#so many cartoons have been struggling to walk this fine line just to keep their shows from being canned and whatever

[dinopant]

sighs sadly remember final space and how it really did not get its due...

[glynnisi]

ShieldShock Holiday Fic 2020       FOR  @ava-rosier      

At Ao3:  Snowbound Christmas

Prompts:

-There's only one hotel room left and it's a blizzard outside and There Is Only One Bed.

-Either at a Mall or an Airport during the busy holiday season, a villain is trying to steal/ruin the holidays and Steve and Darcy, who are both there for Reasons, team up to foil the dastardly plot.

-When Darcy wore her new, risqué Captain America xmas/holiday sweater to work that day, she didn't expect that he would actually...y'know...SEE it.

---

So, it’s been a while since I wrote. Hi, friends!!! :)  But I adore ShieldShock still and will always adore @mcgregorswench and the ShieldShock Holiday Fic Exchange.  I tried to capture the feel of your prompts, @ava-rosier .  I’ve done holiday in the airport before but can NEVAH get too much of THERE IS ONLY ONE BED.  Hope you’re having a wonderful holiday, enjoying seeing 2020 finally end, and that you’ll enjoy your ShieldShock holiday fic gift!!! :)

---

Snowbound Christmas

Darcy startled as the car door scraped open over deep snow and a gust of wind blew in to steal her breath. It was even colder than the previous times. Steve could move fast, but not faster than the blizzard winds. He shook his head as he slammed the door closed behind him, sealing them in the relative calm. The only sound at first was the rustle of her shivering. He turned the car on again and they both savored relief as the air around them warmed.

She shifted position in her seat. “Steve, my friend! No room in the Inn?” Darcy tried to sound upbeat rather than weary. “I’d so hoped the eleventh try would be the charm. I mean, those two were raved over in Google as ‘simple’ and ‘budget’. You wouldn’t think that would draw a crowd.” She continued to watch the snow fall, eyes going out of focus.

Steve shook his head and pushed his snow-damp hair back. “I tried all five places in the village. Cut across town on foot rather than wasting gas.” He frowned. “I’m too stubborn. Should ‘a stopped twenty miles back where there were more possibilities. I’m sorry, Darcy.” He kept his eyes on the road as he started slowly moving. The snow was falling hard, gusting winds whipping it around them with abandon. Even with four-wheel drive, good snow tires, and perfect reflexes- Steve didn’t dare go more than fifteen miles per hour. Driving was hazardous, more by the minute.

Darcy shrugged her shoulders. “The forecast was off. I thought we had more time before it got bad, too. I swear! I only closed my eyes for like twenty seconds. When I opened them again it looked like I’d missed seeing three inches fall. You must be freezing. The other motels are two miles away, aren’t they?” She shivered, both sympathetically and because the car was still warming up.

“I’ll be fine.” Steve sighed again and glanced at Darcy’s phone before staring ahead of them again. “Any other ideas?”

Darcy squinched up her features, “well…” She was glad Steve focused his attention on the road. She worried that her idea wouldn’t be well received. “We could ask the others for suggestions? Surely Tony owns something between here and the City.” Darcy held her breath. She’d seen Steve and Tony clash at the Avengers Upstate Base enough to know that he didn’t want to ask Tony’s help.

Steve reached in his jacket pocket and handed his phone to Darcy, groaning in resignation. “Had the same thought. See if he’s replied?” He steeled himself.

Darcy laughed merrily as she read his incoming texts.

“That bad?” Steve’s frown lines deepened.

Darcy’s lips twitched. “Nah, buddy-o. Tony’s busting your chops about being a damsel in distress. He reminds you that he’s been away from Pepper for a week and has injuries to rest up from. Says to cool your heels at a summer lake cabin of hers. Coordinates and key code provided. And to resist the urge to crash dramatically into the lake as it wouldn’t be very festive of you. Cabin can be drafty, but was cleaned recently. Which, yay! They were going to come up last week for a dating anniversary celebration before the weather changed and he took that mission.”

Steve nodded and blew out an impatient breath. He glanced at Darcy again, “does anyone other than Jane know you’re with me?” His tone sounded wary.

Again, Darcy shrugged and avoided his gaze. “I dunno. If the local mechanic didn’t have sick kids at home, I’d be driving myself through this like I planned. Probably would’ve crashed in a snow drift by now or be caught in the sadly-parked madness on the interstate you were smart enough to skip. Why? I’m sorry that coming for me put you behind schedule. You’re too kind, putting yourself out for little ole me. You probably have plans with close friends, or something.” She trailed off, uncertain if that was a fair assumption regarding Steve. As much time as they’d spent together since they met over a year before, he seemed to always be working.

Darcy frowned, sad for Steve. And for herself. She’d tried in vain to shake the crush she had on the loneliest Avenger. He seemed determined to stay lonely and fill his time almost entirely with work. Whenever he came to Jane’s lab, she struggled not to let her extreme thirst for him show. She ended up babbling most times, griping about stuff and talking nonsense. He came by the lab a lot, so she had many embarrassing memories to cringe about.

“Not really. And don’t apologize, Darcy. I wanted to help you. I’m glad you’re with me rather than stuck, or worse.” Steve chose to ignore part of her question for the moment. “I was just going by Tony and Pepper’s party at the Tower to keep some peace between us. Then I figured I might go to Brooklyn to see the crazy lights they put up there these days, and then maybe head down to D.C. to see Sam. Nothing firm. No big deal.” He turned into a skid and eased up on the gas. Anyone else would have registered alarm at the need to maneuver like that. The majority of drivers would have wrecked. Sleet mixed in with the precipitation.

Darcy nodded, silent. She clicked on the coordinates Tony had sent and turned up the volume on the phone directions. When there was a pause, she spoke up, “still sorry to keep you from your party, lights, and Sam. I’m relieved that you weren’t just planning to ignore the holiday at the Upstate Base again this year, though. No offense, but hearing you did that last year made me mad at you.” She let out an indignant huff and blinked back tears.

He raised his brows, but didn’t reply at first. Finally, not wanting to seem rude, Steve asked, “mad? Why?” He fought against both flickers of hope and melancholy.

Steve tried not to wish for what he believed he couldn’t have. He’d found that Darcy won friends easily, but rarely let anyone get close enough to know her the way he’d like to know her. She kept things light and funny, using her humor as a shield against intimacy.  He admired her ability to deflect when she used it with others, lamented it when she used it with him.

The first day they met, Steve fell hard for the brash, strong-willed, funny, gorgeous dame. And then he met her boyfriend, Ian. Even after that relationship ended, Darcy made it crystal clear that she saw Steve only as a friend. Her emotional shield pushed him back like the strongest of force fields. She bristled if he held a door or pulled out a chair for her. She acted like it was weird if he did anything for her- like bringing her coffee when he was getting some for himself in Jane’s lab.

Also, there was Darcy’s apparent dislike of soldiers. She cursed agents and soldiers as ‘jack-booted thugs’ every time a piece Jane’s equipment misbehaved. He’d overheard Darcy rant to Jane about her sister’s hard life with a military guy Darcy disdained as ‘Soldier Boy’. Steve was a soldier. He'd never regretted it until it came between him and the only 21st century woman he’d met who captivated him.

Her tone as she spoke next brought Steve out of his reverie. “I know that those you love from your time were more like family to you… that you still mourn all you lost.” Darcy avoided looking at Steve, “But, I consider you a friend and I don’t like for anyone to treat my friends bad… especially, themselves. Thinking of you doing busy work and walking echoing halls alone. Imagining you eating frozen dinners and training alone while the rest of the world celebrated? Too sad. Awful. I wish you would’ve let me, I mean, someone, anyone, know that you didn’t have plans.” Darcy swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. She’d held that in for the better part of a year and was terrified that she’d overstepped enough to anger Steve. If her voice sounded brittle, she couldn’t help it. Her feelings for Steve ran deep. She’d taken one look at Steve Rogers and lost her heart irrevocably.

Steve shook his head and joked to offer one correction, “I hardly ever eat frozen dinners.” He cleared his throat. “What did you do for Christmas last year?” Steve’s tone was mild, unreadable. He’d spent a lot of the previous year’s holiday week reliving the pain of seeing Darcy being kissed by Ian under mistletoe. It was a harsh blow since he’d heard rumors that they’d broken up and dared hope for a chance with her. Thinking of that terrible moment still filled Steve with potent jealousy.

Darcy cut a glance Steve’s way. “I went to the usual lame lab holiday party, complete with joke gifts and too much mistletoe. Then, un-fun family time. As soon as I could escape my dumb sister Beth and ‘Soldier Boy’, I got back to Jane’s. I made Thor watch Christmas cartoons while I struggled to explain the pop nuances of them to him. We drank eggnog. I exchanged joke gifts with him and Jane and Erik. Then we all helped serve Christmas dinner at homeless shelter. And I ate too much and fell asleep on the couch at Jane’s place that night. I ‘peopled’.” She glared at Steve and repeated in an accusing tone, “’Peo-ple-d!’”

Darcy frowned as she also remembered Ian cornering her under mistletoe before Christmas. He tried to get back together with her until she threatened to tase him. It had cast a pall over Darcy’s entire holiday.  That was one interaction with people she did NOT look back on fondly.

Steve chuckled weakly, “and you’re mad at me for not ‘people-ing?’”  

“You never want anyone to pity you in any way, but then you do stupid stuff like that! I mean, I was drunk when Thor told me, but it made me CRY.” Darcy shook her head and looked away, frowning, angry. “Sorry. Said too much. Not my business. I know. Sorry.” She hunched her shoulders as though concerned he might offer a rebuke.

Steve's face fell into a sad grin. “No need to… It’s nice that you worry about me, Darcy. Thanks for that.” He resisted the urge to cover her hand with his. “I’m sorry I made you cry.” Genuine distress filled him, that she’d cried and that he had no right to offer comfort. Something in her reaction brought out his deepest protective instincts.

Careful to avoid distracting Steve from driving, Darcy poked his rock-hard bicep. “Pfft. Silly. You’re not alone, even if you try. You have friends. I’m your friend. You know that. Right?”

“Friends.” Steve nodded, grim. “Yeah. Thank you for being my friend, Darcy.” He sighed, long and low.

Darcy nodded, unable to speak around the lump in her throat.

---

 Soon, they arrived at the coordinates. A tiny cabin nestled in the deepening snow. It was dark, but for a dim light visible through its large windows.

Darcy moaned, “finally.”

“I could carry…” Steve’s voice trailed off as Darcy threw her door open and jumped out into the knee-deep snow. She almost fell, but righted herself. The winds swirled snow and sleet all around her.

“Shit! Cold!” Darcy trudged with purpose towards the cabin. “So cold! And, eww, wet. Oh!” She input the code Tony had sent for the front door lock and shoved inside. Darcy kicked off her snow-covered boots and dropped her coat inside the front door. She scurried to the bathroom. “Some of us don’t have super bladder capacity!” Her brief view of the cabin interior was minimal. Dark shapes stood out against the eerie snow light through the windows.

Steve slammed his car door and followed. He shook his head and yelled back, “nobody has that” as he picked up Darcy’s coat, shook snow off, and hung it on a hook. He toed off his boots and set them and Darcy’s boots near the fireplace. Then, he peeled off his snow pants and hung them on a hook near the door. They’d kept his jeans dry.

“Don’t get your tights in a twist. I’m hurrying!” Darcy called from the bathroom.

Brows raised; Steve surveyed the cabin. He flicked light switches and swore under his breath as low, golden light bathed the tight space. The room was dominated by a low bed and floor to ceiling windows. A Christmas tree decorated with lights stood by the bed. There were at least a dozen pillows and a sheer hanging canopy laced with warm string lights over the bed. There was no sofa, only two reading chairs and a small table in front of the fireplace. A kitchenette took space along one wall. It had a well-stocked wine rack.

Mostly, there was the ridiculously romantic-looking bed. Face prickling with heated anxiety, Steve found a thermostat and started the heater. Then, he began to build a fire in the brick fireplace. The cabin was cold and the windows were more suited to airiness than warmth. The back walls were brick, attractive but cold in winter weather.

“Uh, Steve?” Darcy sounded sheepish; voice muffled by the bathroom door. “Can you hand me a blanket or look for a robe or something? I’m sorry to trouble you. My pants are soaked up to the knees and I can’t put them back on. They’re freezing. Wet with snow.”

Steve closed his eyes, still for several seconds. He looked around for a closet and saw instead a wardrobe. He grabbed a black silk robe, frowning at the sheer and gauzy red alternative hanging beside it. The top shelves held baskets of swimsuits, shorts, and other summer clothes. He took the black robe off the hangar and walked to the bathroom. He knocked and held out the robe, eyes averted. Then, he went back to work on the fire.

“Thanks, I didn’t think. Just ran to the bathroom. I…” Darcy stopped as she got a good look at the cabin. “Oh, holy… uh, night.” She cut a careful glance Steve’s way.

Steve shook his head and chuckled. “Something like that. Don’t worry. I can sleep on the floor. I’ve done worse.” He arranged another log in the growing flames and warmed his hands.

“You can NOT! Don’t be stupid. I won’t attack you. Promise. We both need to sleep and there’s room for two if we remove a few hundred pillows.” Darcy’s tone sounded more certain and stubborn as she talked. She rolled her eyes at him. “Make a line of pillows down the middle of the bed as a dividing line if you want to keep me away. Or, I can do it.” She frowned at him, set her jeans near the fire to dry, and moved to the kitchenette. Darcy opened the refrigerator, freezer, and cabinets to see what they had to work with. “Sorry about my coat and boots. I was gonna get them, I swear.”

Steve frowned, disliking her urgent anxiety. “No problem.”

Darcy opened a bottle of water and drank it. “I didn’t dare drink much water while we were stuck in the car, but I still needed a bathroom for at least the past hour.” She offered him a bottle, which he accepted and downed before returning his attention to his work. Darcy moved food from the freezer to the refrigerator to thaw. She opened a couple of cans of soup and put them on to simmer, and sat in a reading chair. “I checked the weather forecast while I was in the bathroom. We’re not getting out of here on our own power before tomorrow night at the earliest.” She tightened the belt on the robe and leaned towards the fire, hands outstretched. “Nice. Getting a little warmth there. Thanks.”

Steve excused himself to the restroom. On his return, he sat in the other chair. He watched the fire’s progress, then turned his attention to the deepening snow visible through the windows all around them. “Quieter now. Slowing down, or a lull before more blizzard.”

“Lull, according to radar. Fresh snow absorbs sound. Something about air between the flakes dampening vibrations.” When Steve gave her an impressed look, Darcy grinned, “I saw it in a meme on the Internet. Must be true.” She winked at him.

Steve returned her grin. “Internet. So helpful.”

“Except when it’s REALLY not.” She made a face, both sad and angry. “Beth met ‘Soldier Boy’ online. And, of course his worst notions get amplified there. Bleurgh.”

Careful, Steve dared, “what branch of the Military is your brother-in-law with?”

Darcy choked on water. “Br... Whaa?” She shook her head, hard. “God, no! Don’t say that. It might come true if you say it.  Eww! Grandma Esther'd roll right out of her grave to beat the ever-living sh… heck… pardon me, out of Beth if she marries that Nazi wannabe.” Darcy shuddered dramatically. “Crud. They’ve been dating more than a year. And, Christmas… You may be right. Ugh.” She spoke as she texted into her phone, “‘If you marry him, I’ll give you kitty litter as a wedding present, used kitty litter. Dumbass. BTW I hate him. He’s awful.’ Ugh. Delete. Delete. Delete.”

Steve digested all this and stayed quiet. He noted with interest that Darcy’s cheeks reddened as though with embarrassment. In his experience she didn’t embarrass easily. Her plush lower lip jutted out in a pout. “Beth’s dating a racist faux-militia-type lunatic. She’s decided she’s Sub to his Dom and overlooks his politics and crazy behavior. It’s nauseating.” Darcy frowned, sad, “I don’t see the attraction. Mom says the sex must be great, cuz she doesn’t understand the attraction, either.” Darcy twirled a piece of her hair nervously on one finger. “Mom thought she had the worst taste in men in the family, but Beth’s making her wonder.” She shook her head. “Sorry. Nothing to you. You don’t know them. Crazy family of a sorta friend.”

“I know you… some. I care more than you think.” Now Steve’s cheeks reddened. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Darcy gestured as though to bump shoulders with him. “Nice.” She arranged the robe over her legs, both from cold and modesty.

Hesitant, Steve ventured, “you never mention your father.”

Darcy’s gaze turned his way. “Nope. Long gone.” Her expression hardened. “Thank goodness.”

After an awkward silence fell between them, Steve went to the stove and spooned soup into two bowls. He returned to his place by the fire. He handed Darcy her soup, noting her mild surprise at being served. They ate without speaking. When they were done, they both took their bowls and rinsed them in the sink.

Darcy walked over to the bed and started moving pillows. “Do you want a dividing line?” She didn’t try to meet his gaze.

“Not necessary. Let’s put the pillows by the windows. They’ll block some of the cold that’s coming in and making it hard for this place to warm up.” Steve pressed pillows along the bottom edge of one window. He glanced back as Darcy slid beneath the covers, still wearing the black robe. The warm light brought out red and light brown highlights in her long hair. She looked even prettier than usual in the golden glow. And he thought she was always beautiful.

Darcy shivered hard. “Sheets are freezing!”

Swallowing hard, Steve sat on the far side of the bed from her. “Want the decorative lights off?”

“N…n..not unless you do. They’re p..pretty. Make me think warmer thoughts.” Her shivers shook the bed.

Steve shifted so that he could lift the covers and lay underneath them. They were icy cold against his pants. He imagined the chill was worse against Darcy’s bare legs. He lay back and closed his eyes, feeling the motion of the bed from Darcy’s shaking. The winds began to wail again, harder than before. He opened his eyes and turned to look out at the raging blizzard. “Wanna lay back-to-back? I run warm.” As she shifted so that she faced away from him, he rolled to his side and moved back against her. He cursed himself as a masochist.

“Ohhh. Fuck, yes!” Darcy swore under her breath and whispered, “sorry. So sorry!”

“I know what you mean and you don’t have to avoid cursing around me. We’re not on a mission communicator in an official capacity. That ‘language’ thing they joke me about is nonsense. I don’t give a damn about how people want to talk in regular life.” Steve closed his eyes again, trying to keep his tone even as Darcy wriggled against his back. He heard her mutter thanks a few times. Making her feel good pleased him.

Five minutes later, Darcy rolled over and pressed her cold nose against his shoulder. She spent several minutes trying to figure out where to put her hands. She ended up crossing her arms over her chest and tucking her hands under her chin. Within minutes, she was asleep.

Listening to the sound of Darcy’s breathing as it evened out and deepened lulled Steve to sleep soon after. His face settled into a small smile.

---

 Steve supposed it was a slight change in the blizzard-muted light of day that woke him next. Languorous, sensual dreams dissipated through his hazy thoughts. Dream images of Darcy, kiss-swollen lips and bared creamy skin, heated his blood.

Then, awareness hit him hard. He and Darcy clenched in a lover’s embrace. Their legs entwined and her head was on his chest. Her sweet, feminine scent filled his senses. Her amazing breasts pressed against one side of his chest. One of her hands was against his arm and the other warmed the skin of his stomach, inside his shirt. It all felt so good and right that it stole his breath. His body’s natural response to his dreams, to her, and to waking was extreme. He was afraid to move lest any friction push him past sanity. A small, low moan sounded in her throat as she shifted against him. He tensed.

Her voice was raspy with sleep. “I know it’s awkward, but I’m way too comfy to regret it. You feel good, Steve.”

“Right back atcha’, Doll,” he whispered. Wishing himself back in his dreams, he kissed her forehead and squeezed her even closer. He wanted her so much he could hardly stand it.

Darcy made another small sound in her throat as she wriggled against him. The realization that he was aroused sparked her passions, but she didn’t dare to presume too much. Maybe it was only an impressive sign of morning. She followed his example and placed a chaste kiss below his jaw. She felt his heart pounding more quickly and closed her eyes again. She flexed her fingers against his ridiculously-cut abdomen and felt him jolt. She debated if any of his reactions had anything to do with her in particular. She wished they did.

Both of them were awake, but neither admitted it.  Each of them savored the embrace and the feel of the other’s body. They each fantasized about the other.  They fantasized about passionate first moves, expressing affection and desire. Want. They became lost in imagining more and more.  Time passed. Their emotions swirled like the blizzard winds that trapped them together.

They lay cuddled and simmering with unspoken desires until Steve’s phone rang. It broke the spell. He moved away from Darcy and answered the phone.

She watched the play of muscles under the back of his shirt and struggled to stifle her lust.  Darcy closed her eyes.  It was futile.  Her lust for Steve had been growing for over a year.  In this circumstance, lust was inevitable.

While Steve talked with Sam, assuring him that he was fine though the storm prevented him reaching the City, Darcy left the bed and went to the bathroom. She snagged her dry jeans on her way there. She took a shower and did what she could with toothpaste she found in the medicine cabinet and her finger. When she came back out, she hung the robe in the wardrobe and put on her Christmas cardigan. She looked through the wardrobe and giggled at the sheer red robe. Then, Darcy took a step back. She buttoned and straightened her sweater by her reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

Steve paused in his conversation, a gob-smacked look on his face, “what…?!”

“Oh! Yeah. I know. Gaudy, isn’t it? Well, last year Tony gifted the ‘ugliest sweater at his party’ winner $10,000. I know what he can be like, so I thought I’d stand a better chance of catching his wallet’s attention if I went a little on the sexy side. And I sewed in lights.” Darcy twirled and turned on the LED lights that adorned the sweater. Her dark green Christmas cardigan had bauble Avenger emblem buttons. A Captain America Shield button strained to hold the sweater together over Darcy's breasts. Silver and gold trim around the hem resembled tinsel. Red and gold lighted and embroidered ornaments dotted the sweater at random. It was a bit gaudy rather than ugly, but sexy most of all since the fabric hugged Darcy’s ample curves. She wore it over a tight red top and skinny black jeans. The ensemble played up her natural assets.

Steve could only nod in reply. He tried to turn his full attention back to his conversation, but didn’t do well.

By the time Steve was off the phone and had made the bed, Darcy found waffles in the freezer and syrup in the pantry. She had coffee brewing and was downing another bottle of water when Steve began stoking the fire embers and adding wood. They shared a quiet breakfast. Steve tried not to look at Darcy’s figure and failed again and again. He tried not to fantasize as Darcy licked syrup from her lips. He failed.

As they finished breakfast, Darcy looked around the cabin. “Aw, man. No TV?”

“Actually, there’s one over the bed.” Steve swallowed the last of his coffee.

“Over?” Darcy gave him a disbelieving look and went over to look up inside the bed canopy. “You’re not kidding.”

He chuckled and shook his head, “at first I thought it was a mirror.”

Darcy lay on the bed, on her back. She looked around for a remote control, finally finding one in the nearby window sill. “Icy remote.” She pointed it up and sighed, “but it works!” Channel flipping and streaming services browsing occupied her for some time.

She hoped rather than believed that Steve was looking at her with lusty interest.

Steve was. The intimacy of their situation and Darcy’s sensual appearance were a potent combination. He could hardly speak. He excused himself to go get a quick shower. He came back out a few minutes later, dressed again but still toweling his hair dry.

Darcy didn’t meet Steve’s eye as she offered, “you’re welcome to join me. Just friends watching television, ya know. I’m watching a silly Christmas movie. ’Scrooged.’ Okay?”

Steve shrugged as he made his way back to the bed. He shuffled, awkward, as he drew nearer.

Darcy shifted towards one edge of the bed, not meeting his gaze. “Plenty of room. Don’t mind me.”

He smiled as he sat on the other edge of the bed and forced himself to speak up. “Sam said that they’re busy helping first responders deal with stranded motorists. Hundreds of them all across the state. A lot of people didn’t have our luck and find shelter. I had to agree with him that it’s more important that they help them than us. I’m sorry you won’t have the chance to win the sweater contest.” He eased onto his back beside her, folding a pillow behind his head.

“Of course, they need to help people who’re stuck!” Darcy shuddered. “It’s super cold out there and the storm got out of hand so fast. I can only imagine. We’re fine here.” She grinned and turned to him. “You really think I’d win?”

Steve was struck by how pretty her green eyes were. He blushed. Her look turned quizzical. He nodded and spoke a thick reply, “yeah. Definitely.” Steve forced his gaze up to the television mounted above them. “I assume that ‘Scrooged’ refers to the Dickens novella?”

“Yup.” Darcy shifted further to the edge and lifted the covers so that she could get under the blankets. Once under there, she groused, “darned lights and ornaments are poking me.” She frowned, and unbuttoned the sweater again and lay it aside. Buttons and lights made a clicking sound on the floor by the bed.

After debating for what felt like an endless time, Steve got under the covers and shifted closer to her. “Can’t let you freeze.”

Darcy rolled up on her side and looked him in the eye. “It would be rude to let me freeze. I’m glad you’ve seen the light.” She winked at him, trying to seem playful. She thought that he was looking at her lips, but dismissed it as wishful thinking.

Steve assured her, “I’ll do my best to keep you from freezing. Wouldn’t want to be rude.” He put one arm around her, hand spanning the middle of her back. “I’m a polite guy.”

“You’re the nicest soldier I’ve ever met. Have I ever mentioned that?” Darcy ducked her head as a blush filled her cheeks. The way his hand covered her whole back made her feel tiny. Did things to her. Made her want his hands on her in other places. The fire she tried to play with was backfiring spectacularly, leaving Darcy breathless with desire.

“No. But I’m glad to hear it.” Steve gave her a squeeze.

There was a loud noise onscreen. Darcy rolled onto her back so that she could see the television again. She hoped Steve wouldn’t notice that her breath was racing.

After a few minutes, Steve nudged her. “Tell me about other soldiers you’ve met? There are good and bad apples in any group, you know.” He felt Darcy tense.

Though she didn’t look at Steve, Darcy decided to answer. She told him about Puente Antiguo and the SHIELD agents and soldiers who took Jane’s research- and their computers and even Darcy’s personal iPod. SHIELD ran a strange, temporary military base near the town and Erik worried about their absolute power. She told him about the shifts in those soldiers’ attitudes after Thor returned to Asgard. First, they were obsequious, but gradually more restrictive. They coveted Jane’s research and tried to control them all. After a long pause, Darcy shared, “some of them reminded me of my dad. He was military, Marine. Not a nice guy, especially to our mom.”

Steve rubbed Darcy’s arm as she talked. He felt that it was a privilege that Darcy was telling him something so personal. He didn’t want to break the spell, rather hoped that she might open up to him more.

Darcy blinked back tears. “He found fault with everything she did. She couldn’t do enough fast enough to avoid setting off his temper. Then he… well, you know.” Darcy ducked her head.

Realization dawned on Steve. “So, he never served her a dish or coffee even if he was getting something? He never held doors for her or pulled out a chair? You never saw him treat her with respect?”

Steve stilled as Darcy sat up on one elbow and stared at him, eyes wide. “Respect? No. No respect.” She grabbed the remote again. “Let’s look for something else. I saw…” Darcy glanced at Steve. “’White Christmas’ is about to start on this channel. I remember liking the dancing and pretty outfits and thinking it’s sweet. The story starts in your time, though. Do you mind?  Will that make you too sad?”

Steve shook his head. “I’ve heard good things about it. I’ll be okay.” He wanted to say that he was more than okay with Darcy next to him, but was too tongue tied.

As the classic channel announcer talked, Darcy shifted closer to Steve again. “I want you to be okay. The 21st century’s not all bad, ya know.”

