#(metaphorically. emilie probably did not have cat eyes.)

[dimensionzero]

I don't think we do enough with the fact that chat noir is the spitting image of émilie agreste

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

Part two of my AU! You should start with But What If, Instead, or you may be a little confused. Or just dive in, that's cool too. Be a sexy rebel. It's what BJ would want.

He’s sixteen when green starts to grow on his face. He’s been dealing with the hair for years, now, and it’s mostly stable. Sure, he gets overwhelmed, and sure, it can still change quickly, but it’s not like when he was twelve and threw fits all the time that resulted in fire engine red. He wouldn’t say he’s the best at handling anger, for sure, for sure, for sure. That award will probably always go to his mother, Emily. But he’s gotten better at treating everything like a joke, which totally helps. Can’t get mad at what you don’t take seriously, right? It’s a philosophy that seems to frustrate his dad, who, in Betelgeuse’s opinion, takes everything way too seriously. Chuckster is lucky he’s got Emily to balance him out, or that case of stick in ass might have become terminal. So, yeah, alright, the green. He’s been growing facial hair lately, a thin pathetic little pencil mustache that nine year old Lydia calls his “creepo-stache,” and he’d be the first to admit, it’s pretty John Waters-esque, but it’s what he’s got, for now. That hair, of course, grows in green, and mixed with the corpse purple untertones he still hasn’t quite learned to glamour away convincingly, the effect is that he perpetually looks like he’s ready to put on a zombie remake of a 70’s porno. Metaphors sure are fun. At least the upper lip is starting to fill out, and the chin scruff has been on the rise, too, though he’s a far cry away from Charles’ majestic beard. He’s staring in his bathroom mirror after a shower, admiring his chubby, totally sexy self, when he notices a splotch of green on the left side of his nose. He smooshes his nose down a little with one hand, leans in closer, and squints. Must be somethin’ he ate? On his nose? For some reason? But then he notices there’s the same slight green color at his temples, too. He settles on scrubbing his face until his skin hurts a little, and when he’s done, he’s so flushed he can’t see the color, and assumes the matter is settled. And then a few days later, it’s darker. He’s sitting at dinner with the whole family, chewing with his mouth open to annoy Lydia, who gives him a swift kick to the shin under the table. “Now, if you ever hit me, and I find out about it,” he starts to tease, until he feels his mom flick his ear, and he turns to her. “You got some schmutz on your face, Bug. Come here.” Emily blots her napkin to her tongue, and then wipes at his nose, much to his chagrin. “Ew, seriously? Maaaaa,” he whines, but everyone at that table knows he’s soaking up the attention like a sponge. “I for sure feel so much cleaner with your spit smeared around my face, thank you so much, Emily Deetz.” Emily shooshes him and continues rubbing, but her napkin comes away clean. “Huh,” she glances down at it, and then back to the spot on the side of his nose, and squints. Lydia and Charles are leaning in too, now, and his sister grins. “There’s some on his forehead, mama, get him there,” and she’s successful in weaponizing their mother against him, because he hardly has time for a “Damn you-” before Emily is rubbing at the green stains on his temples, near his hairline. “What the heck is this, ink?” “I dunnoooo!” he winges, wiggling just enough to let her know he’s unhappy but not enough to flail and hurt her. When she finally relents and lets him go, a third hand sprouts from his back to pull the “hood” part of his black and white striped hoodie over his head, and he tightens the draw strings. “No more smearing spit on BJ, now, that part of dinner is done,” he says defensively, and Emily has the sense to look a little sheepish. “Sorry, Bug,” she pats his head, and he hisses in response, but no one, not even him, takes that seriously anymore. It’s a few more days until there’s a break in the case. He’s standing upside down on his bedroom ceiling, concentrating on a certain riff on his ukelele, and Lydia is flopped on his bed, passively watching Coraline on the beat up vintage TV he and Charles spent last summer fixing up. “I can’t get this to sound right,” he complains to her, and in response,

she turns the movie up louder. “Oh, haha, my sister, the fuckin’ comedianne, she’ll be here all week, everybody,” and he flops on the mattress next to her, which makes her bounce a bit before they both settle. He’s laying on his back, ukulele on his chest, mumbling and strumming, and she’s on her stomach, watching that kinda horny scene where the nude old lady with the huge honkers unzips her fuckin’ skin, when she glances over at him. “Your face spots are fuzzy, now,” she comments. “It’s called a beard, short stack. Dad’s had one since you were five, you’d think-” “Shut up, dummy, I meant the schmaltz.” “You mean the schmutz. Different words mean different things.” “Whatever. Your nose is growing hair, like grandpa. It’s barforiffic.” He frowns, and sets the ukulele down besides his bed, and conjures himself a little hand mirror from his pocket dimension. Lydia’s breath hitches, because no matter how many years it’s been, she still loves that trick, the way it’s like he’s pulling something out of nothing. He stares at the splotches in his hand mirror, beholding his face in mock horror like that episode of the Twilight Zone, the one with the pig faced people. All other details aside, she’s right, the splotches are growing hair, sort of. It doesn’t feel exactly like hair, when he reaches an experimental finger to poke at it, it’s sort of.. He can’t describe it. Grassy? Not really hair, more like a short, fuzzy… “It’s moss,” he realizes, positioning the mirror to check his forehead, where the vegetation is growing softly there, too. “Gross. How often do you shower, you neanderthal?” Lydia scrunches up her nose at him. “Careful, or you’re getting a face full of demon pits when you’re tryna sleep tonight,” he bites back at her. “I shower a normal amount. Maybe..” sharp teeth worry his bottom lip as he thinks. “I’m showering too much?” “That can’t possibly be your take away from this.” “Well I don’t know, Ly-dee-uhh,” he drags out her name. “It’s not like I’ve got a handy dandy guide to being an undead demon thing tucked away that explains all the rules that come with bein’ me, okay? I’m just thinkin’, I could count as dead cause, ya know. No heartbeat. Dead people probably.. I mean plants might grow on em, right? Like if one was left murdered and unburied in th’ world, like in a damp forest, and surrounded by nature, maybe somethin’ would grow on their putrid, rotting corpse flesh?” Lydia sits up, and leans over him, pushing the hand mirror out of the way. “I’m picking this off of you so I don’t have to hear about it anymore,” she says, simply, and then uses her surprisingly strong kid strength to dig into the runny splotch on his left temple. She runs a nail up his skin, scraping at him, and he purrs in response, tongue flicking out of his mouth, snake like. “Big scary demon dead guy, and all it takes to tame him is a little bit of attention,” she teases, and he gives another half hearted hiss. “You’re like a cat, BJ.” When she’s finished, she cleans under her nails and looks pleased. “I think I got it,” she nods, and he checks in his hand mirror. They both watch in silence as the moss seems to instantly grow back. “Moooooom!” he whines, sitting up and tossing the hand mirror over his shoulder, where it disappears into nothing without touching the ground, tucked back safe in his pocket dimension. Emily pokes her head in a moment later. “Yeah, what’s up, Beej?” She’s got her long blonde hair all done in a neat bun, and there’s the slight tone of exasperation to her voice. “You kids aren’t fighting, right?” she asks, stepping into the room. “I am literally just sitting here,” Lydia motions to the tv, still displaying the stop motion exploits of her current idol and role model. “The green crap on my face, it’s moss!” Betelgeuse whines to her, outright ignoring her question to begin with. “I’m growing moss on my face, and Lyds scraped it off but it instantly grew back!” “It was kinda cool,” Lydia admits, not giving her older brother the satisfaction of looking at him when she says it. Emily,

meanwhile, puts a finger on her chin, and scrunches up her nose in thought. “Maybe.. Some weed killer might get rid of it?” she suggests, clearly unsure. “So you want me to drink POISON,” Betelgeuse instantly flops back on the bed, left hand thrown over his forehead, all dramatic. “Lured me into the family just to try and murder me years later, huh? You fooled me! With love!” He opens his eyes in time to see both Emily and Lydia rolling theirs. “You can’t just magic it away?” Lydia pokes the moss on his nose. “The way you did your last report card?” “Judas,” he hisses, dropping the glamour enough to glare at her with his snake slit amber eyes. “You did what?” ``````````````````````````````````````````````````````` He’s back at school on Monday with a bandaid fix, which is literally a couple band aids across the spots, one plastered on his nose, the other one a large patch bandage on the spot on his temples where the green was growing in the most clearly. The bandages noticeably don’t blend in with his skin tone, despite touting themselves as flesh colored, because he’s got skin like a guy who never left his basement, and also is freshly fuckin’ dead. For extra cover, he’s wearing his “Guide” hat, a ratty gray policeman’s cap with a metal plate spelling out the word. Charles had bought for him from a Goodwill his first year up top. It does enough to hide the streaks of green, as long as he pulls it down a bit, and he’s not exactly known at school for being a style icon, so nobody thinks twice to see him wearing it, as he slips from the front seat of Charles’ car that morning. “Have a good day, son. Call me if.. If you need me,” Charles reminds him, and Lydia pipes up from the backseat. “Later, Bug beverage. Good luck.” She’s still feeling a bit guilty about snitching, apparently, because she blows him a kiss, which is super uncool and she clearly wants to take it back the second she’s done it, but he grins and pretends to catch it. “Later, family,” he closes the car door, and turns to face his day. School, he had learned a few years ago, is a uniquely breather torture experience thought up by the old to make the young loose out on their precious youths, there by getting back at them for being young and fun. That was his working theory all through his miserable first year of middle school, and high school is not disproving that theory in the least. He’s vaguely aware of the cliques that the breathers his age form, and there’s probably gossip about him, but for the most part, he’s just too weird for most of the humans his age to engage with him. He’s kind of got an aura, an indefinable something he can’t switch off, and it’s getting stronger the older he gets. Breathers are naturally more wary of him than they used to be. So yeah, he is the weird chubby kid in the striped hoodie and matching tripp pants, and under normal circumstances, he has to believe that would lead to bullying, but whatever ancient animal instinct these kids have, it tells them to steer clear of him. So school is, to put it frankly, lonely. It’s probably better to be mostly ignored than hated, he supposes, but that doesn’t make eating lunch in the quad by himself every day any less pathetic. He’s zoning out in first period, relaxing in his slacker seat in the back of the class, when things actually get interesting. Their teacher is a sort of slim, nervous looking man who teaches history, but right at that moment he’s announcing a new student. And it’s someone Betelgeuse recognizes, though he can’t place from where. The new boy, Kevin something Loh, apparently, is directed to take the only empty seat in the class, the seat right in front of Betelgeuse. As Kevin is walking down the aisle towards him, Betelgeuse is wracking his brain, trying to recall. Kevin is Asian, with high cheekbones and short black hair, carefully and deliberately styled. He’s also staring right at Betelgeuse. “You?” he whispers, sounding horrified. “Me,” Betelgeuse responds, propping his history book up on his desk and slumping down behind it, deciding he’s

fully content with napping this period away, and leaving this mystery unsolved. But Kevin is apparently worse at reading social cues than BJ is, because he’s still standing there, looming over Betelgeuse. “What are you doing here?” he hisses, sounding angry now, and Betelgeuse peaks up at him, amber eyes shining a faint amount from under the brim of his cap. “I am literally just sitting here.” “Mr. Loh, is there a problem?” their teacher askes, and the new kid whips around. “I refuse to sit next to this thing.” He points at Betelgeuse, who straightens up, a scowl playing across his features. “You wanna rephrase that?” the demon askes, gravely voice particularly dangerous sounding, because he’s NOT a thing. The humans all take note of the changing vibes in the room, growing uncomfortable. “Does someone want to switch with Mr. Loh, and sit in front of Mr. Deetz instead?” their teacher tries. The answer is silence. No one is giving up their seat next to friends to sit in front of the loner who smells like freshly dug grave dirt. “Well, then. Sit down, Mr. Loh. Mr. Deetz does not bite.” “But-” “Yeah, sit down, Kev, you’re interrupting my mid morning nap,” Betelgeuse scowls, fingers on his right hand twitching, and Kevin falls into his seat with a less than macho sounding yelp. From the glare he gets in return, he’s got a feeling Kevin’s not gonna be his new bff. When lunch rolls around, Betelgeuse finds his usual place in the quad, under the shade of a tree, and he’s about to summon forth his lunch from his little pocket dimension, when he hears a breather approaching from behind him. He’s sitting on the side that faces away from the main area, and all the happy friend groups enjoying their lunches and gossip, and towards the track field, cause if he’s gonna be sitting alone, at least he’s gonna get to watch boys and girls his age work up a sexy sweat. From a quick smell test he can tell the person approaching is Kevin. The guy reeks of some overly applied body spray mess, and it nearly puts him off his lunch. “What,” he groans, annoyed, not even looking back to address the other boy, and Kevin seems to freeze. He’d apparently thought he was being pretty sneaky. “Why are you following me?” is the first thing out of the new kid’s mouth, and that does actually cause Betelgeuse to turn and look at him, staring like Kev’s just proposed the earth is only round because Atlus keeps reinflating it to use like a blow up doll. “I,” Betelgeuse gestures very dramatically to himself. “Don’t knoooow,” he continues slowly. “Who you are.” Kevin, for some reason, seems to wilt a bit. “You really don’t remember me?” “I really don’t. Should I? You do somethin’ interestin’? Besides, single handedly keep Axe body spray in business?” “It’s not Axe!” Kevin stomps over to stand in front of him, offended. “Then axe it, my man, cause that scent is not workin’ for you,” Betelgeuse replies easily, leaning back against the tree to resume his track practice spying. “You juggled your head!” Kevin accuses him. Betelgeuse cocks an eyebrow, and his eyes flit back to Kevin. So he’s someone who had seen him use his powers, at some point? Yeesh. “You brought a field of pumpkins to life and nearly murdered me!” Ohhhh. “Yeah, well, you pushed me down,” Betelgeuse says, suddenly remembering. “So I guess we both suffered that day, didn’t we, Kev?” “So you admit it!” Kevin says tenselely, before sitting in the grass across from him. Betelgeuse watches him quietly. The breather seems confused. “Why are you here?” he asks, and Betelgeuse nods over at the bouncing, glistening track team. “The view.” Kevin glances in that direction and rolls his eyes. “Jackass, I meant at school,” he dead pans. Betelgeuse grins. “Well, th’ way my dad explained it, I have to be in government mandated kid jail, or else he goes to adult jail.” “So you’re a monster who has to go to school?” “Demon, but. Yeah.” Kevin’s eyes widen, and he whispers the word. “Demon.” There’s a beat as he ponders over that. “Those people, who were with you at the store.. Are they demons

