#now they are in full glory and fully slotted :)

[justsquibby]

Oh jeeOh gosh-Oh how did that happen

[gurlbesimpin]

In the Beast's den

{Karl Heisenberg x Gen!neutral reader} Chapter ten: Beneath the layers -NSFW-

Minutes ago, Karl was an emotional mess, admitting to his tortured past and the resulting mistakes. And now he holds you tightly in his strong arms, gently lowering you onto the soft mattress of his bed. Within a split second, he mounts you, his legs on either side of your hips, while he presses his face against the sensitive skin of your neck.

His tongue darts out, licking over your pulse in slow, sensual motions. Meanwhile, his hands grip your thighs, parting them so he can slot in perfectly. The soft, scarred, and stubbled cheeks of the eager lord are still wet with his tears from mere moments ago, brushing against your neck in an affectionate manner.

A soft whine escapes your lips as Heisenberg gently bites down on the sensitive skin, earning a growl in response. The usually cocky, cold, and unbothered Karl is now an affectionate lump laying on your trembling body like an oversized teddy bear. Fabric rustling and rubbing against each other sends jolts of electricity down your spine, eliciting a string of moans and whines from your lips.

“Karl… I want… I need-”

You interrupt your own words with a gasp when Heisenberg’s hands spread your thighs further, grinding his clothed and erect cock against your desperate sex. A deep guttural growl erupts from within him as he desperately grinds himself against you, seeking any form of pleasure. It takes a moment for him to respond to your desperately mewls, his mind foggy and clouded with lust and a primal need for you.

Instead of answering with words, his form moves down your body, his head slotting perfectly between your thighs, while his rough and gloved fingers hastily undo your belt and practically rip your trousers down. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch as your eager sex is fully revealed to the Lord before you. He roams over your body for a split second before focusing on your lower half. Before you’re able to take a full breath, his tongue darts out and slowly runs over your most intimate area. Waves of pleasure flow through you with each sloppy movement of Karl’s surprisingly skilled tongue.

“Holy fuck-”

You rasp out, swiftly moving your hand down to grip his gray locks of soft and thick hair. Lord Heisenberg sucks, licks, and devours your sex. It was the most delicious treat known to mankind. Before his onslaught can tip you over the edge, he pulls back, his tongue licking over his glistening lips covered in your fluids.

“Shit… You taste like heaven—sweet as honeydew."

He pauses, hovering over you once again and leaning down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. Your tongues collide, participating in an erotic tango before Karl speaks once more:

“Y’want me, buttercup. Dont’chya? You want my thick cock."

The only response your lust-clouded mind can formulate is a quick nod, which fully suffices for Heisenberg and his engorged cock. His hands fly down to his slacks, and despite the impressive speed, he doesn’t stumble over his own movements. Finally, with a final tug, Heisenberg in all of his glory is revealed to your eager and curious gaze. He’s slightly longer than average, but his girth is more than impressive. Though he isn’t clean-shaven, his salt-and-pepper pubic hair isn’t off-putting or excessively messy; rather, it makes him look more beastly.

“Y’like what you see, buttercup?”

He asks rhetorically, knowing the answer damn well. His hands wander down his chest to teasingly stroke his thick length, making you salivate at the sight of the powerful Lord Heisenberg pleasuring himself.

"Please, I need you.”

Your words are caught in your throat as he pounces once more, one of his hands pinning your much smaller ones over your head while his other hand snakes down to light up his meaty dick with your awaiting hole. His hazel eyes meet yours, silently asking for permission before pressing his hips forward.

Karl emits a groan as his thick girth stretches your hole, filling you up in the best of ways. He waits for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his cock, before pulling out and slamming himself back into your tight heat. Your brain is a foggy mess as he starts thrusting steadily, choked moans escaping both of your lips. He presses his lips tightly against yours when his hips speed up, his cock hitting all those spots within your body with practiced ease.

“Holy fuck, you’re tight—anghhh sh*t."

He gasps, picking up pace for the second time while shoving his cock deep into you. His scarred lips sloppily kiss your jawline, his beard tickles your skin, and his breaths come out in short, hot bursts. Unlike other sexual encounters, you felt your climax approaching surprisingly fast and early into the intercourse. Skin-on-skin slapping mixed with the loud creaks of the bed frame fill the otherwise silent quarters, the occasional grunts and huffs of pleasure intermixing with the lewd sounds.

Sweat forms on his forehead, his gray hair sticking to his skin as he moves his kisses to your neck once more, gently biting down as his onslaught of thrusts continues. Amongst the dangerous village, the other lords, the chaos, and the emotional strain, this is a breath of fresh, pleasurable air within your lungs.

“Mmm’ s’good-”

You whine, eliciting an animalistic growl from the Lord atop you, still thrusting at a rapid pace into your wet heat. Feeling yourself growing close, you try to warn him of your incoming ecstasy but are unable to when a particularly hard thrust suddenly tips you over the edge, a string of erotic sounds escaping your lips as you clench around his cock.

“Fuck yes, cumming on my cock like a good little fucktoy—mhhh fuck!”

His breath hitches, his hips thrusting wildly before stilling as his hot seed spurts out into your welcoming body. He breathes heavily into your ear, plopping down onto the bed beside you as you both come down from your shared ecstasy. Instinctively, he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you closer to his hot body; a soft kiss pressed to your forehead and affirming words whispered into your ear assist you in grounding yourself again.

A moment of silence falls over the two of you, just embracing each other's warmth and presence, especially after the emotional and heated encounter before...

Karl breaks the silence with an unsure-sounding question:

“Mmm buttercup? What you said earlier... about assisting me in killing that bitch—did you mean it?”

His hazel eyes look down at your tired form with a mixture of emotions; his animalistic lust is now fully replaced by the traumatized boy from earlier. Feeling a twang of sympathy once again, you nuzzle your head on his chest, pressing gentle kisses all over.

"Yes. Yes, I mean it, Karl.”

You whisper, pressing your ear against his chest, hearing the faint thumping of his heart. Heisenberg lets out a sigh of relief, smiling as he clumsily reaches for a blanket to pull over the two of you. He leans down and gently presses a kiss on your head, whispering:

“I… I think I’m in love with you, Buttercup."

[astarab1aze]

“What an awful kind of day.” Gure for Fuu

kim dracula lyrics

This was the first time Furie had seen Shigure like this - listless, lethargic, the look on his face cold and tired but not so of its usual sort of expression. Distant. Had he not already come to know the dog of the zodiac as half as well as he did then, he'd have let it lie, ignored it in the hopes it was a problem that could solve itself - one he wouldn't need to lend his voice to. But he did know him, better now, more fully, enough to know something was wrong - so clear in the sigh of Shigure's voice.

He didn't know the root cause, couldn't know what troubled him in full, but it must've been something important turned sour. There was admittedly much he hadn't told the dragon, perhaps too much that was painful enough to warrant hiding - but his defenses were down this time, worn down and easy to climb over in his stupor. So Furie did the unthinkable and, with all the wisdom bestowed upon him, shrugged out of his haori and carefully approached the stewing, brooding, miserable Shigure, gently draping white silk over his shoulders and slotting himself in beside him. A little boundary cross, the tip of his head and the curl of an arm around Shigure's middle, chin nestling into the ball of his shoulder.

At times like these, he wished he could speak, wished that he could offer some comforting words, tell him that whatever his troubles things would be all right. Strange to him, however, that he wouldn't quite have been able to say it with certainty; The closer he'd come to Shigure, the quieter and quieter the voidsong became, and the less effective he was at divination - Would it have been better that way, if the benefit of his talents had served him then? Would it have been as genuine, as meaningful coming from him, had parlor tricks and over-reliance on magic bought even a shred of certainty? He wished he could've helped, done something more than flail.

Iridescent scales shine in the hazy afternoon light peeking in through the screen door, prismatic colors dancing all around the room, and at first he doesn't notice; But the moment he does, he emphatically points all the shifting shades out to Shigure, carefully, gently hooking a few fingers around his chin and guiding his head upward, to follow the streaks of pink, violet, white, green--

And he inches closer, pressing his cheek to Shigure's, giving so bright a smile as he can manage, and prods with tender fingers each time he tries to look away. Sparkling, as if he were stright out of a shojo manga in all his glory, lashes fluttering little butterfly kisses against Shigure's skin, soft glow beneath the surface of his own. And he tries, he tries, voicelessly mouthing, [ "Shigure, look at the colors--" ]

This is a small thing, for wisdom he cannot offer, a pittance, a meager attempt at easing the agonies of an addled mind - but it was something, something that could bring Shigure back to the here and now, if only just, if only for a little while. This was all he could do to turn so bad a day into one that may yet still be enjoyable...

[pomodorotimer]

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[twenytwenytwo]

Dec 30 2022 (3:39pm)

After my last entry, I got (despite the positive thinkings) rather sad. Like deep sad, still somewhat fried and tired, lost feeling.

I believe yesterday (perhaps not?) I philosophized about the mechanics of my particular “problems”, and that they really are a clog in a figurative way.

Dopamine, responsible for pleasure, relaxation, desire, motivation. I’m sure Serotonin is woven in somehow, I really have little idea what I’m talking about…

… anyway, right now I feel like two of the big things in my life are not only out of order, but also in a state of stuckness, as far my brain goes. Lemme try again.

Consider the role of girlfriend in my life. I like girls and want a girlfriend. Right now, I have someone in my life, who isn’t my girlfriend, but acts as a clog (sorry Izzy) for that slot in my brain because by desiring someone, and getting a dopamine hit (or whatever), I’m fully breaking up with Izabel.

So, it’s like I don’t want to feel good, because I don’t want to feel bad.

To be excited and feel free to continue on with my love life and get to know somebody new, that would feel good. But the thought of that also feels really sad.

Similarly with Ethan and Zilch. I absolutely loved Zilch, admittedly the idealizations of Zilch’s eras gone by are likely extreme inflations, distortions of what they actually were, and void of any bad aspects. Hanging in the front yard in the sun. Practicing relentlessly. I miss it. Well, I miss the idealization.

Ethan and I were so amazingly arrogant and pretentious together. We talked each other up like mad, and felt like we were going to take over the world together. I felt like I had found my musical soulmate, and had no worries. We rarely, if ever, disagreed, and the juices flowed amazingly well, Life felt great because it felt like we were going somewhere amazing.

Then, of course, as it came time to change, Ethan and I’s differences slowly became more and more apparent. I didn’t know how to deal with this because I was afraid of conflict. When Ethan was a pain, I felt like he was threatened the very reason for me living, the thing that had made me feel so amazingly cool and like my life was worth something.

I feel like what would fully unclog the Zilch clog is if Ethan came to me and was like “Hey, I wanna be in the band again, and hang out lots and have fun, and you can do whatever you want with the band and I’ll just agree with it and make it better in the ways you think I make it better and nothing more.”

Dec 31 2022 (7:47am)

From there on, it would continue in the format that I don’t want it to: I’m the brain, Ethan’s the drummer. This is the way it largely was the entire time, also. For some reason, I cannot accept that Ethan does not make or break the band, besides being a operating drummer. He adds to the band as much as any other drummer of his calibre.

I have trouble finding my energy source, my enthusiasm because it’s stuck inside an idealization of the past that is dependant on perceptual distortions. The thought of Ethan and I jamming, creating, and playing music together in a band is bliss to me. I have total faith in it. BUT, this isn’t the whole story. Besides the dress-code stuff, there were many times during song development that Ethan was just not cooking anything up, he was playing really unimaginatively, or too basic, not enough balls. I began working on drum parts on my own, because I wasn’t satisfied with what he was coming up with.

Enter Florentine Unknown, in it’s full glory. That song that so encapsulates that era for me, was all me. That is some jazzy snazzy drumming for someone who was not a jazz drummer at all. Perhaps it’s hard for me to understand where I get that, and it’s easier to attribute it to Ethan. He likely encouraged it out, but it was there, I already liked it.

Other songs like Walking Thru the Night, Badadadada, were also rhythmically defined by me, again, not the rhythm section. It’s as if I wanted it to be a product of a really cool band, because that’s what I wanted; a really cool band. So I unconsciously credited it to Ethan.

But yeah, these idealizations are troublesome. It gets in the way of me letting go of something that needs to be let go of, because it was broken, inundated with naivety and inexperience, teenage ignorance and fantasy. It’s getting in the way of me doing what, underneath all the mud, I am genuinely passionate about.

Imagine a universe where Ethan simply did not exist, or perhaps he was squash farmer in Peru instead. I’d be here in Nanaimo, 17, writing songs, listening to the Doors, eager to make a band.

I encounter all the lousy drummers I have encountered so far. Either I’d adapt my standards to them, or — having heard Mitch Mitchel, etc, — would have found a drum kit myself, and started drumming earlier.

I get decent, fast. Faster than I did in this universe because I didn’t have a drummer. I’m sitting in my living room on Sherwood, on Florentine Unknown chooses me as is idea-host, I capture it. I record it, drums and all (I wrote that dope bassline too). It sounds great.

I write, record and release all the other usual songs, on my own. People love it. I hire a drummer to play the songs at the Vault, with a bassist. It’s great. People think Zilch is dope. Jazz rock. It’s like the Doors, Hendrix, and Santana.

Me and my band are great friends, we have laughs and beers after the show. They’re hired guns and there when I need them. I feel fulfilled, I got to make music like the music I love and was inspired by.

I go on to have a successful career and eventually find a regular band of cool dudes that love what I’m doing and are serious and dedicated. We tour, Zilch continues to release album after album of dope shit. Life is good.

A portal opens. Me from the universe steps out and tells the other Adrian my story, that I can’t do it without Ethan. Other Adrian is like “who the fuck is Ethan? I did this all myself, with a little help here and there. This universe is great, I get to fully develop my vision with some fuckwhit screwing it up, I hire people to play the music, have fun with it, we jam, they look good cause they’re getting paid…”

He tells me I sound a bit pathetic, and that I shouldn’t let my hangups slowly suck the life out of my talent and genius. This Ethan guy is just a guy who plays drums.

Other Adrian tells me that he became a renowned artist, and earned himself a career because he didn’t fuck around, if something wasn’t right he fixed it, no bullshit. He said my hangup sounds like the kind of bullshit he’d flush away.

This other Adrian is having a ball. He’s never met Ethan, and even think that collaborating is great, but doesn’t work for him. He finds people screw with his vision for the song, and the songs always end up better when he crafts it himself. Songs like Florentine Unknown.

(9:25am)

Ethan was a catalyst for me. The thought of playing a tune, an idea, for real was inspiring. Like, hearing it live in the jam room, drums and guitar, was stirring and inspiring. When he and I fell out, I lost that. I felt like my ideas remained just ideas all the way through to the recording being finished. “Stop Dreaming” has still technically never been played in this way, live, by living people.

The thought of live, living music is what gets me going. When Ethan and I would record live, it was perfect, conceptually at least. The idea was perfection, even with it’s imperfection. Ethan was the thing that made it a living thing, because he was the person a played my ideas with.

[pascalpanic]

Conferences (Maxwell Lord/Lorenzano x f!teacher!Reader)

Summary: Alistair Lorenzano is a third grader in your class, whom you absolutely adore. Upon meeting his father, Maxwell, you suddenly have much more interest in the Lorenzano family. Set after WW84.

W/C: 2.9k

Warnings: language, flirting, talk of divorce and trauma, lots of talk of children and such, especially Alistair. brief nondescript mentions of Maxwell’s shitty childhood. uh. Spoilers for The Great Gatsby lmao

A/N: well! I haven’t written for max in a long time but the ship request (which are CLOSED) i received here really made me inspired! hope u guys like it :)

Alistair Lorenzano was a joy to have in class. You mean it too, not like when you don’t have a comment for a child’s report card and you just stick that phrase on the bottom. No, Alistair is a genuinely good kid.

The little dark haired boy walked in proudly on the first day, even as none of the other children came over to say hello or pal around with him. He seemed lonely, but he marched up to your desk and placed a beautiful apple on the desk, giving you a gap-toothed grin and introducing himself with a handshake. Alistair didn’t talk to his other classmates much that day, or any other day really. He was usually preoccupied with a book of some sort.

He sits alone at lunch and recess, usually burying his nose in a book as the other children play. He’s progressed quite quickly, reading big wordy books the other fourth graders surely couldn’t handle. When a child has no one to play with, Alistair will sit with them and talk. He’ll always help a struggling classmate with their long division or come up with a good synonym for them. He rarely raises his hand, but he’s almost always correct.

He’ll come in early most mornings. He doesn’t talk much about his family, but he says his dad works early in the morning and that he has to drop him off earlier. That’s fine with you; the kid is a good conversationalist and will read quietly while you arrange lesson plans or grade spelling tests.

You wonder what his family is like. All you know about his father is that he works early in the morning. His mother has dropped him off late several times, but that always led to more early mornings; presumably his father’s doing.

As a teacher, you tend to shy away from family-based assignments. You’re fully aware that some of your students won’t want to share what their parents do for a living, or talk about them at all. That’s why you don’t know much about the Lorenzano family- you don’t ask and Alistair doesn’t share.

Conferences are approaching soon as you approach the midpoint of the first semester. Most parents don’t come if their children are doing well; typically, only the parents of struggling children make appearances. That’s why you’re surprised to read the note Alistair hands you when he walks in, thirty minutes before class begins, as always.

You frown reading the little note of paper, pushing your glasses up your nose. “You’re sure that your father needs a conference?” You ask the little boy. He looks confused. “I’d love to meet him,” you say hurriedly, sipping your morning coffee. “It’s just that… you’re a very smart kid, Alistair. Usually it’s the parents of kids who don’t do so well that sign up for conferences.”

Alistair shrugs, taking off his puffy fall jacket and hanging it on his hook near your desk. “I don’t know. Dad just said he wanted that time,” he says, pointing at your paper.

Dramatically uncapping a colored flare pen, you make a show out of writing down the name for your 7:30 time slot: Mr Lorenzano. “Well, I will see your dad then,” you tell the kid with a smile. He seems pleased that you’re excited. “What’s his name?”

“Maxwell,” Alistair informs you, sitting at his desk and cracking open his book.

You repeat the name, writing it down in the purple pen you chose. “Your family has very elegant names,” you tease Alistair.

Alistair shrugs. “Dad likes to sound fancy.”

-

Maxwell has never met you, but he feels that he knows you like an old friend. Alistair absolutely adores you, tells his father about you at any chance he gets.

You sound wonderful. He supposes that Alistair would adore any female figure in his life right now. Vanessa, the former Mrs. Lord, has all but rejected her son. When Alistair would spend time at her place, she’d practically ignore her own kid, prioritizing whatever she wanted to do. Several days, Alistair was late to or completely missed school thanks to Vanessa’s ignorance.

That’s why Maxwell has taken nearly full custody now. Vanessa didn’t argue it. She was glad to have Alistair out of her hair. Besides, she resented Maxwell for endless reasons, usually unfounded. She wanted to see him struggle.

But Maxwell thrived. Alistair and his father are as close as can be. Maxwell now works a menial job, after the whole Dreamstone fiasco, but he’s managing to make ends meet. When they have enough money left over, he’ll take Alistair to the movies or buy him a new lego kit.