Again, Steve kissed Darcy’s forehead. “Yeah. Thanks, Doll.” He stroked her hair as they began watching the movie. “This okay?”

Darcy nodded, wondering if he was only being nice because he felt sorry for her or if there was another reason. “Yes. Very okay. Feels nice.” As his fingers trailed down her back, she shivered with pleasure. She wondered if he had any idea what his touch did to her. She savored the feelings, the want and heat, for a long time. Other thoughts ran through the back of her mind while she tried to ignore them.

Most of the way through the movie, the 'pretend-engagement' conspirators confessed to Bing Crosby’s character. Steve commented, approving, “at least they fessed up and set him straight. Too many times in romantic comedies the people avoid saying what’s on their mind until it’s too late. It's silly.” He stilled as Darcy pushed back from him and stared at him again. “What?  You okay?”

Darcy nodded.  “I… yeah. Sorry.” She sat up on the edge of the bed, paused the movie, and grasped her phone. After a moment, she nodded. “I’m gonna do this. I’m gonna make this call before I chicken out. Wish me luck.” She grabbed the green sweater from the floor and slipped it on over her red top again.

“Luck.” Steve got up and walked around the bed so he could sit next to Darcy. She looked up at him with a grateful warmth that transfixed him. He nudged her shoulder to offer comfort as someone answered her call.

“Beth? Hi. It’s Darcy. Merry something or other.” Darcy’s knee bounced, betraying her restlessness. Steve could feel tension fill her frame. After a moment, she continued, “yeah. Fine. I found a place to stay. I’m with a friend. And, Beth?” She took a deep breath, “He treats me with respect. Caring and respect. Even if he were…” Darcy paused. She rushed the next words out all at once, “well, if he was my Dom? He wouldn’t embarrass me or push away you or Mom by making me say ‘Meow’ and only ‘Meow’ to you at his whim. He wouldn’t think that's funny. He wouldn’t call me a ‘dimwit’ or a ‘bimbo’. He… Beth? I’m sorry to criticize your choices. But you deserve better than that kind of stuff. I hate the way Chad treats you, the way he talks down to you and tries to change you. You don’t need changing. I don’t know if it’s just me that Chad can’t stand. But, if it’s not? If he treats you like that in front of other people? I mean, would he demean you in front of your kids like Dad did Mom? Would he hurt you? How much like Dad…? Scratch that. Sorry. He’s not Dad. I’m not trying to be an unfair bitch to Chad, whatever he says. I worry that…” Darcy gasped, “don’t cry! I’m sorry! No! You… what? He what? He didn’t… What?!?” She shook, both in her body and voice. There was a long silence on Darcy’s end as her sister talked and cried. Darcy only interrupted the flow of words to utter sounds of disgust and disbelief.

Steve went to the kitchenette and got more water. He opened a bottle of wine and made thawed meat into fried burgers and baked French fries in the oven. He took Darcy water and returned to work on their lunch. The smell of good food soon filled the tiny cabin. He stayed busy, but most of his attention was on Darcy and her conversation.

Finally, Darcy rasped, “Well, that’s… What?! You’re thanking me? No. What? I thought you’d tell me to go to Hell, not take my call as a divine sign that you should say no and leave him. Oh, thank Baby Jesus!” Darcy laughed through tears. “Yes! I know I’m a bitch and I’m causing you to throw yourself on Mom’s mercy at Christmas. Enjoy her cookies for me. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have baking ingredients. Oh, fine! Hm? My friend? Awesome like you wouldn’t believe. Uh, I don’t know. It’s… pffft. I need to talk straight to him, too. Wish me luck?” Darcy wiped tears from her eyes. “Yes! I love you, too. Now, go. Text me when you’re safe at Mom’s and tell her I’m safe and I’ll call later. Merry Christmas.” Darcy hung up from the call and stared at the phone, rocking in place until she received a text. Then, she collapsed backwards onto the bed and stared up, unseeing.

Steve stayed quiet, letting Darcy calm from her talk with her sister. When the food was ready, Steve returned to her side and offered her a hand up, leading her towards the fire.

Darcy stumbled to a chair. “Thanks. You’re the best.” She drank more water.

“So, did he propose?” Steve began eating again and gave Darcy time to answer.

Darcy ate a bite of hamburger with a few fries and shook her head, “nope. TOLD her she was gonna marry him. Told her!” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Jackass! Good riddance.”

Wry, Steve shook his head. “Not very romantic. Not that I’m an expert in that department, but…”

Darcy only nodded as she devoured the rest of her food and sipped wine. “I had no idea how hungry I was.” She looked at Steve, thinking how lucky she was to be trapped with a good person who exuded calm and kindness. She especially appreciated that after the intensity of her conversation with her sister. Darcy sipped the wine as she focused on Steve. Being with him settled her, made her feel safe. And looking at him was always a delight. Steve Rogers was handsome, to be sure. He’d rolled up the sleeves on his green and blue flannel shirt. Unfair of him to subject her to sexy forearms on top of all the rest. Like every shirt she’d ever seen him wear, this one struggled to cover his muscles. She’d given up trying to think of adjectives that could convey how attractive Steve was. And nice. He didn’t call her out for staring at him like a weirdo, mooning after him. He didn’t even press her to speak up now, when she was sure he must be curious about the ‘straight talk’ she’d mentioned. He gave her the space she needed to regain her equilibrium.

Respect. Steve treated her with respect. She had a wonderful friend who treated her with respect. She ought to be forever grateful rather than daring to wish for more.

Steve finished his glass of wine and poured himself another.

Darcy held her glass out for him to top off, then sipped it again. “This is good stuff. I never spend more than $10 on a bottle. I’d bet the cork on this stuff costs that much,” she giggled, “or even the label.”

“I’ll give Tony money to cover it when we get back to the Tower.” Steve shrugged.

Darcy glanced outside. Snow and sleet fell still. “That’ll be a bit yet.”

Steve nodded, not sure what to say. He felt happy trapped with Darcy, to have a chance to talk with her and hold her close. Even if she only saw him as a friend who kept her from getting too cold. Silence fell between them again.

“Wanna finish the movie? Sorry I shut it off without asking.” Darcy needed more time to gather courage.

Steve nodded, “no problem. Yeah. I’d like to see the ending.”

They took their dishes to the sink and then returned to the bed. There, Darcy took off her Christmas sweater. She threw back the covers and snuggled next to Steve under the blankets. He put his arms around her while she used the remote to restart the movie. Finally, the lovers in the movie sorted out their misunderstanding, kissed, and made plans for their future. Fierce longing overwhelmed both Steve and Darcy. Unconsciously, he stroked her back.

There was no one and nothing to distract them or come between them. Nothing except for their own emotional shields. But it was a day for dropping those.

Cheers and strains of the song ‘White Christmas’ sounded behind the words ‘The End’. Darcy ducked her head so that she didn’t have to look Steve in the eye. “I wish…”

Steve interrupted, “I wish that you didn’t dislike soldiers so much, Darcy. I’m a soldier and I can’t change that, never could.”

Darcy pushed back from him, “what? Change? You? No! I don’t… Oh! No. I only dislike the bad ones. I don’t like jack-booted thugs who steal Jane’s research and my personal stuff. I don't like Nazi wanna-be’s or, well, mean soldiers. I like… I like you, Steve.” She swallowed hard and jutted her chin out. “I wish that your work didn’t take pretty much all your time and that you didn’t miss your good old days so much. I wish…” She blinked back unshed tears. “I really wish you wanted to be here- in this time- with me, Steve. I’m sorry. I know you only want to be friends. And I won’t say anything more to make you uncomfortable, friend.” She smiled a small, watery smile. “Friend. I’ve done that for you all this time. I can keep doing it. I want any relationship we can have, even just friends.”

Confusion filled Steve’s expression. “Is that why you say ‘friend’ to me so much? Because you think that’s all I want?”

“Uh huh.” Darcy nodded miserably.

He inched closer. “And you like me even though I’m a soldier? And you want to be more than friends with me? Darce?” He whispered, “do you… want?”

Darcy looked up at him, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to make things so awkward when you’re stuck here with me. Yes. I want! I wish that you wanted to be more than fr…Mmph!”

Steve kissed her.

He pulled back and stared at her as he cupped her cheek with one hand. “Sorry. I should ‘a- May I kiss you? I’m crazy about you, Darcy. I’ve wanted you for months and months. Want you so much I can hardly stand it. Not just friends, please. More, Doll.” His eyes gleamed with fervor.

Darcy nodded, stunned.

Steve chuckled, kissed her forehead and kissed her cheek again, with reverence. “Darcy, Doll… can I get a ‘yes’ to me kissing you?” He shifted so that his lips were a hair’s breadth away from her lips. Charged air shook the space yet between the two of them. He waited.

“Yes!” Darcy closed the distance between them and met his kiss with her own. They both trembled into it, a feather-light exploration. They each absorbed the idea that they’d misread what the other wanted. She murmured again, “oh, yes, Steve.”

He grinned as he kissed her again, deepening the kiss. He nibbled at her plush lower lip as he’d fantasized and dreamed so many times. Reality was a million times better. Darcy shuddered against him and groaned with pleasure. Steve stilled and closed his eyes. “Oh, Doll.” Darcy teased at his lower lip and he groaned, “gonna be hard as hell to be a gentleman with you doin’ that.”

Darcy chuckled, “who says you have to be a gentleman?” She shifted her leg to brush against his hardness. “Mmm. You were saying?” She nibbled at his lip again and played with the top button of his shirt.

Steve jolted and cursed under his breath. He kissed her quiet, again deepening the kiss and learning how they fit together. Steve savored Darcy's lips and tongue and throat while also exploring what she liked best. Sensitive spots. Sweetness. Eagerness. It was pure bliss. Darcy was becoming short of breath. Steve lay back and looked up at the next movie that had started while his Christmas dreams began to come true.

Darcy glanced at the Santa onscreen and panted. “I no longer have anything to ask Santa for.” She undid Steve’s top shirt button and kissed at the base of Steve’s throat. “I can think of a few things I’d like to ask you for, though.”

Steve grinned down at her, “same, Doll.”

“Oh?” Darcy undid another button on his shirt and kissed the exposed skin. She looked up at him and held his gaze as she undid the next few buttons.

Steve pulled her up for a long, slow kiss that set Darcy’s every nerve ending afire. She undid another few buttons on his shirt. When he shrugged it off, Darcy stilled, staring at his naked chest. “Holy…”

“Night?” he suggested. She snorted a giggle. He shifted her so that she sat astride him. He asked with his eyes if he could lift her shirt.

She nodded. “I may freeze, but yes. Please do.” She lifted her arms.

He shook his head. “Not gonna freeze. Haven’t you heard? I’m the man with a plan.” His voice tightened as he pulled her shirt up over her head. He shifted another pillow behind him and sat up some, pulling her towards him. He kissed her breasts as he reached around and undid her lacy red bra. “Damn, Doll. You’re a fantasy come true.” As he began to tease at her breasts with his lips and tongue, Darcy shivered and moved on him. He groaned, “here.” He pulled his shirt out from beneath him and helped her put it on, open at the front but warming her arms and back. "Looks much better on you than Tony's robe."

“Ahhh.” Darcy tried to talk, but Steve returned to tormenting her with his insistent lips. “G...good plan. Ohhh.” She squirmed in his lap, grinding against his erection with abandon. He let out a lusty groan that made her proud.

Steve pulled her chest against him for warmth as he moved up to kiss her lips and face again. “You’re shaking.” He looked concerned, but couldn’t resist kissing Darcy again. And again. He plucked and teased at her with his dexterous fingers. He loved the frantic sounds she made in the back of her throat.

“Not cold.” Darcy pulled back, then kissed him again and again. “Just want. Want you. Want so much.”

Steve shifted, rolling Darcy down onto her back. “Good thing, Doll.” He kissed her. Long, slow, passionate kisses that she met with a fervor that lit him up more every second. He palmed her breast and continued his exquisite torment. Darcy arched up against him, writhing. He lowered his lips to her breasts again. First one, then the other. Kissing and nibbling and sucking. She cried out and bucked as he swirled his tongue, hard. Darcy wasn’t sure if she would be embarrassed to come just from his attention to her breasts or impressed. Possibly both. Likely both.

He resumed teasing her nipples with his fingers. He placed open-mouthed kisses all along her belly. Steve took his time. “Beautiful.”

Darcy whimpered and began to shove her pants down. Steve stilled her hands. “I got you.” He undid the snap on her black jeans and kissed the exposed skin. Then he lowered her zipper and kissed her more. Darcy held the covers up with one hand and ran the other covetously along Steve’s shoulder. Steve pulled her pants and panties off and then moved back up her body to kiss her cheek and lips again.

“Pants!” Darcy begged him between kisses.

Steve huffed a laugh and unbuttoned his jeans. Darcy pressed against him, skin to skin. She wore only his shirt and warm red socks. Finally, he pushed down his pants so that he wore nothing.

Darcy’s eyes went even wider. “Oh, my. You go commando?”

He shrugged. “Habit. The uniform requires special briefs.”

She reached for him eagerly and wrapped her fingers around his shaft.

“Fuck,” Steve hissed.

Darcy's grin had a wicked glint. “Something like that.” She kissed down his chest and abdomen until she finally took him in her mouth. Then, Darcy delighted in taking Steve completely apart.

When he’d caught his breath again, Steve gave Darcy a smile unlike anything she’d ever seen from him before. It was both delighted and full of mischief that caused her pulse to race. He again pulled her astride his legs so he could taste and tease at her breasts. He left lingering kisses along the column of her throat and over her wrists. He disappeared under the covers and kissed her thighs and the backs of her knees. Darcy squirmed and unseeingly stared up at the movie. Steve didn’t tire, didn’t cramp- only focused on Darcy's pleasure with single-minded, super-strong drive. He had her writhing with pleasure long before he let her come. Another Christmas movie was playing onscreen and halfway over before Steve came up for air.

Finally, when Darcy begged, Steve slowly slid home. She realized that he’d been prepping her so long because of his size. She felt stretched wide as he twisted to hit her G-spot just right. She came quickly and felt as though she continued coming again and again as Steve pounded into her. He twisted her around so that he could plunge in from behind while rolling her swollen clit between his calloused fingers. After he came, he laid his fingers flat, soothing. He cradled her body tight back against his. Aftershocks left her spasming with pleasure. Steve kissed Darcy’s head again and again, murmuring, “sweet Darcy. Crazy about you.” She dozed in his arms, warm and loved and completely satisfied.

Dinner that night was steak and vegetables from the freezer, paired with an exquisite red wine. As they lay in bed afterwards, cuddling and teasing each other, Darcy felt Steve’s arms tighten around her. He buttoned a few buttons on his shirt to cover her and murmured, “company.” Soon, Darcy heard the sound of Iron Man landing outside the front door of the cabin.

Tony threw the door open and sauntered in, “I’m here to rescue you.” He stared, looked around and saw the open wine bottle and two pairs of pants on the floor by the bed, and shook his head. “Or, not. I guess Pep can stop crying about you being lonely on Christmas again this year, Cap. And I can stop wondering why you’re not answering texts. Nice shirt, Lewis.” Tony was blinking hard, slack-jawed with surprise.

Darcy laughed, “you should see the sweater I was gonna wear to your party. It’s around here someplace.”

“Lights up, sparkles, and hugs her curves to perfection. I’m sure she would ‘a won your contest,” Steve grinned, enjoying Tony’s shocked expression.

Tony smiled, “I bet. Well, Mazel Tov! Thanks for popping Cap’s cherry, Lewis. ‘bout time.” He pretended to wipe away a tear of pride.

Darcy snorted, “no way was that his first time. Orgasm hall of fame. All my Christmas dreams have come true.”

Steve ducked his head against her hair. “Good to hear, Doll. Right back atcha’.”

Tony shook his head. “Good reviews all around then. Well, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays kids. I’d guess you’re all set here ‘til it’s safe to drive again?”

Steve looked down at Darcy and she looked up at him. They both nodded emphatically and turned to Tony, “we’re good.” Tony laughed.

“Merry Christmas, Tony,” Steve beamed. “We’ll see you in a day or two.” He repressed a shiver as Darcy began teasing him under the covers again.

Darcy called out, “Merry Christmas! Thanks for dropping in.”

Tony shook his head and waved back at them as he went out the door of the cabin.

Steve pinned Darcy on her back and began ravishing her again, mock joking, “naughty girl!” He pushed into her again and set a slow pace as he rained kisses over her breasts.

Darcy looked up at him and batted her eyelashes. “Your naughty girl.”

Steve kissed her hard. “And my nice girl. Merry Christmas, Darcy.”

Gasping with pleasure, Darcy answered him, “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

 Fin

[btschooseafic]

Hey you, what’s your dream?

Pairing: platonic!oc x ot7

Details: manager!oc, predebut/idolverse, partial BTS World!verse

Summary: Aviva struggles to keep up with all of her new responsibilities as a manager.

Warnings: This is a fictional story based on real events. The characters presented here are not the same as their real life counterparts. [Masterlist]

Track 9: New Responsibilities

Responsibilities- Thane, Anderson .Paak, BJ the Chicago Kid

“I ain't stressin' bout the future, take it day to day

It's a marathon baby I'm just learnin' the pace”

Aviva stared around at the graffiti on the walls of the private space she had rented for their first dance practice. It wasn’t much, but…

“Siljangnim?” Hoseok called out.

“Hobi!” She called back. “Stop calling me that!”

“But, you are our manager,” he said simply.

She blinked.

“Ah. Right.” She grimaced. He laughed.

“Did you forget?”

“No, I just… you could at least use ‘maenijeo’...” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Or should I call you Jung Hoseok-ssi all the time?”

He rolled his eyes at her formal address.

“Now you’re just making it weird... Have you heard anything from Jungkookie or Jiminie? I texted them, but they haven’t responded.”

She chewed her lip. “They’re not responding to me. Jungkook-ah always showed up to practice on time when I was with him in LA, but I haven’t worked with Jimin-ah that closely yet.” She looked at Taehyung. “What’s his work ethic like?”

Taehyung hummed. “Jiminie works very hard… but he also has trouble sleeping sometimes.”

“That’s understandable,” Yoongi thought.

Jin clicked his tongue. “Kids these days.”

Everyone laughed, although Aviva’s laugh was a little restrained.

“We’re almost out of time for the practice space,” she said worriedly. “Should I book another slot…?”

“Do we have the budget for that?” Yoongi asked bluntly. Aviva sighed.

“I guess we should start the practice without them.” She turned to Namjoon. “Namjoon-ah, you said you had some music you wanted to share with everyone?”

“Yeah.” He popped a CD into the player on the floor.

Taehyung bobbed along to the music. Jin made an uncertain face. Yoongi started arguing about the merits of local artists over international ones.

“Look, we can listen to both,” Aviva said, trying to calm them down.

“Yes, but the order we listen to them is important,” Yoongi insisted. Aviva massaged her furrowed brow.

“Listen, Yoongi-oppa—”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Jungkook said, looking exhausted as he and Jimin walked into the room. They looked more than exhausted, they looked about ready to cry.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Aviva asked worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“We weren’t trying to be late…” Jimin said.

“That’s all okay!” Taehyung said cheerfully. “Come in, my friends!”

“You could’ve let us know that you were going to be late,” Hoseok commented.

“We were too freaked out to think about that,” Jungkook said.

“Freaked out about what?” Aviva pressed.

“You should have called to be considerate,” Jin agreed with Hoseok. “There were a lot of people waiting on the two of you.”

“Hey, it’s only one tardy! Let’s just let this one slide!” Taehyung suggested, smiling brightly. Aviva nodded thoughtfully.

“Only one tardy?” Yoongi said, giving them a cold look. He crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re not here to play around. Whether you meant to be late or not, you have obligations to the group.”

“I agree with Yoongi-hyung,” Namjoon said, crossing his arms too. “You don’t succeed in this industry with just hard work alone.” He sighed. “I’m disappointed. I thought you both were more dedicated to this group. Do you really want to be here?”

“Hyung… how can you…” Jimin was now unmistakably teary eyed. “How can you doubt something like that?” Jungkook patted him on the back, leading him to sit down. Jimin took deep breaths. Aviva frowned, noting the bloody stain on the knee of Jimin’s pants.

“Jimin-ah…” She kneeled down in front of him. “Tell me what happened—how did you hurt your knee?” A few of the older boys made noises of surprise behind her.

“I waited so long for our first practice,” Jimin said. “I was so excited I ran here. But I was dumb and fell down a flight of stairs…”

“I had to convince Jimin-hyung to go to the hospital, that’s why I didn’t think to call,” Jungkook explained.

“Hey, I’ve been excited too,” Aviva told him. “It’s not your fault you fell over—Namjoon-ah does stuff like that all the time.”

“Yah!” Namjoon cleared his throat, his face pink. Jimin laughed a bit, his tears interrupted.

“But I’m glad Jungkookie convinced you to go to the hospital,” Aviva continued speaking to Jimin, ignoring Namjoon. “What did they say?”

“They said it’s fine. Just disinfected it, and gave me a Band-Aid, but it’s coming off already…” Jimin frowned at his knee.

“Oh, I’ve got Band-Aids!” Aviva said, popping up and running over to her bag.

Namjoon chuckled. “You’re just as clumsy as I am, Avi-yah.”

“I’m not,” she disagreed, handing Jimin the Band-Aid. “Does it hurt, Jimin-ah? Do you need anything else?”

“No.” He smiled at her. “The Band-Aid’s enough. Thanks for worrying about me, manager-nim.” He took her hands in his. “But you keep up your health too, okay? Don’t overwork yourself.”

Namjoon frowned slightly as he watched them.

A couple of days passed, and Aviva was still worried about the group dynamic. They kept arguing about small things, like who should change the water cooler. Such arguments were bound to happen, Aviva figured, but the boys seemed to be disproportionately angry in relation to the issue.

Jin and Jimin were refusing to speak to each other, sending Aviva back and forth with messages.

Taehyung interrupted, pointing out that their time slot was over.

Aviva glanced at her phone. “I’m sorry, I’m running late! I need to go, please get home safely, all of you.” She ran out of the room.

That night, the boys accidentally ran into each other in the practice room. The older boys were impressed when they realized the younger boys had been staying late to practice, sleeping over to be able to make the best use of the time.

“Well, that, and we couldn’t find anywhere else to sleep,” Taehyung finished.

Jimin nodded, grimacing.

“You hyungs are still sleeping in the supply closet at the offices?” He wondered.

The rap line trio nodded grimly.

“Usually Avi-yah would’ve realized by now,” Hoseok thought. “Especially when her new office isn’t too far away from the supply closet. Maybe she really is overworked…”

“Is that why Namjoon-hyung lied to her about having found a place to stay?” Taehyung wondered, blinking at him. Namjoon flushed slightly.

“It wasn’t, a lie, exactly.” He ran his hand over his face. “The renovation announcement was so last minute, and she’s got so much on her plate already, I didn’t want her to have to worry about this, so I said I’d take care of it, but I haven’t been able to find a place big enough for all of us, and when she asked, I couldn’t exactly tell her that…” He felt guilt heavy on his chest when he remember how relieved she’d looked when he told her it was all taken care of.

“Look, what’s this?” Taehyung picked something up off the ground.

“It’s Avi-yah’s notebook.” Namjoon took it from him, smiling as he recognized it as one of the many he’d bought for her over the years. He started flipping through it.

“Isn’t that an invasion of privacy, hyung?” Jimin commented.

Namjoon’s smile turned sheepish. “I don’t think she’d mind.”

“She’s always writing in there,” Yoongi said, leaning over to get a look. “What does she write?”

“Um, everything.” Namjoon skimmed over cartoon doodles in the margins and hand drawn marketing graphs. “Our schedules, research on hip hop groups…” He smiled, pointing. “Look, she looked up both the international artists I suggested, and the underground local artists you suggested.”

Yoongi smiled slightly, shaking his head. “She does work hard, that one.”

“Right?” Jin agreed. “She’s only been here for a few years, but she’s already basically fluent in Korean.”

“Still, I bet she misses home sometimes,” Hoseok thought. “Did she seem happier when she was there, Jungkookie?”

“What?” Jungkook flushed. “Um, well, she seemed pretty happy, but she didn’t actually grow up in LA, so, I don’t think that’s… I think she was just happy to be able to speak English so much again, and to see Jenny-ssi.”

Hoseok grinned. “If you and Avi-yah’s little sister get married, maybe she’ll come live here too, and Avi-yah will be happier, and your older sister!”

Jungkook tilted his head. “I wouldn’t mind…” He waved his hand. “Not that I’m saying I’d want to marry Jenny-ssi—we’re not even really dating at this point, more like pen pals?” They all laughed. He huffed. “Anyway, we’ve got off track, we were talking about Aviva-noona.”

“I wouldn’t want her to be my older sister,” Taehyung said quietly.

“I wonder if this is really what she wanted—to manage a group of trainees like us?” Jimin said more loudly as Namjoon gave Taehyung a funny look.

Namjoon flipped through the pages, frowning at the color-coded blocks.

“Hey, Jimin-ah, did you know about this? Is that why you told her not to overwork herself?” He held up the schedule.

“Oh yeah.” Jimin grimaced. “I saw something like that the other day, when I was borrowing a piece of paper.”

“Speak to groups about getting members as featured artists and backup dancers, listen to lectures, hire instructors… and this is all after supervising our practice. How is she doing all of this in one day?” Namjoon shook his head. “When does she have time for sleep?”

“She needs to take better care of herself,” Yoongi thought aloud. Namjoon snorted. Yoongi frowned at him. “What?”

“Are you really the one to be saying that?”

Aviva rushed into the practice room, having gotten the keys from the janitor, after explaining she forgot an important notebook inside.

She felt around the wall for the light switch, but couldn’t find it. She let out a huff of frustration and used her cellphone light instead. She squinted her eyes at an oddly placed plant. Then she heard movement and squeaked, nearly falling over.

“Yah, careful!” A familiar voice called out. Aviva froze up as she felt the warmth of someone’s arms around her, holding her up. “The floor is hard.”

She shivered at his breath in her ear. “…Yoongi?”

“Wow, nice catch!” Another voice said.

“Taehyung-ah?” Aviva recognized his voice as well. She blinked as the lights flickered on. Jungkook and Jimin popped out from behind the suspicious plant Aviva had noted earlier.

“What are you doing here?” Jungkook wondered.

“Are you alright?” Jimin asked concernedly. “Manager-nim, are you hurt?”

“I’m, I’m okay,” she said a little shakily. Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jin came over. Namjoon looked at Yoongi and Aviva and frowned. Hoseok looked back and forth between them and then smirked. “Thanks, Yoongi-oppa… you can let go of me now.”

“Yeah…” He let go slowly, frowning at Taehyung. “Why’d you scare her like that?”

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” Hoseok agreed. Taehyung pouted, stepping closer to her.

“I was actually trying not to scare you—I thought it would be scary if I was too loud, so I was trying to be sneaky—are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure,” she told him. “It’s okay, Taehyung-ah, I just get a little jumpy sometimes.”

“Oh, so you don’t like horror movies?” Taehyung wondered, sounding disappointed.

“Sorry, not really.”

“You don’t have to apologize… I was just hoping we could watch one together.” He sighed, but then quickly recovered his usual charming smile. “What kind of movies do you like?”

“Action,” Hoseok said.

“Mystery,” Yoongi said.

“Fantasy,” Namjoon said. They looked at her.

“I like all of those,” she said.

Taehyung nodded. “We’ll watch one of those instead, okay?”

She blinked at him. “Okay, that sounds good.” She frowned. “Wait a minute, what are all of you doing here at this time of night anyway?” They looked around at each other nervously. “Huh…” She rested her hand on her hip. “It’s nice that you guys appear to be getting along again, but you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Um… I left something here,” Hoseok said slowly.

