#tomorrow people without vowels

[neverwholelahey]

@tmrrwppl

"ALE!" Isaac is yelling very loudly in my head right now. He wants his mama ale's attention.

[heavenlyraindrops]

☆ “ɪ’ᴍ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ.” | ᴋᴇɴᴊɪ ꜱᴀᴛᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ☆

☆ She said “fuck me like I’m famous”| Chapter one

☆ Warnings: fem!reader, afab!reader, oral (f receiving), fingering, awkward!reader, reader is literally a hermit, no established relationship, not proofread, porn with like a drop of plot, they get slightly awkward after doing it but it’s ok <3 ☆ Word Count: 3.3k | Available on Tumblr & AO3

“Out? For dinner?”

You tore your eyes from your phone to look at Ami, who was watching Chiho roll around on the floor, immersed in whichever new game of pretend she had devised.

“Yes, dinner,” she repeated, then turned to look at you. “I’m meeting a… friend. Not a close one, but a friend nonetheless. And it would do you some good to meet new people, and to get out more.” She raked her eyes over you, from your baggy clothes to messy updo. 

“What’s that meant to mean? I get out plenty often. I’m out right now with you, aren’t I?”

“‘Chilling out’ at my house twice every week isn’t exactly going out, [name],” she sighed, rolling her eyes as she stood up, stepping towards the kitchen. “You’re like a hermit.”

You furrowed your brows together. “Maybe that’s how I like it.”

You heard water trickling as it filled up her glass, and her voice drift down towards where you were sitting. “I tend to wonder if I’m your only friend.”

At those words you stiffened, eyes opening wide and shooting up, back straight. “What? Friends?” You spluttered. “I have friends. I have plenty of friends. You’re not my only friend.” The words tumbled out of you hastily, and then you paused, flashing her a charming smile, trying to distract her. “You’re just my favourite one!”

She rolled her eyes as she sat back down. “Well, you have awful taste.” She handed you a drinks can. Your favourite.

“Hardly,” you uttered

“Just- you focus on work too much, okay? You need to find balance.” She took your palm, uncurling your fingers and placing the cold can in your hand. “Just come to this dinner.”

“…Fine.” You dug your finger under the tab, trying to get it open. “Who even is this friend, anyways?”

“Kenji Sato.”

You stared at her.

She must have mistaken your silence and blank stare for shock, or stupor instead of a reaction to what you considered to be an underwhelming statement, because she just sat back, letting her words sink in. They did, not that they meant much to you.

“Who?” You said blankly.

She blinked, then leaned forward. “Uh, Ken Sato? The really famous baseball player?”

You took a slow sip of the drink- the carbonation danced on your tongue. “No idea who that is. I don’t follow baseball.”

“You don’t follow anything,” she pointed out. “You’re completely out of the loop.”

You threw your hands in the air, exasperated. “Just- look, is he someone I should be impressed with? Like, am I-“

“I’ve mentioned him once,” Ami cut in. “Played in the States, moved to Japan suddenly? I was wondering why, and mentioned it to you?” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless you weren’t listening.”

“No no, I was,” you said quickly, then frowned, furrowing your brow. “Wait, didn’t you interrogate him, once? Twice?”

“Thrice,” she corrected you. “And it's called an interview, not an interrogation.”

“Same thing,” you said indignantly, with another gulp of ice cold carbonated sugar. “And you’re sure he’s just a friend.” You eyed her, testing her for any telltale signs on her face suggesting otherwise.

She simply stared at you, unimpressed. “Yes.”

“Okay,” you said, stretching out the vowel, rolling it along your tongue. You stopped. “Okay, fine, I’ll come to your dinner thing.”

“Yes!” She said, sounding a bit too relieved. You stared at her. “Sorry, it’s just- I’m so glad you’re finally-“ she cut off with an excited, pleased noise. 

You looked at her, concern for yourself creeping into your expression. “Am I really that-“

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Now, please put some effort into your appearance tomorrow night-“

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yes, do you have plans?” She didn’t wait for an answer, because she already knew it. “No? Thought so. Please put some effort into your appearance tomorrow night, because it’ll be worth it.”

“Uh huh,” you said slowly.

“I wonder if you even remember how to behave in a social setting,” she mused, and you smacked her shoulder. 

That night when you got home and flopped down on your bed, pulling out your phone, your finger hovered over the search bar.

What was his name?

Kenji Sato.

You were typing in the words before you even realized it, and seeing the images, you froze.

Oh. 

Shoving down any sort of deranged thoughts that could have been formulating in your head, you buried your face into your pillow and tried to fall asleep.

-

“[name]!”

“Ami!” You stuttered. Ami came towards you, eyes lighting up as she took in your appearance.

“You look really different,” she said, taking in your appearance. “Really pretty.”

You didn’t often wear clothes that were form-fitting or flattered your figure, but you’d decided that since it was a dinner with basically a celebrity, you might as well have put in some extra effort into your looks. 

“Thanks,” you said, as she led you through the restaurant doors and to your table. Pausing, she turned to look at you. 

“You look sick,” she frowned. “And nervous.” She clicked her tongue. “Maybe this really was a bad idea. I should have know you can’t handle-“

“No!” You almost burst out. “No, I mean, I can do this. It’s not that big a deal. I’m just meeting a new person, right?” 

She nodded hesitantly, still frowning at you.

“Right. So, not a big de-“

“Hey, Ami.”

You froze, shoulders stiffening.

“Kenji.” Ami turned to him. You still hadn’t looked at him yet, eyes fixed desperately on Ami’s face. “This is [name]. Name, this is-“

“Ken Sato.” He held out his hand to you, to shake. You stared at his long fingers, then slowly looked up to his face. He was wearing this easy, charming grin. Your knees almost buckled. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

You grabbed his hand and shook it. “N-nice to meet you.” You both held your stare a few seconds longer than you needed to. 

He raised a dark brow, and you could have sworn his expression had flickered with amusement before he turned back to Ami. “And here I was worried I was late.” He waved you both on towards the table, where you took your seats.

Ami was looking at you, frowning. You gave her a wobbly smile back. 

Oh, fuck this.

-

“So, what did you say you work as, [name]?” 

Kenji’s voice snapped you out of your haze, and you looked up at him, eyes widening. “Oh, I’m an, uh, I’m an author.” You stared hard at your food, then looked back up at him to gauge his reaction. 

He just leaned back against his chair. “Cool.” His eyes were set on yours. You flushed. “What sort of stuff do you write?”

“Uh,” your eyes slid to Ami, who was looking at you expectantly. “Romance, mostly.” The confession made your cheeks burn but you were too much of a mess to lie smoothly, not that it had even occurred to you in the first place- and Ami would have teased you about it later.

But Kenji just formed a small ‘o’ with his mouth, then smirked. “That’s cute.”

“Is it?” You had to fight to not make your voice sound like a squeak. He just nodded, taking a bite of his food like it was nothing. 

He’d said it so casually that Ami hadn’t even noticed, instead pouring herself more of her drink and commenting on how Kenji had healed up. You blinked, confused, and turned as he held his arm out, flexing it.

“Yeah, quicker than I thought,” he said. You could see the faint outline of his muscles through the fabric and were so prepared to just jump out the window, then and there. He must have caught you staring because, without turning his head, he locked eyes with you and fucking winked.

You bit your lip, rubbing your thighs together and trying to ignore every instinct in your body screaming at you to throw yourself across the table. “You got hurt?”

He dropped his arm back to his side, rolling his shoulder. “Yeah. It’s fine now though.”

You didn’t press any farther, just eating your food in flushed silence, trying to ignore the burning you could feel in between your thighs. 

-

“How’d you get here, [name]?” Ami asked. You stared desperately at your phone screen.

“Cab,” you muttered, rubbing your hand on the back of your neck. The app was empty. “But there aren’t any available.”

You checked the time. Half past eleven. You shivered, the night air biting at your skin. Ami looked at you, concerned. “Should I drop you?”

“No. No.” Guilt ate away at your gut. “No, you need to get home to Chiho, and I’m in the completely opposite direction- it’s not worth it.” You stepped back, and you could feel Kenji look over your shoulder at your screen. He leaned down to your level, breath warm on your ear. You shivered again, but not from the cold. “I’ll just wait until something shows up.”

“What’s your address?” He tilted his face slightly towards you, before pulling away. You stared at him, then frowned at him slightly, opening your mouth to reply, but Ami cut in.

“Look, I-“ she glanced at her watch. “I really need to go.” She pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, [name].”

You waved her off. “Don’t be.”

And she was gone, her car rolling off. You looked back at Kenji, and quickly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, mumbling your address.

He tapped something into his phone, and his face twisted into a satisfactory grin. “It’s on the way to mine. So I’ll just drop you.” He started walking down the street.

You stumbled after him. “Oh- are you- are you sure?”

He turned, walking backwards, in the same direction but facing you know as he shrugged, grinning. “Why not? Better than waiting around in the cold for a ride.”

“R-right.” 

He led you to where a motorbike was parked, and you blinked. “You rode here on a motorcycle?”

He shrugged his blue biker’s jacket off, and without warning, draped it over your shoulders. “Yeah. Surprised?”

“I… don’t know.” Your face was burning at the action. “Are you sure…” you fiddled with the hem of his jacket.

He waved his hand at it dismissively. “Take it. You look cold.”

You fell silent. Then: “I don’t have a helmet.”

He reached into a compartment, pulling one out. “Spare. For situations like this, I guess. Comes in handy.”

“Situations like this?” You echoed, as he stepped towards you, setting the helmet down over your head and fastening it tight. Your heart was going a million miles a minute.

“When I have to make sure a pretty girl like you gets home, obviously,” he said casually, but the look on his face betrayed his nonchalant tone. He clambered onto the bike. “Come on, then. Get on.”

You blinked, face burning even harder than before, but did as he told you to. 

-

“Thanks. For taking me home, I mean.” 

He looked up at you as you pulled the helmet off your head, imitating the action himself. A strand of hair fell in front of his forehead. “Don’t think about it,” he shrugged, and your grip on the helmet tightened as you clutched it to your chest. 

“Oh, but I will.” You dropped your voice to a husky whisper, and watched his jaw clench. Oh thank you god, I remember how to flirt. Kind of. 

Now it was his turn to become flustered, as he gave you another grin, shaky this time. “Really?” He asked, voice hoarse. You stepped back, towards your house.

“You should come inside,” you suggested. “It’s not that late.”

He raised his eyebrow. “It’s almost midnight,” he laughed, but didn’t object to your offering, licking his lips nervously. You paused your walk up towards your front door, turning and looking at him expectantly. 

“Oh, fuck this,” he muttered, abandoning the bike and walking towards you. Your stomach exploded into a flurry of butterflies as you both hurried towards your front door. 

-

You bit back a whimper as his lips crashed onto yours, kissing you with a hunger you hadn’t been met with before. The door hadn’t even shut before his hands were on your waist, dragging you close to him- and then it was, and he pinned you against it, your back pressing into the ridges of the wood. 

He pulled away, both of your breathing ragged as he pressed his forehead against yours, eye contact unwavering. He cursed under his breath. “Sorry- I should have- I should have asked.”

You were barely able to move your mouth, shaking your head lightly. “It’s fine,” you breathed, and his eyes flicked back down to your lips, grip on your waist tightening. “You didn’t have to.”

“God, you’re-“ he choked on his own words. “You’re pretty.” 

You didn’t have time to respond before his mouth was capturing yours again, heat burning all over as one of his hands wandered to grip your nape, holding you steady. His teeth grazed your lip and you gasped, but he pulled away, pressing kisses all the way down your jaw and collarbone, leaving a trail of blooming bruises in his wake. His other hand fell from your waist to hip, pressing you close up against him, and heat pooled in your core. 

“Ken,” you managed to whisper weakly through the dizzying haze clouding your mind. He paused, teeth pressed against your skin, and he leaned back up to you, ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear, humming. “Are you sure this is a g-good idea?” Your voice was shaking. He frowned, pulling away, and his fingers dug into your hips. 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” His voice was husky with desire, eyes trained on your every movement. You could feel his breath on your skin. You opened your mouth, searching for a reason, but couldn’t find any. He trailed his fingers down your neck, brushing over the marks, to the collar of your top, tugging at it. “Come on.”

You stumbled after him, shedding the jacket, ignoring it as it fell to the floor, and he pulled you down onto the couch with him, hands on your waist. You fell into his lap, straddling him. He grinned. “Still can’t find a reason?”

“…No.”

“Then just relax,” he told you, lips still pressed against your jaw, fingers creeping beneath the hem of your top. “Because I’m about to make you feel really good.”

At his words you bit back a moan, sucking in a harsh breath as you bit your lip, involuntarily rolling your hips against him. He hissed, tipping his head back. You were certain his hands were going to leave marks everywhere they touched, feeling them dig into your hips as you dove onto his neck, suckling and biting, anything to repay the affection he’d shown you earlier.

His hand fisted your hair, gently but firmly tugging you back and away. “Stop it,” he hissed. “Just let me do my thing, okay?”

You looked at him, confused, and slightly hurt, until he quickly pressed a reassuring kiss to your lips. “I said I’d make you feel good, so just sit back and let me, got it?”

You didn’t argue with him, not when he flipped you around so that your back was pressed against the couch, or when he sank to his knees, pushing your legs open, letting out a shaky breath as your skirt hiked right up your thighs. 

He let out a breathless laugh. “You’re wet,” he teased, his hot breath hitting your skin. He pressed a chaste kiss to your inner thigh, making you shiver, then another, each one lasting longer before the one before, leaving marks littering all over your inner thighs. You bit your lip- the mere sight of his face in between your legs was enough to get you dripping, even more than you were before, and he seemed to notice, because he let out an amused chuckle.

“Wh-what?” Your voice was broken, and hitched when he pressed his thumb to your clothed clit, sending a jolt of pleasure into your cunt. He smirked at your reaction. 

“Nothing,” he murmured, hooking his fingers around the waistband of your soaked panties, tugging them slowly down your legs. Your teeth pressed down on your bottom lip harder. His eyes flicked up to meet your expression. “What? Nervous?” 

You didn’t reply, just shaking, and he let out a slow breath, pressing his lips back against your inner thigh as his expression softened. “Don’t be, baby.” His lips curled back into his signature grin. “I told you you could relax, remember?”

You flushed, and nodded.

Without warning, he dove in, lips pressing down on your clit. You whimpered, not even enough time to react before his tongue licked a long strip up your entrance, making you twitch and spasm, throbbing pleasure aching. Your legs instinctively pulled together but he forced them back apart, tongue tracing slow patterns across your bundle of nerves, eyes hooded with lust as he watched your flinch and gasp. 

You let out a broken whimper of his name, and felt him tense under you- but he didn’t stop his movements, slipping his tongue in between your folds, stretching you out with his fingers. You bucked your hips, but he grabbed your hip with his other hand, pinning you down to keep you from moving. “Shhh,” he whispered, his low voice sending vibrations into your core. You let out a desperate moan- it took everything in you to not desperately start grinding against his face. He chuckled slightly at your pitiful state, turning his attention back to your dripping cunt, slipping a finger inside. Your back arched, hand flying to your mouth to clamp over it. A finger slipped inside, curling to hit that sweet spot- you almost saw stars.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped, screwing your eyes shut. “I think I’m gonna cum-“

He simply hummed at your words, the vibrations of his voice sending another shockwave through you, lapping at you like he was hungrier than before, fingers pumping in and out at a steady pace. You knew what he was saying.

Go on. Cum. 

And you did, a broken cry of his name slipping past your lips as the orgasm crashed over you, legs shaking as he drew out your high for as long as possible. And when you finally came down he pushed himself up, towards you, capturing your lips in another feverish kiss. 

You could see the shaky movements of his chest as he breathed heavily, feel his boner pressed up against you, his face flushed and burning to the touch. You pulled away. 

“Are you… shoud I…” You reached for his zipper, despite the fact your voice was heavy with fatigue but he just shook his head, laughing breathlessly.

“No, no, I… don’t worry about me.” He cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “I’ll just- where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the corridor, first door on the left,” you mumbled, slumping back. He stood up, adjusting your head on the couch.

“Okay, I’ll- I’ll be right back.”

You heard his footsteps hurry away and the door shut.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed, with you laying on the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness, when you heard his footsteps approach you again. You looked up at him drowsily.

“Hey.” Your voice was barely audible. “You should stay here for the night.”

He opened his mouth, but didn’t object, even when you waved him over to lay next to you. You settled on top of him, laying your head on his chest. His arm looped around your waist. 

“[name],” he muttered. You lifted your head. “Is this just a… one time thing?”

You tilted your head. “Do you want it to be?”

He frowned, then shook his head. “No. No, I don’t.”

You smiled. “Me neither.”

☆ A/N: visit either the first tag or the pinned post to find the other chapters!

[yesimwriting]

we need more felix and lovie content i miss themmm

i miss them too,, i have so many drafts and half finished fics with them but i've had so little energy/time to actually finish any of them bc of finals

but i'm pretty caught up with school rn (by tuesday i'll be on summer break!!) so here's a bit of an i'm-sorry-for-being-absent drabble :)

The nail of your thumb drags against the edge of the page, finally getting the glue to fully adhere to the page.

