#I cannot believe I wrote 2k for each of them

[souglias]

The Weightless Word That Anchors You To His Side [Sougo] [Kamui]

c/w: blood, injury, violence, tons of swearing, slight spoilers for Mitsuba arc

Cross-posted on ao3

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY SOUGO!! This is my offering to you, mister super sadist. Meanwhile, @goldenlaquer HI uh it's me the anon who asked if I could write the Kamui idea. The Kamui fic is my offering to u, thank u for feeding me so much tasty gintama content. I will not shut up about 'Who Runs The World? Sadists' and 'All The World's A Stage'. I hope this is good enough for u (and if it is can we be friends :"> okay but on a serious note, no pressure!!) Lastly, shoutout to @divinavulpes and @pen-observing for listening to me scream about how much I suffered while writing these and helping me for the Kamui fic <3

Thank u for all the likes and reblogs on my first gintama fic <3

[Sougo]

How fleeting anything beautiful is. 

The maple leaves that cling onto their branches as winter starts to exhale its frost into the landscape. They all fall onto the ground at the end of autumn, no matter how much they try. When humans step on them, cracks run across their coloured bodies and are long forgotten.

His sister who was at the peak of health, yet it declined abruptly months after he left for Edo. She’s undergone countless treatments and swallowed thousands of pills. But she still left even before she had a single grey streak in her pale brown hair.

Sougo doesn’t see anything as beautiful anymore. A pair of dirt-tinted glasses he wears to view the world. Everything is shit and ugly, especially you. He makes sure he smears more mud on his dirt-tinted glasses when he looks at you.

You're just supposed to be a housekeeper who happened to take up the job opening at the Shinsengumi for the summer holiday. (Matsudaira finally decided someone needed to clean after a whole army of his men, especially with all the tamakin* lurking around.)

It's all good until Sougo bumps into you with a tray of cold soba. The soba spills all over your apron, bits of the soup staining your shirt. 

With a deadpan voice, he comments, “You should keep your eyes on the path in front, mx housekeeper. Now you have to pay for another bowl of soba for me.”

You admit you weren’t paying too much attention to your surroundings and only focusing on cleaning. But the monotone of his voice ticks you off.

Pursing your lips, you attempt to be careful not to let anything too sharp out of your mouth. “I’m so sorry, I was just too focused on trying to make this place clean.”

He doesn’t break eye contact with you for a few seconds and you think he’s already going to send in a request to fire you. Instead, he holds out an open palm. You raise an eyebrow at him and it prompts him to brush his thumb against his fingertips as he mouths “money”. Scoffing under your breath, you shove your hand into your pocket and give him whatever change you have. You don’t check if it’s enough and storm off.

(It wasn't.)

Aside from cleaning, you help some of the men tidy their rooms if they request it. Your job scope does not include any of the men’s rooms because Kondo said that the men should all be responsible for their own spaces. But you don’t mind the extra work since you often finish the required tasks early. 

It is all good until Sougo asks you to clean his room with a bunch of insults.

“Are you a pushover? You’re not paid to clean my room but you do it when I ask you anyway?”

You narrow your eyes at him before you turn back to wipe the shelf with a cloth. “I’m trying to be generous to a slob who has a dusty space for a room.”

He clenches his jaw because you’re right with all the layers of dust on the sliding doors and shelves.

“Generosity? Don’t kid with me, I know there won’t be any more of such shit as more time passes. You’ll laze around or leave for home early before you’re dismissed eventually.”

How wrong you prove him to be. 

You help him to replace the yellowed and slightly tattered paper over his sliding door. You help Hijikata sweep up the ashes lying around in his room. You stash some different flavoured bread in Yamazaki’s cupboard so he doesn’t have to snack on anpan even on his off days. All with their permission, of course.

When they thank you in their ways, you give Sougo a look that says “how’s that, you sadistic bitch?”

Sougo snickers at you when Hijikata passes you a bowl of ramen with a mountain of mayo as thanks, filled with amusement. You force the whole bowl of ramen down your throat because you’re worried the demon vice-chief of the Shinsengumi was going to punish you for rejecting his gift.

He laughs at your face that’s gradually turning green and pokes at your queasy stomach. 

(Not long later, you suppose you get the last laugh. You throw up all over him and you smirk at him while you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, albeit weakly.)

As time passes, the amount of tasks for you reduces and you’re finding it hard not to laze around. Whenever you see Sougo within your view, you wipe over the top of an already clean table a second time. The second time, you do it a little more slowly too. 

When you lie in their backyard to admire the azure blue sky, Sougo’s voice bounces around the walls of your mind. Lazing around, are you?

It makes you immediately jump up to find something to do. You spit a 'tch' out of your mouth, frustrated at how you're letting a mere captain influence your actions.

Eventually, you find yourself peeking through the windows of their dojo and watching them train. You pick up a branch and try to imitate whatever you see being taught. Engrossed in your new “skill”, you forget to be on the lookout for the super sadist. The one time you forget to check if you’re within his line of sight, Sougo catches you.

“Slacking off, are you? Or are you practising some ‘special’ sword techniques to swat a fly that intrudes into our compound?”

You drop the branch, fumbling for an excuse.

“I’m already done with my work today. Besides, I could use some self-defence skills with a stick.”

He mocks you, “Please, [name]. What kind of world do you think we live in? Look, your footwork is already all wrong. You can’t just stand with your feet shoulder apart, you need to have your dominant foot forward too.”

The two of you have an impromptu session behind the dojo, him correcting your posture first. You can tell midway he decides to go spartan on you because you think he’s already asked you to swing this stupid branch 50 times. After possibly the 100th time, you start swinging the branch at him.

As he dodges your strikes, he comments, “You’re already as good as me when I was 7.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He just scoffs and tells you to think what you like to think. Right after that, he whacks your side with the wooden sword he pulls from his hip and you tumble to the ground.

(He grins as he watches you clutch your side, face contorted with pain. You swear you will defeat him one day. Perhaps you will since you start showing up to the dojo to train and you’re improving fast.)

Towards the end of summer, you start helping out in the kitchen too. On a particular day, you head out to the market to help the canteen chefs replenish their stocks. Hijikata asks you to help him get a bottle of mayonnaise from the supermarket.

A bunch of ruffians bump into you as you’re carrying bags of food back. You hear the eggs crack in one of the bags that dropped. They stare daggers at you, but you glare back at them. The guy with a red afro, who you suppose is the leader, stomps up to you. His face hovering right in front of yours. 

“Hey, apologise.”

“Why? You should apologise.”

He barks out a laugh, “What a feisty kid! You wanna die or something?”

You’re about to open your mouth when a hand grabs the red afro man’s face. Whoever's behind you shoves the man away from you, causing the ruffian to pinch his nose in agony. A monotonous voice replies, “Sorry, this housekeeper is a fucking cockroach, hanging around dirty corners. I don’t think it’s a good idea to put your face so close to them.”

Sougo pulls you backwards, your back colliding with his chest. He raises his unsheathed sword and points the metal tip between the afro man’s eyes. His voice comes out low, a snarl of a vicious dog. 

“Leave.”

They turn tail and run. You hop out of his grasp, fanning your burning face. 

You mutter thanks as Sougo picks up the bags you’ve dropped. Sougo tilts his body towards you, his free hand cupped around his ear. “What’s that? I couldn’t hear you?”

It’s your turn to scoff and you walk forward without replying to him. On the way back, the back of your hand bumps into his way too many times.

(Sougo doesn’t see non-samurai talk back often. Maybe you’re secretly one.)

With you, Sougo forgets for a while he’s not allowed to see anything as beautiful. That’s his fatal mistake.

He only remembers he shouldn't when he sees your body leaning limply on the wall behind you, head hanging forward. It only slaps him in the face when he sees streaks of red all over your body as if the perpetrator took your body for a canvas and your blood for paint. A sickening halo of crimson starts to pool on the ground beneath you. He notices you holding a metal rod with a splotch of blood on its edge.

Sougo hears swords being unsheathed behind him. He immediately identifies them as remnants of a malicious yakuza that the Shinsengumi attempted to wipe out months ago. They start making threats that Sougo knows are empty. He makes easy work of them, unaware of the beast that his enemies see in his eyes. As he cuts them down, he notices that one of the opponents already has a bleeding wound on his head. 

An amused laugh spills out of his lips.

The moment the last opponent falls to their knees, he rushes to your side. Your pulse is weak and your breathing is shallow. His breathing starts becoming erratic. He pulls out his phone. It's out of battery.

He peels off his jacket and drapes it around you. Following that, he lifts you up his back. He ignores the cuts and gashes that cry out with agony when he stands up. He piggy-backs you out of the abandoned warehouse and towards the nearest hospital.

Fuck this shit, he should have made sure his metaphorical shit-filled glasses rested securely on the bridge of his nose. Hell, he should have gotten goggles instead. 

Anything mesmerising isn’t for him to keep.

His white shirt feels paper-thin today. He feels the fabric with your blood plaster onto his back. 

He curses under his breath, “For fucks sake, [name]. You’re supposed to be a cockroach. If a meteorite didn’t wipe you out, this wouldn’t kill you.”

Sougo thinks he heard a weak hum in your chest. 

“Stay with me, idiot. This is an order from the Captain of the 1st Division of the Shinsengumi.”

(You’re not even one of his men.)

Even with your face right beside his ear, he strains to hear your inhales and exhales. It’s hard to hear with his feet that drag themselves across the concrete.

“Is it that hard for you to stay? Did you have a death wish you told no one about?”

Unconsciously, he grits his teeth. Why did his phone have to run out of battery right at this crucial time? He should have charged it this morning. It’s your fault. It’s always because you charge it for him but you weren’t there to charge it this morning.

He feels like he’s clutching his sister’s hand beside her death bed again.

“Stay.”

It comes out like a whimper of an abandoned puppy. He hates how pathetic he sounds, but it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s no one left to listen to him. You’re slowly moving further from his grasp.

“I will.”

Your words almost get carried away by the wind. There’s a sudden push in the muscles of his legs and every part of him goes into overdrive.

He makes it to the hospital in time. You almost don’t make it, but you make it. By your bedside, his hands wish to hold yours. But there’s no urgency, no desperation for him to clutch onto your hand like he’s trying to keep your life in his grasp.

After that, he makes sure he puts on a pair of dirt-smeared glasses. 

(Sometimes, when he’s feeling less of a coward, he’ll look at you through the gaps between the smears. Sometimes, he’ll remember you’re a cockroach and that you’ll show up yourself on the surface of his glasses.)

[Kamui]

Ever since you were kids, you have done everything for Kamui. Silently. So when he asked you to join the Harusame with him, you followed him without asking for anything in return. 

There were many instances where you regretted joining the Harusame. But you’re thankful that you’re no longer looking out for Kamui alone. Housen mentored Kamui and you’re glad there’s someone much stronger than you he could approach. While you belong to the Yato clan too, you think (and deep down you know) that you’re no longer able to keep up with his strength. You stop sparring with him because a part of you screams that he’s going to toss you out of his squad for potentially losing to him. Due to there being other matters concerning Kamui that you have to attend to, you’re grateful that Abuto is there to clean up Kamui’s mess when you can’t.

You’re aware he has no interest in romance and he’s unlikely to ever look at you the same way you look at him. (And you look at him silently for it.) Even so, you think you can stay with him forever, status quo. It’s not as if you could find guys elsewhere because once you’re in the Harusame, there’s no way out. You can’t imagine being with all the other cluck-faced amantos in the Harusame either.

But it gives you some solace that he cares about you in some way. In the middle of wolfing down his meals, he’d stop abruptly and ask you if you’d like a bit of something he thought tasted good. He’d pull a piece of lint that’s clinging onto your hair. He even once brought back a squashed piece of manju (a poor bystander that suffered collateral damage from one of his fights) when you stayed behind to watch the ship during his visit to Yoshiwara. 

He gave you the umbrella you use in fights now. He also gave you your first-ever umbrella.

You still keep it because he gave it to you. You still keep it because it was his first umbrella too. Now, it stands in the corner of your room, beside the much larger one you use now.

“Hey, why are you walking in the rain on your own?”

You sniffle, watching the vermillion-haired boy’s reflection from the puddles beneath you.

“I don’t have one. My parents left me and I have to keep my money for food.”

“Where did your parents go?”

You don’t answer him and you pick up your pace discreetly. He keeps up and continues to pester you, even making an off-handed comment on how rude you were to ignore him.

You keep your eyes fixed on the ground, unsure what the fuck is this kid’s problem. The adults barely even bat an eyelash at you when you needed them and this kid just tries to barge in to find out more about you.

Suddenly, the rain stops. No wait, it didn’t. You still see ripples on the puddles ahead of you and the sound of droplets hitting the ground. You look up to see Kamui stand close next to you, tilting the umbrella to favour your side.

“You can have mine then. But in return, you have to be my friend. Makes up for not answering my questions too.”

When you reach your door, he shoves the umbrella handle into your hand and sprints off into the downpour. 

A few days later, he comes back to your place with a slight cough. He comes back again the next day. And the next…

The problem you have is that no one seems to be able to reign in his lust for battle. He doesn’t care for you enough to do that. He probably cares the same way a group member would care about another useful group member in the project.

(He still asks you why you keep that worn umbrella, especially when you’re no longer using it. You don’t tell him it’s the only gift from him that came from him when strength was not all that was in his head. It’s a gift from the Kamui who had space for both you and his ambitions in his heart.)

Abuto says that you’re their best bet in persuading him to learn how to pull the brakes, but you haven’t so far. It makes you want to launch yourself into space and run away from this godforsaken crime syndicate. When he returns to you with blood-soaked sleeves, you don’t know how much longer the dam of your tears will hold. You pray with your entire being, to whoever’s still listening to you, that they're all blood shed by the enemy before he undresses for you to treat him. You pray in silence.

Of course, some of it is blood shed by the enemy. But the bloom of red on one side of his shoulder is a gunshot with a bullet you have to pull out before it closes at godspeed. A crimson river flows down his forearm and you have to stitch his skin up. 

Even after umpteen times, you still feel the heat in your cheeks when you examine his toned and refined body. But the cuts and splatters of dirty blood make your worry curl its witch-like fingers around your windpipe, making you forget about how he's shirtless. 

Kamui says there’s no real need to patch him up. But even if he’s not hurting, you are. The Yato are meant to fight, but you wish for once, he’d stop throwing himself into battles as if nobody values his life. 

You lock up all your lamenting and tuck it in the deepest corner of your mind. It’s not like he’ll value what you say to him. You continue to stick by his side as if there’s super glue between you two. 

But even with time, super glue can be worn down. You feel something in your heart snap when he walks into your room with the head of a spear lodged in his back that he couldn’t pull out. That dumb smile still on his face. What the hell are his subordinates doing letting him walk around without removing it?

Ever since you were kids, you did everything for Kamui silently. You give him the last piece of manju you wanted for yourself without protest. You bandage up his cut-littered arms, holding back your tears when you think about the bullies so he wouldn’t hear your sobs. You spar with him after a long day, biting back whimpers when his wooden rod grazes against your skin. 

But this time you tell him to fuck off. The smile on his face falls a little. In Kamui’s mind, you never swear. You make it a rule not to look at him until you’re out of his sight.

“You having a bad day?”

You ignore him, grabbing your shawl and draping it over your shoulders. He’s standing in the middle of the door, blocking your way. You shove him off with your shoulder and see him flinch at the corner of your eye. You dig your nails into your palm.

Kamui grabs your wrist with an iron grip.

“Where are you going?”

You try to pry your wrist out, but his grip tightens.

“I’m leaving the Harusame.”

There’s no delay in his question. “Why?”

“I’m done with you.”

Kamui clenches his jaw, trying to keep that grin plastered on his face. He tastes metal on his tongue. Your fingers find their way to your shirt and you crumple a portion in your fists. He chuckles with his mouth closed, the forced laugh thrumming about haphazardly in his chest. Instead of relieving the tension, he feels the echoes of his laugh suffocate him. 

“Fight me. If you win, I’ll let you go.”

As you try to take a step forward, he jokes with a feigned spring in his voice, “It’s an order by the way. Can you believe I’m using my authority right now?”

You bite your lip to push down the lump in your throat, but the tears come flowing out anyway. He’s always talking about how your potential is wasted. You’re leaving and this is probably all he’s thinking about. Make full use of [name] before they go.

“Go ahead and kill me then. I’m done. I’m fucking done watching you waste yourself away on the battlefield. I’m done feeling like I’m the one who got stabbed when it’s you.” 

You start to choke on your words and sob. In between sobs, you scream, “I’m sick of wondering when you’ll stop showing up to get yourself patched up.” 

You heave and exhale, the frustration rendering you unable to form words for a while. 

“I joined you because you asked, but you don’t even care about me because you can’t do the basic thing of taking care of yourself.” 

(Oh, how he means the world to you, too. But you’re probably just a pawn in his whole scheme of getting strong. Silence still follows you here because you zip your mouth when the thought pops in your mind. Maybe silence is a curse because you wish you dared to say that.)

When you regain your composure, you say, “I’ll get executed by the Harusame for leaving anyway, so you can have the honour of killing me in a spar before they do.”

You think your bones are on the verge of cracking like your heart. 

“You’re being fucking unfair, Kamui. Let go. I’ll fight you, that’s what you want, right?”

It’s one of the rare times Kamui stays silent. Should you be grateful you’ve witnessed him shut his mouth before your death or should you desire him to answer you? You throw your fist towards his face. He stops it with his palm, a loud boom reverberating.

“Stay.”

The word drops out of his mouth like a pin falling off a table. You almost miss it with the noise and the whirring of the engine that kept you up for many nights when you first joined. You almost miss it with how raspy his voice is. The word clinks against the ground and its echoes roar over the machinery in your ears. It holds your feet down like a boulder that you can’t kick off or lift. Unconsciously, his grip on your wrist loosens. 

The other hand that blocked your fist holds onto your shoulder. His touch is still rough as if it only knows how to make someone keel over, but you can feel him hold his strength back.

You mutter, “How do you expect me to stay in this shithole when you don’t make it any better?”

You hear Kamui inhale as if he’s about to say something, but stops as he chokes on his words. He falls to the ground on his knees. You crouch down to his level and look him in the eye. 

Whatever light that was left in his eyes is snuffed out. He’s dropped the pretentious smile he always wears and in its place, a bittersweet curl of his lips.

“You’re the only one left to protect.”

You don’t move for a moment, your mouth slightly parted. 

