#I’m a loser who gets attached to side characters who have barely any lines or screen time it was inevitable

[lethality-of-dual-strike]

every now and then I’m reminded of my South Park phase (inevitable, it was a long one in high schoo that spawned an insane amount of artl) but recently my sibling mentioned they were playing the fractured but whole - THEN i remembered the full on character sheet I did for Pip 😭 I put so much thought into all of his attacks and for WHAT. I posted it here at some point hsggsdhdjdj I’m too lazy to take my South Park art down. I also made a design for Jason but that was self indulgent cause I crack shipped him with Tweek. Professor Chaos and General Disarray needed more loser friends to play with 😔

[hollybell51]

Chapter Four

The part where you bare your damaged little soul

Our Treasure - Jim Hawkins x fem!Reader

Chapter Three, masterpost

Word count: 1566

Summary: You may be getting in far too deep for your own good. 

Notes: prepare for a) info dumping and b) some badly written emotional vulnerability. I apologise on both counts. Also this is on my AO3 as well if you wanted to show me some love over there, although it’s the same.

Warning: mentioned slavery, implied SA (not of your character, but it goes with the slavery thing... you’ll see). I’m in no way glorifying or romanticising any of this stuff, if you don’t wanna read it then don’t read it obviously (although it’s not explicit at all, in fact it’s all mostly mentioned and implied so you should be fine) xx

It wasn’t until you were curled in your hammock, replaying the events of the day in your mind that you realised you hadn’t thanked Jim. You should have, he sort of saved your life after all. Sighing, you got up to go find him.

The spot where he usually slept was empty when you got there, so you headed up to the deck. You almost walked straight into John on the stairs, and only just caught your balance on the rail.

“Have you seen Jim anywhere?” you asked.

“Jimbo?” he raised an eyebrow, then nodded back up towards the deck. “Aye, ‘e’s up there.”

“Right, thanks.”

“Lass,” he stopped you as you tried to squeeze past, bending down so that he was eye-level with you. “Be careful, eh? Don’t go… Oh, you know what I mean.”

“Yup,” you nodded, ignoring the guilt in your gut. If he was warning you against getting too attached, you had the sneaking suspicion that it might be too late.

“There’s a good girl.” He squeezed your shoulder, smiling.

It only took a quick sweep of the rigging to spot Jim’s hunched figure against the starry expanse of outer space, sitting with his legs crossed. You climbed up, perching on the taffrail beside him. 

“What are you doing?” you asked, eyeing his hands. He was fiddling with something in his lap, repeating the same movements over and over again.

“Nothing,” he said, holding out his hands to show a short piece of rope tied into a neat knot.

“It wasn’t your fault.” You turned sideways so you were facing him, resting your back against a taut piece of rope.

“The lifelines came loose, I was the one who tied them. There isn’t that much to it.”

“The lifelines stopped me falling. I pulled myself back in on it, and it only came loose or broke or whatever after I was holding onto the ship. I mean,” you lifted up the side of your shirt, displaying the line of raw red and faint purple from where the rope pulled tight around your waist, “it caught me, see?”

“You don’t get it, (Y/N). I screwed up. I thought for a second—you know what? Forget it.”  

“No.”

He raised his head, meeting your gaze for a second.

You took a deep breath, then, “You saved my life, Jim. That’s not something I’m just gonna forget. And so what if you screwed up? We all screw up. I mean, I’ve fallen off the rigging and nearly thrown a knife straight through John too many times to count, and I get that this is a little bit bigger than kitchen knives and ropes, but it’s the same principle. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

He finally looked up at you, holding your gaze as if looking for truth in your words. Suddenly, he leaned forwards and hugged you tightly, letting go almost immediately. “Thanks, (Y/N).”

“No problems.” You smiled, hoping that the dimness hid your blush. You sat in mostly comfortable silence for a while, then a thought occurred to you. “Hey,” you ventured, “you know how when we were bringing the skip back in you had plans to make people see you differently at home. What did you mean?”

“Might be a shock, but I’m not exactly number one.” He laughed ruefully, picking at a thread on the hem of his shirt.

“Number two?” you joked.

“Nah, I’m a bit of a loser, actually.”

“I don’t believe you,” you laughed, punching his arm.

“It’s true!” he shoved you away playfully, then continued, “I had a couple of run-ins with cops, my teachers hate me, and my mom’s disappointed all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s she like?” you asked after a pause. “Your mom, I mean.”