You press your back against the wood surface of your desk chair to admire your handiwork. The background of your latest scrapbook page has come together just the way you wanted it to. You pick up the book carefully before turning your body.

"Lex," you beam.

Felix doesn't sit up fully, but he does lift his head. The arm holding up his copy of the latest Harry Potter relaxing. "Oh," he mumbles it in that way that reminds you of one of the things you like best about him. He has this talent for giving attention. Where other people would just be polite without a second thought, Felix takes the time to really look before commending.

He pushes himself up in a way that awkwardly squishes your pillow. "That's good." Felix straightens, legs crossing beneath him. "That's really good, Lovie." His thumb tucks itself between the pages of his book, a make shift bookmark. "The edges, the paper..."

"Thank you." Another thing you love about Felix is the fact that you can always tell he means his praise. You turn forward, setting your scrapbook back onto your desk. "You should make one."

The corner of his mouth pulls itself into a version of a smile that's so soft you almost miss it. "Yeah?" You nod. Felix's smile shifts into something more assured. "Maybe tomorrow night."

You try to picture Felix spending a Saturday night in either your room or his, cutting up scraps of paper and gluing them down instead of at a bar or some party. The thought makes your feel warm in that way that's so exclusively Felix. It also feels blurry, intangible in its unlikeliness.

As happy as it'd make you, tonight was already surprising enough. It's not like Felix goes out every night, and this isn't the first time the two of you have stayed in on a Friday, but nights like these are rare. You can't picture two of these in a row.

"Tomorrow?" You pull your legs out from under your desk, entire body angling itself to the side so that it's easier to look at him. "Tomorrow's Saturday."

He lets out a partial laugh. "And you're dying for a rager?"

"No," you mumble, dragging out the vowel sound in an attempt to sound more sarcastic. "But you like going out." You lean forward, resting your chin against the chair's back. "And it's not like I hate going out, especially with you..." You trail off, eyes shifting away from Felix and towards the bed post closest to you. "And I don't want to be the reason you don't do things you like."

For a beat, the only sound is the low, rhythmic tapping of Felix's pointer finger against the spine of his book. "I like a lot of things."

You lift your head. "I know."

"I like doing things with you."

The warmth comes back with a vengeance. You tap your thumb against the side of your seat for the sake of doing something. "Me too."

Felix shifts, extending one leg to make himself more comfortable. "Good." He's so quiet for a second, you almost think that might be the end of the conversation. You're about to go back to picking out the pictures to finish off the page you'd been working on when he starts again, "So you don't need to worry about me resenting you."

Your eyes narrow. "I didn't say anything about you resenting me." Your chin lifts slightly, an attempt at displaying your indignation. "Why are you saying it like that was an option?"

He grins, dropping himself back onto your pillow. "No reason."

You roll your eyes at his sarcasm. He's the one that came over to your room without being asked to. "Sure."

"What?" His tone implies nothing but perfect innocence. He picks up his book, opening it as if he's done nothing wrong. "Y'should come over here before the resentment sets in and I lose all interest."

You let out a loud sigh, but move to stand regardless. "Yeah, that feels like a real possibility."

When you don't move, Felix glances away from his book. "You're not gonna come over here?" He looks up at you, a hint of a pout playing at his expression. "I was kidding."

You cross your arms, fighting against a smile. "I just stood up." That's not enough to convince him to stop looking at you like that. You take a few steps forward with a sigh that's more out of habit than anything else. "You are so dramatic."

You sit on your bed, crossing your legs beneath you. Felix shifts onto his side. His freehand finds your knee. "You cried because of this book."

Eyes narrowing, you lean forward to get a better sense of how far into the book he's gotten. "Wait a few chapters."

Felix snaps his head in your direction, "Lovie. You said you wouldn't--" Your sentence runs into his, "I didn't--I didn't spoil it."

He frowns, watching you skeptically. "That was mean."

"You started it." You're aware that you sound like a little kid, but you can't help it. With a sigh, you give up, laying down. He's taking up most of your bed, but you're far from uncomfortable. "Fine. I'm sorry."

With little warning, Felix leans forward and presses a kiss against your temple. "Want me to read to you?"

You're used to Felix's random displays of affection, but every once in awhile something will take you by so much surprise you feel it more than you should. You blink. "Yeah," you mumble, hoping that your voice comes out even, "Sounds nice."

Felix shifts onto his back, one hand finding your arm and the other holding his book.

----

taglist; @vader-is-hot @spiritofbuddha @getosangie @freyafriggafrey @ilovehyperfixating @aryiannarae @willowpains @ker0senebunny @lilyrachelcassidy @khxna @imbabycowboy

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Assistant 12

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, cheating, creep behaviour, violence, anger. These warnings are not exhaustive.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As an assistant at the Daily Planet, you’re rarely noticed. Until you are.

Characters: Clark Kent

Note: Another one.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Lord Farquaad loves unnecessary vowels. Take care. 💖

🖊🖊🖊

The crickets keep you awake. The flutter of bats and the sway of trees swirl together and set an eerie lull. The scent of pine wafts in and eludes to the freedom withheld from you. A serene atmosphere tainted by the coil of heat twisted around you.

Clark snores into your hair. Unbothered by his strange surroundings or the circumstance. It almost maddens you to think he can act so normal on the surface yet be corrupt to core. It's all so sickening but frightening.

You think of Lois and the crack of bones, Richard and the smell of burnt flesh, the fury in Clark’s eyes. You know you can’t resist him. Not without getting hurt. You’re too weak, you’re too afraid. You don’t want to die, not like this. You don’t want to leave this world behind without getting to tell all the stories in your head.

You lay awake, waiting for his eventual rise. He grumbles, patting your hip before he sits up. He bends over his lap and rubs his eyes before climbing to his feet. You watch the strain of flannel across his shoulders as he cross to the door and pulls open the door.

He returns with a copper kettle. Water drips from the edges of the lid as he hangs it in the fireplace, rebuilding the burnt out fire beneath. You shiver as you sit up and tuck yourself into the corner.

He moves around, searching through the bin he put in the opposite corner. He takes something out and brings it to you. He hands you the small notebook and searches his front pocket for the short pencil hidden there. You see the redness in the rims of his eyes and note the unkemptness of hair and clothing unlike. He is not the straight laced journalist you thought you knew. 

"Make a list. What we need."

You nod, mouth too dry to speak, brain too fuzzy to think. You blink at him as you cradle the notebook. You’re not sure what he means.

“Food, soap, whatever,” he sighs as he turns on his heel, dragging his feet to the fireplace as he sets his hand on the mantel, “gotta hook up the water… grabbed enough coffee and some granola…” he’s mostly talking to himself, “a bed, I’ll get a bed for sure.”

You write bed at the top of the first page. Then you stare at the next line. You can’t put freedom there. You have to keep lying. You write down eggs. Eggs are good, you can make breakfast tomorrow, that might keep him happy.

“I’ll make the coffee,” you offer, “where is it?”

He inhales and goes back to the bin. He fishes out a small glass jar of instant grinds. You try not to show your disappointment. It’s something. You know better than to not play along. He’s shown you the consequences for not.

“Cups?” You ask, gently, putting pen back to paper as you remember a few other things.

He returns to the bin again. A sleeve of paper cups. Alright, that will do. You stand and keep the notebook in hand as you near the fireplace. You write down cups.

“You’ll have to find some proper ones,” you say as you put down the book and grab the jar. You read the label and set it down as you kneel in front of the fire. You hold up your hands, it’s cool despite the summer sun outside. “And some pretty dishes.”

He’s silent. You try not to give yourself away. He can’t see through your act. You rub your hands together and shiver. He moves and you fight not to wince. He grabs the blanket and brings it over to drape over your shoulders.

“I’ll some nice ones,” he promises as he lowers himself to his knees beside you, “I didn’t get to show you the tub…” he puts his large hand on your back as you watch the fire, waiting for the kettle to boil, “I got it just for you, baby.”

“That’s nice. I’m excited,” you almost believe yourself as you keep a chipper chime in your voice, “I really have to pee.”

His hand slips down and he lowers his chin.

“Like I said, water’s not… gotta run a line down to the lake…” he sniffs, “I’ll take you out, you can go by the trees.”

“Alright,” you nod as you pull the cups over and open the plastic sleeve.

You pull out two then uncap the lid of the jar. You tear back the seal and carefully measure out grinds into each cup. You smile and twist the cap back on. You set down the jar as Clark looms close.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says so quietly you barely hear him. You flinch but hide it as you reach past the blanket and touch his side. “I wouldn’t… wouldn’t do what I did… to you. I did it for you.”

“I know,” you wilt out, snaking your arm around him, “look at all you’ve done for me…” you look up at the rafters, then the walls, and the fire crackling before you. He doesn’t see your other hand, how it grips the chain around your ankle, “you’ve made a whole life for me… for us.”

-

Clark is gone for a few hours, or so you guess. The sunlight shifts a little through the windows, at its peak as you estimate about noon. A rush of air signals his return and you stand at the window watching as he drops a whole industrial container in the dirt, at least twenty times his size.

You watch him. It’s unsettling how inhuman his strength is, but what’s more, is how inhuman his mind is. Something’s disjointed in him. That he can justify all he’s done; not just to you but to his own wife, to another human being.

He twists back the bar on the door and cranks it open on its hinges. He goes inside and emerges with another bin matching the blue rubber one in the corner of the front room. He approaches the cabin and lets himself in. He puts down the heaping container.

“Food,” he announces, “I grabbed a few other things but I’ll sort it out. For now…” he stops to brace the back of your head and kisses you, “you can deal with the kitchen.”

He passes you and unhooks the chain from the floor. He leads you as if you’re on a leash into the next room. It’s a large kitchen with wooden counters and a tall faucet over a sink; there’s a fridge and stove, and everything else you could ever need. You can’t believe he’s turned a pile of dirt into all this. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so disorienting.

He hesitates but keeps the links in hand as he guides you onward. He turns back at another door, smiling.

“I did say I’d show you the tub,” he preens, “while you put everything away, I’ll get it working. But you should see…”

He waves you closer as he twists the handle and pushes in the door. You near warily and look around the door frame. There’s a tub against the wooden slats of the wall, a curtain hung around it. It’s big, bigger than yours. The tub you’ll never see again.

You try to smile and your lips quiver. You cover your mouth to hide your despair. You flutter your lashes, desperately holding back your horror. You can’t let him see.

“Honey,” he touches your shoulder as you pull back.

“I’m okay,” you squeak, “I just can’t believe you did all this for me.” To me…

“Of course, I… I’d do anything for you. Don’t you see?”

You nod, gulping down the wave of terror. You fan yourself and face him, hoping he can’t see right through you. Your heart is thumping wildly. Didn’t he say he could hear it?

“I’m just so overwhelmed. No one ever…” you trail off, “Clark, I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid that… I’m not enough for you.”

His forehead stitches and he tilts his head. A scoff scratches in his throat. Shit, he doesn’t believe you. He drops the chain, the metal clanking loudly on the floor.

“Sweetie, of course you’re enough,” he grabs your hands, making you jolt. “You’re everything I ever dreamed of… I’ve written pages for you. I can’t stop. I just dream of our life together and… you did this. You made me want to make our story more than words. I’m building it around us. All of this.”

He looks up dreamily, “we can live happily ever after. Just us. No one will get in our way.”

“They won’t,” you rasp and you squeeze his hands, legs wobbly as your head spins. “They can’t…”

They won’t find you. They can’t save you. That’s what you really mean. 

He searches your face. You measure your breathing, urging your heart to calm. You cling to him, afraid you might collapse. The crushing weight of surrender lays over your shoulders. You don’t have a choice but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“Sweetie,” he lets go of your hands and brings his grip around your waist, “I knew you just had to see what I see. What’s inside my head. That you would get once I made it more than fiction.”

“I do,” you croak, running your hands up his arms and across his chest, “I see it. It’s amazing.”

He leans in, growling over you as he draws you closer. He bends to nuzzle your hair and lets out a hot breath over your scalp. He inhales your scent and sways you. You are nothing, you are thin as air, you dissolve in his arms. 

“I forgive you,” his lips tickle your forehead as he pulls back just a little, “honey, I love you and I forgive you.” His hand slips down your side and his fingers curl beneath the denim of your waistline, “I missed you so much.”

You swallow, eyes welling as you dip your chin, hiding your dread. You caress him through the flannel of his shirt. You know what he wants. All his sweet words only ever lead to pain.

“I missed you too,” you brush your hand up to his neck, feeling how he trembles at your touch. That is your power; you cannot win, but you can survive.

You drop your other hand onto his and pull it away from your waist. You turn, sure to keep your face down, tugging him with you as you approach the counter. You let him go and unbutton your jeans. You bite down on your disgust.

You bare your ass, planting an arm on the counter as you bend against it. You touch your ass and dig your nails into the flesh with a hum. You wiggle your hips at him.

“Please, Clark, you said you miss me, right.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he comes up behind you, placing his hand over yours, groping you around your own, “I’m sorry about last night. I’ll never… I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

He shifts his hand, tickling along your ass, down along the crease, and between your folds. He pushes his fingers against your cunt and you step apart, as far as you can against the restraint of your jeans. You look down as he pokes into you, groaning as he feels you around his knuckles, spreading them so you stretch around him.

You grip the counter and look down at your ankle, the chain hanging there, loose. That’s it. You just have to wait for your chance; maybe not today, but eventually, when his guard is down, when he trusts you. When his delusion is too much to suspect the truth.

[radiojamming]

Prompting you for anything with Tartnell

hi i'm DJ and i and i want to write all the missing scenes i wanted to see in the terror.

---

In a memory with no date, they are children. It is a honey-gold day with sunlight playing on the river, a wood-warm scent in the air from the fences around the orchards. John carries Tom on his back down the road from the Burnt Elm farm, the corner of John's mouth still stained purple from the blackberries they picked out of the hedgerow. Tom's fingers are dyed the same shade, and their mother will surely have a few words to say about the stains on their clothes.

But for now, Tom is full, warm, and happy. There is sweetness in his mouth and the sun on his back, his brother to his front, the sound of magpies chattering in the trees around him.

John hums a tune. He's not a particularly good singer, but Tom likes to listen to him anyway. It's a shanty—one that they've heard at the Dockyard when they run down to see their father and walk home with him. Tom thinks it's about ladies; most of those songs are. He tries to hum along, but the sway of John's gait makes him too sleepy to try.

Instead, he yawns and asks, "Can we do this again tomorrow?"

"Sure," John replies, hefting Tom up a little further up his back. "We ought to bring a basket, though. To take some home."

Tom nods and turns his head so his cheek is pressed against his brother's back. He watches the Danbury farm slowly give way to the Simon orchard, and he counts the rows of trees until he gets to the one that was hit by lightning last summer. Eventually, he closes his eyes.

There's not much meaning to this memory. No lessons learned, no part of Tom's life altered. What's important is that John is there—a child, thin, tall for his age, keeping Tom close and safe. Walking so Tom doesn't have to.

No. This memory means everything.

---

They fight only once. Truly fighting; not just the general struggle of being brothers with only two years' difference between them.

Tom doesn't recall his exact words. All he knows is that he's angry. Angry that John keeps himself cloistered in the same job that's slowly killing him, that he exhausts himself day after day to make ends meet without a care for himself, that Tom's certain he'll come home on leave only to find John's headstone beside their father's in the churchyard.

(He's scared; not angry. But it's so much easier to mask it as anger than to ever admit he's frightened.)

But Tom's words are coarse, scoured over with years on the Volage and deckled on the edges with every gunshot or dying wail of a comrade in his ears. He curses in a way their mother would scold him for, but he can't take the words back even as he sees John go milk-pale at the sound.

He remembers only one sentence. The only one that matters.

"You're so selfish," he snarls.

(It's not true. It's never been true. John doesn't know how to be selfish. His life has always been attached to someone else, for someone else's benefit. His mother's, his brothers', his sisters', Mister Sarge's, Jane's. Selfish people don't lose sleep like John has, don't wince when they move their hands the way he does.

But all the other words Tom wants to say don't come out. They change shape, consonants, vowels. They turn into something awful.)

He sees the whites of John's eyes, and as soon as his brother takes one step forward, straightens himself out of his perpetual slouch, Tom remembers how much taller John is.

"Shut your mouth, Thomas," John says. His voice has always been low, a little scratchy like he's in need of clearing his throat.

And never—never has he used Tom's full name.

John takes another step forward.

(Where they are, Tom can't remember. There's a wall of a building. Home? Church? The Inn?)

And another.

(He remembers John's shirt, stained at the wrists. Shoemaker's black.)

And then John's hands are on Tom's shoulders, and he shoves. Tom reels back, catches himself before he can hit the ground. He knows he should step back and apologise. He knows there's so much more he could do or say that could fix this. But he's a sailor, and there's this awful crashing noise in his head that he simply can't quiet. He balls his fists and before he can think clearly, he swings.