too?” “What? Th’ Deetzs? Nah. They’re human as they come.” “And you live with them?” “Yup,” he pops the “p,” quickly growing annoyed with this line of questioning. “And they-” “Listen, man,” Betelgeuse apparates his lunch from nothing, which causes Kevin to flinch, before realizing it's just food. “Can we skip all this? It’s a life changing revelation for you, I’m sure, but forget bored stiff, this is giving me rigor mortis. Yes, I’m a demon. I go to school here cause I’m th’ Deetz’s son, and no, there’s nothing wrong with them.” He grimaces. “Just me. I’m not following you around to torment you, you’re not that special. And yes,” he holds up the sandwich from his lunch. “This is a turkey club on a croissant. My human dad packed it for me, because he loves me.” There’s a small moment of silence. Kevin opens his mouth, and Betelgeuse, own mouth now full of food, groans. “Why do you have bandages all over your face?” “Because I murdered a pedophile four years ago and his vengeful, freak ass ghost won’t let it go.” “Really?” “No. That’s not even how ghosts work. God, breathers are so gullible.” “You’re such a dick,” Kevin replies, but there’s a faint hint of a smile, there. Betelgeuse feels it tugging at his own lips, too. “I’m growing moss on my face,” he admits after a moment. “Wasn’t sure how else to keep it hidden, so. Bandages. Not that I really care what people think-” “I can tell from the tripp pants, yeah,” Kev interjects, and Betelgeuse flips him off before continuing. “I’m not trying to get a bunch of attention for being weird.” “Didn’t seem to bother you before,” Kevin comments, picking lazily at the grass around him, and Betelgeuse shrugs. “I was twelve. I’ve gotten a bit smarter, even if I was dragged kickin’ an’ screamin’ th’ whole damn way,” and this time, Kevin actually does smile. He mimics the other boy. He offers Kevin half his sandwich, and for the first time ever, he doesn’t eat lunch alone. They wait after school together, watching as their peers are picked up or loaded onto buses. “I used to have nightmares about you,” Kevin tells him, and Betelgeuse smiles flirtatiously. “So you’ve been dreamin’ of me. That’s hot.” He receives a punch in the arm for that. When his mom pulls up, with Lydia in tow in the backseat, he throws open the front passenger side door of the car. “Hey, ma, hey Lyds,” but Emily is looking past him. “BJ, is that a friend of yours?” She sounds thrilled. He turns and looks at Kevin, then back to her, and shrugs, but he’s smiling. “I dunno. He’s new, so we hung out at lunch, an’ talked. Maybe. I dunno.” “You should invite him over!” Emily grins, eyes shining. “Now?” “Now! We’re having take out for dinner, we could order more for him, easy! And he’s new, he probably doesn’t have any plans, and-” “Alright, alright, hold on,” he gripes, then waives Kevin over. The breather approaches the car, cautious. “Hey, so my mom, she says you can come over for dinner, if you want,” and God/Satan, he’s never felt more like an awkward, pimply faced teen than he does at that exact moment. If he sounds like a total loser, at least Kevin doesn’t seem to mind, cause he perks up. “Let me call my dad!” he whips out his cell phone so fast, Betelgeuse feels flattered. He actually wants to come over. He wants to spend some time together. Emily’s smile widens until she looks like a slasher on happy pills, and he climbs into the car front seat and nudges her. “Play it cool, ma,” he all but begs, and she looks to him. “I’m super cool, BJ. I’m a cool mom. Right, Lyds?” Lydia gives her best noncommittal shrug, the one Betelgeuse taught her, actually. “He said yes!” Kevin comes jogging back over to the car a minute later. “If that’s really okay, Mrs. Deetz?” “For sure! The more, the merrier!” They moved out of the apartment a little over a year ago. The new place had been a nightmare when they’d moved in, a Tudor style house with a lot of character, a lot of leftover trash, and a lot of bugs. He’d set about fixing that instantly, hunting down the tasty snacks, and Emily had stood in the middle of

the mess, chewing her bottom lip, and thinking. “I know, I know, it’s rough,” Charles had stood there, suddenly looking older than his age in a way Betelgeuse did not like. “But it’s a beautiful old house, with good bones, and room to grow, and.. It’s going to be a lot of work.” Lydia, precocious and eight, shuffled between her parents, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s a dump,” she declared, and both the adults looked down at her. “It’s not a dump,” Emily said. “It’s The Great Pacific Garbage Patch.” “Em!” Seemingly ignoring her husband, she turned and went back to the car, and didn’t return until she had her record player and a sample of her collection of vinyl with her. “BJ! Come give this a shock, please? The power’s not on yet.” Betelgeuse apparated at her side, a new trick he’d been practicing, and Emily, ever Emily, didn’t even flinch. She just patted his head, as he grabbed the cord and gave it a shock of green static. She placed a record in the player, and adjusted the needle. The familiar sounds of Calypso began to fill the house. “Let’s clean up,” Emily smiled, and, singing along and dancing and laughing, the family had begun their first of many clean ups. It’s a nice memory, one he looks back on often. They’re pulling up to the house, Kevin in tow, and despite the unease he feels at having a new person in his space, at least their house, full of love, is a comforting energy to be wrapped in.

They lead Kevin in, and he follows Betelgeuse up to his bedroom.

“So, we got your common bedroom items,” he gestures grandly as they enter his space. “Dead rat, TV, dresser, mirror for inter dimensional travel, severed head for juggling,” he acknowledges that moment in their shared history. “Old trunk full of demon secrets,” he gives the antique steamer trunk by the foot of his bed a kick. It pops open to reveal very normal looking magazines. “All that good stuff.” The wall paper he chose for his room is a black and white pinstripe that dad had called “busy,” and mom had called “him,” and Kevin blinks a bit in surprise. “You, uh, really are dedicated to the stripes, huh? I prefer a simple black myself.. Black is always a statement.” Betelgeuse snorts. “It’s my pattern,” he says, and Kevin sort of nods, clearly not getting it. He tries again. “It’s, you know, important?” Kevin glances at him, and nods again, but seemingly more hesitant. “It’s a demon thing,” Betelgeuse says finally, tired of even his own clunky attempts at subtly. “My animal is a snake,” he explains. “And my colors are black and white.” Kevin looks mystified. “So, what does that… mean?”

“Means it’s my aspect. It’s important.. Demon stuff.”

The teens look at each other. Kevin squints. “You don’t know what it means.” “I got no fuckin’ clue,” Betelgeuse admits, flopping on his back in the air and hanging there, reclining on nothing. “It’s somethin’, somethin’, dominion over th’ beasts that crawl on their bellies, foul an’ tainted, I think was th’ phrase. But I don’t usually get many chances to be around snakes, so it’s not a talent I get to practice much.” Kevin looks insanely jealous of the way he’s floating there, weightless, which was exactly the point Betelgeuse had in mind when he struck the floating pose to begin with. “Point bein’, I’m drawn to black an’ white.”

“Same way you’re drawn to sweaty track stars?” Kevin smirks, and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Fuckin’ exactly,” Betelgeuse grins at him, a smile Kevin matches. He might be out of his mind, but he feels something here. Kevin’s a good looking guy, and Betelgeuse isn’t exactly “picky.” He’s known for a long time his exact type is “someone who will give Betelgeuse attention and affection,” without worrying what exactly that means in the long run. “Gross,” rings a female voice, and the prolonged eye contact between the teens is broken by his nine year old sister, leaning against the door frame. She takes in the scene before her, him floating there, and Kevin.. Kevin seemingly looking a little flustered on the bed. He’s not sure if she gets what that’s about, hell, he hardly does, though he likes it. But she’s a bit young to pick up on romantic vibes, he thinks. Hopefully. “You’re not even trying to hide the whole, being a demon thing, are you?” she scowls. “Whatever, he already knew. He recognized me from the pumpkin patch. You probably don’t remember, you were five, but-” “I remember.” She squints, and then looks at Kevin, who gives a little waive. “What exactly are your intentions with my demon brother?” she asks, crossing her arms. Kevin actually blushes, a reaction Betelgeuse can both see and smell. Smells like blood and hormones, and it’s cute… he’s cute. “He’s just… weird. I’m, you know.. I just wanna know more. About him, and demons, and this otherworldly, supernatural business.” Ah. A little disappointing. He tries not to look let down, but he knows Lydia catches the look on his face. God/Satan, she’s a clever kid. “BJ isn’t your personal encyclopedia of paranormal bullshit. Besides, he hardly knows anything.” “Fuckin’ rude.” “Well!” she throws her hands up, a gesture he recognizes that she’s picked up from Emily. “I’m just saying, you don’t know enough to be that interesting.” He drops to his feet and puts a hand out, and she glares at him as an invisible force gently pushes her towards the door. “That’s enough, I think you’ve fulfilled your annoying little sibling requirements for today,” he grates at her, and she’s about out the door when Charles’ voice booms from downstairs. “Dinner!” Dinner is from Charles’ favorite Thai place, and the amount of food ordered seems to throw Kevin off guard. There’s a tall stack of delicious smelling styrofoam boxes, all of which are systematically set on the kitchen counter in a line, and the Deetz family goes through with plates, and helps themselves. It becomes clear pretty quickly that the amount ordered has more to do with who is eating, and not what they’re eating. Betelgeuse simply picks up two or three boxes instead of a plate, and settles at the table. His excuse for being a glutton has always been that his powers require a lot of energy for upkeep, but he’s not actually sure if that’s true. Also, it’s an excuse he’s never actually had to use, at least not in this house, because despite being somewhat akin to a garbage disposal in terms of food, his parents never give him any crap for eating. When he’d shown up, a skinny feral bitey little fuck, they’d been very encouraging of him stuffing his face. Now he’s older, obviously, and maybe he’s a bit chubby for his age, but it seems the entire family figures it’s better than looking starved, like he did before. He doesn’t think he’ll die if he doesn’t eat, but it feels good to have a full stomach, and he likes the way food tastes, so yes, he eats a lot. The way he sees it, it just means more B-Man to go around. Kevin, meanwhile, takes a polite amount and sits down next to him. “So, Kevin! Today was your first day?” Emily smiles brightly to the teen, who nods. “Yeah, I’m living with my dad now, so... new school,” he explains. Betelgeuse has the urge to pick up one of his boxes of food and take a cartoonish bite, like it’s a sandwich, but he doesn’t think that gag will play, right at this moment. “BJ has never brought a friend over before,” Charles says, unhelpfully. “Have too!” Betelgeuse protests, because he’s not trying to look like a total freak ass loser in front of the one person who seems

interested in talking to him.