“She’s… she’s the best. She runs – ran – a business basically by herself and raised me by herself, and she’s the nicest mom in the Galaxy.” Something must have shown on your face, because he hurried on, “I don’t mean that other moms aren’t nice, and I’m sure your mom’s the best too I just…”

“It’s fine,” you cut him off, looking down at your hands in your lap. Without realising it, your fingers had gone to the strip of cloth you wore tied around your wrist, running along its edge and over the knot.

“(Y/N)?” he asked, “is something wrong?”

“No,” you looked up, flashing a smile and pulling your sleeve down. “No, it’s all fine.”

He raised an eyebrow doubtfully.

“I just… I dunno. I never had a mom, so it’s a bit weird when people talk about them, y’know? But I like hearing about other people and their parents. Sometimes…” you paused, sighing. “When I was younger, anyway, I used to sort of pretend that the stories other people would tell me about their families were from me, about my own family.” You stopped, the blood rushing to your face. “Sorry, that’s weird. I shouldn’t have told you that.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” he looked taken aback, and slightly guilty. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

You shrugged. You’d always found it strange how people apologised when they found out that something bad had happened to someone. “You’re sure it’s ok? I know it’s not really something a lot of people do, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you were... if it was...” you trailed off, fidgeting. 

He nodded. You breathed a sigh of relief, fingers working the hem of your shirt. “Ok. Anyway, what’s your plan? You know, to make people see you differently.” 

“I’m not sure if I should tell you…” he said, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Come on,” you grinned, “you can trust me!”

“I know, I’m just not supposed to.”

“Come on! I’ll make you a bargain, name your price.”

He ran a hand though his hair, causing it to flop over his forehead and around his ears. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think he looked good like this, here, relaxed in front of you. “What you say to a simple trade, information for information?” 

“Information?” you tilted your head, idly wondering he could possibly want to know from you. 

“Yeah. You tell me what you’ve got in stall, I’ll tell you what I’ve got.” 

You felt your stomach turn over. Was it worth it? But you couldn’t back out now, that would put a ridiculously suspicious spotlight on both you and John. You could lie, tell him you wanted to save up for your own ship or something like that, but somehow the thought of telling Jim anything but the truth felt obscenely wrong, dirty even. And it was Jim, who laughed at your jokes and listened with such rapture when you told him about all your adventures with John, who helped you with your chores and who had literally saved your life just hours ago. “Alright.”  

“Ok,” he smiled, leaning back and facing you. “It involves money, and an Inn that I might have accidentally sort of burned down, and my mom. That’s all I can tell you.”

You hesitated for a moment. If John knew what you were doing... “My plan involves money, legal documents, the slave trade and John Sliver.” There, the words were out of you. They were vague enough, you hadn’t given too much away. 

“The slave trade?” his eyes widened, and you grinned.

“You give me more info, and I’ll give you more.” You could afford to throw him a few more breadcrumbs of knowledge. 

“You’ll see what I mean in a few days probably, I wanna know more now!”

“Nope,” you shook your head, “a bargain’s a bargain. Are you trying to swindle me, Mr Hawkins?”

He clapped his hands over his mouth in exaggerated horror. “ A fine lady such as yourself? Never!” Then he looked away, more serious. “I’m gonna get a lot of money and use it to rebuild my mom’s Inn. Does that help?”

“Mmm…” You pretended to think for a moment, then nodded. You didn’t think it was all too in keeping with John’s advice, but you wanted him to know you, you wanted to eliminate the secrets and heavy burdens between you that you could so that the massive weight of the mission and what you were going to have to do would feel less like a boulder on your chest. “I feel that that is a fair price for what I’m telling you. This is sort of drastic, but I’m gonna get some money and literally buy myself.”

“What?” he laughed, then stopped when he realised you were serious. “Who are you buying yourself from?”

“John Silver.”

“He owns you?”

“Yeah, technically.” You pulled up your sleeve, picking at the knot on your wrist and letting the piece of material fall away. Beneath it, your skin was a few shades lighter than the rest of your arm and marked with a combination of burn scars and old cuts, a black six-digit ID number just visible beneath them all.

Jim reached a hand out to touch it, then stopped. He looked up at you, asking permission, and at you nod brushed his fingers over the raised markings. “You’re a slave?”

