#i spent hours sorting and organizing and labeling EVERYTHING they asked for i KNOW they have them!!

[naomiknight-17]

"Why did you take a picture of your cat dancing on your disability paperwork instead of stopping her?"

Great question, imaginary critical follower!

I was trying to take a picture of the envelope, as I do at several stages, because I am sick of delivering paperwork to the ODSP people and having them go "no you didn't give us that we don't have it do it again and wait several more weeks while we fuck around and you drown in debt while we withhold assistance (: "

So I took a pic of all the papers I submitted. Then a pic of me putting them in the envelope. Then I went to take a pic of the envelope once I sealed it and that is when I ended up with pics of Jill dancing on it because she tried to jump up on me in that moment

And I guess she didn't like the feeling of the envelope under her paws because she did a little stampy-stampy dance on it!

Then I gently removed her from the envelope, and then I went out and put the envelope in the ODSP office drop box, and took several pictures of me doing so as well.

So if they dare to say I failed to submit anything this time, I will show them photographic proof that they are either full of shit or completely incompetent

[ronearoundblindly]

Your Dog, His Tricks

a Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader tale set a little over a year after losing their virginity together and based on this ask.

Summary: Injured on a mission and MIA for days, you return to a very high-strung boyfriend who can't express what he's feeling until it boils to the surface.

Warnings: arguments and smut. MINORS DNI. WC 5.4k

You don’t know when it started, this sort of competition with your boyfriend, but at some point you and Steve became a packaged deal. Unfortunately, that package was labeled: Steve Rogers and his girl. You feel nameless sometimes, and you know you are better than that; maybe you aren’t super like he is, but you are (and were since before dating) a whole-ass Avenger in your own right. You are a stellar agent. You can bring home the top prize. You can finish this shit-show of a mission all on your own.

No help.

None.

You noticed a problem after months and months of fighting with Steve—no, that sounds wrong—beside Steve. 

Okay, maybe it’s not wrong-wrong to say fighting with him because you two do have the occasional argument. Just one argument, really. One argument over and over again about you fighting beside him, why it’s fine, why he should let it go. You are as safe fighting beside him now as you were before the two of you became this set, this lop-sided partnership. He still wants to protect you from shit you are trained to protect yourself from, shit you survived just fine without him, shit like the last three days.

He’s stubborn, and so are you.

You’ve had trouble getting him to back off. The Team is a team, and Steve does great, delegating all sorts of jobs when you are one among many. As soon as it’s you and him alone? He’s…overly helpful, over-protective, and generally over-the-top fussy. He is adoring and caring and competent. Apparently, those things make him feel capable of doing everything for you. It’s sweet until it’s not. Every time you start a project—laundry, cooking, organizing shelves, or leading an actual mission—Steve waltzes in and has to finish it for you.

Because he loves you. Because he’s trying to help. Because he can.

It makes you feel as if you can’t, or, at least, as if he thinks you can’t.

“Well, buddy, you can’t have this one,” you mutter outside of HQ’s gate, gripping your side and flicking open the phone you stole a few states back.

You’ve been gone for just shy of seventy-three hours.

At first, you truly had no way to contact the Team. You were on your own a thousand miles from home, fried comms and a spent weapon. You missed the rendezvous at the safehouse because it took twenty or so hours to find a vet office with the supplies to patch yourself up, and by the time you could have reached out, that ear worm wouldn’t leave you alone.

He’ll swoop in.

He’ll save you.

You’re his girl, so you need him. You can’t handle this without him. No one will believe you did once he gets anywhere near you.

Call it adrenaline. Call it blood loss. Call it shock. You can’t give up this glory, so you told yourself you needed radio silence to keep the recovered intel secure until back on Avengers campus. You told yourself the risk of interception was too high to chance a phone call.

Now, fifty feet from the infirmary, you need to get past one more obstacle.

You know Steve would jump from a third-story window to get to you, know he would scoop you right up into his arms and carry you over the threshold, know that would mean Steve wins.

No. Not this time. This is yours. You deserve the credit. You are crossing that finish line solo.

You jab the last of the epi-pens into your good leg, letting yet more adrenaline heave through what little of your blood volume is left and call the HQ secure line from the burner.

“Friday,” you start, standing at the bus stop, a blindspot from the Avengers’ surveillance cameras because the city already monitors it, “authorization Gamma-Lima-Four-Whisky. Do not declare connection. I repeat, do not declare this connection.”

The AI welcomes you back onto the grid politely.

“Thank you.” A bubble of pain bursts in your throat. “Give them a different location for this call, ok? Tell them it’s from the nearest functional payphone.”

Friday does as you say because why wouldn’t she? It’s not as if Steve is going to pause to question where the ping is—

—and he’s already out, on the bike, pushing that engine to its acceleration limit and narrowly escaping a shoulder check from the slowly opening gates.

You sneak right past, knowing he won’t look in his rearview, not with his eye on a prize ten blocks away, and you collapse just inside the garage ramp.

You wake prone in the Regeneration Cradle after surgery to a kind, smiling nurse monitoring your progress.

It’s difficult to focus. After a few blinks, you can see her features clearly, then beyond her are just eyes.

His eyes.

Piercing blue doesn’t begin to describe the intensity of Steve’s gaze, and his silence is deafening.

Each quarter-minute he inventories the room, and he exhales. That is the sum total of what he can manage to do right now. He’s attempting to keep it together until you two are alone obviously. Steve fails at very few things in life; this is one of them. You can see the outline of his teeth through his tight cheek.

“Doc wanted me to tell you you did a great job,” the nurse states softly. “If you hadn’t packed those wounds so tight, you’d have died for sure.”

Your mouth is too dry to respond, so you flash a wry smile. No one gets the Cradle without…extensive injuries. You’ve never had the ‘pleasure,’ not even for your through-and-through last year.

Steve huffs in frustration, keeping his huge body out of the nurse’s way even when you can feel him try to astral project himself forward to hand you ice chips. Instead, you swallow cotton.

“Captain Rogers,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes from above, “your motorcycle has been cited for running five red lights with a further two dozen traffic violations. Shall I claim Official Avengers’ business?”

You croak ‘no.’ He says ‘yes.’

There’s a pause. “I will ask again later.”

Who says AIs can’t throw some serious shade?

Silence descends again as the spindling print needle moves on to a different wound. You’re lucid but wobbly trying to think, a combination of the waning anesthesia and pain meds.

If frowns could kill, your boyfriend’s would devastate the entire med bay.

This is what you hoped beyond hope to avoid, but it’s also why your endgame involved going solo.

“You’re making my point for me,” you sigh, your chest hurting more after surgery than it has in the past twenty-four hours. Clearly, your nerves are back online.

“And what point was that?“ he asks sarcastically, waiting in your own stubborn silence. “You gave me a heart attack.”

“Really?” You’re playfully shocked.

“No, not really! God.” He rushes closer. “What the hell were you thinking? If you had time to send me on a wild goose chase, you could damn well have called to tell me you were alive!”

The cradle’s lights shut off, job complete.

“Language, Steve.” 

He looks incredulous, engrossingly livid, anxious outrage contained by his one frayed thread of control left. 

“We found the intel,” he grits through a clenched jaw. “After power-washing your blood off it, everything was on the drive.”

You can’t sit up on your elbows yet, so you bite back, “good. It all worked out fine then.”

Wafting off him in thick clouds, Steve’s anger is near-flammable in the small room.

The nurse offers to step out for a second.

You say ‘yes.’ Steve barks ‘no.’

This isn’t the nurse’s first rodeo. “Alright, surgery went well. All debris and fragments removed. Your tissue is all intact now, too, but remember, this treatment doesn’t train new muscle fiber or nerve-endings.” She ignores Steve and pushes past to the other end of the table. “Rest up. Tomorrow, you can report to PT. They’ll work with you until you’re field-approved again.”

“She is not—“

“Both of you are ordered to rest,” the nurse snaps, nodding in Steve’s direction “—and make yourself useful by changing her drip when it runs out. If you can’t manage that, Captain, I will find a separate apartment or keep her here overnight.”

“No,” Steve breathes, visibly deflating. Like a scolded puppy, your boyfriend tucks his chin down, rings of grey settling beneath his dark sea eyes. It’s plain as day he hasn’t slept either.

The nurse calls for a wheelchair, and Steve dutifully helps you scoot off the table when it arrives. While he positions the IV to move in tandem, you attempt to push yourself by the huge rubber wheels and fail. Doc was not kidding about muscle weakness.

Steve says nothing.

You’re rolled back to your shared room by the grumpiest Captain America. 

He helps you dress in baggy, comfy clothes and silently reattaches the line of your drip. Not one touch is in a sexual, sensual, or even intimate way even though you are naked at some point.

You can’t remember what you expected; you’ve been so focused on completing the mission for so long. Did you want a desperate homecoming? Did you want him to grovel or worship at your feet? You think, at some point, you knew he’d push back, but you thought…maybe…he’d want you more.

Steve seems to turn his interest on and off so easily, which is great professionally but hard to read personally…or maybe you’re just struggling under the distracting hum of medication. It’s a white noise you can’t ignore, lulling you unconscious, so you can’t analyze the situation anymore. Maybe, you think, you try…but the thoughts don’t come.

He situates you on his side of the bed—to accommodate the cord and stand—and tucks himself quietly into the smallest corner of mattress that his bulk can fit on.

He falls asleep holding your hand. It’s the only place you two are connected. After nearly eighty-five hours apart, that’s still worth it. Maybe.

At some point, his hand goes limp and falls away.

Finally clear of mind, you keep watching Steve the next day. He doesn’t necessarily seem angry, and he doesn’t necessarily seem relieved either. He’s so robotic in his interactions. He won’t talk to you just at you. 

You understand why he was so standoffish last night, but you thought Steve would surely want you after that. You thought he’d start touching you again. 

You two waited so long for your first time, but after that, sex was relatively easy. Steve is an affectionate man when he’s allowed, when he’s in love, and you know he loves you.

Like the nurse said: all your tissue is fully healed. The only restrictions you have are in regards to field work, and the phantom jolts of pain—when you reach into a cabinet or take down a clothes hanger—aren’t real. 

Steve’s always an arm’s length away, just in case, meaning he is there to help you.

Always an arm’s length away.

No closer. No farther.

That afternoon you attempt to start talking about your mission, but that’s when he moves.

Steve practically sprints out the door with a half-baked excuse, so you go to physical therapy alone. You can go alone. That’s not the problem.

If you thought talking to Steve was difficult, you weren’t ready for how hard touching Steve would be.

You try to initiate even a cuddle that second night, and he jumps up claiming to have forgotten something somewhere else that he promised someone. Your boyfriend can’t lie worth beans. You don’t know why he tries.

You’re asleep before he returns.

The next night is exactly the opposite. You spend longer at the gym, slowly and painstakingly repeating every single exercise you know in order to streamline these new muscles. It’s an unholy pain in the ass, but you do it because you can—and will—get back in the field.

Even though the workout was mild, you’re awash with that runner’s high when you return to find Steve passed out already. He looks so peaceful, brow relaxed and lips gently parted. He also looks, well, good enough to eat, but you’ll start slow.

There was one time early on, before you two went all the way, that you woke him up by grinding on him in your sleep. You think now, perhaps, you can recreate that, catch him off-guard and dissipate some of this tension between you. This would be a good release. You don’t normally go this long. Obviously, Steve wouldn’t have masturbated while you were MIA and possibly dead, and every other second since has been accounted for.

He practically can’t have sex anywhere else except naked in a bed. He’s even told you, point blank, that he feels no need to touch himself since he has you. You are what he wants. That’s what he said.

Except he doesn’t wake up to your advances. He just rolls over like you’re disturbing him and softly snores.

For the first time, you wonder if you’ve really broken the two of you. How long will he be mad at you for doing your job? 

Steve rolls back over in his sleep, holding you close like nothing’s happened. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but it’s enough and so, so wonderful to imagine all is well.

About a week into your ‘recovery’ (which is sorta bullshit since you can do everything the same by now just with an occasional, faint twinge, no more than the strain of every workout, ever), Steve takes Sam Wilson up on his offer of 1-on-1 basketball for a while. The Team—minus you—has a raid planned in the morning, and there’s always nervous energy to burn off in anticipation.

Your boyfriend has been a nightmare grump, but no one wants to take on the hassle of convincing Steve that he’s being too Steve to Steve properly. He still won’t talk to you about anything other than the weather, food, or daily schedules.

You’re even considering taking a break from field work because this all has become too much. If Steve is gonna shut down after every dangerous mission—which is, in fact, all of them—then maybe it’s not worth the risk. You’re good, you’re great, but you aren’t super.

“Taste of his own medicine, I say,” Bucky mutters, sitting beside you on the bleachers between courts.

“Huh?” You were distracted, watching Steve and Sam squeak across the floor.

Steve sinks a perfect layup and doesn’t gloat. Do-gooder.

“He used to get so mad when I’d find him in an alley all beaten up,” Buck continues. “Thought I was being too protective. I trusted him, but he was puny and he did get sick all the time. He could take a punch, sure, but every mark took weeks to heal. Half the time, they were still yellow when some idiot landed fresh ones.”

Steve claps beneath the net, encouraging Sam, focused on not outshining anyone.

He’s been the same with everyone else but you, and the whole Team can see it. You shouldn’t be surprised someone is finally talking about it; you simply wonder how Buck drew the short straw.

“Didn’t wanna be babied,” Bucky snorts, fondly glowering at his century-long bestie, “while low and behold, he pulls that stunt with everybody, every day.” 

“Yup,” you pop, looking at the matte metal beneath your feet, knowing there’s a line between the ‘caring’ version and the ‘coddling’ version. Steve nose-dived right over that line this time.

“What he appreciated, though, was consistency.” Bucky swivels his hair around into a bun and ties it. “Punk is dedicated, and even if it was just him--the hund’ed pound soaking-wet guy whose only real talent at that point was getting back on his feet--he knew he’d fight anyway.

“Bit hypocritical to be mad at his girl for doing the same, don’t ya think?” Bucky muses, clucking his tongue.

The brunette watches you bristle slightly at the moniker. His girl. Not only is it what got you into this mess, it feels untrue based on that big, broad, cold shoulder you’ve received from the man racing back and forth in front of you.

Smiling, Bucky nudges you with his elbow. “I’m excited for you to get back on your feet,” he adds.

You’re stuck thinking about that long after Bucky jumps into the game.

It’s no surprise then that when the doctor gives you the all-clear the very next morning, you’re over the moon and ready to strike. You don’t hesitate for a second when the alarm sounds less than an hour later.

The Team needs reinforcements. Your Team needs you.

You hustle into the back of a quinjet with a dozen agents. While the others file out to where the main conflict is raging, you sneak around the perimeter to suss out the mission goal, a treasure trove of enemy tech hidden somewhere in what was thought to be an abandoned village.

Not so abandoned if it’s lighting up like the pyrotechnics show on an action film set...

The explosions rattle the ground, yet you know the Team have breached the main chamber. Those enemy forces still fighting are distracting from a retreat. The other agents can catch them just fine. Your mission is intel recovery.

To keep your approach stealthy, you don’t announce your movements over comms, and Nat doesn’t scan back down the dark hallway you wedge into as she carries out an asset. If you weren’t so far back, you never would have seen him.

An enemy agent slinks out from behind a floor-to-ceiling tapestry right in front of you. His silhouette is short and thin; he’s built for stealth, too.

Your heart thumps loud in your ears as you follow, and that bastard gets close—so close—to Steve’s turned back that the pistol’s muzzle nearly touches.

Not this time. Not a chance. None.

You land a roundhouse kick to the exposed neck above his kevlar, and that sucker goes down like a sack of potatoes.

Steve turns around at the ready, stunned silent in the middle of his instructions to Bucky who is not visible from the other side heaped boxes. The papers still smoke where evidence was burned.

You salute at big, blue eyes. 

“On your six, Cap.” 

Steve looks at you, looks down at the man, and looks back up at you…pissed. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

What the fuck indeed…

All you did was help your team. All you did was stop Captain America from getting his head blown off. In no small fashion, all you did was save your boyfriend’s life.

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

His grip on your arm is painful as he leads you all the way back to the jet himself, shoving you into the jump seat between other returned agents and shouting for you to 'stay right there.'

Bucky announces over comms that the rest is clean up. All but the specialized document interpretation and perimeter teams are moving out. 

Steve huffs, contemplates staying on a battlefield instead of going back with you, but decides to sit across the ship in silence again, fuming, making fists over and over in his fingerless leather gloves, bitterly sniffing as loud as possible the entire flight home. He refuses to answer a single person until the jet touches down at HQ. 

“Everyone off,” he bellows, “everyone except you.” 

You can’t stop it. Your hands fly up in exaggerated annoyance automatically.

“What do you want, Steve? I got the go-ahead this morning. I’m allowed to be here.”

“Stop doing that.” He rounds on you.

“Doing what? My job?!”

Chest puffed out, feathers ruffled, cheeks hot and red, Steve peels off his cowl. “Being insubordinate.”

“You’re not my superior officer,” you hiss, “we are equals, and if you think for one second I did anything wrong out there, go ahead and report me. From where I’m standing, I did the work, got cleared for duty, helped out the team, and stopped you from being shot.”

You poke a finger to his chest for each achievement listed.

“Fine," Steve shouts, crossing his arms, "but quit acting like a selfish coward.”

Them be fightin’ words. “A what?”

“You heard me,” he all but whispers.

It’s laughable, truly laughable how bad Steve is at hiding some of those wheels from turning in his head. This isn’t about today. This is the thing he buried the past week.

You roll your eyes. “If you’re gonna throw a hissy fit every time I get a scratch—“

“THREE BULLETS IS NOT A SCRATCH.” He tries—he visibly, painfully tries—to keep his cool one last time. “You weren’t ready,” he concludes, judge, jury, and executioner all poured into one star-spangled package.

“Say’s who?” You’re stepping closer, getting in his face because this is bullshit and unfair. “Last time I checked you’re not a doctor, and you should be thanking me for saving your ass—“

“It’s not your job to save me.”

“We have the same job, Steve! We are both perfectly capable of—“

“I know that,” he barks, hot breath mingling with yours.

“Do you? Because you don’t seem to think I can handle myself.” You push weakly at his chest, taunting, like it's a game. “Maybe you need to walk it off, buddy.”

His face cracks, an avalanche unmoored from a stable mountain.

Oh shit. You’ve done it now.

“Walk it off?! WALK IT OFF?!”

Steve charges like a bull seeing red, crowding you against the far wall, his own derisive finger pointed at your heart.

“You were injured. You didn’t make contact. You went dark for days, and you could have died. Alone. In the middle of nowhere. Who knows how long it would have taken us to find you. No—“ he cups your chin in a tight pinch “—you want to talk about the job? It’s protocol to check in. It’s common courtesy to let me know you’re alive, and it’s goddamn rude to ignore your own safety.”

A dark, hazy sheen layers over his sharp gaze. “Don’t make me keep you home.”

There’s a deep line of frustration carved between his brows. His nostrils flair as he waits, daring you to refute him.

“Well—” you purse your lips in defiance “—isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black.”

Steve lets go of you, smacked away by your cutting tone.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, whatever, Rogers,” you dismiss. “We both know you don’t have the authority to bench me.”

“Like hell I don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and throwing your arms above your head, He weaves your hands through the cargo net behind you. The loops are tight and complicated in seconds, he’s so fast.

You can’t wriggle away.

“Let’s see how you like it.”

Steve roughly throws the zipper of your uniform down, letting the jacket hang open to show nothing but your sports bra.

“Feeling paralyzed—“ he dexterously undoes your belt “—exposed—“ your pants and underwear are yanked down to your ankles “—and afraid.” His last word thickens the air on the jet. 

How can this man launch you into unbridled lust in the space of two syllables?

Who. Fucking. Cares. How.

Steve’s fingertips teasingly glide over the swell of your breasts, brush down your belly, and tick their way in a casual walk between your legs. He retracts his touch the instant you let out a longing sigh, unable to restrain how needy you are. His fingers wander to perfectly clean and unmarked flesh…on your thigh, along one side, and a few inches below that. He’s tracing the bullet wounds he watched heal so quickly.

“Maybe I should leave you wondering how it’ll all play out?” he says absently, lost in thought, his thumb shifting to notch into the dip of your hip. “Maybe I should leave you wondering if we’ll ever—”

“Yes,” you whimper, no real idea what you’re saying. That’s not what answer you meant.

“How would you like three whole days of this feeling, huh? You think you’d fare any better than I did? Think you’d make it even five minutes?”

“Uh-uh.” Again, with no clue what you’re truly responding to, you buck your hips forward onto his long fingers.

The cords around your wrists get tighter while you struggle to set a pace. Behind you, the metal rings of the netting hit the hull with a soft clinking noise. 

“Not so fast.” Steve pulls his hand away just far enough to remove all friction. “Because three days, sweetheart, it was torture. Felt like an eternity right on the edge.”

“Please,” you beg.

One deliberate swipe of his fingers through your slick is enough to make you mewl.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Steve. Please, I need you.”

“Need me? You have an odd way of showing it, doll. You have to promise me—“ he thrusts his fingers in “—promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“I’ll never leave you,” you cry, convinced that it’s true for the sole reason: you never want to experience anything other than this Steve for as long as you live.

“You are so brave, and so…capable, and I know you can do anything, but you…can’t survive anything.” He takes excruciating pleasure in slow thrusts and teasing circles. “Promise me you won’t be so reckless. Promise, say it.”

“I promise.” Your weight sags into his ministrations, called to focus on nothing but where his hand disappears between you. “I promise I won’t be reckless.”

“That’s my girl.”

Your head falls limp against your tied arms. It sounds so good from his lips. Why did you ever doubt?