Charles furrows his brow. “Who..? Oh, well…” he pauses. “I don’t know if.. If Sam counts…” “Sam was cool,” Lydia interjects, staring at Kevin, the unfinished half of her sentence being, “unlike you.” He’s got no clue why she’s gunning for Kev the way she is, but it’s kinda funny to watch a nine year old intimidate a teen. “He came over, didn’t he? Sure, it was uninvited, through a mirror, but I’m counting it anyways.” “BJ,” Charles starts, but Betelgeuse just shrugs. “It’s fine, dad. He knows. He was at the pumpkin patch.” It takes Charles and Emily a moment, but they both suddenly look nervous. “BJ is a good kid!” Emily blurts immediately, sounding defensive and looking at Kev, who sort of gives a nod. “It’s cool, I… threw tantrums when I was little, too. I mean, mine weren’t like. Cool vegetation apocalypses, but, you know.” He gives an easy shrug, before looking at Betelgeuse. “Who is Sam? Another demon?” “A better demon,” Lydia mutters, and at this point, he’s a second away from teleporting her into the neighbor’s pool. “He’s like Santa for Halloween, if Santa enforced Christmas time cheer with extreme violence.” “He’s Halloween Krampus,” Emily supplies helpfully, and he nods. “He’s the spirit of Halloween, and he’s cool. He’s only around one night, and he’s usually busy workin’, but when he gets a moment he pops in and we hang out. You’d probably-” like him isn’t exactly the right words. Humans don’t tend to feel easy in Sam’s presence. “- get along?” he finishes, but that also doesn’t seem likely. Sam isn’t outright cruel… usually. But his aura is clearly threatening, and he doesn’t play nice. The only reason Betelgeuse isn’t worried about his humans is because Sam has very clear, very structured rules. Rules that Emily had already been following, regardless of demonic threat. Also, last Halloween, Lydia had gone as Sam, orange jumpsuit, burlap sack and button eyes and everything, and Sam, ever a being of few words, had said, Flattered. He figures that probably earned the Deetz family at least one get out of murder free card. “This is all so cool,” Kevin twirls his fork around his pad phak. “It’s like, something from a movie. I can’t believe demons are.. Real. And I know about them.” There is, for a moment, a shine in his eyes that makes Betelgeuse uncomfortable, but it passes so quickly, he starts to assume he imagined it. He gives in, picks up a styrofoam box full of spicy chicken, and takes a bite out of the whole thing. His dad groans. After they’re done eating, they play video games, and whatever that moment was at dinner, he forces himself to forget it. Kevin is cute, and Kevin wants to talk to him, and that’s about as much as he cares to think about, right now. When Mr. Loh comes to pick him up, Kevin gives Betelgeuse’s hand a squeeze. It’s just the two of them, on the front porch, under the stars only he can see, because light pollution makes them invisible to the human eyes. Still, the setting feels intimate, and that hand holding cements it, at least at that moment. He’s not imagining it. “See you tomorrow?” Kevin smiles, and Betelgeuse knows his face flushes a little more purple at that. “Uh, yeah, for sure,” he says, and Kevin steps off the front porch and hurries to his dad’s car, their moment broken, but he stands there a while anyways, even after the car disappears down the street. He takes his own hand in hand, and gives it a squeeze, trying to imitate what Kevin had done flawlessly. He wanders inside after a while, but just stands with his back to the front door, replaying that simple moment over and over, until Charles, passing him on his way up to bed, pauses. “BJ? Your hair is… pink.”

[erin-bo-berin]

Darkest Storms & Brightest Rainbows (Part 2)

MASTERLIST

Part 1

Part 3

Hard Love (unofficial Part 4)

Since I couldn’t leave y’all hanging for too long, here is part 2 of my Spencer/Reader/Cat fic. This is where things kind of go in a different direction from the show, but I thought it would be a nice twist than what we know from the show. This takes place over about a year so that’s why there’s so many skips in time. But in this part, there’s some answered questions from the first part...only to be replaced with more unanswered questions and perhaps another cliffhanger. Happy reading!

Spencer Reid/Reader

Word Count: 4,168

Rating: G (some angst, some fluff)

Grief is a strange thing.

Some people grieve quietly, away from the public. Others, dive into work or another activity to keep their mind busy as they try to place that grief into something else. Occasionally, people skip grief and go straight to anger, questioning the world why they lost their loved one; but in most cases one grieves normally, keeping the person alive in their memories as the pain fades and becomes easier to live with.

But sometimes, grief can consume you. It can completely engulf your entire body, feeling like every cell of your being has been replaced with sorrow. The world doesn’t seem real as the only world you inhabit is the one inside you, filled with despair and sadness. No one could ever be able to describe it, no one could truly know how awful it feels.

You had never felt such a horrible feeling. At least not until now.

•

It was less than a week later that Spencer’s funeral was held. The amount of people that had shown up was astounding, not that you could blame them. Spencer truly was one of a kind; not only great at his work, but a wonderful person.

You couldn’t help but think the sea of black that surrounded his casket was a metaphor for your current emotional state. The world felt dulled by your pain. 

With nowhere else to go, you were forced to stay at Spencer’s apartment, a blessing and a curse in one.

The dark green walls, the deep brown furniture, the living room filled with shelves and shelves of his books were both comforting and painful at the same time. You couldn’t help but notice just how quiet the entire place felt without him to fill the atmosphere with his knowledge and loving nature.

Almost immediately after the funeral, you took to staying in bed. The deep brown sheets still smelled like him and you didn’t want to leave. You just wanted to stay in this little bubble forever.

•

 The scenery was filled with busy streets, people walking by on the sidewalk and cars and buses zooming past on the street.

He sat at an outdoor table of the small café, sipping his coffee, awaiting his company. It wasn’t long until he spotted her amongst the crowd of pedestrians, her long blonde ponytail swinging as she walked.

“Hey,” she sat down across from him.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“No thanks.”

She pulled out two manila envelopes, ready to get down to business. 

“In here is the information you need to access both of your bank accounts. One here in Moscow, the other in St. Petersburg. Both have enough in them for you to be comfortable while you lay low.”

“Alright,” he took both envelopes and put them in his bag for safe keeping.

“Are you doing okay?”

“I’ll be fine. How is she?”

She blew out a breath, not sure she could tell him just how bad it was.

“Not good.”

“Promise me one thing, okay?”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Take care of her while I’m gone. Please, JJ, that’s all I ask.”

She nodded, moving to stand.

“Be careful, Spence.”

•

It’d been only a month. 30 days since you’d heard the terrible words “Spencer’s gone”.

You couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that he never made it off the operating table. The bullet had just been too hard to find, there was too much blood, he was crashing too fast.

At least that’s all you could remember being told by the doctors, the numerous members of the BAU and other people you couldn’t remember. It was like the entire experience had been wiped clean from your mind, only bits and pieces of memory flashing here and there.

Your mental health had taken a nosedive. You barely left bed because all you wanted to do was sleep. You ended up losing your job, but you didn’t have enough energy in you to even care. 

You didn’t eat.

You barely managed to get out of bed for a shower. Somehow you stumbled to the shower maybe once a week and that was because your friends made you.

It had been a rotating crew of the team visiting you. 

Mostly it was Penelope, Emily and JJ, but Rossi, Morgan and Tara stopped by a few times too.

Even Hotch showed up.

You could tell just how much your misery bothered him and he, like Morgan, spent his time trying to make things right rather than pay you visits.

Not that you cared all that much.

“We will catch her,” Emily said.

You sat in the middle of the bed, one of the brown sheets in your hand as you played with it, not looking up at your company that was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Spencer wouldn’t want this for you. He wouldn’t want to see you not able to leave bed, not being able to grieve properly,” she said gently.

“I don’t know what Spencer would want. Cause he’s not here, is he?!” Your lower lip trembled, tears threatening again.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, brushing away the tears although it did no good since they were falling faster than you could wipe them away.

“It’s okay, I understand.” Emily pulled you into a hug, “We all miss him too.”

She let you cry until you felt completely drained of tears. With all the crying you’d done, you were amazed there were still tears left to shed.

“Have you eaten anything today?” She pulled back, looking at your face.

“I tried to eat some toast this morning, but I threw it up.”

“It’s probably because you haven’t eaten much,” Emily answered, “Do you want me to get you something? We could order a pizza?”

You shake your head, your stomach rolling at the thought of it.

“Thank you, but no.”

When Emily left ten minutes later, you crawled back into bed, shutting your eyes, willing sleep to come and rob you of your memories.

•

“We should tell her.”

“Garcia, no. You know that Hotch advised against it,” Morgan said.

“But she’s miserable,” Emily added.

“Guys, Spencer made us promise we wouldn’t tell her. It’s safer that way. If she knows he’s alive, Cat could come after her to get to him. That’s the last thing he wants,” JJ said.

“I was just over there last night and took her some food. I thought she was going to puke just looking at it. It’s like she’s wasting away to nothing,” Penelope frowned, “Literally and figuratively.”

“Reid was basically all she had, other than us. With no family left, we’re all she has,” Rossi jumped in.

“That’s why we’re not going to give up on her, okay? Or finding Cat,” JJ said, looking around at the other teammates, “We’re going to find this bitch if it’s the last thing we do.”

•

The next time you had company, you were too busy with your head in the toilet to hear anyone let themselves in.

“Oh my goodness, honey.”

You hear the distant voice of Penelope Garcia as she rushed into the bathroom, kneeling to rub your back as you retched again.

“Did you eat something bad?”

“I haven’t eaten anything for 48 hours. I’m amazed there’s anything left in me to throw up,” you groaned.

“How about I make you some of my infamous Garcia chicken noodle soup?”

You nodded, even though your appetite was nearly nonexistent and let her assist you back to the bedroom.

“You look horrible,” Garcia winced, “Sounds like you’ve caught a nasty bug.”

You pulled the sheets up over you as you laid back down.

“Tell me about it. All I want to do is sleep but I can’t for throwing up. Plus I guess I’m starting my period cause my boobs hurt like hell.”

“Oh that’s the wor-” she paused mid sentence and you look up at her, waiting for her to continue.

“I’ll be back in a little bit okay? You just rest and I’ll get that soup started.”

She dashed out of the room and you peered after her, too exhausted to question what was wrong. Soon after, you drifted off.

-

“JJ, Y/N’s throwing up, exhausted and her boobs hurt doesn’t that sound just like…?”

Penelope was pacing the length of the kitchen, which wasn’t very big to begin with, as she talked to JJ on her phone.

“Yeah, it does,” JJ agreed.

“Should I ask her or?”

“Give me an hour to grab Emily and we’ll be there.”

•

“Y/N?”

In your dream, you woke to Spencer shaking you gently, smiling sweetly down at you. Your heart swelled with love for him, just looking up at him. You reached out to touch him, when he called your name again. Only it wasn’t coming from him this time.

“Y/N? Y/N?”

You felt a gentle shake of your shoulder and your eyes opened to see JJ, Emily and Penelope surrounding you. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, confused.

“What’s going on?”

“Garcia called and told us you’ve been pretty sick lately,” Emily said, “I remember you said you were sick the last time I visited. How long have you been throwing up?”

You shrugged, “It’s been off and on for a few weeks. Why?”

The three exchanged a look before turning back to you.

“When was your last period?” JJ questioned.

“Oh, uh,” you stopped to think, realizing you’d been so consumed with grief you hadn’t even registered the absence of your monthly cycle.

“About two months before the hitmen case.” Your eyes widened at the realization.

That was over 3 months ago now. Then, you’d just assumed it was stress making you skip your periods.

“Could you be pregnant?” Garcia gasped, trying hard to suppress her grin.

“I...I don’t know,” you answered truthfully.

You couldn’t remember the last time you and Spencer had been intimate. The last few months of his life had been so busy, filled with cases that usually it was just a matter of being together when you had a spare moment.

“Don’t worry. That’s why we brought these.”

JJ held up a bag with three different pregnancy tests.

“One for each of us to check,” Emily added.

“Now why don’t you go take these and go take a shower. We can check them after you get out,” Garcia said.

You nodded, obeying their orders. 

After a quick shower, you stood in fresh clothes, your hair still dripping wet. The three women stood looking at the pregnancy tests you’d taken and left out.

“Well?” you asked, biting your thumbnail.

“Positive,” JJ answered.

Emily looked up from hers, “Positive.”

“Positive!” Garcia squeaked, bouncing on her feet.

You felt your mouth drop in utter surprise and wonder, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

“I’m...pregnant?” you whispered, tears forming in your eyes, a small smile on your face.

“You’re pregnant!” Garcia squealed, rushing over to hug you, the other two joining in on the group hug.

For once, your tears were tears of joy. There was a part of Spencer that would always live on through this baby.

You had a reason to live again; a tiny, growing reason, but a reason nonetheless.

•

The following weeks were less than desirable in your opinion.

After being forced to visit the hospital by your friends and having an examination by Derek’s fiancé Savannah, you discovered that you were severely dehydrated from your weeks of grieving.

You couldn’t help but feel guilty knowing you’d deprived your little one of the food and nutrients it needed to grow. Savannah—who happened to be close to delivering her and Morgan’s first child—had assured you that after some fluids from a couple of IVs you would be fine. All you had to do from here was to continue to eat properly and take your prenatals and the little one would be just fine.

“This is what you get to look forward to,” she’d  chuckled, rubbing a hand over her round 35 week pregnant belly.

You had found out that you were 12 weeks along, just a week shy of your second trimester. Unfortunately, you had still experienced morning sickness all day long and still only looked bloated, not pregnant.

But time passed quickly.

Four months turned into six. Six turned into eight. There were many changes that happened around you besides the growing human inside of you.

The search for Cat continued, the team working their asses off to find her, but with no luck nor leads.

Changes to the team happened too.