“Oh yeah?” Aviva said, doubtful. “What did you forget?” Hoseok rubbed his neck. Aviva frowned at the pain patch on his neck, spotting another one on his arm. “Seriously, guys, what’s up?” She looked around the room, spotting a few sleeping bags in the corner. Her eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sleeping here?”

“…I mean, it’s the first night for here for some of us,” Hoseok said, cheerfully raising his hand. He chewed at the inside of his cheek. “Though, we were… kinda… sleeping in the storage room before that…”

“…Fuck,” Aviva said.

“Yah!” Jin covered Jungkook’s ears. Jungkook shook him off, grumbling.

Taehyung grinned. “Manager-noona, I’ve never heard you curse before.”

“Yeah, I taught her,” Namjoon said, smiling proudly.

“This is all my fault,” Aviva said, rubbing her temples. “I’m so sorry, Joonie, I shouldn’t have left this all on you. I knew finding a big enough place nearby would be difficult, so I should’ve checked in.”

“Why didn’t you?” Yoongi wondered.

“I’ve been distracted,” she admitted. “But that’s no excuse.” She bowed. “I apologize, it was my responsibility to find you a place to live, and I didn’t.”

“Aw, manager-nim, no need to be so formal,” Jin said, patting her on the back.

She straightened up.

“Right.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait!” Namjoon called after her. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to find you somewhere to stay—and someone to stay tonight right away!”

“But you’re busy already,” he protested.

“Gone already.” Yoongi grimaced. “She’s quick.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to mention it to her,” Jungkook said, sighing.

Jimin smiled. “I think we’re in good hands.”

“Right?” Taehyung held his hands over his heart. “I’m touched.”

“I found a temporary spot,” she said, later that night. “The commute isn’t bad, and you’ll have access to a backyard, and the living room and kitchen are a little bigger than the last place, but it’s still a one bedroom so you’ll still have to share.” She grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind!” Taehyung said happily, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Namjoon crossed his arms over his chest. “We’ve all slept in the same room before. I’m just happy not to have to sleep on the hard floor!”

Aviva shook her head.

“About that, Tae… it isn’t fully furnished either. I got them to throw in two and a half couches—“

“Half a couch?” Jungkook wondered. Hoseok elbowed Jimin.

“That’s for you, little Jiminie.”

Jimin scowled at him.

“So some of you can sleep on those,” Aviva continued, ignoring them. “But I couldn’t find seven beds on such short notice.” Taehyung’s face fell. “I’ve got two sets of bunk beds.”

“Even just that is impressive in a couple of hours,” Namjoon thought.

Taehyung nodded slowly. “…A couch is still better than the floor,” he decided.

“Yeah, at least bring a sleeping bag next time, dummy,” Yoongi muttered.

“Ah, Yoongi-yah cares so much,” Jin said, slapping him on the back. Yoongi frowned at him. Aviva smiled slightly.

“Anyway, I’ll text you guys the address, so feel free to meet me there.”

“Where are you going, noona?” Jungkook wondered. “Don’t you have a lot of other things to do tonight?”

“I finished the meeting, so I’ll postpone the other things,” she said. “The temporary unit I found doesn’t have any food, so I thought I’d grab some groceries for you.”

“We can do it,” Jin said. “Don’t worry, just continue on with your normal schedule.”

She bit her lip. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” Jin said. “I can make a dish out of anything, I’m not just a pretty face you know.” She laughed. He grinned at her.

“And I like grocery shopping,” Taehyung commented. “It’s like a treasure hunt!”

“Okay, I’ll see you later then.”

“Before you go.” Namjoon held her notebook out to her. “Don’t forget this again.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “Thanks, Joonie.” She waved and hurried off again.

“Thanks, Joonie,” Hoseok imitated in a high-pitched voice. “Hmmm… tell me again why you haven’t asked her out?”

Namjoon flushed slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “What, you mean, besides the fact we could both lose our jobs?”

Hoseok nodded. “Yeah, besides that. People do break the rules and get away with it, you know. If you decide the risk is worth it…”

Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck. “Is it? I mean, we’ve both been working so hard for this debut, should I really throw it all down the drain just because Aviva-yah is so…?” He waved his hands inarticulately.

“Cute?” Taehyung suggested.

Namjoon frowned at him. “That she is!” Hoseok agreed cheerfully. “But Joonie’s acting pretty adorable right now also.”

“Shut up,” Namjoon muttered. “Anyway, even if I’d be willing to risk it, there are other people involved, Hoseok-ah and Yoongi-hyung especially, I wouldn’t want to ruin all your hard work.” Hoseok nodded, thumping him on the back.

Yoongi rolled his eyes.

“Let’s just go to this new place and get some sleep.”

[ghost-in-the-hella]

I hope it's cool for me to drop another one, you just write them so well. Z: “Zip me up?” PriceMarsh

Absolutely! Prepare for a near-lethal dose of pricemarsh fluff.

CW for referenced homophobia and implied internalized homophobia. Also references to Rachel’s death because I can’t not at least mention that.

---

There’s no reason for Chloe to feel so nervous. It’s only prom. She’s never been one of those girls who considers their high school prom to be a pinnacle of her life to be surpassed only by her eventual and inevitable wedding day. Before she and Kate started dating, Chloe would’ve laughed at the idea of even going to prom. She was way too cool for all that mainstream, cliche high school shit even before she dropped out.

But here she is, sitting in the cab of her truck in the parking lot for the girls’ dorms, sweating through her tuxedo shirt as she tries to work up the nerve to go meet her prom date. Nervous. She and Kate have been official for a few good months now, but they’ve never done anything this, well, official. Chloe bought a corsage and everything. She’s wearing her dad’s old powder blue tuxedo from his prom, taken off mothballs for the occasion (lucky for her he was a total beanpole when he was in high school; Joyce barely had to take it in at all). It’s fucking go time.

She flicks her lighter a few times to steady her nerves. God, she wants a cigarette. But she knows Kate hates the smell even though she tries not to complain, and she wants tonight to be perfect. Not for herself, of course - she’s still too much of a hardass punk to care about going to prom, much less about having it be some kind of magical experience - but for Kate. Because Kate cares about going to prom, and Kate deserves a perfect night. She deserves, at the very least, a prom date who doesn’t smell (and taste) like an ashtray. If Kate’s going to risk outing herself to her family with prom photos of her with an obvious lesbian on her arm, well, Chloe’s going to be the best goddamn arm candy she can be.

She tosses her lighter into the glove box and switches off her stereo, silencing the pump up mix she’d been playing to get psyched. She takes a deep breath to ground herself. Okay. Okay. Now it’s go time.

She grabs her tuxedo jacket off the passenger side of the bench seat and slings it on as she opens the door and hops out into the parking lot. She pulls out her phone and texts Kate. 

Me: im here

Me: u ready to wreck shit up w ur hella hot prom date?

Kate: Almost :)

Kate: I need your help with something. Can you come up?

Chloe suppresses the instinct to shout NO EMOJI and restricts herself to a polite: sure

She checks herself out one last time in her side mirror. Her hair’s freshly dyed and combed to a silky sheen, every strand perfectly in place. She’s got a tasteful amount of eyeliner on, like any good pirate, and it makes the blue of her eyes pop. The tux looks surprisingly good for something that’s been packed up in the attic for longer than she’s been alive, and it accents her hair and her eyes both. 

“Your father would be so happy for you. I wish he could’ve seen you.”

Chloe swallows down the sudden lump in her throat. She already sobbed her eyes out enough when Joyce was helping her get ready; she’s not picking up her prom date with raccoon eyes if she cries her eyeliner into a mess (again). She adjusts her lapels (what was it with the late seventies and ridiculous lapels?!) and her blue butterfly boutonniere and strides toward the dorms. 

There are several people standing outside, copping a last smoke before prom. Victoria Chase is one of them, flanked by two girls Chloe only vaguely recognizes. She’s pretty sure the bottle blonde smoked her out once at a Vortex party after she’d lost track of Rachel, but she’s not sure they ever exchanged names. Victoria flicks some ash off her cigarette as Chloe nears, but she pointedly avoids Chloe’s gaze rather than engaging her. So, still kind of an ice queen but maybe she’s learned a modicum of civility in the wake of the absolute clusterfuck that was last semester, between her best friend getting arrested along with her favorite teacher for a gross assortment of sex crimes. And murder.

Chloe’s stomach twists violently at the memory. Fuck, last fall was a shitshow. She’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have survived learning about Rachel’s murder (officially “death by misadventure” because the Prescotts have lawyers out their ass, but Chloe’s nobody’s fool) without Kate’s shoulder to cry on. Chloe still doesn’t believe in god, but if she did she’d say that Kate’s been an absolute godsend.

Chloe spares the girls by the door a quiet nod in greeting as she passes, and two out of three return it (fuck you very much, too, Unnamed Brunette Sidekick). She climbs the stairs to the second floor and hustles to Kate’s door. Her whiteboard is blank today, so Chloe takes a moment to draw a cartoon heart on it before she knocks.

“Chloe?”

“The one and only,” she replies.

“It’s open; can you let yourself in? Alice is being a handful.”

“Ooh, bunny shenanigans!” Chloe opens the door and slips into the room, closing the door swiftly behind her in case Alice is in danger of escaping. Alice’s cage is, indeed, empty, and the bunny is nowhere in sight. What Chloe can see, however, is about half of Kate poking out from beneath her bed. She shouldn’t laugh. She really shouldn’t. She does anyway. Kate’s legs just look so formal as they stick out from beneath her bed at awkward angles, politely wrapped in dark tights and the jumble of what is clearly a very pretty dress that deserves better than to be mangled and coated in dust before it can even get its moment in the spotlight.

Kate giggles, so at least she’s aware of the ridiculousness of the situation and probably isn’t mad at Chloe. “She just will not go back in her cage! Can you help?” Kate flails out a hand in Chloe’s general direction.

Chloe crouches next to the bed and takes Kate’s hand, helping to slide her out from under it. “Hey, bun-bun,” she calls softly to the bunny beneath Kate’s bed. “Your favorite person is here! Come say hello!”

Kate gasps in mock offense and swats Chloe’s arm. “Her second favorite person, thank you!”

Alice hops tentatively out from under the bed and wiggles her perfect little nose at Chloe. “Ah-ha!” Chloe reaches down and gently picks her up. “Got you, you little rascal. Were you making life difficult for your momma?” She gives Alice a nuzzle.

“She’s been such a naughty bunny tonight,” Kate sighs. “I can’t tell you how many times she tried to nibble my dress. And poor Alyssa! Alice got half her corsage before either of us figured out what was happening.”

“Aww, I missed Alyssa?”

“Sorry; she had to finish her own makeup. She did mine, too. Is it too much? I haven’t gotten a chance to check.”

Chloe looks over at Kate and nearly topples over onto her ass, bunny and all. Kate looks beautiful, but that’s nothing unusual; she always looks beautiful. The subtle makeup that Alyssa’s used on her sets off her natural beauty perfectly, understated but lovely as always. Her hair’s in a braid with loose tendrils framing her face, which is a style Chloe’s never seen on her before and definitely could get used to seeing. And her dress is… Well. It’s a lovely dress; Chloe’s no great authority on dresses - she hasn’t worn one willingly since she was about four - but she can tell that much. It’s definitely picked up some dust here and there from Kate’s adventure under her bed, but it’s still obviously a nice dress. Tasteful, of course, or at least it would be if it were zipped in the back.

Which it definitely isn’t. 

On anyone else, it would still be a modest look. But on Kate… This is by far the most of her that Chloe’s seen in months of dating. Kate’s very much a “take it slow” kind of person, and even though historically Chloe’s tended to be more of a “take it as soon and as often as I can get it” kind of person she respects Kate’s boundaries and is happy to let her girlfriend set the pace. So getting an eyeful of Kate’s naked collarbones, the round curve of an exposed shoulder, the suggestion of a bared back is basically the Kate Marsh equivalent of a nip slip.

“Um.”

“Oh, no, is it too much? I asked her not to do anything too excessive…”

“No, no, makeup’s fine. Great, even. You look… amazing.” Chloe wobbles onto her feet and holds out a hand to help Kate up. She presses a kiss into Alice’s soft fur and walks her over to her open cage. “Okay, cage time for bunnies. No more mischief tonight.” She tucks Alice inside and locks the cage door behind her.

“You’re so good with her,” Kate says, wrapping her arms around Chloe’s waist from behind. Normally she’d burrow her face into Chloe’s back, but she restrains herself and Chloe appreciates the effort to preserve the integrity of her suit even as she misses the contact. “This is the best behaved she’s been all night.”

“What can I say? You’re her mom; of course she’s going to rebel. Me, I’m more like the cool aunt.”

“Hmm. Cool step-mom, maybe.”

Chloe’s face warms with blush. She reaches down to place her hands over Kate’s and gives them an affectionate squeeze. “You, uh, you almost ready to go, babe?”

“Almost.” Kate pulls back and Chloe turns around to face her. It’s a struggle, but she keeps her eyes fixed on Kate’s face even as they long to trace the delicate, graceful line of her clavicles. Then Kate turns her back to Chloe, glancing back at her over her shoulder with a soft smile. “Zip me up?”

Chloe blinks stupidly for several seconds before she answers with a silent nod. Her mouth is too dry to speak human words. She has to close her eyes and collect herself for a moment when Kate turns her head away again, waiting patiently for her assistance. Her hands are actually shaking as she reaches for Kate, which is stupid. She’s literally stripped women before. She’s just helping one put more clothes on. Her hands shouldn’t be shaking over that.

She tenderly sweeps Kate’s braid aside with one hand, draping it forward over her shoulder to keep it clear of the zipper. Her fingertip barely skirts against the bared skin of Kate’s back, but she can feel her warmth like a brand. Chloe takes a deep breath in and blows it out slowly to steady herself as she reaches for Kate’s zipper pull. It’s only when she sees Kate squirm slightly that she realizes she’s released her breath directly against Kate’s exposed back. She freezes.

“It’s okay,” Kate says when she feels Chloe tense up. 

Chloe tries to force herself to relax. She attempts to ease the zipper up and it catches within the first inch. Tentatively, she reaches to brace one hand against Kate’s hip for leverage. The zipper slides free and Chloe delicately zips up the back of Kate’s dress. It traces the elegant line of her spine up toward the perfect points of her shoulder blades (Chloe notes two small birthmarks on Kate’s left just above her bra and suppresses the urge to lean down and kiss each in turn). 

Chloe reaches around to gently guide Kate’s braid back to its rightful place when she’s done. She leans in boldly to press a kiss to Kate’s (still bare) shoulder, pausing millimeters away to give Kate time to signal her yes or no. Kate gives a small but unambiguous nod and Chloe kisses her shoulder firmly. Kate reaches her other arm across to tangle fingers in Chloe’s hair, holding her there gently for a moment.

Kate gives a contented sigh when Chloe pulls back, slipping her fingers free from Chloe’s blue locks. “Sorry if I messed up your hair.”

“Worth it,” Chloe tells her with a grin. She steals a quick moment to check her hair in Kate’s mirror, prompting a knowing giggle from her girlfriend. The damage is minimal; definitely worth it. She tidies it with a few quick sweeps of her hands. 

Kate steps into the frame and slips an arm around Chloe’s waist. Chloe reciprocates with an arm around Kate’s shoulders. “What do you think?” Kate asks. “Prom Queens?”

Chloe wrinkles her nose. “I’ll be happy as long as they don’t dump pig’s blood on us. Anyway, I think someone would have to stuff the ballot box pretty hard for me to get elected anything at Blackwell after I dropped out.”

“A year after you left to pursue other options,” Kate corrects her. “Now that you’ve got your GED, I don’t think you technically count as a dropout.”

“Aww, but it’s my whole identity,” Chloe teases. She dips her head to drop a light kiss to the top of Kate’s head as Kate scowls playfully.

“Guess you’ll have to develop a new one, then.” She squeezes Chloe’s hip hard enough to shut her up. “You look really good in that tuxedo. I can’t wait to show you off.”

Chloe raises her eyebrows. “Yeah? Not still worried about what people are gonna say when they see our prom pictures?”

“I’m still concerned,” Kate says thoughtfully. “But I’m more excited. I never thought I’d get to have this.” She turns to look at Chloe, and there’s so much warmth in her eyes that Chloe feels a sudden threatening prickle of tears in her own. “My mother and aunt fed me so many… bitter thoughts about what being gay might mean. All the things I’d never get to do or have because I didn’t think that gay people were allowed them. I never thought I’d get to love someone so much. I never thought I’d get to be loved in return. I never thought I’d get to just be a normal, happy girl on prom night, getting ready with her prom date to go and dance with her friends and have fun like anybody else. But look at me. Look at us!” She turns back to the mirror, leaning into Chloe’s arm. “We’re doing this. I’m going to the prom with my girlfriend, and we look amazing together, and we’re going to pose for stupid pictures and dance until our feet hurt and celebrate with our friends, and at the end of the night you’re going to walk me back to my room and kiss me goodnight because I won’t have to worry about my lipstick anymore and it’s all going to be perfect. And even if it isn’t perfect, it’s going to be ours.”

Chloe feels like she’s going to shake apart she’s so close to crying, eyeliner be damned. “H-hey, Katie?”

“Mm?” Kate turns to look at her sweetly, and god how did Chloe get so lucky to end up with this incredible girl.

“How much do you really care about the lipstick thing? Because I really want to kiss you right now.”

A dimpled smile breaks out across Kate’s face and Kate goes up on tiptoes, touching Chloe’s face lightly as she tilts up her face to kiss her. Chloe does her best to kiss her back like a normal person and not like a drowning woman. “Not as much as I care about you,” Kate answers when they pull apart again. She wipes a stray tear from Chloe’s cheek. “Are you okay?”

“I’m so fucking okay. I might be the most okay I’ve ever been in my whole stupid life.” Chloe plants another kiss on Kate’s forehead. She’s about to start leading Kate to the door when she realizes she’s forgotten something important. She fumbles the corsage out of the inner pocket of her dad’s jacket and presents it to Kate. “Come on, let’s finish getting you suited up so we can light up the fucking dance floor and give all the haters the middle finger. The metaphorical middle finger,” she amends when Kate starts to open her mouth. “Not gonna get myself thrown out of your prom; don’t worry.”

Kate holds out her wrist and Chloe has to bend to slide the corsage into place. There’s a surreal moment when she’s holding Kate’s perfect hand in hers and gently guiding the corsage into place, practically down on one knee to get the proper angle, where she wonders if this is what it might feel like to propose. She can see it so clearly in her mind’s eye: getting down on one knee, probably wearing this same tuxedo because that way it’s like her dad would get to be there, still holding Kate’s hand, still looking up into her beautiful and shining eyes as she gazes down at her with more love than any human heart could hold, Gramma Price’s ring resized to fit Kate’s finger…

Chloe wobbles, suddenly lightheaded, and Kate reaches out to steady her the way she always does. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Kate asks again, brow furrowing slightly with concern.

Chloe presses a reverent kiss to Kate’s knuckles and rises back to her feet. “I’m good,” she says, trying not to sound as dazed as she feels. “I’m great. I’m fucking amazing. You’re amazing. We’re amazing. Let’s go show all of Blackwell how fucking amazing we are.” 

Kate nods, grinning. “Yes, please.” She holds out her hand and Chloe takes it. Before they can make it all the way to the door, Chloe’s phone buzzes in her pocket. With an exaggerated sigh, she pauses to check it.

Mom: Chloe Elizabeth Price, don’t you dare forget to send me pictures!

Kate reads over her shoulder. “Maybe we should show your mom how amazing we are first?”

Chloe grumbles and rolls her eyes but obligingly opens up the photo ap on her phone. As annoying as Joyce can be (seriously, wtf with the Mom ESP?!), Chloe knows that Kate relishes this kind of maternal approval and that she’s never going to get it from her own mother. Joyce has her faults - fucking hell does she have her faults - but even Chloe has to admit that she’s been pretty awesome with Kate. She’s all but adopted her, honestly.

Chloe holds up her phone and lets Kate nestle under her arm. A perfect fit as always.

“Say ‘prom night!’” Kate says, grinning giddily.

“Prom night!” Chloe says without taking her eyes off of Kate, and she takes the picture.

[mellomedia]

Youth Culture

For Media & Society’s first blog post, our class watched Euphoria, Mid90s, Mean Girls, Kids, and The Breakfast Club. If you haven’t figured out the theme yet, it’s youth culture. Most of these films were set in the 80s and 90s before this current generation. This is the first generation where our lives are saturated by mobile technology and social media (Divecha, 2017). But no matter what generation, youth culture has many common behaviors, or misbehaviors.

Often when I watch a film or read a comic book, I wonder if I relate to the story or anyone in it. I looked for anything in common I might have with one of the characters in the five films we watched. I can identify with Ray from Mid90s the most. I’m not a die-hard skateboarder like Ray. In fact I can’t skateboard at all, but I dedicate all my time and energy into art and animation. While we have different interests, I can relate to Ray’s passion for something he enjoys and the energy he puts into it. Ray is the top skateboarder in his group and practiced every day. All my spare time is spent drawing and taking online animation courses. My goal is to always do better than what I did yesterday. Words to describe Ray would be the same way I describe myself: down to earth, not concerned with fitting in, my own person, caring, always willing to help, and a very loyal friend. When Stevie joins the skateboard crew in the film Mid90s, he finally digs up some money to buy Ruben’s old, used skateboard. Stevie gets injured while attempting an insane jump over a hole in a roof and breaks his skateboard. Ray sees how much Stevie is trying to fit in, no matter how many falls he takes, he gets back up. Ray has a big heart and builds Stevie a new skateboard. As I mentioned, I’m not a skateboarder, but I enjoy trying to make people smile with my art. I enjoy drawing a cartoon of a friend to help them to get out of a funk or just listen to whatever it is they are going through. 

These films all share a few common themes. One theme is belonging. I admit I looked up the term “fitting in” and it was compared to belonging. Fitting in is defined as to be like other people in a group – what they wear, how they act, how they look. (Pace, 2018) Belonging is a basic human need – it is about acceptance – being where you want to be and being where you are wanted (Pace, 2018). A few examples are Stevie (Mid90s) wants to be accepted into the skateboard crew; Brian (The Breakfast Club) brings a flare gun to school as a suicide attempt because he didn't feel he was good enough; and Cady (Mean Girls) is the new girl trying to get accepted by The Plastics.

My freshman year in high school definitely falls into the theme of belonging. I struggled with speech and have a learning disorder. And at the time I had zero confidence in socializing. I’d walk over to a group of kids in the cafeteria just to try to get involved in the conversation, but I couldn’t form sentences quick enough to jump in. I would be the weird kid just standing there. One day my speech therapist asked me what I wanted to improve and I told her I wanted to gain confidence in socializing. She told me the best way to do this would be to just try to talk to more people. Well in high school that worked with some kids, but not all. I’ll never forget one day in the cafeteria I was trying to find a place to sit and eat lunch. I saw an empty chair at a table where a ‘friend’ was sitting. The group was taking turns roasting one another. At one point another kid challenged me. I was doing fine until he said, “You know people are only nice to you because they don’t want to hurt your feelings.” That hurt like hell. He was referring to my speech impairment. I got up from the table and walked away. And that ‘friend’ at the table didn’t defend me at all. One girl came running over to make sure I was alright. I was pissed and hurt. I was not alright. Just so you don’t think I went off the deep end and had a miserable high school experience, I actually gained a great friend in high school that day. Alex, who was a senior, saw me leave track practice early. My head just wasn’t into track, so I went to sit in the empty cafeteria hoping to clear my head. He asked how things were going and I told him what happened that day. He told me, “It’s not easy finding out who your real friends are. But don’t change for anyone and don’t try to be like anyone else. Just be you.” I’ll never forget how he took the time to talk to me. After his advice, I could care less about belonging.

Another common theme between all five films is rebellion. When they aren’t skateboarding, most of the characters in Mid90s spend their time partying, drinking, and doing drugs. In The Breakfast Club, each character is in detention because they rebelled in some way. Why else would they be in detention? Every character in Kids was a rebel, actually more like a criminal. I bet the writer of the film was too.

A third theme is “bro” culture. “Bro” culture is defined as people who are bullies but at the end of the day they have your back, like a brother (Sloothunter42, 2018). Two great examples of “bros” are John (The Breakfast Club) and Ian (Mid90s). Throughout The Breakfast Club, John constantly insults the other kids in detention. He even insults the principal. The group escapes detention to wander the hallways. When the principal sees them, John saves the group by telling them to go back to the library while he distracts the principal. This link shows you the scene I’m explaining: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Iq7MRlHg5I (Hughes, 1985). Not something you would have expected from a bully, but you would from a “bro.” In Mid90s, Stevie’s brother, Ian, beats the crap out of him every chance he gets. But when Stevie is laying in a hospital bed after a car accident, his brother is there by his side. He even shares his precious orange juice.

Now onto one of my favorite things in life, music! I put together a playlist that relates to my adolescent experience. In no particular order, here are 10 songs and what each means to me. But let me point out that some song lyrics mean something to me, while with other songs it was the energy it gives off. I’m all about positive energy. First song is “Mr. Blue Sky” by Electric Light Orchestra. I first heard this song during the movie Guardians of the Galaxy. This song kept me motivated and positive during high school. If I was having a bad day, this was my ‘go to’ song. I also listened to it every day on my way to school. Next is “Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley, a.k.a. CeeLo Green. This song reminds me of my mind, imagination, and the stuff I think about. I always have a trillion things going on in my head. I guess that explains my poor focus skills and super procrastination. “Inner Ninja” by Classified is another upbeat song. A few lines that always stuck in my head are, “I find my inner strength and I re-up; Here we go, I know I've never been the smartest or wisest; But I realize what it takes; Never dwell in the dark cause the sun always rises.” My junior year of high school I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. It has and still is life-changing and as much as I don’t let it change who I am, I’m human. But as the song says, don’t dwell on the negative, look for the positive. I always remind myself of the positive. “Through the Fire and Flames” by DragonForce always fueled my brain when I was tired of doing homework or studying. To me the lyrics mean to keep moving forward no matter how difficult. Just look at what your goal is and don’t give up. Plus this song has one hell of a guitar solo that is very motivating. Michael Jackson is one of my favorite artists and “Man in the Mirror” reminds me how important it is to try to do good in the world and make a positive change. Regardless of culture, color, religion, and disability, we are all capable of making good changes in the world. I tried this on a much smaller scale in high school by volunteering at the food pantry and community events. “Clint Eastwood” by Gorillaz is one of many songs by this group that I like. It’s not so much the words I relate to, but I love the animation in their music videos. I remember the first time I saw one of their videos I thought how cool and mysterious it was that we only see the singers as cartoons. We are never shown who they really are. I like the fact that it’s different. Different is good in my world. “Intergalactic” by Beastie Boys reminds me of breakdancing and dancing in general. I love to dance and looked forward to every prom and homecoming dance at high school. “Without Me” by Eminem reminds me that no matter how much people criticize you, you can be very successful at what you enjoy doing. The last song on my list is “Take Me Out” by Franz Ferdinand. To be honest, I just like the beat of the song and it’s one of those songs I listened to over and over in high school.

So that wraps up my Youth Culture blog. I hope it gave you a better understanding of how I relate to the assigned films. But let me make one thing clear, I do not relate to anything in the film Kids. Not one thing.

Below is my self portrait of what goes through my mind. 

Artwork by: Marcello Laudato

[avengersassemble-fics]

prompt: “please don’t leave me.” “i don’t want to go.”

word count 2.8k

an: this was just something i wrote. idk wanted to share.

