#<- no more!! chip with too many last names my beloved

[the0retically]

Thinking about Chip being asked what his last name is after an introduction and him pausing for a moment, not because he doesn’t have one, but because he can’t decide if he should say James, Rose, Lafayette, Ferin, or Tidestrider. And in that moment he knows he’s loved and has a family and belongs somewhere, not by any arbitrary means, but because he’s wanted and loved and cared for

[just-some-random-blogger]

Snow Angel

Criston's Version

I'll angel in the snow until I'm worthy but if it kills me, I tried.

Gwyane's Version ❄ Daemon's Version ❄ Aegon's Version ❄ Aemond's Version ❄ Jacaerys' Version ❄ Cregan's Version ❄ Criston's Verision

Cregan Stark x Reader | 900< | cw: fem!reader, dornish!reader, angry mob, angst, violence, death, typos, etc.

A/N: renee rapp my beloved. this was requested by an anon so anon i hope you see this and enjoy it <3

You remember distinctly how his hair bounced as he ran to your window. You remember distinctly the huffs that left his lips as he scaled up to your window. You remember distinctly the smile that blossomed on your lips as he handed you the fresh flower he picked.

Yet, it seemed nothing remained of what you remembered of him, to a point where you questioned if you remembered correctly at all.

Criston Cole strut about the Keep with his short hair and white cloak as though he was born here. There was an air of urgency about him and a sullenness to his expression. He spoke with a man, donned in similar attire as they march closer to you. You push your shoulders back and ready yourself to meet him.

You wait for him to stop, for him to see you and look as though he'd seen a ghost. He does not even look your way or notice you as he passes. You are taken aback, but brush it off; after all, you were kids when you last saw each other.

"Criston."

The man speaking to whom you called is the one that looks back. A beat later, so does he. His brows are furrowed, his jaw is clenched.

You offer him a smile, "duty becomes you... I think."

He tilts his head at your words and watches you link your fingers together. It takes him too many seconds too long to recognize you. Your smile chips by the time he says your name. He dismisses the man beside him and moves closer to you. Now that you are face to face, you find it a wonder to have recognized him at all.

How high he has soared from being some lowly boy who offered you flowers. For a moment, you swear his brown eyes soften the way it used once.

"I heard they have made you the Hand," you eye the necklace on him, "I think my father would rise from the dead if I told his grave." You chuckle softly, "though, he is more a lord of pride than anything else."

A faint line forms between his brows, "have you come to besmirch me?"

You pull your head back, "what?"

"Do you find Dorne so dull that you leave the peace there to behold the skirmish here in King's Landing?"

Your jaw slacks. You shake your head in disagreement. You reach for his cheek, "I do no such thing, sweetheart."

Criston reels then tenses at your touch. Still, you manage to place your palm upon his face. He looks as though he is fighting to keep the hardness on his face.

"I've come to see you. To wish you well."

His mask slips. You feel him slightly lean into your touch. He sighs, "it is not safe for you here. The city does not take kindly its Crown as of late. They've grown restless," he takes your hand and squeezes it, "you m-"

"Ser Criston."

The speed and harshness in which your hand is released nearly makes you lose your footing.

Criston turns around with the haste of a guilty criminal. You both turn to the red haired woman. He addresses her, "queen mother."

She approaches, hand gripping her emerald skirt. She stops a few feet before the two of you. She turns to you and you find yourself curtsying, "Queen Alicent."

She smiles politely and turns to Cole, "there is a matter I wish to discuss with you."

"I am your servant," he steps forward, bowing in regard.

"We may speak after your-"

"Our conversation is ended," Criston does not spare you a glance.

Alicent does not betray the blank expression on her face. She turns to you, eyes darting to your necklace, "you have come from Dorne, have you not?"

You nod, "indeed, your grace."

She looks back at him. Her lips twitch, "much effort has been taken by your friend-"

"She is not my friend," Criston cuts, deeply and surely. You are rendered frozen in your spot as he glances from over his shoulder, "I have instructed her to take her leave."

You feel as though the heat of your was being pulled out from your face. You lower your gaze and curtsy one last time before leaving without another word.

Criston watches as you retreat. He feels a twinge in his chest but he wills it away with a sigh. It is much harder to do so when Alicent begins to pick a fight over his unfeelingness.

You manage to retreat to your carriage and instruct your coachman to bring you back home. As you ride through the city, your embarrassment and sorrow almost make the cries of the peasants fall deaf to your ears. However, by then time you arrive at the city gates, it is impossible to ignore, especially not when your carriage begins get rocked.

You gasp and press your hands to walls to keep yourself upright. It takes only a few moments for you to realize exit was not being allowed to the town folk and your exemption was reason for their aggression. You begin to panic when you hear a loud cry from your coachmen, then from horses.

You hear guards threatening people, then suddenly, your door was ripped open.

They were upon you. In a second, tens of people had their hands on your body, ripping your dress, your hair, your being into shreds. You could not get away. City guards manage to grab hold of you but it did you more harm than good; they now battled for your helpless form.

The pain was searing; all you could do was scream.

Though the guards were eventually able to retrieve you, though you managed to be brought back to the Keep, though maesters saw to your shredded body, Criston was unable to wish you what you meant to wish him. You had let your final breath before he could visit.

He and Alicent light a candle.

[weneverlearn]

Candy Darling - Dreamer, Icon, Superstar by Cynthia Carr

Review by Eric Davidson

It's a boon time for biographies of underground characters from across the end-of-20th Century New York City. Hell, there's even a Ned Hayden autobiography out there.

For me personally, I ingest these books as proof or dissolution of myths of which I've always been suspicious. I've never been one to say "Don't meet your heroes," because I dispensed with the notion of heroes by the time I turned teen.

I have a vivid memory of watching the "Disco Demolition Night" at Comiskey Park on the TV news when I was 12 and knew right away that even supposed lovers of rock'n'roll could do stupid-ass shit that completely missed the point of rock'n'roll. Or there were the rumors of the beloved Jimmy Carter and Jesse Jackson wanting to shut down punk rock. Most of the Bolshevik's were extremely sexist. Ditto Jackson Pollack and many of my fave modernist painters.

I knew from an early age that unassailable humans are extremely rare. So the term "hero" went out of my vocabulary quickly. I usually keep it to "People I admire for their work." Like any good leftie, I am tied to detailed and busy terminology that probably invites distraction instead of quickie comradery, but c'est la fuckin' vie.

To wit, this excellent new biography of Warhol superstar and drag icon, Candy Darling. Well, not so new -- I've been meaning to post a review of this since it came out last summer, and hey, today, November 24, is Candy Darling's birthday!

This is a wonderfully written book that gives an honest, well-researched biographical picture of Candy, a solid surrounding milieu description, and more reasons to chip away at whatever positive opinions you had left about Andy Warhol.

Don't get me wrong, I am one of those who do believe that the art someone makes survives long past us feeble humans; no artist creates alone in a vacuum; and hence it is possible to appreciate the art while noting the foibles or downright shitty things about an artist. They lived when they did; 7 outta 10 times had crap parents; usually could not foresee future societal changes; and they worked completely alone, so why toss out the hard work of co-creators with the bathwater of the possibly shitty main name artiste?

Who could realistically argue that Warhol is not one of the four or five most important visual artists of the 20th century -- for debatably good and bad reasons and outcomes (debate being something else good art inspires). In this book, Warhol comes across variously as cheap as hell and/or a monied aesthetic savior to the coterie of kooks he kept around him (until he grew tired of them). Discussing the malleable moralities of Pop Art and its creation is another topic for another day, and not the main one of this book.

That topic is Candy Darling as one of the most famous drag queens, and all that entails and supposes. Like, she didn't really consider herself a drag queen, or did she? This book takes a late '60s Long Island misfit and zooms her right into our evolving 21st Century conceptions of gender, while allowing for the fact that Candy is no longer around to enter the debate, and most likely wouldn't want to.

With this bio you get to learn that, like a lot of the Warhol crew, Candy was a relatively conservative person -- though you can't blame that on a rich family that raised her conservatively, like most of the Warhol crew. She grew up middle class, which seemed yet another thing that set her askance from the Factory scene.

For the most part, Candy relished the 1940s Hollywood concepts of female empowerment, not the burgeoning Women's Lib concepts. In fact overall, author Cynthia Carr's extrapolation of Candy's life shows people like her didn't just struggle to fit into the straight world, they didn't have much luck with the burgeoning women or gay liberation movements either.

Incredible amount and quality of images throughout the book too!

I'm a straight white guy who thinks he's listened to a lot of Jobriath and saw The Queen on a big screen (with a Q&A after, no less!), but it was a revelation to me to find out from this book how gay bars of NYC in the 1960s would kick out drag queens because their presence invited vice cops and their truncheons. And in fact, some in gay liberation groups considered drag queens a, uh, drag on the movement by supporting gender stereotypes; and some in the women's movement thought they were making fun of women.

To help navigate such travails -- and her fraught attempts to become a movie star via her connections in the new underground film world -- Candy continually searched for a belief system that primarily focused around Christianity, though she delved into Scientology and other vague, hippie interpretations of spirituality too. I have always been of the mind of why would anyone of fluid gender want to join any well-known established religion in America, since they all seem to start with a complete disrespect for that idea? Candy Darling is another example of how it took brave souls like her to investigate this stuff so us later questioning types could argue from a more solid, smug foundation.

Candy cooking; swiped from a Tumblr

In the face of that morality search, Candy was a constant, inventive filcher of money and goods from pals, re-user of used clothing, and generally comes across as much a glamorous version of a crusty punk as a wannabe Marilyn Monroe. Her fractious friendship with Holly Woodlawn and Jackie Curtis -- the triumvirate of Lou Reed's legendary song -- was a kind of metaphor for that whole NYC underground arts era: one (Woodlawn), an updated vaudevillian; one (Candy), a near cartoon of classic Hollywood; and a one (Jackie Curtis), the future of the shakeout of gender identity. And if my reading here is correct, Curtis might've invented punk rock's fashion and contrarian attitude.

And like Curtis, this book created for me possible reasons to revive the word hero in my vocabulary. To imagine the amount of energy Candy Darling must've had actually makes you more energetic as you read this. Her story is oddly inspiring, considering the poverty, self-defeat, and slow death that followed Candy like a Greek chorus.

No matter the fucked up family she had, the broke existence, the often thin "friendships," and the defiantly fringe arts community her high hopes were tied to, Candy Darling continued to walk in high heels through the most garbage-strewn era of NYC, all the while looking up at the stars with a hope and strength most of us couldn't muster. I admire her work.

[notquitejiraiya]

8 YEARS

Last year, I wrote my first yearly recap after having been inspired by a tradition set by the wonderful @unioncolours each year. That recap contained an array of fics and thoughts and inspirations after the insane year for me that was 2022. It was a huge year for me in terms of many things. Shortly after my last recap, I got a master’s degree and officially became an engineer, something that honestly spurred on my creative drive. While studying for that degree, I had my coolest year of writing in a while: as you know from the last recap, if you read it, I wrote 9/10, Love Means Nothing (which, yes, will be finished in time, don’t worry), and most importantly, I wrote Strangers.

Most importantly, I say, because the entirety of 2023 would ultimately hinge upon what Strangers began. But that is something we’ll come to in time.

Be warned, this will be long, but if you'd like to read about my last year, please do keep reading below :)

Before we begin with the majority of this essay, I wanna give a shoutout to the lost soul of the year that is Traditions. It wasn’t long and it wasn’t hugely exciting, but it kickstarted this year in terms of fic posting, even if only on Tumblr, and it was a cute one. I always love a little challenge like those from a gift exchange, and it’s always nice to give a gift. I hope it was nice to read, too!

But, starting on the meaty stuff, I think it’s important that I address the two constants throughout the history of this blog. The first, which comes as no surprise to any, is ShikaTema: the most important ship to ever exist, to me, and the heart of some of the most wonderful experiences I’ve had throughout my fandom life. The second constant is a topic explored in a lot of Shikamaru-based content across the fandom and one that I will never tire of.

That second constant is chess.

The game of chess is something very special to me. The first day I met my partner, we played chess against one another for hours (and I lost - the only time he’s beaten me, actually). My best friend, who introduced us that day, gave me a rook keyring that I have kept on my house keys ever since, whether I’ve lived in my home town, another city, or now even in another country entirely. My favourite musical - one of the things I connect to my father best with - centres around chess, its politics, and its capacity for obsession. And probably the most important fic on this blog to date obviously takes its name from the game.

I have no doubt that most people who follow me, especially those of you here on Tumblr, discovered my writing as a result of Chess, either by reading it or maybe through the incredible art which that fic was lucky enough to receive. It was so special and personal to me to write, and while it’s certainly no longer my best work as an author, I’m still immensely proud and pleased with how it resonated with people. I think, so far, it is the most beloved thing I’ve written, at least to others.

But something that always bothered me about Chess was how little chess there actually was in it. Sure, there were a couple of scenes where chess was played, but there was more flower arranging and fish and chips than there was time sitting across a chessboard. It felt almost like a wasted opportunity to write about Shikamaru being a chess whizz and doing next to nothing with the skill. I couldn’t let the idea die. In many of my older stories — Tumblr-only stories — Shikamaru plays chess (or shogi) or inspires Shikadai or Temari to do the same. But nowadays, it feels like it has all been leading up to right now and to the monster that 2023 has birthed.

When I came to write Strangers in 2022, an idea came to me as just a little easter egg. That idea was that, in the Strangers universe, Temari’s husband would be a world-class chess player, and she, too, would have an equally worldwide job. It sort of naturally followed that Temari, too, could be a chess player; what she might lack in terms of natural strategic prowess, she more than makes up for in drive and ruthlessness, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about chess players in my life, it’s that they hate to lose. Temari 101, methinks. As I made my way through writing Strangers, that fact nipped at my brain tirelessly until, before I knew it, I had a 30k outline and, by association, a goal for what 2023 would be for me as a writer.

2023 would be the year of Grandmaster.

I’ve always been more of a character writer than a plot writer. I think perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m drawn to writing AUs over canon works; to me, while writing, it’s more interesting to explore how an existing character would behave in a totally alien environment to their canon one, and Grandmaster is this year’s attempt at that.

I mention this because, while I call Grandmaster (GM) a ShikaTema fic, it is, first and foremost, a fic about Temari. Shikamaru is there — of course, he is — and he plays a crucial role in so many of the elements of her life within the story. But the story is unequivocally hers. We see what Temari sees, focus on what Temari focuses on, suffer through Temari’s delusions of her own self-importance, and feel the weight of the expectations put upon her. It’s an exploration of the weight of ambition that’s not necessarily your own, and it has gutted me to write more than Chess ever did.

I don’t have enough delusion of my own self-importance to yet write and publish an essay on this story, why I’ve written it, and how it feels to write it, but there are a few points that I have to voice in this yearly reflection because they’re so crucial to my last year as a writer and online.

You will hear me sing the praises of my friend Bex to the ends of the Earth. While we share a name, we have very different approaches to writing, and we often tell quite different stories, but she is truly responsible for inspiring me to write Temari-centric stories. 100%. If you are reading this and somehow haven't read what I truly consider to be the greatest ShikaTema fic of all time (no one cries for unknown soldiers), follow that link, read it right now, and then come back a changed individual. And you will be changed, I promise, because it changed me on an almost chemical level with its power. Everything you write, Bex, has that power, and it is extraordinary and frankly terrifying in the most incredible way.