Derek Morgan retired from the FBI, wanting to be with his now wife, Savannah and his little boy Hank. You’d sent him off tearfully. He was one of Spencer’s best friends, one that you had become close with too over the years, but you knew he was going to be the best dad.

A new member joined in his place, Luke Alvez. He had been familiar with Spencer as well and the team welcomed him into the family, as did you. 

Then Hotch decided his time with the FBI was coming to an end. After a particularly grueling case, he put in his resignation paperwork. He was happy to be a more involved father to his almost teenaged aged son, Jack. You wished him all the best, knowing he was going to have the time of his life with more time for Jack, even though it was hard to see him go.

Emily stepped up as the new unit chief and brought in agent Matt Simmons, another agent you were familiar with. A tall, handsome, hardworking sweetheart, you were glad to welcome him to the team as well.

The changes within you were just as extreme as the ones around you.

Your belly grew bigger, your little one stronger. You felt kicks and movement daily now, each move warming your heart, although you couldn’t help but wish quite often that Spencer was around to witness this. He would be so in love with this baby, you were sure of it.

You struggled with the decision to find out the sex of the baby. With a vote between you and your friends, it was a unanimous vote for yes.

Mere weeks after the discovery of your pregnancy you found out you were carrying a precious baby girl. You were completely overjoyed, as was the entire team. You couldn’t help but feel grateful for the team of people that would be loving extended members of the family and of course, babysitters. Occasionally though, the melancholy feeling would creep back into your subconscious.

Spencer would’ve been over the moon knowing he was going to have a little girl. He would’ve spoiled her so much and she would have him wrapped around her little finger. You missed him daily, even though a part of him grew in your belly. You couldn’t help but be sad for your little girl who would never have the chance to meet her amazing father.

It was then after many weeks of contemplating a name, that the perfect one came to you. You decided to keep it a secret until she was born, much to the team’s dismay, but you wanted it to be a surprise. In your heart though, you knew it was the perfect name for her. 

-

Your ninth month of pregnancy had finally arrived as did the other symptoms of your final trimester. You were tired, achy and felt like you’d swallowed a watermelon. You were so ready to get this baby out.

As if overnight, Spencer’s apartment had been filled with baby things in preparation for her arrival. Her crib was in the spare bedroom, although she wasn’t going to leave your side for the first few months, hence the bassinet next to the bed in the bedroom.

Bottles were lined up in the kitchen, boxes of diapers sitting in the living room. You couldn’t believe it was almost time to meet her; secretly you hoped that she took after her daddy, both in looks and personality.

“How are we feeling today, mama?” JJ asked when you met her and Garcia for your weekly lunch.

“Like a huge, swollen basketball,” you laughed.

“Hey princess, auntie Penelope can’t wait to meet you,” Garcia rubbed your belly, making you grin.

“Maybe you need to give her more pep talks because I’m so ready for her to get out,” you groaned, “And to see my feet again.”

“Henry and Michael are so excited for her to be born,” JJ chuckled, “I’m going to have to tell them to be gentle with her though, they’re not used to little girls.”

You grinned. You loved JJ’s two boys. Spencer had been their godfather, so you’d kind of become an auntie to them. She often brought them to visit you when you were still grieving Spencer’s death and they were the only ones who could bring a smile to your face during your darkest period.

After you’d found out you were pregnant and started rebuilding your life again, you often volunteered to babysit them. Other than your little girl, they were the ones who motivated you to begin healing and getting stronger. 

They got more excited the bigger your belly grew. Henry, the oldest would often try to explain to his younger brother Michael that babies came from mommy’s tummies. He also told him that there came a point when mommy and daddy loved them so much that there was no room left for the baby in the mommy’s belly. So, the baby had to come out in order to get the rest of that love. It warmed your heart knowing that one day, your child would be this big and this smart.

You were so thankful for them and for the entire team in general for pulling you out of the hole of despair you’d been in for you might not be sitting here right now.

When you’d ordered, the three of you sat and chatted about their current cases and baby stuff until you felt a slight trickle down your leg. With a glance under the table, you realized your pants were soaked. For a moment, you thought you’d peed yourself.

You groaned, expressing your concern. Even though that was just a symptom of pregnancy, it wasn’t any less embarrassing.

But the flow of the trickle became heavier. When JJ came around the table to assess the situation, her eyes widened, taking in your now soaked seat.

“I think your water just broke.”

A flurry of activity followed.

-

18 hours of labor and nearly 2 hours of pushing later, you were holding your daughter, staring at her in amazement.

Her tiny fist was holding onto your finger and you smiled down at her, tears blurring your vision. It was early yet, but you thought she looked just like Spencer.

She had a head of brown hair, his eye shape and his mouth, but your nose; although it looked much cuter on her.

“She’s so cute,” Garcia cooed at her, stroking her cheek.

“Spence would be so happy, Y/N,” JJ said.

You smiled up at them. They’d been the ones you’d requested to be in the delivery room and they’d been amazing helping you through the rough labor.

“Can I hold her?” 

“Of course,” you smiled, handing her to Penelope.

“Me next,” JJ smiled, holding her little hand.

“So are you gonna tell us her name now or what?” Garcia urged.

“Yes,” you smiled, “I thought it would be appropriate for her to always have a part of her daddy with her. So I decided to name her Spensa. Spensa Rose Reid.”

“That’s beautiful,” JJ breathed, looking down at her, “Hello, Spensa. You look just like your daddy.”

•

Adjusting to being a single mother was difficult, but so rewarding. It helped a ton that you had so many willing helping hands, as well.

Spensa was such a laid back baby and loved to be sociable, even at five months old. She truly was the light of your life.

You loved watching her grow and learn new things, from rolling over to waving and clapping her hands. She babbled a lot as well nowadays.

Her dark head of hair had lightened to a lighter shade of brown and was just starting to curl at the ends. Her blue eyes surprisingly hadn’t turned dark yet and she still looked so much like Spencer.

She had the little dimples in the side of her cheeks that only showed up when she made specific expressions and she liked to scrunch her nose occasionally, just like daddy. It was almost hard to tell that she was yours, but you didn’t mind one bit.

She was the sweetest baby and you fell in love with her more every day.

As to be expected, the entire team fell head over heels for her and often took turns visiting when they had time. Sometimes, you even took her to the BAU to visit all her aunts and uncles.

You often talked to her about Spencer, even though you knew she was too young to understand. It was amazing how the knowledge of her had eased so much of the grief you had felt those first few months. You still longed for him, missed him so much, but in a way he was alive and with you within Spensa.

It was nearing her bedtime one night and you were rocking her in the chair next to the crib.

“Do you want to hear another bedtime story about daddy?”

She baby talked in response, playing with her toy giraffe.

“Well, your daddy was the bravest man I know. He was so passionate about his work and he was good at it too. He was sweet as you are, ladybug.”

You tickled her stomach, smiling at her giggles.

She laid back in your arms, still playing with the toy in her arms, her gaze on you.

“He cared so much about the people he loved. He would have loved you too munchkin. He loved kids so much and he wanted his own some day. I wish he could be here to see you.”

The tears choked you and you wiped a hand over your face as they fell. Spensa started fussing as if she could sense your sadness.

“It’s okay baby,” you repositioned her on your lap, reaching for the frame of you and Spencer on her dresser.

“You wanna say goodnight to daddy?”

Spensa babbled to the picture, putting her hand on it. 

It might have seemed silly to do such a thing every night, but you never wanted her to not know who Spencer was.

You kissed the top of her head.

“I love you, Spensa.”

•

In Moscow, it was a pretty standard day for Spencer. 

He had managed to set a pretty strict schedule in his time here. It had been nearly a year and he had gotten used to life in Moscow. He still worried daily about his girlfriend though, worrying for your safety.

It was Thursday evening, the usual time he went to the market, yet when he returned to his place, something felt off.

On the entrance table, there was a lone red rose and a note. His eyes scanned over the note.

Roses are red

Violets are blue 

I have a surprise

And a secret too

Love,

Cat

He automatically reached for his gun that he carried at all times, just underneath his pant leg, in an ankle holster.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” came the taunting, familiar voice from behind him.

He turned around to face the living room and saw Cat sitting in one of the arm chairs, her gun on the arm.

“Spencie,” she grinned, “Miss me?”

•

It was just after nine. Spensa had just been put down again after her 8 o’clock feeding and you were attempting to rinse some dishes off before you headed to bed.

The tv played in the living room and you turned, confused when you no longer heard any sound coming from it. You shrugged it off, chalking it up to a possible power outage.

You returned to the dirty dishes, the clinking plates masking the noise of the sliding porch door clicking shut. A creak from behind you made you freeze in place. You glanced up, a figure approaching behind you clear in the reflection of the window. 

Before you even had the chance to cry out, something hard struck the back of your head and everything went black.

•

You groaned, your head pounding. You reached up to rub the sore spot, wincing as you try to sit up. It was bright behind your eyes and you fought to slowly open them, blinking a few times until your surroundings come in to focus.

That’s when you saw them.

Across the room stood your dead boyfriend, lips locked with none other than Cat Adams.

Tag List: @dreatine​ @reid-187​ @groovyreid​ @reidslibra​ @suvikamahes98blr​ @fuckthealarm​ @whatspunispun​ @iamburdened​ @cindywayne​ @thomasfoockinshelby​ @tinyminy88​ @theitcaramelchick​ @missprettyboy​ @hushlilbabydoll​ @sammy-jo1977​ @theonlyone-meeeee​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @lemonypink​ @multifandommandy​

[dawniebb]

I’m tired so let’s talk about crack headcanons

May I present you

The Team Sketch as Trauma the Animation World Seeded In me (cause’ it’s the only type of media I consume) and Still Haunts Me to This Day:

Nova:

-”The movie wasn’t about VictorxEmily. It was about Emily learning she can’t just fix her life by ruining somebody else’s. Pls stop talking shit about Victoria.” -C o r a l i n e. -Unironically likes Despicable Me bc Found Family trope (but she hates the Minions like any thinking individual would do). -”Really folks pls leave Victoria alone what did she ever do to you?” -Unironically likes Robots even though she hasn’t watched that shit in 11 years. -Won't watch Legend of Korra but she can’t think of an specific reason why she won’t. -Phineas & Ferb bc clever jokes™ -*Patiently waits for the Catrademption* *wants Adora to choke her*

-Thinks Megamind is underrated and everyone should watch it bc good shit.

-Can and WILL fight everyone who talks shit about The Boxtrolls bc why would you find flaws in an animated movie that harshly criticizes rich people and the government :) THE CHEESE IS A METAPHOR :)

Adrian:

- *Cries in LAIKA* -"You know, like that one scene in Spirited Away where...” -*Cries in Ghibli* -Still not over the fact Brave won the Oscar over ParaNorman - *Screams "PARANORMAAAAAN" during Scary Stories to Tell in The Dark bc same vibes* -"I heard there’s gay people in Ocean Waves” -*Watches Storks 263719173 times* - *Respects Frankenweenie bc of the dog and its animation although he doesn’t care that much about the plot* -ATLA is God. -TDP is the Holy Spirit. -"LOOOOOL THE MAIN VILLAIN IN KIPO IS A WHITE LADY AFGSHJAGB” -His dads wouldn’t let him watch Total Drama. 

-Still not over Spider-Verse.

-Probably won’t ever be over Spider-Verse. Ever.

-*Screams in pain during the amputation scene in I Lost My Body*

-Voltron ruined his life.

Ruby:

-GRAVITY FALLS -*Unironically likes Kick Buttowski* -*Unironically likes Phineas & Ferb* - *Wants to watch Milo Murphy's Law but is secretly not over Phineas & Ferb yet* - *Thinks every classic Barbie movie is a badly animated masterpiece but the newer ones suck* - *Gets traumatized bc of Balto for some reason and refuses to watch it again* -*Repeats the previous action but this time w/ The Fox and The Hound* -*Unironically prefers the third Cinderella movie* -"Does any of you remember The Legend of Sleepy Hollow? Bc I do" -SVTFOE 

Oscar:

-S H R E K - Likes the opening song for Shrek the Third but hates the rest of the movie -*Gets unironically depressed over the concept of having Fairly Oddparents  bc of the fact people must forget about them at some point* - YING YANG YO - The songs from Mulan 2 are the shit -Was fixated on Kung Fu Panda but stopped watching after the first movie -Likes The Cat in The Hat and thinks about it as an animation movie even though he knows it’s not -"Sokka invented comedy yall" -USED TO WATCH THE REPLACEMENTS IN THE EARLY MORNING. -*Unironically likes the Lilo & Stitch spinoff* -Doesn't understand why everyone hates the first Cars movie -THE EMPEROR’S NEW GROOVE

-How To Train Your Dragon took his life with it when the trilogy was done.

-Would die for Rayla.