Maxwell hasn’t found love since Vanessa, but he thinks you might be the one for him. One could call him a hopeless romantic; his heart builds and breaks as easily as a wave on the shore. You sound so nurturing and lovely, so wonderful to the one Maxwell loves most. That’s partially why he scheduled the conference with you.

The other part was that Alistair is a budding genius in Maxwell’s eyes. He flies through thick books day in and day out, and Max wants to accommodate the skills in his son. He constantly tells him how proud of him he is, but he wants to make sure he can keep helping him learn.

On the day of the conference, Maxwell is nervous. Why is he nervous? He combs his closet several times to find one of the nice suits from his glory days, but decides it to be ridiculous. He’s not sure how much Alistair tells you about his family, but he’s sure you know he is no longer the television personality Max Lord. Instead, he settles for a dress shirt and pants, tossing on a light jacket over it. The fall air is turning crisp, especially in the evenings.

Doña Gloria from next door knocks on the door at promptly 7:00, and Alistair pops up to answer it. He loves the old woman, and wraps her in a big hug. Gloria walks inside the apartment, grinning at the sight of Maxwell’s outfit. “Ah, making a good impression on the boy’s teacher,” she nods in approval.

“Hoping to,” he nods and adjusts the suede jacket over his lapels, fidgeting with the zipper. “Alistair, why don’t you go find that game you wanted to play with Doña Gloria?”

The child runs off obediently and the woman straightens his collar for him. “Little Maxie has a crush,” she sings.

“Gloria,” he frowns as he messes with the cuffs. “I’ve never even met the woman.”

She gives a knowing smile. “But you know her. You know her through Alistair, all his stories. I’m sure she will love you, mijo.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he sighs and pats his pockets, checking for his wallet. “She’s Alistair’s teacher. I can’t just-“

“You can do whatever the hell you want, Mr. Lorenzano,” the woman chuckles and reassures him. “Go get her.”

He shakes his head. “It’s a conference, not a date,” he says as he walks towards the door.

“It can be both!” Is the last thing he hears before he shuts the door, making him laugh.

-

Conferences, as always, are a pain in the ass. You sit and make small talk with parents, discussing their child’s skills with their times table versus their writing proficiency, their standardized test scores and how they stack up.

As the night passes, you grow more frazzled. Your hair, neatly tucked back, falls out in strands, and your glasses seem to slide down your nose more and more often. Some parents verbally abuse you for their children’s poor scores on their science test. Others try to get to know you a little too personally. All part of a day’s work.

A hopeful smile dares to peek out as you read your schedule and arrange your sampling of Alistair’s works. You’re eager to meet his father, to meet the man Alistair so rarely talks about but clearly adores.

There’s a knock on your classroom door at 7:30 on the dot. Shoving your glasses up your nose one time, you hurry to the door and allow the man in. “Hi, nice to meet you, Mr. Lorenzano,” you tell him and shake his hand, leading him to your desk.

Something about him seems familiar. He’s very attractive, that’s something. He doesn’t have his son’s dark, nearly black hair, but rather a light brown with bits of blonde interjected throughout. He has his son’s deep brown eyes, and his very presence makes you smile. He looks put together, dressed similarly to other fathers you’ve seen tonight.

You tuck your skirt under you as you sit in your chair. The man’s voice is smooth and beautiful as he speaks. “It’s nice to meet you as well. Alistair talks endlessly about you at home.”

Smiling, you shuffle some of his papers. The man is distractingly handsome, you find as you scramble to grab Alistair’s math test. “Well, he’s a very special kid. I adore having him in my class, truly. Your son is going places, Mr. Lorenzano.”

“Please, Max,” he shakes his head, producing something from a pocket. “Oh, and… for you.”

The sight makes you nearly laugh, but instead you break into a grin. The man’s large hand holds a shiny red apple, perfectly shaped. “Thank you,” you laugh and set it on your desk. “You know, I have no idea where that silly custom comes from.”

“I should ask Alistair,” Maxwell chuckles, his face heating as he takes in the beauty of your smile. “He knows so much. It wouldn’t be a stretch for him to know that.”

Nodding, you hand over an assortment of Alistair’s schoolwork and artwork. “He really does. I appreciate having a fellow avid reader in my class. He’s so bright, it’s… wild, really. Do you or… Mrs. Lorenzano,” you say, treading lightly, “do anything supplementary that advances his learning?”

Max looks down at the papers. “Well, she isn’t Mrs. Lor- Lorenzano anymore,” he shakes his head, his eyes not meeting yours for a moment. He stumbles, nearly using his former business name of Lord. “But no. I have nearly full custody of Alistair, and he flies through books. It’s absurd,” the man laughs, his pride in his eyes as he looks at you. “I mean, neither of us were ever as smart as this. I don’t know where he got it from.”

You frown at that. “You seem very smart, Max. May I ask what you do for a living?”

His brow furrows. “Alistair hasn’t told you?”

You shake your head, adjusting your glasses. God, Maxwell wants to do that for you, push them up your nose or better yet, take them off and kiss you deeply. “I don’t push kids to talk about their home lives. Some don’t want to share,” you shrug.

“I wish I would’ve had a teacher like you in my day,” he chuckles sadly. “I... well, I work currently for a corporate office in Arlington. It’s nothing very exciting, or anything that requires skill.”

You shrug, smiling a little. “It must be an important job or they wouldn’t pay you to do it.”

His chuckle is a little more upbeat. “I suppose. I just… my family was very poor when I was a child. I don’t want Alistair to feel ashamed that I don’t make as much money as his other classmates. Tell me, he doesn’t seem very social. Is he…?”

You want to phrase it properly, so you stutter for a moment. “Well, to put it plainly, no. Alistair does not talk much with his classmates. He’s a very quiet boy, as I’m sure you know. It’s not that they ostracize him, but rather that he chooses to be alone. He’s always reading rather than playing soccer or whatever,” you shrug. “It’s most certainly not exclusion on the basis of… having less money.”

Maxwell’s shoulders relax a little. “Well, I’m glad. Honestly, I don’t mind that he’s quiet. I’m glad he’s learning.”

“I’d usually disagree, but I have to say the same,” you chuckle. “He’s a really good kid, Max. You should be proud to have him as a son. Don’t tell anyone, but he’s my favorite student.”

He’s absolutely beaming with pride. “That’s all I could ask for. Thank you.”

“Of course! How could I not love that kid?” you chuckle as you admire a drawing Alistair made of a scene from his favorite book. “Was that all you wanted to talk about?” You ask, unsure if he had more concerns.

Maxwell’s almost startled by the question. “Oh! Yes, I got sidetracked,” he chuckles, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He’s painfully beautiful, and his laugh makes you laugh in return. It’s safe to say you really like the Lorenzano family. “He just goes through book after book, it’s endless. Do you have any recommendations for continued reading? I want him to keep going like this, truly.”

Tapping a pen against your gradebook, you think on it for a moment. “I guess the best way would be positive reinforcement, but not reward. If you, say, incentivized it, he might see it as a chore to earn the money or toy or whatever.”

Maxwell nods as he listens, a small smile on his face as he listens to your voice and intellect. Yes, his theory earlier was correct. He does have a crush on you. “Naturally.”

“So, my recommended course of action would really just be praise and support. Tell him you’re proud of him. Offer to take him to the library to pick out some more. Those little things mean more to a kid than we can know.”

Max does know, actually. He knows because he was deprived of them as a child, because he tries to use them as often as he can so Alistair never feels the way he felt. “I can most definitely do that.”

“Great,” you nod, fidgeting with the stem of the apple in front of you. “If he ever wants to do more math or puzzles or such, the library has lots of great resources for that as well. I also have lots of worksheets I could send home with him.”

“If I can tear him away from that book,” Maxwell chuckles. “Do you have any favorites? You mentioned you read a lot.”

“Oh, god,” you laugh, and Maxwell is enchanted by the sound. “There are too many options! My favorite book of all time would probably have to be the Great Gatsby. I love the classics.”

Maxwell’s smile turns bittersweet. Jay Gatsby’s life reminds him far too much of his own for comfort now. Before, he’d call himself a Gatsby in reference to lavish parties and living large. Now, he feels like Gatsby dead in the water. “Wonderful book,” he nods. “F. Scott Fitzgerald is a literary mastermind.”

“Do you read too?” You ask, intrigued. His personality shows more and more and you’re desperate for even more of it.

He shakes his head. “Not as much as Alistair, I’m afraid, but when I have the time.”

You grin. “My plans for tonight are to go home and read with some takeout. No one to disturb me or anything. I’m very much a homebody, so it’s usually just me and my gradebook and my houseplants. Takeout is the most excitement I get. I’m looking forward to working through this book though; I’m currently reading Wilde.”

“Ah, what book?”

“Picture of Dorian Gray,” you smile and look down at your tote bag with the book tucked into the side. “If I have any brainpower left. Most of these conferences are energy-suckers.”

“How many do you have left?” He asks, curious.

“You’re the last of the night, actually,” you chuckle and cross your arms on the desk, looking over at him and silently hoping he reads your interest.

“The night you have planned sounds lovely, I must say,” Maxwell chuckles. “I do love takeout, but I know of a wonderful place near here. I… we could go get dinner, if you’d like.”

Tilting your head to the side, you scrunch your nose to push your glasses back up. “That sounds wonderful, Max. It’s nice to converse with someone who isn’t 9 years old for a while. And someone so interesting,” you openly flirt now that you can tell he’s picking up on your messages.

“Me? Hardly,” he shakes his head and laughs. “I’m sure you have much more fascinating stories than me.”

“I am a third grade teacher, Max,” you laugh. “If you want stories that involve boogers, the ever-present cooties, and long division, I’m your gal, but it hardly extends past that.”

“I guess we’ll just have to find out. Do you like Italian food?”

“I love it,” you grin. “Does that mean wine?”

“Always,” Maxwell says in a mockingly offended voice, as if you’d even dare to ask such a thing, with a look of disgust.

“Thank fucking god,” you laugh before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Oh shit. Oh-“ you wince as you try to cover your curse with another curse. “Sorry. When school hours are out, I can’t hold back any longer.”

“No need to,” he assures you. “A woman like you could do whatever she wants and I’d be happy to just be in her presence.”

“Mr. Lorenzano,” you tease. “This is a parent-teacher conference!”

“Then let’s head to dinner and continue this in a nonprofessional capacity, shall we?” He asks, standing and pushing back his rolling chair.

“That sounds great,” you smile. Alistair’s father sure is something. Yes, you certainly like the Lorenzano family.

-

taglist:

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[jockpoetry]

supernatural sees women as a tool for development and strengthening of narratives/motivation and dean sees his body as a tool. is that anything?

When I saw this ask I really made the 🥴in real life. So, yeah anon, I do think there’s something to this.

Quick Disclaimer before I actually launch into my thoughts™: A lot of my read of Dean stems from my experience as both an oldest daughter and a transman. Being the oldest daughter was an experience I lived for many years, but I am also a man. I wasn’t raised as a man, I wasn’t socialized as a man, and even though once I came out upon reflection my masculinity was obviously there. Like I was a man™ before I knew I was a man. Even when I actively tied my identity to femininity for a long time! A lot of my prideful moments were based around statements like: “I was the only girl who (fill in the blank).” 

So I am just putting that out there before I launch into my spiel about Dean/Gender/Tool because they all interlock for me. 

I am also going to apologize in advance because I know this has fully gone off the rails and I’m not even done writing it yet. If this is incomprehensible ! Well, happens to the best of us.

First off, most importantly I guess before we discuss womanhood and Dean and the way both are utilized on the show I need to say that I personally don’t subscribe the whole Dean is female coded thing. 

It’s a read I can absolutely understand. But for me..he’s not. 

He’s a hypermasculine man to the point that when (and because he is written as a punchline, as the stupid™ brother, as the whore™, as the mother/father™, as daddy’s blunt instrument™, etc) Dean deviates from the pre-accepted definition of hypermasculine it’s Wrong. 

It’s Instantly Feminine. 

I think the internet has made the world very black and white, or blue and pink maybe. This point, I think, colors a lot of these discussions. Dean cooks, he cleans and so therefor he’s female coded. When that really just feeds back into the whole toxic masculinity loop. You can’t be masculine and cook and clean and cry. That’s for feminine people only. 

I get the argument! I do, I just think that Dean’s actions are not inherently feminine, it’s just in the vacuum of Female and in the Absence of Traditional Masculinity it makes sense to assign him female coded and move on.

IN FACT the way that Dean is the action hero of the show, the Masculine™ one on the show - but he cries, and he rages, and he cooks (Again and Again) and cleans (Again and Again). The fact he’s macho and confident but he has so little self esteem. Is frankly insane to me. You have this blaze of glory character who is so depressed that they have him kill himself. Twice. In explicitly “I hate myself, I hate hearing all the things I hate about myself, I want to destroy myself” ways. 

On just a regular ol’ network show that is just ungodly bad at times. They let their Male Hero cry - all the time (if I linked every example of this the essay would be...longer than it already is, but just take my word for it). Dean tears up and grieves and shows more than just Angry Horny Violent™ (he shows plenty of that, don’t get me wrong) but he’s Emotional (Again and Again and Again). In many different ways!

I mean, beyond even just tearing up, they make their Male Hero™ face sexual violence in pretty, uniquely horrifying - and queer! - ways.

Let’s make it clear, they did a lot of this unintentionally. 

Or they do it as a joke. 

Off of dean for a moment to say women are plot devices in this show. I could probably count on one hand female characters who have sincere depth to them that have roles outside of progressing plot, filling a filler episode, and who are still alive. Like even characters such as Charlie who are wholly developed, and interesting, are only remembered/mentioned/utilized to progress plots or fill an episode out - and then she dies. For pain™ for plot™ for no other reason than to traumatize a character. 

Which let’s also make it clear Dean’s trauma is also only used as a plot device (as is Sam’s but in a different way, and Cas’ trauma is a whole other barrel of fish we’re not gonna dive into right now). Like wholesale full stop they don’t actually care about what happened to him. Unless it’s relevant in an episode. 

Oh that boys home he was left at when he was 16 for months? Sure we’ll sprinkle that in in the back half of the series. Oh he was covered in bruises and said it was from a hunt (when it’s clear contextually they were from his father but saying the fantastical but true is easier than saying the uncomfortable but true). As Dean says though the story became the story, he was sixteen. He just went along with what John said.

We only see Dean ever truly rage at John, by the way, when either Dean is dead (when he’s between life and death and he rages at John, right before John “apologizes” for traumatizing him, for putting too much on Dean’s shoulders, and fucking dying) or John is dead (the Djinn episode where Dean is straight™ and John is dead™ and he goes to his grave and just yells and rages like he should have to his father in the real world).

Dean’s trauma from being both tortured and torturer in hell? Yeah, we don’t talk about that after it’s Relevant™. Even though it’s clear - especially in the demon!dean, mark of cain era, all those years later - Alastair still has his hooks inside of Dean. I stopped watching originally after s8 ended. I was fed up with the show, and with this whole renaissance I’ve been doing a rewatch and I’m into season twelve now and it really has never come up again. 

Even when he had the mark of cain and he was tasked with questioning and accused of torturing it was “the mark has changed you” and not “you were victim and victimizer in hell for forty years, which is longer than you’ve been alive on earth” (and, was about as long as he wound up living. Which is desperately sad.

Because we talk about Sam’s desire for a “normal” life but, Dean wanted out too. He was tired in the first few seasons of this show, he never had a chance to taste freedom (we don’t count the boys home, because that was a different kind of regimented life, and it was a false freedom) the way that Sam did in Flagstaff with Bones or at Stanford with Jessica. Love for Dean is sacrificing, it’s putting himself/his happiness/his well-being last.

Because Dean only knows love in the context of violence (like all of these fun examples, for starters) is a phrase that I’ve said a lot both in private chats and on here, and I absolutely think it goes to him being a tool (a blunt instrument, a plot device, so both textually and metatextually) instead of a person. Which Cas sees Dean’s shame/guilt and sees that side of Dean because he touched his soul, and saw more than just the Righteous™ man, more than just the tool, he saw A good man, not a machine. 

On the other side though you have how “bad guys” view Dean: Desperate, Sloppy, Needy, Dean’s hole (Again), which is again so wildly counterintuitive to the story of a Macho Man Hero™. You’re using vocabulary that is both queering him and feminizing (and I know this a meme format, but sincerely it is done in a derogatory way it is feminizing. It’s breaking him down to bare parts, to a sloppy hole). 

My whole rewatch I have been absolutely fascinated by how identity and free will is utilized/conceptualized on this show. Castiel has been my main focus, but Dean and how he is framed by himself and others is...fascinating - and frustrating. The writers inconsistency lends itself not only to this unintentionally queer character, but also one that again is incredibly easily read as a non-traditionally masculine character.

As a feminine character.

This show has so few female characters that of course it had to foist the roles/behaviors/plots that a female character might have onto a male character. Which I think is part of why reading Dean as trans (either transmasc, or transfemme) is so easily done like.   

Half of these are shit posts, but you can find trans allegories/textual evidence in this show again, again, again, again, and again. And this is unintentional, they don’t want you to look at Dean and see woman, former future or present. Like a lot of these I’m sure are punchlines for them, because women/queer folk are punchlines to them. 

Sometimes the only women in an episode are random witnesses who get two sentences of dialogue, and then the main guest character is a man. Who flirts with Dean, and Dean is receptive to it. 

They paint themselves into a corner, there are female Rabbi. So easily could Aaron have been a woman instead of a man, but they made the choice to play up the HaHa Dean & Men card. 

Because, again, Dean has filled the slot of Woman™ of Female Lead™ and the flirting would’ve been straight if Dean was a woman. It’s a plot device, they needed to have the guest character be disarming, be cute, make the main character flustered. 

It’s just the main character is a man, because they’re allergic to women. But they still need those female plots, tools of femininity, to move their show forward. I mean I am a big subscriber to transmasc Jo (no idea if anyone else is with me on this one, but let me explain). Jo is in love with Dean (concept) not Dean (actuality). Which, we’ve all had our eggs cracked by someone like that. We were in love with them until we realized we just wanted to be them.

He loved her like a little sister, she loved him like a lost idol. He’s a golden calf and she dies for him, because she believed in him, she was the original character dashed at the altar of the Winchesters. 

I fully believe if she had lived and if this show had a crumb of actual good writing Jo could have been a deeply compelling transmasc character. But I also think she’s a fascinating inversion of Dean. Dean is a Masculine Character who subverts Toxic Masculinity, Jo is a Tomboy™ she’s not your (if you take it straight, literally and metaphorically) average female love interest. She’s angry, she’s not soft at all, all edges and corners and thorns. She isn’t helpless, she’s stubborn but not in a “you’re going to get punished for this” way. She’s right when she’s stubborn. She’s helpful, she’s a martyr. 

I could do a whole other essay just on Jo (and Ellen, and Ash, what a fucking trio!) but needless to say Jo was one of the first...plot device feminine tools sacrificed to this show. She was a regular, she was unique, she was an engaging character, and she still died (to progress the plot? no. for man pain? yeah, for like three episodes maybe, and then it’s forgotten just like the rest of Dean’s trauma, as we mentioned above). 