The man in front of you is no longer the bloodthirsty captain of the 7th division. He’s the boy who sat by your side after yet another heavy downpour. The same boy staring into the distance (not even the horizon but instead into another rundown building) with dejected eyes, telling you he wishes he could have protected his sister from the bullies. 

You slide your wrist out of his grip and he abruptly looks up, expecting you to walk away from him. Instead, you embrace him in a hug. 

You whisper, “Will everything end when you reach the top of the world?”

Kamui’s arms circle your body tentatively. After much hesitation, his palm rests on your back while his arms go lax. He only nods, but it’s timid. You hover your fingers over his wounds on the back, over the wound with the spear. 

“And when will that be?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you. He thinks of a couple of answers. When you guys rise to the top of the Harusame? When he defeats that silver-haired samurai down on Earth? 

He doesn’t answer you. 

Maybe you’re asking too much from him all at once. After all, you’ve never asked anything much from him before.

“Pick your fights, will you? The ones that are just slightly more challenging. This is the last time I’m pulling a spear out of your body.”

[northofdespair]

Well. This was going to be a 500-character anonymous ask. I had no plans of using this forgotten Tumblr account. And then I wrote 2k in one sitting this afternoon.

So, Clem, this is for you! Hats off for drawing me out of the abyss to pen a little pseudo-fic for my favorite pairing of all time. Forgive (m)any mistakes and the informal style, I suppose I really could have refined it, but I wanted to get this out here before it went to collect dust with the rest of my 30k+ of Obikin WIPs due to crippling perfectionism. 😅 I will say it’s a bit angsty and a departure from Anakin finding Obi-Wan’s fighting nothing but sexy… there is nothing to say he didn’t in the past, but my brain just went on auto-pilot and this is what happened. Hope you get a little enjoyment out of it anyways! 😘

For those of you who have not read it yet, you’ll get a lot more out of this post if you read @obiwanobi’s posts here, here, here, and here. <3

~*~

So Fight Club AU, right? What if Ahsoka and Anakin make their way down to the lower levels, following a lead on their latest undercover assignment. They decide to split up to search for what they’re looking for and Ahsoka soon finds herself weaving through the cheering and jeering crowds of a club that is far too loud and flashy. She peeks curiously over the tops of various creatures’ heads to see what they’re shouting about and sees a human and a Devaronian trading blows. A fight, whatever. They happen all the time in the lower leve-IS THAT MASTER KENOBI?!

That is DEFINITELY Master Kenobi and boy, she’s never been one to rat out fellow Jedi, but even if he’s grinning like a madman, he is hurt, and oh she is getting Anakin right now, because she doesn’t know exactly what to do, and Force knows that if Obi-Wan will listen to anyone, it’s Anakin. He’s not far away, and when she drags him into the club, he goes a little pale at the sight of Obi-Wan in the ring, standing victoriously over his opponent. 

 She thinks that he’s going to go get him, pull him aside and do something to fix this, but suddenly someone else in the crowd spots him. Suddenly the cheers and taunts are directed at Anakin, and Ahsoka has no idea what the kriff is happening. All at once Anakin is being pulled and pushed, and then both of her Masters are in the ring, eyeing each other up and down and squaring off. Obi-Wan flirts with Anakin as though he expected him to be there, as though he were an enemy, and her jaw drops as Anakin flirts back. Anakin quickly glances at Ahsoka over the crowd, and they begin.

 It is both everything and nothing like watching them spar at the Temple. She sees all the ways in which they are familiar with each other’s strengths and weaknesses, but here the graceful arcs of lightsabers have been traded for brutal, bare-knuckled blows. They sweep under and over each other, deftly avoiding blows as much as landing them, and the crowd loves it. She spares a glance at the bookie, who looks like the tooka that caught the mouse-droid.

 As the fight goes on, Ahsoka realizes two things. 

 One, this is not the first time that they have fought in this ring. Even for Jedi–an identity that they are suppressing extremely well considering the circumstances–they are altogether too at ease with the brutal hand-to-hand combat. The way they dance around each other and strike viperously quick would be beautiful if it weren’t so horrible. It is certainly awe-striking, and while all Jedi are trained in hand-to-hand, she’s never seen them fight like this.

 Two, Obi-Wan is incredible. Anakin is holding his own and powerful in his own right, but even after knocking that Devarionian to the floor, bruised, bleeding, and tired, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a force to be reckoned with.

 In a flurry of movement, Obi-Wan pins Anakin to the ground, just managing to overpower his former student despite his injuries. Ahsoka can barely see over the crowd as he sits on top of his Padawan, then offers him a hand up. She can’t discern their expressions, but they do not say anything to each other and make their way out of the ring, going in vaguely the same direction. 

 Ahsoka presses her lips together and follows Anakin to demand what in Sith Hells just happened. Suddenly the mysterious bruises that Anakin had started showing up with–the ones that he thought he was hiding well–make some sort of surreal sense.

 She catches up to him in an abandoned alleyway seven blocks or so away from the club and opens her mouth to lay into him, but before she can draw breath, Obi-Wan’s figure melts out of the shadows from the other direction. Neither man has seen her, and something about the intense look on Obi-Wan’s face makes her slip into the shadows herself. 

 She has to slap a hand over her mouth to tamp down on a surprised squeak a second later as Obi-Wan takes Anakin by the shoulders, slams him into the wall, and kisses him hard. Anakin kisses him back, hands coming up to scrabble at Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and breaks the kiss to get out, 

 “Wait, Obi-Wan,“ he gasps as Obi-Wan bites at his neck and Ahsoka wants to flee, but she feels rooted in place. “Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, she- hhhn- stop, would you?” He finally brings his hand to the side of Obi-Wan’s face, catching his attention for long enough to realize that he’s serious, if a little dazed. “Ahsoka saw us fight.” 

 His voice is quiet, but Ahsoka has always had good hearing, even for a Togruta. Obi-Wan freezes, and the two stare at each other for a long moment, breathing heavily into each other’s space. 

 “She led me to you because you were hurt,” Anakin whispers, and the tender concern on his face as he brushes a thumb over Obi-Wan’s swollen cheekbone is enough to cause Ahsoka to avert her gaze. 

 “Anakin, you know-“ Obi-Wan’s voice is different from any time she’s ever heard it, deep and rumbling with an emotion she doesn’t... quite want to think about, but Anakin cuts him off. 

 “I know, Master. I know. But she was worried, and I don’t... think she was wrong to be,” it comes out hesitant, and she looks up to find that Anakin looks like he’s prepared to flinch away from a blow. 

 Before tonight, Ahsoka never would have thought that her Grandmaster was capable of dealing any such hit to Anakin, but Anakin’s split lip and blackened eye prove her wrong. She still can’t believe it, and her heart tells her that even now he would never hit Anakin outside of the ring or the training salles, but it’s a hard thought to reconcile with as her Master stands before her with such prominent injuries.

 Obi-Wan stares at Anakin again before sighing softly. “You don’t want to fight. You don’t want me to fight,” he says, and it’s a flattened-out question. Anakin bites his lip, wincing at the painful reminder of the cut there. 

 “Not- not like this,” he whispers. “Obi-Wan, I... I know that this is an escape from everything. I’m not saying it’s even bad, Force, I’d be one hell of a kriffing hypocrite to tell you that. I know I’ve given in to my own methods of escape, but Master, I-“ His voice cracks and he breaks off, working his jaw as he stares at Obi-Wan with an expression so open that it hurts. “I have you now, and you’re- you’re all I ever wanted. You’re all I need. Obi-Wan, if I’m not- if I’m not enough, then tell me how-“

 Obi-Wan cuts him off with a kiss, raking his fingers through Anakin’s golden curls and holding him there. Anakin’s eyes flutter shut as he lets out a whimper from the back of his throat, and Ahsoka has to avert her gaze once more. She’s intruding on something so viscerally personal, but she still cannot command her feet to move. 

 So she listens to the sound of lips parting for little kisses that make a larger whole, that bring a low moan from Obi-Wan’s throat in answer to Anakin’s desperate pitch. She listens until they part, and then risks a glance up at her Masters. 

 They are somehow closer than before, foreheads resting together with their eyes shut, breathing each other in as Obi-Wan strokes Anakin’s hair and Anakin shivers. 

 “Dear one,” Obi-Wan whispers. “You are enough. I… was afraid, my love.” Anakin’s eyes open in shock as the confession falls from Obi-Wan’s lips. “I was afraid that this... was the only way I could have you. It’s different down here. What happens here stays here, and I thought-“ 

 “Obi-Wan. I only ever came down here in the first place because I want you. All the time. Force, I want you so badly it hurts. I don’t want this to stay here. I- do you really-“ 

 “Yes.” 

 Anakin chokes a laugh and fixes Obi-Wan with a fondly exasperated look. “You don’t even know what I was going to say,” he accuses, resting his head back on the wall. 

 Obi-Wan leans forward to pursue him, placing a gentle kiss to the side of his mouth, then another directly on his lips. “I do, darling. Of course I do.” 

 And as Ahsoka watches Anakin’s expression change from incredulity, to wonder, to overwhelmed adoration, she knows that her Grandmaster was not simply speaking of knowing the question that never left her Master’s lips. 

 “Me too,” Anakin whispers, voice thick, and Ahsoka can see the shape of Obi-Wan’s grin even from the severe angle that her perspective offers. 

 Anakin smiles back and flinches again as his lip pulls taut. Obi-Wan hums and reaches up to brush his thumb over the wound.

 “Not a good look on you, is it, darling,” he remarks. 

 Anakin scoffs, rolling his eyes playfully. 

 “You should see the other guy,” he smirks. 

 “Ha, ha,” Obi-Wan intones dryly, and Anakin laughs. 

 They sober quickly, and Ahsoka holds her breath as the air and the Force around them seems to charge once more. She knows by the look on Anakin’s face that he’s working towards saying something, and Obi-Wan runs bloodied fingers through his curls in patient strokes.

 “I won’t tell you to stop,” Anakin finally speaks quietly, looking down between them. 

 “But you want me to,” Obi-Wan matches his volume and sincerity. 

 After a moment, Anakin nods quietly, still averting his gaze from Obi-Wan’s face. Her Grandmaster lifts Anakin’s chin with a gentle hand, and their gazes meet once again. 

 “I meant it when I said you are enough, my dear. This habit... if I’m honest, it started when I failed to release certain feelings into the Force. The fighting cleared my mind and it was a good physical release. I don’t need it. Not if I have you.” 

 Anakin’s eyes grow wide, and Ahsoka thinks that she sees tears glimmering in his eyes in the low light. 

 “The Code, Master,” he croaks softly. 

 Obi-Wan shakes his head and strokes Anakin’s chin before tapping it lightly and resting his hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. We’re good at that, you and I. And we shan’t break the Code if we’re simply in a relationship, you know that.” 

 Anakin squeezes his eyes shut, and tears at last track down his cheeks. “It’s not just a relationship. Not to me. I- I love you, Master. I’m atta- attached. I’ve struggled with this all my life and I can’t let go. Of you, or Ahsoka.” 

 Her heart skips a beat at her name, then warms with a sad fondness for her Master. Oh, Anakin... he really thinks that Obi-Wan doesn’t know? That she doesn’t know? They do and they love him right back just the same. Ahsoka hadn’t truly known about the nature of her Masters’ feelings for each other before tonight, but she had suspected. Both she and Obi-Wan love Anakin with all their hearts.

 “Oh, Anakin.” Obi-Wan pulls him into his arms, and Anakin clings to him desperately and buries his face in his throat. “Dearest, love is no trespass, and attachment can be conquered. It is a part of human nature. It is nothing to fear. I am sorry I ever led you to believe otherwise, Padawan.”

 Anakin gasps a single, muffled sob into Obi-Wan’s throat, and his Master presses a kiss to the top of his head. They stay like that for a while, rocking slightly back and forth and holding each other tightly until Anakin’s breathing evens out.

 “You’ll stop fighting, then?” Anakin asks softly. 

 “Yes, dearest. I’ll stop,” comes the quiet affirmation. “And Anakin,” he steps back slightly so they are both looking each other in the face once again before murmuring, gentle as a spring breeze, “I love you too.”

 Anakin’s face crumples before a smile overtakes his expression and he lets out a tiny, overjoyed laugh. Obi-Wan’s hands slide up to frame his face once again and draw him into a gentle kiss that slowly deepens. They break apart to smile at each other before coming together more urgently than before, and Ahsoka knows that it’s time for her to go.

 She lets out a little breath–hopefully silent–and steps backward out of the alley. Once she has crept well away, she slumps against the wall herself. She... she’ll probably have to tell Anakin what she has witnessed. She really hadn’t meant to eavesdrop for so long, but she had needed to hear that promise from her Grandmaster almost as much as Anakin himself. As it is, she breathes out a sigh of relief knowing that for the moment they are both safe, happy, and that better times are coming. For all of them.

  They’ll figure this out together.

[justalarryblog]

🎆Thank You, Daddy by @recklessandbrave (10k) | Explicit

Harry’s hot, wet mouth is around him before Louis even has the chance to blink, and it feels so good, the icy sting of the frozen dessert disappearing as Harry’s soft tongue laps it up. After Harry swallows, he pulls off the head of Louis’ cock and then dips down to trail his tongue up the shaft, collecting the bits that dribbled down. “Yummy. Thank you, daddy.” He hums pleasantly.

Or the one where Louis gets an idea, and Harry wears panties

Part 2 of Pastel

🎆Stillness Is The Move by @turnyourankle (2k) | Explicit

Harry fails to follow instructions and requires punishment.

🎆And I know he’ll be the death of me, at least we’ll both be numb by @capturethesunset (3k) | Not Rated

Louis getting wrecked by jealous Harry.

🎆give and take by @sky_reid (1k) | Explicit

sometimes louis just needs.

🎆we’re still going, eight in the morning by @nooelgallagher, @yoursongonmyheart (31k) | Explicit

Harry washes his hands quickly before grabbing his phone. His screen lights up to 3 notifications.

DJTommo is now following you!

@DJTommo mentioned you in a tweet!

Direct Message from @DJTommo!

Harry yelps, throwing his phone to Niall who just barely catches it.

Niall looks down at the phone, seeing first the tweet, then the DM. He tosses the phone back to Harry, who nearly drops it. “What are ya doing, mate! Answer him!”

Harry thinks for a moment about what he wants to say. This is his chance to actually talk to Louis Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson messaged him directly. He can say anything he wants. He begins typing, his fingers shaky.

Niall comes over to stand next to Harry and peers down, looking to see what he wrote. When he does, he lets out a groan.

…Or, the one where Harry owns a bakery, Louis is a radio DJ, and Niall and Liam roll their eyes at their incessant flirting.

🎆When I hear your cries, praying for life. (I will be there) by @brokenbeauty (5k) | Explicit

Well, I figured we needed Larry birthday sex, soooo….. ;))))

🎆St. Austin’s School for Boys by @domtommo, @winsomefreak (100k) | Explicit

St. Austin’s School for Boys is a correction school for young men that uses corporal punishment as their means of discipline. After one too many infractions, Harry Styles is sent there till graduation. Upon arriving Harry meets his dorm advisor who also happens to be the first year sex-education teacher and footie coach, Louis Tomlinson. Harry falls in absolute adoration for the teacher and is all too ready to drop down onto his knees for him. During his stay he learns some very interesting things about himself… Welcome to St. Austin’s School for Boys, where the hallways are filled with love, drama, and sex.

Part 1 of St. Austin’s School for Boys

🎆I’m Gonna Love You (Until You Hate me) by @sweaterpawstyles (8k) | Explicit

As if reading his mind, Louis glanced over his glasses at Harry, presumably because Harry didn’t reply to his statement earlier.

“I decided to get my glasses out again,” he chuckled, winking at Harry. “Do you like them?“

Harry felt his face heat up. No, he didn’t just like them. He fucking loved them and wanted to ride Louis and call him daddy while he wore them. But he didn’t want to just tell Louis this.

Or

Louis wears glasses and Harry doesn’t like to be teased

🎆jump in the deep end by @istajmaal (4k) | Explicit

Louis’s stomach lurches as he closes the last bit of distance, Harry’s nose settling between his arse cheeks and pushing them apart. Harry’s lips brush against the puckered skin around Louis’s hole in a kiss and Louis lets out a whine so high-pitched he barely recognizes it as coming from himself—what if I’m not clean enough, what if Harry hates it, what if Harry pushes me away—but then Harry’s long, wet tongue swoops in a circle around Louis’s rim and Louis feels like all the breath is knocked out of him. He grabs for Harry’s hand, still digging into his thigh, and squeezes over it, until Harry releases his vice grip on Louis’s thigh and laces his fingers through Louis’s.

or, Louis’s arse is a sensitive subject, so Harry approaches it gently. With his tongue.

🎆daddy daddy cool by @sky_reid (6k) | Explicit

harry wakes up hard.

🎆Truth Be Told (I Never Was Yours) by @JustForTommo (76k) | Explicit

Harry watches Louis as he scrunches up his nose and bites the end of a pen in concentration. He’s been working on seating arrangements for the past hour and getting more frustrated by the minute. Louis huffs out a breath and glances down at Harry with a soft smile on his lips before he returns to the task at hand. It’s easy, right then, for Harry to let himself believe that they’re planning a seating chart for their own wedding and bickering over who is going to sit where from a list of their own family members. He can let himself daydream about a white picket fence and a dog that they could have within the next year.

It’s like a cold slap in the face when Harry looks to the top of the page to see “Aiden and Louis Grimshaw” at the head table, and Harry has to mentally remind himself for the thousandth time that Louis is not his. Never was, really. He’s just the wedding planner that’s been in love with Louis since he was sixteen.

(or the one where Louis and Harry have a complicated past, Louis is getting married to someone that’s not Harry, and the universe has decided to have a laugh and make Harry the wedding planner.)

🎆This Feeling orphan_account (58k) | Explicit

“Gonna play it back for you now.” Louis clicked play and the song flooded through Harry’s headphones.

The sound of each others voices united into one, and the rhythm of the music carried their voices effortlessly. Harry’s insides tingled and a wave of shivers rolled down his spine.

Before the clip cut off, Harry turned to raise an eyebrow at Louis, and failed miserably at disguising his smile. Louis stared back at him in shock.

Or A Larry Duet AU

🎆The Night Sky is Changing Overhead orphan_account (124k) | Explicit

“Um, sorry, but I believe that’s actually mine,” Harry said a bit awkwardly, pointing at the cup.