-Voltron ruined his life x2

Danna:

-WILL STAY FOR THE LESBIANS - "I heard there’s gay people in Ocean Waves x2" -"THERE’S GAY PEOPLE IN PARANORMAN" -*Thinks Spink and Forcible from Coraline are lovers* -The Princess and The Frog -*Likes the first half of Brave but not the second one* -*Despises Ralph Breaks The Internet* -*Pretends Frozen II doesn’t exist* -*Likes SU until everyone starts crying* -GRAVITY FALLS. Is a Pacifica stan :) - Megara. Just that. Megara :) - One eye in Rayllum. The other in Jamaya -"Literally the only bitches I respect are named Callum and that includes the Treadwell one.” - *Gives up on Catra but stays for the rest of the lesbians* -"Really guys what did Jackie Lynn Thomas ever do to you? " - "What did Victoria ever do to you x2? " -*defends every single one of the Disney Princesses and counts Kuzco as one of them*

-Fucking hates the ending of When Marnie Was There. Everyone thought she was crying of sadness but in reality she was just enraged.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

Re-Watch 7x10: New Best Friends

All right. So I already did write ups for other re-watches, including 7x08 and bits of 6a and Operation Lead the Walkers Away. I know I’m being a bit OCD about this and doing them kind of out of order, but I’ll be putting up write ups for other episode re-watches as I go.

This is what I saw when re-watching 7x10: New Best Friends. This, of course, is the episode where Rick and co go to rescue Father Gabriel from the Scavengers and Rick fights Winslow the Spikey Walker.

Going into this, I tried to see what everything might foreshadow, since that’s been my jam lately. When we first saw this, we didn’t know Rick was leaving yet, so I remember that when his hand got impaled by one of Winslow’s spikes, 

I instantly jumped on it as a Beth/stigmata thing. I realize now this was really more about Rick’s death fake out than anything else, but it still creates a parallel.

So, long story short, especially as we have the foreshadow of Rick’s “resurrection” here (as well as that CGI’d flying contraption—helicopter or plane—in the background) 

I think it’s safe to say that the Scavengers foreshadow the helicopter group. We also see the rooster,

cat, 

and pig statues during this sequence. 

We also have Jadis telling Rick he has to prove that he’s “worth it,” which is very close to things Dawn said to Beth.

So Jadis pushing him down the heap and Michonne screaming his name is an obvious foreshadow of her screaming when she thinks he blew up on the bridge. They also talk to one another from opposite sides of an obvious dark tunnel. 

I went back to check out what I originally said in my post when I watched this, and I did mention the dark tunnel symbolism, but I was really vague and unsure about it. Back then, I hadn’t figured out the dark tunnel symbolism to the extent we have now, nor did I fully appreciate the full nature of the four death fake outs. So it’s definitely interesting to go back and watch this stuff.

My biggest takeaway from this is a Father Gabriel thing. I’m sure I’ve talked about him being a Beth proxy in this episode before. He wears a white tank top, talks a lot about faith, etc.

But what’s different now is knowing that Scavengers foreshadow the helicopter group. So, for me, this is another representation of Rick going to the helicopter group and Beth (FG) already being there. Every line Rick says struck me as significant. He says, “you have one of my people.” I know he demands to see that Gabriel is still alive. I didn’t write down exactly what he said there, but there’s the “still alive” concept and possibly a “sight” reference.

And, once again, it’s hard to tell how far the metaphor will extend, but it’s Gabriel that actually forges the alliance between Rick and Jadis by telling her they’ll get her what she wants if she’ll help them fight Negan. If not for him, things might not have gone so well. Rick’s group and the Scavengers were starting to fight and kill each other before FG called out for everyone to stop. It actually reminded me a bit of S3 when Merle was fighting with everyone and Beth shot off the gun to stop them. So I’m wondering if this forging alliances thing will extend to Beth in some way where the helicopter group is concerned.

When Rick kills Winslow, he finishes him off with a shard of broken glass. I really haven’t talked about the broken glass theme in a long time, but that felt significant to me. I think the broken glass theme will finally be paid off either with Beth’s return or in some way having to do with the helicopter group.

And of course Rick gets the cat statue for Michonne, which is both sweet and significant. ;D He even says it’s to replace the one she lost. Which sounds a little twisted, like she might “replace” Rick after losing him. But given that it’s HIM that gives her the cat, pretty sure it just means she’ll get him back.

Oh, one other thing I noticed. The people at the junk yard when this happened included Rick, Michonne, FG, Aaron, Tara, and Rosita. Tara is deceased, but this is strikingly similar to those who show up at Hilltop at the end of 7x08, which I also think foreshadows a reunion after Rick returns from the helicopter group. The only difference is Aaron. (Remember I said I wished he’d gone to HT in 7x08, but then again Jesus might be the Beth proxy in that scene?) 

Well, I don’t know for sure that Aaron is a proxy for her here. He might be, but also FG is. But once again, we have Rosita involved in this. And, there is the fact that Aaron is injured—a cut to the forehead, albeit on the opposite side from Beth—and FG tends it for him. Just saying.

The other major thing going on in this episode was the whole Daryl-reuniting-with-Carol-at-the-cabin thing. 

We also had the Smokey and the Bandit trailer and the stuff with Richard, 

Daryl meeting Shiva (another representation of Daryl = cat), 

and him and Morgan butting heads.

I actually do think Morgan is a Beth proxy here as well. He wears a white shirt throughout the episode, like FG, 

and has some Beth dialogue. Nothing huge, but some. Gavin refers to him as “sensai” at one point, which is a Japanse/Chinese word and may be part of the Tibetan stuff. A senai is a teacher, especially of martial arts, but I looked it up and the world literally means, “one who comes before,” which is interesting.

This is the episode where Zeke and co (and Morgan) are making a delivery to the saviors and we see Diane shoot a female walker in the eye. 

Twice, Diane says, “my sister had that dress,” which calls attention to it. Plus, there’s the eye shot. I still feel like this is a Beth/Maggie reference, but it’s hard to tell what it means.

When they open the back of the car, there’s a crazy ton of symbolism in there. It’s a hatchback and looks a lot like the one they were loading up at the prison in 4x01. 

One of the crates has a huge X on it, there are car batteries. And lots of watermelons. I really think they are probably a foreshadow of stunt Richard pulls later with the honeydew melons that gets Benjamin killed. Especially as Gavin says the load is light, but in this case, he admits it’s not. But I also wonder if the “water” in watermelon is a purposeful reference. And what color are watermelons? Pink. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So, my biggest takeaway from the rest of this is that this was an episode about reunions. Rick and Michonne at the junk yard (although they weren’t truly apart for more than a few minutes), Father Gabriel with everyone after being kidnapped. Daryl and Carol in the cabin, etc.

And as I’ve been saying lately, we have to look at the symbolism as a whole, rather than in a vacuum from episode to episode or scene to scene. So we have a sequence of Beth symbols here: Daryl gets a new bow, 

then he and Richard walk along the highway and see a “Cemetery ahead” sign. 

And then the Smokey and the Bandit trailer, right?

But I tried to look at all of that in a broader way. It’s really this sequence of Daryl hanging out with Richard for a short time (before deciding he hated the guy) that led to him figuring out where Carol was and going to reunite with her.

So, long story short, I definitely think his reunion with Carol here is a foreshadow of him reuniting with Beth. Sure, they have their own story line here, too, mostly having to do with Carol’s mental health (or lack thereof), but it’s also a foreshadow. 

I think the whole point of the cemetery sign and smokey and the bandit trailer was to show that this foreshadowed something else. I mean, never, in the entire history of the show, has Carol been referred to as a sheriff. 

Meanwhile, in the other story line, we have a foreshadow of Rick’s death fake out and resurrection. So it all works together.

And we can see other obvious parallels, of course: Carol reading the book with the piggy back on it, 

seven candles lit on the table when they have dinner, 

and even the actual cabin. 

When Daryl is sitting in front of Shiva’s cage later, talking to Morgan, he says, “yeah, I found her [Carol], out in that little house.” It just SOUNDS like he could be referring to the cabin Emily filmed in during S5.

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Like I said, nothing groundbreaking, but I think we’re all having fun returning to earlier episodes and understanding things we didn’t entirely understand before. ;D Thoughts?

[harlot-of-oblivion]

A Daisy follows soft the Son of Sparda (Part 3)

You and Vergil spend some time together in your quiet corner of the book café reciting poetry, drinking tea, and sowing the seeds of delightful affection.

So this just popped into my head and I just had to write it down. Hope you enjoy! 💕 Here ya go, @drusoona 😘

Here’s the link to the list of all the flowers featured in this part. 🌹🥰🌹

The city is buzzing with activity as you walk though the city streets. The exhaust pipes of cars clanging loudly as they blur past you, the soft chattering of distant conversations floating through the breeze, and the glittering sunlight flaring off of the windows on numerous buildings…it all just feels exciting and lively as you make your way to the local book café for tea, books, and interesting company that goes by the name of Vergil Sparda.

I wonder if he’ll be grumpy or reserved today, you thought, laughing quietly to yourself because it seems that man is always a combination of both. You do not mind though…in fact, you find his surliness kind of endearing. The little crinkle in between his brow that seem to be there permanently scrunching up as his eyes spark in agitation and his jaw tightening as he clenches he teeth…most people would find him intimating, but you just cannot help but to admire such an expressive face.

Those distinct lines on his face do occasionally smooth out though. Every time you give him your homemade tea blends or a fresh flower that crinkle seems to fade as his lips curve into a grin. The lack of smile lines tells you that he does not smile often, so you feel honored to witness such a rarity. You feel yourself swoon as you remember the day he sought you out in the rain after completely blundering your attempt at conversation, holding your forgotten umbrella over you as he smiles down upon you. The thought of his gorgeous face makes you do a little twirl on the sidewalk, your purple floral dress flaring out as you feel a soft warmth settle on your cheeks. You solemnly vowed to yourself that you would do everything in your power to make him smile more. And every time you are successful you cherish every single one of those smiles, engraving them into your memory so you can look back on them in fondness.

The familiar chime of The Book Nook Café rings as you step through its threshold. You greet the barista with a cheerful smile and order a cup of chai tea before walking over to your quiet corner. You glance over at the chair that is usually occupied by a certain handsome devil, an amused grin spreading across your face as you recall that he claims this spot as his as well. You set your tea and purse down as you examine the bountiful shelves of knowledge and adventure, trying to find the book that Vergil recommended to you after he found out that you are a gardener and florist extraordinaire.

“Ah!” you whisper as you finally spot The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, sliding it out of its place and placing it on the small table next to your seat. You rummage through your purse, taking out a perfectly pressed pink and white clove gillyflower and remove a book you hope to recommend to him during your chat today. He has returned your books about gardening and botany to you, but the book about the language of flowers has yet to make it back into your hands. There is a chance that he will understand the message your leaving…that you have developed a bond of affection with him.

The thought of him knowing what your little gifts actually mean makes you nervous and giddy as you place the delicate flower into the book. The idea of him reciprocating has you blushing as you recall the snapdragons he gave you. You did not have the heart to tell him that you actually provide those for this particular restaurant, not wanting to ruin the moment as his uncertain eyes soften when you accept them. You may have grown them, but that is not what makes your knees weak and heart throb thinking about that moment...

They just…reminded me of you.

You snap the book closed, the musty whoosh of air blowing against your face doing nothing to cool your redden cheeks. A part of you hopes that he knows what those snapdragons mean, but he is probably referring to the petals since you can never stop your face from flushing pink when his hand touches you in some benign fashion. He may be cool and reserved, not really a man for unnecessary words, but that just means his actions are what your flowers are to you…a way to express the feelings you cannot say aloud. Your heart always quivers when he subtly caresses your hand and fingers. Your belly fills with fluttering butterflies as his eyes glance sideways when he thinks you do not notice.

Taking a deep breath you reel in your swirling thoughts, making yourself the very model of decorum. You make yourself comfortable in your seat as you reach for the recommended book on the table. You crack open the old book and your eyes widen as a pressed purple flower falls into your lap. Funny…I don’t remember putting one this book, you muse as you pick it up and inspect it. Instantly you know it to be heartsease, a type of violet that grows wild around certain parts of the city. It is also known by many other colorful names, such as heart’s delight, tickle-my-fancy, come-and-cuddle-me…warm tingles cascade down your body as its purple petals all but confirm your suspensions of Vergil being well aware of the language of flowers.

You occupy my thoughts.

You bring the flower to your chest as you lay the book on your lap, clutching it close with both hands over your heart. You are still for a moment, doing your best to hold back a squeal, but your lips slowly spread into a bright smile as your body begins to bounce like a bumblebee among the sweetest flowers. You are glad that he does not find your little antics foolish. After you almost ruined your chance with him you knew that conventional means of flirting will not hold sway over him.

So, you started this little ritual of leaving him flowers, then giving him the means of figuring it all out, hoping that your intent was clear. You really like Vergil and do not want to mess up this budding relationship by letting your blunt mouth do all the talking. For the first time since the passing of your family and moving back into the city you do not feel so alone in the world. He can be a bit prickly at times, but you are a very patient gardener and you will tend to the seeds of affection you have sown with him diligently.