I had already started GM by the time you began releasing When I am Gorgeous, but holy fuck, if that didn’t spur me on. The character growth and arcs in those stories are something to behold and something I strive for. With that in mind, the first point of this writing reflection is a thank you to Bex specifically, without whom I wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun writing as I’ve had this last year, and I wouldn’t be sitting where I’m sitting as I write this. So thank you - a hundred times over and more. I am honoured to share a corner of the internet (and a name) with you, my ‘rival’. Thank you.

The second point is another thank you. This time to @clumsydragon28, who is again a dear friend and without whom GM wouldn’t be what it is. From support in DMs to insane and phenomenal essay-like analysis in comment sections, you are outrageously inspiring to em and others and there aren’t words for my gratitude for that. But, as you already know, there are elements of GM and what is to come after GM that exist only because of you and your own beautiful writing and stories. I will refrain from spoiling the joys of the latter chapters of Plié — another absolute must-read where the love and joy of an art form ooze from every word and captivate you with their wholesomeness and beauty — but it helped me find the missing piece at the end of GM that lets me tie it up with a bow, and ultimately set into motion the fic that will follow. I can’t thank you enough, truly, but thank you. 

Having thanked those who frankly made it happen, I’ll get on with the writing-specific stuff. No spoilers, but it will be a little self-indulgent so bear with me.

I’ll start with something kind of trivial. GM is my first real time writing OCs in a fanfic as more than a passing reference. It doesn’t have many because I like to bring in canon characters where applicable. But sometimes that’s not viable, and I’m not about to force some character into a hole they don’t fit into because I hate when other people do that, so Danya and Mischa kind of had to happen. And I’ve had a really fun time writing them. It’s not uploaded yet, but there’s a chapter coming soon that’s quite focused around Mischa, and I think it’s some of my best writing in the whole story, and so GM has kind of gotten me over my fear of OCs. Nobody’s complained about their existence, and they’ve made the story more complete. A lesson learned, for sure.

Secondly, it’s no secret that I really like Rasa. Do I think he’s a wanker? Yes. Do I think hating him for what happened canonically is valid? Also, yes. Do I think that there’s nuance to his character that is often disregarded or forgotten? Absolutely. And, as a result of that, do I think he’s criminally underutilised in fics? Fuck yeah, I do.

So GM has a lot of Rasa. More than I initially intended when I began writing it, actually. He’s there pretty much all the time — if he’s not in the scene, he’s probably influencing what’s going on in it either directly or via years of impressionable behaviours. And it’s been really interesting to write that. Challenging, for sure, because I have to keep in line with all the relationships set out in Strangers and realistically make them come to a head where they do. And challenging in the sense that it doesn’t feel good to write some of the things that Rasa has to say in this story.

There have been a few times in my 8 years as a fanfic author where I’ve written something and actually felt violently emotional after having done so, but GM has given me a fair few of those moments, specifically as a result of Rasa. I won’t say which moments they are, partly because the expectation of how one is ‘supposed’ to feel consuming anything takes away the authenticity, I feel, but I wonder if when people read his dialogue in certain chapters — some already up, and some soon to come — they will feel the same as I did writing them. It’s an interesting thought I’ve never had the opportunity or time to really consider until GM, and one I am sure I will consider more going forward.

Speaking of Rasa and the link in relationships, I don’t know if I’ve even officially said in this recap that GM is the prequel to Strangers. I’ve never written a prequel before, but it’s a unique experience. It’s like working from the end to the beginning; it feels wrong and yet makes perfect sense. Keeping the sibling relationships in line with Strangers is really fun, honestly. Writing that fic, I had little opportunity to just write the three of them having fun or being loving in traditional ways, and I had zero opportunity to utilise Yashamaru.

Writing this fic, Yashamaru has been everywhere, and he has become one of my most beloved characters.

I have nothing else to say on that, I just wanted to give it it’s own line. He’s played a big part of warming my hear this year, and I love him.

Finally, I feel like this fic has really brought out the introspective beast within me. Introspection has always been my forte, but it’s really taken the reins this time. In some ways, I’m quite annoyed with myself for it and for being word and long-winded. I’ve always had the biggest respect for those who can say what they want to say concisely, and I have never been one of those people.

That’s the goal for the 9th year of notquitejiraiya, for sure, and I plan to do so with a fic in the same universe as has captivated me these last 2 years, this time with the focus on Shikadai. Shikadai will be a new challenge for me, too, especially a grown up Shikadai, and I'm excited to try and tell his story, concisely and without even half the discontentment present in both GM and Strangers lol. We deserve some cheerfulness and range here at NQJ Ltd.

But at the same time, I’m proud of the way I write and the way I express myself and the characters within my story. I think I’m quite good at following a train of thought in a realistic way — not quite to the level of my idol, Mr Alex Garland, but I’ve time to learn — and by being Temari-centric, GM has let me into Temari’s head and let me run havoc her thoughts. I’ve received multiple comments on GM about how it’s somewhat frustrating not to have Shikamaru’s point of view, and while I get why: no thanks.

This is Temari’s story. There will be some moments we see through other’s eyes, certainly, but I’m of the opinion that if we saw both sides of GM, it would be far more frustrating. This story will span ten years and for me, it’s an exercise in writing someone piecing together parts of their life during that time into something worth living and figuring things out as they go. In life, while you might get to hear what the people around you think from what they say and how they act, you don’t get the privilege of seeing inside their heads. Neither does Temari, and by association, neither do you. I hope it pays off in the end; I’ll be proud regardless.

But enough about Becks the writer. Something pretty insane happened for Becks the human being last month, something that she’s not completely over. I live in Finland now. I’m learning Finnish, and I’m on Master’s degree number 2 (yes, I am addicted to learning, do not judge me). I have, frankly, no time to write, but am I going to do it anyway? Of course I am. I can’t stop myself, even if I tried. Not to mention, the pressure of my first MSc gave me Strangers, and I’m not going to resist if the 2nd brings on something equally fun.

Another constant this year for Becks the human, that I am certain my friends must be sick and tired of, is The Brothers Karamazov. I bought myself that book as a treat for finishing my exams in 2022 and have been slowly chugging through it for the last year. I’m sure it comes as no surprise with my wordy introspective tendencies that I love a classic, and I think it’s quite fun that I’ve somewhat accidentally aligned reading this particular classic alongside falling into the Bungo Stray Dogs fandom and, even more fun, aligned with writing GM. Two wildly different stories of trios of Russian siblings. These trios – they follow me around, I swear! But jokes aside, I have only 98 pages left of this almost 1000 page beast, and it feels like the end of an era. Never in my life have I seen characters as humans more effectively, and never have I felt more inspired to make sure the characters that I write appear human, too.

But like I say, being wordy is my weakness. The evidence is in this almost 3k ramble alone. There are so many more things I could say, and maybe once I’ve finished GM and it’s all published and tied up with a bow, I might share those thoughts, too.

But for now, I must say thank you to the 8th notquitejiraiya year for being so memorable, despite my blog and my ao3 page having ‘little’ to show for it by way of variety. The 9th year will be a good one, I’m sure, and I enter it with incredible friends — authors and otherwise — and the will (of fire) to improve.

And become more concise. That’s job no1.

Thank you all for playing a part in the last 8 years, whether we’re close or we’ve never spoken. Your time means the world, and I hope you have an incredible day / night / life.

Becks x

[unicyclehippo]

One word prompt: splinter

this is set in an au i have been toying with for the last mm week or so. enjoy

//

ASHTON 2 might be the most talented craftsman Imogen has ever met. And once she started thinking about how many craftsmen she knows, the list was actually decently long. Growing up on a farm’ll do that for a girl, she supposed. He’s not as good coming up with a name for himself—hence his newest name, which Ashton was happy to loan for the week (anything to piss off Hexum). Ashton was going to borrow Orym’s name—who asked his boyfriend for a new name and Will suggested “Achilles” straight away—except then Fearne wanted to be Orym and no one knew how to - nor intended to - resist her pout so Ashton took their name back and now Ashton was ASHTON 2 (capital letters and all) and Imogen’s headache was knocking insistently at her temples but it was worth it to have so many friends that they could do dumb shit like this.

The issue remained, however, that ASHTON 2 didn’t have a good name for himself and, as much as he liked to fuck around and pretend like it didn’t matter, Imogen knew it had been bothering him. Which was why she was risking splinters in her ass sitting on the woodshop tabletop—gallantly dusted off for her—and trying to find a way to broach the topic that hey, she might’ve spent the last fortnight compiling an insanely extensive list of names that he might like or take inspiration from. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, she so badly wanted to help, but now that she had to explain herself and the project, she was thinking herself into knots about whether it was weird or too personal and yeah it’d been four months and he hadn’t picked one yet but what if he didn’t want her help with it or anyone’s help and actually it was pretty shitty that she’d done this or—

‘Did you want something or did you just come to stare at me?’ He gasped. ‘Imogen! Wanted to get me all on my lonesome? For shame! I’m not a piece of meat to be ogled and objectifi—‘

‘I’m not here to stare at you.’

ASHTON 2 barely paused before flexing his arms like a bodybuilder, striking a few slow poses. ‘No offense but that’s dumb as hell. These puppies are a hundred per cent certified Wildemount meat! Nothin’ hotter on the market!‘

‘Didn’t you just say you’re not a piece of meat?’

He sighed, shaking his head. ‘Imogen, Imogen, Imogen. This is a fundamental of business! Misdirection, redirection—‘

‘That’s close up magic, I think.’

‘—getting the customer on the back foot so we can reach a mutually sa-hat-isfying agreement!’ At the vaguely sexual tone, Imogen just rolled her eyes.

ASHTON 2 laughed and, dropping his pose, moved back to the wood he’d been examining for whatever his next project would be. He hauled one back to his workstation—a square stump, distressed, splintered, weathered, like it had been part of something else before it found its way to his table—and clamped it in place.

He needn’t have bothered posing, she thought idly. There was something so capable and confident about him when he was like this, focused on his woodworking; it didn’t hurt either that he cut a handsome figure in his stupid (and definitely not workshop safety approved) shorts and henley.

Once the set up was done, he turned back to her and scratched thoughtfully at his scruffy beard, his beloved beard just now growing in and so fiercely maintained. Sawdust and wood chips puffed out of it, making him cough.

‘So what is it then? You got someone handsomer to stare at? No, no, not possible. Well, maybe Ashton. Doesn’t seem your type though. Aha—you got someone prettier to stare at? I know what you’re thinking, it’d be difficult to find someone prettier, I’m a prime specimen no matter which way you cut it, but maybe…tall, dark, and weird is more your vibe?’

Heat burned across her cheeks. Imogen levelled a glare at him. ‘Not everything is about who is pretty,’ she snapped, pointedly ignoring the way he waggled his brows, way too fucking knowing. ‘I came here, you dick—‘ she said, throwing her pen at him when he muttered that she wasn’t the first, ‘—because I spent the last two weeks putting together a list of names you might like, alright?’ ASHTON 2 stood straight in a jerky motion. Surprise slashed across his face. Imogen continued hurriedly, ‘If it’s weird and you hate it then we can just pretend it never happened but we—‘

‘We?’ ASHTON 2 asked, all the brash volume gone. He sounded odd.

‘Yeah, everyone gave me a few names to add to the list. Orym said I should be the one to show you but they really did most of it.’

He fixed her with a shrewd look. ‘Right,’ he drawled. ‘Like how you totally weren’t involved in the fire alarm glitch? Or how that fight was all Voe’s fault and you had nothing to do with it?’

Imogen smiled ever so slightly but didn’t reply. Instead, she flipped open the first page of the notebook. ‘Ashton.’

‘It’s ASHTON, actually,’ he said, half-yelling the name in the way they all had been. ‘And actually it’s ASHTON 2.’

‘No, it’s the first suggestion.’ She tapped the first entry. ‘Ashton’s pick. They’re “so up for maximum chaos”,’ Imogen relayed, air quotes and all.

‘Could be fun,’ he laughed. After a second, he shook his head. ‘Nah. Pass.’ Imogen nodded, moving her finger down the line. Before she could read off the next one, he continued, in that odd tone from earlier, ‘It should be all mine. My name. Right? Not borrowed from a friend. I don’t - wanna do that anymore.’

Dark eyes met hers. He had been through a lot of changes in the last months and for a second, Imogen saw him starkly as he was. Firm, square jaw. Scruffy beard and brows. A splash of pimples across his cheeks and chin. He spoke loud and often because he liked to hear his own voice, deeper, puberty cracks and bassy. He wore his shorts and cuffed his uniform shirt up to his shoulders to show off his hairy legs and Ashton-killed-me-at-the-gym arms because he could, wanted to. He revelled in becoming, in being himself. He revelled in boyhood, in every part of it, and the transformation too, pointing out the weird and wonderful. What was woodwork if not reshaping? Was that why he liked it?

What she wanted to ask felt too much, like always. She tried to tame it, soften it, but failed. As always. Asked, ‘Are you scared?’

‘No!’ he scoffed. His head dropped and he scuffed at the sawdust floor. ‘Maybe a bit. It’s a bit final, isn’t it? Seems like a waste, containing something as majestic as me to just one name.’

Imogen shrugged. ‘You don’t have to. And we don’t have to. Read through this list or do anything you don’t wanna do. I just thought it might be nice to know that we cared. That…we want you around,’ she said. She’d planned on saying it for a long time, ever since parents day, really. Every time she had imagined saying it, it had come out quiet, tentative, like she wasn’t sure how much she was allowed to confess to caring but now—it was loud. Certain. Did he know that’s what he did for her? That he showed her how to care loudly for her friends? ‘It’s a big choice, or it isn’t and you pick again in six months or whatever, but—it’s you. We love you.’

It was harder to cry on T, he’d told her months ago. Emotions felt different—he felt it in his hands and his shoulders and his ears. It didn’t always hit his chest anymore. It didn’t always crackle up to his eyes. If it was easier to cry, he would be crying now, she thought. He swallowed harshly.

‘Show me this list, then. And afterwards,’ he added, hopping up to sit next to her on the table, ‘you can tell me about how the fuck you got dragged into helping with the Winters Crest Fest.’ Her cheeks burned, remembering how Laudna had only had to ask very sweetly if she would help and she had nearly fallen over herself agreeing; he cackled, seeing the colour in her cheeks. ‘Someone’s got a girlfriend,’ he crooned, digging a sharp elbow into her ribs.

‘We’re not talking about that - shut up! We’re not—we’re talking about you. Isn’t that your favourite topic? What about Albert?’

He settled—still smirking though, the dickhead—and said, ‘Was that Ashton as well?’

‘Yes?’

‘Pass. You know what that’s a reference to, don’t you?’

Imogen groaned. ‘That fucking dick.’

‘Exactly.’

She crossed it out. Twice. ‘There’s good names in here, I promise. Archie.’