“Legally. I don’t really think of John as a master, and he doesn’t think of me as his. He’s more like… I dunno, sorta a cross between a best friend and a dad to me. He bought me from my old master when I was eleven years old, and we’ve been hanging out. I was born into it all, my mom was seventeen when she had me and died, and nobody knows for sure who the father was. They used to talk about her a lot, when they thought I wasn’t listening, so I know that some of them think it was a random guy and some think it was the master which is gross because he’s fat and old and has three moles with hair growing out of them on his chin. I tried to get rid of the tattoo a few times, but it hasn’t worked out so far.” You stopped, realising that you were rambling on. “Sorry.”

Jim was gaping at you, and you realised that you’d probably said way too much. Who had you been kidding, the poor boy was barely used to the idea of you being a pirate, how had you thought he’d take this? You had never felt more stupid.  

“I um…” you wrapped the bandage back around your wrist, fumbling with the knot as you tried to tie it at the same as you were getting down from the rigging. “I’ll just go, yeah? Um… thanks again, and uh, sorry about all—”

“Wait, (Y/N), stop.” Jim grabbed your arm, and you froze. Gently, he took your wrist in his hands and tied up the bandage, checking the tension and nodding in satisfaction. “You don’t have to apologise,” he said, “I mean, I asked. And it’s alright, by the way.”

“Really?” Your stomach jolted. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry you have to buy yourself though, that’s kind of messed up.”

“Nah, I’ve been saving up for a while.” You both laughed at that. You had to admit, it felt weirdly good to tell someone something that you held so close to home. It was freeing, letting Jim see a part of you that up until then only John had known. You wished that the two of you had met under different circumstances. 

“Why can’t John just give you like, I dunno, a really low price? I mean, why not just free you?” he asked, jerking you out of your thoughts.

“Legal stuff. He can’t sell me for any less than the original price, which unfortunately for me was eight thousand in gold. And I don’t have eight thousand gold pieces.”

“You're pretty valuable, then?”

“You could say that, yeah. Anyway, we should probably go to bed at some point, I’m kinda tired.” And you were. A pleasant buzz had settled over you during your conversation, but with it came a wave of tiredness as the events of the day really crashed into you. You’d escaped a black hole and almost died doing it, for crying out loud! 

“Ok,” he smiled as you swung down from the rigging, following suit. “Goodnight, I guess.”

“Goodnight, Jim.” On an impulse, you stretched up and kissed his cheek, then hugged him quickly. “And thanks again,” you whispered in his ear.

Chapter Five

[pi-cat000]

BNHA: something sad (Grief)

Summary: The last time Katsuki sees Izuku alive the other boy is rushing to save him. A ‘the Sludge Villain incident gone wrong’ AU.

Characters:  Katsuki Bakugo

Fandom: My Hero Academia

WARNINGS: Major Character death, swearing, heavy angst. destructive behaviour.

(Additional part here)

..

(Grief- Katsuki self reflects and visits Izuku’s grave)

Katsuki knows he has a volatile personality, probably inherited it from his mum, and enough attitude that he has steamrolled his way through life without much difficulty. Things annoyed him easily and he got irritable at the drop of a hat. He has enough self-awareness to recognise that as a flaw, even if he had never seen it as much of a problem. 

There was a difference between irritation and anger. Deku had always made him angry, inducing a burning hot sensation that ate at his insides. Now Deku was gone and he couldn't turn any of it off. It was like the world was suck behind a filthy pane of glass that he couldn’t smash through no matter how hard he tried.

Katsuki watches the head of his Kamui Woods figurine bend at an odd angle as the plastic began to superheat, having been exposed to a string of minor blasts. He had been slowly working his way through his figurine collection as both quirk training and to take the edge off his anger. Melting this figurine was particularly cathartic. 

“Perhaps we should look into getting you some new hobbies.”

Katsuki shifts his focus to glare at his father who stands at his bedroom door, an expression of worry pulling at his features. No surprises there, worry was his father’s default response to anything Katsuki did these days.

 “Not interested.”

“Something to get you out of the apartment,” his father continues to which  Katsuki narrows his eyes. He wouldn’t be in the apartment if he had any say in it. Both his parents know this. 

“Some physical activity where you’ll be able to let loose without having to worry about property damage. I have a colleague whose brother runs a kickboxing studio. I can make arrangements for you to spend time…” 

“I said, I’m not interested,” he grumbles, returning to his current distraction.

“Well, I want you to think about it,” his dad instructs, “It would do you a lot of good and it’s something you’re passionate about….” 