There was always something special about Steve Rogers.

Ever since you were a little girl you could remember always being drawn to the boy who was always excluded, or alone. Though he kept to himself, whenever something happened (something wrong), Steve was always the first to stand up for what was right. Even if it resulted in him being shoved down into the dirt, he always got right back up. You knew that was someone you needed to befriend, you knew that was someone you needed in your life. And with Steve came James Barnes. They were a packaged deal you would’ve never imagined yourself without either.

As you grew older, the usual boy/girl friendship was tested. There was one point in the early teenage years where Bucky seemed to test every nerve in your body, he was just that irritating. Steve never went along with it, and when you became increasingly frustrated he would let you talk (or more so vent) through the frustration. It all came to a head when Bucky asked you to the school’s spring dance, but Bucky and you had soon learned after that that you truly were better off as friends.

High school flashed by before you in the blink of an eye, just like your parents had warned you it would. But after graduation and the pomp and circumstance ended, a few weeks later in the summer of 1936, tragedy struck the trio. Steve’s mother fell ill with tuberculosis, and unfortunately lost that fight. Steve remarked it as the one fight he didn’t think he could get back up from, but Bucky and you never left his side. This time, you both needed to stand up for him, and offer that hand for him to grab ahold of. Bucky put it perfectly, that none of them had to get by on their own, because the others would be there until the end of the line. In fact it was one of Bucky’s more triumphant moments that you could remember.

You always knew Steve was destined for greatness. He was a phenomenal artist, the greatest man you knew (second to your father of course), and you loved him for it. Dates came and went, but Steve was always the one who was there. You realized your feelings when you got wind of Bucky and him training, and attempting to join the army. It was as if your life flashed before your eyes.

“You what?!” You exclaimed while washing dishes. You had to drop the plates into the soapy warm water to get a better look at the two now frightened men on the other side of the living room. You had never seen Bucky quite so scared of you, Steve as well.

“We’re going to enlist,” Steve had repeated. You wiped your hands dry on the apron you wore and put your hands on your hips, glaring at the two men before you. “The wars gettin’ real bad. We gotta go.”

Seeing that fire in Steve’s eyes, you knew there was no argument with him. Either of them. Their minds were made up. Among being the great men they were, they were also stubborn and hardheaded. How could you be upset with them for wanting to go and fight? Just because you were scared for them?.. It wasn’t a good enough reason. Not one you could admit, anyway. Not to yourself for a while.

In 1943, when you were twenty-four, and the boys were twenty-five and twenty-six, your parents started to put the pressure on you about the “most important thing” you’d face in life. The question of “when were you going to get married?” You were paying your own way through college, and the fact you were in your mid twenties began to worry your parents. This was your “ripe” years, and they were “blowing by” with no husband, or kids on the horizon. When you refused to drop school and go on the hunt for a well paid husband, your father thought it best to force you out to show you the real world. Lucky for you, Steve and Bucky (in their small shared apartment) let you move in with them. The first few nights after many arguments, you slept on the ratty old couch in the living room until the boys insisted they could share a room and you could have one of theirs. Though you never told them, you were a bit thankful to get off the uncomfortable cushions in the open.

You never told them the reasoning of your fathers decisions, but Steve figured it out when he ran into your parents at the market. Your mother asked if he knew where you were, while your father made remarks under his breath about how you had better be taking it seriously on finding a husband. Steve never mentioned that encounter to you, instead he brought you back some flowers. When he handed them to you, your face lit up like never before.

“What are these for, Steve?” You had asked him. Steve shrugged and put his hands into his pockets, and gave you a short smile.

“Just thought you deserved somethin’ pretty. Pretty flowers for a pretty gal,” he said. He didn’t notice your rosy cheeks as he turned to go to his room, and he disappeared until dinner was done.

A few months later, Bucky announced his enlistment in the middle of dinner. Steve looked shocked for a few moments, though he knew it was coming, and you dropped your fork on the plate. Both of them looked up from their plates and stared at you as you threw your crumpled napkin onto the table. You disappeared into your room, and Steve looked towards Bucky, who only sighed.

“I told you she’d be upset,” Steve commented.

“She’ll.. She’ll come around.”

You did not in fact come around. You avoided Bucky for two weeks after that. Steve had to invite you out to a movie to get you out of the apartment, he also was trying to get his mind off of his own enlistment failures. You agreed, and walked arm and arm with him through the streets, and even to your seats. Your arms leaned against one another, his hand just inches from yours, and you had never been so nervous in your life. One move and he could lace his fingers with yours. You were so focused on the proximity of his fingers you hadn’t noticed the ad playing before you, not until a man behind you started to toss around dirty remarks.

“Who cares? Play the movie already!”

Steve’s arm moved from beside yours, and you looked over at him with a shake of your head. “Steve-”

“You wanna show some respect?” He asked out loud. You stole a glance over your shoulder to see the man not even bat an eyelash at Steve’s comment. You turned back to the black and white film before you, the commercial continuing with its pro-enlistment message. And you shut your eyes tight when the man started up again.

“Let’s go! Get on with it! Just play the cartoon!”

That had done it. You knew before Steve turned around in his chair that that was it for him. “Hey wanna shut up?!”

The man stood from his seat, and before you knew it, Steve was following him outside. You struggled to keep up, even as they pushed open the double doors that led to the side of the building, you were pulled back by the other man with the unruly jerk. The other man grabbed a hold of your wrists, pulling you back towards the wall of the building, and you hit at his chest. “Let me go!”

The sound of a fist hitting skin filled the alley and you grimaced at the sound of Steve hitting the metal cans in the corner. You could hear his feet shuffle a bit as he stood, but the crack of the jerk’s fist hitting him again filled your ears. You tried to pull against the other man holding you, but he pushed his fingers deeper into your skin.

“You just don’t know when to give up, do you?” The man asked, and Steve stood once again, lifting his fists in defense.

“I can do this all day.”

Bucky arrived shortly after dressed in his uniform, and pulled the men off of Steve and yourself. You rubbed at your wrists for the rest of the day, even the next few days after that, even at the famous Stark Expo. Bucky had a date with a dame named Connie, and you went along with Steve. You walked side by side one another behind the couple, and Steve noticed the bruises.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them,” he mumbled. You wouldn’t have caught it if you weren’t paying close enough attention. You looked over at him and saw his downcast look, and shook your head.

“Steve, please don’t worry about that,” you tried to reassure him. “I’m fine. As long as I have you here I’m fine.”

Imagine your surprise when you awoke one day and Steve was gone. All that was left were some flowers and a note explaining how he was offered a chance to serve, and he took it. You didn’t get out of bed for three days and wallowed in your own self pity. But you couldn’t help it. In a matter of days, both of the most important people in your life were gone with no reassurance that they would be back.

War was a terrifying thing. Every couple of weeks you received letters from both Steve and Bucky, and as the weeks turned into months they dwindled in number. Bucky’s letters seemed to stop completely, and Steve’s came only once a month. You finished school, and started to look for work. You wanted to help pull the weight around the place, and not rely solely on the boys’ pension payments. You came home fairly late, groceries in hand, the moon in the sky, and the chill of winter starting to seep into the air. You pulled your jacket a little closer that night, climbing up the metal stairs to your place. You unlocked the door and pushed the heavy wood open, jiggling your keys out of the lock when your eyes fell on the scene before you.

The lights were on, and you knew you had shut them off before you left. The smell of food seeped in from the kitchen and you dropped your things. Someone broke into the apartment! You heard footsteps coming from around the corner in the linoleum covered kitchen, and you quickly reached for something in the stringed grocery bag. The shadow came closer and closer, and when they rounded the corner you whipped out the only thing you could hold onto.

“Stay back,” you warned them. The man was tall and wide, built like a mountain. If you weren’t so scared you would’ve thought he was beautiful. He had familiar blue eyes and you waved what you were holding at him. “Stay back I tell ya.”

He put his hands up in defense, staying still where he was. Both of you looked at the bundle of bananas you held onto to intimidate him, but he didn’t seem phased by it. Why would he? He was twice your size!

“(Y/N),” he started. You blinked at him in confusion as he took a step closer to you. You in turn took one back, closer to the wall.

“How do you know m-my name,” you asked. He glanced you up and down and furrowed his brows a bit.

“I’ve known you since we were little,” he said. He took another step forward, and you one back once more. Your back pressed against the wall of the living room, still pointing the bananas at him. “(Y/N), it’s me. It’s Steve.”

You looked him over, your gaze landing back on his face. You dropped the bananas down a bit as he came closer, staring into his eyes. The eyes you often looked into what felt so long ago, he stood before you now. But this wasn’t the Steve you remembered. He was careful, his fingers wrapped around your wrists, his other hand came to your cheek and you sucked in a deep breath.

Oh no. This was the Steve you remembered.

“Steve,” you breathed. He nodded and you flung yourself at him. Your arms reached up for his neck, and Steve scooped you up with no hesitation. He was able to pull you against him with absolutely no problem. The wind was practically knocked out of you in surprise. Your hands rubbed the back of his neck, fingers grazed into his hair, anything to feel him. Steve.

When you asked him how and what happened, he said it was a long story. And he was right, you sat there into the early hours of the morning listening to him tell you all about the SSR, Project Rebirth, and Captain America. He was to start his tours in a couple of weeks, and until then he was here. He was with you. You promised him to make the most out of his time back, and he had no doubt you would uphold that.

Those next few weeks Steve got to remember how he fell in love with the girl from down the block. The girl who grew out of the braids and the cotton with lace on the bottom dresses, into the woman before him who worked tirelessly for her own freedom. On nights where you came home late, he made dinner, always trying something new and it made him feel a flutter in his chest at your happy expression. He even brought you flowers, multiple times really, and your blush made his head fuzzy. So when the weeks left turned to just a couple days left before he had to leave once more, Steve was no longer looking forward to contributing his part to the war.

As you said before, there was always something special about Steve Rogers.

You thought it now even when you watched him wash the dishes, the window propped open to let some cool air in, and some jazzy music played low on the record player. His broad shoulders moved to wash, then place the dishes neatly on a drying rack, and you sipped away at a cup of water. You couldn’t help but stare, the long touches, the looks shared, but yet nothing had happened even to this day. Before he could catch you staring you had hummed happily when the next song played. Steve heard it, glancing over at the record player in the living room, and smiling a bit to yourself. It was your favorite.

You stood from your place and walked over to the player, turning the knob up just a bit to hear it a bit clearer. Steve turned and tried his hands on a dish rag, and watched as you closed your eyes and swayed a bit to the music. He took slow steps over to you until he nearly hovered behind your back, and he dragged his hands down your arms. You slowly turned to him, and wrapped yourself into him like a few weeks earlier, close and tight, and you both began to sway.

Steve’s head rested atop yours, and you two danced slowly to the music. You inhaled sharply, feeling the burn of tears in your eyes as you reminisced in the moment.

“Please don’t leave me,” you whispered. Steve removed his head from above yours and you moved to look up at him. A tear escaped your lashes, and Steve was quick to graze his thumb over it, and flush over your skin. Your shaky hand went over his as you peered into his eyes, and Steve rubbed your cheek softly. “Steve please don’t go.”

“I.. I don’t want to go,” he proudly admitted. He looked you over as you two continued to sway, and he shook his head with a sad smile. “All I want is to stay here with you.”

Your breathing slowed, Steve had stopped moving and so did you. His thumb traced over your skin until it rested near your jaw, fingers flush into your hair, and your breaths mixed as one. However many years of anticipation fledged out in that moment, as Steve took your lips with his, in need and almost starvation. Your desperate attempt to lock onto his hair as he pulled you up into him. His free hand gripped onto your waist, his tongue against yours, breaths of heaviness filling the room.

That night, and the last few you shared, neither spoke about the fact Steve had to return. They were spent with needy kisses on hot skin, shaky fingers on fallen clothes, and sensations that neither would ever forget.

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[mor-beck-more-problems]

New Year, New Tears || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: December 30, 2020

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and Deirdre need to talk before they can start the new year fresh. 

Say that you'll hold me forever Say that the wind won't change on us Say that we'll stay with each other And it will always be like this

CONTAINS: brief, non-specific references to past abuse, negative self-talk

Morgan had made sure they arrived in New York in time for checking in and knocking off the first few items on the itinerary she’d devised. Initially, Morgan had organized the activities mix-and-match style according to how many hours they had at their disposal and how much time they wanted to spend in bed. In the fall, she had imagined a lot of New York would pass by behind drawn curtains while they had as many kinds of sex as they could think of and they would content themselves with only so many big things and so many little things into their three and a half days away from Maine. Today, it went like this: they dropped their bags off in their suite (in the first room, Morgan insisted they could work it out later), walked to a gourmet bakery, and took what Deirdre didn’t eat at the place up to Central Park. Then came a taxi to a cluster of rare and second-hand bookshops, and just enough time to change before catching the evening showing of Hadestown. Morgan left the theater with her arms tight around Deirdre’s waist, singing her favorite song with careless delight.

Paris had been good to them, a testament just how easy things could be. The days after stung a little, because Morgan felt weird about their bedroom, didn’t want to stay in the hotel long term, didn’t have the tiny house Deirdre had offered to help her assemble in the back yard yet, and feared latching on too hard and destabilizing herself all over again if she dove in ‘business almost as usual’ style. Because she did latch. Her heart’s freedom and her Yuletide warmth had stayed with her, sending tingles up her skin and reaching out to Deirdre to share and spread the relief between them. Touch was intuitive again, smiles came more easily--but where was the line between happiness and impending danger? She hadn’t been able to tell the difference before; would the universe guide her steps and show her now? And so every day ended a little different. Every coming and going hit a different note, some off key, some resonant with hope. But tonight, in a world so iconic and strange it seemed like something she’d dreamed, Morgan couldn’t find any of her old apprehensions. She couldn’t imagine doing anything but staying next to her love until the sun rose out their window. She tumbled into their hotel room, still singing, and kicked off her heels and jumped up for a heavy kiss. “So, you really liked it? I’ve been wanting to ask, but I couldn’t really hear in the street: which song was your favorite--no, which part in the story? I wanna know everything you’re thinking about.” She parted just to shove their suitcases off the bed and flop onto it, evening dress and all.

Human stories delighted Deirdre in a way that often felt forbidden. The fae stories focused far more on mischief and chaos and humans dying, and while those were fine, they were nothing like the stories Morgan had shown her. The kind she had come to enjoy greatly. When Morgan told her they’d watch a musical, she thought of all the ones she was familiar with; Waitress, The Sound of Music, that one about the pies with human meat, and if those Disney movies counted, then those too. But what she watched was nothing of the sort, and New York, as exciting as it had already been, seemed brighter, warmer, livelier. Was this what it was like to be human; uncomplicated and free? Could they eat baked goods, watching the sun set, going to bookstores, absorbing stories finely crafted by strangers? Could they be so....normal? Deirdre’s smile faltered for a moment as she watched Morgan flop on the hotel bed. For the duration of their trip, she kept a watchful eye over her happiness; she had been trained well in the ways it needed to be contained. And her hands, that wanted Morgan then and wanted Morgan now, needed to be reined in. They couldn’t be so normal, not yet. Normal them would have been making love by now, evening dresses crumpled on the floor. And that question would have been asked breathless, in her arms, just as Morgan remembered she never heard the answer, and had gotten distracted along the way. Normal them would have slept like that, woke up like that, went about their days exactly like that. Normal them didn’t need to worry about tamping down happiness, they simply were. But normal them was wrong, somehow, as Morgan had said it and as Deirdre struggled to understand. And normal them was gone, and present them needed to work on building a good future them so they wouldn’t break again.

But holding each other was ‘free’, and so whatever compunctions Deirdre had about intimacy now, that wasn’t one. And she fell into bed beside Morgan, pulling her love into her arms until they were tangled together the way they fit best. “You mean you couldn’t hear me over your singing,” Deirdre teased with a laugh, delighted in equal parts by memory of the show and Morgan’s glee. If she’d thought Morgan’s squealing in the snow in Paris was the happiest she might see Morgan for the year, she only wished she could go back and tell herself not to be so sure. “And you’re sure no one saw me crying in the theater, right? Because I don’t--” She cut herself off with a chuckle, “well, I don’t know. Maybe you should sing through the tracklist again so I can figure out my favorite.” With a grin, she pressed her lips to Morgan’s quickly, mumbling rough against them. “It’s better, coming from you. Oh and--” Deirdre drew back. “I have some complaints about story choices here. You said this was based on something? Why did he turn around? That’s just--” She pouted. “It was mean. You didn’t tell me it would be a sad story.” Admittedly, not Deirdre’s favorite kind of story--tragedies left her heart with a strange, unnamed, kind of heaviness. A feeling that she hadn’t yet picked apart and dissected meaning from, a feeling she had been long since afraid to try with. “I did like it.”

Morgan sighed with delight as Deirdre joined her on the bed and tangled them up like normal. The fluffy tulle under her skirt bunched up around her thighs and the simple boning around her bodice made it hard to curl up as snug as she really wanted, but Morgan was too happy to mind any of it past fiddling with her zipper and tugging it down a few centimeters. She cradled Deirdre’s face and kissed it several times over as her banshee gave her answer, lingering and nipping here and there as it pleased her.

“It was also loud with the cars going by us too,” Morgan protested, though she couldn’t keep a straight face. “Because you don’t what, babe? It’s okay, you know, right? I cried too, and the lady in front of us was crying much harder than either of us. The story’s supposed to make you feel something. That’s the magic in it. You don’t have to feel weird about any of that.” There was more to say, but Morgan leaned in and drew out another kiss, long and enthusiastic and tender when she remembered the exact look that had shown in her love’s face in the dark theater.

“I am sorry the ending hurt you by surprise,” she said, threading more kisses around Deirdre’s jaw. “It’s a very old human story, actually, from Greek antiquity. I never liked it before, because it doesn’t explain why he did it, so I always thought—yeesh, dude, you had one job! How much did you really love her anyway? But the way this version tells it…” Morgan sighed and settled her face in the crook of her love’s neck. “He held onto so much hope for so long, even when the disappointment started to break him. And then having to keep going without her, when they’d barely even touched since they’d found each other, having to believe she wouldn’t leave again, that he was really worth all this trouble— I think anyone would at least think about turning to be sure. And it was just a second, you know? Just a quick, desperate mistake. And I think it’s so sad because their love was so much bigger than that one mistake, it’s not fair for them to lose it. But the universe is brutal sometimes, and that’s why hope is so hard and special in the first place…” Morgan’s hand slid down to Deirdre’s chest and started tracing shapes over her heart, occasionally skirting along the hem of her own bodice where it kissed the swell of her breasts. “I am glad you liked it,” she murmured. “Even if I would rather hear your favorite song from you.”

Though Deirdre hummed under each touch—leaning closer to Morgan, urging more—her hands remained stiff and chaste around her, despite the twitch that radiated from her fingers. The bright grin that claimed her mouth was evidence enough that she wanted this, and wanted more, but she couldn’t have it. Her body stiffened as her voice remained light. “But this is different from crying over those cartoons in our—“ Deirdre swallowed. “The house; in private. This is different.” As Morgan kissed her, her twitching fingers curled into a claw at Morgan’s back, bunching tight fabric and digging into skin under her harsh grip. As much as she wanted to move, she did not. As Morgan continued to explain Orpheus’s plight, Deirdre thought about her own restraint. If that were her, she wouldn’t have turned around at all. She wasn’t even doing it now, as much as she twitched and stiffened and clawed for it—she was being good, dutiful, devoted. And yet, for all her carefulness, she’d let curiosity slip between her carefully crafted walls. “Is that how you felt?” She blinked, “is this…’turning around’?” She shook her head, wincing at the question—coated in metaphor as it was, even if Morgan could pick apart what she meant, it wasn’t the point. She already knew their love was bigger than their mistakes, but she suddenly understood the nature of doubt in a chilling way. She knew the truth, and yet….well, perhaps she shouldn’t have been so sure of her powers of self-control. Maybe she wasn’t any better than Orpheus after all.

Deirdre turned her gaze to the window, mumbling her requests for Morgan to forget she’d said anything. “I like ‘All I’ve Ever Known’ best, for now.” It was night, not that it was any easier to tell over the lights of New York. It was her body that told her first, in the yawn that erupted from her, before her eyes could even settle on the inky sky. “It’s getting late,” she commented. Her arms slackened. It was time for her to leave, probably. As it usually went, at least. And if she really wanted to try to be better than a fictional Greek myth, she ought to listen to the rules laid about before her. Morgan never shared a bed with her anymore, and she slept holding a pillow tight to her chest in the lonely privacy of her office. When she woke, the sight of an empty wall greeted her. If she was lucky, it would be one of the three cats instead. If she was really, really lucky, it was two of them. She could only hope the hotel pillows were close enough to the Morgan-replacement one she normally held; if she could’ve stuffed it into her suitcase, she would’ve. “I’ll take my things into the other room.”

“No, stay.” The words burst out of Morgan before she could think better of them, even just to have a better follow up argument besides, “Please.” She winced, and would have flushed if she had any blood flow in her face. She moved her arms around her love’s neck and pleaded with her eyes. A moment ago, Deirdre had been giving her so many green lights and their touch and their bodies all struck the right chord, harmonizing with such rich, perfect clarity, Morgan didn’t want the feeling to fade out.

“First of all, it is our house. Or it kind of is, or I want it to be. And second, I don’t want to forget what you said. It matters to me.” She caressed her face tenderly, hoping to convey her earnestness, her confidence. “You did...it did feel like you left me and ran away. All the note said was you weren’t dead, I didn’t know if that meant wait for me or don’t follow me, and by the end of that week, I was starting to wonder if…” Morgan shrugged, trying to keep the leftover hurt far away from her in a box at the bottom of her heart. “...if you still wanted me at all. I didn’t know how to believe you were still with me and so I turned around then, yeah. And in those days before Yule, I did kind of want to know how worth it you thought I was. Some of the ways I did that weren’t fair or kind to you. I was just…” She shrugged. “Clinging to some leftover revenge bullshit, maybe. It seemed so important that you really, really understand how it felt. None of the words I had felt good enough. And maybe if you’d take it, it would mean you would stay, or if you understood, you wouldn’t do it again. But I buried all that in Strawford, babe. I don’t need or want that. I didn’t excise the hurt completely, but I took enough out of me that I can be close to you without getting a complex about it. Enough that I can be-- stars, so incredibly happy with you. And I’ve missed that feeling so much, I don’t want to let it go right now. Haven’t you felt...lighter today? Freer? I know it’s just for a little bit, but everything’s been so hard, I don’t see the point in denying ourselves a few good nights together. I literally can’t think of anything I want more immediately than to stay here with you all night. And this isn’t even the first night I’ve felt that way, it just feels so much more silly not to follow through with the feeling when we’re away from everything else in a beautiful city plastered over a hundred movies.”

Morgan kissed Deirdre then, firm with determination. “For me, the place we’re at right now is us walking together. It’s not the way we came and I don’t know what’s next, I’m just believing as hard as I can that we’re gonna make it after coming this far. I looked, and you were there, and we’re lucky enough that we can keep walking after. That’s what I feel like this is, babe.” Her fingers idled around Deirdre’s shoulders, the ends of her hair, the gentle curve of her neck. She knew this was all dependent on what her girlfriend thought, that though they were walking, maybe they weren’t in exactly the same place yet. Her smile faltered with worry, but she held tight to her nerve and kept herself steady, though her voice was soft. “What is this for you? What do you think about...what I’m suggesting, for how we spend the nights this trip? Tell me what you think, huh…?”

Deirdre’s face softened instantaneously, her hands moved around Morgan to hold her, comfort her. It was a reaction of the body more than it was the mind, and her body wanted to yield to Morgan. To say that she would stay, that she could, that she wanted to and that she’d work out every bead of pain in Morgan’s body until her fingers bled. But the usual enthusiastic yes, yes, was replaced with lips pulled thin, brows furrowed. Her mind was a little more cautious, as it always had been. She shook her head; she hadn’t felt exactly freer or lighter. Her dutifulness was a devious prison, and it caged the rest of her well. Morgan wanted space, and Deirdre had worked it into her mind that she would provide. Every smile died miserably with guilt. And every touch withered with worry. It seemed so important to Morgan that they didn’t sleep together, Deirdre respected the choice as well as she could respect anything she didn’t want. She had thought it was so strange to deny it to themselves days ago. Weeks ago. But it was important to Morgan. And now it...wasn’t? Deirdre shook her head again as they parted. “What do you want me to do, Morgan?” Her shoulders sagged, her face contorted with confusion and hurt. The dark circles around her eyes must have been more clear then, even under the makeup, or at least she felt like they were. The nights of restless sleep without Morgan took their toll, and chilling fatigue coiled around her bones again as the mind remembered what the body could never forget. “I love laying with you; before I met you sleep was just a means to an end for me and now it...it feels like rest. Good rest. But you said you wanted your space, and I am trying my best to respect that. You set the rules Morgan, but you can’t just—“ Deirdre swallowed, turning her gaze away.

This was stupid. Any sane person would have just given in and cuddled up; her insides begged her to. She was so tired and so desperate for Morgan that she’d take just about any scrap offered. But her stomach lurched and her head throbbed; it wasn’t right. “Don’t make me into some thing you use for comfort and then leave again. Don’t just, ask for me to stay and then make me sleep alone again. I can’t—“ She closed her eyes, finding her breathing (In. Hold. Out) without Morgan’s usual prompting.

When Deirdre turned back, she was calmer, though no less pained. “You want space. That isn’t space. And I don’t want your progress to be hindered by these moments of permissibility. But more than that, I need rules. I can’t do this without rules. I need something to follow and tell me I’m doing this right. I need something, my love.” She sighed, shoulders slumped again, victim to Morgan’s touch. She hated herself so completely sometimes; how terrible and idiotic it was that her mind couldn’t just accept this. She wanted it more than anything else. “It doesn’t feel like we’re walking together, Morgan. I’ve told you that already. I’m just trying to do what’s right, but I can’t even tell what that is.” How could it possibly be walking together when she didn’t want space at all? Was it ‘walking together’ when they weren’t yet a couple? Or was that just Morgan, waiting? Wasn’t this just her, waiting?

“I’m sorry,” Morgan murmured. “I just...it just felt so good today, and I’ve felt lighter and so much better since last week and I just thought--” She squeezed Deirdre close, pressing her into a comforting grip. “You’re not a thing, that’s not what I meant. I’m so sorry you’ve felt like I don’t value you or that I’m doing this casually or anything else like--” Morgan grimaced and told the rest of her apologies with kisses through Deirdre’s hair. “I’m just sorry,” she whispered after a while.

She shifted back, just enough to see Deirdre’s as she guided it up to meet her own. “I’ve never been great with rules. It’s not intuitive for me. I’m not used to having that kind of structure in the first place, or anything staying steady enough for too many rules to work, and anytime I feel good, it’s usually so rare I don’t really think to question it or hold back anymore, especially with you. So I-I don’t mean to mess up and confuse you and hurt you like this. That’s not what I want. I want you so very much, my love, but I want your peace of mind and your comfort too.”

Morgan pressed a tender kiss to Deirdre’s forehead, whispering another apology against her skin before sitting back again. “I love you. Always, I love you, Deirdre. And I want to do better. I want to give you what you need. But I also…” She winced, her face twisting with worry. “I just don’t want to get so set in one set of rules that we don’t ever come back together all the way. I don’t want to stay so apart from you. Whatever we come up with, I want it to be something we can change later, somehow, in a way that doesn’t hurt. Maybe at a regular interval, once a week, maybe? Or we can ask? Either way, I’d like to write some new ones for us. Starting with working out a different sleeping arrangement system, if, you know…if that’s okay?” She reached slowly behind her for the hotel stationary pad, taut as a spring with hope. Wherever they really were in this metaphor, she knew she wanted to be moving forward.