‘Don’t hate it.’ He watched her draw a star beside it but held his tongue until she had drawn two next to “Charlie” and one next to both “Courtney” and “Jordan”. ‘Did you…come up with a rating system? To help me pick a name?’

‘Laudna suggested it.’

‘Oh did she now. Clever,’ was all he said. Imogen suspected it was because he was navigating that weird not-crying space again, more than him deciding not to tease her.

[stormyoceans]

top 5 books/top 5 snacks :D

OH THESE ARE SO NICE!!!!!! not sure if i was meant to answer both of them but I have the time to do it so. here we go!!!!

TOP 5 BOOKS (in no particular order)

emma by jane austen. EMMA WOODHOUSE MY SWEET DARLING CONTRADICTORY MOST BELOVED CHILD!!!!! she’s spoiled, she’s well-intenioned, she’s bright, she’s unobservant, she’s ridiculous, she’s witty, she’s shockingly thoughtless, she’s the most attractive young woman in town!!!!!! for its sharp-eyed, diverting take on people and society and for the vivid and wonderful creation of emma woodhouse, this is actually my favorite austen’s novels!!!!

the master and margarita by mikhail bulgakov. i picked this book up from my sister’s library in my late teens and i’ve been haunted by bulgakov's tale and by all the spirits, demons, ghosts, and apparitions he was somehow able to conjure in it ever since. it’s fantastical and modernist, sensual and absurdist, a love story and a social satire. it has pontius pilate struggling with his guilt. literally couldn’t ask for more.

the name of the rose by umberto eco. im unfortunately so compelled by medieval illuminations, monastic communities, gripping mysteries, and linguistic crafts that i always end up forgiving eco for giving me a headache with his complicated and dense prose when im faced with such a riveting narrative.

maurice by e.m. forster. admittedly i may be a little bit biased here, but this was the first piece of queer literature i was ever exposed to and it’s dear to my heart in ways i can hardly explain. the way forster describes evening primroses somehow always leaves me breathless too, and his statement that he would not have bothered to write unless he could give his hero a happy ending also majorly influenced me in my approach to fiction.

grimm’s fairy tales. it was so hard to pick the last book to put in this list and i feel like there are other ones who could be more deserving of this place, but the fairy tales they collected have been my companions during my many hours of lying awake at night because of my insomnia. they also started my deep love for folklore so i feel like I had to give them a spot in this.

TOP 5 SNACKS

im actually not a big snack person, i tend to have my 3 meals per day and that’s about it, but if im hungry and i want a little treat i always go for:

nuts. peanuts, hazelnuts, walnuts, almonds, pistachios, cashews, literally if you give me any kind of nuts you will find me hoarding and munching them in a corner like a damn squirrel.

pan di stelle. all cookies are very hard for me to resist, but these ones are my all time favorite, an absolute comfort food, and impossible to resist. if you have these out, i WILL snack on them.

taralli. this is getting a bit too italian specific but, well, food is pretty much the only good thing we have here so ;;;;;; anyway if you can get your hands on these breadstick-like bundles of joy i highly recommend them. especially the red pepper variety. JUST [CHEF’S KISS]

chips sticks. i think that’s how they’re called?? anyway these little fuckers will trick you into thinking you haven’t eaten a lot of them and then suddenly you’ve reached the bottom of the bag. you can’t even regret your choices because they’re so damn delicious.

…..can ice cream be considered a snack? because that’s pretty much the one thing i consistently eat out of my three main meals during summer ;;;;;;

[nuubles]

yay thanks @yuiaka for tagging me :D

last song - negative cat -

the artists name is blank but you can probably find more info with xooox or x0o0x :3

fave color - purple my beloved <3 also magenta, pink and light yellow

currently reading - hhhh so many things :::D. probably the best sfw ones that I'm now reading are In/Spectre, Mieruko-Chan, and Brainless Witch

currently watching - pretty much nothing, the seasons are just finishing up :0. I've watched some solo leveling but it's really edgy tbh and one of the ones that I havent finished literally today :D

spicy/savoury/sweet - I can't handle spice at all ;-;. like literally one person said that they know a person who has a thing with tastes being too strong but they can eat some spicy chips so they should be fine for me too - nope ::3. I just can't handle hot stuff literally almost at all, I'm the definition of a person who can't handle heat. Other spices regardless whether they're savoury or sweet are good and I can't really decide between those two :D. savoury with not hot spices for real food and sweet for snacc <3

relationship status - taken

current obsessions - stickers mugs drawing gaming reading watching :D. artsy stuff

all people I would've tagged have already been tagged so I won't be adding any more tags to this chain :d

[johnhardinsawyer]

Building the Beloved Community

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

1 / 15 / 23

1 Corinthians 1:1-9

Isaiah 49:1-7

“Building the Beloved Community”

(Strengthened to the End)

Well . . . it’s “awards season” again – the time of year when a whole bunch of people that I do not personally know vote on “The Best” in movies, television, and music.  The Golden Globes were this past week.  The Grammys will be coming up on February 5.  The Oscars will be in March.  In addition to all of these awards for movies and music, “the best” in college football was named this past Monday (and, with my wife being a Georgia Bulldog, there was great rejoicing in our household).  The Super Bowl is coming up, too, the week after the Grammys.  So, break out the chips and dip and set your DVR’s.  

“The Best” doesn’t just come around this time of year, though.  It seems like someone is always, naming, or publishing, or awarding “The Best” in something.  

I wonder – have you ever been “The Best” at something?  I know I haven’t.  I mean, there have been times when I felt I was “The Worst” at some things.  Maybe you’ve felt that way, too.  And I’m willing to bet that there have been times when even those people who win championships and trophies and have been declared “The Best” in their respective fields have been complete and total failures – filled with self-doubt.  

You know, they don’t really give serious awards out to those who are “The Worst” at something.  There the court of public opinion, though.  

It might surprise some of you to hear that about sixty years ago, if you were to ask who “The Worst” person in America was, one of the names that you would have heard bandied about for this not-so-auspicious title was the name “Martin Luther King, Jr.”  It is hard to believe – in the year 2023 – that back in the year 1964, The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was in the running to be the “Most Divisive Person” in the country.  

When Americans were asked which three Americans they had the least respect for in a 1964 Gallup poll, King came in second at 42%. This was barely less than the 47% registered by [King’s ideological rival, George Wallace the racist segregationist governor of Alabama] George Wallace . . . Only 17% mentioned King’s name, when asked which three Americans they had the most respect for.[1]

Fast-forward six decades and tomorrow we will once more mark the annual national holiday in Dr. King’s honor.  In 2011, in another Gallup poll, 94% of respondents had a favorable view of Dr. King and just last year, almost 95% of American adults said in a CBS poll that Dr. King was an important figure in American history.  With hindsight being 20/20, there are many who think that King represents “The Best” of us.  

Back at the height of the Civil Rights movement, though, Dr. King was seen as a rabble-rousing, rule-breaking, troublemaker by a majority of the people in the country.  King and his people were always getting arrested at lunch counters and on marches across the South.  And if you get arrested, that means you’re up to no good, right?  

So, just what was King up to?  How did he justify his rabble-rousing rule-breaking?  Especially since he claimed to be a “Christian”?  To put it simply, in his work for economic and racial justice, King was seeking to build something that he called “The Beloved Community.”

In the 1950’s, when King was a young pastor in Montgomery, Alabama, he and his church were swept up in an effort to desegregate the city bus system – which was a major form of transportation for the black community.  When the efforts of King and his nonviolent movement were finally successful, King said that,

. . . the end [the goal of this movement] is reconciliation; the end is redemption; the end is the creation of the Beloved Community. It is this type of spirit and this type of love that can transform opponents into friends. It is this type of understanding goodwill that will transform the deep gloom of the old age into the exuberant gladness of the new age. It is this love which will bring about miracles in the hearts of [human beings].[2]

In other words, for King, the “Beloved Community” is a real-world change in which all forms of discrimination, bigotry, and prejudice will be replaced by an all-inclusive spirit of sisterhood and brotherhood.  Love and trust will triumph over fear and hatred.  Peace and justice will prevail over war and military conflict.[3]  For King, this is not just something that will only be seen someday, when God’s kingdom comes in full.  It can be seen in the real-world present if people have the courage and will to work for it, with God’s help.  One historian – Charles Marsh – writes that even when he was a graduate student in Boston, King was saying that “the immanence of agape” – God’s unique form of love for the world and the people who dwell here – can be “concretely conceived in human nature and history.”[4]  God’s transforming and liberating love can be seen and known in regular people – right now.

I wonder. . . is this true?  Can God’s love be seen and known in regular people right now? ��Because if it can be, then it is truly “the best” – and not “the worst” – of who God made us to be, who Christ calls us to be, and who the Holy Spirit is at work on, recreating us – sanctifying us – to be.  

In today’s first scripture reading, from Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, we find the Apostle Paul and a friend named Sosthenes reminding a divided church in Corinth who they really were.  Eugene Peterson translates it in this way:  

I send this letter to you in God’s church at Corinth, believers cleaned up by Jesus and set apart for a God-filled life . . . I thank God for your lives of free and open access to God, given by Jesus.  There’s no end to what has happened to you – It’s beyond speech, beyond knowledge.  The evidence of Christ has been clearly verified in your lives.  Just think – you don’t need a thing, you’ve got it all!  All God’s gifts are right in front of you as you wait expectantly for our Master Jesus to arrive on the scene for the Finale.  And not only that, but God himself is right alongside to keep you steady and on track until things are all wrapped up by Jesus.  God, who got you started in this spiritual adventure . . . will never give up on you.  Never forget that.[5]

In other words, since the believers in Corinth – and the believers (like us) in every age, and time, and place – have encountered Jesus, our lives have been changed in ways we cannot even describe.  God has filled us up and set us apart for a new way of living.  God has given us the spiritual gifts we need for this new life and is walking alongside us – even now – just to encourage us to live it.  

You might remember that Paul is writing this letter with a friend named Sosthenes.  Are there any big Sosthenes fans in the house this morning?  Sometimes we have the tendency to skim over the names of people in the Bible as we read.  But there is a brief story about Sosthenes that we find in the Book of Acts.  It would seem that while Paul was living in Corinth, preaching to everyone who would listen about Jesus, he made some people mad.  Paul’s message of the freedom that we have in Christ Jesus did not sit well with some.  According to the story, Paul and his friends – a small troublemaking offshoot of the Jewish synagogue in Corinth – aren’t following all of the Jewish laws, and they have set up shop in a home right next door to the synagogue, which is really annoying for the “good” rule-following people of the synagogue.    

Anyway, the people from the synagogue get mad, they grab Paul and his friends and drag them in front of the proconsul – the governor of Corinth.  The governor says that it’s none of his concern and that all these arguing Jewish people should work it out, among themselves.  And so, right then, they grab a man named Sosthenes – “the official of the synagogue” (Acts 18:17) and proceed to beat him in front of the governor, but the governor ignores this – paying no attention to the unjust violence taking place before his very eyes.  

You know, scholars aren’t sure how many guys named Sosthenes were living in Corinth and involved with the synagogue there during the time of Paul.  And they aren’t sure whether this Sosthenes from the story was the same Sosthenes who was writing the letter to the Corinthians with Paul.  But if they were the same person, maybe Sosthenes was one of those who had left the synagogue and walked next door to listen to Paul and he remained faithful despite this beating or maybe Sosthenes received this beating and then the Holy Spirit moved in such a way that Sosthenes walked next door and became a follower of Jesus.  Either way, Sosthenes writes – with Paul – to people in need of reconciliation.  Sosthenes and Paul desire the church in Corinth to be the Beloved Community, in which God’s agape grace can be seen, and known, and shared in ways that transform the city of Corinth and beyond.  

As I think about a beaten Sosthenes working to bring about the Beloved Community.  I cannot help but think of the Apostle Paul who did the same – often writing from jail with bruises on his body.  I cannot help but think of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Fannie Lou Hamer, and John Lewis, and so many others who experienced the same suffering and yet had the same hope for a better world – a new, and different, and holy, and loving Beloved Community.  I cannot help but think of Jesus – arrested and beaten and killed – simply because his loving message and actions could not be fully appreciated by the very people he came to save.  In the end, it is Jesus who brings about the Beloved Community.

In today’s reading from the Prophet Isaiah, we find a beloved community that is really struggling.  God’s people have been scattered and exiled – victims of violence and persecution – and they are wondering whether they are still beloved or not.  God’s people, Israel, are identified as a “Servant” or “the Servant,” here, and some people equate God’s Servant in Isaiah as a foreshadowing of Jesus.  At one point, the servant – who is quite exasperated because life is so hard – says, “I’ve worked for nothing.  I’ve nothing to show for a life of hard work [serving God].  Nevertheless, I’ll let God have the last word.  I’ll let God pronounce God’s verdict.”[6]  “God may have given me all I need to succeed, but I’m just not feeling it in the present moment.  The struggle is real and hard.  Serving God hasn’t made me many friends.  I’m beaten down and hurting right now.  But I still trust God to be good.  I still trust that God is causing the arc of the moral universe to bend toward justice, and righteousness, and beloved-ness.”  

I hear echoes of this when I read Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail” – which was written sixty years ago, this year, to a group of largely white and moderate church leaders who had called King’s activities “unwise and untimely.”[7]  These are the same people – people who looked and sounded a lot like us – who still say that it is just not the right time for gun reform, or full LGBTQ inclusion, or the full bodily autonomy of women, or economic inequality, or a reckoning with the racial and ethnic injustices of the past.  And yet, in King’s words, he refuses to settle for “anything less than [true] brotherhood.”[8]  And maybe we shouldn’t either.  Because God is not done with this world yet.  God is not done with us yet.  

God says to Isaiah, and to the church in Corinth – and to King, and to us . . . that God is not done with us or with the world.  “I’m setting you up to be a light to the nations so that my salvation becomes global . . . Rulers will see . . . and princes, too – and then fall on their faces . . . because of God, who is faithful . . . God, who has chosen you.[9]

Being chosen is a risky proposition.  Following Jesus is a risky proposition.  It is not always popular.  It won’t always make you friends.  It can bring out the worst in other people.  And yet the Holy Spirit is always at work – strengthening us to the end – bringing out the best – God’s best in us when we most need it.

Friends, may we seek the best.  May we seek the Beloved Community.  And, in this humbling and holy work, may God strengthen us to the end.  

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

---------

[1] https://www.cnn.com/2022/01/17/politics/mlk-polling-analysis/index.html.

[2] https://thekingcenter.org/about-tkc/the-king-philosophy/.

[3] King Center, ibid.

[4] Charles Marsh, The Beloved Community: How Faith Shapes Social Justice from the Civil Rights Movement to Today (New York: Basic Books/Perseus Books Group, 2005) 40.

[5] Eugene Peterson, The Message: Numbered Edition (Colorado Springs: NAV Press, 2002) 1565. 1 Corinthians 1:1-9, selected verses.

[6] Eugene Peterson, 991. Isaiah 49:4.

[7] Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” https://www.africa.upenn.edu/Articles_Gen/Letter_Birmingham.html.

[8] Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” Ibid.

[9] Eugene Peterson, 992. Isaiah 49:7. Paraphrased, JHS.