When your done dancing in your seat you place the pressed flower next to your cup, a subtle way to let him know you got it his message. You open the book back up and begin to read while you wait for Vergil to arrive. After reading a few pages you fully understand why he suggests this poet to you. The short biography of Emily Dickinson did mention that she was more well known for her gardening and her knowledge of plants than her poetry during her lifetime. So there are many short poems about flowers and nature conveying intricate imagery and metaphor. It makes your heart soar that he knew just the perfect poetry for your personality.

The signature chime of the door has your eyes instantly glancing up to see a tall and imposing figure clad in very distinctive clothing and a charming scowl that only Vergil can pull off. Uh oh…it seems he’s in one of his cranky moods, you observe, wondering what ever present nuisance makes him so easily irritable all the time. Your lips lift into a sunny smile like they always do when he is around and he slightly nods his head towards you as he makes his way to the barista to order his tea.

While he is distracted you mark your place in the book and reach into your purse for the tin of tea you have prepared for him. Guess it’s a good thing I brought him a little pick-me-up gift. You also grab a handful of today’s flowers, sweet alyssums, since it looks likes he could use a flower shower. You hide both beneath the fabric of your dress as you hear him thank the barista and approach the cozy corner. You put on a face of pure innocence as he appears, eyeing you suspiciously while he places his tea on the table.

“What are you hiding this time?” he warily questions.

“Whatever do you mean, Vergil?” you say as you tilt your head to the side feigning confusion. He just continues to stare at you with those striking silver eyes like a leery cat. You try to fight off the urge to smile, but the sight of that little crinkle between his brows bunching up has you grinning impishly in seconds. His eyes narrow at the sight of it and he leans down a bit, reminding you of the tall sunflowers you used to look up at when your were a child…minus the obvious agitation.

Slowly you lift one hand to reveal a tin of cherry blossom green tea. “Well, it seems I can longer take you by surprise, huh?” That crinkle instantly relaxes when he glances down at your hand to ensure that you are indeed holding one of your homemade blends. His eyes soften a little, that lovely shade of blue coming to the surface to blend harmoniously with molten silver. He reaches for his gift and just as his hand grabs the tin you feel his familiar touch, a gentle fingertip grazing one of your fingers. This never fails to make your breath hitch slightly as your heart thrums like a hummingbird.

Before he fully withdraws his hand you stand up to get a better view of his stunning face that you hope will grace you with the presence of his smile soon. “And since I can no take you by surprise, then you already know what comes next,” you say, voice brimming with enthusiasm as you stare up at him excitedly. “Vergil…lose the glower…”

His expression turns weary. “Must you insist on-?”

“And smell the flowers!” you exclaim as you bring your other hand up and toss the tiny white flowers into the air as you give him a big joyous smile.

His eyes never stray from yours as the small blossoms fall down upon you both, even when one lands right on his shoulder. Those lips you so want to smile are in a tight line as he sighs through his nose. “Evidently, you must…” he comments wryly before the corners of his mouth twitch, flashing you a small amused smirk.

Success! You are absolutely beaming as you let your thumb brush against his fingers before releasing the tin. You quickly gather the fallen flowers before the barista notices you have pulled this stunt once again in the café. A soft chuckle reaches your ears and you look over to see him shaking his head at you as he picks up the lone flower off his shoulder. You give him a mischievous shrug as you finish cleaning up and get back to your seat, opening your book to continue where you left off. Vergil grabs a book he has been reading for awhile and takes his seat, placing the one survivor of the flower shower next to his cup of tea.

Out of the corner of your eye you see him pause when he spots the purple heartsease on your side of the table. You can practically feel those keen eyes gazing at you, surely noticing the light dusting of pink on your face as you continue reading while trying to focus on the imagery of the current poem. I’ll have to really up the ante in our quiet flower game, you ponder, the gears of your mind already turning. Something even more bold than the ice plant flower...pff! Who am I kidding? I already went straight past bold with the forget-me-nots...maybe a flower of passion? I hope those hybrid roses I’m working on for him will bloom soon…

“I see you’re reading my personal recommendation.”

Vergil’s smooth voice breaks you out of your frantic flower thoughts. You head snaps over to see him staring back down at the heartsease. Those captivating eyes slowly lift to meet your gaze, openly admiring every inch of you. Hmm...a variegated tulip it is, you mentally note as a fresh burst of tingles rise through your skin. You do not need a mirror to know that your face must remind him of those damn snapdragons. The corner of your mouth twitches into a grateful grin as you reply. “I am! I wish I knew of her poems sooner. The way she describes flowers and uses them as metaphor is brilliant!”

“Do you have a favorite thus far?” he inquires, resting his arm on the table as his hand cradles his head, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment.

“Hmm…” You flip the pages to the table of contents and swiftly skim the list of poems until one sparks your memory. “Ah! The Daisy follows soft the Sun speaks to me,” you inform him with a fond smirk as you meet his eyes again.

“Read it to me.”

You blink bemusedly at what you refer to as a “commanding request” because Vergil has a habit of just not emphasizing the question mark that usually goes at the end of such requests. Admittedly, that is part of his charm, but you are not so easy to command. You quirk an eyebrow at him as you devise an even compromise. “Only if you recite Blake for me.”

Now it is Vergil’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. He taps his index finger on his head in thought, making a few strands of his white hair shift slightly out of its perfectly slicked back style before forming back into place. Does the power of Sparda include exceptional hair care? you mentally quip to yourself as you await with bated breath, hoping he will indulge you with his soothing voice. His finger stops tapping and his eyelids droop ever so slightly as his lips part and he graces your ears with that rather nasal but sensuous timbre.

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threat'ning horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

Vergil flashes you a smug grin as he finishes his reciting of Blake, clearly enjoying the affect it had on you. If he gets his hands on scarlet lilies that’s probably what he’ll give me next…because that’s what my face probably looks like right now! You sigh exasperatedly as you cover your face with the clever words of Dickinson. “Well...now I really feel like I can’t do this poem justice!” you whine, playfully bemoaning your awful luck that the power of Sparda must also include the ability to reduce you to a blushing babbling mess.

You hear his cocky laugh burst through the air. “You should have read while you had the chance.”

Your shoulders slump as you try to pull yourself together for the task at hand. You remove the book from your face and turn to the page with the poem. When you turn your head to make sure you have his attention you notice that he is pensively studying you. “Flower for your thoughts?” you softly ask, bringing him out of whatever ruminations plaguing his mind.

“I wanted to hear you read, and yet I recited a poem at your behest for the privilege…why?” he abruptly asks, his eyes regarding you inquisitively.

You feel your eyebrows burrow in confusion. “Quid pro quo…not everyone is going to listen to your demands unless you do something for them in turn.” Your eyes dart down to the delicate heartsease next to your cup. “And it’s been awhile since I heard you recite poetry.” You blink and meet his intense gaze once more. “Not since that day in the rain.”

Vergil’s eyes drift away as he seems to be lost in thought. They brush over the pressed flower he left for you and the corner of his mouth lifts into a small grin. Then he shifts his gaze back to meet yours as those alluring lips bless you with the presence of his sublime smile. You feel your brain check out as you savor this moment, knowing that if you had the talent for art you could paint this man from memory alone…considering how often he haunts your thoughts as well.

The warm moment passes when Vergil taps his finger on his head again as he quirks an expectant eyebrow at you. “I’m waiting.”

You sigh, resigning yourself to this fate you have brought upon yourself by enacting quid pro quo. Bringing the book back up you toss a loose strand of hair out of your vision as you softly clear your throat, preparing your voice for a reading that you know is going to pale in comparison to his spine chilling voice. You breathe in and hope for the best.

The Daisy follows soft the Sun And when his golden walk is done Sits shyly at his feet He—waking—finds the flower there Wherefore—Marauder—art thou here? Because, Sir, love is sweet!

We are the Flower—Thou the Sun! Forgive us, if as days decline We nearer steal to Thee! Enamored of the parting West The peace—the flight—the Amethyst Night's possibility!

You do not even try to hold back your smile as you read, letting the imagery of the shy and hopeful daisy pull you in as the words spill from your lips. When you finish your head turns over to Vergil to see how badly you butchered this poor poem.

Instead, he is wearing an expression you have only seen twice: once after you made a complete fool of yourself in front of him in this very corner and the other in your garden after he revealed his demon heritage. Your heart aches when you think about that memory, getting the feeling that living a life caught in between two vastly different worlds has taken on toil on his soul. It explains why he seems so different, why he is so defensive about his personal life…but you know how it feels to not belong and you are glad he told you. Because at that moment you do not see something to be afraid of. Staring upon his face now, so openly expressing awe and admiration, you cannot help but wonder if this feeling in your chest is what Cupid felt when he first saw the aching beauty of Psyche before he shot himself with his own arrow.

After a few moments of awkward silence and a bit of fidgeting he compliments your reading and settles back into his chair, burying his face in his book which is his way of signaling you that he needs a break from conversation. You graciously oblige, needing a break yourself from all the tension currently wafting between the two of you. Both of you read together, enjoying the familiar companionable silence as the outside world fades away. At some point you finish your tea and stand up to get another cup, asking Vergil if needs a fresh cup as well. He nods without looking away from his book and you grin as you walk up to the counter, order two more cups of tea, and bring them back to the secluded corner. Just as your sitting back down Vergil speaks while still engrossed in his book.

“That day in the rain…you said you would point out some recommendations of your own.”

“Oh yeah!” you exclaim, bouncing in your chair in energetically. “I did, didn’t I? Well…what are you in the mood for? Tragedy, comedy, philosophy…poetry?”

Vergil’s lips twitch in amusement as his eyes continue to read. “I am familiar with some of the more prolific epic poems of the ancient era, but I am curious about what you would suggest for me otherwise.” You ponder for a moment, trying to figure what he might find interesting when it hits you.

“Catullus.”

His eyes shoot up in astonishment as his eyes finally tear themselves away from his book to look at you. “Aha!” You giggle as you point a finger at him. “It seems I can still surprise you!” Your hand wipes the invisible sweat off your brow. “Whew…and here I thought I could never get one over the Son of Sparda ever again.” His jaw clenches in that signature scowl you have come to adore as his eyes narrow in annoyance. You show mercy and stop your teasing as you smirk with sincerity shining in your eyes. “But seriously…I would suggest reading his poems. They’re very uh…eclectic.”

“In what way are they unique from the others of that time?” Vergil inquires, his scowl lessening as his eyes regard you with genuine curiosity.

“Well, on one hand he wrote affectionate love poems for his mistress…but on the other hand he wrote really angry and very vulgar poems about people who pissed him off.”

A low rumbling hum vibrates through the air as Vergil contemplates your words, a wave of heat rushing through body at the mere sound of it. “Sounds intriguing. I honestly anticipated a more well known poet of that time.”

“Oh? Like Horace? Or Ovid? Or…Virgil?” You list playfully, wriggling an eyebrow as you mention the last one with a cheeky grin. He rolls his eyes as he lets out an irksome scoff, but the soft twitching of his lips lets you know that he is trying not to smile. This makes you laugh as you continue speaking. “Don’t get me wrong…their poems are good too.” You take a calming breath as your laughter dies down. “But I like Catullus because he’s just so honest and some of his poems just drip with raw emotion. You really feel his adoration for his lover and his wrath at the friends that betrayed him. And it is his poems that later influence Ovid and Virgil.”

“Will you do me the honor…of reciting his poetry…for me?” he hesitantly requests as his eyes soften, actually asking you to do something for the first time instead of demanding it. You feel your eyes widen in surprise, but your overwhelming joy of having him show an interest in one of your favorite poets overrides it quickly. You give him your warmest smile as you close your eyes and recite a short one that will hopefully pique his interest more.

I hate and love. If you were to ask how I got this way, I’d have no answer; but since I can recall, I have suffered –I have felt this torment.

You open your eyes and see that Vergil has his eyes closed during your recitation as well. Your heart melts at the sight of his calm face, meditating on the words of the poem as he considers your recommendation. His eyes suddenly snap open after a few moments. “Very well,” he states confidently as he pins you with his intense stare. “I shall see what complexity this Catullus has to offer.”

A victorious grin spreads across your cheeks and it must be contagious because Vergil gives that rare smirk you strive to pull out him every second you are near him. You both spend more time in that cozy corner finishing up your books until you have to depart. Before leaving you set a time and date to meet in the café again, already looking forward to another quiet reading session with your prickly poet. You almost tell him he could always call you if he ever wants to have a rendezvous somewhere else…like a local bistro or even your garden since you do have a nice outdoor seating, but you did not want to push your luck. And it seems he is new to the usage of cell phones, so you did not want to bring it up just in case it makes him crabby. Plus, he might bring up the forget-me-nots you somehow craftily tied around his fancy sword and you have already filled your quota of blushes for today.

Both of you say your farewells and you leave the café feeling like a sunflower basking in the rays of beautiful sunshine. As you pass the café window you spot a tall figure standing up in the secluded corner, selecting the book you put your flower in earlier. Your feet stumble as you stop in your tracks and scramble to take out your phone, furiously pretending to be checking your notifications and texting some nonexistent recipient. Surreptitiously, you watch as Vergil opens the book and he must have went straight for Catullus since his hand picks up the clove gillyflower you left for him. Your heart skips a beat when you see his face light up with genuine tenderness. You decide to end your act before he notices you, swiftly walking away as you put your phone back into your purse.