The man huffed, slightly narrowing his blue eyes, “Nope, large Americano, dash of cream.” He held the coffee up closer to Harry and honestly, Harry knew exactly what was in the cup because it was his coffee.

“Right,” Harry slowly drawled out as if he was talking to a toddler, “Which would make that mine.”

“Look, I really don’t have time for this, I’m running late. And this,” he said before he took a sip from the cup, “Is mine.”

Harry’s jaw dropped and he held his hands out, failing them slightly, “Wha-you can’t just drink it!”

“Well I did, so, do you still want it or can I be on my way?” The man challenged.

Harry shook his head disbelievingly, “Take it, but for the record, it says Harry on it.”

The man turned the cup around and a sharp laugh came out of his mouth, “Well, shit.” He looked at Harry, a smile stretched across his face as crinkles formed next to his eyes. “Thanks, Harry.”

🎆The Arrangement by @daddyy_harryy, @HyFrLarry1224 (218k) | Mature

Louis knew it was his time. Once anyone turned 13, they were watched. And when they were 16 it could be any time. Anytime they could be taken. It was just weeks after his 16th birthday and there he was, sitting in the back of the van.

Or

Louis is forced to marry Harry and bear his children. He is to listen to Harry and do as he says, no matter what. Speaking is a given, and freedom doesn’t exist. Will the sixteen year old boy find himself falling in love with the Leader of the British Mafia? Or will he find himself stuck in a place he doesn’t want to be, with an abusive asshole for a husband?

🎆Something in the World Today by @whoknows(48k) | Explicit

It shouldn’t be a surprise, the first time that Louis drops to his knees in front of Harry. It shouldn’t be, because it’s been something that Louis has needed for a long time. It shouldn’t be, because he’s been crawling out of his skin for weeks on end. It shouldn’t be, because Harry always makes him feel better. It shouldn’t be, because he’s needed this even when he didn’t know that he needed it.

Somehow, it still is.

🎆I Cannot Dream Tonight Series by @afangirlfantasy (50k) | Not Rated

At 16 years old, everyone takes a compatibility test on their birthday. At some point after taking the test, and along with other data collected, everyone finds out if they are a Dom or Sub.

At 17 years old, everyone receives a bracelet that notifies them when they have been matched. Every Dom needs a Sub. Every Sub needs a Dom.

When Louis’ bracelet lights up weeks after getting it, let’s just say that who he is matched with, is not quite what he had been expecting.

🎆Don’t Waste Your Time On Me, You’re Already The Voice Inside My Head by @afangirlfantasy (28k) | Not Rated

At 16 years old, everyone takes a compatibility test on their birthday. At some point after taking the test, and along with other data collected, everyone finds out if they are a Dom or Sub.

🎆His Submission Series by tonystankyall (orphan_account) (152k) | Mature

Louis Tomlinson lives in a world where Domination and Submission is a norm. When you are born you are either branded Sub or Dom. Subs get a little pink or blue, depeneding on gender, series of swirls on the back of their neck. Doms get Red or Black, depending on gender, series of swirls on the back of their neck.

Louis Tomlinson was branded with a Blue tattoo and his day has finally come. The day of his 18th birthday where he will be randomly assigned a Dom. This dom could range from younger to older, poorer to richer, and male to female. You never knew what you were going to get. Some Doms were more harsher and stricter than others. Louis didn’t want a harsh Dom to submit to.

Harry Styles was branded with a Black tattoo and he just recieved in the mail that he was finally getting a submissive. Harry was a 32 year old man, settled in, and very very rich. He’s been waiting for an assigned submissive to be chosen for him for a very long time. His Dom friend, Zayn, has gotten his submissive two years prior, a little spit fire irish boy, Niall.

*The rest is in the note*

At 17 years old, everyone receives a bracelet that notifies them when they have been matched. Every Dom needs a Sub. Every Sub needs a Dom.

When Louis’ bracelet lights up weeks after getting it, let’s just say that who he is matched with, is not quite what he had been expecting.

🎆driving instructor fic by @LoadedGunn (104k) | Explicit

AU where Louis is a 25-year-old driving instructor and Harry is a 17-year-old virgin who’s really awful at seduction, except for the time he gets Louis to fall for him and fuck him senseless and take him on kinky adventures.

🎆Loving You Is Free by @littlelouishiccups (91k) | Explicit

Louis is a workaholic record label CEO who hasn’t been on a date in nearly a year. Niall and Liam make an account for him on a sugar dating website as a joke. And then Louis meets Harry.

🎆sex shop fic (dildornado ‘verse) by @istajmaal, @LoadedGunn (96k) | Explicit

AU where Louis is the most helpful sex shop salesperson in the history of sex shops, and Harry really was just looking for a vibrator with simple instructions (yet ended up getting a hands-on demonstration).

🎆welcome to the mansion by @blankiehxrry (7k) | Explicit

Harry is a Playboy bunny.

🎆Wild and Rain by @softandslow (45k) | Explicit

Louis has been looking after Tessa since he was sixteen. Harry’s a man in a business suit who has loved his daughter’s babysitter for three whole years.

🎆A Million Years by @sunflowerstyles (3k) | Explicit

Louis always ends up feeling guilty that he’s not ready to give Harry what he wants. Harry shows him how much fun they can have while they wait together.

🎆Can’t help but touch myself by @Tita (7k) | Explicit

“I asked what these were, love.” Harry gulps. “Panties,” he explains with heated cheeks, needing more than the light touches from Louis and getting nothing. “What did you get them for? Were they to impress someone else?” He asks, and Harry shakes his head fervently, stumbling over his words as he tries to get his tongue to cooperate. “No, no,” he emphasizes, arching his back to plaster himself to Louis. “For you, always for you, Daddy.”

🎆Champagne by @fanshae (2k) | Explicit

“Look at how pretty you are,” Louis murmurs, Harry’s stockinged toes curling against the floor at the praise, “Give Daddy a twirl, baby.”

🎆connoisseurs of comfort by @sky_reid (45k) | Explicit

louis has only really had his flat to himself for a few weeks when liam knocks on the door and brings him a new flatmate. this one turns out to be a bit different though.

🎆Dance Floor Whore by @ropewithnoanchor (7k) | Explicit

Louis and Harry go to a club while on tour to blow off some steam, but Harry gets too drunk and lets another man dance up on him in front of everyone. Louis takes him back to their hotel and spends the next morning punishing Harry, making Harry work to make it up to him.

🎆Give It Up To Me by @krisstylinson (8k) | Explicit

“You’re going to end up making me come with all the boys in our lounge,” he finished, his tone softening the longer he spoke.

“And?” Harry murmured, placing his palm over the crevice of Louis’ arse, keeping the plug nice and tight inside of him. “What if I wanted you to?”

Or the cliché where Louis isn’t supposed to come but he does, and that can’t go unpunished in Harry’s eyes.

🎆just want to make love to you by @beautlouis (3k) | Explicit

Louis has a lapful of Harry before the car has even closed and maybe he should be a bit concerned about that, judging from the look in Liam’s eye, but it’s hard to worry about anything when Harry’s wriggling against him, warm and insistent.

“’m so hard,” Harry pants against his ear, “Been this way since we got off the stage, want–want you to fuck me, yeah, I want–”

*the aftermath of the xfactor performance where harry went wild

🎆my one and own (i wanna get you alone) by @beautlouis (6k) | Explicit

Louis’ favorite thing to do is make Harry come. It’s the best feeling in the world, watching the boy he loves fall apart underneath him; to see how good it feels for Harry, in every line and movement of his body.

Louis pushes a thigh between Harry’s and grinds just enough that Harry sighs gently and ruts his hips back into Louis. Holding Harry’s waist firmly, Louis presses his lips into Harry’s ear and says, “I think I’d like to make you come.”

It isn’t as if they don’t both know that’s what tonight is—Louis making Harry come—but the verbal acknowledgment of it makes Harry moan sharply and turn his head to try to pull Louis into a kiss.

🎆Push You Over The Edge (So I Can Pull You Back) by orphan_account (16k) | Explicit

It’s after a long two weeks of interviews and non-stop appearances that have got Harry stressed to the limit of yanking his hair out and throwing a fit and crying that Louis shows it to him, walks in the door with a sleek black bag in his left hand and inconspicuous brown one in his right.

🎆To Be Loved To Be In Love by @Angel_Dust (129k) | Mature

At 18, every Sub must take a Match Test to find their Dom.

Poor, Farm kid Louis Tomlinson is matched with Rich, Businessman Harry Styles.

Or, where Harry thinks giving Money, expensive presents and luxuries proves how much you love someone, but Louis is about to turn his world upside down.

🎆Wake Me Up by @larrystylins (2k) | Explicit

Harry stretches and accidentally pushes his bare bum into Louis’ crotch. Oh. That’s definitely Louis’ cock. Okay that’s definitely the outline of Louis’ hard cock pressing against him. “Lou?” he whispers. Of course Louis is fast asleep..

or Harry wakes up to Louis’ morning wood pressed against his bum. Harry gets needy. Louis wakes up and punishes him.

🎆You Don’t Need Me To Show The Way by @LoadedGunn (6k) | Explicit

But right there, on Harry’s iPod, is a folder entitled Lou Sappy Sappy Long Indie Hipster 80’s Love Songs Mixtape.

Louis expects a sappy mix tape. He might even expect his own shitty versions of Foo Fighter songs. What he doesn’t expect is clicking on “AUD-20101223” and suddenly hearing loud moaning. He gasps and scrambles to pause it, so shocked the iPod drops right to Harry’s stomach. Harry looks absolutely mortified, even more than he did when Louis played High School Musical. He’s blushing so furiously his face bypassed rosy straight to flaming red, and his mouth is closing and opening like he can’t think of a single thing to say.

Then Louis starts laughing uproariously. “Hiiii, I’m Harry from Cheshire, when I’m on the road I like listening to indie music and gay porn.”

Or, 2011 fic where Harry rides dick for the first time and Louis appreciates technology.

✨You can also check My Fic Tags for more fics! ✨

[velvetthunder1999]

All the time on Earth

Part 35 - Strangers

Summary: After Fred’s death everything is dark. How can you move on when you don’t want to move on? And how can you love each other, when all love seems lost?

Warnings: Angst

Word count: 2K

George Weasley x Reader

Masterlist

Like two strangers, you were lying on each side of the bed, your backs opposite each other. The clock on the wall said it was way past two in the morning. Still, you were not asleep. You were quiet, your breathing steady and slow, and you were staring into nothing, while George’s quiet sniffs came from behind you.

You’d moved back to the little flat above the shop three months ago, after spending one more month at the Burrow. It was still hard. Without Fred the rooms felt empty and deserted. The shop was open, sure; you knew George rather wanted it open so that he can do something… but it was not as charming, not as fun as it used to be. For the two of you, at least, it wasn’t.

The bed creaked on George’s side and he got up and left the room. You didn’t turn around; you knw either he was going to the bathroom to wash his face, drive his demons away, or headed for the kitchen to drink something that’d help him sleep. You waited for minutes but he didn’t return. Then there was a crash.

You got up and ran outside; the lights were on in the kitchen. You covered your eyes for they were hurt by the brightness and stepped in.

George was standing in the middle of the kitchen, frozen, his face emotionless and bland. He was staring at one spot on the ground, where the remains of a broken teapot lay. Around it was a small puddle of water, pieces of china all around the floor.

“Reparo,” you said. You dried up the water with another wave of your wand. You looked at George. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer. He turned away, lips pressed together and leaned onto the counter. After some hesitation you stepped closer. His shoulders were shaking, his head hanging low. You knew he was able to sob quietly, a talent which he had perfected during these past months. It came in handy when he wanted to hide his cries from you. It broke your heart.

“Love…” you said as gently as you could. You wished you could hug him. “Love, come back to…”

“Stop it, Y/N,” he said, a bit colder than you found necessary. You swallowed.

“Let me help you.”

“I cannot be helped,” he said, still not turning around. “Go back to bed.”

You stood there, choking up. He had been like this ever since you got back from the Burrow. Yes, he left the house every now and then, yes, he had reopened the shop, but he was not the same George anymore. He was barely eating, he was just staring at or playing with his food. He looked so pale and so sickly, that you were seriously concerned for his health at this point. There were times, when he was frozen in shock and in realization; then he would just stay still, staring into the void, completely forgetting about the world. Usually, he got three or four hours of sleep per night; he got to bed late and woke up early, desperately doing his best to avoid dreams, dreams which you knew were haunting him since they were all about Fred.

And the worst of it was that he didn’t want to be helped. He didn’t want to be comforted. When you tried to hug him he left, when you tried to dry up his tears he turned away. You knew you needed to give him space, and it was all right, but at the same time you felt lonely and depressed as well. He had promised that he’d be there for you, but he was distant and rejecting. You were like two strangers living together.

On those rare occasions when he had better days — when he put a lock of your hair behind your ear, or touched your shoulder as he passed behind you in the shop — you felt empty. You were missing that raw energy that he had always had, that special George Weasley-like liveliness… you wished he would pull you into his arms, or would fiercly grab you while making love… but in reality he barely touched you, and even if he did, his fingertips brushed against your skin and that was it. Nothing more. After two months of moving back, you had wanted him so much your body hurt… but when you kissed him, he had refused and told you to go back to bed.

Just like he did now.

——

George was bleeding; he had cut himself with the paper when he unwrapped the package that just had arrived. How ridiculous, he thought, as he watched the owl flying out the open window, and sucked on his finger in annoyance. When the bleeding stopped, he looked at the little wooden box his mother sent him and opened it up. It was full of old letters, pieces of paper and pictures. He closed the box immediately, turning it’s little lock. He had an idea what it was, but he simply did not have the strength to care about it in the moment.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said, and you stepped in. George hid his hand with the cut finger in his pocket. He didn’t even know why.

“Someone is looking for those eatable ears,” you said, the buzzing of the jokeshop coming from behind you. “She doesn’t want to understand that we won’t have them until the end of the month.”

“Just… ask her if she wants to preorder now,” he said, barely paying attention.

“All right.”

You nodded and turned to leave, but George’s gaze fell upon the box on his desk.

“No, wait — Actually, could you take this up, please? Mum sent it. I’ll deal with those ears.  Why don’t you… Go up. We’re closing in thirty minutes anyway.”

He gave you the box and you took it; he saw something in your eyes but you turned away quickly and closed the door behind you, leaving him alone in his office. He cleaned his throat, fighting that depressed feeling he felt every time he talked to you.

The truth was, he had opened the shop again, but only to have something to spend his days with. It did not cause him pleasure anymore, but it was rather painful to spend each day selling products that they made up with Fred, together. He did not feel enthusiastic walking along the shelves; he felt as if he was missing something, he felt as if a big part of him was left somewhere. Well, he had been feeling like this anyway, so at least he was making some money.

He also felt lost, but it was not because of Fred. It was because of you. When he looked at you during breakfast, or talking to a customer, he wondered if he’d see the spark in your eyes, the cheekiness he loved so much. He knew he was causing you pain, he knew you were crying every night… But he couldn’t bring himself to talk to you about Fred. He couldn’t.

He was staring at the floor for minutes when he finally remembered that he was supposed to help someone. He left the office, immediately being surrounded by hundreds of people laughing and joking around amongst the shelves. He felt nauseos.

He wrote down the name of the customer, then he watched as the crowd slowly faded. Then he closed the doors, turned the lights and headed for the stairs, up to the flat. He fumbled with his keys, then stepped inside, and — carefully avoiding his reflection in the mirror — loosened his tie. When he turned around, that’s when he saw you sitting on the living room floor, sobbing.

His heart jumped in fear and he hurried over, scared, that something really serious was happening, that you were in pain, that someone might had hurt you… Then he saw the wooden box next to you, a bunch of photographs lying all over the floor. He lowered himself, feeling extremely anxious.

“Y/N?” he started uncertainly. “What happened?”

You shook your head and sobbed. George wished he could hug you. He wished he was able to.

“Y/N…” he said miserably. “Tell me…”

You reached for a photograph on the floor and shoved it in his hand. It was crumbled as if you had grabbed it too firmly. He looked at it and he felt his heart pounding painfully. He thought he’d have a heart attack.

It was the three of you — him, you and Fred, in the Burrow, standing in front of the Christmas tree, when you came back from Hogwarts in your last year. It was not moving, it was made using Mr Weasley’s muggle camera, but George could still see the happiness in his eyes. And Fred… He couldn’t look at Fred for long. He stared at himself instead, but it was like looking at a stranger. He was smiling, he looked well-fed and healthy, he even looked more mascular than he was now. He chuckled darkly — he still had two ears.

He turned over the picture and put it down. He sat down next to you, examining all the papers on the floor.

“Can I bring you something?” he asked lowly. “Tea?”

You shook your head. George swallowed.

“C-coffee, then?”

“Hold me,” you said suddenly, between sobs. “Please.”

How could he explain that he couldn’t? But you were already in his arms, and he held you so gently that he barely even touched your skin. He was sitting there with you for long minutes, thinking wether he knew what he was doing or was he just a coward…

“George?” you asked, wiping your face.

“Yes?” he said huskily.

“Don’t you love me anymore?”

He stared, taken aback and you pulled away from him, looking into his eyes.

“Why would you say that?” he asked, but he knew very well what you meant.

“Because I feel it,” you said. Your voice was really heavy. “I see it when I look at you. You… you haven’t kissed me in months. You wouldn’t even touch me… I feel so out of place, and I feel like I’m just some burden, some stranger who lives here.

“You’re not — no,” George felt his whole world shaking. How could he tell you, how could he make you understand? “I love you, Y/N! I do, I really do!”

“I’m not sure I can believe that anymore…”

George shook his head violently. How could he explain to you how he was feeling? How he was constantly wishing that he could rip out his heart to stop the pain? He didn’t even have to think about Fred to be hurt, the feeling was just there, all the time, during the day, but also during the night as well. He had nightmares, visions about the battle, but sometimes it was not Fred who lay on the floor, but his mum… Ginny… you.

He hadn’t been home for a month, he just could not bare to look them in the eye. But here was different. You were with him in the shop, in the flat, in the bed… And George somehow felt that if he kept his mind off you, the nightmares would not come so often. He felt that when you kissed him, he slept worse, fighting the sick feeling in his stomach that was telling him that he’d lose you as well, that if he loved you carelessly and freely a moment would come and take you away from him as well.