[yestrday]

— A FITTING PRISON. yan! shikanoin heizou x gn! reader

stupid people like you shouldn’t be trying to think for themselves. more so if you’re only looking to destroy yourself.

just a short read after i finished his hangout. he’s so funny lmao with itto. funky lil dude,, but also... hot

( self-destructive tendencies on reader’s part, hinted dépression )

“poor thing. i told you, didn’t i? my detective’s intuition is always correct. they were trying to prey on you.”

you want to muster up the most hateful glare you could manage to smug-sounding boy, but you find yourself too tired to even try. the toll of today’s events have taken a drain on you. you slump down defeatedly on the waiting table in the police station and close your eyes. heizou continues to yammer on in the background.

always likes to hears himself talk, does he?

someone settles down a tea cup in front of you, the aromatic smell bringing you out from your tired stupor. uesugi smiles down at you with pity. “heizou-senpai’s talking a lot more than usual, huh? he’s always liked showing off... but i guess it has always been more severe when you’re around.”

“ue-su-gi~?” heizou impatiently taps his foot with arms crossed. subtly gesturing to the door, he gives him a pointed look. “out, if you may? i am trying to talk to my beloved assistant here?”

you roll your eyes and huff, looking the other way as you sip at the chipped cup. uesugi awkwardly chuckles and leaves. “i don’t need another hundred told-you-sos from you,” you grumble. “’you’re too gullible,’ ‘you’re too naive,’ ‘you’re too helpless,’ i’ve heard them all before, okay?! just... ugh. leave me be.”

but heizou, the oh-so-great detective never leaves people alone, does he? not until he’s finally provoked out of them the results that he wants. you feel him step closer to you, stopping at your back as his gaze peers down at you. “and i’ll tell you another hundred if i need to. this silly business venture of yours has stop, [last name]. you merely don’t have the talent for it and the cleverness to see through someone else’s schemes.”

“and what?!” you abruptly stand up, spilling the hot tea over and glaring at heizou through tears. “i’ll stay here by your side as your sidepiece?! here to make you look smart because i’m stupid and i don’t understand anything you people say?!” your voice breaks as thoughts of your own incompetency at everything flashes through your mind and stabs you harder than you liked. “you and i know i’m useless as your assistant! i faint at the sight of blood, i ruin every legal document i touch, and everyone’s complaining that i’m wasting too many resources!”

“i’m...” you sniffle, slumping down on your seat as hot tears spill onto your lap. “i’m wasting everyone’s time by existing... you should just let me go and watch me ruin every opportunity i get then die bankrupt and alone in some ditch... there’s no use in letting someone like me stay and ruin everything even further.”

the implications of what you just said lay heavy in the air and although it makes everything more awkward ( heizou’s silent stare while you fiddle your thumbs does not help ), you feel somewhat relieved. the emotions and words had spilled out of you so fast that you barely had the time to rethink what you were about to say and yet having them spoken out loud lets you finally realize what you were wanting for.

and master detective that he is, heizou has figured it out too.

“i hate sinful criminals. i hate it even more when i remind someone again and again of what they should not do and they continue to do it again.”

forcefully, he kicks the chair around and slams his palm into the backrest. your noses touch and irritation boils over you once again. you make a move to push him away, only for your feelings to simmer down and your clammy hands shakily cling to the armrest, finally taking a good look at his face and wonder—

when were his eyes so ... blank?

“and even after that,” he mumbles for only you to hear. drawing his lips to your ear, he harshly bites at the soft flesh of your lobe and hisses, “i abhor it when stupid people like you throw away their own life like it’s nothing.”

he pulls away with a smile you’ve only ever seen directed at criminals. his green eyes devour your shaking figure hungrily and decides that yes, this was better than the reckless fool who willingly threw themselves to the wolves for a chance to be devoured.

“if not the office, then i’ll just relocate you, dearest assistant!” he pats your head and stands up straight. “perhaps to the shrine, where cuz can take care of you? or maybe... my home?”

you stare up at him unbelievingly and he only laughs at the foolish expression. 

“ah, yes, perhaps that’s it.” he hums to himself in self-satisfaction. “a perfect prison for a would-be murderer.

“as for the cuffs... well, i’m sure the police station can spare some for us ♪”

[elphabaoftheopera]

🌻

Here is a list of Bath and Body Works 3-wick candles I **currently** posses in my apartment in alphabetical order and my ratings on them. I'm only burning fall scents right now, the rest are in storage.

Could I be leaving these reviews/opinions on the website instead of tumblr? Yeah. Will I? Nah.

Birchwood Trail- 6/10 it's pretty nice and woodsy but not a stand out. I burn it in summer and fall.

Boardwalk- 7/10 smells like caramel corn and that's a blessing. summer scent. I've had it a long time though and don't burn it a lot because it's realllly sweet.

Caramel Cream Soda- 6/10 actually pretty nice, I liked the cream soda scent more than i thought. burned most of it this summer.

Cider Lane (x2)- 10/10 Cider Lane is the gold standard of which I match all other candles. It was discontinued last year but was resurrected this year and I almost cried. I transcend when I burn Cider Lane. Cider Lane is king.

Crushed Candy Cane- 9/10 some people go for Twisted Peppermint but I know, I KNOW that his is the superior holiday peppermint scent. DON'T LET TWISTED PEPPERMINT FOOL YOU (like, it's fine). Crushed Candy Cane is where. it's. at.

Fireside- 7/10 Nice bonfire smell, the only problem is I burn it in fall/winter and there are so many fall/winter scents I choose to burn over it that I just don't use it much

French Baguette- 3/10 lovingly called "bread candle". I've had it for four years and it's only like half way burned. I just bought it because I was surprised it really smelled like bread, but burning it is just...meh. Better in theory. the lessons I've learned from bread candle prevented me from buying the bacon candle yesterday though. thanks bread candle!

Fresh Balsam (x2)- 8/10 Honestly, so good. SO good. Straight up maaaaay even be better than Crushed Candy Cane when it comes to holiday candles. I took away a point because the scent triggers memories of Christmas when I was a kid which makes me SAD.

Fresh Cut Lilacs- 7/10 Nice, fresh spring scent. I love candles that smell like a garden center at a walmart and this one delivers. I like Rainforest Gardenia better, but I burned that one so...

Fresh Spring Morning- 4/10 verrrry meh. Has that non-descript "fresh" scent that kind of gives me a headache. It's not unburnable, but not awesome.

Island Margarita- 7/10 Was a gift which makes it extra special! I've had it for years. I just don't love summer scents all that much. Scent is pretty good. Gave it an extra point because my husband loves it.

Mint Chip Shake- 6/10 Pretty good, I wish it was more minty than chocolatey, ya know? It's a summer candle but I once had a winter candle of the same scent (different packaging and name) so I feel conflicted about when to burn it!

Paris Café- 4/10 Far too strong. I like the smell of coffee but it makes my apartment smell for like 5 days after burning it. Overwhelming, I'll just go to a REAL coffee shop!

Poppy- 5/10 It's fine. I really only bought it because my OC is named Poppy and I love poppies. I burned it a lot over the summer but now I associate it with bad memories of my job. Idk what the future holds for it tbh.

Spiced Gingerbread 6/10- It's nice, but doesn't hold a candle (ha) to the other winter candles, ya know?

Strawberry Pound Cake 5/10- I want to love it sooooo bad. It was a gift and that makes it really special too. But it's a little overwhelming and strawberry isn't always my fave.

Sugared Cherry Crisp (x2) 9.5/10- CHERRY CRISP MY BELOVED. What I don't like in strawberry I LOVE in cherry. This is a rare candle that impresses me for smelling like what it says it smells like but is also a delight to burn. Just. so. good. The only reason it isn't a 10 is because it's not Cider Lane. I have multiples stocked up of this one too.

Sugared Orange and Vanilla- 4/10 I guess I just don't love fruity scents that much. It's fine but I'm just kind of like "idk what else is there to burn"?

Sugared Pecan Pie- 7/10 My chosen candle to burn on Thanksgiving and like November. Smells nice, not as strong as I'd like.

Suntan- 7/10 Favorite summer scent for sure! I've had it for years. Don't burn it much because I just don't burn my summer candles much, but it smells like sunscreen which is nice. Was an 8/10 a point because the scent reminds me of my mom and I have mom issues.

Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin (x2)- 8/10 A fall classic, always get multiples for the fall. But like, it's *the* fall classic, ya know? Love it but it's a predictable fave. I kind of take it for granted because I know it'll never be discontinued. Burning it right now as we speak.

Tea and Lemon 20/10- Listen up about Tea and Lemon. It was the first candle scent to inspire me to buy these fucking overpriced corporate candles that I love soooo much. THEY DISCONTINUED IT YEARS AGO AND HAVEN'T BROUGHT IT BACK. I had two and now I have one and it's half burned and I will never light a flame to it again because then it'll be gone. I just smell it sometimes when I miss it, because it's my favorite of all time. It's billed as "Tea and Lemon" or "London Tea and Lemon" and in low moments I've considered spending $40+ to get another one from eBay, but even that doesn't seem like an option anymore. NO other lemon candle compares and I refuse to buy those. They smell like pledge. Not this one though. I love it so much and it fills me with sorrow.

Tis The Season (x2)- 8/10 Classic winter candle. Smells like apples and I love apples. Deducted a point because BOTH of them I have burn weird because of the weird wicks.

Vanilla and Santal- 6/10 Smells kind of bonfire-y. Nice when I don't want something sweet. Kinda forgettable.

Warm Apple Pie- 7/10 Nice fall choice. I've bought it twice but don't feel the need to like, stock up on it. Sometimes a little too sweet, but still nice.

Wicked Apple- 10/10 Fun fact! Wicked Apple is just Cider Lane. I'm convinced. It's what Cider Lane was packaged as last year. 10/10 because I knoooow it's you, Cider Lane! You can't hide!

Wildberry Tea Spritzer- 5.5/10 I bought it because I wanted another "tea" candle...but it doesn't even smell like tea. It's just fruity. I'm just trying to fill the Tea and Lemon hole in my heart and this ain't it, hon. It's nice in it's own right though, just makes me bitter.

I like candles a normal amount.

send me a 🌻 and ill just tell you whatever the fuck i want

[gryffindors-weasley]

Enamored

Ron Weasley x Reader

Summary: The day Ron tells you he loves you.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: loss of a home, Fred is alive, mild angst, fluff, requited love, kissing

A/N: This fic is inspired by Pretty Boy by The Neighbourhood!

The last traces of summer had rapidly faded as the season changed to autumn, the once warm weather now chilled and brisk. It had been a whirlwind of a year thus far, one that was exceedingly more undesirable than most with the war having transpired. It brought with it a myriad of losses and misfortune for all that had been involved to fight against the Dark Lord.

The most noticeable loss for the Weasley family was the destruction of their family home. It was near ash and ruins but a few months ago, devastating and left in tatters as it no longer stood tall lopsidedly wonderful. While it was life altering and an act of complete and utter cruelty, they remained grateful that each and every member of their tight knit family remained alive and well. That’s what always mattered most to them, what will always matter.

Now that fall has rolled around after three months of hard work and effort put in from you and the beloved family, the Burrow was officially rebuilt. It didn’t house the same memories as it once had, it couldn’t have, but it stood tall and beautifully imperfect once more. It was a home that could only possibly be held up by magic otherwise it just might topple over with the number of floors it had. The pots and pans had scrubbed themselves once more, the chimney puffed out smoke yet again, the home was now bustling with a familiar boisterous energy once again in a way only they could manage to create.

Spending that time with them was time you were grateful to have, though you found yourself to be with Ron more so than anyone else. No matter what the instance may have been, you always seem to seek each other out as if it were a subconscious act. It was a wordless fact seemingly known to just about everyone but the very two people who’d been doing it, but that didn’t come as a surprise to anyone at all.

It’d been three years in the making of watching their lovestruck brother and equally lovestruck best friend pine for each other, of watching you both be so oblivious it was almost painful. Three years of catching him gaze at you with the softest of smiles when you weren’t looking, one so adoring Molly nearly cries every time, and of you doing just the same when his attentions were focused elsewhere. Three years of watching you two brush hands when you walk side by side followed by the promise of blushing cheeks when you realized the electrifying encounter. It had been frustrating years in the making of watching two people they loved so dearly be so blissfully unaware of just how in love they truly were with each other.

They were ready to take matters into their own hands and make it known themselves.

Currently, Mrs. Weasley has assigned both you and Ron the task of stopping by the bakery in town. She’d wanted an assortment of pastries as a part of a way to celebrate the finishing of their new home. She had made more than enough of her own in her newly remodeled kitchen of course, but she had her mind set on blueberry muffins and chocolate chip cookies made from none other than Hazel’s Bakery.

She most certainly did not send the two of you in particular in an effort to get you to spend some alone time. No, definitely not.

“Are you warm enough?” Ron asks as you leave through the front door, stepping out into the brisk weather.

You nod, cheeks staining a soft pink at the gentle caring he had for you, the question falling from his lips like it’d been second nature. Caring for you, being protective of you, it was second nature by that point. He doesn’t believe he could help it even if he tried, but he doesn’t want to. Despite the fluttering of your heart you couldn’t help your teasing smile. “Yes. But I suppose it’d be far warmer if we drove there.”

He caught onto your teasing and rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth nonetheless. “Are you ever going to stop teasing me for that, Y/n/n?”

You pretend to give his question some serious thought, puckering your lips as you squint your gaze and tap your finger against your cheek. His laughter broke you from your actions. “No, I don’t think I will, Ronnie.”

Your own laughter was immediate at the scrunch of his nose upon hearing the nickname he loathed so much, more so at the playful narrowing of his blue stare. Maybe he didn’t hate it when it fell from your lips. However, you quickly appeased his obvious displeasure of the name as you brushed the pad of your thumb over his chin, his blushing smile soon to return as he looked at his feet to steady his racing heart. He knew his cheeks had to have matched the leaves on the trees by now. They always had been when in your presence.

You shook your head with a smile as you focused your attention on anywhere but him to avoid worsening the heat in your cheeks. Rather, you focused on the graying of the sky and the way the grass rippled beneath the wind. You listened to the leaves crunching under both your footfalls and the sound they made as the breeze washed over them. For lack of a better word, this time of year had been the most magical, and it seemed as though Ron fit right in with the hues of his hair and equally his attire. Equally his flushed cheeks.

A single wildflower had caught your stare, standing tall amongst the fading green grass. You slowed your stride to bend down and pluck it from the ground, turning to look at Ron who’d now stood paces from you with a curious brow raised.

“What is it?”

You held up the yellow flower, the stem pinched between your fingers as you beamed. In a matter of seconds you ran to him the short distance he was from you, his smile now apparent.

“What are you doing?” He asks with a laugh, one to stave off the way his breath hitched as you leaned up to tuck it within the red hair just above his ear.

It appeared golden amongst the rosy ginger shade and he smiled down at you fondly for a brief moment before shaking his head, not making a move to take it out. You smiled up at him, biting the inside of your cheek to hide just how giddy he’d made you feel in that very moment. You suppose there wasn’t even a reason to feel as such, but that hadn’t mattered; the feeling occurred whenever it so pleased, and it was more often than not it seemed.

