#—and AND my laundry’s hanging out to dry and i was just rereading the last few chapters of MHA and and 🥹 i really like it

[ofmermaidstories]

i love my hero so much. 😭 i love that the heroes before deku and co are imperfect, did things imperfectly, sometimes made things worse… but tried their best to help those kids grow and do better. 😭😭 i love them. I LOVE THEM ALL. i love this stupid shonen series LMAOOO. i wanna rip it apart with my TEEEETHHHH.

[fragileizywriting]

bad day blues

pairing: Luka / Marinette (Viperion / Multimouse) word count: 10,418 chapter: 1/1 rating: E summary: “How is it that I can sling myself across rooftops for years, day and night, but I can’t even walk in a straight line once I’m out of my suit and end up spraining an ankle?” “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mousey. That’s not good for you.” “I wish I wasn’t such a klutz.” “You’re not.” Luka kisses the top of her head as a punctuation to his words. “You just had a bad day, that’s all.” “One of the worsts in a while,” Marinette nods into his shirt. “Luka? Could you make it better for me?” He laughs. “And you call me the insatiable one, little mouse.” Her eyes sparkle. “Who was the one that jumped me when I was going to go shower after my pool trip with my friends? One look at me in a towel and suddenly my boyfriend’s hands are all on me— sounds pretty insatiable, if you ask me.” AO3 | Start Here To Read The Whole 'Out of The Closet' Series! | Previous Fic in Series | Next Fic in Series

Here's some more Lukanette! Don't worry, there's plenty more incoming, too. This series is so wonderful to write, I'm having so much fun!!! Especially since Luka is my favorite character 🥺

Enjoy <3

She’s having a bad day.

Like, a really bad day.

There is that whole cake ordering business that her parents live off of, that she helps out with. She’s rolled so much fondant out that her arms hurt, and they’re barely attached to her body when she’s rushing out of the door to get to her class when the second bad part of the day happens.

She spills coffee all over herself.

Well, it isn’t her coffee. Her dad’s been getting into the habit of walking around the bakery and the pantry with his mug she got for him for his birthday, a delicate piece of ceramic that is absolutely dwarfed by her father’s large hands. She’d knocked into him while scarfing down some breakfast of her own, where she’d tried to get bits and pieces of it into her mouth while rolling out fondant for that particular eight-tiered cake that is surely going to be the death of her that she still has to pipe and decorate when she gets back from class.

Her blouse is stained, and it’s warm. It doesn’t seep far into her shirt, because her dad presses his apron right on the stain to soak up as much moisture as possible, but she yelps anyway out of sheer instinct.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine! I’m so sorry for making you spill your coffee, baba. Are you okay?” She waves him off with a little smile. These things happen, it’s okay. Besides, smelling like coffee isn’t the end of the world. It isn’t the smell of a particularly expensive perfume, but she can hardly say no to smelling like coffee when she’s lived at a bakery for the entirety of her life.

“I ran into you, sweetheart, not the other way around,” Her dad shakes his head. “Go change your shirt while I get you some packed food to take with you to school for you and Mullo.”

“Thank you! I’ll be right back.” She kisses him on the cheek, making sure to stay clear away from his mug. She rushes up the stairs, trying her best not to accidentally tear her skirt, but isn’t as delicate to her blouse as she could be. The side rips open. She squeaks while getting it off. “Oh, no! I just bought this!”

“Oh! Is everything okay?” Mullo peeks out from the little cubby Marinette’s made into her own little room.

“Yeah— I’m okay! These things happen, don’t worry. I’m just going to change my shirt into something better and then we can head out, okay?” She snaps open a drawer, tossing her soiled top into the laundry bin near her desk. She’s not opposed to wearing other shirts with this particular skirt, but… she really likes wearing that peter pan collar. This is fine. A normal button-up will go fine with the skirt, even though now she looks a lot more formal than she wants to be.

It’s a good thing her bra is nude-colored. She’s already in a rush as it is.

She hasn’t learned a single thing since school was at a walking distance, clearly, because she’s rushing to get to the metro, running back down the stairs, tugging her backpack over her shoulder with Mullo zipping into the pocket of her skirt, and kissing her dad goodbye and thanking him for the food— all the while trying her best to go over the list of things she needed to do before heading off to class.

Feed Mullo, though the little mouse can definitely go scavenging for blueberries whenever she wants. And yet… Mullo starts to whisper that she’s hungry the moment Marinette makes it down the stairs of the metro and goes pawing for her metrocard. She’s grateful that she’s placed a small container of fresh blueberries inside her backpack, with even a portion of small chocolate chips in the screw-top compartment of the container, just for the little mouse— and the small kwami is giggling and back to being happy before Marinette can even blink.

She looks for her metrocard. It’s on the inside of her phone case, which is good, so she’s able to go through the ticket booth with no problem— thank goodness. She doesn’t need another stressor for the day— but she needs to make sure she repays the bill for her monthly pass before the next month arrives so that she isn’t late trying to pay for it the day of, and hopefully she can remember this thought for long enough to write it into her agenda so she doesn’t forget during the week.

Oh, gooseberries. Hopefully she’s not late.

She checks the time on her phone once she’s safely situated inside a subway car, only to look at the turned-off screen with a confused noise. She tries turning on her phone but blinks with so much confusion when the black screen refuses to light.

Wasn’t one of the things on her list to make sure that her phone was charged last night?

What in the world happened to her phone battery?

She tries to think about it, pinning down that the only real reason it would be out of battery would be if Mullo wanted to use it to watch videos or listen to music while Marinette was asleep.

She makes sure to unzip her bag, peering down at the little mouse kwami with inquisitive eyes, trying to understand why her only communication device isn’t charged, speaking in a hushed voice to not alert anyone in the subway car with her. “Lolo, did you watch videos last night?”

Mullo is asleep. At least she remembered to put the lid back onto the container, which is some good news. Marinette can’t feel too upset, looking at the little creature. It’s a good thing she packed her bag and made sure to grab her portable charger— it’s not often that Mullo gets in the habit of overusing Marinette’s phone— but she’s always prepared, just in case. Mullo likes texting Sass, too, though all their texts look like gibberish to her and Luka whenever they try to reread it.

She opens the front pocket zipper with the cute little mouse charm attached to the handle and freezes.

This isn’t her school backpack.

She’s not sure how it didn’t dawn on her before, but this isn’t the right backpack at all.

The only thing it has is a plastic bag with her swimsuit she’d used during the weekend— it’s not exactly dry, given that it’s been in the baggy for at least four days since she’d come back from the pool with her friends. That’s strange— she’s not one to just drop her bag off to the side and not put away her stuff— so, what gives? She chews on her nail while she thinks about what could’ve possibly distracted her from hanging up her swimsuit and letting it dry, and stopped her from putting away this particular backpack, and squeaks to herself when she remembers.

Oh. Right. That’s right.

Viperion had shown up in her room just as she was going to go take a shower— having completed patrol on his own because he wanted her to have fun with friends and go swimming— and since her boyfriend is somehow allergic to learning how to swim, he’d happily shoved her out of the house with the pretense of keeping Paris safe while she relaxes for once in her life— no wonder she’d been so distracted and completely forgot about the backpack.

He’s so insatiable, nowadays, wanting to spend so much time with her that it’s completely pointless to try to keep clothes on around him. He’d taken one good look at her while she was making her way to her bathroom tucked into her towel and had decided to wash her himself— joining her in the shower without even taking his suit off.

She knows that their hexleather is water-resistant— but she didn’t know that it’s enough to keep water from completely entering his suit.

He’d cleaned her inside and out— pressed her up against the bathroom tiles, hopeful that she would keep quiet, as Viperion slicked two fingers inside of her.

The hexagonal grooves on their suits had never been something she’d even considered until now— it was obsession at first touch, in all honesty.

Her back is filled with love bites and possessive teeth marks that make her toes curl in her shoes when she thinks about it more, or remembers it whenever she brushes up against her shoulders. Not to mention she feels a comfortable full-body ache when he finally slips away to go home— she’d spent the rest of that afternoon in bed, curled up, dreaming of the day the two of them can always wake up next to each other.

She shifts in her seat, feeling damp and uncomfortable. She misses him already.

But all of that means… her school backpack is still at home. And she’s carrying nothing except her wet swimsuit, instead of her agenda and planner and notebooks and sketchbooks and pens.

Oh, sugarcubes.

It’s fine, though. These things happen. Sometimes no matter how much she plans and prepares, the universe sometimes throws her for a loop, and that’s okay. A good planner knows how to plan for things going wrong— even if she doesn’t want it to happen in the first place.

In all honesty, this is probably not what Luka meant when he said to let things flow and don’t let things bother her, but it is kind of hard to stop her tendencies to want to plan for the worse.

Okay, so how does she fix this?

She has a lecture that starts in about twenty minutes that she can technically skip out on and go back home to grab her things, assuming she switches subways at the next stop. Since she’ll be late, she might as well change out of her clothes, too, into something much more suited for her. She doesn’t like wearing button-downs— especially since, oh, gooseberries, it looks like she’s missed out on about three buttons and gotten her neckline skewed. There’s no point in even fixing it, as long as she’s able to tuck her miraculous back underneath her shirt without someone seeing it.

What else does she need to do?

Well, she definitely needs to make sure she gets the right backpack the next time she slips through the door. Make sure to bring another container of blueberries, too— she never knows when there’ll be another Akuma, and of all things to not be worried about, this is something she’ll never stop.

Everything will be okay. No worries. The lecture wasn’t that important, she’s sure of it.

The moment she makes that same thought, the subway car slows to a crawl. The lights in the car flicker, and she looks around to the other passengers, hopeful to see anyone who has any idea of what’s going on.

Everyone looks nonchalant. They probably assume it’s an Akuma, at this point.

“We are having technical difficulties,” The subway car emits a tinny, metallic little noise from the speakers near the doors. “Please stay calm and wait while we fix it.”

Marinette groans. Okay, maybe she’ll be late for a lot more than just her first class. This is fine. Things happen. Things like this just happen— she just needs to relax about it. At least it’s not an Akuma— and it’s not like she can be blamed for the subway being stuck.

There’s just nothing to entertain her, though. No pencil, no pen, no paper to doodle and keep her occupied. No phone to listen to music or keep her busy. Just her, the plastic bag with her swimsuit in it, a sleeping kwami, her breakfast, and half a container of chocolate chips. She might as well start eating now, since there’s nothing else to do— eat and think about her boyfriend’s pretty blue eyes.

-*-

She has— well, had— a pop quiz in her missed lecture.

Worth twenty percent of her grade.

She stumbles into the classroom after everyone’s starting to clear out, looking for the professor and her continuously bored glare she gives to the class on the regular. “Uhm, excuse me— sorry, I didn’t attend class today because of the metro—”

“You can’t make it up.” Her professor says, collecting a thick stack of paper into her briefcase. The only professor she’s ever met to actually use a genuine briefcase— it makes her look more like a lawyer and less like an introduction to fashion history professor.

“Make it up?” Marinette blinks, confused. “Make up— make up what, exactly? I wasn’t in class.”

“The quiz. Twenty percent of the grade, of course, because no one in class was answering my questions today for some reason.” Because Marinette’s the one who usually answers for everyone, of course. No one stepped in, probably, because they were most likely too comfortable with her answers to actually come up with one of their own. “You missed out on the quiz. You can’t make it up.”

“Oh.” That’s fine. Things happen. Sometimes the universe just throws curveballs— her grade in this class won’t suffer. “Uhm. Is— is that all I missed?”

Her professor gives her a good look. There’s something in her dull, tired eyes, like she registers who Marinette is in the class— and what she brings to the lecture hall. “I’m going to give you the homework, even though I technically shouldn’t. You’re a good student— you’ve never been late to class— and definitely never missed an entire lecture. And today, without your questions, it was completely and totally quiet.”

“Oh.” She repeats. “Th— uhm. Thank you.”

She pulls out another stack of papers, handing her a stapled group of paper from the top. It looks ridiculously thick— as in— maliciously thick. Maybe at least thirty pages. “Here’s the homework. Make sure to finish it by next class.”

One week to finish the assignment. No problem. She can do that.

“Of course,” Marinette breathes, slightly overwhelmed, looking over the title of the assignment. She has no idea where to begin— the lecture today must’ve been all about it. Maybe she can find one of her classmates and ask about it? Although, she’s never really made a friend here before… “Thank you very much.”

“Don’t make it a habit to skip,” The professor calls out to her as she leaves through the door.

“Understood,” Marinette mutters under her breath. The strap of her kitten heels breaks when she runs her foot too close along the doorframe as she leaves behind her. She trips, falling into her second person with a coffee today, spilling all over her shirt again. This time, it’s cold— it’s an iced latte, of course, and ice cubes fall down her collar and into her shirt, and pain blistering up her ankle.

She tries to walk it off, she really does, but it ultimately just collapses back onto the floor the moment she tries to put pressure on it. Mullo comes out of hiding when she makes sure that there’s no one around, asking if Marinette’s okay— and all she can do is just smile at the little kwami, trying her best not to wince.

Today just isn’t her day, is it?

-*-

By the time an Akuma actually comes around, and tries to do damage in the city of Paris, Multimouse is running on fumes from how close she is to breaking down.

She’s weaved and dodged most of the attacks, relying on her rope to get out of the way. Her ankle doesn’t hurt as much when in the suit, of course, because the magical properties of the miraculous make it so that they focus on the fight first than anything else. She can put her weight on it, which is the good news— and that’s enough for her to walk and run and jump rope when she needs to.

Seeing Viperion is such a blessing. She hasn’t been able to text him much all day, aside from the vague ‘good morning’ text she sent when she finally managed to get her phone to turn on— she’s been too busy to respond to all of the texts he’s sent throughout the day.

Hopefully, she can talk to him after the fight is over. She needs a little bit of downtime.

But she can’t exactly focus on how thankful she is to see him when she’s in the middle of weaseling out of the Akumas grabby hands. She tucks and weaves, snaps her rope out like a whip when she needs to, and does her best to roll out of the way of the Akuma that falls into their trap using the Liberty that sends him spiraling across the city with it. Viperion is nearly on the other side of the city taking care of the sentimonster when she feels her ankle start to blister in pain again, indicating that she’s putting far too much stress on the ankle for even magic to make it stop hurting.

By the time they’ve got the Akuma purified, the sentimonster dealt with, and the victim is in safe care with the social worker from the workforce that’s been assigned to assist people who have just been Akumatized— Multimouse can barely stand up. She chooses, instead, to keep sitting down on the lip of the sidewalk between a couple of parked cars, her legs spread out in front of her, trying her best to seem like she’s just out of breath. She keeps her right boot completely straight, hopeful to not put any more strain on her ankle, but lets her left boot sag against the asphalted road, and tries her hardest not to hide her face in her hands.

Viperion makes his way back to her after he’s done talking to the social worker.

“Mousey?”

“Hi, Vai,” She speaks into her gloves. Some battles are just too difficult for her to focus on, and trying to keep herself from doing something just isn’t worth the effort anymore. “That was a tough one, huh?”

He sits down next to her, shoulder to shoulder. There’s probably not enough space for him in between the cars, since his shoulders are wide, but he makes the effort anyway. Besides, if it’s truly that bothersome, all he has to do is give a gentle push to the car next to him— the miraculous suits give them extra strength, after all— but even without the suit, he’d probably be able to push it forward. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” She leans into him. “I missed you so much.”

“You didn’t text me today like you usually do,” He murmurs into her hair. He’s a thick wall of heat right next to her, and she’s so thankful for him like usual. “Everything okay?”

“Everything is— it’s fine— I’m sorry. I forgot to charge my phone last night, and Mullo was watching videos while I slept, so my phone just went kaput.” She smiles in her hands when he makes a noise meaning that he understands exactly what she means. “I only got to text you when my phone was back on. I’m just tired, really. I’m not having a good day.”

The road is going to be populated soon with whatever foot traffic it usually has, now that the Akuma’s been taken care of. They need to probably get up to higher ground before the people of Paris come out to ask for autographs or selfies— and, okay.

She wants to give everyone the best treatment possible, of course, but she’s in absolutely no condition to do that like this. Definitely not like this.

It’ll be better for everyone’s comfort if she doesn’t stay around to listen to what people have to say about the fight— she’s Paris’s sweetheart, she knows, but if anyone says anything remotely negative in her direction, she’s pretty sure she’ll start crying.

Not to mention that if she hears anything bad about Viperion, she’ll start crying while beating civilians off with a ten-foot pole. She’s not in the mood at all to continue behaving like the sweet little Parisian Princess today— she can’t do it.

“Are you stressed out?”

“Yes. Very much. Ironically, the Akuma was my break from stress. Imagine that?”

He laughs. It’s a loving noise, usually, but there seems to be an edge to it this time. “Do you want me to help you with that? I think I saw an alley over there. Let me help you relax.”

She steams red behind her gloves. Oh, she knows exactly what he means— and, well, the answer is always yes. “Yes— but maybe not here. People are going to show up, soon, and I’m already in pain as it is—”

Viperion looks at her. She can tell because her face starts to prickle underneath her gloves. “Pain?”

She takes a deep breath, looking up at him. His hair is starting to curl around his neck, it’s so lovingly him that she can’t help but comb her fingers into his hair and smooth it back. The confusion on his face morphs into contentment as she takes her time brushing his bangs back, getting a good look at what the top of his domino mask looks like. “Nothing’s wrong— things are fine. Everything is fine. Sometimes things happen, and we can’t control all of it.”

Liquid golden eyes look back at her when she’s done petting through his hair and, he— he smiles at her. Really smiles at her— he knows that she’s trying to repeat the quotes and virtues that he usually says to himself. His smile makes his domino mask crinkle, the scales on his hexleather shimmering turquoise and green, and it’s not exactly a front when she smiles back at him. “That’s true. Sometimes things happen that we can’t control, even if we really try, but sometimes we can fix whatever is hurting us. So what really happened, Mousey?”

“Just a bad day,” She uses her left foot to brush against his, taking her hands back from his hair to follow the scale pattern on his chest. The muscles underneath are no illusion— he’s truly that filled out. She likes physical contact with him, just as much as he loves physical contact with her— and she finds a certain kind of sweetness in the way he leans just slightly into her touch as she traces his collarbone. “I’m not kidding— I’ve been having a really bad day.”

“The Akuma didn’t help all that much, huh?”

She cups his cheeks with her palms. She can’t feel him, because her fingers are covered in protective hexleather, but it means all the same to her when she presses their foreheads together, smooshing their bangs against one another. “I don’t know about that. I’m getting to see you, after all— I love being able to see you, Vai.”

His eyes twinkle as he laughs, giving her a kiss. “Stand up for me? I want to check if you’re missing any body parts.”

“What? I’m not missing anything.” She finds herself laughing at the strange request. “See? Look: I have my two arms, my two legs. Tail is still here, and so is my miraculous.”

“I don’t know about that,” His face is oddly serious, even as she continues to giggle. “Wiggle your fingers for me so I know they’re still there.”

“Vai,” She makes a face as she laughs. When he implores her, she rolls her eyes, twiddling her fingers in the air. “Told you.”

“All ten fingers?”

“I think so,” She breaks into a grin. What is this man on about?

“Let’s see.” He takes her hands in his, bringing every single finger up to his mouth so he can count them with a kiss. “One. Two.”

“Oh my gooseberries. Vai,” She giggles hard enough for her shoulders to shake.

“Don’t make me lose count, Mousey, this is important. Three, four—”

“How did I get so lucky to have you?”

“I think it’s the other way around, honestly. Five, six— how did I get so lucky to have you?”

“By treating me like this,” She can’t help but bite her lip when he makes it past seven and eight. “By treating me so sweetly.”

“Sue me, little mouse. I like treating my girlfriend well. Nine, and ten.” At the tenth finger, he kisses where her fingernail would be, then her knuckle, then the back of her hand. He kisses up her arm, too, all the way up to her shoulder as she snorts and giggles, until he tilts his head and kisses her against the jaw, finally completing his quest and kisses her softly on the lips— she melts. He keeps the kiss soft, though— and if her ankle wasn’t rolled, she’d honestly climb into his lap for more than just something so chaste. She deserves it, after this horrible day— and he always makes her feel loved and comforted. “I think your hands are okay.”

“You think so?” She feels a little dopey from the kiss.

“Move your feet, too, so I can figure out if your legs are still attached.”

She moves her left foot only, letting her right boot rest. Instead, she pulls up her right leg, hoping to look like she’s just switching up her sitting position, but that’s enough for Viperion to break eye contact with her and look at her knee. “See?”

But he’s smarter than that. “Ah, there it is. So you did injure yourself during the fight?”

“No. I— uhm— no. Not during the fight.” She’s not lying, but her smile dies down as a quiet contemplation morphs on his face. “It’s— I’m fine, Vai, honestly, I’m okay. My ankle will be fine after some ice, I’m sure—”

“Oh, Mousey.” He looks hurt for her, immediately swiveling in his seat to look her over. He grabs gently for both of her legs, lifting them up to place in his lap, and gently starts to move her foot at the ankle back and forth.

The first leg is the good one, so she barely even reacts— let alone blinks— to him swiveling her ankle around and testing the elasticity. But her bad ankle— oh— it’s enough to make her start to squirm.

