wow @thymes-gnu-rowman - Tumblr Blog

I don't want to become a tree.

I have a fascination with death. Not how it happens, not what happens after. I have a fascination with how death is handled by the ones left living.

I talked at length about it in the Egyptian gallery with you, surrounded by bodies misplaced. "Most of history we learn through the way we treat our dead." Which is true, I think, for the most part.

We have written and oral history. We have the skeletons of buildings and cultures left behind for us to interpret. But before that, before the corpses of civilizations we're still able to uncover, we have our own.

The oldest body ever found is argued to be 230,000 years old. Hundreds of millennia, a culture so lost to time and decay we can't hope to uncover significant artifacts.

Our bodies become the artifact. The way we were buried, where, with what, with who. Was there care put into our final resting spot? Was there effort put into the ends of our lives?

Most often, there was. Our bodies tell our descendants our status. Our injuries. Our community. Our loves.

Perhaps they'll debate. Perhaps they'll misinterpret. But millennia later, your body might tell someone how we lived. How we loved. What we cared about at our core. What we thought would help us after death. What we thought we'd want to continue our comfort. What the living needed to let us pass on from their lives.

You tell me you still think about what I said.

Many people talk about becoming a tree when they pass. It is a beautiful notion, one I've considered. A natural, living reminder of a life lived. A place for their loved ones to share a connection with. In a way, the continuation of a life; albeit in a different form.

But I don't want to become a tree. I'd rather become a forest.

Maybe it's a notion toward the state of our world. The lack of top soil is one of the prevalent factors of our declining environment. The way we've stripped it of the nutrients of decay.

There are ways to decompose naturally. In the ground with nothing but a natural shroud is the oldest and easiest way. A new, human composting method has been created for an urban option when the easiest is unavailable. An alternative to cremating. One that can give back to the earth.

My body might not be one that tells the story of my time alive on this planet. My body might tell a joke, or rest peacefully, or ideally decay away. My DNA will dissolve into nitrogen and an assortment of other elements. I will become no different or better than the dirt that lies around me. What was me will become something else entirely.

I'd rather become the top soil. I'd rather become the forest.

library-mermaid-blog

I am laughing so hard oh my god clickhole

advanced-procrastination

If you just scrolled past, don’t. Go back and read it. I promise it is not what you think

ladyvader23

Legit advice, can confirm.

pultakhen

this ones for you @biscuitkid7

Tourists

West Gloucestershire had one one rule. Do not disturb her at night. Everyone knew it.

But Harvey was a tourist.

He’d rented a cottage for the week, in a patch of forest outside the suburbs of London. Like most social recluses, Harvey enjoyed biking in the woods.

He’d gotten up early in the day rented a guide, and had been biking west ever since, only stopping for breaks. They were supposed to meet at 5 am at the beginning of the trail. The guide never showed.

He wasn’t surprised. He was slightly skeptical of her ability to take him on a fifteen mile uphill hike, when she’d lost her left leg last year. So he proceeded on his own.

But it was late in the day and the latex of his biking pants chafed and his windbreaker did little to deter the cold rattling his bones, but it was too dark to stop. He was in the middle of the woods.

It seemed more sensible to wait until he could reach an inn or even someone’s shed.

The leaves crunched under the dirt path and he wiped away the clammy sweat that stuck to his forehead. Fog began settling in and clouded his already terrible vision. He’d lost his glasses over a cliff some ways back. The starless sky did little to help him, and only a crescent moon occasionally peeked out from between thick opaque clouds.

Wind burrowed between his limbs, raking up goosebumps on his flesh. Suddenly, he seized, all muscles constricting at once, his feet tangling in the pedals. The bike fell over on top of him ensnaring one leg within now-broken spokes.

“This will be inconvenient,” he stated huffily, picking muggy leaves and moss from his equally muggy hair. While trying to pull his leg out of thespoke, without further scratching it the scent of blood filled the air.

He knew the scent of his blood. He knew the scent of his brother’s blood and his wife’s blood.

The blood he smelled was not like that blood, old and iron scented, and cold. That blood did not smell like his hands like theirs did.