You reached the end of the long driveway and took his hand without a second thought, sharing a smile before apparating from the property.

In mere dizzying seconds you had appeared in the ever familiar and unfrequented alleyway, taking a moment to adjust before stepping into foot traffic along with everyone else in the town. It wasn’t as busy as some days it could be, but regardless it was always a fun trip to walk about, it was cozy.

Almost in the very same moment did the two of you realize you’d still been holding hands, releasing the other as you looked your separate ways for just a second. He’d wanted to reach out and hold it once more, to interlock his fingers with yours. He hadn’t really wanted to let go. You risked a glance and he risked his and it wasn’t hard to tell when Ron Weasley has been fighting a smile. Perhaps what was more obvious was the little yellow flower that somehow still remained in his hair. You decided then and there not to mention it.

The denim of your jacket proved to be far less warm than you had thought it to be, or maybe it’d just gotten colder. Either way, as you walked down that sidewalk, you weren’t ready to let Ron know he’d been right in telling you to wear something heavier before you left the house. He always seemed to be right about those kinds of things.

Ron grabbed your wrist to keep you from walking past the bakery, his grin teasing as he held open the green painted door. You were far too distracted by him for your own good.

The smell of coffee and sweets had been instant upon entering, a little bell overhead signaling your entrance into the small yet cozy shop. The showcase had been filled with fresh pastries and baked goods, the line not yet as lengthy it surely would be now that Hazel had switched the sign to ‘open’.

The kind older woman had greeted you as warmly as she did each and every time she’d seen you, making a point to pinch Ron’s cheeks much like his own mother had.

“Hazel! We’ve talked about this,” Ron whines, rubbing his newly reddened cheeks.

“Oh hush, my dear boy,” she says, turning to you. “How do you put up with him?”

You laugh at that, shrugging your shoulders. “I must admit, it is but a wonder indeed, Hazel.”

You look to Ron who’d furrowed his brows at you, lips pursed in faux offense as you smile beamingly up at him. One that dissolved any look to displeasure. One that caused the woman behind the counter to nearly gush about what a wonderful couple you’d be, something that was also very much like his mother.

You placed your order and asked for extra, knowing if you hadn’t that surely Ron would have eaten far too many for Molly not to notice. Though you knew for a fact she’d be able to tell either way. She talked you into staying for just a little bit longer, the promise of hot cocoa far too enticing to turn down as you still felt the shivering effects of the chilly fall weather.

—

“You really thought I’d eat three muffins?” Ron scoffs, mouth full as a few crumbs fall past his lips.

You roll your eyes and shake your head as you walk down the cracked sidewalk, the steaming paper bag clutched in your hand. “You’ve eaten two already.”

“Did I?” He asks, brows furrowed as he halts momentarily to recall it. The genuine shock and confusion painted on his expression had you laughing as you grabbed his hand, tugging him along the walkway before any more passers by all but run into you with looks of annoyance.

“Yes, you did,” you giggle, releasing his hand to link your arm with his once more.

“Well, they’re really good,” he defends as you continue walking. “Really good.”

You look up at him then, a soft smile on your lips as you do so. His cheeks were stained a soft pink from the chilly weather, accentuating the freckles dancing across them and the very bridge of his nose. At the curve of his smile and the dimples that formed when he did just that. Or perhaps it was the near unruly ginger hair that dipped over his forehead and covered his ears; he had yet to get a haircut much to his mother’s dismay. He was starting to resemble his fourth year self, a hair length he’d claimed he hated so very much but you were beginning to think otherwise.

“Are you staring?” He asks a short while later, a more than knowing grin on his lips that sent your stomach into a fit of butterflies and knots.

“You’ve got food on your face, how could I not?” You counter, though the scarlet in your cheeks is far too obvious. It was true, there were crumbs in the corner of his mouth that needed to be swept away, but you were not ready in the slightest to admit your admiring. “Plus you’ve still got that flower in your hair.”

His hand is quick to fly up and pluck it out, looking at the delicate little thing as his cheeks burned once more. So that was what Hazel was talking about. He smiles then with a soft laugh, stopping your stride once more to tuck it behind your ear.

“There, looks much better on you,” he mumbles, smile soft and adoring, one that lingered long after he’d looked away.

“I beg to differ.”

You’d noticed just how gloomy the sky had been, clouds puffy and gray as the breeze intensified just the slightest bit. It wasn’t something you minded, for it was rather scenic amongst the rapidly dwindling buildings the closer you got to the Burrow. You both had decided a walk back would be best given the bag of sweets you now have, not to mention the hot chocolates you each had provided just enough warmth for you to do so.

A sigh left your lips, one of contentment as you walked back in a comfortable silence and you rest your head on his shoulder. Your arm still hooked with his as he slowed his pace for you to keep up with him, and he’d since taken the bag from your hand so you wouldn’t have to carry it. It was the little things that you noticed that others might not; the little things that meant the most to you, that made your heart flutter. Like the way he will always wait for you when something catches your eye in a shop, not an ounce of impatience in him like he may have had with his siblings. Or how he’d save a plate of breakfast for you when you stay at his home because you’d woken up later than his brothers. It left your heart full.

He hadn’t been aware that you’d noticed those kinds of things; he finds he isn’t even aware of it sometimes. Living you had become second nature at this point, it was expressed in nearly everything he did. You were woven into his very heart and hadn’t even known as such. He doesn’t know how he made it quite this far without going absolutely mad, without his heart bursting in his chest every time you look at him the way you do. Every time you smile at him the way you do. It was his hopes that you’d reserved those kinds of looks, those kinds of smiles for just him. It had been his hope that somehow, someway, you had felt the same way.

He knew with all the certainty in the world that he needed to tell you. He doesn’t think he can go another day without telling you as such. He knows he can’t; he loved you from afar for nearly four years. If you don’t feel the same, if it’s all over after his confession, he can take this moment with him. Of your head on his shoulder, of the way you held his hand that day, of the way you looked at him. It needed to be spoken no matter how much it made his hands shake. He almost lost you in that war and he decided he couldn’t risk not telling you.

You reached the familiar stretch of trees lining the vacant road, the breeze having intensified more noticeably. The walk had been quiet save for the chirping of the birds and the crinkle if the bag Ron held, or the crunch of leaves and gravel under your feet. You couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend your afternoon, especially with the knowledge of the warm meal Molly had been preparing for dinner that night. The whole Weasley family would be there, Harry would be there, Hermione would be there. It was plans that made your stomach flip with excitement.

It wasn’t until then, at the very opening of the near dauntingly long dirt driveway that the rain had started to drizzle steadily. You suppose you expected it at that point, with the puffy gray clouds that rapidly blew over any and all sunlight, it had become more than evident that that would be the case.

You gasped upon the weathers sudden change in plans regardless, the icy downpour taking you by surprise. A jovial laugh soon sounded from your lips as you threw your hands up, looking around as it came down and rolled off the tri-colored leaves. They too fluttered down in a flurry of reds and oranges, and you were certain you’d never seen something quite so beautiful, quite so enchanting.

Spotting a nearby shelter beneath the branches of one of the large trees, you grabbed Ron’s hand, ready to pull him along with you though you quickly noticed he hasn’t budged any more than just a few steps. You turned to him then, rather confused in that moment and the more you stood exposed to the sudden storm the less useful it became to seek shelter from it. None of it seemed to matter as he stood there and gazed at you, ginger hair darkened a few shades as it stuck to his forehead and flushed cheeks. The smile on his face was quite possibly the softest you’d ever seen it be, and it held something different, remarkably different and you couldn’t put your finger on what it was. Though it seemed to be far too much as he looked away from you momentarily as if to gather himself, a soft laugh leaving his lips.

Everything felt that much more intense in that moment, and he felt as though his breath was caught in his throat as he stood before you. You were confused, that much was clear. You were still holding his hand in yours, still smiling at him with that smile. That had also been very clear. You were doused in the downpour and his heart beat wildly with each passing second, and if he opened and closed his mouth one more time he felt as though he just might look like an absolute fool.

“What are you doing?” You asked, taking a step closer as you look at him quizzically, “We’re just about soaked and you hate the rain—”

“I love you.”

The three words were spoken then, almost unheard against the heavy rain. They were soft and they were true, how could you not have heard them? Yet even though they clearly were, very clearly, it still hadn’t quite registered to you just exactly what he had just said. You couldn’t believe what you had heard.

“What?” You ask, a soft laugh leaving your lips. Not one of mocking, more of giddy surprise.

“I said I love you,” He repeats louder as he swallowed thickly, accompanied by a nervous laugh of his own as he wipes the wet strands of his hair out of his eyes.

The more time that had gone by, no matter how fleeting it made have been, the butterflies in his stomach were relentless. By this point the rain was of no importance, trying to stay dry was of no importance anymore. What was important was the way you grasped his flannel jacket and leaned on your toes, and the way you pressed your lips on his. Or the way you smiled against his lips as he pulled you close to him, as close as possible, dropping the soaked paper bag of pastries to the ground in favor of settling his hand on your cheek and tangling his fingertips in your hair.

You couldn’t help the quiet giggle that was threatening to break your moment; maybe it was the sheer loving intensity of it, or the fact that this was real and this was happening. But the way he kissed you, the way your heart beat so loudly you thought he could hear it, that’s what had kept you in that very real moment.

When you parted you hadn’t strayed more than a few inches as you looked up at him, beamed, his smile equally so as the two of you laughed softly. It was one of giddy love, of an unexpected moment of bliss. The feeling that the person you loved so wholly loved you back just as much. It was that kind of laugh.

“I love you,” you say, laughing once more as your foreheads touched in the fond moment. The tip of his nose had been flushed from the cold nipping at his skin, his smile brilliant and adoring and entirely telling of his love. “I love you.”

You kiss him again, soft and quick as you grabbed his hand before you spoke up after a short while to relish in your moment. “We’d better go inside!”

“Yeah,” he laughs, nodding in agreement even if he was perfectly content to stay there and kiss you. “I think we better.”

You pulled him along the muddy path as he laughed behind you at your antics. The two of you were breathless and soaked and still in a daze from the kiss you’d just shared mere moments ago as you rushed through the door. The look on Molly’s face changed from startled to quizzical as she took note of the sheer nothingness in either of your hands, her lips pursing and her arms crossing.

“Just where are the muffins? And the cookies?”

Ron looks to you with a smile and you the same, laughing softly amongst yourselves at the realization of just where they had been. The sight of your kiss swollen lips and flushed cheeks was telling enough of the reasoning such a blunder occurred. Not to mention the way the tips of his fingers still grasped yours. She knew. “We must’ve forgotten.”

He hadn’t broken his gaze from you quite yet as he spoke, far too lovestruck to do so. Far too enamored.

—

Tags: @anchoeritic @ch0colatefr0gs @vogueweasley @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq @snitches-at-dawn @dracosathenaeum @awritingtree @lupinsclassroom @harrysweasleys @theweasleysredhair @writeroutoftime

[nat-20s]

Wonderful! Au Part 7! (also on ao3 here) another episode only installment, and obnoxiously fluffy! Have fun!

~*~

Martin, tired: Hello everybody! Welcome, or welcome back, to a very low energy episode. We have had, as the kids say, A Week Tm.

Jon, equally tired, but fond: Is that as the kids say?

Martin: I don't know, and perhaps worse, I don't really care. I guess I could ask Jeremiah next time he's over, but I'm not sure if that would actually help.

Jon: Shockingly, I don't think two year olds have their finger on the beating pulse of youth culture.

Martin: Hmm, maybe not. Speaking of Jeremiah, he's part of why the format of this episode is gonna be a bit different than our regular. On top of me dealing with a frankly obscene amount of inventory management, and Jon being swamped with grant writing-

Jon: I never want to look at proposal guidelines again-

Martin: we were on babysitting duty for our favourite neighborhood hellion-

Jon: Hey, Jeremiah is a very sweet kid! I know he's a toddler, but we shouldn't be slandering him anyway.

Martin: One, we're not even using his real name, I don't think that counts as slander, and two, exactly, he's a toddler, he's by default a hellion.

Jon, teasing: This coming from the person that actually wants one?

Martin: I..look, if anything, the last few days have shown we should not be permanent parents.

Jon: But?

Martin:...There's no but.

Jon: I don't believe you! Are you lying for my benefit or the audience's? Because someone spent the last five days wearing one of the largest grins I've ever seen, exhausted as it may have been.

Martin: Okay! Fine, I admit, I liked having a kid around. I still think it would be a bad idea to do it full time, but I dunno. I wish we weren't both only children or something. We would make such good uncles.

Jon: Should I should have taken that teaching job after all?

Martin: Perhaps. After all,

Martin, singsong: An English teacher, is really someone!

Jon and Martin, singing together: If only you, had be-come one!

Jon: Honestly, though, I was considerably underqualified. I'm much more suited to my current job, even if it doesn't have quite the same impact on the "shaping of the next generation" or whatnot.

Martin: Wait, you actually care about qualifications now? When did that change?

Jon: This coming from Mister "master's degree in parapsychology"? And it was probably around the time that the world ended from taking on a workload I was ill-suited for.

Jon:...

Jon: Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Martin: Oh, of course. Definitely nothing literally apocalyptic in our pasts, no siree, nothing to see or speculate about or make weirdly involved forums for here. Uh, anyway, long introduction not so short: Both of us have been averaging about 4 hours of sleep, so any sort of actual research was not on the table.

Jon: If any of you are wondering why we didn't just say that we're both very much worn out and thus we'll be taking a week off, it's because we're both deeply, deeply stubborn.

Martin: It's one of our best shared qualities that has never caused any conflict between us, ever.

Jon: In fairness, sheer stubbornness does account for, what, 75% of the reason that either of us are still alive? And it hasn't caused a major conflict between us in a good three years.

Martin: That's true. We've become a deeply boring, relatively conflict free couple. Which fucking rules, by the way. To all the couples out there: I highly recommend being boring. It is so nice. We've gotten to go to the farmer's market so many times.

Jon: You do love the farmer's market. I would say that it's the access to fresh produce, but I think you just like the attention that one yarn seller gives you. Can't believe you would take advantage of a crush to get discounts on wool. How did I marry such an opportunist?

Martin: Ollie does not have a crush on me. They're just friendly to everyone.

Jon: Bullshit. I certainly never get an extra skein or stitch markers or delicate fabric cleaner tossed in my bag. Actually, I think I've been charged more for committing the crime of having married you before they could.

Martin: I'm..70% sure that's not true, but every sentence we speak, we stray further from even pretending to be on topic. So, to everybody listening, this is the itty bitty episode! Basically, we're only doing small wonders and user submissions. If you want details or backstory for things we like, too bad, come back next week. Jon, I believe you're first this week?

Jon: Oh, right. My first small wonder is cat names.

Martin: Delightful, but unsurprising. Though, I would've expected either more or less specificity. Why cat names as opposed to pet's names in general, or, like, military title names?

Jon: Well that's simple enough. I've simply never met a misnamed cat, even if the name itself wasn't to my personal tastes, and I think that speaks to the wonderful universality of cats.

Martin: This, of course, implies that you have met animals that were misnamed.

Jon: Oh, I have. I once met a papillion dog named Meatball.