But he couldn’t tell you that. You’d not understand. You’d tell him that the war was over and that you were safe now… And George didn’t want to be reassured, because he didn’t believe that everything was fine now, he didn’t believe that life was safe and sound when he was already missing the biggest part of his life… So this is why he let his head hang low at the dinner table, this is why he went form kisses to hugs, from hugs to shoulder brushes, and this is why he told you to stop when you wanted to make love to him, during those quiet nights in late August…

He realized he had zoned out again. It had been really hard for him to concentrate on anything, really. But your quiet crying brought him back to reality. No matter how hard he tried to stay away from you… he still loved you. And he hated himself for causing you pain.

[sherrybaby14]

Blue Spiders - Chapter 2

Summary:  Fear pushes your relationship along.

Warnings:  Light horror, background alcohol, (I have not warned for everything possible, please read at your own risk)

Words: 2k

Pairing:  Therapist! Steve Rogers x female reader

Part One

She lived in an apartment.  That was problematic.  Houses were much easier to break in to undetected.  At least it wasn’t in a great neighborhood and the locks on her doors were pathetic.  All he needed was a credit card to break them.  He accomplished that task this morning.

Steve in no way wanted her death tied to him or the New England Butcher. The kill would be a quick one.  Gunshot, he hoped for a mugging gone bad, but it appeared she never left her place after dark.  

Ten days he had been watching her, observing, waiting for the moment to strike.  But she was always home before sundown, never to retreat again.  He wouldn’t risk a daytime public murder.  Too many loose ends.  

It looked like the next option would be breaking and entering.  Doable, but not ideal.  Look like a robbery.  Bullet to the head and the world would have one less awful person in it.  

Under normal circumstances Steve felt nothing when preparing for a kill.  Sometimes a mild rush of glee during the act and then a bit of euphoria after, especially if it was a victim he intended Agent Barnes to tie to the New England Butcher.  

But this felt different. Personal.  The few times he spotted her during the day he felt betrayed.  How could she lie to him about her identity to get a profile for some dumb blog?  And why did he feel a connection.  

His watch beeped and he checked the time.  Three thirty in the morning.  She would be fast asleep.  It would be over soon.  Then the euphoria would come just as it had with the others.  He was certain of it.  

The sound of his car door slamming echoed across the empty street as he began his walk in the shadows, four blocks away from his destination.  

~~

   You didn’t believe in a sixth sense, or you didn’t want to, but something was off.  Wrong.  You were being followed.  Could it be him?

   You finally felt somewhat safe here.  Comfortable enough you followed your passion and started to make a name for yourself.  Sure Miranda’s Museum of the Macabre wasn’t a big deal yet, but you were growing a following and you loved that type of reporting.  

   The last few days you were cursing yourself for even starting the thing.  Today when you got home and saw the locks weren’t working your paranoia vanished.  

   Whoever broke them was subtle about it.  If you hadn’t been paranoid you wouldn’t have noticed, thought that the chain was shut tight when a light tap would drop it.  The deadbolt hole was splintered and pressed back into place.  Anyone with a driver’s license and a shoulder would be able to break the thing down.  

   The right thing would have been to run, or call the police.  Neither option was intriguing.  So you sat next to the thing, waiting in the darkness.  Every time footsteps sounded outside the hall you steadied the shotgun, blinking away the tears that you might have to blow someone’s head off.  

   Maybe you were going crazy.  The locks had always been broken and you only noticed now?  Maybe nobody was following you.  Just the ghosts of your past.  

   Then, at almost four in the morning after standing guard for eight hours footsteps stopped in front of your door.  

   Your adrenaline flared.  You cocked the gun right as your knob started to turn.  It froze.  Fuck! They heard the noise.  

   The handle fell back in place.  They were leaving.  All the shaking you were feeling came flooding back.

   You needed to open the door.  Find out who they were, what they wanted.  But instead you collapsed, hugging the shotgun as the footsteps retreated.   Would you ever be safe?

~~

   Loss of sleep was an understatement.  Tonight you would get a hotel room.  Then decide if you wanted to call the cops, fix the door, or flee.  Life was exhausting enough and it felt like you’d only just started living.  

   The door to the office opened and you rose to your feet, pinning on your best smile as Dr. Rogers walked a patient out.  

   His face looked cold, but his blue eyes widened with surprise.  

   “Hi.”  You gave a nervous wave.  “I have something for you.”  

   His patient waved goodbye as you stepped forward, article in hand.  

   “What is this?”  He grabbed the pages.  

   “The article.  I said I would send over a copy, but I thought with the way things ended I should drop one off in person.”  You fidgeted, thinking about your run in with Barnes the last time.  “As promised, a glowing puff piece.  It will be in the weekend edition.”  

   You watched as his eyes’ scanned the pages.  His brow furrowed in confusion.  

   “Is something wrong?”  You rocked on your feet, hoping to see what line he was at.  “I taped the interview, but if I messed up a fact or misspoke there is time to correct before it goes to print.”  

   “So the article was real?”  The Doctor looked up at you with wide eyes.  “It wasn’t a ruse for your blog?”

   “Ah.”  You bit your lip as you looked away.  “I am sure Agent Barnes gave you an earful.  Yes the story was real.  I write human interest pieces,  Miranda’s Museum doesn’t really pay the bills.”  

   “So this is your real name?”  Steve squinted.  “Rachelle Miller?”  

   “No.”  You blinked.  “I write under multiple pen names.”  

   “So what is your real name?”  Steve folded his arms.  

   “Friends call me Vee.”  You shrugged.  

   “That’s not what I asked.”  His eyes locked on to yours.  

   You hadn’t spoken your real name in years.  Legally it was changed, and with all the pseudonyms you used you hadn’t spoken it outloud in years.  

   “Well, um, I will get out of your hair.  I am sure you have a busy day.  E-mail me if there are problems with the article.”  Your blood ran hot and you regretted coming here.  

   “No.”  His hand reached out and grabbed your arm.  

   You glanced at his fingers and then turned to see his intensite eyes bearing into your own.  His fingers slipped away.  

   “I mean with all do respect, but you look a little rough.”  He nodded to his office.  “Come in and have a drink.  I owe you an apology.”  

   “Me?”  You blinked and shook your head.  “Did Bucky tell you I am just a gossip columnist and was lying to you?  Using you for Miranda’s nefarious purposes?”  

   “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”  He made a playful shrug.  

   “Yeah.  I bet he left out the part where he asked me out nonstop for over a year until I was forced to write something nasty about him on my blog.”  You thought about the person at your door last night,  could it have been Bucky?  He didn’t seem the most stable.  “I may have crossed a line, but what I wrote wasn’t wrong and he,  well I think anyone who has met the man isn’t afraid to use the word obsessive to describe him.”  

   “I cannot confirm, deny, or discuss Agent Barnes.”  Doctor Rogers walked over to a small liquor cabinet.  “What would you like?”  

   “Bourbon?  Scotch?”  You took a seat.  “I’ll settle for anything brown with a nice burn.”  

   “Multiple pen names?”  The doctor came back over and handed you a drink.  “How many?”

   “Three I use on the regular.  I do a lot of freelance writing and they each have their own specialty.  Then several one offs.  I have used them one or two times and let them die.”  You took a sip and let the liquid hit your tongue, wanting to swirl it around your mouth and wishing it would numb your mind in the same way.  

   “Care to share why?”  He sat down and crossed his legs.  “That seems like a lot of compartmentalism.”

“Not a patient.”  You laughed as you leaned back.  

“Let me guess, they are all as generic as Miranda Balfour, Rachelle Miller?”  Dr. Rogers leaned back in his chair.  “You want a legitimate digital footprint, but not one that can be traced back to you.  Why?”  

“You sound like Bucky.”  You tilted your glass toward him.  “Only he has decided Miranda must be my real name.  I would not try to do a deep dive on me Doctor.  I am not interested in opening up.”  

“I am not your Doctor.  Please, call me Steve.”  His eyes scanned you up and down.  “You look very tired.  Late night?  I hope it wasn’t on my behalf.”  

“It was and it wasn’t.  In that order.”  You let out a sigh.  “Since you’re not my doctor Steve, and you can’t think I’m crazy since there is no medical relationship. I think someone, no, I know someone tried to break into my apartment early this morning.”

“Did you call the police?” A look of horror crossed his face as he leaned forward.  “You should not wait on that.”  

“I am not a fan of cops and they are not my fan either.”  You gritted your teeth before taking another sip.  “I cocked my gun too early.  Someone had been following me, all week.  I felt it in my bones.  And then I noticed my locks had been messed with.  So I waited and I felt so paranoid, but then the clock hits 3:44 and the handle jiggles.  I should have let the door open, blown their brains out without asking a single question.  But they heard the noise.  Ran off before I had the chance.”  

“There is a lot to unpack there.”  Steve reached out and touched your knee.  “Are you safe?”

“No.”  You smiled at him.  “Never.  I’m going to get a hotel room tonight.  Figure things out from there.  Get some sleep, a clear head.”  

“If you think someone is targeting you, you shouldn’t stay alone.”  His hand dragged away.  “Friends or family you can stay with?”  

“What was the line you used?  My work doesn’t leave much time for personal relationships.  I’m either writing a freelance story of working on the Miranda project.  Hoping someday it takes off and I can do that full time.”  

“I apologize for being so forward, but I can be your friend, or else your colleague in the work horse force.”  Steve set his glass down.  “And I have plenty of extra bedrooms.”  

You didn’t mean to display the cringe, and tried to bury it down, but there was a pain on his face.

“That is a very kind offer.”  You slammed the rest of your drink.  “But you are not my doctor, or my friend, you’re a stranger right now and I wouldn’t feel comfortable imposing.”  

“I understand.”  Steve grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled as you stood up.  “I would like to take you to dinner, are you free Friday?”  

“Now you’re really going to think I’m crazy, but with the strange feeling I was being followed and the incident last night, I have been scared to leave my apartment after dark.”  The liquor had relaxed your tongue too much.  “Well, now hotel.”  

“I will pick you up at your door, we can go to my place and I’ll cook for you, and then I will drive you home.”  There was something in his voice, this was the first time he had made this request in some time.  “You will be safe the entire time.”

“Alright.”  You couldn’t explain it, but there was a feeling in your heart, like it was drawn to his.  Not mental, like a strange string was pulling you tigher.  “I am staying at the budget in on Wilcox.”  

He opened his mouth, but shut it right away and nodded.  You started to walk to the door and he followed.  Being in his office was the most relaxed you’d been in some time.  

“Friday then.”  He slipped you a piece of paper, you opened it up to see a phone number.  

“I can’t remember the last time someone didn’t just text me their number.”  You smiled eat him.  “You are old fashioned in all the right ways.”  

“Feel free to put that in your phone and use it.”  Steve looked serious.  “Any time, day or night.  I don’t approve of your distrust of law enforcement or wanting assistance, but I respect it.  Never hesitate to call if you need anything.”  

“Thank you.”  You looked at the ground, not wanting to face those blue eyes again, scared if you did you would end up being a roommate at the man's house.  “And thank you for believing me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”  He was taken aback.  

“Sometimes I’m not even sure I believe myself.”  You blinked away tears and squared your shoulders looking him in the eyes.  “Anyone else would have told me it was late, I was tired, I almost killed a delivery man.”  

“I look forward to continuing this conversation on Friday.”  Steve gave a boyish grin.  “Or sooner, if you need anything at all.”  

“Friday then.”  You folded up the piece of paper and put it in your back pocket.  

It was odd to find something to look forward to and for a moment you wished you were crazy and not thinking about fleeing and starting over yet again.  

A/N:  Thanks for reading!  This is turning into a bit of a slow burn, but I think the next chapter will heat up! 

Tags:  @toozmanykids​

[wangxianficrecs]

Accidents happen by Chocolatine (Lucky_Moony)

Accidents happen

by Chocolatine (Lucky_Moony)

T, 2k, zhuiyi, wangxian

Summary:  When Lan Jingyi touches Lan Sizhui’s forehead ribbon by accident, he is convinced that he is now pregnant with his child.

How will he and Sizhui survive announcing to the Yiling Laozu and to Hanguang-jun that they will soon become grandparents?

My comments:  So. FUNNY.

@luckymoony had a line in her fanfiction au about Jingyi thinking that touching forehead ribbons would get you pregnant, and we were all talking about that, and then she wrote this, and I snorted my wine up my nose instead of laughing properly.

The Lans REALLY need to do something about their sex ed. It's abysmal.

ETA:  Omg, this is part of a series:  The complexity of sexual education in the cultivation world summarized as, “Stories that focus on the fact that our favorite cultivators don't know a thing about sex :D”

10k, 3 works, in progress.

asldkfalfkgj!*!

My comments on Part 3 Serendipity :   Ahaha, these boys are so darling and CLUELESS. And yet, babies happen regardless. And Wei Wuxian cannot help but love them. Even dropped off unexpectedly on his doorstep.

Excerpt:  ‟Did Wei-qianbei say anything else?” Lan Sizhui inquired as he gave his boyfriend a small smile and handed him a bowl of rice.

‟He said that he can’t get up just yet, because the baby won’t take if he does. Whatever that means,” Lan Jingyi replied with a shrug, a blush quickly creeping on his face.

Ouyang Zizhen choked on his mouthful of rice as Jin Ling rubbed the bridge of his nose.

‟So, you let Wei Wuxian sleep still just because he was spouting nonsense once more?” Jin Ling exclaimed with disbelief as he slammed his fist on the table.

‟I mean he was wearing Hanguang-jun’s forehead ribbon around his wrist last night, so it makes perfect sense that he possibly conceived another child,” Lan Jingyi commented as Sizhui, who was sitting next to him, nodded.

Ouyang Zizhen slowly placed his chopsticks down on the table. ‟Please, tell me that you still don’t both believe that babies are conceived that way…”

Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui stared at each other, before they slowly nodded.

post canon, fluff, humor, crack, crack taken seriously, lack of sex ed in the cloud recesses, sex ed, sex education, the lans don’t teach it, misconceptions abound, so do conceptions, (hee hee hee), plot twist, adorable juniors, ignorant juniors, accidental baby acquisition, zhuiyi, @luckymoony​

(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto]

Poker and Cigar Night

Authors note: Hello everyone! This is my first time writing Fiction in about ten years, so please be aware, it may not be great! This has been in my drafts for a month or so now, and I finally wrote it as the full thing tonight! Please enjoy!

--- / Italics = Time skip

Notes:

Series 5 slight spoiler and a reference to Brooklyn 99.

Possible triggers: Swearing, smoking (cigarettes), drugs (weed & cocaine) and poker.

Word count: 2K

Another week is almost over at the FBI and the team are all wrapping up the last case, back at Quantico. Y/N sighs, one more statement to type up and she is done. She rubs her temples, and looks at her empty coffee cup, then to her boyfriend Spencer, who is working opposite her and looks just as tired as her. “Would you like another coffee boo?” She asks grabbing her mug and putting her other hand out for Spencer’s.

“Yes please pumpkin.” He replies, kissing her hand meant for the mug which makes her giggle and then he places the mug gently in her hand. Even after dating Spencer for 3 years nearly, Y/N is just both still as in love with Spencer as she was back then. Spencer has always called her ‘Pumpkin’ as she loves Halloween just as much as him, and he will do anything to make her smile, especially as they deal with such awful things at work.

Y/N goes over to the coffee machine, where Penelope and Derek are there kissing. “Come on, not in front of the coffee machine guys.” Y/N groans, pretending the coffee machine has eyes and covers it.

“Not like you and pretty boy haven’t kissed over here whilst waiting for the coffee to brew cupcake.” Morgan chuckles, as Y/N rolls her eyes. She and Derek grew up on the same tough neighbourhood, and are best friends, having always had each-others backs since they were little.

“Do you guys want a cup or are you going to continue snogging?” Y/N asks topping up her mug keeping it black and adding an unhealthy amount of sugar for her sugar loving boyfriend.

“Yes please!” Penelope says, handing you her cactus mug and Derek’s mug which you top up.

“Before I forget to tell you, Rossi is hosting his monthly poker and cigar night tomorrow, are you and pretty boy coming?” Derek asks taking a sip of his coffee.

“Can you bring a dessert if you come? I have a craving for your cheesecake.” Penelope says to you, as she sips her coffee. Everyone loves these nights, it is a chance for you all to un-wind, get drunk and stay in Rossi’s mansion. Last time Emily brought some cocaine and you all got a bit giggly.

“I’m in.” You smile, “I’ll see what Spencer is doing but as far as I’m aware, he has no plans.” You grab yours and Spencer’s mugs again, and Spencer’s desk. “Boo, Rossi is holding another poker night tomorrow, are you in? I’m going, and I’ll be making a cheesecake.” You say, putting Spencer’s mug down at his desk, noticing he changed his background (or asked Penelope to do it) to a photo of you and him on Halloween nearly 3 years ago, the same day he asked you to be his girlfriend. The photo always makes you smile, because you are both such goofs for Halloween.

Spencer adjusts his crutches by his desk, so they don’t fall on you as you sit on the edge of his desk, and sips his coffee. “Sure.” He smiles as you give Derek a thumbs up, “Would you like to stay over tonight pumpkin? I don’t like being alone in my apartment at the moment, especially after being shot.” Spencer says to you, with puppy eyes.

“Of course, boo.” You yawn and take a long sip of your coffee. Spencer kisses your hand again, as you giggle looking down at your converse.

“How many statements do you have left pumpkin?” Spencer asks. “Just one, plus a German statement translation for Rossi.” You smile, you are nowhere near as clever as Spencer, but you do speak 10 languages fluently.

Hotch walks over. “Are you going tomorrow Hotch?” You ask him, getting up from Spencer’s desk, as Hotch nods, “Of course Y/N.” He smiles at you. For some reason, Hotch only seems to smile at you, and it is clear you are his favourite.

“Ah, wonderful! I shall make pasta for all and I hope it’s lemon cheesecake Y/N.” Rossi winks at you.

At Spencer’s apartment the following evening…

“There.” You smile, adjusting Spencer’s tie. “All handsome.” As you go on your tip toes to kiss Spencer on the lips, which Spencer returns.

“You look stunning Y/N, I can’t believe you are all mine.” He smiles even wider. Whilst dating Spencer, you wore make up and he always told you that you looked beautiful without it, and for nearly 3 years now, you haven’t worn it since. “Are you nearly ready pumpkin?” Spencer asks you, as you nod booping his nose, and go back to putting your hoop earrings in.

15 minutes later, you get in the car Rossi sent for you holding Spencer’s hand with one, and the cheesecake with the other. The driver puts your bags with spare clothes and pyjamas for you both in the boot.