Deirdre slumped, sinking further into the plush mattress. A sense of defeat rolled over her, washing her body with its cold tide. You couldn’t just let Morgan be happy? Deirdre’s grip on the sheets tightened. “No, I-I’m sorry this is…” Stupid, she’d wanted to say. They were happy, and fine, and what did it matter to her if she just let them cuddle for a few days? Why did it matter? Her mind had projected itself far enough into the future that she could feel the sting of lonely nights fresh again, after the bliss of restful sleep. Her body, once enthusiastic about giving in, recoiled in fear. She couldn’t understand what created such a challenge for her, and she didn’t possess the words to explain it. “I’m tired,” she said, unable to think of anything else. Fatigue drowned her; sad eyes morphed to tired-red, and her face sank. “I like rules.” Which was strange for a fae to say, but her life had been dominated by them, and under their command, she knew what was right and what was wrong.

She hadn’t known what was right and what was wrong for some time now. Rules would be nice, thank you, she opened her mouth and pictured the words coming out. No, actually, just forget it, I’m too tired to care now, and even that wouldn’t leave in anything more than a whimper. I just want us to be better; I hate sleeping apart from you, I hate not knowing what’s wrong, the truth of it made Deirdre’s eyes water. She hated the “space”. She hated the stupid studio, which only served to churn her insides with melancholy every time she looked out their back window. She hated that she couldn’t understand what to do--the books had told her to “not take it personally” but how exactly was she supposed to not take her girlfriend wanted an entire living space outside of their home in any other way but personal? She hated the self-help books, and their confusing language and messages. And she hated herself, for being so angry. Morgan wanted space, and though Deirdre struggled to rationalize the why, she wanted to give that to her. And she was trying, except her trying seemed to be flawed. So she had to try a different way, but that was flawed too. And now she was making her girlfriend make a list, even though she said she didn’t like rules, and was afraid of what they might do. The word “compromise” came to mind, and then her mother telling her that compromise was something idiots did when they were either too cowardly to rend open and offer themselves out or too weak to get their way. What was it, but Morgan having to suffer more on Deirdre’s behalf?

The banshee shifted. When she spoke finally, her voice was barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to. You didn’t appreciate it much when I asked you for rules the first time around. And I don’t want to put you through that again. Just...tell me what I’m supposed to do. If you want me to stay, I can stay.”

Morgan let Deirdre fall away, feeling her body tense. “Hey…” she cooed. She hesitated to scoop Deirdre up, knowing that it was just as likely that she was punishing herself as it was that she didn’t want to be touched. In the end, she split the difference by finger-combing her hair, taking out each of the little pins she ran into and setting them neatly aside. “Don’t be sorry, my love. I’m proud of you, for telling me what you need. And yeah, it’s weird and hard, not having our instincts aligned when it comes to us, but I think we can compromise. No one has to hurt so much or feel completely out of her depth. I think that’s how we’re gonna get through this.” She slid down beside her banshee and kissed her hair. “You’re right, I had a really hard time with the rules the first time we made them, but I was also in a really low place, and I was really lost and hadn’t figured out much of anything about what to do with myself. But I think they weren’t such a terrible idea after all, especially then. And I'm in a different, better spot now. And I want to do this. I’m offering. And as long as we can revisit these and change them so we can keep moving closer together, I’ll make the rules as detailed as you need them to be.”

But Deirdre’s pain was more than that. The ache in her went deeper than a worry that Morgan didn’t really want to go along with her idea. Morgan didn’t think that would be enough to make her love cry on its own. Slowly, she reached over and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “If you’re tired, we can just come up with a few rules for tonight and do the rest in the morning. But I think sooner is better than later, because...it just seems like we both want to be closer, more intimate, than we have been, and if we both want that, it seems awful to keep ourselves from it. We just have to make sure we’re doing it in a way that doesn’t hurt so much, you know?” She wiped another one of Deirdre’s tears. “...Babe,” she said, lowering her voice, just above a whisper. “Can you tell me what it is that’s bothering you so much right now? What it is that’s so sad or stressful… I need you to talk to me, babe. Right now, I need that very much. It doesn’t even have to make much of any sense. I just don’t want to do the thing where you hurt in silence and I’m on the outside trying to figure out what to do on my own.”  She let her fingers slide down Deirdre’s cheek, tracing the gentle lines of it. “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to, babe. I’m here, and I think we can figure out how to get to ‘okay.’ We just have to do it together.”

Deirdre’s mind coursed with the same words pulsing in numbing repetition: dumb, stupid, idiotic, dumb, stupid-- She hissed as Morgan’s fingers pushed through her hair, not from the contact, which was gentle by all accounts, but from the uncanny ability they possessed to make Deirdre feel raw. It was medically impossible, but she thought Morgan could feel her thoughts through her scalp, that she could pick each one out word by word. Don’t look, don’t look. Deirdre closed her eyes. Was she more embarrassed that her mind had dissolved to such negative prattle or that she knew Morgan wouldn’t like it anymore than Deirdre would enjoy Morgan beating herself up? But her habit of self-flagellation was one Morgan knew well, and had never responded with cruelty to before. Morgan was kind, and Morgan was gentle, and Morgan loved her. Yet for all she understood, all she could think about was how terrible she must be, wasting Morgan’s time and energy like this. Morgan should’ve been taking care of herself, and instead, here she was. Dumb, stupid, idiotic, dumb, stupid… “No,” she croaked, “no, you really don’t have to do that. I know it’s hard for--you need space. You wanted to...think about yourself. Figure that out. And you said you don’t like rules and I...can manage. I can do that for you.” Her heart clenched, her face twisted with pain. Her body was so tired; she had nothing left to give of herself. Please stop, please stop. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. “Together…” she rolled the word around against her tongue. To-geth-er; foregin, by an unnameable metric, but an idea she could latch her words to. The good words. “Not together.” Well, the mediocre words. “Not--you need--you said--you--” She swallowed. “The books, I don’t understand them. And the studio it--” She closed her eyes again. Stop, stop, stop. “Roots grow big, and long, and they take from the soil. And the other plants dry, but that’s okay, because you need it now. You need it.” Deirdre opened her eyes, shaking her head. “That’s the only thing I understand about this. I think the books are trying to say that the other plants shouldn’t dry for each other, but does that mean you have to be transplanted into a new bed so you can grow, and what does that mean for--” Deirdre hissed. “This garden metaphor is dumb. I just mean, I don’t even understand what was wrong in the first place. And maybe it’s stupid of me but I thought we were fine, but we weren’t, and now what? And I know it’s idiotic, but I don’t get it.”

Morgan listened, burning with aches as she saw Deirdre nearly writhing with pain. It was like looking into a cruel, double sided mirror. Here was her pain during all those grief days, her desperation, now with Deirdre’s face. Here was every reason to go into that therapist’s office as soon as they could get in. They couldn’t stay trapped in these patterns, they couldn’t sink into this much hurt for each other so easily, not if they wanted to last for centuries. Morgan adjusted herself so one of her arms could drape around Deirdre and take her hand while the other twisted up on the pillow and worked tenderly at the tension in her love’s scalp.

“It’s not idiotic or stupid or dumb, Deirdre. None of those things. And I got what you were saying with the garden metaphor, even if it has its limits.” Close as she was to Deirdre now, her lips brushed against her ear and neck as she spoke, and it was nothing at all to press a kiss to the nape and remember its tender, sweaty feel. “You know, for a while, I couldn’t put words to it either, but I was looking over my notebooks and this letter draft I had. I think it was the last one I wrote when I was still alive. I said something like, before you I had this little world inside me...” She let go of Deirdre’s hand to make a little sphere with her own. “And it wasn’t perfect, but it was whole and it was good. And then I found you, and you loved me, and we started making a life together, and suddenly there was more.” She took her sphere hand and stuck it on Deirdre’s trying to mould it into some expanded, hybrid shape. “And I guess once you start looking at the whole thing as space, it sort of becomes like a building. I had, let’s say, three walls holding me up. And then you came and then I had four walls. I was even bigger and stronger and had so much more possibilities. But then I died. And when I lost my senses, my magic, my life….those were my walls and they all collapsed.” She crumpled and flattened her hand to illustrate her point. “And if it wasn’t for you reminding me that you, my newest support, were still standing, I would’ve just stayed collapsed. But you did. And I finally had one whole thing to balance and fill myself with. I could finally get off the ground, and maybe our therapist will have some thoughts about that, but I can’t see that as anything but a good thing, as you saving me. The problem is, after that…” Morgan sighed, wincing. She still didn’t know when she could’ve done anything different, what opportunity she could have realistically taken to build herself better and spared them this. Maybe if she had just magically known what she knew now, if her mind hadn’t been so scrambled by death that the thoughts wouldn’t seem so hard to get to...but that wasn’t how it had been.

“I wish I could figure out another way for it to have gone, besides me just listening to you and staying alive, but I can’t. We did the only things we could think of, so it can’t be anyone’s fault, but...the problem is after that, there was still a whole me. A whole world, a whole building, and only one support to carry me. And before, when I had three, you could come and go and we could separate for those awful times, and it would hurt, but I was still upright. But with only one support for my whole self...every time you left, or seemed to leave, every time I was afraid you just might, or afraid you’d even be angry with me, I would collapse again.” She put her hand through the motions, growing to only a fraction of the old size and collapsing, like a heart losing the will to beat. “I mean, remember that first time you needed to go away for the night and I wrecked the house and you found me on the floor? There’s just so much of me, I can’t be held up with only one piece, no matter what it is. It’s just absurd to build anything that way, much less me, right? There’s not enough to hold up everything that was, much less everything and more.” She sniffled, blinking back a tear. “And it took me having to go without you, to fear the absolute worst for you for so many awful days, to realize that. But, when I did, I felt like the only way I could figure out what else to build myself up with is to keep going without, with intention. And I found another wall to hold me up in Strawford, when I gave my hurt to the earth and my heart to the universe. And I’ve found another in my arts and crafts work. Housing those new supports in the studio right now help remind me that these are separate and sturdy and mine. I’ve been a lot less insecure about wanting you now that I have that space, if you haven’t noticed.” She pressed another kiss to Deirdre’s neck. “I can just picture that place and know those supports are there. And I’ll be working again soon, and Leah said I could help with the library, and Remmy gave me the keys to the supernatural sanctuary, and I just know, because I know I belong here and the universe is holding me in my own place and my body is more than just a walking death--I know I have all the supports I need even if they aren’t firmly set into the ground yet. And so I feel confident in letting myself be so much closer to you now than I did before. I’m not so fragile anymore. You are my only and dearest love, and you are still one of my supports. You just help me have more, and not just the bare minimum. It should be like that, shouldn’t it? Us making the world wider and brighter than before…?”

There was a measure of anger to feel how easily her fears buckled once reassured by Morgan. It was childish, Deirdre thought, that her feelings could be so sensitive. Her sensitivity was something she had fought to hide away, bury deep and forget about. And yet— The stiffness in Deirdre’s body caved, and she reached for her girlfriend, curling fingers around the fabric of her dress. Her gaze followed down to the demonstration unfolding in her hand. She could see the little house Morgan was talking about, that happy, stable life. Then she could see it crumble, and become a fraction of what it once was. Morgan built her supports again, she was still building them. Some of this rang with familiarity; she knew this. But the ease of the metaphor gave Deirdre a chance to reflect on something she never had: her own life, and its supports. She had her house too, or she did. And then she had Morgan, and her house wasn’t so much a house as it turned out to be a cave. But she’d only managed just the one support, afraid of anything else—confused, lost. She missed the routine of her cave, but that had crumbled now. Deirdre drew her hand back with a frown, making and un-making a fist. It made sense, and with the sense, a terrible hollowness. There was something wrong with her and no amount of fixation on fixing Morgan and their relationship would suddenly give her any of that purpose she wanted.

Morgan had explained this in some words before, but Deirdre hadn’t made much sense of it then. Hearing it again, the picture was more clear. Deirdre sighed. “I suppose.” She unfurled her hand and stared at the wrinkles in her palm. She drew her other hand back from where it had fastened on to the front of Morgan’s dress, trying to draw her own house connecting the wrinkles. Morgan had done fine on her journey to stability, but Deirdre hadn’t moved an inch; she didn’t want to move. Her mother often admonished the predictability of humans, the creatures of comfort that they were, but Deirdre felt herself no different. She missed the cave. “I don’t think my world is very wide or bright, Morgan.” She spoke mostly to her palm, which had yet to yield a usable house. “But I think I get what you mean now.” Giving up her quest, she bundled her hands together and looked up. “Thank you. I think I understand it now. Truly. Properly.”

“No, I guess it’s not,” Morgan admitted with a sorrowful whisper. She had urged Deirdre, even when things were good, to find more than just her to sustain herself on. But her love, in all her fear and bewilderment, hadn’t found the courage yet. Then again, she was afraid of picking out the color of the furniture, so things had to come in small steps. “But I have every belief that it will be. And you’re welcome. Any time, my love.” She bundled Deirdre into her arms and threaded kisses along her forehead. “Can you tell me what you need right now, or what you want? I want to stay close with you tonight and take a couple hours in the other room sometime tomorrow morning to meditate alone. But I don’t want you to hurt, or be afraid. So just tell me, okay? We’ll find a way to make the pieces fit.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to be. It’s not supposed to—“ Deirdre slammed her mouth shut, hissing down a sob. This was a rhetoric that she had touted since the day she met Morgan, and she knew Morgan hadn’t grown any fonder for it. “I just want to sleep.” She sighed, humming her way into a more comfortable position in Morgan’s arms. She bundled her face into the crook of her neck, tangling her long legs into Morgan’s. The pieces of their bodies already fit, the rest they’d just have to figure out. “Can I sleep here? Can you hold me? Can I just...rest?”

Morgan crooned contentedly as Deirdre wriggled in and their bodies made a home with each other. “Oh, is that all, just sleep?” She teased softly, her voice lilting with comforting warmth. “No back rub? No helping out of your dress? No ambient lullabies or kisses?” She caressed Deirdre as she spoke, giving her a squeeze that she hoped expressed that she had no objections if this was how they would lay for the night, petticoats and stockings and all. It had been so very long since they’d been like this, their stillness harmonizing just right, together and apart, whole and connected. “Yes, my love. I will hold you right here, happily, and you can rest.”

“I’d have to move to get out of this dress.” Deirdre laughed against Morgan’s skin. Moving sounded like just about the worst thing she could think of. A truly dreadful thing to ask for. “Just sleep.” She smiled, eased in the arms of her love. It felt a little more like walking together then, and less like blind stumbling. Maybe she’d apologize in the morning for being so dense about it, but that was a morning problem. All she wanted now was the peace of Morgan’s embrace; she’d missed it more every second she had to do without it, and she relinquished herself to the feeling. With anguish alleviated from her mind, if not in permanence then just long enough to humor the night, she was sure this trip would be good to them. 

For the first time in weeks, a gentle sleep greeted her. And beyond it, the flicker of hope, illuminated under New York City lights: tomorrow, a day as gentle as the night, spent in museums and cemeteries and— with little coaxing— a bakery. They’d watch the ball drop through their hotel window. They’d hold each other, kiss and dance and laugh as Deirdre expressed her disappointment in the lack of big apples. Then she’d sleep again, restful as the day before. And hope would grow, and love would remind her that they carved their own good into the world; walking together sounded like just about the best thing she’d ever heard. And it made everything possible.

Even a brand new year, better than the last.

[freewheelshippin]

Ranmaru is a musician down on his luck and out of inspiration who got taken in by a sweet old couple running a gardening/flower shop, so while he pulls himself together, he’s grouchily helping out and making bouquets and doling out plant care advice. M is a tattoo artist with not enough clients, confidence in her art, or skills in keeping succulents alive, but maybe the toughie at the store across the street can help her with all three!

and because I’m Like That I got tied up and uh....wrote a little (a lot) of something, focusing on the artistic funk part of the equation. But if you’ll let me have one more indulgence, the headcanon I have is that it eventually Happy Endings into becoming roommates and business partners, starting an indie label to support other artists!!!  

anyways here’s this excessively indulgent/serious fic that came outta this LOL

He was here, folded among big green leaves for much longer than he’d intended. The owners heard he was down on hard times and didn’t have a safe place to call home, so he holed up in their guest room. Before he knew it he was stepping in for them at every heavy mulch bag, every wheelbarrow piled high, every crouch that was too much for their aging bodies.

It wasn’t a bad life. It was an improvement, sure. He was alive and fed every day, and he’d never known a home so warm. But it still wasn’t his. He felt like a houseplant, tended to and placed in warm sun, but just as easily fading into the stillness of quiet moments and the background of everyday. He’d never wanted a life like a plant. He hungered deeply even though he was eating regularly again, and he felt more like a bored tiger, pacing in its cage but nowhere to go.

******

He’d been there long enough to start noticing the regulars. The first was that friendly guy who always got idioms wrong and bought the store out of all their cat grass. The second someone was even friendlier, and he’d bug him for what kind of flowers to get a florist. He kept asking even if Ranmaru never gave him an answer past ‘I don’t fucking know’ as he arranged bouquets that used as many herbs and broad, bold leaves as traditional flowers.

The third was someone who looked like she walked in from his past life (or the one he wanted back, anyway). The shaved head, the denim and patches, the ink peeking out from under her sleeves. She was friendly enough but nowhere near as ready to ask for things or will information about herself as the other two regulars, so he only knew her from her purchases and the name on her card.

It wouldn’t have been remarkable in itself if he weren’t so hungry. He’d burned bridges he shouldn’t have while he was ablaze, and now the only people who thought of him kindly were through this stupidly quaint little shop. He was too ashamed of his bullshit to be ready to show his face in those places right now, but he also craved chasing the stage and the dream he’d stayed alive for.

It was just a made-up story he was attaching to someone, he knew this. Maybe she went home and did everything she could to fade into pleasant background like a houseplant. But he’d rather pretend she went to the shows he wished he were going to, that her fingertips were callused in the places his were going soft, and pretend like he still could smell that stuffy, stale sweat from a venue. Maybe he hadn’t burned it away completely from his life and future.

Occasionally, he still wished he was starving, but he’d bury his hands in mulch and dig space for a new plant before he gave in to dumb thoughts like that.

*****

The first time they had a conversation, it was because she forgot something. A big something, big enough that Ranmaru wondered how someone could have a head on their shoulders but forget this.

It was a long, flat portfolio bag. He flipped through it to figure out what it was and tried to not look past that. It was tempting, though, because the contents made him feel the tiniest bit sated for the first time since he’d started working here.

They were flash sheets for tattoos. It had to be hers, right? There was energy to them that he’d ached for but turned his back from. So when she came back, he brought it up very plainly.

“You forgot something here,” he said when she came up to the counter. He produced the portfolio bag.

“.......Oh.”

“What, is it not yours?”

“No, no, it is! I just didn’t realize I’d even lost it!”

“How the hell did you manage that?!”

“A swiss cheese brain full of holes,” she laughed. “...Also, I’ve been really busy.”

“What would make you so busy you forget a giant stack of art like that?”

“Uh…”

“....Whatever. It’s none of my business.” He started to properly ring her up before something occurred to him. “You bought the same succulent last week,” he commented, furrowing his brow. “And a few other times before. What’s so great about it, anyways?”

She made a face of discomfort and surprise, and he felt the same distant shame that he messed this last (even if imagined) connection to that life, too.

“...maybe you can help me, because I keep killing it.”

“You killed a succulent in a week?!”

“No! I mean. I don’t know, is that even possible?”

“First time for anything,” Ranmaru snorted.

“Okay,” she said, putting hands on the counter challengingly. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not one of those serial plant killers.”

Ranmaru just looked back at her incredulously. “You sure about that?”

“If it’s not a succulent, I know what I’m doing! I got a whole brood of chili plants and herbs and spiderplants…”

“You’re overwatering it.”

“You haven’t even seen the plant.”

“Yeah, I don’t have to. Everything else you mentioned doesn’t shit the bed if you water them too much, and succulents are stupidly sensitive to that kind of stuff. Are the leaves falling off if you barely even poke them?”

“......Yeah…” She looked apprehensive, almost resentful for a moment.

Ranmaru knew he shouldn’t, but he just kept talking. “I can’t tell you what you wanna do with your plants, but it sounds overwatered.  Don’t water it at all for a couple weeks. Make sure the drainage is good, repot it if it isn’t. Bring it in if you’re still fucking it up.”

“You sure are rude as shit when a plant buddy’s life is on the line, huh?”

“What’s the point of buying a plant if you’re just going to kill it?! You’re just throwing away your money that way,” he grumbled, embarrassed. Him, caring about plants passionately. That didn’t feel right for his image, but it felt more wrong to just let people uselessly throw away their time and money just to give a living thing no future.

“I mean, I’m also buying dupes right now to spruce up my workspace, it’s not like I just have a graveyard for my cash and failed succulents.”  

Ranmaru grunted. “Just bring ‘em in if they’re still giving you trouble. I can give you some cartons to make carrying ‘em easier.”

“Ahhhh, nah, don’t worry about it. I work across the street. It’s no problem.”

“Where?” He had a feeling he knew already.

“Oh, the tattoo parlor. I’m actually headed back there right now.”

“....Guess I could just as easily go over there.”

“Hey, and you could get a tattoo from me while you’re at it!” she laughed. “Here, hold on.” She fumbled a little before handing over her business card. Ranmaru studied it briefly before pocketing it gratefully.

When she tried to hand him money, he held a hand up.

“...Pay when you stop killing ‘em. I should’ve checked in sooner, and you get so much from here already, anyways.”

“...You’re sure.”

“If you feel guilty, then take my advice seriously.”

“....Weird business model, but I like it. I can’t give you a discount on ink, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Hell no. Go back to work. Come back when you stop watering them so much.”

“Alright, fine, fine. You drive a hard bargain,” she said with a laugh, scooping the plant into her hand. “I’ll see you next time I fuck ‘em up some other way.”

She left, and Ranmaru realized she forgot her portfolio bag again.

******

He didn’t do much of anything except sleep, eat, take care of the neighborhood strays, and work anymore, but he thought about practicing bass again. He didn’t have amps, pedals, or much of anything anymore, either sold in desperation or lifted by former bandmembers in spite, but his actual basses he couldn’t let go of. Sentimentality or some promise to himself this arrangement was temporary, he guessed.

He studied the business card a lot. Something about the style of the art on it felt right, beyond it being the dose of the studs, sweat, and tears he missed. He didn’t bother trying to describe it to himself further than that; it just felt right, and that’s all he needed to know, but it didn’t stop him from lying awake in bed, staring at it as he struggled to sleep or get out.

Eventually that led to the temptation of looking through the portfolio more thoroughly. He gave in after washing his hands so thoroughly he wouldn’t get the dirt of potting soil or the grease of human hands on it. Not out of secrecy, more out of respect.

Not all of them were things he’d say he was interested in -- science fiction, cartoons, dinosaurs, other stuff he didn’t recognize -- but so much was riffing on images, bands, lyrics, album covers that built his tastes in rock. Even models of bass guitars he’d tried to save up for, once upon a time. It didn’t match the tattoowork he was used to seeing, the lines and compositions feeling more like they belonged in a comic book or a gig poster.

It felt good. It was a small vision of the kind of future he’d wanted. Art and energy like that, paired with his music. He’d forgotten how the excitement of chasing a good future felt, much less feeling like it was even vaguely within grasping distance.

His eyes fell on an image that wouldn’t leave him. A severed, snarling wolf head, out of which winding leaves and vines and stems grew, blooming into orchids.

*****

She didn’t come back for weeks. He went about this life as usual, but some days he’d find his fingers sliding over the smooth neck of one of his basses, missing their calluses as the strings dug into them. But the motions never left him, at least, and they hit notes like barely any time had passed.

He should give that portfolio back to her already. But he’d found himself looking at its contents more and more when he missed the stage so much he physically ached. He couldn’t be imagining this feeling this art made him have, not after this long.

At one point he made a copy of the wolf with orchids growing out of it. He cut it out, unbuttoned his shirt, taped it over his heart, and looked at himself in the mirror, and for the first time since the old couple took him in, he didn’t feel like a houseplant.

*****

He came to the parlor with the portfolio in hand on a lunch break soon after that. She looked uncomfortably unoccupied, her area empty of clients while the other tattoo beds were occupied. He didn’t bother with the receptionist before calling her name. She practically jumped out of her skin from surprise.

He just presented the portfolio bag.

“...Whoops.”

“Do you just not want your art back?”

“...It just slipped my mind.”

Because you’ve been busy, Ranmaru thought to himself as he looked at the empty tattoo bed.

“Did you kill your new plants yet?”

She straightened up and her whole demeanor changed, from the moon to the sun. “Now that I can rub in your face. Look, look, come see.”

She had a small planter of succulents, nestled among spideplants and a red prayer he remembered selling her. The spiderplant and red prayer looked healthy. The succulents didn’t look amazing, but they certainly weren’t on their way to meet their maker.

“Not bad. I’ll rec you some better succulent soil next time you come in. Whenever that is.”

“I figured I’d wait more than one watering cycle before I came in parading like a pageant queen.”

“Too many and I bet you’d be holding another plant funeral,” he said with a wry smile. “But take your shit back already. I’m tired of all your art being at my place where I’m the only one looking at it.”

“...Wait, hold on. Did you look through it?”

“....Sorry. It’s been weeks. I liked your business card and curiosity got the better of me.”

“Oh…” She looked not disappointed, just surprised. “So...you mean, like. Thumbing through the pages looking at it, not just staring at the bag look at it.”

“Is it a secret project or something?”

“No, no. Just…” She hesitated. “Some flash sheets that didn’t do well is all.”

“Really?” Ranmaru was surprised. “These?”

“...Yes? Did I forget something else in there?”

“No. Just. Surprised they didn’t do well. I like ‘em. There’s a good energy to them.”

“Well, that makes you the first,” she said with a hollow laugh.

Ranmaru barely considered with his head what he was about to ask. He’d already chewed it over so much and knew in his heart his answer that he didn’t need to hesitate.

“If nobody else claimed it, I want one of them,” he said resolutely. “The wolf with the orchids.”

“...What, like, now?”

“I’m on lunch, I can’t do now. But….when’s the earliest you got?”

She laughed grimly. “When do you get off work?”

“Six.”

“Then I’m available at six.”

“Then I’ll be here.”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“...You really want it that bad?”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he growled. “I saw it and it felt right, thinking about it on me. Orchids are a part of my name, anyway.”

“....Okay, you know what? Let’s do this properly. We’ll do a consult at six. I’ll edit the design so it’s more personalized to you, then we’ll schedule an actual appointment you’re actually prepped for so you don’t pass out on the table. And don’t -- “ She caught him about to insist before the words could come out of his mouth. “-- I’m sure you think you’re real tough, but you can’t just tough guy your nervous system into taking more pain unprepared.”

“Fine. See you at six.”

Ranmaru wanted to tell her the hurry was less because he thought he could take it, and more because he was so ready to have it on him. He didn’t, though, and just left, head buzzing with hazy, overwhelming excitement he didn’t know how to express.

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

Consulting with her on the drawing was more fun than Ranmaru had had in weeks, maybe months. She stayed past her coworkers to do the consult, so they had the parlor to themselves to discuss edits. She played doom metal in the background, sludgy and slow enough that they could properly have a conversation, but the energy as she discussed the drawing with him, drew in edits, and made conversation was exhilarating like a concert.