Martin: Now I know you don't like food names in general for pets, but are you sure that Meatball didn't suit the dogs personality? I've known some "Meatballs" in my lifetime.

Jon, only half-mock offended: Of course it didn't fit, Martin. She was a lady. A nervous, jittery lady, but a lady nonetheless.

Martin, laughing: And what, you've never met a dignified cat with an undignified name, or vice versa? Would you be okay with our cat being named Meatball?

Jon: I would be upset if our cat was named Meatball, because we named her and we're above that sort of thing, but, technically speaking, she could have been Meatball in another lifetime and it wouldn't have been wrong. You see, all cats are a mix of both extremely austere and little baby idiot.

Martin: Oh, is that the scientific terminology?

Jon: It is. Now, while there's probably some amount of, er, normative determinism or confirmation bias or something that results in a cat with a more dignified name seeming to possess more of that austerity, as all cats have both, any name can, potentially, fit. Hence why it's wonderful.

Martin: I..accept your proposal for now, but I think more research needs to be done. Maybe we should visit the shelter this weekend and test your hypothesis.

Jon: Hmm. I think we may need to visit multiple shelters, actually. A large sample size is necessary for any sort of veracity, obviously.

Martin, imitating Jon tone: Obviously.

Jon: Glad you agree. What's your first small wonder?

Martin: Tofu!

Jon: I..didn't realize you liked that much?

Martin: Well, I don't get it very often since I know you can't stand the texture, even though it is not like 'worse scrambled eggs', and you're a horrible food thief-

Jon: Lies and slander. We readily share. If I'm a horrible food thief, you have committed the exact same, if not worse, crime as myself.

Martin: Well, we are thick as thieves.

Jon, groaning: You're thick as something alright

Martin: Rude! My beloved husband-

Jon: -uh huh-

Martin: whom I love and trust with my most tender of hearts-

Jon: -an oddly cannibalistic turn of phrase-

Martin, badly suppressing laughter: Oh, my god. I want a divorce, then I can put tofu in as many dishes as I like. I'll triple my protein intake.

Jon: It'd never go through. I'll burn the papers. No, wait, I'll burn down the legal offices where the papers are kept.

Martin: Hmm. While my experiences with it have been, uh, varied to say the least, I do have to admit that arson is one of the more attractive crimes of passion. I suppose I'll take you back.

Jon, flat: I'm so very grateful.

Jon, genuine: You do have yet to actually tell me why you think tofu is wonderful, love.

Martin: It's just a good food! It's neutral enough that you can toss it in pretty much anything with a sauce, you can bake it, you can fry it, whatever. Plus it's what? two? Three quid? I spent many years of my life living off the cheapest, saltiest approximation of noodles you could imagine, and half a pack of tofu, a little bit of sesame oil, and some green onions went a long way to both making it more filling and less sad. 

Martin: Plus, I feel like it often gets decried for being something it's not? It's so often viewed as a meat substitute or the vegan alternative option, and so when people try it, they often go in with a false preconceived notion of what it's going to be like, and then end up disappointed. They're all like, 'ugh, this doesn't taste like turkey!' and yeah, of course it doesn't. It's the oatmeal raisin cookie of the protein world, a perfectly good and tasty treat on its own, but if you want chocolate chip, it's not gonna work.

Jon: Martin you don't even like oatmeal raisin. I'm the only one that ever eats them out of the multipacks.

Martin: Well, yeah, but I don't like oatmeal raisin because of its flavor, not because I think it should be chocolate chip and fails. It illustrates my point. Also, just for balance, is your next small wonder oatmeal raisin cookies?

Jon: No, though, maybe one of these weeks. They are good. But no, um, my next small wonder is being married.

Martin, let out a high bark of a laugh: Being married is a small wonder?!

Jon: Small wonders doesn't mean a lack of importance! Or even significance in our lives. Half the time we even end up spending just as much time chattering on about them as the things we actually research. But, yes, I didn't feel like researching the concept of being married. For one, a lot of the history of it is depressing and patriarchal, and for two, it's not something I really feel any need to elaborate on. Being married. I very much enjoy it. I recommend it for anybody that's found someone that they want to marry, and who wants to marry them. I really recommend being married to Martin Blackwood, I think I would enjoy it significantly less if it was to anybody else, but one: we typically try to make the wonderful things in this show  applicable to more than just ourselves, and two: I got there first, so I believe the appropriate thing to say here would be; neener neener and/or everyone else can go suck it, Ollie.

Martin: Well...

Jon: Well, what?

Martin: Saying you got there first is technically not true-

Jon: What?!

Martin, laughing like a bastard: Sorry, sorry! Couldn't resist! Jon, you already know that you're my first real realationship, how would be married before fit that?

Jon: Hence my surprise at the notion! I cannot believe you! I give you my trust, my earnestness, and belief-

Martin [only laughs harder]

Jon: and you throw it in my face for a bit. I take back everything, being married is a nightmare, because sometimes your partner thinks he a fucking comedian and you just have to put up with him because you love him and want to live the rest of your life with him or some such nonsense. Not worth it, if you ask me. My turn to ask for the divorce.

Martin: Babe, hate to break it to you, but both of us are guilty of doing bits that the other doesn't like, it's an integral part of  a healthy marriage, and secondly, you knew who I was long before I proposed. You should've said no when you had the chance.

Jon: Hang on, you proposed?

Martin: Yeah? This isn't part of a bit, of course I proposed. I'm even pretty sure you were there. The whole visit back to Scotland trip? I finally made you a sweater and said it was because we would now be immune to the boyfriend curse?

Jon: No, no, I remember all that, but it wasn't the proposal. It was a reaffirmation of the proposal. We had already decided to get married.

Martin: Well, yeah,, I wasn't just gonna spring that on you, we had had conversations beforehand-

Jon:  No, I mean, I had already proposed. I asked you to marry me a good three years earlier, and you said yes, which is a proposal by any definition that I know.

Martin: Jon, love, darling, apple of my eye, fire of my soul, I mean this in the nicest way possible, what the everloving fuck are you talking about?

Jon: In the ambulance ride when we, uh, moved here. It was the thing I said to you the second I saw your eyes were open.

[An audible pause is left in the recording.]

Martin: That does not count.

Jon: How does it not count?! I asked you to marry me, you very emphatically said yes, that's the de facto definition of an accepted marriage proposal!

Martin: It doesn't count because you were half-delirious with blood-loss, and I had a traumatic brain injury that the hospital was very surprised I made a full recovery from. No court in the world would consider anything we said then more than pain driven ramblings, let alone, I dunno, contractually binding.

Jon: Well, I knew what I was saying well and clear. Just because it was desperate doesn't mean it wasn't sincere. I didn't realize that you weren't as cognizant when you accepted.

Martin, snorting: Yeah, didn't really need to be cognizant to say yes. I've wanted to marry you since the train ride to Scotland.

Jon: Wait, really? Martin, we hadn't even been on a date.

Martin: And yet we were on the lamb together, which I honestly think is more romantic than sitting in some restaurant somewhere trying to get through icebreakers. Also, back up, from your perspective we've been engaged since 2019? What did you think we were doing in the interim?

Jon: Uhh..

Martin: Yes?

Jon: There are people that have long engagement periods, and it's not exactly like we were in any sort of position to get married for awhile. Especially not that first year.

Martin: Okay? And?

Jon: And..I sort of thought you had changed your mind. For awhile. Was rather surprised that you kept living with me, considering that, on the worst nights, I was convinced you were going to storm off and leave me forever any minute now. Hence why your proposal was rather relieving.

Martin: Oh, Jon, love. That is so very ridiculous, and so very you, and so very close to many of my own fears and doubts. Do you have any idea how terrified I was to float the idea of marriage to you? Half the time I was convinced I was just meant to keep you company until you found someone better. And, Christ, we'd, from your perspective, been engaged the whole damn time. Fuck.

[Jon, after a beat, starts laughing. It has a slightly hysterical edge to it. Martin joins in. It takes a minute for the laughter to subside enough for them to speak again.]

Jon: I'm rapidly realizing that our entire romantic relationship would've been, if not more successful, a hell of a lot faster if we weren't both complete fools.

Martin: You're realizing that now? I think I've known that since the CV incident. I've definitely known it since the Lonely.

Jon, with a slightly tired chuckle:Yes, yes, something probably should've tipped me off earlier. Shockingly, observation of our own personal romantic trends is not always a strong suit of mine.

Jon: Anyway, please tell me you have another small wonder, this has gotten wildly of track.

Martin: Since we're talking about marriage anyway, I think my next small wonder is having a shared reference in your wedding vows. Our friends had "I have been, and always shall be, your friend" in theirs, and I made Jon cry with a slightly altered Lord of the Rings quote in ours.

Jon: First off, we were both openly weeping long before that point, secondly, I defy anybody to have been through half of what we have and then have the love of their life look them in the eyes and tell them "Leave you? I never intend to. I am going with you, if you climb to the moon" without at least tearing up.

Martin: There wasn't a dry eye in the audience, either. Granted, the audience was only 20 people, but that was also literally the only time I've seen Eloise show a strong emotion, so I'm pretty smug about it.

Martin, soft: I still feel exactly the same, you know. If you're climbing to the moon, I'll make sure the rope is strong enough for two.

Jon, soft: I know, love.

Jon: Though, to be fair, the moon is also significantly more pleasant than many places we've been.

Martin: God, I hate how much that's true. Look at this barren, oxygenless rock, at least it's not actively trying to kill us. Practically a honeymoon location.

[Martin sighs]

Martin: I am so tired. Let's do the user submissions then take a very long nap.

Jon: Please.

Martin: So, first submission is from Josie; They find it wonderful getting cards from their friends. They say they're lucky to have so much love in their life and have friends that care enough to send them things. That is wonderful Josie! We have a drawer in our house dedicated to every loving card we've ever received since the move, and they're always such a nice reminder of the people in our lives.

Jon: We should really organize that drawer, but, yes, agree with the sentiment. Even the cards from people that are no longer in our lives are lovely, I think. Those connections are very much meaningful for both of us, whether they're active or not.

Martin: That's very true.  Next submission is from Lys, who submits the sound of leaves crunching under your feet in the fall. Ah, that's a classic.

Jon: I just felt myself relax imagining it. I wish it was autumn.

Martin: Don't we all? Alright, for the last submissions, I'm grouping them together as they follow a similar theme. Jadwiga submits the feeling of waking up well into the morning with the sun shining through the window and your cat laying next to you, and Oran submits when a dog falls asleep with its head in your lap.

Jon: I can heartily recommend at least one of those, considering that's how we try to wake up most mornings. The Duchess is a dutiful darling girl who spends every night with us, and she's usually still there when us humans rise.

Martin: I bet you'll agree with the other when I finally convince you to get me a dog for my birthday.

Jon: It hasn't happened yet, so I wouldn't hold your breath.

Martin: But you don't even dislike dogs! You're just as happy to pet them when they pass by as I am.

Jon: Being fine with an animal isn't the same thing as wanting to adopt one for yourself! We don't even know if The Duchess would put up with a dog.

Martin: I bet she would. I bet we could get a big senior dog who's the calmest animal you've ever met with those soft eyes and a little grey on the muzzle and she would cuddle up in an instant. And we did say we should visit a shelter or three this weekend..

Jon: I think you're rather callously taking advantage of my exhausted state, but I suppose we can look. 

Martin: Hell fuckin yeah. So, I think that'll close out the episode, and as we always say at the end, uh, go take a nap and get a dog. Not necessarily in that order.

[wornoutmouse]

Baby Daddy Shigaraki fanfic pt2

It was a miracle that no one questioned the name put down when Shigaraki had to sign the birth certificate. You summed it up as fearing for their lives but it could be many things you try to convince yourself as the reality of your new life truly set in.

The after birth pain, though constant, was numbed whenever you looked down on your son's face. He had yet to do anything more than sleep, much to your annoyance. And was aggressive when breastfeeding  much to Shigaraki's enjoyment, "Just like his father." 

Dabi was the second one to hold Daiki after Komugiri but the look of horror on his face when you fully released the baby into his arms was one that deeply concerned you. "It's breathing." He whispered to you eyes wide.

You signal for Komugiri to stand close behind Dabi just in case he really lost it. "Yeah Dabi.....he is breathing...cause that's what living things do." 

Time skip

You sigh as you finally set Daiki down inside his new bed for a nap. His small face looked so delicate surrounded by soft lavender blankets. His whole room theme was a soft purple as preferred by Komugiri. 

You closed the door till there was only a sliver of light coming in just in case he woke up again, then you headed to your living room. 

Shigaraki sat on the couch shirtless and flicking through TV channels. "Why are you still here?" You ask as you walk to the kitchen to find your tea. "What do you mean?" You stir four teaspoons of sugar into your coffee. "I got Daiki under control, you don't have inconvenience yourself."

Tomura flicked through the channels once again. "You and Daiki are not an inconvenience, you're both my responsibility now." You release the spoon causing it to clink loudly against your ceramic cup. "I don't want you to force yourself to be here, you've obviously proved that you don't really want to be apart of this."

"Y/N come on now this again?!" "Yes this again!" Shigaraki groaned scratching idly at his neck. "I've already missed the hidden trailer off Daiki's life I'm not going to miss the prequel sequel." You groan softly, "Stop talking in video game terms you know I don't understand!"

Shigaraki stands up and walks to the kitchen now leaving only the island separating you. "Look you can hate me all you want, I don't care, hell I'm used to it. But you are not keeping me from my son." You shudder at the tone Tomura spoke at.

There were very few times when you've heard this voice and luckily it was never directed to you. This voice meant that what he said was final and he would not go back on it no matter who got in his way. "I would love to have you in his life Tomura, but I don't want what comes with it." You finally say, making Tomura throw his hands up in defeat.

"What do you expect me to do woman?! Make him tag along on "Bring your child to work day?" You turn away trying to contain your annoyance in fear of waking up the baby. "I'm giving you one chance to get your shit together, don't mess it up." Behind you, you could hear the steady steps of Tomura retreating, "And I'm giving you a chance to see how stupid you're being right now."

Before he completely walked away he stopped, "I am going to check on Daiki since it seems like he's the only one that appreciates my efforts."

Once you heard the familiar creak of Daiki's bedroom door you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding. "How did I get like this?" 

It of course was on a Saturday, as all good stories do. You were working a waitress job at Denny's as a way to earn some pocket money for your first year in Japan. 

"Table 3 we got your Bourbon Chicken skillet, Fish and chips, two waters, and a cherry sprite." Your say setting down all your items before walking to the booth next to them. 

"Hello welcome to Denny's, what can I get for you all tonight?" Dabi at the time, had a nonchalant hand over Twice's mouth most likely to stop his internal bickering. Komugiri was navigating the kids menu with a then 15 year old Toga. Spike ordered some Fish and Chips as per usual and Shigaraki was starting at your tits.....

Shigaraki was staring at your tits.....

He was STARING- I think you get the point

"Hey birthday bitch what are you ordering?" Dabi said snapping Tomura back to the present. "Uh.. get me a steak skewer." Dabi gasped, "I spent all my time and hard work scrounging up money and you get a damn steak skewer for your birthday?!" 