His eyebrows pinch when she continuously flinches, her half-sentient tail batting against the asphalt behind her as she tries her hardest not to cry out in pain. He supports the back of her ankle with his palm, and doesn’t let her foot rotate when he puts her leg back in his lap. “When did this happen, baby girl?”

“It happened at school,” She hides her face back into her gloves. “Just the cherry on top, honestly. I fell and twisted my foot. I thought I was okay, but— I can’t walk in my civilian form.”

“School? And you fought the Akuma while injured? Oh, Mousey— I’m so sorry, I wouldn’t have let you stay alone with the Akuma if I had known. What else happened? Tell me what’s wrong.” She feels the gentle pressure of his thumb against her calf, even through the hexleather. “Maybe I can help you. I sure want to try, at least.”

Why is he so gentle with her? Why is Viperion always so sweet and soft to her— kind and loyal?

She knows why— there is the whole ‘they’re dating’ part of the answer— but honestly, how did it get this way? When did Viperion become the boy she fights crime with, day or night, live or die— to the man who snags her just before her showers, who makes it a habit to make her toes curl every time he sees her, who is happiest when she cuddles and routinely hides in his bed with? How in the world has she gotten this lucky?

How? How did she get so lucky to have a man so conditioned to care about her?

Why did he ever fall in love with someone like her— someone who needs everything to be in its place or else she has a nervous breakdown? Someone that loses her demeanor when there’s even a slightest mistake, because everything needs to be perfect or it’s not worth doing at all and— and— why would he even stay with someone like her like this? Why? She’s completely the opposite of him— so— why does he stay and deal with someone so completely different than him in every single aspect?

The thought is enough to make her cry— and— oh— that’s it, really. That’s what makes her push over the edge and start hiccuping into her hands, tears falling down her cheeks. “Oh—”

“Mousey, it’s okay. Shh. Your ankle will get fixed up in no time, okay? We can fix this.”

“I’m sorry,” She says, more to herself than anything else, gesturing to her leg before hiding back in her hands. She sags against him so easily when he pulls her onto his lap. “I’m sorry— I’m so sorry, Vai. It’s not just— just the ankle— I’m just—”

“I know.”

“And— such a bad day—”

“Breathe, Mousey,” He traces circles against her back.

She gasps for breaths between sobs. “And I just— I really did try to not let it get to me— I really tried—”

“You did very good. You are doing very good.”

“It really hurts, Vai, I’ve never rolled my foot before, it’s so painful— and I know I’m going to be in more pain when I’m out of the suit. I’m so exhausted, Vai— today has been so difficult.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Where does she begin? “So much coffee on my shirt, I smell like an espresso machine—”

He listens to her ramblings, even if they don’t make any sense without the full context. He’s gentle when he shifts her even closer, making sure that her foot doesn’t hit up against the car next to them, tucking her in next to his collarbone and letting her cry it all out. His chest is so warm against her. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“And then the subway— and I don’t have more blueberries for Lolo right now because she ate them all already, even after I went back home and refilled her cup—”

“We can get more in my house, it’s okay. All the blueberries Mullo could want.”

“And I was also stuck in the subway for two full hours with just a swimsuit—”

“You went on the subway with only a swimsuit on?” He makes a face. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“In my bag,” She explains, even if it doesn’t make much sense, sniffling around her gloves. “I mean— I picked up the wrong backpack— the wrong bag— before leaving the house and it was just my swimsuit in there— the subway got stuck and I thought it was because of an Akuma so I was just—”

“Take a breath, Mousey.”

She sucks in a breath, trying to fill her lungs in all the way, before the inevitable fresh wave of tears that she continues to border on. “And I— I couldn’t— even text you. I couldn’t, because my battery was out— and I was underground— and— oh, sugarcubes, I was so bored— I just kept coming up with more and more ways to sneak off the train without being seen because there was nothing else to do and I ended up overthinking everything.”

Everything. All of it. Every single thing. If she’s doing well in school— if what she’s trying to get a degree in is even worth it— if she’s wasting her time not focusing on defeating Hawkmoth— if Viperion even finds her necessary in fights. After all, most of what she does is just a distraction for him to get close and defeat the Akuma— but there’s not really a genuine need for her since all he has to do is move his ouroboros miraculous over to the side and turn back time and do whatever needs to be done, right?

“I thought about how you’re so much better without me during Akuma battles— I thought how much of a klutz I am— I thought about how I always have these nervous breaks whenever something goes wrong and you always just deal with them and I wish I could just stop worrying about every little thing without making it into a thing— and— and—”

Gentle hands make it to her wrist, and she looks up, sniffling and biting her lip. Viperion’s smile looks soft on his face as he wipes away her tears— golden eyes looking at her like she’s the most important thing in the world. He kisses her forehead, her cheeks— her nose, too— all in favor of getting a smile back onto her face. “None of that is true, okay? There’s no need to overthink about any of it anymore. You’re okay, you’re here— exactly where I need you to be. You are the entire reason why Paris is safe every day— I’m just here to keep you company, in all honesty. You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever known, little mouse, and I absolutely cannot do any of this without you.”

Amazing woman? Has he met his own mother before? “But— what about your family—”

“I’m aware of what I’ve said,” He smiles. “I don’t deal with your problems, we deal with our problems. You getting worked up about something is something we both work on together— I’m not going to let you suffer alone when you’re nervous about something.”

She blinks slowly at him, her lashes damp and full of tears, only being able to offer him a watery and a heartful: “Oh.”

He nods, encouraging her to smile back. “Everything’s going to be fine, just like it always is, okay?  You’re not a klutz. You’re doing great. Everything is going to be fine.”

“But—”

“Breathe, Mousey. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

She looks at him in the eyes, her breath slowing down, looking around them to see just how empty the street is. It’s an unpopulated street to begin with, so there are only a couple of shops at the corners, nowhere near them where they sit in between the cars, catching their breath from the battle. “I’m— I’m going to be okay. I am okay.”

“You’re okay.” He nods, smiling gently, taking her hands in his.

“I’m— I’m fine.” She takes another breath. She still feels watery, still feels like a wet sponge, but it’s a little easier to breathe. “Sometimes days just don’t go my way, no matter how much I plan for it.”

“Good, good— but you’re forgetting the second half of that.”

“The second half?”

“For every day that it happens, whenever your days don’t go right, I’ll be right here for you to cry on because you and I have always been a team.” He kisses her bangs, smoothing his gloves at the back of her head, behind the buns in her hair. “As much as I don’t like seeing you cry, baby girl, I know that I’d rather see that, than have you bottle it up inside.”

She sniffles, giving him a little smile when he pulls away to gauge her reaction. “Thank you, Vai.”

“I love you.” He kisses her on the lips again.

“I love you, too.” She ducks her head as a blush stains her cheeks underneath her domino mask. “Oh, I’m— I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For crying on you and turning this into a mess.”

“My girlfriend seeking out comfort from me— what a scandal, little mouse,” He teases with a flash of his fangs. “How dare my Mousey want reassurance from me.”

She has the reflex to giggle, even though there’s a bit of tears still trying to make its way down her face. “It’s probably not what you had in mind for today, huh?”

“All I had was work today,” He wipes at her cheek again. “The Akuma is always unpredictable, but it’s not like your parents don’t know why I have to leave the register when our phones start to ding with the Akuma notification, right? And I’m always thinking of you, so, in a way this is sort of what I had in mind.”

She kisses him. It’s not as quick as it should be— it definitely isn’t as innocent as it has to be, given that they’re in public and they haven’t technically told the public yet that Viperion and Multimouse are more than just a duo, not to even mention that they’re a lot, lot more than a duo now, if her wandering hands are any indication— but she breaks away just before she has the urge to shift her position on him, laughing softly when he narrows his eyes at her. “We should— uhm— probably go back, right? Your mom is probably calling your phone right now, asking why in heaven’s name you picked the Liberty for the trap location— Alya will be here any moment now to ask things for the Ladyblog.”

“Hmm? What did you say? I was too busy living in the moment of hearing you laugh again. Such a sweet melody.” He looks back up to her from looking at her ankle. She has no idea what’s going on in that head of his— and it bothers her, because she so desperately wants to know, even as he gives her a wink and a smile.

She’s so thankful for this man. So ridiculously thankful.

She bites her lip to stop herself from smiling harder. “We need to go. Out of here. And I need a favor.”

“I’ll do whatever you need, Mousey. What is it?”

“I need you to marry me.”

His eyes widen, completely caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean— I mean carry—” She gasps, hiding her hands behind her mouth. “Oh gooseberries— I’m so sorry. Sorry! I meant carry, I promise! Slip of the tongue, oh sugarcubes— I’m so sorry— that’s not what I meant at all.”

“Breathe, Mousey, come on.” He snorts so hard that he has to hide his face behind his hands, shoulders shaking in mirth. “Obviously I’ll carry you. That’s without question— I’m not letting you walk like that. Come on, let’s get you back home.”

-*-

Marinette’s finally sleeping by the time he’s back into her room.

They’ve wrapped and bandaged her foot, kept it elevated and out of the way for her. She sleeps soundly, even as he struggles with her trap door to not make any noise. He’s not good at being quiet when he really tries— the universe is always out to get him whenever he tries to do something quietly. Or maybe he just gets too self-aware of himself.

“How’s she doing, Sass?”

“She’s been sleeping for the whole time since you brought her home,” The little kwami answers just as softly. There’s a couple of doll-sized lounge chairs on her nightstand, as well as a small little dining table with a couple of cushioned seats— it looks like a playset, in all honesty, but they’re the perfect size for the two kwamis to sit and eat away at their food.

Sass looks like he’s finished with his eggs, which is good to see. Mullo is still working on her blueberries, chewing through each one almost anxiously as the two kwamis watch Marinette rest. He’s never known just how many blueberries is enough for Mullo, so he’d grabbed a heavy container full of it and put it in a small basket to keep her entertained.

“Is her foot going to be okay?” Mullo squeaks out.

“She’ll be fine,” Luka sits on the floor to be at eye level with the kwamis. He takes a couple of berries in his hands to snack on in order to have something to do. “She’s never hurt her ankle before, so it’ll heal up fast. Master Fu wrapped it up for her, after all— her uncle wouldn’t lie, would he?”

Both kwamis nod in agreement.

“I feel like this is all my fault,” The little mouse makes a face. “I should’ve helped her today, I shouldn’t have been quiet the entire time. Maybe things wouldn’t have gotten this bad. Maybe I could’ve told her she was taking the wrong bag— or maybe I could’ve remembered to plug in her phone. I fell asleep watching videos on mermaid history, I’m pretty sure— I don’t think the videos were worth her twisting her foot.”

Sometimes kwami and holder are really alike, huh? Even the face that Mullo makes is so reminiscent of Marinette, it’s incredible— he tries his best not to smile lovingly but can’t help himself. “It isn’t your fault at all, Mullo. There’s no point in thinking about what you should’ve done— all of it has already happened. It’s okay.”

“She’s never gotten injured like this before for as long as I’ve known her— and you said earlier that she hasn’t torn any muscles since I was given to Luka. Her ankle will heal before you know it.” Sass is quick to pet his friend’s arm. “But until then, she definitely won’t be able to act should an Akuma arrive.”

The room goes silent again as the three of them settle back into what they were doing. Sass is curled up, of course, enjoying the luxury of the little doll chair that is stuffed to the brim with cotton and sewn expertly shut. The dollhouse furniture looks well-loved, though— he’s under the assumption that Marinette most likely bought second-hand miniature sets for Mullo to play house in when she had first been given the mouse miraculous. There’s no dollhouse in sight around anymore, but the bookcase near Marinette’s bed still has two cubbies empty in favor of a little curtain pulled open to reveal two fake little rooms.

There’s a little closet rack full of little clothes. There are hats lined up against the bookshelf wall with two slits on the sides to make space for Mullo’s ears. There’s a doll bed with a blanket and a cushion— there’s a couch and potted plants all made out of felted material in order to decorate the space. A rug, too, underneath all the furniture.

All of these little trinkets and toys, so loved and cared for by a young girl and the love she has for her mouse— now something cherished by a young woman. “You know, I’ve always wanted to ask— how long have you two known her?”

“The Cheng family has always kept the miraculouses safe,” Mullo bites into another blueberry. “We’ve been passed down for generations.”

“Well, usually. Master Fu is the guardian right now, but he’s making sure that Marinette is the next guardian.”

“I know that, yes— but I meant Marinette specifically. How long have you two known Marinette?” He turns to her, wondering if she’s in any pain. The inflammatories must be working well in her system because there’s nothing on her face that indicates that her foot’s been wrapped and bandaged to stay still.

“We’ve known her ever since she was little. About eight years old, maybe? All of the kwamis loved playing house with her— the little princess was always so sweet and lovable. Growing up an only child was really lonely for her, so we played with her whenever we could.” The dollhouse furniture makes a lot more sense now. “You name it, we played it. Hide and seek, dollhouse, tea time, dress up— princess and the knight, too.”

Of course Marinette would’ve made them little clothes, how could she have resisted? The idea is adorable.

“Kaalki would frequently run away from Master Fu’s place in order to come play with her. Who could blame him? I for one loved it when it was tea time. Princess always made deviled eggs, just for me.” Sass slips his eyes shut to sleep. He always gets tired after eating his share of eggs following an Akuma attack— Luka’s thankful he works at a bakery, where eggs are plenty.

Sass is out like a light.

Mullo giggles to herself, holding a giant blueberry between her two paws, turning to him in her little chair, speaking as quietly as possible. Marinette may be asleep for longer, but Sass’s hearing is always so sensitive— they don’t want to wake either of them up. “I just ended up being the lucky one that got to stay with her. All of the other kwamis were really upset when they heard that I was her permanent friend— especially Kaalki. They all loved playing with her. We’re sure that Plagg and Tikki will love her, once we find them again.”

So much history between Marinette and the kwamis. No wonder Sass was so happy when they’d finally revealed their identities to one another. “Hey, Mullo— how come she didn’t tell me about her ankle?”

“She didn’t want to worry you.” Mullo replies in her soft, tiny voice. “You both needed to focus on the Akuma first.”

But in the end, she’d hurt herself. What he wouldn’t give to second-chance her ankle back to normal— but it’s been hours, not minutes, since it happened.

He takes his time eating the handful he’s picked from Mullo’s basket. The blueberry is sweet in his mouth, and tasteful, and something quiet to do while he looks at Marinette’s sleeping form. She’s working herself too hard, isn’t she? Trying to keep up with all the things at university— and trying to keep up with everything at home— and definitely trying to keep up with Akumas on top of it all. They haven’t technically even been on dates together, if that’s something she even wants, because her life is so full. It’s commendable, but watching the girl of his dreams get pulled in all different directions makes him understand entirely why a multitasking miraculous is the perfect one for her.

“You should rest, Luka. It’s getting really late.”

“I don’t know if I should— I don’t want to accidentally wake her up.”

“She’ll be more upset if she wakes up and you’re not in bed with her,” Mullo argues. He smiles, because he can’t help the humor at the sincerity of her words. “You should join her.”

He’d have to take off his jeans, and go pawing for one of his shirts she’s stolen from his room in order to not get flour all over her bed, but it’s doable. Her parents already know he’s up here, after all— he’s said he was going to check up on her once his shift ended. Her parents had let him go without barely any warning gaze— in fact, Mrs. Cheng had implored him to spend the night and make sure Marinette didn’t attempt to run off, in case another Akuma were to pop up.

They trust that he’s a good person and will actually stop her from leaving the house. And he doesn’t want to disappoint.

The last thing he wants to do is go back home and listen to the absolute earful he’ll be getting from his mom about using the Liberty as bait, so he’s going to camp out in Marinette’s room after sending about a billion and one heart emojis to Juleka, hoping she’ll try to keep their mom out of trouble.

Maybe it’d been a bad idea to tell his family about his identity— just his family in general. It’s safer this way, now that his family knows, so there won’t be any nasty revelations down the line and his family won’t turn into Akumas (and if he has to fight Reflekta or Captain Hardrock any more times in his life, he’s going to quit) but now there’s the added bonus of his mom knows why he disappears all the time.

So.

Heart emojis sent to Juleka it is.

“And what about you? Won’t you be going to bed?”

“I’m still hungry, so I need to dip downstairs and get some more food, if that’s okay. Or, better yet— do you want me to take Sass downstairs with me when I go?”

He raises a brow. Surely she doesn’t mean to imply… “She’s— Marinette— come on, Mullo. She’s injured.”

“I’m not sure she needs her ankle for that!”

This doesn’t top the weirdest conversation he’s ever had, but this is definitely up there. “And she’s asleep— I’m not comfortable with the idea.”

“She’ll wake up soon. You should ask her then, obviously.”

“Mullo.”

“You’re two aren’t our first holders, you know, we’ve done this so many times before.” Mullo giggles behind a paw. “So, do you want privacy? If you don’t, I’ll stay right here. Mari likes to tell us that we’re as scary as actual dolls, sometimes, with our beady little eyes.”

No one has to tell him that. He learned the hard way when he’d woken up the first time with Sass looking straight at him. Beady little eyes indeed— it’d scared him shitless and almost caused him to scream at a bleary five in the morning. Sass is a terrifying little creature when he wants to be.

“Maybe it’s a good idea to give us a bit of time.” He tries not to blush when Mullo tilts her head in acknowledgment. “I don’t think she wants anything except sleep, but, who knows.”

“We’ll give you all the time you two need,” The little mouse nods. She grabs Sass’s sleeping form by a paw, taking one last bite out of the remaining blueberry, before the two of them phase through the floorboards down below. Sometimes kwamis are weird little creatures with all of their powers, honestly— he’s gotten used to Sass appearing out of thin air in his attempts to scare him, but it’s always so concerning to see it happen without that context.

He lifts himself up from the floor, peeling open some of her drawers in search of one of his shirts. She’d taken his pleading to heart, and now has a steady collection of his clothes starting to grow and multiply in her closet— he’s running out of his own clothes, honestly, but he can’t say no when she smiles at him like she always does before squirreling away a new shirt into her bag when she wants to keep a piece of him with her.

He should probably take some of these shirts home with him, though. If the point was for her to smell like him, well, he should probably make it happen.

He folds his shirt and jeans. Marinette doesn’t have piles of clothes everywhere unlike him, so he makes the executive decision to stack his clothes on her desk chair. By the time he’s going back up the ladder over to her bed, Marinette’s shifted onto her side, facing him— she wakes up the moment he tries to shimmy his way under the covers with her.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Hi.” She has pieces of her hair catching in her eyelashes— he brushes it away, shifting closer to her. Her entire bed smells of faint traces of lavender, what a nice scent. “How are you feeling, Mousey?”

“A lot better,” She’s quick to smile, even as she’s groggy from sleep. Adorable. “Probably because of the amount of pain killers I’m on right now, though.”

He laughs. “Master Fu told me you don’t usually take painkillers. You must just completely relax under it, then, since your body isn’t used to it.”

“I don’t think I tore anything, did I?”

“No, I don’t think so. Your uncle said you’re fine, after all, but you should just stay out of commission for this week until you can put weight on that foot again.”

She looks so disappointed. “Where’s Lolo?”

“Downstairs. She’s probably eating through your entire pantry at the moment.”

“And Sass?”

“Went with her. Mullo took him to give us privacy. Are you okay?”

He should’ve known better than to relax his guard around her. The moment he’s completely at ease in bed, she grabs for him, pulling him so close to her that they’re perfect puzzle pieces. “How is it that I can sling myself across rooftops for years, day and night, but I can’t even walk in a straight line once I’m out of my suit?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mousey. That’s not good for you.”

“I wish I wasn’t such a klutz.”

“You’re not.” He kisses the top of her head as a punctuation of his words. “You just had a bad day, that’s all.”

“One of the worsts in a while,” She nods into his— hers?— shirt. “Luka? Could you make it better for me?”

He laughs. “And you call me the insatiable one, little mouse.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Who was the one that jumped me when I was going to go shower after my pool trip with my friends? One look at me in a towel and suddenly my boyfriend’s hands are all on me— sounds pretty insatiable, if you ask me.”

How can she blame him? She has such soft and delicate skin. Everywhere.

He loves touching and feeling her up whenever she lets him and asks him to. Not to even mention her ass— god— he could write so many songs just about it— he likes biting her everywhere he can, and he’s sure he’d done exactly that while sneaking his way into her shower box. Marinette always takes to bruising really well when it comes to him teething at her, she blossoms into hickies whenever he has his mouth on her. Not to even mention just how excited and turned on she was when he’d finally fingered her to completion.

“I don’t believe you were complaining, were you? Besides, I was just giving my girlfriend what she likes the most.”

She snorts and giggles. “And what is that?”

“Word is around here that she really likes Viperion. Has lots of fantasies about him— and, hey, I’m a pretty understanding guy. If my girlfriend wants to call out his name instead of mine, I get it.” He loves it when she laughs this hard— it’s always so much better to hear her laugh than it is to hear her stay quiet and in her thoughts. “It’s a good thing he likes helping out, too. The guy’s taken a real liking to my girlfriend, even though I’ve heard that him and Multimouse are a thing.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” She smiles against his mouth. She’s feeling a lot better now, he can tell, because her hands disappear under his— seriously, hers?— shirt, teasing all of the skin available to her. Her fingers are ticklish against his chest and abs— she’s just as handsy as he is, most of the time.