It was so easy to talk. Even if he was short or blunt, it didn’t seem to stop her from continuing the conversation, and every development they pushed it in just felt good. He didn’t feel invaded, but he didn’t feel insignificant, either, and the way the drawing was going, he felt a kind of known he had lacked.

“I still can’t believe you want your first ink on your pec like that,” she remarked as she refined linework. Ranmaru enjoyed watching how her pen moved.

“It’s over my heart. Not just my chest.”

“That’s, uh.” She hesitated before capping the pen. “.......Are you really sure about this?”

“...” Ranmaru felt himself recoil at the thought of telling her the depth of what this drawing made him feel, but he wanted to communicate, somehow, that he couldn’t imagine regretting this. “I’m absolutely sure.”

“.......” She hesitated again. “This isn’t….a pity thing, right?”

The thought to hold his tongue actually managed to occur to him in time. The doubt she expressed pissed him off in so many different ways. That she was unsure enough to tell him, and that it was there to begin with. The thought of throwing away this connection just to be pissed made his stomach twist, and he thought of the person he saw in the mirror with the drawing taped to his chest that first time.

“This isn’t a pity thing,” he said stiffly as he forced his voice down. “....I saw that drawing and imagined myself with it. And I liked that vision of myself more than the current me.”

“Oh god,” she said, her face bright red. “That’s so goddamn deep. My dumb fuckin’ wolf really made you feel that?”

“It’s not dumb!” he barked. “Why’re you calling it dumb to me? I’m about to get it tattooed on me, aren’t I? Be prouder of your work!”

She took a deep breath after a moment of being totally taken aback. “....You’re right. Thanks. I should be more professional about this. So….my absolutely majestic, heaven-sent fuckin’ wolf really made you feel all that?”

Ranmaru felt his mouth crook into a smile. “Yeah. I want it to be mine, and I want that better me to be mine, too.”

She smiled back widely. “I’ll do your tit justice, then.”

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

The appointment was that weekend. When she pressed the stencil against his bare chest, he felt the hunger in him sated for just a moment. Not in a carnal urge sort of way, but more like the path forward felt brighter. Possible. Changes and connection and a future was possible again. He wanted more ink from her already, but he also wanted it to not just be that. He wanted a friendship.

“Okay,” she said as he laid on the table in front of her. “Ready?”

The whir of the machine and needles started and stirred a nervousness in his gut that he hadn’t expected, and he hesitated and gasped for a sec.

“...You OK?”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Just…nervous.”

“Take a deep breath. It’s not too late to rethink or reschedule if you need more time.”

“No.” He was resolute. “I want this.”

She paused. “....I can’t do this the whole time. But just to get you comfortable.”

She offered her left hand to him to squeeze. He hesitated for a moment before taking it, folding each finger over hers. He can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this.

“...Okay. Deep breath. Let out out slowly…there we go. Ready?”

“Ready.”

The needle plunged into him, and while it hurt, he felt excitement and renewal spreading through to his fingertips.

[darkmindsotome]

Idiot’s Choice

Fandom: MLQC

Pairing: Victor Lee x Mc

Word count: 3,101

Warning: very slight spoilers on some early phone calls, fluff with a little angst.

Written by: darkmindsotome

A/N: The idea for this came to me after running back through the producer’s birthday messages on the game from my last birthday. A soft CEO.

Darkmindsotome Masterlist 

---

Idiot’s Choice

He checked his calendar again. The screen on his computer refreshed for the eighth time that hour showing no changes. There was a childish digital sticker on today’s date with no explanation attached to it. Not that he needed any details, he knew why he had placed that sticker there.

The cutesy cartoon squirrel looked like her, well to him it did. He thought back on a dumb conversation they had had a while ago when she was rambling on about how he resembled a cat in her eyes. Despite himself, he still smiled when he heard her ask why he thought of her as a squirrel only to be lost for words at his explanation.

Today was the day. He had taken it upon himself to look at her personnel profile for work. Her company had this thing for making an office blog that ran alongside normal productions for Miracle Finder. He was told it was a new trend among companies, a peek behind the scenes. Small snippets of office banter and candid pictures had popped up revealing a workspace quite unlike any you would find in LFG. He frowned briefly wondering how you were supposed to work efficiently in such chaos before moving on to pull up the event pages.

A picture of a giant ice cream cake in the shape of something that he supposed was a kind of animal filled his screen. Text laid out in sloppy icing saying “Happy Birthday Boss!” was clearly visible. He cross-checked the date with the small personnel file in his hand that contained his contract with her. Yes, the date matched so now all he had to do was wait.

Waiting sounded like the easiest part of his whole plan. In fact, it was excruciatingly painful. His eyes fell on the pile of gifts he had selected and had wrapped. What he thought was a small pile in fact covered most of the top of a table in his office.

The different shaped boxes ranging from palm-sized to something closer to a shoebox were arranged so each could be seen. The complimentary wrapping paper with corresponding ribbons and bows made it look like an upmarket window display.

Time was a constant factor he was always aware of. The steady tick tick tick from the hands of the clock sounded mocking as he tried to focus on some work. Where was she? She wouldn’t forget about today, would she? No… maybe she’s thinking of seeing someone else today and not me? The idea, as brief as it was, hurt to even consider.

He had seen her posts on Moments where others had happily commented back. He had read her words smiling only to see the reply from someone else wipe it from his face. She was free to have friends and naturally that would include any gender. It didn’t stop his mind from wandering a petty path of jealousy when he saw the happy insider jokes and promises to meet up and try something new together when it was directed at another man.

He chastised himself for getting so worked up over something so childish. He knew what she was like when he fell for her. Oblivious, naïve, perhaps lacking in experience would have been a kinder way of thinking about it. What he felt to be a fairly obvious display of his intentions had repeatedly taken a turn he had not predicted.

“…Dummy.” His softly spoken term of endearment tumbled from smiling lips as he turned the page on another document. Using his pen to mark typos and underline sections for correction.

Time marched on and eventually, the entire morning had passed him by without the cheerful voice he wished to here filling his office. He thought back about a conversation they had where she had asked him what he did for his birthdays only to look upset at his reply of ‘nothing special’.

Birthdays to him were another day. They held some significance as a child, as they did to all children. Even back then though they had still felt more like a formality for him. His father was always working hard, his mother… actually that might have been the last time he had what you would call a very happy birthday. He shook his head chasing away the maudlin thoughts and refocused.

Today was her birthday it wasn’t about him at all. She had such a sad look on her face when he spoke of his own that he really did have to wonder how someone with such a kind heart had remained so pure in this world. She had known pain and loss yet she still moved forward like a blinding light in the darkness. The strength she showed, that self-motivating determination was what had made him take a second chance on an otherwise fruitless business arrangement.

She had a fire, she had a spark that reached out and touched others. She had so much potential if she only applied herself a little more to the groundwork. He guided her and watched her grow. He drove past her office on his way home frowning at the lights remaining on so late at night. He wanted her to grow but he didn’t expect her to work herself to exhaustion. He reminded her she could ask for help, ask him. Am I really so unreliable? Unapproachable?

The time she spent on his own birthday preparations had been a shock. The flowers, balloons other kitschy decorations that were completely her and yet it had touched him deeply that she had tried so hard on his behalf to prepare something he would like. He didn’t tell her that all he needed was to have her there with him. All he needed was to hear her say the words “Happy Birthday Victor!” in her cheerful voice and he would have been just as blown away.

The pile of gifts on the table caught his eye again. Knowing her she would try to refuse taking them, but he wished for her to have all of them and more should her heart desire it. Where was she?

Slipping his phone from him jacket he checked for any notifications even though he had turned the volume on the device all the way up to maximum and knew he couldn’t have missed a thing. He caught his own reflection in the glass of his window. The cool, calm man he usually saw was absent from view.

In all these years nothing had rattled him to the core in such an obvious manner. He could count the few times something had on one hand. This was different. Ever since their very first meeting, it felt like there was a lingering memory attached to her.

He listened to her talk and babble on about inane topics and found himself enthralled. When she was struggling, he found himself practically running to her aid. She was like an open book, so full of life and connected to all kinds of emotions. She was nothing like the other people he had met and here was the proof. He was waiting for her.    

The knocking on his door drew him back to himself. He calmed his nerves and removed all signs of his previous anxieties from his overactive mind. In all honesty, he could laugh. How many times did he call her and her childish imagination out when it took hold of her?

“Victor it’s me.” Of course, it was.

“Come in.” His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall and straightened his posture. The door opened as he fixed his stoic mask in place resisting the desire to look at her. His eyes wavered on the document in his hand tracing the lines of text there without registering any of them.

“I’m sorry it took a while to get here. I finished the report and my printer was broken at home so I have to go to the office.”

A thin office binder appeared in his view. His eyes followed its high gloss cover to the delicate manicured fingers holding it. The sun from the window behind him catching on her jewellery as he looked up into her eyes. She looked different. It wasn’t the passage of time or his own mind playing tricks.

She had adjusted her makeup and styled her hair differently. She wasn’t meant to be working at all today but she had managed to appear before him dressed as if she had just walked in from a presentation. Her cream blouse was tucked into a form-fitting pencil skirt. Even the blazer she had chosen seemed so alien to him.

“Is something wrong? I didn’t use the wrong type of binder or something did I?” Her enquiry made him realise he had been staring.

“No, it’s fine.” He took another look at the document she had handed him before adding it to the pile on his desk and turning his critical eye back to her. “You got dressed up like that to drop off a report? You are aware there is a difference between professionalism and amateur dramatic performances?”

She fidgeted in place those little wheels turning in her mind just behind those clear eyes. His caustic words had a way of provoking a response. Sometimes he did it on purpose but there were other times such as now when they simply seemed to leak from him. A precise and cutting verbal display of word vomit even he, on occasion, hated with a passion.

The opinions of others never usually affected him. If they were hurt in some way by his critical reviews of their work and efforts, he saw it more as a ‘prove me wrong’ installation of inspiration. They had a choice, double down and get it done or walk away. It was a hard, cut-throat approach to business that had seen him a long way.

Meeting her had changed that. She shook him to his core. Had him questioning his managerial style and way of interacting in general. They had not known each other long at all but he already knew things had changed. For better or worse this was now something he was sure he didn’t want to lose.

Those little wheels kept turning in her mind. His harsh words however many he spoke in jest or just to get a rise out of her. He always felt a pinch in his chest as he waited for her reaction. He never wanted to hurt her.

“Say what you like I have already decided that nothing you say to me today is going to get to me.” Her childish bravado made him scoff.

“Oh really? I’m so pleased you found a way of keeping yourself happy. However, misguided the ideas to do so maybe.”

She gave him the most adorable glare before looking around the room and realising rather comically there was a stack of gifts behind her.

“What’s all this your fan – mail?” It was clear from her voice she had been thrown by the cheerful collection of wrapping paper trussed up with all the ribbons and bows.

“A return gift,” He said rising from behind his desk to stand just behind her. Leaning close enough the scent of her shampoo to fill his nose. “for a Dummy.”

“Return gift?” She spun around the unbridled curiosity in her eyes sparkling.

“Have you forgotten your own birthday?” He teased.

“Of course I haven’t. I’m just a little surprised you would know my birthday. Besides people don’t give gifts expecting anything in return.” She looked back at the collection of gifts without moving to take one. He was at least thankful for her distracted attention because she had managed to draw out something like shyness from him.

“Don’t go getting so excited I only picked up a few things and had them delivered here for you.” He cleared his throat and moved back to his desk. Choosing to perch on the edge of it rather than sit behind it.

“A few things this looks like half a store. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.” Now she was at least taking a closer look at them all. Her hands reached out with fingers showing a slight shake as she brushed them over a coral pink ribbon.

“You think selecting a few things like this is trouble? I just happened to see some items that looked like the kind of childish knickknacks you enjoy and…”

“So, you were thinking of me?” She stopped investigating the ribbons and turned to him with a disarming smile.

“No, I wouldn’t say that. I was just acquiring some items in passing.” He covered for his floundering heart as she continued to smile at him. Honestly, what are you thinking looking at me like that?

“Whilst thinking of me?” Her persistence only added another layer to his own wonder at her line of questioning.

He knew she was right outside of work usually people didn’t gift a gift expecting one in return that was the whole nature of gift-giving at its core. You gave a gift as a gift without a desire for personal gain entering into the equation.

“All I thought was there was a certain Dummy who would like them. If you don’t want them you don’t have to have them.”

The smile on her face faltered at his words but it wasn’t in a way that he recognised as upset with him. Her eyes became downcast, the energy she showed so confidently when entering his office looked as if it were draining out of her.

There was something hidden in that curious look she was giving him. Concealed under the surface of her words and questions. He knew what he wanted it to be but he also felt that it was the wrong answer. How can such a simple mind confound me like this?

“What’s wrong?” He asked. His worry affecting the tone of his voice, making it softer.

“Nothing just… Ever since Dad. I’ve been on my own you know? The guys at the office try to do things and it's great but…” She cut her explanations short as if she were trying to trim off the pain from memory. He knew all to well that it didn’t work like that.

“… no substitution.” His voice was almost a whisper. His own protected memories answering her own, mirroring the loss.

“What?” Her eyes returned to him. Her smile was gone and it was like someone had dimmed all light in the world.

“I’m the same with my—Well we have similar thoughts on the subject.” He didn’t speak about his past. He had no reason too. It was private his life was of no concern of others but when it came to her, he wanted to tell her. They had shared so many things in such a short time it was strange to think that they hadn’t simply always just been together.

“Thank you.” Her smile crept back, tugging gently on the corners of her mouth.

“If you want to thank me you could pick a gift.” He joked hoping to get that smile to beam brighter.

“Oh! I couldn’t there are so many and I don’t know prices on them or anything. Knowing you they are all really expensive and—”

“Price isn’t important. Whatever I give to you is because I wish you to have it. Pick a gift.” He cut her off as she rambled. Why did everything come back to money? Accept the gift already. Accept… Even in his own mind, he couldn’t voice his own desires.

“… Y-you.” Her eyes flew open along with her mouth. She seemed completely stunned.

“Excuse me?” Did I say something that was truly that shocking?

“If you want me to pick a gift. I chose to have one that is truly and completely one that is so expensive no amount of money could hope to cover it.” She seemed to be back to her usual self or at least the playful childish one he had grown to love. With a sheepish smile that only added to her charm, she planted both of her feet firmly in front of him like she was awaiting a firing squad. “I chose you. Will you be my gift?”

Her request had his own mind grind to a screeching halt. Nothing could have prepared him for that question. Even if he had in a moment of lucid daydreaming thought that she might for a moment suggest such a notion he still had no control over himself.

“Do you have any idea what you are asking me?” His shocked face was reflected in her eyes that were searching him, wondering what his reply would be.

“I just want to spend some time with you on my birthday. Eat a meal, hang out maybe go watch a movie. Is that so wrong?” Her voice grew quieter the more she spoke. Withdrawing into herself fear of rejection looming over her head as he continued to look in awe at the woman in front of him.

*Sigh* She really has no idea of what she does to me, does she?

“No not wrong at all. It is very you.” He drew her to him and gave her a hug. She felt stiff in his arms by the sudden change in proximity but quickly relaxed against his chest. “You got bolder.” His words brushed over the top of her head causing her to giggle at the way it tickled.

“I’m allowed to at least for one day out of the year.” She squeezed him back.

“Let me finish up here and I’ll meet you at reception.” He withdrew from her sharply not trusting himself any further without first taking a moment to compose himself.

“Ok!” She happily bounced out of his office the door clicking shut behind her completely unaware of how shaken she had left him.

He slipped his arms into the sleeves of his black suit jacket. Remembering those two small arms of hers putting in as much effort as she could to show him how much she appreciated him agreeing. We don’t give a gift to receive one in return but what would you say if I told you this right here is one of the best return gifts I’ve ever received?

He delved into the pocket and pulled out the key to his car as his eyes looked once more at the pile of unclaimed gifts.

“You could have had any of these and this is what you choose?... Idiot.”

---

[letshavanaa]

Pushing their dreams in a cart, the Moving merchants of Bengaluru

Every journey starts with a dream. A dream to embark on an adventure that reaps the rewards of labour. A walk around Bengaluru will reveal the vibrancy of its rich street trade and moving merchandise in every corner of the city. It’s widely understood that Bangalore market alone is a soft corner for the average citizen’s shopping retreat. 

It’s the market places and street trades with moving vendors that mark the vibrance of shopping season. At certain points, you’d find flea markets flocking with eager shopaholics looking to get their hands on the finest accessories and clothing. Where else can you find fine linen, fresh fruits, meat, vegetables, religious items, traditional handicrafts, flowers, crockery, trousers, pet food, appliances and all the flavoursome street food you can imagine at such attractive prices. Although Bangalore is home to some of the largest malls and skyscrapers, there’s a familiar fondness associated to unlimited Gol Gappa at your favourite chat stall by the road. The moving merchants of Bangalore are of much significance to the energized optimism of its citizens.

The Street Trade of Bangalore that Connects People

Street trade has been around longer than most of the buildings in the city. A fresh supply of vegetables, fruits and snacks have been on the rounds for as long as life has existed. When people discover a new flavour, it’s likelier to reach the streets of the city than a Michelin start restaurant. The numerous Dosa vendors lined up at sweet spots in the city are a true reflection of this spirit of sharing and caring. It would be a crime to visit the Garden City of India and not try the best street food on display. Some of the finest, freshest and most scrumptious delicacies are a result of street trade.

If you’re spending more than 10 minutes talking about vegetables, you know you’re on the street bargaining with farm fresh produce. If you’re craving a new selection of comfy pants for your weekends, there are plenty of lucrative options around the corner. Most people want value for their money and street trade has provided access to this value. Shopping in the city streets is not just an individual experience. The experience connects with your locality and shows off the diversity of its people. If it weren’t for moving merchants, handy FM radios wouldn’t be available at such cheap prices. Stainless steel and cast-iron vessels would be hiding in some warehouse fifty blocks away. All the fresh vegetables you eat would have been sitting at a supermarket for three days before you decided to finally go shopping. Not to mention the dhobi who sets up his stall in a corner to collect smelly clothes that hostels never run seem to run out of. It’s just the way the street trade works that makes you think of how lucky we are to have everything within reach. 

With digitization, smartphones are in almost every hand, there’s increased connectivity to online shopping. Occasional legal reforms halt certain street vendors for a while. Regulations in farm policies affect the producers who come into the city to share their loot with the country. Branded outlets have taken a significant share of the fine textiles laid across tarp in the streets. The dynamics of street trade have been changing since its earliest recorded popularity in the 16th century. Yet, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, street trade continues to flourish in various parts of the country! Our street vendors continue to rise up and inventively make their products a hot selling item in the neighbourhood. Moving merchants and local street vendors are responsible for the upkeep of a wonderful city experience that makes us all feel a lot safer. 

Safety and Security with Ease of Access

In many households, children can walk up to the nearest vendor on the street and get some snacks while they watch their favourite cartoon shows. The elderly can take a stroll down the alley and bump into a vendor with lucrative deals on world-renowned poetry and magazines. A working professional can step out of the office and indulge in the sweet aroma of chai across the street. A group of friends can window shop from dusk till dawn at one of the nearby markets with plenty of items on display. The safety and security that city streets of Bangalore are equipped with, is the mirror of every law-abiding citizen. If you take pride in the access to information of the internet, you will realize how the access to street trade has enlivened our neighbourhoods. Bringing street trade online could revolutionize trade and consumer experiences.

Migrant workers can start a stall by the side of the street and sell their local delicacies to make a living. Farmers from rural areas can sell fresh produce in neighbourhoods where more people are likelier to buy. Shoes can be repaired by handy pros, equipped with everything you need to make them look brand new. The finest sarees can be bought off the nearest street corner. The most elegant sculptures are showcased along the pavement of this vibrant city. 

If you want access to buying what you want at your convenience, you have to support the tradition of street trade in India. Find all the street vendors near you, in one place online. This is what could make street trade more popular, livelihoods more stable.

People Connect with Street Vendors

Through technological prowess of the 21st century, we are lucky to gain more and more access to things that are dear to our desires. You can find almost anything online. Almost everything can be delivered to your doorstep in a few hours. Every major business transaction can be automated with technology. People have adapted to digitization that makes almost everything wireless. The city of Bangalore has zero-emission conveyance apps, electric vehicles on standby at the swipe of a button, salon appointments delivered home, grocery shopping online and legal documentation remotely fulfilled. There’s plenty going on with technology and innovation. In fact, Bangalore is rightly dubbed as the Silicon Valley of India. What about our Street Vendors and Moving Merchants? Most vendors certainly accept cashless payments. Kind vendors even offer to take your goods up to your apartment if they want. Some moving merchants list their goods on Amazon. The street trade is evolving and we all want to be a part of the change. 

Havanaa App: The One-Stop Access to local Street Vendors

Street trade has always provided financial freedom for an estimated number of over 10 million Indians. Street trade is a big part of the local economy. The creators of Havanaa thought, “why not connect street vendors and moving merchants to an online platform for increased visibility among customers?” After all, the Covid19 pandemic slowed down sales for many vendors who depend on foot traffic and eager shoppers. Many vendors lost jobs and ended up seeking a new way of financial freedom. Havanaa wants to provide a solution to rising unemployment. Havanaa wants to encourage the local economy and street trade. Havanaa wants to make shopping more convenient for customers of all ages. Havanaa wanted to provide sustainable options to bargain with your local street vendors. The Havanaa App was an idea born to preserve the culture of street vending and better – make it an attractive profession! 

Increased Access and Increased Reliability of Havanaa

Imagine ordering your fresh groceries from the comfort of your living room without having to use a coupon, or subscribe to an offer designed to encourage consumerism at supermarkets. Imagine all the access to farm fresh fruits and vegetables near you. No added pressure, guaranteed quality and directly from the local street vendor and best of all – you pick and choose what you want!. Your kids can find some ingenious toys to keep occupied during holidays. All the local stationary is available at such amazing prices. Customers could browse through fine textiles, household items and fancy gifts that are sold exclusively by street vendors. An order online and you get your favourite chat delivered to you. Wireless transactions, easy negotiation and seamless experiences can make your street shopping experience better, safer and more convenient. Best of all – you are helping someone who is truly in need of that money! The Havanaa App connects customers to local street vendors online.

Customers get access to a wide selection of lucrative items on display. Behind every vendor, there’s a story of hardship and struggle. Everyone has a dream and works every day to attain it. Each street vendor is pushing their dreams in a cart, selling their valuable possessions to you. The Havanaa App is designed to create financial stability, increase shopper’s convenience and promote the local economy by connecting street vendors who are near by to you.

We want you to realize the spirit of street trade and join us on the adventure of promoting local produce, moving merchandise and delicious street food with sustainable options. Havanaa inspires connectivity, reliability and convenience.

So what are you waiting for?

Click here to fill in a form and get 3 months access to moving vendors nearby online.

The Havanaa App is launching soon. Get your hands on fine items and contribute to the street vendors and moving merchants of Bengaluru, pushing their dreams in a cart for you.

[ducktracy]

137. i love to singa (1936)

release date: july 18th, 1936

series: merrie melodies

director: tex avery

starring: tommy bond (owl jolson), billy bletcher (fritz owl, penguin), martha wentworth (mama), bernice hansen (fat chicken), joe dougherty (stuttering bird), tedd pierce (jack bunny)

a certified classic that almost everyone has either seen or at least heard of, and for good reason! tedd pierce, writer for mckimson, freleng, and jones, as well as inspiration for pepé le pew, makes his vocal debut as the voice of jack bunny (a very obvious take on radio show entertainer jack benny, who’d be parodied as jack bunny in a handful of cartoons such as slap happy pappy and goofy groceries.) the father owl was originally going to be voiced by bert lahr, who you may recognize as the cowardly lion from the wizard of oz, but was changed to bletcher instead. a parody of the al jolson movie the jazz singer, little owl jolson is born into a musical family that forbids any jazz. kicked out for breaking the strict family rule, owl finds solace in jack bunny’s radio show, where his talents shine—much to the bewilderment of his parents.

pan into a lovely shot of a quaint little home in a tree trunk, trees creating a framing in the foreground as butterflies flit along. a serene home that can do no wrong. a sign in the shape of a violin is posted just above the door: prof. FRITZ OWL teacher of “VOICE, PIANO, & VIOLIN” BUT— pan down to a sign below it, painted in all red letters: NO JAZZ!

tex playful as ever with his transitions as we peer through the keyhole of the door. professor fritz (not friz!) owl himself paces nervously in front of his wife, nesting on eggs while observing her anxious husband. the underscore is a fitting medley of solfeggios. fritz approaches his wife solemnly, who stands up and checks to see if her eggs have hatched yet. nothing but a sympathetic shake of the head.

time lapses, as we see from the rug below fritz’s feet. he’s paced so much that he’s worn it into the ground and then some—tex liked to play around with simple time lapses, a changing background the only indicator of passing time while the animation itself stays the same. once more, fritz returns to his wife. this time, we hear faint knocking. they both observe, and his wife is now beaming and nodding expectantly. the big moment at last! she crawls out of her nest, and fritz takes a conductor’s wand, tapping each egg gently. each makes a strong, reverberating ring of a bell. music to his ears... save for the last one, who creates a jangly dissonant sound instead. fritz and his wife exchange bewildered looks, fritz tapping on the egg again for confirmation. still a dud. very clever use of sound effects by treg brown.

before fritz can mull on his dud for too long, the first egg hatches. a mini owl version of himself dons a sharp suit, singing a beautiful rendition of “chi mi frena in tal momento” from the opera lucia di lammermoor. fritz is absolutely delighted, cooing “ah, what a fine voice! a caruso!” (of course referring to italian tenor enrico caruso) the next egg is set to hatch, this time the owl playing robert schumann’s “traumerei” on violin. he too is met with praise: “what sweet music, a fritz kreisler!” third egg hatches, the owl touting a flute and playing felix mendelssohn’s “spring song”, fritz appropriately commenting “a lovely melody, a mendelssohn.”

and, of course, the final egg. wonderful incongruity and juxtaposition as owl jolson pops out of the egg, blaring red suit and all, informally greeting “hullo, strenza!” “hello, strenza!” was a popular catchphrase at the time and yiddishism for “hello, stranger!”, originated from jack benny’s character schlepperman. appropriate considering jack bunny serves as an important character in the cartoon. owl thusly launches into the eponymous “i love to singa”, written by harold arlen and e. y. harburg (who both worked on the music for the wizard of oz) and featured thrice in 1936’s the singing kid. criminally catchy and a lethal earworm to all... except father fritz.