The figurine Katsuki is holding begins to blacken, colours melting away under his tiny, controlled bursts. There is an unhappy sigh from his father and the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall. He growls and the figurine explodes with a small Bang. Melted plastic is flung across his walls and floor. 

He knows what his dad is trying to do…

How many times had he begged his parents for better training opportunities, for karate or boxing lessons, only to be denied due to money restraints? Outside of a few judo lessons he had received as a birthday gift from Inko one year, any combat training he did he had been self-taught. 

Now he’s no longer interested, his parents are practically threatening him with extracurricular activities. 

It’s fucking annoying is what it is. 

He reaches for another figurine only to find that he has none left aside from his limited edition All Might collection.  He lets out an angry breath, trying to rid himself of his restless irritation. It doesn’t work, and he ends up standing so he can pace back and forth, listening to the pop, pop, focusing on his tingling skin as sparks run up and down his arms. It keeps him distracted for all of two seconds. 

Usually, he would be at the library studying, or going on long runs and working on his physical conditioning. Sometimes, he would meet up with a few of the loser-extras from school and they would visit an arcade. Recently, he had taken to wandering through the streets around his neighbourhood, waiting for something to piss him off enough that his mind would white-out in pure rage and could forget reality for a few seconds. Obviously, that had become a lot harder after several run-ins with the local police had had him all but permanently grounded outside of school hours. 

This is what he wanted… he remains himself. His plan to piss people off enough that he received some iota of punishment was working like a charm so, of course, it sucked. He hated it, but then, he hated all the alternatives as well so what did any of it matter. 

Katsuki ends up with his ear pressed against the door, listening for activity in the living room, waiting for an opportunity to make a break for it. He needs to be careful because Aunt Inko is visiting and the last thing he wants is to see her stupid, sympathetic smile. 

When it sounds like the coast is clear, he creeps out, stealing down the hall. Muffled voices from the kitchen are all the encouragement he needs to beeline for the door and slip out before anyone can spot him. He’ll be in trouble for this later. He’s counting on it. 

The hot summer air is a welcome change from the chill of air conditioning. There is the loud buzz of cicadas, chirping away in the sticky heat. He picks a direction and walks, not caring that he is wearing the sweatpants and the black singlet he had slept in. If someone has a problem with his presentation, he is more than willing to throw down. 

Unfortunately, the relief being out of the apartment brings is short-lived. Today, a feeling of discomfort follows after him which has nothing to do with the heat. A bubbling frustration that bites at his heels as he stalks the streets. It is that feeling he has come to associate with times when all his rage burns away, leaving him numb.  

He doesn’t plan to stop at the florists, he just sort of does. 

He turns suddenly into the store before he can properly process what he is doing. The chime on the glass door rings and the sickly-sweet smell of the store has his nose wrinkling. Before he can chicken out and retreat, he walks to the counter. 

“How much?” He snaps at the older lady in overalls manning the register, pointing at the nearest bunch of white flowers. He has no idea what type they are but that wasn’t the point wasn't it?

“Ah,” The woman squints at him, taken back “That depends how many you want?”

“I don’t care” He smacks the few yen he has on the counter, “However many that’ll get me. Don’t rip me off.”

 The woman nods slowly, “Do you just want these specifically? You don’t want to add some more colour to the bouquet? White is a bit of a dower colour.”

“Whatever is cheapest…just make it quick.” He is already regretting coming in.

The woman hums, pulling out a roll of paper, beginning to place and wrap the flowers Katsuki had pointed to. 

“Who are they for if I may ask?”

“No.”

“Oh? A special friend maybe,” She begins to tease.

“He’s dead,” he snaps abruptly, “and he’s not my friend. Just give me the damn flowers.” Why did people always make this shit more difficult than it needed to be?

The old hag is silent after that, awkwardly finalising his purchase which ends up being an assortment of white flowers with a few smaller yellow and red ones scattered between. It almost looks pretty and it is sickly-sweet smelling, just like the store.

He tries no to think about his destination as he walks with renewed deliberation. He doesn’t think about it right up until he is practically walking into the low stone wall nearest the gate. The shock of seeing the place has him freezing in place, breath catching. The last time he had been here had been during the funeral.