---

After half an hour, you arrive at Rossi’s mansion. “I’ll never tire of how big it is.” You say, holding Spencer’s hand. “Title of your sex tape.” Spencer smirks at you, making you blush slightly. “You’re such a fucking dork. I mean the mansion.” You say, giggling at the Brooklyn 99 reference, which is one of your favourite shows to watch together. You walk to the door slowly as Spencer says, “I am your fucking dork.” and uses his cane to ring the bell.

“Ah, there you cuties are!” Penelope says, as she opens the door with JJ.

“She brought pudding!” JJ smiles taking the cheesecake off you to put in the fridge.

“I also brought him. He says he is a pretty boy, so I said he can come.” You smile as Spencer blushes and nuzzles his head into your shoulder as you walk into the mansion.

“What would you like to drink boo?” You ask Spencer, helping him sit down.

“I have beer, wine and fruit cocktails.” Rossi says pouring a glass of wine for himself.

“Whatever you’re having pumpkin.” Spencer says, putting his crutches next to him as you nod, and take a beer for you both, handing one to him.

The night progresses, and Rossi knocks it out the park, as usual with a fantastic pasta dish. “Grazie Rossi.” You say as he hands out your cheesecake, as everyone tucks in immediately.

“This cheesecake is so good Y/N.” Penelope says as she licks her plate.

“Shit me it’s good.” Emily says taking another slice.

“I got to lick the bowl when she made me one yesterday, for recipe testing purposes.” Spencer says, squeezing your hand gently.

“You’re so lucky kid. A fine woman and one that makes desserts.” Derek says

“I know.” Spencer smiles, nodding as he kisses your cheek.

“I’m right here chocolate thunder. I can hear you.” Penelope says glaring at Derek.

“Poker time everyone.” Rossi says as he hands out the cards.

Two games have gone by, and Spencer has won them both. You’re all getting pretty drunk now too, as the alcohol keeps flowing. “Y/N, please don’t let Spencer win the third game.” Aaron says, in a typical Dad tone.

“Sir, I cannot control my pretty boy.” Y/N says as seriously as she can without giggling.

“Except in bed.” A drunk Spencer whispers in your ear, making you blush.

By the third game…

“Oh fuck yes, come to Mama.” You smile, as you finally win a game and take your winnings as everyone groans.

“I think that calls for a cigar.” Rossi says, “Boys, let’s go over to the tree and leave the ladies alone for a bit. Ladies, my staff will bring you over cigars.” He informs.

“Oh good, I can get these out now.” Emily says getting some joints out.

“I’ll take some of those for evidence.” Aaron says taking a couple.

“Evidence? Suuureee.” JJ slurs making you all giggle.

By the tree…

“I can’t believe I have been with Y/N for nearly three years now.” Spencer says as he lights his cigar, passing the lighter to Derek.

“Thanks kid.” Derek says lighting up. “That means I have been with baby girl for nearly 7.” He says trying to work it out in his head.

“Take it from me Derek, always remember.” Aaron says as he takes a puff from his cigar.

Rossi nods in agreement, “You love her don’t you, kid?” He asks Spencer who is staring at you from the tree.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be walking as well as I am if it wasn’t for Y/N. She’s been to all of my appointments and therapy with me.” Spencer smiles and lets out a puff of smoke from his cigar.

The guys continue chatting meanwhile, at the girls table…

“I always feel like I am back working at a Gentleman’s club when I have a cigar.” Y/N says, remembering back to when she worked at one in her late teenage years.

“I feel fancy as fuck.” Penelope says finishing off her glass of wine and pours everyone another glass.

“You are fancy as fuck.” You, JJ and Emily somehow all manage to say at the same time, before laughing.

---

“They are clearly having too much fun over there. We should go back.” Hotch says, hearing the girls laugh at yet another joke.

“Yeah, the joints are out now.” Derek says

“Last time Y/N was stoned she wrote a poem about why she loved me and told it to me in Russian. I still have it somewhere.” Spencer says, laughing at the memory of the last Poker night you all had. “Isn’t that right pumpkin?” He asks wrapping his arm around your waist, as you giggle.

“Yeah. I don’t know what you said, but yeah. Totally remember.” You say as you pass the joint to him, which he takes a puff of and sits back in his chair and invites you to sit on his lap.

“I don’t want to hurt you boo.” You say to Spencer.

“You won’t pumpkin. I promise.” Spencer says softly, as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

“What a fun night this has been.” Aaron says, as he sips his whiskey.

“Did you use a positive word Hooch?!” Penelope says, sipping a cocktail and putting the umbrella from it in Aaron’s hair.

“Yes, I did.” Aaron says glaring at you, as you take a photo before Aaron notices it’s there.

“I’m so glad this case is over. We all needed this to unwind. Thank you Rossi.” You say to him

“You’re welcome Y/N.” Rossi smiles as he pours himself another whiskey.

You light up a cigarette and snuggle into Spencer’s arms as you are a bit cold. “Aw, you cold pumpkin?” Spencer asks you, wrapping his jacket around your shoulders as you shudder.

“Can I take one pumpkin? I left my cigarettes in my work jacket.” Spencer asks you.

“You don’t need to ask boo.” You insist and hand him one with your lighter.

An hour later, you all call it a night, and take a guest room each.

“That was such a lovely evening.” You say to Spencer as you get out of your dress, and into your pyjamas.

“It was pumpkin.” Spencer says as he takes his mis-matched socks off and gets into bed, opening his arms for you to cuddle into.

You cuddle into Spencer’s arms, “I love you Spence.” You smile looking up at him.

Spencer kisses your nose and smiles, “I love you too Y/N.” He smiles before biting his lip.

“What is it boo?” You ask, noticing him bite his lip, a sign of him being nervous about something that is on his mind.

“I was just thinking... It’s ok if you don’t want to. I’ve really appreciated you staying with me whilst my knee recovers, helping me shower, go to all of my appointments, see my Mum with me or on my behalf, helping me get ready, being a fucking amazing girlfriend...” Spencer began. “Would you like to move in with me?” He asks

“I’d love to boo.” You smile up at him. “Goodnight.” You say kissing his lips.

“Goodnight pumpkin.” Spencer smiles returning the kiss. “How did I get so lucky?” He thought to himself, as you both went to sleep.

Taglist: @pumpkin-goob​ @hopebaker​ @aperrywilliams​

*Part 2 coming soon!*

[designsfromtime]

Is the Customer Always Right?

If anything, I am guileless when it comes to offering all ya’ll a behind the scenes peek at what a “day in the life” of a historical costumer can offer. Sometimes I worry about coming off as ungrateful when I share a problematic situation, but I believe being honest allows me to embrace my humanity, and gives you all permission to do the same. It looks like fun creating all these gorgeous costumes, and it is! - - but there is an unfortunate ugly side to owning your own business: Dealing with entitled and difficult customers. 

My career has taken many twists and turns over the last two or three decades. Before I retired in 2012 at 52 and began designing costumes full-time, I was a medical transcriptionist. I owned my own transcription service as well as working for a huge opthomalogical practice back in California. As such, I have taken many, many training seminars in customer service. It’s been drilled into my head that for every one person who is dissatisfied they will tell ten more people. 

With those statistics in mind, I have endeavored to focus on customer service both in my tenure as a medical transcriptionist, as well as today in my costuming business. But the fact of the matter is that not every client will be a good fit for your particular business or your personality, but I do feel somehow I have failed  clients even when they become overly demanding and, dare I say, self-centered, and I have to cut them loose. 

Look, I get it! Plunking down 2K for an entire ensemble is a HUGE investment for any client! I don’t take any of my clients for granted - ever.  I endeavor to give each client equally of my time and attention. As a general rule, I am extremely conscientious about responding quickly to messages and inquiries. I go to great lengths to explain my process and educate about cut, textiles, and construction of historical clothing and lay out what they can expect, even though I find myself repeating the same spiel over and over. 

I’ve mentioned this several times before, but I have heard the horror stories from both clients and cast mates: costumers (even those touted as scions in the costuming forums) taking a client’s money and receiving their fabrics, only to ghost on them and not respond when the client tries to get them to honor the commission and actually MAKE the gown they paid for, or they do not respond to the client’s requests when asked to refund the money AND return their fabrics only to find this same “costumer” has not only ignored them but used THEIR fabrics for a gown which they put up for sale on Ebay. Another nightmare story is about some of the vendors on Etsy who promise to ship a gown by a certain due date, take the client’s money and when that date comes and goes and the client contacts them they LIE and say, “It’s in the mail!” - Only to learn that they haven’t even finished it! Worse, when the gown arrives it started falling apart the first weekend they wore it at faire and she paid $600 for it! Then there is the account of a vendor in the Ukraine who ran out of velvet to finish a client’s Italian gown and rather than waiting and reordering the fabric, they made the gown but SCRIMPED on the fullness of the skirt and shipped it as is without consulting the client. In THOSE situations I would agree that the customer is RIGHT. I haven’t found myself in the same situations as these “costumers” because I would NEVER treat a client with such disregard - but I have found myself in a nightmare scenario more than once that involves the client becoming difficult for no justifiable reason.

I’ve been fortunate that in the seven years since opening my studio here in WA I have only had FIVE clients who made me want to pound my fist against my computer screen and question why I am in this business. Yes, they were that frustrating!  One of those instances I wrote about in a post called “When It All Goes South” I’ll spare you the details of the other four, but usually the common denominator has been that they didn’t respect my time and my busy schedule, or the efforts I made in the consultation process. That sounds very benign, but a to relate a situation that happened this week wherein I spent 1.5 months exchanging 70+ detailed and lengthy messages, and provided them with dozens, and dozens and DOZENS of fabric options and they kept asking for more, and more, hoping that one of them will fall into the Goldilocks zone, it became frustrating. We hadn’t even gotten half way through the consult process because the client was stalled on fabrics. I didn’t mention the fact that after she paid her deposit she changed the style of the gown multiple times. *face palm*

You may be reading this and shrugging your shoulders and asking “What’s the problem?” The problem in the case I just described is that choosing fabric is only the FIRST step in the design process, but also I have deadlines imposed by the clients. If they don’t comply I can’t meet those deadlines. Until a client chooses their main fabric I cannot begin to offer any ideas for the overall design aesthetic, nor can I choose a complimentary color for their sleeves and forepart, not to mention the embroidery pattern to be used, or sussing out whether or not they will need a trim that may take up to 4 or 5 months to ship - such as the case of a gold bouillon trim I ordered from India recently which she stated she was interested in using, not to mention it requires 4 to 6 weeks of hand tacking!  The expectation of this client was that I would be an endless fountain of “options” - and because she was investing 2K I should spend as much time as she wanted footering around window shopping for fabrics while her timeline is ticking away. When after a month and a half I began to draw a boundary and tell her I need a decision if she expects me to meet her deadline because there is a ton more work I need to do on her consult, she felt I wasn’t giving her ENOUGH of my time and stated that because I was pressed on time for current engagements I could not offer any additional efforts to her as a client.  This, after spending MORE time than is usual with this client, I am to blame?  

I learned from an extremely difficult client in 2018 not to allow a bad situation to malinger and hope for the best. In that particular case it went from BAD to WORSE, and I had to dig in my heels and refuse to bend to her ever growing ridiculous demands. If I cannot work with a client in the consult phase, and I’m pretty damn patient ya’ll, then I have learned the actual construction process will only unravel further. 

As a side note, normally by the time I’ve exchanged two dozen messages with a client, I have their fabric sorted, and I’ve sourced a complimentary color for their sleeves and forepart, found their trim and/or the embroidery pattern, sketched their gown, and presented them with a design board.  Sooooo. . . I offered this particular woman a refund on her “non-refundable” deposit minus my consultation fee of $100 for the hours and hours and HOURS of research I spent over that 1.5 months offering her more and more options to consider. She was pissed that I was unwilling to allow her to take months to decide, and no amount of “explaining” the urgency or my time constraints seemed to sink in. No matter what I said she is convinced that “I” was the problem. 

So, is that situation a failure on my part? Should I be willing to set aside another client’s commission to cater to this woman’s demands? What’s more, is the customer ALWAYS right? 

There is an oft-quoted catchphrase in the business world that states: “the customer is always right.” I’ve heard that in many training seminars. Lalana showed me  comic wherein it stated “The Costumer is always right.” I laughed, but there is a prevalent attitude that WE must meet the customers’ needs even if it means we often go to ridiculous extents to please them. However, treating customers like they are always right can be self-destructive for entrepreneurs like myself and here’s why.

In an article by “Entrepreneur” they offer FIVE reasons why the customer is NOT always right and why: 

1. Businesses Have Limited Resources

Entrepreneurs like myself are not omnipotent, neither are employees - or in my case, my assistant Lalana. Most businesses, especially the fledgling ones, operate with limited resources including limited time, funds, and energy. Every business experiences its share of grudging customers, who, no matter what might be done to satisfy their needs, will continue to complain.

Feeling guilty and culpable for such petulance is actually unwise and it affects your business in a negative way. If the necessary steps have been taken to address the issues of a customer, then a business owner should close the matter and move on.

'Businesses are not dependent on individual buyers. It is actually immature to spend all the energy to satisfy someone who does not intend to be happy. It is important to address the requirements of hundreds and thousands of other regular clients, and also show solidarity with the employees,”

2. It Adds Misery to Employees

Any business will invariably have its share of malicious, rude, snappy consumers. Amongst 50 customers there will at least be 5 who will end up rubbing you the wrong way. Now, reacting to such folk with appeasement and guilt is utter naivete! 

Making employees believe that the customer is always right, is tantamount to making them feel dejected. Between supporting your employees and taking sides with an intolerable, enraged customer, it is best to choose the former (the employee). Customers must get this message that though they are important they are NOT indispensable, while supporting employees always pays extra dividends.

"With constant support from the owners comes a sense of loyalty amongst the employees who then provide better service to customers. It's axiomatic that happy employees always go an extra mile to make customers happy." 

3. Customers Are Not Omniscient

The creator of a business and the team that works with him know best about the product or service they offer. But customers are often upset because the products don't function the way they want them to - or in the case of my costuming business, they may have expectations around how much time I am able to spend in a consultation, or that through no fault of our own we cannot accommodate their specific vision they have of a particular gown. In the recent experience, the client kept asking for color combinations that are not available in the fabrics she insisted upon. All I can do is offer an alternative and try to compromise by offering options. But the attitude that a client knows best leads to an expectation that I be willing to go to any extent when they demand unrealistic or even ludicrous things.

Often customers will try to establish that they know better and try to share opinions or advice on how a product should look or work. Irrespective of the sector of the business, it is risky to give customers the liberty to think they cannot be wrong. 

The key is to establish with customers, in a very amicable way, that the maker of the product is the final authority - In my case that would be ME. I go to great lengths to educate customers on my products and service in order to help them understand my expertise or why I use a certain procedure. I won’t take on a project that I am not passionate about, but more especially when my knowledge is discounted and they wish me to create something that doesn’t fit into my design aesthetic I will decline the order because there needs to be a state of sympatico between designer and customer. 

4. It Pits Management Against Employees

The message that the customer is always right, is demoralizing, and results in bitterness against management and indicates that the organization favours the customers more than the workforce. In reality, taking  the side of the employees generates happier customers because your employee, or yourself, will have a more positive attitude. 

5. You Don't Want Every Customer

Not all customers are indispensable and businesses must accept that. It is better to let go of a persistently complaining and abusive customer who only end up creating stress amongst the employees (or myself). This is irrespective of the amount the customer pays for your product.

Disgruntled customers can wear away your spirit, involve a very high quantity of resources, and add to your stress levels. It is sometimes sensible to lose a customer for protecting the company and its workforce.

"To stay in business for a long time, entrepreneurs need to avoid unreasonably disgruntled customers. Getting rid of bad customers might cost a little profit, but it's healthier in the long-term goals of the business,"

The full article can be found here: https://www.entrepreneur.com/article/308548

While these “talking points” are focused on the Management versus Employee relationships, they are valid across the board for a small business owner whether or not you have employees. All of the angst and frustration and demoralization felt by employees or managers who are forced to capitulate to an over-demanding or self-centered and entitled customer is just as keenly felt by me (the owner). It puts me in a grumpy negative head space and it effects my attitude in the studio, which in turn affects Lalana who has to put up with my grumpy ass, and wears down my energy to the extent it affects my usual generosity to the rest of my clients. 2K in commissions just isn’t worth the hassle!   

So, while I’m still working through the guilt and the regret of having to cut loose a client as I did this week, I’m learning that my work will speak for itself, and for every ONE client I have a negative experience, I have MORE who actually appreciate me and are reasonable enough to understand I have deadlines and they are 50% responsible for the success of their commission. I may not be in a place of full acceptance that I could not have made this particular client happy, but I feel justified in drawing a boundary that just because a client spends 2K in my store, it does not give them permission to behave like an entitled premadonna. 

[riskeith]

hi babe, hope you slept well.. ♥️

answering on the phone is just *takes screenshots* *opens tumblr app* *switch between screenshots and answering* do you also put on my messages on the laptop and answering with your phone usually, because that’s what i do lmao sjshdks. thank god for technology.

(I LOVE BEING CALLED BRO.. i believe that i would’ve been a dudebro in another life tbh..) there is? i’m not super immersed in the fandom actually so i had no idea, do you have any examples? ofc only if you wanna talk about it i know these topics can sometimes be annoying to think about. also you’re right! ‘don’t like don’t read’ is the law. follow it. i can’t believe how some people have the nerve to talk about what other people do creatively... yikes

you should if you ever find yourself not knowing what to read! i think their fics were some of my first in the fandom and they set the bar so high hehe. dude i love how oikawa just wants to see kageyama burn it’s so funny..... he’s so cocky about it while kageyama’s just his moody self. speaking of; one of my fave fics of yours is the swapping jerseys one!

WTF 😭 BABY POOLS AND POOL FLOATIES..... razor please come back to us please. sidenote but do you also think that his powers are 5 star level? hes soo powerful it’s so odd how he’s only 4 star haha... or maybe it’s just me being biased.