“ach, a jazz singer! a CROONER! stop! STOP! STOP!!!” fritz is horrified, tearing his feathers out in agony, only pausing to catch his wife, struck unconscious from the horrible thought of her child becoming the next bing crosby. fritz fans her awake, desperately reassuring “listen mama, if he must sing, we will teach him to sing like we want him to.” a sensible plan, right?

apparently not. owl is desperately uncomfortable and unhappy as he begrudgingly sings “drink to me only with thine eyes”, his mother oblivious to his plight as she accompanies him on piano. she pauses to turn the page, and owl gives a quick, hurried, whispered rendition of “i love to singa” behind her back. haven’t we all done that before? personality is very strong in this cartoon, and that’s what sells it, even more than the song itself. mama resumes her playing, and owl resumes his torture session. fritz walks in the doorway to admire his converted son, beaming. owl is unaware of his father’s presence, and as his mother pauses to turn the page he sings some more jazz, but it doesn’t go unnoticed.

bob clampett animates fritz kicking owl out of the house, groveling “enough, it’s too much! out of my house, you hotcha, you crooner! you falsetto! you jazz singer! you... you...YOU..!” fritz is red-faced, sputtering and struggling desperately to find the perfect insult. instead, he opts for slamming the door shut. a pause. he opens it back up and quips “PHOOEY!” before slamming it back shut. perfect comedic timing for a gag that will be used in many a cartoon.

owl is frustrated at first, sardonically introducing to the camera “that’s mein pop.” nevertheless, his mood changes in an instant as he realizes he’s free to sing all the jazz he wants. he strolls along, happily singing his favorite song. a much happier scene than indoors, where mama tearfully suggests that fritz was being “a bit too hasty.” back outside, where owl is strolling along gaily as ever, whistling all the way. there’s a beautiful pan with trees and scenery overlaying in the foreground. you get the sense that everything is going to be just fine, that the world is worth singing about. a very positive and upbeat yet subtle scene. inside once more, where mama calls the police in tears to search for her missing child.

the happy go lucky expedition of owl jolson is put to a halt when he hears a harmonica. it’s coming from a building with a line in front of it: RADIO STATION G-O-N-G. below it: AUDITIONS TODAY. various people are given the boot, the telltale gong sounding as they’re plummeted down a slide and out into the cruel world. owl is enticed, and hurries to join the line.

a few animals perform their failed auditions: a few birds on a flute and saxophone each, another on the accordion, a penguin singing “laugh, clown, laugh” (which daffy would sing in both yankee doodle daffy and duck soup to nuts, both freleng cartoons), a fat chicken singing “i’m forever blowing bubbles” (which was featured in sinkin’ in the bathtub! shows you how far we’ve come)... all of the potential candidates get gonged by a caricature of jack benny (jack BUNNY), and they’re all sent plummeting through a bottomless chute. the fat chicken is so plump that she gets stuck in the chute, and bunny has to give her an extra thwack on the head to get her to go down. very amusing timing.

back at home, mama and fritz are both listening to the radio for an update on their son. mama exclaims tearfully, “i wonder if they found my little boy...” and in a bit of tex avery genius, the radio announcer answers in a deadpan voice “no we didn’t, lady.” a staple that would be used in many a cartoon!

at the radio station, joe dougherty voices a hayseed, stuttering bird with an overbite (a parallel to his role as a hayseed, stuttering dog with an overbite in into your dance) struggling to recount the tongue twister of simple simon. after awhile, the bird gets tired of his OWN act, muttering “oh well, shucks.” and hitting the gong himself and tugging on the rope that would send him into oblivion. elsewhere, a bird reads a telegram out loud, delivered by the telegram boy. she pronounces each “stop” (as i mentioned in my last review, since there is no morse code equivalent to a period, telegrams would use “stop” instead), and we pan over to owl jolson and jack bunny. however, the bird continues to read each stop, growing louder and louder, and we pan back over to see the telegram boy repeatedly attempting to hug her while she keeps shouting “stop!” ain’t sexual harassment funny??? in terms of technicality, it’s a very well structured gag, but is in poor taste and doesn’t feel as funny as it should.

nevertheless, jack bunny asks “well, what’s your name, son?” owl eagerly hands him his very own card, proudly displaying the words “owl jolson” in red ink. he gives a happy salute, and thus formally starts the musical number. it’s been rumored that singer johnnie davis provided the singing voice, but i don’t think that’s true. it still sounds like bond to me, and even when i heard him singing in my green fedora as peter i knew he voiced owl jolson right away, connecting it back to this scene. i could be wrong! but i doubt they hired a separate person for singing. nevertheless, as i’ve repeatedly mentioned, the song is criminally catchy and the animation is cute and fun. bunny is immediately impressed, his defensive glower melting into a gleeful grin.

mama catches wind of her own son back at home, hearing his voice singing on the radio. once more, bob clampett animates mama dragging her entire family outside, happily declaring “it’s him at the radio station!” owl has clearly won bunny’s heart, already displaying the hearty first prize trophy on his desk while he dances along ecstatically to the music.

at long last, the owl family arrives at the station, and they can hardly believe it. everyone crowds around the window outside, peering inside with awestruck disbelief. just as owl as surely clinched the award, he catches a glance of his family and freezes up immediately. now terrified and fearing the worst, he reverts back to his nasally rendition of “drink to me only with thine own eyes”. bunny can’t believe it, even pausing to take his cigar out in disbelief as he ogles at his star pupil. he shoves aside the first prize trophy, ready to pounce.

thankfully, the owl family notices this and they all rush inside. just as bunny is about to call it a day, raising the faithful hammer, fritz cries “STOP! STOP! STOP!!!” he rushes to his previously disavowed son, once more repeating “enough, it’s too much!” but in an entirely different context. a very clever parallel. slowly he attempts to coerce owl back into his song, urging him that it’s okay. “you want to singa! about your moon-a and your june-a and your spring-a, go on and singa!”

hesitant at first, owl picks up his rendition, and in no time things are back to normal. a relieved and ecstatic jack bunny snags the first prize trophy and hands it to owl, shaking his hand. a very endearing, happy, ultimately feel good scene as the entire owl family dances behind their star, the entire family giving one last chorus of “we love to sing!” iris out... leaving the first prize trophy on the black screen. owl pries the iris open and collects his prize, irising out for good (a gag that would be recycled in another avery cartoon, porky’s garden, though porky angrily pries his cash prize away from the clutches of a greedy gardener instead).

a lot to unpack, but all you need to know: a great short that is absolutely worth the watch. if you haven’t seen it already, watch it! if you have, watch it again! one of those cartoons that everyone knows or has at least heard of. do i think this is tex’s best cartoon? probably not. but i DO think this is a major turning point for warner bros. tex saved the studio by shunning the disney attitude instead of adopting it, and this cartoon reflects that. a strong, solid plot with amusing gags (such as the radio bit) would eventually become the norm for the upcoming cartoons. the songs were really beginning to be put on the back burner, and eventually dropped altogether—i don’t have an official date for the last merrie melody to feature a song, but probably anywhere from 1938 to 1939.

i argue that the success of this cartoon lies in the personality moreso than the song. absolutely the song is a big contributor. very catchy, fun to sing, and one that everyone knows. but i don’t think the cartoon is great just BECAUSE of the song. many of the merrie melodies have a lot of great songs, but have faded into obscurity because of weak plots or personality. when was the last time you saw someone lauding harman and ising’s we’re in the money? a very popular song no doubt, but it isn’t held to the same candle as i love to singa because the personality is so staunch. no memorable characters or emotions or motivations or what have you.

all of the personalities are strong, subtle or not. owl has a strong personality, even though 90% of his dialogue is singing. where he begrudgingly sings “drink to me only with thine eyes”, glaring and moping, kicking his feet or making mocking expressions, pausing to give a few breathless verses of “i love to singa”... strong personality. fritz owl has a very strong personality, if not overbearing. 10 seconds into the cartoon and you already know he hates jazz, holding so much contempt for it that he has a sign outside of his house to advertise it. the mother another strong figure, caring deeply for her son and even calling the police to get her son back. even jack bunny, who only says one line in the entire cartoon. it’s obvious he’s fed up with listening to the same old amateur hour acts, and his genuine glee at the freshness of owl’s act feels real and relatable. pair all this with a catchy song and you have yourself a deal.

i think, at the same time, this follows the formula of a lot of tex’s merrie melodies at the time, and i suppose it may be just a bit (for lack of a better term) overrated. not in a bad way, but it isn’t STAUNCHLY different from other merrie melodies tex has been pumping out. but with that said, it’s still a classic and a great short that you certainly need to watch. it’s definitely a spirit raiser.

link!

[criminallyfanatic]

You’re no fun - part three

Hotch and Reader have been friends for a while, reader works for the BAU, and reader was there when Hailey divorced him, went into witness protection and died. Now he’s dating Beth and there’s some unresolved feelings left between the two of them. But what will happen between them, and will the past come back to bite them? set during season 8, but i’ve moved some of the events round to suit my timeline (because I can and because drama!)

Aaron Hotchner x reader

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five 

                                                            *

You were woken abruptly by something, or rather someone, landing heavily on your chest. You slowly peeled your eyes open, the wine from last night still taking it’s toll, to be greeted with the bight big eyes staring back. it took a minute for your brain to catch up and realise they were none other than that of Jack Hotcner 

“Jack? What time is it?” you looked around the room, your sleepy brain still struggling to process. 

“its half past six” he had the familiar grin on his face that told you he was planning something. 

“Where’s your dad? Is he up yet?”

“Nope.” he stared at you for a moment, before revealing the reason for his smile, “can we make pancakes?”

You considered this for a moment. It was certainly the least you could do to say thank you to Aaron for letting you sleep on his couch, and you were now very much craving pancakes. 

“I suppose.” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. You couldn’t let him think you would give in too easily. He squealed slightly, before jumping off of you and running to the kitchen. You chuckled to yourself, pulling yourself in to a sitting position and rubbing the sleep from your eyes. this was apparently much too slow for Jack’s liking as he stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen. 

“Are you coming?”

“Yes Jack, I’m coming.” You pulled yourself from the couch and made your way into the kitchen. As you entered, you saw Jack had already pulled out the stool he used to help in the kitchen, and was currently bouncing atop it impatiently. You made your way around the kitchen, gathering all the things you needed to make pancakes, before getting to work, Jack offering as much assistance as he could. Just as you were almost done, you heard the tell-tale footsteps of Aaron making his way to the kitchen. 

When he walked in, you could see the shock and amazement at the sight before him, and it made you smile to see that spark back in his eyes he had been missing the night before. 

“what is all this?” he made his way around the counter, brushing past you as he did so. it sent a shock up your arm that you chose to ignore, but you couldn’t hide the blush creeping its way across your cheeks. Luckily, Aaron was too busy fussing over Jack to notice. 

“It is a special request made by jack. But also a thank you from me.”

“A thank you for what.”

“For letting me crash on your couch. And trusting me with your child.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” He moved towards you, hovering by your shoulder, probably admiring the stack of pancakes you had placed on the side. “And certainly not to this length.” 

“Maybe I wanted to,” you turned your head to look at him, slightly surprised to see his eyes focused on you, and not the impressive pile of pancakes like you had thought. You held his gaze for a moment, both of you not daring to look away, before clearing your throat and turning your attention back to the pancake in the pan. “Maybe I was just craving pancakes.”

He was so close, you could feel the laugh reverberating through his chest. Your could feel the heat coming off him and it only served to worsen your blush. 

“Is there anything I could do to help.”

“Well, these are pretty much finished, but you two could lay the table with the toppings.” 

He moved away, helping Jack off his stool and going to the fridge to get whatever they possibly could to put on the pancakes. 

You felt the loss of his heat, and in some way it was a relief. You weren’t sure how much longer you could feel him so close without bursting into flames. But some part of you missed it, missed feeling him so close you could feel the vibration of his voice and feel his body heat and smell him … God, you must be more hungover than you thought, letting your mind wander like that. You almost burnt the pancake, before quickly pulling it from the pan. With Aaron’s back to you, you took the moment of partial privacy to lean against the counter and take a few breaths to get your mind back on track. Thankfully, by the time he turned back around, you were calm enough to put on a soft smile and carry the pancakes to the table with him being none the wiser. 

                                                            *

The three of you were mid-way through your pancake feast, when you were interrupted by a knock at the door. Aaron got up to answer it, and you and Jack took the opportunity to pile way too much whipped cream onto your pancakes, giggling as you went. You could hear the unmistakable voice of Beth, and it seemed just as tense as it had last night. Not a moment later you saw her appear around the corner, taking in the sight in the kitchen. It was just your luck that Jack chose that moment to spray cream at your face, rather than his pancake. 

As you wiped it from your face, you heard Aaron chuckling from the door way, and you fixed him with a glare that didn’t quite convey the anger it was meant to, and soon enough you too devolved into laughter. In fact, the only one not laughing was Beth, who instead stood stoically in the doorway, almost as if she hadn’t quite registered what was happening. You took it upon yourself to try and break the tension. 

“Hey Beth.”

“Hi.” still her voice remained flat and monotone. You could hear the strain in her voice, as if she were trying to contain herself. 

“How’s it going?” 

“Fine. I just - forgot something.” She turned and left the room and Aaron followed, all trace of his former smile gone, replaced with the face you had seen many a time on a case, when he couldn’t quite figure something out. 

Once again, you heard the hushed voices of the two of them arguing, just as you had last night, but they were too faint to make out what they were saying. You chose to ingnore them, instead focusing on the plate of pancakes in front of you. Not long after, you heard the sound of a door slamming and Aaron trailing back into the kitchen.

His shoulders were hunched, but unlike last night he just seemed resolved. At peace, almost. There was a sort of lightness to his shoulders, rather than the harsh slouch he wore when he was angry. You wanted to ask what happened. Wanted to ask if there was anything you could do to help. 

You finished your pancakes and stayed silent.  

                                                              *

You had all finished your breakfast, and Jack had run off to watch cartoons, seemingly incapable of going anywhere slowly. You and Aaron just sat at the table, neither of you speaking, or even looking at each other, instead staring down at the table. You didn't know what to say, or how. It was Aaron that spoke first. 

"I promised Jack that I would take him to the park today. I'm sure he would love it if you came along."

"I wouldn't want to impose on your time together."

"You wouldn't be. I would like it if you came. Jack definitely would. You are his fun Aunt (Y/N) after all" 

You looked up at him finally, and he too had looked up from the table. You looked in his eyes and could see a softness to them, almost pleading. You remember that look. It was the same one he wore on those late nights after his divorce, where he couldn’t quite bring himself to be alone. You would lie with him till he would fall asleep. You would often watch him as he slept, his peaceful expression one you rarely saw until you too would drift off. and now it seemed he needed that company again. 

“Yeah. I would like that”

                                                              *

The park was surprisingly empty for a Saturday, and after a few hours of watching Jack play, it was decided you would all go for some ice cream, your treat. Aaron had tried to insist he pay for it, that you didn’t have to keep doing things for them, but you stood firm. Somewhere deep down, you felt somehow responsible for whatever was happening between him and Beth and wanted to make up for it. 

You stood in line at the ice cream parlour, Aaron had found a table for you he was now sitting at, and Jack, who couldn’t quite decide what to do, was running between the two of you. As you watched him run back to his dad again, you could hear the soft laughter of the woman in front of you. You turned towards her, and could see she was laughing at Jack’s inability to stand still.

“Your son is adorable.” she said, still laughing slightly at Jack, who was now pulling funny faces at Aaron in an attempt to make him laugh. 

“Oh, he’s not my son. I’m just a friend.”

“My apologies.” she blushed slightly, seemingly embarrassed and you rushed to assure her not to worry.

“It’s no problem.”

“He certainly seems fond of you. And very full of energy.”

“Definitely.” As if to prove you both right, he ran towards you again, grabbing you by the waist before standing by your side. 

“Is it nearly our turn.” 

“Almost.” the woman in front was now preoccupied with giving her order. You were slightly taken aback that she thought Jack was your son, and slightly guilty. Your thoughts turned to Hailey and you felt sick, like you were imposing. Then you thought of how you felt about Hotch and you began to doubt yourself feeling even more guilty than before. 

You turned around to look at him, and saw the joy on his face as he looked at you and Jack. Somehow, that made some of the guilt melt away. Maybe this wasn't as bad as you thought. Maybe you were helping. Maybe all of this would be ok. Maybe. 

                                                           *

tags: @stonedxsoldier @clairedragonessbaker 

[secondhand-trash]

Freddy Freeman(Shazam!)- Art Exchange

A/N: Nobody asked for this but here is another fic I wrote out of impulse. This is inspired by something similar that happened to my friend and the biggest struggle I had when I wrote this was probably the fact that I have no idea how American schools work lol

Description: Drawing exaggerated pictures of your teachers is a part of high school culture and you had fully embraced it as a part of your school life. You just didn’t expect someone to actually see it, let alone replying to it with an even more comedic doodle.

Wordcount: 2166

Playlist:

Young Volcanos//Fall Out Boy

Check Yes Juliet//We The Kings

Something You Want//Against the Current

You couldn’t help it. Mathematics was boring and the teacher’s monotone lecture did not help keeping you awake at all. Scribbling on your desk was your last attempt at trying to stop your eyelids from closing and to your surprise, it worked. From that moment onwards, you always mindlessly dribble on the corner of your desk in class, occasionally looking up to pretend that you are actually listening. By the time you leave class, half of the wood surface would be covered in graphite strokes, most of which consisted of portraits of your maths teacher.

Sorry Mr Martin, but your round head and goatee was too cartoonish and easy to visualize.

Normally, you would make sure to erase all the doodles on your desk before leaving the room. But your friend had been rambling about this new movie and as you two continued with the conversation after the bell rang, you completely forgot about the markings on the school property.

Your mistake ended up being a delightful surprise for another poor kid who was stuck in the exact same situation as you did.

Freddy tried, he really did but he hated this subject with his whole heart. Why did the school think it was a good idea to ask you to calculate the volume of a pool when no person in their right mind would purchase a goddamn pool without knowing its measurements?

He was quick to notice that something was off about his usual seat the moment he walked pass the door. Taking a more careful look at the patterns on the desk as he sat down, he instinctively pressed his hand to his lips to cover up the snicker that would have drawn too much unwanted attention as more pupils started entering the room. On the corner of his desk was a figure that somehow resembles an egg but with a goatee. He didn’t have to take another glance to know that said egg was their beloved teacher, completely unaware that he had been immortalized in his student’s masterpiece as he handed out the new assignment.

Whoever did this was a genius, Freddy thought to himself as he scanned through the other amusing doodles on the desk. He reached into his bag and scrambled for a pencil, scribbling away while trying to surpress the large grin on his face.

“Mr Freeman? Mr Freeman, are you listening?”

Shit. “Yes Mr Martin?”

“Tell me, what is the answer to this question?”

“Oh crap.”

“What if he saw it?” You nervously said to your friend as you two made a turn down the hallway.

“It’s gonna be fine,” your friend said, clearing annoyed after hearing you went on about how much trouble you would be in if Mr Martin found out about the little artwork you made of him in class. Drawing in class, on school property AND making fun of your teacher? God knows how many days of detention this could cost you.

You sighed in relieve as Mr Martin did not even turn to look at you when you walked in. You walked straight to your seat to see that all the doodles were still there. Picking up an eraser to remove all hints of your crime, you noticed something that wasn’t there before. Right next to the egg(aka cartoon Mr Martin) you drew was the figure of a man being tied up. The corner of your lips tucked up into a smirk as you saw that the man was tied up by his very, very long facial hair. Whoever left this here clearly paid more attention to the teacher’s goatee more than they did to class like you did.

“Nice drawings, bought me more fun than maths ever did. Hope you don’t mind my little addition:)”

Looking at the scrawled handwriting below the figure, you grinned. You erased the existing drawings on the table and started making another one, all while thinking of a message that you could leave for the person who would be sitting there later on.

Needless to say, you were thrilled when you got back to the seat the following day to see that you actually got a reply.

You never thought that you would ever say this in your entire lifetime but you started really looking forward to maths class. Every time you walked into the classroom, you checked the table for new drawings and messages immediately and you were never disappointed. Your anonymous friend always pulled through and the stuff that appeared on the wooden surface only got weirder and weirder, so weird that you found yourself smiling uncontrollably when you look at them in class. (”What exactly are you smiling at?” “Oh, nothing. Just my love for algebra, Mr Martin.”)

Your friends teased you about it, saying that you looked like a fool in love when you grin at your desk. To that, you shrugged. You never showed them the doodles and you weren’t planning to, much to their curiosity and annoyance. Somehow, you wanted the whole exchange to be a secret between you and the other person involved. The idea that you had an unspoken bond with someone you had not met gave you an odd sense of excitement.

That was until one day you entered the classroom with your usual anticipation and found nothing but your own handwriting, not even a single word next to the lines you made.

You tried to continue leaving little drawings and notes here and there on your desk everyday but you were met with the same disappointment when you check in on the markings the next day.

“I don’t get it! What happened? They didn’t say anything, they just vanished like they fell of the surface of the earth! Are they ok? Are they angry at me for anything I might have done? Are they still alive? What if-”

“Can you please calm down?” You friend yelled, throwing the fork down onto the tray and earning the both of you a few glances from the people sitting near your table, “That person does not even know who you are!”

“Well, I know!” You snapped back, “But there must be a reason as to why they suddenly stop replying! It makes no sense!”

You friend rolled their eyes and continued munching on their food, deciding that letting you express your frustration might be a wiser idea than putting any form of rationality in your head.

Little did you know, the same conversation was unfolding in the far corner of the cafeteria.

“I should have left my number!” Freddy sighed, “And now there’s no way I would ever find out who my art buddy is!”

“I mean, I get your frustration but maybe don’t take it out on your food? The mashed potato is innocent, ya’know?” Billy said in amusement as his brother let out another muffled groan, “Mr Martin wouldn’t have forced you to sit in the front row if you at least tried to pretend that you were paying attention, just saying.”

“You are no help.”

“Have you ever thought of waiting before class starts to see who’s the one in that seat?”

“First of all, that sounds creepy.” The shorter boy folded his arms in front of his chest, “Second, what am I supposed to do after that? Walk up to that person and be like ‘Hey, I’m the weirdo who you had been bonding with through our mutual mocking towards our teacher, wanna be friends?’”

“I thought you want to know who the person is?”

“Well yeah,” Freddy said, "but the thought of actually being around them in real life kinda scares me. Can’t we just go back to how things used to be? When I can pretend to be cool by hiding under the facade of my excellent art?”

“How so very confident of you, if only you have as much confidence when you are facing real people.”

“What class are we having?” You friend asked, desperately trying to change the subject. Your rambling carried on after you two finished lunch and they were slowly losing patience.

“History.”

“Damn it! Really? I forgot about the essay we are supposed to hand in! I’m so fucked...”

You mockingly laughed, “Same, but the difference between me and you is that I was smart enough to check my schedule when I got to school this morning so I managed to finish it in maths class.”

Reaching into you bag, you search for your paper and your smirk slowly fade as you realized that it was no where to be found. “Shit, I must have left it in the drawer.”

“Ha ha, jokes on you. Now we can both get into trouble together.”

You glared at your friend, “I’m gonna go get it back.”

“Are you sure? I think class is about to start.”

“I’ll just say that my stomach hurts and I was at the bathroom. With the quality of the food they are serving here, I’m sure that no one will suspect a thing.”

Freddy mindlessly flicked his pen as he sulked in his new seat. Class was no fun and he could not get away with drawing in class anymore with the teacher right in front of him, watching his every move. He was bored out of his mind when the door opened, he looked up to see an unfamiliar figure standing under the frame. Was this person in his class?

“Sorry Mr Martin, I left something here and I need it for class.” The person quickly entered the room and walked pass Freddy after gaining a nod of approval from the teacher. His gaze followed them and his eyes widened in shock as the person stopped in front of his previous seat, pulling a few sheets of paper out of the drawer. He took a quick glance at the paper when they passed his seat again and felt a comforting sense of familiarity when he saw their handwriting. Freddy smiled, earning him a look of confusion from the maths teacher. “Honestly,” the man thought to himself, slightly regretting putting this kid in the front, “why did I decide to be a teacher in the first place?”

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turned around, the voice stopping you in your track as you were walking out of the school building. Not far from you was a boy walking towards you with a crutch in his hand, clearly trying his best to walk at full speed.

“Do you know him?” Your friend whispered in your ear and you slightly shake your head. As he walked closer, you recognized him as the person who was sitting near the door when you went to get your homework in Mr Martin’s room.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you?”

The boy scratched the back of his head, realizing that he might have confused you. “Oh, of course. I almost forgot that you don’t know yet,” he said, not looking you in the eye as he speak, “I used to sit at your seat in maths before I got put in the front.”

You beamed as you finally gathered what the boy was trying to say, “That’s you? So that’s why you suddenly stopped replying! Thank god, I thought you were dead or something.”

“No, not dead, just observed by ‘Mr goatee’ 24/7.” he said and you laughed. He reached out his free hand to you, “I’m Freddy.”

“(y/n).” You said and shaked his hand, “I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you in person. I’ve missed you... I mean, talking to you... Like, drawing ‘talking’...” You felt your face burn as everything you said sounded so creepy and you gave your friend a sharp glare as you heard the snickering.

“I missed that too.” Freddy looked right at you and you took the first proper look at him. With the sun and the grin on his face, it looked his eyes were twinkling. You cringed as the thought went pass your head and you felt like such a cliché. But this kid actually got unfairly pretty eyes.

“Now that we did the whole ‘awkward first encounter thing’,” He said and darted his gaze away from you again, “maybe we can hang out sometimes? I know this really nice comic book shop in town, if you’re interested that is.”

You smiled, “I love comics.”

His face lit up and you cursed yourself for being so quick to notice that. “So is tomorrow good?”

“Tomorrow’s good.”

“Cool, I’ll see you then.” He gave you another bright smile before leaving and joining another group of people that you assumed to be his family. Still grinning from ear to ear at what happened, you didn’t notice the sly smile on your friend’s face.

“Ooooooooo someone’s got a date.”

“Shut up.”

[laserdog10]

Legacy Epilogue, part 2: Recovery

*It had been three days since Blossom’s incident with her Silver Eyes. Ruby and Jaune, with the rest of their kids, Garnet and Citrus, took her to the nearest hospital in hopes of helping get rid of the after-affects of using them for the first time. It didn’t particularly surprise Ruby that her daughter would suffer some repercussions of using her Grimm slaying power, but something was...different this time around. Their wait didn’t have to be prolonged further when the nurse came into the lobby.*

Nurse: Ummm, Mr. and Mrs. Rose-Arc?

Jaune: That’s us.

Nurse: Good! Right this way please.

*The family stood up and followed her down the hall to Blossom’s room, the nurse detailing on her condition*

Nurse: She-

Garnet: Give it to us straight doc, is our sister gonna live?

Citrus: Is she dying?!

Nurse: What!? Oh heavens no, dears! Blossom’s fine, she’s just temporarily blind is all.

Garnet/Citrus: Whew...

Ruby: Blind...?

Nurse: Unfortunately, we’ve tried everything that would’ve normally worked. We did take note that eye-drops helped clear up some dried blood behind her eyes. Other than that, they are still bloodshot and her pupils are still constricted.

Jaune: Is surgery going to be an option?

Nurse: It’s a low possibility, but given that Blossom is a Silver Eyed Warrior like you Mrs. Rose, I don’t assume you have a, how you say, solution of a “magical persuasion?

*The couple shared a nervous laugh.*

Jaune: Uuuhhh, heh, we do know one, in the form of a...wizard professor.

Nurse: OH! You mean Ozpin?

Ruby: He may be our only solution right now.

Nurse: Right...*writes on her clipboard*...give us a minute, we’ll get a wheelchair for your daughter on her way out! I’ll give you some time to talk with her until then. *turns to leave, but stops and turns after a few steps* By the way Garnet, do you mind if I ask why you’re only wearing one glove?

*Garnet instinctively grabbed his right arm. Underneath the baggy sweater he wore was an intricate assortment of a glove, straps, and bindings over the charred surface of his arm, keeping an other-worldly being at bay*

Garnet: I-it’s...a long story, ma’am...

Nurse: Ah, my mistake, sweetie. Well, I best go get that wheelchair, goodbye!

Rose-Arcs: Bye!