There are lines of thin, tightly packed, gave markers, rising horizontally on sets on uneven steps. There is barely room for people to pass between them on the narrow, flagstone path. Trees are scattered throughout the space, providing patches of uneven shade. The noise of the cicadas is louder here, almost oppressive in its throbbing hum.  For a moment, all he wants to do is walk up to the nearest stone and blow it all sky high. Then he would be sure to flatten every marker in the place until the land was a barren waste. That would get him arrested for sure. The thought passes quickly, and his eyes slide away from the cemetery to his flowers. They don’t look nearly as nice now he has almost strangled them with an unintentionally tight grip.

He breaths out, resisting the urge to set something on fire. Slowly, he walks up the steps, passing the small temple at the entrance. Deku is buried further in, his stone modest in size when compared to the others.

“Deku…” He grows out a greeting when he arrives and it gets caught in his throat. The stone, obviously, does not respond.

Before he can accidentally blow them up, he carefully places the flowers next to the small pile already adorning the small stone. There are more offerings than he expects to be there. He recognises a few of the names from school. One larger bunch looks especially expensive and elaborate, monopolising most of the limited surface space.

‘From Yagi Toshinori’ the card attached reads. Katsuki doesn’t recognise the name. 

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, he didn’t know shit about Deku other than their shared ambition to be a hero.

“Deku…” Why the fuck is he having trouble talking, “You’re...” He stops.

 “You’re a fucking moron,” he manages to spit.

“I didn’t need you to save me.” The anger is burning so hot that its almost unbearable. Pop, pop, his hands fizzle. “I didn’t want your help.”

BANG! He makes sure the explosion is directed away from the stone and up into the sky. The small shock wave it produces rustles the flowers and nearby trees. All the cicadas stop chirping at once, plunging the area into an eerie quiet. His legs feel shaky and he is practically vibrating with anger. 

“What did you think a quirkless idiot could have done!”

Save his pathetic life while the real Heroes watch him suffocate from the side-lines? His brain supplies an answer. It was all a big joke wasn’t it? The bastards had all watched Deku die. That was what a Hero did apparently, wait for backup while someone died because it was safer for them. Safer for the Hero.

 His legs give way and he falls to his knees, curling his hands into fists, jaw locking up. Finally, the haze of anger falls away and his mind quietens. Everything was painfully clear now. People didn’t care when Katsuki yelled, swore, and hurt other kids, because his quirk was amazing, making him amazing. What a joke. If he hadn’t had his quirk, then the Slime Bastard would have had nothing to work with, and Deku might still be alive.

“I’m…I’m fucking sorry okay." He had always treated Deku like shit and he doesn’t think, if their positions had been reversed…he doesn’t think that he would have even thought about saving someone like himself.

The truth stings. He slams his fist into the flagstone next to him and he watches it crack.

"I’m sorry…”

He was lucky…that’s all he was… He wasn’t special… he was just an average human with a good work ethic and a garbage personality who just happened to have a powerful quirk.

He wasn’t a hero…well, not one like Deku had tried to be…like Deku had been…

He didn’t even want to be a hero...not anymore...He doesn’t know what he wants.

“Damnit…” the words have no heat behind them. The explosive rage that had been burning continuously in his chest for the last week simmers, snuffing out like a candle. There is a hole where his anger had eaten away at something fundamentally him, leaving empty space.

Katsuki leans forward, letting his head thump against the stone. 

[bluejayblueskies]

ten to one

Words: 2.8k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Tim Stoker/Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Sasha James

Characters: Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, Sasha James

Additional Tags: Fluff, Kissing, Alcohol, New Year’s Eve, tim is a sore loser, sasha has cats, martin hates chestnuts, jon just wishes they could drink something other than champagne

Summary:

“You’re going to be sick,” Jon comments, taking a small sip of champagne from his glass and ignoring the way Tim’s lips curl into a pout. He’d said, when Sasha had poured him a glass of champagne, that he’d thought it was meant to be drunk at midnight; she’d assured him that this bottle was one of their pre-countdown bottles.

Given the number of bottles lining her kitchen countertop, he was inclined to believe her.

----

The archival staff counts down to the new year with cupcakes, champagne, and cats.

Read on Ao3

Or read below:

10

.

That’s how many little cupcakes Tim’s eaten, by Jon’s count. When Tim grins at him, his sharp-toothed smile is stained black from the frosting.

 “You’re going to be sick,” Jon comments, taking a small sip of champagne from his glass and ignoring the way Tim’s lips curl into a pout. He’d said, when Sasha had poured him a glass of champagne, that he’d thought it was meant to be drunk at midnight; she’d assured him that this bottle was one of their pre-countdown bottles.