“Insatiable,” He kisses her before pulling down the covers.

Her sleepshirt is soft and stretchy in his hands, and it’s easy to pull it up enough so he can kiss her stomach and hip at the waistband of her panties. He’s careful with her leg, of course— he doesn’t want to move it, just to make sure the wraps on her ankle don’t come undone by accident. He helps her out of her underwear slowly and gently, pulling the cute panties off so he can get her completely bare.

Such cute underwear. But then again, he’s always a little biased to anything green or blue— and the mint green color is adorable on her pale skin. The cut is cute, too— he doesn’t know enough about women’s underwear styles, but these are a lot cuter on her than he’d imagined. They rest just at her hip, with a pretty little scalloped edge that is just a smidge too Marinette for him to reasonably handle.

But he likes her better naked, of course.

“You’re already this wet?”

“Don’t tease, Luka.” Her hands disappear under her shirt. He doesn’t get to exactly see what she does underneath with her fingers, but it doesn’t take much brainpower to recognize the arching of her back like she always gets whenever he’s pinching at her nipples.

He follows the line she’s made with her body with an appreciating gaze, kissing up and down her thigh so slowly that she makes a frustrated noise. “Awh, don’t be like that, Mousey. Tell me why you’ve soaked through your underwear, I’m curious.”

She groans. “I thought of you the entire time I was in that stupid subway.”

Oh, did she? “No wonder you’ve been so tense today.”

She makes eye contact with him after a little flinch and a little exhale— she must’ve pinched herself just enough to make it count. “I was thinking about what you did to me in the shower. You’re such a glutton, Vai.”

He grins at her. Oh, he loves it when she calls him that. “I’m not so sure about that.”

And gives her what she needs.

He takes his time licking between her legs, even though she’s wet enough that it wouldn’t take much effort at all to slip his fingers into her. He likes this part, personally, even to the point where he shifts his hips down into the mattress to alleviate some of the pressure building at the base of his spine, starting to get desperate himself. It’s always so satisfying to go down on her— the noises she makes are always so attractive, and he loves making her come without much regard to himself. Marinette isn’t loud when she vocalizes her likes and dislikes, but not because she doesn’t want to be— she always hides her mouth behind her hands— and it always feels like a contest.

Today is no exception.

Her ribs heave under her shirt as he licks and licks, swirling his tongue at the place she loves the most. Her sighs are soft and sweet, even as he pulls her good leg up and over his shoulder, burying his face into her cunt as she makes a noise halfway between an exhale and a laugh.

“Who’s the glutton now?”

He makes a humming noise, not exactly interested in answering her question— he’s more in favor of showing. He’s glad to help, after all— pulling noise after noise from her when he licks his way into her, digging his tongue in as far as he can possibly reach. Her hips lift, using his shoulder as an anchor, and she moans— but still, again, it’s so soft and nearly quiet like she doesn’t want anyone to know what they’re up to. Always so considerate of others.

Cute.

By the time he’s got two fingers dipping into her, she’s wound up tight already. He can tell by the way she twitches, how she bites the fleshy part of her thumb— and how she bites harder when he uses his free hand to cup her ass and give her a squeeze. Soft. Soft soft soft.

God, so deliciously soft.

“Luka,” She whispers, trying her absolute hardest to stay quiet as he curls his fingers into her. Her free hand makes it to his hair, brushing it back so sweetly— she’s more cuddly this way, than an actual sexual deviant, like she’s desperate for reassurance. “Please please please?”

He loves it when she starts to beg for more and asks for more physical touch whenever he makes a home between her legs.

“Easy, Mousinette. Take a breath,” He kisses her thighs, liking the way how her thighs get sticky and messy with it. She sucks in a breath at his suggestion, looking at him with her hazy, pretty eyes. “You’re almost there, aren’t you?”

“Yes—” She cuts herself off with a particular sigh that makes him piston his fingers more into her. She reaches down with the hand that was in his hair, gesturing for his hand underneath her to join her. “Could you— oh— please—”

“There you go. That’s it. Come whenever you want, baby girl.” He intertwines his fingers and clasps hands with hers, giving her one last swirl and flattening of his tongue, before he feels her start to come on his fingers.

“Luka—” He doesn’t let up once he recognizes the exhale, or the squirming— especially not when he feels the attractive fluttering of her walls. She squeezes and squeezes, milking his fingers desperately.

He can deal with his erection later. For now, he slowly eases his fingers out of her, and kisses her thigh again when she complains about the loss of his hand between her legs. “How are you feeling, Mousey? Better?”

“Always am when I’m with you. Sex or no sex.” And— oh— if he wasn’t so desperately hard in his boxers, he’d fall in love with her on the spot all over again. She’s always so honest with him— it’s always such a shock, even when he knows that’s just how her personality is. He watches her eyelids struggle to keep open, even as she raises her hands up in an attempt to coerce him to bed— barely clothed, with a sleep shirt that covers nothing except her chest and her shoulders at this point. “Come cuddle? ‘M tired. I want my boyfriend.”

“Probably not a good idea. I’m going to end up dry humping you— I’m so fucking horny.”

“Vai…” It’s so heartbreakingly cute that she tries to be stern even while falling asleep. “Cursing.”

“Sorry,” He laughs, gesturing to himself even though she’s not really looking at him. “I’ll be right back. I should probably go take care of my di— uhm, I mean, this— in your bathroom, and wash my hands too.”

Her face unpinches. “But what about cuddling?”

“I will after I clean you up,” He kisses the lines of her abs— pulling her shirt down enough to get comfortable. “If you fall asleep can I still towel you off? You know I don’t like it when you’re left messy.”

“Always take good care of me.” She mumbles, completely oblivious to the way he hides his steaming face behind his hands. She nods a confirmation, patting the spot next to her. “And then after cleaning come cuddle. Please.”

By the time he’s made himself orgasm while thinking of her, and washed his hands clean of her, and made sure that she’s no longer sticky between the legs— Marinette is still bravely putting up a fight with sleep. He helps her put on some new underwear, making sure that she doesn’t move her ankle as much when he does it— but he’s completely caught by surprise when she pulls him in for a hug— and, honestly— he should know better by now.

He loves it, though.

So much.

AO3 | Start Here To Read The Whole 'Out of The Closet' Series! | Previous Fic in Series | Next Fic in Series

[shiftytracts]

Stop Wanting More, part 1 of 2 (T/M/A fic)

In which season-four Jon tries to quiet his hunger for live statements by gorging himself on paper ones, and Daisy tells him what she used to do when she got shaky between hunts. Part two here.

…For almost ten thousand words (~5.1k in this half, ~4.3 in the other), beeeecause of course I did.

Content warnings:

Disordered eating (mainly of the statement variety, but mentions also the literal kind)

Nausea, and brief descriptions of prior vomiting

Brief but not-ungraphic description of Jon’s (canon) Boneturning incident—so, injury, very mild body horror

Vague discussion of Daisy’s passive suicidality (in part two)

Animal cruelty and death: Daisy talks about hunting rats for sport (in part two)

—

Jon paused the tape recorder, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. A statement’s second-to-last page was the hardest to get down. The dull ache that had begun under his ribs twenty minutes before now stretched down far enough to converge with the one in his stiff hips. His pulse throbbed in his stomach; he could feel it swell and recede beneath his hand with every beat. Nausea boomeranged up from somewhere under his navel. He reminded himself he could stop for now, finish this later—and, as always, that thought made him feel even colder than the sludge of other people’s fear pooling in his stomach. With his free hand Jon pressed Record again, and turned to 0101702’s final page. Oh, god, there was barely anything on it. Just the rest of this paragraph and then one more. He kept his eyes on the page, didn’t stop speaking its words, but fumbled blindly for another statement with his fingers.

“Knock knock,” Daisy said as she entered. “Christ—you’re still recording?”

In a flash Jon folded his hands on the table, sat up a little straighter, tried to suck in his gut. “Er—”

“Thought you said you were gonna do one more.”

“I’m almost done.”

“You’ve got another one right there.”

“I…” he considered I’m sorry, but then she’d say For what. “I don’t know what to tell you. It is my office.”

“Yeah, and your home,” Daisy scoffed—“and mine. Sort of.”

“D—did you want…? You’re welcome, to. Sit down, or….”

She did, on the arm of his couch. “I know, Jon. That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay.” To show he’d meant his welcome, Jon pushed his chair back from his desk and turned in it to face Daisy. Hopefully she’d remember he couldn’t ask What did you mean.

“I mean, don’t pretend this is work. How many statements have you had today? You don’t think that one can wait til tomorrow?”

Seven? Or would this one be eight. Jon forced himself to exhale out the portion of gut he’d been holding back since she arrived; it hurt too much to keep sucking in anyway. “A lot. I’m just.”

“Hungry, yeah.”

“Even when I’m stuffed I’m hungry.” He snarled a laugh, and set a rueful hand over his stomach like a fig leaf.

At first he’d tried sating the hunger with garden-variety food. That didn’t help much. Way back when he’d first transferred to the Archives Jon had fallen back into the old habit of forgetting to eat—which, yeah, not great, but, it did mean he remembered well how amazing it used to feel to cram down even a stale biscuit after too many hours’ inanition. All the hidden notes he’d found in yogurt and dry toast. He even remembered tearing up once at the taste of a banana, early in 2016. Before that he’d been sure he didn’t like bananas; afterward, for a short while he’d eaten one nearly every day, hoping vainly to recapture the ecstasy of banana after 14-hour fast. No luck, of course. After a few weeks he’d concluded he still didn’t much like banana as final course of healthy lunch. He’d especially disliked peeling them: how sometimes the stems bent without breaking, and the more times you tried the warmer, softer, more flexible they got. How little strings of peel still clung to the banana after you peeled off its main body, like static when you pull off a jumper. Or like the lint it leaves behind on your shirt. And the way bananas bruise, like people do. All these vestiges of its previous life—reminders it had lived to feed itself rather than him.

Since the coma, all people food—er. That was, all food intended for human consumption—tasted like that chase after a faded spark. Cloying and mushy and… organic, reminding him too much of the garden it came from. And the way it landed in his stomach was far worse. The original banana, the one Martin had pressed on him in the Archives in April 2016, had gone down like nectar, ambrosia, manna from heaven, &c.; the ones afterward, like an unwanted dessert always does. (Cloying. Mushy. A biology lesson mildly tapping its watch.) These days, though, eating regular dinner on a stomach empty of other people’s trauma felt like trying to fill up on cake. Not like cake after fourteen hours of nothing; Jon was pretty sure his 2016 stomach would have welcomed that. But like cake at dinner time. When you’re expecting, you know. Dinner. It gave him the brief, fake-seeming energy of a sugar high, and made him sick before it made him full.

Especially when he was otherwise ailing, for some reason? After Hopworth he’d treated himself to a lie down and a sandwich. The rest had helped, but he’d squandered most of the energy it gave him on the effort to keep the sandwich down. At that moment nothing, not even the coffin, had scared him so much as the thought of what it would feel like to throw up when you had only ten ribs on one side. He hadn’t expected losing them to hurt, at least not for long—had expected the rib to flow out of his skin into Jared Hopworth’s hand like an ice cube through water, which in retrospect was stupid given the testimony of Mr. Pryor in statement 0081103, but he hadn’t had time to reread that one beforehand and at the time Jon remembered only that Hopworth didn’t break his victims’ skin when he pulled out their bones. Turned out that wasn’t much comfort: he’d still had to break the ligaments attaching Jon’s ribs to his spine and chest. It had felt like a bad dislocation (four of them, technically), only instead of the feeling of bone pressing on things it shouldn’t there was an equally violating sense of tissue wallowing in holes that shouldn’t be there. He’d had this horror that if he were sick the flesh would crumple and pop where his ribs used to be, like when you try to suck the remaining water out of a near-empty bottle.

A few months after that he’d caught cold. (A point in the still-human column, Daisy had called it.) You know the first day or two of a cold, before the encroaching mucus takes out your ability to smell or taste properly, how innocuous olfactory phenomena like cheddar and laundry soap suddenly become Bad Smells, on par with the olive bar at a posh supermarket? Well, in a similar way, this one seemed to sharpen the dichotomy in his body’s opinions of people food and monster food. His lack-of-ribs had mostly healed by then though, so either vomiting with only ten ribs on one side did not cause the anomaly he’d feared, or, if it did, it hadn’t hurt enough for him to notice it in the cacophony (pucophony?) of other sensations.

(Daisy liked to play on words, so he’d been doing it more lately. This project the Eye seemed happy to help with, though in this case the suggestion arrived in his mind at the exact same moment as a reminder that, technically, the word cacophony can apply to sensations other than sound only by synecdoche.)

And then, a few weeks ago, when the whole Archives went down with norovirus… well, it wasn’t a fun time. He’d at first mistook the lethargy, weakness, trouble concentrating for signs of hunger—the new kind of hunger. Ms. Mullen-Jones’ statement about the Divine Chains cult hadn’t seemed all that bad, when he’d first recorded it. Scarier than if he’d read its events in a novel, of course; that was just how statements worked. He experienced them more vividly than stories, though less so than the events of his own life. (Because the people they happened to thought they were real! he’d told himself when he first took this job. It’s empathy, that’s all. Nope, sorry—evil magic.) When he read a paper statement these days, though, the knowledge it wouldn’t give him nightmares never quite left him. And he’d thought he was growing desensitized to the kinds of horror most people came to the Institute to report. Coming back up, though—maybe it was the fever, but god, the visions he got on that statement’s way out, of Agape and the soft, sticky hivecorpse of Claude Vilakazi’s followers—the way it made the donut he’d shoved down that morning (in a show of team spirit, god help him) come back up tasting like rotten rice wine—it was worse than the dreams. Worse, he could have sworn, than even the first time he ever dreamt Naomi Herne’s empty graveyard.

While hanging over the bowl of the Archives’ toilet waiting to see if he’d got it all up or if there was still more to come, Jon remembered thinking again of the banana Martin had given him. A few days earlier Daisy had made him watch the video of the I don’t understand this meme and at this point I’m too afraid to ask man vore-ing a banana; Jon had confessed to her, in a conspiratorial whisper-laugh, that for him vore itself had been one such meme until that very second, when the Eye had seen fit to inform him. But when applied to a banana, the term apparently just meant eating it peel and all. In 2016 Martin had broken the banana’s stem and pulled back a section of peel before handing it to Jon, so as to brook no argument. Was it really the banana itself he’d cried over? Not the gesture of friendship, when Jon deserved it so little? The thought of someone caring for him enough that when he got hangry at them they handed him a snack. Martin had been living in the Archives then, like Jon did now. Sleeping in Document Storage—a guest in a room owned by pieces of paper. Those bananas may have been the only thing that felt like his.

A Guest for Mr. Spider was about vore, technically. Not an uncommon topic in children’s literature. Some surmised that was where the fetish came from, though others maintained kinks like that were inborn, and the stories merely alerted their hosts to them for the first time. Red riding hood, three little pigs, little old lady who swallowed a fly. The Leitner touch was only the part where he drew you to his real-life lair and real-life ate you.

Looking back, that was probably the first thing he’d ever admired about Martin—how easy he’d made it look to skin a fruit. Not at the time admired, of course, but in those weeks afterward, when every banana Jon ate made him claw at the peel til his finger joints throbbed.

That stomach bug had struck the Archives with serendipitous timing, though. If he’d not found out how thin abstinence from the Hunt had made Daisy on the same day he’d barfed up a statement, Jon might not have pieced together what their combined evidence meant. Until then he’d put down his own post-coma weight loss to the fact he rarely ate more people food than a donut in twenty-four hours. Lots of avatars were scrawny, after all. Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Justin Gough, Annabelle Cane, John Amherst, Simon Fairchild. Jude Perry and Jared Hopworth could mold their respective fleshes however they wanted, so he didn’t count them as exceptions. True, Trevor Herbert’s bulk had struck him as odd; surely a homeless man wouldn’t waste cash on food his body no longer wanted. And what about Breekon and Hope? Did butterflies and a quartermaster’s pen and tongue sustain them? But maybe, Jon had told himself, it was like with alcohol. Maybe the avatars with more flesh on their bones had worked to develop a tolerance for (air quotes, heavy sarcasm) people food, for the sake of their physiques, or. So they could, he didn't know, eat socially? Without feeling sick, like Jon did whenever one of the others brought donuts.

Preposterously stupid, this theory seemed in retrospect. The truth was much simpler. It was like Jude Perry’d told him. She was strong and he was weak, because she fed her god with her actions, while Jon’s had had to resort to eating his flesh.

He wasn’t going back to live statements! That wasn’t an option; he knew that. He couldn’t feed his god with his actions. But he could have more paper ones. Maybe they were like the candles poor Eugene Vanderstock used to bring Agnes—the ones she’d sat over for hours. Hours and hours, inhaling the suffering that made them. They’d kept her strong enough, right? At least in body. All those people in charge of her care, all so much in her thrall—if she’d looked hungry one of them would’ve mentioned it in a statement.

During Jon’s school days, back when he was still trying to learn how to be a girl, this brief window had opened up right around age thirteen where the girls around him had enough self-consciousness to start developing eating disorders? But not enough to keep them secret. Thirteen had been this phase of, like, I’m a teenager now, see? I’ve got the teen angst now—SEE?! Where after they’d finished the day’s maths assignment, or while setting up microscope slides, one could overhear girls swapping self-harm anecdotes and tips for how best not to eat. Anne, whom he’d been almost friends with, went through two packs of chewing gum a day for a while. She would shove three or four sticks at a time in her mouth, then spit them back out into their wrappers as soon as they lost their flavor. Eventually they made her sick, and she switched to chain-sucking butterscotch discs. (Most artificial sweeteners, as the Eye now informed him, had mild laxative properties—including those used in gum.) Other acquaintances had brought comically large thermoses of coffee to school every day, and scurried to the toilet between classes. But it was another polyurious crowd that Jon kept thinking of, these days—the kids who would chug water every time they felt hungry. Trying to fill up on paper statements felt just like that.

He’d never understood that urge until now. Hunger was already a bad sensation; why would it help to add the further bad sensations of nausea and stomachache and cold? But now it made sense: feeling better was not the point. The point was to stop wanting more. He couldn’t get rid of the hunger, exactly—not in a way that mattered. Not the shards of glass in his belly, not the itch in his esophagus like a finger tapping behind his gag reflex, not the way simple motions like soaping his hands made his whole body ache. Not the sharpening of his senses to such a fine point that he jumped whenever Thérèse in the office above him shut her desk’s sticky drawer. (He hadn’t known that was what made the squeaky noise until a few weeks ago when the Eye decided he might like some office gossip. Even now he didn’t know which of the faces he sometimes passed up there belonged to Thérèse. She had no statements to make.) Nor the fog in his mind, though he tried sometimes to blame that on the Lonely. He couldn’t sate his hunger with paper statements—couldn’t make himself full, in the rosy way we usually connote that word. All warm and carefree and pleasantly sleepy. But he could cram the hole inside him with enough stale horrors that the temptation to chase down a fresh one momentarily left him.

And that was the new plan—to stuff himself with paper statements.

Tomorrow would mark two weeks since the day he’d first tried it. Brian from Artefact Storage had a statement to give him, Jon could feel—either Stranger or Spiral, it was hard to tell quite which. Something that caused paranoia. Not a great fit for that department. Good fit for a temple of the Eye, Jon supposed, remembering Tim and Michael Shelley. But Artefact Storage? God help him. He wondered if Elias had done it on purpose, hiring a paranoid man to work in a room full of objects that wanted him hurt. If so it must’ve been this one—this purpose. And on Wednesday mornings Brian manned the place all alone. Poor soul was already clinging to this job by a thread, though (so, Web…? That could cause paranoia too, as Jon well knew). Surely if Jon made him relive his trauma that would break it. Though perhaps that’d be a mercy. And but besides, two weeks ago Melanie had still lived here, and sat all morning between Jon’s office and Artefact Storage. Until she went to lunch. But by that time the woman whose laugh Jon could sometimes hear through the walls (Pooja, the Eye had since told him her name was) would have joined Brian. And it’d just be too weird, too risky, to go in and ask him about it with a third person in the room. Even if it wasn’t also evil.

So he’d read 0132210—the statement of Sierra Talbot, regarding a swimming pool whose depth changed every time she entered it—in hopes that’d make him quit thinking about the paranoid man down the hall. It didn’t, not really; paper statements didn’t take up as much of his attention as they used to. But he couldn’t get up and walk to Artefact Storage in the middle of one. When he finished and still couldn’t think of anything but Brian, he dug out another statement (this one from 1938, regarding a bad penny). Just to keep himself chained to his desk til lunch. And then a third (Liza Ho, attack of the killer seagulls). And by the end of that one he felt too heavy and cold inside to want to go anywhere but the couch. It made his stomach swell until it hurt to sit up straight, and the thought of shoving anything more inside made him feel sick—exactly like chugging water every time he felt hungry.