At his fucking brother.

(He remembers crying into John's shirt at their father's grave.)

He has to aim up because John's so much taller.

(Remembers John standing under the lychgate into St. Mary Magdalene's, fist pressed to his mouth, biting his knuckles so he wouldn't cry.)

His fist connects with John's upper lip and nose, causing his brother's head to snap back. Something crunches under Tom's knuckles, and his stomach twists in a fierce knot at the feeling. He sees blood—orchard fruit bright red—on his hand when he draws it back.

(Remembers John in bed, gasping with breath that simply wouldn't come. A bloodstained handkerchief clenched in his fist. Their mother weeping as she watched their father dying of the same affliction.)

John doesn't make a sound. No yelp of agony, or gasp, or curse. Just silence. Agonising silence that makes a minute into an hour. Tom only sees him stagger a little, blood pouring freely out of his nose and onto his mouth, his shirt collar.

(Their mother scrubbing blood out of his shirt.)

It drips onto the ground. Slow. Raindrop-heavy.

(The bed linens on the line. A blossom of blood visible, drying in the breeze.)

He says nothing. Instead, he raises his head and sniffs once. Hazel eyes in skull-deep sockets. Exhaustion bows his back again as he nods.

"Alright, Thomas," he says. Another sniff. "Alright."

And he walks away.

(Where does he go? Where does this happen? Tom wishes he knew, wishes he would have run after him and begged his forgiveness. They never fight again after this, but Tom can't shake the memory of his brother's blood on his hands.)

---

They join up together. It's easier this way—two incomes flowing into their house, right when Charlie's on the cusp of joining up as well.

"I can help," says Strickland. He bounces on the balls of his feet as John signs his name in the allotment book. "Mum says she doesn't need the full amount or nothin', but I think Aunt Sarah would like it."

"No," says John, mostly to the book and to Mister Helpman who's watching the whole family scene with amusement. "Good Lord, Stricks. Why would we make you do that?"

"You're not makin' me do nothin', Harts," Strickland retorts. "I'm contemplatin' doin' a kindness, you joyless thing."

Tom doesn't have to see his brother's face to know he's rolling his eyes.

"Well, tell your mum so," John replies, then steps back and gestures to Tom just as Mister Helpman turns to a fresh page. "You're next, Tommy."

Tom walks up to the book and tells Mister Helpman all the details he needs to know. Where his pay goes, to whom, what's the relation, where does he hail from. He watches Helpman's quick hand neatly record every word.

"Sign here, sir," Helpman says.

Behind Tom, Strickland grunts in a way that suggests John has him in another headlock—his favourite method of subduing anyone. "Lemme go, you big oaf!"

"Come now, Mister Strickland," John says primly. "Is this any way for a member of Her Majesty's Navy to behave?"

"I'll show you Her Majesty!"

"That doesn't make sense. Actually, that sounds right obscene." John pauses, just as Tom finishes signing his name. "I'm just sorry, Mister Helpman. He's usually a good boy."

Helpman stifles a laugh and shakes his head. "Well, you lot will surely keep the ship entertained. Now, please release Mister Strickland so he can give me his details."

"You heard the gentleman, Stricks," John says, releasing Strickland who darts forward, sand-brown hair a mess. "Do we need to remind you how to spell your name again?"

Strickland gives him a very unkind gesture behind his back where Helpman can't see.

Tom returns to John's side and grins at his brother. People often comment how they look nothing alike, save for their smile. John gives him a perfect reflection of it now—playful, tilted up at the left corner, eyes squinting in happiness.

"You gonna behave yourself on this trip?" he asks John.

"Of course," John replies. "I have to be the responsible older brother, don't I?"

They laugh.

As if John's been anything else.

---

John starts to get sick in November.

It comes on slow. Coughs stifled in his fist or elbow. A wheeze he can pass off as simply poor lungs struggling in tight quarters with far too much pipe smoke in the air. Begging off early for bed even when they're deep in a game or a book.

Then he falls off a ladder, and Tom knows something's wrong.

John's never been particularly graceful. Uncle Hoar used to compare him to a colt that wasn't quite sure of its own legs. But in the rigging, he's a different creature entirely. It's as though he's waited his whole life to get off the ground, to see the world from some place higher than the world he'd been relegated to. His grip is always sure and steady, his footing secure. Only a few years in the Navy and he's done well by himself.

But it's the ladder—the damn ladder that does it. Just the one to maintain the lamps on deck. Only a few rungs. A few steps. It's not so very far to fall.

(It is. It's only ice and hard wood under his back when he lands. He's in so much pain by the time Tom, Sullivan, Tadman, and two Marines on duty get to him that he can't speak.)

He recovers for a few days in the sick bay until he can stand without wobbling on a weak ankle again. Doctor Stanley gives him some concoction and a few terse instructions. Mister Goodsir diligently follows up a few minutes later to advise on the dosage and how much rest John should get.

John improves.

And then he doesn't.

December comes in with a howling gale that sings in the lines holding the tent to the deck. And it comes with an awful sound rattling up from John's lungs.

It comes with blood on a handkerchief.

(Scrubbing it out of a shirt.)

---

"They say one of the stokers on Terror's got it, too," Tadman tells Tom in confidence. "He's barely conscious."

Tom stares down hard at the floor.

"You don't think he's been sick all this time?" Tadman asks.

Tom's quick to say, "He hasn't. He'd have been sent back by now."

Outside, on the stony shore of Beechey, two men sent by the captains of both ships make note of a particularly flat spot of land. Good for graves, they say.

"He'll make it through," Tom says.

---

In the doorway, Tom watches as Mister Weekes makes measurements of John. His height, the width of his shoulders, the width of his knees side-by-side. As he does, John sleeps fitfully, a pinch between his brows and sweat beading his top lip.

Weekes doesn't know Tom's there. He finishes his work, penning some numbers down in a little pocketbook. Then, he turns and sees Tom at last. His eyes go wide.

"Ah," he says. "Mister Hartnell."

Tom doesn't reply. Anything polite is caught in his throat. He only nods.

Weekes seems sheepish, apologetic. He fights for his words, but in the end only says, "A good evening to you," before walking by Tom.

Tom silently walks to John's side, looking his brother over now with new eyes. His height (for the coffin's length), his shoulders (for its width), his knees (tied together). But his eyes move restlessly under their lids, his cheeks are flushed, his fingers twitching as he dreams.

Then, he jerks away. He gasps, sputters, coughs. His glassy eyes cast about the sickbay until they catch on Tom's image, and immediately he settles.

"Tom," he croaks. Even sick as he is, he manages to smile. "S'dreamin' of 'alifax."

Tom forces a smile and pulls up his usual chair. He hasn't slept in two days, afraid of sleeping through what now seems inevitable. "Were you now?" he replies.

"Mm."

"Which part?"

John closes his eyes and grins. "You much for guessin'?"

"If it's what I think, then I'd rather not."

"Hah." He coughs out a laugh, and Tom tries his damnedest to ignore the rim of red on his bottom lip. "No. I was dreamin' about 'olystoning a bloody deck."

"You were dreaming about work?" Tom asks incredulously.

"Right?" John cracks an eye open. "I'm dyin' in a sickbay and that's what I dream about. S'awful."

Tom goes quiet then. John's never said anything about dying before. Up until now, it's been quiet reassurances that he'll make it through this again. As a veteran consumptive, he knows all the right strategies. He's made jokes about it.

John looks at him, his expression hard to read. If anything, he seems to try to read Tom's, searching his face for something. He clears his throat and looks away. "They plannin' anything for Christmas out there?" he asks.

It takes too long for Tom to comfortably respond. Eventually, "Yeah. Full-on feast or the like." He cringes, but manages to wrangle it into a weak smile. "Don't suppose there's a Goldner's Christmas Meal in one of those cans, d'you think?"

John laughs again, and it crackles in his throat. "I'd love to see it if there was."

"You will," Tom says. Maybe a bit too fiercely, too defensively. It takes him by surprise as much as it seems to take his brother. But he reiterates it, "You will."

"Sure, Tommy," John says. He nods, and a single drop of blood drips out of the corner of his mouth. He doesn't seem to notice. "I will."

---

By Christmas Eve, Mister Goodsir kindly tells Tom and Strickland that John's not doing well. It's soft sympathy, meant to cushion a blow that Tom's felt continually since November.

"He's not taken much by way of meals," Goodsir says. He fidgets with the cuffs of his shirt, apparently eager to do something with his hands. "I've managed with a little broth and some medicine, but he's gotten... Well, he doesn't seem particularly pleased with it."

He's gotten combative, Tom thinks. He's seen John's reactions lately, the way he strikes out at nothing, snarling at the ceiling like something there personally offends him. Tom can only imagine John trying to hit Goodsir as the man feeds him, like a temperamental, colicky child.

Strickland's hat is in his hands, and he's squeezing it so hard that Tom worries he'll crush it.

Goodsir goes on, saying they'll keep him comfortable, try to keep him fed, medicate him as needed.

Never once does he say John will get better.

---

They bury the stoker on New Year's. Tom doesn't see it—no one sees much of anything from the ships, as dark as it is. But he hears about it from Billy Orren.

That's how he learns about the open grave right next to the stoker's.

---

Tom sews a pillowcase. His hands are quick at this sort of work, learned from years of watching his mother and sisters, his aunts and cousins. He's always had a knack for sewing and mending, which is why some of the men on Erebus come to him for repairs. John was always—

John is good at it, too. Shoemaking and all.

He uses his fingertips to crimp the frills around the edges of the pillow, sewing them firmly into place. He's already got some cast-off rags and such to stuff it with, provided by some of the other Chatham boys who felt they needed to contribute somehow.

They've all been to see John—anyone who knew him in any capacity. Any man who didn't know him directly but who hailed from Kent and felt they needed to see their man off properly. Mister Armitage came the night before, offering his quiet condolences to a fellow St. Mary Magdalene congregant.

They paid their respects.

Tom swallows hard, blinks harder, and keeps sewing.

Then he pricks his finger with the needle, hissing at the contact. It stings, and he immediately sticks the tip of it in his mouth until he tastes copper. It seems to spread in his mouth, at the same time he notices the pin-sized droplet of blood on the pillow.

He stares at it for a long while as the bow of Erebus creaks and groans around him, as the sound of men enjoying the New Year carries down to his ears, as blood spreads across his tongue.

---

He doesn't want to remember this.

The high pitch in his ears, drowning out the ship, the Arctic, the world. His heart rampaging in his chest, throttling itself against his ribs like a prisoner. Tears ember-hot in his eyes.

No.

No, he doesn't want to remember this.

(He remembers it in sections now.)

The grief—

(John, still. Cold. Bloodless.)

Good God, the grief—

(Hands cold in Tom's. Unmoving. Callouses on his index fingers and thumbs from all those years of work.)

The way he cries out to nothing, to no one—

(Lips still, but slightly open. The barest shine of his teeth. Like he got caught on his last breath and forgot to shut his mouth after.)

The way his knees hit the floor—

(The blankets are damp with the sweat of a dead man.)

The way his whole body shudders, wracked with an animal noise—

(He can't look at his brother's face.)

And his forehead in his hands, like he's trying to hold himself together—

(Or the blood on his clothes.)

---

Tom shaves John's face. Orren trims his hair. Strickland cuts his fingernails. They wash him down, quietly trying to find something to joke about.

"God, remember when we were in Plymouth together?" Strickland says. His voice wobbles as though he's caught on a laugh and a sob. "That whole time he was trying to get Betsy off the breakwall. Like watchin' someone try to get a cat out of a tree."

Orren snorts and trims a piece of hair from behind John's left ear. "I heard about that," he replies. "The same time he fell in the water, yeah?"

"Absolutely," Strickland says.

"I'd have paid good money to see it," Orren goes on, brushing the hair off John's gansey. "This poor scrump absolutely soaked like a drowned rat."

It's easy to disguise a sniff as a laugh. "He's hardly a scrump, mate," Tom says.

"Eh, it kept him humble to say so."

They keep working in silence. Tom carefully shaves away the last of John's dark red stubble, the only part of him other than a smile that he shared with his brothers. He's clean-shaven save for some whiskers on his chin that he would no doubt be damned to see off.

Quietly, Strickland says, "I think he looks right proper, eh?"

Orren agrees. "Hardly a sailor no more. Looks more a'like one of those ponces in the high parish."

Tom silently agrees. Something about seeing John like this—shaven, trimmed up, relaxed—it almost doesn't look like him. For a moment, Tom thinks of what his brother would have been like if he'd been born anywhere else, to anyone else. If he'd just had more of a chance to be a child, to have a job he didn't hate and only find one he loved when it was far too late.

He hears Strickland sniffle beside him, and he wonders what he must be thinking. Of all their cousins, Strickland looked up to John the most. Proud to share a name with him, to sign his name alongside his, eager to follow him anywhere.

And now this.

Tom clears his throat. "He's to be buried in the morning," he says. "Sir John wants to say a few things then an' have a proper service."

"Feels wrong to just leave him tonight, though," Strickland replies quietly. "Should one of us stay?"

"No," says Tom. "I need— We need the rest, I think."

"Right," says Strickland at the same time Orren says, "Of course."

---

Fucking Christ, he doesn't want to remember this.

He sees his brother's chest open, blood bright on Goodsir's hands. He sees—

A heart.

His brother's heart.

Gore has to hold him back—

(Graham Gore, handsome and proud and practically glowing on the deck of the Volage. "You're a good man, Mister Hartnell," he'd once said.)

Restraining him by the chest, pinning his arms behind his back. Someone's hands are on Tom's shoulder, and someone else is yelling in his ear.

He feels delirious with it. The sight of Goodsir holding his brother's innards in his hands like he's simply been playing about in his chest. Oh, look what I've found, he imagines Goodsir saying. A liver. Ought we check if he drank overmuch?

Rage now.

(Not fear.)

Pure, bloody fucking rage.

(What could he be afraid of?)

He gnashes his teeth and wails. He snarls. He begs. He tries everything he can just short of clawing his way past all the men holding him back to shove the doctors and surgeons away and let his brother fucking be.

("They say men don't go to heaven if parts of them are amiss.")

Then he's on the floor, half-compressed under Gore's weight as he bodily holds him in place. "Hartnell, I know. I know," Gore says into his ear.

(Which Hartnell? he wants to snarl.)

"It has to be done. You know it does."

The person behind him hauls him back by the shoulders, and only then does Tom see that it's Armitage, his own eyes wide and face sickly-pale. He doesn't say a word to Tom, but Tom knows he's just as appalled. Only he's trying to keep Tom from getting a lashing or worse for acting out like this.

Tom moans in agony, the weight of this crushing him. He's steered away, the last sight of his brother open on the table like he's nothing more than a specimen to be studied.

Blood on the fucking linens.

---

Tom feels nothing on the day they bury John.

He's spent too much of himself. He feels like a candle guttering on its last supply of wax. Just smoke and air, now.

All he thinks to do is help cover John up a little more. His shirt, monogrammed, dated, wrapped around John like it'll keep him warm in the grave. That maybe something will change if he carries Tom's name on him to wherever it is he goes.

("They say men don't go to heaven—")

He doesn't hear Sir John's service, or the words of sympathy the officers give to Tom. He hears them say how John was a good man, and Tom wonders how they could possibly know that. How could men who scarcely leave their comfortable bedrooms and wardroom, who grew up in gilded halls with servants and cooks who made them wholesome meals that no one had to share—how could they know?

That's uncharitable. They're being kind.

But they don't know how this feels. The sensation of a heavy stone in his hand that he has to throw onto the navy-blue coffin lid, listening to the sharp tock as it makes contact, resounding in the half-filled hollow below.

He hopes to God they never have to bury one of their own.

---

Much happens after. Too much, too quickly. The world ends. A gun goes off.

Nothing happens at all. Not in this part of the world.

---

"Go be with your brother now."

---

John is carrying him back up the knoll. The air is summer-sweet, birds singing in the morning air. It rained last night, and John leaps over puddles while Tom shrieks in laughter.

They get to the hedgerow, still dripping with rain. John carefully lets Tom down and hands him the basket. "Remember to mind your fingers, Tommy," he tells him.

Tom eats more berries than he stores away. They stain his mouth and fingers again, and when he looks at his big brother, he giggles at the sight of berry stains on his face as well. They laugh together, their smiles identical.

When the basket is half-full, John pats Tom on the shoulder and motions for him to hop up on his back again. "Let's go home," he says.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Horace Desmoulins is adorable compilation

You who made vows for our union, who took our hands into yours, you who have smiled at my son and whom his infantile hands have carassed so many times, can you then reject my prayer, scorn my tears and trample justice under your feet?  Lucile in an unfinished letter to Robespierre, written somewhere between March 31 and April 4 1794.