“I promise I’ll come back to you,” you manage out like a prayer.

“Yeah? That’s it. Is that what you want?”

“I promise. I promise, Steve.” You time your movements sloppily with his measured tempo. “Please, I need more.”

“I know. I know.” He’s strung out, too, listening to your pathetic whimpers after less than five minutes, exactly like he predicted.

You’re so over-wrought with desperation you can’t coordinate with his manhandling your legs apart—your knees, really, since your ankles are still caught in your pants. Instead of taking off your boots, Steve simply unzips himself and dives right into your wet, warm, and welcoming pussy.

Knowing he has a thing against anything naughty in his suits makes it sexier. You want his intensity—you’ve always been curious—and finally you have it: unhinged, untethered, super Steve Rogers. Your body makes room out of sheer joy.

“I know,” Steve coos, his face pressed to your chest as he adjusts. “Fuck, I know, honey.”

“Move, Steve.”

“No,” he says with a gentle kiss to your sternum. “You wanna come? Go ahead. You can do it all on your own. You can do anything you want, can’t ya?”

You groan in frustration.

You wanted this, an annoying voice in the muddled depths of your mind calls. You’re independent.

With a sob of both excitement and fury, your thighs weld onto that sturdy, I-beam beast. You brace your bent arms over your angled and hovering body, leveraging the cargo straps to hoist you up and down.

Your muscles burn, strained more than they were on your lone journey back to HQ.

Steve grunts and moans, the ghost of his wide spread palms beneath your back as a safety net.

“That’s it. That’s it, good girl.” 

Amidst your own noises, you can barely hear him. You’re not building to a climax, you’re falling into one at terminal velocity, flailing. Struggling to hang on and let go all at once, you do come, but it’s more of a plateau than a full release.

Steve’s unhappy and takes your ass in a bruising grip, finally pumping his thick length in and out, dragging the head of his cock across that perfect spot over and over.

“You can do better than that,” he snarls, hair wrecked and falling in his face.

Wave, undertow, and wave again, pleasures simply blend into the next. He gets handsy, keyed up and out of control, muttering “don’t you ever fucking leave me.”

You’d scold him for cursing if the air weren’t being punched from your lungs.

“Come on, sweetheart. Three for three.”

You’re almost disappointed he only wants you to come three times in payment for his days of torture. Even as a tear escapes the corner of your eye and your throat breaks in a hoarse “please,” you know you would give him more. You'd give him anything.

When you finally reach that shattering end, Steve is almost incoherently feral, one hand clamped at the back of your neck, the other anchored to the small of your back, slamming your ass to his leather-covered thighs like you are his mission.

“I promise,” you try to repeat, but you aren’t sure they sound like words.

Whether in response to you or as an errant thought, Steve’s own broken voice rattles at your sweaty neck. “You can take it,” he whispers gruffly. “You can take it.”

You’re floating by the time he comes, his hips stilling slowly. The buzz of your body now outdoes anything anesthesia or pain meds concocted.

Steve peppers your skin with lazy, light kisses until you remind him of your bound wrists, but then he’s overly apologetic and scrambling to free them.

He keeps himself inside you and maneuvers to sit with you on his lap.

You stay there for a while, your numb and sore arms folded between your chests. Steve only stops petting your shoulders to cradle your face, soft blue eyes roaming, adoring. He whispers concern that you’re okay, how are your legs, are you warm enough, you feeling good?

Yes, you think, you’ve taken care of your girl.

“I love seeing you like this,” he mumbles long after the pins and needles have abandoned their assault on your tired legs.

You tuck some silky hair behind his ear. “Like what? Fucked out?”

He’s floating too because he doesn’t chastise.

“Happy, healthy—“ he lets out a deep sigh “—home.”

“Speaking of home,” you say, inching ever so slightly higher to let him slide out of you, “wanna cuddle in bed all night and not get up until someone tries to break in the door?”

That knocks some of the glow off him. He drags a hand down his face. “Oh god, the poor people who have to clean this thing…”

“Let’s be honest,” you snort. “This isn’t the worst thing that’s been on you, but if it’s that big of a deal, we could go hose you down before handing our equipment in.”

He smiles, shaking his head in dismissal.

With his help, you climb off his lap and slowly shimmy up your bottoms, realizing he did truly make a mess of you both.

Steve looks down at his own lap, horrified. “Do I need to burn this?”

“That sounds like a challenge to make you filthier,” you consider, but maybe you should change into your civies before exiting the jet…

“Ya know,” Steve muses, passing over to the small locker of clothing overhead and grabbing a t-shirt and sweats, “I almost got shot in the head today, and you had three bullets fished outta you a week ago. I’m thinking we’ve earned a vacation.”

Workaholic Steve? Actively applying for time off? You’ll be damned.

“My my my, Captain Rogers…the real dirty talk begins.”

He huffs out a laugh and blushes.

“Well, I know we didn’t do anything more special than dinner for our anniversary, so…” He pulls you to his chest again, smelling of slightly musty laundry and pungent sex. “Let’s go on a fucking vacation.”

Your neck cranes to his height to see a soft smile. Oof, he’s good.

 “I missed you,” he adds like a prayer, “and you’re the badass who saved me.”

He giggles at your scrunched nose and watches you bask in that glory.

“Like I said, you’re welcome—“ you hug Steve, letting his warmth radiate through you, moving in time with his rising and falling chest “—and I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He kisses the crown of your head.

When you open the bombay doors, there’s a thermos left at the base of the ramp, a folded paper tucked beneath it. 

We should talk about how to better soundproof the jets. Brought you some refreshments. It’s hazelnut. ~Bucky

Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jamneuromain @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @brandycranby

A/N: I sincerely give up on editing this anymore, so I hope it turned out okay 🙇🏻‍♀️

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[sgiandubh]

News from Birmingham, part 3: verbatim

Verbatim means 'word for word' in Latin and it is often used in French to convey the idea something is being reported exactly as it actually happened.

Absolutely not sorry for the length, nor for the lost night spent on it.

So, here go the juiciest parts using the recording I am (for those joining in later) NOT allowed to post as is. Selection is mine and mine solely - editorial line and all the rest. Once I am done, I shall add my comments. It was hard for the girls to focus on what was being said on stage and write to me in DMs, at the same time. Recording everything was a risk, but also genius. The bits I am going to post are taken exactly as I heard them:

✔️on Blonde Bambino (yes, she elaborated and I had no idea when reporting live by proxy): '(...) and it's just amazing, he's the sweetest, sweetest thing and he looooves music. And, I feel like I succeeded being a mother purely because the other day he asked me if he could invite Kate Bush to his birthday'.

✔️on borrowed things from set: she regrets not having taken some things she liked from previous seasons. 'It's been a long time since I've borrowed anything (...). Terry gave me two nightgowns made in Season 1, she gave me one that was never used. And then she promised me a lot of things (...).' Wanted to 'borrow' something from her own surgery.

✔️on her involvement with the Blankfaces fashion label-cum- homeless charity in GLA: 'oh, that is Gerry who runs that, he is a friend of my husband's and he is just this amazing person who does grassroots organizing, you know, Blankfaces he's been doing for a long time. And I just met Gerry, you know, socially, and then I thought what he was doing was amazing, and I also found the clothes amazing and so I just bought them.' Further explains what Blankfaces does, the shop, the stories, including the food kitchen, but denies a more active involvement with the project/brand. 'I was just the other day at Hozier (...),he is amazing [cooing, booing] and I'm just paraphrasing from Andrew, and Andrew said this amazing thing, which was how we all want to be part of big things, right, you know to be a part of those things that would change the world, and all of that, but it's actually the small little things you do every single day, in your community, that have the biggest impact. (...) But you can buy their stuff online.'

✔️on producing a future movie based on Book Ten: 'I would not be in those competitions with Starz.'

✔️on her resemblance with Claire (oh dear God, not that question again!): 'As a kid, I was definitely not obedient, definitely not quiet and definitely not tidy, but as an adult, I ended up being more organized than I've ever thought I would be in my life (...) shocking (...). The world has changed crazy, (...) I used to talk to people and have opinions on things, but now it feels like a cesspool (...). I miss that space for conversation.'

✔️on 'Erself and the end of Outlander: 'well Diana came to visit, I actually don't know when it was, not that long ago, she came on set, sheeee... ugh, you'd have to forgive me, it was last season, it was so long ago, I can't remember what is what and I have to remember if she wrote something last season (...). Diana, she's created this world (...), she watches everything (...). But she's also allowed us to sort of make her characters our own and she's given us her blessing to do that, which has been amazing. And she still won't tell us the ending. [Voice in public: Sam knows!] Sammy... Sam THINKS he knows.'

✔️on the public impact of OL's Season 1 and sudden fame: 'I got this job so last minute, I was living in the US and I knew it was a US series that we're gonna be filming in the UK. And I read the first book so I was like, OMG sounds like an amazing show to film. But then I went from being cast to being in Scotland in one week. And then you're just like, you're working for 85, 90 hours a week. I didn't know who I was, where I was, what was going on. (...) and we went to Comic Con (...), I mean that whole year was a blur, an amazing blur, but a blur.' Had no expectations about what the show would become, it's now broadcast in 87 countries, 'it's insane, it's amazing'. Being able to be successful after 10 years is 'amazing'.

✔️on what she will miss most about Scotland or is she planning to stay in Scotland after OL is over: 'that's the million dollars question, I don't know. I mean, I think I'll... my husband is Scottish, so I think we'll always have something there, his parents both live there, so you know, we're not never going to be there at some point, but I don't know what is gonna happen after, but I am very, I feel, yeah, I feel like it's gonna be so sad not to... you know for 11 years, no matter like if we're gonna back in the United States or to London for a while we've always known we'd be back to Scotland at some point and be there for 10 or 11 months and so now I don't know, I don't know what the future holds, so....'

✔️on her and Tony sharing the same musical tastes: ' do Sam and I share the same music [Steve immediately BARKS: 'no, Tony, your real husband!'] Tony? Yes. Sam - no.'

✔️Sam's whisky or Graham's bourbon? 'Sam's whisky. I haven't tasted the bourbon, but bourbon is too sweet'.

✔️speaking about Steve - 'he's so mean'. In jest (?).

✔️her favorite part of making her own gin: 'tasting (...), trusting your senses'. The distillery changed, from the first to the second batch - the product's taste changed, a learning curve. They wanted to make sure it's still the same product.

✔️on regretting she did not start acting ten years earlier - mentioned not being ready for the responsibility of shooting 14, 16 hours a day, no sick days, etc: 'it's like a beast'. She felt OL came at the right time, was 'prepared and ready to be there' and eager to be given 'a shot (...): whatever you throw at me, I'll do it'. 'And I think for Sam was the same.'

✔️on memorable OL sets/places: Craigh Na Dun stones. 'The new place where we are, really cool. (....) Amazing stately homes like Hopetoun'. It's 'amazing.'

✔️on another parts in movies - she looks forward for 'good writing' and 'the character to speak' to her, in a new project, the people she will work with... Cliche AF. The Cut and The Amateur roles are 'not huge', the last she clearly said it was a small role, 'it's not my film, it's someone else's film'. She 'did not want to be working all the time, obviously with a small child'. Defined The Cut's plot as 'bizarre', and The Amateur as 'funny'. Loves her job, is happy with it.

✔️last question was asked by a French woman with a very thick accent, about traveling and learning things out of it - C. considers herself very lucky to have been able to travel all around the world as a model. Traveling taught her empathy, how to get over our very Christian centric view of the world. Mentions growing up in 'a very small village in Ireland, that was pretty much, you know, one church, one tiny school and one shop'. Her parents 'instilled a love of reading and learning'. Then she left Ireland to live in France and Japan, and traveled to Nepal. Nepal :'the trip that changed me and changed my life, because I was like seeing a completely different culture that had no correlation to anything that I grew up with, but it was the most beautiful spiritual awakening I guess I've ever had. (...) By traveling and by eating different foods and trying to speak other languages, which I try to do and I apologize to everybody because I try and speak your language, too, because I think (...) it's important to try and connect, because we expect people to come here and do that and it's so rude we don't go and do the same [ applause].' Being able to travel allows us to see how different and how similar we are'.

Ended with a huge thank you to fans, it's been so long that I wasn't attending a convention, 'but it meant the world to me to meet you all again, seen so many familiar faces, it feels so weird to be at the end of this show, because it has meant so much to me (...). Will see you all again soon.'

***

And now, for my comments and findings. Almost point by point:

Kate Bush, LOL (we'll never agree, C and I, on this one; but I can almost imagine Blonde Bambino cooing this - awww):

So, she basically repeated the same anecdote as last year, during promo. From Sade to Kate Bush, and hey, what about that birthday - 'the other day'? But let's not be nitpicky.

'Gerry' actually is Gerard McKenzie Govan, one of the three Directors and the founder of The Blankfaces CIC, a Community Interest Company (regular company with an increased social responsibility twist and, as such, heavily subsidized by the local authorities, too). More on him, here, for those who really want to know about him: https://www.glasgowwestendtoday.scot/magazine/the-man-behind-the-blankfaces-1391/. But that is not the most juicy part, actually - some blatant inconsistencies are. Like 'Gerry' being a friend of Nameless Husband's, but still she met him socially (huh? I thought he was a friend of Nameless Husband, hence a family acquaintance?). Also, C doesn't know shite about The Blankfaces, but still bravely fills in those blanks, like when she tells us fans Gerry has been doing Blankfaces 'for a long time'. The UK competent public authority, Companies House, says something very different and I can prove that the CIC was registered in 2018. Which is not really a long time at all:

'March 6, 2018 - Incorporation of a Community Interest Company' - see above. It also doesn't seem to be very well managed, at all:

Both its yearly accounts and its confirmation statement are long overdue (since 2023, in fact). The CIC is, actually, subject of an 'active proposal to strike off', which means it will be closed/dissolved, and rather sooner than later:

In their case, I suspect a compulsory strike-off, issued by the Companies House register. Fits with the legal criteria:

In a nutshell: because The Blankfaces failed to file its annual accounts and confirmation statement AND because it did not answer to the Companies House's two kind reminder letters, it will be forcibly dissolved in less than two months from now and there is NO going back on that decision, according to UK law.

Wouldn't C know about her Nameless Husband's Friend huge problems? I mean, how more tone-deaf and disconnected can you be, promoting a clinically dead business and inviting people to buy their clothes from their online shop?

Unless... Yeah, unless - but oooh, stupid shippers, slap a shipper, etc.

[Source: Moore and Stoke, an insolvency practitioners' firm based in Stoke-on Trent, UK - simply because they had the simplest and most recent legal explanation, see here: https://www.moorestoke.co.uk/active-proposal-to-strike-off/].

Compared to that, the fact that Tracula was nowhere to be seen at the recent Andrew Hozier-Byrne's concert in GLA is really peanuts. This is serious, legal stuff and please don't give me the 'she's an artist, she doesn't know shit about business' lame excuse. She is also a businesswoman, with her own spirits brand and several other companies, at least in the UK, Ireland and the US. Give me a break, #IYKYK.

Can't wait to be done with OL. Even the thought of a future movie based on Book Ten makes her cringe. Felt it in her voice and it was enough.

World feels like a cesspool? Why on Earth? She is a beautiful, successful and accomplished woman, with her own family and free from want. A cesspool is a very strong and strange word, in this apparent context. Unless.. but yeah, stupid shipper, slap a shipper. Missing conversations, expressing her opinion.... Not even LOL. It made me feel sad. Everything that happened to them since 2016 must be such a burden.

Sammy. SAMMY? Whoa, girl! Merci beaucoup, vraiment. Term of endearment, anyone? Compare with the stiff dead 'my husband' - again, the difference between a teddy bear and a guillotine is transparent in her voice. Also, DG - a difficult topic for her. She doesn't like 'Erself much and I think we all know why.

You tell me about 87 countries, Ma'am. I experience it every day, from the sidelines, so I can easily imagine what the impact could be for you. OL, that blessing and that curse. Also, when she is fed up with prodding and unwilling to kiss arses, she'd quip something along the lines of 'amazing' and be done with it.

Bonnie Scotland and the Day After. Another great moment of 'what the hell ever, just say anything'. Also, Caitriona Mary is a terrible, terrible liar - just like Sam Roland, you know. Her answer came out as incoherent and borderline illogical. Look at this: ' I mean, I think I'll… my husband is Scottish' - the 'I'll' part was her spontaneous starting to answer, about herself, but then inhibition kicked in and shit, she remembered she is married and had to somehow insert Tracula and both his parents (alive, just to make sure). Also, excuse me, hellooo: 'I think we'll always have something there'. Sounds like a flat, more like a pied-à-terre, but lo and behold, she suggests life is going to be elsewhere. What about that pharaonic McMansion, we so passionately followed the painstaking refurbishment of, double glazing included and borderline scandalizing the local heritage protection NGOs in the process? That doesn't really sound like 'something there', does it? That Bear Grylls flat looked more like 'something there', so where's the catch-22, here? What if I was right about McMansion being a fixer-upper she never planned to live in (where, oh where does The Happy Couple live? ooooh, ROFLMAO)? What if I was right about some other thoughts I am not ready to discuss yet? Questions, questions. And yes, London. IYKYK and very different from the emotional, savant blur. Also, for a very organized grown-up woman (her own words, see above), not knowing what the future holds... I mean I get it, but how peculiar, isn't it? Drawing a line, that question unsettled her. She was not planning to answer. She ended with a joke on not being able to see 'that yellow thing in the sky for five months in a row'. Get me out of this question and quick.

The music tastes' question was very clearly audible, even from the back of the room and I had zero trouble to distinctly hear it - it was also asked in a posh & polite British accent, so that helped a LOT: ' do you and Tony share the same music tastes?' The Freudian slip is simply inexplicable. Also, she answered Tony, not 'my husband' : Tony+ my husband in the same phrase is something beyond her strength. But why answer about S at all, that was NOT the question? Why? There are limits to dumbfuckery, after all. Also, Steve is such a pain in the arse. Who, in your mind and heart, is the real husband, C?

Whisky vs. Bourbon, she mumbled her answer, very uneasy, had to listen three times to untangle it. The Soup Nazi had to step in and bark the answer, train station megaphone style, for everyone to hear and get the memo. Now I understand why. And you should, too.

'He's so mean'. Definitely not in jest. Steve, that is. Fire that dick. Plus, later on, she quipped to him: 'you have the reputation of being like a strict schoolmaster'. Answer: 'maybe I am'. A cara nem treme, like they say in Brazil.

In that gin question, the Stan dutifully mentioned Tony (arse kissers, ALL OF THEM) - she could have mentioned him openly, she had a boulevard in front of her. But nope, she came back to mainly mentioning her own experience and a very vague 'we'.

'And I think Sam was the same' - conversations were had early on. In Central Park, London. And then things went very fast, as it sometimes happens. Sharing takes things on a very different level. I think this is exactly what happened to them.

Memorable places: they both are very moved by Craigh Na Dun, and it's absolutely normal. And Hopetoun - LOL, hello, of course ('The Door Faces North', pun totally intended).

Next two movies: so long for her Stans' delusions she was given a main role. She wrapped deception with grace and hid behind being a mom. ALL THE ANTI BLOGS WERE EERILY SILENT ABOUT THIS. I wonder why. Actually no, I don't. But sure, shippers twist things, shippers hide things. No shame, those people.

The last question, on travel, was my favorite one. I think it was perhaps the only time she felt able to fully express what she meant and wanted to. Many will jump on that Nepal reference and it is correct, but to me, on a very personal level, it spoke in many, many other ways. This is the C I have managed to embrace, reluctantly at first (I admit) and like a LOT. This is the witty girl I thought I have lost forever in that sea of painful innuendos, stupid Stans ass-kissing and blurring everything in the process, plus a Nazi minder on top. Fire that dick. Seriously. He wanted to end on a 'funny' Kumbaya note - she subtly managed to break free. Thank you, C. Seriously. The wonder you are and completely unaware of it. And the things you can do with words, if only you'd dare play with them some more.

Her tone at the end was emotional. Very. It was the same tone as for that 'partner everyday' gala speech. Oh, the things she wanted to tell all of us. And if we only knew. But hey, she promised we will meet again, soon. Perhaps in Paris? I'll gladly speak to you. In French.

A HUGE thank you. Both of you. I love you, girls.

[vortexdoll]

hehe me again (🕯 anon if you must), could I request anything w Pope with a reader who collects things? doesn't matter but if you need ideas, like funko pops, cds, pokemon cards, maybe seashells? and how their dynamic would work? since he is a pretty organized person and whatnot, he could like organize their collection of things since they have it just kinda thrown together? idk 😔🙏

A Place for Everything

A/n: Thanks so much for the request! I really enjoyed writing this one, and I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think or if there’s more you’d like to see!

Pope Heyward x reader

Summary: Pope brings order to the reader’s beautiful chaos by helping organise her eclectic collections, showing his care through quiet, thoughtful acts of love.

Warnings: N/a

Word count: 1,050

Your room looked like a secondhand shop and a tide pool had a lovechild. The cracked windowsill was covered in mismatched jars filled with seashells—spirals and fans and half-broken bits that still looked beautiful to you. Your CDs lived in a few milk crates you’d stolen from behind the gas station, no rhyme or reason to how they were arranged. You liked the chaos. Mostly.

Pope didn’t say anything the first few times he came over. Just glanced at the piles of shiny discs and vintage ticket stubs, and the tiny stuffed alligator someone had given you as a joke, and your cluttered nightstand that always had a seashell or two perched on it like it was their home now.

You caught him once, staring at a cracked CD case that had no cover art.

“Is this Nirvana or, like… Enya?” he asked cautiously.

You blinked up from your spot on the floor, where you were painting a shell with glitter nail polish. “Honestly? I don’t remember.”