He turned around, watching with wide cold eyes.

A giant woman stood near him, huge and ominous cloaked in dark red splotched pelts, hands bright red as she gripped a large femur. Picking tendons away from the bone she began, voice barely audible over the thrashing wind, “I heard you speak.”

Harvey nodded continuing to remove his leg from his bike.

“Why did you disturb me?” She requested, voice anxious as she frayed the tendons she’d picked.

“I-” He began her actions activating shivers along his spine.

“Quiet!” She screamed her voice echoing over the wind. Advancing, the cloaked woman, swung the limb at him, wailing mournfully. He would soon be quiet.

With a thump he caught the ball joint, stopping her blow, and in the same movement slammed his bike-entangled leg into her face. She crashed to the ground spilling her femur bone and a couple pelts. Face gnashed by the bike pedal. Holding her there with his leg, Harvey stepped onto her to stand. She whimpered at the pedal shoving into her stomach. He leaned over and picked up the bone. It looked recently sawed off, unnaturally, right above where a kneecap should’ve been.

“So that’s where my guide went…” he muttered, tapping it against his palm with sticky muffled thumps. The crescent moon’s swift appearance illuminating the intrigue in his eyes.

“Shame you attacked me,” he huffed, as she struggled to get up from under the bike. He raised the bone over his head and graced her with a smile.

“Now your blood will smell like my hands,” he stated softly.

She never heard his final decree; the wind was too loud.

It would not disturb her that night.

defectivegembrain

creative writing’s just like yeah sure i can deal with my issues i just need to cover them in several layers of metaphors first

defectivegembrain

touch depression? with my bare hands? no hang on *invents a character* this will be my gloves

rwby-rose

writing multi-chapter fics be like

midnight-octopus-deactivated202

character: it’s like I said-

me, scrolling through to seven chapters ago, muttering under my breath: yeah, what DID you say

callme-xo

omg so true tho 😭😭😭

amuseoffyre

Quick thing for people writing Scottish characters - dinnae, didnae and disnae are not interchangeable.

Dinnae - do not/don’t

Didnae - did not/didn’t

Disnae - does not/doesn’t

“I dinnae want to do that” means “I don’t want to do that.”

“They didnae find the loot” means “they didn’t find the loot”

“He disnae ken what he’s talking about” means “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

What I’ve noticed is that there is a tendency for non-Scots writers to always use “dinnae” regardless of context. I’m assuming that’s because it’s a quick shorthand to show the character is Scottish for the audience which is pretty much… you know. How media works.

Unfortunately, every time I hit a sentence like “he dinnae want it”, my brain goes ERROR ERROR ABORT OUT OF CHEESE.

I doesn’t like it.

beguines

Neil Hilborn, “For Henry, Who Has Just Died”, The Future

gnomebud

[image descriptions: text that reads:

“For Henry, Who Has Just Gone

Henry was my pet rat, and he died last night in my hands. He was three years old, which is way longer than

an albino rat is supposed to live. To be honest, he wasn’t a very smart animal, but he was so sweet that now I wonder

if intelligence has anything to do with leading a good life. He had been sick for a few months, and every twelve hours

I had to apply antiseptic and lotion to both his back feet. By the end they didn’t really work anymore,

so he would just drag his feet behind him in a way so cute and sad that I started calling him my little sea lion. When he died it was, somehow,

a surprise: you would think that when your rat is older than older than dirt and has been sick for months you’d be sort of prepared: after I had laid out the towel

and mixed the solution, I picked him up and noticed his breathing was s slow. I lay down with him

on the towel, the towel where we’d spent the last few months, where I think we finally, really, completely loved each other,

not like humans do: humans always want something from you and he and I would rather just be together than apart,

and I pulled him toward me, and he chittered in that way that always meant he was wind coming in after a rain, his head fell forward, and there was so much less

light in the room. The lamp was so far away, like the light of a house to which there is no road. I know, he was just a rat. So many

just like him, all white, red eyes, die every day and only one or two people in white coats are even there to see it.