YEAH! THE SAVING SCENE IS SO AHHHHH. god especially if they have dialogue while person a is hurting and person b just spills all their feelings and becomes so erratic and scared and person a is like holy shit you love me.... and after everything is okay there’s still some awkwardness and tension and aaa.... 💢💔

OOO. sadly the ps5 is always out of stock it’s crazy how fast it sold out. but i mean it makes sense it’s arguably the most popular console so.. hopefully they restock soon. last of us is such a fun game! and the second part is ~gay~ which is always a plus. i’m not sure which memes you mean? tell me 👁 HAHA that makes sense actually omg... lumine and aether reunion won’t happen until like two years if the updates keep coming the way they are (STOP THAT WOULD ACTUALLY BE SO FUNNY.... like hello if you want to unlock the rest of the story you either gacha $pin for it or you imagine it yourself love ♥️😗) talking about this makes me wonder what the other worlds might look like....

your followers are just here to witness us planning our co-op date sjsjdkdjskz. speaking of,,, hehe. i have some fantastic news. i’m at ar level 11 right now and co-op unlocks at level 16... i might just reach that tomorrow (today for you) so i’m just saying hehehehehehehehehehehe.... 😏♥️

BOWL CUT. my cutie little baby. also mullet? sounds nice omg you will probably rock that look... 😳 i’m a non mullet supporter but if cluna has a mullet then call me a yeehaw mullet lover i suppose. can’t believe my wife is a cowboy. OMG YEAH IT MUST FEEL SO NICE your head went bzz bzz. how long did it take for them to accept it? and yeah god ikr some people take hair so seriously which is fair but also i’ve never understood it... like it grows out..? wow you really went from a ballet girl to punk rock style huh. i feel like you’re the both sides of the ‘she was a punk she did ballet’ meme.

memo fic is a jealous fic? mmm smells good. I FIGURED jshdjdkhsjs slow songs are just not your forte, huh? rip. langst is the best yet worst thing ever tbh. and YEAH I DO we’re truly 🤝 ok literally mood sometimes it’s just nice to talk about how much you love a character through another character in a fic yk? so what if this 2k fic contains 1k words about how beautiful oikawa looks? it’s what iwa feels <3 (YOU’RE LEARNING!!!!!!! THATS SO EXCITING!! i guess you just have to drive me around, huh?)

oh i’m in love i’m with that fic my girl. and i knew about that spoiler it’s kind of hard to miss it since it’s everywhere skdhdkdhdk... god, that sounds so good thank you for sharing it. pining iwaizumi hajime >>>>>>>> the air i need to exist 🥺 

THE DAY IS SO SOON CLUNA, it’s literally here soooo soon holy shit i just can’t wait. i played for almost 6 hours today in a row like an idiot and now i never wanna see hilichurls again in my life but hey, one step closer to my baby. prepare yourself.. 😏

AWWW i had a feeling you’d be a tea person. but omg tea effects your sleep? how late is too late for you to drink it? what’s your favorite flavors? 👁 and i’m addicted to both shdkdhsks. i say addicted bc i literally have 6 cups of tea per day easily and like.. 1 or 2 coffee cups per day. it’s really bad but i can’t stop so.. 🙇🏽‍♀️

COLLEGE BOYFIES CLUNA. COLLEGE BOYFIES WITH DIP DYE HAIR. imagine them doing each other’s make up and nails before going to concerts together. imagine xiao in euphoria kind of make up. holy shit. here’s something for your overwhelmed heart jsdhjshska. xiaoven soulmates girl, no doubt about it. THE EDIT THE EDIT THE EDIT!!!! they just look so beautiful. we need scenes with them like Asap. the edit is based on a fic... notes down.

can’t wait to see your screenshots. super excited!!

xo, m.a. (i almost wrote my name down in a haste shshskdjdk... although you’ll find it out soon...)

hiya!! i slept alright~ ahaha

:o that’s smart! but no i don’t LOL whether i’m on my phone or my laptop i just continuously scroll up and down fhdskjfkhsdf i think that’s why i come close to missing some paragraphs some times oops. yay for the ~wonders of technology~

(AIGHT NICE AHAHHA fhsdkjfsh does that mean you’re a bit of a tomboy?) actually coincidentally i came across this thread: https://twitter.com/maxatsuomi/status/1350145589296685057 which gives you an idea lmao (also some things on there i wasn’t even aware of wtf) EXACTLY??? it’s even worse when non content creators try to come for content creators like?????????/ um you’re getting all this food for FREE and yet?????? lmfao the nerve of some people

i def will!! FKJSHFDSKJ yeah that do be their dynamic lolol. and thank you!! i too think i snapped on that one 😩😩 glad others agree ahahah

i actually haven’t really seen him in combat... and when we could trial him i was too busy trying to pass the quests to focus on how he fought fhdkfhsdkfjshf but i do think his abilities are cool!! he have wolf above head 🥺

YEAHHH BOYEEEEEEEEEEE god that reminds me of a scene from a drarry fic (What We Pretend We Can't See wink wonk)

oh damn!! hope they restock soon for your sake~ yissss ive watched a playthrough and omg lev.... my Son. i don’t think i can find the memes again but it was just about the bugs like how if you throw a grenade on the highway everyone will run out of their cars like a flashmob or something hfskfhsdjfkds. (LMAOOOOO) there’s actually a trailer with the other worlds! https://youtu.be/TAlKhARUcoY (it has spoilers tho supposedly lol. none we understand rn at least)

hdsfkhjs. omg you absolute legend!!!! but i also hope that you’re taking care of yourself and prioritising the important things too fhsfhdksdhf. but i am excited hehehehehe

AHHAAHKFHDSKJFSD pls... once i saw someone with an actual proper mullet on the bus and i was like “ew... keith would look like this irl?” FJSDHKFSAHKDASHDFSDJFKJFDSHFKJS. but what can i say i got influenced by all the kpop bois 😔 and hmmm idk? i think my dad didn’t care too much but ik my mum did/does fhsfskfsdfhkf so who knows lollllllllllllllllllllllllllllll. IT REALLY DOES GROW OUT LMAO LIKE. fhkshkfsdkj my cousin called me a rockstar when she saw it LOL so you’re prob right 🤪

yeah slow songs really just. aren’t LMAO ‘behind this mask of mine’ was based on a slow bts song and i put it in the playlist i had for it (bc obviously) but i wanted to skip it every time hfksjdhfskjdfhskfdkfhkslfhadksfjsdjhfkashkfjsdh. EXACTLY!!!!!!!!!! you are so correct. (hehehe i was gonna say that too that you don’t need to drive bc it’ll take you around 😏 LMAO)

fhkdsj thank!! legit pining iwa.......... more like pining ME mayhaps i just be self projecting 🤪🤪

lolol dw i can fight the hilichurls for you 😩 also who’s your fave enemy to fight! i used to like fighting the treasure hoarders most but the hilichurls are cute.. FHSKJDHFSDFKJSD plus i need their fucking masks my god why are their drop rates so shit hfsdhjfks

i’m not too sure actually? i’ve never been up early enough to test it but i like drinking tea like after dinner... which is the problem AHAHA. hmm well i like matcha a lot LOL but also chai? and then like black tea.... all the other ones too... i used to drink some fruity ones which were nice but we have a lot of the like basic chinese ones at home too and i enjoy those as well lol. wbu?? omg.... m.a........... dfhksdfkjhfkjshfksjd that’s a lot!!!!!!! do you even need to drink water then HKDSJFHKSDFHDKDSHFJKSDH

omg............. ive never seen euphoria LOL but ............. omg ...................... i cannot process thoughts rn.....

xoxo!! c.r. (you mean bc we’ll be playing co-op? you don’t have to if you’re uncomfy fhdskjf my genshin name was literally ‘aether’ up until yesterday FHDFHSDKFSDFJSHFKSDF)

[coelenterata]

MABEUF, can Mabeuf and Mother Plutarch somehow be happy ;__;

Of COURSE they can, also guess which fool came up with an idea, then had a bad brain time and procrastinated for, what, two weeks, then wrote most of a 2k fic in one evening jesus christ why this. I got a little bit hung up on being clever about the set-up, but here’s a diverging into a happier universe! Three times Mabeuf didn’t befriend Valjean and one time he did, I guess??

—

1

Despite there being little chance of someone leaving their address in their purse, Mabeuf empties the purse and checks, and is, so to speak, lucky: there is a piece of paper in there that looks like a letter, a short note but a letter nonetheless, with an address on it that is mostly readable, and the seal of the letter is broken, so presumably the owner of the purse was its recipient.

Mabeuf copies the address, and then he puts everything back into the purse, counted out and counted back in, and tells Mother Plutarch of his discovery.

She looks less relieved than he feels, and he understands, because he is already not much relieved, but what has to be done has to be done, for the sake of doing the right thing, and if there hadn’t been the letter he would have found some other way to try and return the purse to its owner.

As it is, the letter was there, and he has an address, and the very next day he sets out.

Rue de l’Ouest, it said, and he doesn’t quite know how to get there, and he does not like to have to ask strangers for directions, so he walks to a bookshop he knows, and he asks for directions there and gets them, though he also gets an irritated look.

No matter: he knows where to go, and he goes, even as his feet get tired, and he finds the street and he finds the right house, and he finds the porter.

It’s an odd conversation, it seems to be two conversations, the porter is suspicious and confused and Mabeuf is confused and attempting to return a purse to a man who has apparently moved out, but finally the porter does accept the purse and does promise to send it on to its rightful owner, and Mabeuf leaves, relieved and tired and still not sure who “you people” is (“my name is Mabeuf,” he had said, confused, not sure how to say, and I am not part of any we or you), and why the porter thought he meant harm (he had gotten very angry about Mabeuf’s question of the purse’s owner’s new address), or what kind of harm that would be.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, the purse will get back to the man it belongs to, and Mabeuf will go home, where everything is as it has been, familiar if nothing else.

2

For all that Toussaint loves the Fauchelevent family, she does have to admit that they are strange; Cosette not so much, or only in the ways a girl naturally would end up, having been raised in a convent as horrid as the one Cosette was raised in, and then strange in some of the ways a girl is if nobody tells her to be neat and quiet, but Toussaint likes that about Cosette, feels overwhelming fondness for this girl who dresses in silk and then goes to dig in the dirt and never stops being fascinated by the world. Monsieur Fauchelevent, on the other hand, is decidedly an odd one, and it becomes seldom more obvious than when Toussaint is doing the shopping and has been tasked to buy for him what he would find too cheap to give to her, a mere servant.

At least this is not a thing visible to others – there is a woman next to Toussaint this day at the market who is getting more and more embarrassed about the small sum of money she has and the pitiful amount of food she can afford to buy, and from her half-sentences, Toussaint learns that she isn’t only feeding herself, but a master, too.

“Here,” says Toussaint, finally, pulls out the money given to her in addition to what she needed, in case there would be an occasion to give alms, and hands it to the other woman, who continues for another few words, and then stops and stares.

“My God,” she says, “You don’t have to– that is, I would be very grateful, you see we would have had money enough for a while, but Monsieur Mabeuf insisted that a purse that falls from the heavens must be returned to its owner, and– that is, thank you.”

Toussaint smiles, and nods, and thinks that name sounds familiar, thinks she may know whose purse it was, but isn’t sure enough in that knowledge or in herself to say anything more, and they both buy what they need to, and go their separate ways home.

3

Mabeuf wanders, sometimes, to distract himself, walks and walks, looking furtively into the gardens of others when he passes by, finding himself far away from the bustling city without consciously choosing the streets that will lead him out, without even reading the street names.

It’s a good distraction, it is, from everything, it is a relief to go out with a book under his arm and no intention of giving it away, and no intention of talking to anyone either; it is good to be where there is air and dreamlike familiar unfamiliarity of his surroundings, it is good to see other people’s gardens, flowers blooming elsewhere even if his own won’t quite.

He doesn’t get too lost usually, but sometimes he does, and so too this day, lost in thought and in worry and then lost in winding streets, and when he looks up again he knows no roof and no door and no name, and there is a walled-off garden there that he hasn’t seen before, and before he can get more immediately worried in addition to the old, long worries, he gets a proper glimpse of that garden through a gate a few steps ahead, and has to pause and look at it, look at it until his eyes and mind and heart are full, because it is a beautiful garden, different from his, not at all how he would have his garden, but undeniably beautiful.

It is confirmation that he hasn’t been here before, too – to have forgotten the name of Rue Plumet wouldn’t have been surprising; to have forgotten this garden… impossible.

Even though he knows it’s in part because he is tired and tired and tired, in every way, he thinks he could look at this garden forever, at its fullness and its buzzing life and its green glowing safety.

How long he stands there, he doesn’t know, but when he is pulled out of his thoughts it is by the voice of a girl standing inside the garden some feet away from the gate.

“Monsieur, are you lost?”, she says, amusedly and kindly.

She looks like the spirit of this garden, Mabeuf thinks, and mutely shakes his head.

“Well, are you looking for anyone?”, the girl further inquires, and, “I doubt it would be us, we do not get visitors, but…”

“No, no,” says Mabeuf, halting, already moving away, “my apologies. Your garden is beautiful.”

And he turns around and leaves, to get more lost until he finds a familiar place that will help guide him home.

+1

It has been difficult from the beginning, to sell his books, and it gets harder with each one, because the lesser pains are already over with. He wishes it would stop, this gradual worsening loss, but it won’t, and so he is selling another book, selling what is to him equivalent to his life, only to live a bit longer.

The bookseller looks at the book with a frown, and tells him the price he would pay, and Mabeuf cannot bear it, and he asks for a moment to consider, and gets to hold his book a little longer, and stands there clutching it to his chest and then paging through it reverently, and when he is about to say goodbye to it, a broad-shouldered man approaches, quietly, goes past Mabeuf and takes care not to bump into him and goes up to the bookseller, and lets Mabeuf have another minute, he thinks, only the bookseller tells the stranger that there is another man who is in the process of selling, and to wait, and Mabeuf has to step forward, no matter how little he wants to.

The stranger, kind-faced, looks at Mabeuf, and Mabeuf knows how he must look, tottering, clutching at his book like it is alive, like it was alive and has died and he can’t bear to know it just yet.

Mabeuf sells his book as quickly as he can, even as the stranger watches and the bookseller looks bored and disapproving, and then he tries to leave as quickly as he can, too, but the stranger reaches out a hand, halts him.

“Allow me,” says the stranger, “to buy your book, and gift it back to you.”

“I,” says Mabeuf, “You. I don’t follow?”

The stranger bows his head a little.

“It looked important to you, the book. I would like to see that you do not have to give it away.”

Mabeuf blinks at the stranger, and stutters, and the stranger smiles, and turns to the bookseller and tells him that he wants to buy the book, and the bookseller too looks dumbstruck but takes the money and hands over the book, and Mabeuf has not moved at all by the time the stranger turns back to him and presents him with his book.

“Thank you–”, Mabeuf stumbles over the words, reaches for his book, and the man is still smiling.

They stand there, for a moment that is not as awkward as Mabeuf thinks it should be, but still very very strange, and then the man clears his throat.

“What is your name?”

Like this isn’t the strangest and kindest thing anyone has ever done for Mabeuf.

“Mabeuf,” he says, and clutches his book helplessly to his chest.

The man bows his head again, and smiles yet deeper, a little amused in the grave kindness now.

“Fauchelevent. And I believe I’ve heard your name before. Did you by chance return a purse some time ago that had come to you from the heavens?”

And that is when things change, Mabeuf will think later, though of course they nearly changed many times before, and what comes later will come partly because near-misses came before; this will be not one book saved but all of them, though Mabeuf doesn’t know that yet, he is still merely grateful and confused, and for once not just uncomfortable talking to someone he doesn’t know, and so he only nods, quietly affirms, accepts this coincidence.

Fauchelevent nods too, decisive.

“Let me return to you the purse that is rightfully yours, then,” he says. “I don’t think I have the full amount with me, but if you would give me your address, I will visit tomorrow and return it.”

Mabeuf stammers again, and the bookseller coughs pointedly and they both apologize and move away, next to each other, and then they stand in the street and Fauchelevent is still expectant and Mabeuf wants to cry and laugh in confused gratitude, and Fauchelevent is starting to lament his lack of foresight in not having a writing implement, and then a carriage moves past them and someone waves on the other side of the street and a bright voice calls out.

A girl of maybe sixteen, dressed in what must surely be the height of fashion because the dress looks very expensive, comes hurrying towards them, followed by a woman who must be a housekeeper, and the girl exclaims a greeting to Monsieur Fauchelevent, whom she calls Papa, and then stops and looks between her Papa and Mabeuf, smiling, and Mabeuf recognizes with not a little bewilderment the girl from that garden, the very spirit of that garden, and she smiles at him too, when she has finished the long sentence she had directed at her father about ribbons and too about rye bread, Mabeuf does not understand anything.

“You found your way home then, those weeks ago?”, she says, still smiling. “I wasn’t aware you knew my father.”

“We only just met,” the father in question says, smiling faintly now too, though a little wary, and, “this is Monsieur Mabeuf. Monsieur Mabeuf, my daughter Cosette.”

Definitely wary, but Mabeuf is too confused to do anything but bow his head politely and start to look to Fauchelevent again, only there is another interruption.

The housekeeper has made a surprised noise, and flushes a little when the Fauchelevents both turn to look at her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, falling over her syllables, and to Mabeuf, “Your housekeeper is well? I never asked for her name, I–”

“As– as well as can be expected, given the circumstances,” says Mabeuf, still more confused, and he will never remember, later, how the conversation ends, but he remembers always that he must have given Fauchelevent his address, because Fauchelevent visits the next day, and gifts Mabeuf not only the amount of money that was in the purse but twice it, and talks to Mabeuf about books and about plants first only politely and then like he too cares very much about the subjects, and he is knowledgeable and he listens and he insists on Mabeuf keeping the money, and then he makes to leave when it has been a lot longer than is polite to keep a guest or to bother a host, and when he puts on his hat again and bows and turns away, Mabeuf gets up too, and gets together his courage, and says, “would you visit again?”

Fauchelevent turns to him again, looking surprised.

“Only,” says Mabeuf, “I’ve enjoyed your company. I don’t– this isn’t about the money. I have enjoyed your company and conversation. Please visit again, if you have the time.”

And Fauchelevent looks not amused at the clumsy attempt to ask for friendship, but as surprised now as someone who has never been offered friendship, and after a moment he nods, and smiles, and then he does leave.

And he returns the next day, and the next, and the next.

And brings a book, and brings a greeting from his daughter and a greeting from Toussaint to Mother Plutarch, and brings another book, and another, and brings his daughter, and brings among protests more money, and brings books again and again for Mabeuf to keep, and most of all he brings his company.