He smiled, setting it down gently like it might break. “That’s kind of impressive. It’s like a mystery collection.”

That was the moment you realized Pope wasn’t judging your chaos. He was just… trying to understand it.

About a week later, he showed up at your door holding something behind his back.

“No offense,” he said, grinning, “but your CD organization is a war crime.”

You gasped dramatically. “How dare you! That’s years of effort you’re insulting.”

“Effort?” He raised an eyebrow. “You literally tossed them all in a box. Some of them are upside down.”

You shrugged, playful. “They like it that way.”

He held up a small, handmade wooden shelf, painted your favorite color, with enough space for at least fifty CDs. “Well, they’re about to like this better.”

You blinked. “You built me a CD shelf?”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I mean, yeah. Thought you might want a way to show ‘em off. You’ve got some cool stuff in there.”

Your heart did something very embarrassing in your chest.

He spent the next two hours helping you go through every CD you owned. You sat cross-legged on your bed, naming albums off the top of your head, while Pope gently wiped off dusty cases and sorted them into piles.

“You want them by genre? Artist? Year?” he asked, fully in project mode.

“Surprise me,” you said, watching the way his brows furrowed when he focused.

He ended up arranging them alphabetically and color-coordinated the spines. You didn’t even know he could color-coordinate spines.

Once the shelf was full, you stared at it, kind of stunned.

“This looks… legit,” you said.

Pope sat next to you, brushing his shoulder against yours. “Told you it would. You collect the coolest stuff—you deserve to see it.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You’re gonna spoil me, Heyward.”

He chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

⸻

The next time he came over, he brought tiny mason jars. “For your shell collection,” he said. “We could label them by beach, or size, or weirdness level.”

“Weirdness level?” you laughed.

“I feel like that purple one with the hole in the middle is like, at least a Level 8.”

You ended up spending the whole afternoon reorganizing your seashells, sitting on your porch with the sun warming your legs and Pope writing tiny labels in his neat handwriting.

“This one’s from that day we skipped school and went to the north shore,” you said, handing him a tiny scallop-shaped shell. “Remember? You swore we saw a dolphin.”

Pope smiled. “We did see a dolphin. You just weren’t looking.”

You rolled your eyes. “You saw a wave.”

He gently tucked the shell into a jar labeled North Shore Finds and passed it back to you. “Agree to disagree.”

You stared at the neat little rows of shells, now organized and shiny and somehow even more special. It wasn’t like you needed everything to be perfect. You liked your clutter. Your randomness. But Pope made it feel intentional. Like your collections weren’t just messes—they were memories worth preserving.

“Thanks for helping me with all this,” you said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

He nudged your leg with his. “I like being part of your world. Even if it’s made of seashells and bootleg Avril Lavigne CDs.”

“Bootleg?” you gasped. “That’s vintage!”

He laughed, leaning in to bump your shoulder again, this time letting it linger a little longer.

“Okay, okay. Vintage. My bad.”

You smiled, watching the sunlight dance through the jars. Everything looked brighter when he was around. Not just your collections—but you, too.

Maybe that was the best part about Pope: he didn’t try to fix your chaos. He just made space in it for himself.

[atwas-meme-ing]

Same. Most of the money you donate to those big companies that ask for donations goes to the advertising and supporting the corporation's cushy little jobs.

However, I would totally give to some of the local nonprofit organizations. We have one here in town that sends their people into schools to work directly with children and teachers, as well as parents, to educate people on how to avoid child exploitation, cyberbullying, things like that. It's called Heart Matters and they're all about protecting kids online, in school, things like that. Wanna know where they get their money? From a resale house (fancy name for a second-hand store) that is run entirely by volunteers, mostly little old ladies, who meticulously inspect, repair, and price everything before it goes on the floor. Virtually all of the money for the nonprofit organization- including the money that goes to salaries, advertising (billboards, flyers, etc.), and organizing events- comes from that resale house. Most of the pictures and videos for any advertising they do come from a professional photographer and videographer who just so happens to be the son of one of the organization's executives (and I've seen his work- he is EXCEPTIONALLY talented, so they are getting amazing promotional pictures and videos FOR FREE, in addition to his actually working in the business itself).

How do I know all this? I volunteer at the resale house on weekends. I've spent my last 3 Saturday mornings in the electronics department, wrapping AC adapters and labelling and sorting them according to voltage. I also know a few people who work at the nonprofit organization (including the photographer/videographer I mentioned above). As for what they charge at the resale house: I paid 10 bucks for a physical copy of Super Mario 64 (most expensive single item I've bought there), a dollar for a stack of about a half-dozen CD's (normally they charge 25 cents per CD, I got a discount because I bought so many at once), and although I didn't buy it, I saw a couch- a really nice, big, kind of an antique, sink into it when you sit on it kind of couch- for a hundred bucks. That's at least half the price I paid for a similar couch that I got at a flea market here in town. And I don't know how much Heart Matters workers get paid, exactly, but at my day job (which I think pays a bit more than Heart Matters), a hundred bucks is only one day's pay.

And the resale house is only open for business two days a week, plus a sale night on the first Thursday of every month. Averages out to being open for just over 8 hours a week. Not very much time to take in a whole lot of customers.

So, uh, the people at Heart Matters ain't gettin' rich.

I say all that to say this: please, please, PLEASE don't give your money to one of those big corporations that enlists every store and fast-food chain worker to ask you to donate to their worthy cause when in reality you're just lining some fat, rich guy's pockets. Find a local, struggling organization with a cause you can believe in and give to them. It's the little companies that are doing the most good, and it's the little companies that need the most help.

[trilliastra]

tomorrow, together

[Pat x Pran. Future fic, post-canon. Their interactions with their families as they simply decide to throw the whole secret relationship away and live their lives. So much fluff, like- so much.]

-

i. 

As the time for Pran’s return to Thailand approaches, their phone calls shift from fantasies and hypotheticals to realistic conversations. The where is easily resolved, but the hows and the dos develop into full planning and soon enough Pran has lists and demands and Pat has errands to run, furnitures to buy, boxes to fill with old knickknacks that he is willing to throw away to open space for Pran’s own things.

They never talked about it openly, never had to, they simply knew. Pran had to leave for a while, but once he comes back he will be Pat's forever, without reservations, without any sort of distance, emotional or physical, between them.

His mother asks though, in the months before his return she starts making off-handed comments about his old room, how she is thinking about getting it renovated, a new color on the walls, new curtains. She tries to goad him into giving his opinion, but in the moments he addresses his plans to move into an apartment of his own, he is ignored.

She is not ready, he realized, and let her to her own thoughts. For the most part. “Will you have a desk, though? A shelf for your books?” She keeps asking. “A balcony? Are you sure you will be able to afford that?”

“Yes, mom.” He answers, dutifully, phone on speaker as he labels each box, checks and then double-checks its contents. 

“Give me the address,” she suggests, “I want to see if you’ll have space for your old desk.”

“I will have a new desk.” In the old guest room that Pat has managed to turn into a working office, with two desks and shelves that go up to the ceiling. Pran smiles at the memory of the video Pat sent him, giving him a tour of the new room. His eyes had lit up when he noticed the desk under the window, giving him a full view of the park outside. “And new shelves and new curtains.”

“And how are you going to organize all that by yourself?” She asks. “Your father and I–”

“Mom,” Pran sighs, pausing in between sorting through his books, “I won’t be by myself.” The silence is almost deafening. “Are you sure you will be ready for that? Because if you aren’t,” he adds, “I’d rather you not go.”

She gasps softly and Pran hears a rustling before everything goes silent again. He refuses to feel guilty for the life he’s choosing to live, with the man he’s fallen in love with. This open secret was for their parent’s sake and now, this life is theirs.

“I–” she says after a minute, “will you come have dinner with us? After you return?”

“Of course.” Pran answers and that is it.

-

ii.

“You have so many books.” Korn huffs, making Pran roll his eyes. “Like, why.”

Wai pats Korn’s back as he passes him by on his way out. “Some people know how to read.”

Korn opens his mouth to retort but Pran shuts him up with a glare. Pat promised food and free beers to whoever helped them unpack that night and both spent most of the time trying to escape Friday happy-hours at the bar and score free food. Now they’re already twenty minutes behind schedule because Korn and Wai wouldn’t stop bickering over whose turn it was to have the night shift. It’s ridiculously annoying.

“This box goes in the office.” He orders and Korn curses when Pran abandons him with the box.

“Pat owes me so much beer.” Pran pretends not to hear him muttering under his breath and moves to check the other boxes labeled kitchen. “Hey.” He makes a noise, distractedly, picking up two mugs to place them in the kitchen cabinet. “You’re staying, right?”

Pran blinks, surprised, turns around to find Korn frowning at him. “What?”

“I know it was just two years and that you’ve been doing the whole,” he waves his arms around, “distance relationship, but – man, Pat wasn’t doing good without you.”

It’s Pran’s turn to frown. In hindsight, it shouldn’t be this surprising, Pat’s first instinct was always to protect him, even if it meant hiding his own feelings. But it wasn’t an easy decision. Despite the fact Pran applied for this job, he resisted the idea, only agreeing to go when Pat guaranteed they would talk to each other every day, when he promised to be honest if it got too hard and he decided it wasn’t worth waiting for Pran anymore.

Yes, some days were easier, but on the bad days, the distance was almost agonizing. On the bad days, Pran had to take a moment just to breathe, to put his feelings in check before going through his routine. Some nights he laid on his bed, looked at Pran’s photo on his nightstand and had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying. 

He knew it was the same for Pat. Despite his usual smiles, his cheerful tone, he was taking it as hard as Pran was. And still, he didn’t know it was like this. “He– why didn’t you tell me?”

Korn shrugs. “It was not my place. We tried to cheer him up, dragged him to the bar but, most times he would just stay quiet. Thinking about you, I guess.”

Pran puts the mugs down, hands shaking as a wave of emotions swallows him whole, engulfing him in a turmoil of regret and affection, pain and love.

“Hey, I’m not– I’m not saying this to hurt you.” Korn rushes to say, expression panicked when he notices how upset Pran has become. “But Pat is my best friend, I just want him to be happy.”

“I know.” Pat says. He just wants Pat to be happy too. “I love him,” he adds, “I’m never going to leave him again.” It’s a promise he made to himself, one he should’ve voiced already but managed to forget in the midst of the chaos that came with moving back. 

“I’m glad.” Korn says, squeezing his shoulder. “I know he makes you happy too.”

“Yeah, he does.” Pran says, fondly. He quickly wipes his eyes when he hears Wai and Pat coming into the apartment, but Pat knows him too well. His expression changes when he sees Pran, practically throws the box he was holding to the side in his haste to touch him.

“What?” He takes his hand, inspects his arms. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m fine.” Pran assures, squeezing Pat’s hands. “I’m just really happy to be home.”

Pat doesn’t look convinced and Pran thinks his heart will burst with how much love he feels for this man, his equal in everything, his partner.

He leans closer, kisses his lips softly, quickly, and whispers, “I will tell you later”, before pulling Pat towards the office, where Korn seems to have dragged Wai to.

They are still bickering about the night shift, but Pran doesn’t care about the schedule anymore. They can finish unpacking tomorrow, all he wants tonight is to have some time with Pat, to tell him everything he feels, everything he wants for their future and to promise him that he will never, ever, leave his side again.

-

iii.

“There he goes again.” Paa points out, laughing.

It’s a man this time, leaning over the counter to get closer to Pat and Pran’s stomach curls with the familiar feeling of jealousy.

They don’t usually walk around the city holding hands and Pran knows it would be stupid to try and glare at everyone who stares at his boyfriend for a little too long. Most of the time, Pat is blissfully unaware of the looks, Paa has informed him many times that whenever someone tries to hit on him, Pat simply thinks they are being polite or, sometimes, hitting on Paa.

(“The girl wrote her number on a napkin,” Paa told him once, “and he thought she was telling him his mouth was dirty, wiped his mouth with it and then threw the napkin away.”

“It’s actually cute,” Ink joined, “he never knows when it’s happening because he’s too busy thinking about you.”)

Jealousy is stupid when Pran is dating someone who loves him just as much as Pat does, but it still happens sometimes, Pran is not proud to admit.

“What do you think will happen first,” Paa says, “Korn will come back with the beer, Pat will realize what’s happening or the guy will just give up?” Pran laughs with their friends but his eyes are still on Pat and the guy who just keeps sliding closer and closer, hand moving towards Pat’s arm.

Jealousy is an ugly thing, Pran keeps telling himself, it’s stupid, useless, and yet– he can feel it growing inside him, making his body itch with the urge to drag Pat away from the other man.

“Number four,” Wai adds, throwing a couple of bills on the table, “Pran will go over there and punch the guy in the face.”

He could, Pran realizes, and he might even want to, but before he can actually do something, Korn is back with the beer and Pat, not even looking at the guy twice, simply takes the bottles and walks back to their table.

When he slides into the seat next to Pran, he’s still, as Paa said, blissfully unaware of what happened and how close Pran got to commiting murder.

“You are really dumb.” Paa says as Wai takes his money back, shaking his head in disappointment.

“What?” He asks, turning to Pran, confusedly. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Pran says, dropping a hand on his thigh and taking the new bottle of beer. He gestures to the beer. “Drink.” He orders, leaning closer to Pat. He smiles when his boyfriend throws an arm over his shoulder easily, drops a kiss on the top of his head while nodding along to whatever Ink and Paa are talking about.

Wai kicks his shin under the table, stares pointedly at Pat’s arm, Pran’s shoulder and then winks knowingly. Pran kicks him back. 

- 

“Chicken.”

iv.

“We had chicken yesterday.”

“We had chinese food yesterday.”

“Yeah, Kung Pao chicken.”

Pran smirks when Pat huffs, turning around to look for the pork as Pran had asked before this whole discussion about chicken started. He checks the list again, wondering if they should buy more curry sauce or they can make do with the opened one they have at home, when he notices a familiar woman in front of the melons, methodically examining the fruits.

He hadn’t seen Pat’s mother in a while, both his parents avoid Pran any time he goes visit his own family, but she still looks the same. Pat sometimes comments about his physical resemblance with father, but Pran can see now how he has his mother’s nose, her eyebrows.

And apparently her inability to be discreet.

He hides a laugh when she looks up and catches his eye, cheeks immediately turning red, before going back to examining the melons.

“Here’s your beloved pork.” Pat announces, dropping the meat in the cart. “What else is–”

“Hey,” Pran interrupts. He tilts his head towards Pat’s mother, who has now definitely abandoned the melons, and squeezes his arm softly, “go say hi.”

Pat’s eyes have widened in surprise, but he quickly makes up his mind and opens his arms, crossing the small distance to hug his mother tightly.

Their relationship has long stopped being a secret, even if it’s not directly addressed. If their parents ever decide to ask, they will answer; if their parents ever decide to acknowledge their partner’s existence, they will gladly introduce them over dinner.

But as is, Pran simply stays behind, lets Pat hug his mother and talk to her about melons, quiet yet still refusing to hide.

“Yeah,” he hears her say, “your father likes melons, you know.” She darts a glance at where Pran is waiting and surprises them both when she smiles at him. “You’re having pork for dinner?”

Pran swallows heavily, suddenly less confident than he was feeling a few minutes before. It’s only when Pat nods, beckoning him closer, that he abandons the cart (his shield) and steps closer. “Yeah.”

“Did you have any luck teaching Pat to cook?” She touches her son’s face softly, eyes much kinder than Pran remembers.

“I can cook!” Pat protests. “I make breakfast and–”

“Instant ramen,” Pran adds, “and sometimes he fries an egg without burning the kitchen down.”

“Like the time with the cake?” 

“Pat.” Pran widens his eyes in warning and Pat smiles sheepish. They are entering dangerous territory, Pat’s mother doesn’t need to know the cake burned because Pat decided to do push-ups in the living room. Shirtless.

Pran wants Pat’s mother to like him.

“I’m going to visit your grandmother next weekend and your father will be alone.” Pat’s mother says as they finish their shopping together. “You should stop by to visit him,” she adds, “both of you.”

“Mom.” Pran takes Pat’s hand, stepping closer. If he wants to, Pran will. But at this point, he knows Pat is expecting his father to come to him, instead of always having to be the one constantly moving.

“He is coming around,” she says, pulling Pat into a hug, stroking his hair as if he’s a child again and not a good foot taller than her, “I promise.” She tells Pran, pulling him into a hug as well.

“We will think about it.” Pran tells her. It’s all they can promise.

-

v. 

He doesn’t bother checking who is knocking, the only people who show up announced these days are Korn and Paa, even Wai has learned not to drop by without texting first - still traumatized by the time Pat opened the door with only a towel around his waist.

In hindsight, not one of his brightest moments.

When the door slides open, Pran comes face to face with Pat’s father and the first thing he thinks is that they really need to stop answering the door shirtless.

 “Uh-” Pran clears his throat nervously, fingers gripping the door handle tightly as he curses Pat mentally, “I– ah, Pat is not home.”

Though his father knows, no words were ever exchanged and even after meeting Pat’s mom at the grocery store, his father hasn’t stopped flinching every time someone mentions his boyfriend.

The visit then, for lack of a better word, is completely unexpected. 

“Hmn.” Ming hums, eyes widening when he notices Pran’s state of - shirtlessness. “Ah, he– is he –” Fuck, he is trying, Pran notices. It’s obvious this is unexplored territory for him too, but Ming is not running away to the mountains, he isn’t cursing Pran’s entire existence, he’s just – there.

“He– he went to get take-out. I can– I can call him and tell him to order more, if you–” oh, oh, no, is he really about to invite Ming for dinner? “if you’d want to– stay?”

Ming blinks, Pran blinks back, and then Pat’s father takes a step, nodding slowly, almost confused, and Pran slides to the side to let him in.

-

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“You invited my father to have dinner with us.” Pat repeats, clear disbelief in his voice. Pran rolls his eyes, searching through their wardrobe for a presentable, clean, shirt. “Why?”

“He was just there!” Pran insists. “What else was I supposed to do? Slam the door shut?” There’s a suspicious silence and Pran rolls his eyes harder. “He is your father!”

“I know!” Pat sighs. He tells someone to double the amount of chicken and rice on their take-out while Pran fishes a shirt from one of the drawers and quickly puts it on. “Look, it will take me another twenty minutes I think, can you manage?”

“Do I have a choice?” Pran throws back.

“No.” Pat concedes. “No, I don’t think you do.”

-

When Pran comes back into the living room, Ming is looking at the picture frames on the shelf as if they are about to explode, a deep frown between his eyebrows.

Pran put them there, organized them to tell their story much like the little shrine Pat built while he was away. “Perfectionist,” Pat teased when he arrived home one day and Pran had pulled all the lights down, he then circled Pran’s waist with his arms and whispered a sweet I love you in his ear. “I like it.” Pat added, smiling when he noticed their little notes had been added to their own frames, safe from the weather and the passing of time.

It’s oddly uncomfortable to have Ming looking through their memories like that, analyzing their words, judging their love. Pran has to stop himself from asking him to leave, to stop insinuating his presence in their lives, in the only place that is supposed to be just theirs.

He holds back for Pat, because though his own mother seems to be coming around, slowly but surely, Pat’s relationship with his father is still strained, built around lies, omissions and anger. As much as his boyfriend will never admit it, Pat misses his father and– well, if Ming won’t behave like an adult, for his son’s sake, then Pran will.

“Pat will take a while.”

Ming doesn’t answer, eyes still glued to one specific photo. When Pran steps closer, he notices it’s one of the pictures they took when they ran. Pat is holding his waist, smiling big and bright, a smile that is so Pat that Pran can’t stop himself from smiling back.

“We took it before we came back.” He says, hears Ming take a sharp intake of breath. “When we realized we couldn’t keep running away.”

Ming closes his wrists, hands shaking with the force of his feelings. Years ago Pran would have ran, scared, but he’s an adult now, if Ming decides to hit, he will hit back. But Pat’s father doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn to look at him, instead he points to another photo and asks, “this one?”

Ah. “Second anniversary.” Pran answers and does the same when Ming points to another photo, and then another and so on.

Pride is a complicated thing, Pran thinks. But love is very simple and in the end, it’s easier to understand each other when they both love the same person.

-

“You have a beautiful house.” Pran hears Ming say when Pat walks him to the door. Dinner was awkward, but uneventful, and they managed to hold a light conversation while complaining about the rise of the prices for construction materials.

“Yeah.” Pat answers. Pran’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest when he notices Pat’s voice take on a happier note, so unbelievably happy for his boyfriend.

“I am– ah,” Ming clears his throat, “I will see you at the store.” He says, then after a beat, adds, “bye, Pran. Thank you for– for the food.” None of them mentions it was take-out, that Pran did nothing but set the table, pass him the salt.

“It was a pleasure.” He answers and it’s only half a lie. If Pat is happy, Pran is happy, it’s the only thing that matters.

Pat slumps against his chest as soon as the door closes and Pran drags him to the couch, wipes his tears, holds him until he stops shaking. He is so relieved, so– in awe with what they now have, with the things they can do, the relationships they can rebuild.

“God.” Pat sobs and Pran cries with him.

-

vi. 

On that Sunday, Pat wakes him up with a kiss that lights a fire inside Pran.

They have sex before breakfast and after breakfast and Pat doesn’t answer his phone when it rings, too busy trying to get Pran’s pajama pants off again.

“It’s your birthday.” Pran moans. He had plans for this day, but Pat always seems to know everything beforehand. Breakfast in bed was ruined, the romantic bath thrown out the window.

“Happy birthday to me.” Pat laughs, picking him up and carrying him to the bed, the dishes forgotten in the sink.

“No, stop, stop.” Pran complains half-heartedly when Pat starts licking down his chest, bats his hands away when they start pulling down his pants. Pat stops, not before complaining, and Pran quickly slides off the bed.