He was all in white, he was always there to see me. When I would wake from a nightmare, so many nightmares, I would turn on the light

and there he was, holding on, a constant companion to a prisoner, the prison being the apartment, the world being inside his cage. Once I was crying

in bed because of who knows why, and he sat beside my face and licked my tears away. I had a rat once, named Henry. Named Buddy. Named Mr. Big

Mouse. Named proof that something could need me and still love me. Named please can I have some of your apple? Or I know

you’re sad but I’m hungry. Don’t go; if you go I won’t survive: a child reaches for her father; a couple, buried in ash, dies holding each other;

a man and a woman in an office, crying slightly, sign sheets of paper; sparrows fall out of the sky together. Some day I’m going to have a child. She’s going to have

eyes like mine and such small hands. Just like she’ll need me alive then, she needs me alive now; I can’t say goodbye before I’ve had a chance

to say hello. I don’t stare off bridges anymore. I don’t count out little blue exit signs and even today, with Henry buried under a tree, a tree somewhere so far away

it feels like someone else buried him using my body, today I came home and only wanted to sleep for twenty minutes instead of always. Something needed

me once, and I know something will need me again. One day I’m going to have a daughter. She’s going to sleep through the night

sometimes. She is a light on a rock at the edge of a lonely see. You see that light out there? That’s where I’m headed. That’s home.”

/end id]

otherwindow

This is how the golden age of piracy ended.

otherwindow

The first mermaid to get tattoos :)

dragonsateyourtoast

“we didn’t know any better,” the crewman says, and swallows, presenting the chest to the captain. “what do we do now?”

“kill it,” the captain says, but the ice is melting in his eyes.

“we can’t,” the first mate says desperately, praying she won’t have to fight her captain on this. “we can’t. we - i won’t. we won’t.”

“i know.”

“daddy,” she says, floating in a tub of seawater in the hold, “daddy, la-la, la-la-la.”

her voice rings like bells. her accent is strange; her mouth isn’t made for human words. it mesmerises even the hardiest amongst them and she wasn’t even trying. the crew has taken to diving for shellfish near the shorelines for her; she loves them, splitting the shells apart with strength seen in no human toddler, slurping down the slimy molluscs inside and laughing, all plump brown cheeks and needle-sharp teeth. she sometimes splashes them for fun with her smooth, rubbery brown tail. even when they get soaked they laugh. they love her.

“daddy,” she calls again, and he can hear the worry in her voice. the storm rocking the ship is harsh and uncaring, and if they go down, she would be the only survivor.

“don’t worry,” he says, and goes over, sitting next to the tub. the first mate, leaning against the wall, pretends not to notice as he quietly begins to sing.

“father,” she says, one day, as she leans on the edge of the dock and the captain sits next to her, “why am I here?”

“your mother abandoned you,” he says, as he always has. “we found you adrift, and couldn’t bear to leave you there.”

she picks at the salt-soaked boards, uncertain. her hair is pulled back in a fluffy black puff, the white linen holding it slipping almost over one of her dark eyes. one of her first tattoos, a many-limbed kraken, curls over her right shoulder and down her arm, delicate tendrils wrapped around her calloused fingertips. “alright,” she says.

“why am I really here?” she asks the first mate, watching the sun set over the water in streaks of liquid metal that pooled in the troughs of the waves and glittered on the seafoam.

“we didn’t know any better,” the first mate says, staring into the water. “we didn’t know- we didn’t know anything. we didn’t understand why she fought so viciously to guard her treasure. we could not know she protected something a thousand times more precious than the purest gold.”

she wants to be furious, but she can’t. she already knew the answer, from reading the guilt in her father’s eyes and the empty space in her own history. and she can’t hate her family.

“it’s alright,” she says. “i do have a family, anyways. i don’t think i would have liked my other life near as much.”

her kraken grows, spreading its tendrils over her torso and arms. she grows too, too large to come on board the ship without being hauled up in a boat from the water. she sings when the storms come and swims before the ship to guide it to safety. she fights off more than one beast of the seas, and gathers a set of scars across her back that she bears with pride. “i don’t mind,” she says, when the captain fusses over her, “now i match all of you.”

the first time their ship is threatened, really threatened, is by another fleet. a friend turned enemy of the first mate. “we shouldn’t fight him,” she says, peering through the spyglass.

“why not?” the mermaid asks.

“he’ll win,” the first mate says.

the mermaid tips her head sideways. Her eyes, dark as the deep waters, gleam in the noon light. “are you sure?” she asks.

the enemy fleet surrenders after the flagship is sunk in the night, the anchor ripped off the ship and the planks torn off the hull. the surviving crew, wild-eyed and delirious, whimper and say a sea serpent came from the water and attacked them, say it was longer than the boat and crushed it in its coils. the first mate hears this and has to hide her laughter. the captain apologizes to his daughter for doubting her.

“don’t worry,” she says, with a bright laugh, “it was fun.”

the second time, they are pushed by a storm into a royal fleet. they can’t possibly fight them, and they don’t have the time to escape.

“let me up,” the mermaid urges, surfacing starboard and shouting to the crew. “bring me up, quickly, quickly.”

they lower the boat and she piles her sinous form into it, and uses her claws to help the crew pull her up. once on the deck she flops out of the boat and makes her way over to the bow. the crew tries to help but she’s so heavy they can barely lift parts of her.

she crawls up out in front of the rail and wraps her long webbed tail around the prow. the figurehead has served them well so far but they need more right now. she wraps herself around the figurehead and raises her body up into the wind takes a breath of the stinging salt air and sings.

the storm carries her voice on its front to the royal navy. they are enchanted, so stunned by her song that they drop the rigging ropes and let the tillers drift. the pirates sail through the center of the fleet, trailing the storm behind them, and by the time the fleet has managed to regain its senses they are buried in wind and rain and the pirates are gone.

she declines guns. instead she carries a harpoon and its launcher, and uses them to board enemy ships, hauling her massive form out of the water to coil on the deck and dispatch enemies with ruthless efficiency. her family is feared across all the sea.

“you know we are dying,” the captain says, looking down at her.

she floats next to the ship, so massive she could hold it in her arms. her eyes are wise.

“i know,” she says, “i can feel it coming.”

the first mate stands next to the captain. she never had a lover or a child, and neither did he, but to the mermaid they are her parents. she will always love her daughter. the tattoos are graven in dark swirls across the mermaid’s deep brown skin and the flesh of her tail, even spiraling onto the spiked webbing on her spine and face. her hair is still tied back, this time with a sail that could not be patched one last time.

“we love you,” the first mate says simply, looking down. her own tightly coiled black hair falls in to her face; she shakes the locs out of the way and smiles through her tears. the captain pretends he isnt crying either.

“i love you too,” the mermaid says, and reached up to pull the ship down just a bit, just to hold them one last time.

“guard the ship,” the captain says. “you always have but you know they’re lost without you.”

“without you,” the mermaid corrects, with a shrug that makes waves. “what will we do?”

“i don’t know,” the captain says. “but you’ll help them, won’t you?”

“of course i will,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “i will always protect my family.”

the captain and the first mate are gone. the ship has a new captain, young and fearless - of the things she can afford to disregard. she fears and loves the ocean, as all captains do. she does not fear the royal fleet. and she does not fear the mermaid.

“you know, i heard stories about you when i was a little girl,” she says, trailing her fingers in the water next to the dock.

the mermaid stares at her with one eye the size of a dinner table. “is that so?” she hums, smirking with teeth sharper than the swords of the entire navy.

“they said you could sink an entire fleet and that you had skin tougher than dragon scales,” the new captain says, grinning right back at the monster who could eat her without a moment’s hesitation. “i always thought they were telling tall tales.”

“and now?”

“they were right,” the new captain says. “how did they ever befriend you?”

the mermaid smiles, fully this time, her dark eyes gleaming under the white linen sail. “they didn’t know any better.”

redporkpadthai

She protects her family.

dragonsateyourtoast

Hi everybody! Guess what’s being posted on AO3 now at the following link!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498384/chapters/53760817

That’s right! Here you go. I’ll be uploading it in some chunks, because I want to make sure I have everything I wanted edited cleanly finished, but follow the story there!

leclecarchie

headspace-hotel

This is yet another consequence of ✨shitty writing advice✨ that's like "if it doesn't advance the plot cut it out!"