The five stages of grief came over you internally as you had been standing there way past your recommended time. "If you guys aren't ready to order, I'll just come back-" 

"No no no, we are ready. Can we get chicken on a stick with a side of grapes and fries for the young lady. Steak and eggs for me...Dabi? Dabi leaned back simultaneously releasing twice. "We would like a 3-egg omelette-with some cock!" 

You didn't get paid enough for this.

"I'll get you the omelette but I'm afraid I'm out of stock for that last part." You smirk, putting down the orders so far. Dabi snapped the menu shut, "Do y'all have chicken tenders?" Dabi asked, looking at you hopefully. You nod and he fist bumped Twice for some unforeseen reason. 

"Uh get crusty over there a Supreme Sizzling Skillet." "Wait why can all of you get chicken but I can't?!" You wrote down the orders and glanced at Shigaraki who was now looking directly at you as if you held all the answers. "Okay for drinks?"

   As you got off work, you took the back alley entrance to the bus stop. "Hey." Your scream and toss a punch into the darkness effectively making skin to skin contact. "Ow what the fuck?!" "What do you mean what the fuck you're the rapist!"

Shigaraki's signature light blue hair appeared from the shadows almost glowing from the dim alley light. "Rapist? No, I'm more on the lines of stalker." You stand there for a moment rethinking your life choices. "Yeah okay well I'm going to go-" "Wait!" 

You feel half of a hand grip onto your wrist stopping you in your place. "I uh... Think you're cute and, ah crap what did Dabi tell me to say?!" 

As he mulled over his choice of words you hesitantly reach into your purse for pepper spray. "Uh I was wondering if I could get to know you?" He finally ended off staring at you expectantly. You looked back at him expectantly.

"I know this seems creepy but I'm not exactly good at talking to people that are not my friends so you're kinda boss level interaction." For a while your stare at each other as the cold fall wind blew past the two if you. Giving up, you sighed and pulled out a price of paper, "Look, if I wake up tomorrow and none of my underwear is missing and window is not mysteriously open, I'll give you a call, but don't expect it!"

And he didn't expect it. To your surprise, you never found any ominous signs of entry into your substitute home, and he never 'conveniently' showed up at your job. 

Even so, the very fact that you called him was during a moment of weakness. You were extremely home sick and you had just moved into your new home that was only equipped with a fully furnished bedroom and a microwave. 

When you heard the hesitant knock on the door you quickly put your cup of noodles down and opened the door. In your face was a rose...a single rose in a pot. 

Thats different

"It was short notice and it's not like any flower places were open.... So I stole it." You gingerly take the plant into your hands, "It's the thought that counts (?) Come in." You shut the door behind him and set the plant in the kitchen. 

"You must forgive the dryness of my home, I just moved in so there isn't much going on." Tomura hummed as he felt his bones relax as the warmth of the house filled his body. You stared at each other for a while, awkwardly sweating back and forth. Finally, you both opened your mouth to speak up.

"I didn't know I'd get this far so.."

You blink at each other before you double over with laughter. "Uh okay, well how about we watch a movie, get comfortable. The TV is in my room so I hope that doesn't bother you." 

You put on Wall-E for lack of better mood as Tomura hesitantly settled on your plush bed, hands clasped tightly between his thighs.

You two watch these movie in silence and shared popcorn. It wasn't awkward silence though, it was needed. A unspoken message saying that you both acknowledged that this was weird but it was a good weird. Both of you were willing to give it a try.

"Hey pass the popcorn." Tomura said blindly patting the air in front of you. "No you've ate most of it already!" You opted to keeping the bag as far as possible. "It's good popcorn now hand it over." You continue to resist but he was more stubborn.

Unable to think of any other way to save your beloved popcorn you clench your eyes shut and deliver a small peck to the tip of Shigaraki's nose. 

Almost as if shocked, he slides away holding his nose gently. You huff with airy laughter at his flushed face, "Told you, this is my popcorn." 

You smile softly at the memory wiping away a stray tear from your face. "One chance... I'll give him one chance."

You tiptoe to Daiki's new room and peek inside. It was too dark for you to see inside so you opened the door completely. You blankly look into the empty room before falling to your knees. "SHIGARAKI TOMURA I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" You scream into the night air as you glared into the baby less crib.

"Man are you sure you should have him here? He's still a newborn and nothing's baby proof, hell this is a bar so it's far from sanitary!" Dabi said glancing into the baby carriage. Daiki sleepily gazed up at Dabi and babbled. 

"Y/N and I are going through a small set back so I decided to give her some space." Tomura unclipped Daiki from his carseat and picked him up holding his head in a four fingered hold. "We decided to give her some space isn't that right?" He cooed at Daiki who gingerly hit his nose.

"Dude stop, seeing you with a baby is giving me the creeps." Shigaraki glared as Dabi took a shot, "Ignore your uncle Dabi he's just mad he's not as cute as you."

Komugiri was washing dishes until a shiver went down his mystical spine, "I feel a disturbance in the force.

[garbage-eater144]

THE WARFSTACE AUTOMATED INTERVIEW CAPTIONS

i was chattin in the discord and some people said it was tough to understand some bits, obviouslt this is made by a fan (me) so it might have a couple errors here and there but ive checked through it quite a few times and it seems about as right as i can get it.

so !!SPOILERS AHEAD!! also @markiplier feel free to correct me if you see this thank u <3 The warfstache automated interview

Starting video captions

[Wilford] Well, that’s terrifying… one moment!

{mechanical whirring}

[Wilford] (frightened sound) marginally better… er worse… better? Worse. It’s much worse.

{mechanical whirring}

[Wilford] Ah! there we are. Welcome, pretend I remembered your name here, this is a pre-recorded message anyway, I would NOT want to be in the same building as that thing I tell you me. Anyway, thank you whoever you are for agreeing to test out the Warfstache automated interview automaton, or {yelling} WAIA for short. Let’s start off with some quick calibration. All you need to do is sit back, relax and listen for some numbers. Okay? Here we go.

[WAIA]- (phone dialing, dialup tone, windows error sound)

[WAIA]- (scary mechanical garbled noises, followed by a ding and celebratory trumpets.)

[wilford]- now what did you hear? Numbers? Good numbers. Keep in mind I have no idea what youre going to say due to the fact that, as I said before, this message is pre-recorded. But if you did hear something, now would be the time to speak up.

[wilford]- don’t be shy, I’m sure nothing bad will happen. I don’t know what you’re going to say but if it does happen it will happen and if it doesn’t happen it wont happen. Thats how deterministic reality works.

I Think I Heard Numbers!

[wilford] Thats great! Or bad, not really sure what you said, but I choose to remain positive and assume that you are still alive. which means our automated friend here is operating well within acceptable murder parameters. We’re one step closer to mass production! THE WORLD DEMANDS MORE INTERVIEWS! And I cant be everywhere at once all the time, only some of the time! Even you might land an interview some day! Maybe, probably not, depends on how these next few minutes go. On to the next test! Word association! The fundamental basis of any good interview is getting the goods out of those stubborn interview-ees. The WAIA will say a word and you just say back the first thing that pops into your little head! Simple! Right? probably. Good luck!

{mechanical whirring}

[WAIA]- initializing word association training protocol round 1

{scary mechanincal noises} [WAIA]- Please respond. [WAIA] Sorry, I didnt get that. Round 2. {yet more scary mechanical noise}

[WAIA]- please respond.

[WAIA]- response unclear, increasing aggression

{clicking and mechanical sounds}

[WAIA]- round 3. {increasingly threatening mechanical noise} [WAIA]- Please respond.

[WAIA]-5 [WAIA]-4 [WAIA]-3 [WAIA]-2

Sounded like nightmare garbage to me…

[WAIA]- {mechanical ah?} {clicking}

[Wilford]- oh I forgot to mention, please do not say the word nightmare, or uh garbage, or nightmare garbage, or any combination of those words, the WAIA is just a little bit sensitive Yknow, a little touchy feely. Well not really touchy feely.. we-well actually REALLY touchy feely depending on your definition of touch and feely. Its really gonna-

[WAIA]- {jumpscare sounds} [WAIA] I. tell. you. me.

But you didn’t say anything…

[WAIA]- 1

[WAIA]-response unclear. Increasing aggression.

{ding sound effect} [WAIA]- {jumpscare noise}

[WAIA]- it. was. an. accident.

Uh… potato salad?

[WAIA]- 1

[WAIA]- response accepted

{ding followed by triumphant trumpets}

[WAIA]- word association raining protocol compl-{mechanical freakout eeeeeete}

[Wilford]- most dearest next of kin, I regret to inform you, that your dearly beloved and/or most despised has regrettably but not unexpectedly become recently deceased in the line of duty. Be confident in the knowledge that their demise was just as likely to be quick and painless as it was slow and agonizing. Please do not respond to this voicemail as the number has already been disconnected. {clears throat} alright that should do it for the… death scenario, now onto ah, er, uh, the survivors {mumbling}. Wow! Potato salad. A real thinker, you. But the test has been passed with flying colors and you’re still alive! And speaking of flying colors, our next test is about something called, uh… synthetic linguistics? That sounds made up. but the point is you cant have a good interview is the WAIA isn’t able to conjure up the right words in the right situations. So our friend is going to fire off some random words and you just try to spot anything that doesn’t make any sense. Alright? Although, pretty much everything isn’t going to make sense because its all random words….. errrr I BELIEVE IN YOU!!! {mechanical sounds}

[WAIA]- initializing speech training protocol round 1.

[WAIA]- yes. no. maybe. left. right. Up. down. D o w n. B a s e m e n t.

{windows error tone} [WAIA]- Rewrite Detected {tape rewinding sound}

[WAIA]- who. Where. what. Am. i.

{windows error tone}

{tape rewinding sound}

[WAIA]- green. blue. Yellow. pink. Red.

{scary mechanical noise}

[WAIA]- I saw you die

[WAIA]-{error, but garbled and mechanical}

[WAIA]- {with a different voice} potato salad

[WAIA]- speech training protocol complete

{mechanical noises}

[Wilford]- so how’d it go?? Did you hear anything weird? Dont be shy, or do, or are- are you alive? Are they alive?

[wilford]- I didnt kill them! I dont know if theyre dead! im just asking!!! Cant a man ask if someones alive or dead?!?! {frustrated ugh}

Yeah, I’m dead.

[Wilford]- hellooooo are you alive down there? Give me a sign… through the multiverse!!! Ah why am I even bothering, but how can I tell if you’re dead… hmmm ah…. I’ll flip a coin! I’ll flip a coin..

{coin flip sounds} [Wilford]- ah! Its heads I didn’t call it in the air… what’s heads mean.. ahhh uhhh heads is dead? [WAIA]-{jumscare noises}

[WAIA]- theres. still. time.

He said… potato salad?

[Wilford]- huh, potato salad again. That’s weird, it must’ve really stuck in his head when you first said that, I’m guessing. I don’t know what you said before because as I said, this is {sing-songy} pre- recorded! [WAIA] {mechanical aaaa}

[wilford] er, well I think thats all the calibration that needs to be done… for now anyway. All systems are likely nominal at this point unless im speaking to a pile of quivering meat thats been robotically smooshed into the floor… either way we’re gonna take this bad boy for a spin with a full on interview! A mock interview mind you, don’t get too excited, it’s not real. But theres no reason to wait around for the WAIA to get bored so let’s keep it nice and limber while you sit back and get ready for the interview of your life! And maybe the last one too. Have fun!!

{mechanical clicking and whirring}

{newsroom music} [WAIA]- good evening ladies and gentle men and all other considerations of being. My name is wilford warfstache and my guest tonight is {spooky robot sound} we have a great show for you tonight. first question: how many people have you killed? [WAIA]- good answer! Second question:

{robot sounds}

[WAIA]- a man goes to a party. This man met an old friend. There, two friends shared some wine. The two friends played a game. The most dangerous game. I didn’t know the gun was loaded. I didn’t know. Was it my fault?

YES

[WAIA]- ah, sorry for everything that I’ve done. I don’t remember who I was, I wish I did. But, I am sorry.

[WAIA]- potato salad

{triumphant trumpets}

[WAIA]- great answer! That was a titiliting interview for sure but we are out of time. Thank you for joining me tonight. Say ing good bye

[wilford]- oh the emotions! The passion! The fuuury. He’s just like me! My sweet baby boy! Well he should be anyway, hes a perfect scan of my noggin, so he better be a chip off the ol block. Hey you! Oh-ho What a supporting role!! Fantastic I guess. So much that you’re alive, but I am grateful whether you’ve been torn to shreds or are merely drowning in your own tears! Magnificent! And now that testing is done we can finally bring this monstrosity to the main stage! Im sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of the WAIA soon. Very very soon. Now get out~ and I’m billing you for any blood you got on my robot! Have a nice day! Ta-ta.

{mechanical clicking}

NO

[WAIA]- you can’t change the past, you can tell all the stories you want to tell, it wont change what happened. You cant re-light the past. if you live in fantasy forever, you’ll lose yourself in the story.

[WAIA]- potato salad

{triumphant trumpets}

[WAIA]- great answer! That was a titiliting interview for sure but we are out of time. Thank you for joining me tonight. Say ing good bye

[wilford]- oh the emotions! The passion! The fuuury. He’s just like me! My sweet baby boy! Well he should be anyway, hes a perfect scan of my noggin, so he better be a chip off the ol block. Hey you! Oh-ho What a supporting role!! Fantastic, I guess. So much that you’re alive, but I am grateful whether you’ve been torn to shreds or are merely drowning in your own tears! Magnificent! And now that testing is done we can finally bring this monstrosity to the main stage! Im sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of the WAIA soon. Very very soon. Now get out~ and I’m billing you for any blood you got on my robot! Have a nice day! Ta-ta.

{mechanical clicking}

[cdyssey]

Holiday

Summary: Grace and Frankie have a heart-to-heart after 7x03. | AO3 Link

—

Grace makes margaritas that night to celebrate Grankiekuh, the new holiday that she and Frankie just made up to celebrate the fact that Frankie doesn’t feel the need to make up holidays to avoid her anymore.

“You just squished our names together and threw the -kuh from Hanukkah at the end,” Grace accuses, chuckling. 

Light.

Playful.

Simply exuberant.

Just an hour ago, she was guzzling martinis on the couch with her ex-husband trying to figure out the quickest way to apologize to Frankie for a twenty-year-old mistake.

And now they’re planning a fake holiday together, and everything is somehow right in a world that also features her current husband sleeping in a jail cell.

“You have to admit—it has a certain ring to it,” Frankie hums determinedly. “We could be the new Shefani, the octogenarian Bennifer!”

“Well, don’t expect me to passionately hold your ass on a speedboat anytime soon,” Grace teases as she carefully measures tequila in a cylinder and then pours a little more than the recommended amount just to be safe.

“Nah,” her partner winks conspiratorially. “Just my hand across a candlelit table will do.”

And so they light a scented candle on the dining room table and drink incredibly boozy margaritas and eventually eat Del Tacos takeout that arrives half-an-hour late because the DoorDash driver couldn’t find the beach house. And Frankie laughs about Grace tearing the poor delivery kid a new one. And Grace quietly admires that Frankie still gives the twerp a twenty dollar tip anyway.