“It’s my birthday, where are you going?” 

“I got you a gift.”

“But aren’t you my gift?”

God, Pran loves him too much to be sane. Pat might joke Pran is his gift, but in reality, Pat is Pran’s. His gift, his love, his everything.

This is the sixth time they celebrate Pat’s birthday together and every year Pran can never give him a good enough gift, a gift that translates everything he feels for this man that changed his life, this man that loves him just as strongly as Pran loves him.

The man who fought him, fought for him and who will keep fighting with him, as long as they live.

Because it all comes down to this: Pran wants to spend the rest of his life with Pat, and he might not be able to put into words just how much he loves Pat, but he can show him.

“Here.” He comes back to the bed. “I will even open it for you, see?” Pat sits up, watching Pran open the box with rapt attention. 

Inside is the model of a house Pran has been designing since before he went to Singapore, when it became clear to him and Pat, that despite the temporary distance, their futures would end up at the same place.

“How many bedrooms?” Pat whispers, running the tip of his fingers over each detail.

“Four.” Pran answers. “And there’s a balcony, see? For when you want to serenade me.”

Pat laughs loudly. “Or when you want to serenade me.” Pran shrugs, closing his eyes when Pat leans closer to kiss him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He rests his head on his boyfriend’s chest with a sigh, admiring with Pat the house they are going to build together.

[dreamingofaizawa]

Powerful Ch. 2

Yakuza! Shouta Aizawa x Fem! Reader

*Mafia AU*

Warnings: Misogyny (not from Shouta), a dagger, kinda fluffy

Word Count: 3.5 k

Author’s Note: This is turning out pretty good, I think. It’s turning into a kind of slow-burn ish thing, and as much as I can’t stand slow-burn sometimes, I’m liking it so far. If I’m being honest I feel like (hopefully) this is the thing that can help me get over my smut writing block. I haven’t been able to get myself to write smut for a while, and I’m hoping this can help me fix it.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Also, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I usually put in that little line spacer when there’s a pov change. You know, this one:

____

So yeah. And the three asterisks (except the ones at the beginning):

* * * Usually means a timeskip. If it’s unlabelled it’s only a short skip, anything over 24 hours I’ll label.

Enjoy~

*

*

*

Shouta woke you up, his rough hands rubbing your back and deep voice softly calling your name. When you let your eyes flutter open you realize you’re still on top of him, only your head is further cradled into his neck and your leg had found its way around his waist. The position had your face warming as you lifted your head and met his dark eyes.

“Good morning, little one.” He sounded groggy, like he’d just woken up himself. You pulled away and he released you so you could sit up. Off of him. You couldn’t quite hold his gaze, so you looked down at the bedsheets.

“Good morning, Shouta.” He sits up beside you, a hand grasping your chin and making you look at him.

“Am I too forward? Or are you afraid of me, little one?” You raise your eyebrows, not expecting him to really consider your own comfort.

“Can I speak freely?” He nods, and you take a breath.

“You are being just a little forward, but I think it’s only really enhanced because you’re known for being cold and unwelcoming. And also the fact that we only formally met last night.” His hand drops, and he waits for the second half of your answer. You take a moment to choose your wording, make sure you’re accurately communicating your feelings without offending him.

“While I do feel awkward and, frankly, small around you I don’t necessarily fear you. So far you’ve shown that you aren’t cruel, and though you are capable of some...violent things, I have no reason yet to believe you would be violent toward me.” A small smile tugs at his lips, a foreign thing to see.

“I assure you, I am not a violent lover. Nor will I ever be.” He reaches over and grabs your hand, lifting it to his face and leaving a soft kiss on your knuckles. It’s a simple, sweet gesture that has your face and chest heating. Then he gets up and you follow him out to the living room where three large suitcases are waiting. Your suitcases, you realize, Mother and Father must have packed all your clothing and had them sent here. Shouta picks up two of them and you take the last one, returning to the bedroom.

“The closet has plenty of room, so go ahead and sort everything out. I’ll be in my office. Once you’re done just wait for me, we’ll be going out later.” You nod, and he’s disappearing into his office. For the first time, you take a good look at the room. Your room now, you remind yourself. 

It’s large, enough to fit three more king beds with plenty of spare room. The king-sized mattress sits in a black frame that was built to look like it was hovering inches off the ground, fitted with light gray sheets and a large black comforter. The entire room is illuminated by lights embedded in the ceiling, the floor a dark hardwood that matches the doors to the bathroom and walk-in closet. A table sat on either side of the bed, both painted black to match the bed frame.

The walk-in closet is big as well, though it’s much brighter than the main bedroom. The floor is smooth white tile, a white center island with a glass top looking into the top drawers that held numerous watches and ties. Most of Shouta’s clothing seems to be folded, the suits and more high-end clothing the only pieces hung up. You filled the empty spaces with your own clothing, keeping everything organized like you had back at home. With everything tucked away, you decided it was time to change out of the robe, tugging on undergarments you missed those, a pair of loose sweatpants and a racerback tank top. Then you brought the now empty suitcases back to the living room and dug through the kitchen for some breakfast.

____

Shouta emerged from his office to you humming to yourself as you worked over the stove of bacon and pancakes. He didn’t even know he had bacon, let alone the ingredients for pancakes. It was quite cute, seeing you bounce lightly along with the tune you’re humming, spatula in hand. It’s a domestic sight, completely foreign to him. He leaned on the doorframe, choosing to admire you a while longer.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come get some food?” He blinked, slightly shocked, you hadn’t even turned around to see if he was there. You must have heard the door open, though he made sure none of the doors in his home creaked. It’s an irritating noise. He made his way over to you, hooking his chin over your shoulder and placing his large hands on your waist.

He knows he’s moving a little fast with the intimacy. He’d asked you earlier, though you said you didn’t mind, you were absolutely right that it’s weird being so close so soon. In all honesty, as long as you’re alright with it he wants to continue being touchy like this. He’s never truly had any interest in naming a partner, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want company. He’s been lonely for a long time, longing for someone to hold, and while he’s absolutely sure any woman would love to court him willingly, he wants someone special.

He can’t stand the women that throw themselves at any man with power and money, most of them only in it for their own gain. If he were to announce before the ball that he was looking to name a wife, he’d probably have had a line of fawning women on their best behavior to butter him up, flirting and smiling those too-big smiles in an attempt to get a rock on their finger and power to wield at their leisure. That’s why he’d decided to watch from afar, and you struck him as different the moment he’d laid eyes on you.

The more time he spent in your company, the more he’s commending himself for picking you. You’re one of the probable few that held a semi-neutral opinion of him, not fearful nor starstruck. You’re intelligent, well-articulated, and while you have your limits you tend to go with the flow, let the wind carry you this way and that. And you’re honest with him, he has no doubt you’ll tell him if there’s a boundary he crosses.

____

You’re grateful he can’t quite tell the state you’re in right now. Shouta’s hands on your waist flustered you, more than you care to admit. Sure, he’s advancing rather quickly, but you meant it when you said you didn’t mind. You’d been forbidden from dating, made to save yourself for the strategic marriage your father had planned. For the longest time you’d wanted to be held, touched and loved by someone. And here Shouta is, fulfilling all your teenage daydreams. He has no reason to be so close behind closed doors, where no one can see you, so he must feel some sort of real attraction toward you right? Otherwise he’d be more closed off, only opting to speak on his own terms and not caring at all about you or your comfort.

You shake yourself from your thoughts and the two of you sit at the dining table, quietly eating your breakfast. It is a little awkward, but you expected as much. Shouta, like you, probably isn’t used to eating with another person. You both finish breakfast soon, and once the dishes are washed Shouta startles you with his next words.

“We’ll be leaving in an hour or two for a lunch meeting with a few other clans.” You have to take a pause and think about what he’d just said.

“We? You want me to join you?” A part of you wants him to confirm it, another hopes he doesn’t.

“Yes, I want you there with me.” Cue your confusion.

“It’s almost unheard of, having a woman in a clan meeting.” As much as you hate the patriarchy and its traditions, they are still traditions that, once challenged, could upset many people.

“Let’s say I’m breaking the status-quo. If I’m going to have a wife, she’ll be wielding my power alongside me, not just existing as a means to further the bloodline.” It becomes apparent to you that Shouta, despite his position, is very much not traditional. You turn to him and lean against the kitchen counter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So why have you chosen me? I’m the daughter of a very low-ranked oyabun, have almost no experience compared to you and I am most definitely not someone other oyabun would approve to be your wife, let alone leading the entirety of the Yakuza.” He quirks an eyebrow at you, crossing his own arms.

“I don’t care what other oyabun may think of me or my choices, they don’t dictate what I do. As for why I’ve chosen you, it’s quite simple. I’ve known you for less than a day and it’s already obvious to me that you can take most things in stride, without allowing it to affect you emotionally. You’re good at compartmentalizing your own thoughts, can keep a level head under pressure, and that’s exactly what I need.” Your own eyebrows raise, not expecting a read like that.

“And last night as I watched you, it was clear to me that you’re skilled at masking your emotions, especially nervousness or fear. Think about what any other woman would have done, had I walked up to them and asked their name. Before I could get another word out they’d probably drop to their knees and begin begging for their lives. Most would probably faint on the spot, pounce on me, or any other number of unsavory responses after announcing a sudden engagement to me. But you? You did nothing, simply answering my question and taking my hand with no theatrics.” 

You nod slowly, mildly understanding his point. While it’s true you had almost no reaction, you’re almost sure there’d be at least a dozen other women in that hall that would have reacted the way you had. 

“Still, there must have been many others that acted like I did. For me to be so completely unique is…” You trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? No. I trust my own judgement, little one, and you should have a little more faith in yourself. Now, let’s go get ready. I’ve already got a dress for you to wear. It’s only semi-formal, we’ll be going to a restaurant for this meeting.” You give a small sigh as you follow him into the bedroom. 

All you can do now is go along with it, whether you trust his judgement or not. Suddenly being put in a position of so much power is stressing you out a little bit, but Shouta isn’t wrong about your compartmentalization. The stress could be dealt with later, right now you have a meeting to attend.

* * *

On second thought, maybe the stress should have been dealt with earlier. Standing outside the restaurant, wrapped around Shouta’s arm is making your heart pound in your chest. You’re unconsciously squeezing his bicep, and even as he looks down at you, there's nothing on your face to indicate your nerves. You’re completely deadpanned, eyes focused and mind working overtime. Shouta’s calloused hand falls over yours, a mildly comforting gesture.

“Don’t worry, little one. The most you’ll have to do is sit still and look pretty. I’m aware of your inexperience, I don’t expect you to be put on the spot. If you are and feel uncomfortable then all you need to do is tap my leg. You’ll be fine.” You nod. The pep-talk is appreciated, but it isn’t the meeting itself you’re worried about. What kind of backlash will Shouta be getting once you enter? What will be said about his reputation afterward? All you can do is wait and see.

You stride into the venue, and are led to a private room by a hostess. You can hear the casual conversation from the open door, but once you’re inside the immediate silence is unsettling. You don’t need to look directly at the half dozen men to know all their eyes are fixed on you as you both sit at the head of the table. Shouta quickly and smoothly brings the attention off of you.

“It’s good to see you, gentlemen. Let’s get this meeting started, shall we?” The tension in the room is still palpable, the clear discomfort from the men hadn’t vanished, but their main focus now is the subject of the meeting. You sit and listen carefully as they talk about several things, from natural disaster preparations to minor territory disputes. Some of the smaller syndicates under these oyabun had spread operations outside their borders, but that was quickly settled as most was due to small misunderstandings and unclear borders. Soon the meeting was nearly coming to a close, and suddenly Shouta left to use the restroom. 

And now, you’re a lioness in a clan of hyenas.

You keep quiet, listening to their conversation and following along with the political debates to further familiarize yourself with the inner workings of the higher circle. Suddenly the table goes quiet, and you lift your eyes from the table to meet the gaze of six men that value tradition. Unsure what to do, you drop your gaze again, but don’t drop your chin, choosing to look down your nose at the wood grain. Shouta had told you to hold yourself as he does, and you make sure to try, but you know when to keep to yourself.

“Tell me, girl, what are you doing here?” You blink, not expecting to be confronted so blatantly. You look up at the man who had asked the question. He looks to be in his late forties, jet black hair graying at the temples and striking brown eyes aged and tired. He’s not thin, a little heavier-set, but it’s clear there was a point that he was fit and muscular. He’s already irked you. You nod your head, a small bow, before calmly answering.

“My name is (y/n). I would appreciate it if you could please use it, Oyabun. I am here because Shouta wants me to be here.” The man narrows his eyes at you, a small scoff comes from one of the others but you don’t avert your eyes to him.

“Well why does he want you here, girl?” The blatant rejection of your request made your blood boil, but you kept a pleasant face.

“I don’t know. If you wish to know you may need to ask him yourself, Oyabun. And please, call me (y/n).” You’re certain he won’t use your name, and you addressing it again will probably anger him, but you can’t care too much when you know you’re within your right to ask that anyone use your name. Especially when you yourself are using a title for the man.

“I’ll address you how I see fit. Just because you’re the Black Dragon’s fiance does not mean I will acknowledge you as anyone of importance.” Ah, that’s right. You had forgotten Shouta’s nickname. Black Dragon is the name people used for him, whether they were afraid of the man or in awe of him. You take an imperceptible, steadying breath. Misogyny is one of the few things that challenge your composure.

“I do not ask you to acknowledge me as a person who holds power. In fact, I am aware of my previous rank and understand that it was maybe unwise to have me here. All I ask is that you please use my name.” The near growl that escapes the man does nothing to your self-control, doesn’t even strike any kind of emotion other than irritation. At this point, the other five men seem to be siding with you, their gazes fixed on the rather aggressive-reacting oyabun with something akin to confusion. 

“Do not talk back to me, girl! I should remind you of your place here.” The other men sit in shock as he rises from his seat and begins to circle the table. He must have had tunnel vision, because Shouta’s voice cuts through the room so abruptly he freezes, his eyes snapping over to the entrance where Shouta stands, glaring daggers at him.

“Touch her, and I will personally bury you six feet under.” The man is frozen in shock, almost in disbelief. He tries, albeit weakly, to get Shouta on his side.

“O-oyabun! I… This girl, she--” 

“I believe she asked you to use her name. Politely, might I add.” He’d been listening? How long had he stood there?

“In fact, you should address her as Onna-oyabun.” Your breath caught at that, the same as the rest of the room. That title was a myth, a rarity in its own right. There were so few instances where that title was applied to a woman under such specific circumstances that it’s a mere legend today. The most recent was an old woman who had inherited her deceased husband’s clan, which was extremely small, and even that was long ago. 

Shouta’s hand landed on your shoulder, his rough thumb drawing small circles into your skin. He was silent, waiting for the older man, or anyone in the room, to oppose him. You could feel his glare in the faces of the other clans’ oyabun, the intensity of it making even you uneasy. It felt like an eternity before Shouta spoke again, venom laced in every syllable.

“I’ve chosen to let you keep all of your teeth, in favor of keeping her from seeing what violence I’m capable of. Next time, I won’t be so gracious. It’s time to go, little one.” You bow your head quickly before taking Shouta’s extended hand and strolling out of the room.

In the car, it’s silent. You have every intention of apologizing for causing a scene, though you aren’t sure if you should speak here or at home. Shouta doesn’t leave you any options.

“What is it? There’s something bothering you.” How perceptive.

“I’m sorry, Shouta.” He turns his head, his expression questioning your intelligence.

“For what? For asking to be addressed in a way that isn’t demeaning? He had no reason to ask why you were there, let alone attempt to attack you like that. I always hated that man, you’ve just given me a reason to threaten him.” You did a double-take.

“You heard everything? How long were you standing at the door?” 

“Ah. I put a bug in the metal piece on the front of your dress. I knew they might be unsavory toward you, and with me out of the room they were more likely to speak their minds.” You nearly gawked at him. No wonder he’d chosen your dress for you. 

“You never went to use the restroom.” He shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. It is I who should be apologizing, little one. The entire ordeal was intentional, as much as I hoped it wouldn’t actually take such a turn. Though I will say I was serious about that title. I fully intend to marry you, and I intend to have you by my side for every meeting from here on out.” You suck in a sharp breath at that bit of information. Marriage seemed like such an abstract concept until now, having Shouta say it somehow made it all the more solid. And to join him for every meeting? 

“As long as there are no more surprise incidents then I think I can come with you.” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he squeezed your hand.

“Deal. Though I may need to do that a few more times just to keep some men in line.” You let yourself giggle, he must hate a few of the others as well.

“In that case I’ll help you. I was afraid he’d actually get me for a second there.” 

“Really? You didn’t even react. What if I were a split second too late?” You smirked, a mischievous little tug at your lips.

“Well if you were too late he’d have at least one stab wound and be bleeding out on the floor.” He shoots you a bewildered look before you tug up the hem of your dress, exposing a large dagger strapped to your thigh. He can’t contain his laughter, throwing his head back and wiping away at a few stray tears once he can breathe again. You can’t help but laugh with him, and notice just how handsome he looks when he’s happy, or in this case amused.

“Wouldn’t that be an unpleasant surprise.” He chuckles a bit more, getting it all out of his system before looking over at you. 

“Regardless, I won’t be letting them get that close. I’m sure you’re capable of defending yourself, and as much as I’d love to see you stab an annoying misogynist, the risk to your safety still remains. Not to mention he disregarded my warning last night. You’re untouchable, little one, he knows this and still thought he could touch even a single hair on your head.” 

You let a small smile settle on your lips, lacing your fingers with Shouta’s as a comfortable silence falls between you.

******************************

Tags:

@inumorph

[writeyouin]

Swerve X Reader – Changes - Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – The Arena

A/N – I finally came back to this, my poor abandoned baby.  As usual, a special thanks to @rocksinmuffin​​ without whom, this story wouldn’t exist.

Warnings – Minor suicide mention.

Rating – T

“That is the cruellest thing I have ever seen you do,” Swerve glowered at you.

“It had to be done. There was nothing else for it,” You replied nonchalantly.

“RODNEY DID NOTHING WRONG.”

“He existed.”

“SO YOU JUST KICKED HIM OUT FOR EXISTING?”

“Look, you get to choose your Animal Crossing villagers, and I get to choose mine.”

“Abuse them, more like,” Swerve pouted.

“Fine, do you want to play on the switch and adopt an ugly-ass hamster who does nothing but bitch all day?” You asked, holding the console out to Swerve.

He took it from you, placing it on the tallest shelf in the hab-suite, “You can have this back when you learn kindness, you monster.”

“… That’s just mean,” You said, looking despondently at the shelf which was labelled No Man’s land. Beside the switch was a copy of Harry Potter which had been removed from you until you could read it without yelling at Snape every time you saw his name, and several pictures of Getaway which you had scrawled insults on; Swerve wasn’t punishing you for those, he just liked admiring them every now and then while you worked on new insults to scribble.

“Okay, fine, you can have it back right now, if you say that hamsters are cute,” Swerve grinned.

“Clearly, you’ve never seen one in real life. They work for the devil and steal people’s souls. I’m ninety percent sure that they also have armies ready to-”

Pain wracked your body and you woke up screaming to find your captors prodding you with weapons akin to cattle prods but much larger and stronger. It was the same creatures that had captured you.

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” You yelled through the pain.

The humanoids didn’t reply, staying eerily silent; you wondered whether they were even capable of communication in a way that you might understand.

“All right, that’s enough… For now,” A human called, stepping forward, looking completely out of place among the others.

Your captors backed away, leaving you alone with the human on the opposite side of the cell. You glared at the woman, who couldn’t have been older than thirty. She wore acidic green armour that bore a symbol of a decapitated robotic head with wires and cables sticking out from the neck; the ensemble made you nervous.

“So… You’re our newest contestant. How dull,” She commented boredly, examining you.

“Contestant? What do you mean?” You asked fearfully.

Once again, you were left without a reply as the woman pulled out a dictation machine and began talking into it as if you weren’t there. “Subject is of questionable build. A Minibot. No definable insignia – probably a NAIL. Presumably no fighting skill of which to speak. No weapon attachments that can be seen. One noticeable draw to the crowds is that it’s a female – a rarity in itself.”

“Oh my God, are you- Fuck, are you putting me in the hunger games?” You demanded incredulously.

“The bot uses organic terms in communication. It’s possible that it has spent much of its time around organic communities rather than with its own kind.”

Although you knew you could argue that you weren’t originally a Cybertronian, you decided that it probably wouldn’t get you very far with your captor; she was clearly only interested in her job, whatever that was. You doubted that you would get anywhere talking to her.

“So that’s it? You’re going to put me into an arena to fight? Did I get it right? Hey! HEY, I’M TALKING TO YOU. YEAH, BITCH WITH THE BAD HAIR, YOU!”

The childish attempt at an insult earned you a bemused glance, and the woman paused the dictation machine.

“You ought to mind your manners, or you’ll be in a much worse condition before the fight, and that will only bore the spectators,” She warned you.

“I’ll behave, if you at least tell me your name. I’d like to know who I’m insulting.”

Your roguish attitude earned a sadistic smile; it wasn’t every-day that your captor met a Cybertronian with any spirit left, “Lady Ouida.”

“Stupid name,” You murmured, mostly to hide your fear. “So I’m right about this being a colosseum of sorts?”

“Yes. You are to fight in the arena.”

“And if I win, I go free?”

“No. If you win, we kill you anyway. The people are out for Cybertronian blood after all.”

“Wow… That’s so fucking stupid. Like for real, did you take this out of a book? It’s not very creative is it? How many movies have you seen where the hero is thrown into a death ring to battle? Plus, there’s not going to be much of a fight. I mean, look at me. My arms are all fucked up from your bodyguards, I’m clearly not a fighter, and I’m like only three feet taller than you. Factor in multiple opponents and you get a five-minute fight, tops which will mostly be me running for my life.”