You would be amused at hearing Horace talk about his arrival: he is to rush in and embrace you, frighten his aunt and Mère Laneau, run all over the whole house from cellar to garret; above all he is to make plenty of noise. He says all this with the greatest vivacity, and only quiets down when he remembers that he is far away from you. He’s no longer the same child; he said, with great calmness, “For all that, I cannot get accustomed to not seeing Maman. I cry every evening and morning.” Dear, too amiable child; at his simple and touching sorrow my own tears fall!... You have been informed of the way in which we passed the 30th. I had much pleasure in making the day of parting pleasant, and in spite of the grand people at the house of little Agathe's mama, where we dined, I managed to amuse the little people, the half of whom I took back to sleep with me. The evening passed quickly away; at ten o'clock they still wanted to go on with their little games. At last my carriage took us back, and at eleven o'clock our little friends were lying in their beds side by side in my room, where they slept well; at nine o'clock in the morning they went back to the college, where I took them, happy and contented, and they are quite well. They will write to you soon; my son, Horace’s secretary, is going to beg you to come and see him. In yeilding to their eagerness to have you, you will crown my desires.  Letter from madame Philippeaux to madame Duplessis, February 21 1801, telling her about a playdate between Horace and her son Auguste.

To Citoienne Duplessis, Paris, 10 Ventôse, year X (March 1 1802) Goodness triumphs and Horace is currently more often on his bed than in it. The coughing is diminishing all the time; he will be discharged tomorrow or the day after tomorrow; so you can rest easy. His guard has just given him some lint to occupy himself with in order to prevent him from bugging his neighbors whose stockings and shoes he was throwing in the air. So there’s no longer any danger. I now wish that la maman is doing as well as the child. Salut and respect. I pass the quill to my neighbor. Pierre J. Duplain

An hour after leaving you yesterday, citoyenne amie, I gave Horace his snake (couleuvre), which he saw again with tenderness, and they played together to fully reconnect. He is now only waiting for his two medicines, the first of which may arrive tomorrow. He told me that he was getting mieux en mieux, with the seriousness best suited to persuade me, and without forgetting, when repeating these words, to make the first x ring out capably before the following vowel. He really is adorable: I embraced him twenty times over for his lovable mien and we will all sketch him together (nous le crouqerons ensemble) more at ease in five or six days. We won't do it before then: that's what the supervising pharmacist told me. Goodbye; try to be as well soon as Horace is already. I just saw him again this morning with a marshmallow in the pocket; he is always getting better and better. A thousand hugs from his part as well as from mine.  PS — He's occupying himself with writing for you in a little notebook several drafts of letters that couldn't be funnier. Panis Letter to Annette Duplessis reporting that Horace is recovering well from some illness while at Prytanée français (former Louis-le-Grand), to which he gained a scholarship in December 1800.

I count on the pleasure of seeing you after tomorrow. You will have Victoire and her mother on Sunday, if the weather is fine, and even our Horace, in whose conduct there is much improvement. Be quiet on that part; I swear to you that there are many means with such a child. The slighest assumed coldness from my part, seemed to me to be unbearable for him. He quickly brought me his homework, trying to read in my eyes if he had lost my friendship for good, and telling me such things that I struggled with containing myself to giving him only a mediocre kiss , instead of my usual caresses. I'll tell you the rest on Saturday. Farewell; please take good care of yourself. Always be courageous in overcoming all your subjects of trouble. You can't better repay my strong attachment than by trying to perserve yourself. Let us always remember that Horace, who truly loves us, needs us. I embrace you a thousand times with all my heart, without forgetting Adèle.  Panis to Annette Duplessis June 17 1803

I knew this child, a young pupil of the institution of St. Barbe, directed by M. Lanneau, and I was his master. He was a very amiable and interesting child. I have never heard him spoken of since, and if he be still alive, it is evident that he has not made so much noise in the world as his father. Anonymous note on Horace written by one of his maîtres while at college

Nicknames: little Horace (Madame Philippeaux, Camille, his father and mother-in-law), little lizard (Camille), little wolf (Ricord), baby rabbit (Fréron), my little one, dear child (Lucile)

[bvannn]

Weekly Update March 1, 2024

I’m not doing the best this week but I’m also not doing the worst. I’ve not been sleeping well and I think it’s culminating today so slightly early update post just in case I fall asleep early tonight. I’ve had on and off moodiness and flareups but not a whole lot of surgery sickness, hoping next week will be the same. I think this week was a lot of semester stress, which makes it hard to take care of myself. I just ate three applesauces and next week is spring break, so I should have a bit of breathing room for more art stuff. Just in time for my art block to maybe be giving way. All I gotta do is get caught up on sleep, which I’ll try to start tonight.

So I’ve been trying to put more brain power into actual Oc story writing stuff this week. I have the little comic I’m working on in the background and that’s going a bit slower than I’d like but I’m still making progress and reviewing over it there’s fewer older pages needing redo than I’d thought. I’m also now officially through the second act of the episode/chapter/ w/e, so the third should move smoothly. Scenes are flowing nicer than I thought they would, generally going pretty good.

I also finally think my animation art block is giving way. Clip studio is good for flowier animation so I’d like to combine it with flash for any actual big animation projects I try to pick up but on it’s own it’s fine for smaller ones. I might do some more sketch style test animations for unfamiliar movements, and eventually I’ll need to do a test for one with lineart and color layers. The interface is not user friendly at all but I did figure out how to do it the way I had wanted. Not planning on doing any shaded animations though, shading will have to be done with after effects somehow. I’ll round up ideas for test animations tonight because I’m very headfoggy today so I doubt I’ll be able to throw music together.

I’ll definitely do a quick little gif for the bigger song I finished, I’ll try to get going on the next one, but for the time being I might finish up some half baked covers. I’ve fiddled with vocaloid more now, have two half finished vocal parts I’m using to test out how the English and Japanese banks work with English songs. Japanese bank is working better than I thought, but it’s annoying having to play with the dynamic and exciter settings for certain consonants, and the limited vowel selection also sucks, but it’s not like the English banks have basically the same issues too. I just need to play with settings a bit more, finish writing out the vocal parts (should basically be copy paste at this point, I’m already through one chorus of each), and throw together instrumentals to go with them, but I picked songs with simple instrumentals anyway, so it shouldn’t be too hard to get a skeletal structure ready, then I can fill it in with piano or violin because I can’t go two songs without either I’m addicted.

Music comic and animation are the main things I did this week but I am slowly getting my updated commission sheet together. I’ll probably start timing myself on smaller songs so I can try to add music options properly. Animation comms would be nice too but that’ll definitely be a ways off.

I did make unexpected progress writing an epithet TTRPG campaign, it’s like mostly structured, but maps minis and some encounters still need to get written. I might sit down to do that over break. I’m more certain now that I’ll need to take people online as players but I’ll wait until I’m closer to run before I make a google form for that

I’m going to try to either spend tonight with friends or go to bed early or both. I’m a bit worried about my body because flareups have been getting bad but tomorrow I don’t have to move my legs at all beyond doing laundry so I should be fine. If plans for both fall through I’ll either watch a movie or cartoon (I don’t do very often but if I indulge in media I can improve my writing skills) or draw or both. Tomorrow is walled off for homework though I don’t think I’ll be able to do much else.

[hyrule-kingdom-updates]

Please pardon the interruption to your regularly scheduled updates, they are currently being transposed for the archives. Posts shall continue as they did before, but you may also find an additional record for them here.

Tomorrow, that is. It’s a process to read through the history.

For now though, you may have this excerpt. It’s always good to stay informed.

= = = = = = = = = =

THE 31ST DAY OF STOUTHEART MOON

UPDATES ON BEHALF OF THE ESTEEMED ROYAL FAMILY OF HYRULE:

Look. I don’t know which one of you fuckers snitched, and at this point I don’t care, but can we at least stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, this death was not really my fault?

I mean yeah, sure sure sure, I had the slip of the tongue (...slip of the ink? Slip of the magic quill?) about where the spare key to the Royal Chambers was in an update a while ago, BUT there is no way to correlate that with the latest queenly assassination. There are plenty of ways to get in to kill people without an open door! You can break a window! Start a fire under a floorboard! Crawl through some gutters to find and poison someone's dinner! You really can’t be limiting yourself. Personally I’ve broken into several people’s houses and not once did I need to use the door. 

Ergo, me no fault, me no murder dis time. Can’t spell “didn’t do it” without one of the vowels in my name. Can’t be showering when I got that inno-scent on me. 

OK, I can feel an intense glare bearing into my skull from over my shoulder, so I will take that as the cue to start with the actual formal announcement from the King Regent Rhoam Bosphoramus:

Queen Zelda Elane Hyrule is dead. The cuccos are to blame. There is to be a major BBQ sale in town square in memory of Her Majesty next week. Mark your calendars and expect lower fried cucco prices during this period of kingdom-wide grief. 

So yeah, BITCH. Betcha feeling reaaaal stupid now, fucking snitch blabbering to the knights about how Orator Asivus “may be involved in the tragedy” and how my “irresponsibility taints the image of Hylian society.” I’ve laid it out right there for ya. Rhoam and his long fancy royal investigation just declared that you should blame those feathery fucks, so kindly get off my ass. Better yet, just always assume there’s a bird behind anything you think I did wrong.

In other news, more birds! Or more accurately: bird. Singular. Or to be even more accurate: no bird. Like I said in an update before, those giant Divine Beasts Director Purah and the like are digging up unfortunately aren’t hot mechs or anything, just some fun lil animals—and the latest is a big old fake bird northwest the Tabantha Tundra. It’s green and weird, like vegetables, or teenagers. Don’t go asking me what species it is, my expertise is only in rats. I’m sure Larc could tell you, but he left the room immediately after I finished writing out the formal announcement. Probably to have plausible deniability in case I started not doing my job again—which is fair because I am gonna stop doing my job right about now.

Honestly, I know none of you guys are actually reading these things. I could count on one Bokoblin hand the amount of actual feedback these updates get. And really, more power to you! Reading sucks. Who has time to flip through their town billboard to find one torn up piece of magic parchment just to know what’s going down at Hyrule Castle? We all got lives. Better yet, we all got friends! Even better yet, we all probably have friends that get printed proclamations! 

By the time anyone remembers to tell me what to write with my primitive little quill, it’s already been better articulated and edited out on one of those fancy machine ink presses. And by that point it’s basically already wrapped and sent for the Rito flight to wherever and everywhere—at which point I am probably still in the lengthy process of getting sober enough to write legibly. So yeah. Who needs me, right? 

You know I do have to wonder how cuccos haven’t killed me yet…I can guarantee I’ve taken more saucy cucco skewers from the Royal kitchen than Ms. Elane. In fact, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure she was going vegan this month…Ah well. Guess it’s another case of too little too late. A real shame, she was pretty nice for a royal, at least going off our one interaction. Long story short, it was cloak weather and she reached to hold my hand cause she thought I was someone else. I got 2k rupees in hush money and a slice of carrot cake. Not a bad transaction and beats getting executed—infinitely more delicious too. Her daughter threw a metal screw at my head though, so I guess the kindness doesn’t run in the family. 

OH! Elane was also involved in that new prophecy thing, right? Or I guess her daughter is now. Yeaaah, that part also sucks. Rhoam has been such a dick about the whole thing lately. I think the world is ending? Don’t know the details, I’m not that into politics. We’ll decide how much I should care about that when the consequences come closer into play.

Alright my wrist is tired so I’m heading out to drown at the tavern. If you never hear from me again, a miracle or a tragedy occurred. Hopefully both.

[chaeinedup]

Friends by chance, lovers by fate

pairing: Park Jongseong x reader

summary: Spring was way more than just the flower season, but like those all it takes is time.

content warning: None  i don’t think.

Every monday morning you woke up early to have a silent walk and bathe in the rising sunlight as you love taking time for yourself as much as possible. With so many duties at home and your job, it was rare when you did catch a break so waking at 5am it was. Normally these walks bring nothing more than personal enjoyment and 1 or 2 animals that crossed your path. But this specific day, not something, but someone walked the same trail as you. Sure there’s plenty people that wake up early but this was a more reserved area where only people that really knew the area would venture into it.

You walked closer, following the noises that were heard from behind all the trees, meaning the person was right at the edge of the lake. You hid behind one of the bigger trees, making sure you wouldn’t frighten the other person. They were throwing rocks and seeing if they bounced in the water, you thought it was wholesome and smiled to yourself. You wondered if you should say something but they were faster than you.

??: Are you gonna stay there forever?

They didn’t even turn to you, their back was facing you and so that got you wondering what betrayed you.

Y/N: Was I that loud?

??: No, just enough for me to hear the leafs crunch. What brings you here?

Y/N: Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?

You started walking torwards them, sitting in a bench. They finally looked back at you and your mind couldn’t believe your eyes. How did someone this beautiful exist? and how did you find them in a random stroll this early in the morning. If it wasn’t for the freezing wind you would second guess your vision and tell yourself you were dreaming. It was like the cat took your tongue and not a single vowel could leave your mouth.

??: Are you okay? Did you really just freeze on me?

Y/N: No I just....well to be completly honest I’m offended, you’re prettier than me.

You realised that came out a little too blunt when the coffee he was sipping came out rushing from his mouth.

??: Give me a warning next time, coffee isn’t cheap nowadays.

Y/N: I’m really sorry that just came out, but at least now I have an excuse to ask you out. Can I please buy you a more than deserved coffee?

??: How could I ever say no to such a good offer?! Except the fact that most coffe shops are still closed.

Y/N: Don’t worry that will give us plenty time to know each other.

And that’s exactly what happened, interests were shared, opinions were given but most of all, a frienship was blossoming, one so beautiful even the flowers all around were jealous. You liked that morning so much that you both promised to meet every monday, alternating every week on who would be in charge of bringing the coffee. That day and location became yours in the same instant you became each others.

With time you finally learned all about him, his name is Jay and he’s the same age as you. Safe to say you became best friends in a very short period of time, the more you hung out the more you missed each other when left with each others scent on one another, both of you realised where this was heading but you weren’t sure how to approach the other end.

But one day he thought that it was more than time to come clear about his feelings, and he tried his hardest to make it as special as possible, without you suspecting anything. So he texted you on a sunday night, “I know tomorrow is your turn of bringing the coffee but I got us covered, I have something new for us to try!”. Of course you didn’t think anything of it’s just coffee afterall, for you yes, but the poor guy can’t even sleep that night. It was such a calming night for you, you took a nice shower, pampered yourself with the best skin care, home cooked dinner and a very happy mind, knowing you were gonna see your so called other half. While his night was the complete opposite, he had been thinking about this days prior so he began preparing for this a while back, but that still didn’t make the panic decrease. He was determined that it had to go just how he pictured, the nicest picnic breakfast for the nicest person he knew, the one he cared the most and the one he would die for. Boy was he a hopeless romantic, but so were you. That’s the only thing stopping him from having a full on mental breakdown, he knows you’ll appreciate the effort and be moved by such a heartfelt confession.

The sun rose, and so did you. You looked outside and took a deep breath, damn did it feel good to be loved. It’s not what you thought but what your heart felt every time you thought about Jay. You got ready and texted him you were heading his way. He got the text while he was preparing his little gourmet breakfast, all the cookies he baked last night, perfectly plated on one corner with 2 beautiful boxes of macaroons while the other had the new coffee he promised and 2 glasses of orange juice. In the middle was a tiny vase with your favourite flowers and the ones that were blossoming when you first met, now fully coloured and standing proud. Just like him when you arrived.

Your first reaction was to stare at the view infront of you ad it took you back to when this all started, but you weren’t hiding behind a tree and he wasn’t facing the lake, he was facing you and with with the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. It never gets old. You walked to the little buffet on the ground.

Y/N: I thought it was new coffee, not hotel service.

Jay: Funny, that was a good one, but well there was no reason for me to not do this so lets take a seat and dig in, before some squirrel steals all my hard work away.

And so you sat, and of course you enjoyed eerything he made, even the heart shapped watermelon cut outs, deep down you had a feeling of why he did this and you did love it but you felt guilt that maybe you weren’t showing him the same effort he was showing you. With you in your head it was inevitable for him to get in his, he started thinking of how to say it and all the ways you would react and how he would respond to that. After a few seconds of silence you looked at him and slightly opened your mouth as a sinal that you were going to talk but he best you to it.

Jay: I like you. And not like a best friends, i mean that too but not just like that. So many sleepless nights thinking about you and your hand on mine. I promised myself i wouldn’t stop until I made you mine and I don’t care how selfish this sounds right now because I just truly want you to understand how much you mean to me, I want to take care of you and if that means i have to bake cookies every day I gadly will.

Your mouth was now closed, complete silence from you and the surroundings. You were trying to process his confession the best you could, it felt surreal that you were living that moment right now. 

Y/N: Damn you pretty boy, you can’t offer me cookies as persuasion you never I can never say nooo!

You said this to lighten up the mood and he was glas, that silence freaked him out a little bit and anxiety started crawling up his body.

Y/N: And as bad as I am talking about feelings, I can’t deny them any longer, I like you too.

Jay didn’t even realise he was holding his breath until your last words came out and so did his first breath. He layed down on the towel underneath you and closed his eyes laughing in relief. 

Jay: You scared me with that silence DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!

You rested your head on his chest and layed besides him.

Y/N: I told you I’m not good with expressing myself.

Jay: It’s okay it’s one of the things I love about you.