 Given the number of bottles lining her kitchen countertop, he was inclined to believe her.

 “I’ll have you know,” Tim says, sliding closer to Jon on the couch and snagging his glass out of his hand, “that I have a stomach of steel. It’s sick-free!”

 He takes a long sip of champagne as if to prove his point. His lips stain the rim of the glass black.

 “Tim,” Jon says flatly. “That’s disgusting.”

 Tim looks at the glass, noticing the discolouration. “Huh.” Then, a wide grin splits his mouth nearly in two, and before Jon can pull back, Tim presses a quick kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough that Jon can taste the sugar on Tim’s mouth.

 It’s nice, and for a moment, Jon’s irritation melts a bit, softened by the champagne in his stomach and the feeling of Tim’s lips on his.

 Then, Tim pulls back too-quick and squints at Jon’s mouth. “Huh,” he repeats. “Looks like black food dye really does stain everything.”

 Jon looks at the glass, still in Tim’s hand, and then at Tim’s lips, tinged ever so slightly with black. His own still taste of sugar.

 “Tim!”

.

9

.

That’s how old Martin was the last time he spent New Year’s Eve with someone. It had been the first time his parents had let him stay up until midnight, and they’d given him a champagne flute of sparkling apple juice so that when the clock hit midnight he could toast the new year just like they did. He’d barely made it, his eyes fighting a losing battle against exhaustion as the new year inched closer and closer, but he’d done it.

 That had been a long time ago, though. After a while, Martin had taken to treating New Year’s Eve like any other day. No point in forcing himself to stay up late for something that was bound to be disappointing in the end.

 Now, though, Martin’s sat on the couch at Sasha’s house with Tim’s legs across his lap and Sasha tucked into his side, a large container of cheesy popcorn balanced between the three of them. Jon’s somewhere in the kitchen, having squirmed out from underneath Tim long enough to take the chestnuts out of the oven. From the little frustrated noises Martin can hear coming from the kitchen, Jon’s struggling to extract them from their shells.

 Martin’s really not a fan of chestnuts. But he’d rather die than tell Jon that right now.

 So when Jon finally returns to the living room, a steaming bowl of shucked chestnuts in his hand, Martin accepts one with a smile. And maybe it’s something about that night or the way that Jon’s smiling at him, but when he bites into the chestnut, he doesn’t hate it.

 He doesn’t hate it at all.

.

8

.

That’s what time Jon appears at Sasha’s front door, on time to the minute. He’s a good fifteen minutes ahead of Martin, who had sent Sasha a running late! text with a string of apologetic emojis attached to it, and at least an hour ahead of Tim, who has being fashionably late down to a science. Jon seems nervous, shifting back and forth on Sasha’s threshold with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a large bag of raw chestnuts in the other.

 Sasha lets him in with a warm greeting and a smile (and, once she’s taken the bottle out of his hands so he won’t drop it, a quick kiss on his cheek). He sets the chestnuts on the counter, his eyes going to her living room couch, then the kitchen, before finding her again.

 “Am I too early?” he says, eyes wide and unsure, and Sasha wonders briefly how he’d ever managed to convince them that he was stuffy and closed-off. Particularly when he’s standing in her living room, clutching a bag of chestnuts in his arms like a lifeline.

 “Nope,” Sasha says, extracting the chestnuts from his arms with a smile. “You’re right on time.”

.

7

.

That’s how many times Sasha’s caught Tim trying to open the bottle of special midnight champagne, tucked away on the far corner of the counter and labelled with a bright blue sticky note to avoid being accidentally opened. She supposes if she’d wanted to Tim-proof it, she probably should have put it in a locked safe. Though he knows her so well, he’d probably be able to guess the passcode.

 It should be irritating. Somehow, it’s hopelessly endearing instead.

 “Tim,” Sasha says, snatching the champagne out of his hands as his thumbnail begins to pick at the gold foil covering the cork. There’s a rip in it when she extracts it from him, revealing a small strip of cork underneath. “That’s for later!” Her eyes slide to the left, where there’s a half-full, open bottle of champagne sitting on the counter next to them. “What’s wrong with that champagne?”

 Tim gives her the saddest set of puppy dog eyes he has in his arsenal. “Sasha, I have been waiting months to drink that champagne. Months! I don’t want to wait until later!”

 A weaker woman would have folded under the impressive weight of Timothy Stoker’s big brown eyes and pouting lips. Sasha just grabs the open bottle of champagne and presses it into Tim’s hands with a smile and a quick kiss on those same lips. “Later,” she repeats, before taking the bottle to hide it somewhere Tim won’t be able to find it.

 She hopes.

.

6

.

That’s how many letters are in Martin’s name, Tim thinks idly as he runs his hands through Martin’s hair, scratching his nails lightly against Martin’s scalp. Somehow, in the rearranging of the four of them on Sasha’s obscenely long couch, Tim had ended up with Martin’s head on his lap, and he certainly isn’t going to complain.

 Sasha and Jon are bickering about some small detail in the movie they’ve put on, Tim thinks, like they always do—is it pronounced this way or that way, would a wide shot or a close-up be better here, would that specific piece of clothing have been period-typical at the time (yes, if it were dyed with indigo flowers, Jon had said primly, which had then been followed by a hey as Sasha’s elbow connected with his side)—and so he’s got Martin all to himself. Which is such a lovely place to be, he thinks as he continues to massage Martin’s scalp with his fingers.

 “Tim,” Martin says, his voice pinched slightly in that way it always gets when he’s receiving affection—like he’s always surprised by it, half-expecting it to be taken away without warning. “I have to tell you something.”

 Tim hums, a soothing noise, and says, “Okay, but I should warn you—I’m currently seeing someone. Several someones, actually. In fact, I believe it would technically be three—”

 “Okay, okay,” Martin says, one hand coming up to swat at Tim’s. His mouth is curled into a small, amused smile. “No need to be so…” He waves a hand in the air vaguely.

 “Handsome?” Tim suggests with a sharp grin.

 “Cheeky.”

 Tim puts on a comically large expression of shock. “No. Me? Couldn’t be.”

 Martin laughs, a small and breathy thing, and Tim loves him for it. His expression slips into something warmer and real, and he resumes running his hands through Martin’s hair. “Fine, fine, I’m listening. Go ahead, Martin.”

 “Thank you.” Martin closes his eyes, hums gently, and says, without opening his eyes, “You have frosting on your nose.”

.

5

.

That’s how many fingers are on Jon’s left hand as it finds Martin’s on the couch, those same fingers threading through Martin’s with an ease that could be practised had it not been just a few months since working together had turned into getting lunch together had turned into pining had turned into… everything else. Martin had spent a lot of time looking at Jon’s hands, before; the way that his knuckles are wider than the rest of the finger, or the way that he drums his fingers on his desk when he’s bored, or the way that his hands look wrapped around a mug of tea, black and over-steeped just like Jon likes it.

 They’d looked soft, Martin had thought.

 He’d been right.

 The kiss Martin places over the top of Jon’s knuckles is quick and impulsive, his lips still wearing the smile from something Tim had said and his other hand clasped with Sasha’s (her grip is impressively tight, like she’s afraid she’s going to drop him). The soft, surprised smile that Jon gives him is worth the entire world.

.

4

.

That’s how many cards Tim has to draw when Martin plays the Draw 4 Uno card, giving him an apologetic smile that does nothing to alleviate the fact that Tim had one card left and was about to win, goddammit!

 “Martin,” Tim says as he draws painstaking card after painstaking card. “Dearest Martin.” He draws another card. “Lovely, kind Martin.” He draws the final card and gives Martin his best solemn expression. “This is how you ruin relationships, Martin. This, right here.”

 Martin’s face is flushed pink, but his voice is casual when he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tim. I’m just playing the game.”

 Tim points at Martin, looking back and forth between Jon and Sasha for support. “Do you hear that? Nothing but disrespect. Treachery. A fatal blow!”

 Sasha looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Jon just looks bemused. “I mean, he is just playing the game,” Jon says with a small shrug. “And I believe he’s winning.”

 Tim looks over at the single card Martin’s holding, and before his brain can process the situation fast enough to call Martin out for not declaring it, Martin says quickly, “Uno!”

 “Jon!” Tim says, kind of wishing it hadn’t come out so whiny but feeling altogether too slighted to do anything about it.

 “My turn,” Jon says, and plays a reverse card.

 “Oh, I hate you all.”

.

3

.

That’s how many glasses of champagne Martin has had, which is a lot for him since he doesn’t really make a habit of drinking, especially wine, which tends to give him a headache even if he drinks white. But Jon had assured him that champagne is essentially tannin-free, having minimal skin and oak contact, so the only thing Martin had to worry about was his own terrible alcohol tolerance.