“You don’t seem too concerned with your fate.”

“Bitch, I am terrified, but I’ve seen death and been dragged back from it. I have defined the meaning of an out of body experience. Right now, I am competing with forces that you cannot even imagine in a brain that was not meant for me. In other words, there is nothing you can do that is worse than what I’ve been dealing with for the last forty-eight hours so GET FUCKED.”

The words PERSONALITY MALFUNCTION appeared on your visor, and you knew they were true. In your human form, you tended to avoid confrontation where you could. However, faced with the prospect of unavoidable death, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. There were only two options left for you anyway. Die in an arena, or wait for the Lost Light to come to your rescue. As you stared into the grinning face of Lady Ouida who had developed a sudden interest in you, you hoped it was the latter.

Chromedome sat miserably in the brig, having been put there for attempting to forcibly alter Swerve’s memory banks with mnemosurgery. He had lost count of how many times he had been in that exact scenario, where mnemosurgery was the only way forward, but nobody else would see it that way. How many times had Rewind refused to talk to him because of it? How often had he been forced to alter Rewind’s memory afterwards so he wouldn’t leave him? Chromedome held his head in his servos, thinking of Rewind. He wouldn’t believe it if Chromedome said it was all for Swerve. So what if mnemosurgery felt good, as long as it helped people it wasn’t that bad. Sure there were risks, but there were risks to all sorts of things that people did anyway.

With nothing else to do but think of his failure, Chromedome waited despondently in his cell, with the faintest of hopes that Rewind might deign to visit him, even if it was just to yell.

Ultra Magnus watched the security footage stoically from the computer panel in his office. As well as Chromedome, he was also watching Swerve, who had been restrained for his own safety and was sobbing loudly, screaming your name, and Whirl who was in the med-bay, awaiting yet another energon transfusion. Of the three, Whirl worried Ultra Magnus the most; he was not taking well to Ratchet’s surgery. He had damaged one of his internal components beyond repair and it was now up to Perceptor to create a suitable replacement. The replacement would undoubtedly need constant maintenance for the rest of Whirl’s life if he survived, but it was the only way forward.

Ultra Magnus looked up as the door flew open, and Rodimus came barging in.

“THIS IS A DISASTER!” Rodimus roared.

For once, Ultra Magnus didn’t have the spark to placate Rodimus; he was right, everything was going disastrously.

“WHIRL IS DYING. CHROMEDOME IS ALL KINDS OF MESSED UP. REWIND BLAMES ME FOR WHATEVER REASON. SWERVE IS SUICIDAL AND (Y/N) IS MISSING. Please tell me you have something that might help fix this mess?”

“I do not,” Ultra Magnus replied quietly. He had never felt like such a failure. Under his watch, everything had gone wrong. The Magnus armour was getting heavier every day; he didn’t deserve to wear it.

“FRAG! WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO? SHE COULD BE IN DANGER. THE ROD POD’S TRACKING SYSTEM IS FRAGGED. THE CREW ARE FURIOUS. THEY HAVEN’T BEEN THIS MAD SINCE-”

“OUT OF THE WAY, COMING THROUGH,” Nightbeat’s voice called in the corridor as he weaved through the few bots out there and made his way into the office with Megatron close behind him.

“Rodimus. Ultra Magnus,” Megatron greeted professionally, before gesturing for Nightbeat to take over.

“I FOUND (Y/N),” Nightbeat began ecstatically, completely missing the sombre atmosphere.

“What? How?” Rodimus asked, dumbfounded.

“I watched the Rod-Pod’s ejection from the bay and followed it through the security cameras. After that, it was simply a matter of predicting several plausible trajectory’s considering that (Y/N) isn’t a pilot-”

Rodimus waved his arms, “Forget I asked. Just tell me where she is.”

Nightbeat ignored his disappointment that the big reveal had been ruined; it had taken a lot of work for him to covertly listen to all the radio stations where you might have landed and then locate you from that. “She’s on a privately owned planet called The Arena.”

“The… The Arena?”

Megatron nodded solemnly, “Yes. My research tells me that they capture stray Cybertronians and-”

“Don’t tell me. They put them in the arena ‘cos they think that’s creative… Primus, that’s annoying. All right, plan time. We change course, go to The Arena, break in, rescue (Y/N) and make everything go back to normal. Any questions?”

Megatron took a moment to consider the plan, “How-”

“No? Great. Then let’s go. We’ve got work to do.” Rodimus transformed and drove out of the office to head to Brainstorm’s lab. He had brushed it off with his usual casual demeanour but just like everyone else, he was furious that anyone would want to hurt you. If he was going to rescue you, he would need weapons; the morally-grey kind that Brainstorm made.

Swerve sniffled, feeling pathetic as coolant that he couldn’t wipe away under his constraints dripped down his front. Yet another failed suicide attempt to go on his record; he couldn’t even do that right. He remembered the last time he had done something so drastic, when you had come to save him from himself; you had probably only married him out of pity. Despite the depressing thought, Swerve found himself unable to believe it. You had married him because for some reason that he didn’t understand, you loved him. The two of you had spent one year married and it had been the best year of Swerve’s life. When you brought up the idea of sparklings on your anniversary, Swerve couldn’t believe that life could be any better, and now after all of that you were gone.

Although Swerve longed to wallow in self-pity, he couldn’t help thinking of Chromedome. It seemed that his last conversation was finally sinking into Swerve’s processor. What was it he had said exactly? Swerve vented air through his systems, calming himself so he could isolate the memory file.

“YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT (Y/N)!”

While it was true that Chromedome could have just said that to stop Swerve from ending his life, there was also a slim possibility that Chromedome really did have new information about you.

Swerve kept replaying the memory’s audio, listening for the truth. As a bartender, he liked to believe he was good at separating lies from the truth, but when the other bots were sober, he wasn’t very good at it.

“(Y/N)…” Swerve whispered your name, wondering what he might not know about you as of that moment.

What if you had come back and he was wallowing in his cell, too wrapped up in himself to know about it? It wasn’t possible. If you were back, it didn’t matter what state Swerve was in; he would have been taken to you. Unless…

Swerve struggled to sit up, his processor racing with endless possibilities pertaining to your fate. What if he hadn’t been taken to you because your new body was failing? What if you were dying and Swerve wasn’t there? What if he was the only one that could help you?

Unbalanced as he was, Swerve managed to stand up. He started kicking at the door, yelling as loud as he could.

“HEY! GET ME OUT OF HERE! TAKE ME TO MY WIFE! TELL ME WHERE (Y/N) IS!”

Swerve didn’t pay much heed to what he was saying. All he cared about was getting to you, no matter what it took.

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[spandexinspace]

Missing What's You

Technically meant for Thursday, but it is what it is.

Querl didn’t know why he went back there. Didn’t even think about it until he stepped out of the shuttle and onto the tarmac below, still hot in the waning light of the winter sun. He didn’t want to think about the sun.

The city of Ard was as still as ever, the streets below the tall, sand-coloured spires near empty even in the early evening hours. He ambled down them, letting his feet lead the way rather than his head. There was a dull ache in his chest, like a hole that threatened to collapse in on itself and suffocate him in the process. It had been there since he got the news and normally he would be able to ignore it and shut out whatever part hurt, but doing that would mean shutting out her.

He had thought through his options many times, letting his brain run through the probabilities over and over again as if that would change them. The idea of going back there to save her had never left his mind, but even if he could have managed that without destroying the entire universe he could still have endangered time itself. To change something so major would create a ripple effect that could cause incalculable amounts of damage to it or even split it wide open. He would have accepted any personal risk in a heartbeat, thrown himself fully into it for no more than one more moment in her presence, but he couldn’t sacrifice everything else too. Sacrificing others to fulfil your own selfish desires would never be justifiable, especially not for someone like him.

He must have walked for an hour or two when he came to a stop in front of the Hall of Memories, not quite sure how he got there, yet unsurprised. It towered at the edge of the city and the sea lapped at its foundations. Someday the sandy stone would erode away completely and the hall would plunge into the waves below, but for now, and for millennia to come, the building remained standing. The similarities did not escape his notice.

As he entered the building the doors slid shut behind him, which plunged the space into total silence. Rows after rows of narrow drive racks took up most of the room, lit only by dull, yellow lights above and whatever twilight could make its way in through the frosted windows. He made his way through the space and paid little attention to the racks or their labels as he retraced his own steps from many years ago. Floor two, row five, rack six. He ascended a set of stairs and made his way through the rows, stopping in front of one of them. His eyes landed on a label in the middle of the rack. “Kajz Dox, negotiator” it read in crisp, precision cut letters. Querl ran his fingers across the lettering, felt the cool metal beneath them. This drive was not his father, it was merely a collection of data that could create a digital representation of his father, stored here for ColuGov’s convenience. But if he’d still been allowed to access the SleepNET he could have spoken to him. It would have felt real, even if it wasn’t.

He couldn’t say the same for her. She had been lost in a pointless battle a thousand years before he could ever do anything for her. It wouldn’t have been impossible to record her before she left, maybe he could even have convinced her to come here if he hadn’t been such a rigid coward. Limited as it was the Hall was still a better option than being forgotten and he could have helped her. He would at least have had more to work with than a gigantic hole in his chest that seared like acid every time he as much as tried to do anything more than sleep or bury himself in pointless busywork.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. Querl tensed and turned around, coming face to face with a short, dark-haired woman.

“Dox. I thought you were banished,” she said. Her voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Probably a caretaker of some sort from his childhood, he’d never bothered to memorise them.

“It was a temporary measure.” She pressed her lips together and did not smile.

“I see. What brings you here?”

“Am I not allowed to visit the site of my father’s memories?” he asked. He was unsure if he was. Colu rarely shied away from placing forbidden things behind locked doors, but they also didn’t shy away from inventing new rules just for him.

“It is allowed.” She opened her mouth once more, but closed it again, as if she thought better of continuing. Querl turned away from her and once more fixed his gaze on the rack.

"You do realise that you brought this onto yourself, do you not?" she said after a while, her voice measured and flat.

"Did I now."

"Yes. High Command informed us that you had lost one of your short lived acquaintances and appeared to be returning here because this loss has affected you greatly,” she said. “If you had heeded any of our advice you would not have compromised your emotional integrity in this fashion. Perhaps you would even have been able to save your friend, had you not decided to forgo logical reasoning in favour of aleatory recklessness." These sentiments were familiar to him. Under normal circumstances they would have made him angry, he’d spat and screamed and maybe even swung at anyone who spoke like that. But he didn’t feel like that then, he only felt like his limbs were too heavy and the hole in his chest ached.

“I suppose you are still a child though. Perhaps you will come to realise the foolishness of your actions one day.” She walked away and her soft footsteps were soon swallowed up by the silence.

He hadn’t realised his vision had become unfocused and it took a few seconds for him to readjust. A last glance at his father’s name tag was enough to convince him he had seen and heard enough of the Hall for years to come and he turned to leave. Yet her words continued to echo inside him as he made his way outside. Not allowing himself to feel, to revert into the safety of what was cold and logical would get rid of the ache, that much was true.

Once outside he leaned against the railing next to the Hall and turned towards the now dark sea, well past reflecting the vivid shades of twilight but not yet lit by the lights of the moons. His father had taken him to the sea often as a child and they had spent long hours in the surf, much to his youthful and inquisitive delight. He should have taken her there. She was never able to see it, but he knows she would have loved it too, would have urged him to come into the shallows with her and listened as he told her about all the tiny organisms that lived there, far away from the complicated rules of the beings on the surface. They would have sat together on the hot sand, would have looked up at and compared stars he could never see quite as well as she did. She would have been perfect and bright and he would have loved her more than anything else.

If living beyond Colu had thought him anything it was that feelings were complex. To pick safety would get rid of the hurt, but he would also have to give up all that. The warmth they shared, the feelings she still brought to him even after all that had happened. Logically he shouldn’t long for it, but there was more to the world than logic. And he would bear the ache if it kept the warmth alive.

[fleckcmscott]

Bewitching Hour

Summary: October has been a blissfully busy month. With Halloween around the corner, Arthur and Y/N have some planning to do.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,665

A/N: Special thanks to @hhandley80​ for this request! You've been so supportive and sweet. I truly appreciate you and hope you enjoy it!

On a side note, my oneshots will be more sporadic. I'm still writing but life has been life. Also, I've finished the first draft of another multi-chapter featuring Arthur and Y/N. It's going to take time to rewrite the subsequent drafts and edit, edit, edit. The chapters will go up once the story is ready. Thanks for your patience and support! 🙂 I heart you all!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask! 

Arthur's suggestion that they make plans to celebrate Halloween should not have been a surprise. He loved starting traditions with Y/N, and she prized adopting them with him. "It's been awhile," he'd said as they'd walked arm-in-arm to the laundromat. "I think it'd be nice."

Holidays had been a source of merriment most of her life. The beauty of red and green decorations at Christmas. Turkey and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. An egg hunt and chocolate rabbit at Easter. The togetherness of family during them all.

Halloween, though, wasn't a favorite.

As a child, she'd had fun trick-or-treating, riding her bike from house to far-flung house. And she hadn't minded escorting her little sister as a teenager. Y/N's homemade witch costume had been passed down. She could still recall the sleekness of the ribbon between her fingers as she'd secured the pointed hat under Mabel's chin.

But the magic had fallen away. When married to Jeff, she'd had to attend his boss's annual party. After receiving an apologetic shrug and kiss, she'd be relegated to hanging out with the other wives. They'd included her in their recipe swaps, in their exchanges of mild gossip. Her natural friendliness made chit-chat easy, far easier than having a good time. Those evenings had been spent nursing a glass of wine and willing the clock to go faster.

During the period she'd cared for her father, she'd tried to hand out candy. She liked being a good neighbor and imparting kindness in the form of bite-sized sweets. As his health had declined, the porch light had gone dark. Random rings of the doorbell would result in shouting and swearing. Repeated attempts to explain the door's lock wasn't broken. Festivity would transform into drudgery. It hadn't been worth the trouble. Instead, she'd watched terrible TV specials while her thoughts wandered to a future far from Boonville. A future she'd doubted would ever be.

"I don't know if it's your thing," Arthur had continued, bringing her back to the present. "But you might enjoy it with me." The response he longed for was evident in the worrying of his pocket, outlines of his knuckles visible through the tan cloth.

Everything they'd experienced together had soothed the sting of those wasted years. The hesitancy lurking in her was silly. Unwelcome. Less than either of them deserved. She'd met his keen eyes and half-smile. The sudden mental image of him dressed as a cowboy or pirate, eyepatch and all, prompted a laugh. Convinced her as she dug out her dry-cleaning stub. "It isn't my thing," she'd said. "But you are."

Relief had relaxed his wrinkles, save for his crows feet, which had deepened as he'd returned her happy expression. A slender arm wrapped around her waist, drew her against his solid frame. Once the clerk disappeared through the swinging doors to retrieve their clothes, Arthur grasped her chin and kissed her. The tender explorations were soon sloppy, and she'd giggled, his enthusiasm becoming her own. Their noses had met, his lashes resting on his wide cheekbones. "I think you're the sweetest treat, Mrs. Fleck."

Currently, Donahue's Department Store, Gotham's number one retail emporium (if the ads were to be believed), was bustling with last-minute shoppers. Weary mothers escorted their babbling children through the aisles. Clerks swapped out displays for the changing blue light specials. Lines went for yards. Patricia and Y/N sought refuge at a corner table in the café on the top floor. The warm glow from the pendant lamps provided a relaxed ambience, one that matched the hot cider and pumpkin spice cake they were savoring.

"I've got my grandson on Sunday," Patricia said between bites. "My daughter's going to a party with a medical records tech from Gotham General. Met him when she missed the bus. They split a cab and hit it off." Chuckling, she lifted her mug. "Speaking of, how's married life been so far?"

Memories of the past week quickened Y/N's heart, until she thought it might stop. How Arthur had gripped her replacement Social Security card, just to read her new name. The way he'd grab her for a twirl whenever they were in the kitchen. The reverence in his gaze when they'd lay together after sex, a look that both thrilled and made her blush. "The bills for his medication and appointments will no longer make us cringe," she deadpanned. She lowered her fork. "When we met, I was kind of blindsided - I'm not the type to fall in love quickly." The corners of her lips tugged up. "Being married to Arthur feels like a habit. A habit I should have learned twenty years ago."

"I'm glad you found each other." Patricia reached across the light brown table and covered Y/N's hand, gave it a squeeze. Then she wiped frosting from her mouth and nodded in the direction of the escalator. "Now let's find a costume that'll drive him nuts."

Beyond the colorful cosmetics and pungent perfume counters, they sorted through racks of vinyl smocks and plastic masks. Pop culture icons and princesses. Vampires and spooks. Knockoffs of classic movie monsters. Most were poorly made and decidedly uninteresting. Y/N pawed through accessories in a nearby basket, a cigar here, a patched hat there. "How about a hobo? I could steal Arthur's tie."

"This was his idea. Give him something a little exciting." After a roll of Y/N's eyes, Patricia held out a plastic display bag. "Found it."

The white font on its blue label declared she should "Create a unique look!" A woman in a leopard-print leotard and bow-tie wore black cat ears and a tail, the only two items included in the set. Y/N's nose wrinkled. "I don't think so, Patricia." She rummaged through another bin and examined a hockey mask. "I don't show a lot of skin."

"You show Arthur." Patricia ignored Y/N's glare, continuing to shove it at her. "Every man loves a woman dressed as a cat. Our next lunch is on me if I'm wrong."

Patricia could be relentless, but Y/N had to admit she was usually right. She arched a brow as she eyed the costume. Maybe she could find a solid body suit instead of animal print. The kit was only $2.98. And her friend had made it a challenge. "You're on. But I'm not wearing a bow-tie." She crossed her arms across her chest and tapped her mouth. "Your turn. Would Robert like you as a French maid or a go-go dancer?"

~~~~~

It was a busy season for performers. Arthur remembered HaHa's talent agency being booked solid for October by the end of August. Myriad functions at nursing homes, parties, and children's organizations took place throughout the city. Amusement Mile had a series of special events, allowing Arthur to work extra hours before the slowness of winter dragged in. Once the holiday was over, he'd buy make-up and props on clearance.

He'd always assumed he would like Halloween - if he'd had the chance to celebrate it properly. It was about connection, something he'd never managed. The customs gave him a pretense, a template to meet people, rather than leaving him wondering how to go about it. Provided a hiding place for his seeming inability to act normal.

Recollections of the day were few but vivid. When he'd been around eight, there'd been a party at school. The teacher had made brownies and given the students a half-hour respite from lessons. (A welcome relief, since he wasn't very good at most of them.) But he hadn't had a costume. Hadn't known how to reply when the other kids asked where it was. Not wanting to be left out, he'd pocketed a watercolor pallet and sneaked to the bathroom.

The teacher (he wished he could remember her name) had walked in as he'd smeared green and blue on his face, a pathetic attempt at a turtle. Fear of punishment had caused his laughter. But her kindness as she knelt, wiped away tears and pigment with a scratchy, brown paper towel, had calmed him. "Wait here," she'd instructed. It had taken all his courage not to run home.

After some minutes, she'd returned, an old white sheet in one hand, black marker and pair of scissors in the other. "The nurse won't miss this." She'd traced eyeholes, helped him cut them out. She'd asked questions. About his mother and what it was like at home. Questions he was at a loss for how to answer. Finally, she'd draped the cloth over his head. "There," she'd declared. "Gotham Elementary has its own ghost."

Even as he'd gotten taller and the sheet no longer went beyond his knees, that costume had remained his go-to. He'd venture out to the rest of his building, knocking on paint-chipped doors and pushing broken buzzers. Having learned to stay away from doors that yelling or funny smells emanated from, he hadn't gotten a lot of candy. What he had collected he'd shared with Penny. The wax lips became a free toy. He wasn't sure his memory of startling his mother and being tickled until he couldn't breathe was real or imagined.

At twelve, he was told he was too old to go trick-or-treating. He'd starting scrounging for change to buy hard candies at Helm's Pharmacy. They weren't particularly appetizing, but they'd been what he could afford. Only a few kids rang, a number that dwindled further every year. Most neighbors kept their distance, likely aware he was troubled. Cinnamon discs and butterscotch drops had loitered around the apartment for months. He'd sucked on them in an attempt to cut down on his smoking, just to save money. It hadn't worked.

Y/N hadn't spoken about the holiday, not the way she had other special occasions. At first, he'd thought it had slipped her mind. Work, planning their honeymoon, completing the red tape required to meld all aspects of their lives had taken up much of their time. But, given her reluctance to talk in detail about her past heartache, he'd come to assume her Halloweens had been unpleasant. He was certain he could change that.

Sitting on the dingy, dark green plastic seat of the train car, he giggled to himself, chest puffing up as he straightened. They'd been man and wife for eight whole days. Movies and songs said love was supposed to be somewhere between serendipitous and fated. A happy accident that was meant to be. Lying awake at night, he would find himself wondering where they were on that scale. If the emotions swirling through him - the excitement of belonging, the fear of fucking up - were what every newlywed felt. Then Y/N would snuggle closer in her sleep, murmur nonsense into his skin, and for a few minutes he'd be at peace.

Years had been spent trying to figure out who he was. Trying to find an identity, his role within the world. While he was still searching, it had been far easier to become accustomed to the role of "husband" than he'd dreamed.

Teaching his wife about events across the city had been a delight. Gotham Village's Annual Costume Extravaganza was a parade that went all the way to Gotham Square. He'd participated a couple of times, never formally registering but slipping into the clown section. It had been exhilarating. Had allowed him to pretend, for a little while, that he was being seen. That the crowds lining the sidewalks were cheering for him. Signs for extravagant balls were plastered on billboards and lampposts throughout the streets; he'd have gladly attended and shown her off. A haunted house was being held in a building in his old neighborhood, a fundraiser for the orphanage. He hadn't brought that up.

In the end, once he'd explained trick-or-treaters went from apartment to apartment, they'd decided on a cozy evening at home. The details had been left to her. Whatever she'd plan, he'd love it. He wondered what she'd disguise herself as. Would she be a sexy devil or nurse, like he'd seen on a sit-com? The notion sparked a fire in his cheeks.

Given how busy he'd be, he'd stay dressed as plain, old Carnival. Part of him regretted accepting two gigs, especially on a Sunday. He would have preferred her company. But he wanted to put the money towards the wedding band he'd put on layaway. (Even though they had one account, he wasn't going to let her chip in for it.) He should already be wearing it for all of Gotham to see.

The lurch of the subway prompted him to rise and grasp the pole grip. His stance widened as it came to a halt, knees bending with the instinct of a man who'd ridden public transportation since he was a boy. As soon as the graffiti-covered doors parted, he stepped out onto the platform and ascended the stairs, eager to share his new insurance information with Dr. Ludlow.