He caressed your back with his right hand and locked fingers with you with the left one. The sun was hitting you both in the face, you both felt so comforted and happy you didn’t know why but your souls knew, nothing ever happens by chance.

masterlist

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Take My Hand (Part Five)

Summary: everything is perfect, only when its not  (five of ??? parts - more parts to come!)

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Reader, Rafael Barba x Reader

Word Count: 5,985

Song: Oh, I can't / Stop you putting roots in my dreamland / My house of stone, your ivy grows / And now I'm covered in you (ivy by taylor swift)

Warnings: T, swearing, lots of fluff but some angst sprinkled throughout, a mild foray into “sightless in a savage land” (22x04) (basic facts of the case), also the v*rus doesn’t exist b/c i don’t want to live in reality. 

A/N: finally we’ve gotten to the actual premise of this fic!! i don’t know what to say thank you to all of you for reading, your comments and reblogs have kept me going! thank you to @laneygthememequeen​ and @bucky-of-the-opera​ for being the best beta readers!! 

“What is this?” Sonny asks, a hesitant half murmur into your ear, the two of you curled in his living room, your head resting against his chest, your legs tangled in each other’s in bed — his fingers tracing a circle on your hip, his teeth bearing down on his lip, And you turn to face him, your elbow propped up on the pillow, head tilted. 

“What do you mean?” he pauses, pursing his lip, “Sonny—” 

“I know it’s early,” it had been about two weeks of bliss — weekends spent at each other’s places, week nights spent keeping the other company —- a routine so natural you didn’t know how you had spent three years without him by your side. His hand moves to cup his cheek, and his lips move to kiss your palm, resting his over your cheek, “but it’s also three years late.” 

A soft chuckle leaves your lips, “Already looking to put down roots?” 

He shifts slowly, until he’s hovering over you, his breath warming your lips and his eyes even warmer, “Always when it’s you,” but there is a soft of disbelief that is already taken root in your heart — months and months before this had began — its poisonous roots already twisted around your chest. Planted from the seeds of doubt and false promises, of plied kisses and fake reassurances — none of which Sonny had done. 

And yet — he sees you hesitate, and the hurt ricochets from his eyes right to his heart, and he begins to pull away, “If it’s too early—” 

“No, no, Sonny,” your fingers find purchase at the back of his neck, tugging him gently back to him, his eyes finding yours with reluctance, “It’s not too early. I’m just—” you needed to tell him, you wanted to tell him when this had first begun, but it was too hard — too difficult to burst the bubble the two of you had made a home in, without talk of reality, “I need to tell you about something.” 

But you needed to. 

He furrows his brow, and you bite your lip, shifting so that both of you were sitting up, your back pressed against his headrest, “Before, any of this — before I even met you,” you lick your lips, twisting your fingers in your lap, “you remember I was seeing someone right?” 

“I do,” he frowns, “you don’t have to—”  

“No, I have to,” you’re practically chewing your bottom lip now, “you deserve an explanation—” he deserved it a long time ago. 

He purses his lips, but nods, “Well, that was the reason I had to leave,” you raise your eyes to meet his, “the idea of seeing him every day—at the office—I couldn’t do it.” 

And the pieces seem to click together for Sonny, “It was—” 

The name dies on his lips, just as your relationship with the A.D.A. did, “It was Rafael,” it had been so long since his name had been on your lips that it was now unfamiliar, the same syllables that had made a home on your tongue — said between laughs at the office, whispered in his ear, muttered against his lips — now was a stranger’s, the vowels and consonants foreign, “we tried — I tried to make it work, but he never wanted a relationship.” 

“Sweetheart,” Sonny whispers, and you shake your head. 

“Every time, I said I wanted more, he never did,” you knew it was wrong — you knew you deserved more, but you still did it, you tolerated it, “I stayed, I hoped things would change, but they didn’t. The night I came to you —  we had fought, I had tried to end things, and what I did—” the words spilled from your lips, but you refused to let any tears spill — no, you had shed far too many over him, “I left because I was ashamed, I was so ashamed of letting myself get into that situation.”  

He’s silent a moment, before speaking, “You were in love with him,” his fingers slowly intertwine with yours, “and everyone does stupid things when they are in love.” 

“I was,” And you let yourself stew in silence of that truth, for a moment, before squeezing his fingers, your eyes finding his gaze with a small smile, “but not anymore.” 

“And what does that mean for us?” he asks. 

“I just don’t want things to go wrong like it did with him,” you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop — for something to go wrong, and when you spend your time waiting for something to go wrong, it usually did, but at least you expected it, “I don’t want to lose you.” 

“In case you didn’t notice,” he tilts your chin up with two fingers, “I’m not him.” 

“I know,” your forehead falls against his, his arms wrapping around you,  “I know.” 

“You’re leaving me in suspense here, doll,” he mutters, his thumb brushing against your cheek, “but it’s okay if you’re not ready—” 

You lean back, “I don’t know what this is, but,” you press a kiss to his lips, and he tastes like home — not one that would crack beneath your feet, but one that was steady and strong, “I know I only want you.”

“Sh—” Sonny cut himself off, sucking air between his teeth, as he stared at the pile of paperwork he had accidentally knocked off his desk in his office. Some office, a shoebox fit for a junior A.D.A. — one that he could barely fit his desk into — it had taken three different people to maneuver his desk into his office. He sighed, slipping from his chair and rounding his desk and now on his knees, gathering the papers off the floor. 

But what did he expect? For them to hand over the keys to Barba’s old office? He felt an odd twinge at the thought of his name — he was his mentor, his friend (at least he’d like to think so), and yet, it felt like he was living in his shadow still. With the squad, with his bosses, with— 

“Counselor,” you knock on his door, leaning against frame of the doorway to his office, until you see the papers, and bend down to pick them up, “this would be a really good meet-cute if we haven’t met before,” 

“Too bad,” he smiles up at you, before you lean forward and press a kiss to his lips, and his hand cups your cheek, your tongue tracing his bottom lip, “Doll,” his voice drops an octave. 

“Not all bad, huh?” you breathe, grinning, breaking the kiss to help him pick up the rest of the paperwork, his eyes falling back onto the pile, and the stress creeps back into his shoulders, “now I’m guessing you weren’t throwing these papers up in a victory celebration, were you?” 

“Not exactly,” he sighs, both of you getting to your feet, as he moves to shut the door, collapsing in his chair, “when did you start to feel good at your job?” 

You lean against the edge of his desk, “What’s wrong?” 

“I asked you first,” and you shake your head. 

“You don’t— if you’re any good you question yourself every step of the way, you think carefully with every choice you make,” you cross your arms, “Sonny, they say your first year as a lawyer is akin to your first year in law school — how did you feel as a 1L?” 

He folds his arms, “Incompetent, like everyone had the answers except me, and that I was gonna fail outta school,” 

“And did you?” 

“No, you’re right,” he leans back in his chair, “I just didn’t think this would be this hard,” 

“It’s something new,” your fingers find his, “of course it’s going to be hard, but you’ll get the hang of it — I know you will. And you’ll screw up, you’ll make mistakes, but everyone does—” you grimace, “remind me to tell you about the time I got grilled by Judge Lopez for my mistake during discovery.” 

“Bad?” you shudder. 

“I still have nightmares,” and he cracks a smile, and your lips curl too, “there’s that smile that I—” you cut off, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth. 

And Sonny can’t help the way his lips split into a grin, “What was that?” 

“Sonny—” but you can’t escape because he’s already got you trapped, rising to his feet and pressing you into the lip of his desk. And he kisses you, relishing in how you melt into his touch, your fingers twisted in his hair, your other hand resting on his shoulder. His lips draw a path down your neck, kissing right above your leaping pulse, “I—” 

“Mm?” he murmurs against your warm skin.

And he knew it was too soon to be saying those three words — it hadn’t been enough time, but there was something about you that made reason disappear between the tips of his fingers, and he was only left holding you. 

“I love your smile,” you lean up to kiss him again, softly and wholly, “you should do it more often.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s go,” and his eyes fall back to the pile of papers on his desk, but you draw your attention back to him, small kisses dotting his face — his chin, his cheeks, his neck,  “it’s late, and you’re exhausted, and these cases will be here in the morning.” 

“But—” 

“Is everything for tomorrow taken care of? Is there anything pressing?” he pauses, before shaking his head, and you find his lips again, before sliding off the desk, holding your hand out to him, “let’s go.” 

He takes your hand, fingers laced together, grabbing his jacket, and shutting off the light, casting the room into shadow, and spared a glance at the room, before he allowed you to lead him out of Hogan Place. 

Maybe he didn’t have to worry about a shadow after all. 

“Come on, you gotta let me do something,” you leaned against Sonny’s kitchen counter, watching him cut tomatoes, “I have to be able to help.” 

“Not after last time,” he replies, a wry smile on his lips, “not happening, sweetheart, no matter how much you pout at me.” 

“Oh come on, I didn’t cut myself that—” he raised an eyebrow, “okay I burned myself once, but—” 

“And the injuries are not just limited to you—” he held up his hand, where a faint scar could be seen, “if it was just you getting hurt, maybe I’d let you help.” 

“Ouch,” you feign mock hurt, before shrugging and sipping at your drink, watching him finish, crushing the tomatoes with the flat side of his blade before placing them in the pot with olive oil, onions, and garlic, “but it is sexy to watch you cook.” 

He snorts, gesturing to his stained apron, “This is sexy to you?” 

“I have needs,” you smile against the rim of the glass, “and those include being fed.” 

“Well, good thing we got that covered,” he sets a timer, turning his back to stir the pot, and you bite your lip, as your eyes rake over him until you reach one of your more favorite features— “are you staring at me?” 

“Yes,” you reply unabashedly, and he glances over his shoulder, lips curled, “but I think I rather do more than look,” 

“Oh yeah?” you can hear the smirk in his voice, “well, you’re gonna have to wait until after I finish.” 

You round the counter silently, until your arms are wrapping around his middle, leaning to press a kiss to his neck, “What if I don’t want to wait?” 

“Doll,” he warns, but your hands continue to slide up and down his sides and front, “the sauce will burn—” 

But you’re turning him around anyway, your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down to your lips, his smile presses against your lips, and then he’s kissing you back, his back pressed against the counter. He tastes a little like tomato and you know he must have been tasting the meal as he went. His large hands sliding down to your waist and squeezing. 

You gasp and he’s grinning, swallowing your noise with pleasure, and he takes control from you easily, and suddenly the lip of the counter is digging into your skin, and then he breaks the kiss, smiling, “What?” you ask, laughing. 

“I was just remembering the first time we cooked together,” he traces your cheek, “I never thought we’d end up here.” 

You raise an eyebrow, “Did you want to end up here?” and he clears his throat, the pink flushing across his cheeks a tell tale sign, “did you have a crush on me?” 

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, a begrudging smile gracing his face when he hears you laugh, before he leans closer, “so what if I did?”

What if he wanted to end up here — holding you like he was, imagined briefly what it would be like to hold your hand, to fall asleep next to you, to hear your thoughts — and he did, and he kisses your forehead — and he didn’t want to question how.  

“Well I got good news and bad news,” you kiss him again, languidly, “good news is that I most definitely have a little more than a crush on you,” and he snorts, your lips smiling as they press kisses across the length of his jaw, “bad news is I think your sauce may be burning—” 

“Oh shi—” and he’s rushing over to the pot to see what he can salvage, while you are carefully peering over his shoulder, “go sit,” he wags a finger at you, “you’re a danger to the process.” 

“Yes sir,” and you don’t miss the way he looks at you — and you smile as you watch him begin to cook the pasta — you’ll have to keep that in mind for dessert. 

“Are you sure you want me to come?” you tugged nervously at your clothes, straightening everything for the twentieth time, “I don’t want to intrude on your family—” 

“You’re not intruding,” he presses a kiss to the top of your head, “It’s Theresa’s engagement party—you’re doing me a favor by coming—” he wraps his arms around you from behind, watching you scrutinize yourself in front of the mirror, “they are going to love you, relax.” 

You murmur, “How do you know that?” 

“Because I’ve told them about you — my mom is the one who basically begged me to bring you,” he kisses your cheek, lips lingering. 

“You told them about me?” your heart squeezes, as he laughs, furrowing his brow. 

“Of course I did,” he snorts, “do you think I could keep you a secret this long?” and you bite back a smile, chest warm, as you lift one of his hands to your lips, “plus, it doesn’t hurt that you’re beautiful, now does it?” 

“Sonny,” you lean into his touch, lips finding the side of his face, “You’re sure that—” 

He pulls away, facing you,   “Do you not want to go?” 

“No, no,” you shake your head, wringing your hands — you weren’t used to this, you were used to hiding in bedrooms, and sneaking kisses in between cases, not used to meeting the family and holding hands in public, “I’m just nervous.” 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “You have nothing to worry about — they’ll love you,” he smiles, “just like I do.” 

Sonny had said the words a few days before — whispered in your ear after dinner, as the two of you curled up on the couch together, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, you had found him staring at you softly, a small smile on his lips.

“What?” you had asked, tilting your head. 

“I love you,” he had said, “and you don’t have to say it back right this second, but I do, I love you, sweetheart.”

And you had wanted to say it back — burning on the tip of your tongue and deep in your chest, standing at the edge of a precipice, unable to see the bottom, but also unable to jump. But you knew he would catch you, you knew he would keep you safe — but— 

You still couldn’t say it. 

You lean up to kiss him, “I know.” 

“So you’re the one my son’s always talking about,” it hadn’t been more than a minute since you stepped in Sonny’s home, the woman standing before you was none other than his mother. 

“Ma,” she engulfs him in a hug, pressing kisses to his cheeks, “so this is—” 

She cuts him off with your name, holding her hands out that you take, and she squeezes them, “I’ve heard so much about you — all good,” she elbows her son, “but not nearly enough about when you’re getting mar—” 

You flush, while Sonny is gaping at his mom, “Mom—” 

“I’m just joking, Dominick,” she laughs, she squeezes your hand again, “come on, let me introduce you to the rest of the family.” 

Your introduction to the rest of the Carisi clan is relatively painless for you — though you can’t say the same for Sonny. You swore his skin turned several different shades of red — by his sisters alone. 

“Is he going to be okay?” you ask Gina, as you gesture to Sonny standing with several of his cousins, who seemed to currently be ribbing him. 

“He’s fine, he’s a big boy, he can handle himself,” Gina waves him off, leading you over to a couch where the rest of his sisters are sitting, “how long have you two been together?” 

“It’s been a few months,” you smile. 

“But you’ve known each other longer right?” Theresa asks, crossing her legs, “he’s mentioned your name before years ago I think?” 

“Yeah, we used to work together,” you had a feeling where this was going, “I—” 

“Yeah, yeah, you had left all of a sudden, right?” Bella tilts her head. 

“I did,” you furrow your brow, and Theresa waves you off. 

“Look, Sonny didn’t ask us to talk to you — he actually didn’t tell us any of this, but our brother isn’t hard to figure out,” Gina shakes her head, “we just—” 

“Look—” you purse your lips, “I know you are trying to protect your brother, and I get that, I really do — so can I just say something?” 

“I know I’ve done wrong by Sonny before, I have,” you lick your dry lips, hands in your lap, “I know, he knows. I don’t want to hurt him — I’m scared of hurting him.” you swallow thickly, “I just want you to know, I...love him” 

You loved him — even if you couldn’t say it to him, you loved him. Your eyes drift to him easily — his lanky figure by the dining table, smiling at you — no matter where he was. It was a compass finding north — and he was home. 

You continue, “If I could change what I did before, I would, but…” 

They all glance at each other, shoulders relaxing, exchanging a smile, “Come on,” Bella squeezes your hand, “let’s get started with dinner.” 

Your shoulder is brushing Sonny’s, his hand finding yours under the table, squeezing. The clinking of knives, spoons, and forks against plates accompanied with the boisterous conversation between the family booming — no one was sparing from the teasing in the Carisi family it seemed, a lull in the conversation is when you found yourself speaking, “The food is delicious, Mrs. Carisi—” 

“Please call me Elena,” she had her son’s smile — a smile that consumed their entire face — even her sparkling blue eyes crinkling as his did, “What did Sonny say you did again?” 

“Defense work,” you reply, “I used to have the same position as Sonny, but I moved on to a private criminal defense firm.” 

“I bet the hours there are much more reasonable than Dominick’s,”

“Ma—” 

“I’m just saying,” she lifts her hands in defense, “It would be nice if you could come home and see your family more than once a month now, wouldn’t it?” 

You interrupt before Sonny can reply, “Well, I have my fair share of late nights as well. But you should see the work that Sonny is doing — he’s doing incredibly at the D.A.’s Office.” 

You share a look with Sonny, a smile on his lips, “Someone’s exaggerating—” 

“Someone doesn’t take enough credit when it’s due,” you bump him, and his arm is wrapping around your shoulder. 

“He doesn’t,” Elena raises her eyebrows, “gets it from his father.” 