Dean and Women and Love is a very interesting tool used too because. Boy they sure try to make Dean love women and it fails in small ways, and in big, meaningless, failed het domesticity (again) ways. Not to mention whatever Lust (in the form of a woman) having no effect upon him, when they could have used that moment to assert his Masculinity and Heterosexuality. He behaved normally? And...also...whatever the fuck the Adios thing was!

Like they have these opportunities to make him Traditionally (toxically) Masculine, but make the choice to...not? To soften him. Because it’s a tool. He’s their female lead, textually he had to take on the role of mother(/father) to Sam, but...I mean this is a million miles long already. I know, but we absolutely can’t not talk about his Paternal/Maternal behaviors. (Which appear again and again again and again, outside of his relationship with Sam even/especially). He’s the mother hen, sage, safety net, beacon, home to so many side characters they meet.

I mean in many ways Jody is also a Dean comparison. Lost her family. Found a new family. She is non-traditionally feminine, but easily flustered and Silly™ (let’s just drop the entire sex talk over family dinner scene with Alex and the boys and looking to them for help, even though she was already a mother, and she’s a cop, and a hunter and this confident no nonsense individual.... She’s not). We are meant to see her as this hard ass, but she makes extra food for the boys to take back to the bunker. She’s deadly in a fight, but also still easily overwhelmed and put into damsel mode, and she cares so much even in the face of adversity.

It’s also fun to see how Jo | Jody are reflections of Dean at different points of his life. Younger, cocky | Older, settled.

Even when the text tries to tell us that he’s not.

When it reminds us that he’s violent. That he is his father, even if he says that Sam is more like John (which was reflexive, which was angry because of Adam and how Sam was behaving like Dean in that episode, and yes there are parallels to be drawn between Sam and John, the show barely dives into them). Instead we’re told that Dean is John (Again and  Again and Again and Again). 

So intensely that a fanfictionalized version of the Winchester Gospels makes it an entire fucking musical number. 

And yet, despite the texts insistence to make Dean Macho Man Father Reborn™ We get this Dean who is silly (and directly compared/contrasted to the female character in this scene), soft, in heels, nagging, and... Sully (you know Sam’s imaginary friend who has the same Haircut Dean has, who is a softer, shorter, friendlier, campier, version of Dean who was a replacement For Dean until the real one let Sam back in? That? Sully?) it’s hard to take them seriously. 

Hell, even when he was A DEMON? What did they do? They had him sing off-key drunken karaoke, they had him doing this ! Like that’s your hero, unhinged, free to be as bad as he could be, and you put him in a cowboy hat in a romance with the king of hell. 

The Female Lead, everyone. Who’s biggest betrayal(s) comes at the hands of his love interest (again, a man even though it was an angel who could’ve taken any vessel! who could’ve been recast, who canonically dies admitting his love to Dean - that one), who he tries so hard to be loyal to. 

The contradictions of his character are laughable. He is so emotional, but if he is engaged about his emotions? He shuts down, or he’s exasperated about being asked about them. It really is Female Lead/Only Here For The Plot disease, because everything is more important than him. How’s he doing? Doesn’t matter outside of the context of how x character is doing or that y character is dead. Or his emotions only matter if they’re done in penance. 

They also really do frame him as Pretty Boy™ in a violent way, or in a derogatory manner. They’ll give us homoerotic shots like this or these and never really acknowledge how these are gay shots. Sorry the gun scene is a a straight up sex scene, the beer sip spilling out over his mouth is oral, the scene where Cas fills up Dean’s glass with whisky is also a sex scene, they do this shit on purpose but accidentally queer it up. If Dean was a woman these scenes wouldn’t even matter. They’d be passing moments, but because he is not just a man but A Man™ they’re insane to see.

Not to mention all of these scenes and all the ones I haven’t linked where Dean dresses up. He performs masculinity, but he performs femininity too. He’s a plot device that is slotted in to whatever role they need. He’s Super Straight Butch Man™ but coaches the lesbian on how to successfully flirt with a man. He’s Action Hero™ who sits through a montage with the same lesbian and yays and nays her outfits, and enjoys himself.

Fuck he loves dressing up, he feels better in these costumes because performing a character is easier than being himself. Because who is Dean? He’s a tool, both textually and metatextually. It is exactly how the women and because of the women on the show that Dean is the way that he is. If there was a more steady female presence Dean would not be half as much of a plot device or half as camp/gay/feminine/non-traditionally masculine/queer coded as he is. 

In conclusion....

[sinsbymanka]

Thank you @sunspott​ and @enigmalea​. I’ve combined both your prompts and also added in a side of Josephine because I can. Enjoy your polyamorous, smutty Female Adaar/Josephine Montiliyet/Lace Harding prompt fill!

For @dadrunkwriting​ I present: 

Title: Courting a Winning Bet 

Chapter 1/1

Rated: E

Word Count: 2090

Pairing: Female Adaar/Josephine Montiliyet/Lace Harding

Additional Tags: 

Summary: There’s a betting pool about whether or not the Inquisitor and her lover, Josephine, have a crush on Scout Harding. Lace is going to put a stop to this illegal gambling once and for all, but not in the way she thought she would.

Read on AO3

“I’m telling you, the flowers are just flowers.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Harding.”

Lace slammed her pint down on the bar and glared up into the one sparkling dark eye of the Iron Bull. Sure, maybe he had a couple feet on her, but she’d had some of the good stuff. She could take him, if she needed to.

Bull grinned wryly and shook his head. “So. Josephine sends you flowers and writes letters asking how you are. Boss brings you back any supply your little heart can dream up. They increased your hazard pay-”

“I earned that increase,” Lace protested, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Course you did,” Bull agreed, raising his own pint to his lips. “Doesn’t mean that they don’t have a crush on you, Harding.”

“They do not.”

“Chief’s right,” Krem said from her left, clapping a hand on her shoulder in solidarity. “Strange as it is to say.”

“Now now, Krempuff. Let’s talk about you and our lovely waitress this evening.”

“She’s only got eyes for your impressive, pillowy man bosoms.” Krem smirked. Lace sighed and jumped down from her barstool. The ground only moved a little.

“You’re wrong and I’m gonna prove it,” she stated, putting her hands on her hips. “Then I’m taking all that money from the betting pool and I’m going to buy you pants that don’t put my life at risk in the desert.”

Krem choked on his ale and Bull guffawed loudly before reaching over to slap his sputtering second on the back so hard, poor Krem was slammed right into the edge of the counter.

She turned on her heel and weaved through the crowd, but she caught Krem’s response just as she slipped out the tavern door.

“Chief, don’t you win if the Inquisitor makes a move tonight?”

As if the amazing, fearless, incredibly sexy Inquisitor and her adorable, kind, perfect girlfriend would ever, in their wildest dreams, make a move on Lace Harding.

The thought made her giggle as she tripped through the courtyard and up into the Great Hall. Varric looked up as she barged in. She pointed at him and he immediately threw his hands in the air in a silent plea for mercy. “Whatever the Seeker says, I’m not responsible. Swear on my chest hair.”

“The next time you go to step in varghest shit, I’m not stopping you.” She narrowed her eyes.

Varric didn’t even look contrite. He simply grinned. “Found out about the bet, Freckles?”

“Yes, and I’m putting a stop to it right now,” she declared, sailing past his table.

“Maybe best to wait until tomorrow!” Varric called after her.

“I’m not sodding waiting just cause you think you may win this bet if I wait until tomorrow,” she yelled back.

The only answer was his throaty chuckle. “Have it your way, then.”

She was going to. And it wasn’t that Lace was paying attention to the Inquisitor and her lover. Everybody knew that Issala Adaar liked to take her dinners in private with the Ambassador.

Lace had never spun a flower between her fingers and wondered what they talked about. Never dreamed of them exchanging tender kisses over imported chocolates and the expensive wine from Orlais.

She certainly had never pictured herself in the middle of them.

...okay, maybe she had. But just a little, and really, who could blame her? They were just… so beautiful. So perfect together. And it was honestly more than a little cruel for Varric and the rest to tease her for it.

When Issala and Josephine found out about it, they’d firmly put a stop to it. Then Lace could go back to her fantasies in peace.

She pushed in the door to the Ambassador’s office, fully prepared to interrupt their dinner, too tipsy to even consider knocking.

And… she really should have knocked. Because it looked like the Inquisitor and Josephine had foregone dinner entirely and moved straight to dessert.

Lace stood frozen in the hallway while both of the other women whipped around to stare at her. They were on the wide, plush rug in front of the fireplace. It was a good thing they were so close to the flickering flames, because there wasn’t a stitch of clothing between the two of them. All Lace could see was scarred, pearlescent gray skin and dusky brown curves.

Oh. Oh no. Was this a sin? Was the Maker going to strike her down? Possibly. Hopefully.

Issala’s violet eyes blinked once. Twice. She swung her startled gaze from Lace in the doorway to Josephine. For a moment they all stared at each other in bewildered, loaded silence.

“Scout Harding,” Josephine finally began as if she was greeting any Inquisition member in her full regalia instead of her naked glory. “Do come in and close the door. I fear it’s rather drafty this evening.”

Maybe this was the Fade. Lace didn’t belong in the Fade, of course, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Weird things happened all the time. And honestly it was far more likely than Lace stumbling into an intimate moment like this and not being turned into cinders immediately.

“Is something wrong?” Issala shrugged her long white hair over her shoulder, hiding the pert globes of her breasts, but somehow that didn’t help Lace feel less distracted.

“I just- I… there’s a bet. And I shouldn’t have come. This was stupid. Really stupid. I’m so sorry,” she babbled, unable to tear her eyes from the glorious figures bathed in firelight.

“A bet?” Issala echoed, mystified. Lace almost wailed.

“Yes! That you two have a crush on me. And I was coming here to tell you and make them stop because we’ve got better things to do than debate why you’re sending me flowers or bringing me Orlesian chocolates or…”

“Oh,” Josephine’s lips fell into a tiny, distressed frown. “Did you not like the chocolates?”

“No they were great-” Lace protested. “It’s just… they’re because you’re nice. You’re both so nice. And pretty. Really pretty.”

Maker, she should not have had that second drink.

But to her shock, Issala’s skin flushed delicate pink. “You… you think I’m pretty?”

It was Lace’s turn to blink once. Twice. “Of course you are. You both are.”

Issala tore her eyes from Lace to look at Josephine again. Something silent and swift passed between them before Josephine demurely nodded. When Issala looked back, her eyes were sparkling with joy.

“We… may have a crush on you,” Issala whispered softly. “I know it’s silly, but… you’re so cute. And fierce. And the way you shoot your bow…”

Lace was definitely in the Fade. This couldn’t be happening. But Issala’s long, toned arm reached out, fingers curved gently. “Join us?”

Well. If she was going to get smited by the Maker for lusting after the Herald, she may as well enjoy it, right?

The first step felt unsteady, but the second came more eagerly. The fourth put her in reach of Issala, close enough for her small fingers to tangle with hers. Since she was on the floor, they were almost the same height, and Issala took ruthless advantage immediately, slotting her mouth over Lace’s before she could protest.

It was nice. It was so nice. Issala’s lips were wind chapped, but her calloused palms cupped Lace’s cheek so gently as her tongue pressed for entrance. It was the easiest thing in the world to give in, to allow herself to be thoroughly explored. Her heart pulsed in her ears and she reached out to grab Issala’s shoulders at the same time a very warm, silky soft body pressed against her from behind.

Then Josephine’s gentle lips found her ear, her nose tracing the delicate shell as she pressed butterfly light kisses down her neck. Lace was trapped between them, helpless as they worked together to make her weak in the knees.

The moment Issala released her lips, Josephine tipped her chin over Lace’s shoulder to demand a kiss of her own. She was so much softer than Issala, but there was a fierce passion in this kiss. One that threatened to ignite all the longing inside Lace and burn them all alive.

Somehow, her pants had vanished. Along with her boots. Issala’s palms were searing on her thighs as she slowly bunched up her shirt beneath her hands. Then she paused, suddenly disoriented.

“Lace…” she whispered, running her thumb over the long, jagged scar slashing over her abdomen. “How did you get this?”

Josephine released her lips and Lace panted for breath desperately. “Oh, um. Crazy story. There was a sheep and it got away from the flock and I chased it down, but there was a ravine and I fell in and… well, mother said I was lucky I didn’t bleed out before the healer got there. But I had to find the sheep.”

Issala’s smile couldn’t be more tender. She leaned in and placed one sweet kiss on the tip of Lace’s nose. “You always find what we’re looking for.”

“And we were looking for you,” Josephine murmured in her ear, helping Issala pull the shirt over her head. It was Josephine that made short work of the complicated undergarment beneath, leaving her bare before Issala’s gaze.

Josephine’s hands ran over her curves, a gentle exploration while her lips kissed the thousands of freckles covering her shoulders. Each swipe of the long, elegant fingers over her delicate skin made her want to whimper. Then Josephine giggled and wrapped her arms tight around Lace’s waist, pressing another kiss to her neck. “I am so pleased you liked the flowers.”

“How could I resist?” Lace asked weakly. “You sure know how to spoil a girl.”

“It is only polite when courting!” Josephine protested. “I would not want you to think our intentions were not honorable.”

“Well, they’re maybe a little dishonorable,” Issala half-laughed. Lace giggled.

“Can I taste you?” Issala’s eyes were dark with want. “Please?”

Lace almost choked on her answer. “I mean. If you want.”

Josephine pulled her backwards into her arms, cupping her full breasts in her hands and pressing a soft kiss on her head. “Allow us. We will see to all your needs.”

As if that promise wasn’t enough to make her soaking wet, Issala chose that moment to trail more kisses up the inside of Lace’s thighs. Lace whimpered and rolled her hips eagerly, far beyond caring about looking needy.

She was needy. She needed more.

Josephine’s fingertips brushed over her nipples just as Issala’s breath ghosted over her core. Lace has a moment to feel embarrassed before Issala swears softly. “You’re so beautiful, Lace. I knew you would be.”

Before she could deny it, and Lace certainly meant to, Issala’s pointed tongue slid along her folds and she could do nothing but moan helplessly and try to hold onto Josephine’s plush thighs.

Josephine soothed her softly while Issala teased her, sampling her arousal and exploring her most secret places. She melted back into Josephine’s embrace when Issala finally slipped her tongue between her folds to explore her core.

And then Josephine pinched her nipples lightly and Lace almost shrieked. Her hips stuttered upwards and Issala giggled, removing her tongue to slide up to the little bundle of nerves that ached to be touched.

But Maker help her, she’d never been touched like this. Between Josephine’s tormenting, clever fingers (she never knew they’d be so talented with more than quills) and Issala’s deft tongue (the Inquisitor had always seemed too quiet), she was a mess in moments. And yet Issala continued to ravish her, savor her like those fancy chocolates they all loved. Josephine kept whispering soft, musical words of endearment in her ear and playing her body like an instrument.

Then Issala’s fingers slipped inside her fluttering core and Lace’s moans could probably be heard the whole way to the Western Approach. She rocked into the touch, greedy and desperate. Josephine allowed her, encouraged her, and Issala’s tongue swirled just right.

Lace screamed both their names as she crested the wave of the most powerful orgasm she’d ever had, riding out the sharp jerks of her body while Issala hummed her satisfaction and Josephine held her tightly.

When Issala looked up, her lips were shiny with slick and it made Lace’s stomach roll with anticipation.

“It is my turn now, yes?” Josephine asked in her ear. Lace grinned from ear to ear.

The only issue, really, was that Bull was going to win that bet after all.

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

Star Trek: Facets of Filmmaking

As it turns out, before Star Trek was fully realized in the form we know today, the show was originally not going to be about Kirk and the Enterprise at all.  In fact, it was going to be about a ship called the S.S. Yorktown, captained by a man named Robert April, on a mission to explore the Milky Way galaxy.  The original concept, still named Star Trek and set in the 23rd century, was loosely based on the Horatio Hornblower novels, and took inspiration from The Voyage of the Space Beagle, the Marathon series and the 1956 film Forbidden Planet.

By the year 1964, when this idea began to take shape, Gene Roddenberry, creator of Star Trek was an experienced writer for western television shows, and was well accustomed to (at the time) television’s favorite and most popular genre.  By 1964, however, Roddenberry was tired of the shootouts, and wanted to do something different, something with a little more depth to it.

Still, Roddenberry knew what the executives, and the public, was used to.  As a result, the first draft of this new Star Trek idea was generalized as a sort of ‘Wagon Train to the Stars’, a formulaic type of show where every episode was a standalone adventure in the continuous exploration of the final frontier: space.

As Roddenberry wrote the draft, a few things changed.  Gone was Robert April, replaced by Captain Christopher Pike, who would be portrayed by Jefferey Hunter, and the rest of the crew.  The name of the ship changed too, to the more familiar Enterprise.  As these changes came about, so too did the true nature of Roddenberry’s dream show: both an adventure story, and a thought-provoking morality tale.

Armed with his script, Roddenberry brought Star Trek to Desilu Productions, (a rather large television production company headed and half-formed by Lucille Ball herself) and met with director of production Herbert F. Solow.  Solow saw promise in the concept, and signed a three-year development contract with Roddenberry.

Star Trek moved into the next stage of development.  Further drafts were drawn up and the idea that would later become the episode The Cage was revised, until it was shown to CBS as part of the ‘First Look’ deal with Desilu productions.  CBS wasn’t impressed with the show, declining to purchase it.  They had another ‘space show’ in development that seemed too similar, a show that would become Lost in Space.

However, another company became interested: NBC.  In May of 1964, Grant Tinker, the head of the West Coast programming department, commissioned the pilot that would become The Cage (which would later be reworked into the episode The Menagerie).  After it was completed, NBC turned it down, claiming that it was ‘too cerebral’, but although this was a mild defeat, Star Trek wasn’t beaten.  NBC still showed interest in the concept, and made the highly unusual decision to commission a second pilot: the episode that would become Where No Man Has Gone Before.

With this came quite a few changes.

Christopher Pike was scrapped as a character, as was the vast majority of other cast members.  Only the character of Spock, as portrayed by Leonard Nimoy, was kept, and of the other cast members, only Majel Barrett stayed, demoted from playing the second-in-command (scrapped due to the unthinkable notion of a woman Commander) to the ship’s nurse, Christine Chapel.  With this new pilot came an onslaught of new, more familiar names and faces: William Shatner as Captain Kirk, Chief Engineer Lieutenant Commander Scott played by James Doohan, and Lieutenant Sulu, (originally a physicist in the first episode, but a helmsman afterwards) played by George Takei.

This pilot passed with flying colors, and with that, NBC added Star Trek to their fall lineup for 1966.

Still, there were changes to be made.  In this first pilot, the ship’s doctor was Mark Piper, played by Paul Fix.  Dr. Leonard McCoy, played by DeForest Kelley, would join the cast when principal filming for the first season began.  Also joining the cast was Nichelle Nichols, playing Lieutenant Uhura, and Grace Lee Whitney as Yeoman Rand.  (Whitney would depart halfway through the first season, after being on the receiving end of sexual assault from one of the executives of the show, but would later appear in the film series beginning in the 1970s.)