-Inside Blossom’s room-

*Being blind wasn’t so bad, even if it was only temporary...maybe. Okay, it was honestly scary, and while her other senses were enhanced, Blossom hated not seeing her surroundings. She knew she was in a bed, she knew the T.V. was on playing cartoons, she knew as alone in her room with gauze over her eyes waiting for her family or the nurse. But, this did give her time to be with her thoughts, “Welp, first time using my powers and look where I end up. Bet you’re pretty proud of me, o’ God of Light, eh? Did...mom ever have to go through this, did she get knocked out after her eyes activated, and what caused them to activate? Was Aunt Maria as inexperienced as me, or another prodigy? What about grandma Summer, did she struggle as much as I am right now? Heh, I should know the answer by now.....I’m just a weak link in a line of strong warriors. I’m a failu-”*

*A click is heard as her door opens*

Jaune/Ruby: Heeeeeyyy!

Blossom, snapping out of her trance: Ah! Hi mom, hi dad!

Garnet: You feeling okay?

Blossom: Aside from not being able to see and my self-esteem being at a pretty big low, I’d say I’m pretty okay.

Citrus: So is that a no...?

Blossom: *sigh* I don’t even know anymore.....

Jaune: Listen, the doctor said you’re going to be fine, and you’re not in pain right?

Blossom: I guess, but what about surgery?

Ruby: We won’t have to, we’re taking you to Ozpin.

The kids: Uncle Oz?!

Blossom: What’s he gonna do to help me?

Ruby: If I’m playing my cards right, most likely heal your eyes with whatever magic he has left.

Garnet: Which is basically limitless???

Ruby: Yup!

Everyone: Awesome.

Garnet: BUT, before the nurse gets back...I wanna try something.

Blossom: Garnet, I swear to the gods, I will shove my boot up your ass when I see again...

Jaune: Language!

Blossom: But dad!?

Citrus: Do it!

Blossom: Ughhh, fine..... *lifts the gauze off one eye, cracked lines of red on the silver surface of her pupil, still constricted*

Garnet: How many fingers am I holding up?

Blossom: Uuuuuhhhh...ssssssssix?????

Citrus: Nope! Three!

Blossom, red: You both suck...

Garnet/Citrus: *snickering*

-Beacon Courtyard-

Jaune: Ahhh, good to be back.

Ruby: It feels so surreal coming back here. To think we met here for the first time...

Jaune: But hey, look where we are right now. *takes her hand in his*

Ruby, leaning her head on his shoulder: Would we want it for anything else?

Jaune: No way, Crater Face. *kisses her forehead*

Garnet: *fake wretches* There is a time and place and this is not one of them!

Citrus: *hiding behind her hands but peeking through one*

Blossom: Y’know, this is the one perk of being blind, but hearing it is so much worse somehow.

Jaune: Oh hush, we’re just loving each other.

Blossom: Can we go see Uncle Oz now?

Ruby: Hahaha, yes.

---

Front Desk: Sir, the Rose-Arcs are on their way to see you.

Ozpin: Thank you.

*The now mortal Wizard of Remnant took a sip from his trusted and beloved mug, filled with his favorite brew of coffee. Letting out a content sigh, he adjusted the picture on his table of him, his wife Glynda Goodwitch, and his daughter Olivia. His gaze returned to the opening doors of his office, his two former students walking in*

Oz: Ah, Ruby and Jaune! Pleasure to see you two agai-...oh dear. *he exclaimed when he saw Blossom*

Blossom: Eheh, hey, Uncle Oz...

Oz: Ummm, may I ask what happened to you dear?

Ruby: Guess who used her Silver Eyes for the first time.

Oz: Oh! Pardon me...er, how did this happen?

Jaune: Training, but from the looks of it, she blinded herself.

Oz: ... *stands from his chair, concern on his face*

Ruby: Professor...?

Oz: First, tell me how this all happened.

*And so Ruby did; the test dummy Beowolf, the tip she gave to Blossom to properly use her eyes, the six wings of light that appeared from her daughter’s eyes, Blossom getting knocked unconscious because of her own eyes. Throughout it all, Ozpin’s concern seemed to dampen, and more to understanding*

Oz: Forgive me, but...this is quite unheard off, even to me.

Blossom: ...

Jaune: So what you’re saying is...?

Oz: We could be looking at the most powerful Silver Eyed Warrior in the history of Remnant.

Ruby/Jaune: !!!

Blossom: Pffffft hahaha! Alright, good joke Uncle Oz, but I seriously couldn’t be “the strongest S.E.W. in all of Remnant!” Right, haha?

Ruby/Jaune/Oz: ............

Blossom: Why is no one else laughing?

Oz, walking from his desk: Allow to me elaborate, dear. *he began as green electricity surrounded his index finger, to which he then poked Blossom on her forehead with it*

Blossom: OW! What the heck?!

*Just as she said that, her eyes felt an odd buzz as the magic took effect. The strain on her pupils lessened, the stinging of the veins around her eyes dissipated, and the stuck feeling of the dried blood behind them went away completely*

Oz, smiling: Now take off your bandages.

Blossom: *hands slightly shaking, she undoes the gauze around her head* I...*as she opens her eyes, Blossom is greeted by the sight of her uncle’s office, looking to her sides she saw her mother and father, tears of joy welling in her silver orbs* ...I can see!

Oz: Such as my magic, consider your power a miracle, something amazingly so one of a kind. But what you’re doing right now, is trying to be someone you are not, fearing that you won’t be a great Silver Eyed Warrior. You may not think it now, but trust me, your ability to slay Grimm is going to become something wonderfu-

Blossom: But what if it doesn’t, what if I don’t live up to this greatness of the people that came before me? What if I can’t become like my mom and grandma Summer!?

Ruby: ...

Jaune: Blossom...

*Everything made sense now. Blossom’s training, her pushing herself and forcing her Silver Eyes to work, why she didn’t tell Ruby or Jaune sooner. Ozpin chuckled and walked back to his desk chair*

Oz: That is because you won’t, you can’t, you can only be yourself. You can’t push yourself to master your abilities at the same pace as your mother or grandmother. You have to let your power come at its own time, for not only will it lead to less harm, no one will fault you for it.

Blossom, tears falling down her cheeks: I...*sniff*...I...

Jaune: No one’s perfect, sweetie, how did you think we fared when we became Huntsmen?

Blossom: *sniff* Probably poorly?

Ruby: Huge understatement, why do you think we call each other “Crater Face” and “Vomit Boy?” *she laughed, hugging her then kissing Blossom on the head* Thank you so much, Ozpin.

Oz: You are very welcome, Mrs. Rose. *as they got up to leave, Oz took on more swig of his coffee, but not before one last thing he had to say to the young reaper* And Blossom?

Blossom: Huh?

Oz: I hope no more stunts like this will occur in the future? Glynda and I already had to deal with that when your parents enrolled here.

Blossom, nervous: W-welll...! I’ll try not to? Haha.

Jaune: We’ll keep eye on her, sir!

Blossom: Was that intentional?

Jaune: Oh...my bad.

*The family laughed their way to the elevator, meanwhile Oz adjusted his glasses, having a laugh himself*

Oz: Hm, the youth is like a bonfire, bright and full of potential, but in need of a little guidance.

---

Ruby: Do you promise to come to me when you have trouble using your eyes?

Blossom: Pinky promise.

Jaune: And next time use a test weapon on the dummy, can’t have you dull Aureum Mortem’s edge, now can we?

Blossom: I can sharpen it again! *she said defensively but cracking a smile*

Jaune: I’m sure you can. *smiles, pats her on the head*

Ruby: Now where are your brother and sister?

“Wooooooohoooooo!!!”

*As if on cue the duo of reaper siblings peeled around the hall, Garnet utilizing his Spring Maiden magic to propel himself forward, Citrus riding piggyback on her older brother. As they reached the lobby Garnet’s flight came to a halt*

Garnet: Found your team’s old rooms!

Ruby: How did you know which was which?

Garnet: *pulls out his scroll to show a room with four holes in its ceiling* Aunt Weiss told us about your “bunk beds.”

Citrus: And I think I found one of Aunt Nora’s old shirts in the opposite room. *pulls out a wrinkly black shirt with the word “boop” on its front* Found it in the closet.

Jaune: So that’s where that went! Tell you what, you can keep, just your size too.

Citrus: *smiles, then puts the shirt on over her current one* Thank you!!!

Ruby: Be prepared if she wants it back though. *exhales* Right, been a long day for us, who’s ready to go take nap back home?

Everyone: Me!

Ruby: Roger that. Rose-Arcs, move out!

*Trekking to the car, Blossom once again had time to collect her thoughts. “I had hurt myself from thinking I could recreate what my mom could do, try to be like her...be the perfect warrior, exactly like the S.E.W’s that lived before me. But I’m not, I’m not perfect, but my power is mine, and I WILL make it so that power will be able to help others and rid Remnant of the Grimm once and for all. Yeah, I can do this!”*

Legacy -fin-

[blk-chauvinist]

Why Women Aren’t Funny

BY CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS

JANUARY 1, 2007

Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: “He’s really quite cute, and he’s kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he’s so funny . . . “ (If you yourself are a guy, and you know the man in question, you will often have said to yourself, “Funny? He wouldn’t know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce béarnaise.”) However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: “She’s a real honey, has a life of her own . . . [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] . . . and, man, does she ever make ‘em laugh.”

Now, why is this? Why is it the case?, I mean. Why are women, who have the whole male world at their mercy, not funny? Please do not pretend not to know what I am talking about.

All right—try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid). Why are men, taken on average and as a whole, funnier than women? Well, for one thing, they had damn well better be. The chief task in life that a man has to perform is that of impressing the opposite sex, and Mother Nature (as we laughingly call her) is not so kind to men. In fact, she equips many fellows with very little armament for the struggle. An average man has just one, outside chance: he had better be able to make the lady laugh. Making them laugh has been one of the crucial preoccupations of my life. If you can stimulate her to laughter—I am talking about that real, out-loud, head-back, mouth-open-to-expose-the-full-horseshoe-of-lovely-teeth, involuntary, full, and deep-throated mirth; the kind that is accompanied by a shocked surprise and a slight (no, make that a loud) peal of delight—well, then, you have at least caused her to loosen up and to change her expression. I shall not elaborate further.

Women have no corresponding need to appeal to men in this way. They already appeal to men, if you catch my drift. Indeed, we now have all the joy of a scientific study, which illuminates the difference. At the Stanford University School of Medicine (a place, as it happens, where I once underwent an absolutely hilarious procedure with a sigmoidoscope), the grim-faced researchers showed 10 men and 10 women a sample of 70 black-and-white cartoons and got them to rate the gags on a “funniness scale.” To annex for a moment the fall-about language of the report as it was summarized in Biotech Week:

The researchers found that men and women share much of the same humor-response system; both use to a similar degree the part of the brain responsible for semantic knowledge and juxtaposition and the part involved in language processing. But they also found that some brain regions were activated more in women. These included the left prefrontal cortex, suggesting a greater emphasis on language and executive processing in women, and the nucleus accumbens . . . which is part of the mesolimbic reward center.

This has all the charm and address of the learned Professor Scully’s attempt to define a smile, as cited by Richard Usborne in his treatise on P. G. Wodehouse: “the drawing back and slight lifting of the corners of the mouth, which partially uncover the teeth; the curving of the naso-labial furrows . . . “ But have no fear—it gets worse:

“Women appeared to have less expectation of a reward, which in this case was the punch line of the cartoon,” said the report’s author, Dr. Allan Reiss. “So when they got to the joke’s punch line, they were more pleased about it.” The report also found that “women were quicker at identifying material they considered unfunny.”

Slower to get it, more pleased when they do, and swift to locate the unfunny—for this we need the Stanford University School of Medicine? And remember, this is women when confronted with humor. Is it any wonder that they are backward in generating it?

This is not to say that women are humorless, or cannot make great wits and comedians. And if they did not operate on the humor wavelength, there would be scant point in half killing oneself in the attempt to make them writhe and scream (uproariously). Wit, after all, is the unfailing symptom of intelligence. Men will laugh at almost anything, often precisely because it is—or they are—extremely stupid. Women aren’t like that. And the wits and comics among them are formidable beyond compare: Dorothy Parker, Nora Ephron, Fran Lebowitz, Ellen DeGeneres. (Though ask yourself, was Dorothy Parker ever really funny?) Greatly daring—or so I thought—I resolved to call up Ms. Lebowitz and Ms. Ephron to try out my theories. Fran responded: “The cultural values are male; for a woman to say a man is funny is the equivalent of a man saying that a woman is pretty. Also, humor is largely aggressive and pre-emptive, and what’s more male than that?” Ms. Ephron did not disagree. She did, however, in what I thought was a slightly feline way, accuse me of plagiarizing a rant by Jerry Lewis that said much the same thing. (I have only once seen Lewis in action, in The King of Comedy, where it was really Sandra Bernhard who was funny.)

In any case, my argument doesn’t say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three. When Roseanne stands up and tells biker jokes and invites people who don’t dig her shtick to suck her dick—know what I am saying? And the Sapphic faction may have its own reasons for wanting what I want—the sweet surrender of female laughter. While Jewish humor, boiling as it is with angst and self-deprecation, is almost masculine by definition.

Substitute the term “self-defecation” (which I actually heard being used inadvertently once) and almost all men will laugh right away, if only to pass the time. Probe a little deeper, though, and you will see what Nietzsche meant when he described a witticism as an epitaph on the death of a feeling. Male humor prefers the laugh to be at someone’s expense, and understands that life is quite possibly a joke to begin with—and often a joke in extremely poor taste. Humor is part of the armor-plate with which to resist what is already farcical enough. (Perhaps not by coincidence, battered as they are by motherfucking nature, men tend to refer to life itself as a bitch.) Whereas women, bless their tender hearts, would prefer that life be fair, and even sweet, rather than the sordid mess it actually is. Jokes about calamitous visits to the doctor or the shrink or the bathroom, or the venting of sexual frustration on furry domestic animals, are a male province. It must have been a man who originated the phrase “funny like a heart attack.” In all the millions of cartoons that feature a patient listening glum-faced to a physician (“There’s no cure. There isn’t even a race for a cure”), do you remember even one where the patient is a woman? I thought as much.

Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals. And there is a huge, brimming reservoir of male unease, which it would be too easy for women to exploit. (Men can tell jokes about what happened to John Wayne Bobbitt, but they don’t want women doing so.) Men have prostate glands, hysterically enough, and these have a tendency to give out, along with their hearts and, it has to be said, their dicks. This is funny only in male company. For some reason, women do not find their own physical decay and absurdity to be so riotously amusing, which is why we admire Lucille Ball and Helen Fielding, who do see the funny side of it. But this is so rare as to be like Dr. Johnson’s comparison of a woman preaching to a dog walking on its hind legs: the surprise is that it is done at all.

The plain fact is that the physical structure of the human being is a joke in itself: a flat, crude, unanswerable disproof of any nonsense about “intelligent design.” The reproductive and eliminating functions (the closeness of which is the origin of all obscenity) were obviously wired together in hell by some subcommittee that was giggling cruelly as it went about its work. (“Think they’d wear this? Well, they’re gonna have to.”) The resulting confusion is the source of perhaps 50 percent of all humor. Filth. That’s what the customers want, as we occasional stand-up performers all know. Filth, and plenty of it. Filth in lavish, heaping quantities. And there’s another principle that helps exclude the fair sex. “Men obviously like gross stuff,” says Fran Lebowitz. “Why? Because it’s childish.” Keep your eye on that last word. Women’s appetite for talk about that fine product known as Depend is limited. So is their relish for gags about premature ejaculation. (“Premature for whom?” as a friend of mine indignantly demands to know.) But “child” is the key word. For women, reproduction is, if not the only thing, certainly the main thing. Apart from giving them a very different attitude to filth and embarrassment, it also imbues them with the kind of seriousness and solemnity at which men can only goggle. This womanly seriousness was well caught by Rudyard Kipling in his poem “The Female of the Species.” After cleverly noticing that with the male “mirth obscene diverts his anger”—which is true of most work on that great masculine equivalent to childbirth, which is warfare—Kipling insists:

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same, And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

The word “issue” there, which we so pathetically misuse, is restored to its proper meaning of childbirth. As Kipling continues:

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.

Men are overawed, not to say terrified, by the ability of women to produce babies. (Asked by a lady intellectual to summarize the differences between the sexes, another bishop responded, “Madam, I cannot conceive.”) It gives women an unchallengeable authority. And one of the earliest origins of humor that we know about is its role in the mockery of authority. Irony itself has been called “the glory of slaves.” So you could argue that when men get together to be funny and do not expect women to be there, or in on the joke, they are really playing truant and implicitly conceding who is really the boss.

The ancient annual festivities of Saturnalia, where the slaves would play master, were a temporary release from bossdom. A whole tranche of subversive male humor likewise depends on the notion that women are not really the boss, but are mere objects and victims. Kipling saw through this:

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her.

In other words, for women the question of funniness is essentially a secondary one. They are innately aware of a higher calling that is no laughing matter. Whereas with a man you may freely say of him that he is lousy in the sack, or a bad driver, or an inefficient worker, and still wound him less deeply than you would if you accused him of being deficient in the humor department.

If I am correct about this, which I am, then the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates. This is the unspoken compromise. H. L. Mencken described as “the greatest single discovery ever made by man” the realization “that babies have human fathers, and are not put into their mother’s bodies by the gods.” You may well wonder what people were thinking before that realization hit, but we do know of a society in Melanesia where the connection was not made until quite recently. I suppose that the reasoning went: everybody does that thing the entire time, there being little else to do, but not every woman becomes pregnant. Anyway, after a certain stage women came to the conclusion that men were actually necessary, and the old form of matriarchy came to a close. (Mencken speculates that this is why the first kings ascended the throne clutching their batons or scepters as if holding on for grim death.) People in this precarious position do not enjoy being laughed at, and it would not have taken women long to work out that female humor would be the most upsetting of all.

Childbearing and rearing are the double root of all this, as Kipling guessed. As every father knows, the placenta is made up of brain cells, which migrate southward during pregnancy and take the sense of humor along with them. And when the bundle is finally delivered, the funny side is not always immediately back in view. Is there anything so utterly lacking in humor as a mother discussing her new child? She is unboreable on the subject. Even the mothers of other fledglings have to drive their fingernails into their palms and wiggle their toes, just to prevent themselves from fainting dead away at the sheer tedium of it. And as the little ones burgeon and thrive, do you find that their mothers enjoy jests at their expense? I thought not.

Humor, if we are to be serious about it, arises from the ineluctable fact that we are all born into a losing struggle. Those who risk agony and death to bring children into this fiasco simply can’t afford to be too frivolous. (And there just aren’t that many episiotomy jokes, even in the male repertoire.) I am certain that this is also partly why, in all cultures, it is females who are the rank-and-file mainstay of religion, which in turn is the official enemy of all humor. One tiny snuffle that turns into a wheeze, one little cut that goes septic, one pathetically small coffin, and the woman’s universe is left in ashes and ruin. Try being funny about that, if you like. Oscar Wilde was the only person ever to make a decent joke about the death of an infant, and that infant was fictional, and Wilde was (although twice a father) a queer. And because fear is the mother of superstition, and because they are partly ruled in any case by the moon and the tides, women also fall more heavily for dreams, for supposedly significant dates like birthdays and anniversaries, for romantic love, crystals and stones, lockets and relics, and other things that men know are fit mainly for mockery and limericks. Good grief! Is there anything less funny than hearing a woman relate a dream she’s just had? (“And then Quentin was there somehow. And so were you, in a strange sort of way. And it was all so peaceful.” Peaceful?)

For men, it is a tragedy that the two things they prize the most—women and humor—should be so antithetical. But without tragedy there could be no comedy. My beloved said to me, when I told her I was going to have to address this melancholy topic, that I should cheer up because “women get funnier as they get older.” Observation suggests to me that this might indeed be true, but, excuse me, isn’t that rather a long time to have to wait?

From Vanity Fair 

[disabled-queen-hc-blog]

A vent piece about a not so talked about side of Autism and something I’m struggling with lately. Angsty.

John awoke to the lovely sound of his alarm clock softly singing the Adventures of Winnie the Pooh theme song. He couldn’t help but to smile and hum along as the lull of sleep faded away from his eyes.

He let it play it’s tune as he stretched out his limbs, an array of cracks and creaks echoing through the empty room. With a big yawn, he sat up and pressed a button on the alarm, shaped like the silly old bear’s head. John let out a content sigh, looking around his bed at all his stuffed animals strewn about chaotically. He wondered if they all slept well as he did.

With a bit of effort, he got out of bed and wobbled over to his bathroom, rubbing eyes and yawning some more. After a quick trip to the loo, he set out on washing his mouth. His toothbrush was bright pink with hello kitty on the handle. It wasn’t his first choice, but he was quite fond of the cat too. With a strawberry flavored toothpaste, mint tasting way too strong, he brushed his teeth, a task he didn’t like to do.

Spitting into the sink, he rinsed his mouth, his head bobbing back up into place. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Wrinkles on his forehead. Grey growing well past his temples. John quickly exited the bathroom, his stomach grumbling, hopefully from hunger and not embarrassment.

He put on his house slippers, Mickey Mouse of course, and hurried over to the kitchen, ready to prepare himself the same breakfast he’s had for nearly 40 years. Cheese on toast with a cup of milk. Even after decades, the staple food never grew old.

John sung Part of Your World quietly to himself as he slapped on a slice of cheddar onto the toast simmering in the pan, a smile tweaking at his lips. He found breakfast to be one of the high points of his day. It was the few parts of a regular day he had all to himself. No one to bother him. No expectations. Just him and his toys to keep him company until the afternoon. He laughed when his voice cracked at the climax of the song.

With a plate of warm toast and a cold cup of milk in hand, John went to the living room, setting everything down on the floor before turning on his telly. Saturday morning cartoons were on. He heavily preferred his Disney VHS’s to whatever the BBC was playing, but the cartoons weren’t half bad. Munching on his toast, he happily rocked as he watched.

It was 11am when the phone rang. John frowned, not wanting to set down his Legos. He was very much enjoying lining them up for the 4th time in a row. He was working with just the animal Legos this morning, something he didn’t do often.

Pouting, John got up to grab the phone, mumbling a somewhat pleasant “Hello?”

“Deacy!” an excited Roger screeched on the other end of the phone. John cringed at how loud the blond was.

“Oh, hi, Roger.”

“Mornin’ John! Hey, me and Brian were getting together this evening. There’s this new restaurant that just opened up. Imported wines. A live band. Sophisticated as all hell. You want to come?”

John’s nose crinkled up the more Roger talked. Nasty wine? Weird unpredictable food? Music he didn’t care for? And a suit and tie requirement? No thanks.

“That sounds stuffy,” John said honestly.

“You could use some stuffy in your life, mate. Come on. You can bring some of your fluffy friends if you’d like,” Roger said, a pleading lilt in his voice.

John shrugged to himself, a hand going into his hair to pull out a few strands, a nervous habit of his. “I don’t know. It sounds um…” Adult-y. “Like a lot for me, you know. Maybe we can do brunch or something soon.”

“Ah, alright, Deaks. Don’t say I didn’t invite you!” Roger said, disappointment in his tone, not that John would catch it. It wasn’t obvious enough because Roger expected that answer. John was never fond of refined things. Roger still tried after all these years.

“Yeah. Sorry. Bye bye, Rog.”

“Bye, John.”

John hung up, an anxious hand rubbing his chest. He tried to stop the bad thoughts that started to bubble in his head by throwing himself back into lining up his Legos, but it didn’t work.

He tried lining up his plushies on his bed, but the thoughts started to drip like cement into his chest.

He tried watching Snow White, but the thoughts began to feel like spider webs and char in his lungs.

He broke down, running into his bathroom, the quietest and darkest place in his house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Curled up on the cold tiles, as the tears began to pour down his face, his brain assaulted him with words.

Delayed.

Spaz.

Man-child.

Retard.

Delayed.

Stupid.

Lagging.

Delayed.

Delayed.

Delayed.

John sobbed, his hands flying to either side of his head, hitting himself to make his thoughts go back to normal.

You’ve got the brain of a 10-year-old stuck in a 39-year old’s body. It’s pathetic.

The people around you only pity you.

You’re not a failure to launch. You’re a failure to thrive.

It was cute when you were 19. Now you just look pitiful.

Have you even tried to act your age?

Your mother likes your sister better. She’s a proper adult. Married with kids. Working.

You need a babysitter to make sure you don’t starve or die.

It’s sad.

You’re an embarrassment.

You’re not a man. You’re a child.

John pressed his forehead to the floor, his chest aching with how hard he was crying. As more and more painful truths vomited themselves into his mind, he could only sink under their weight.

He tried to ignore it. And for a long time, it was easy to ignore. The words the therapist said to him.

“You’re developmentally delayed, John. You might not ever catch up. You might be stuck at a certain developmental age.”

At 15, it’s not too noticeable. 20, people just think you’re not one to take yourself too seriously. At 30, there must be something wrong with you. At 40, you’re a lost cause. A burden. On society, your friends and family and more importantly, yourself.

And despite what anyone said, it was true. John looked like an adult, but he didn’t have much going on upstairs. He couldn’t talk taxes or even pay his own. Doing laundry was always meltdown worthy. Wine tasted gross. The word sex made him giggle and the act was unimaginable. McDonald happy meals were a real treat and toys were rewards.

No matter how much the people around him said otherwise, he was a child. And it killed him. It hurt. The lack of maturity was blinding. The delay unable to be hidden. He was a walking freakshow and despite his best efforts, he was thoroughly stunted.

He wanted to be like his friends. So badly. Go to clubs with Freddie and not feel scared. Drink with Roger and not gag at the first sip and order a soda instead. Hell, he’d take sleazing around like Brian if it meant he’d be a real man.

But he was just a little boy. Trapped in a perpetual childhood that not even humiliation could wake him up from.

He liked the kid’s menus. And he liked watching Sesame Street. And he liked when his aides and carers came over and took over. He was a kid, through and through. It was only a shock because his body dare betray him by growing up, leaving his brain behind.

It wasn’t just embarrassing. It was isolating. He didn’t get along with adults. They didn’t understand him, and he didn’t understand them. It was a miracle the rest of Queen even tolerated him. He preferred children but one could see how bad of a look that was. So, who else did he have beside his Lego figures and his teddy bears?

His own mother coddled him, which felt both wonderful and shameful. He wasn’t a child. But he was. But he wasn’t.

John raked his fingers through his hair, tugging painfully at his scalp, his knees pulling up under him, a subconscious need to be small.

No therapist really understood the plight he went through. They all told him that it was okay. He was fine. Nothing to be ashamed about. But how easy was that to say when you weren’t a middle-aged man who needed a night light to sleep? Or a grown man afraid to cross the road without a real adult’s hand to hold?

Nobody understood. Their reassuring words fell flat when it came to the reality around him. John was delayed and the world looked down on him for that.

He was like Peter Pan without a safe place to run to, surrounded by other people who too could not grow up.

It hurt.

It hurt all the time.

Every time he colored a coloring book, he knew he should be drinking a beer besides a wife who was expecting another kid. He knew he should be ordering filet mignon rather than chicken nuggets. He knew he should be so much more and so much better than he was.

John laid flat on the floor; his eyes physically unable to produce more tears. With all those thoughts jabbing at his skull, all he could do was throw himself to the floor and cry like a child. Even knowing he wanted more for himself, he couldn’t get up and do it.

He sniffled and hiccupped, his head pounding from how deeply he had been wailing.

All of these thoughts were too much for a child. Too big and scary. Complex and refined.

He sat up and slowly got up, his knees cracking as he did so. Without another whimper he went back to his room, crawling underneath his blankets, into the embrace of many furry friends. He closed his eyes, hugging a purple elephant to himself and prayed he’d be finally big tomorrow. An adult. All caught up. A prayer he’d been reciting for years.

He brought the elephant to his face, nuzzling the soft fabric. He wondered if the elephant would take a nap with him too.