Basira had said maybe the Web just wanted to keep them so afraid of their own impulses they sat and did nothing so they couldn’t be puppeted. Maybe she was right. He’d never felt more like a spider, with his weak, skinny limbs and bloated stomach. Lying on the couch massaging other people’s horrors into more comfortable shapes inside him. Thank god he’d already given up tucking in his shirts, when he came back after the coma. Jon had worn the same trousers for three days in a row, now—shucked them off at the end of the day, hoping if he left them on the floor that’d convince him they were too dirty to wear again, and then slipped them back on over clean boxers in the morning. They were the only trousers he had that stayed up with the button left unfastened.

(Technically, the noun bloat refers to the feeling of weight or tightness in the abdomen. To describe a belly which has expanded beyond its typical size, one should use the word distended. Though these phenomena can occur separately, most people conflate them under the single word bloated. This trivia had seemed worthless when Beholding told him of it. But now he knew better. Every morning he woke up feeling like he’d had his whole torso replaced with the aching void of space, empty but for silver glints of pain that were the stars. And then he’d look down and find his belly still distended.)

Melanie and Basira didn’t know—at least not officially. They both seemed to have noticed how much more often lately they’d walked in on him recording, but Jon was pretty sure they suspected him less of bingeing on statements, more of pretending to record so as to avoid talking to them. He welcomed this misapprehension.

It was also possible they knew but declined to comment, since. Well, it was kind of a pathetic habit? Physically, a bit pathetic. Morally, though, such a big improvement over compelling statements by force that maybe they figured they ought to let him have it. If so he should be grateful, he reminded himself. Their pity, after all, was humiliating only in principle; Daisy’s teasing and concerned questions embarrassed him in practice.

“Enough navelgazing,” Daisy scoffed, but when Jon looked over at her he could see a smile creeping its way onto her face. “Look—finish the one you’re on, then come over here and I’ll. Tell you a story.”

“I—what?”

“Don’t know if it’ll count as a ‘statement,’” she said, with air quotes; “not much fear in it, more just.” She looked at the floor, then shrugged. “But it seems worth a try, yeah? Might make you feel better.”

“I-I, er. I really shouldn’t?” He meant in case it had a taste of human blood effect, but set his hand on his stomach again in hopes she’d think he meant he was too full.

“Yeah, you should. I want you to hear it.” Daisy shrugged again. “Think it might do you good to know.”

Jon turned back to his desk, unpaused the recording and wrapped up the statement. He’d quit bothering to record end notes on most of these—told himself he could add them in later, like he used to when he’d first taken this job. How proud 2016 Jon would have been to see how many statements the 2018 Archivist got through in a week.

He paused for a moment before standing up, to take as deep a breath as he could manage when stuffed full of paper. The end of that statement had gone down easier, since he’d had that few minutes’ break talking to Daisy, but he still didn’t love the idea of standing and walking. Especially since he knew once he got to the couch he’d be glued there by fatigue. If he didn’t pee now, he’d spend most of the night far enough into sleep to be paralyzed, but not far enough to numb his bladder. He excused himself to Daisy, promising to come right back. Then hauled himself up, with help from his cane and one arm of his chair.

Six limbs it took to maneuver this body now. Two more and he’d’ve gone full spider.

Three quarters of the way to the bathroom—that’s how long it took before the ache in his legs outpaced that in his stomach. He arrived on the toilet seat shaky and out of breath, as always. Months ago he’d given up standing to pee. When you sat you could rock back and forth, and cross your arms tight over waves of quease.

Not much came out, as was also usual lately. As far as Jon could tell, his body now required only enough water to keep his mouth from drying out while recording. Dehydration no longer made his head hurt, so, why bother. Good thing, too, he supposed—the last two weeks he hadn’t needed much non-metaphorical water inside for his body to parse that as needing to pee.

He let his trousers stay pooled around his ankles until after he’d washed and dried his hands. Then pulled up his shirt, to judge from his reflection whether they’d stay up with the fly undone. If he kept his hands in his pockets, yeah. Could you tell the difference, visually, once he put his shirt tails back down? Not for such a short distance. They wouldn’t have time to get disarranged.

It didn’t matter; Basira didn’t even glance at him on his way back, and all Institute staff who didn’t live here had gone home.

Jon opened the door to his office, said hello to Daisy but didn’t manage to look at her, and sat himself down on the other side of the couch. From the corner of his eye (or someone’s anyway) he saw her rise to her feet. “I’m gonna pee too,” she told him, picking her way toward the door; “get yourself comfortable, like you’re going to bed.”

“Where will you sit.”

“I’ll squeeze in.”

“I don’t mind leaving room for—?” Finally he made himself look up at her, in time to see her shake her head. Daisy hadn’t been strong on her feet either, since the Buried; she held herself up now with a hand on the doorjamb, elbow bent so her shoulder leant against that wrist. He regretted quibbling. “Never mind; I’ll just.”

“Really? You’re comfortable like that? You look like a sheep in clover.”

The knowledge came to him before he could ask her what that meant—complete with a nasty visual of what happens in cases acute enough to require rumenotomy. Jon swore he could feel himself swelling to accommodate this tidbit. His eye twitched in discomfort.

“Think I prefer ‘windbag,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

She made a face like that was grosser than what she had said. “You ruined my joke. I was gonna say I won’t let you have any more leaves til you look less like you might explode.”

“Sheep in clover suffocate,” Jon frowned; “they don’t explode. You must be thinking of how they cure them when—”

“Leaves. In. A. Book, Jon. That joke.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” He made himself chuckle.

Daisy sighed and shifted on her feet. “I’ll be right back. Just lie down, alright? Like you’re going to bed.”

Jon agreed to lie down, but couldn’t decide whether to face the wall (as he would to sleep), leaving her to slide in between him and the back of the couch the way she had a few times before when she’d walked in on him catnapping, or whether he should lie on his back, where he could see her as soon as she opened the door. It was important to make sure she knew he appreciated her offer to give him a statement. Or, no—to tell him her story, he meant.

Ultimately he picked the latter course.

“You sleep like that?”

“Sometimes."

“I’ve never seen you sleep like that. You always face the wall.” Daisy crossed her arms, blew hair out of her face. “That for the tummy ache, or for me?”

“Uh….”

“Would it hurt you to face the wall.”

“No, I just.”

“Turn around, then. I’ll squeeze in,” she said again.

“I-if you’re sure.”

He rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth as the cramps in his stomach swirled in new directions. What made it slosh like that, he wondered. While he fought to regain his breath Jon watched Daisy climb up onto the back of the couch on shaking elbows and knees, then avalanche down hands- and feet-first so she fit between him and its cushions. He’d never watched her do this before—always either startled out of a doze at the sound of her thumping down next to him, or simply woken up to find her there.

“You’re just like the Admiral,” he informed her.

“True words spoken in jest,” muttered Daisy. Too quietly for him to hear what she said over the couch’s tortured creaks, but half a second after she finished speaking the words appeared before his mind, in white, all-capital letters with a black background like closed captions on the news. “That’s Georgie’s cat, right?” she said aloud.

“Yes.”

Her knee jostled the cap of his; when it made him gasp she snarled under her breath. “Sorry. Can you move your leg?”

“Yes, it’s fine, just—”

“I mean would you move your leg.”

“Oh.” He did so.

“Thanks. Ugh—you’re cold,” Daisy accused him; “where’s that blanket.” He pointed behind her to the arm of the couch where it lay folded. She shook it out, and draped it over both of them. Reached around behind him to make sure it covered his whole back. Jon tried to ignore the way his stomach lurched every time Daisy’s weight shifted against the cushions. Finally she settled next to him to catch her breath. Their foreheads touched; her stomach pressed into his, though not as tightly as the last time they’d lain like this. “Can you breathe or am I crushing you?”

“Not at all, you’re fine—in fact, if the couch cushions are chafing you too much you can—”

Daisy huffed, and scooted herself in closer to him. “That better?” She set her warm hand down right where his belly diverged from pelvis. Jon tried to keep both voice and tremor out of his exhale. Since the coffin, Daisy’s hands and feet suffered at night and after any exertion from the same excess of heat his sometimes did. So the cold inside him probably felt nice on her hand, if not to the rest of her.

(Like snuggling up to a hotel mattress, she’d described it, after the first time she joined him for a nap when he’d just had a statement. Cold, hard, covered in lumps and dents, and creaks when you roll over on it. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” he’d replied, while praying her elbow wouldn’t come any closer to the crevasse where his ribs used to be.)

“Christ you’re stuffed,” commented Daisy. For emphasis she lifted her fingers, then set them back down on his gut.

“I don’t know what you expected.”

“You won’t pop if I tell you a story?”

“Not literally,” Jon said, blinking.

“Of course not literally,” she scoffed; “you know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Will it make you sick. Don’t want you throwing up on me; this is Melanie’s shirt. If you ruin it she’ll hit us with her cane, and I don’t trust you to hit as hard back with yours.”

“Mine’s shorter and thicker,” he mused. “I don’t have to hit as hard.”

“Stop. Avoiding. The question.”

Jon sighed to show her he capitulated. Then thought about it. He felt cold and sick, but the idea of saying no to a statement made those feelings worse, not better. And the sharp clusters of pain in his belly were harder to sleep through than quease.

“I’ll be fine,” he decided. “It’ll help.”

“Alright. When you’re ready, ask me what I used to do when I got shaky between hunts.”

--

Read part two here.

[the-regal-warrior]

Cadre Weaponry: The Fluff

Guess who’s back with more Cadre Weaponry content?? Surprise, it’s me! Okay, it’s time for some good old-fashioned fluff for all of our babies.

Summary: Welcome to Cadre Weaponry - the shop for all your weapons needs, both antique and modern! Join the boys of the Cadre as they become friends and tackle this thing we call life. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll even find love along the way.

We all know that our boys are crazy about their girls. Now let’s take a closer look at how they show how much they love their girls!

Warnings: Maybe some language, but I don’t even think you have to worry about that.

.

TWO MONTHS LATER

“Hey, Luca!” Gavriel greeted as he walked into the lobby of Main Street Automotive. “How’s school?”

He was a sophomore in college, but whenever he wasn’t in class he worked the desk of the garage. His father, Malakai, owned the shop, and Gavriel knew that Luca was taking business classes so he could eventually take over.

“It’s going,” Luca replied, grimacing at the snort that slipped through Gavriel’s lips. “I like it and all, but Business 220 is kicking my ass.”

“Darrow still teaching that?” Gavriel asked, remembering how much of a hardass the man had been when he’d taken the class. When Luca nodded, he gave him a sympathetic grin. “I know he’s tough, but just keep pushing. Do well in his class and he’ll be the best reference you could ever ask for.”

Luca just sighed, though he did mutter a quick “thank you” before a sly grin lit up his features. “I know you’re not here just to ask me about school,” he joked. “Could you possibly be here to see your wife?”

Gavriel felt a giant smile spread over his face, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He and Lin had been married for almost a month, and every day still felt like a dream. “Of course I’m here to see my amazing wife.”

Luca just laughed at him and pointed toward the office/breakroom. “She’s back there somewhere. Just go on back.”

He waved and ducked around the counter, walking through the door just as Malakai came in from the garage. “Gavriel,” he nodded. “She’ll be right in - she was just under the hood of a ‘67 Impala.

Gavriel nodded at him, and opened his mouth to reply just as Lin walked through the door, a towel in her hands to dry them off. His voice died in his throat, and he heard Malakai chuckle at the awestruck look he felt slide across his face. Her dark hair was pulled up in a messy bun, pieces of her hair framing her face where they’d come free, and there was a black smudge across one cheek - probably from when she’d tried to brush a chunk of escaped hair off her face. She’d unzipped her overalls and left them hang around her waist, and the white tank top she had on underneath clung to her with sweat.

He decided he’d never seen anyone more beautiful.

Tossing the towel toward the laundry bin, she caught sight of him standing there. “Gav,” she smiled, eyes bright as she made her way across the room. She wrapped her arms around his waist and grinned at him. “What brings you here, husband?”

“You, my beautiful, forgetful wife.” When she gave him a confused look, he held up the water bottle in his hand, at least half a lemon sliced and floating inside it. Lin only liked lemon-water (she absolutely hated regular water), and he knew she’d be upset when he saw it sitting on the kitchen counter after she’d left that morning. “I thought you might want this.”

“Aww, thanks, baby,” she cooed, leaning up to give him a gentle kiss as she took the bottle from him. “You came all the way here just to bring me my water?”

“Lin, you work two blocks away from me,” he chuckled. “It’s not exactly far.”

“Still, your effort deserves a reward.” She winked at him, a happy laugh bubbling from her throat.

Gavriel pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Getting to see my gorgeous wife isn’t reward enough?”

Lin shook her head, though she did lean into him. “No, because not only did you bring my water, but I also got to see my wonderful husband. So, you get another reward.” She gave him a look that stopped his heart in his chest, and then she was kissing him like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks.

He cupped the back of her neck with one hand, bracing the other on her waist to keep her steady as she rocked up on her toes to kiss him harder. He tilted her head, allowing him to take control of the kiss, and he’d just swept his tongue into her mouth when someone cleared their throat behind them. 

Breaking apart, Gavriel turned his head in time to see Luca leading Emrys, his other father and Malakai’s husband, into the room, bags of food in both of their arms. Emrys owned the Mistward Diner, which was right next to the garage. He’d been the one to clear his throat, though it was Luca who yelled “get a room” as he set his bags on the table. 

“Breakfast is served!” Emrys announced, pulling every breakfast food imaginable from the bags. Malakai greeted him with a kiss and a smile before heading out to collect the rest of his employees from the garage, and Emrys turned his eyes on Gavriel. “You might as well join us, lad - you’re already here.”

“Yeah, just quit making out with Lin where we can see it!” Though Luca sounded disgusted, Gavriel knew he was happy for them.

Emrys smacked his son on the back of his head, making him wince theatrically.

Chuckling at their antics, Lin took his hand and led him to the table. They sat down just as everyone came in, smiles on their faces at the sight of the food Emrys brought for them every morning.

Lin reached for the plate of bacon, but she paused when Gavriel placed a hand on her shoulder, turning to give him an inquiring look. Dipping his napkin in the cup of water someone had placed in front of him, he used it to gently wipe the grease from her cheek.

She leaned into his touch, whispering “I love you” before pressing her lips to his palm.

“As I love you,” he murmured back, kissing her temple before turning back to the table, grinning at the soft looks everyone was giving them. 

TWO MONTHS AND FIVE DAYS LATER

Lorcan breathed deeply as he walked through the door, the scent of books filling him with a sense of peace. He’d always loved to read, had always been calmed by just being around books, and he loved them even more now that he was married to the owner of a bookstore. Lady of Perranth Book Emporium was Elide’s pride and joy, and he loved everything about it. She’d used part of her inheritance from her parents to pay for college - she had degrees in business and marketing - and to buy and start her own business. And business was booming - she sold new and used books, which people loved. 

Looking toward the till, Lorcan waved when he saw Ghislaine standing behind the counter. Another member of the Thirteen, she and Elide had become close when Elide moved in with Manon on her eighteenth birthday to get away from her uncle. She had always loved to read, and he knew she’d been thrilled when Elide had offered her a job.

“Hey, G,” he greeted, nodding at the book in her hands. “Jeffrey Deaver?”

“Lorcan, hey,” she replied. “Yeah, I thought it was time for a Bone Collector reread.”

“Always a solid choice. Any idea where Elide might be?”

Ghislaine chuckled. “Well, last I talked to her, she was checking inventory upstairs, so I’d start there.” Elide tended to multitask, which meant that she was all over the store all day long.

He just laughed as he made for the stairs. “Thanks,” he replied, her response echoing behind him as he climbed toward the second floor.

Catching sight of her as soon as he turned to face the room, he couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his face. Her dark hair was secured in a messy bun on the top of her head, most likely to keep it from falling into her face while she organized the books. She was halfway up a ladder, a box resting on the top of it as she made space on the shelves. 

Setting the bag he was carrying on the floor, Lorcan wrapped his arms around her thighs from behind. “Hey, beautiful,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the strip of bare skin on her waist where her shirt had ridden up.

Though she’d tensed at his initial touch, Elide relaxed into his arms at the sound of his voice. “Hello, handsome,” she replied, turning to face him. She started to say something else, but it turned into a squeal when he lifted her off the ladder, sliding her down his body until her feet were on the ground.

“Hi,” he said again, lips brushing her forehead before he pressed them to her lips. Lorcan often thought that kissing Elide was his favorite thing.

When he finally pulled away, her cheeks were flushed. “Wow,” she breathed, shooting him a smirk. “What brings you here in the middle of the work day?”

He motioned to the bag on the floor. “Well, it’s my lunch break and I was hoping to have lunch with my lovely wife.”

Her eyes lit up, and he felt his own smile growing. They’d been married for three months, and Lorcan was convinced he fell more in love with her every day. 

“Aren’t you the most thoughtful husband?” she replied, fingers dancing over his jaw. “If you brought what I think you did,” she continued, “then I will most definitely have lunch with you.”

“Sandwiches from Cafe Terrasen - made by Aelin herself because Lysandra was supervising every move and I harassed her into doing it - and your favorite desserts, too.” Lorcan laughed as she practically started drooling at his words. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders after grabbing the bag, he began leading her toward her office. 

Tangling her fingers with his, Elide leaned up to kiss his cheek as they walked. “G!” she called as they walked down the stairs. “I’m taking lunch with my wonderful husband.”

Ghislaine just nodded from her spot behind the counter, more than used to their antics.

Ducking out from under his arm at the bottom of the steps, Elide grabbed his hand again and started pulling him along, a happy smile on her face.

Lorcan knew he was grinning like a fool, but he didn’t care. His heart belonged completely to this woman - his amazing wife - and he wanted to show her that every single day. As she opened the door to her office, he said, “I’m so in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you,” she responded, kissing him one last time before they sat down to start eating. 

TWO MONTHS AND TEN DAYS LATER

The Keep was busy when Vaughan opened the door, though it seemed that most of the customers were gathered around tables instead of flocking to the bar. The restaurant was full of laughter and chatter, and he smiled at the relaxed atmosphere of the room. This had always been one of his favorite places in town, and not just because of the gorgeous woman tending to the bar.

He grinned as he watched her shake a drink, a wide smile on her face as the couple she was waiting on laughed at whatever she’d said. She caught sight of him as she was pouring the drink into a glass, and the smile on her face got even brighter. She finished what she was doing and made her way toward him, doing a quick sweep of the bar as she did. “Hey, babe,” Sorrel practically squealed as she rounded the bar. “What brings you here?”

“I can’t just want to see my beautiful fiancée?” They’d been engaged for just over two months, and Vaughan woke up in awe of that fact every single day. “But,” he continued as she saw what he was holding, “I will admit it’s not the only reason I stopped by. I know it’s a late night for you and I thought you might like some coffee.”

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest?” she murmured, taking the cup he extended her way. A breathtaking grin lit up her face when she took a sip, and the little moan that escaped her throat made his breath hitch. “And you even remembered how I take it!”

She’d been leaning up to kiss him, her coffee resting safely on the bar behind her, but Vaughan pinched her lips between his thumb and index finger. “Really?” he murmured, voice low as her hands danced across his thighs. “We’ve been together for five and a half years now - did you really think I wouldn’t know your coffee order?”

She nipped at his fingers when he finally pulled them away, and he smirked at the gleam in her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you’re so good to me and I appreciate it.” She kissed him, just the softest brush of her lips on his, and Vaughan cupped her cheeks as he rested his forehead against hers. “Though it does make me curious about something.”

“And what’s that?” he breathed, eyes falling shut as she stroked her fingers over his spine.

“If you’re this good to your fiancée, how will you be with your wife?”

“My wife,” he replied, one hand tangling in her hair as the other slid down her body to rest just above the swell of her ass, “will be spoiled rotten.”

Sorrel didn’t have a chance to respond before he was kissing her, tongue sweeping into her mouth as he backed her against the bar. She fell apart beneath him, a gasp sliding into his mouth as he kissed her harder. Her fingers knotted in the fabric of his shirt when he tilted her head to kiss her with a deeper, claiming sort of fire. He forgot where they were - he forgot everything but the taste and feel of Sorrel as he lost himself in her. 

“Vaughan, if you don’t stop distracting my bartender I’ll have to throw you out.” He was distantly aware of a voice talking to him, but it wasn’t until Sorrel pushed on his chest to break their kiss that he realized it was Edda who had spoken. 

He took in the flush spreading across Sorrel’s cheeks before he lifted his head to smirk at Edda. “I don’t think your bartender would be too happy if you threw her fiancé out.”

“Okay, we get that you two are all ‘in love’ or whatever, but the rest of us don’t need to see it.” that was Briar, walking up to flick the side of his head. The two Blackbeak cousins owned The Keep Pub and Grille, and, despite their threats, he knew they found his relationship with one of their closest friends (and fellow member of The Thirteen) adorable. “So don’t tempt us - one of these days we’ll really do it.”

Giving her a hurt look, he turned pleading eyes on Sorrel. “You wouldn’t let them throw me out, would you, baby?”

She kissed his jaw quickly and walked back behind the bar, coffee in hand, before replying. “I just might - you’re very distracting.”

He winced theatrically and clasped a hand over his heart. “You wound me, baby.”