Besides Where No Man Has Gone Before, NBC ordered 15 episodes to start off the show.  The first episode of Star Trek, The Man Trap, aired at 8:30 PM on Thursday, September 8th of 1966 as part of NBC’s ‘sneak preview’ time slot, received with mixed feelings.  While some papers and reviewers genuinely liked the new show, (such as The Philadelphia Inquirer and the San Francisco Chronicle) others, such as The Boston Globe and The New York Times didn’t.  Variety described the show as ‘an incredible and dreary mess of confusion and complexities’, and predicted that it would fail.

Fighting for position against reruns of previous shows, despite the critics’ warnings, Star Trek won a time slot, and began with decent ratings.  However, it didn’t last long.  By the end of the first season, Star Trek was sitting at 52nd out of 94 programs.

Star Trek was sinking, fast.

But even then, it wasn’t without its supporters.

The editor of Galaxy Science Fiction, Frederik Pohl, offered up his amazement that Star Trek’s consistency remained good, with no drop in quality after its Tricon winning early episodes.  He expressed his fear that the show would be cancelled due to its low ratings, and pleaded with audiences to help save Star Trek, writing letters to prevent its cancellation.

At this time, the only thing that was keeping the show on the air in the first place was the demographics it was reaching.  NBC had become interested in the demographics of the shows it was producing in the early 1960s, and by 1967, was using that as part of the decision making as to which shows got dropped.  

And something about Star Trek’s demographics interested NBC very much: it had managed to attract ‘quality’ audiences: high income, high educated people (primarily males).

As a result, NBC ordered ten more episodes for the first season, and ordered a second in March of 1967.  The network then changed Star Trek’s timeslot, moving it to 8:30 on Friday nights, a timeslot that seemed doomed for failure among the audience that Star Trek had gathered.

The next season, things didn’t seem to be getting any better.  It was at this point that the show added on Walter Koenig as Ensign Chekov (as George Takei was working on The Green Berets and was not as available for shooting), although some might have wondered why they would have bothered.  The show’s ratings were still dropping.  William Shatner, expecting the show to be cancelled, began to prepare for other projects.  

Again, the demographics saved the day.

Roddenberry’s initial concept of adventure alongside morality tales intrigued the audiences Star Trek had attracted.  The show had values, values that had to be applied to every situation.  The show was sincere, and serious in its exploration of issues like racism, war and peace, human rights, technology, class warfare, and imperialism, far different in tone and content than the other chief sci-fi show at the time: Lost in Space.  As a result, the show generated a more interested fanbase, perhaps the first true ‘fanbase’ of any franchise in history.  In the end, it was they who saved Star Trek.

By the end of the first season, NBC had received well over 29,000 fan letters.  During the second season, Roddenberry began a campaign to persuade fans to write in to NBC, to support the show and save the program.  Between December of 1967 and March of 1968, NCB had received nearly 116,000 letters from people who did not want to see Star Trek cancelled.  Science fiction conventions, magazines, and newspaper columnists encouraged readers to save what was called ‘the best science-fiction show on the air’.

The fans didn’t stop with letters.  Over 200 students of the California Institute of Technology marched to NBC’s studio in Burbank to protest the cancellation of Star Trek in January of 1968, carrying signs that said things like ‘Vulcan Power’.  They weren’t alone; other groups of students of MIT and Berkeley did the same thing in New York City and San Francisco.

Interestingly, the letters that NBC received were not of the typical ‘fan mail’ quality.

“Much of the mail came from doctors, scientists, teachers, and other professional people, and was for the most part literate–and written on good stationery. And if there is anything a network wants almost as much as a high Nielsen ratings, it is the prestige of a show that appeals to the upper middle class and high-brow audiences.” (Lowry, Cynthia (January 17, 1968). “One Network Goes ‘Unconventional’”. Nashua Telegraph. Associated Press. p. 13)

“The show, according to the 6,000 letters it draws a week (more than any other in television), is watched by scientists, museum curators, psychiatrists, doctors, university professors, and other highbrows. The Smithsonian Institution asked for a print of the show for its archives, the only show so honored.” (Scott, Vernon (February 7, 1968). “Letters Can Save 'Star Trek’”. The Press-Courier. Oxnard, California. United Press International. p. 17.)

After the episode The Omega Glory, on March 1st, 1968, the announcement came:

“And now an announcement of interest to all viewers of Star Trek. We are pleased to tell you that Star Trek will continue to be seen on NBC Television. We know you will be looking forward to seeing the weekly adventure in space on Star Trek.” (“Letters For 'Star Trek’ Hit 114,667”. The Modesto Bee. April 14, 1968. p. 26.)

If this was intended to stop the letter writing campaign, it was a dismal failure.  A comparable number of letters came in to NBC following this announcement, full of thanks for renewing the show for the third season.

In March of 1968, NBC moved Star Trek to another time slot: 10:00 PM on Fridays, an even worse shot than before.  To make matters worse, it was only being seen by 181 out of 210 of NBC’s affiliates.  Roddenberry fought the network to move it to a better time, but he was denied.  Exhausted, Roddenberry quit working on production of Star Trek, remaining executive producer in name only.  The running of the show went to Fred Freiberger, who was with the show as it stood on its last, shaky, legs.

And it was on its last legs.

Star Trek season three was a dying breath, the death-rattle of a show that was being intentionally destroyed by its own network.

To quote Nichelle Nichols:

“While NBC paid lip service to expanding Star Trek’s audience, it [now] slashed our production budget until it was actually 10% lower than it had been in our first season … This is why in the third season you saw fewer outdoor location shots, for example. Top writers, top guest stars, top anything you needed was harder to come by. Thus, Star Trek’s demise became a self-fulfilling prophecy. And I can assure you, that is exactly as it was meant to be.”

It showed.

While I hesitate to call season three of Star Trek a mess, it is difficult to deny that the show was definitely struggling.  Episodes dropped in quality, characters became more exaggerated and less ‘true’. Star Trek stopped filming in January of 1969, and after a total run of 79 episodes, the show  was cancelled.

As a newspaper columnist advised:

“You Star Trek fans have fought the “good fight,” but the show has been cancelled and there’s nothing to be done now.”

Rather incongruous with the image of the pop-culture giant we know it as today, wouldn’t you think?

So what happened?

As it turns out, Star Trek had enough episodes (thanks to the third season) to enter syndication.  Desilu Productions, which at that point had become Paramount, licensed the syndication rights in order to turn a profit, and reruns of Star Trek began airing in late 1969.

In syndication, Star Trek became a cult classic, finding a larger audience on reruns than it had during its original run.  The show, which was airing in the afternoons and early evenings, was attracting a young demographic, and, ironically, Star Trek became known as ‘the show that wouldn’t die’.  By 1970, Star Trek was boosting Paramount’s ratings, and becoming extremely popular.  In January of 1972, over 3,000 fans attended the first Star Trek convention in New York City, kicking off a previously unheard-of trend of organized fan gatherings where they could buy merchandise, meet cast and crew, and screen episodes of the show.  These people, coming to be known as ‘trekkies’, took pride in their knowledge and extreme love for this series, which was becoming renowned for being a smart, heartfelt science fiction show that had been cancelled too early.

17 years after Star Trek was cancelled and started reruns, Star Trek became the most popular syndicated show of all time.  By 1987, Paramount was bringing in $1 million per episode, and by 1994, reruns were still airing in over 90% of the United States of America.

The rest is history.

It has been over fifty years since Gene Roddenberry’s vision of a wagon train to the stars first took flight, and it was a hard battle fought to get as far as it did.  Never before had a show garnered the support and devoted love from a fanbase, never had it inspired such huge leaps and bounds in television and fandom alike.  Never had a television show meant so much to so many, and continued to do so well past its end.

For a show that struggled through a third season, it seems incredible that Star Trek still holds the weight that it does today.  The show that wouldn’t die gained new life beyond the grave, still capturing people’s attention decades after it was cancelled, growing to become one of the best known and best loved television shows ever made.

Against all odds, Star Trek lives on, remaining one of the greatest television shows of all time, for very good reason.

Join me for one last article as next time we take one last look at Star Trek in our Final Thoughts.  If you have any thoughts, questions, suggestions, recommendations, or just want to say hi, don’t forget to leave an ask!  Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope to see you in the next article.  

[peaceoutofthepieces]

chapter 20.5

When I Live My Dream (Please Be There To Meet Me)

To go with chapter 20!! It took longer than expected and got longer than expected and I should be asleep already but it’s done!!! It’s again not at all entirely necessary to read, but it probably will explain some things! And also it’s sweet. It’s really a Sobbe piece, but the amount of subtle Van Der Stoffels turns out to be very unsubtle. So!!! Enjoy!! (I promise I will add a ‘keep reading’ break to all of these tomorrow!)

~^~

Robbe is waiting for Sander. It’s become a very familiar occurrence. Only this time he’s at the skatepark, sitting in a cluster with his friends against one of the surrounding walls. Moyo and Aaron are goofing off at the side, being loud and obnoxious and overall nuisances. Robbe rolls his eyes fondly and switches his gaze to the other two members of their party. They’re watching something on Jens’s phone, Lucas slumped against Jens’s side and giggling as Jens shakes his head, and Robbe realises they’re watching his prank on Jens last April. He can vaguely hear Jens’s coughing through the tiny speakers and Lucas laughs fully, bringing his hand to his mouth to quiet it. Jens digs his elbow into his side but there’s a tiny smile on his lips even as he catches Robbe’s gaze and flips him off. Robbe gives him a cheeky grin and winks and Lucas notices the interaction, giving Robbe a mini round of applause.

“Have you heard anything from Sander?” Jens asks, nodding at the phone being crushed in Robbe’s grip. “When did he say he’d be here?”

“Uhm,” Robbe glances at his phone. With a sigh, he admits, “Now.”

Lucas tilts his head. “What does he look like, again?”

“Uh, bleached hair. Little taller than me—“

“—leather jacket, camera around his neck, looks way too cool to interact with any of us?” Lucas finishes, raising a brow. When Robbe only blinks at him, he nods at something over Robbe’s shoulder.

Robbe whips around, and there he is. In all his leather, artsy glory. He smiles when he meets Robbe’s eyes, and Robbe picks himself up to go meet him where he stands, still a good few feet away.

He greets him with a quick, light kiss, and Sander’s hesitant response leads him to the obvious realisation, now that they’re up close. Sander’s nervous. Robbe locks his arms around his neck and shoots him a smile that he hopes appears comforting. “You can still turn around and run, if you want to,” he reminds him.

Sander huffs, glancing briefly over Robbe’s shoulder, but he shakes his head. He gives Robbe another kiss, this one lingering, toe-curling, and Robbe’s clinging to him even when he pulls away, hands fisted in his jacket as Sander’s hand skims over his back. “No, I’m okay. Besides you’ll be there to protect me, right?”

Robbe smiles, leaning in close once more. “Always,” he promises, and steals one last peck. Then he takes Sander’s hand and tugs him along with a reassuring, “Come.”

Jens stands hastily when he sees them walking over, hitting Moyo’s back until those two join him, and Lucas bites back a smile and rises with much more dignity and grace. Sander squeezes Robbe’s hand tightly. Robbe squeezes back. The boys are simply standing there, eager grins on their faces. Robbe feels like he shouldn’t really have to introduce them, that really it just makes the situation more awkward, and they all already know each other. Still, he finds himself saying, “Sander, this is Jens, Lucas, Moyo, and Aaron.” He indicates each boy in turn and then finishes, “Guys, this is Sander.”

“Jack Frost,” Moyo finally greets excitedly, performing an easy ‘bro hug’, and the tension is broken. Jens follows his lead and gives Sander an extra pat on the shoulder when he moves away. Lucas settles on a fist bump, but his friendly smile is turned up to full watts for the blonde and Sander returns it easily, seeming grateful. He turns to Aaron, who’s only watching him with awed interest. Robbe holds his breath and waits for it to unfold.

“You’re Robbe’s boyfriend?” Aaron asks, oblivious to Jens’s amusement and Moyo’s incredulous stare. Sander’s shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly, but Robbe is in tune to his every breath. He can’t help but find the whole thing ridiculous.

Sander looks a little uncertain, but his voice is sure when he says, “Yes.” Robbe thinks he even detects a little pride. He can’t help the smile that takes over even as the moment drags on, the group’s eyes flicking between the two in anticipation. Then, Aaron pulls Sander into a hug.

Sander immediately looks to Robbe, widening his eyes, and Robbe’s lips tremble in his effort to hold back a laugh. He fails when Aaron pulls back just to say, “I’m a big fan,” with a final pat to Sander’s back.

Jens and Lucas are slightly better at stifling their laughter and Moyo only grows more incredulous, shaking his head as he says, “Man,” with all the disappointment of a wronged father. But Sander only laughs, replying with a hesitant, “Thanks?”

Robbe can’t help sliding his arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Sander smiles brilliantly at him and completely ignores Moyo’s dramatic coos. Robbe, however, is more than happy to flip him off. “Don’t you have to start filming for the vlog?”

Moyo puts on a look of offense, but pushes Aaron towards some of the ramps. “Yeah, yeah, come on.”

Jens and Lucas settle back down in their previous spots and Robbe pulls Sander down with him. Sander settles back against the wall and catches Robbe before he can sit next to him, pulling him to sit between his legs instead. Robbe falls against his chest happily, smiling when a kiss is dropped on top of his head, hugging Sander’s arms around him. Jens tilts his head and then shakes it, disbelieving. “You’re such a lucky asshole. I still don’t understand how you did this.”

Robbe shrugs, feeling more than a little smug. He shakes with Sander’s quiet laughter, and he twists his head around searchingly. Sander gives him a short kiss and Robbe melts, sinking lower in Sander’s hold and kissing the hands now clasped at his chest. He doesn’t even notice Jens’s phone pointed at them until he’s blinking after the flash, raising his brows. Jens shakes his phone at him. “For future teasing material.”

Robbe whines when Sander sits up straighter. “Can you send it to me?”

“Of course man,” Jens grins at him, seeming satisfied, and something settles into place in Robbe’s chest. This is what he’s been hoping for. The effortless melding of these two worlds, of everything finally connecting. Jens is his best friend and the first person he ever really felt like he loved with every part of his heart, without any underlying hurt or resentment. Even when he’d had feelings he knew went unreturned, he couldn’t blame Jens. Loving him didn’t hurt the way loving his parents did, and it was way beyond his care for Jana or Moyo or anyone else.

The only other person he loves as wholeheartedly and unconditionally as Sander. He’s not one bit surprised at the warmth blooming in his chest as he’s able to witness the two of them together, the easy interaction between them. Sander rests his chin on his head and a smile breaks across his face, the happiness filling him beginning to overflow.

Jens starts questioning him on his art and photography while Lucas just smiles at them softly, seeming almost as content as Robbe. He’s another thing that has simply slotted into place, a Broerrr they had never realised they were missing until they had him. He catches Robbe’s gaze just as Jens begins giving Sander the shovel talk, and rolls his eyes. Robbe mimics the motion, smile only widening.

Still, he chastises, “Jens,” with as much exasperation as he can muster and his best friend turns to look at him.

“What? You know this is my job,” Jens says, completely serious. “Now, I’m gonna assume you’re being safe—“

Before Robbe can jump over and cut him off, Lucas is already slapping a hand over his mouth, with all the casual air of a wave. Jens shuts up immediately, blinking, and Lucas gives Sander another of his sweet smiles. “Ignore him. I always do. He doesn’t even know what he’s talking about.”

He pulls his hand away abruptly as his face distorts in disgust. Robbe assumes from that and Jens’s smug smile that Jens licked him, and he can’t help the laugh that escapes. Sander manages to keep his to a quiet huff of breath. “Fuck you,” Lucas laughs, wiping his hand on Jens’s cheek. Jens only blows him a sarcastic kiss.

Sander’s laugh comes out fully, now, and Jens and Lucas turn their gazes to him in awe. Robbe completely understands. Still, it’s not often he gets to tease them back, so with another laugh of his own he knocks Jens’s foot. “You okay there Jens?”

Jens licks his lips, collecting himself before saying, “I knew you were, you know, from online and the fact Robbe never shuts up about it, but up close…” He trails off and Lucas just nods rapidly, still staring, and Sander’s arms tighten around Robbe.

“What?” he asks, a little nervous, a little self-conscious, and God, Robbe is in love with him.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, explaining it for them, then leaning up to kiss Sander’s chin. “I did tell you.”

The blush that takes over Sander’s cheeks is lovely.

That’s when Moyo and Aaron come bounding back over, Moyo smiling briefly at Robbe and Sander’s display before focusing on Jens and Lucas. “You bitches still think you’re up for doing this thing?”

Jens and Lucas share a glance before Jens nods, slightly reluctant, and Robbe feels for them. Sander asks, “What are you doing?”

Jens nods at the rest of the park. “We’re going to try to do a trick at the same time. They’ve been making us practice all week.”

Sander pokes him. “Not you?”

“Lucas is better than me at it,” Robbe says simply. “I’m just doing solo stuff.”

Sander smiles. “So I’ll still get to take pictures of you.” Robbe rolls his eyes but nods, accepting one kiss and stealing another.

Moyo crouches down and starts slapping Robbe’s knee. “Sander could be our behind the scenes Broerrr! Oh man, today could be his initiation!”

“Look at his face. You think that belongs behind the scenes?” Jens points out, like Moyo was stupid for even suggesting it.

Moyo glances over at him. “I’m thinking of his talent, man. Don’t relegate our baby Sander to just his looks. I know you’re more than that,” he tells Sander seriously. Jens flips him off and blows Sander a kiss.

“A skatepark seems like a bad place for initiation. I don’t recommend it,” Lucas warns.

“Nah he’s just gonna be our behind the scenes man for the day. See if he’s up to it,” Moyo explains.

Lucas’s draw drops. “Then why the fuck did I have to be scared to within an inch of my life?”

Moyo snorts. “It could’ve been worse. We could’ve used a real spider.”

“Spiders are worse than death,” Sander says gravely. Lucas fist bumps him, seeming grateful for the show of solidarity.

“I didn’t let them. I would never,” Jens reassures Lucas, patting his cheek. Lucas bats him away, sticking his tongue out.

“But basically you weren’t dating any of us or cooler than all of us combined. Sander is a special case,” Moyo adds.

“No,” Sander pipes up. “That doesn’t seem fair. Whatever initiation you want to set for me, I’m up for it.”

Moyo looks at him like he just grew to love him ten times more. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, obviously trying and failing to find an idea. Surprisingly, it’s Aaron who butts in. “Why doesn’t Robbe teach him how to skate?” Then, “You don’t already know how, do you?”

Sander shakes his head as Moyo’s eyes light up. “That could work,” Jens agrees. “If he can do any kind of flick by the end of the day, initiation passed. We all know Robbe won’t let anything harm a single hair on that pretty head, so it’ll be safe enough.”

“Is that possible? To learn it in a few hours?” Sander questions, dubious.

Robbe tilts his head back to look at him. “Are you doubting your teacher?” When Sander only blinks at him, he lowers his voice to add, “Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. If you manage to move like two feet they’ll applaud you for days.” Sander huffs a tiny laugh and nods his acceptance.