~~~~~

Scratchy violins and the hum of a theremin. Shrill shrieks and cracks of thunder. A cackle resounded, then a pipe organ, playing a melody in a minor key.

There was no doubt about it. Halloween spirit had saturated 4A.

NCB's Movie Marathon Mayhem had begun at 10:00 AM. Y/N had had it on since getting out of the shower, hoping to catch a horror classic while she decorated the apartment and prepared Bloody Mary mix. As she hung cotton batting between the television's rabbit ears, creating a long, narrow spider-web, she realized they were only playing cheesy B-movies. Giant insects threatening buildings. Science experiments gone wrong. Alien invasions. Oh well. At least she wouldn't have to pay much attention to get the gist of the plots.

The orange plastic platter, black bats along its edges, had been an impulse buy. She thought its array of sugary skeletons, candy bracelets, and Jolly Jack chocolate bars would be well received. But having seen only one or two kids in the lobby, she had no idea how many children lived in their building. She hoped she'd bought enough.

The cardstock window decorations she'd found were festive and matched Arthur's sweet nature. One portrayed a warted, green witch flying on a broom past a full moon. On the other, a ghost and mouse shared a pillowcase of candy and wished a "Happy Halloween." She held the tape dispenser between her teeth as she stuck them to their white front door.

Just then, the elevator dinged. Glancing to her left, she saw Arthur stroll down the cheerfully lit hallway. Buoyant expression on him, despite his white, blue, and red make-up being streaked from sweat. Striped prop bag on his shoulder and carved pumpkin cradled in his arms. "The store owner was going to throw it out," he explained with a half hug. "But he let me have it as a tip."

Classic, triangular eyes evoked the annual carving contest her parents had taken part of back home. Her father had been well-known in the community, being the town's only doctor. Entering the competition had been expected. They'd never won but enjoyed it all the same. Y/N had picked out the patterns and scooped out the squash's slimy innards. Her mother had baked the seeds. Peals of their laughter echoed in her ears, and a lump formed in her throat.

She swallowed hard against it. Dammit, Y/N. Get it together. This was supposed to be a special night for Arthur and her. She needed to distract herself. One of his curls peeked out from under his bald-cap and green wig. She twirled a strand around her finger. "With that toothy grin, it just might be your twin," she said. He pecked her temple, the kiss sticky from greasepaint. She lit the half-melted candles using his red lighter and put the jack-o-lantern just outside their door.

While he freshened his paint in the bedroom, she slinked into the bathroom to change. Arthur's and her routines were closely aligned; keeping her costume hidden had not been easy. The headband holding the furry cat ears was quite stiff, its teeth a tad sharp on her scalp. Once it was in place, she hid it under her hair. The lint on her form-fitting stretch top and leggings reminded her why she rarely wore all black. She retrieved her brown eyeliner from the nearby shelf and started in on her whiskers.

Arthur's footsteps neared, heavy due to his clown shoes, and Y/N turned to lean back on the sink. His thin lips parted as he scanned her body, forehead furrowed in pleasant surprise. His reaction planted a seed of bliss in her belly, one that bloomed every second they regarded each other. The lunch she'd have to spring for was well worth the pink shells of his ears. Eventually, she held out the fluffy, wired tail and a safety pin. "Would you pin this just below my waistband?"

Fingers grazing hers, he took it and sat on the toilet lid. He cupped her hips and pulled her closer, positioned her until the dampness of his breath hit a bare sliver of her back. "Hold still," he murmured, his voice sending a tingle through her. At his gentle ministrations, the spandex of her leggings felt snugger. "Did you- Did you read my journal?"

A faint click of metal as the pin closed. "No." She colored the tip of her nose, frowned at how lackluster the shade was. "I'd never do that. Even if I'm dying for a preview of your material. Why?"

"No reason." A soft huff, his shy smile clear in his answer. "I have an idea." He handed her a washcloth and hurried out of the room. She was patting her face dry when he returned, a fine tipped brush and pot of black greasepaint in his hand. "This'll look better."

Her brow arched. She'd only had her make-up done once; Patricia had invited her when they'd first met. Such an outing was not her preference, but Y/N had accepted, being new in town and wanting to learn about her colleague. There'd been champagne at the counter, which she'd sipped until she'd spent too much on eyeshadow and apricot scrub. The next morning, she'd put the products and a note on Patricia's desk: "I'll never forgive you. Thanks!"

The heat radiating from Arthur prompted her to close the gap between them. She craned her neck towards him, slid her palms to his yellow vest until she held him just below his ribs. His forefinger curled under her chin, lifted it slightly and angled it to the right. The cool, wet brush met her fevered skin. The dusty smell of the greasepaint blended with a whiff of stale cigarette smoke and traces of his sweat. She licked her lips.

The vibration of his chuckle was felt before heard. "I really like your costume," he said lowly. Two more ticklish caresses of the bristles on the apple of her cheek. "If you're not careful, I might werewolf and go wild."

She stretched closer to him, the fervor in his tone going straight to her center. Though he'd been growing bolder, his cocky side wasn't often revealed. She wanted it, thirsted to see more of the wild horse kicking inside him. Her touch ran over his chest, until she dipped under his black suspenders and pulled. "Are you going to gobble me up?"

Teasing strokes on her nose. "Maybe." Then his thumb whispered along her jaw and guided her face upwards. His kiss was supple, slow, a drag of his mouth as his tongue sought entry. She yielded, the simmer of anticipation bringing her to her toes. He groaned deeply and palmed her thigh, then fondled the curve of her rear-

The ding-dong of the doorbell halted them. He lifted his head and laughed, gaze sparkling. "I got paint on you."

She twisted in his arms and looked in the mirror. The whiskers caught her eye, embellished at the ends with dainty curlicues - his skill never ceased to impress her. Red brightened her lips and streaks of white were on her cheek. "It's all right. They'll just know I've been necking with a clown."

~~~~~

The sound of the bell continued. Over and over and over. More than it ever had in Otisburg. There were mummies, ghosts, a couple of skeletons. A superhero proudly displayed his red cape and blue tights, and a kid in her karate robe went on about her yellow belt. A tiny clown, too young to walk, was brought by her sister. As Arthur made funny faces, the baby cooed and tried to take his red, foam nose. Arthur parted with it gladly.

Only one member of the Wayne family appeared, slicked back hair and pompous pout making the disguise complete. The man accompanying the boy introduced himself as their upstairs neighbor and shook their hands. After one look at Y/N, he nudged Arthur's bicep. "So, she's the one keeping half the building up at night. Good on you, pal." Arthur blinked in confusion as she ushered the guy away, red-faced and muttering about his nerve.

Arthur was overly generous, giving out fistfuls of sweets while taking a few extra seconds to gather his nerves and compliment the costumes he liked best. It felt good to interact with strangers without constantly second guessing himself. Y/N would rub his arm or kiss his shoulder and tell him what a great job he was doing. "Kids are easy," he said, refilling the candy dish. But he reveled in her praises, anyway. And the knowledge that meeting the neighbors was going well.

Clean-up required little effort. The jack-o-lantern sat on their kitchen table, flames flickering as the wicks burned away. The door decor was packed safely for use next year. His plaid blazer was slung over the back of a dining chair and his wig was off. Y/N's decision to leave her whiskers on pleased him - she made a damn sexy cat. He pocketed the last few pieces of candy to snack on during the remainder of the evening.

The Sunday Night Special Presentation she'd picked out, a made-for-TV horror movie, began at 9:00 PM on GBC. Most of its airtime was punctuated by her tipsy snickers and legal wisecracks, which was typical when they watched something stupid. Yet, as the show went on, she grew quieter, barely speaking between sips of her third cocktail. As they sat on the sofa, her posture stiffened. Forearms crossed over her breasts. Her nails dug into her upper arm.

The change started two-thirds of the way into the show, when the plot about a doll running amok twisted into a story about a professional woman trying to assert herself against the demands of her mother. Against the expectations of availability. To fight for the simplicity of having dinner and peace and quiet. It resonated with him, which felt weird. Especially when the film cut to black, the implication being the mother would meet a violent end at the hands of her possessed daughter.

A cheerful jingle came on. Puerto Rico was a direct flight from Gotham Airport, it advertised, a flight that lasted "two hours and fifteen tropical minutes." They should get out while the weather was still good. The juxtaposition of mood broke him out of his ponderings. He flicked off the blaring television with the remote. Then he heard Y/N sniffling.

She set her glass on the coffee table, a slight tremble in her hand. "I need some air," she whispered as she rose, then went out onto the fire escape.

Arthur rubbed his thigh and pressed his lips together. He wasn't used to seeing her cry. Not from sadness. Should he follow her? Give her time? Both had worked previously, depending on the situation. But he wasn't sure what had upset her, what situation they were in now.

Exhaling sharply, he grabbed her glass and dumped the rest of the drink down the kitchen sink. Rinsed their dinner plates and put the slow cooker in the fridge. When he'd finished making decaf coffee ten minutes later, she still hadn't returned. He ambled towards the ajar glass door and stepped out.

Moonlight outlined her shapely figure and reflected off her hair, the silver a contrast to the orange glow of the streetlamps illuminating her face. Her stare seemed fixated on the street below. He followed it to see a group of ghouls and goblins spraying shaving cream on a shop window. A couple, one he'd see occasionally when out for a cigarette, walked down the sidewalk. A woman was half-carrying a drunk man towards a bus stop.

Upon clearing her throat, Y/N spoke. "I may not look like it, but I had a great time with you tonight. The movie just got to me." Relieved, Arthur sidled next to her, wrapped his arm about her back. Her head fell to his shoulder and she smoothed her hand over his stomach. "I don't mean to hide from you. Someday you'll know the details of my earlier life." She scoffed. "When I'm ready to think about them." He entwined their fingers and kissed her hairline, avoiding the wired tips of her cat ears.

Shivering, she took a shaky breath. "There are no skeletons in my closet. Only disappointments." Her voice cracked as she beamed at him, cupped his cheek, and pressed her face to his. "Knowing I'd get to have you would have made those years so much easier."

He held her tightly, massaging between her shoulders. She'd been speaking about herself, but he couldn't help thinking it was about him, too. His years with Penny. His stints in Arkham. The loneliness, the isolation, the endless anger and yearning to be more than a speck of dirt no one cared for. His journal was full of questions about where the hell his one and only was. If he'd known she'd be real, tangible instead of a figment, would existence have hurt less?

Wincing, he tried to push through those thoughts. To focus on her instead of himself. What mattered was that Y/N needed him. Perhaps a joke would cheer her. "I was thinking the other night of how easy it is to smile around you," he said. "You tickle my funny bone." Amusement bubbled in her throat, music to his ears. She released a contented sigh and nuzzled the crook of his neck.

Peaceful stillness ensued as the minutes passed. Though the breeze was chill, goosebumps forming on his pale skin, her affection kept his heart warm. His fingertips rubbed circles into her lower back, and she offered a pleasured hum. Across the way, footsteps pounded. He glanced to see a kid darting up the street, plastic pumpkin pail in tow. The boy's scream was filled with boundless energy: "Happy Halloween, Gotham!"

Snorting, Y/N took Arthur's hand and led him inside. The cheap tail she wore bounced with every exaggerated swivel of her hips. "I've behaved all evening, which your werewolf comment made extraordinarily difficult." She looped her arms around him and flashed a come-hither stare. "May I have a goodie?"

The scrape of her nails on his scalp coiled a knot in his abdomen. "Aren't you supposed to say 'trick-or-treat?'" he asked huskily.

"Your pussycat needs a petting or two." She closed the bedroom door behind them. "Maybe even a mauling."

His brows shot up on a hitched giggle. Then he palmed her hip while she started in on his buttons. Before she got too far, he traced a whisker with the pad of his thumb. Let their foreheads meet and pecked her eyelids. "Only if you give me something good to eat." He pressed into her, his enjoyment relentless, not waiting for her reply before devouring her mouth.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​, @howdylilflower​, @sweet-nothings04​, @stephieraptorr​, @rommies​, @fallenstarsabyss​, @gruffle1​, @octopus-plasma​, @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​, @another-day-in-chuckletown​, @hhandley80​, @jokerownsmysoul​, @mrscarnival​

[snowdice]

Gaps in His Files (Part 9) [Relabeled; Refiled Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton

Appear: Remy, Virgil (but only in the epilogue)

Summary:

Logan Berry has learned many things the last 10 years: a lot of math and physics, a bit of humility, and how to be a hero being just a few. Through his education, his experience teaching, and his exploits as the superhero Bluebird, he’s changed in a lot of small and large ways. He has recorded these changes in well-organized documents and files. He’s even had to create two new file designations: a red one for files about his moonlighting at Bluebird, and a light blue one dedicated to his boyfriend, Patton.

When Bluebird is targeted by a memory device and all of those 10 years of progress suddenly disappear, Patton Sanders and Logan’s extensive files are left as his only resource to get those memories back. But what is Patton supposed to do when there are clear gaps in his files? And what does he do when he is one of them?

This is set 25 years before Sometimes Labels Fail though it’s story is completely independent of it and it is not necessary to read that one first.

Notes: Superhero AU, memory loss, past child abuse, past child neglect, unhealthy ideas about ones place in relationships, emotional suppression, self-deprecating thoughts, medical procedures mentioned, very brief unhealthy views of sex

In which Logan was being a petulant little shit and so I slapped him in the face.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Logan’s future-self had made this ridiculously easy. He and Patton had fallen asleep on the floor of the office and woken up at about 6am. Logan had complained of boredom over breakfast and asked if they could take a break from the files and go to the library to get him a book to read whenever they were not trying to jog his memory. Patton had, predictably, told him that he wasn’t comfortable taking Logan out especially to the library since he frequented the location and people who know him might try to talk to him. Instead, he suggested Logan stay at the apartment and he would go alone to get a book for him himself. The man was surprisingly easy to manipulate for someone his future-self deemed a worthy romantic partner.

Said future-self had written his weekly schedule out in the front of his planner along with the buildings and classroom numbers each event took place in. So, he knew where he needed to be and when. He also had written the sections he was supposed to cover in the calculus textbook that day in the daily part of the planner. Logan could not find said textbook in his apartment, so he imagined it was in his on-campus office. Luckily, his future-self had the foresight to write his office number on the inside front cover of the planner in case it was lost and needed to be returned.

Now he just had to find these places. Getting to the campus was easy. When he exited the apartment building, he could see large buildings that were likely dorms only a few blocks away and, upon walking in that direction, easily found himself on a college campus. Then, it was simply the task of finding a map of the campus to locate the buildings he needed and going through the needlessly complicated process of figuring out his office building’s strange numbering system. Honestly why were rooms 7-9 and 13-15 in a separate hallway than all of the other numbers? It took him under half an hour all together to find the little room in the basement with a door who’s lock perfectly fit one of the keys on his keychain.

Perfect. Now, he just had to find the textbook in his desk, glance through the sections the planner had indicated, and make it to the classroom in less than 25 minutes.

He was honestly quite pleased with his own cleverness when he opened the door to the office.

…

Patton was there.

He was sitting on one of the three desks in the room, arms folded over his chest. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Hey Logan,” a woman seated at a different desk said looking between the two of them. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, everything’s fine Lia,” Patton said cheerfully, but there was a bite to his smile. “Logan is just being stubborn even though he’s in no state to teach today.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Logan said, teeth clenched.

“Is this another Logan gets pneumonia incident?” Lia asked.

“Yep,” Patton replied without hesitation.

Logan frowned at him. “I am fine.”

“You are not,” Patton hissed.

“I have no physical ailments,” he insisted. Lia and Patton exchanged a look Logan did not understand, but which still made him bristle.

“Look Logan,” she said. “I owe you a couple for last semester; I can teach your classes for you today and next week too if need be. Like, we really don’t want a repeat of fourth year, do we?”

He had no idea what she was talking about. “That won’t ha…”

“Thank you, Lia!” Patton interrupted. “I’m going to go and take him home. We’ll have to get together once Logan’s all sorted out.” He hopped off the desk and grabbed Logan’s arm in a firm grip before yanking him out of the room. He was clearly irate, but Logan was too; he ground his teeth together.

“How did you even get here before me?” Logan grumbled.

“Because I know where your office is,” he spat back. “Unlike you who knows nothing about anything.”

Logan gave an irritated huff.

“Don’t,” Patton warned. “Listen to me. You cannot teach this class. I would do a better job at teaching that class than you right now and I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree in mathematics. Lia is a great teacher with as much experience as you’re supposed to have. She will handle it. You need to focus on trying to get better. Not on ruining your own life for whenever things get back to normal.”

This felt infuriatingly like a scolding. “I don’t appreciate being coddled,” Logan said coldly.

Patton took a breath. “I will endeavor to stop doing so as soon as you’re mentally in your 20s again.”

“We don’t even know if I even can get my memories back.”

“Maybe you will or maybe you won’t, but I am not letting you risk what you spent the last 10 years building because you have a pathological need to not take a day off.”

“Maybe I don’t want what I built,” he said stubbornly. Patton went stiff and Logan realized his error. He honestly hadn’t meant it in that way, not even in anger, but he didn’t know how to explain that when he saw Patton’s face smooth out.

“The parking lot is this way,” Patton told him, turning from him. Logan opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

They didn’t speak again until they were inside Patton’s car. “Here,” Patton said, shoving a book at him.

“What’s this?” he asked, snapping out of the mix of panic and anger still pounding in his ears.

“You said you wanted a book,” he replied and clearly nothing had snapped him out of his own anger yet. “You like that one and you said you always wanted to forget it and read it again, so I guess you get your wish.”

Logan stared at it as Patton started the car. He’d known Logan was lying when he’d asked for the book, but he’d still gone to the library and gotten him one anyway. What type of person would do that? What kind of person would still go through the effort to get Logan a book he liked even though his anger was clearly boiling under his skin?

No one was like that. At least, no one Logan had ever met was like that. Not even his parents, no matter how kind they were, would ever do something like that, for fear that it would be like rewarding bad behavior. This didn’t feel like it was a reward for bad behavior though. In fact, Logan felt bad even though he still thought he was in the right. It was an odd sensation.

He looked down at the library book. It was a symbol of something Logan couldn’t quite put his finger on. A lesson he had a feeling he’d probably learned already.

Affection coexisting with ire.

His parents had always been good people and loved him, but he’d spent most of his life living up to expectations. Teachers liked him because he was smart and rarely misbehaved. His peers tolerated him because he was able to help them with their schoolwork. His parents loved him for loves sake, but he was pretty sure they liked him because he obeyed their rules and he was good at things.

So, who was this man who got him a book he liked and gave it to him even when they stood opposed to each other? Even when Logan had lied to him and tried to manipulate him? Even when anger hung in the air between them in this car? Who was this man? Why did his kindness and affection not require Logan’s compliance?

He had the sudden though that while he didn’t know if he’d ever remember anything else about this life he’d found himself in, he could probably remember how to love this man.

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 10

[a-spectacle-in-the-morning]

“Off the Playground” -- Sonny Carisi

Notes: Part 2 for this as promised, though I think it works as a standalone as well. 

Summary: Sonny comes over to help you unpack. He notices something he gave you when you were younger that he didn’t think you’d have kept.

-- 

“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” Sonny sighs as he takes in the state of your apartment.

“Hey, I told you you didn’t have to help if you didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, sure. You know I don’t have a choice with those puppy dog eyes.”

You give Sonny a wink as you shut the front door behind you. You’re making your way further into the kitchen and living room area when you hear him exaggeratedly clear his throat.

“Forgettin’ somethin’?” he asks, facing you but pointing his thumb back at the chain lock left dangling on your door. 

Begrudgingly, you head back to the entryway. “You know I actually did live in this borough for eighteen whole years, right?” Sonny hasn’t moved from his spot by the door so you’re forced to push him a bit to get full access to the lock.

“You’re not actin’ like it.”

“Well,” you slide the bolt into place, “excuse me for being distracted by the big, strong man that I thought would protect me if a burglar got in.”

“I would,” Sonny leans into you, “but I’d prefer not to on my day off.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning as you once again make your way into the living room. As Sonny follows you he notices an odd organization to your collection of moving boxes. A majority of them are scattered around the space and tucked in corners. One large one is acting as a sort of coffee table in front of your loveseat. What caught his interest, though, is the pile set semi-neatly against the wall to his left.

As if picking up on what he’d just noticed you point to the pile of boxes and say, “You can start over there. I tried to get all the boxes with my bookshelf together, but it’s in about five thousand pieces so some parts might be missing. There’s a toolbox by the window.”

“I’m gonna need tools?”

You grab the toolbox and set it at his feet. As you straighten back up you get close enough to kiss him, but instead you whisper, “The Allen wrench’ll be near the bottom.” Then you leave his space to sit in front of your own pile. 

After half an hour of sifting through boxes you’d un-helpfully labeled just ‘junk’ you stand to stretch out your legs. The sound of fabric being wiped across something then hitting the ground catches your attention. You dare a glance over your shoulder and see that Sonny has removed the unbuttoned flannel he’d arrived in. Just the sight of him in a white t-shirt and jeans has your stomach twisting. The bookshelf is nearly finished with just one box still unopened.

“You, um.” So, all it takes is a sweaty Sonny in a tight shirt for you to drop the flirtatious act? “You hot?”

He gives you a look, one eyebrow raised at your sudden lack of words. Your eyes involuntarily flicker to his chest a couple times. He notices, of course. With a little lop-sided grin he just replies, “I hot.”

There’s something caught in your throat so you just nod your head and shuffle over to the window. It’s already open, but you pound on the side jambs and make enough space to heft the nearest box fan into the opening.

“Wait is this…” Sonny trails off and you turn around to see what’s up.

The second you recognize what’s in his hand you rush over and try to snatch it. But Sonny pulls his arms up and away, just out of your reach.

“Sonny I swear to God-”

“Ay! Don’t make me tell your ma that you took the Lord’s name in vain.” Sonny tries to sound serious, but his massive grin exposes the fun he’s having.

Jerk.

You step back and slump your shoulders. “Go ahead and ask.”

“Is this the troll doll that I won for you?”

You can’t help the deep sigh of embarrassment that escapes you. “Yes.”

-

On a similarly hot day in the late nineties your family and the Carisis had driven forty-five minutes out of town to go to a fair. It started out as one of the worst days of your life. The sun was unrelenting, you kept getting static shocks from the rides, and everyone kept asking Sonny about college. It was the summer before he left. He was abandoning you and everyone was so happy and the air smelled like cotton candy and sweat. It was torture.

You spent half the day wandering by yourself as far from Sonny as you could get. Every once in a while you would stop to waste some money on something. You were stuck at a duck hunt-esque game when you realized someone was watching your shots.

“You’ve gotta aim a bit ahead of the target or you’re not gonna get it in time.”

Sonny’s words bang around in your head as you miss your last shot. “You messed me up.”

You turn to face Sonny, squinting in the sun. He’s all long legs and bright blond hair. 

“Oh sorry. Didn’t realize my good advice would ruin your incredible score of two.” 

“If you think you’re such a good shot, prove it,” you challenged.

He does. For a lanky kid Sonny had great aim. He beat your score in a couple seconds and did well enough, much to your chagrin, to earn a prize. As you kept your gaze directed at the bumper cars you noticed Sonny holding something out for you. 

“I don’t want your pity prize, Sonny.”

“It reminded me of you.”

You hadn’t actually looked to see what he was offering until that moment. His sweet tone had you imagining a teddy bear or some other stuffed object, but when you saw what it actually was you had to stop yourself from punching him. 

“Seriously? A troll doll? Nice, Sonny. Thanks,” you snapped. But before you had stomped off you had aggressively snatched the toy from his hands. You were pissed, but it was like a going away present from Sonny and you had cherished it dearly after he left.

-

“You know I’m terrible with throwing things out.”

He nods but gets quiet. The troll doll is still in his right hand and it's making you nervous. 

“You know that whole summer I kept tryin’ to work up the nerve to tell you how I felt. This day, when I gave you this,” he shakes the doll a little, “I was holdin’ my breath the whole afternoon. You wore this little olive green sundress that made you look warm and bright. Made me lose my damn mind watchin’ you walkin’ around in it. But you were also wearin’ black sneakers with sharpie all over ‘em and your knees were scuffed up. Like you’d just skipped off the playground or somethin’. You looked so young I felt wrong for just thinkin’ of you that way.”

The revelation is bittersweet. You love knowing that he had also liked you long ago, but it tears you up to think of how complicated you had made things for him.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Sonny sets the troll doll down on a completed level of your bookshelf. “For bein’ born a couple years too late?”

You shake your head and step forward to lessen the distance between you and him. Your eyes stay focused on his hands and arms, unable to make eye contact. Without thinking you reach out and rest your fingertips on one of his elbows. “But it’s not too late for us now, right? This isn’t too weird after knowing each other so long?”

Sonny very lightly grabs your chin and directs your gaze back up to his face. “I think we’ve finally got it right.”

The sunlight sets half of him aglow and you feel like your heart has stopped beating. He reaches across his body to grab your hand still idling by his elbow and gently places your palm on his chest. Oh, there it is, you think. That pounding heartbeat beneath your touch gets your own drumming again. 

You lift up onto your tiptoes and brush a kiss on Sonny’s lips. He smiles against you at first, but then presses your hand more securely against his chest and kisses you fully. Everything gets heated quickly: the sun on your shoulders, the feeling of only cotton separating your hand from his skin, the way his mouth opens to deepen the kiss. By the time you’ve stopped a new, thin layer of sweat sits on your bodies. 

Sonny breaks the silence first. “Maybe I can finish helpin’ you unpack another day?”

You bite your bottom lip and nod, pulling him back towards the couch a few feet away. As you step backwards Sonny stumbles over something. His brow creases and he reaches down to pick up whatever tripped him.

“Yoga to Relax the Mind and Body? Why on Earth is this unpacked, but not your toaster?”

You grin and snatch the DVD from his hands, tossing it back to the floor. “Don’t ask.” 

--

You guys I apologize if this was more of a mess than usual. I have an unholy amount of papers to write for finals and I am overwhelmed. I’m hoping to get my groove back in a couple weeks when the semester is over.

[rainafoxfire]

Sannion has suggested that many people are in need of some direction as to starting or maintaining a devotional practice. I am perhaps not the best guide in that my own practice is rather personalized and idiosyncratic. However, I thought I would give some examples of what I do nonetheless, in case it helps anyone. (Though please, please don’t just copy my examples unless they are truly directly relevant to your own practice and spiritual relationships – rather, use this as a way to spark ideas for the types of things you might do yourself. Devotional practice should be personal, and arise from your own understanding of and history with your deities.) Some folks recently have described a single day in their practice, but each day is too different for me to do it that way. I don’t have many daily practices other than following certain taboos, a few simple things I always wear or do as I go about my day, that sort of thing. More and more, I have been led to a free-flowing sort of approach that tunes in and responds to the forces around me, rather than executing a pre-planned set of actions. This is actually trickier to do well, a balancing act. Ideally, it should lead to more devotional practice and magic, not less. I think I am only ready for this now because I spent so many years building a foundation. One thing that helps me keep the balance is my schedule of holy days. Each month, certain days (calculated by the lunar calendar) are set aside to focus on certain gods or spirits. Right now, I have eight of these, but I’m always in the process of refining it. This ensures that I never go too long without giving Someone their due. It also keeps a sort of rhythm to my spiritual life, going through the cycle over and over. Added to this are festival days (which involve more elaborate and specific rituals and activities), which are more unevenly scattered across the year. Of course, even on a day with no special focus, I might end up doing major ritual or trancework. But here are some of the smaller things I do more often to maintain and deepen my devotional relationships. Prayer Beads – I have a set of prayer beads I made about 5-6 years ago, where each god or spirit or group of spirits in my “personal pantheon” is represented by a different, symbolic bead (amber for Apollon, lava rock for chthonic Trophonios, etc.). I usually take these out on my walk to work in the mornings. I do not have set prayers. Often I simply pause at each bead and hail the entity, and perhaps talk to Them extemporaneously for a bit. Sometimes I ask for help with something, give thanks, etc. Sometimes I go through and with each one mention a certain type of thing sacred to Them, or recall the last devotional act I did for Them, or the next I plan to do, or something of that sort – almost a game, meant to keep my mind on these things. I find this practice nicely centers me in my web of divine relationships. Clothing, Jewelry & Hair – On holy days, I always pay attention to what I wear, choosing the colors associated with that deity, and anything else that seems appropriate. No matter what day, there are certain colors and fabrics that are off-limits to me, and everything I wear must align with the aesthetics of my spirits (which have slowly become my own for the most part, but definitely didn’t start out that way). Every day, I braid my hair in some way – this began several years ago as a temporary devotional practice for one of my spirits, just something to be noticeable and remind me of him each day, but then I felt strongly that I should keep doing it, and I think of the braids as intertwining myself with my gods and spirits. It is also significant to choose to make that more important than any personal preferences as to how I wear my hair. I also choose my jewelry carefully – every single piece I own has meaning, usually directly connected to a specific entity, and which pieces I wear each day are my statement of intent. No matter what else, if I go outside the house I am wearing a ring for my Husband and one for Dionysos, and when I am in my home “alone” I wear a second ring for my Husband. I wear a small piece of jewelry when I go to bed each night to connect with my dream-spirit. I also have stretched ears, which I did on request from my spirits to symbolically open my hearing to Their voices, and only wear a few simple sets of plugs, having given up pretty earrings as a sacrifice. (I also have nearly 30 devotional tattoos which state my allegiances in a permanent manner on my skin, but while I have them every day, obtaining one is obviously a more special occasion.) Images and Playlists – I keep a large folder of images that I find beautiful or powerful on my computer. I have them sorted into various folders, including ones for most of my gods and spirits. My usual screensaver is a random slideshow of all these images (since my computer is on for hours each day usually, it’s a nice way to be reminded of Them, and also useful occasionally for divination), but on holy days I set it to just the folder of that specific entity. Likewise, I keep playlists of music for each of Them and play them on Their holy days or when doing any sort of ritual for Them. I revise both of these periodically, as my relationships and understandings of Them change over time. Shrines – I have shrines for all of my gods and spirits in my house, but some get a lot more use than others. Most are just placeholders of sorts, making a space in my home for Them and an appropriate place to leave offerings if necessary, but not a focus of worship, as a lot of my worship is done outdoors. The shrines for my Husband and Dionysos however have cushions in front of them and I often sit in front of the “activated” shrine (when the candles and incense are lit) and pray and commune with Them. All my shrines developed organically over many years – the items on them tend to have deep significance and I periodically review them to make sure they still represent my current view of Them. I try to personalize anything mass manufactured (for example, by painting common statuary), and mostly focus on unique items that have a history with us, even though those are usually much less spectacular (for instance, the small lump of white marble I found on the shores of Naxos on Dionysos’ shrine, or the bowl of unusual coins I have slowly accumulated for Hermes, or the special ritual pipe for my Husband made from a bone of His sacred animal). On holy days, I light up the appropriate shrine while I am home. But I also often do this whenever I’m feeling Their presence, or want to invite Their presence. Especially at night in a darkened house, the glow of the shrine draws all focus there. Physical Offerings – I make both traditional and personal offerings to the gods regularly. At the very least, I do this on Their holy days, but with my core group I do it more often. These might include things like: alcohol (paying attention to both the type and even the picture on the label), flowers, incense, coins, stones, food, drink, etc. Each one has a wide variety of sacred symbolism to draw on. So I might pour out Stone IPA beer for Hermes, or leave figs on Dionysos’ shrine, or lay out a piece of honeycomb for the nymphs in some numinous spot outdoors. Aside from the shrines, repositories for my offerings might include bits of wild nature throughout the city, special trees or stones, the creek, or I might leave something on the street or at a crossroads, especially if it is for Hermes or might double as a glamourbomb for someone. Activities – On holy days, and sometimes on other days that feel imbued with the presence of a certain god or spirit, I try to tailor every activity to Them – what book I read, what movie I watch, even what errands I do. I might save a shopping trip for Hermes’ day, or go out dancing on Dionysos’ day. I’ll start reading a book about sleep on the day for my dream-spirit, or start an art project on the day for my collective spirits who are closely tied to my artwork. I clean the house on the last couple days of the lunar month, in accordance with the practice of taking out the sweepings on Hekate’s deipnon. Miscellaneous – I say a special prayer to Dionysos each time I consume any kind of intoxicant. On the full moon, I smudge all the animal spirits who live in my house in the form of pelts, taxidermy and bones. I only smoke cigarettes for ritualistic purposes in very precise circumstances, as per the taboo laid down by my spirits (or else I get rather ill). On certain holy days, I do not eat meat, due to Their wishes. On Apollon’s day, I have a special set of taboos and actions due to the oracular work. Almost all of my non-fiction reading is religious in nature, either overtly or somehow related to one of Their interests.  I am constantly open to receiving any omens or communications They might send me as I go about my day; I pay attention to things I see when I’m thinking of Them especially. I do divination when I need to know what They want or am not sure I’m receiving a message properly (and I find choosing the method of divination to be important in itself – runes for Odin of course, a fairytale Tarot deck for my spirits, a Greek mythology deck for my primary deities, etc.). Hopefully that’s enough to paint a general picture of my approach to devotional practice. I would very much like to see more people writing about what they do.

Dver, author of https://forestdoor.wordpress.com/

[viktorfm]

(MAXENCE DANET-FAUVEL, NONBINARY) - Have you seen VIKTOR SAMUELS? VIKTOR is in HIS/THEIR SENIOR year. The VISUAL ARTS MAJOR is 24 years old & is a CAPRICORN. People say HE/THEY are OBSERVANT, INGENIOUS, RETICENT and DEPENDENT. Rumors say they’re a member of KINCAID. I heard from the gossip blog that THEY'RE HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH THEIR THERAPIST. (JAMES. 21. EST. THEY/THEM.)

dont. look at me. i know. anyways if it wasnt obvs i abandoned cupid (n darrow) in order 2 bring the two ocs tht he ws inspired by n ws a combination of bt. theyre better as different ppl methinks.

DEATH, HEAVY GRIEF, OVERDOSE / DRUG ADDICTION, HOSPITALIZATION, HYPERSEXUALITY, RELIGION MENTIONS TW

aesthetic.

old tvs and their static, worn tapes, horror movie screams, spilled ink, a sculptor’s hands, clay-stained, chicken scratch handwriting, messy notes, messy hair, scoffs and eye-rolls, bruised knuckles, sore throats, funeral homes and a crying preacher, shattered ceramics, knife fights, high ledges, vertically-striped pants, red lights, the moon shrouded in clouds, cigarette butts, graveyards and half-empty wine bottles, sitting there for hours and talking to nothing, about nothing, a god complex, gold rings adorning both hands, barbwire baseball bats, having never played baseball in your life, deep eyebags and broken mirrors, a permanent chip on one’s shoulder, yearning, longing, wishing.

basics.

full name: viktor phillip samuels

nickname(s): icky vicky :/

b.o.d. - january 2nd, 1996

label(s): the black hole, the crepehanger, the impious, the opaque, the tempest, etc.

height: 6′1″

hometown: preaker, vermont

sexuality: pansexual uwu

pinterest

stats

favorite song: disorder, joy division / it’s getting faster, moving faster / now it’s getting out of hand / on the tenth floor, down the back stairs / it’s a no man’s land / lights are flashing, cars are crashing / getting frequent now / i’ve got the spirit, lose the feeling / let it out somehow

background.

born to mama and papa (preacher) samuels in preaker, vermont - fifteen minutes after his twin sister, tatiana samuels. years later, rosa samuels joined the gang.

was an awkward, quiet kid growing up, he didn’t interact well with others and preferred being left alone to dig up worms and draw on the walls of their childhood home. the only exception was his twin, really.

as he got older he grew out of this, but instead became like … sort of an asshole? maybe to compensate for years of childhood awkwardness. he’s the sort of person who will bite the hand that feeds him & developed into a full time nuisance by middle school, unlike tatiana who was much more subtle about her conniving manners.

always has been a fan of ‘darker’ materials. grim & creepy morbid shit. probably the biggest tim burton fan, ever since he was a kid … not a good look for a preacher’s son, but he never really felt ‘in’ with the rest of his family to begin with. classic black sheep syndrome.

drew disturbing pictures as a kid that probably prompted one or two or five phone calls home to assure everything was fine.

just really had a knack for art at a young age, from drawing to painting to playing with clay. it’s always been his thing and probably is the only thing he’s good at.

being twins with tatiana was hard. they were near opposite besides both being quite mean-spirited. tatiana handled being in public better, left a better image behind - but viktor had talent, more than she did. they loved each other deeply - y’know, those unbreakable twin bonds as cliche as it sounds - but found each other as competition for their parents’ attention. a rivalry for affection.

in high school is when viktor really started to act out. it started extreme, like losing his virginity in their church and vandalism around the neighborhoods. faked being possessed in the middle of sunday service & almost had an exorcism performed on him.

his only redeemable trait was like … just his sheer talent in the arts. was in a 3d art ap course and specialized in sculptures. he could pretty much create anything he wanted with enough dedication.

because he was the problem child, the one who deserved to be disciplined for all his antics, tatiana could sneak away and get away with whatever she wanted much easier. on the bright-side, for her, i guess.

not a very motivated person - wasn’t planning on going to college, much less going to yates but his parents literally wrote & sent his college application for him because they weren’t going to house a deadbeat but had too much heart to kick him out onto the streets. cool!

he’s actually pretty smart but he just doesn’t apply himself. has a minor in english because he didn’t care for an extra course-load, but he’s good at writing & analyzing literature. is going to use it to write and illustrate his own series of children books with a style similar to tim burton’s. not for the kids, but because he likes to leave a trail of terror in whatever he does.

has been experimenting with himself since high school but college is where he really had started to crack down on himself. was out as pansexual & nonbinary by his sophomore year of college just … not to his parents, who don’t really need to know.

if you asked him if he believed in twins having a psychic connection with each other - he’d tell you he wouldn’t know. it felt believable at times, but sometimes he had no idea what was going on inside of tatiana’as head. on the other hand - viktor had always felt oddly transparent to her, like she knew all of his moves before he did. the only person who could predict him accurately.

( tw death, grief, overdose / hospitalization beyond this point )

when tatiana disappeared, viktor knew something was up. it was a twist in his gut, pure instinct that something wasn’t right. and it wasn’t right - and when she was proclaimed missing, they couldn’t find her.

and when tatiana died - viktor knew. it felt wrong, something cut so severely in him he could pinpoint her death to the second. he didn’t know how, or why, but he knew it. knew it before anybody else had.

afterwards he went on a sort of bender. he’d begun to struggle with a mild drug addiction late senior year of high school / early college, but he was managing it up until this point.

his mental health had also sunk to an all-time low, when it’d never been great to begin with. (manic & depressive episodes. once fixated on a sculpting project for six months and then knocked it off the table and destroyed it as soon as he finished it for no apparent reason.)

tatiana’s body wasn’t found immediately, and when it was … viktor went off the rails. ended up overdosing & being hospitalized. spent six months in & out of psychiatric care after that.

came back to yates to finish his senior year because … for the reasons above, he hadn’t been able to complete it. just wants to get his credits and get out of here.

is still dealing with a lot of trauma & grief - causes him to spiral and be unpredictable in regards of his mental health. he stopped taking his medication, so. :/ some days are alright, other days are pretty bad.

personality & facts.

the human embodiment of a gremlin that was fed after midnight. a goblin, if you will. one of those cats with a narrow head and really big ears … that’s them!

a big horror & halloween enthusiast. loves the old campy horror movies & probably has an abundance of masks from different movies. dresses like a grimy millennial beetlejuice more than they should because they just … love those black & white vertical-striped pants.

can appreciate the ~urban legends~ at yates and likes to feed into the fear that surrounds them. is probably the cause of a few ‘anomalies’ and ‘paranormal sightings’ because they’re just … a jerk.

fashion alternates between e-boy (they would be tiktok famous if they were 17 & didn’t think that a majorly minor based app was weird.), millennial beetlejuice, and goth in a crop top & sweatpants. big fan of crop tops and a big fan of sweatpants.

they can be really fucking mean? petty, aggressive, a major instigator. will literally spit in your face for little to no reason, you could just look at them the wrong way. the kind of person who will stick their gum into someone else’s hair. other than that? they’re like … sort of okay. they’re not always mean, just a dick about 90% of the time lmao

like okay yeah they’ll call someone a stinky bitch for no reason except they feel like it and believes it. it’s fine, they’re fine, we’re fine.

despite the fact that they’re probably getting into a fight whenever, considers themself to be a lover and not a fighter but that’a primarily because they fuck a lot. uses it as a coping mechanism, like they’re this big fancy carnival show that’s like ‘come one, come all! fuck the dead girl’s twin brother!’ and it’s … a lot. might have a problem with hypsersexuality but they’re not fully aware of it.

the preacher’s whore son, basically :)

pansexual & nonbinary, switches between he & they pronouns often and without a pattern, but they have such a fragile grip on their identity that you could call them ‘dog-faced bitch’ and they’d turn around like. sup.

vastly impulsive … like i said, they destroy their own creations for the fun of it. spends all their money on useless shit, will cheat on someone because they feel like it & likes the thrill, screams into the night sky frequently like a cat in heat.

will also spend months creating useless shit for no reason too. spent six of them sculpting a hollowed out tree the size of them & then took a sledgehammer to it.

they’re very super dramatic. would play the organ at church when nobody was looking after them and service was about to start. would just churn out these super haunting, creepy melodies like they were phantom of the opera. would do the same exact thing at home on their keyboard with the pipe organ setting whenever they got grounded until their parents took it away hbdsjfngkh

will absolutely not talk about their ‘time away’ because it’s not anyone’s business, not even their own younger sister. still refuses to talk about tatiana’s death, or their mental health, or their addiction (fallen back into it but it hasn’t gotten severe … yet :/), or anything involving their own emotions.

will just change the topic abruptly, no warning. asks about the jonas brothers instead and they fucking hate the jonas brothers.

that being said they’re absolutely not over tatiana’s death & it’s to the point of obsession over it. like there’s some kind of secret that needs to be uncovered, even though there just. isn’t. tatiana was their rock and they were pretty much dependent on her. kept them grounded. could control them when nobody else could, got into their head easier than others. it’s sort of like rosa lost two siblings that day because viktor hasn’t been the same since.

emotionally unavailable while also crying twice a day. cries during their brawls but still wins. is stony-faced when they tell you they cheated on you with your much hotter best friend.

will tell you straight up what they want from you, no bullshit & no beating around the bush. just blunt. if they want to fuck, nothing else, then that’s it. if they feel deviation or developing feelings then they’ll ghost in less than a second. is awful like that but feels no shame.

but also emotional as shit and it’s confusing. will cry on a whim and then flip you off if you try to console them or ask them what’s up. will bite you.

they go to therapy but they just fuck around and wastes their therapists’ time … also is fucking their therapist, but that’s neither here nor there. so they’re not really getting the help they need.

likes to be intimidating but not … with their body or anything because they’re a twig but uses their love & knowledge of horror and creepy shit to their advantage. has an abundance of fake blood. has channeled the energy of jack nicholson and used it on tatiana’s boyfriends before (also is a big fan of sfx makeup & has dabbled in it)

probably chases kids around with a chainsaw without the chain on halloween every year.

generally never doing good, both mental health wise & morally. would probably steal candy from a baby for funsies.

i don’t know if there’s a good to them somewhere deep down, but they don’t see any issues with themself either. nothing really breaks through to them anymore because the only person who ever made them stop and think about their actions was tatiana, and well, y’know. :/

an introverted reclusive type who doesn’t like most people or going out, but does so anyway if it means a quick high & a cheap thrill.

pretty observant and likes to analyze people even though they’re often like … partially wrong. judgmental because they like to make people feel bad, not because they’re a righteous mighty person. because they’re not. so like, a hypocrite!

wanted connections.

religious trauma? oh worm ;; three cheers fr <3 guilt <3 anyways uh. just people tht viktor hs known thru the church in some way even tho hes a fkn. freak now. maybe even family friends. 

the horror of our love :/ ;; hmm. any romance tht cld b toxic i think this cld fit. just rly a bad fit. viktor doesnt rly know hw to love so nothing rly lasts bt. maybe they try n try n nothing works bt they keep trying. cld also just be anything unrequited.

little fkn gremlins ;; theyre all evil n mean. bt theyre all friends. <3 

you are nothing ;; uuh. enemy plots. spicy enemies. rly bad enemies. rivals. they r brutal towards each other bcos nothing viktor does is ever soft.

fuck u dont pity me ;; uh. people who try to get close to viktor n he just. bites at them. he’s like no. bc he assumes ppl who r kind in response 2 his vileness r. theres smth wrong w them. n it might hv to do with pity. n he hates pity.

ugh. locals x ;; ppl who also grew up around preaker, vermont. the samuels r <3 well known folks n the uh. hm. the murder is an ongoing case. so they cld know abt it <3

dont tell anybody x ;; this is for soft plots. i dont know much about soft plots but. 

maybe i am part of the problem ;; the problem is chlamydiagate. this is a hook-ups connection. fwbs n one night stands. ppl viktor hs brutally ghosted. he doesnt acknowledge their existence outside of these events, perhaps. 

dont u just wna go apeshit ;; this is where viktor becomes a bad influence.

bt uh. anything. pelase

[ratsmagnumdong]

Head Over Heels (Severus Snape X Reader)

SUMMARY: Delivering Minerva's gift to Severus leads to more discussions.

WARNINGS: None

LENGTH: 3098

NOTES: I know this chapter is updated super, super late... Honestly, I only recently had the motivation to write a chapter, so here it is. I'm very rusty at writing so I apologize if this isn't too good. I feel like my Severus Snape is a bit out of character so I'm trying to get used to writing for him! Possible Chapter 3 if I could think of what to write? :)

1

---

What if he’s sleeping? What if he’s busy? What if he’s not even in his chambers? What if he didn’t want to see you? Oh god, why did Minerva make you do this-

The door swung open to reveal the very man you were overthinking about. His expression screamed irritation and annoyance, “What in God’s name is so important at this hour - oh… Iris...” his tone shifted to a somewhat sheepish when he realized it was you.

Oh gods, you hoped that you hadn’t woken him. But his apparel wasn��t pajamas, so you assumed he hadn’t been. It seems he had discarded his frock coat and cape, instead wearing his usual black slacks with a white button up… What would Severus wear to sleep? An all black two piece? Or perhaps a night shirt? A onesie- oh that would be an absolute sight… Naked? Oh man-

“What brings you to my chambers at this hour?” Severus questioned, regaining his composure as he peered down at you with a single raised eyebrow.

“My apologies if I’ve intruded on your night, but, uh,” you lifted the bottle of wine to him. “‘Minerva asked if I can deliver this to you.”

He stared at the offered bottle of wine for a moment before gently taking it from your hands. He examined it, a small frown etched on his lips. Though, you’ve learned that seemed to be Severus’ normal everyday expression.

When he didn’t seem to say anything, you cleared your throat and began fidgeting with your now unoccupied hands. “She said it was an end of the year gift,” you explained.

He snorted, eyebrow now raised in amusement as he stared at the label on the bottle. “And she made you deliver it at the dead of night?” He then raised his eyes to meet yours.

His piercing gaze made you squirm at the spot you stood. “It was convenient. I was talking to her and she asked if I could do her a favour,” you cracked a sweet smile, managing to maintain eye contact with the much taller man.

“It’s nearly midnight. What could you possibly be talking about?” He leaned against the doorway, bottle still being held delicately with those wonderful hands you seemed to find yourself admiring more often.

A soft laugh escaped from your lips. “We were having our monthly meeting. It usually doesn’t last this long… guess we lost track of time,” you scratched the back of your neck, feeling almost like a teenager being scolded for being out after curfew.

His long, slender fingers ran up and down the neck of the wine bottle. “I see… well… I’ll give her my gratitude when I see her,” his voice was very gentle, almost like silk.

His voice was like music to your ears. It never failed to make you feel warm and safe whenever he spoke to you. It was like a blanket wrapping around you to envelope you in a comforting warmth.

“... is there anything else you need, Iris?”

You both had been standing in the dungeon corridors talking to each other for an awkward amount of time. “Oh, uh… well, there is this one thing… but it can wait until you aren’t busy,” you stammered out, not wanting to disturb his night even more.

“I’m not busy,” he responded without missing a beat. He cast his eyes down to the floor for a brief moment, almost as if he seemed embarrassed for sounding so eager.

“Oh.”

He moved aside to let you through the doorway, an unspoken invitation to enter. When you quickly stepped inside, he looked both ways down the corridor before shutting the wooden door with a quiet click when locked.

“I apologize for the mess… I wasn’t expecting guests.”

You looked around his living quarters to find it… well. As how you expected Severus would manage his room. It was absolutely spotless, everything in its own organized spot. It was almost as if nothing was out of place. What could he possibly be apologizing for?

“Severus, it’s absolutely pristine in here,” you laughed softly. His name flowed off your tongue so smoothly, so sweetly… just like honey.

He didn’t respond to that, instead deciding to ask, “What is it that you needed?” He watched you for a moment; you had immediately been attracted to the large bookshelf that nearly took up the entire wall.

You examined the books resting on the shelf, a pleased smile gracing your lips. You ran your fingers up and down the spines of certain books, enjoying the variety of textures. “Oh, uh, well… it has to do with the Slytherin boys,” you turned your head to look at the Potions Master.

He had apparently silently made his way to his desk during the time you were admiring his books. “What have they done now?” He sighed, expression immediately turning exasperated.

You joined him at his desk, sitting at the cushioned seat across from him. You opened your mouth, but shut it moments after when you found yourself stuttering. Severus waited patiently, eyebrow raised and hands clasped together on the desk.

“Well, uh, it’s… it’s sort of hard to say,” you explained, thumbs twiddling together nervously. “I think you need to teach the boys on… uh, manners.”

And with that, Severus looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just- ever since I started teaching here, I hear a lot of… rude comments from the Slytherin boys,” you leaned forward in your seat. “I usually am the bigger person and ignore it, but I think it’s rather degrading when it’s my own house.”

Severus stared for a moment, clearly in thought before he let out an exasperated sigh, hands moving to rub his temples. “... I would like to give my sincerest apologies on behalf of my house. I would like to think I taught them well, but apparently not.” He clasped his hands back together and rested them on the desk, giving you the softest of expressions.

Being under the state of such a soft expression from the feared Severus Snape made you feel absolutely blessed. A warmth began to rise in your cheeks, casting your eyes down to your lap bashfully. This man was so sweet and sincere yet others say otherwise.

“I try to educate them what their parents so obviously didn’t teach them… I’ve never had to deal with those imbeciles harassing a professor,” he explained, eyes still on yours.

“After all, you’re quite young,” he said quietly.

That caught your attention, eyes snapping up to meet his. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He better not be implying that you being young- wait, wasn’t he only in his 30’s-

“Well, considering how old the other professors are… I think they find you most appealing,” he spoke truthfully. He wondered if what he said would offend you.

There was an overbearing silence filling the room. Severus thought he had indeed offended you and was about to apologize for his comments, but what came out your mouth next surprised him.

“Do you think the boys find me appealing or do you find me appealing?”

The question left another silence took over the room. You both stared at each other, not breaking that contact. It felt like forever before he answered.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he mumbled, finally breaking eye contact and looking down to his hands briefly.

“Oh,” was all you could really say.

There was disappointment, obviously. You would have really liked- loved if he admitted he did find you appealing and cue stereotypical romantic moment, but sadly, this wasn’t a movie or novel but real life.

“... I would like to believe you have this natural charm towards you that I can’t quite explain,” he furrowed his brows, as if a little confused. “... if you want flattery, then I find you the most tolerable at this school.”

Well, you’ll take what you can get. Knowing Severus, he isn’t very good with compliments.

“Wow, you sure know how to woo a woman, Severus,” you teased, rolling your eyes, but a smile still managing to creep its way up on your lips.

He clearly wasn’t quite used to teasing as a little colour began to form on his pale, sallow cheeks. “Truth he told, Iris, you confuse me,” he confessed.

It was your turn to raise an eyebrow.

When you didn’t respond, Severus sighed. “Not many enjoy my company. In fact, many absolutely despise me. But you… you almost seem to seek my company. And you enjoy it… Why is that?” He was now staring at you quite intensely, a look you couldn’t quite describe.

It was no secret that Severus was your favourite among the other professors. Yes, of course you loved Minerva and Sprout with your entire heart, but... Severus was different. He has his flaws, but who doesn’t have any?

It was almost like a duckling imprinting. You kind of just stuck with Severus ever since you met. Despite what others said, you found the man to have a comfortable presence. You enjoyed the time you spent with him; the conversations during dinner, subtle smiles (It was usually you smiling while Severus gave a curt nod.) when passing in the hallway, spending time in his classroom, it was all so enjoyable. And of course, there was the fact that you managed to grow a gigantic crush on the man.

“Is it such a crime to enjoy your company?” You said softly, looking into the other’s onyx eyes.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air. It was clear Severus wasn’t sure what to say. After a few thoughtful moments, he cast his eyes downwards and cleared his throat. “It just sort of baffles me on why you enjoy me so much.”

Because I like you, stupid.

“Maybe you have some sort of natural charm too,” you quoted what he had said earlier, a teasing smile growing on your lips.

The tension seemed to lift from the air when Severus rolled his eyes, letting out the quietest of chuckles from your teasing. “Oh, shut up,” he finally looked up to meet eyes once more. “I am the least likely person with charm.”

A laugh escaped your lips, leaning forward to the desk and resting your chin against your hand. “Oh Severus, I think you’re wrong. You charmed me the moment I met you,” you admitted, eyes admiring the man in front of you.

Where the sudden boldness came from, you had no idea. But it was definitely worth it when a subtle pink developed on those pale cheeks of his.

“How much have you had to drink tonight?” A bashful smile etched on his lips, trying to look anywhere else besides your soft eyes that seemed to be staring at him with absolute adoration. He wasn’t used to attention like this, but he didn’t mind at all if it was coming from you.

“I’m being serious, Severus! You have some kind of charm that I can’t quite put my finger on,” you smiled sweetly, biting your lip.

When he seemed too flustered to respond, you added, “You kind of give off a bad boy vibe, ya know?”

And with that, Severus let out a sudden snort of laughter. “Bad boy vibe?! Now you’re being ridiculous!” He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms.

You grinned, standing up and walking around the desk to him. “No, I’m serious! Look at you,” you looked the man up and down. “You constantly wear black, you're always brooding- have you heard the snarky remarks you make? Oh, not to mention your nails,” you reached down to grab his hand that rested on the armrest. “You paint your nails black for Merlin’s sake!” You laughed gently, playing with his long, slender fingers for a moment.

“I’ll have you know that I enjoy my painted nails,” Severus stated defensively, watching your much smaller hand fiddle with his own.

“I know. I think it’s cute."

Severus couldn’t hide the tiny smile that etched onto his lips when you said this.

You circled the seat he sat in for a moment before planting yourself right behind him, hands coming to rest on his shoulders and squeezing gently. “Not to mention your hair,” you gently twirled a strand of his jet black hair around your fingers.

Severus let out a soft breath, allowing himself to relax and let himself sink into the cushioned seat. “What about my hair?” He asked softly, head leaning back slightly to look up at you.

At the sight of his relaxed, soft eyes, you seemed to melt. You knew Severus wasn’t a man who relaxed much. He was always stressed about all sorts of stuff. Whether it was about school, students, or whatever, he was always so stressed. He was always so tense and rigid. So it was quite a sight to see the man almost seemed to loosen up just from your touch.

“I think it’s nice,” you whispered softly, continuing to play with long strands of his hair. Students always called it greasy. But it surprisingly wasn’t. At least right now it wasn’t. “It’s quite soft… oh, and smells good- in a totally non-creepy way of course,” you added, smiling awkwardly down at him.

He did smell nice though. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint the scent. It was… earthy. Mint? Pine? No, that’s not it-

“I understand. I have a somewhat... intense hair routine,” he stated, shutting his eyes and taking in this relaxing moment. “I make potions for a living. Standing over a steaming cauldron all day is not good for my hair- anyone’s hair for that matter. I sort of have to take care of my hair,” he explained.

You nodded in understanding, staring down at the man and taking advantage of the fact the man’s eyes were closed. You admired his features and smiled dreamily. The fireplace on the opposite side of the room crackled, swaying flames casting shadows across his face.

Severus looked absolutely stunning sitting here. You really didn’t understand the things that people said about Severus. You absolutely adored this man; why didn’t others?

“It’s quite annoying when people describe my hair as… greasy. I’m a Potions Professor for Merlin’s sake. I don’t know what they expect,” he mumbled, eyebrows furrowing in frustration.

“What kind of shampoo do you use?” You decided to try and steer away from his frustrations.

You saw Severus visibly tense when you decided to take it a step further, fingers running through his hair. You paused, looking down at him for permission to continue. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and let out a soft breath.

“Eucalyptus,” he said softly, staring up into your eyes. He relaxed back into his seat, shoulders no longer rigid. You took this as permission, continuing your actions.

You never expected to see the feared Professor Snape so vulnerable. In fact, you didn’t even expect to get this close to him. To think back on when you first met him and now, it’s quite shocking on how close the both of you have gotten. You were happy you were the one who was able to get past that rough exterior of his and become friends with him.

“It smells wonderful,” you whispered softly, fingers running through his soft hair ever so gently.

Severus eyes searched your face for a moment. You watched as he slowly brought a hand up to your cheek. He was very close to cupping your cheek, but he hesitated and almost looked scared to touch you.

You decided to take initiative and leaned into his gentle touch, cheek being cupped by his warm hand. You reached up and gently placed your own hand against his.

For that moment, you felt like nothing around you mattered besides him . Like time stood still and it was just the two of you. Just you and Severus. Oh, you wished it could be like this all the time.

His thumb gently caressed your cheek. “... Iris… I..,” he began in a soft spoken voice. He watched your look of anticipation. Was that… a look of hope?

Severus looked thoughtful for a moment, clearly having some mental debate. He let out a deep sigh and averted his eyes, looking towards the clock on his desk. “... It’s getting quite late. You must be tired,” he said quietly, removing his hand from your cheek.

No, you’re not tired! You want this to continue!

He clearly didn’t see the disappointment that grew upon your face. “Right. You must be tired too. Uh. I suppose I’ll take my leave then,” you huffed a bit, pouting like a child who hasn’t gotten their way. All that confidence from earlier seemed to go down the drain and you suddenly felt very… stupid … to think you had a chance with this man.

“Thank you for bringing the harassment to my attention.” Severus stood up, smoothing his pants out and turning to you. He himself looked a bit disheartened that you were retiring for the night.

For a moment, you totally forgot the entire reason you had come to him. “Oh. Of course,” you shuffled awkwardly where you stood and rubbed your arm. “Thank you for handling it.”

An uncomfortable tension filled the air once more. You couldn’t bear it. You sighed and made your way to the door. “Enjoy your night Severus,” you opened the door and looked back at him. “Maybe we could do something over the break?”

He stood there, blinking and processing what you said. “Oh. Yes. I was planning to head home, but if you still would like to do something, I’m perfectly happy to accept,” he nodded his head, hands behind his back.

Home? For some reason, you didn’t think Severus had… an actual house. You sort of assumed he lived in the castle like some of the other professors.

“Oh wonderful,” a small smile grew on your face. “I’d love that. I’ll owl you! Goodnight Severus!” You seemed far too ecstatic to spend time with him but at this point, you could care less. You gave him one last wave (He gave a curt nod back) before leaving his chambers.

As soon as that wooden door shut, you let out a quiet breath of relief you were holding in. You held a hand to your heart to feel it beating slightly faster than usual. You tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, the soft smile that began to grow on your lips was inevitable.

Oh boy, you were head over heels for this man.

[mag-milk-millennium]

Livestream, Hour 1

A summary of the English half of Mili’s livestream. This post covers the first hour or so of the stream; three more to follow.

Cassie made a valiant effort to answer questions in both Japanese and English, translating both for the viewers and for Yamato, but yknow - stuff gets lost. This isn’t everything ~

In this first segment, we learn a bit about Cassie and Yamato’s backgrounds, how Mili came to be, favorite songs, and future releases.

Cassie speaks Chinese, Japanese, and English. She says that since she was born in China, Chinese is technically her “mother tongue,” but she spent most of her life speaking English as she lived in Canada, and now mostly speaks Japanese. “Who am I gonna talk to, him, right,” she says, gesturing to Yamato. She also said she’s thinking of learning Korean so she can know what Mili’s Korean fans are talking about.

Cassie doesn’t want people to look for the “right” answer when it comes to the meaning of Mili’s songs; while she does have meanings in mind, she says it’s more about the listeners interpreting the stories for themselves. She also said they won’t say which songs are “linked,” but that if two songs seem linked, they probably are.

The made-up language that turns up in various Mili songs is “half-gibberish, half borrowed from other languages” according to the kinds of sounds Cassie wants to have in the song. Where real language lacks a specific sound, she just adds one.

On Mili’s growing popularity, Cassie says they don’t feel any different about making music, and that they don’t feel popular (Yamato nods in agreement.) She says they still make the music the same way as they did before, so nothing’s really changed for them as more people have started listening. The “Mili feel,” as she puts it, hasn’t changed. Financially they are doing better, though, she adds.

Apple butter chips?

Chocological is the very first Mili song!

Mili initially didn’t know they were going to create the opening theme for Library of Ruina; Project Moon approached them about making background music for the game, and was surprised that Mili accepted. Eventually it was decided they would make the opening theme, and also other background songs.

Yamato reads an English-language question about touring. His English is better than my Japanese. Leaps and bounds

Cassie said they would love to tour around the world, but that it’s harder since they’re independent. Because they aren’t part of a major label, it’s difficult for them to organize those sorts of things. “But if anybody has ideas, let us know,” Cassie says. She seems to have a real interest in making that happen one day.

Mili will probably do more songs like Sacramentum:Unaccompanied and Gertrauda, because Cassie loves the a capella sound and writing in her gibberish language.

Mili was technically formed on Twitter, Cassie says with a laugh. Yamato used to be a Vocaloid producer, and Cassie was a big fan. She covered one of his songs, he found it, and liked it. “Dope,” she says. He messaged her on Twitter a few months later and asked if she wanted to be the vocalist of a project he was starting. She accepted, and they soon began work on Chocological. Yamato has been making music since he was a teenager, and has known Shoto and Yukihito for ten or fifteen years, which is how they joined Mili.

Cassie counts “UFO (Unidentified Flavorful Object)” as her favorite song Mili has ever written. They started writing it after Cassie visited Japan the first time - which was apparently the first time she and Yamato ever spoke. The song celebrated the good time she had in Japan, and particularly the food. She says she was surprised by sushi, which is apparently not as good in Canada. She goes into a lot of detail about the sushi.

Ticket, Cassie’s cat, is carried into the room by Yamato, shown to the camera to much cooing from Cassie, and carried back out. Cats are not allowed in the studio.

Yamato's favorite song is “Lemonade,” not for any particular reason. He really likes playing it live. Cassie says it sounds very different live.

The full version of “sustain++;” is very different from the TV-size. “You’ll be amazed,” Cassie says.

When asked about unreleased songs, Cassie says that they wrote two more songs for Ghost in the Shell which will be included in the EP, and that there is also the full version of “Ame to Taieki to Nioi,” the Gleipnir ending theme, and the opening theme for Library of Ruina, which she does not name.

She also mentions a personal project of hers called “Donut.” She says she’s not sure what that will turn into, but that it exists.

There is a developing game they are writing background music for, but they can’t say what it is. Counting all the games and projects they are working on, they are making “40-something” tracks at the moment.