She just giggled and blew him a kiss before taking a lap to see how her customers were doing. He watched her work with a smile on his face, struck by how incredibly amazing she was and how lucky he was to have her.

Sorrel caught him watching her, and she tilted her head in a silent question at the look he was giving her.

Vaughan just shook his head, mouthing, “I love you.”

She smiled, the happiness in it bringing her eyes to life. “And I love you,” she mouthed, waving and holding up her coffee in a silent thank you as he turned for the door.

TWO MONTHS AND FIFTEEN DAYS LATER

Connall couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face as he walked through the front door and saw the way Petrah narrowed her eyes at him. Petrah Blueblood was the owner of The Wastes: Tattoo and Body Piercing, and she loved to give him a hard time. Even though he was engaged to one of her artists, he’d always gotten his tattoos at Doranelle Ink, which was owned by Rowan’s cousin, Sellene. It was also where Essar worked, and she and Lorcan remained friends despite their past, so all of the guys had been going to both of them for years.

“This shop is for customers of The Wastes only,” Petrah quipped, chucking a balled-up piece of paper at him. “No Doranelle Ink patrons allowed.”

“I guess you’ll have to stop letting Elide get tattooed here then,” he replied, tossing her paper right back at her. “You know Essar did her first two.” Though Vesta did all of Elide’s ink now, Essar had indeed done the first two, since Lorcan had drawn them with Essar’s help.

“That’s different.” That came from Rhiannon Crochan as she walked out of her suite. She was the other artist who worked there, and, as she was Manon’s half-sister, she knew Elide and the Thirteen very well. “We’ve converted her - she’s ours now.”

“Oh, so that’s how that works?” He raised an eyebrow at the two of them. Rhiannon cracked, a chuckle slipping through her lips, but Petrah held firm. 

“That’s exactly how this works.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but Vesta chose that moment to walk into the room.

“Okay, you two,” she started, red hair tumbling around her shoulders as she pulled it free from the bun it had been piled in. “Leave my fiancé alone.”

That was what finally broke Petrah, giggles falling from her lips. Connall laughed with her, grateful that Vesta had such supportive friends - and that they liked him. He had always been worried that he wasn’t enough for her, but he had started to believe he was when he realized her friends approved of him. 

Once he finally stopped laughing, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “Hey, baby,” he murmured into her hair.

“Hi, love,” she replied, her face against his chest. “How come you’re here?”

“Well,” he started, pulling back enough that he could see her face, “I know you have a late appointment tonight, so I stopped at The Keep and grabbed us some dinner.” He lifted his other hand to show her the bag he carried.

Vesta smiled at that, happiness making her eyes light up. “Thanks, my love - that was really sweet.”

“Well, anything for my future wife.” Connall watched a faint blush spread over her cheeks at his words, and he leaned down to give her a soft kiss. “All this time together and the thought of being my wife still makes you blush?”

“It’s because I can’t believe how lucky I am.” She was smiling when he pulled away, twining their fingers and leading him to the small kitchen at the back of the shop. “I really appreciate this, Con. I was just debating if I had enough time to run out and grab something.”

“I’m glad I caught you before you left then.” Connall was pulling food out of the bag as he talked, watching as Vesta grabbed silverware from a drawer. “How much time do you have?”

“She’ll be here in about an hour and a half.”

Connall pulled out a chair for her, making sure she was seated before he joined her. “Seems kind of late for a tattoo appointment.”

“That’s because it is.” Vesta took a bite of the burger he’d brought her before she continued. “But Kaltain is a friend from college, and we’ve been designing her tattoo for months, and we were both too excited to wait.”

He nodded at her words, a small chuckle escaping him. That definitely sounded like her - designing was her favorite part of the whole process and she was always so excited to see the finished tattoo. When she raised an eyebrow at his laughter, he said, “I’m glad you love the design process so much, because I have an idea.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

Connall grinned at the suspicion in her tone as he took her hand in his. “Well, I’ve been thinking that I want another tattoo, and since you are my fiancée and all, I was thinking you could do this one?”

He’d watched her eyes get brighter as he talked, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of tears beginning to pool in them as she realized what he was saying. “Really?” she squealed.

He nodded, and she launched herself into his lap, her face buried in his neck. “Oh, Connall, I’m so excited! And I’m so honored, baby.”

“I’m the one who’s honored, Vesta. You’re so talented. I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, but I wanted to find something perfect for you to design.” She kissed him before the words had finished leaving his lips, and he could feel her joy practically radiating from her.

The kiss was hard, and he was breathing heavily by the time she pulled away, though he noticed that she was, too, as she breathed “I love you so much, Connall Moonbeam” against his lips.

“I love you just as much, Vesta Iarann.”

She pulled back enough to look into his eyes. “Does this mean you have an idea?”

“It does.”

She squealed again, kissing him quickly before climbing off his lap. “Let me get my sketchbook and we can get started!” she called, already out of the room before she’d gotten halfway through her sentence.

Connall felt his smile grow as he realized, once again, just how much he loved her. And how much he couldn’t wait to be married to her in eight months.

She was his whole world, and he couldn’t wait for everyone to know it. 

TWO MONTHS AND TWENTY DAYS LATER

Walking into Blackbeak Gym was a lot like walking into his college gym, though on a much larger scale. The main room, which was situated behind the front desk, was full of rows upon rows of equipment, treadmills lined along one wall and weights along another, with an open space in the back, the floor covered in mats. There was a hallway just to the right of the front desk that led to both locker rooms, and he could just make out the office door in the back corner. The second floor consisted of smaller rooms (equipped for the various classes taught in them) ringed by an indoor track. He knew the door to his right would take him to a huge climbing wall, and the one to his left would lead him to the pool.

It was the door on the left that Fenrys moved toward, waving to Imogen as she stood behind the desk, where she was most likely checking her appointments. As a personal trainer, her days were never the same. She waved back just as he walked through the door, and then his eyes immediately locked on the golden-haired figure moving through the water.

Asterin broke through the surface, hair slicked back and her black one-piece clinging to her in a way he could describe as sinful. She blinked the water from her eyes as she reached for the edge of the pool, droplets clinging to her lashes as she caught sight of him. “Hello, love,” she grinned. “I wasn’t expecting to see you!”

“I just stopped to admire the view,” he quipped, raking his eyes over her as she floated in the water. “Now I finally know why you guys have such a booming business - you look positively sinful, baby.”

Asterin scoffed and splashed water over his legs, though the giggle that escaped her mouth told him she was only playing. “I’ll have you know that people come here because our gym is awesome.” She’d started climbing out of the pool as she spoke, but she stopped at the top of the ladder to give him a look. “Getting to see me like this is an added bonus.”

“It certainly is,” he murmured, handing her the towel she’d pointed to and pressing his lips to her forehead. “It’s a shame none of them can ever have you now - you’re mine for life, lovely wife.”

“And beyond even that,” she whispered before continuing at normal volume, “I guess it’s a good thing I love you so much then, my husband.”

Fenrys chuckled at that, wrapping one arm around her shoulders as she began walking toward her office. They’d been married for a month and a half now, and their honeymoon stage was still going strong. “Well, you’re about to love me even more.”

When she only gave him a confused look, he held up the hand he’d been keeping hidden behind his back, allowing her to see the real reason he’d actually stopped in. “I thought you might want a smoothie after your swim.” She’d come into the gym early sometimes to use the pool before it got too full, and she always said smoothies were her favorite way to start her shift on those days. He knew she usually ran out to grab one, so he figured he’d surprise her.

Asterin beamed and took it from him, all but moaning as she took a sip.

He couldn’t help but laugh at her reaction. “People will really keep coming in if you keep making noises like that.”

“Shut up,” she quipped, leaning up to kiss him quickly before letting both of them into her office. “Thanks for this, baby - it’s exactly what I needed.”

“Glad to be of service, my love.”

She gave him an innocent little smirk, setting her drink on her desk before she pushed him down into the chair behind it. Climbing on his lap, she murmured, “let me thank you properly.”

Fenrys smirked up at her, a low whistle falling from his lips at the sight of her damp hair framing her face. “I don’t know what I did to get so lucky, Rin, but I’m glad I did.” He pressed a soft kiss to her jaw, heart fluttering when he saw tears spring into her eyes at his words.

“Damnit, Fen, stop making me cry when I’m trying to be sexy!”

“Baby, there’s never been a single moment that I didn’t think you were sexy.”

More tears spilled down her cheeks at that, but it didn’t stop her from kissing him once, twice, three times. “I love you so much.”

She kissed him harder then, tongue sliding into his mouth. He was losing himself in everything that was his amazing wife, hands settling on her hips, when someone flicked the side of his head.

“You know,” Manon drawled, one eyebrow arched, “some people are trying to work here.”

“That’s why you have your own office!” Asterin whined, dropped her forehead against his while he laughed at her.

“And how exactly am I meant to go over finances with you if I’m in my office and you’re in yours?” Manon gave her a hard look, though Fenrys could see the teasing glint in her eye.

Asterin sighted through her nose. “Send me an email and schedule an appointment.”

Even Manon laughed at that, their combined chuckles filling the office. Fenrys was still laughing as he stood, Asterin’s legs wrapping around his waist. Sliding his hands under her thighs to support her, he pressed one more kiss to her lips. “As much as I’d love to stay, I do actually have a job to get to.”

Untangling herself from him, Asterin pressed her lips to his chin. “Okay, babe. I love you.”

“And I love you,” he replied, hugging her and nodding at Manon on his way out.

TWO MONTHS AND TWENTY-FIVE DAYS LATER

He walked through the double doors to Cafe Terrasen, a wide smile on his face as the quaint atmosphere of the coffee shop washed over him. Aelin had poured her heart and soul into this place when she’d bought it, and he could see her love for her home and her history reflected in every single part of the building. Despite the fact that she’d never been the best cook - she tried, but something always seemed to go wrong - she managed to own and operate an incredibly successful coffee shop. Although, part of that was probably because Aelin only made the drinks, since she was an excellent barista - Lysandra handled the food. 

Just as the thought crossed his mind, Lysandra came out from the back carrying a tray of muffins, the blueberry scent wafting through the room. She was whistling as she worked, waving to their regular customers as she slid the muffins into the display case. Looking up, she caught his eye and her face broke into a wide smile. “Hey, Rowan!” she greeted, wiping her hands on her apron. 

“Hey, Lys,” he replied, resting his arms on the counter by the till, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder thunking gently against the wood. “Busy morning?”

She shrugged, a wry look on her face. “You know how it is. The early morning rush is a lot, but it’s slowed down now - gives me time to stock the bakery case.”

“And, let me guess,” Rowan interjected, “it gives Aelin a chance to take a chill pill?”

Lysandra only arched an eyebrow. “Have you ever known her to calm down?”

“Not really, no,” he chuckled. “Speaking of my frazzled wife, where is she?”

She waved a hand toward the kitchen. “She’s in the back, arguing with the espresso machine - well, I assume so, anyway. Maybe seeing you will get her to chill out.”

Rapping his knuckles twice on the counter, he nodded his thanks and walked around the counter, grabbing a cup from the shelf and pouring some of Cafe Terrasen’s signature dark roast into it. Stirring two spoonfuls of sugar into it, he snapped the lid into place and walked into the kitchen - and was greeted with the sight of his wife scowling at an espresso machine, just like Lysandra had said.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, kissing her cheek as he walked up behind her. “Get into a fight with another piece of equipment?”

“Ro, hey.” She knocked her temple against his chin gently, her brow still furrowed even as she turned to face him. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Nodding, he handed her the cup of coffee in his hand. “I’m on my way there now, I just wanted to stop in to see you on the way.”

“Aww, that was sweet.” Aelin offered him a small smile, kissing him gently before turning back to her latest project. “And thanks for the coffee, love - you always know exactly what I need.”

He snorted, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. “Well, I’d like to think that after three years of marriage, I know my wife pretty well. Now - why the frustration with the espresso thingy?”

She chuckled at that, which was what he’d been hoping for. “The filter just got clogged and I’m trying to clean it - I’m not even that frustrated with it. Lys just likes to be dramatic.”

“I know, baby.” Rowan kissed the side of her neck, working his lips up to her jaw and over to her lips, pressing soft kisses to her mouth, one after another after another. He didn’t stop kissing her until she was laughing against his lips, her own curled into a smile.

Aelin slipped her hands over his shoulders, pausing when her fingers caught on the strap of the duffel bag he was still carrying. “Why do you have a duffel bag?” she asked, pulling away to stare at him in confusion.

“Oh,” he murmured, almost forgetting the reason he’d decided to stop by the coffee shop on his way to work. “It’s yours, actually.”

“Mine?” Her nose scrunched up as she tried to figure out what he was talking about, and Rowan couldn’t help but laugh at how adorable she was. He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose, squeezing her sides gently when she swatted his chest. 

“Yours,” he confirmed. “You remember our plans for this afternoon?”

She offered him a tentative smile. “Yeah, we’re going to The Gap to go hiking. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, Fireheart, I know I might have distracted you a little this morning when you were trying to get ready.” He broke off as she poked him in the stomach, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she laughed, and he couldn’t help but join in. He’d joined her in the shower that morning, and he’d kept her moans echoing throughout their bathroom long after the water had run cold. “Anyway, I noticed that you forgot your hiking boots when you left. So, I thought I’d drop them off on my way to work today.”

Though she’d looked a little upset about forgetting her boots, her face lit up when she realized he’d brought them to her. “You’re a lifesaver, baby - I can’t believe I forgot them.”

“It’s not a problem, love.” She cupped his cheek, rubbing her thumb over his bottom lip. Kissing the pad of her finger, he added, “I mostly just wanted to stop in and see you, and this way I have an excuse to keep the boys from giving me too much shit.”

Aelin pulled him into a hug, resting her chin against his chest even as she laughed. “They still like to tease you about going soft - just because you were the first one to get married?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, kissing her forehead. “But if having you in my life means I have to go soft and get teased by the guys? I’d do it without a second thought.”

“Oh, love.” She kissed the side of his jaw, nipping him gently with her teeth as she pulled away. “You were always soft with me.” Kissing him with a kind of tenderness that promised so much more, she added, “it’s part of the reason I fell so deeply in love with you.”

“I love you so much, Fireheart.” Rowan kissed her again, this one lingering and and just a little teasing. “To whatever end.”

“To whatever end, Ro.”

.

Okay, that’s that! Stay tuned for more new CW stuff!

Tags: @highqueenofelfhame @city-of-fae @musicmaam @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty @tacmc @tangledraysofsunshine @lordof-bloodshed @how-to-be-a-bad-ass-be-me @nalgenewhore @bookrebelwordwarrior @sleeping-and-books @froggy-waddles @mis-lil-red @keep-a-bucket-full-of-stars @photofeesh @belamoonbeam @velarian-trash

If you want to be added to or removed from my tags, just let me know, and, as always, let me know what you thought! The links to the other parts of this story and all my other stories can be found in my bio.

[twisted-tales-of-all]

Rogue Resurrection

Kwon Jiyong x Reader

Sequel to “Disaster Date” and requested by @40-degrees-farenheit

Summary: You try to get over your boyfriend’s recent death, but his sister delivers a package for you from him, sending you into chaos.

Word Count: ~1.6K

Warnings: coping with death, taboo/dark/black magic; it’s sad if that’s not obvious

A/N: I finished this a week ago (I think?) but my life has been bad so I haven’t been able to type it up and post it until now. The other requests will also probably take forever. Sorry.

On Tuesday, you find yourself back at his resting place. You sit there, staring at his pictures and the urn. You examine all the flowers, the never-ending gifts sent in by fans.

"I'm sorry, Jiyong. This is my fault. I hate that our Tuesdays have turned into this."

After a few hours, you pack up and leave, taking one final look at his immortalized smile. You don't know what to do with yourself. You still haven't returned to work since the incident. As you slowly make your way back to your quiet apartment, your phone rings. You stop and sigh, no longer able to multitask even the simple things like walking and talking on the phone. Checking, you almost break down as you see the caller ID, but compose yourself.

"Hello, Dami. How are you?"

"About as bad as you, I'd assume. We cleaned out some of his things and found something marked to give to you. Should I bring it over?"

"Sure. I'm on my way home now. I should be there before you."

"Oh, it's Tuesday, isn't it? I'm sorry, Y/N, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. It's not your fault. Things will eventually be okay." You say the last sentence through clenched teeth, not believing the statement in the slightest.

Finally making it home, you wait in silence for Dami to arrive with whatever she found. You don't even allow yourself to think about the possibilities, as your thoughts would be too loud for your preference. Once she arrives, you let her in with the cardboard box in her hands. Instructing her to set it down on the table, you question her about the contents.

"I don't know. It's sealed and addressed to you." She points to your name on the package, handwritten in his distinct print. "I know he wrote this, but I don't know what it could be. The date he wrote is next week, so I figured he wanted to give it to you then."

You just stare at the box in silence. Dami excuses herself, claiming to need to get back to her son. You walk her out then resume your gaze on the box. Seeing his handwriting for your name and the date makes you momentarily forget his death. You can't help yourself and open the box. Inside, you find a couple seemingly unrelated items: a pair of shoes, a clothesline, and a ring. Along with the items sits a handwritten note:

I know you'll open this before the date, but make sure to use all these things together on Tuesday, okay? Don't worry about me. I'll be there in time. We'll do your laundry together. I'm sure you haven't since there's too much going on. This will be date night, okay? You better not leave me hanging. (Like my joke~?)

You read and reread the note. You can't process it. Questioning whether or not to follow instructions, you confuse yourself even more.

Did he know? Or was this meant before he died? There's no way he can show up. He couldn't have predicted his death. He would've tried to avoid it if he knew. But why would he prepare this instead of just giving it to me? None of this makes sense.

Throwing the items back into the box, you push the box and your thoughts away, sweeping everything under the bed. You grab a bottle of your favorite alcohol -- you've had plenty in this past week, but you keep your supply up since you don't know how else to clear your mind. Heading to your room, you turn on the TV and take a drink straight from the bottle.

You laugh at yourself, "He'd scold me if he was here." Then, you shake your head to get rid of the thought, taking another drink.

After a while, you unknowingly fall asleep.

The week drags on again. Finally reaching Monday night, you find yourself sitting in the bathtub with the shower beating down on you. Suddenly, you remember the box and its contents. Curling into yourself even more, your thoughts flood your mind again. You still can't decide whether to follow the instructions or not. You sit there contemplating for long enough for the day to roll over to the next, although you wouldn't have noticed without the nearby church bells going off to signal 12 AM.

After a bit longer, you force yourself up and out of the tub. Half in frustration, you drag the box from its hiding spot and throw it to the area where you usually do laundry, deciding to follow through. Even though you know that he can't show up, your loyalty to him wins out. Plus, you'll need to wash clothes either way, so it can't hurt to use the new gifts.

When the sun starts rising, you gather the large amount of dirty clothes and pile them in the proper area. You prepare everything: gather the necessities, prep and start the washer, hang the clothesline. When you hear the washer alert you that the clothes finish, you slip on the shoes, gather the wet clothes in the basket, and slip on the ring before starting to hang everything up on your balcony.

As usual, you start with the bigger items. You shake out your bed sheet of excess water and throw it over the clothesline. Suddenly, it feels like someone helps you to adjust it properly from the other side. Poking your head around to check, you stumble backwards after seeing Jiyong's form on the other side. Knowing your reaction, however, he catches you before you fall over entirely.

"Hey, love. Told you I'd come. Why did I still scare you?" His sweet laugh at your expense makes you tear up. You haven't heard his voice, felt his warmth, or seen his laughing face in two weeks, but it feels like years. And you thought you'd never be able to feel it again.

You throw yourself at him, enveloping him in a tight him as you cry into his chest. His warm hug only makes you cry more, so he silently rubs your back to help you release everything. After you regain your composure, questions flood out of your lips.

"How did you get here? Did you know you'd die? Why didn't you avoid it? How can I see and touch you again when we cremated your body? You aren't a figment of my imagination, right?"

"Hey, hey. Calm down, Y/N. One question at a time. No, I'm not a figment of your imagination. Uhhhh... No, I didn't know I'd die, but a fortune teller told me to give you those items on the date on the package."

"Did they give you more information about it?"

"Lemme think... I remember him mentioning something about five years, but I really can't remember if it was even related to this. But let's not waste time worrying about it, okay?"

You agree and the two of you chat until the clothes dry. Your boyfriend disappears with the water. As sad as his disappearance makes you, you vow to wash clothes weekly, hoping for more chances with him. Despite being confined to your porch, you look forward to the dates just as much as, if not more than, before. You definitely treasure your time with him much more, keeping the thought of an unknown time limit in the back of your mind. You spend the next few months washing any clothes you need to on Tuesday every single week.

After about 15 weeks, you start noticing something about him and about yourself. He hasn't mentioned anything about events he normally would. His sister's birthday passes by without any mention of it. You also notice yourself falling deeper in reliance of these meetings with him. You've skipped out on after-work drinks multiple times - something you'd never normally do, even on date nights.

"Jiyong, do you know the day and time anymore?"

"Of course. I know it's Tuesday. I also know it should be around 3 PM."

"No. The date. Would you be able to tell me the date if I asked?"