Lucas crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he says, though it’s joking, because he looks at Sander with just as much awe as the rest of them. Except probably Robbe.

“Don’t worry,” Robbe reassures him. “You’ll be the victim of many more pranks to come.” Lucas kicks his foot, but he’s smiling, and Robbe laughs.

“Yeah we still get pranked like, all the time,” Jens points out. “That’s the price of having friends, sweetheart.” Lucas huffs at him, but the statement is true, so he drops the argument.

“Alright, you guys want to do this now? Or do you need to wait until tomorrow?” Moyo asks them again.

Lucas shakes his head. “I’m going home for the weekend tomorrow. It either has to be today or wait until next week.” Jens doesn’t flinch at the words, obviously already aware, but Robbe is curious. Lucas has told them a little about his friends back home, Kes and Jayden, but beyond that they don’t know much. He thinks Jens might have a little more insight, but he hasn’t pushed yet. No matter how much some of Lucas’s offhand comments remind him of his own situation, once. He wonders if there’s a reason for Lucas going back now, when he hasn’t seemed to visit once since moving here, or if he’s just thinking too much into it.

Moyo claps his hands. “Then today it is.”

“Okay,” Jens sighs. “But we’re doing some warm ups first.”

As they move away, Robbe looks around at Sander. “Do you actually want me to try to teach you?”

Sander smirks. “An excuse to have your hands on me? I don’t know why you think I’d ever say no, Robbe.”

Robbe blushes and hides it by climbing to his feet, pulling Sander up with him with a gentle smile.

It is a little fun, trying to teach Sander with the blonde’s hands on his shoulders and Robbe’s on his waist. They get off to an awful start, Sander barely getting both feet on the board before teetering to the side and slipping off. They laugh at it at the beginning, and then Sander grows serious, brow furrowed in concentration, and Robbe loves him.

“I love you,” he says, so simply, and Sander would fall flat on his face on the concrete if Robbe wasn’t holding onto him. He tumbles off the board and into Robbe’s chest, eyes wide and surprised, and Robbe stares back at him warmly, trying to convey all the honesty of his statement. Sander cups his face and looks at him in wonder, shaking his head slightly.

“I love you too,” he says, just as simply, and the air in Robbe’s lungs rushes out in a gust of relief. “God, I love you so much. For so long,” Sander continues, in amazement, and Robbe pulls him close and kisses him, as giddy as a child.

They continue as normal after that, only with a few extra smiles and an added warmth in Robbe’s chest. His heart has never felt so content, knowing it’s not only safe, but cherished in return. It’s a feeling he never would have let himself crave, about a year ago. Before he came out, before he learned to love himself. Before he met Sander.

Now, though, as he watches Sander roll a few feet on his own with only a minor wobble, he basks in it, feeling happier than he ever remembers being.

It eventually comes time for Jens and Lucas to do their thing, and Robbe and Sander migrate over to watch. Jens is tapping his fingers against his board, the only sign of any nerves. Lucas stands composed, spine straight, but his tongue pokes into his cheek every few seconds. Robbe gives them both what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“Do you want me to film it the first time, or do you want a practice run?”

“The last time I did something this level, I broke my arm. The least you could do is get it on film,” Lucas says.

Jens jerks his head around to him. “You what?” Then, “I’m not letting you break your arm.”

“Well, I hope not,” Lucas says easily. Jens gives him an unimpressed look. “It’s fine. We’ve been doing it all week. We’ll be fine, yeah?”

As far as Robbe knows, they haven’t actually managed to do what they’re planning, but he decides not to point that out.

Jens acquiesces, and they take their place at the top of one of the ramps, facing each other. They lock their hands together between them and kick off at the same time, racing down the groove and back up the other side, letting go of each other at the last second. Robbe holds his breath as they both spin, Lucas twisting in a 180 degree turn in the same time Jens does a 360, and he only releases it when they both land firmly back on their boards, reconnecting their hands with Jens now at Lucas’s back.

They glide to a stop in the middle of the crevice and Jens throws his arms around Lucas’s shoulders, whooping happily. Moyo screams in glee and the other three join him, Robbe pumping his fist in the air as the two begin to laugh.

Later, they’re sitting at an outside table nearby, Robbe once again tucked against Sander as the others go to throw their trash away and pay for their food. He’s enjoying the comfort of their little bubble, relishing the silence, until Sander interrupts it with, “Jens and Lucas are cute.”

Robbe turns to raise a brow at him. “I did not bring you along to comment on how attractive my friends are.”

Sander laughs quietly, but shakes his head in denial. “No, I mean together.”

“Oh.” Robbe shrugs. “Jens was the first one to befriend him when he moved here. Kinda accidentally, but I guess it worked it.”

“That’s sweet. I didn’t know Jens was into guys though.”

Robbe whips his head up to stare at him. “What? No, they’re not like, together. I didn’t know that was what you meant. What made you think that?”

Sander raises his brows. “Everything? It seems obvious.”

“Well.” Robbe doesn’t even know what to say. “It’s not like that. I’m pretty sure Jens isn’t even over Jana. Moyo said Lucas wasn’t dating any of us, remember?”

“Yeah, but I just assumed it happened since then,” Sander shrugs. “Like, ‘you weren’t dating any of us at the time’. You really never got that feeling?”

Robbe shakes his head, a little helplessly. “They’re friends. I didn’t think of anything beyond that.”

Sander does that eyebrow raise again. “They look at each other the same way we do. Do you really think that’s just friendly?”

Robbe glances over his shoulder, to where Jens and Lucas disappeared inside to pay the bill. He can just see them at the counter, turned slightly towards each other. Jens leans in to say something in Lucas’s ear and Lucas shoves him away, laughing. It doesn’t take them long to gravitate back into each other’s space. Now, Robbe can’t miss the way Jens brushes his hand down Lucas’s arm or the smile on his face, mirrored on Lucas’s own, and something breaks in his brain. The hand Lucas rests on Jens’s chest doesn’t seem at all platonic.

[blankdblank]

Next Caller Pt 42

“It’s supposed to be Sheppard’s Pie, but it’s more of a, swirl than layered.” Giggling softly you sat down I the chair beside him.

“Looks delicious all the same.”

Sheepishly he grinned at you and he asked, “How was work?”

“Quiet as usual, saw three check outs, got some decent tips I handed over.”

“How does that work with tips?”

“Well you turn them in each night and they take note of them for taxes, the total is added to your checks monthly, and there’s options to send it or a part at least to the cooks who make our lunches.”

“That’s a nice touch.”

“Well we’re not allowed to tip generally, only paying guests can.” After wetting your lips you asked, “How was the shop?”

“Good, only stopped in for a bit. They didn’t really need me today. Keep finding reasons to send me home early anyways lately.”

“Imagine that,” you teased making him smirk at you. “I should warn you though, we’ll be having company near breakfast tomorrow.”

“Really?”

You nodded, “Apparently I am the only show host willing to aid in a repair air time slot on our floor and now that I have my own booth Echo and Glori will be over to help set it up to broadcast from here. Don’t know what Mal will get up to past possibly nap.”

Thorin chuckled again, “I am certain she could find something to help with the show.”

“Haven’t much recorded bits for her to signal and with the system I have the touch screen in the booth I can link to the monitors outside to signal audio clips.”

“Well I am certain it will be a rousing success. How long will the repairs last?”

“Two weeks, minimum. Depending on how much of a fuss the other shows put up sounds like. I think they’re wanting to add in a second sound booth so we won’t have to ant march past one another. No doubt with some special touches for each show, bunnies flooded on mine for instance,” making him chuckle again in your next giggle.

“Right, um, I was meant to ask on behalf of Bofur’s daughter, Shari, and her boyfriend Ori,”

“Boyfriend?”

He nodded, “Yes, he’s a mix between Firebeard and Broadbeam, just barely related through Dain to our clan by marriage. Many get confused, Shari takes more after her Hobbit Amad to having our Durin looks.”

“Ok, you were saying?”

“Right, yes, the pair of them graduated art school and they were watching your show on Bombadil and they love the style that matches theirs and they were wondering if you might have some tips to get them started in animating. They have a summer program starting soon they got intern spots on but it’s months off.”

“Oh, um, I mean if they want something to do they could help me fill in coloring on my panels. It’ll be mind numbing and painful for their hands but if they’re up for it...”

“They will be. I’ll text Bofur after dinner.”

“Isn’t it a bit late?”

“His shift ends in an hour, a night owl as well works in the business side with Gran and Gramps.”

“Ok, ya, well if they’ll be up they could be here before my show and they can work through it if they like otherwise I could try to work a weekend thing out.”

He shook his head, “They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Will I be needing to supervise them then? Boyfriend and all?”

Chuckling to himself he shook his head and replied, “No. Not at all you focus on your show they will be focused on work. They are Ones, and are of no risk, fully trusted.”

Plates emptied through sharing a bit more on possible plans for the week for him while you were at the hotel and smirking as you eyed the messages on the board from the birds you helped fill the dish washer he started then paused at your hug. Wrapping his arms around you in return he asked, “What is this for?”

“Apparently you want hugs, Cuddle Monster.”

Thorin laughed and kissed he top of your head, guiding you along halfway releasing you, “Come on, off to bed with you. Big day tomorrow.”

You nodded and after changing to comfy flannels and a halfway sheer tank top you flopped into your bed and wiggles under the covers in the room beginning to warm by the fire to the distant sound of Thorin answering Bofur’s confirming call to secure the details he was all too elated to hand over.

.

Up you sat to the sound of a doorbell and out of bed you climbed frowning your way to the door as you awoke. Opening the door you brushed your hair back and looked to BamBam in his bag alone on your porch making you step out and peer over into your front garden where Mal has chased a paper of hers. Bending down you picked up the bag watching Mal huffing in snatching it up and turning around to join you on the porch. “Sorry,” taking hold of BamBam’s bag saying, “Keep losing my notes, got a tear in my bag buying a new one after this.”

“Oh that’s good,” you said as she stepped in and you watched Echo pull into your driveway with a truck parked on the street behind it.

To the door the techies strolled after Echo with all their supplies in heavy looking bags that you guided inside and through the house past Thorin heading to the kitchen to get started on breakfast. “Want some tea?”

The Elves shook their heads thanking him for the offer and Echo said, “Tea would be lovely, thank you. Should not take long.”

The dark room seemed in an odd place to the techs but when you switched on the lights their lips parted at how the space was so far from what they had expected out of an old storage room. “Booth is over there, clearly, and the audio set up is over here in this corner.”

They nodded and got to work as Mal looked the space over still gawking and Echo said, “This is splendid. I should warn you I had some bodies in my trunk.”

Your brow inched up and unnoticed to you at the tail end of the group you saw Elrond’s twin uncles holding their work kits and rolling stools for said kits you accepted hugs from, “What are you doing here?”

Elured chuckled replying, “Glori said you were working on a commercial. We know you’ll need help.”

Elurin, “In town till Saturday, then we have to help with some mural in Gondor since they had a row with Beorn over his bear theater so he is retaliating through art.”

You giggled and nodded saying, “I’ll grab my sketches, just have bare characters so far.”

Elured, “Better to have us here for the mind numbing part.”

Elurin, “Jackrabbit we love coloring books you know that.”

The stacks of bound sections had them smirking on the path back to their waiting stools and kits they rolled to the wavy desk and eyed the notes you had made and Mal asked, “All of that is for a commercial?”

The twins answered, “Anyone can just morph the expression changes and motions on top of a stagnant body pose, we prefer old school, frame by frame to make it flawless.”

Their heads turned as Thorin came in with tea for Echo who was admiring your carpet for the booth one techie was inside of. “Jaqi, kids are here,”

You nodded and when Ori and Shari came into view flashing quick grins at Mal whom they recognized in the sea of Elves. “Hey, good to see you, I know it’s early, but um, these are my friends Elured and Elurin here to help with the commercial as well.” Feeling the curiously smirking twins looking you three over you said, “Ori and Shari here just graduated from art school and wanted to get some tips on animating before a summer program of theirs.”

Elurin chuckled, “No problem there, we have the best break into it right here.”

Elured motioned the closer, “Come in, while Jackrabbit eats we’ll give you the basics on it.” The pair moved in and while you stepped out Mal went with you and Thorin leaving them to it so you could eat. Smirking as she saw you winding your curls up into an awkward bun already starting to droop. “Sleep well?” She asked and you nodded.

“Not bad. Just a bit earlier than usual.” At your seat you lifted your mug of tea to sip on then said, “I’m good.”

She sat down beside you still keeping hold of BamBam asleep on his bag and asked, “Seriously, all that was the commercial?”

You nodded, “Three full minutes. And it’s just the characters, no background or color yet.”

“Get out.”

You giggled, “It takes a lot of patience to be an animator.” Looking her over you asked, “How was your night? You look like you’re holding something.” She smirked and you said, “Besides him.”

Sheepishly she said, “I got an interview.”

“Ooh,” That had Thorin looking over at her wondering if she was aiming for another job.

“Well you know I’m two years left on my Marine Biology degree so I can finally start interning, and there’s a really great program in the Grey Havens this summer. The head of it picked out my application, loved my profile page I had to make and wants to come interview me on Thursday.” Her eyes scanned over you.

“That’s amazing, why are you looking at me like that if you need the summer off I won’t be mad go follow the fish in the sea.” Making her smile as you added, “I won’t stand in your way.”

“See, thing is, they needed to pick an interview location, and, well, I sort of gave them your address.” Your brow inched up and Thorin chuckled to himself, “See, I can’t take them to the Tea shop, or the tattoo parlor which I live over, but no doubt they’ll get crushed by something toppling over. Can’t use Bilbo’s house because no doubt Frodo will streak through coated in bubbles with Bilbo and Dwalin after him. And it’s on Thursday and I hoped if you were here and off the show you might let me use the dining room or parlor just for the interview I swear I’ll pay you back or do chores or whatever you need.”

Rolling your eyes you said. “It’s fine. Not a problem, good impressions, I get that. Rented my friend Elrond’s tea room once for one of mine. Thank you for actually asking. So, details.” You said taking another sip.

“Well, it’s mainly working with a shark preservation camp. Heading out to inspect, observe, tag and all that with some work helping on the rescues and injured sharks back at their base. Most first timers don’t get to go in the deep ocean yet so mainly I might just be centered around nursing in the base and compiling data maybe.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad, do you get to be the one to give the baby sharks their lollipops?” She gave you a playful glare and you giggled back, “I’m sorry I’m not trying to tease you. You say shark nurse and that’s what I see a baby shark sick in bed just waiting for its lollipop and temp to be taken.”

A grin cracked across her lips, “Alright, it is a cute image.”

“You’ll have to send pictures.”

“I’ll have to get in first.” She sighed out as Thorin started to set food down in front of you, gesturing at it in a silent question if she wanted some she shook her head as you spoke freeing him to grab his own food.

“You’ll get in you love rescuing animals. I mean come on you even took in an injured Mortar boar for Vanna’s sake.”

“Ooh, cast off this weekend, Dain is so thrilled he’s planning a party for Truffles and him to welcome BamBam fully.”

“Aww, so sweet.” After another sip you lowered your mug asking, “Why wouldn’t they take you? Since you’re so critical of being accepted.”

“Well, for the blaring obvious reason no Dwarves have been accepted before, and only a handful of Hobbits, who all got especially high class jobs from the internship.”

“So what’s the problem? You love sharks, they’ll let you in.”

“Ok, you don’t,” she sighed, “Cirnaven is one of the hardest researchers out there-,”

“Cirnaven?” You asked in fluid Elvish correcting the pronunciation wondering if she was trying to say someone else’s name instead.

“I, yes... wait have you heard of him? Is he really famous out there? I know you came through the Grey Havens and Lindon.”

“He’s my step father’s twin brother.” That dropped her jaw that lowered even more as you said, “He used to take me on his runs when I lived there.”

“Jaqi!! You went diving with him?!”

Following a timid nod you said, “He’s the one who helped me with my water therapy.”

Her mood dimmed a moment then spiked again as she asked at Thorin’s settling down at the table patting your hand before easing your utensils closer to your hand signaling you to eat. “Could you put in a good word then?”

“No doubt I already have.” Her brows arched up and you said, “Look, I don’t have many friends and my calls home got boring, I have talked about you and my Naneth had three times as many questions on you as your parents had on me. I wasn’t kidding when I gave you their best on holidays and your name day. No doubt Cirnaven was told about you and the name caught a flag.” You paused a moment as you said, “Come to think of it I can’t remember him taking anyone outside of Numenor past the Misty Mountains.”

Mal pointed at you, “See! My point! Right there.”

“And you invited them right to my house,” you teased.

“I-,” her voice cracked a moment as that set in that if they had wondered if she was your friend that the address would no doubt confirm you were her friend.

“Game and point.”

“I don’t think that’s the term,” Thorin muttered around his mouthful and you sighed around yours making him chuckle. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be heading out in a little bit. Won’t know I’m here, give you plenty of privacy.”

“You do know you live here, right?” He nodded smirking as you continued, “Just making sure. Not gonna be naked in the booth no need for privacy, you’d be listening anyways so no need to scurry away.”

“New inventory today, Balin will need me.”

“Ooh, jealous.” You teased making him smirk and chuckle causing Mal to smirk watching the pair of you bantering.

“What am I in store for then? If I may?”

“Not much, just breaking into Durin’s house.” Making him almost choke on his food and coughed a few moments.

Mal, “You do know that’s grounds for proposal depending on what Bunny does?”

You smirked at her making him chuckle and say stabbing another slice of waffles, “Gran no doubt will be calling again in that case. Can’t wait.”

Mal, “Will they at least be engaged by tomorrow?”

“Not yet.”

The pair of them groaned and you giggled. Thorin asked, “How is that possible, tradition is they break in and he has to propose for surprising him in his dwelling.”

“For a traditional break in yes.” His brow inched up as you said, “It’s his birthday.”

“Not till November.” He grumbled back.

“Well if he would have answered Bunny’s question it wouldn’t be but it is now.”

He pointed his fork at you, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You giggled again and Mal said, “You said Durin and the bantering isn’t till book two, when do they get together, and I mean full courtship wide open.”

“Book four.” Again they groaned and you took another bite of your food. “Just wait till book three, when he gets to wooing.”

Thorin smirked holding back his argument that according to Dwarf traditions has been clearly wooing Bunny already leaving you your surprises knowing they would be amply worth it.

.

Echo shared fully how the system was to work and assured you he was staying for the first show with Glori confirming it was airing flawlessly as it should from the station where the work crew had just gotten started. Into your booth you went leaving the young couple between the twins wondering where the rest of the crew was for the show. Up onto your stool you sat settling your notebook on the stand inside the small booth and you inhaled sharply tapping the screen on the monitor there to confirm in the countdown to being live that you were ready. And through your headphones you slipped on the opening music played at Mal’s tap from behind the desk across the room while BamBam napped on the floor beside her feet.

“Hey hey hey, it’s me your dear friend Bunny, devoted as ever with my ear to the ground here to give you all the latest. Today however much like before we are on an adventure as I happen to be scaling a wall at the moment carrying you with me.”

At the shop Thorin smirked at the opening wondering how the break in would take place and go over with his kin.