Dominick Carisi Sr. was a little more of a mystery, slivered blonde hair and a small smile on his lips — a man of little words compared to his wife. You could see Sonny in his brow, in the same sharp bone structure, and even in the mustache that laid above his lips (although it suited much more than his son). 

He offers you a smile, the conversation continuing, and you hold in a sigh, as Sonny pressed a kiss to your head. 

It was going well. It was okay. 

And after dessert — a delicious and quite-possibly-too-large serving of both tiramisu and cannolis — you found your way to the kitchen to wash up. 

You passed by the wall of pictures — each picture was different in age — you spotted a few of the Carisi children together (Sonny was lanky even as a 8 year old), another of Sonny standing with his parents on his high school graduation, one of him receiving his promotion to detective, and another on his law school graduation — and there was another of his parents’ wedding, his mother and father standing side by side, smiling. 

“Happiest day of my life,” a voice said behind you, and you found Dominick Carisi Sr. standing with his arms crossed, “can’t remember a single thing I regret about that day or any day after that. Well,” he frowns at the picture, “perhaps the choice of suit.”

You snort, “Well if that’s your only regret, I think you’re in good shape.” 

“Do you want to get married?” 

Wow, the intentions talk was coming at you from all angles today. 

“I do, I think,” you smile, hands in your pockets, “I don’t know when—” 

“As long as you do, someday,” he smiles, glancing at the pictures, “please take care of my son, okay?” 

And your heart warms, glancing at the father of the man you loved, your gaze softening, “Of course, sir.” 

His hand brushes your shoulder, giving you a nod, before he slips away from the kitchen, back to the festivities. 

And you spared one more glance at the photo wall — falling onto the wedding picture yet again — and you let yourself wonder, if only for a moment, if your picture would be up there someday. 

~~~

Eventually the party began to die down, and you found yourself slipping away again to use the bathroom right off the kitchen, before you and Sonny had to get ready to go. You were washing your hands when you heard quiet voices speaking in the kitchen. You pause, the voices floating through the walls. 

“So when are you going to pop the question?" you raise your eyebrows — no one in the Carisi family pulled any punches, and you were starting to see why Sonny was so blunt to begin with when he came to S.V.U. 

"Ma," you can hear the sigh in his voice, his brow most assuredly wrinkled. 

"At least tell me this," she cuts him off, “Is this who you want to marry?” 

Your heart catches in your throat, his soft reply stealing air from your lungs, “I think I do,” 

“Have you told—” 

“Not yet, Ma,” there’s clattering as they place the dishes in the sink, and you can’t hear the start of his sentence, “it’s too soon right now,” 

“But eventually?” and your chest warms at the smile in his voice. 

“Eventually.” he sighs, “now can we move on? Before you start asking me what my children’s names will be?” 

“You two both want children right? Because I better be getting grandchildr—” their voices drift away as they head towards the living room, and you lean against the door, smiling for a moment. 

The car door closes behind you, and Sonny relaxes, head against the headrest, “Thank you for—” But then your hands cup his face, and you’re leaning over the console to kiss him, and his brow is furrowed for a moment, before relaxing into your touch, “I—” 

“I love you,” you breathe, eyes fluttering, and he’s blinking, “I love you, I have for a long time, I just couldn’t bring myself—” 

“Sweetheart—” 

“No, please,” your eyes are glassy, as you blink away tears, “I love you, Dominick Carisi, so, so much—” 

And he’s kissing you now, your hand dropping to fist in his shirt to pull him closer, his palm warm against your cheek, a tear rolling down his knuckles. 

“I love you too,” he breathes back, a ghost of a laugh on his lips. 

“So should we start discussing our children’s names now?” and Sonny’s eyes widen, before snapping to his parents’ home. 

“Did they—” 

“I heard your mom,” and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, “hey,” and his eyes drift back to you, “I love you.” 

And he smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I love you too.” 

There is an annoying buzzing. It’s low at first, but then it grows louder as you turn, your nose wrinkling at the light falling across your eyes, and then you realize — eyes snapping open to see the alarm blinking back a time that taunts you with a late start you can’t escape from. 

You’re late. 

“Shit—” you’re up with a start, shaking Sonny beside you, “Sonny, we’re late — get up.” You’re pulling on your clothes from last night, running into the bathroom. You’re washed and essentially ready in five minutes, leaving the bathroom, finding Sonny still motionless, and you sigh, shaking him again, “Sonny, Sonny,” 

“Mm?” one eye cracks open, and he’s groaning, rubbing his eyes, “sweetheart—” 

“Sonny, my love,” and he’s blinking, glancing at you, still barely out of the throes of sleep, “it’s 8:50 AM, we’re late. Get up!” 

And now he’s getting up, stumbling out of bed, “Shit—” 

“Go take a shower, you have arraignment at 10, don’t you?” and he’s nodding, pulling you close a moment for a kiss, “what a mess huh? Maybe we shouldn’t spend the night when we have hearings in the morning,” 

“Or maybe we need a more permanent solution to the problem,” he presses a kiss to your lips, “like moving in?” 

“Moving in?” you furrow your brow, before your phone is buzzing, “shit I have to go. I’m sorry I got to get to court—” 

“What about—” 

“I have a steamer at work and an extra blouse in the car, I’ll change when I get in,” you press a quick kiss to his lips, “get ready, meet for dinner at my place?” 

He nods, “Have a good day—” 

And the door shuts behind you. 

“Are you cooking?” Sonny’s arms wrap around your middle, pressing a kiss to your neck, “didn’t we establish that’s incredibly dangerous?” 

“Not when it’s just eggs and not when I ordered chinese takeout,” you slide the cooked eggs onto the plate, and your lips find his, as you set the plate down,  “it’s been a long day.” 

“What happened?” you sigh, wiping your hands off with a dish towel. 

“Let’s just say my steamer isn’t worth the price I paid, and my semi-wrinkled clothes did not fly in front of Judge Williams,” you wrinkle your nose at his name, “sexist piece of—” 

He snorts, “Did you win your motion?” 

“By the skin of my teeth,” you shake your head, as you walk over to the couch, your leg folded underneath the other, “I should keep a spare set of clothes on me when I stay over.” 

Sonny slides beside you, leaning against the top of the couch, his arm stretched across the top of the couch, “Maybe you should keep more than that here,” 

You raise an eyebrow, “Like a drawer or something?” 

“No, I was thinking maybe you should move in?” his mouth is dry, as he sees you blink, hesitate. 

“I don’t know if it’s the right time—” 

“But don’t you think it’s worth discussing?” but his voice softens, “I want to wake up next to you, doll. I want to be able to wake up late and not worry about you having to change in the bathroom, and we’re both busier than ever — I want to come home to you every night. Our home.” 

“Sonny,” you pull him into a sweet kiss, “you’re right, and I want to, I do, I just—” you pull back, arms crossed, “I just don’t know if I’m ready for that.” 

“Not ready for what?” For him? For us? 

You frown, “Don’t be mad, please—”  

“No, I’m not upset, I just want an explanation,” he wasn’t angry — he was disappointed. Throughout this relationship, you were the one playing catch up. He was the first to fall, he was the first to love, he was the first to want more — the first, the first, the first. 

He was always the first. 

“Sonny, I promise,” you lace your fingers with his, “I want a future with you. I do. I’m just not ready right now. I’m—” you cut off, “I will be ready, eventually, just not now.” 

He only smiles, pressing a kiss to your head, “I understand.” 

And he would be the first to get hurt, wouldn’t he? 

Just like he was before. 

“Hey,” Sonny taps you on the wrong shoulder, making you turn, pressing a kiss to your other cheek, “are we doing something for New Years?” 

You shrug, handing him a hot coffee, walking arm and arm with him towards the courthouse, “If you want to? I thought you usually see your family around this time,” 

“They decided to go down to the Poconos,” he shrugs, “I got seven arraignments on Monday—” 

“Say no more,” you press a kiss to his lips, “we’ll do something to make up for last year,” Sonny had left for his family’s place for New Years when you both had just started dating, and you had stayed behind — to work. 

“What do you usually do on New Years?” you sip at your drink. 

“Not anything usually,” you lick your lips, before smiling, “but now, I think I have something very special to do.” 

He pulls you into his arms, “Oh really?” 

“What better way to ring in the new year?” and he kisses you, carefully pulling you closer, savoring the taste of the dark roast and milk on his lips. 

“Can’t argue with that.” 

~~~

“I hope you didn’t mind—” Sonny murmurs, and you elbow him discreetly, glancing at a sleeping Amanda. 

“Of course not,” A sleeping Jessie is curled next to her mom, “I love Amanda and Jessie — although I may sue you for the headache I’ll be getting from the pot banging.” 

He snorts, and you shush him, watching Amanda and Jessie shift, and you’re handing him a throw blanket from the couch and he’s gently placing it on top of them, 

You smile, as he settles back next to you, “What?” 

“It’s nice to see her relax for once,” you lay your head against his shoulder, your chin resting on his shoulder, “and you too.” 

“Well that’s thanks to tonight, and to you,” he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips, “I love you.” 

And you smile, “I—” 

A screeching cuts you off, as you sit up, and both of you are reaching for your phone, “An Amber alert,” Amanda is slipping from Jessie’s side, “S.V.U. requested.” 

She adjusts the blanket on Jessie, running her hand through her hair, “You two will?” 

“Of course,” you nod, “Go Amanda.” 

She sighs, rubbing at her eyes, “2021 begins.” 

And in a second, she’s changed and ready and out the door. The door clicks behind her, and you rise to check on Jessie, adjusting her blankets, “Should we move her to her bed?” 

“Let her sleep for now,” Sonny holds his hand out for you, and you take it — pulling you back into his arms, “When do you think you want kids?” 

Your fingers combing through his hair pause, “I don’t know — whenever I get married I guess.” 

“But you want kids?” and you smile, pressing a kiss to his brow. 

“I do, maybe not yet, but someday,” and he nods, two fingers tilt your chin upwards, “Happy New Year.” 

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs, drawing you into a kiss, one of his hands slipping into his pocket, thumbing the velvet ring box in his pocket — maybe this year would be the year that he’d convince himself to ask.

What were you about to get yourself into? 

Your shoes click against the concrete floors, approaching the entry point, “I’m here to see Mickey Davis,” you flash your I.D. badge at them, “I’m here from Noble-Gordon LLP as possible representation.” 

You sigh, adjusting your coat while the guard has someone check on Davis. Taking on a case like this was tricky — the press could spin it either way — getting off a cold blooded vigilante or saving a war vet from unjust punishment. But right now, Noble-Gordon needed a win, and needed it to be on the side of the military. Their firm’s recent win of getting off a man who had murdered a vet had left the firm in bad form with several of its benefactors — and right now, you were trying to direct pro bono hours to go any which way you could towards veterans’ rights — pro bono cases for veterans for damages, against abuses by the V.A. helping deal with HIPAA laws to obtain medical files — anything and everything. 

But this case — this case would be the kicker. 

A high profile case of a veteran shooting a man who had molested and raped his daughter — it would be perfect. 

Or so the partners at your firm thought. 

You were only there to secure the case for the firm — or that was what you told them. You knew this fell well into Sonny’s case load — and you didn’t want the unpleasant experience of having to tell the judge that you were in a relationship with the A.D.A. trying this case. 

Not to mention the fact you hadn’t told him your firm may be taking the case — you checked your phone, several unreturned texts — but it wasn’t like you could reach him anyway. 

The guard turns back to you, “Right now, Davis is meeting with his counsel—” 

You furrow your brow, “That’s impossible, I had let him and the prison know I wasn’t arriving until now, I’m his co—” 

“Not his only counsel it seems,” a voice says, emerging from behind the gate, as the guard buzzed him through. 

His hair was neat, if not a tad overgrown, but so was the rest of his face — consumed by a thick beard that put his five o’clock shadow to shame. But his lips were still curled in that signature smile of his, the very same that made your heart squeeze — as it was doing right now. But his eyes were different — softer, as he tilted his head.

“Rafael,” you breathe, even though you were breathless,  “you’re back.” 

He only smiles, “I’m back.”

[neverwholelahey]

Lol doom scrolling YouTube and Caelan pipes up and says she wants a Maine coon. @tmrrwppl John can I have a Maine coon?

[honeyflies05]

just now realizing I never posted my 5x18 thoughts so uhh lol

also happy birthday to me I guess

i like this birthday a LOT better than last year (Eddie’s not dying!)

anyways, without further ado:

hey guys this is my birthday gift cause my birthday’s literally tomorrow

ah okay, this is some midsommar shit

i want whatever this guy’s on

yeah he’s drugging them

HES DRUGGING THEM

REAL ESTATE SCHOOL???

I SEE RAVI!

BAHHAHHAA BRINGING BACK THE POT BROWNIE EPISODE

Ravi<3

those rocks are gone be what gets them huh

buck manning the ladder🤤🤤🤤

BUCK JUMPING OFF THE RIG

bye bye ladder truck

the city: you… you need ANOTHER ladder truck?

Bobby: …yeah

buck is feeling Betrayed and I hate it

Bobby’s Going Through It

HE CALLED BUCK KID ANDJCUNDNDJSJEE

THEYRE FIXING THE HOLES!!!!!!!

eddie and buck Bonding Time

“just a scratch” Bobby u might need stitches😐

give me a madney reunion😋

please

chim def still has feelings

COSMETOLOGIST ANDJCUNDDBSJ

i wonder what’s in her head

MAGGOTS

EWEWEWEW

I THOUGHT THE SPIDERS WOULD BE BAD

“I DONT HAVE YOUR BONE STRUCTURE I COULD NEVER PULL IT OFF” okay tracy marcinko!

ANGELA BASSET!!!

don’t tell me that it’s hair from dead people-

denny being A Curious 12 Year Old

WAIT SO NO HENREN VOW RENEWAL??

Karen,,,,

MAYBE VOW RENEWAL???

I’m holding out for this henren vow renewal

maddie being back <3

ravi<3

THE TEAM BEING SMUG SKFICNDJEUDJDJSJA

CHIM BUSTING BUCK’S BALLS AB TAYLOR SNCI NDJDJDJXJS

give Ravi a main role next season!!!!

STAY AWAY FROM THE TEQUILA SNCICJDNE

SO THE WHOLE TEAM KNOWS??? well except Bobby😋

she is like 15 months pregnant

not the pt cruiser-

NOOOO

saws and jaws

baby daddy’s gonna have some Head Trauma

buck at the loft <3

I’m loving all the buck and maddy talks this season tbh

these two are actually adorable

okay hi Taylor

BUCK WAS A FUCKING JUMPSCARE

BUCKTAYLOR BREAK UP?????

buck looks SO GOOD in this scene

WOOOOOHOOOOO

BUCKTAYLOR BREAKUP!!!!!

E D D I E D I A Z ! ! !

eddie diaz at Bobby’s front door<3

“you saved my life” AAAAAAHHHHHHGH

if something happens to Bobby I will die

don’t do it BOBBY

YEAAAASSSS

GROWTH!!!

BUCK AND EDDIE IN THEIR SUITS!!!!

OH SHI SURPRISE VOWEL RENEWAL

“CHOOSE A SIDE EITHER WAY ITS FOR A BRIDE” IM CRYING

THEY LOOK SO GOOD!!!!!!!!

BUCK AND RAVI SITTING TOGETHER!!!!!!!!!!!

this feels like healing

🎶the world is healing🎶

EDDIE DIAZ!!!

chris looks like such a dapper little man

“the only baggage we’re taking is actual luggage” AWWWWW

EDDIE DIAZ!!!!!!!!!!!! E D D I E D I A Z ! ! !

[nautiscarader]

Nautiscarader’s Wendip Week day 3: Prank War

geez, this one took a while. I apologise, and let’s hope next one will arrive faster

 (ao3)

============

Someone standing outside of The Mystery Shack might have thought that the living room contained a very predictable lighting bug, or at least that someone inside was broadcasting a rather boring Morse code message using light signals.

In reality, it was just Wendy and Dipper, slouched on the sofa, surfing TV channels, giving each of them at most three seconds to entertain their bored minds. So far, none of them stood up to the challenge.

But as Wendy continued the only physical activity she had the energy for, i.e. pressing one button, something finally caught their attention.

- "What's up everyone? It's your boy, the Prankster Prancer!"

A loud, obnoxious, blonde man in his twenties, wearing spiky, gelled hair rode into the shot on a fake unicorn, face-hugged the camera, filling the wide-angle lens and made both Dipper and Wendy jump in their seats as loud horn noise shook the air around them.

- Wait, I thought this guy was only on the internet! - Wendy raised her brow - Did he escape to the real world?! - Come on, who in the right mind would give him a show? - "So, first of all, thanks to our station, The Cheese Network, for giving me the chance to entertain you guys..."

Dipper and Wendy groaned in collective understanding.

- "...and for giving us some cheese to pay for our last week's prank!"

The screen dimmed and the camera changed to an aerial shot, containing not only fires and flood, but also several military helicopters.

- "So last time we did some EPIC prank during the gender reveal party and we've made a hole in the ozone hole!"

The man made extra effort to extend every vowel in the last word, to an equally obnoxious collection of sound effects.

- Wow. That looks... bad. Even by our standards. - Wendy watched the footage. - Yeah. Good thing this dude stays away from us. - "And now it's time to reveal the next place for our EPIC PRANK!"

The man took a baseball bat and unceremoniously smashed the unicorn doll in half, and stuck his hand in the fake guts, revealing an envelope.

- "And this one is a suggestion from my top commentator on-line, that girl leaves comments under every single one of my videos, so I could not ignore her request".

The envelope was opened, and suddenly, a girl's voice began reading it.

- "Dear Prankster Prancer. I love your videos, and how creative your calamity can be..." - Wait a minute - Dipper sat up, as his eyes widened in horror - Is that- - "My name is Mabel Pines, and I am staying in a small town called Gravity Falls, in Oregon...".

Dipper and Wendy looked at each other and understood each other at once.

- Barricade the doors!

But it was too late. As Dipper ran towards the lobby, the door were smashed to the ground, seemingly under the power of the air horns, and flooded the Shack with lights. The same blonde man walked inside, as if he owned the place, leading with him Mabel Pines.

- What's up birches? Is that how you call people living in the middle of a forest? - he shoved his face to the camera again. - More like, in the middle of nowhere! - Mabel added, high-five'ing him - Thankfully, me and my Prankster Protégé are gonna rock this place! - he shouted.

Dipper Pines stood up and cleaned himself from the dust and debris, watching as the two rock their heads to some aggressive tune.

- Hold on a minute! Mabel, why did you invite him here? If anything, there's too much going around in here! - Ugh, this is my little brother, Dipper. - Mabel rolled her eyes - I'm-I'm not little! - Dipper stomped in place - We're twins!

Somewhere behind him, Wendy snickered.

- What, you just look adorable when you're angry.

Dipper turned back and stormed towards his sister.

- Mabel, do you have amnesia or something? Gravity Falls is full of amazing things! We've been on treasure hunts, found all sorts of monsters in every lake, glade and a cave... You wanted to date a zombie on out first day here! - Yeah, sure, kid, as if I could just walk into a forest and find a dead body... - the Prankster took a sip of soda, looking somewhat nervously. - Mabel, we've seen living dinosaurs here! - Yeah, like I can see one now!

The Prankster pointed to the kitchen and very confused Grunkle Stan in his pajamas.

- What in the DMV is going on here? - Check this out, a living fossil!

The Prankster jumped towards Grunkle Stan and unceremoniously took a selfie with him.

- Oh no, my eyes! The light is coming towards me instead of the other way around!

Stan cried when flash of light blinded him, and with a sleigh of hand, the blonde man undid his belt, causing Stan to nearly trip and fall, if it wasn't for Wendy.

- Hey, you! You're not a prankster, you're a jerk!

At the sound of those words, the man stopped laughing and turned his attention, as well as cameras, towards Wendy.

- What's that? We've got ourselves a HATER!

An air horn was about to blow her hat off, but Wendy swiftly grabbed it and twisted it.

- Yeah, that's what I've said, you're a jerk. I like pranking people, but not to hurt them. - And watchu gonna do, leave a mean comment? - No, we're gonna prank you. - Wendy reached and brought Dipper towards her. - Cos we've done some pranking together ourselves! - Like what? - Like... when we've made our friend think his inflatable tube could talk!

The Prankster shot them with a dead stare.

- You know what, I don't even have time to play the "wah-wah" soundbite. But if you want to lose, your call. Tomorrow, we're gonna get an EPIC PRANK-OFF!

And he shot a pose in front of the camera.

- Right, now tell me where's someplace to eat. And they better have unlimited refills. - Lazy Susan is neat. And there's water tower nearby...

And with that, he and Mabel walked off, leaving the small destruction behind them.

- Wendy! - Dipper turned at once towards her - Are you crazy? He has entire film crew! And money! And very little empathy! He's gonna plough through us! - Chill out, man, we're gonna trick him, one way or another.

And she gently smacked the edge of his hat.

- Er, I know you guys like to babble all the time, but I still can't get up. - Grunkle Stan grumbled from the floor.

=============

The next day, Wendy woke up at the break of dawn with unbridled optimism. Dipper less so, and he was a bit nervous when Wendy gathered him and her crew in the small lumberjack shack in the woods to explain the plan of action.

- So, any questions? - she asked

At the same time, every teenager in the small room raised hands.

- So, how does exactly the can of whipped cream is supposed to work with the rake? - Tambry asked - And what do we have to do with the rat-shaped balloons? - Thompson asked shyly. - And can't we just... punch him? - Robbie suggested, mimicking the action. - Ugh, you guys!

Wendy groaned and hid her face in her hands. hearing the murmurs of doubt across the room, Dipper quickly stood up and continued.

- Guys, this jerk is giving us, pranksters, a bad name! We gotta prank him in a way that shows we are better... Because we can do better!

He watched as faces of the older teenagers brighten with his speech. Several of them even smiled.

- Plus he could, like, sue us for millions of dollars, so we gotta stay clean.

With newly gained optimism, the gang rushed to Thompson's van and readied themselves for the prank.

- Thanks, man, for giving me a hand. - Wendy suddenly patted Dipper's back. - Oh, no-no problem. - Dipper spoke, wondering if she noticed his blush.

=========

- Alright, we're all in places.

Wendy spoke to her phone, and observed the places, leaning from behind the wall. Her eyes moved from Robbie, hidden in the abandoned ice-cream stall, to Thompson, on top of a tree, to Tambry, pretending to read a large newspaper, and finally, to Dipper, holding a bag of provisions.

- We-Wendy, I'm not sure if this is gonna work. - Now!

She commanded, as Prankster walked nonchalantly out of the store. He thre away the half-eaten sandwich he just bought and was about to walk into the string that would have activate the whipped cream... if he didn't make a sudden jump.

He then threw something into the stall.

- Oh, crap, it's a grenade!

Robbie stormed out, tripping on the same wire he helped setting up, which resulted in his black hair covered in white goo and sprinkles.

Tambry was supposed attack next, but Prankester was already next to her. He took a bucket of soapy water and dumped it over her, destroying her diguise that covered her pruple hair.

For Thompson, he didn't even have to do much - he threw a mouse toy into the air, and listened how the boy tumbles down, shrieking.

And finally, he took something big and colourful out of his backpack and tossed it onto the street, watching as Dipper and Wendy rush towards it.

- Limited edition Giraffeoala!

They realised the two were after it when it was too late. Their heads collided with each other, just as the elusive plushie was yanked from their hands, back into his bag.

- Seriously, guys? You wanted to outsmart me? There like five of you and you couldn't do it. - Ha! That was a good one! - Mabel emerged from behind his back and did another high-five. - But I couldn't do it without you. - he pointed at her. - Me? But I didn't do anything... - Of course you did.

The Prankster lowered his sunglasses.

- Last evening at that stupid bar. You told me you were friends with everyone here. You told me how one of them likes gloomy, dark places. Like another one is afraid of mice. Like another one never looks away from her phone...

Mabel's ecstatic, radiant smile faded with each word the Prankster spoke, and her eyes, widened from excitation began to fill with tears.

- And, well, you told me what these two dorks are obsessed about... amongst other things. - Mabel! - Wendy and Dipper cried at the same time. - But-But I didn't... - Aw, really? You feel sad for them? LAME. - he pushed her aside and waved for his crew that followed him anyway.

For quite a while, all the small town could hear was Mabel Pines sobbing, until someone closed his arms around her.

- There, there, sis. - Dipper spoke quietly. - I guess you see why were so angry now. - I-I didn't know he would...

Dipper hugged her, letting her cry as much as she wants into his vest.

- It's not your fault, Mabel. - Wendy added, taking a knee and gently patting her. - But-But it is! - Well... Kinda... - Robbie added, and received a cold, piercing stare from Wendy. - Jerks like that like to... use people. And they know that the best ones are those, who are most trusting and kind.

Mabel's sniffing stopped, as Wendy continued.

- But you know what? - Dipper spoke suddenly - I think I got an idea...

He let go of his sister rushed to the Prankster, sitting on one of the toy unicorns, tossing quarter after quarter, while two children in queue began to tear up.

- Hey, you! - Ugh, you again, twerp. What, want me to reveal more secrets about you and your stupid hobbies? Or, like, who is your biggest crush after a toy plushie from the 90s?

Dipper's face reddened, but he remained unperturbed.

- We're not done yet. Tomorrow we're gonna prank you for good. Double or nothing! - Ugh, sure, fine. - the Prankster didn't even look at him - It's not like I can do anything until my lawyers clean up the whole "gender reveal party" fiasco. Like, who cares if the whole state is now inhabitable for life?

==============

By the next morning, the battleground was set. Cameras and tons of equipment surrounded the small grassy meadow in front of the Mystery Shack, where Dipper and Wendy were sitting in their chairs with their arms crossed, both wearing much more confident smiles. And the fact that Mabel was with them added them extra layer of morale.

When the clock struck 12, a mighty roar shook the place, as monster truck drove from behind the tree line, smoking and setting nearby branches on fire. The Prankster Prancer jumped out of it, and, drowned in the flashes of cameras, walked into his place.

- So, are you twerps ready for the FINAL PRANK OF YOUR LIFE? - he roared into the microphone, rolling his tongue back and forth as if he was about to eat it. - Nah, we're not gonna prank you. - Wendy shrugged - But someone else will.

The newly reinstalled door to the Mystery Shack opened, and a new figure appeared. An elderly woman walked out, being led by Grunkle Stan that gallantly helped her, for once not sneaking his hand into her purse.

And when she looked up from behind her glasses, the confident smile on Prancer's face disappeared at once.

- Grandma?! What-What are you doing here?! - Oh, don't you know? - Grunkle Stan rushed with explanation - We, old folks, all know each other. And I simply couldn't let her miss her grandson's grand day! - I'm so glad I can see you, Archibald!

The elderly lady used her cane to hook him by his neck and brought him into his arms, despite his best efforts to avoid any interactions.

- G-Grandma, don't- don't call me that! - Why not? - she continued, seemingly ignoring her grandson efforts to escape her tight hug. - I am your grandma, and I will call you by your full name, Archibald Roderick Sebastian Eugene!

Somewhere behind them, Dipper, Wendy and Mabel were having the time of their life, trying to hide their laughter.

- So, wait, his initials literally make him an... - Grandma! Make them stop! They-they are laughing at me! - Nonsense! Those young folks told me all your fans would love to see me talk about you. So I've send them some photos via the eclectic mail!

The blonde man looked to the side at Wendy and Dipper's faces. Their wide smiles told him everything, and in the act of ultimate desperation, he gently shook his head, silently mouthing his plea. He then looked at Mabel's, but hers was filled with spite.

In response, Mabel simply pressed a button.

The enormous screen behind them lit up, showing an adorable newborn blonde boy in diaper, giggling at the baby rattle.

Several more followed, showing his equally naked body in progressively embarrassing positions.

The screen changed, and the same boy was now three-years old, wearing a strict haircut as well as a bowtie. And the worst part was, he looked happy.

The Prankster Prancer fell to his knees, as tears began rolling from his eyes, which his grandma quickly dried with her handkerchief.

- Oh, yes, I do tear up a little at this one too. Oh, but the next one makes me so proud!

Prancer's eyes widen, if possibly even more, and throwing away all the pretence, he rushed to Wendy and Dipper and began begging them for mercy. But it was for nothing. He knew they have seen the photo already.

And with another press of a button, a seven-year old Prancer was shown, wearing a blue cardigan, sitting in an armchair with a big book in his hands, smiling at the camera, proudly showing his braces.

The scanned photo displayed a title, written in crayon over it.

"I love school!"

Flocks of birds flew into the air from the nearby trees in response to the shriek that reverberated the air, full of remorse, despair, and unmistakably, defeat.

- Nooooo!

The Prancer hit the ground with his fists, for which he was quickly reprimanded by his grandma ("You're going to make them dirty!"), while Wendy and Dipper high-fived each other, before giving Mabel a warm hug.

=============

- So I guess that will teach him? - Dipper asked Wendy as the two lay on the sofa, flicking through the channels again. - Pfh. I wish it did. - Wendy reached for her phone and showed Dipper a familiar blonde man waving his arms uncontrollably. - "What's up Prankster Pros? It's ya boy, and I've got this sweet book deal full of my MOST EMBARASSING photos! Look at that baby bottom! Only for $99.99..." - Geez, I guess they never learn. - Nope. But at least he's not here...

For a while the room dimmed every few seconds, as Wendy searched for anything interesting, but something else was on Dipper's mind.

- So... about those Cuddle Buddies...

The remote fell out of Wendy's hand.

- Uh, yeah, so, I just...

She shied away and mumbled her answer, until she saw a polite smile on Dipper's face.

- So, like, remember ever since you wanted to win that Duck Panda for me? I... kinda got into them, you know. Not like, obsessively collecting them, but... you know. - Yeah, I do. For cuddling.

The two looked at each other and exchanged the same, warm smiles.

- So which generation you like the most? - Well, gen 2 obviously - she rolled her eyes - What? Five is the best. - The best as sucking, perhaps. - Come on, they had changed the lead designer and everything, but they're still Cuddle Buddies...

For quite a while, the channel stayed on, as neither of them bother to change it. And when the night fell on, Wendy and Dipper realised that they might have discovered something new to talk about.

[senorarelojes]

Excerpt from ‘Your Favourite Slave’

This is an extremely belated Christmas present for the very lovely @pinksyndication. Since Mo wanted to take a peek at their present, I’ll post an excerpt here. I swear I will finish all the WIPs floating around!

Notes: Fantasy AU, themes of slavery/sexual slavery (but no non-con or rape).

. Alan knew he wasn’t alone the moment he shut the door to his chamber. He’d been on guard ever since he - and the rest of their entourage - had set foot in this foreign kingdom. There was something not quite right in the land of Essex, a seafaring kingdom that was rumoured to be established by pirates. The more Alan saw of the coarse land and even coarser people, the more he’d been tempted to head straight home to Londinium. But he couldn’t let his brothers and his people down; they needed access to the well-equipped, strategically positioned ports of Essex, so Alan had led the Londinium delegation here without a complaint.

Now, after a whole day of fruitless negotiating with the frustratingly tight-lipped Prince Martin, Alan just wanted dinner and a hot bath. 

The chamber given to royal visitors was far more luxurious than Alan had expected. Upon opening the door, one was greeted with a neat and cosy solar, equipped with a lush couch and an oak desk that provided ink, parchment and candles for Alan to do his work. The solar had a secondary door that led to the main bedchamber, where a massive four-poster bed draped in the lushest silks awaited him. The windows overlooked the sea too, which was a view Alan admittedly enjoyed.

Although there was no one in the solar, there must have been someone waiting in the main bedchamber. The air was spiced with traces of a sweet, musky perfume meant to entice, and Alan could see the flickering light of the fireplace already lit. Taking a deep breath to prepare himself, Alan stepped into the bedchamber, his eyes widening at what he saw.

A man was reclining across his mattress on his side, his head propped up with an elbow on the bed. One look at the man’s attire and appearance told Alan all he needed to know about why he was here; the man was dressed in white silk pyjama bottoms that looked soft to the touch, his upper body covered only with an indecently sheer tunic that left nothing to the imagination. Even then, Alan didn’t miss the black slave collar around the man’s neck. 

They’d sent a pleasure slave to his room.

The man raked a hand through his hair, which was dark as a raven’s wing. It was a nice contrast against his pale skin, and his lips were the lushest Alan had ever seen on a man. At this point he licked them, leaving them even more moist and inviting.

However, that all paled in comparison to the main focal point of this astoundingly pretty picture: the man’s eyes. They were a warm greenish brown in the candlelight, framed by a set of long, dark lashes and full, masculine brows. There was an amused glint in those eyes too, which meant that Alan had been caught staring.

“What is this?” Alan kept his face as calm and impassive as possible. 

The man shot him a knowing smile with just a touch of slyness. “The king sent me, my lord.” His voice was surprisingly sweet and husky, the vowels curiously elongated and rounded - typical of the Essex accent.

Alan arched an eyebrow at him. “Prince Martin told us the king is occupied with other matters.” 

“So he is.” The man stretched out on the bed like an indecent feast. “Doesn’t mean the king can’t make sure his guests aren’t well taken care of.”

“Is that what you’re supposed to do?” Alan washed his hands in the little basin with the jar of water waiting for him. “Take care of me?”

Letting out a dirty laugh, the man grinned at Alan as he let his legs fall open. “All that and more, handsome.” He patted the bed. “Come here, I’ll make you feel good.”

Alan would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. He’d always preferred the company of women, although there were a few men who’d managed to turn his head. The man in his bed was leagues above them, in possession of every single attractive trait Alan liked about men.

Unfortunately, the collar on his neck reminded Alan that the man wasn’t in possession of his own free will. Alan’s brother, King Stephen, had outlawed slavery in Londinium fifteen years ago, but it wasn’t surprising that a kingdom like Essex - with a history steeped in piracy - would still be in favour of such an antiquated practice. In Alan’s opinion, sexual slavery was even worse. Forcing someone to warm your bed was a deplorable act. “No,” he said.