You do no know what it is about Vergil that draws you to him. It could be his fierce presence that you find oddly soothing, his cool and collected exterior that hides a passionate love for literature, or that little crinkle between his brow that deepens when he is aggravated. Whatever it may be you are glad he let you step through his briars, allowing you to gently pry his thorns apart as you find fertile ground to plant the seeds of trust. And you will tend to them as the seeds sprout and grow...entwining their gentle blossoms carefully among the briars in tenderness.

And you, like the shy and hopeful daisy, follow soft the Son of Sparda.

Read Part 4 here.

Or read them all on my Ao3

My Master List if you want more. ❤

[findmyrupertfriend]

RUPERT FRIEND

By Emily Blunt Photography Sølve Sundsbø

Published February 17, 2009

The tale of young Rupert Friend begins like many other British coming-of-age stories: in a quaint, almost anachronistic one-horse village in the English countryside. But unlike so many other legends of English lore, Mr. Friend’s journey so far has not involved any kings or warlocks or elves or quests for magical golden rings (though the same cannot be said for tights, which Friend has donned on more than one occasion). His trajectory has been somewhat more earthy: grew up in the county of Oxfordshire in a house with no VCR; became enthralled with the idea of traveling around the world when he saw his first film in a theater, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989); decided it was his destiny to be like Indiana Jones; discovered that Indiana Jones was an archaeologist, and that most archaeologists aren’t as proficient with whips or as prolific in their love lives, which thus makes the profession slightly less appealing; realized, though, that the person playing Indiana Jones, Harrison Ford, is an actor, and he seems to be having a fine time of it; and thusly embarks on a career in the performing arts.

After attending drama school at Webber Douglas Academy of Dramatic Art in London, Friend’s professional acting career got off to a fast start with roles opposite Johnny Depp in Laurence Dunmore’s The Libertine (2004) and his future girlfriend, Keira Knightley, in Joe Wright’s Pride & Prejudice (2005). But as with every good coming-of-age story, there’s a time when the protagonist must step up and be his own man. That moment appears to have arrived for the 27-year-old Friend. Having recently done duty in the British WWII drama The Boy in the StripedPajamas (2008), Friend stars with Michelle Pfeiffer in Stephen Frears’s upcoming Chéri, based on the Colette novel of the same name, and is the male lead in The Young Victoria, a film about the life of Britain’s Queen Victoria, in which he plays Prince Albert to his interviewer here Emily Blunt’s Queen V.

EMILY BLUNT: Tell me about growing up in Oxfordshire. I remember taking a little tour around there and you showed me the corner store where there used to be a girl who you pined for.

RUPERT FRIEND: That wasn’t my village we were in; it was the next village along. But they’re the kind of villages in that area where there’s only one of everything—the boy who bullies you, the shopkeeper who gives you sweets, and the girl you pine for. And then there’s the butcher who does his work by hand with a sword, which was always quite frightening. He didn’t have a fridge either. There were whole carcasses just sitting on a wooden table. It was quite weird. He closed down, and now I know why. But when I was 8 years old, I didn’t know why what he was doing was bad.

EB: You didn’t buy your meat from there, did you?

RF: We didn’t, no. But then the postmistress was also in love with the postman . . . I mean, the village was a little bit like Dylan Thomas and Postman Pat all mixed together. The whole environment was sort of great because there wasn’t any notion of culture or anything contemporary at all.

EB: Now, this childhood bully—did you ever get into fights growing up?

RF: Was I bullied? Um . . . I was fought. I wouldn’t say they were actually fights, because fight implies that there were two people involved, and I don’t think I ever managed to successfully hit back.

EB: So were you not allowed to go to the cinema much as a kid?

RF: We didn’t ever go to the cinema.

EB: Why not?

RF: I don’t know. We didn’t have a video player at home either. I didn’t have a deprived childhood or anything, but watching movies wasn’t something that we did. One of my uncles took me to my first movie in a cinema—Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

EB: Was Harrison Ford your first man-crush?

RF: Indiana Jones more than Harrison Ford himself was—and still is—quite a big man-crush of mine. You know, the guy who’s on the adventure with the hat and the whip and the leather jacket . . . But Harrison is a big man-crush, too. He’s a very cool guy.

EB: Were there any other actors who you really looked up to and wanted to be like?

RF: Marlon Brando.

EB: Now, you see, it’s interesting that you say that, because I know that you have a loathing for crowd opinions, but no one will deny that Marlon Brando was like a wild animal amongst the stage performers around in his time . . .

RF: I think that may be a mixed metaphor, what you just said.

EB: Really?

RF: You said he was like a wild animal, and then I think you wanted to say something like, “among the tame cats,” but I think you miffed it.

EB: Rupert, this is what annoys me about you.

RF: [laughs] But, yes, okay. And then on the back of Brando, I would say that Elia Kazan and Tennessee Williams and that period of writing and directing became a big thing for me. And then Paul Newman and that side of things. And then, in terms of writing, there were people like Dylan Thomas and Jack Kerouac. I did a lot of reading into Kerouac and his contemporaries. I mean, On the Road completely changed the way I looked at what you could do with your life.

EB: Were your parents concerned about you going into this business?

RF: I mean, it’s a pretty risky one. And it’s tough because you probably don’t want your kids to take risks. But then you realize that they like taking them.

EB: I know it’s obnoxious when actors talk about acting, but do you feel like what we do is a worthwhile job? Do you think it’s valuable?

RF: Well, first thing, I wouldn’t call it a job. If it’s a job for you then you’re probably in the wrong profession. It’s like playing dress-up. It’s like make-believe. It’s like you’re suddenly given the key to the doors of these fantastical worlds. And, by the way, you’re going to get paid to do it . . . So I wouldn’t be grumbling about it. It’s more like, “Where do I sign up?” I mean, I’m not intelligent enough to be a doctor, and kind of hands down you can’t argue with the worth of that. But I don’t really have an opinion about the worth of making art. All I would say is that when I’ve been very down, or having kind of a tough time in my life, certain films or pieces of music or books have changed that. They’ve taken me out of a dark place and put me into a more positive one. And I think that if we can do that for people, then it’s certainly worth doing.

EB: So you live in London now. Could you imagine living anywhere else?

RF: Oh, yeah. The one thing I couldn’t imagine is stopping still. I can only go places because I know that I can go away from them, if that makes sense. I like the gypsy lifestyle that filming affords. I like being in different places and finding weird pubs on rivers, like the one you and I found when we were making The Young Victoria. I’ve had some great experiences that have come from this lifestyle—ones that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

EB: And I don’t necessarily see that as restlessness. I think it has more to do with seeing life in a limitless way, with being alive.

RF: I do, too. I mean, I have a base, but it’s not a geographical one. It’s where certain people are. For me, a base isn’t about bricks and mortar or an address on a postcard.

EB: You have an eye for detail. When you walked into the room to read for the part of Prince Albert with me for The Young Victoria, I was literally like, “Thank God,” because you have a very natural, quiet dignity about you as an actor. I mean, you understood Albert, didn’t you?

RF: I think so. You’ve got to remember that Albert lives with an empress, and she’s someone who became an empress when she was just a girl. And she’s made one or two mistakes along the way, but she’s ultimately had the strength to continue being that empress, you know, for a fuck of a long time. And I think it takes quite a strong man to say, “My woman will always achieve more than I ever will, she will always have more power than I’ll ever have, and she will probably be more popular than I’ll ever be. And I don’t care.”

EB: Because he loved her.

RF: Yes. And that, to me, is about as close to the definition of a man as I’ve ever gotten.

EB: I know that, in addition to acting, you wrote and produced a short film, but would you ever want to direct?

RF: I don’t know. I think it’s a very hard job to do well. You’re kind of responsible for everyone and everything. There are two qualities that I’ve noticed in good directors: One is that they have their vision very strongly in place; and two is that they listen to everyone’s opinion and still remember their vision. People who don’t listen to anyone else tend to get it wrong, and people who sort of dither between what everyone else says do too. It’s a very hard balance and it can produce some pretty good rows. But that’s what I sort of want as an actor. I don’t want to be a pushover for anyone. I want everyone to row until we all suddenly go, “Oh, yeah, that’s much better.” And not because someone is right, but because we’ve all talked it out.

EB: So, finally, how do you like your steak done?

RF: Rare. Hopping off the plate.

EB: Still pulsing?

RF: Yeah. Bloody, bloody rare.

[mellieartcorner]

The Princess and The Prince Thief-Chapter Four

Summary: Princess Marinette of the Kingdom of Creaturae was very happy. Her reasons?-The notorious thief Chat Noir was locked up, her 21st birthday was soon, and she was going to become Queen. That is, until it was decided that she had to marry the mysterious Prince Adrien of the Kingdom of Mortem in order to become Queen. To make matters worse, Chat Noir escaped from jail and is visiting her almost every night. Having to run a kingdom is bad enough, but falling in love with a thief and a prince is the hardest part of all.

Genre: Fiction-Fantasy/Romance AU

Rated: T for Teen- Ages 15+

  Patreon Supporters get Chapters a whole day early! For only $5 a month, you can too! Patreon.com/mellie711

Words: 2,510

Ao3

Fanfiction.net 

Chapter Four

-Gathering Intel-

Nino waited patiently right by the entrance of the gardens, just out of the way not to be noticed, but just in range to keep an eye on Adrien. He leaned against the stonewall of the palace, eyes closed, the sounds of a nearby fountain humming in his ears. He could hear Adrien and Marinette talking, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. His charge, his liege, his best friend. The news that someone spotted Chat Noir last night put Nino on edge. This mission to find the ring was so important to Adrien, something that Nino knew would help stop the back-stabbing and the lies King Gabriel has been flooding the kingdoms, since the death of Queen Emilie Agreste.  If Adrien could get the ring and place it on Gabriel’s finger, no more could the tyrant threaten the black death upon people. Adrien could then use it to control his own powers and prevent the cycle from repeating. Nino’s family’s hands were tied, but his own weren’t. He wanted Adrien to take the throne, and this marriage to Marinette will only help strengthen that resolve.

  Of course, it doesn’t help that once Adrien took the throne, Nino would be able to take his own kingdom back and actually help Testudo, instead of his cousin, Bulla, working with Gabriel. Curse this traditional arrangement.

The door to the palace opened beside Nino, causing him to crack open an eye and meet Lady Alya’s worried gaze. They bonded over their mutual love and support of their charges, talking last night and at breakfast about the mess the young couple has caused so far. Nino quite liked Lady Alya’s determination and focus. She made sure Marinette was adequately prepared for become Queen, like Nino had to get Adrien ready to take over from his father when the time came.

“Hey, they are still talking, uh?”

Nino nodded, checking over to make sure the couple was still standing near by. They were now walking back towards the entrance of the gardens.

Nino responded, “Yeah, how was damage control in there?”

Alya sighed, “Well, King Gabriel has requested to speak to Princess Chloe and King Andre, King Tom is now at the morning patrol meeting, and Queen Sabine is knitting some small blankets.”

Nino raised an eyebrow for her to elebroate.

“She thinks that grandchildren are soon,” Alya shrugged and grew serious, “But I think we should be preparing for a massive outright war. I don’t trust Gabriel talking with Chloe and her father. And with Chat Noir here, I definitely don’t trust him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I have reason to believe Chat Noir is working under the influence of King Gabriel. He started in Mortem, has hit every Kingdom so far, gathering intel and only stealing to hide his cover,” Alya drew a fist, losing herself in her words, “When I heard he was spotted, at breakfast this morning, I felt like I came to the right conclusion. He has got to be here to ruin the wedding.”

Nino kept his face clear, playing along, “I highly doubt that, I mean, he only steals objects that are cat-like or have cats on them. If he was only doing it to hide his cover, why those objects?”

Before Alya could respond, the young couple approached; Marinette holding a single rose and Adrien fidgeting with his scarf. Both had big love-bird looks, but awkwardly looked away from one another. Nino mentally let out a deep breath. ‘Don’t fall in love, you idiot! You need to use her and find the ring,’ he wanted to say to his charge.

They stopped in front of their mentors, and Alya placed her hand on her hip.

“Glad to see you two getting along now,” she commented, causing them both to grow pink in the cheeks. Nino was glad though; Alya was now focused on something else, and he didn’t have to keep lying to her. He liked her too much for that.

“I am going to go do my daily studies,” Marinette said, breaking away from Adrien and going towards the door, “Goodbye to the both of you, for now.”

Alya wrapped her arm around Marinette’s, leading her inside and closing the doors behind them.

Nino looked over at Adrien, who was watching Marinette walk away, his face brightly lit and full of light. ‘Well, at least he is happy, for once,’ Nino concluded, feeling a little bad popping the prince’s metaphorical bubble.

“Have you searched more for the ring?” he asked, placing a hand on Adrien’s shoulder, “And you know that you can’t get attached to her. She doesn’t even know who you really are.”