“Now, we seem to be locked in quite a dilemma because I find myself committing quite the crime of the century, but you see it really can’t be helped as it is entirely out of my own volition you see.” Brows inched up wondering what violent ends Bunny was facing to commit a crime. “Quite bluntly not two days passed I had been thwarted in trying to discover the birthday of King Durin, and so now here I am, scaling this monstrosity of a wall to bake for the stubborn King. Whether he likes it or not, the truth of it is, no matter what today is now his birthday and he shall just have to live with the fact that today of all days even as a King he cannot escape an impending cake.”

Carrying out through the process inside and through the palace and unloading of ingredients as several smirking servants were noted by the narrator taking over for you. Blending in was Durin still brooding away as to how his next meeting with Bunny would go after their last speaking ending in a row recapped for those listening in seeing the painfully easy to remedy dilemma the pair faced. With his sharing the date he misunderstood her reasoning to know and her sharing her intentions for spending said date with him. All wishing to simply drag both characters to lock them in a room until they shared they loved one another.

*

Colors had been set out and divided up with your reference colored sketch taped up for the new duo and Elured said, “Now, you handle the gown base, you the wrap,”

Elurin, “Just leave the details to us.”

Ori eyed one of the panels asking, “what are these lines?” Asking about the fainter lines aimed from two tally marks landing across Beatrice and the chair underneath her.

Elured, “Those are light references. Now this one is from the lamp, so to this we will add a golden hue, while others with moonlight shall be more silvery white.”

Shari, “Jaqi adds light references? These are on nearly every panel looks like.”

Elurin chuckled, “Like we said, Jackrabbit is very old fashioned. Used to carrying the weight and thanks to that it makes this so much simpler for us.”

Elured, “Now, around those lines color your spots in and we will show you how we treat those sections.”

Getting to coloring with colored wax pencils they filled in their sections and passed the images on only to watch as the brothers colored the light strips in with non wax colored pencil they then painted over with a golden hue coloring up to where the lamp would be adding more depth to the scenes. The twins taking turns with each panel on the smaller details they let dry and accepted the next pair in a slow building stack from the first section that Echo smirked in seeing coming to life.

A detail on the chair however had Ori asking, “These symbols, on this chair, what are they? Some old form of Elvish?”

Elurin, “No, Troll.” That had the couple looking at him.

Shari, “Why would Miss Pear add Troll runes to this tale? I know she added Troll characters to her old show-,”

Elured, “Back in her apartment before her move to Beryl she lived in a Troll town. Babysat for a family of Trolls, all while the first show was in development.”

Elurin, “Gorufndunt, the little boy, one day he started crying so hard. A game promoting a Troll character just ended up the butt of jokes and mocked and abused because out of the band of warriors he was the lone Troll and by public opinion was meant to be mocked and insulted. Gorufndunt believed so much that for once there could be a Troll outside Troll media that was more than that.” That had their lips parting.

Elured, “So Jackrabbit put her foot down, we revamped the entire second half of the first season to include a Troll Warrior named Gorufndunt, with his parents’ permission that is, to use his name. She fought so hard to keep him strong and respectable and true to their traditions. Sure there were misunderstandings and a few teasing snippets, and he was a clown at times, but for his own choosing nothing to do with his race. Fully respected member of the team and looked up to.”

Shari, “What did the little boy think?”

The twins smiled replying, “He loved it. Every moment, and he was so proud.”

Echo, “Small hands turn the wheels of the world. That move was not much, but it started the motion all the same. She knew how much it meant to him and it would mean to so many other little children watching looking for someone to look up to just like them.”

Ori asked, “How did he like the next season, wasn’t there a family in that one?”

Their smiles dropped and Elured said, “There was a fire, in their apartment building. None of the family could get out, Jackrabbit barely did. Their names are in the memorial clips at the credits, and for the second season after reaching out to their clan she was granted permission to add a family for the warrior with their names. All equally as strong and respectable in their own ways, even little Brumble in her wobbling years.”

Elurin, “Their clan was honored to have them live on, their little quirks, and snippets of their lives that their heirs now get to watch with pride seeing the characters their ancestors inspired.”

Echo, “When Jackrabbit’s Ada’s clan had all but disowned her Trolls showed her kindness and friendship, one she feels to have betrayed in losing that family from the world. With all her projects she tries to add little hints to make people wonder and possibly inspect to look up their history.”

Mal hurried back to her desk from her bathroom break stepping over BamBam on his path around the room again and with a call from Glori Echo stood in your own commercial break you exited the booth saying, “Excuse me,” hopping over BamBam to hurry out the room.

Back again you came letting out a breath asking Ori and Shari in a peer over the desk, “How you doing?”

Shari grinned at you flexing her fingers and hands in the break, “Good. Thank you for giving us this chance.”

“Well I’d like to help where I can, and you’re really doing me the service.”

Ori, “Can we ask what the Countess is saying?”

“Give it till Thursday and you can hear the audio clip recordings yourselves. Giving it a simple try and hopefully they will like it.”

Echo said walking over, “If anything you might have to invite Gorgo over on the weekend to give it a once over.” Leaning in had claimed a warm hug, “Glori needs some back up, I do believe you have it under control from here.”

By the time you had returned however Echo sighed saying, “Glori needs me.”

On your toes you accepted his hug saying, “I’ve got it, go have fun, about to throw some flamingos into this pool party.” Making him chuckle and leave as you said, “I can drop the guys off after the show.”

“You are doing spectacular Dear JackRabbit.”

Mal said, “Don’t know how you stay sane in that box.”

Smirking at her from the doorway you said, “You just have to change the way you think.”

She rolled her eyes, “Let me guess, outside the box?”

You giggled closing the door and moving back to your stool to add your headphones again readying to dip back into the show again, yet when you came back on the air you looked down hearing a snorting in the booth while you were describing setting the table with all the food you had made only to have light fill the box when Mal crept inside pulling BamBam out of the box she closed mouthing an apology. Chuckles came from the trio in the tea shop knowing where the odd boar noises came from others largely ignored.

Pt 43

@avaria-revallier​​ , @c-s-stars - Stars hope you like the details coming up about your dear Mal :D

[thesevenseraphs]

Update 2.8.1

Below is a list of changes and fixes with Update 2.8.1

COMBAT

Fixed an issue in which Ward of Dawn was not generating Orbs of Light .

Fixed an issue in which Ward of Dawn could not be activated while holding a Sword.

Fixed an issue in which casting Nova Bomb did not consume your melee ability (Attunement of Hunger).

EMBLEMS AND TRACKERS

Trackers added:

Season 8 Season Pass Rank Earned

Season 9 Season Pass Rank Earned

Fractaline Donated

Kills as a Sentinel Titan

Kills as a Striker Titan

Kills as a Sunbreaker Titan

Kills as a Flowwalker Hunter

Kills as a Nightstalker Hunter

Kills as a Gunslinger Hunter

Kills as a Stormcaller Warlock

Kills as a Dawnblade Warlock

Kills as a Voidwalker Warlock

Gold Medals Earned

Longest Glory Win Streak

Total Valor Resets

Pit of Heresy Solo Flawless Completions

Kills of Final Bosses in Hive Escalation

Completed Nightmare Hunts on Master Difficulty

Medal Tracker - 7th Column

Medal Tracker - Annihilation

Medal Tracker - We Ran out of Medals

Medal Tracker - Ghost in the Night

Medal Tracker - This Crown is Mine

Medal Tracker - I Made This for You

Medal Tracker - Undefeated  

Wins in Trials of the Nine

Flawless Tickets in Trials of the Nine

Kills in Crimson Doubles

Defeated Opponents When Under Effects of Iron Burden

Black Armory Forge Completions

Kills of Haunted Forest Terrors

Deepest Branch of Haunted Forest Cleared

Recipes Baked

Completed Branches of Verdant Forest

Number of Revelric Light Triggers During the Revelry

Completed Tier 3 Encounters During the Reckoning

Completions of Menagerie

Completions of Heroic Menagerie

Candy Collected

REWARDS

ARMOR

The Titan's Phoenix Cradle Exotic leg armor now correctly creates sunspots that have an extended duration and apply their benefits to allies when the Titan wearing the armor gets a weapon kill while standing in a sunspot.

Fixed an issue where the Warlock's Felwinter's Helm Exotic would incorrectly trigger after swapping the item off and on again.

Fixed an issue where some faction armors were not correctly allowing players to apply Faction Rally ornaments to them.

Seasonal mod sockets have been added to all armors available from world drops. See this article for more details.

Players who met the requirements, but were missing Prestige ornaments for the Eater of Worlds raid lair, will now have them unlocked and available for use.

New players can still obtain Prestige ornaments from completing the Prestige (Heroic) Eater of Worlds raid lair along with the appropriate Leviathan boss challenges.

Fixed an issue that could prevent Eater of Worlds Prestige ornaments from appearing in the ornament slot on appropriate raid gear.

The Titan’s Aeon Safe Exotic gauntlets now lists the same melee trigger requirement on both its Tooltip and Details screens.

The Mantle of Remembrance ornament for Hunters’ Exotic gauntlets Shinobu's Vow will now properly replace the item icon to reflect the change in appearance.

The Diadem of Deceit Exotic ornament is now usable on the Year 1 version of the Warlock Exotic helm Crown of Tempests.

The Nano Redux Exotic ornament is now usable on the Year 1 version of the Hunter Exotic chest armor Raiden Flux.

The Huskcrushers Exotic ornament is now usable on the Year 1 version of the Titan Exotic leg armor Dunemarchers.

The chest armor mod Large Arm Reserves now properly provides increased ammo reserves for Shotguns.

ECONOMY

Nightfall: The Ordeal Grandmaster difficulty now grants Season 10 Season Pass Exotic weapon catalyst quest progression.

Crimson Day Sparrows now have the correct event watermark (was The Dawning).

Duplicate individual emotes purchased separately from a bundle can now be opened.

Universal ornaments being sold for Bright Dust in the Eververse store now properly display the text "Already Purchased on Account" when owned.

Fixed an issue that caused the Warlock Season Pass universal chest ornament to erroneously cause an unreleased event’s universal ornament to also display as unlocked.

Trials of Osiris Ghost Shell will now drop with Crucible-related perks.

POWER AND PROGRESSION

Four weekly Powerful gear sources upgraded to Pinnacle (+1): Crucible, Strike, and Gambit challenges, and the weekly clan engram.

Fixed an issue where the Trials vendor engram was not previewing rewards at the correct power level.

WEAPONS

Fixed an issue with The Fourth Horseman where its Broadside perk would fail to replicate its effects over the network.

Fixed an issue with Breech Loaded (Special ammo) Grenade Launchers that resulted in them having a significantly reduced blast radius.

WORLD SYSTEMS

Completing Warden of Nothing now counts for a Fallen boss kill for the weekly Strike bounty: Serve the Servitors.

Fixed an issue causing Warden of Nothing to give double Champion Rewards.

For the Wish-Ender Exotic quest, any players who were missing Uncharged Tokens after turning in their Awoken Talisman and then completing the "???" secret mission, will now find them in their Pursuits.

If a player's Pursuits are full, they will find the Uncharged Tokens added once they've cleared some space and then returned to orbit or re-logged into Destiny 2. 

Dreaming City world chests are awarding Glimmer again.

Fixed an issue where players could get blocked from obtaining the Essence from the Bad Juju mission The Other Side, preventing completion of the Bad Juju Exotic quest Spellbound

A player could get into a bad state if, before being on the quest themselves, they joined another player on the appropriate quest step, completed The Other Side mission, obtained the Essence, and then bound it to obtain Bad Juju.

Players in this bad state, who have obtained Bad Juju and completed The Other Side mission, but have not completed the Spellbound Exotic quest, will now be able to Bind Essence at the altar to complete it.

Fixed an issue causing a crash when players attempted to turn in their Awoken Talisman to the statue of Sjur Eido in the Shattered Throne dungeon.

UI

Made a change so that completed bounties now sort to the top of the bounty bucket, grouping them together.

Friends listed in a player's roster should no longer show up as black nameplates with zero Power.

GENERAL

Fixed an issue where the Champion Servitor's invulnerability beams were not appearing during Seraph Tower events.

Fixed a string identifying for the four Seraph weapons to include the word "Source:" so players know where to obtain the weapons.

Fixed an issue where the  Rasputin bounty, The Lost Classics was not counting Classic Mix matches.

Added the activity rejoin functionality in the Trials playlist.

Fixed an issue where fully upgrading a destination bunker sometimes doesn't unlock the Warmind Security Triumph.

The “Seasonal Triumphs Complete” field now increments when Triumphs are completed.

Added Vex barriers to the Grove of Ulan-Tan Legendary Lost Sector.

Fixed an issue in the Seraph Towers public event where Ana’s dialog would still call out towers being overwhelmed when the towers are down and Champions are present in the final phase.

Fixed an issue with the Heavy Frame spawning away from its platform in The Quarry and Scavenger's Den Legendary Lost Sectors on EDZ.

Fixed an issue affecting the difficulty scaling of several activities including Whisper of the Worm and Zero Hour missions.

[antiquatedhorror]

angel sighting, 2011 (eerievember prompt)

What does it mean to truly see?

A strange question, perhaps; but one worth asking all the more. 

Is there such a thing as true sight? Man sees themselves as perfect; some see themselves as in the Lord’s Heavenly image, others simply as a natural perfection crafted through biology alone. Yet consider this; are we truly perfect?

Consider the eye.

The eye, to which we claim our ability to hunt, to see, to grasp and pen and paper and offer art to the world, that which animals cannot bear to hold themselves. The eye, a complex tool slotted into a socket crafted for it.

Yet it can only touch that which is left unseen.

Consider the humble hound, which can see in the dark where we cannot. What, I wonder, do they see? What things linger in the shadows that our humble sockets are unable to comprehend?

What monstrosities linger in the dark that drag them to ruthlessly bark, to warn us of what we cannot see? Once, I would have claimed no such fear at the thought.

Now I do not know. I changed, perhaps inconceivably so, when He arrived.

He came unto us, in beauty and majesty.

Wings curled, smothering His form, yet so bright it was that one could not even look unto Him. His form was colossal, that of a mountain bearing wings, of feathers the size of buildings. All was silent.

Not a soul in the town quivered, none dared to twitch. The sound of His wings, flapped with such strength, were like a hurricane, each shift deafening, each movement enough to draw blood to the ears; Yet none dared scream, as if to do so would drag His attention to one's minute self and none other.

How long passed? How many dwindling seconds, minutes, hours passed, as we stared at this form of Heavenly form.

Time passed.

And at Last, He moved; wings unfurling, opening wide unto it all. It was blinding! None dared scream, yet some simply dropped dead at the sight, eyes sizzling. My eyes were transfixed, unable to tear away, and lo, I heard Him speak; DO NOT BE AFRAID.

And He Spoke once more, though I heard sound leave my ears and blood dribble from their confines; ‘THE WORLD IS LOST, CHILD; THE FATHER WEEPS. THE LION JOINS HIM. LO, A CHILD OF GOD IS CHOSEN AGAIN, AND LO; YOU WILL BE THE FINAL PROPHET.’

And He gave me knowledge without words, of things incomprehensible, of land inhuman and of things to come.

And I am blinded by His majesty, and yet for the first time I truly see, and lo, as the Dog which He created as He did man, I can see what lurks in the Shadows, and They can see me.

And I know what I must do; for He has told me all.

Writings found at scene of MCI. Unidentified substance covers the page. Author is unknown; no body was present alongside the evidence. 

Hastily stapled to the page was an excerpt from the Book of Isaiah, shown below;

In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne; and the train of his robe filled the temple. 

Above him were seraphim, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying. 

And they were calling to one another:

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty;

    the whole earth is full of his glory.”

 Autopsy records of nearby intact corpse highlighted below:

External Examination

The Body was that of a developed, mid-to-late-twenties white male. Evidence of clothing is circumstantial; remaining threads suggest grey track pants and a plain white shirt. The body weighed 270 pounds, and measured at six foot four in height. Despite the length of time since death, the body remains warm to the touch. Facial features are formed into a blissful look and in expected Rigor; however, eyes are entirely absent from the skull. No sign of forced removal or injury is present; evidence of a liquid substance remains in parts of the socket and has been sent away for chemical analysis. The Victim's body was discovered in a kneeling state of Rigor, assuming a traditional Christian Prayer position, and remained in such a position until time of autopsy, due to difficulties in circumventing the Rigor. Post-Mortem analysis suggests the muscles in the body continue to ‘reset’ towards this position, even when severed or fully removed. Awaiting further Analysis to test for suggestion of chemical poisoning.

Evidence of Injury

There is no evidence of any trauma occurring to the victim, even including the examination of the Eye Sockets. There is also no evidence of any natural death, as the victim's body is in perfect health; no signs of a Heart Attack, Stroke, or any other symptoms, and preliminary analysis show little suggestion of pathogens, man-made or otherwise. With the risk of improper terminology, it is as if the Victim simply ceased to be present.

[hollandandi]

“come on, have a bloody heart.” “i do, i’m holding one.”

———

type - angst

tom or peter?

au? - mobster tom (mob!tom)

word count - 3.4k

warnings - swearing, gore (sorry about it! but he is a mobster.)

w/n - honestly, thanks so much for the positive response i received on my first imagine that wasn’t a chapter to a series yesterday. i am so glad people enjoyed it. if you haven’t seen it, feel free to click here.

————

It was a ordinary, simple-minded Thursday. The trees were hit with bursts of hot wind, knocking dying leaves from the branches onto the pavement throughout the city. You gripped the blush pink strap, attached to your bag, and pulled it closer to your neck from your right shoulder as you slowly breathed in the summer air racing past you. After finishing your shift at the local book store, you decided to take the longer route home due to the warmer weather and clearer skies that blossomed above you - you walked swiftly, but made sure you fully appreciated your calm surroundings during the journey; unknown to you, however, that would be that the last peaceful memory for a while.

Even after a week passed from that journey, all you could remember was the feeling of red once you returned home that day. Red was the best colour to associate to the memory; blood, confusion and danger were the best words to use. As you reached your house, which usually oozed love, tranquility and safety, you realised the front door was unlocked, and gently pushed inwards. Though strange and entirely unusual as it was unlikely this was intentional by your parents, your mood was carefree, quiet and absent-minded, so you proceeded to enter the house that was beginning to no longer feel like home. You took slow, careful steps into the main living room - but even with a newly-hesitant outlook on the situation, you could not escape the picture immediately painted into your mind in seconds.

Bursting your eyes back open with a familiar panic, you sat up immediately from your best friend’s sofa-bed, clutching the grey, fabric duvet that covered you strictly in your hands. It had been a week, but you were still having the recurring, yet simple nightmare. It was a straight-forward, complete re-enactment of the moment you desperately tried not to think about throughout the day - though this was often unsuccessful, one thing that was always guaranteed was this reminder as you attempted to gain at least a few hours of sleep.

Across the city, however, it was also not a calm day for many. As the days grew colder, the area’s crime rate was rising - from dodgy drug deals, to manic murders and sickening sexual assaults, it was proving difficult to escape the increasing fear many people were beginning to feel. Like you, many people were no longer feeling at home; instead, many were anxious to return to their houses and apartments that were supposed to be their comfort spot after a stressful day at work. Of course, the situation was not helped by a certain arrival in the city - known to many, but not all, was a quick, but heavy movement into an incredibly expensive building of offices and work-rooms that had been very recently renovated. Though the move-in was widely noticed, only few were aware of those featured in the arrival.

“Tom, she is a family friend. We knew her parents incredibly well, they were very good to us. Always.” A female voice uttered to her stubborn and cocky son, who was sat comfortably behind a large, glass desk at the very top of the skyscraper.

“Mum, I already told you - I don’t care who she is, she could be the fucking reincarnation of Jesus for all I care - she is not staying at our home. You’ve already mentioned that she is staying at a friend’s house; I am sure she is perfectly fine there.” The suited, straight-faced boy responded abruptly, looking up to make contact with his mother’s eyes. In response, there was a gentle scoff from her, before a hard glare met his face. “I didn’t raise you like this.” She hissed, before turning swiftly on her heels and making her way out of the modernised office, as the mobster, named Tom, shook his head and huffed. He couldn’t believe his own mother wanted to bring a stranger into his home - the home he designed and bought, but most importantly the home he made safe for his family.

To his relief, his thoughts were interrupted by a buzzing sound from the delicate desk in front of him. A text had come through his phone, and as he roughly picked up the device, he began to bite his lip while reading the message. Only three words lay on the screen, but that was all it took for a smirk to emerge on his face, his body to rise from the chair he was originally seated in and his legs to start moving towards the exit of his office. “We got him.”

As you wiped back the loose hairs that had fallen onto your face during your panicked wake up, you took a long, breathy sigh as you glanced down to your hands, now in your lap. Your fingers brushed over each other as you closed your eyes carefully, still sat up - and remembered how much scrubbing you were compelled to do on the day of the accident. There was so much blood you started to think it was seeping through the first few layers of your skin, and you could just not feel clean afterwards. Before hot tears took their opportunity to emerge within your eyes, you quickly shot your head up and made your way from the sofa, pulling down the legs of your pyjama pants softly so they were back in the appropriate place on your hips. Beginning the kettle, you saw a lilac-coloured post-it note on the counter, telling you that your friend was at work and would be back tonight after her shift. You smiled softly, but it was still fairly weak, but grew slightly stronger as you poured the hot-water into your favourite mug. It had been a small Christmas gift from your dad in the past; a huge, cream coloured one with “You’re Brilliant!” enscriped onto it in large, skinny letters. Just the memory made you smile truly, but it was accompanied with a sharp, quick jolt to your heart, so you quickly finished your tea and began to walk to the kitchen table that you kept your laptop on.

However, as you walked, you heard a muted shuffle of feet, before a crisp sound of paper sliding underneath your door frame. Slightly alerted, you froze with the mug within your hands, but as the feet underneath quickly ran away, you began to feel a little more at ease. Placing the heavy cup on a cork coaster, you swiftly walked towards the doorframe and carefully picked up the envelope that was resting on the hard-wood floor. Your hands began to shake a little - you didn’t really know why, but I’m sure no-one would blame you for little bursts of worry every now and then. Your fingers moved swiftly underneath the envelope’s opening, before pulling it upwards and revealing the blank card within it. Once slotted out, you anxiously separated the two sides, before glancing upon a scribbled message on the right-hand side.

“Y/N, it’s Nikki and Dom. We heard. Please come stay with us and the boys - you are family to us and we all want to make sure you are safe.

If you take up my our offer, which we hope you do, come to the fourth office of Holland Incorporated any day of the week.”

Well, to say the least, that was definitely not what you were expecting.

While you were taking a breath of relief in the small apartment across the city, Tom was taking a breath of pride. Sitting in a dark, cherry-red pool of blood was an unlucky traitor, that had posed a threat to the business for several weeks - spooled out along the floor, major organs carefully removed or toyed with, sat a clear example of what would happen to those who chose to disrespect a powerful mobster of England. However, the glory did not last long for Tom, as his powerful glee was interrupted by his Dad, Dominic, trying again to convince the boy of an important decision.

“Right, now that’s over with - you need to listen to me, boy. Like your mother has already told you, she is like family to us. And one thing I am sure I have drilled into that stubborn brain of yours is that you help family - always.” The father spoke harshly, standing at the back of the room with a full view of the events which took place minutes before.

Instead of giving an immediate verbal response, Tom simply scoffed, turning around to look at the man that stood before him with dark, cloudy eyes. “The important word you used right there was ‘like’, she is not my family.” He expressed, using his free hand to point at his chest. “She may be yours, and Mum’s, and the other’s for all I care. But she is not mine - family means more to me than words and titles.”

An eye-roll ensued, followed by a head shaking and a raised voice. “Come on Tom, have a bloody heart.” Dom spat - he was in disbelief that his own son would disrespect his wishes like this - right in-front of his own face.

“I do, I’m holding one.” Tom responded in an equal tempo and tone, before dropping the bloody organ that once was beating, to the concrete, tiled basement floor of the building. “At-least I was.” He chuckled to himself, taking out a handkerchief from his front pocket to attempt to wipe some liquid from his bloody, bruised hands. When he glanced up, however, his father Dom was only a metre or so from his son, his eyes slightly softer as he parted his lips to retaliate. “Well, it’s a shame you don’t agree, but your mother has already invited her. So it’s up to Y/N if she wishes to take up the deal.”

“For fucks sake!” Tom yelled, clenching his fists within the silk handkerchief before passing his father and heading for the steel door that marked the difference between beatings, murder and interrogation, and that of business, meetings and phone-calls. “You’re a bunch of bloody cunts, I fucking swear.” This was all Dom heard before his son stormed out of the room, and towards the elevator which opened almost immediately - almost as if an inanimate object could feel the tension within the air.

“Jesus Christ, it’s not like she’s staying in your bed.” Dom uttered to himself, before shaking his head and choosing the stairs instead.

Days passed by quickly, including the weekend separating July and August, and soon enough, it was Monday again. Four days had passed since you received the letter, and it was only until the morning of August 2nd that you finally made up your mind. The choice was concluded from various factors - one, you were beginning to feel like a true burden to your friend, especially when she began to bring guys home at nine o’ clock, which was unfortunately a peak time for your hot, salty tears to begin flowing down your cheeks. Two, you didn’t think that distancing yourself from everyone else was helping, and although you had received a few texts from friends; curious about your wellbeing, you honestly felt a rush of protection when you re-read the letter. It sounds ridiculous, but even through handwriting, the choice was consistently playing on your mind. Two reasons were enough for you - you had always told yourself that if you only had a single excuse for something, it wouldn’t be strong enough to hold you if it went wrong, and as you learnt that the hard way recently, once natural, easy reasons were flowing off your tongue for running across the city, you wasted no time packing back up your chosen belongings, leaving a lilac-coloured post-it note and making your way from the small apartment block you had stayed for almost two weeks.

After a short walk, a long bus ride, and another short walk, you made it to the fairly intimidating building on the other side of town. It must have been at least twenty floors high, and at certain angles, you couldn’t even see the top of the construction. “I wonder who got that unlucky office.” You laughed lightly to yourself - it was the first one in a short while, and perhaps it was because you were actually in an area, standing in front of a building that didn’t trigger deadly memories for elongated periods, that you could. Seeing other people enter through the main doors, you made your way through the first before seeing at least a hundred different guards standing next to numerous security machines. “Brilliant, fucking brilliant.” You sighed to yourself before beginning what was only going to be a tortuous hour or so.

Twelve security measures, three full-body scans and five bag x-rays later, you were finally allowed access to the sacred building that the family, once like family to you, stayed throughout the days of each week. Pulling your cross-body bag strap closer to you, you stood in front of a marbled desk that spread across the entire room. Behind it was a blonde, fairly young girl wearing a fairly revealing uniform, if you can even call it that.

“Hi, my name is Y/N Y/L/N - I was hoping to see Nikki or Dominic?” You bit your lip after expressing the request, before smiling softly to the receptionist who seemed unamused, glancing you up and down with judging eyes. Your hair was down, and you had dark blue jeans with a black blouse tucked into the top of them. A ring hung securely on your middle finger on your right hand, and blue Converse sat underneath your feet. “They’re busy.” She smiled sarcastically back to you, before looking back down to her computer and beginning to type something into the screen. “Oh, erm, do you know when they will be available?” You asked gently, cocking an eyebrow slightly at the hostility expressed to you so quickly from the woman, but all you got in response was a chuckle and continued obnoxious typing. “Am I missing something here? Aren’t you supposed to be a receptioni-,” you began to retaliate, before being interrupted with a cheery welcome from a familiar female voice behind the counter.

“Y/N! I am so glad you came!” Nikki practically yelled, before nodding towards a final security guard by the entrance to the open space behind the counter, causing the receptionist that had ‘greeted’ you to freeze and begin squirming in her seat. “Nikki, it is so good to see you.” You smiled towards her - which although was still weak, warmed Nikki’s heart as she wrapped you in a tight embrace. “I was actually just leaving, come come! We’ll take you straight home.” Your lips parted in surprise, but relief - this building was incredibly intimidating, and you could not wait to get to a house with a comfortable bed again. “Is anyone else coming with us?” You softly exclaimed, nodding in agreement to her previous idea and beginning to exit to a black car towards the side of the metal building. As you climbed into the seat gestured to you, she shook her head gently before uttering, “Not yet, the boys will meet us later once work is finished.”

Although you smiled towards her and nodded once again, clicking in your seatbelt and sitting back against the head-rest, you couldn’t help but gulp at the thought of Tom, Harry and Sam returning home tonight. You were looking forward to seeing Paddy and Dominic, but the others were a little nerve wracking. It had been years since you last properly encountered with the brothers, almost a decade with Tom specifically, and an adult reunitement was replaced with hushes, dangerous whispers and terrifying stories as the power was passed on through the family. You had no idea what to expect - what he looked like, what he sounded like, but more importantly, what he acted like.

Your thoughts, though, were quickly interrupted with eager chit-chat from Nikki about your life. Hobbies, aspirations and friends were a few of the topics quickly brought up, and soon enough, the car stopped and the car door beside you was being opened. As your shoes hit the pebbled floor, your eyes immediately hit the sight before you. A house, a mansion, laid before you, placed behind an extensive arrangement of flowers, plants and a breath-taking fountain. Before you could even fully capture and grasp the beauty of the exterior, Nikki was eagerly pulling you inside to show you the sights behind the entrance. Just when you thought you could not possibly see something prettier, you did. Firstly, the hallway was bigger than your parent’s home, and the bathroom was bigger than your friend’s apartment. The guest room - which Nikki now insisted was your room - took your breath away for the fourth time since arriving. A king-sized bed stood against the back wall, with oak-wood furniture, designer rugs and a dazzling chandelier surrounding it. You could definitely get used to this.

Tom had finally calmed down at the office, and was somewhat civil with his father after the argument earlier that day. However, Dom was yet to confess the sight he would see in the guest room later tonight, but as the brothers were laughing amongst themselves in the car-ride home, he decided against it. “You should have seen his face, Sam. Practically begging me to kill him quickly - they’re hitting a new low I tell you, they don’t even bother begging for their life anymore.” Tom laughed, before resting his hand behind his head and allowing the journey to return him to his safe space. The windows were heavily tinted, so only people who knew the official address to the residence could find the house, but Tom felt the car begin to drive over pebbles, alerting him he was about to reach home. Once he felt the car stop gently, he opened his door and began making his way to the entrance, his brothers and father following behind him, still smiling and joking amongst themselves over several topics. After greeting his Mum, grabbing something quick to eat and washing his hands briefly afterwards, he expressed he was going to change before making his way up the wooden, oak stairs which led to the variety of bedrooms on the upper floor.

As you used the following hours to slowly un-pack your bag; carefully hanging your clothes on silk-covered hangers and slotting them gently into your one, of many, wardrobes, you set out a pair of pyjamas during the process. After arranging the clothes and other essentials you brought with you, you realised how much everyone else in the house must own if they fill the space provided, before slipping on a pair of blush-pink pyjama shorts and a white t-shirt and brushing multiple knots that had formed in your hair during your arrival to the Holland home. As you sat with quiet music playing out of your phone speakers as you performed your nightly routine for sleep, you faced the wall, miming lyrics of your current favourite song, pulling the brush down in several areas.

Tom’s room was the last of all rooms, against the back wall of the floor. In a swift route towards it, he almost walked directly passed the guest room on the left side of the arrangement, but quiet music hit his left ear for a second. As soon as he heard the sounds, his feet halted, as he turned quickly to face the room that should have been empty. His mind immediately flew to the previous conversations he had uttered with his parents, and as his eyebrows raised and jaw tightened, he stepped closer to the doorway to get a better glimpse of the intruder in his home. As you were so in-touch with the song playing, specifically the lyrics being spoken, you initially overlooked the quiet footsteps that were now making their way into your room, one step at a time. After several steps onto the grey carpet, he could finally see the stranger in his home, and as his lips parted, with his fists clenched, ready to yell and shout, he quickly stopped his actions. His grip loosened, his eyebrows softened and his lips curved into a slow smirk.

“Well, shit, love. If I knew you looked like that, I would have carried you in myself.”

[ghostmartyr]

Pokémon SoulSilver Randomized Nuzlocke [Part 2]

Standard Nuzlocke rules apply

Non-standard rule of only being allowed to catch something if it has a Type in common with the most recent thing you caught applies

Randomizer only touches wild pokemon; everything NPCs have remains the same.

So far, we have the first badge, and just caught our first official teammate for our starter. He is Fludd the Whiscash, to accompany Chance the Dewgong. Next pokemon has to be Water or Ground.

May I have the good fortune of finding one.

Fludd is Gentle and alert to sounds. He doesn’t have much in the ways of experience or moves yet, but we will soon see to changing that.

Route 33 has Shuckle! Adorable!

Fludd’s only offensive move being Mud-Slap is proving a trial of patience.

Wild Bastiodon appears. This is the route of tanks.

We’ve talked to Kurt, kicking off the Rocket plot of this section, and I think once Fludd is 10 or 11 we’ll continue down the Slowpoke Well. Where there will be non-Slowpoke things waiting for us.

I really just want Fludd to know something better than Mud-Slap.

..Water Gun is not terrible. Helps that the route I have chosen for training is beset by constant rain. Every single Shuckle having Berry Juice is not on the list of things that help anything except Shuckle delaying the inevitable.

I lied. Fludd is 13 before we start thinking about other things.

My current other thing is going to be Ilex Forest instead of the Rocket plot.

For reasons of pretty.

We find a Charizard!

That is very much not Water or Ground.

Cyndaquil is not Water or Ground either.

Hey, Fludd learned Mud Bomb. Yay.

Okay, fine. I guess we can save the Slowpokes if we really have to.

I love how as technology advances, video games get to be prettier. It makes me happy in my feelings places.

I also love how Kurt really doesn’t do anything. He tries. Then he falls and can’t get up. Then we go in and do the job he wanted to do.

Mawile is down here. Nothing I can do there.

The Grunts go down like Grunts, and then it’s Proton time!

Proton!

That guy!

He’s got... aquamarine hair! That’s like a personality!

Fludd beats him down, too. Party as it stands is Fludd at 16, Chance at 20, and Sleet and Cloud at 5. With only Fludd and Chance really counting as full party members. That will change slightly when I need something to Cut stuff.

Which will be right after we deal with this Gym.

-many weeks later-

-cough-

Anyway, Gym!

This will mostly be Fludd’s show, since he could use the levels. If anything happens to know Absorb, we’re bailing, but he should mostly be okay.

Upgraded Gym aesthetics are always good.

Almost as good as playing a Pokemon game without feeling compelled to give every single fight full play-by-play detail. Assume if I magically teleport through the plot that I did everything perfectly and expertly. All a result of my personal talent, not overleveling my precious pokemon in hopes of keeping them from dying from my stupidity.

Oh heck, whoops. One of the pre-Leader battles is a double.

Sleet is in the second slot.

Let’s not.

Good news! Sleet is still level 5. She still appears to be a casual passerby of this party, not an official member. This matters.

Bugsy looks so happy. Good for him.

(Unlike some Johto Gym Leaders.)

This will be more entertaining later in the game, but I think Pikasprey has brought up how this region’s Gym Leaders really are the most irresponsible about their job title.

Ultimately, Chance will take out Bugsy’s Scyther. Because it’s level 17. Like Fludd. And U-turn apparently really, really hurts.

No, Chance, you may not learn Rest. You’re a starting party member. That means you have nothing but attacks, and we compensate for our lack of strategy with levels.

Badge get!

But suddenly....!

-zooms through the battle at the speed of sound-

Good job, team!

Now we get to do a Farfetch’d puzzle that I am absolutely not terrible at.

Glory to Cut. Which we will be unceremoniously dumping on Cloud. Hi Cloud. This is your team. This is your role in it. Thank you for your contribution.

Oh.

Huh.

You’re part Water, aren’t you?

tfw I can actually catch something in Ilex Forest. Maybe I even will.

CAUGHT!

New member of the team, your name is now Downpour! Downpour is Quirky and highly curious, and we already love him. Even with the inevitable switch training about to go down.

We’re all just so happy that this place has been given level 6 Charizard to mine.

The truly nice part about being such a disaster in playing this part consistently is that Kurt gives me free balls. What, you forgot to play for a month? Your reward is not knowing what’s going on! Also free catching tools! You Win!

I also think that me being aware of EVs is the worst thing that ever happened to my enjoyment of pokemon playthroughs. I’m just left looking at wild level 6 Charizards with Sp. Atk signs in my eyes. What do those look like? The world may never know, but they are now part of my balanced breakfast.

Also, Nature Power becomes Rock Slide in Ilex Forest.

Downpour is going to be the most overhyped Special Attacker of its kind.

Assuming I ever find a Water Stone.

This is one of those changes from the originals that I’ve never fully understood or cared for. Except at the end of the day, I am a complete sucker for people you’ve helped along your journey all reuniting and recalling what you’ve done for them.

I just really miss the Eeveelution coolness of their dance hall.

And I don’t know why this one needed any help at all. Is that a lore thing? Are all your interactions with them just secret character tests?

Downpour is 19, which feels like good enough for venturing into Goldenrod. I really shouldn’t be living the life of mindlessly murdering wild Charizard for EVs for hours on end. Let’s just try to put a cap on it.

Forbidden Day-Care lore.

Lyra’s grandmother ships us. Awk.

I’m accepting everyone’s number in this. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that before, but unlike in the originals, I don’t think there’s a limit on numbers on your phone, so might as well hoard them up.

Geez I feel old.

Vote now on which NPC pokemon person gets to stay in your phonebook. Maybe if you’re lucky you won’t abandon the one who hands out random evolution stones. :)

Oh, hello. I can catch you.

Do I want to? I’d be back to Water/Ice, and right now I have the option of picking up a Grass thing somewhere along the way... hm.

On the other hand.

Cloyster is cool.

POKE BALL, GO!

Damn it, poke ball.

Heavy Ball?

Damn it, Heavy Ball.

And now I am out of Great Balls.

Poke Ball. How do you feel about a redemption arc.

The Poke Ball declines. I have one Fast Ball, and one Heavy Ball. The odds of me getting a new friend out of this are dwindling. The route’s death appears to be at hand.

One Fast Ball.

Yeah, it breaks out.

Okay, Downpour. Kill the non-friend.

With Chance’s help, because the non-friend knew Supersonic.

Bye, Route 34. You’re dead now, and I need to buy catching tools before I forget and meeting my next friend turns awkward.

Whatever. I have a bike now.

Failing basic trivia is my favorite part of each Pokemon game.

PSYCH I WON.

My prize is a Radio Card, but the real prize is getting Whitney back inside her Gym. Where I can now battle her if I so choose. If I want to progress in the game. Her Miltank is waiting.

So we’re just going to do literally everything else we can, except not literally; these games have too many things, and I’m not getting distracted by Voltorb Flip.

...What does Nature Power actually do? Because Downpour has been spotted using Rock Slide, Earthquake, and now Tri Attack through it. It’s becoming a staple of his kit. I don’t think I’ve ever bothered using it before. I was under the impression is was always Swift?

Or is that Nature’s Gift? That’s a thing, right?

Bleh. Fighting first, looking up vitally helpful information later.

The grass has Hitmontop. Not Grass or Water, so it must die.

Wait what the heck. I was out innocently Headbutting trees, why are you here?

This is intensely awkward. My usual mode with these things is that something only fits the requirement of my Nuzlocke team if it’s been Randomized, and for whatever reason, the randomness doesn’t touch Headbutt encounters. Exeggcute is part Grass, but it is not Randomized. Sleet and Cloud are more proper team candidates.

I’m just going to say that Headbutting doesn’t count for a route’s encounter. This run isn’t intended to be overly difficult (this is not the grindlocke); the aim is fun, and I have more fun not using the standard encounters for the game.

What I’m saying is the Exeggcute dies.

(I’m just never going to be able to get a Psychic Type in this.)

My thing at the moment is beating up pokemon in the wild because I’m not sure how to deal with Whitney. Stress-grinding. Chance can’t fight the Miltank. Rollout against Ice sounds like a nightmare. But Chance is also the only female on the team, and my teams have terrible luck in love, which Whitney like exploiting.

Fludd doesn’t really have moves. Water Pulse is nice, but Mud Slap is his only other attack. Downpour is theoretically a cool option, but I don’t know what Nature Power does in the Gym. These kiddos do not have movesets that play well together. Tickle spam would be ideal, but Fludd doesn’t have a physical attack. Only Chance does, and there we have the Rollout problem.

This team could have some nice synergy (for once I almost think I might want to have someone with Rain Dance), but right now they just don’t know enough, and I do not like heading into Whitney this way.

So let us continue to explore the countryside in hopes that a solution is found.

Yanmega is not Grass or Water. Neither is Pikachu.

RIOLU.

You’re not, either.

Neither is the Zubat in the next route. Bonsly looks like it should be, and yet. Volbeat is a nope.

You, on the other hand.

Okay okay okay. Downpour. Do not ruin this for us. I know you want to kill it. We can feel it in your heart. However, we could use a friend. We could use another link in our chain.

...Actually, Fludd, how about you lend a hand with this.

SHARPEDO GET!

I dub thee Hurricane. Hurricane is Modest (dang it) and alert to sounds.

To use, or not to use. That is the question. Physical attacker? Good. Yet another pokemon with a generic shrug at the difference between physical and special? Hm.

I think Hurricane is a reserve. If we’re leveling you, little guy, it’ll be a bit later. We’re happy to have you, but you don’t fix anything well enough that I think I want to train you up just yet.

On to the park. Where the Dunsparce lurk. More Smoochum. Zubat.

I found a Dig TM. That might go to Fludd. ..Or is Fludd going to learn Dig naturally? Fludd will learn Magnitude in a few. I can wait. I don’t remember if this gen allows multiple uses of TMs or not. I could look that up, but effort.

Er. On that subject, though... internet, where can has Water Stone?

“ Johto: National Park (Come 1st in Bug Catching Contest), Route 42 (PokéGear Phonecall) “

Uh.

Oh no?

Wait!

“ Johto: Pokeathlon Dome“

Hope.

Yikes. I wanted to avoid that, having no touch screen, but Downpour, I’m not abandoning you so easily. We’re a team, man. A team. We’ll get you your usefulness.

Welp, I’ve defeated all the trainers I can.

I guess.

It’s time.

Downpour is level 24, Chance is 25, and Fludd is 23. Fludd’s going to be taking the early parts in the interest of balance. For Whitney herself... I really don’t know. I’ll play it by feel. I do want to make sure Downpour uses Nature Power before that fight, though. I don’t want to go in without knowing what it does.

It does Tri Attack in here.

...Yeah, I’m looking it up. What the heck does Nature Power actually do? Besides use moves that are strongly connected with things occurring in nature?

Finding the gen four version is too much trouble. Let’s just proceed knowing limited amounts. Yay for Tri Attack.

-makes an unhappy face best represented by toddlers-

One Clefairy and one Miltank.

This is not a scary thing.

See? Fludd already massacred the Clefairy.

This is fine. It will be fine.

Fludd stop flinching.

Aaaaaand there’s the Attract. The Miltank’s been using Stomp only, so it should be safe for Chance to go in and get a few hits. Fludd used Tickle a few times to counteract the Stomp being annoying.

Chance. Sweetie.

Stop. fucking. flinching.

FUCK YOU AND YOUR SUPER POTIONS, WHITNEY.

YES. IT’S DEAD.

YOU ARE NOT THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE CRYING HERE. MY SOUL IS IN DESPAIR, WHITNEY. YOU AND YOUR STUPID MILTANK. EVEN WHEN IT ISN’T USING ROLLOUT.

I sort of ship the flunky that tells you not to worry, Whitney will give you your badge after she stops crying--with Whitney. Just because. I spend a great deal of time in my Pokemon playing shipping random NPCs.

Pokeathlon opened, time to. grind for the Water Stone.

If my memory of this is correct, before you beat the Elite Four, there’s a different evolution stone available for purchase each day. Today’s is a Moon Stone.

Oh, this is going to be hell!

tfw you remember the Jump course being the kindest so pick it but none of your team is actually good at jumping so you’ve got to bring in the reserves.

Hurricane, Cloud, Sleet? Your time is now.

...

..

.

These games are not meant to be played on a touchpad.

Yikes.

Oh my fucking gosh this is hell do not want.

Well.

I lost.

Yay for 325 points.

LET’S KEEP GOING, SHALL WE????

Where’s my mouse...

Let’s try Power on for size. Chance, Downpour, Fludd, go for it.

Oh look I lost.

Downpour, you better appreciate how much I love you.

LOOK WE WON THE STAMINA ONE.

I’m not documenting this further. Know that I am miserable, and this is not meant, in any way, to be played with a mouse. The levels of unfortunate are everlasting and I am sad.

-the next day-

I have to wait another day for a Water Stone, but I have enough for it, so now we can move on to fun things. Like the game. The game. Which is fun.

tfw Jirachi is secretly an odd tree.

Route 37, have ye any Water or Dark?

Chimchar, you are found lacking.

Ah crud.

Totodile is not lacking, but I really don’t think catching it is a good idea. Pure Water locks me into Water. We might end up there anyway, but I’m not in such a hurry to commit just yet. I can kill a route to keep some variety alive.

Sorry, Totodile. :(

Ecruteak means Bill, which means I could go back to Goldenrod and find out what his Eevee has become. Let’s do that before we think about anything fancy like plot progression.

Sleet, into the box with you. Maybe you’ll come back if I don’t like whatever Bill’s offering.

Carnivine. Interesting. Uh. How about... Drizzle? Drizzle. Cool. And. Uh. Sleet. You’re staying in the box. Sorry, but level 5 things that are filling out party count are really just going to end up as very sad sacrifices. We’re avoiding that for now.

-another day passes-

(without me getting balls from Kurt, whoops)

WE DID IT.

Now to find out that Downpour’s spending another twenty levels not needing it because moves matter more than stats. To the internet.

...Oh.

Oh, Downpour.

Oh, no.

You, uh.

Kiddo, you’re going to be needing some help as we move forward.

But the good news is that means we’re evolving you now! Yay! Power boost! You go, you funky little duck frog thing.

Maximum cuteness achieved.

That’s a good stopping point for this round, I think.

[shawnmend-yes]

When Souls Collide

PART 7.                         Series page.

By the time you make it back to your house dusk is beginning to settle, the bright sky being stained in darkness. Heaving a sigh, you run the back of your wrist against your nose and swing the car door open. You know its exactly 22 and a half steps to your door, 15 more up the stairs and 5 more to your room. You could make it there with your eyes closed, and considering how sore they feel you decide to do exactly that. Once your belongings are safely in your arms you begin your daily routine. Counting quietly in your head as you try to unravel the knot in your stomach.

You’re at 12 when your footing falters, sending your things tumbling down to the floor. You debate just leaving them there, pretending they don’t exist because technically if you don’t see it, it doesn’t happen, right? Instead you squat down next them and open your eyes to begin piling things up in no particular order.

“Need a hand?” You snap your head up, scanning behind you in search of the owner, finding the one and only person you wished you would never see again. You scowl at the floor and choose to ignore him, just like he did to you for the past year. You snatch a paintbrush off the floor, placing it between your teeth and standing up.

“I just wanna help” he says, moving forward to catch the painting threatening to slip from your grasp. There’s no point trying to ignore him now, you need the painting back at some point and you wouldn’t put it past him to hold it hostage until he got what he wanted. “Hey, this is really good!” he says, eyes flicking between you and the page. You squint at him, trying to work out his end game before turning to begin the short walk to your door, keeping the brush between your mouth to prevent a conversation. You catch the corner of his mouth twitch as he follows you up the path, vague amusement rolling off in waves. “Your friend left a while ago” he offers.

You pull the paintbrush out your mouth and wave it at him loosely. “Then why are you still here?” you ask, as you stick your key in the lock and turn it, stepping into the house.

“I wanted to meet you.” He states, confusion clouding his features as if he hadn’t even considered the fact that maybe, just maybe you wouldn’t want to see him.

You tug the painting out of his grasp, placing it back on your pile “We’ve met. Now piss off.” You spit, turning and pushing the door closed with the heel of your foot. You dump the contents of your arms onto the stairs and head into the living room to peek through the curtains. He’s still stood there, index finger tracing up his left arm as he stares down the door, as if he could bust it open with his brain. The thought makes you struggle to choke down a laugh as you flick the curtains back into place. Maybe his brain will explode, then you wont have to deal with him at all. You flit round the cupboards under the stairs to grab your softest towel and the expensive soap you save for special occasions, figuring that under the circumstances you could use some comfort.

No such luck, the knocking starts soon after, like hes only just realised that he cant telepathically open the door and force you to talk to him. But your not about to give in that quickly, instead you switch the TV on and with every knock he makes you turn it up louder and louder. This continues for a few mintues, you counting the time between each bout until your finally sure hes stopped. You creep towards the door, remote in hand and curl up on the second step to wait, setting your bundle of soapy glory down next to you. You turn the tv off and nod in satisfaction. Now you can finally have a shower in peace. Your about to stand when the loudest knock yet sends you leaping off the steps, heart thudding. Narrowing your eyes you press the button, crossing your arms. You hear him laughing to himself and struggle to suppress a smile of your own. You wait to the count of three and turn the tv off completely before swinging open the door with raised eyebrows.

His cheeks are flushed and head tilted back with laughter, a mirroring smirk twitching on your face. “I just wanna talk” he says, hands raised in mock surrender and you relent. Nudging the door open fully and stepping aside for him to come in.

He points towards the towel folded on the stairs, with various soaps and moisturisers poking their caps out of the bundle. “Going somewhere?”

You shrug, pushing the door closed behind you. “Was gonna take a shower, but somebody wouldn’t go away. Looks like its going to have to wait.”

“Well, like you said, im not going anywhere. So you may as well take your time.” He says, wandering into the living room and settling himself onto your sofa. You used to think the sofa was huge, too big for the room but he manages to make it look tiny.

“Make yourself comfortable why don’t you.” You mutter sarcastically, hovering in the doorway whilst you consider the offer. You didn’t really want to shower with a stranger in the house, but technically he was your soulmate and you reallllly wanted that shower.

He tilts his head over the edge of the sofa, peering at you as you continue your internal war. “I will,” he says with a smug smile poking his arm over the edge. “Remote please.” Begrudgingly you hand it over, traipsing up the stairs to grab some pjs and heading into the bathroom as Shawn flicks from channel to channel on your tv.

You can hardly believe he is downstairs as you step into the warm spray of the shower, and your not entirely sure how to feel about it. You just didn’t understand how he found you, or why. Was it one of those I didn’t want you, you don’t want me so now I want you kind of things? You feel like a wrung out sponge, twisted and empty as you consider your options. He’s already in the house, and he has come all this way, but he wait over a year to find you. A whole year of time you could have spent together, getting to know each other and doing whatever it is soulmates are supposed to do. You need a clean slate for this to work, you just need to hear what he has to say and maybe you will get closure from it. Then you can just move on with you life, maybe in a few years when you feel ready you can join one of those groups advertised. The ones where for some reason the system didn’t work, the ones for people like you. Or maybe it will all work out for the best, either way you know that you need to be blank in order to listen and make your own judgement. So you focus your thoughts, imagining the fresh water soaking into your skin and the stresses of the day flushing down the drain.

As the time passes you begin to feel more like yourself again, calm and clear as if you’ve moisturised some nourishment back into your skin. For some reason you trust that he wont have gone anywhere and you feel no worry about leaving him alone for such a long time. Slipping into your pajamas you turn your attention to your hair, wrapping it up and beginning to tousle it dry until your sure its not going to drip down your back, part of you wonders whether you should really be putting in more effort seeing as though you were about to be spending some quality time with your soulmate. But your already past what the conventional couple would do, if anything you couldn’t be further. He’s famous, he ignored you, you sang to a stage full of people, broke down in your car multiple times, and now he’s here and instead of talking to him, you went to had a shower. Fuck normality.

You pad your way out of the bathroom towards your room, patting the ends of your hair down with a towel. “You’re in my room.” You note, strolling past him to your chest of drawers. You’re not really surprised, given the opportunity you probably would have snooped around alittle too.

He doesn’t look at you, instead focussed on the patch of wall above your desk. “Yeah…” he mumbles, fingertips reaching out to graze the corner of a painting you had taped up a few days ago. “This ones new.”

You nod subconsciously at him, “How’d you know?” you ask, as you flip your hair forward and gather it up into a ball on your head.

He doesn’t acknowledge your question, instead pointing at various pieces of work scattering your walls. “And this one, that one too.” He mutters, almost as if hes talking to himself. “my favourites gone.”

You curl up on the edge of your bed, watching him observe the room. He seems so familiar with your room yet so completely lost, you don’t understand how he could possibly know what goes where. But he does. Its almost the perfect painting, like hes looking into the window of your soul spread across hundreds of doodles. Watching the tick tick tick of your internal clock and for the moment your content to let the seconds roll past just watching him, watching you.

“I always wanted a soulmate.” He muses, turning to face you. You study him carefully, eyes tracing the lines of his tattoo. “Couldn’t wait to meet you.”

You hitch your breath in your throat, waiting for the but, which never comes. “So what happened?” you ask, forcing him to meet your eyes in a challenge.

“I read the letters.” You squint across at him, wheels turning in your mind as you think which letters he could mean, how many had you written by that point. It couldn’t have been that many. “They were right there,” he says, pointing to the corner of your desk. “In a yellow box.”

At the age of 15 you had finally understood what it really meant to have a soulmate, that you would end up promising to live your eternity with them. Someone you didn’t even know yet and you couldn’t be sure how you felt about it. So you did what you had always done when you wanted to talk to someone but knew you couldn’t, you simply started writing letters. You had intended to only write the one, but It ended up being a regular thing, whenever you were struggling or scared you would write a fresh one. Slotting them neatly into the box and leaving them there. It was like having someone you knew would be your best friend at some point, so you didn’t have a problem telling them everything. One day they would already know.

“There was this one letter, about what you meant to do with all the future letters, how you would give them to your soulmate the day before your wedding, just to show the full commitment.” He starts chuckling to himself, “And I vowed that I wouldn’t tell you I had already read them. That’s when I decided that even though you weren’t ready yet, at some day you would be. And then you would come and find me.”

“and how exactly was I supposed to do that?” you mutter venomously. “With that carefully hand written note?”

You watch his eyes pop at your tone, surprise written all over his face. “Or maybe with that clue you left? Yeah? Don’t come in here with your bullshit disguised as a rainbow. You fucking left me. I don’t care what excuse you come up with, it wont change the fact that you rejected me. Not the other way around.” You sneer, standing and squaring your shoulders. “I don’t need you, so don’t waltz in here with that stupid grin and your stupid fluffy hair and expect me to just roll on over. Do you know what its like? Rushing from heaven to hell in a matter of minutes? One minute I was a girl about to meet her soulmate and the next im the girl that they didn’t want. Again. Maye your soulmate is supposed to be your greatest love, but you don’t get to choose them. I can choose who to love. And I can tell you right now, its not going to be you.” Your voice is hoarse and you can feel your vocal chords constricting as you try to push out the last few words. “It will never be you. It never should have been you. The universe made a mistake this time. A big fucking mistake. We were ruined before we ever began.”

“Many great things are built on ruins.” He says, voice barely audible as he holds your gaze. He reaches for you, hands grazing the length of your forearms. “What makes you think that we couldn’t be too?”

You pull away from him, ripping open the doors of your wardrobe and pulling out the box. “I don’t need a We. Look at this box, its everything I have to do with soulmates, everything I have to do with you. Now look at the room. I am so much more. I may be the girl you left behind, but I don’t use your existence, a soulmates existence, to define me anymore.”

He drags the box towards him, rummaging through the box until he pulls out his own CD. “Did you ever wonder why it was signed?” he asks impatiently, flipping the covers open.

“I just assumed-“

He rolls his eyes and pulls the program out confidently. “do you remember buying it? Walking to the store, picking it up, paying, walking home?” you shake your head at him, wondering where exactly he was going with this. “That’s because I did. When I was you, the same way that you sang when you were me.”

“I read the letters, and decided id leave you a clue with no strings attached. Walked to that little store down the street, that one with the guy. Luke.” You cringe at the sound of his name coming from Shawn. “I went there today even, met bella, who by the way you should definitely call. Shes worried. Came here.” He pushes the program towards you. “Open it, first page.”

‘Ive dreamed about meeting you, you’re the sun to my moon and id give anything to meet you right now. But your not ready yet. When we finally meet the sky is going to burst into flames so bright that the moon wont need the suns reflection. They wont have anything on us, and I cant wait. Find me when your ready. Shawn mendes.’

“You’ve read the book,” you mutter dumbfounded as you dive into the box to pull it out and wave it in front of him. “How the moon sacrificed its light for the sun, the love story of the sky.”

He nods at you, eyes sparking in amusement at your excited reaction. “All the time as a kid, it was always my favourite.”

“Maybe I will choose you afterall.” With that, he looks at you like the moon looks at the sun. As if for the first time in his life he is warm, and under his loving gaze you find yourself unfolding like a love note finally being opened by its intended reader.