The man’s eyebrows jumped upwards. “No?” His mouth flattened into a thin line. “Does my appearance displease you?”

Alan couldn’t help his scoff. “On the contrary. If you only knew how pleasing you are to me, then you’d know how difficult it is for me to turn you away.”

The man’s face brightened. “So what’s the problem?”

Alan splashed his face with water before drying it with a towel. “I do not wish to force you.”

Now it was the man’s turn to scoff. “Believe me, mate, nothing about this is forced.” He eyed Alan with a slow, lazy smile as he began tugging down the hem of his silk harem trousers. “Just come over here. Then I can report to the king that I made you happy, and you’ll be in a good mood for the negotiations tomorrow.”

Alan flashed him an understanding smile. “I suppose the king wouldn’t be happy if I sent you away without...partaking of your services.”

The man shrugged. “He would be most displeased, yes. But you don’t have to worry about me.”

Alan had no idea what gruesome punishments awaited pleasure slaves who had not carried out royal orders. He didn’t want to get this poor man into trouble. “Look, what’s your name?”

“My name doesn’t matter,” the man said.

Alan fixed him with a steady look. “It matters to me.”

Surprise bloomed on the man’s face, followed by something that looked like curiosity. “Dave. My name is Dave.”

“Well, I’m Alan.”

Dave’s mouth curled up a little at the sides in amusement. “I’m well aware of who you are, Prince Alan.”

“No need to address me as so.” Alan gestured at the door leading to the solar. “I’m going to sleep on the couch outside. You can sleep in the bed and leave in the morning, if you like. So the king thinks you’ve fulfilled your duties.”

This actually made Dave bolt upright in astonishment, the sexy and coy act forgotten. “Wait-- you would let a lowly slave take your bed while you slept outside?”

“You’re not lowly.” Alan nodded at him in farewell as he shuffled out of the room. “Have a good night’s rest, Dave.”

As he suspected, the couch was far more comfortable than it looked. Alan unbuttoned his tunic before settling in on the couch’s soft cushions. He was so exhausted from days of travelling and the day’s pointless negotiations that he found himself nodding off quite quickly. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he thought he felt someone carefully draping a blanket over him.

When he woke up in the morning, the blanket was still there but Dave was already gone.

[hatboyproject]

Synth Anthropomorphisation

I've been generating audio all day for this romance scene script & Jeff's synth is behaving unusually well for his lines, so far. Suspiciously well. Sometimes, I swear it's as if he has a mind of his own & today, he just decided to cooperate with me for some reason.

Sometimes, I have to fight with him to get a decent read out of a line. At his worst, I have to sit there for upwards of an hour, tweaking the same three or four seconds' worth of speech, trying to coax him to read it with the inflection that I need. Sometimes I have to adjust the script's wording to make him "like it" better, or splice together multiple takes to get a word said in the way I like. Occasionally, I have to do even further pitch correction post-generation, and even after all that, I can still end up with a line read that I know isn't working all that well. It can sometimes be a really, really, really mentally draining task. I swear he's more temperamental on some days than others. On different days, I've generated the same line and got a slightly different read.

But today, he seems to like me, a little bit. I'm most of the way through the script now, and I've had to do relatively few corrections on most of them. In fact, he's come out with a few pretty acceptable reads with no corrections at all, and I've just tweaked them as if giving a director's suggestion rather than pushing an instrument around.

I'm aware that I sound like a raving lunatic at the moment and if the weather's decent tomorrow, I swear I'll go outside and touch some grass, but it's hard sometimes not to feel like the goddamned machine hasn't only learned how to enunciate speech like this actor, but has also learned me.

Of course, the logical explanation is that I'm just better at using it and predicting what words he has trouble with, but sometimes, I swear.

Now, FemShep, on the other hand... She's a tricky beast. She likes to get one half of a two sentence line absolutely perfect and crystalline, complete with little breathy flairs and smooth tonal transitions, and then mumble the other half like some kind of stumbling drunk. For almost every FemShep line with more than one sentence, no matter how short, I have to split the lines into multiple takes. The problem is that to keep tone and pitch natural, it's best to include as much of the whole phrase as possible so that it flows. But no, not on Shepard's watch. She loves nothing more than to make me chop everything she says up and stick it together. I swear.

Synth Personalities, as I Understand Them:

Jeff is ornery, but is essentially committed, and if you catch him at the right time, almost affectionate in his willingness to cooperate. Despite sounding dry by default most of the time, it's easy to direct him towards sounding surprisingly tender. Needs larger words spelled phonetically. He is a pilot who can't say the word "fly" without creative assistance and refuses to say his own surname under any circumstances whatsoever. Extremely responsive to punctuation and will alter his reads accordingly.

Shepard is a highly skilled loose cannon that does whatever the hell she wants on her own terms, and occasionally it's miraculous, but it's also always confusing. Can't pronounce "evacuate," no matter how you break it down phonetically. She likes it when you draw out her R, S and H sounds, particularly at the ends of words so she can do this breathy thing. I don't know, but it works. Doesn't give a damn about punctuation unless it's commas or full stops, and even then, only if she feels like it.

EDI does pretty much anything you ask of her, flawlessly, the first time. Any corrections are minimal, and she can handle multiple sentences without sounding awkward. She can handle complicated words like "xenopsychology" with minimal assistance. Always pronounces "Shepard" with good inflection wherever it is in the sentence. Naturally produces deadpan lines with perfect comedic timing. What the fuck.

Garrus is a rambling speaker and is very accepting of unusual words, such as people's names. He takes direction well for the most part, and is excellent when it comes to split clauses. His tone is easy to moderate, but has trouble not joining separate sentences together too quickly. Always needs the "y" in "you" to be lengthened. Easily sounds affectionate or dictatorial. Can even be made to sound as though he is smiling when speaking. Often needs vowels shortening on the ends of words or he will draw them out unreasonably until they disintegrate into nonsense.

Kaidan has perfect tonal variation and terrible artefacting. He sounds like he's reading you the most beautiful, heartfelt thing you're ever gonna hear... From five thousand light-years away on a bad transceiver. He does his best, and his best is surprisingly good at core, but he is tragically limited in overall clarity by quality problems. It's a snap to make him sound caring and romantic, but again... Get a better phone. Usually says "Shepard" too enthusiastically and has to have the letters pitch-altered to fit the rest of the sentence.

Thane sounds confused a lot. Often sounds like he isn't sure about what he's saying, his tone on un-adjusted sentences is usually slightly absent sounding in a way that's difficult to describe. Surprisingly versatile where it comes to trying to copy the weird "Baby Siha" meme. If you don't know what that is, go ahead and look it up, but only if there's a shower nearby, because hearing it will make you feel slimy and uncomfortable in ways you didn't think was possible. Chuckles pretty convincingly.

Male Shepard wants to know what's going on, but first, he will try to explain what's going on as best he understands it being under the effects of god knows what. He often sounds declarative, but in that drunken frat boy kind of way that makes you want to back away slowly and not make eye contact. If he feels like saying your line, though, he'll do it with an impressive capability for mimicking Meer's sometimes unusual style of delivery.

Can't wait to test Jack and Miranda. I bet Jack can swear with incredibly life-like inflection.

[degrassi-fanatic]

Good At The Job

For lawrancel and peter-ohara 

The moment Hotch hears the monitor flatline, the noise echoing through the silent room, he decides to make his way out of the hospital room. The two parents need some time to grieve privately and Hotch is not a monster, he won’t rip Jimmy away from his dead son, not until he has to. 

Pushing open the door as quietly as he possibly can, Hotch lets himself out of the room. He draws in a deep breath as he presses his body against the nearest empty space on the wall. His palms are flat against the cold wall, the sensation anchoring him to reality. He tilts his head up as he attempts to will away the tears. 

From the corner of his, he sees a familiar mop of brown hair come into view and soon he feels a hand rest on his upper arm, the warmth seeping through his dress shirt and spreading across his skin. 

“Hotch,” Reid says softly, “You okay?”

Using the arm free of Reid’s grasp, Hotch wipes away the remaining tears on his face using the end of his sleeve. 

“I’m fine.” Hotch answers back quickly, his voice coming out all watery, “Let’s just— let’s go back to the station.”

He is well aware that he’s not doing an excellent job of convincing Reid but he hopes that, for once in his life, Reid will simply drop the matter, that he won’t keep probing. 

It’s quite clear that today will not be the exception as Hotch’s hopes are crushed when he feels Reid’s digits curling into his bicep. As the younger man shuffles closer to lean into Hotch’s side, he uses his free hand to twine their fingers together. 

“The team can wrap up the case without us.” he murmurs as he tries to make fleeting eye contact with Hotch, “You want to talk about it?”

Without hesitation, Hotch shakes his head vehemently. 

No, he does not want to talk about it. He’d rather be back at the police station going through mind-numbing procedures that would help him forget the look of pure anguish on Ryan’s parents’ faces when he uttered his final goodbye. 

“Aaron…” Reid admonishes gently, “Please?”

For a minute, he stays silent and Reid resigns himself to having lost this battle with Hotch. He can feel him making microscopic movements to inch away and that makes a surge of panic rush through Hotch for an inexplicable reason. 

Moving his hand to grasp at Reid’s waist, Hotch leans his mouth down to his ear. He wants to be quiet because he knows that right beside them, inside the hospital room, is a pair of parents wondering how to keep going on after they’ve lost their son. 

“I saw a kid die,” he starts off, his breath most likely tickling the shell of Reid’s ear from the way the man was squirming in his hold, “And I don’t know, my mind must have gotten away from me, because I kept imagining if it was Jack. Then, I started imagining if Jack had gotten sick and I had to say goodbye, if he had gotten into an accident and I had to bury him, if he had been killed by Foyet—”

He cuts himself off as he heaves in a ragged breath. He knows that by now his fingers must be leaving bruises in Reid’s skin from the way he’s tightened his grip. 

“I felt bad for him.” Hotch admits quietly to Reid, “For the unsub, for Jimmy. I know he’s a killer but I understand him. If Jack got sick or if he died, I would snap too and that makes me afraid. That the person I identify with, is the bad guy.

“I mean, what does that make me?”

“Good at the job.” Reid whispers back.

It’s a callback to something he said years ago to him, back when Reid had been younger and Hotch had smiled more. It loosens up the knot in his chest, if only enough to let him take a free breath. 

“Thanks Reid.” he says, and he’s not sure what he’s thanking him for, but it feels right to say the words. 

A second or two passes when Hotch realizes they are still wrapped up around one another. Despondently, he thinks it’s time he pulls away from Reid’s body. They’ve been intertwined in a way that is inappropriate for boss and subordinate, for friends, even. 

As he goes to take a step back, Reid places a hand on top of Hotch’s own that was resting on his waist, effectively keeping him close. 

“By the way,” Reid says into his ear, “I don’t think you’ll ever turn into an unsub.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of our unsubs,” Reid begins as he moves to look Hotch in the eye, “Their triggers are when their loved ones die a traumatic death. But, Hotch, you? Your wife was murdered by a man that had made your life living hell, and instead of choosing violence, against yourself or others, you chose to go back to work and put people like Foyet away. You chose to be the good way when it could have been so easy to fall off the deep end, you chose to be good even though it wasn't easy.

"And you showed your son that you can move past tragedy without forgetting about it.”

All Hotch can do is stare at Reid and take in all of the awe and pride swirling around in his eyes. 

“I was rambling, wasn’t I?” he pipes up when Hotch cannot produce a response for him in time.

“I like it.” Hotch mumbles as he brings his thumb up to trace the corner of Reid’s mouth. 

“When it doesn’t interfere with the job?” he teases, even though a blush appears across his own face. 

“Yeah.” 

The next day, after the team has filed into the jet and they are well on their way back home to Quantico, Rossi decides to stride over to where Hotch was sitting, his paperwork scattered around him on the table in front of him. 

“So,” Rossi says, elongating the vowel as he leans his arm on the top of the empty seat in front of Hotch, “Is the doomsday bike ride happening?”

“Yes, it is. Tomorrow morning, 9:00.” he informs, “But, uh, I don't know.”

“I'm pretty sure Haley wouldn't want you to avoid moving on.”

Though it’s been two years, her name still cracks against his heart like a whip whenever he hears it. He wonders when the blow will lessen its impact. 

“I'm not avoiding moving on.” he murmurs as he scribbles something down, “I'm just not sure.”

It’s the truth. He just isn’t sure if it’s worth the hassle.

Beth is nice and sweet and she is someone Hotch could fall in love with.  But, she’s so innocent and Hotch doesn’t want to do to her what he did to Haley. He doesn’t want Beth to bear the burden of a job she did not sign up for. It’s not fair to her, just like it wasn’t fair to Haley. 

He sees no point in attempting a relationship that is doomed to end catastrophically. 

“Not sure about what? Going on a bike ride?” Rossi asks, slightly exasperated, “Aaron, I know you think it's too soon, but you're no good to anyone when you're miserable.”

“I'm not miserable.”

Hotch has a good life. He has a wonderful son and a kind sister. He has a team that has his back no matter what. What more could he ask for? What more could he ask for without feeling guilty? Without feeling selfish?

“Ehh…” Rossi says with a little hand gesture, “Maybe slightly uptight.”

A small chuckle escapes Hotch.

“All right,” he concedes as he sets his pen down, “I'll give you slightly uptight.”

After a moment, the grin on Rossi’s face dials down, replaced by the sight of a small, sad smile. 

“If there's one thing I learned from Carolyn's death, it's that life is short.” he says, “And you deserve to be happy.”

“I know.” Hotch murmurs, half lying and half telling the truth.

Leaning closer, Rossi gives him a pat on the shoulder before he straightens up and makes his way back to his own seat, where Prentiss and Morgan are waiting for him so they can begin their game of poker.

As he picks up his pen once more, Hotch is about to get back to his paperwork when the pen is snatched up from behind him. In its place is a warm mug of coffee, instead. Looking up, he finds Reid beaming down at him as he holds Hotch’s favourite pen hostage in one hand, and his own mug of coffee in the other. 

“Did you poison it with your sugar?” Hotch jokes as he brings his nose down to the rim of the mug. 

“Haha,” Reid says sarcastically as he takes his seat in front of Hotch, “That’s coming from Mr. I-take-my-coffee-as-dark-as-my-soul.”

“Well, if coffee is supposed to represent its drinker, I think yours is fitting as well.” Hotch says, surprising himself with his words. 

“Because I’m so pale?”

“Because you’re sweet.” Hotch corrects. 

He isn’t quite sure why he said the words but whatever the reason is good enough for him as he watches the flush spread across Reid’s face like it did last night. Soon after, Reid ducks his head down as he distracts himself by taking a sip of his overly sugary coffee. 

Maybe, Hotch had gotten it all wrong. Maybe, he should’ve been searching for a partner in his own circles. Someone who understood him and understood everything he had been through. Someone who he didn’t have to go through the painful pleasantries of first dates with because they already knew him. Someone who would not be scared away by the job because they worked the job too. 

Someone like Reid, he thinks to himself. 

Sighing, Hotch pushes aside the thought. Reid would never want to be with a man like him. Not when he had so many other options available to him. Sure, he’s a little late on social cues but he makes up for it with kindness, passion, intellect, with his whole personality. Anyone would be lucky to have him.

In the pocket of his trousers, he feels his cell phone vibrate with a new text message notification. Whipping it out, he spots Beth’s contact name on the screen. 

“Jess?” Reid asks.

“No, it’s, uh, it’s Beth.” at Reid’s questioning look, Hotch explains, “She’s the woman I met in the park while I was training. She’s asking if I would like to join her for some dinner later in the day after we finish our bike ride tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Reid says deflated, “That’s nice.”

As he grows dismayed, a seed of hope sprouts up inside of Hotch. He wonders if… 

“Unfortunately for her, I am busy.” he announces as he sets his cell phone face down on the table.

“With what?” Reid asks, curiously.

“Taking you out to dinner.” and Hotch isn’t sure where this streak of bravery came from but he is grateful for it, “That is if you’ll say yes.”

The grin that Reid greets him with reaches the corners of his eyes and leaves Hotch feeling breathless.

“That depends.” he says as he raises his mug up to his mouth before lightly blowing over the top.

“On?”

“If you mean it in the way I think you do.” he explains. 

“Spencer,” Hotch murmurs lowly to make sure the rest of the team cannot eavesdrop, “I would like to take you out on a date.”

“Okay.” he mumbles into the rim of his mug.

“Okay?” Hotch asks, wanting to double check, a smile already stretching across his face.

“Yep.” Reid nods shyly. 

Without another word, Hotch settles back into his chair to get some work done. He’d rather not have to do it tomorrow, seeing as he’s going to be very busy. 

As he slides sheets of papers around, he spots Reid getting up from his seat, only to slot up beside him on the empty chair next to him. Reid brings his hand down to Hotch’s, and he can feel a pen nudging his palm. After taking hold of it, Hotch tries to get back to work only to find his right hand clasped together with Reid’s left, settling on top of his thigh. 

It’s a good thing Hotch is left handed.