Adrien’s shoulders immediately fell, his face darkening.

“Speaking of,” Nino continued, “You have got to be more careful. Lady Alya is suspicious of Chat Noir, too, you know.”

Adrien made a sour face, “She is? Shit. I wonder who spotted him last night, too.”

Nino grunted, “Who ever it was, be glad they didn’t find out about you. Now, why don’t you head to the library and I’ll go into town? I’m sure one of us will be able to figure something out.”

Adrien nodded, sighing heavily. Creatuae had one of the biggest, if not the biggest, library in all of the seven kingdoms.There was bound to be something in there about the ring’s location. Even if it was just a fairytale his mother used to tell him before she passed away.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lady Alya walked through the corridors of the palace, her attire casual as the evening was approaching fast. She spent the majority of her day helping Marinette with her studies, and of course, gossiping about her incoming feelings for Prince Adrien. Now that she had some free time, Alya wanted to get to the bottom of something that had been bothering her.  What Lord Nino said earlier tugged at her mind. Why is Chat Noir only stealing cat related objects? If she was to prove her theory correct, the best place to start was the royal library. She passed by Rose, on her way to Marinette’s room of course, with Juleka by her side; close by her side. Alya and Marinette knew they were hiding the truth about their relationship from everyone else, but Marinette made sure to reassure them that when she is Queen, they could get married and be open. Alya had to just make sure Marinette becomes Queen first.

  Through the palace grounds, adjacent to the gardens, stood the dome library. Home to artifacts, rare books. manuscripts, and the entire history of the royal family and even other families from different kingdoms, Alya knew she would find exactly what she was looking for here.

   The library welcomed her with the smell of books and soft music, playing from a bard with a cello visiting from Ovium. The front desk stood at the center floor, with two spiral staircases on either side reaching up four floors. Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books, tucked away in order, decorated the entire area. Not many people came and went, but those that did had piles of knowledge in their hands. Alya came up to the front desk, seeing the assistant librarian, Mylene Haprele, reading through a rather large book. Her hair was designed with braids, with different colored feathers and beads intermingled. A small brown beret sat on the girl’s head, with the mark of The Kingdom of Ovium resting on it; the sheep. Alya was glad to see her and not the head librarian, Madame Mendeleiev, who probably wouldn’t even say hello, let alone let Alya search alone.

“Good Evening, Mylene,” Alya said, smiling.

“Oh!” Mylene jumped, “Lady Alya, what a surprise! Two royals in one day! The last time that happened, Princess Marinette had to be escorted here by her mother after that incident with Princess Chloe and the fountain.”

Remembering that day well, Alya laughed and then realized what was just said, “Wait-two royals? Who else is here, Mylene?”

“Oh, Prince Adrien,” the young girl pointed to the right, towards the study area, “He hasn’t brought back his books yet, so I don’t think he has left. But, he said he didn’t want to be disturbed, so I don’t think I can let you go see him.”

Alya studied her options for a moment, bringing two fingers to her lips. She released a soft whistle, at a high enough pitch for Mylene to hear. A faint orange glow illuminated her fingertips as the sound passed through them.

Suddenly, Mylene stood up quickly with a shocked and frightened expression, “I am coming, Ms Mendeleiev!” She turned to Alya, “ I am sorry, Lady Alya, but I have to go now.”

Hating having to use her powers, Alya waved goodbye to Mylene as the poor girl ran towards the voice she thought she heard. Alya walked over towards the study hall. An area full of chairs, papers, ink quills, and sectioned desks, Alya searched for blonde hair. She found him, behind a fortress of books of different shapes and sizes. He looked tired, eyes red from the ink pages, and his hand resting his face.

“Need some help?”

Papers flew, books tossed on the floor, Adrien fell off of his chair with a thudumf.

A giggle couldn’t help but escape Alya’s mouth, as Prince Adrien looked up at her with annoying eyes, but then realized who she was.

“Lady Cesire! You scared me,” he began, getting back into his seat while cleaning up the paper trail. “I told Mylene I didn’t want to be disturbed, too.”

Alya sat across from him, studying his messy attempts at research,  “I am sorry, Your Majesty. But I was just thinking you look like you need a second pair of eyes. Maybe you can help me too.”

Adrien gazed at Lady Alya with a raised expression and a smirk, “Are we bonding, Lady Cesire?”

She played coy, tapping the prince on the nose, “Call me Alya, and yes; I’m looking for objects that are related to cats.”

Adrien’s eyes flashed something Alya couldn’t explain, but then he grinned, “Well, I was looking for something similar, actually.”

Excitement and hopefulness raced through Alya, as she stood up and braced the table between them. “Are you going to try to catch Chat Noir in the act too, before he ruins the wedding?!”

Adrien paused for a second, then nodded in excitement, “Why, yes I am! I want to make sure the wedding happens without any problems.” The Prince reached for a large black cover, beaten up old book, handing it to Alya. In golden letters, the front read, The Miraculous FairyTales of The Seven Kingdoms.

“I know these!” Alya began, flipping through the pages and seeing pictures of all the gods, heroes and monsters, “My mother would read these to me at night, and now she reads them to my younger sisters.”

She looked up, bewildered, “Why did you give me this, though?”

“It seems Chat Noir may be looking for The Ring of Plagg,” Adrien suggested, quickly adding, “Based on what he has stolen previously, it seems.”

Thinking back, Alya recalled the story, “ The Ring of Plagg, so named because it belongs to the God of Destruction and Chaos?  Supposedly gave your family their powers due to a curse? That is a fairytale story! There is no way it is real.” Alya flipped through the book until she found the picture of the tall, handsome God of Destruction, who was basically half-man, half-black cat. A sketch next to the God was of a black and silver ring, with a green paw print at the center of it.

Adrien grabbed another book carefully, this time a leather bound old diary that looked well preserved, “Well, Master Wang Fu found it, according to these journal entries.” Alya tried to reach for the book, but Adrien pulled away, “I’m sorry, Lady Alya, I promised Mylene I wouldn’t let anyone else touch this. It took a lot of convincing to let her even let me look at this, let alone read through it.”

“But Master Wang Fu was the one of the Draconus Lords, the first one, in fact. He was even around during the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms. Those writings have to be well over 1,000 years old,” Alya tapped her chin, her thoughts racing.

Adrien agreed, bracing his face on his hands again in a form of defeat, “But, that’s about as far as I got. The trail stops there. Master Wang Fu simply says, ‘I placed the ring within the land that can not die, giving it to the Lady of Luck.’ There is even a mention of something called The Earrings of Tikki that Master Fu gave this ‘Lady of Luck’.”

Alya dropped the book she was holding and gasped, “The Earrings of Tikki! Those are Marinette’s families prized possessions! They are given to the new Queen on her 21st birthday! The day she is crowned! They get placed back into the vault about a month before the next Queen is expected to take the throne. ”

Adrien’s eyes went wide, the realization hitting him squarely in the chest, “Are..are you positive?” Alya picked back up the book of fairytales, turning the page. She spotted what she was looking for.

“See?” she began, turning the book around and pointing at the page. It showed a elegant, beautiful woman, with a ladybug mask and a large gown decorated with ladybugs. Even ladybugs themselves danced around the woman. A pair of earrings, red and black spotted, were sketched next to the lady.  “That is the Goddess of Life, Tikki. It is said that Marinette’s family are descendants of her. That’s how they have the powers of creation. Since those earrings are real, it means that the Ring of Plagg is real too!”

Adrien stared blankly at the page in front of him, lightly brushing the face of Tikki with his fingertips. He looked lost in thought and conflicted emotions clouded his face.

Alya lightly coughed, jogging him back to reality. She grabbed the book and looked at the page again, trying to catch a glimpse of what Adrien could have seen.

“Sadly, I don’t think Chat Noir can get his hands on that ring. If it is locked up with the earrings, only a female from the House of Cheng can get inside the vault,” Alya causally stated, closing the book with a loud thud. “Which means, I really don’t have anything to worry about.” She flashed a bright smirk, standing up. “Thank you, Prince Adrien. I was worried since you were the son of your father, that you would try to manipulate Marinette like King Gabriel did to my mother,” she patted the prince’s hand in friendship, “But you really do have Marinette’s best interests at heart.”

Alya left the Prince and headed back the palace, wondering why he looked so sad at her parting words. A purple butterfly fluttered away from a nearby open window as Alya walked away.

[arirashkae]

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LMAO I LOVE YOU GUYS

First lines meme! List the first lines of your last 20 15 10 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

Also!

Write down the first line of your WIP and tag as many people as there are words!

ok, rather than continue the feedback loop of tagging, I’m gonna merge these two memes and answer them all at once, and then not tag anyone

Gonna alternate between my AO3 and WIPs here

‘Oh, that is not fucking fair.' : Quod Cattus Respice In Trahebatur, 2017 Fluff Week prompt, outtake from the Cat!AU

(WIP) “Boss? I need to talk to you for a minute.” (I feel bad about this one, because normally I like the ship that’s upcoming, but this brain weasel will. not. go. away.)

“Wash! Dude! Where the hell have you been?” : Agent Washington, Chick Magnet, another fluff week prompt, and I am predictable XD

(WIP) It shouldn’t be reassuring, hearing meaningless rambling coming from a flash of orange just out of the corner of his eye. (little bit of Locus & Grif on their way to do a Big Damn Heroes)

“I’m sorry, Sam, but this is exactly why we put you down as an emergency contact.” : What Little Girls Are Made Of, 3rd Fluff Week prompt, in another Universe, Locus stays with the Wus (this one went a bit sideways XD)

(WIP) Emily Grey is a miracle, determined to save her friend. (ok, those of you who were in chat with me back in February might remember the moment when I first experienced “seeing red”. this is the fallout of that and, uh, is not happy. probably won’t get posted, but another brain weasel that won’t leave.)

Maryland knew the stages of dehydration and starving. : Poor Mary Is A-Weeping, 2017 Angst War prompt that went very sideways

(WIP) Locus stared at the cleaning bot in his hands. (Stabby the Space Roomba vs. Felix, aka Locus is a little shit)

He opens his eyes. : An Eye Opening Experience, other Angst War prompt, asking for Locus traveling back to the beginning of the CHorus Arc. (Have you noticed prompts tend to go sideways? XD)

(WIP) Wash muttered his way through every curse he knew as he strode over to the "Red Base" end of the canyon. trying to write Sarge teaching Wash to knit as stress-relief/therapy

Six paces from the bars to the back of the room. Spare Key, for the 2017 Bingo War (the next handful are all Bingo War XD), Medic square: trapped in a small space together. Locus and Tucker both get nabbed by Sangheili fanatics that hate the thought of a human with a Key, not realizing there are two of them now

(WIP)  “I’m not like him,” Tucker snapped. amusingly enough, the continuation of Spare Key

Donut sat back on his heels and stretched. Pine Nuts, Medic square: Mutual pining. Doc & Donut setting up their garden, and both being idiots in their own heads.

(WIP)  Sam let his pencil doodle idly as he skimmed through the book in front of him. College AU, Locus accidentally screws up a translation assignment and summons a Luck Demon (Felix), who won’t go away. (Somehow turned into “How many people can I hook Locus up with in 1 fic” when I wasn’t paying attention)

“Did Santa say ‘the people of this planet?’” Touch Me and You’ll Sink, Medic sqaure: Temple of Procreation (These two were willing to cooperate until I actually started writing. Assholes.)

(WIP) Samuel Ortez, codename: 'Locus', stood at parade rest before his superior. Black-ops AU, hand to god an exercise in A/B/O dynamics and the worldbuilding that would evolve around that

When the New Republic rebels attacked and managed to cut the power to the base, Wash was in Medical with Dr. Grey, having been unsuccessful in his attempts to avoid her. Elevator Music, another “Trapped in a small space together” fill. Locus & Donut stuck in a freight elevator, with a bit of Wash panicking over the concept.

(WIP) "Ummmm, ... sirs?" A collection of scenes from my ridiculous self-indulgent BS with an OC Freelancer. (favorite bits are any time she’s at breakfast with the mercs and brain-breaking the underlings. it makes sense in context. i hope.)

“Felix, are you sure this is a good idea?” La Petite Mort et La Grande, also for “Temple of Procreation”, wherein Felix turns on the ToP while on their way to the Purge, as a distraction. tag highlight: “holy fuck you guys ‘Felix being a dick’ doesn’t even begin to cover it”

(WIP) It wasn’t music. I couldn’t end this list without touching on HeartSong, my musical not-soulmates AU. Don’t expect this one any time soon, as I’m still trying to untangle the plot threads enough to see what goes where. (Next two sentences:  No one could agree on what exactly it was, but it wasn’t music. But until someone came up with a better description, most people called it music. )

So, I apparently have a tendency to start with dialog or action. :shrug: not sure if I want to stretch past that or not XD

I have some WIPs I didn’t use b/c they’re in my “drafted, needs editing” folder. This is just the things that are “actively” being written (define “active” XD)