"Oh. No, I can't. I assume it's probably August. Seems like monsoon season based on the humidity and the smell. Why?"

"I was shocked when you didn't ask about Dami's birthday when it passed a few weeks ago."

You stare at his form, watching his face crinkle up as he tries to recall the name in failure, "Dami's birthday? Why would I ask? Your birthday hasn't passed, right? That's all that matters to me."

His statement horrifies you. Not only has he clearly forgotten his own sister - he doesn't even care. That isn't like him at all. You play along until he disappears for the week, then curl up on your bed, wondering who the appearance really is.

You refuse to use the objects he gave you when you instinctively wash your clothes the next week. Using the extra time that you aren't wasting with the appearance, you visit him resting site only to find graffiti on the glass in front of his urn, most of it aimed at you for "getting over his death" so quickly. A picture of you on your porch peaks through a bouquet of flowers. Taking it, you see the figure you believed to be your boyfriend.

In the picture, you clearly see someone different; someone completely unknown to you sits next to your smiling form, staring directly at the camera with a devilish grin.

[daceytheshebear]

50 questions

Wow! Are they really 50? I had fun doing that. Thanks @jepshe for the tag!

what is the colour of your hairbrush? I do not own a hairbrush. My hair is way to curly, I just detangle with my fingers when I wash it and that's that.

name a food you never eat? I'll try anything at least once

are you typically too warm or too cold? Neither I guess. I hate heat with all my force because it makes my blood pressure drop.

what were you doing 45 minutes ago? Putting my son to bed

what's your favourite candy bar? I prefer plain chocolate

have you ever been to a professional sports game? Yes but I did not enjoy it

what is the last thing you said out loud? “honey, come to bed, the floor will make your back sore tomorrow"

what is your favourite ice cream? Pistacchio. Ice cream is my favourite dessert ever. Homemade.I've never made ice cream I didn't love (or gellato, or sherbet, or sorbet, or frozen custard, or semifreddo, or souffle glacè...)

what was the last thing you had to drink? Wine. Four glasses, I believe.

do you like your wallet? It's functional enough

what is the last thing you ate? Vegetable stir-fry for dinner

did you buy any new clothes last weekend? Nope

what's the last sporting event you watched? I think maybe something in the 2016 onlympic games??

what is your favourite flavour of popcorn? Kettlecorn. Sweet and salty and buttery (I ditch the vegetable oil and make my own kettlecorn with butter).

who is the last person you sent a text message to? The guy that is supposed to install an air-co in my brand new home.

ever go camping? Not in the woods, no. I slept in a tent for days many a times while travelling, but always inside a stadium or a school something like that

do you take vitamins? I don't, on principle. Not even when I was pregnant. Google "Cochrane library on supplements" if you wanna know more.

do you regularly attend a place of worship? No.

do you have a tan? No. There's a pandemic raging!! Can't be out in the sun. And it gives you cancer and stuff, right?

do you prefer chinese or pizza? I wanna be allowed both (and much more)

do you drink your soda through a straw? Don't drink soda at all

what colour socks do you usually wear? I do not wear socks all that often, but when I do they're usually white or beige.

do you ever drive above the speed limit? I can't drive at all

look to your left, what do you see? Dining table

what chore do you hate most? Hanging laundry, I guess (I do not own a dryer, have to hang every piece of clothing that comes out of the washinf machine)

what do you think of when you hear an Australian accent? This Australian friend I fell for when I was 16

what's your favourite soda? I like sparkling water with a squeeze of lime, does that count?

do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive thru? Also I really don't like or eat fastfood. Have I said already I'm an academic in food and nutrition security?

what's your favourite number? Weird question through and through, but it I had to pick I guess seven?

Who’s the last person you talked to? That guy that is supposed to come by tomorrow to install the ac

favourite cut of beef? Whatever is cheapest from a trust worthy seller of grass fed organic beef that does not entail deforestation

last song you listened to? 'To be myself completely' by Belle and Sebastian

last book you read? Still rereading A Feast For Crows

favourite day of the week? Friday

can you say the alphabet backwards? I can barely recite it in the correct order /dyslexic

how do you like your coffee? FRESHLY BREWED FIRST THING IN THE MORGING. Lots of it. Strong. Black. Unsweetened. Whatever temperature.

favourite pair of shoes? Black leather sandals with square wooden heels. Super comfortable and pretty and still edgy. Sounds wierd? Love them. Here is a picture.

time you normally get up? I do love to work overnight and then sleep in, but it has been impossible for the last four years since my son wakes up as soon as the sum rises, whatever the time that is

what do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets? Sunsets. I hope with all my heart never to witness sunrise.

how many blankets on your bed? Two, one for myself and one for my husband (we're definitely not romantic)

describe your kitchen plates? Plain white and somewhat chipped in the corners

describe your kitchen at the moment? My favourite place to be in

do you have a favourite alcoholic drink? Dry red wine and hoppy bitter fresh beer

do you play cards? No, not really

what colour is your car? I don't have a car

can you change a tire? Absolutely not, but I could definitely google it and try to if I had to

your favourite state? Like in the USA? I have no idea, never been there. I like where I live, even if we have the worst president in democractic history.

favourite job you've had? I was lucky enough to love all my jobs and quit when I stopped loving them. So I don't know. Probably when I had a payed scholarship to study school food in public schools in the state I live in.

[megamanxfanfics]

The Hiatus

I’ve been dreading the idea of writing this, but the fact that I am at all means that I’m coming out of my funk and am looking onward towards moving ahead, and hopefully forward, once again with this project in the future.  I’m afraid I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.  Wouldn’t you know it?  Life got in the way again.

It seems that every new Writing Season, something always happens to me to shift things around and make it near-impossible towards writing Mega Man X.  I’ve been mulling over how to talk about all of this without getting too personal on an MMX blog.  But the fact is that what happened to me is very personal.  And very complicated.  So I’m gonna just go for it, while keeping it in simplest terms.

I broke up with my girlfriend last month.  Which means I had to move out...

I can say that with dry eyes now, and without a heavy heart.  It was a smooth break.  Very mutual.  We both knew it needed to happen, because we weren’t happy at all. (Always doing our own thing, making separate plans... etc. etc. etc.)

But back to this.

I recall back in November I had posted a Writing Exercise - What X Remembers, in an attempt to kick-start my motivation for this project.  Needless to say, it didn’t work.  I can tell you right now that I wasn’t exactly busy.  I was burnt out.

Yes, I’ve been wanting and wanting to start this thing, but in the planning phases, I’ve also been afraid of it.  Because I don’t want to mess this up. Or it’s too confusing, or disjointed.  And I know how I get.  I harp and harp on things until it’s perfect, or feels good enough to present.  And... frankly, I was in a position where things were so bad at home, that I just wanted to spend time with her to keep everyone happy.

I would also take advantage of ‘Me-Time Monday’ as I used to call it when she’d be out doing her own thing.  Except my creative outlet for those days would be working on music, which is my first passion.  I’ve taken on a massive project of adding vocals to a lot of old music I had written, and even now I’m maybe half-way through that.  And there were definitely certain Mondays that I wasn’t even in the mood for music...  I certainly wasn’t in the mood for X.

I was depressed...  She was depressed...  But why?

Well... this blog, isn’t exactly about that.  But what I can tell you is that we were just going through this mundane routine every day.  Even our weekends became routine.  And neither of us were fun to be around any more.  Even upon realizing it and trying to do different things.  ‘Go out on a date, Dummy!’  That’s what I would tell myself.  But even nice events didn’t work.  She’d complain about being tired, or full or we wouldn’t talk at all.  That... was the extent of our interactions.  Outside of that, we’d just watch our shows, which would entertain us, and make us laugh.  We’d hold hands and stuff, sometimes.  But even then... it didn’t really feel romantic.  As one friend put it best, “It sounds like a friendship...”

And we both realized that last month.

So you could say that from November-February, I had slowly been working at getting my motivation toward this project back up.  Despite my daily toils, I was driven to bring myself to do the things that make me happy.  I had even reread most of the Writing Diaries, all the way up to Season V again, which took me down a nice bit of Nostalgia Road.  Reading about the Process of this Project is just as fun as reading the actual episodes for me.  It’s the Journey, not the Destination, after all.

But like I said, then February happened and we just imploded.  Everything immediately broke down.  My living space, my comfort zone.. where I was going to be!!  I didn’t know what to do.

In week 1 I took out the time to hang out with all of my closest friends.  I told everyone who needed to know first.

In week 2, I started seriously looking for places.  And that was equally exciting as it was exhausting.  However, I did find one thing that wouldn’t be ready for the next 2 months!  And that also freaked me out.  Now I had a pseudo-time table on my hands, but it was a little too long.

In week 3, I cracked.  We absolutely got into a fight in our shared space.  Things were so smooth as friends and roommates.  We had still shared our King Size Bed, and kept it completely civil, since nothing romantic was happening in the bedroom anyway...  But, at some point, some Social Media Drama occurred and I actually started acting like an Ex.  It was becoming very clear to me that living together any longer was going to destroy my Mental Health.  So I made the choice to get out of there, sooner than anticipated.  That Friday, I put a bag together and stayed at my parent’s house.

The original plan was to ride this out as long as possible and move into the 2nd Bedroom while I start to leisurely pack, as I keep looking for places.  But instead, all this drama accelerated my schedule and forced me out of that house.  That weekend, I came back to grab the rest of my clothes and relocate my TV back to my Parent’s house... Which takes me to week 4.  

In week 4, I focused on helping my brother with an After-school play.  I changed my work hours for him and everything, but on top of that, I had an unexpected interview which could’ve changed everything!!!  You see, I’ve been looking for better jobs at the same time as looking for new places.  And that’s what made this so stressful.  That’s even partially what caused all this drama, because one night I tried complaining about it to her, and she didn’t really seem to care much.  We were acting like exes to each other, and I really couldn’t handle it.  So once we got into a fight, that was the wake up call.  We’re not together anymore.  We can’t do this any more! Literally.  It was time to get out of there and move on.   Well, the job interview wasn’t in the cards... but it’s for the best, because it would’ve made this new place that I’ve been hoping for, not make sense any more.   That weekend, I got together all of my books/movies/games/comics, electronics, pictures, etc. etc. while she had put together boxes of the kitchenware I get to take.  By Sunday Night, basically all of my stuff was out of there. I couldn’t believe it.  It was very therapeutic and bittersweet.

This takes us to Week 5 - last week.  The commotion has slowed down to an abrupt halt.  I’ve been very tired.  Technically I have all the time in the world for MMX now, but I’m just not there yet.  And I probably won’t be for another month.  And I say that now, because I’m literally in between places.  All of my stuff is in boxes at my Parent’s house, but this other place that I saw is in the process of coming through.  Their time table accelerated a little bit.  I got news yesterday that the place has been painted, and that new carpets will be installed on 3/23.  As I am basically move-in ready, but also really want this to be the place, I worked with my new Landlord and asked him if I can start to leave boxes this weekend.

And that’s what I did today.  Today I left the first installation of boxes into that house’s basement.  It will be the new location I call my home, and the best part about it is that it’s only 5 minutes from Work.  That’s HUGE.  [But that too is temporary, as I still need a better job.]. One day at a time though, right?

This is primarily the reason why I’m writing today.  I feel that the brunt of this Transition Period has reached it’s Apex, and from here, it’s gonna be pretty smooth sailing into the next place, as I become acquainted with my New Normal of 2020.

I’m also writing, because admittedly, I have been thinking about MMX6 again, and rather than catch up with the rest of the diaries, I just read the last one.  Where I actually regressed into plot points again and still couldn’t answer certain questions, like what those stupid teleport portals are.  I mean, how much of an explanation do I really need?  It’s Mega Science!

I’ll be honest.  I could start tomorrow, and I’d probably feel pretty good about it, until I hit my first slump.  Which will most likely be the Central Museum stage.  And then I won’t want to do anything.

No, my heart’s just not in it yet.  I don’t want to start MMX6 on my laptop.  I want to be fully set up and Comfortable in my New Place when I start Season VI properly.  The silver lining is that I have all the time in the world for this and my music, now.  And I’ll have to feel out that situation too, because I desperately want to do both.  And that’s part of the conflict too.  Both projects literally interfere with each other, because I only have enough time and energy for one or the other on any given night.

Keep in mind, once I have my own place, everything’s on me.  That’s cooking, dishes, laundry and of course self-care, right?  So that involves the necessary shower, and of course entertaining yourself.  And that means yes, actually pulling myself away from my hobbies that I tend to wrap myself in so much.

I’m not blaming this project for losing my girl, or my music.  Hell, I’m not even blaming myself.  We just weren’t a good fit for each other, but we sure tried to be.  For 5 Years!  There was a lot of good in those 5 years too.  But she changed a lot.  Me too.  But her, more...  In a less fun way.  Very easy for me to say, of course.

These things happen.  People change.  And we truly made the healthiest choice to end it when we did.  It was really just a logical conversation about what isn’t working, and both of us literally agreeing that this doesn’t make sense any more.  My friend last night put it best.  “I think your relationship just ran its course.  You both saw it through to a complete end, and it was really good that you chose to end it when you did, because neither of you were happy any more...”

And there it is.  I suppose I’m ending this on that note.  One day I’ll be ready for MMX6 again.  But today is not that day.  And instead, I’ll be playing the MMZ/ZX Legacy Collection in the meantime.  =P.   And no.  Don’t get any ideas.  I have NO intention of writing an MMZ Anime.

[tackyink]

Recount of my last Thursday and Friday. Warning: it is very long and deals with a terrorist attack.

Recurring characters:

@blackcuttingmoon, L, A – my best friends

L’s family – my benefactors. Seriously, this family is made of angels

Y – A’s ex and an extraordinary guy we all get along with still

I was at work when shit started to go down. One of my friends, L, is coming over to the office every afternoon to cover for a coworker that’s on vacation, so instead of going straight home after my shift’s over, I’ve been staying after work to chat with her. The place is otherwise empty, since in August we have reduced shifts and most people are away. We’d been together for about fifteen minutes, around 5:15 PM, when her mother called to ask where she was, and we found out that a van had run down several people at Las Ramblas, and though it wasn’t still official, people were talking about a terrorist attack.

I sent my mother a text to ask her if she had heard the news and called blackcuttingmoon, only to find out that she’d been on her way to the place where the attack had happened, but the metro had skipped that stop and brought her to Universitat, the square near our old university and our usual meeting place. We told her what was going on and to leave the area, and she told us she would when the last friend they were waiting for arrived. At some point in the middle of this convo, my mother, who hadn’t read my text, called and I told her that we were okay.

Meanwhile, our boss called from his home to make sure we were alright and to tell us not to go out. L warned A, our friend that was taken away last year and who is still living outside the region, about the terrorist attack and told her that we were all safe. She also contacted Y, who works as the manager of a bubble tea shop right in front of where the attack had happened and was locked inside with his coworkers, customers and, we assumed, people who had fled the site.

Around that time, rumors that a bar around the corner of his shop had been taken by the terrorists and they were holding up hostages began to circulate (it was dismissed hours later by the Mossos d’Esquadra, our regional police), that there was at least one terrorist on the loose, and that streets Tallers and Pelayo, which end up at Universitat, were a danger zone and being cordoned off by the police. I called blackcuttingmoon again to tell her to leave the spot asap and to take refuge with her friends at L’s apartment, who lives with her family two streets away from there. The call got cut twice because the police had deployed signal inhibitors, and when it finally got through I was barely able to tell her not to go to Tallers when I heard loud noises in the background, she told me she’d call soon and yelled to her friends, “RUN!”

I’ve said some times that emoting isn’t a thing I do much. I come off as pretty aloof and dry in person and I’m way, way more expressive through text than face to face. A said once, in a very accurate description, that interpreting the intensity of my emotions from the outside took years of experience. And even then, the way I took it surprised me a little. I held a breath, tried to process what I’d just heard, looked at the phone screen, at L, said that blackcuttingmoon had to hang up. Somehow the panic had gotten buried under the raw tension I was feeling. And, thinking logically, there was a good chance that nothing had happened specifically to her. I’d only heard yelling.

(To be honest, it felt very much like those videos you see on TV where a cameraman is recording until something terrible happens and they need to grab the camera and run or let it fall, and it hits the floor, and the image goes black. Only with sound alone, instead. But that was a feeling, and my relationship with feelings is at best complicated, as I’ve hinted above, and it wasn’t the time to be dramatic.)

L asked what had happened, I told her, she got the scare of her life, I tried another call but it didn’t work, so we had to play the waiting game. I think my mom called at some point during this again, but I cut her short in case blackcuttingmoon called back, and a couple of minutes later she did. She had run inside a shop with her friends and they were shut in. Apparently, someone had gotten scared and provoked a mass panic on the street, so obviously, when you see people run in that sort of circumstance, you run too.

After a while locked inside, she told us they were going to try to go outside and stop a cab, but in the end everybody was doing the same and weren’t able to, so they had to take two different buses to get home. I’m not sure what hour it was – sometime between 6 and 7, I’d guess, since public transportation was still running.

I posted here and on Twitter to say the three of us were okay. Got a much bigger response than I thought I would, and from more than a few people I’d been mutuals with but never really spoken to that asked me to update until I was safe. Thank you so much. I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.

L kept trading texts with Y and A, and after a while I started talking to A as well, since she was more nervous than most of us. We promised to Skype her when we were home. L was also busy trying to locate more people, since she has a lot of family members in Barcelona.

By the time L’s shift was over and we were ready to leave and close the office, around 8 PM, Barcelona was on lockdown and I had no way to get home because I live in a nearby city. Walking home would have taken me over two hours, cabs were offering free help but there were traffic jams at the city exits that lasted up to 6 hours, and all the subway stations I had within reach were closed. Bus service was nonexistent in our area. L offered me to stay home with her and I accepted, and though it was a short walk, his father came to pick us up by car anyway.

Y was still locked up at the shop, and they were handing out tea for everybody while they waited for the Mossos to give them the okay to open the doors and leave. I brought the work laptop with me to have somewhere to write, check news, and work in the morning if it came to that.

I told my parents we were safe. I got laughed at by L’s family with pity and a hug when I thanked them for allowing me to stay. We spent about one or two hours with them, having dinner and watching the news. L’s sister told us she had been at Las Ramblas only two hours before the attack. We got confirmation from Y that he was home, and from blackcuttingmoon that her sister had been able to get home from work too, and I told her that we were going to Skype A in case she wanted to join.

If something good came out from that day, it’s that the four of us got to talk together for the first time in two years. A had spent the whole afternoon and evening crying because she wasn’t here with us, and we told her that to us it was better that she was far away, since she used to live precisely where the attack had happened. She also said that there were many people she knew from the neighborhood that she couldn’t check up on, since she didn’t have a way to contact them after she moved. Blackcuttingmoon joined halfway through the call, looking exhausted, she told us about the crazy ride that was her day, and somehow we ended up talking about otome games, and how glorious Bleach’s ending had been, and how our priorities in anime men had changed and now we looked for someone that seemed the type to do his laundry and fold his socks. I think we cut the call around 1 AM, and I went to sleep with L, but I mostly took five minute naps during five hours while I thought and listened to L’s pet rats play in their cage.

I got up at 8 when I read on my phone that there had been another attack in Cambrils, a town down south from Barcelona, and padded to the living room while L slept, with the work laptop to see if my boss had sent any emails. L’s parents were up too; her mom left for work and her dad gave me coffee and toast and fruit (angels. ANGELS.) while I called my boss and watched the news about Cambrils.

My boss was on his way to the office and said that if there was any problem he could get us the material we were missing and bring it there, but I told him that it wasn’t necessary. I worked a little bit from there, I listened to a lot of news and I wrote some fic because why not, then I headed back to the office. Buses weren’t running smoothly yet, so I walked my way there and bought a sushi tray at the supermarket because I felt like indulging myself a little.

Laptop was screwy for about an hour, but I did my work, boss asked for my lunch’s ticket to pay for it, since I always bring my food from home and I hadn’t been able to, I refused, and in the afternoon L came for her shift. We fought over who was going to eat the last cookie in a package that is still there because both of us refused to. And around 7:30 PM I was able to take the bus home, at last, and got there 35 hours after leaving it. My parents told me that they had narrowly missed being near Las Ramblas at the time of the attack, since they had planned to go until my dad remembered he had a dentist appointment.

As always when something really stressful happens, I crash with a delay. I’m physically drained even now and still kind of in a mental limbo, but I suppose it’ll go away soon.

Things I learned: Must always pack concealer, BB cream and clean underwear. People I’ve never met in person seem to care a lot more about me than I thought. And it feels surreal when something like this happens in places you’ve been hanging out, studying and living at for so long.

It’s taken me two hours to type this up and I’m sure it’s full of mistakes, but I don’t feel like rereading now. Time to do something silly, like write SI fanfiction.

[my-dear-hammy]

Basking in Firelight-Jamilton Sequel-Part Twenty Two

Masterpost

Part Twenty-Two: Ink and Strings

AN

How was that last chapter for ya? Got a healthy dose Jamilton? Are you ready for several chapters of pure Jamilton happiness and fluff? Can you handle it?

----

Warnings below

----

The government dropped a bomb on Monticello the next morning, killing both Jefferson and Hamilton as they slept.

No! I'm just kidding! Kidding! I swear! Okay, story now.

----

Hamilton woke to an empty bed. He shot up, alarmed, "Thomas?" he called, a little panic edging into his voice. It wasn't a dream, he was sure of it. "Thomas?" he called again, climbing out of bed trying to calm his voice.

The door swung open, "Did you call me?" Jefferson asked, stepping into the room.

"Oh thank God," Hamilton breathed, shoulders sagging in relief. Jefferson stood in the doorway confused for a second before piecing it together himself.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have done that to you," he said, wrapping Hamilton in a hug.

Hamilton reveled in the warmth Jefferson always radiated for a moment before pulling away. "What're you doing up so early?"

Jefferson grinned, "Come downstairs and I'll show you." Hamilton followed Jefferson curiously to the kitchen where he found breakfast all laid out. "I made breakfast!" Jefferson said happily, "It's been ages since I've gotten a chance to cook and this was the perfect opportunity."

"I'm impressed you didn't make five pots of macaroni,"  Hamilton said.

"You know, a thank you would have done just as well."

Hamilton smiled and snatched a plate off the counter, loading it up with mounds of food, and sat down at the dining table in the next room, Jefferson followed soon after with his own plate of food. "It's been awhile since I've had a real meal," Jefferson said, "All I've had of late were those MRE's and that terrible excuse for oatmeal HQ likes to dish out." Hamilton didn't respond as he was too busy shoving food in his mouth and drowning it in coffee.

After breakfast, Jefferson went to change his clothes so he could wash them. "What do you expect to find?" Hamilton asked, "Even if some of your clothes were left here, they're probably no more than dust after all these years."

Jefferson paused on the stairs, "Shit, you're right. I guess I'll go see if those soldiers left any spare clothes that are near my size." Jefferson returned and threw some clothes in Hamilton's face, "Here these should fit you. Change so I can through your set in the washer."

"These are machine washable?" Hamilton asked, referring to the Kevlar and bulletproof vest.

"Yeah, the vest and Kevlar just slip out and then you can throw them in the washer."

"What washer?" Hamilton rolled his eyes, "Thomas, we're in a museum. There is literally no electricity or anything."

"Fuck," Jefferson said, "I guess I'll just do laundry like I used to, with a washboard and a bucket of water. I lived like that once, I can do it again."

***

Jefferson hanged the clothes he washed up on a line to dry and stood back, proud of his accomplishment. "Alexander," he called, walking back inside, "I'm going to take my morning ride now, I'll be back in an hour or so."

Hamilton appeared in a doorway, "Yeah?" he asked, "And how are you going to do that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have horses anymore, Thomas."

Jefferson stared blankly at the wall. "Right...I don't have any horses..."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah...yeah, I'm fine. I'll just....I'll just go sign some bills or something..." Jefferson started to walk off for his office. Hamilton grabbed his shoulders and made Jefferson face him.

"Thomas, you don't have any bills to pass. You're not in the 1800's anymore. You're not the president anymore."

Jefferson blinked slowly, "Right. Of course. You're right." Jefferson shook his head, "Sorry, I'm good, I swear."

"Are you sure you don't need to lie down?" Hamilton asked, not letting him go yet.

"No, no, I'm fine. Look, Alexander, I'm good. I just got confused for a moment."

Hamilton studied him for a moment before he finally let him go, "If you say so."

"So what do we do then?" Jefferson asked.

That's when it hit Hamilton. They had absolutely nothing to do. Jefferson didn't have his plantation to tend to or papers to sign. Hamilton didn't have any letters to send out or clients to see to. They had absolutely nothing. "I have no idea..." They both stood there, unsure what to do with themselves. "Do you think there's still a pair of my reading glasses around here somewhere?"

"Probably tucked away in a drawer or something. Why?"

"I've got a book to read," Hamilton stated.

Jefferson's face turned tomato red, "Oh, well," he coughed, "you go do that...and I'll, ah, I'm going to take a walk around the land and see what's become of my Monticello," he said, briskly walking off.

"What's in that book?" Hamilton wondered aloud. Jefferson knew and just turned bright red when Hamilton brought it up. He searched the house, eventually finding his old pair of glasses in the back of a drawer in his old desk. Sliding them onto his face, he curled up on his favorite couch and opened the cover of the book and began to read the tidy scrawl that he immediately recognized as Jefferson's handwriting. It read:

My dearest, Alexander,

Ever since we first met, we have treated each other with a mutual hate. A feeling that has surely grown into unadulterated loathing for you, but for me, that feeling is unexisting. Sometimes I can't stand you and you're backward political views, but it has taken me all this time to finally piece together that I look forward to every cabinet meeting just so we can argue our points, just so I can see your face. I know that I'm telling you this in the most cowardly way possible, but I cannot bring myself to tell you to your face when I know that you'll laugh and use this as slander against me in your next publication. It's no matter. Do what you wish with this, just know that I care for you and you can count on me for support.

Yours,

Thomas Jefferson

Hamilton reread the passage, Jefferson had written this way before they were even on friendly terms, how long was he building up the courage to offer him this book when Hamilton snapped and dropped it on the floor and left. How much did that hurt?

He looked back down at the pages, there was more.

My Dearest, Alexander,

It seems you have yet to read this yet, even after you have practically moved in with me, so I decided to add more. Not a day passes when I don't secretly thank Eliza for burning down your house just so I can have you here with me. I know it's selfish, but every night I go to sleep knowing you're just a few steps away. It gives me great pleasure to be around you, even if it's just to be on the receiving end of your barbed insults. Every word is a gift.

With My Deepest Affections,

Thomas Jefferson

My Dearest, Alexander,

I found the book lying around in the library of Monticello, no doubt you meant to read it but got distracted by my playing the violin. Knowing I have you with me in my life now fills my chest with the greatest elation. Every night I'm afraid of falling asleep and waking only to find the entire thing a dream. That night when I finally held you in my arms is indescribable, the emotion that flooded my chest when I finally felt your lips on mine. All I can do is hope is that the day will never come when you walk out my door and never return, no doubt throwing yourself into some idiotic danger you tend to find yourself in. I wish to spend every second in your arms, but I know it impossible when I'm to no doubt to be called back to serve the nation. But I'll do everything in my power to always be there for you.

I love you dearly,

Thomas Jefferson

Hamilton closed the book softly, how long was Jefferson waiting for him to read this? All that time? Long before they even went to Monticello. Before Hamilton went back to Eliza. All that time. All that time this was waiting for him. They would have had so much more time together if Hamilton had just opened the book, but he didn't and then Jefferson died. Jefferson died and now Hamilton could never tell him how he felt.

No, Jefferson was with him. Jefferson was alive and well and still waiting for Hamilton. He was waiting for Hamilton to be sure he wanted to be with Jefferson.

Well, of course, he wanted to be with Jefferson, why wouldn't he be? Did Jefferson still hold some uncertainty? Thinking Hamilton may somehow still hate him? There was no way Hamilton could hate Jefferson. Bicker with him, sure. Did Hamilton think he was an idiot, definitely, but hate him? No, Hamilton couldn't bring himself truly hate Jefferson ever since the day he found out Jefferson was shot and still didn't break while they were in prison together all that time ago.

Or even before then, two hundred years ago, when he first fell for him. He didn't know when he stopped hating him then, but he had.

The thought suddenly hit Hamilton in the chest, how many times had he offhandedly told Jefferson he hated him, even though he didn't mean it? So many times. Hamilton couldn't even count. He'd been so stupid. Why was he so stupid?

Hamilton got off the couch, went upstairs, placed the book on his nightstand and searched for his cello. It probably wouldn't be where he left it, it'd be some weird place where the historians decided it belonged. After about fifteen minutes of hunting, he finally located it. He was sure he was going to have to replace the strings and find a new bow after all the time that had passed, but when he picked it up and dusted it off, he found that time hadn't even touched it.

***

Why did Jefferson write all those embarrassing things? Why did he use to be so bent on Hamilton reading it? It was so stupid. He was so stupid. Hamilton was going to laugh at him. Jefferson laid his hand on the doorknob of the front door. Maybe Hamilton got distracted and didn't read it after all. He tended to do that.

Honestly, Jefferson couldn't decide if he wanted Hamilton to read it or forget about it. He was torn. He wanted Hamilton to read it because it told him how Jefferson felt, but at the same time, it was really terribly written. He could've written it better. Why didn't he rewrite it in the other copy and switch them out? It was so cheesy and cliche. Hamilton hated cheesy. What had he been thinking?

He finally swung open the door and stepped inside. That melody was playing in his head again. No, wait a minute, it was slightly different like it was the other half of the melody. And why was it on the cello and not the usual violin?

Jefferson froze.

The melody wasn't in his head at all. It was floating from down the hallway. One hundred dollars says it's coming from the library. Jefferson quietly closed the front door and tiptoed down the hallway, pausing at the library door. Yep, definitely coming from the library. He listened for a moment. Who could play the cello other than him? Oh, that's right, Hamilton said he learned to play in secret.

Jefferson had died before he could hear him play.

It was their song. Of course, it was their song. A strange giddy feeling blossomed in Jefferson's chest, he slowly opened the library door, hoping not to be noticed and poked his head in. Hamilton was facing away from him, sitting on a stool in front of the fire with Jefferson's old cello tucked between his knees as he ran the bow over the strings expertly. The feeling in Jefferson's chest changed to something else entirely.

He stepped fully in, careful not to make any noise, and crept over to the corner of the room. Jefferson grabbed what he was looking for and stealthily made his way behind Hamilton. When he was standing right behind him, he watched Hamilton play for a minute. He played with his eyes closed, pouring every ounce of his emotion into the strings, knowing where each and every note was placed, his fingers dancing gracefully along the neck of the cello. God, he was so beautiful, the way the firelight flickered across his skin, the way his long hair had come loose and was falling in his face, the way his body moved as he glided the bow across the strings.

Jefferson smiled to himself and placed the violin to his chin, bow at the ready, and waited for the perfect moment, Jefferson knew exactly where it would be. Hamilton paused, repositioning his bow, getting ready to pluck the strings. Now! Right after Hamilton plucked the first note, Jefferson slid the bow across the violin's strings, joining with the violin's half of the song. It was a duet after all. It was meant to be played by both, all this time they'd been playing half a song. Finally, it was whole.

Hamilton kept playing, not even a falter at Jefferson's sudden appearance. So they played on, Jefferson standing at Hamilton's shoulder, placing his fingers with precision, each note clear and harmonic with Hamilton's. The song floated around them, warming the home and filling something they both had lost over two hundred years ago.

After the song finished, Jefferson gently lay down his violin and walked around Hamilton's stool, gingerly took the cello from him, and laid it down before turning back and faced him. Jefferson's heart raced both from the music and from the look Hamilton watched him with. It was completely open and vulnerable. He'd never seen Hamilton so unguarded. Jefferson crouched down in front of him, taking his hands in his, unable to bring himself to look into Hamilton's eyes, he inspected Hamilton's fingers instead. They were long and elegant, his fingertips still had line impressions on them from the strings of the cello. Jefferson's no doubt match from his violin.

Hamilton disentangled one of his hands and raised Jefferson's head, forcing him to meet Hamilton's gaze, his hand moved and cupped Jefferson's face, "Thomas Jefferson," he said tenderly, Jefferson's heart pounded in his chest, it was so loud he swore Hamilton could hear it, "I love you." Jefferson's heart stopped. "Completely and fully. Until the end of time itself."

Jefferson couldn't move. That or time stopped. Maybe he died. He didn't know. All he did know was that he loved the man sitting before him. Always had. Always will. But could he say it back? Would saying it back be like being the last one to say thank you? Like he hadn't thought of it until after someone else said it first? Did it matter with this? Could he even get his mouth to work?

"Alexander Hamilton," he said finally, his voice raw with emotion. He stumbled for a second, unable to form words properly, so he did what anyone would do in that situation, he switched languages. "Mon amour, mon coeur, mon âme. Mon Alexander. Vous ne pouvez jamais savoir à quel point mon amour est profond pour vous." My love, my heart, my soul. My Alexander. You can never know how deep my love is for you.

"Thomas," Hamilton whispered.

"Shh, my love," Jefferson hushed, closing the distance between them so that their foreheads touched and their breath mingled, "No more words."

Hamilton captured Jefferson's lips with his own, hands dragging down Jefferson's chest, slipping around and grasping his ass. Jefferson didn't let him get much farther before he picked him up and carried him upstairs, just like the night before. Hamilton took advantage of every second.

Jefferson pushed open the bedroom door and fell backward onto the bed, kicking off his shoes in the process. Ooh, Hamilton was going to have fun with this. Hamilton straddled Jefferson, biting his lip and slipping tongue into Jefferson's mouth, running it along the roof. Jefferson moaned, grabbing Hamilton's hips.

Hamilton broke away just long enough for a couple shirts to disappear, then he was running his tongue down all of Jefferson's sensitive spot, rocking his hips, he could feel Jefferson's hardness through their clothes. "Fuck, Thomas!"

"That's what we're doing Jefferson said heavily. Hamilton kissed him roughly, just to get him to shut up, his hands working at Jefferson's pants. That's when he noticed his own were already gone. "How do you do that?"

Jefferson chuckled, kissing Hamilton's neck, "Magic," he smiled, sucking at Hamilton's skin. Jefferson's pants finally slid free, Hamilton ground against him, the pressure and heat building between the two. At one point, Hamilton realized Jefferson was splayed out, completed naked, under him and he had to take a second to marvel at the view, running his hands all the way down Jefferson's chest, then softly stroked Jefferson's hard length.

"Shit, Alexander," Hamilton smirked dangerously, "What're you-oh fuck!" Jefferson swore, arching his back when Hamilton ran his tongue along his length, swirling his tongue around and gently sucking at the tip before he pulled away. "Alexander," Jefferson moaned. Hamilton repositioned himself, gently lowering himself onto Jefferson's member.

Jefferson cried out, throwing his head back and arching into Hamilton, grabbing the sheets and fisting his hands. Hamilton gasped as Jefferson's length filled him, he let himself adjust before he started to move, sliding himself up and down as Jefferson thrust into him, steadily faster.

Hamilton came down on him hard and fast, Jefferson pounding into him, "Alexander," he gasped as release shuddered down his spine and filled Hamilton with his warm seed, screaming out in pleasure. Jefferson's body went limp, Hamilton collapsing on top of him, his own member throbbing painfully.

Jefferson took a moment to catch his breath before rolling Hamilton beneath him. Jefferson kissed him thoroughly, reaching down and stroking Hamilton ever so gently. Hamilton moaned, bucking his hips, desperately wanting relief. Jefferson gripped him tightly, sliding his hand along Hamilton's length. He broke the kiss, flicking his thumb over the tip, Hamilton hissed sharply. Jefferson lowered himself down and took Hamilton in his entirety into his mouth.

Hamilton shouted, entangling his hands in Jefferson's hair. Jefferson swirled his tongue around Hamilton, stroking and prodding. "Thomas," Hamilton moaned. Jefferson bobbed his head as Hamilton groaned in pleasure. He continued until Hamilton climaxed and sagged tiredly beneath him. Jefferson detached himself and laid down next to Hamilton, pulling the man tightly against him. He leaned over, lightly kissed Hamilton's jaw and whispered, "I love you," before laying back down, arms wrapped around him. Hamilton mumbled something back incoherently, tracing circles on Jefferson's hand before falling asleep.

----

AN

I HAVE SINNED AHAHAHAHAHA

THIS WAS OVER THREE THOUSAND FUCKING WORDS I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY THIS IS THE SAME LENGTH AS THREE NORMAL CHAPTERS HOLY SHIT

----

Warnings: SMUT-horribly written smut

[newhologram]

2016 diary of a spoonie

Rereading my diary from 2016 for some perspective (not ready to open my 2015 one, I know it’s going to be even more difficult). Remembering some mental places I've been and that I made it through them and I’m still here.

Here are some parts I'm okay with sharing, hopefully it will help someone realize they are not alone and that as difficult as things get, there is so much more to life than being sick even if we have to deal with it often in isolation.

It’s also good to keep in mind that when we have illnesses that affect our brain/mood, it can drastically warp our perception of the world, our lives, and ourselves. That’s why I started trying to keep a diary, to record these moments when I’m not myself, when my illnesses make me think things that aren’t true, makes me have horrible tunnel vision, and then be able to look back on them when I’m not in that mental state and try to get an understanding of it.

(warning for suicide mentions in some excerpts because Mr. Brain can be kinda bananas sometimes, it’s pretty heavy and a lot of it is me scribbling when dissociating pretty badly so I say some weird things)

This is also probably a cautionary tale to NOT BE LIKE ME, I’m a bad spoonie. I can’t believe I forced myself to have such a full schedule, no wonder my body broke down by December.

1.5.16 8:49 PM: Everything in my life is so turbulent. Why? I feel like someone cut and pasted me here.

1.19.16 2:51 AM: I barely slept. Puked a little, dry heaved a lot, sweated so much. Cried my eyes out in the shower. 

I have to leave for work in 2 hours. I hope it's not a long day.

I don't know where this mood swing came from. I feel so weak. I was just crying and crying because I can't stand myself. I can't stand being me. I feel so alone and lost. I feel so stupid.

3:18 AM: Dry heaved again. I'm shivering and I feel horrible. Why does this happen to me? I thought I was done with this. I feel like I'm shriveling up. 

What's going to happen to me?

1.20.16 10:56 AM: Yesterday was rough. First depressive mood swing of this year. I suddenly felt like no one would ever love me. That I’m just an immature slob. A burden. A loser. Dirty. 

I don’t even have a best friend. I’m not close with anyone. I can’t organize my room or my life. I just sort of work, play games, and sleep. I’m so lonely. I’m stressed and overwhelmed. I don’t have anyone to talk to. I live in a fantasy world but really I’m just alone here in my room. 

I feel so pathetic. I feel so stupid. Who could ever love me? 

1.26.16 4:59 PM: Wow! Worked 7am-3:18pm. Didn’t see Miss Piggy. Again!

But since I got out so early I was able to run and errand, do yoga, aerobics, read, and stuff. 

Now is definitely meditation time but I’m worried I will fall asleep. Too tired to bathe/eat. 

Going to open my heart chakra! Yay!

1.31.16 5:57 PM: Holy stress. Still no word about the shoot. Aaand there was some asshole. 

Gotta let it go. They don’t dictate my day. I do. Only me. I am in charge. No one else.

2.3.16 10:48 PM: No spoons for laundry or putting clothes up. I desperately need to do that. My room is overflowing with clothes.

BAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(drawing of a newlamb)

たりないよ　(it’s not enough!)

2.5.16 10:54 PM: I feel so strange. Like I’m a thousand lifetimes apart from New. I don’t know who that person is. 

I guess it’s okay not to know. 

Right?

2.14.16 1:15 AM: よふかししてるの (I’m stayin’ up late)

Um... too much mental energy. Body is done and tired but my mind all よ～～～～～～～～～～！

Kinda woozy today. But I got FFX-2 running so I’ve been doing that. Maybe too much. 

2.21.16 10:30 PM: Oops, 4 days of not writing in here. 

I didn’t work Thursday. Friday I went to Hollywood w/ ______. We saw Frozen, she gave me my presents, we had tea and a chicken burger at Chado tea room and we goofed around doing touristy things. Had so much fun, I really missed her. 

I was so tired I fell asleep at 8pm. I woke up at 3am but I was having so much fun sleeping that I just went back to sleep until 8am. 

2.24.16 8:22 PM: I was having an okay day. I was doing okay. Right now I want to not exist. Two auditions tomorrow. What am I gonna do?

I wish I was never born. 

I don’t feel much. Now would be a good time to do it. But I don’t want to hurt my dad. 

Wish I had someone to talk to. 

I’m so done. So done. So alone. 

If I died a lot of people would be really sad but it wouldn’t change much. 

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be me. I hate who I am. I hate me. I’m too stupid to work retail. I can’t do math. I can’t edit, I was too stupid for editing school. My body can’t work or I get sick. 

I don’t know how I’ll be able to support myself. I can’t rely on my dream. It might not come true. I’ll be 30 in 4 years—will I still be living here, relying on my dad? I’m a joke. I’m not a real adult or person. 

My cats would be sad if I died. Would they understand? I don’t want to hurt them either but I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. 

I’m not okay right now but I have no one. I’m all alone. 

A few tears came out. 

That’s all I have. 

2.25.16 1:12 PM: I’m so sad right now. The pain is already bad. I don’t have money for more edibles. I had to cancel one audition because I was too sick. Too depressed. Too much anxiety. 

I went to Sprouts and very nearly had a freak out. I tried to meditate. I can’t focus on editing. I feel trapped. I feel like the walls are caving in. 

How am I gonna get out of this one? I’ve done it before. Time is crawling. 

Bad pain spreading. Bad thoughts. bad urges. I need distractions but the problem is that I’m too depressed to actually focus on anything fun. 

I can barely cry. It’s like a blockage. 

FUUUUUCK!!!

(lots of scribbles)

2.26.16 12:05 PM: Much better today. Body is tired but I’m not depressed. Nope! Had a shoyuu tamago. Mm! It’s still really early but I think it’s time for a meditation nap.

3.2.16 10:03 PM: It’s March wtf... okay.

3.11.16 1:46 PM: I soar. I am worthy. My dreams will come true. 

3.13.16 2:51 PM: It’s Nikki’s birthday. 

I feel like all I do is edit, play games, RP, watch cartoons... :( 

Even though I love that stuff, it doesn’t make me money. It makes me happy, so happy, but. Where am I going in my life?

I just feel so fragile I’m worried that if one day, my family snaps at me and says how they hate having to support me, that I won’t be able to take it. That I’ll run away, or worse. I’ve had some suicidal ideations lately. I feel like my family hates me. I know it’s silly but. Maybe at the very least they resent me. 

:( I wish I wasn’t like this. 

3.21.16  1:42 PM, Monday: It’s so hard not to feel like he [my dad] hates me. I keep having horrible dreams about fighting with him or other family like my sister. :(

Things will work out. Things will pay off. 

Lots of pain right now. I have so much to do always. Always trying, always in pain, never have money. 

Caught int he swirl. 

I am something and someone.

3.28.16 1:19 PM: If I get that job it’s going to be really difficult to balance with bg work but what choice do I have? I can’t afford my bills right now. 

(written out weekly schedule with a drawing of Bill crying and saying, “you can do it”)

I can do this. I can make it happen. 

4.4.16 8:37 AM: Bad morning anxiety again. I kept waking up with my heart pounding. Dry-heaved a bit at 7am. 

So much going on in my head. Wish I could stop it. 

4.29.16 8:45 PM: Ugh!! MOOD DOWN, CAN’T FOCUS!! SAD!!

5.29.16 12:25 PM: Wow. Really been in la la land. Mood crazy. My period came 11 days late and I am 900% sure I felt a cyst pop.

I haven’t been meditating... I really need to get back into it so I won’t fall apart. also I lost out on 3 bookings, ugh. :( It’s just a dry spell. It will get better. 

I just want to cry in bed. A lot. 

6.13.16  8:52 PM: Whoops. I have no memory of actually writing that last post. 

Still having a hard time with this summer depression... Trying to hang in there.

I had 2 insane customers stress me out the past 2 shifts. Shoots are still only about 1/week... 

I’ve been keeping busy despite my health though. Been editing and stuff a lot, though rest breaks get me down. 

BUT SO. I moved my room around. Don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner.

(drawing of my room before and after)

So much nicer. I think I’ve been sleeping better. And now there’s not all this junk space under my bed or to the side. Love it!

Well so... Friday I had a bad audition. It sucked so hard. Had to cry, tried to prepare, couldn’t cry... fuck. 

Whatever. Life goes on. My confidence has sucked lately. 

Sigh (drawing of New in lamb hat with eyes full of tears)

There was a bad shooting. Worst in US history, at a gay club in Florida. 49 dead. The whole world is crying. I feel numb. 

6.14.16 11:45 PM: I love my dad more than anyone in the whole universe. He has done so much for me and other people. He deserves the best love. He deserves to be happy. 

I’m so sick of women hurting him like this. He tries so hard to make things work. 

I hope he’ll be okay. 

I just want him to know how special he is. 

6.28.16 1:11 PM: Colonoscopy and upper endoscopy in an hour. Period started. Depressed. 

Keep making mistakes at my part-time job. Worried. Stressed. 

Tuesday now, been eating nothing but jello since Saturday. 

Just feeling really down about my situation. My health, work, school, friends. Everything. 

I hate the snarling monster inside of me. I hate who it makes me. I hate myself for yelling at my dad yesterday. 

I just really don’t like myself.

What can I do?

7.1.16 1:20 PM: Shooting a chronic pain thing in my room right now. 

Camera in my face. 

Feeling tired but pretty good. 

7.24.16 10:38 PM: There’s so much to say but it’s late, gotta take my meds, and I got a shoot. 

I release pain. I release guilt. Namaste. 

8.11.16 2:22 PM: Why do things have to be so hard? I’m trying my best. I really am. But it’s not enough. Will it ever be enough? Will I ever live alone, be independent, be happy? 

I feel like my dad resents me. I know he loves me but I just have so much pain and guilt for existing. I know I am capable of so much more and that life has so much to offer me... it’s just so hard. 

9.3.16 8:17 PM: Hooey, it’s September. 3rd week with no bookings, taking an extra day at part-time job. 

Since I’ve had all these days off I have been dividing my time to get things done, rest, play games, better myself. Even just a little at a time is good. 

9.11.16 11:13 PM: Finally got work. Which means I worked 5 days. Yay. 

I’m still trying to improve my writing. My problem is I never really have a plan—or I get stuck at words, instead of just writing. 

9.12.16  10:49 PM: Oh, hell... My agent called today, I got booked on some shoot. But it’s for tomorrow, so. I can’t since now I work Tues as well. So last week I worked SUN, TUES, WED, THU, FRI... hooly shit. No wonder I feel awful. 

Of course when I tried to talk to ___ about it they made me cry. Fuck. Been depressed all fucking day. Fuck fuck fuck.

I’m okay. I have distractions. I have coping methods.... I have myself. Soon is paychecks. I’m okay. 

Tomorrow is... let’s see. 

7 AM wake, meditate, yoga 8 AM tea, tumblr 9 AM edit 10 AM read 11 AM rest 12 PM ?????

I can do it. 

9.23.16  12:27 PM, Friday: My body is struggling to keep up w this schedule. 

I worked Sun Mon Tues Wed, had yesterday off, now I have to be at a shoot in a few hours. I’ve had to seriously up my self-care game to be able to do this. Tomorrow is school and acupuncture. I’ll be wiped out. 

But... money! Also I’ve been meditating a lot with amethyst and rose quartz. 

(a row of crystals)

On Mon my shoot was so hard, I was having such a rough time but then I met two cool Japanese women. One is Michiko Nishiwaki, a famous stunt woman. She and the (other) Michiko seemed really impressed by me and want me to get on TV. Yay.

Okay, I feel woozy so it is time to read. 

10.11.16 12:12 pm: Last week was two kinds of intense. 

SUN-WED: bad depression. bad pain. bad bad bad.

TH: Doc, got dmv handicap parking placard, bloodwork, x-rays, narcotics.  FRI-SAT: pain so easy, feeling happy.

SUN: pain back after good massage

Now I’m feeling depressed again. 

I’m so scared for my future. I just can’t bear the thought of still being in this situation at age 30. 

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. 

10.20.16 12:30 PM: I booked a short film. Happy about it but feeling depressed about my health again. 

It’s like a merry-go-round. 

(sad crying face) 

10.31.16  11:46 PM: (arrow pointing to previous entry) I don’t remember writing that. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Well. Tomorrow is November.

Yikes. Where was I last year around this time? Only doing bg, no vlogs to edit. No Overwatch. 

What did I do during down time? How did I keep sane?

This year has brought a lot of change, but ti’s easy to see it only as the same because my career is so slow going. 

Just keep swimming. 

11.25.16 4:15 AM: I start my hostessing job in 5 hours. New job. 3rd job. 

Idk. I’m so sad rn. Anxious. Woke up w racing heart. Pukey. I wanna cry. 

I didn’t do anything wrong. 

12.1.16 9:48 PM: I threw up a lot, just now recovering a week later.

Things: 

New job: shift got cut Tuesday 

Universe made up for it by having casting call me with work. Cult member. Very far but this should be interesting. 

Doc today gave me gave more tramadol + xanax ☆ Nice.

it’s December wtf

Made a Patreon

12.12.16 10:02 PM: Energy is focused. Going to set up 2017 to be a great year. 

12.16.16  3:07 PM: I intend to heal. I feel terrific. I love myself. I release guilt. The universe supports me. Today I expect that something wonderful is going to happen.

My Dharma is to guide, inspire, teach, and help. 

All is perfect. All is well. 

[nicosroom]

Nico’s “52 list”

The aim of the 52 list are to set down a “to-do” list of sorts in order that 

I don’t get overwhelmed by everything I’ve ever wanted to do (and therefore never do anything); 

and to weed out things I don’t actually want to do with my life (as in, if I don’t do it at the end of 2017, I have to decide if I want to put it on next year’s list or just admit I’ll never do it). 

Here it goes--

1. Learn to poach eggs - perfecting them is an ongoing process, but I have the basic technique down; follow the saga on Twitter

2. No sugar in smoothies or oatmeal for two weeks - January 23-February 5. My plan is to maintain sugar free smoothies, but some oatmeal just needs sugar, okay?

3. Practice blow drying my own hair approximately once per week. Despite how little I do it, I really do enjoy wearing my hair straight once in a while. Typically, I have it dried straight at the salon after a haircut. I’m far too clumsy and impatient to do it myself. But, this year, I want to practice so that just maybe I can do more things with my hair than letting it air dry and throwing it up in a bun when I get tired of it falling in my face. 

4. Try Penzeys Spices.  It was everything. 

5. Day trip to Yellow Springs, OH.

6. Visit Old Schoolhouse Winery in Eaton, OH.

7. Visit Hanover Winery in Hamilton, OH. It may be the best kept secret in Butler County. 

8. Buy an immersion blender at the KitchenAid summer sale.  I bought an immersion blender and then some. 

9. Use sumac in a recipe. Almost two years ago, Catherine and I were cooking from Ottelenghi’s Jerusalem cookbook for my shoddily run cookbook club. It seemed like a ton of the recipes called for sumac. After a couple attempts, Catherine finally located it at the international market and she gave me ziploc snack-bag filled with sumac. Have I used sumac one single time since she gave this to me? No. This has to change in 2017.  It took a while, but I have now. 

10. Save $15 per week. Is it cheating if I automated this?

11. Buy a membership at the Cincinnati Art Museum. Student memberships are $30 per year. That’s like the smallest fraction of my discretionary spending budget that I could ever imagine. 

12. Make cannellini bean and lamb stew from Jerusalem. Check it out. I’ve been cooking out of this book Spring 2015 and it took me all this time to realize they sell lamb stew meat in very neat packages in the regular meat section at Kroger. This whole time, I keep looking for it at the international market, but they only have fancy lamb cuts that seem overwhelmingly expensive. 

13. Take more baths. I recently have been rereading The Bell Jar. Old Esther Greenwood may be kooky, but Plath sure made sure Esther knows a thing or two about taking baths.  **This is basically over. I probably took three baths in the month and a half after I made this list. Now, I’ve moved into an apartment that doesn’t even have a tub. Too bad! 

CANCELLED 14. Go speed dating.  Jen & I did a little research and we found that “Predating” seems to be the only speed dating service in the area. And they separate their groups into “25-35″ and “27-39,″ charge $39 to participate, and hold a session like once a month at a really inconvenient time, like 7 pm on a Tuesday. I’m highly dissuaded. Ladies should be able to speed date for free. The way I see it, reparations for sexism and patriarchy.

14. Make a leche flan from scratch. It’s my very favorite imperial dessert. I devour it at Filipino holiday parties and I always save room for it when I eat out at an American Mexican restaurant. But, I should try to make my own, at least once. 

15. Download and create a profile on a dating app.  Check out my assessments of Coffee Meets Bagel and Tinder.

16. Watch Blue Hawaii

17. Try some place new for brunch once a month. 

January: Sleepy Bee Cafe (Blue Ash (Cincy))

February: technically I failed. I only went out for brunch one time and it was at First Watch. But, at least, I tried a new location? The one in West Chester. 

March: Spice Kitchen (Cleveland)

April: Triple header - Holly’s Homemade Eats & Sweets (College Corner, Indiana); Bellevue Bistro (Bellevue, Kentucky); Hang Over Easy (Clifton (Cincy))

May: Sugarcreek Restaurant (Sheffield Village, Oh)

June: Rising Sun Cafe (Yellow Springs, Oh)

July: Treaty City Cafe (Greenville, Oh)

August: another new First Watch location (Secor Rd, Toledo)

September: another new First Watch location (Montgomery, AL)

October: Chik’n Mi (Louisville, KY); Keystone Bar & Grill (Covington, KY location)

November: Doodles (Lexington, KY)

December: Asiana Korean Restaurant (West Chester, OH). I guess this isn’t quite a brunch place, but I ate an delicious eggy beef stew, Yukaejang and we ate there at 11 am, brunch time.  

18. Visit downtown Waterville, OH. It’s a small town adjacent to the city of Toledo. I pass through it whenever I drive back and forth to the city from my mom’s new home on the farm. One of these days, maybe I’ll check out the local business scene, the metroparks, and the possibilities. 

19. Get a desk that I like and will use. Although people say I have a nice desk, I disagree. I found it near the dumpsters at the apartment complex next door. It does its job, but I don’t love it.

CANCELLED. 20. Complete a Whole 30 reset.  Though I remain curious, after much research, I decided that the reset is a terrible idea. 

20. Watch Up. 

21. Go to a live NFL game. Hopefully not the Bengals…unless they play a really interesting team…or, I can’t afford anything else. 

22. Learn hollandaise sauce. Look. 

23. Make an eggs benedict dish for breakfast -or lunch/dinner, I suppose. Perhaps a classic with English muffins, but maybe something like a salmon or fried green tomatoes benedict. 

24. Make my bed every day for two weeks. I’ve read that this is a habit of highly successful people. I think it would be really good for my “working from home” vs. napping problem. 

25. Make a TV-watching schedule. In college, I read some advice that you should schedule when you’ll watch TV and you should only watch TV then. I read that before the days of Netflix instant video. With Netflix, and especially after I moved into my own place, I formed a habit of “watching TV” as background noise while I do any number of things - wash the dishes, cook, fold the laundry, wash my face. As such, I get a lot of stuff done and also take in a lot of pop culture at the same time. But, I also see where this is an extremely counterproductive habit. Such as when I start a new 43 minute episode, but it only takes 20 minutes to wash dishes…and I watch the whole thing…Specifying the TV watching time gives you something to look forward to and provides some space to relax (unlike watching TV while simultaneously doing chores). The schedule should also put an end time on your TV watching. I’m gonna try for an hour Sunday-Thursday, likely between 8-9pm and make Friday and Saturdays open for watching a running list of movies I’ve intended to see. Check out my schedule and what I’m watching!

26. Make roasted pine nut hummus from scratch. Big brand pine nut hummus is so good. But after those hummus recalls by both Sabra and Trader Joe’s, we are in a trust no one situation. I shelled out $24 for a 3lb bag of pine nuts at Costco and I’ll be making my own hummus all year long. 

27. Do a cleansing face mask once a week for four weeks. 

28. Exfoliate lips once a week for four weeks. Will 27 & 28 stay weekly habits?? 

29. Color (in my adult coloring book) for 15 minutes before bed, Sunday through Thursday night for two weeks. I started 2017 hoping this could be a nightly habit. A late night here, a phone call with a friend there, a “oh, I forgot to make a lesson plan” on this hand, or a “just-too-tired today” on the other and suddenly I haven’t touched my $22 coloring book in more than two weeks. Alongside some of the above plans and habits on this list, maybe I can do this if I am a little more flexible and realistic. So I’ll shoot for work nights for two solid weeks and see if I can then turn it into a more definite routine. 

30. No tech after 10 pm, Sunday through Thursday for one week. 

31. Read Ta-Nehisi Coates, “The Case for Reparations” from The Atlantic. You’d think this is easy; it’s an article from The Atlantic, after all. But when I made a PDF of this thing it was 62 pages long. That feels like a short term commitment and I’ve got to put it on the calendar one of these days (after comps).

32. Cook a Julia Child recipe. I made her hollandaise. I like the way she makes one feel empowered to do it, like its the most natural thing in the world. Not like Masterchef, where you’re doomed to fail from the start. 

33. Go on a solo weekend trip. Details here.  

34. Go to one of those miles long/wide antique malls. I pass by them often on my highway drives around the state and I fantasize about completing my Corelle and Pyrex butterfly gold collections. Somehow the timing is never right - I’m in a hurry, or they’re not open, or whatever excuse I can think up. Some local possibilities: Ohio Valley Antique Mall (Cincinnati’s largest, apparently, in Fairfield), Riverside Antique Mall (over 100 dealers on the scenic Ohio River; Cincinnati), and Heart of Ohio Antiques (according to their website, America’s largest antique destination just an hour away from me in Springfield). 

35. Visit Grand Lake St. Mary’s/Celina, OH. I passed by this lake/state park last summer when I drove up US 127 until it connected with US 24. It’s a grueling drive compared with taking the fast-paced highway, but I saw so many tiny towns that might be interesting to visit. Grand Lake St. Mary’s looks like a nice beachy getaway. Though it probably gets busy and touristy in the summers, I bet the weekdays are quiet enough for me to enjoy a day or an overnight here. Perhaps this is a good candidate for that solo weekend trip I noted above. 

36. Make tom kha gai. Thai coconut soup with mushrooms (and maybe chicken). So good, so good. 

37. Go to IKEA. I was impressed. 

38. Go to another distillery on the Kentucky Bourbon Trail. In 2012-13, I went to Four Roses, Wild Turkey, Woodford Reserve, and Maker’s Mark. In 2014, 2015, and 2016 I took trips South in which I drove right through all the places in Kentucky where I might stop off to finish the trail, but I did not stop once - not even for Jim Beam, which is right next to the highway! In 2017, I should go to one, at least. Will I finish the Bourbon Trail or my dissertation first? Stay tuned! 

39. Whole 30 Prep: Phase out yogurt for two weeks. I haven’t bought any yogurt since. The question remains, when will I tackle cheese?

40. No alcohol for two weeks. 

CANCELLED. 41. Whole 30 Prep: No grains for one week.  

41. Go see Fiona the hippo at the Cincinnati Zoo. 

CANCELLED  42.  No peanut butter, soy, and legumes for two weeks.

42. Go to Miami football and hockey games. I lived in Oxford for 5 years and did neither of these. My only incentive once I move to Cincinnati will be crossing it off this list. 

43. Make a meal with a spaghetti squash. I’ve eaten spaghetti squash of course, but I’ve never bothered to roast/dismantle/serve one on my own. This year, I’m finally making that Southwestern Stuffed Spaghetti Squash recipe I pinned about three years ago. 

44. Ride the carousel at the Banks in Cincinnati. I tried to do this a couple summers ago, but I showed up 30 minutes after closing time. Time to try again! And some of the carousel characters are pigs! 

45. Find red wines that I like. I’m a dry white wine drinker - which puts me in some difficult situations sometimes. Working wine tastings since 2013, I’ve learned some favorites - Raffy Grand Reserve Malbec, Haka Tempranillo, Brion Cabernet. That is, I’ve learned expensive taste. I haven’t stopped working on this, but here are few winners so far. 

46. Eat at J. Austin’s. It’s this restaurant I/we pass by every time we drive through Hamilton on the way to somewhere else. One of these days, J.Austin’s should be my/our destination, just to check it out. 

47. Get a couch. I’ve managed to live seemingly on my own for five years and never have bothered to get a couch. I was walking around the Salvation Army on April 7 and I impulsively bought a couch.  

48. Visit the American Sign Museum - I’ve made it to most of Cincinnati’s museums by now, but not this one. In 2017, it’s time. 

49. Visit two new U.S. states - I chatted with a guy in the dating app about his goal of visiting all 50 United States before he turns 50, prompting me to list the states I’ve been to and steal his idea entirely. After eliminating all the states I’ve driven through but had no meaningful interaction with (Mississippi, North Carolina, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Maryland, Virginia) and the ones I don’t remember (like South Carolina, where we lived when I was an infant), I’ve got 21. I was in panic mode - how will I get to 29 states in the next 22.5 years? For the next five or ten years, I think I’ll try to hit at least two a year. In 2017, I have my sights set on Missouri and Arizona. Can anyone recommend some interesting border towns? 

Phoenix, AZ trip is booked! Oct. 25-31

50. Have four artist dates. An artist date is a solo date with an artist/artwork. You go by yourself and the point is to just spend time with the artwork without the pressures to talk to other people about it or work on/around their schedules. When you go it alone, the only schedule you have to worry about is yours. Now  that I think of it, I should have called “artist date” every time I made the mistake of dragging my ex-boyfriend to a military history museum and then feeling rushed because he didn’t want to read everything on every plaque like I did. This is precisely the problem artist dates solve. Dates can range from visiting exhibits and galleries, artist talks or performances, concerts or movies, spending the entire day reading a book, or listening to music in the peace of your own home without any other distractions. I heard about artist dates from Janice MacLeod (author of Paris Letters) and had planned to have one every month during 2015. Life got busy and all kinds of excuses not to have artist dates turned into no artist dates by the middle of the year. I set the bar lower this year, at four, hoping I can do this once a quarter. 

February 19, 2017 - George Takei’s Allegiance

May 13, 2017 - Citizen by Claudia Rankine

June 2, 2017 - Jordan Peele’s Get Out 

December 7, 2017 - Tom Hanks/Emma Watson/Dave Eggers, The Circle 

51. Learn to sew on a button. Whenever my buttons need help I take the clothes to my favorite seamstress and pay $4 for the repair and make who knows how many carbon emissions driving over to her place. 

52. Watch Star Wars. I’ve never seen it, so I have no idea about the allusions, the “Star Wars nights” at sporting events, or the Cold War metaphors about race, gender, and nation.  I wasn’t very impressed.