Hey. Have you considered. That scenes with character development. *Are* advancing the plot

hivemaeda

SWIR!! PWEASE! TWIGHTEN MY FEET! MY WITTLE TOEIES ARE FWALLING OFF!

(｡´・ω・｀｡)

hivemaeda

My wittle toesies now… owo

hivemaeda

NWOOO!! MY TOESIES!! PWEASE!! SWIR!! GIVE THWEM BWACK!

pultakhen

Observing this exchange from outside the translucent perimeter of polycarbonate bulletproof glass the scientist determined there was little hope left for each Experiment 73011.

“It may be time to put it down,” she said to herself, scratching out notes on her scrap of notebook paper.

“NO!” It called anxiously from below, scratching at the wall, “IF EWE POOT MWE DOWN I'W NEWVEWR GEWT MWY TOWSIES BAWK!”

She hadn’t realized the intercom was still on.

“What is this?” A luxurious voice called from behind her, “You will not be putting down Experiment 73011,” he stated firmly.

“Good morning, Sir,” the scientist replied shakily. This man could certainly be intimidating when he wanted.

“As you wish, Sir,” she continued.

“Please leave me to speak with the experiment,” he cordially commanded, smiling faintly and gesturing to the ajar doorway behind him.

“As you wish, Sir,” She repeated then scurried away.

“Expriment 73011, she will not be putting you down-” he stated once more into the stark white habitat of messy blankets and ripped plush animals.

“OH THAWNK EWE MISTEW OWBAMA!” Experiment 73011 loudly interrupted, nyah-ing at the air extatically.

“-because I will,” he continued, then graced his fingers over a dark blue button.

“((((；ﾟДﾟ))))))),” the experiment exclaimed in fear, “M-mistew Owbawma…m-my towsies…”, the experiment mewled tearing up.

“That’s President Obama, My Experiment,” he hummed lowly, then pushed the button.

-beep-

write-on-world

every-book-has-a-secret

why do you call me out like that

thewriterswitch

Fanfic writers: Publishes a new chapter

Fanfic readers: Amazing, just amazing. I can’t wait to see what happens next

Fanfic writer: *Chuckles darkly.* me too, my friend, me too.

Also fanfic writer: But seriously, Idk wtf I’m supposed to write next!

askmeaboutmyrudyard

Part 1

(my part of a trade)

From the doorway came a familiar voice, soft but sincere. “Hello, nurse~.“

Chris’s welcoming smile was small, as usual, but it was still there as the redhead peered over his shoulder, watching his short, stocky companion give him a cheery two-fingered salute, before closing the front door to their apartment.

Terryn then went about lowering the comestibles he’d been carefully toggling in his arms to the floor with a practiced ease that might make a Commissary bagger jealous. His friend was wary with the staples they’d likely be eating for the next month, and nothing broke or spilled out, despite the obvious weight to his burden. He was as vigilant as a dragon guarding its hoard.

Chris would have admired the performance, oh to hell with it; he was impressed continuously by Terryn’s surprisingly steady hands. The only problem was, he knew where his partner had learned to keep such a solid hold on his belongings. And, though he never voiced it, it never failed to make him feel guilty. Ashamed as he was for playing a part of(no matter how loosely associated) that pathetic gang of neighborhood gangster-wannabes who had amused themselves picking on the boy they’d deemed local loser. They’d knock books, and anything else he’d been caught carrying from his hands and into ditches and mud puddles, and whatever was available, just to watch the kid slowly get on his hands and knees to retrieve what was his.

There were complex subjects that went well beyond simple apologies, and this was one of them.

Terryn knew the depth of his shamefaced remorse, and they’d both acknowledged that past that could be forgiven but not forgotten, and they’d reached a point where they could build a future together atop those shaky foundations.

