i’m so ashamed of it but must admit the sleepless nights i’ve had about the boy
“man, i’m begging you.”
felix doesn’t have to be looking at steve to know what face he’s making. something that’s caught between a pout and a displeased grimace. he can hear quentin - a few paces back - huff a quiet laugh but otherwise, steve is mostly ignored.
they’re heading north, leaving novac and trekking back toward vegas. a few days’ walk and they’d only left that morning, so steve bitching and moaning while only a few hours in doesn’t bode well for the rest of them. though, to be fair, had felix wanted to put forth the energy, he has a lot he could be complaining about right now, too.
Alright SO I’m coming at you all with a Harringsmith fic. It was inspired by a conversation I had with @trevsawriter, and I know I’m a total novice when it comes to fics but I thought I’d at least share it :) gimme some consctructive feedback!
Word Count: 1.5k Reading Time: ~5 Min
If there was anything Quentin hated more than hot, muggy weather, it was running. But when they’re all put together? It made him agitated and on the verge of hyperbolic violence.
i revisit the old men. i miss the old men. i write the old men again.
domestic riconti. a lot of words abt gardening written by someone who doesn’t garden.
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the sun, for the first time in a little over half an hour, peeks through the clouds that litter the sky in scores. it warms ace’s back and he soaks it in gladly, as does pepper. she’s sprawled out in the grass a few yards away and she sighs deeply as the light washes over her, dusty brown fur glowing bronze. there’s half-chewed icicle radishes by her head that ace shakes his head at. it’s no real loss. he’d seen this one coming, planted plenty and hidden the red radishes on the other side of the house. he’d give those up, too, though. anything to keep her out of the asparagus. that shit took four years to spear through the soil. she can’t seem to keep her nose out of them, though. he might have to convince felix on a pepper-proof fence in that area of the garden, and that area only.
a comically small one, with a little gate and a sign that says NO DOGS ALLOWED. he could probably swing it if he makes it seem like enough of a big deal.
my favourite genre of fictional men are those ones who should be cool and badass because of their powers or character designs, but are pathetic instead. never had a good day in their life. an insult from a child could probably make them cry. wet paper bag men. you know the ones