Mabeuf is very glad for Fauchelevent’s friendship, a thing he never thought he would be able to say and mean about anyone, and he thinks maybe Fauchelevent is glad too, and just as surprised by it as Mabeuf.

[newstfionline]

Jacksonville shooting: The high-pressure, big money world of competitive gaming

By Kyle Swenson, Antonia Noori Farzan, Washington Post, August 27, 2018

With the final seconds draining away on the game clock, “Bread” pulls off a big finish.

It’s a chilly February night in 2017 in Buffalo. The flat screens plastered across the walls of the 716 Food and Sport are all tuned to a live-stream of the game, including a massive 38-foot television in the bar’s main room. More than six hours of video game competition has built to this moment.

Carlos “Los” Yancy and David “Bread” Katz are knotted in a tie, 20-20, in Madden NFL 17, the blockbuster football video game franchise. Yancy, the expected favorite at this tournament, is fending off a final drive by Katz, a Maryland native just beginning to build a reputation among competitive gamers. The winner not only pockets $3,500 but advances to a later contest in Los Angeles.

With the pressure mounting, Katz’s thin face is clenched in a serious look, his grey-green eyes pinned to the screen. As the figures on the screen snap into action, Katz’s quarterback fires off a final Hail Mary pass, connecting with a receiver who blows into the end zone for a surprise win.

“Bread!” the live-stream announcer screams as Katz’s face splits into a joyful grin. “The seventh seed upsets the top seed!” the shocked announcer continues. “I cannot believe it. The gunslinger mentality to go for it!”

“A lot of pressure on these young men,” the announcer tells the audience as the live-cast closes down. “You have to give it up to Bread.”

EA Sports, the company behind the Madden franchise, called Katz’s win the “most exciting moment in all the 2017 NFL Club Series Championships.” The Buffalo Bills tweeted out congratulations to Katz.

But the promising competitive Madden career Katz launched with his 2017 victory in Buffalo took a drastic turn Sunday in Jacksonville, Fla.

Authorities have identified the 24-year-old as the suspected shooter, “pending confirmation,” after gunfire erupted at a live-streamed Madden NFL 19 qualifying tournament held at a busy mall restaurant. Two people were killed in the attack, Jacksonville County Sheriff Mike Williams told reporters Sunday night. Eleven others were taken to local hospitals, including nine gunshot victims and two people injured fleeing the scene, according to Williams. The gunman shot himself fatally, authorities said.

The investigation continues to zero in on Katz, who reportedly competed in Madden under the tag names “Bread” and “RavensChamp.” On Sunday, federal agents and local police raided a home near Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Neighbors said they have seen Katz there in the past. Police have yet to detail a motive for the shooting, although Katz was registered to compete in the Jacksonville tournament, according to the event’s website. A witness told the Florida Times-Union that the man allegedly opened fire after he was eliminated from the contest.

The shooting has delivered a blow to the tightknit Madden community just as the game’s popularity as a spectator sport--and the stakes involved--rise in the esport universe.

Once thought of as a slacker hobby, esports have become a highly competitive--and highly lucrative--pursuit for gamers in recent years. Top-ranked players compete for prize money as well as endorsement deals, with some championships offering prizes in the millions. They spend countless hours training to perfect their hand-eye coordination and fine-tune their ability to focus under pressure.

Some esports tournaments feature players competing in games that replicate traditional sports played by live athletes, like Madden NFL and NBA 2K. Others allow them to face off in games like Counter-Strike and Fortnite, which are based on battle scenarios.

According to the esports research firm Newzoo, the worldwide audience for esports is expected to reach 380 million people in 2018. Newzoo predicts that esports sponsorships for North American teams will reach $162 million in 2018.

A Washington Post-University of Massachusetts Lowell poll released this spring found that almost three-quarters of Americans between the ages of 14 and 21 had either played or watched multiplayer online games or competitions in the previous year.

For some young players, esports can be a way of paying for college. In 2014, Illinois-based Robert Morris University became the first college with a varsity esports program that offers scholarships to players, according to Engadget. Some 60 schools have followed suit and established esports teams recognized by the National Association of Collegiate Esports, while many others have unofficial programs, the site reported.

A little over a week ago, the University of Akron announced that it would be opening a 5,200-foot esports facility for its varsity, club, and recreational teams in October, touting it as the largest esports space at any university in the world. That same day, the university announced plans to phase out 80 degree programs due to low enrollment numbers.

The potential financial upshot for esport competitors rivals some traditional athletics. The five-person team that won The International 2018, a Dota 2 online battle competition that concluded over the weekend, walked away with over $11 million in prize money. Additional prizes for runners-up put the total prize pool at over $25 million.

But esports also present their own unique form of overwhelming pressure.

“There is no other sport in the world in which one day you can be a teenager playing a game by yourself, and the next day, because someone scouted you from your online account, you’re thrown onto a stage for millions to criticize,” ESPN esports reporter Tyler Erzberger wrote in a piece on the pervasiveness of mental health issues in the esports community published Friday, before the shooting. “There’s little to no assimilation period. There’s no road map for how to deal with the criticism. There’s just you, on the stage with four teammates, facing down the biggest moment of your life with no lifeline.”

Named after John Madden, a longtime pro football coach and commentator who in 2006 was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, Madden NFL allows players to build a fantasy roster for their favorite NFL team and compete in online matchups. Some 46,000 people belong to /r/Madden, a Reddit community dedicated to discussing the series.

The first game in the series, John Madden Football, was released in 1988. By 2014, sales had topped $4 billion in revenue.

As of August 13th, more than 130 million copies had been sold, the game’s maker, Electronics Arts Inc., said in a news release timed with the release of Madden NFL 19, the latest version.

Despite Madden’s long-standing popularity as a franchise, the game’s status as a competitive game is only a recent development thanks to the uptick in tournaments with prize money.

Sunday’s competition was a regional qualifier for an October final round in the Madden NFL 19 Championship Series, which offers a $25,000 prize to the first place winner.

Three million players competed in the Madden NFL 18 challenge last year, which was the top-rated esports broadcast in North America, Todd Sitrin, a senior vice president and general manager for the EA Competitive Gaming Division, said earlier this month in a news release.

The release also noted that this year’s competition will have a prize pool of $700,000, the largest in the game’s 30-year history.

“People don’t realize Madden is a growing game in terms of esports,” gamer Matthew Lee told The Post. “There are guys who are going to make over $100,000 playing this year. With streaming and partnerships on top of the prize money you can win in tournaments, it’s becoming a way to make a living.”

However, the circuit remains a tight group of competitors, Lee said. Everyone knows everyone else--in part due to the intimate nature of the game. Unlike other popular esports titles like “Call of Duty” where players compete in teams, in Madden NFL it’s just you working to outsmart an opponent.

“It’s a mental chess match,” Lee said. “I liken it to a lot of card games with the way you fundamentally have to think about it. You make educated guesses, have to quickly do the math, measure possibilities. You have to outplay your opponent based on probabilities.”

The high-stakes can supercharge the emotions on the field of play.

“The Madden community is one of the most passionate and competitive groups of people you’ll ever find,” Michael Aldrighetti, a Madden competitor, told The Post. “During the actual game, it gets emotional. Frustrations mount, occasional chirping at each other. We’re competitors going at each other. Madden may be ‘just a game’, but the people and the emotions are real.”

[elletromil]

4, 11, 16 💖💖💖

4: What are some of your favorite tropes?

Mutual Pining. Definitely mutual pining. Like there cannot be enough mutual pining in the world. All the tropes related to mutual pining are great. Sharing a bed for warmth. Arranged marriage. First Kiss. First Time. Fairy Tales au. I will take them all. Give them all to me but please for the love of god, make them pine after each other and be convinced that the other can never love them back even if they are kissing right now because they are dumbasses and it takes them like 10k before they talk and admit their love and start to believe it.

11: Share the last paragraph you wrote.

So you get a little sneak peek into the chapter of the Daft Punk au I am currently writing. Nothing spoiler-y or at least it shouldn’t be. If you get spoiled by this you’re very good at reading between the lines to guess what this paragraph means XD

Of course, it was highly unusual for her to be sent into a room that was still occupied, but a mix-up was bound to happen once a while. At least the person seemed to be still asleep and they probably wouldn’t complained about her invading their privacy to the manager. Hugo seemed to like her well enough, but she’d rather not be in his presence more than necessary. There was something slightly off-putting about him and she knew now to trust her instincts above all.

16: What’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done in the name of outlining/worldbuilding (timelines, research, maps, spreadsheets, etc.)?

So i don’t do really do outlines with the Daft Punk au being the exception to the rule. I think I have like... 2k-3k of outline for that au. There are also the stories I co-write with @insanereddragon but even if I contribute to the ideas, the research that needs to be done is usually done by her... I am a terrible co-writer and I am blessed by the fact Red is well-versed in google fu. And when I worldbuild it’s usually while I’m writing.

So like it might not be really ridiculous, but the only thing I can think of is scrolling up through like more than a year of tumblr private messages with you to get to the plot-bunnying we did for the Come Back (Home) verse (it took me like between 5 and 10 minutes to reach the right spot) and take I think it 34 or 44 screencaps to make sure I wasn’t forgetting a key point while writing the first story for the verse.

Ask me question about my writing

[notokj]

my coming out story (i guess)

Warning - This is probably going to be long and boring, but it’s my truth. And I guess I should start off with a disclaimer.

I am not a lesbian. I am bisexual.

My name is KJ, I’m currently 18 years old and I live a relatively happy lifestyle. From a very young age, I’d been attracted to boys. Specifically (but not exclusively) Robert Downey Jr., Nick Jonas, Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth, Brenden Urie, and various others. I always thought girls were pretty, but I never let myself think anything further. In the early 2000s, sure, being ‘out’ was slowly becoming normal, but I was a kid and nobody my age was talking about it... so why should I? I had a mom and dad, and so did my friends, I didn’t even consider two moms or two dads or anything in between. I was completely in the dark. But for hours, I would obsess over Miley Cyrus (or Hannah Montana) not just as a TV celebrity, but as somebody I found attractive. I never felt scared to admit this out loud, simply because I believed that I was just being stupid or irrational. I let myself continue to fit in the way I did.

One of the earliest memories I remember about me trying to shut down my feelings was about in the third grade. There was an exchange student from the middle east who was just learning English, and for whatever reason they chose me to help her understand that seasons. You know, fall, winter, spring, summer, it was fine. We were having fun like most little kids do, even with the language barrier. She was having issues understanding what the different words meant, and I was having issues explaining it to her because I couldn’t communicate in a way that she would understand. Giving up on the seasons, she took notice to my disney princess lunchbox. I told her my favorite princess was Ariel, and I’m not sure if I misspoke or she misunderstood but she stated that she “wanted to kiss a princess”. Now, I cannot confirm if that was her true feeling at the time or if she was unable to translate correctly what she said, but I was shocked to hear her say it. I didn’t comment on it, I didn’t make her uncomfortable, I simply moved on and pointed out all of the princesses on my bag. After school that day, I was hanging out with a family friend that was a couple years older than me. Being confused and trusting this friend, I told them what the exchange student said. My friend proceeded to tell me that I was lying, that a girl would never say that, and I laughed it off and agreed with her and told her the girl was probably just crazy. I quickly regretted my words, but kept all my opinions to myself. I didn’t want to seem weird or out of it.

Fast forward to the seventh grade, I had just transferred to a new middle school and was enjoying my time meeting new friends. At this time, it was super cool to girls if a guy was gay, but lesbians were unheard of. In my friend group, there was this one girl, let’s call her Brooke. Brooke was broken up with her asshole ex-boyfriend when we met, and shortly after she admitted to me that she had feelings for another girl. Of course, knowing somebody who had positive thoughts about girls liking girls, I fully supported her. I even helped her to portray her feelings. During this time, I hadn’t outed myself, but I was able to confirm that I did like girls... all because Brooke did it first. Somebody I trusted was brave enough, even though nearly half of her family was homophobic, she was able to say out loud that she liked somebody of the same sex. I respected her for that. We became best friends through that experience. It was special to me, and in eight grade I admitted to my entire group of friends that I liked girls and boys, They all supported me but I hadn’t yet been out to my family.

Two weeks before high school, Brooke had a birthday party. I went, of course, and at a point in the night, a kissing game was played... and, well, I lost my first kiss to Brooke. Do I regret it? No. Was it kinda cringy and gross? Yes, as most fourteen year old kisses were. I immediately knew everything I was feeling was real, and all I wanted to do was give Brooke a chance. I had known for a while that Brooke had feelings for me, and I was starting to have feelings for her. During her party, she claimed that on the first day of high school, she would get down on one knee and ask me out in front of everyone. That was said as a joke, but slick little KJ took advantage of it. Right before I left the party, I whispered into her ear “Why wait until school starts, when I’m saying yes right now?”, THEN I RAN OUT! I ran out like a little pussy but it’s okay! She texted me later that night and asked if I was kidding. I said no. Feelings from both sides were admitted and we confirmed that we were now girlfriend and girlfriend.

Three months later, me and Brooke are still together. Since we started High School as a couple, it was really easy to transition into the culture of our school. We didn’t have to come out to our classmates, because everyone had already assumed we were out. It was okay! Sure, there were “Fag”s and “Dyke”s thrown around, constant mocking and teasing, but we were strong. We didn’t let it get to us and we stuck together. I was at the point where I realized I was falling in love with this girl. I decided to tell my mom. At this point in time, my parents had recently divorced and weren’t living together anymore. I primarily lived with my mom, and I wanted to open up to her about this part of my life. So, I did. She was upset that I hid it from her for three months, but she was happy for me and also confessed that she too was/is bisexual! I’ve never felt so much comfort and security in my life.

But wait, this isn’t a cute happy coming out story that will end up on facebook.

The next hurdle was telling my dad. He’s always been a bit old school and traditional, and both my mom and I KNEW he would not be happy about it. He’d never really liked my friend group, specifically Brooke, and I just knew that being bisexual was not going to be a good thing. Also, knowing my dad, because I was dating a girl, I’d have to come out to him as a lesbian. He was the kind of old school that didn’t believe you could like both. Whatever, I just wanted to tell him. For some reason, this really stressed me out because I wanted nothing more than to be supported by my dad. I had gotten to such a low point, and mixed with high anxiety and depression, I made the mistake of cutting myself (take note it was the first and last time. I’m proudly four years clean). I’d worn a heavy red sweater the day after to hide it, and stupid me wrote my girlfriend a note about what I did because I wanted to be honest. The note got dropped somewhere, and I was reported to the office. The counselor checked my arm, and I swore it was just marks from falling into a bush. I caved, though, called my mom and told her what I did. My mom picked me up from school, and took my home. She stood out on the porch and told my dad what I did and how I did it. He was so angry, he left right away... After that, everyone acted like nothing happened. Nobody asked about me, my feelings, or Brooke. It was uncomfortably normal.

Shortly after, it was my fifteenth birthday. Being a latina, this was a big deal. I had a quinceanera! It was beautiful, Phantom of the Opera themed. I had fifteen roses, and I handed each one to an important person in my life and also gave them a speech. One of those roses went to my girlfriend, of course. But I was very courteous of my dad, and kept the speech platonic. As the night went on, my dad lingered and I had just wanted to apologize to Brooke for not spending much time with her. so I pulled her into the bathroom and we talked. She was okay so we both exited but my dad caught us as I was leaving. He screamed at me in front of everyone and made me cry, all for being with Brooke alone. He got so angry, he left and went drinking. I was miserable.

We talked after that. I told him I liked girls and boys. He told me he felt as if I was pressuring myself into some new societal norm, and that he specifically did not like Brooke. I was hurt, but I knew it would heal with time. And you know what? It did.

Three years later, Brooke left me for reasons not worth putting into a story like this. I was crushed. She was my first love, but I knew it was not meant to be. My dad and I were able to talk without her weight on my shoulders, and he had changed his mindset after years of watching me grow. He’ll never be the dad that’s going to gawk at girls with me, he wasn’t raised that way and I respect that. But he’ll never be the dad that puts me down if I do end up with a woman. I’m proud to say my dad is fully supportive of me, as long as I’m happy and safe. So many people are quick to judge him on the first half of this story, but family to recognize how far he’s come in loving me for me. I trust him with anything now. And having listened to why he didn’t like Brooke, made me realize that his previous anger was not completely directed at my newfound sexuality. He didn’t like how I was treated, not the gender of who I was with. He changed, for my happiness. And he is one of my biggest supporters now.

After Brooke, I had two other partners, both boys. I was the talk of my school. People would say that Brooke was just a phase, and that I faked being gay, and that I was just some phony. Both of those relationships didn’t last, and it was just six months ago that I decided I wouldn’t date until college because I was so put off by all the rude comments. Nobody wanted to believe that I was bisexual. They all wanted to believe that I was straight, or just a weird lesbian. It hurt, all the biphobia. 

A month ago, let’s just simplify things and say I started dating my current boyfriend, who I’mma just call 2K here (cause thats his life smh). I am in love with 2K, and I was worried that being bisexual would be a bad thing for him but,... he does not care. He’s loyal, trustworthy, and completely supportive of the fact that while yes- we are in a straight relationship, I am still bisexual. It doesn’t bother him, and I’m lucky enough to have some wonderful friends who are also very supportive! I’m at such a good place in my life right now. 2K is on great terms with my family, I trust him more than anyone, and it’s so comforting to know that the person I love isn’t telling me that Brooke was just a phase. Christ, I was with the girl for three years. That would be a long as phase!

To this day, I still experience extreme biphobia. But you know what? I’m okay. My boyfriend, family, friends, all support me and know who I am. I am not a lesbian. I am not straight. I’m proudly bisexual! And I’m starting college in a few short months. That’s not relevant, but I’m excited. I went through highs and lows to get to this solid point, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing.

So to all of my bi friends... You are HERE. Be proud and be loud. You are not confused, and nobody has the right to make you choose who or what to love!

[soy-em]

Em’s Big 2017 Rec List: Wincest Edition

Here is the Wincest version of my rec list of my favourite fics written this year! Find the J2 version here.

Full is not as heavy as empty by @exaggeratedspecificity​, NC17, 6k

Warning: Underage

Summary: 

Sixteen-year-old Sam Winchester seems hell-bent on spending his entire winter break sulking and feeding his inner freak until he comes across a list of New Year’s Resolutions he wrote the year prior. This was a new year and he was a new Sam. He needed a new list.

My Comments:  This was my gift at the @spnj2xmas​ and words cannot express how much I love it. Its so evocative of how miserable it can be to be a teenager, and how your emotions just jump about all over the place. And it’s also hot as hell!