One day, they might even talk about it in greater detail, possibly with a therapist who knew their profession well and could weigh in on the subject with greater grace than either man was capable, but for now, they were content on leaving things as they were.

Chris and Terryn. Two roommates who had somehow stumbled their way into becoming something more.

As Terryn removed the food from the paper bags, Chris caught several bright yellow ‘CLEARANCE’ labels, signaling the other man had today had selected an excellent day to make a trip to the supermarket.

It also meant They’d need to stuff all the meat in the freezer before it went bad.

Deciding to offer some assistance, Chris set aside his remote, pausing the episode of Fullmetal Alchemist he’d been watching on Netflix.

(He’d seen this one before, anyway. The protagonists were about to realize the upper echelons of the military were planning to create a utopia via Human Sacrifice. To be blunt, it was not really all that much of a stretch from what the brass on top did on a regular basis through policy, but he supposed the symbolism didn’t have to be esoteric for a fan to appreciate the message.)

Stretching out his limps like a well-rested cat, he sauntered around the plush leather sofa to reach his destination.

This was the same sofa he’d discovered on someone’s curb on garbage day and hadn’t found the willpower to resist bringing home(Seriously — real leather. Someone had probably died on it, or maybe it was cursed or wiretapped by the government to keep tabs on him, but it was all worth it, knowing he had a sofa worth more than some of their neighbor’s cars).

He immediately began folding the paper bags, so he could toss them in the recycle bin. If he didn’t do it, his flatmate would, and watching the shorter man struggle to ensure everything was perfect to his own exacting specifications tugged at a few rueful twangs on his conscience.

Helping cost him nothing, and so it had become one of their little routines whenever his roomie returned from an outing.

Finishing their respective tasks, their eyes met over the stove-tops (recently cleaned, Chris could smell Terryn’s favorite aerosol disinfectant wafting pleasantly in the air) and he walked the few extra steps to embrace him, his smile widened further as Terryn slowly began to melt into it, returning the affection with his own.

“That all you have to say to me?” Chris asked lightly, a teasing lilt entering his voice. “Just a ‘Hello’ and nothing more?”

They both knew there was more meaning to those two words than what had been said, that Perhaps those words shouldn’t mean as much to him as they did. However, it seemed that a good portion of life was all about being contradictory, and that greeting managed to be one of them.

His days as a practicing nurse were long over, his attempts to get back into what he had once thought would be his calling always put him back in that time when the men with butter bars on their uniforms called all the shots and where bad things happened to good people.

But contrary to what one might think, his botched profession wasn’t what the expression brought to mind.

No, instead, it recalled a running gag in vaudeville, a catcall used to gain the attention of a beautifully presenting individual passing by. It was a compliment, one that not only made Chris feel attractive and wanted, but the saying itself was one that would always hearken back to Before the Now. Reminding him of better days, before even his troubled teenage years he’d rather forget, back when he was a kid watching Animaniacs reruns, laughing over the antics of three titular cartoon siblings, Yakko, Wakko, and Dot, and their giant cast of cartoon loonies.

Terryn didn’t smile per se, but his eyes lost a bit of their usual weariness, as he reached his hand out to rest affectionately on Chris’s shoulder. “Thanks for folding those bags for me, Chris.”

“We’ve been roommates for seven years.” Chris chuckled, enjoying the feeling of holding and being held more than words could truly say, from the look of him, he was more than willing to bet his favorite pillow Terryn felt the same. “I’d think that’d be part of the job description or something.”

“Oh?” Terryn raised an eyebrow, a ghost of amusement fluttered across his face. “So what wouldn’t be part of your guide to a typical roommate cohabitation?”

Chris spared a glance around the room. Willing his facial features to become impassive and detached, he gave the place a quick glance over, he’d searched the apartment for listening devices, and it had come up clean, but still, he worried what a possible spook might think after listening to their conversation and watching the video.

Throwing caution to the wind, he guided them both on to the sofa, the frozen visage of Edward Elric’s shocked gaze their only visible observer as he leaned in to give Terryn a little kiss.

