss the logs semi-haphazardly into the fireplace, then remembers the kindling and turns to get it. John has propped himself on his elbows, but his half-waking confusion causes him to overlook Nick entirely as he stares around the room. Seeing Kim and Carmina asleep next to him is initially met with confusion. He barely seems to recognize the shapes bundled in the blankets, but when he does he recoils in shock. All the nasty comments Nick had thought up take an abrupt backseat as he stops to marvel at the physical repulsion John shows. He's not sure if he should be offended or not. Probably not, but this apocalypse has got Nick wired all wrong.

"She's not gonna bite," Nick says. John whips his attention back to Nick the moment he raises his voice, only for Nick to realize that looming over the guy with a thick block of wood in hand might send the wrong message.

Sure enough, John catches sight of him, jerking back with a startled hiss. " Jesus !"

"Shit, sorry." Nick turns and drops the log, wincing at the noise that he'd moments ago been deliberately making. "Well, judging from that reaction, looks like this isn't the first time a man's caught you in bed with his wife."

John's withering glare is enough to lift Nick's mood right up. He turns his attention back to starting the fire, listening as John slowly shifts his way free of the blankets. Part of him wants to make a few more jokes at John's expense, but that can wait until John's coherent enough to be snide in return.

Nick gets the fire going and turns to follow John, who's made his way into the kitchen to peer out the window. "Completely snowed in," Nick tells him as he gets the instant coffee and the beat-up kettle. "But it looks like the worst of it's over."

"Seems to be," John agrees, adding, "We forgot the shovels in the truck. It's going to be difficult digging them out now."

"Not a lot of other options, unless you wanna stay inside until the big thaw. Don't worry, I'm sure Carmina will be excited to help us dig."

John hums in assent, although his mind seems to be somewhere else. Nick can't help but notice that John's pensive states seem damned near reasonable nowadays. He has plenty to think about, and he seems to be keeping one foot in the here-and-now. He's aware enough of his surroundings that he stops Nick before he can leave John to it.

He tries to stare Nick down, but he can't quite manage it. "Thank you for not..."

John gestures vaguely as the rest of the sentence fails to generate. Nick could probably wait it out, but he's just as embarrassed as John apparently is, and he would rather move past the whole thing.

"Don't worry about it," Nick says. "Just don't get too comfortable cuddling up to me."

Rolling his eyes doesn't hide John's faint smile, but he turns away before Nick can see if it lasts. "That won't be a problem, trust me."

Nick is surprised that he does, even for something as small and inconsequential as a joke. "Grab the mugs when you're done looking for Santa," he says, turning back for the warmth of the fire. A few months ago, Nick might've resented how eroded the line has become between John and his own family, but it's honestly too much work to keep up. At a certain point, they're just going to have to include John in their daily routines — Nick just hadn't expected that point to be made by sharing blankets during a blizzard.

Well, there's one good thing about that, Nick supposes — it means that somewhere up there, the Deputy is watching over them. After all, there's no way in hell random chance has the same shitty sense of humor as Rook had.

#fcnd #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #christmas fic #mercyverse #my fic #i don't even use that tag any more wtf??? whatever #love you guys have a safe holiday <3

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lovelybrittxo · 4 years

Text

where do I even start?

I’m literally only writing this for myself since typing a whole novel out on the computer is way easier than writing this in a physical journal which is what I normally do. I come to Tumblr though when I have way too much to say and don't know how to say it. I just need to get it off my chest before I blow up. so here it goes...

shall we start at the beginning? I grew up in a decently religious household. my mom, sister and I went to church almost every Sunday with all our aunts and uncles. don't get me wrong, I still believe in God and whatnot and I wouldn't change my upbringing in the church for anything. but it may have suppressed my views on the world. something my aunt said to me a few years ago has stuck to brain ever since and I can't seem to shake it. she told me that she actually believes that being gay is a sin and that you can love the sinner but not the sin. so like, she believes if you're gay, you can be gay but don't act upon it/the sin. she believes, for example, that being trans is a mental illness. like, I just can't wrap my head around that. and honestly, she spoke with so much conviction and “sense” that she actually had me fooled to think the same way for a hot second. and then to learn that my other “cool” aunt also believes this... kinda sad. both of those aunts have literally talked down upon family (and our family is very tight knit) and people they love... what would they do if they ever found out about me?

ive felt a lot of feelings ever since I was young. mostly towards males... but also towards females. I just thought the female part was me wanting to be like them or be their friend and just have them like me and accept me as a chill person to be around. but fast forward to a couple years ago. I was bombarded (in a good way) by social media flaunting (in a good way lol) different sexualities and things. its hard to describe but that “world” was just becoming more prominent to me I guess.

I started to try and put my religious upbringing in the background so I could focus on trying to figure out who I really was. ive been doing this for at least a couple years now. and although im still trying to really figure it out, right now half way through 2020, I think im getting closer to an answer. and guess what has helped me the most? tiktok lmao! no but for real, the internet is an amazing place for discovery in any form. after I started to get into real communities online (like kpop and penpaling) i’ve never felt more connected to the internet and it allowed me to try and find real personal help... if that makes any sense. i’ve just tried to put myself out there and not just google my feelings but piece together a map from asking real people over the Internet here and there to try and figure out who I am.

sometime last year (or maybe earlier) I found a YouTube video of a popular creator retelling her coming out story. I just randomly commented on the video about how I had been feeling, not to get a reply but just to comment. but then I actually got a real reply (not from the creator but still a nice person). they said something along the lines of me basically being bicurious. I had never in my life heard of such a word and I had thought that this person was just making it up. one google search later I found out it was a real thing. although at the time of first looking it up I was still very confused about the word... still kinda am? lol. however, just a couple weeks ago I had seen a post somewhere (an ad I think selling pride flags) saying there was an official bicurious flag. I was in shock. I thought it was a scam, but its not, it’s real (I just don't think it’s talked about very often cause it doesn't seem like a solid sexuality that you can claim your entire life). but anyway.

now what i’m gonna say next I don't want to come off in the wrong way (you nonexistent person reading this lol), but I feel like dating a trans person brought me into that “world” a bit more. like, i had literally never met anyone who was trans before him or anyone who was gay or used a they/them pronoun... never. but in his world, all of that was common and normal. and this is where I don't want to come off wrongly... I don't wanna make it seem like because I dated a trans person i’m qualified to be included in the LGBT community now or to talk about LGBT stuff or whatever. I just think because I dated him, it opened up my shallow world a bit. especially because he’s open about it (on a side note I always loved looking at his huge trans flag above his bed. that was the first flag I had really ever memorized because of him. besides the rainbow one obviously lol). like, his best friend uses they/them pronouns, and although i’ve always been aware of that, i’ve only ever seen things about it through YouTube videos and whatnot. I had never had to actually use those pronouns for anyone I knew in real life until I met his best friend. like, everything I knew about that “world” had only been through online researching/consuming. i’d never experienced it in real life before.

I remember one night we talked about it a little. I knew he was bisexual and so I asked him if he’d ever dated a guy. he asked me if I would ever date a girl and i just said that I had always thought about it and that my tinder profile was set to find both genders. then we talked about pride since it was at the beginning of quarantine and we didn't know if parades were still gonna happen or not yet. he said I could always go as an ally because I told him I felt ashamed and like I shouldn't be allowed to attend a pride parade. (of course he reassured me I can go and he wasn't shocked about me liking both genders at all...he just said ‘nice’ lol)

I still have a little inkling in the back of my mind that I still shouldn't be able to attend though. honestly because I don't know what I would be attending as. I feel like an imposter. I don't want people thinking that im doing all this for attention or just because I dated one person in the LGBT community. i’ve been struggling with this for so long... but it just so happens that now at 27 years old im coming to terms with who I am. I just feel like because I didn't figure it out earlier that I’m not “worthy” of being included. I feel like such an outsider because no one’s “invited” me in yet lol because im still trying to figure it out.

and on the same note, I don't feel like i’m worthy because I still really don't have a solid answer. at the moment I just use bicurious because ive never dated a girl before. the trans guy ive been talking about has been the only person i’ve ever been romantically involved with. im serious. I made it 26 years without being with anyone in any type of way. I feel like I don't have the right to call myself bisexual. however, I feel a tiny bit more confident in using that label maybe after I do end up dating a girl in the future and not feel guilty about using it because that same guy calls himself bisexual but told me right out one day that he’s way more attracted to girls than guys and im in the same situation but opposite. the only difference at this point in time is that he’s dated both and I haven't. but thennnn on the other hand, do I even need to label myself at all right now??

even if I did wanna come out, I don't wanna do it until I really have a solid answer about my identity. i just feel like such a fraud or something because im trying to figure it out so late. and like, im going so over the top with my support this year because I feel like I should fit in and maybe im trying too hard? again, I just don't want people thinking its because I dated one trans guy and all of a sudden im huge into the LGBT community. it’s not like that. all of this is just helping me bring out my true self. ugh this is the part where it gets confusing to put into words. i’m aware and I have pure intentions. im just trying to figure out myself after a long time of trying to figure out myself lol

some days the research is overwhelming. there's so many facts and opinions and different people’s stories and labels. as crazy as it sounds I just want someone who’s been gay their whole life to come up and tell me “yup, your bisexual no doubt” lol or something like that. I guess I just want to be validated in my exploration. and i’ve seen random tiktok comments saying stuff like that, that validates me, but the difference is that their comments aren’t directed specifically to me. they don't know me personally. it’s hard to have a random social media comment resonate with me. honestly, and this may sound selfish and not right, but when I was talking to the guy I was seeing, I almost wish he just told me straight out what I was that day. but instead he said I could go to Pride as an ally. and that was probably just him being respectful and not forcing me to be anything, but it almost had the opposite effect on me. by saying I was an ally it felt like he was giving me that permanent label even after telling him I like guys and girls.... ya know?

something recently happened to me that really stuck with me and I was so happy. I have a penpal who is very southern Texas raised religious. she knows the Bible better than I do. I had posted a Pride doodle I did on my Instagram at the beginning of this month and she was the only one who personally responded with an encouraging and supportive dm. if she can support whole heartedly the LGBT community and still love God, then why can't I?? and that's when I trulyyyy knew that I was right and my aunt’s were wrong and I wasn't going insane lol

I wanted to buy a bicurious or pride flag recently. but then was torn when I saw the ally flag (which I also didn't know existed until recently) and the bisexual flag. I know they're just flags but it feels so solid?? like you buy one when you know what you are.... and I don't yet. so I ended up not buying one at all :/

again, there was no purpose to this post because I know no one is going to read it but I just had to type it out into the world so I didn't have to bottle it up anymore.

#lgbt #pride #pride 2020 #lgbt community #bisexual #bi curious #trans #transgender #questioning #sexuality #coming out #me #personal

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