Howls in my bones by @weefaol​ NC17, 22k

Warning: underage

Summary: When John gets a call to investigate a series of grisly animal killings, he drops Sam and Dean at an abandoned cabin two towns over. The boys find ways to keep busy — playing cards, watching movies, chopping wood — but with a howling winter storm on the way, there’s nowhere for Sam to hide his illicit feelings for his older brother. As the lure of desire threatens to devour him, Sam must learn to face the wolves that lurk outside and the monsters within. 

My comments: I raved about this story when I first read it, and it definitely makes my 2017 list. This story is everything I want in first time Weecest - angsty, possessive boys who are so wrapped up in each other that nothing else matters. It’s also beautifully written and super evocative of the winter environment it’s set in - a perfect read at this time of year.

When it was was only us by @cinnamonanddean​, NC17, 10k

Summary:  Sam is glaring at him and Dean is puzzled for half a second before he realizes: this Sam and Dean aren’t there yet. It’ll take two more years, a demon deal reaching cash-in, and a bottle of whisky - the good kind, no time left to waste on the bad shit - before they get there. Right now, it’s still just sideways looks and godawful tension, sitting a bit too close and lingering a little too long.

My Comments:  I’m such a sucker for stories like this - older Sam and Dean meet their younger counterparts, and can’t resist. This is a wonderful exploration of their relationship and characters as well, all wrapped up in lovely hot porn.

I swallow my heart, by @ilostmyshoe-79 NC17, 2k

Warning: underage

Summary: Sam has never been able to hold onto Dean the way he wants to. He tries. It’s never enough.

My comments:  We both had the same prompt for @wincestwritingchallenge for this, and it was so unfair, because this was so much better than mine. Angsty, desperate, jealous Sammy desperately trying to attract Dean’s attention is so my jam.

Until you come back home by @pathossam  M, 5k

Summary:  “Cas wonders, as he often does, if he should tell Sam that he knows what it really is that he needs. He decides that tonight, after all these years, he finally will. They’re not getting any younger, after all, and he’s mainly stayed out of it because he didn’t truly believe that two people so singularly and utterly devoted could be that stubborn and obtuse. It’s maddening, and it almost seems purposeful, how they ignore each others’ signals, like they each have that secret locked down so tight (out of shame, probably, or guilt), each other’s light can’t get through. It’s tragic, almost, if he’s being completely honest.” Coda to 12x11: Regarding Dean.

My comments:  This is one of the fics that remind me of why I loved Cas as a character, and still love him when he’s written right (i.e. not on the show). This is the Cas who loves the Winchesters, who agonises over what to do for the best for them. It’s also one of the best late-season Wincest fics I’ve ever read; focusing on their bond and what they mean to each other in a way that’s utterly beautiful.

A shadow of what should be by @wetsammywinchester T, 8k

Summary:  Sam wakes up in a strange bed, a strange apartment, and living in domestic bliss with Dean and a dog named Mothra. Obviously, either he’s lost his mind or all of this is a dream.

My comments:  This is my favourite of Paula’s fics this year. I love the world that’s created for Sam, and the ending hurt so, so good for such a gentle fic. I wanted Sam to have this so bad…

[obviouslyelementary]

Broken

I am terribly sorry.

Words: 2k+

WARNINGS: Morality angst, mentions of sex, a little bit of violence, others being jerks to Morality without realizing it.

_____________________________________________________________

           It hadn’t been on propose.

            Anxiety had been running from Prince and Logic as the two traits tried to put a bow on his head. He hadn’t even seen that he did enter his own room. He hadn’t realized it was Morality’s bedroom before he hit the closet, falling on the ground and watching as moved, a few shelves opening and some (many) papers flying off of them, just in time for Prince and Logic to arrive, seeing the mess Anxiety had made.

           “Oh no…” Logic mumbled, while Prince walked closer to the younger trait, who was slowly standing up, looking around with wide eyes.

           “This is your fault. Help me” he said, and both Prince and Logic nodded, kneeling down to take the papers from the ground. Prince was the first to touch one of them, but as he did, the paper flew up, making the three traits move back and stare as the paper became a screen.

           A screen?

           Inside it, something that resembled a homemade video started playing, and the three of them froze on spot, staring.

 _________

           The child on the screen couldn’t be older than ten years old. With his blue shirt, grey cardigan and glasses, it was impossible not to realize that it was Morality, or better yet, child Morality in the video.

           The kid in the screen rushed from one side of the kitchen to the other, checking the time on the clock every now and then. Four in the morning. The child smiled, before pulling a bench to the table, where all the ingredients for a cake were placed. He started mixing everything together, checking in a small paper every now and then and grinning to himself.

           “Happy birthday to us, happy birthday to us” he mumbled, smiling at his own singing, before he placed the dough on the tray and carefully put in on the stove, only to notice that he hadn’t turned it on. Very carefully, the child put the fire on and closed the oven, watching his cake in silence, sitting in front of the machine.

           He stayed there for forty five minutes exactly, and when it was ready, he slowly took it off the oven and put it over the table, his little hands using the big gloves of an adult.

           He left the cake to cool and turned to do the frosting, getting another little paper and working the ingredients. Slowly, the frosting got a nice texture, and he grinned, content, before putting it over the cake and slowly decorating it with M&Ms and chocolate.

           Once it was ready, he wrote three cards and put them on the pocket of his little pants, before rushing upstairs to his own room and closing his eyes. He was so excited that he couldn’t stop grinning.

           He waited for all the others to be awake before he stood up, walking downstairs just behind the other three, eyes wide, curious, excited. He waited behind the door, watching them silently as they saw the cake, their eyes shining bright.

           “Cake!” Prince had screamed, content, and the other two followed, grabbing forks and taking a piece. Morality bit his lip, staring, anxious, only for his smile to fall when the three, with no exception, spit the cake out and groaned.

           “Who made this?” Logic asked, incredulous, his ten year old voice still with the same sass as it was in the present. Anxiety shook his head, face showing disgust.

           “It’s terrible. Worst birthday ever” he said, and the two agreed, while Morality stepped back, reaching for his pocket and holding the letters tight on his hands.

           He was able to control his sounds until he reached his room, the ten year old curling under his blankets, crying and ripping the cards out of sadness.

 _________

           The screen then became a paper again, falling to the ground, and the three stood there, speechless, staring at the falling paper, not really believing what they had just seen.

           “Was that…” Anxiety muttered, and Logic nodded.

           “A memory. Yes” he said, the three looking down as another paper flew up, another screen coming up.

 _________

           “Santa” said a little, five year old Morality as he sat on the floor, pencil and paper on his hand. He shook his head, scribbling over the paper. “Dear Santa” he said now, smiling widely as he wrote. “This Christmas, I won’t ask much. I want Logic to get his favorite book, and Prince to get Aurora’s dress. And for me… A drawing” he finished, closing the letter and putting it in the envelope.

           It was done.

           “You’re not writing for Santa, are you?” Logic asked, and Morality looked up, eyes bright and happy.

           “Yes I am! Did you write your letter?”

           “It is not real Mo-mo” he said, coldly, a children book on his lap. “Our parents are the ones that bring presents. Thomas saw it last Christmas.”

           “No. Dad explained. Santa needed help” Morality said, firmly, and the little bookworm just rolled his eyes.

           “I am not surprised that Thomas’ friends call you weirdo. Believing in this fairy tales. Not even Roman believes them anymore. You’re being dumb” he said, coldly, looking back at his figure book, and Morality’s eyes filled up with tears.

           “Don’t call me dumb Logan!” he said, pouting to avoid his tears from falling. “I-I’m not d-dumb!”

           “Crying baby” Logic muttered under his breath, not even looking at the older trait. Morality whimpered, and he squeezed the letter he had written, before throwing it on the ground and rushing to his room.

 _________

           “What...” Prince started, but before he could continue, several papers rose from the ground, opening several screens in front of the three traits.

 _________

           “Morality, get out of my room!” a teenager Anxiety yelled, curling under his blankets. The older trait frowned, walking to the younger, sitting next to him and putting his hand over Anxiety’s covered shoulder.

           “Ann. It’s fine to be upset-” he started, but before he could finish, Anxiety threw his blankets away and slapped the oldest’ hand away, growling at him, his eyes filled rage and sad tears.

           “You don’t know what it feels like! You can’t be upset! You’re a big ball of sunshine all the time!” he yelled, and Morality didn’t even move backwards. “You know what you are? You’re stupid! You pretend to be wise and adult and responsible but you make this house even a bigger mess than already is! You don’t have all the answers, Morgan! You don’t! You lie to us saying that you know what to do to help but you just make everything worst! Get out of my room, get out of my life! You’re nothing more than a pathetic excuse for an older brother and you still like to play father! You’re ridiculous! Get away from me!”

           Anxiety covered himself up again, a sob leaving his mouth, and Morality stood there, expressionless, before slowly pulling the younger trait closer, hugging him and letting him cry against his shoulder, Morality’s own tears hidden away by Anxiety’s blanket.

 _________

           “I am twenty one Mo! I should have already done something at least!” Prince said, ashamed, confused, bothered, and Morality sighed, rubbing his back gently as they sat side by side on the royal’s bed.

           “Roman, it’s fine to wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to have sex just because everyone has” the older trait said, smiling lightly. “Your friends did it because they found someone special. When you find that person, you will do it and you will be grateful for not having given up on the wait”

           “But even you have done it! You have children!” Prince said, incredulous and ashamed. Morality raised his eyebrow, confused. “How did you find the right person and I haven’t?!”

           “What do you mean?” Morality asked, gently rubbing the younger trait’s arm, but already sensing what was about to be said. Prince groaned.

           “I mean, you were nerd and surely not the brightest or prettiest and you have this dad way of living and you wear terrible clothes. I mean, we have the same face! Why has no one taken interest in me and they have in you? I get Logan with the whole ‘hot teacher’ trope but you?!”

           Morality just wanted to stand up and leave. Out of rage or betrayal, he wasn’t sure. Instead, he rubbed Prince’s arm a bit longer and smiled.

           “You will find someone that will stay with you forever, that’s the difference, very unlike Logan and I, that had them a few times and it was over. You will do great buddy”

           And if his smile disappeared as soon as Prince looked away, the royal would never know.

 _________

           “Logan!”

           “What is it Morgan? I’m busy” Logic said from his chair, concentrated on a paper over his desk. Morality made his way inside Logic’s room, holding a box behind his back.

           “Do you know what day is today?” he asked, smiling, doubting that the persona in front of him would have forgotten his own 26th birthday. Logic raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look up.

           “Irritate a teacher day?” he asked, seriously, coldly, before he waved his hand away. “Please Mo, I am doing some serious business here. If I don’t have this finished until tomorrow, Thomas won’t be able to deliver this video on Friday”

           Morality frowned, his hands tightening around the gift on his back.

           “W-well I actually thought you could get a break. You know. Because of the date” he said, slowly, and Logic rolled his eyes, looking at Morality.

           “I don’t care what day it is. I have to finish this project. Leave my room unless it’s something that cannot wait”

           After a second of wait, Logic turned back to his paper, and Morality sighed, walking out and leaving the present box next to the door.

           He was too worried checking family photos to listen to Logic’s content gasps when he found the present one day later.

 _________

           “Dear Santa” Morality said, now twenty five years old, sitting on a chair. “I know you are not real. Logan made sure to tell me several times. But even if you aren’t real, even if this is stupid, stupid is what I’m known for, so who cares? In any case, I really want this Christmas to be wonderful, and more than anything, I really want to be able to receive a hug from each one of the others after midnight. I know Prince will be in one of his balls with the prettiest princes and princesses of the kingdoms, Anxiety will be in a party with a few of his emo friends, and Logic will be in his room, reading, as usual, but this Christmas, I really want to be able t-”

           “Morgan? Who are you talking to?” Prince’s voice came from upstairs, and Morality hid the letter under the other papers in front of him. “Oh, you’re writing?”

           “Drawing. I’m drawing” he said, quickly, and Prince chuckled, nodding to the older trait.

           “Good luck on that. I’m leaving. Be back after new years” he said, happily, a bag on his back. “Bye Dad. Happy Christmas”

           “Merry…” Morality muttered, before he sighed, waiting for the front door to close before he grabbed his letter and walked to the fireplace, throwing it on the flames and watching the paper burn.

 _________

           Suddenly, all the papers flew off, back inside their drawers, and the closet closed entirely with a loud sound. The three traits flinched at the sound, waking up from the trance those memories had left them in. Then, there was a cough, and they turned around, seeing Morality leaning against the wall with his arms closed, mouth in a thin line, eyes narrowed and clearly enraged.

           “Did you three have fun?” he asked, his voice so uncommonly cold that the three traits moved back.

           “It was…” Logic tried, his voice shaken, but before he could finish, Morality smirked, his eyes rolling as a chuckle left his mouth.

           “An accident?” he asked, raising his eyebrow, smirk disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “For once, I don’t care. Get out”

           “M-Morgan…” Prince tried, stepping forward, but the older curled his hands into fists and hit with one of them on the wall, making another loud noise.

           “I said OUT” he yelled, and the three made their way outside as quickly as they could, the door closing with a sound so loud behind them that they turned to make sure it wasn’t broken.

           But when they heard several sounds of groans and breaking objects from inside the room, they knew there was something else they should worry about that surely wasn’t the door or any object.

[the-fat-brat]

On a Dream, or Britney Descends From the Ceiling In Taffeta

For Jill, tender heart, cutie pie, actual literal patron of the arts.

A Note: for as long as I can remember, I’ve had extravagant and vivid dreams.  I often am aware that I am dreaming and have some control over what is happening.  I also very often remember my dreams in great detail, as any of my friends who have ever texted me while I am waking up can tell you.  Below is an account of a dream I had a few weeks ago--I wrote it down after I woke up and partially relayed it to a friend via text, but I filled in the details as I typed it up today and last week.  I have been away from this place, and writing in general, for a long time and I think this is a good way for me to return.  And if you would like to see more dreams from me (or want to analyze my dreams LOL), please let me know.  I’ve missed you, I love you, I’m glad to be back.

I’m at a music festival—it looks like shoreline but the seats feel and look like old church pews covered in cracked vinyl in dull, mis-matched colors. In some places, stuffing erupts from the benches, in some places it seeps slowly from within.  I find a seat on the aisle and sit just as the concert is starting.  It’s someone I don’t recognize on stage, but the song is familiar.  Someone is standing in front of me and people keep shifting so despite my good seat the view is bad.  I consider moving but the audience seems full and I doubt I will find another place to sit.  Lizzo gets on stage in front of a huge fractured American flag—very jasper johns. I don’t recognize the song so I leave the stage area. Behind it is an office area where my father is talking to someone.  He is wearing a leather vest, a maroon button down shirt, and jeans that are worn but have clearly been ironed.  He is somehow in charge. This is when I acknowledge fully that this is a dream as my real life father neither owns nor would wear any of those items (aside from possibly the button down, which he might wear to the office.)

I go out of the offices and there is a grocery store set up, large open refrigerators lining a few small, twisting aisles.  They are filled with French pastries and treats and snacks. I say hello to the crowd of old people who I know to be important and uninteresting.  A man in his late seventies offers me a chocolate crème puff.  He tries to make conversation with me, asking me about my travels and inviting me to the private island he owns you could spend all day in the sun, in the water, it’s so beautiful this time of year…and every time of year!  I immediately crave the beach, can feel saltwater in my hair and sand dusting the back of my legs, but the old man is still holding my hand and the crème puff and I smile and walk away before he can ask more of me than he should. I wander backstage and there is a problem.  There is a flurry of chaos, surrounding a man trying to put together a contraption of wood and ropes.  It is a wooden elliptical machine, just the base, nowhere to hold on to.  I move to tinker with it, but the man is urgent, keeps pushing my hands away to try things.  I give him a look and he backs off and I finally put together the tangle of rope and wood.  The man is pleased but doesn’t want to show it.  

We take it to the stage and set it up at the top of beautifully intricate silver scaffolding that is twined with vines and flowers.  Someone has turned on a fog machine and the artificial clouds slowly roll in across the floor of the stage.  Britney is suspended over the scaffolding in a lilac taffeta gown—short and tutu-like in the front with a long train, the top all silver lace and beading.  She is lowered onto the wooden contraption we have just assembled as she performs.  I watch from backstage with some of her dancers as they wait to go on stage.  

Suddenly the event is over.  The stage is broken down completely and the church pew seating is removed and suddenly the room is empty save for some tables.  Celebrities trickle in and I see my dad talking to people, shaking hands, slapping backs, laughing.  This is how he is in real life, friendly, happy, quick to easy and comfortable conversation.  I do not go over to him to avoid getting swept up in small talk, but I feel calmed by this mingling of the dream world and the real world. A famous woman greets me like we are familiar to each other.  She tells me she loves my hair but it needs a cut; before I can respond (thank you? rude?) she tells me she will make me an appointment with her stylist and that Karen will give me the details tomorrow.  I thank her and she walks away.  Arnold Schwarzenegger approaches me; he looks more like George Michael without the earring but I am sure that it’s Arnold.  He is wearing a denim jacket covered in pins and asks me to help him remove them for the auction.  What auction? I think, but do not ask. The pins are beautiful, intricate and studded with gems.  We chat as I remove the pins and his mouth accidentally touches my hands which I find strange but not exactly weird.  The last pin is two diamonds that are seemingly unconnected, but attach behind the fabric of his jacket.  Owl eyes he says as he sees me wondering. He continues what he was saying as I oogle the diamonds, we talked about it last time we saw each other at that restaurant. What restaurant? In Paris, your favorite spot. Oh yes, Paris, of course.  I cannot tell if he picks up on my sarcasm; it is clear that he really means we ran into each other at my favorite restaurant in Paris.  After a moment a vague memory comes back to me, a callback to a previous dream, and suddenly I realize that we have in fact seen each other in Paris.

I lay Arnold’s pins out on a table and turn to look at what else is set up for the auction.  Most things have already been claimed, but I see a thick, padded, sleeveless denim jumpsuit with a wide brown corduroy collar.  It is mine.  I grab it and hear a girl yell that’s mine! I turn to her, smile, tell her it’s not, and walk away.  Someone tells me that it’s very me, an absolutely perfect fit.  He is not wrong.  I turn the tag over to check the price.  $1,973. I do not believe it.  I text a friend a pic worth $2k? Before I get a response, I wake up.