I decided to leave behind my issues and implement my rising need for a different sort of Fetch that people would actually interact with. I’m going to work on pages today — notice that this blog will still be run, but not as frequently.
[ Thinkin’ ‘bout rebooting this blog. I don’t know though. ]
glxtcheddruggie says: ϟ
Send me a ϟ and I will generate a number 1-35 to see what my muse will say to yours.
❝I don’t know either.❞
The quiet utterance tumbles from her lips almost too quickly, because she, too,
❝We’ve got time; let’s not worry about this.❞ Fetch finally says, and she means
Hesitantly she takes Clay’s hand and kisses it, smiling at the salty taste of his
No, he would. As long as he was with her.
Another sigh comes form the elder, brown hues softening themselves at the usual spiteful tone calming to something of a miffed teenager. “I don’t hate you, Fetch. And I don’t hate addicts.” He remarks, finally turning towards her with something besides distrust and anger. They had a long way to go, but he wanted her to understand at least one thing.
"Everyone struggles—and I give help if they ask for it. I don’t have the power to do something they don’t want in a situation like that." He truly did; he could be an ass. But he knew the feeling of being lost, lost in yourself and lost in the sense of the world. Did he justify their choice? No, it was a desperate one and sometimes the foolish. Or worse.
"Don’t just make assumptions because of my work choice." Hip cocks to adjust the weight between his legs, teeth worrying at his lip from the sudden turn of the conversation. "I want to help people. And yeah—I’m still working through the..conduit thing. But I’m trying."
Brown eyes steal a wary glance at the cop, arms folded in a look of petulance,
though her worn, tired demeanor implied otherwise about her current state of
stubbornness. Gaze flicking back to the ground between them, the neon
conduit exhaled and shook her head. Were things ever going to work like this?
Probably not, or at least not yet, but they were trying.
“I will, because I saw that look ‘n your face, and I know what C told me. I know
you try, but that doesn’t change the fact that deep down you probably hate us
because you know it’s wrong. Trust me, I’ve known my fair share of cops and
all of them were the same: moral and without passion.” Of course, she knew
Reggie was different - he seemed different - but she couldn’t trust him quite yet.
“Don’t bullshit me. I know you helped Clay, yeah, and I know you try to get D,
but I also know that you do your duty, and duty says the exact opposite of
what you’re sayin’ about where I’ve been.” For some reason Fetch wouldn’t
let this go; she wanted him to admit something, she just didn’t know what. Or
maybe she wanted him to know he wasn’t fooling her.
An exhausted sigh passes his lips as he closes his eyes. “I don’t want to start a spat, Fetch.” He really doesn’t; he’s civil for Delsin. After everything they’d all gone through, the last thing he needed to worry about was whether his sibling and friend would end up doing each other in instead of Augustine. So he tries again, stubbornness making it so hard to just swallow his pride. God, he’s arguing with a kid in their twenty’s that’s not his brother.
"Thank you. Really." Hands flex at his sides now because god this was uncomfortable.
He catches the change in her features at the mention of the former addict; Clay. Right—they were quite the pair. To come from something like that. It’d be unhealthy and creepy if it weren’t for that look in Fetch’s eye when she talked about him.
Something only years of struggle can bring. “You’re right, I don’t know him. Not like you.” The guy honestly freaked him out to an extent. He didn’t know what it was. The face, the eyes. Something about him was just borderline manic and it creeped him out to no extent. “Just saying—he seemed like a good guy.”
Of course Reggie didn’t want to start a spat, because the threadbare relationship
he shared with Delsin relied on him being civil to all his friends. But, of course,
Fetch suspected the young Rowe probably wouldn’t carry out any of his threats
to his brother, no matter the spats, just because they were family after all. She
knew he loved the cop, despite their differences, and wanted his approval above
all else, though he was too stubborn to stand down from his beliefs.
It kind of reminded her of herself and Brent, but that wasn’t worth thinking about.