He felt the man smile against his lips, and it was enough to make his heart swell with warmth. Terryn was mapping Chris’ face out intently with his eyes when he drew back, and the taller of the two men stayed close, resisting the urge to lean against Terryn’s chest, to pull him up, and maybe carry him, as he laid claim those soft lips for his own.

They stayed this way for quite some time before Terryn peered up at the taller man, voice filled with an almost playful sternness. “If you keep this up,” He said, eyes gleaming. “We might not be in time to catch the eight pm movie.”

Chris laughed. “What a pity,” he said. He steadied himself, resisting the urge to take things further as his mouth dared to nuzzle across the other’s forehead, making steady progress until he was not quite kissing his lips. “I know how much you hate wasting money,” he said. “We really should get going before it goes to someone else, that Tyrian dye job behind us looked like he was about ready to take us out in the parking lot when he learned we had the last tickets.”

Terryn let out a disappointed exhale through his nostrils as he leaned back, regretfully releasing his arm that had somehow slipped itself tightly around Chris’s waist without either noticing. “He was a rude little degenerate about the whole thing,” he agreed, voice dark. “We wouldn’t want to teach him that discourtesy pays.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Chris laughed. He enjoyed these sweet stolen moments with Terryn in the (hopeful) privacy of their own home like very few things he’d experienced in life. However, sticking it to some jerkwad who deserved it brought a pleasure of a different kind, and the fact that he could share this with the most important man in his life made it all the more satisfying.

Their relationship, such as it was, might have been a tad unconventional, but it’s peculiarities didn’t reduce how much better he felt when the two were together, close to the one he loved, close to Terryn. They were both whole people without the other, but somehow, they were made better with the other’s presence. Unable to help himself, he kissed Terryn with all he was worth, teeth dragging across his lower lip as the other man responded in kind.

They both stared at each other for a few minutes, eyes questioning and full of an unstated expectation, but it was Terryn who separated first, removing himself from the couch and fetching his coat from the closet near the door.

“If my incentive is a disgruntled hipster, and an adoring kiss from my partner, I think this may yet be the easiest challenge set to me to date,” he said, smirk playing at those lips that had been so recently kissed, holding Chris’ coat for him to take.

“Play your cards right with that hipster,” Chris said, getting up and taking the offered garment, before swinging a scarf around his neck. "You might find yourself on the receiving end of something a bit stronger than an adoring kiss.” he grinned darkly, knowing he had Terryn’s undivided attention, and relishing in the fact.

“Really, now…” Terryn said softly, he had that intense look in his eyes, the one that never failed to stimulate something in him, the feeling stronger than a sucker punch to the stomach, all tingling feelings in the tips of his fingers, and places never mentioned in polite conversation. “And what are your intentions, I wonder?”

Laughing to himself, Chris took hold of Terryn’s hand and led him out the door.

“When it happens,” he said voice low so only his partner could hear him. “You’ll know.”

The heated look Terryn sent him as they both buckled in made Chris chuckle like an addict on his drug of choice.

And truthfully spoken, that wasn’t too far from the reality of their circumstance, he thought as he chanced a glance through the rearview mirror at the handsome figure the driver cut as his hands clasped firmly to the steering, because, honestly, despite their less than stellar history, when they cut to the heart of the matter, Hell’s bells, he was in love with this man.

deejay

thetrashywritingwitch

ITS NEVER TOO LATE TO FINISH THAT FIC!!!

katbelleinthedark

This is so inspiring and uplifting.

marmolita

three days ago I got an ao3 subscription update email and the author’s note on the chapter said they’d come back and written chapter ten SIXTEEN YEARS after chapter nine was published, so, never fear to hit that subscribe button folks

fuckedupandsleepy

It took Stephen King 26 YEARS to write the next chapter of one of his Dark Tower books

glitterandrocketfuel

LEAVE THAT COMMENT. Even if the fic is old. You never know who’s listening, or if your words are exactly the little push that author needs to take a trip down memory lane and remember all the wonderful things that inspired them to write the fic in the first place. Think about it, Reader. YOU could be the person that RESURRECTS THAT FIC!