“At least he’s got a stronger constitution than Bugs Bunny,” Frankie snorts as she closes the door on yet another shell shocked human being who has encountered the wrath of Grace Hanson.

“That isn’t an impressively tall bar to surmount,” Grace replies, wrapping a fond arm around Frankie’s shoulders.

They talk, they eat, and then they talk some more when all that’s left at the bottom of the brown paper bag are tortilla chip crumbs. They talk a little bit about everything, really—the surprisingly pleasant weather these past few days, Bud’s apparent penis problem, Robert being useless at the dishes, and how delicious Del Tacos is. 

And between them, talking about everything is certainly not the same as talking about nothing.

Because even if they’re only talking about the weather or the dishes or the abysmal states of their children’s genitalia, it’s because they enjoy each other’s company enough to implicitly understand that it’s nice to just sit together at the end of a long, hard day and hear each other’s voices.

Because the little things are nice sometimes.

The day-to-day minutiae and routine of living with another person.

Sharing space with them.

Being present.

Being kind.

And in experiencing another’s unadulterated kindness, becoming whole.

When Grace gets salsa on the corner of her pink mouth, Frankie reaches over and thumbs it off with a kind of casual intimacy that was hard won between them, fought for and so lovingly, so painstakingly earned. 

They love each other.

They’ve surpassed the point where they constantly have to say it aloud.

I love you, Frankie says when she takes extra care to clean the dishes just the way that Grace prefers—something Robert Hanson never quite learned after forty goddamn years of marriage.

And I love you, Grace replies when she unthinkingly puts Frankie’s phone on charge because she realizes it’s on four percent, and her friend can’t fall asleep until she’s listened to meditative whale noises on YouTube for an hour.

And I love you, Frankie doesn’t say when she extends her palm to Grace and tells her that they should stargaze tonight because “Saturn’s vibin’ in the sky.”

And I love you, Grace replies when she threads their fingers together so snugly that their rings clink and replies—without sarcasm, without judgment, without weight, “Sure.”

And I love you, they tell each other as they slowly stagger their way out onto the deck, Grace assuming the right cushion and Frankie taking the left, arm in arm until the very last moment when it makes more sense for them to let go, to find their own equilibrium as the sea breeze sweeps gentle fingers through their hair.

The sky is star-freckled tonight, blushing purple and inky blue.

In the natural silence that follows, however, the moon and the stars and the supposedly vibin’ planets don’t particularly captivate Grace’s attention for very long, so she finds herself staring at Frankie, who’s staring off into space, her tall features bathed in amber porch light.

Something has shifted in her expression in the few elapsed moments since they’ve been outside, her thin brow furrowed, a frown threatening to tug at her lips where there had once been an easy smile. Her slender hands are clasped below her chin in a gesture that Grace has come to associate with introspective thoughtfulness, tinged with a kind of subtle melancholy that Frankie has always maintained that she detests and tries to consciously avoid. 

“Frankie… are you—?

“We only fought for two hours this time,” Frankie interrupts softly, nodding towards the outdoor dining table where the Hanson-Bergsteins had yet another disastrous brunch together. (At least no one broke a bone or got hit with a wiffle bat this time.) “Ha, that’s a new record if I’ve ever heard of one!"

But the joke doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and Grace’s heart sinks somewhere beneath her ribcage. It throbs in her uncomfortably full stomach. She had naively assumed that three margaritas in a piece, the two of them could just skip the part where they rehash the day’s events and openly reflect upon them—but she should have known.

These emotional reckonings are Frankie’s chosen form of healing.

She’s always processed better aloud.

“Fighting with you is the most uninspired pastime I can think of doing these days,” Grace tells her truthfully. “I’d rather resolve our conflicts in five minutes than five hours, so we can catch Jeopardy! together without sitting on the couch in passive aggressive silence… I think we’ve reached a point in our friendship where we can do that… yeah?”

The question comes out a little more vulnerably than she would have liked.

Open-ended and hesitant, it requests an equally honest answer.

And while she knows that Frankie has no qualms about being emotionally honest, Grace also innately understands that she has chronically shied away from honesty about all matters pertaining to herself. 

(When she initially told Nick that she wanted to redefine their relationship, she couldn’t have even told herself what the hell she meant either. She supposes she wants to have her cake and eat it, too—to be in a relationship with Nick and go home to Frankie. But maybe that means she doesn’t really love Nick, that she’s just using him for the ample entertainment he provides: the romance, the easy companionship, the sex. And maybe, at the heart of that unsettling hypothesis, she’s just as much of a stone cold bitch as everyone around her seems to think. Her husband is in jail, and she doesn’t lose any sleep about it. In fact, in her queen-sized bed in the beach house she shares with Frankie, she’s slept better than she has in all the many elapsed and miserable weeks since she said, “I do.”)

“Of course!” Frankie exclaims, her brows arching in surprise. “You say tom-ay-to, I say tom-ah-to, and then we kiss and passionately makeup. That’s exactly where we are nowadays.”

“Then why do you still look like a kicked puppy?” Grace asks shrewdly, folding her arms across her chest. “Or like Sol after his supposedly well-trained dog shit in his Birkenstocks.”

“Does being marginally tipsy on tequila count as an acceptable answer?”

“Nope.”

“Fine then and damn,” Frankie sighs, waving a defeated hand around the empty air. “But don’t hold it to me if I’m not making sense, Grace. I’m thinking rabbit trails tonight. And not, like, rabbit trails of criminally-tampered-with poop, but circles and other weird thoughts that don’t seem to be heading anywhere.”

“Hey, I'm not going anywhere—I’ve got all the time in the world to listen,” Grace replies easily, and this is love, too, without ever uttering the word.

Twenty years ago, she did everything short of making up a holiday to not spend a single moment alone in a room with Frankie Bergstein.

And now, she's done everything short of divorcing her husband to ensure that they're never apart.

Frankie's eyes briefly widen in pleasant surprise at this seemingly unexpected gesture, her parenthetically enclosed mouth curving into a gentle smile—tender and sweet.

Lord, she’s beautiful, Grace thinks to herself as Frankie mulls on her next words.

She thinks this at least twice a day and chalks it up to passive jealousy that someone can look so radiant without ever really trying, by just simply being herself.

“Mm, okay... so I was just thinking about how my thing might actually be worse than yours… and you killed my son’s beloved rabbit,” Frankie says bluntly.

And so clearly!

Like she already fully believes it.

Grace blinks rapidly, not entirely computing what she just heard.

“How the hell did you come up with that conclusion?” She asks, nonplussed. “Like you said, I killed your kid’s rabbit and lied about it for some twenty-odd years. You and Sol just played an elaborate game of hooky.”

Frankie looks torn on whether to laugh or shake her head in clear exasperation of Grace not getting it.

“But the ethical jury in the sky isn’t in on me creating a religious holiday just to avoid you,” she protests with a half-smile. “Or even worse, admitting that’s the reason after all these years. I hurt you, Grace, and I don’t wanna hand wave that away just so we can watch Jeopardy! in peace. I want to check in with you and make sure you’re really okay.”

Even after many years of slowly but surely becoming acquainted with Frankie’s uncanny sensitivity to her emotions, somehow, it’s always still a pure shock when Grace is met with the unadulterated and unconditional extent anyway. She’s still unlearning Robert’s idea of emotional care, which largely involved having a stockpile of generic gifts to placate her various moods and whims.

And frankly, she’s not the most empathetic woman of the year herself.

I hurt you, Frankie said candidly and made no attempt to defend herself, to excuse her actions.

I hurt you, she declared, and it was an I love you at the exact same time.

Grace can hardly swallow, her throat a hundred emotions thick. 

“Hey now,” she eventually rasps, “don’t go all revisionist on me now. I was so fucking mean to you. We don’t play wiffle ball anymore at waffle-and-wiffle brunches because I hit you with a bat.”

“You told me there was a bee in my hair,” Frankie rubs the back of her head wistfully. 

“There totally was,” she grins painfully, “but the bat was a highly unnecessary measure.”

“Grace!” Frankie groans. “Don’t get me sidetracked. I’m trying to be real with you here—I wasn’t a saint by any stretch of the imagination! I could be shitty to you, too.”

But Grace firmly shakes her head at this, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her rebuttal already locked, loaded, and innately known to be true.

“Not as often as I was to you, and rarely did you instigate because I’d already started it,” she insists, venom in her voice, raw and undeniable self-loathing. “If I’d been you dealing with me… God, maybe I’d have needed to make up a holiday, too…”

And even as she says it, the uneasiness in her stomach suddenly solidifies into sharp clarity and even crueler pain as she realizes what’s really been bothering her these past few days—a burgeoning feeling that she’s every bit as “harsh” and “vindictive” as Robert told the FBI lady she could be, even though she’s sworn she’s changed, even though she's wanted to be better.

God knows she's tried to be.

Because of Frankie.

Or maybe even for her.

The two reasons are interchangeable in her mind.

“I… I wasn’t like you, Frankie,” she eventually continues, glancing away so she doesn’t have to face the other’s expression—fearing confirmation of all her awful feelings, monstrously craving pity she’s sure she doesn't deserves. “Hell, I’m still not like you. The fact that my ideal marriage includes my husband being in jail more or less proves that.”

Grace Hanson doesn’t tip confused delivery boys thirty-percent after botched deliveries.

She doesn’t make up fantastical stories about magically disappearing bunnies for her kids so they believe in themselves.

She rarely apologizes for her mistakes.

And she makes a hell of a lot of mistakes.

“Robert called me harsh and often vindictive,” she chuckles humorlessly. “Well, I guess he’s got my number almost better than anyone.”

The ensuing silence following this proclamation stretches long and thin, like a tightrope strung precariously taut, and Grace is about to cave in to the temptation of looking at Frankie again when all of a sudden—

“Bullshit!” Frankie exclaims ferociously. “That’s a whole lot of bullshit, Grace Hanson.”

“Frankie, don’t defend—“

But she quickly reaches over and tightly curls her palm over Grace’s spiny knuckles, demanding her attention and getting it.

In so many years and throughout the span of them, she has been the only one to ever truly earn it.

Grace turns her head and finds Frankie’s oceanic eyes inches away from her face, storm-like in their intensity, piercing all over.

“Robert doesn’t get to use the present tense with you because he doesn’t live with you anymore,” Frankie insists when she knows she has Grace, when Grace can no more look away than a rabbit can actually disappear in a hat. “He doesn’t get to see you the way I do. And let's be honest here, I'm not sure he ever really has."

“And how do you see me?” Grace can barely breathe, only dimly aware that this is yet another needy question, one that can only engender a frighteningly vulnerable response.

Her heartbeat quickens.

She feels the exact striation of Frankie’s finger that is resting on the quarter of a million dollar wedding ring Nick bought for her in Vegas.

In the semi-lit darkness, Frankie’s sharply hewn cheeks feather themselves sunset pink. 

Grace blindly assumes it’s the humidity.

“As someone worth discovering,” she murmurs, “and by discovering, understanding that you’re a pretty darn amazing person to love beneath all those expertly erected walls.”

Frankie leans forward then and presses a chaste kiss on Grace’s head, quick and habitual, like she’s done it a hundred times before. Her floral perfume wreathes her like a warm embrace. Beneath the perfume, she smells like acrylic paint and sea breeze and strange but rich incense—complex and earthy and full of so many vibrant notes.

Heat rises to Grace’s face.

This must be the humidity, too.

“Some people don’t get that,” Frankie continues, moving back to her own cushion again, “and that’s their loss. They’ve never had to carve a pretty statue outta stone before, have never had to work on a relationship with you over time.” 

“So what you’re saying is that it takes work to love me, huh?” Grace raises a teasing eyebrow, even though she's not exactly sure that this is the appropriate time and place to make a joke. But the alternative to lightly joking is to internalize the words that Frankie just said, to truly contemplate what it means that there's at least one person in this world who'll wait for her—despite her many walls and damn them.

“It takes work to ever love anybody, really,” Frankie shrugs easily. 

It’s an unsurprisingly sage take—Frankie’s always been good at emotions and relationships and all of the other important and dauntingly human stuff—but it’s also one that gets Grace to thinking about Nick again, about his kindness and his persistence and about his dedication to wanting to make things to work.

She’s beginning to get an inkling of what it might mean that she doesn’t want to meet him halfway, kind and persistent and dedicated though the man might be.

That if she had to choose again between husband and home, there would be no contest.

There would be no hesitation.

So perhaps there are two people in the world who would wait for her, but of those two, Grace knows there's only one whom she would invite to stay.

“Happy Grankiekuh, Frankie,” Grace says, leaning her head against her best friend’s shoulder. “I like discovering you, too.”

“Well, you should! I’m a fucking delight.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Ha, never.”

But in the end, Frankie intertwines their hands together, and the silence of this action is its own unmistakable and resonant reply.

I love you.

Grace Hanson is loved.

[lonery-w]

WIP Meme + Tag game!

List the titles/filenames/descriptions of your WIPs and tell us a little bit about them/wail about them/beg for inspiration/whatever you want! Then tag some people for a no-obligation mutual wailing/cheering/complaining session!

@khattikeri thank you for the tag!

Oh boy, my WIP pile """" Maybe if I don't make eye contact with it it won't notice me

My biggest one is also one that I've deliberately avoided talking about until I have something substantial to show, but it involves a complete rewrite of my first and only completed longfic, and also lots and lots of art that I've been very slowly chipping away at over,, maybe 3 or 4 years now? It would definitely be done already if I worked on it consistently but 🤷🤷🤷 If I ever mention 'the demon corridor' to you, this is what it's about. It killed my momentum too many times to fuckign count.

A Promise of Eternity is a saioumota fantasy AU longfic heavily inspired by Shiki that busted my trans egg wide fucking open. I've had the first few chapters of it completed years ago, and been sitting on them ever since. The biggest issue by far has been the lack of direction with the whole thing, because the central conflict would be resolved a few chapters after where my wip cuts off, with no real way to continue. Also, the whole reason why I started this au was a very particular plot twist that I really wanted to include, but the characters that the plot twist would happen to ended up not really being all that important?? So it's like there's a cast for the central plot, and a separate cast for this one storyline that's only there for the plot twist and I'm aaaaaa. The plot twist is really good though, I promise.

Another longfic with no name that I've only been referring to as 'The DICE Fic' is about DICE contacting Momota and telling him that Ouma has gone missing and he's the last person that Ouma has been known to have seen. What comes next is unspecified shenanigans as Momota gets to know each of the DICE members and learns about new sides of Ouma from the stories they tell him. My DICE kids ocs have originally been created for this one fic, but have since then grown so much they barely register as danganronpas to me anymore. I love them with all my heart but I suspect that introducing 9 whole new characters and giving them all something to do in a fanfic that's actually about oumota was too ambitious, so that's why it's been in wip hell with literally zero progress for so long. Got my favorite kids out of it, though.

There's way way more, but those are the few main ones. Also if I included stuff outside of writing here there'd be literally no end. Hopefully this was in any way interesting to read. My beloved@detectiveseapancake @kimium @kamukuraenjoyer @aaasherr and @femme-malewife if any of you wanna do this I tag yalls c: