#Eight Bit Theatre

[spark-circuit]

yippee! my Final Fantasy pins arrived from Etsy! :) i swear i was hearing voice earlier so it must've been Santa! how lovely!

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(Meanwhile, while Spark's out of the room...)

[bitronic]

his phone doesnt have a screen

[steddiealltheway]

(So, idk if anyone has ordered or seen the Scoops Ahoy costumes from Amazon or whatever, but the shorts for Robin are tight and short. But the shorts for Steve are like the ones seen in the show. Which leads me to this thought…)

Steve’s first day at Scoops Ahoy is… alright?

Actually, it’s pretty miserable.

Scooping ice cream is way harder than it looks. And for some reason he can’t get that perfect rounded shape. It just comes out in pieces that he has to mash into cups and balance on top of cones.

Plus, he’s pretty sure his coworker hates him.

Her name is Robin, and she scowls and dramatically points at her name tag when he asks for it. To make matters worse, they apparently went to high school together, but he doesn’t have the vaguest memory of her. (To be fair, they did not run in the same social circles with her being in band and even theatre and with Steve being “King Steve.”)

But for some reason, she loves to poke fun at him especially when he fails to get any girl’s number. It’s like the Harrington charm radiates through his hair which is blocked by the stupid hat.

But what he really notices only an hour into their eight hour shift is the way she’s tugging at her shorts. She digs her fingers under the elastic band around her thighs as if trying to stretch them out, and she’s constantly trying to pull them down as they begin to ride up.

And really, Steve not trying to perv or anything, but she’s make quite a bit of a fuss with the whole thing, cursing under her breath and obviously really uncomfortable.

So, when the store is fairly empty, Steve turns to her and asks, “Do you want to change shorts with me?”

For the first time, Robin laughs. Loudly. She even snorts at the idea. But her laughter quickly dies down when she realizes Steve isn’t laughing. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah. You look uncomfortable. And hey, I’ve worn way worse to basketball practice, plus I had to wear speedos when I was on the swim team.”

Robin’s nose scrunches up. “Gross.”

Steve puts his hands on his hips and huffs, “Do you want to switch or not?”

She takes a few seconds to stare at Steve, clearly suspicious of an ulterior motive. But then, she curses and starts tugging at elastic band again. “Okay! Fine. But we’re not getting change in the same room.”

Steve rolls his eyes as he heads to the back room. “I wasn’t suggesting that.”

In the end, Steve is left to change in the damn freezer storage area while Robin gets the whole break room. But he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so he sucks it up and doesn’t complain. (Although he really really wants to.)

He waits for her to knock on the door to signal she’s ready, looking down at the shorts. They’re not horrible, but he can understand why Robin was uncomfortable - as they’re already stretching over his ass and thighs while starting to ride up beyond mid thigh.

Even after she knocks, Steve asks, “Ready for me to come out?”

He thinks he hears her laugh about that for some reason before she answers, “Yeah!”

He steps into the room and glances down at her new shorts momentarily before nodding. “Better?”

Robin smiles slightly and nods before heading back out to the main area.

Steve follows behind her. “Hey, they gave me two pairs of these. I can give you the extra pair to wear and keep during our next shift together.”

Robin turns to him and narrows her eyes. “What are you asking for in return?”

“Nothing,” Steve says, eyebrows furrowed. He hopes she understands that he really means it and won’t hold this over her head like an asshole.

She just stares at him for a few seconds before almost wondrously saying, “Huh.”

Luckily, she seems to relax for the first time since their shift started.

After this, the teasing from before has less of an edge to it, but it becomes relentless. Steve almost thinks that maybe this is the start of a wonderful friendship. But Robin would never want that from him.

He only changes his mind about this later when Eddie Munson walks into the store while Steve is cleaning the tables. He accidentally knocks over a napkin and bends over to pick it up, feeling his shorts ride up.

When he stands up, he’s met with a pink faced Munson who stares at him - or rather his ass - with wide eyes.

“See something you want to sample?” Steve asks honestly a bit against his will because it’s part of the Scoops Ahoy greeting. (Only for some reason, he’s unable to get any other part of the greeting out.)

Eddie’s pink face turns red as his eyes snap up to Steve’s. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he quickly breathes out, “I need to leave.”

When the boy practically runs out the store, Steve naturally glances over his shoulder at Robin, trying to gauge if she just saw what he did.

She’s already laughing behind the counter saying between bouts of laughter, “See something you want to sample?”

Steve huffs and feels a blush rise to his cheeks. “Shut up,” he mumbles out, throwing the napkin away before returning behind the counter. “I’m never asking that again.”

But as Robin continues to laugh, Steve can’t help but join in a little, wondering if maybe she would like to be friends and if Eddie will ever come back.

So, maybe his first day wasn’t pretty miserable or just alright. Maybe it was perfect.

[terastalungrad]

Sometimes, you’re a comedian with a touring show to promote, so you do an interview with a regional newspaper.

I think that’d be the funniest possible time to reveal a big scoop, wouldn’t it?

Stewart Lee is currently touring, and to promote his Yeovil performance, gave an interview to Blackmore Vale Magazine.  According to Wikipedia, the Blackmore Vale is an area of north Dorset, south Somerset and southwest Wiltshire.  According to the comedian Jake Baker, the magazine would cover his school sports day as he grew up in Dorset.  That’s the level of news you’d expect.

The questions are friendly and easy, from a journalist clearly familiar with Lee’s work and history.

The first question is about the show’s angle.  Lee describes the nature of the show, and here’s an excerpt:

So it looks like stand-up, and sounds like stand-up, but it’s actually a kind of character piece about a desperate person who’s frightened and trying to organise the world in a way that puts them in control. And I guess you could argue that’s what a lot of stand-ups are doing anyway. Ricky Gervais to me looks like a very frightened man. He’s frightened of transgender people coming after him, the act is a defensive wall.

Fun!  This is a Ricky Gervais hate blog, so it’s nice to see a sudden, unexpected attack in an unrelated promotional interview.

Lee mentions Gervais again in response to question four.

Sometimes I become bitter and think ‘I get all this good press, why can’t I get 10 million quid for a TV special like Ricky Gervais?’ But on the other hand, I wouldn’t want that audience, it wouldn’t allow me to be better.

And then again to question eight, where Lee explains why he spends six months running new shows in the relatively small Leicester Square Theatre (as opposed to arena comics who might do 10 warmup shows followed by 60 tour dates).

You can still run it like a club gig, you can interact with people in real time. Also, you wouldn’t get better at the show because you wouldn’t have done it as many times. You can see this with an act like Gervais. Those shows have not been run in, they’re not fluid, they’re a succession of inflexible statements that would snap like twigs if the pressure of an unforeseen event was applied to them.

The journalist finally addresses this head on.  It really is worth reading the entire article - there’s a lot more than I’m quoting, including an interesting story about Sean Lock:

But here are my favourite bits:

[Gervais] still kind of copies me though, which is the weird thing. There’s still a lot of cadences of what I do but they’re used in the service of evil. In Star Wars, he’s Darth Vader and he’s taken the force, which is me, and used it for evil purposes. He was a fanboy, he was actually the booker at University of London and used to book me and Sean Lock all the time. And when he became famous for the Office, he wrote an hour-long act that was so indebted to us it was awkward. [...] If he’d come up through the circuit that would have been rubbed off him because you find your own voice doing club gigs. It took me two years of gigging five nights a week to come through the mesh of things I liked. But he didn’t have that experience in the same way. [...] Funnily enough, in his first show there were bits I’d never recorded that he’d do almost verbatim. He’d clearly remembered them. I went to see him at the Bloomsbury – on his invitation actually – with my then girlfriend and she was very concerned for me. I’d given up at that point due to lack of interest, and she was concerned for what it felt like to see my act being done to hundreds of people, it was quite weird. On the other hand, that sort of did make me think I don’t want it to be consumed into someone else’s vocabulary. And also, I think because he had a residual sense of guilt, he would always credit me in interviews as being an influence – that helped me in 2004 to get the audience back.

This is, to my knowledge, the first time Lee’s ever claimed that Gervais stole his material.  He’s certainly talked about Gervais clearly taking influence from him (though in the past, he downplayed this compared to the account given in this interview).

It’s a pretty big thing to accuse a comic of stealing material.  That’s a big taboo.  I reckon this is partly because Lee wants to discourage fans of Gervais from coming to the show.

Anyway, let’s finish by quoting the end of the interview:

It must be strange to have that level of financial remuneration and those audience figures but not really a single good review. And I expect what that does for you is create a cognitive dissonance where you have to manufacture a worldview by which the whole world is wrong and you’re right. Which can’t necessarily be very good for your mental health, although I expect the money’s nice.

[runningfrom2am]

leveling the playing field VIII

summary: you didn't meet the requirements for the plinth prize, only to find out that you're not just missing out on that- you're missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime. your friend wants to help, because maybe you can help each other.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 3.2k

tags/warnings: capitol brat!reader, maybe slightly ooc coryo, idk i tried my best. do they love each other or hate each other? who knows (we do, kind of). abuse, so read with caution!! also a little bit of swearing but that's neither here nor there

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a/n: omg so this is the final part of the first like, section of this story! i probably should have not called them parts bc idk what to do for the second like.. bit. season? maybe?) yeah sure, season two coming soon!! lol

thank you guys so much for being here and reading this and enjoying it as much as i have enjoyed writing it! it truly means so much to me :)

next part

You hear footsteps and turn around in the seat, hoping desperately that it's Coryo, and you are relieved to see that it finally is. He had been gone for close to an hour. You stand quickly, going to meet him halfway, what you had to tell him couldn't wait. "Coryo," You say quickly, before launching into the full story. "Lucy Gray came back, the others were chasing her and she hid in that vent and she's still in there, they're trying to figure out how to get in. She's stuck."

You follow him back to the desk, his eyes wide now too. "That's good... I think that's good." He's scanning the arena again, as if there's any inch of it he hasn't committed to memory, trying to see if there was any way Dr. Gaul's snakes could reach her in the vent you pointed to.

"No, no it's not good because I don't think there's another way out of that one except the way she came in." You dig into your bag as it hangs at his side, pulling out the notebook that you drew the map in. "Yeah, look- it's pinched off about thirty feet in." You point to the page, holding it out for him to see.

"She just has to wait them out." He insists, pushing your hand down. "Put that away- you shouldn't have that."

Why is he so calm about this? Lucy Gray was trapped, and this time there was nothing either of you could do to help her. "Yeah, but that's not going to work for much longer." You say, watching as the three make a plan to push her farther into the vent and try and get her out from the bottom.

Hurriedly, you close your notebook and put it away so you don't have to look away for long.

"Just a little longer, Lucy Gray..." Coryo mutters to himself and grips onto your hand at his side. At this, you reach across your body and rub his arm with your free hand. His whole future could collapse in a matter of moments if Lucy Gray doesn't survive. Yours could too. But as you watch Coral thrust her weapon up into the pipes that you know Lucy Gray is inside, you flinch, not knowing how much longer Lucy Gray can hold out.

You can't even process what is happening to Treech and the outcries of his mentor and people in the theatre, wondering what happened to him as he collapses with a bloody nose. You knew, so you avoided even looking in their direction as Lucy Gray tumbled from the now shredded vent, landing directly on top of Coral before making a run for it. You're sure Coriolanus isn't even breathing.

You aren't either when every one of the tributes freezing and the wind starts whipping Lucy Gray's hair around her face and her dress around her sides. Everyone watches as a large tank is lowered into the arena and dropped delicately on top of the pile of debris in the center.

"What is that?" You wonder out loud, and Coryo just shakes his head as you look up at him.

"C'mon Lucy Gray, get out of there..."

"Wouldn't it be funny if it was candy?" Lucky jokes and you stifle a laugh.

At this moment, the young girl from District Eight wanders out into the clearing, pale and skinny. "Is it over?" She asks no one in particular, making your smile fade.

"Wovey..." Reaper warns her from where he's kneeling next to the bodies he had covered with the flag.

"Can we go home now?" You clutch your hand back to your chest as she walks toward the tank- you don't know what was in the tank, but you know it wouldn't be good.

"Wovey." He warns again, more stern this time with a slight shake of his head.

The tank starts to splinter, cracking steadily along all sides until it bursts open. You gasp at the amount of snakes that come out. A wave of moving, rainbow destruction crashes over the floor and completely engulfs the little girl in a fraction of a second, as everyone else starts to run.

As Lucy Gray and Coral make a break for the walls, trying to get up to the stands, Reaper seems to just accept his fate. You feel... bad. He could have taken your offer made days before, he could be winning right now. At least he and Wovey didn't suffer.

As Lucy Gray pushes herself backward up the pile of rubble away from the fast moving snakes, Coral starts speaking to her. You can't hear what she's saying, but you can see she's crying- maybe pleading for Lucy Gray's help, maybe just saying her goodbyes to this world. It didn't matter, Lucy Gray was the last one alive as Coral's body got surrounded by the snakes.

Please work. Coriolanus begs the universe, hoping that the cloth he had used to wipe her tears and the one she used to wipe away the dirt from her skin before the interview, which he took from your bag and shoved into slots in the tank would be enough to save her.

"She won!" You grin, shaking Coryo's shoulder as he stands beside you, eyes still locked on Lucy Gray.

That's when she starts to sing, just as the snakes catch up to her. Why aren't they letting her out? It was over.

"Why aren't they getting her out?" You ask him, confused as everyone watches intensely, entranced by her voice.

"I'll be along, when I've finished my song..."

Coryo and you both turn, facing the audience now and all eyes immediately lock on Dr. Gaul. "Dr. Gaul, she won." He says, as if somehow she's missed it- surely she had. Surely she's not watching the same thing you are.

"When I've shut down the band, played out my hand..."

"It's over, let her out!" You shout, attempting to draw her attention.

"Paid all my debts..."

"Why aren't they attacking her?" You hear someone ask, noticing the snakes are almost entirely covering Lucy Gray's shirt now.

"Have no regrets, right here..."

"It must be the singing," Coryo replies, and you look up at him. You don't know that that's true, but you won't ask. "It's calming them."

"In the old therebefore..."

"She can't sing forever."

"Then let her out!" You yell, looking pleadingly up at Dr. Gaul in the stands. "Dr. Gaul!" You demand her attention now, stomping your foot down.

Your blood is boiling when she still won't look at you and the sound of Lucy Gray's voice fills the theatre. "Look at me!" You scream, and clearly, people are getting annoyed at you for interrupting Lucy Gray's song. "Look at me now or let her out!"

She does neither, not until Lucy Gray's song moves everyone else to match your cries for her to be released. Only then does Dr. Gaul look at the two of you, and you drop Coryo's hand.

The doctor sighs, leaning over to her assistant. "Get her out. Now." She says, and cheers erupt in the room previously filled with emotional tears.

"I did it." Coryo says, and you have to lean close to hear it over everyone's delight.

"You did it!" You laugh, throwing your arms over his shoulders. You scream in excitement as he hugs you back, lifting you up and spinning you around as people crowd the two of you. You don't think you've ever been happier.

As he lets you down gently, grabbing your cheeks and pressing a kiss to your forehead, you wonder if your parents are watching. You can't wait to get home, to see your family and let them sing your praises for Coriolanus's success in the games. Well, Lucy Gray's success that the two of you get to reap the rewards of.

Then, he's gone, leaving you to gather your things while he goes to see Tigris. You smile, sighing to yourself as you watch. It's likely your father has already sent the car to collect you, so you should probably get going. You're in dire need of a celebratory bath, anyway.

Last night, you had the best sleep you had gotten in weeks. A full eight hours- a privilege you didn't know you missed so bad. Even when you had to get up for school around six, you felt so well rested you knew you could take on the world.

That was until you walked downstairs for breakfast. "Good morning." You grin, skipping down the last couple of steps only to be met with your father hanging up the phone, storming over to you, and shoving you back onto the staircase.

"Sit down. Listen to me." He spits as you groan, holding your head from where it hit the railing and adjusting yourself so you are sitting properly on the stairs.

"Ow... What did I do?"

"You know what you did, Y/N." He hisses, pacing in front of you. "Un-fucking-believable! They went out on a limb for you, and this is how you repay them? Do you even realize what you have done? To me? To this family?"

The poison.

"Dad, I didn't do anything! I had no say in it! Coryo gave her the compact empty- it wasn't our business what she did with it!" You argue, standing up only to earn yourself a slap across the face.

"You were to give her nothing. You knew that." You hold your cheek while he lectures you, and you just nod.

"Yes, sir." You sniff, rubbing your jaw to soothe the sting of your already burning skin. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me- you will apologize to Dean Highbottom first thing this morning and hope he's smart enough to forgive you. Now, go."

You pull your bag back over your shoulder, avoiding eye contact with your little brother and your mother sat at the table as you walked out the door. It looks like you're walking today.

You make it to your first class, obviously not feeling too excited about the concept of speaking with the Dean. Coryo walks in just a few moments after you, stealing the seat at your side. You can't even look at him.

"Good morning." He whispers, pulling his textbook out of his bag. He's in good spirits it seems, but you know that won't last long. "You left in a hurry after the games yesterday, I was hoping we would celebrate together."

When you don't respond, he furrows his brow. Were you mad at him? Had he done something? "Wow, you're a ray of sunshine this morning, aren't you?" He asks, disguising his hurt as a joke. His intention was to come back to you after speaking with Tigris, he wanted to see if you would like to go for a walk or something and discuss everything. He didn't really have a plan, but he didn't want you to leave his side, not yet. The games had ended all too quickly, and you had yet to even discuss what had happened with the kiss you shared. He couldn't let you slip back into a routine of only seeing each other in class and during breaks, he couldn't bear the mere idea of it.

You slam your pen down on the desk, turning to look at him now. "We are in such deep, deep shit, Coriolanus." You hiss, taking notice of everyone looking at you so you quiet down.

"Your... your cheek." He just mutters, leaning in to look closely at the other side of your face and the maroon bruise that now adorned it. Even under your makeup he could see it. "What happened?" He reaches out to gently brush his hand over your jaw and you flinch away quickly.

You sigh, looking around quickly before leaning in closer to whisper to him. "They know, about the poison. We're done for, enjoy your final moments of freedom." You move away quickly as your professor starts speaking and the world begins to crash down around your best friend.

He sits back, face pale as his stomach turns. How could they know? They must have found the compact on Lucy Gray- it must not have been empty. Or was it the cloths in the tank? Those would be easier to find, probably, but how could they be traced back to you?

"We need to borrow Miss Y/L/N and Mister Snow, please." A peacekeeper says as he knocks on the open door frame, eyes quickly finding the two of you.

"It was nice knowing you." You sigh, quickly gathering your things and making your way down to the door.

He follows quickly behind, and for once, your classmates are silent.

A group of three peacekeepers lead you down a quiet hallway of the school, and stop at an open door gesturing for the two of you to enter.

"Ladies first," Coriolanus says softly, stepping aside for you to enter.

"Oh, so now I'm a lady." You scoff quietly, walking into the large open room, the high biology room, with nothing but a table in the center. The table is adorned only with the compact he had given to Lucy Gray, and two handkerchiefs. One of his, and one of yours. How did they get that?

"Kids." Dean Highbottom greets the two of you as the door slams shut behind you.

You open your mouth to speak, taking a breath and he stops you before you get the chance. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, Y/N, but I don't want to hear it."

"No, I think you do." You protest, "Because my-"

"Your father?" He cuts you off. "What about him? Because I just got off the phone with him this morning, and judging by the state of your face, I would argue that I am in agreement with him."

You swallow, fighting the urge to look down and avoid his gaze. If you had any chance of walking out of here without being in too much trouble, you had to prove that you were not afraid.

"Don't you think that she's been punished enough?" Coryo argues, looking between the two of you.

"Coriolanus." He ignores his plea, tapping the table next to the compact. "How many times did I see your mother pull this from her handbag to check her face? Your pretty, vapid mother, who'd somehow convinced himself that your father would give her freedom and love. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say."

"She wasn't." Coryo protests, referring to the Dean's insinuations about his mother. You look at him, but he won't meet your gaze.

"Only her youth excused her, and, really, she seemed fated to be a child forever. Just like the opposite of your girl, here." He gestures to you. "Eighteen going on thirty-five, and a hard thirty-five, at that. Your songbird, too."

"She gave you the compact?" Coriolanus asks, the sadness of betrayal evident on his features at the idea of Lucy Gray handing it over.

"Oh, don't blame her. The peacekeepers had to wrestle her to get the thing. Naturally, we do a thorough search of the victors when they leave the arena." Dean Highbottom explains, tilting his head as he looks between the two of you. "So smart of her, to poison the water Dill drank and dust it over Treech the way she did. If I didn't know better, I would have thought I was watching you, Miss Y/L/N."

You take a sharp breath, making an effort to straighten your posture.

"She claimed that the poison was her idea, that the compact was nothing but a token." He adds.

"It was." You state, though he is likely speaking to Coriolanus.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you got your story straight." Highbottom nods at you, voice dripping in sarcasm. "But I don't believe you. Even if I did, what am I to make of these?" He taps next to the handkerchiefs now next to it. "One of the lab assistants found these in the snake tank last night. Everyone was baffled at first, checking to see if it was one of their own that they had dropped. Until we noticed the initials. Not yours. Your father's. So delicately stitched into the corner..."

You look at Coryo, who is fighting to keep a straight face through his urge to vomit. "Why haven't you made this public?" He asks.

"I know why." You say, crossing your arms and looking the Dean up and down, who just rolls his eyes.

"I was tempted," He ignores you. "Believe me, I was. But the academy, when expelling students, has a tradition of offering them a lifeline. As an alternative to public disgrace, Coriolanus, you may join the peacekeepers by the end of the day."

Coryo's heart drops, as does yours. "The other one, it's hers." He points suddenly to the other cloth, next to his father's. Your jaw drops. How dare he throw you under the bus like that?

"I was getting to that." The Dean sighs as you shoot glares into the side of Coriolanus's head.

"I didn't do that! He took my bag, he took it and put it in the tank- I didn't know anything!" You argue, and he once again raises a hand at you to shut you up.

"Coriolanus, you better hurry. The office closes in twenty minutes, if you run you can make it in time." Highbottom says to your classmate, who just nods and turns for the door. "Oh, and what's that?" He asks, looking up at the skylight. "It's the sound of Snow, falling."

Coriolanus glares at him, pacing quickly out of the door and slamming it behind himself.

You're in shock still over why he would do that to you, but you don't have the time to process it before the Dean is scolding you. "Now, what will happen to you, huh?" He asks, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms. "Be honest, did you know?"

"No, sir." You reply, giving a firm shake of your head.

"That's a shame. He really threw you under, huh?" He laughs, mocking you. "After what I saw the other day, I was expecting he would defend you tooth and nail... but no. I mean, he is a Snow, after all."

You don't say a word, just glaring at the man in front of you and waiting for him to tell you your fate.

"Anyway, if it was up to me, you would already be undergoing the necessary procedures to become an Avox. Oh, how I would love to see you without a tongue." He muses, sighing in disappointment. "But I know your father would be embarrassed so I think it best to leave your punishment in his hands, would you agree? Outside, of course, your expulsion."

"You can't expel me!" You shout, fists clenched around the sleeves of your coat.

"Enough of your tantrums, Y/N. You're too old for this. But, alas, you're right. I'm obligated to extend you the olive branch too." He concedes. "You are allowed to graduate under the condition that you work in service for the next ten years. Although keep in mind, your father won't like that."

"Fuck your olive branch! How dare you threaten me like this! I did nothing wrong, we won!" You fire off, practically twitching with anger at this point. "If you won't go public with it, I will! I've got nothing to lose now, the whole country will know what you and my dad are doing! What you're selling! I'll tell everyone! You'll be executed for treason!" You didn't even notice when you started grabbing anything you could reach and launching it in his direction until the peacekeepers were grabbing the back of your arms and dragging you away kicking and screaming. "You'll hang for this!"

You hardly make it to the door before you feel a stab in your neck, and the world fades to black around you.

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[copperbadge]

You mentioned a little while back that you were revamping the Four Royal Advisors spread to one you were happier with for a "whole year, whole deck" reading. How's the progress going on that, and do you have any predictions for 2025 before we get too far into it?

I need to sit down, maybe this weekend, and do the reading -- I was going to on New Year's Eve, but let me tell you how that went.

When I worked in the theatre when I was much younger, sometimes you'd get a show up (or end a show) and your body would just go to pieces -- usually at least a couple of people got sick, and often it was simply that we'd been going so hard we had to stop and rest as soon as we could. It's been a long time since I've had that specific kind of thing happen to me, but December was busy and the last two weeks particularly were long and a bit stressful.

So after dinner on the 31st, I was so incredibly tired that I figured I'd lie down and have a rest. Usually if I go to bed around seven, which is early even for me, I'll wake up around eleven or midnight and have an hour or two awake before going back to sleep.

I lay down at seven thirty or so, was out well before eight, and slept through until like six am.

Clearly my body thought I needed way more sleep to face 2025, so my primary prediction is: we all gotta be really well rested.

But I will do the reading eventually :) And I promise to post it up when I do!

[talenlee]

Game Pile: Ironsworn

First up, this is a free game, and you can go get it. For free. I can’t repeat this enough. This game asks zero dollars of you and you should grab it and check it out right now because don’t kid around here, you’re probably going to buy something on the steam sales you don’t need and aren’t going to get around to play. Ironsworn is, no matter what else I have to say about it, interesting.

Ironsworn is an easily accessible, well-laid out and approachable RPG which is suited for multiple ongoing sessions to construct a campaign with an ongoing narrative. In an indie TTRPG space that is overwhelmingly dominated by single session, highly specifically flavoured game systems about campaigns with niche experiences and sometimes ambiguously structured mechanics, Ironsworn sets itself apart. It is presented in a single pdf, it is made to be printable easily and conveniently, and while it does have some need for dice you might not already have kicking around the house, they’re d10s, so it’s not like you need particularly special dice or commercially centralised ones.

Everything else I think about it aside: Ironsworn is a good, free and convenient RPG for you to pick up and go for if you’re looking for professionally presented high-quality material. You can just go grab the pdf right now and check it out, for free.

Ironsworn guides you through how to follow its process, it has a degree of success and failure system, it even uses its dice choices to create a little bit of the ole theatre. It’s a dice system that mathematically shakes out to be generally uncertain, and that means there’s always a chance you can fail at something you’re good at and always a small chance you can succeed at a long shot. There are no overwhelming opportunities for success and excellence, because the dice are set up so if there’s no reason to roll, you shouldn’t roll, and if you should roll, there’s always a chance the dice kick you in the pants.

This is a very functional game, it has no meaningful problems on that front, and while I have beef with it in its presentation (why did you spend eight pages on table of contents that’s what the index is for), it is easily one of the best of its type I’ve ever seen. Because of its easy availability and quality execution, I don’t intend to do a lot to talk about Ironsworn as a system or give you its special hallmarks and signifiers or even dig deep into the mechanical structures of it.

Still, even with those caveats, it isn’t really what I’d consider a perfect Decemberween game, though, and that’s because I can’t imagine showing up at a family gathering with some paper and pencils and go: hey everyone, I’m gunna drag this group of us into another room and we’re going to go have an adventure telling a story together, because the story that Ironsworn seems to want to set up is not exactly… party vibes.

It’s hard to talk about what Ironsworn is for or whom, because with just the text, I don’t have access to the author. When I talk about what this game is for, what it offers, I have to base it on the text present, and the only source I have for inspiration or framing in the start of the book is referencing its mechanical forebears: Apocalypse World, City of Judas, Dungeon World, Fate, and Mythic. That is to say, the first Powered by the Apocalypse game, a dark fantasy hack for it, a fantasy dungeon crawler hack for it, a universal roleplaying system, and a popular solo RPG system. This is good sourcing, but it also speaks to a particular space of inspiration and mechanical relationships. Based on that, at its heart, Ironsworn feels like its defining mechanical provenance is ‘more Powered by the Apocalypse.’

I want to say it reminds me of 13th Warrior, or The Northman or Beowulf, but none of those really capture everything going on here, because those are short, abrupt narratives about highly deadly scenarios and also they’re very homogenised culture spaces. Maybe Samurai drama, recontextualised away from an Orientalist lens? I can’t point to a particular piece of fiction and say ‘that kind of thing.’ I can’t point to an existing game space and say ‘Ironsworn is like that.’ By no means is any of this that Ironsworn is bad. It’s actually really impressive that Ironsworn is so singular in its identity that it resists any useful or reasonable reference frame.

Ironsworn is its own identity, it has its own structure, and while that is by no means bad it does mean that there’s no immediate, convenient on-ramp to get a friend into it. It feels like it’s a game system that is in conversation against things, rather than with them. That is to say, it feels like it’s for constructing gritty, lossy, despair-tinged stories of warriors setting themselves up for potential tragedy or desperate success in pursuit of potentially conflicting dramatic needs.

It feels, and I say this without it being an insult, it feels like someone was repelled by Dungeons & Dragons, then appreciated the comparative gritty lethality of OSR games, but found some reason to not produce in that space, and instead took those ideas and concepts to work in the Powered by the Apocalypse space, resulting in something that is itself, very new. Which is to say, I don’t feel like I can present Ironsworn to someone going ‘hey, this game lets us tell and play stories like these common signifiers,’ but instead, ‘hey, do you know how those common signifiers are bad? What if they were instead-‘

It is a good game that I checked out because someone asked me to check out Ironsworn. It is by no means a game I would recommend checking out for its theme or the stories it lets you tell. It is a game that I recommend because hey, get a load of how well presented and unique this thing is. Excellently constructed, mechanically coherent, well delivered and just… missing a hook that I understand.

I really think at some point in the new year I need to dedicate some time to finding someone who can run or show me Powered by the Apocalypse being run because it really looks at this stage like a system that’s perfect for just absolutely impeding an otherwise really good creative writing exercise with the besties.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[dr5amatic]

THE AGONY OF UNMADE DECISIONS ,

a sentence starter prompts list comprised of quotes from the novel if we were villains by m.l. rio. please be advised that this list may involve topics including, but not limited to, murder, death, and violence. change verbiage as needed.

why are you here? you should know by now i’m not going to tell you anything.

seems safer to let sleeping dogs lie.

it must eat you alive, not knowing. not knowing who, not knowing how, not knowing why.

you’ve kept your secrets all this time. it would drive anyone else crazy. why do it?

want to come out for a smoke? might help you relax.

your time will come to be the tragic hero.

let’s go skinny-dipping! i haven’t been swimming all summer.

seems like just yesterday my dad was shouting at me for throwing my life away.

you can’t do good work if you’re hiding, so we’re going to get all of the ugliness out in the open.

if you haven’t made any enemies in life, you’ve been living too safely.

you make a surprisingly convincing villain.

i know what you’re doing. you’re baiting me.

i don’t know about you, but i want to get cleaned up and go to bed and pretend this didn’t happen for like at least eight hours.

i think we were all fucked up from the start.

you promised me you wouldn’t say a word, so don’t.

i’m sorry, what the fuck just happened?

you know, people aren’t going to put up with your bullshit for much longer.

you’re probably the only person he’d listen to.

where’ve you been all night?

i was making the rounds for a while, but i got overwhelmed and snuck upstairs to do some reading.

i’m done with this fucking party, with all of them down there. what do you want?

why don’t you just tell me what happened? no performance. no poetics.

we can’t just stand around arguing about how it happened, we have to do something.

look, i know you have a pathological need to play the hero, but right now you need to stop and ask yourself if that’s really what’s best for everyone.

someone’s dead and you don’t know where you were?

before last night, everything was fine.

i care about you, and what might happen if you carry on like this.

he wasn’t an easy person to like, but he was an easy person to love.

what do you do? ignore your grief, or indulge in it?

maybe every day we let grief in, we’ll also let a little bit of it out, and eventually we’ll be able to breathe again.

i’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.

it doesn’t add up. we’re missing something.

you look like you might need someone to carry you.

i’m going to bed unless you’ve got something to say.

i’ve had enough of your sexual misadventures for one year, thanks.

it’s fucking freesing and i’m not leaving you out here alone.

when did we become such terrible people?

why don’t we get a drink or something? just us. i can’t think straight with everyone watching like we’re a reality show.

i just–maybe it’s because you’re you, and i mean, look at you–but i don’t understand. why me? i’m nobody.

you know, everyone calls you ‘nice,’ but that’s not the word. you’re good. you’re so good you have no idea how good you are.

we carry on as usual, or they’re going to want to ask all kinds of questions we don’t want to answer.

are you going to cold-shoulder me all night?

what’s gotten into you? you don’t sound like yourself.

you’re smarter than this. 

i’m not keeping any more secrets for you.

you can justify anything if you do it poetically enough.

you’re just going to leave me?

i think hell may have frozen over.

when you enter the theatre, there are three things you must leave at the door: dignity, modesty, and personal space.

anything can feel like punishment if you’re taught poorly.

you can’t quantify humanity. you can’t measure it–not the way you mean to. people are passionate and flawed and fallible. they make mistakes. their memories fade. their eyes deceive them.

i want so badly to be so mad at you that i could kill you, but i can’t, so i’m mad at myself instead. do you even understand how unfair that is?

i don’t know what’s wrong with me. i want to hurt the whole world.

why don’t you sit, and i’ll pour tea?

he was my friend—much more than that, truthfully—and that was enough. i didn’t need to know why.

can i help? i still–i want to help.

let me put myself back together and then i’ll come find you.

it’s like i look at you and suddenly the sonnets make sense.

tell me you didn’t do it.

i never wanted you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.

we have to go back and act like nothing’s wrong. we’ve got to get through tonight, and then we’ll worry about it. all right?

you know, it’s not too late if there’s another version of the truth you want to tell me.

will you rest easier with one less mystery on your mind?

you were real to me. sometimes i thought you were the only real thing.

[starcrossedmusings]

Phantom Touches (Teaser)

Pairing: opera ghost!yeosang x f!reader WC: 397 Warnings: suspense, yeosang is only a little bit creepy

Summary: Your fascination with the famed Paris Opera House had started as a child, and now even the opportunity to work under the new owners on the housekeeping team has you thrilled. Your first week of work is full of mystifying moments, including an encounter with a certain masked phantom.

A/N: First fic on the new blog is in the works! I dreamed this up while watching Phantom of the Opera with my friend the other day and absolutely could NOT get it out of my brain. I hope you all enjoy the teaser, especially all of my theatre atiny out there ♡

Entering box eight felt entirely forbidden based on the rumblings you'd heard among the ballet girls, but Madame Giry had insisted that you had nothing to fear--the opera ghost likes his space to be kept tidy she had barked out to you, best to not agitate him, girl. As you crossed the threshold into the private suite, you noticed a lingering smell that had become familiar to you this week--that wafted by in empty hallways and whispered past darkened corners--roses and old parchment paper. Your gaze swept over the space, finding no evidence that anyone had been up here recently. This was unsurprising to you of course, you imagined ghosts couldn't make that much of a mess, even if they wanted to. Taking a deep breath and shaking out any lingering nerves, you began your initial dusting of the room, paying special attention to the baseboards and intricate moulding toward the top of the space.

You were entirely alone in this wing of the opera house...until you weren't.

You felt before you heard. The presence buzzed in the air, making the little hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end. And the smell--roses and parchment--intensified. The feeling of someone standing behind you overwhelmed your senses and you turned around to find...

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A shiver ran it's way down your spine as your gaze once again scanned the room for whoever had clearly entered, but whoever they were, they must have vanished as soon as they came. The smell had also quickly disintegrated back to it's mild counterpart. You felt crazy. Hell, maybe you were crazy.

And yet, maybe you weren't.

Because now there was something laying on one of the plush velvet-lined seats. Something that most certainly hadn't been there before you entered the box. A note sealed with wax, and a single dark red rose. Your name was written on the outside with scrawling flourish. You carefully opened the note, looking around wearily before peering at it's contents.

My Dear Y/N, I do hope you pay more mind to my space than the last maid they assigned to my box. She was dreadfully incompetent. Madame Giry assures me you are much better suited for the role. And much more attractive. Do not disappoint me. ∼Opera Ghost P.S. I do hope you will sing for me. Giry also assures you have talent worthy of my time.

[our-flag-means-love]

welcome to elliot flagmeanslove's

STEDE BONNET OUTFITS TOURNAMENT

do you have Opinions about stede bonnet's outfits and need to make your voice heard? well you're in luck! there's now a bracket for that!

round one (left half) starts around midday EDT on saturday, july 27th, and each round will last a week.

please consider reblogging to spread the word!

idk if this has been done before but i don't care i'm doing it anyway <3

additional info, guidelines, and image description under the cut!

i'll be tagging all the polls with "ofmd" and "stede bonnet", but if you're not interested and don't want them clogging up the tags, you can block "stede outfits tournament".

voter fraud all you want, i'm not a cop.

there will be no variations of the same outfit (e.g. nightgown with cap compared to nightgown with eye mask) with ONE exception that felt important, which was the full godfrey thornrose outfit and the outfit in the "you wear fine things well" scene, aka godfrey minus the jacket and wig.

there are a few variants with the battle jacket and depression robe, and i didn't want to narrow it down to just the ones with the nightgown or just the ones with a shirt and breeches, especially because those overlap with other entries too, so the battle jacket and depression robe are both just In General.

there were also a few minor outfits i just plain had to cut in order to reach a power of two. sorry to the outfit from when stede left home and both of his childhood flashbacks, maybe next time.

these were seeded partly randomly but mostly by my own judgment, because ime random seeds always feel even less fair. i first sorted them based mostly on aesthetic appeal and general fandom opinions—but also importance of scene(s) to a lesser extent—into groups of four (all the #1 seeds, all the #2 seeds, and so on), then randomized which would be in each quadrant, then played around with them a bit to make them pretty from there (roughly even distribution of s1 vs s2, not all episode 4 flashbacks are in the same quadrant, etc). if you have a problem with this, no one's forcing you to participate.

[ID: A tournament style bracket. It has "Stede Bonnet's Outfits Tournament" written at the top. The background is a half-opacity photo of the bow of The Revenge. The bracket is made up of a series of rectangular white bubbles, connected in pairs. On the left half of the bracket, the first column has sixteen bubbles, the second has eight, the third has four, the fourth has two, and the fifth has one. This arrangement is mirrored on the right half. In the center of the image is one larger bubble with "Winner!" written under it.

Only the thirty-two total bubbles in the outermost columns contain words. From top to bottom on the left are: turquoise suit (1.1); nightgown (1.6-1.8); blankets only (wink emoticon) (2.7); wedding suit (1.4); steve irwin (1.7); dream (2.1); depression robe (1.7-1.8); run me through (1.6); goldfish (2.3); peach suit (1.6); brown suit (1.8); theatre kid (1.6); slut era (2.6-2.8); act of grace (1.9); ed's leathers (1.4); and naval academy (1.9). From top to bottom on the right are: cursed suit (2.5); meeting mary (1.4); back home suit (1.10); battle jacket (1.1-1.6); godfrey thornrose (1.5); anniversary (1.4); cut-open shirt (1.2); red flag (2.2-2.3); YWFTW (1.5); long may he roam (1.10-2.5); blue suit (1.5); fab pants (1.4); ran aground (1.2); treasure map (1.7); white suit (1.3); and british uniform (2.8). All of the inner bubbles are blank. /End ID.]

[orions-choker]

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Serial Killers, Murder, Obsessions, Yandere tendencies, more to be added.

Chapter Eight

“You really think right now is the most important time to be taking me on this date?” Y/N asked with a soft huff as Kirk’s hand rested in the crook of her elbow, guiding her down the cracked pavement. The streets were dead as usual lately. She missed back in high school when things were lively downtown, filled with raucous laughter from teenagers and the disgruntled mumblings of the annoyed elderly. She felt almost stupid being out here.

Kirk smiled down at her, her eyes catching on the small sharp crooked tooth that nestled between his canine and front teeth. A flush warmed her cheeks, he was impossibly cute. “Y/N you can’t completely shut down your life, who knows how long it's going to be until they catch this creep you can't hide forever.” He said in an attempt to be encouraging. But she could, she could hide forever if she tried hard enough probably. “And I promised you I was taking you on a date.”

She could crawl into her parents bed, nestled between them the way she used to when she was six with her dog in her arms, have them protect her from the cruel intentions of the world outside. Hell based on the way the streets looked right now that's what most people were doing. Kirk seemed ever fearless though, she couldn't tell if she was impressed or unsettled by the way he just…didn’t seem to care about all of this. “Yeah well, going to see a horror movie right now seems like a bit of a tone deaf date idea don’t you think?” She asked, her eyes wearily glazed over a missing person poster tacked to one of the telephone poles. It was one of many, this girl had been found…she supposed her parents didn’t have the strength to come take it down.

The grip Kirk had on her arm tightened slightly as they approached the movie theatre. “Well that’s why we're going in the middle of the day, won't be scary that way.” He said nonchalantly, frowning playfully at her. “It’s a creature feature anyways, not remotely the same.” He waved his hand dismissively as he approached the teller and began purchasing their tickets.

“That’s not what I meant.” Y/N mumbled wearily as Kirk shoved an oversized popcorn into her hands. She could appreciate his carefree attitude only in the sense that it distracted her. But she was getting uncomfortable with his increasing lack of care for the situation at hand. She remembered when she first approached him in his backyard just a few weeks ago, how mature he had seemed, the way he had expressed his condolences to the victims.

She was coming to realize he was a lot less mature than he acted, she found it hard to believe that he was older than her. It was something about the way he was always smiling at her, always laughing under his breath like there was an inside joke she wasn’t in on. To top it off, his insistence that they go on this date worried her. She liked Kirk, she liked him a lot actually but dating was the last thing on her mind.

He had simply ignored her protests as they shuffled into the dark theatre. It was empty and cold, that didn't surprise her. Who in their right mind went to see a horror movie in the middle of your neighbors being slaughtered like cattle. Her and Kirk she supposed, though she wasn’t quite sure either of them were in their right mind at this point. Kirk seemed to flip on the drop of a dime between overwhelmingly playful to almost scary. She hadn’t missed the possessive primal look in his eyes when he didn’t think she was looking.

Initially it had excited her, made her feel a bit warm and fuzzy to think he was that interested in her. “Relax baby, I got you, remember?” He leaned over to whisper in her ear, noticing the tension in her shoulders. He didn’t really need to whisper no one else was in here. Maybe she was a little messed up in the head in the fact that it seemed to comfort her. She leaned her head against his shoulder as the lights from the screen began to illuminate their faces.

Suddenly Kirk's hand was on her cheek, guiding her face up towards him as he pressed his lips to hers. Her whole body went limp as she kissed him back. She had quickly grown addicted to these metallic cigarette flavored kisses. She pushed up the arm rest in between their seats that had been separating them as she leaned further into him. Yeah she was messed up, making out with him in this empty theatre to the backdrop of blood curdling screams and monstrous growls. She pulled back with a soft gasp. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here, pretty sure they have cameras in here.” She whispered.

Kirk was looking at her with a flush to his cheeks, his eyes dark and lidded. There was an almost aggressive curl to his fingers against her hip. “What, it’s not like there's anything illegal about kissing.” He grunted softly as he tugged her closer. “That's all this is baby, it's okay c’mere.” His lips ghosted across hers once more. She couldn’t deny the thick sweet desperation lacing his voice. Y/N climbed into his lap a little awkwardly, restricted by the size of the theatre seats. Her hands cupped the back of his neck as she kissed him fervently.

His fingers dug almost painfully into her skin as he slid his hands up beneath her sweater, his blunt nails leaving indents in her flesh. She hissed softly against his lips but didn’t dare pull away. She almost choked as Kirk pushed his tongue into her mouth and down her throat. A soft needy whine coiled up from her throat, drowned between the soft smacking of their lips together. Her lips were swollen and bruised by the time the end credits to the movie rolled. The only thing interrupting the two of them was the brightening of the theatre lights.

Hesitantly Y/N crawled off him, leaning down to rub at her cramping calves. She watched as Kirk not so subtly adjusted himself in his jeans, his hand slipping beneath the waistband to tug his hardened length up flat against his stomach so it was less noticeable. It was lewd, the movements and her mouth went dry. “You should wash your hands after touching your dick.” She chastised him instead.

He blinked at her and laughed, a sweet airy sound. She was completely enamored with him in spite of his…concerning behavior. “You serious Y/N?” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they left the empty theatre back out into the lobby. “Did you wash your mouth out after you sucked me off the other night?” He whispered teasingly to her.

“What!” She sputtered, looking up at him with wide eyes. An embarrassed flush rising to her cheeks. “I- Yes I did!” She protested softly as he continued to laugh at her. “Oh my god Kirk you can’t just say things like that.” She covered her face in embarrassment, as if the two pathetic workers in the building could possibly hear the conversation they were having right now.

There was a soft kiss planted on her temple as Kirk’s laughter died down. ”Jesus Y/N calm down you look you’re about to combust.” He shook his head, his wild dark curls bouncing softly. “You don’t have to be so shy around me, as cute as it is.” He pressed her closer against his side as they made their way back to his car. “How about we get takeout and head back to my place.”

As Y/N slid into his passenger seat she eyes his glove box wearily. She wondered if that knife was still in there. The silver gleam still fresh in her mind…why did he keep that in his car. Self defense seemed highly unlikely who keeps a butcher's knife for self defense. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably. “I don’t know Kirk, I think my parents want me back home, I’ve been at yours all weekend.” She sighed. Since that phone call two nights ago she had been spending the night at Kirks. Her parents were less than pleased but were comforted by the fact at least she was right next door, they couldn't really do much to stop her anyways.

Kirk had a tight grip on her thigh as he started the car. “You don’t have to spend the night again, just…hang out with me a little longer. This is a date is it not?” He grunted, he was trying to keep it playful but she could hear the genuine aggravated tone in his voice. This was a date she supposed, a bit of a…odd one. She hadn’t even really agreed to it, kirk had sort of just woken her up and insisted she come with him.

“Yeah, okay.” Y/N relented with a soft sigh as she relaxed beneath his touch, his fingers grinding into the soft flesh of her thigh through her jeans. His touches were always so hard and aggressive, his kisses soft and fleeting. It was a balance she was struggling to figure out. “I think I just want a drink, I don’t have much of an appetite lately.” She rested her head back against the seat.

It was hard to miss the way Kirk's face lit up as she agreed to stick around him a bit longer. She didn’t really pay attention to where he had stopped to get food. Her eyes were trained on his figure as he disappeared into the shop. Quickly she leaned forward popping open the glove box. There it was tucked in the back beneath his insurance papers. Her hand gripped the handle gingerly as she tugged it forward to get a better look, It was discolored along the razor sharp edge, it almost looked rusty.

A sick feeling settled its way into the pit of her stomach. She flipped it over a couple of times in her hand. Why was…Her eyes caught sight of something else, an earring? She pushed the knife back beneath the papers, nestled into its poorly concealed hiding place. She pinched the silver hoop between her fingers and closed the glove box once more. Kirk has his ears pierced sure but this was unmistakably a woman's earring. A large glimmering silver hoop, she laid it flat in her palm as she stared down at it.

It wasn’t hers, she knew that much. Kirk’s moms maybe? She didn’t ever recall seeing the woman wear anything quite like this before though. An ex fling, a random hookup? For some reason that thought made her stomach twist even more uncomfortably. Why did Kirk have this, why did he have that knife. She jumped lightly as she heard the driver door open again, her hand quickly clasping around the earring as she looked up at Kirk with a surprised smile.

“Woah, jumpy much?” He teased her, placing the plastic takeout bags in her lap. Her heart was hammering wildly beneath her ribcage, she had almost been caught snooping again, she could remember the way he snapped at her when she opened his glovebox the last time. “You good?” he asked a little softer this time, noticing the distant look on her face.

Quickly Y/N shook her head, snapping herself out of the daze. “Oh yeah I’m fine, sorry just zoned out while you were gone.” She lied quickly as she smiled brightly at him. She could feel the silver hoop burning against her skin, reminding her of its presence in her fist. It felt heavy, like it carried the weight of hundreds of sins, she couldn’t let go of it. Discreetly she slipped it into the front pocket of her jeans. “Thanks for the milkshake.”

Kirk hummed and nodded. “Mhm, got you Oreo, your favorite.” He smiled, his hand returning to its rightful place on her thigh, like it belonged there, like he owned it. Oreo was her favorite, she didn’t know how he knew that though. She was almost positive it had never come up. It was almost an undetectable slip up, but she was hyper aware. Something was seriously wrong, with all of this, with Kirk. She should have been scared, should have pried a little further into him before she had gotten so comfortable with his presence. But instead she relaxed under his touch and looked up at him softly and she smiled.

“Yeah, it is my favorite.”

[anxiousgaypanicking]

Oreo

Synopsis:  As a joke, Roman's forced to ask Virgil out after losing an oreo. Flustered, and somewhat embarrassed and humiliated by the connotation that dating him would be such a bad thing, he says yes out of impulse, and must now deal with what being Roman's "boyfriend" entails. Taglist: @renys @falsemood

Part Eight: Movie Theatre Mayhem Masterlist

“He’s running late,” Virgil hisses as he sits on Logan’s porch. Janus sits next to him on his phone, and Logan sits next to Janus with a book out. 

“He’s not running late,” Logan objects, flipping to a new page. “The movie doesn’t start until six. It’s only 5:30.” 

“That doesn’t even factor in the previews,” Janus adds, nudging Virgil playfully in the side. “The trailers and advertisements start at six; the movie itself probably won’t even play until a quarter past.” 

Virgil’s leg jumps as he sits. “I’d still prefer we leave early.” 

Janus gives him a smirk. “Why? Excited to meet up with your boyfriend? It was very kind of him to offer to pick us all up; you might want to consider thanking him somehow. Like with a kiss, perhaps-?” 

Virgil shoves Janus away, scooting away from both him and Logan. Janus snickers openly at his groan of disgust, while Logan presses the back of his hand to his mouth in order to hide his amusement (though, in Virgil’s opinion, he’s doing a terrible job). 

“What movie are we seeing anyway?” Logan asks, though he doesn’t really sound like he cares - more like he’s just trying to move on. “I believe we decided against the horror one?”

“Roman said it’s called ‘The Misadventures Of Ms. Marjorie,’ or something,” Virgil answers, pulling his knees to his chest. “I think it’s some stupid kids movie, but there isn’t really anything else playing.” 

“It’s a musical,” Janus further explains, turning to Logan. He shows Logan his phone, which has a synopsis of the film pulled up. Logan sets his book down on his legs in order to properly read through it, and seems to glance back up at Janus, before nodding in appreciation. 

Virgil meanwhile pushes his head into his hands with a groan. “Is it?” he responds, sounding more aggravated by the minute. “I can’t believe that’s what you and Roman decided on.” 

“It’s less stupid than plotless gore,” Logan replies. “It would have been dull watching poorly-achieved special effects splatter around what’s supposed to be a bloody scene. That, or outright bad computer-generated imagery used to create what could otherwise be done ten times better with props. At least a kids movie will have a story to follow along.” 

Grumbling under his breath, Virgil really has no counter and so just makes a few angry noises to just his discontent, though he’s mostly ignored by the other two. 

His phone sits right beside him, and he subconsciously keeps his hand rested on it, waiting absentmindedly for any vibrations. And when it does vibrate, he has it up within seconds, unlocking it and pulling down his notification bar in hopes Roman has some explanation for why he’s still not here… twenty till. 

Instead, there’s a message from Virgil’s father. 

‘I’m sending you grocery money. Extending my vacation by another week or two. Love you,’ followed by Virgil getting another notification of money being sent to his account. It’s enough to cover groceries - enough to cover a month’s worth of groceries in Virgil’s case - and it makes Virgil click his phone off and drop it back onto the porch, pulling his legs tighter to his body as he tucks his face into his knees and stares barely over them out towards the road. 

Janus and Logan are talking quietly beside him, as they’ve both set down their entertainment in favor of each other’s company, but Virgil can’t find the energy to join them. 

At 5:50 is when Logan starts to look a little antsy, and leans forward a bit to direct his words to Virgil as he asks “any word from Roman? At this point we’re set to miss the trailers, and I’m not too thrilled with that notion.” 

Virgil gives a half hearted shrug. “I don’t know.” 

Logan raises an eyebrow. “Can you check?” 

Staring at him, Virgil feels the brash impulse to chuck his phone at Logan and make him check, or ask why they can’t communicate with Roman considering they had no qualms regarding tagging along, but instead he just bites his tongue and lifts his phone briefly. Seeing no new notifications, he curtly responds “he hasn’t said a thing.” 

Reaching towards Virgil, Janus sets a comforting hand on his upper arm, which encourages Virgil to take in a deep breath. 

Focusing on breathing for just a moment, Virgil immediately finds himself feeling a little better, and so adds quietly “I’ll… I’ll send him a text, and ask what’s taking him so long.”

“You did remember to give him Logan’s address, right?” Janus jokes, which has Virgil frowning at him, but relaxing nonetheless. 

But as he pulls up Roman’s contact in preparation to text, a familiar white car comes rolling slowly into view, with it parking on the curb shortly after. As it stops, Logan and Janus look towards Virgil for affirmation that this is in fact Roman, and the flush on Virgil’s cheeks says everything they need to know. 

“¡Mi vida!” Roman calls, waving towards Virgil, and hurries towards the porch. “I’m sorry I took so long.” 

Virgil stands immediately, and avoids Roman’s affectionate hands, making a beeline towards the car instead. “It’s fine,” he sharply replies, in a way that lets Roman know it’s in fact not fine. “Let’s just hurry and get there before we end up missing the movie.” 

He gets into the passenger seat and watches Roman through the window as he talks a moment more to Logan and Janus, before they follow suit to the car as well. Janus and Logan slide in the back, while Roman gets into the driver’s seat, buckling up and checking around to make sure everyone’s done the same. He then flashes Virgil a sweet smile that Virgil responds to with a piercing glare.

“I am really sorry I’m late,” Roman begins again, as he starts the car. He speeds a bit down the block in an attempt to make up for lost time, though it just makes Virgil feel carsick as they hit a few turns too fast. “Remus’s tutor ended up having to cancel, and there was a whole issue between our mom and dad involving… custody stuff.” Roman looks uncomfortable, even while walking through the rather vague explanation. It has Virgil actually turning to him with a bit more curiosity, but Roman stares straight ahead at the road, lips pressed shut. Displaying visible discomfort, Roman didn’t look as though he was going to elaborate any further. 

And so Virgil shifts away again and musters up a meager “okay.” 

The car ride is silent past that point, with not even Janus and Logan making conversation in the back. The air is thick, and Virgil’s fingers run along the window’s buttons, debating whether or not he should roll them down to try and make things feel less hot and cramped. 

However, he doesn’t get the opportunity to before they’re pulling into the movie theatre parking lot. 

“Ha!” Roman exclaims, as he shifts the car into park. “We’re here! And with five minutes to spare! That’s plenty of time to get concessions and get settled!” 

“I’ll pass on the concessions,” Logan says, as he steps out and onto the asphalt. “I’d rather get into our auditorium as soon as possible.” 

Circling around the car, Janus stands a bit too close to Logan as he nods and says “I’m with Logan on this one. I’m not necessarily hungry for oversalted popcorn anyway.” 

Roman smiles at them as he moves towards Virgil, bringing out his wallet and pulling out two twenty dollar bills. Passing them to Janus and Logan, he explains “I assume we’re all going to sit together, but because I’d like food you guys can just buy your tickets separately. That way you won’t have to wait up.” 

Janus immediately plucks the money from Roman’s hands, as Logan can’t help smiling and thanking him for his consideration. Virgil frowns. 

With Logan and Janus walking ahead of them, Roman keeps at Virgil’s sluggish pace, and links their fingers together without hesitation. The action causes Virgil to whip his head towards Roman, hissing out an embarrassed “what the hell do you think you’re doing?” which just has Roman giving him a shy smile. 

“Well,” Roman answers, cheeks pink, “this is like a date.” 

“We’ve already been on a ‘date’ asshole; I don’t understand why you’re smiling like a dope.” 

Roman shrugs. “That was like… a trial date. This is like a date date.” 

“There’s no difference.” 

Cheesing from ear to ear, Roman responds “there totally is.” 

By the time the two of them step inside, Logan and Janus are already making their way down the hallway in line to their theatre, though Virgil watches Janus glance back and smirk at them as he sees their hands intertwined. Virgil is almost tempted to rip free of Roman’s hold, but doesnt, and instead lets Roman lead him to the concession counter. 

Virgil pulls out his phone while Roman strikes up a short but friendly conversation with the worker, before he tells Roman what seats Logan and Janus got so they can sit by them. Getting a good look at the concession screen, Virgil can see the theatre is completely empty, which does make him feel a little better. Then Roman’s ordering a large popcorn and two drinks, before nodding towards the candy racks. 

“Hungry for chocolate or anything?” he asks, though he seems more like he’s encouraging Virgil to grab something as opposed to just merely asking. 

Virgil doesn’t answer him verbally, but reaches over to grab sour Airhead bites, which he tosses onto the counter with a grunt. 

Seemingly pleased, Roman hands Virgil the two empty cups. “Could you please get me cherry coke? And then you can get whatever you’d like,” which has Virgil walking off immediately to go do as he’s told, giving them both a little ice and a lot of soda as Roman finishes up his transaction. He comes over while Virgil’s pressing the lids on and then trades Virgil the drinks for the popcorn. 

“I’m not sure how you like your popcorn, so butter and salt how you’d like!” 

“I don’t care how it’s done.” 

Roman seems to soften a bit, and his smile falls as he places the drinks on the counter. He sets a hand on Virgil’s upper arm. “If you don’t want to be here, we don’t have to be. We can go home if that'll make you happier.” 

Virgil feels guilt swell in his gut as his head falls away from Roman’s gaze. Wordlessly, he pushes the tub under the butter machine, and moves it around so that the entire top layer is coated. He then gives it a little shake in an attempt to mix it around, before adding a few dashes of salt and setting it before Roman, as if presenting it to him. 

“The stuff underneath won’t be as good, but whatever,” he says, which again has Roman frowning. 

“Virgil, I’m serious. We don’t have to stay.” 

Uncomfortably shifting his weight back and forth on his feet, Virgil wraps his arms around himself. “Are you wanting to leave? Because I never said I wanted to.” 

“You just…” Roman trails off, and then also looks away with a sigh. “You just look miserable. If you stay here while upset, you're just going to end up associating this place with feeling upset. Or… or me with being upset. I don’t want to be the first thing you think of when you feel bad, and I never want to keep you somewhere that’s making you feel that way.” 

Roman’s phone vibrates in his pocket, which briefly throws him off, but he ends up shrugging it off and pushing Virgil’s drink towards him. 

“Please… do you actually want to stay?” 

Virgil stares at the drink, and then takes it. Though it’s difficult, he ends up giving Roman a small smile. “Yeah. I want to stay. There’s just… a lot going on.” 

Groaning playfully - seemingly relieved by the tonal shift - Roman goes “tell me about it,” and then chuckles to himself. His ease regarding the situation does help alleviate some of Virgil’s own tension, and he watches as Roman grabs three straws. He gives Virgil one, and takes one for himself of course, before winking at Virgil as he slides the third into the popcorn. Then, he very carefully positions it under the butter dispenser and pushes the button, causing the butter to spill down and into the straw, where it’s efficiently and cleanly transported to the popcorn at the bottom of the tub. And Roman lifts the straw slightly until he’s sure the middle is coated too, and then gives the tub a few more shakes. 

He then proudly lifts the tub up. “There! Now it should all be just as delicious as the top!” 

Virgil can’t help but snicker at his dramatics. He grabs his coke and candy, and walks with Roman to their theatre. “Where’d you learn to do that?” 

Roman doesn’t answer for a moment, his smile seeming a bit more forced now, before blinking twice and responding “my mom. She was a stickler for making sure the popcorn was all properly coated. Before the butter machines were moved to the self-serve counter, she used to terrorize the concessionists to make sure they did it right. Everyone was relieved when it became a do-it-yourself thing.” 

Virgil bumps lightly against Roman’s side as they walk, and neither of them say anything more. 

Once they get to their seats, the lights have already dimmed and the trailers are playing. Janus and Logan are talking between each other, but both greet the duo when they arrive. Virgil sits between Janus and Roman, with Roman and Logan sitting on the outsides. They’re in the middle of this otherwise completely barren auditorium, making it feel a lot more vast than it actually is. 

All of the previews that play are brightly-coloured, animated PG films that Virgil really has no interest in, but Roman sets the popcorn in his lap and then whispers in his ear a variety of praises, ranging from “the animation in that one is extremely experimental, and I really like it,” to “the CG there looks kind of average, but I’ve heard the story’s going to be really good,” which encourages Virgil to pay more attention to the preshow. He starts to notice the nuances in character movements he wouldn’t have picked up on otherwise, or certain words that the characters say that apparently allude to earlier movies, and when the previews end, Virgil almost wishes they weren’t late getting here so he could have seen more of them. 

The lights in the theatre darken completely as the movie starts, with all four of them reclining their seats back to get comfortable. Janus reaches over to take a handful of popcorn. And then the studio’s logos flash across the screen, leading into a live-action film with a very bubbly undertone, similar to Mary Poppins but somehow even more whimsical. 

“What’s the plot of this movie again?” Virgil quietly inquires as the main character - presumably Marjorie - starts singing. 

“Marjorie falls into another world and has to adjust to the crazy rules implemented there,” Roman explains, as he takes a sip of his coke. “Think about like… Where the Wild Things Are but with less of a ‘home is where the heart is’ moral. This is more so about how being curious is a good thing, with a dash of learning to question authority.” 

Virgil raises an eyebrow. “That feels like a rather complex message for a musical.” 

Roman smiles wide. “I know, right?! People think kids are a lot dumber than they actually are. A lot of them internalize the actions of those they look up to, including figures in media! If they see Marjorie questioning ‘well, why do we do this?’ then they’ll mimic it, which’ll help them learn more about the world! It’s actually really thoughtful…” 

Sensing there’s more to that sentence, Virgil goes to ask Roman to elaborate, but he hears Roman’s phone vibrate against the seat before he can. 

Roman’s cheeks go red in embarrassment as everyone turns to look at him, and he apologizes as he quickly fumbles to pull it out. He doesn’t silence his phone as he clicks it on, instead checking a notification. Virgil doesn’t mean to snoop, but can’t help noticing a message that says ‘You have to come over. You’re a kid, Roman, you have no choice in the matter.’ 

Roman’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the spit in his mouth before he shuts his screen off and slides it between his thighs, so that he can feel it if it goes off again, but so it won’t make a noise. He then turns back to Virgil with a weak smile. 

“Sorry,” he says, “what was I saying?” 

“Kids will echo what they see in movies?” 

“Right! Yes, well… not every child has a good role model to look up to, which is why some kids grow up acting… bad.” Roman sounds like he has someone in mind. “Of course, you’re responsible for the things you choose to do, but not everyone knows better, if that makes sense. Sometimes it’s all they’ve seen. And that’s why people like Marjorie-” Roman waves his hand towards the screen, where Marjorie is in the middle of skipping through her daily routine, smiling at the people she walks past and buying a hot dog for a kid who lost his money, “ -are more important than people realize.” 

Staring, Virgil just watches the way Roman’s eyebrows crease. He’s still smiling, but he doesn’t look happy. 

“... Do you wish there were more people in the theatre?” Virgil then asks. 

Seemingly surprised at the question, Roman doesn’t have an immediate answer, but after a moment nods his head. “I do. Though, this movie has been out for a while. There was a chance it was popular when it first came out, and the lines slowly dwindled as more and more people came to see it.” 

“That makes sense.” 

Roman seems pleased at Virgil’s understanding, and then turns back to the movie. He takes some popcorn into his hand - letting Virgil keep the tub even when Virgil attempts to give it back - and tries to stay focused on the screen. 

But as Virgil watches Roman in his peripheral - weirdly focused on him instead of the film - he watches as Roman checks his phone again. And then again twenty minutes later. And the third time it happens, and Roman unlocks his phone, Virgil can’t help but read over his shoulder. 

He can’t see well in his current position, but he does see ‘...if you don’t, I’ll take David back to court’ followed by ‘do you not love me? Is that why you won’t come?’ and then ‘it’s that failure of a brother of yours poisoning your mind. You know I love you, Roman, I just want what’s best.’ 

Roman starts typing, but his thumbs quickly still. When Virgil looks up from his phone and to Roman’s face, he sees tears welling up in Roman’s eyes. 

Hearing the faint vibration in Roman’s hands, he turns his attention back to the screen to see ‘I’m your mother, Roman.’ 

Phone screen shaking slightly, Virgil can see that Roman’s trembling. His other hand is pressed over his mouth, and he’s fighting back tears - a feat that is only impressive for a few seconds until inevitably they fall past his cheeks and onto his laps with every blink of his eyelids. He’s silent, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less… terrified. His chest rapidly rises and falls, as if he’s struggling to breathe. If Virgil could hear him, he’s sure Roman would sound like he was gasping for air. 

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Virgil reaches over and sets his hand atop Roman’s, subsequently covering up the screen. 

Roman immediately turns to him with wide eyes, and is quick to turn away again to wipe his face. He smiles at Virgil - a smile that’d be rather convincing under different circumstances - and opens his mouth to apologize, but Virgil is shoving the half-empty popcorn tub into Roman’s hands before he gets the chance. 

“Let’s go get a refill,” he whispers, and Roman shuts his mouth and nods. 

Virgil grabs both of their drinks as Roman carries the tub out, and they convene at the self-serve counter. Roman’s quiet, and Virgil is at first as well, until he’s done filling their drinks up. 

“Are you… going to take the popcorn up for a refill?” Virgil asks, which has Roman - who was just staring at the tub - nodding absentmindedly. His thoughts are clearly elsewhere, and Virgil can imagine why, so he walks beside Roman as they pass their popcorn to the concessionist. It’s filled and handed back, but instead of going back to the movie, Virgil guides Roman to sit on a bench right outside their auditorium. 

He then passes Roman his coke. “Drink,” he instructs, and Roman does. Then, he picks up a few pieces of popcorn and brings it to his own mouth, before motioning for Roman to do the same with the simple encouragement of “eat.” 

That has Roman shaking his head. “I’m not hungry right now,” he replies, sympathetically. 

“Eat,” Virgil further pushes. “Trust me… just for right now. At least a handful. And then you won’t have to eat anymore if you don’t want to.” 

Roman looks unsure of Virgil’s words, but he doesn’t seem to have the energy to argue, and so does as Virgil wants and eats a handful of popcorn. He chews slowly, and wipes the excess salt on his pants, but after he’s swallowed he looks back towards Virgil. 

“Why’d you want me to eat?” he asks, and Virgil can see that though Roman’s eyes still shimmer with noticeable wetness, they’re at least not filled with full-on tears. 

Sighing, Virgil scoots a bit closer to him on the bench, letting their shoulders touch. “It’s… it’s like…” Virgil struggles for a moment, as he places his own drink between his thighs, resting his hands on the sides of it and rubbing over the condensation that drips slowly down the sides. “It’s like… a grounding mechanism? Typically when people get anxious or panicked it triggers a primal fight or flight response, even if there’s no one to fight and nothing to flee from. And because it’s a response that we had hundreds of years ago to protect us from danger, there are sometimes really simple ways to calm down following it. So your brain thinks ‘hey, if we’re running from something, we don’t have the time or safety to stop and eat,’ so if you sit down and eat something, it can help calm you down because your brain will realize that if you’re safe enough to eat, then you’re safe overall…” Virgil folds his hands around his cup, and weakly adds “does that make sense? Logan could probably explain it a lot better than I could… but it typically helps me, so I thought maybe it’d help you.”

Roman’s quiet, but after a moment eats another few pieces of popcorn, and then gives Virgil a closed-mouth smile. “Yeah. It helped.” 

Virgil glances towards him, away, and then towards him again. 

“We can… we can go back into the theatre if you want. Or we can stay out here. It’s up to you.” 

Roman smiles wider, more embarrassed this time. “It’s up to you, actually. I’ve seen this movie before.” 

“You have?” 

Roman nods. “I didn’t want to just tell you outright because I didn’t want you to think I’d be bored by the film or anything, but I came to see it when it first came out. I love animation of course, but I also love musicals, and this movie was getting high reviews from critics so I thought I’d come and see it myself.” 

Virgil reaches for some popcorn. “And you liked it enough to come see it a second time?” 

“Yes.” 

When Virgil doesn’t respond to that immediately, Roman awkwardly laughs and ends up further insisting “but really it’s only because there was nothing else playing. If you and Janus and Logan didn’t come to the movies, I probably wouldn’t have bothered with it.” 

“If you like it, then there’s no problem with you coming to see it again.” Virgil squeezes his coke, and ends up playing with the straw with his fingers. “When I was little, I used to have a stack of burnt DVDs. Apparently they belonged to my mom, but a lot of the movies were kid films, so they were entertaining enough to keep child me occupied. Well, one of the DVDs was The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don’t know if you can tell, but that’s exactly the kind of movie I would like.” 

Roman chuckles at Virgil’s words, and so Virgil relaxes further against him. 

“I watched it over and over again on loop. Of course, there were skips caused by scratches on the back of the disc - I was a child after all, and was left with a DVD that had no case to go with it - but it was watchable for a good long while. So believe me when I say I get wanting to watch a movie you like a few times over. Sometimes multiple watches help you appreciate nuances you didn’t see before.”

Roman’s hand creeps into Virgil’s lap, slowly guiding Virgil’s fingers away from his cup and entwining their digits together. 

“I think you’re very smart,” Roman says, quietly. “Thank you for sitting out here with me. Even though I totally would have generously gone and got us refills myself if you’d have let me.”

Virgil snickers, and pushes Roman away, saying “well, in that case, I’m sure you won’t mind properly buttering the popcorn then.” 

Huffing, Roman stands with the tub. “You just want to get me off the bench.” 

“Oh? Are you not feeling so ‘generous’ anymore?” 

“You’re lucky I-” 

Roman cuts himself off abruptly, cheeks going dark red, and gives Virgil a proper, cheeky smile as he scoots off without another word. Virgil watches him from afar as he heads down the hallway, and leans a bit to try and catch bits of Roman’s body peek into view as he moves about the self-serve counter. 

He’s so caught up with watching, in fact, that he doesn’t notice Janus and Logan leaving the theatre until Janus taps him on the shoulder, startling him and causing him to nearly crush his drink between his thighs. 

“You missed the end of the movie,” Janus says, as he grins at Virgil’s embarrassed display. 

“Got too caught up talking,” Virgil admits in reply, grumbling under his breath. “Didn’t realize how long it’d been.” 

“Shame,” Janus says, “Mary’s growth throughout the movie was truly spectacular.” 

“Marjorie,” Logan corrects, “but I’m inclined to agree nonetheless. I really admire her inquisitive attitude. I think it’s very realistic to question rules in a new environment, especially considering how odd some of them were.” 

“What about the music?” 

“For an original soundtrack, not too bad,” Janus answers. “I think jukebox musicals are guaranteed to sound great if proper music is picked out, so I’m always a little skeptical when a movie makes its own songs, but these ones weren’t horrid. Maybe a bit too cheesy, but nobody’s perfect.” 

Logan reaches for Virgil’s drink, which Virgil hands to him. “I personally didn’t care much for the music. I never understood why characters will randomly burst into song and everyone will treat it like it’s normal… it’s absurd!”

“It’s fiction,” Janus says with a laugh, as Roman comes back to them. 

“Oh…” he breathes, as he sees everyone convening around the bench. “Is the movie over already?” 

“It seems that way,” Virgil responds, as he pushes himself to his feet. 

Roman frowns, but it’s a very overdramatic pout as opposed to any real disappointment. “Well that sucks! Though, I guess now we have popcorn for the road…” he hums in thought as they begin walking towards the exit. Janus and Logan - having stolen Virgil’s cup - fill it with what they want before they leave, and then they all get to Roman’s car. 

It’s only once the car’s turned on that Roman suddenly lights up, and turns in his seat so that he’s facing everybody. 

Motioning wildly to the popcorn tub he’d set on Virgil’s lap, he excitedly proposes “what if we all came back to my house for a movie night?! My dads and I can hook up a sheet in the guest room, and I’m confident we have a bluetooth projector somewhere! And that way we can play whatever we want!” 

He looks between each of their faces with cute anticipation, which has Virgil brushing his bangs out of his face as he’s the first to answer “sure. I don’t have anything else going on tonight.” 

With Virgil’s confirmation, both Logan and Janus answer with affirmative “sure, why not?” and “that sounds pleasant” respectively, which has Roman happily patting his hands against the steering wheel in a rapid battering pattern. He’s nearly shaking with sheer delight, which Virgil can’t help but smile at as he relaxes in the passenger seat and pops a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth. 

Roman opens his phone to put on some music for the ride home, connecting it to the speakers and setting his phone carelessly in his cup holder. It’s unlocked, and the screen is on. 

Halfway through the first song, Virgil barely hears the phone vibrate over Roman’s belting to some cheery love-song, and instinctively glances towards it. When he does, he sees the words ‘I’ll see you next weekend’ followed by a singular period - sent separately from the prior sentence - only for the message notification to disappear up into Roman’s notification bar, reduced to just a little text icon. And suddenly Virgil’s prior pleased mood melts away, because something about that message has his hands clamming up. 

It makes him feel uncomfortable. It makes him feel sick. It makes him feel dread.

[desmond69miles]

The Catch

This is sort of a prologue to 'An Artists Eye'. It uses the same way of meeting/Élise and Bellec are still alive, but reading the previous fic is not necessary! This is supposed to be after the game (but obviously a different ending), it more so came out as a completly different timeline- what the hell it's fiction anyway

Arno offers to show you around the hidden assassin base below Cafe Theatre. He also offers a risky sexual time in a small, curtain-drawn study in the archives.

Warnings/Tags: Google translated French, GN reader (no descriptions listed), oral sex/blowjob, risky sex, getting caught, probably ooc Axeman but IDK anything about him (he 'flirts' with you).

Word Count: 3.4k (rounded up)

AO3 LINK: Here

Enjoy.

---

Arno Dorian was a man of many suits. He drank like a monster, risked his life daily in more ways than one, and fought like a madman. But, he was an attentive lover. Caring and somewhat good-natured when it came to you.

You were wary of Arno's regular disappearances and injuries once you started dating him, perhaps a little more worried than a normal partner would be. You weren't sure if his gambling was getting him into fistfights or if he got into one too many scraps with local drunks, but you could never recall a time when he didn't come back to you unharmed. 

At first, you’d thought him a thief or maybe a smuggler. To your surprise, he was neither (or both) but an assassin. You laughed at him then, giving him a look of disbelief, but when he stayed stone-faced, your look of humor soon turned into panic. 

“Arno,” you had said, “you cannot be serious. An assassin?” He gave you a slight smirk that you can still picture perfectly today and took your hands in his. “Yes, an assassin. I’ve been one since I was twenty-two.” He said it so plainly that there was no other truth besides that- a killer. You weren’t scared, though, and perhaps you should have been. You trusted him not to get himself captured or, worse, killed. 

Despite your trust, he did come home wounded quite often. The unexplained injuries suddenly made a lot more sense, especially the stab and slash marks from a sword--and, god forbid, a bullet hole once in a blue moon. While you weren’t thrilled about becoming skilled at suturing your lover, you got exceptionally good at it. In return, Arno affectionately called you ‘mon infirmière.’

My nurse.

“Arno,” you sighed nervously while threading a needle. “You know that you’re supposed to stick them with your sword, not be stuck by their sword, right?” He laughed and winced after, fists clenching at the two-centimeter-deep slash wound on his right side. “Oui, mon amour, I’m well aware. Sometimes, it’s a bit difficult while fighting three people at the same time.” You side-eye him then, tutting. “I have you, though, mon infirmière. You are much more gentler than Elise and not as scrutinizing.” 

You also missed him a lot, even when he was right beside you. The constant fear that he might one day leave and never come back haunted you.  Every time he returned in the dead of the night, you couldn't help but feel a surge of relief. You would thank him, your voice barely audible as he quietly removed his boots, careful not to disturb your sleep. 

It’s been six months since you’ve started dating Arno. Your worry decreased dramatically during that time. Partially because the longest missions Arno’s been on are only a few days to a week at most, partially because he’d always spend a day or two before that mission with you doing things he’d know would quell your stress. This time, though, he’d be traveling to Toulouse for three weeks: six hundred and seventy-eight kilometers, a day and a half carriage ride away.

Arno was going to leave in two days, and he had been spending time with you in between the preparations. You sat in a chair by the fire, scribbling around your sketchbook. Arno was gone—probably below Cafe Theatre or in the study—the only thing keeping you company was the gentle crackling of the flames and the songbirds chirping outside in the terrace garden. Summer was coming to its final stretch and starting to transition into fall. Leaves were turning into gorgeous shades of red and orange, the temperature just warm enough to leave without a coat, and the apple trees were blooming to make the perfect apple cider. 

A beautiful time of growth and change, and you’d be experiencing it with mostly Elise and your best friend (not that you had anything against Elise or your best friend; you did love them, but something about fall was so romantic). 

“Mon amour,” a disembodied voice said, “what are you drawing?” His hands rested on your shoulders, squeezing lovingly before he leaned down to kiss the top of your head.  “Eurasian jays,” you replied, moving your gaze from the crisp paper to your lover. He stole a chaste kiss and looked at your page of elegantly drawn birds. Arno recognized them as the bird that stole a piece of your bread a few months back, a smile drawing to his face. 

Arno sighed through his nose. “How are you?” he asked, his voice ever more soothing at this peaceful moment. “Alright. How is your work going? Are you still leaving in two days?” His slight noise had confirmed, although he did not speak, and he moved one of his hands down, carefully taking your sketchpad away and setting it down on the table next to the chair. 

“I have something that might put your mind at ease during my mission,” Arno said softly. “The Council has permitted you to visit our headquarters. You can meet my mentor and our fellow assassins. While you can't go there alone, I thought it might comfort you to see where I spend my time.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, quickly taking his hand as he helped you stand.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I weren’t certain,” he replied, reassuringly smiling. “There aren’t many people there right now, maybe my mentor or a few friends. We could go now if you’d like?” You chewed your lip briefly, pretending to ponder before nodding. “Alright, let’s go.”

Arno led you down the familiar hallways of Cafe Theatre, but this time, he stopped at a spot you had never taken much notice of before. With an odd-looking key that you’ve never seen before slotted into the lock, the dark wooden door swung open with a quiet groan. Inside was a dimly lit staircase that descended into a stone hallway with a red rug lining the middle.  “This way,” he said, taking your hand as he guided you into the dimly lit corridor.

The passage trailed downward, the air growing cooler and damper as you descended. The walls were lined with old, worn stone, and the faint scent of old books and earth made up the air. Arno walked with the confidence of a man who’d traversed these halls too many times to count, his gloved fingertips brushing against the bricks while his arm that didn’t wield the blade held your hand. 

Eventually, you arrived at the bottom of the staircase. The hallway was much grander than you had seen from the top of the stairs--curtains framing big paintings of what you assumed were important figures in the assassin world, numerous pedestals holding silver or iron statues, and a large red tapestry with a white emblem on it hanging from the tall ceilings, the Creed’s sigil. The room was illuminated by torches mounted on the walls, casting a warm, flickering glow that danced over Arno’s face and shadowed a beautiful gleam on him. 

Once the hallway ended, there was a room containing a long table surrounded by haphazardly pushed-in chairs. On all four sides of the room was another hallway, but the one in front of you led into a vast room resembling a courtroom. It was no less magnificent than the hallways—possibly a little more—such as the oak table covered in various maps and documents and the walls lined with weapons and other neatly organized tools of the trade. 

Arno turns to you with a gentle smile, speaking in a tone that feels a little too loud for the setting, “This is where I spend much of my time when I’m not with you. It’s not much, but it’s home.” 

You took in your surroundings with a deep breath. There was a strange comfort, as well as uncertainty and awe, seeing where Arno lived most of his life. You had talked about seeing the creed’s hideout when you first found out about his position, and honestly, what you saw now was not what you envisioned in your mind. When you think of Assassin, you think of torturing and other dark things. While you were sure it did happen, there was no hint of it here. 

True to his word, there weren’t many people in the hideout. In fact, there wasn’t a soul around. “Is it normal for there not to be people?” You ask, looking at Arno as he wraps an arm around your waist. “No. Usually, there are many people, but most of us are out on missions, and the council is out on a meeting with-” “Arno!” 

“Axeman, mon ami!” 

You turned your head to the right to see a man walking towards you, an axe strapped on his back. You rolled your eyes playfully at the ‘clever’ name of his friend. Axeman slapped his hand on Arno’s shoulder in a hello, his brown eyes meeting yours. “And half of us thought you made them up,” he jests, sticking his hand out for you to take and gently kissing the back of your hand. “How could I make someone so great up?” Arno smiles, and his arm briefly squeezes you closer. 

Axeman chuckles while running a hand through his pushed-back brown hair. “As much as I’d like to stay and chat with your lovely partner, I do have a mission to get to.” He gives you a small smile and Arno a playful smack again, turning to walk the way you came in. “Bellec’s around, so be on your best behavior.” 

Once his buddy left, your lover turned to you, giving you a frisky smirk. “Let me give you a tour,” Arno grabbed your hand again with a slight squeeze and led you deeper into the underground hideout, his hand warm even through the worn leather glove. “This way,” Arno said, pulling you to the left hallway. This passage was thinner than the others and dimly lit by candelabras placed every five feet, occasional carvings etched into the stone walls between large pillars. Large wooden doors started after the fourth pillar, and Arno took you to the second one on the right side, swinging open the heavy door and nodding you inside. 

“This is the main training room.” He gestured with a flourish, letting you step inside and look around. The space was huge, with mats covering the floor. Wooden dummies and targets lined two of the four walls, some riddled with throwing knives and arrows, some looking so broken it was just remembrance of rough training. Three assassins were sparring, one sitting down to the side drinking water and two practicing their knife skills. 

“Care for a quick lesson?” He teased, knowing full well that you weren’t one for battling people, instead gnats or annoying flies that buzzed around. “Maybe later,” you replied with a grin, “What’s next?” 

He followed you out and closed the door behind him, leading you across the hall into the next door. “Here is the armory.” The room opened to reveal wooden walls lined with weapons of every kind: swords, daggers, pistols, rifles, smoke bombs, bomb bombs, and, of course, things to maintain the hidden blade. Each was meticulously maintained and ready for action. “Most of us have our preferred weapons, so this is mainly for recruits or people who have lost a weapon. Pick any weapon, and it’ll have a story,” Arno said, following you inside.

His fingers brushed an ornate-looking sword, the beautiful engraving on the blade glinting in the candlelight. You reached out, touching a dagger with an intricate hilt next to the sword Arno was looking at. “What about this one?”

“Ah, that belonged to Thomas de Carneillon, an assassin in the 13th and 14th century,” Arno explained, “he tried to steal a sword of Eden, the same one that killed Germaine.” He gives you an inquisitive look and lets you wander around the round room, watching as you observe the weapons with a curiosity that makes his stomach twinge in an absurd kind of attractiveness. 

Once you circle the room and return to Arno, he offers his hand again and leads you out of the room and deeper into the hallway. “You’ll love this,” he assures, motioning towards the end of the hallway where a huge arch opened up to a library. “This is the south archive,” he said, smiling at your giddy smile. 

It smelled like old parchment, ink, and worn leather-bound books, a scent that engrained itself in your brain. Shelves upon shelves of ancient tomes, scrolls, and books lined the walls, going up to the ceiling where a giant metal chandelier hung. Maroon velvet curtains lined the arch, and when you slipped into the library, you didn’t notice Arno tugging the golden rope that held them back. The drapes made a soft noise as they closed, dimming the room just the slightest bit, and Arno watched as your fingers trailed over the spines of the books. 

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “You said that this is the South archive?” Arno hummed a ‘yes,’ coming up behind you as you pulled one of the smaller books off the shelf. He wrapped his arms around your hips and kissed your temple, scanning the book you opened. “This library isn’t the biggest one here, but this one is always empty, perfect for us.” 

Arno watched the trail of your fingertips against the worn paper, gentle like your fingers when you trail them over Arno’s back. His eyes followed your hand as you turned the page, forefinger and thumb pinching the page like when you pinch your nipple while he’s fingering you. He should not be turned on right now. 

“Arno,” you said, head turning to look at your lover behind you. His eyes caught yours, your pretty eyes that always glistened right before you orgasmed, and right then, he made up his mind. Before you could speak again, Arno had pressed his lips against your soft ones, maybe just a little too roughly, the leather of the book in your hands creaking with how hard you gripped it. 

His hand grabbed the book from your hands and placed it back on the shelf with a little bit of struggle. Nipping your bottom lip, Arno’s hands gripped your hips and slipped his tongue inside your mouth. He tasted like wine and something sweet--something him-- and god, you’d be lying if it wasn’t intoxicating for the both of you. When you did pull away, a slim bridge of saliva connected your lips and snapped when he licked his. You were suddenly very aware of the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into--his erection pressed into your behind and his needy hands wandering your body.

“We’re in the base,” you un-needily whispered, sucking in a small breath as his lips moved to your jaw and pressed a kiss just behind your jawbone. “Oui, but we are alone. No one is near us, and we’ll be quiet.” You shakily breathed as he continued to kiss along the side of your neck and fuck; if the thought of risk didn’t set a throbbing between your legs, you weren’t sure what did. 

With an enthusiastic nod, Arno grabbed your hand and pulled you to one of the curtain-drawn study rooms off to the side. As he did with the entrance to the archive, Arno pulled the rope holding the drapes back off and dropped it to the floor. The ambient candlelight under the curtains, the only light in the ‘private’ study room, set a surprisingly intimate aura as Arno’s hand cups the side of your face and kisses you again. This one was headier, making your mind swim as his other hand grabbed your butt, pushing your hips into his. 

Your hands that had been resting on his shoulders slipped down his chest and to his belt, one palming his obvious arousal and the other fiddling with the belt buckle. He groaned into your mouth, hips chasing your hand as you moved it up to help undo the buckle. His hands joined yours in a messy struggle, and once his belt was undone, you immediately sank to your knees. 

Arno swore--a short, breathy ‘merde’ that sent every single ounce of blood that was in your brain rushing south, and with that blood came a fleeting thought of how easy it was to get you to suck him off in a place with people. It wasn’t the first time that you had sexual interactions in a public place--far from it--but it was the first time that you’d be on the giving end. 

His hand came to rest on the back of your head as your fingers unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down with his undergarments just to free his cock. Even in the darkness, you could tell that he was fully hard, your hand that didn’t rest on his hip coming to stroke him teasingly slow. Your thumb swiped over his tip that dribbled precum, and his hips twitched with a soft groan that was nothing short of heavenly. 

You softly pressed your lips against his head and trailed them down his shaft, letting your spit dribble against his heated skin and slicking him up with your hand. His quiet groans and the schlick of your hand made up the space--an erotic opera--and finally, your lips slipped around his tip and gently sucked. “Dieu, fuck, don’t stop,” Arno groaned, hips rocking in time with the drawls and push of your head. After enough saliva drips from your mouth and down his cock you took him deeper in just so the head of his cock was resting against the back of your tongue. 

Arno moved both of his hands to the side of your head and gently held you in place, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, and he began to thrust into your mouth. At first, his thrusts were shallow, but as your hands came to his thighs once again, Arno gave a chuckle and picked up his pace. You slid your tongue against the underside of him, and he let out a groan, one that was a little too loud. “Good job, mon amour, good job…” 

No matter how many times you took him in any way, there was never a time where he failed to make you so painfully aroused. 

“Suck,” Arno said, stopping his movements rather deep inside the constrictive heat of your throat and petting your head. And just like he said, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked. His head thudded against the wall he had his back rested on, and, oh, that groan. Primal and needy and wanting in every sinful way known to man. “S'il vous plaît, continuez, putain, juste comme ça. Tu me prends si bien- si bien, fuck!”

His fingers threaded through your hair and gripped the strands, holding them tight as he rocked against your mouth. Arno was so, so close, you just needed to suck a little harder and-

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, ARNO?!” 

You immediately pull off of Arno, who seems equally surprised but, strangely enough, not embarrassed. You wiped the back of your mouth with your hand and turned around, face mortified at the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. He shook his head and turned around, letting the curtain fall behind him, and you could still tell he was outside due to the shadow from under the drapes. Arno haphazardly tucked himself back into his pants and offered you a hand up off the ground. When he pulled you up, you gave him a look, one that said Arno, are you fucking kidding me? but all he did was chuckle and step out of the study. 

“Désolé, Bellec.” Your lover said, utterly unphased by the fact you had just been caught in a very precarious and intimate moment, and you heard a sigh from not Arno. “You never fail to amaze me, pisspot,” The man- Bellec- laughed. 

You stood in the study for a good fifteen minutes with your face aflame, too embarrassed to even walk out of the hideout. 

Thankfully the second meeting with Bellec was not when you were sucking Arno off and instead over wine (that doesn’t mean you weren’t a hot-faced mess with an embarrassed smile on your face throughout the whole thing, though). 

[moonshynecybin]

one thing i think about in the fco au is if maybe vale would have warned marc not to race immediately after the first surgery which marc obviously does not take well and it leads to this huge fight where he’s accusing vale of not wanting him to race bc he doesn’t want marc to succeed anymore and break his records (or maybe he doesn’t go that far ? not sure where their relationship is at at that stage.. but something similar!) and vale calls him a danger to himself and others etc and marc rides anyway and well his arm swells etc etc and he’s so regretful so ashamed and is in so much damn pain + things are awkward with vale and it’s just a nightmare

oh oh and (not very related) but did they ever like set a time for when they would stage a breakup? or did they just deicde to take it one day at a time and overtime they were both too scared to mention it and then one day like some reporter asks marc if he’d ever considered retirement and just living out his days at the ranch and that gets marc thinking about like what he and vale would do once he actually retired bc then he wouldn’t have to be the only gay rider on the grid, he wouldn’t even be on the grid, and maybe there wouldn’t be need for all this theatre anymore and in the times he’s not thinking about the championship he’s only ever thinking about this, and is anxious to the point of straight up asking vale like. how will we break up. and the electrical circuits in vale’s brain start smoking and explodeee

jerez fight would go CRAZY like genuinely such a nadir in their relationship where marc after that REALLY regrets not listening to vale. like hes constantly living with it thinking like. if i had just listened to him i wouldnt be in pain everyday and having to rehab my arm and wasting years of the most competitive i will be in my short career. and VALE... lowkey also thinks that but feels more guilty about it. because hes hurt marc a LOT in this universe and hes not even the one in pain so what right does he have to even be resentful (<-incredibly traumatized man by way of motorcycle racing injury/fatality)... and i think that to overcome it they decide to set up an agreement between them where vale has more input in deciding if marc is healthy enough to ride. like he has to call and check in after a crash kinda deal. again like working as a unit. and of course he unionizes with alex in situations like uh. malaysia 2022 probable concussion highside. and then its a bit better

and the original plan for FCO au is a pretty contained story-- one year of fake dating (where they start fucking like MONSTER TRUCKS again about halfwayish through) and then hondayamaha pr gives them the okay to breakup at the end of the year and vale has like eight insane internal meltdowns about it while marc closes himself off like gangbusters cuz he thinks theyre going back to square one. and vale realizes he misses him and that’s enough leverage to get him out of the self destructive pits of horrendous guilt and GOOOOO to his twink

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I quit my school play?

Tl;dr at the bottom!!

For context, I’m 15f and was just cast in my school play. I had never been in one of my school’s productions, so I figured I’d give it a try and make some new friends (I transferred to this school). I really enjoy theatre, and I’ve been in productions since I was around seven or eight years old; I’m no stranger to it.

Well, it turns out the amount of interest for the school play was a lot bigger than they thought, so there were limited roles. Thankfully, I did manage to get into the main cast, so I was like, yay me (even though it was a smaller role, which I was wholeheartedly expecting, albeit a tad sad about)!

Yesterday, we finally started rehearsals and read from the script once, to get a feel of our characters. I didn’t know much about the role, since it was a lesser known play and all that was in the description for my character was ‘foreign housekeeper’. All I knew is that I’d have to have some kind of accent (something I’m not too good at, but I figured it would be fun to get out of my comfort zone a bit), so I had been practicing some kind of accent at home to try out with the script.

But when I was reading through my lines, I quickly discovered that this was NOT what I thought it was going to be.

My character, putting it lightly, is a blatantly xenophobic stereotype. They are a completely one note character whose only personality trait is, ‘foreign’. She can’t speak English very well, and tends to ‘mix up her words’, which the other characters tend to berate her for. She also never speaks in more than four words at a time, and the script goes out of its way to never have her speak in more than one syllable at a time. It’s disgusting, and I fucking hate it!

Here’s a direct line from the play so you can see one of the worst examples.

MY CHARACTER: No nuts in this house!

CHARACTER 2: Do you realize what you did, [my character]? You put all the words in the correct order! That’s wonderful! We’ve been waiting so long for this day!

MY CHARACTER: You thank.

CHARACTER 3 (and this character is the goddamn LEAD): Well, she’s bound to get things right once in awhile.

It just..makes me so uncomfortable. I want to get out of my comfort zone, but playing this character takes me out of it and places me one hundred miles away in the open desert.

The worst part I think is that this show is a goddamn murder mystery, and my character has no fucking purpose. They don’t even end up dying; they’re just there for ‘comic relief’, and it’s all fucking xenophobia! And at the end, it’s revealed that they’re stealing from their bloody employer.

I also think, based on their prior recorded performances, they’re going to put me a costume I’m not comfortable in…so I’m really considering quitting right now.

Here’s why I think I may be the asshole for quitting.

I technically signed a contract (not knowing about the characters but assuming it wouldn’t be more than a few swears and some sex jokes here and there) that I would play any character they cast me as…so I would be breaking that promise if I quit. There IS an understudy, so I won’t technically be fucking them over with this…but god, I am such a people pleaser that I’m thinking about just sucking it up and playing the part.

My parents told me I’m overreacting on the part and that I just need to ‘make it fun’…but fuck, I just can’t with it. I want to cry every time I’m at rehearsal because I feel like I’m condoning xenophobia with it.

So, do you think I’d be the asshole if I quit the play?

Tl;dr: WIBTA if I quit a show I signed a contract for (although there is an understudy) because I don’t feel comfortable with playing a character that is an xenophobic stereotype?

What are these acronyms?

[intothedysphoria]

It took a while but Steve eventually got Lola to put on her socks and go into daycare.

To say that Lola was a precocious child would be putting it mildly. Lola Harrington was one of the oddest four year olds Steve had come across and he could admit that as her father.

Her current mission was a “pre-school boycott”. Steve still wasn’t sure where exactly she’d learned that word. It was nothing bribery couldn’t solve though, and with the promise of yogurt, Lola was finally through the maroon doors and Steve could go to work.

By the time he came to pick her up, she’d already figured out a new demand and the new one was much harder to avoid.

There had been a revelation in the world of boisterous toddlers. A revolution even. A new favourite adult had emerged during a class trip to the movies and now Lola was insisting on rewatching Inside Out 2 to speak to the funny man selling the tickets.

Steve thought it was going to be a problem in that the man would be sickeningly sweet and refuse to address Steve by name. Instead, Steve was greeted with the kind of guy who’d reject him a nightclub back when he still went clubbing.

His voice was the kind of voice Steve would dream about as a teenager and he was definitely wearing mascara. Steve may have had the more lucrative career but this guy had definitely won the genetic lottery.

He was also charismatic in the kind of way that Steve could see deals being sold left and eight if put in front of the right person. Steve may have been a cynic but he could definitely see himself being swept away by that silver tongue.

The name tag said Billy and Steve already knew that name was going to haunt him for at least the next 6 months.

Billy certainly didn’t disappoint. He had a way of sticking in Steve’s life, especially after Steve found out that he also had a job at the local coffee shop he frequented.

It felt like madness, being so consumed by a person who he’d only spoken to twice. Four times if you counted polite small talk in professional settings. He did seem to have a soft spot for Lola’s forthright nature but nothing particularly special towards Steve.

Not that he seemed to have anything particularly against him but he didn’t really have anything for Steve either.

The first time they spoke without Lola, Steve had left her with Robin so he could watch Deadpool and Wolverine. No date, just Steve.

Billy had dyed his hair green and was wearing very thick eyeliner. More in the realms of emo than traditional beauty. He was also swearing under his breath as he tried to get the coffee machine to work.

Steve, being Steve, offered to help and Billy actually accepted.

He was apparently a bit of a technological Luddite and anything made past 1997 seemed to hate him. Steve could relate and they made a few minutes of mindless conversation about hopeless technology fails.

There was a point where Billy’s hand brushed across his, just a little and Steve felt his stomach start dancing with butterflies.

It was probably nothing. Billy was talking to him more now but it was probably nothing.

Lola continued to obsess over Billy to the point where Steve had to explain that Billy was just someone they knew in the context of him being at work and they didn’t have infinite money to spend on movie theatre tickets.

Billy decided to disprove Steve’s point by both giving them discounted tickets and his number. Landline because he didn’t have a mobile.

Steve listened to a lot of Chappell Roan that weekend. She just suited his vibe.

Considering her track record for acidity, Carol was uncharacteristically engaged while listening to Steve’s plight. That may have been due to her planning to hook up with Chrissy Cunningham but Steve took what he could.

She also told him under no circumstances was he to fall back into “high school Steve” because in her own words “he was a colossal bitch and you aren’t that babe.”

Those words were echoing in his head still when his car came to a standstill on a quiet road, hours away from home. There wasn’t a gas station or mechanics anywhere near and there was no way for Steve to contact Lola’s babysitter because his phone was out of battery.

He was at the point of sobbing of frustration when a literal bright light saved him.

Billy in his fast car, stopped by Steve’s Beemer and asked if he was ok. Well, Steve had certainly been better.

Instead of just taking Steve’s word and driving off, Billy sent a ‘wait there’ hand gesture and started fiddling before making a satisfied grunt and watching the engine come to life again.

Billy was explaining with a lot of mechanical jargon what exactly was wrong with his car but the stress had made Steve lose his head. Because he kissed him.

Billy kissed back even more intensely so Steve guessed he wasn’t exactly opposed to Steve’s little crush.

And judging by her face when she found out, Steve was almost completely sure Lola had been planning getting them together since the beginning. She really was such a crafty four year old.

For @dragonflylady77 happy birthday Guin ily ❤️❤️❤️ ( I think I’ve timed this correctly for UK to NZ time)