Rem

no.3 Kate Laswell defender no.2 is John Price no.1 is her wife

[laswells-ashtray]

Uh...ignore this if it's weird but!

I painted orca...big ol' eyes captivated me👁👁 (the flowers are shitty cornflowers, a symbol of hope for the future)

Oh my fucking God. That's my baby and her silly eyes.

THE MARKINGS ON HER HEAD?! Actually damn near greetin at this.

[laswells-ashtray]

Kate knows exactly how she's viewed.

She's either the lesbian. The one that men can joke around with, dropping truly heinous jokes about women and expecting her to agree, as someone who likes the same sex. The lesbian, some of her coworkers look down upon because if she likes women, then she's capable of peering, or staring at someone's chest until the other woman flees in shame. The angry, mean lesbian from every 90s movie.

Or she's the blunt, abrupt coworker who befriended a man who took a nosedive off the edge. The one who was foolish enough to develop a relationship with a man, not work-friendly but teasing, beyond the parameters of their title, with a man who killed General Shepherd in his own office, in cold blood. She's a weak link in the chain. The typical woman who couldn't see the predator wolf beyond its fur.

It escapes her, the way Sarah views her.

A beautiful, intelligent, masterful woman. Capable of both logical thinking, which requires stepping back from the situation to look at the picture as a whole, and emotional comfort, the necessity of understanding what someone is feeling and reacting solely upon those conditions.

Someone who unconsciously sticks her tongue out between her lips when she's focused on something that requires hand-eye coordination. Like knitting, no matter how bad she may be at it, an endeavour she tried because she knew it held someone else's interest.

Someone phenomenal with children despite never wanting one of her own. Despite the stereotype that lesbians are all childless women, incapable of handling a baby thrust into their arms, Kate thrives with an infant who babbles at her and tugs her hair. She adores the nieces and nephews she gained through marriage; she dotes on them. No matter the circumstances, Kate is always willing to comfort a crying child in her arms, capable of understanding the emotional plight of a kid yet to discover the horrors that await in adulthood.

A woman who exudes beauty in her every state. When dressed for work, the picture of professionalism in an environment that is dominated by the majority of men. When she's at home, in old, worn sweats and desperate for a day of peace despite her reluctance to stay still and deprived of work. At her most tired, dolled up for a date night that will exhaust her just to show she cares, hair in an up-do and wearing make-up that Sarah will gently wipe away later.

An adoring partner, who takes every no as a full statement. whether ot be sex, or the mere touch of a hand across a lower back. Selfless in saying no to food or an activity that she so desperately craves because Sarah isn't in the mood that day. Willing to remove herself from the household, overstimulated and irritated, for fear she take it out on her wife.

A woman who offers everything she has to that which she cares for, that's who Kate is.

[laswells-ashtray]

Soap died before getting to see his home country in the World Cup for the first time in 28 years, btw.

The country he was so prideful in, the land in which he died, if not on its soil. The home he'd talk up to anyone who'd listen. And anyone who knew him had to hear about it and grieve the joy it would've brought him.

[laswells-ashtray]

i judge people based on which version of hallelujah is their favourite, like your answer could be considered a character flaw

[laswells-ashtray]

big fan of this mischievous creature. she looks like a mob boss

have i ever shown what i call her Vito Corleone photo?

[laswells-ashtray]

unamused by the heat. she isn't the only one.

[laswells-ashtray]

Once, before Top Gun, before they were the infamous Slider and Iceman, Ron orders Tom to take a nap.

Sure, Tommy's an adult and can make his own decisions. But he's been an utter prick all day, no amount of water or snacking is helping and quite frankly, Ron has reached his limit for the other man's snide remarks for the day.

And that's saying something.

Truly, Ron doesn't know what's funnier, the fact that Tom does, in fact, go for a nap, or that he wakes up, then immediately voices his irritation that he feels better and the age old toddler trick worked on him.

Even when he's trying to be angry, Ron can see past it because the tension in his shoulders from pre-nap is gone.

Ron makes the conscious decision to ignore that it was a Mother Goose move, for his own sanity.

[laswells-ashtray]

Waiting for an appointment, so doing my favourite appointment waiting task and catching up on your blog. Time to strap myself in for the emotional heartache. 🤍

It's half emotional heartbreak, half me taking the piss tbf

[laswells-ashtray]

i walked in on my sister and her bf fucking like rabbits

I'm talking doggy, hair pulling, spanking, spitting

they didn't realize i was there till I left and slammed the door

traumatising. i'd kill myself.

[laswells-ashtray]

John lives his life in periods.

Three weeks of relief before the rot overtakes him. Abdomen cramping like something curled inside of him and died as the grief of a body that doesn't feel his own festers.

His chest aches, he's angry, and his boxers are blood-soaked at the crotch. There's no painkiller effective enough, and no comfort worthy of soothing the betrayal he feels towards his reproductive organs.

Nikolai is kind. He's patient; he never utters a word about having to wash their bedsheets and doesn't flinch when John swats his hands away. But there's a blatant difference between them. Nikolai can walk out of their bathroom naked without thinking twice; John will hastily throw on boxers, even if the waistband ends up damp, just to ensure he's covered up, because some days he can't help but notice the difference in what they have below the belt.

John is a man. He has never once doubted that, and no one can rob him of that. Yet he seethes at the knowledge that many of the men he surrounds himself with will never share his predicament, seeking out sanitary products in the men's toilets in public and finding nothing, an increased libido and sensitive nipples that give him a few days' warning.

He loathes snapping at someone close to him for a slight that's small and meaningless, only to realise in the hours that follow that his irritation was irrational and hormonally driven.

He hates feeling like a prisoner to his own biology, as a man owned by no one.

[laswells-ashtray]

Johnny grew up one of five kids. Sharing was to be expected, and brand items were a luxury among Lidl or Aldi rip-offs.

In no way does he resent his childhood; he never went without, and he's lived beyond measure. But adult money and a day with fuck all to do leads him to the fanciest place he can think of in search of dessert, and that's how he ends up in M&S.

A cheesecake is not a breakfast for a grown man, but Johnny eats healthy as is, attends the gym regularly, and is entitled to make his own mistakes. That's the excuse he has prepared for his Mammy when he tells her about the endeavour later.

Simon takes little convincing; all Johnny has to utter is "triple chocolate" before the man is up, off his arse to grab cutlery.

It takes demolishing half of a cheesecake each to realise that it's a bad idea and utterly sickening. Simon's downing a bottle of water, and Johnny's lying over the couch with his feet in the Englishman's lap.

"Same time next week?"

"Aye, if you're the wan payin."

[laswells-ashtray]

Kyle handles the heat like a man.

By lying on his living room floor with an ice pack tucked under his lower back, ice cubes resting in the centre of his chest, rapidly melting and an empty box of cheap ice lollies beside him.

He's burnt from his shoulders to his wrists, his knees to his ankles and across the bridge of his nose.

He's too warm to utilise what little time he has away from the job to go out and get laid, and too lazy for a half-hearted wank.

Kyle has never been one to believe in Hell, but he's positive that it caught up to him in the form of British summer.

[laswells-ashtray]

temperature in the car. kill me now.

it was so hot, they had trouble getting my fillings to set properly.

[laswells-ashtray]

dentist. i will try not to bite her this time.

[laswells-ashtray]

John hates stereotypical omega clothing.

Soft, gentle fabrics. Trousers that emphasise the hips and waist, while hugging the arse. Shirts that are flowy and show a hint of collarbone, meant to be tantalising without bordering on inappropriate.

John hates clothing designed for your designation in general; it feels demeaning. The expectation that one should advertise what they are to the masses for the sake of societal tact.

He's grown used to being an omega; he's a captain who earned his spot despite the leering of alphas around him, declaring him incompetent for the job or expecting a fuck for tolerating his rank. He'll risk his back for his country, but he won't bear his neck in submission.

With great reluctance, he allowed himself the vulnerability of sharing his heat with Nikolai, and the alpha handled him with a care John struggled to comprehend. He never pushed John, even as their relationship, to hand over something unwillingly. And never once has he complained when his t-shirts are handed back to him, covered in John's scent because they're far more favourable than fitted shirts marketed towards omegas.

It nauseates John to look at the clothes in the shop; he's sickened by his reality and the dainty pieces thrown his way for the crime of having a secondary gender deemed maternal. But Nikolai wants their pup so badly that it makes his bones ache, and John will eventually outgrow his clothes without voicing his dislike of renting out his body to an infant he can't think of cradling in his arms.

[laswells-ashtray]

How are you still alive /hj

you are far from the first person to ask me this and truly my answer is i am not as foolish as the masses would believe

[laswells-ashtray]

burnt my lip yesterday because apparently you are not supposed to eat off of a fork that has just been in frying oil my bad

shit still hurts