Brent was dead, after all, and the only family she had left was Clay.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure ya’ mean it from the bottom of your heart and all that.” The
neon conduit scowls, though her tone noticeably softens, her stance loosening as
she gazes about nonchalantly. With a gentle exhale she shakes her head. ”I know
you don’t think kindly of addicts. They’re the lowest of the low, right? Too far gone
to redeem themselves? Well they aren’t, because I’m here, and Clay is, too. We’re
not just fuckups. But you can hate me, either because I’m a conduit or was once
an addict… just don’t hate him because of what Brent and I did to him.”
glxtcheddruggie says: “You look so sexy when you’re all bloodied and bruised like that~”
”Shut up." Fetch huffed, playfully punching his shoulder. A smile graced her
glxtcheddruggie says: "You left me alone."
”Ya’ know I didn’t—" Dry eyes meet hers and she stops, her lips still poised to
They’d been young, just teenagers, being taken care of by Brent. They’d all
Seven years had kept them apart, and when Fetch had finally returned she’d
“Brent told me he’d go back for you, C, and I believed him. I’m sorry. I wanted
fillanmccarthy says: ... You have a lighter..?
”I don’t smoke, sorry.”
[ Fetch responds, arms crossed, chipped nails
At the girl’s thoughtful drone, equally bored irises glide over to meet their gaze with a soft quirk of his brow. Well then, something that wasn’t too hateful or in a smartass tone.
Why they couldn’t get along—put their differences aside was beyond him. Maybe they were too different, too rough of an introduction. He could admit he saw her as some sort of threat—part of him, deep inside, still held something against conduits. So deep inside he couldn’t even tell how spiteful of a man he was. They had some sort of begrudging respect for one another that only lied skin deep. “Gee, thanks.” He deadpans in return, something telling him the girl was just blowing smoke up his ass.
Or maybe, it was fear—the girl was brutal; in a dangerous, if you cross her you’re dead sense because oh, he’d already nearly died once. And he’d rather not make it a definite yes.
"Hm? Oh, yeah." Right, the blond one. That guy could creep him out with one look. But there was something…well intended about him. Jerked around. Manipulated. A fire long washed out to die. "That’s-that’s great. He seems like a great guy." That was something honestly genuine; the younger male seemed better with his shit together. With her around.
”I could’ve said nothin’.” Is Fetch’s huffed response, a look of irritation crossing
her features; even if it was a dry attempt at peace, she didn’t appreciate the cop
brushing it off like it was nothing. His deadpan tone just gets under her skin,
makes her regret trying to start a conversation in the first place — why should
she try to make amends when he wouldn’t?
Snorting, the conduit shakes her head, fingers curling into her arm with
unmasked dislike for the other. Like he knew anything about Clay or what he’d
been through for the past seven years — being abandoned, beaten, hooked. It
made her scowl, believing that Reggie had tried to help at all. And maybe she’d
lied: Clay resented the cop for those weeks he’d spent locked up, clawing at
himself like his blood could aid in another high.
The once-addict didn’t heal like Abigail did; he had scars, from when he’d tried to
kill himself, when he’d gotten his highs, when he’d gotten beaten, and, most
recently, when he’d tried to live without the drugs. When he’d been forced to, after
surviving for so long.
Her gaze flicks up to Reggie’s, her features painted darkly. “Not like you’d know;
you’ve only seen him at his worst.” And she’d held him at his best, held him
through the withdrawals and the nightmares and the nights when he thought it
wasn’t worth living anymore. She’d caught him and loved him and had never let
go… or rather, only once, and she resented herself for that.
If she’d saved him the first time then nothing would have ever gone wrong.
”You’re not so bad, once ya’ get past the cop in ya’.” Fetch comments vaguely,
her tone not carrying an ounce of her believing her own words. Her bored brown
gaze travels to the older Rowe, her arms crossed over her chest, chipped pink
nails drumming methodically on the green fabric of her jacket.
There was still a lot to be forgiven between the two; though Abigail recognized
Reggie’s authority and relationship with Delsin, she didn’t trust him. Everything
about him told her he was anti-conduit, anti-free expression, anti-her. And just
because she’d gotten hooked all those years ago, he’d never let that impression
go, not off her or Clay. For that she could not trust the cop.
“I guess I should thank ya’ for helpin’ Clay a few months back. He’ll never admit
it, but what you told him knocked some nerve back into him. Sure you probably
don’t give a flyin’ shit, but he’s better now. Off the drugs.”