 Well, Jon hadn’t said that last part. That was just Martin.

 Three glasses, it seems, is enough to activate Martin’s least-favourite part about drinking—the complete inability of his brain to keep every single thing that comes across his mind from spilling out into the open. He’s already told Sasha that he accidentally stole the cardigan she keeps in her desk at work and, by the time he realized a week later, was too embarrassed to give it back. (“So that’s where that went!” Sasha had said with an accusatory tone.) He interrupted Tim mid-sentence to tell him, quite abruptly, that whenever Tim wore that black-and-white patterned shirt to work—which was just a bit smaller on him than the others and which he usually wore with the top two buttons unbuttoned—he could never stop staring at it. (“Really?” Tim had said with a smirk. “I suppose I’ll have to wear it more often then.”)

 And now, when Jon shoots Tim a very impressive glare and says, in his best professional voice, “I don’t think that’s quite work-appropriate, Tim,” Martin isn’t able to keep himself from blurting out that he finds Jon’s “archivist” voice really, really hot.

 The silence that blankets the room at that is deafening. Tim looks delighted; Sasha looks amused. And the flush that spreads over Jon’s face is really quite impressive, visible even in the low light of Sasha’s living room.

 Martin really shouldn’t have had that third glass of champagne.

.

2

.

That’s how many cats Sasha has, until now shut away in her bedroom to avoid being overwhelmed by the loud noise or being stepped on. At Tim’s insistence (and Jon’s not-so-subtle glances toward her closed door), Sasha finally relents, but not before pointing a stern finger at Tim and telling him to behave.

 (“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Tim says innocently, like he doesn’t always end up getting himself bitten or scratched.)

 Now, one cat—an orange-and-white shorthair named Darwin—is curled up in front of the television, currently being assaulted by Tim and Martin as they spoil him with pets and treats and the little feather on a string that he likes. The other—a midnight-black longhair named Emily with wide yellow eyes—is sprawled across Jon’s lap, her purring loud enough that Sasha can hear it from the kitchen where she’s subtly retrieving the bottle of midnight champagne from its hiding place. Sasha’s pretty sure she’s never seen Jon look at anything like that—with eyes full of love and wonder and the corners of his mouth pulled up into what looks like an involuntary smile.

 Sasha’s suddenly so very in love with him—with all of them—that she can barely breathe. It’s not an emotion she’s very comfortable with—she’s never gotten crushes easily, and the ones she’s had tended to ruin year-long friendships when they sprung up almost overnight, when her brain finally decided that it wanted more. Jon, she’s known for ages, their desks in research being directly across from one another and her persistence knowing no bounds. Martin longer still, having met him when he worked in the library and she worked in artifact storage. Tim is the most recent, technically, but god, it feels like she’s known him her whole life.

 There’s a small shriek from the living room, and when Sasha looks back, she sees Tim with his hand buried in the fur of Darwin’s stomach, Darwin’s teeth nipping at the flesh of Tim’s thumb. “Ow ow ow, sharp,” Tim says, but he’s laughing, and he continues to rub at Darwin’s belly with a smile on his face.

 Really, Sasha thinks as she turns back to the kitchen with a smile of her own, there’s nowhere she’d rather be.

.

1

.

That’s how many minutes there are until midnight. The glass of champagne in Jon’s hand looks exactly the same as all the others, but Sasha had insisted that it was better, Jon, it’ll taste heavenly, I promise, so he holds it and watches the numbers on the television screen begin to count down.

 It strikes Jon, as the seconds pass and midnight draws closer, that he’s never really felt any need to celebrate the new year. The two days—New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day—were technically indistinguishable from one other, delineated only by the human decision to make them so, and therefore what was the point really of staying up so late just to drink bad wine and stare at a clock? He’d gone to a New Year’s Eve party once with Georgie in uni, and it had been fine, but once they broke up he really didn’t see any reason to attend another. He disliked everything about New Year’s celebrations—the bad champagne, the resolutions nobody kept, the way he always wrote the date wrong for a few weeks afterwards.

 He doesn’t dislike this, though, he realizes, sitting with Tim pressed up against one side and Martin against the other and Sasha on the end of the couch next to Tim, all of them watching the countdown with rapt attention. Maybe the champagne is terrible and the resolutions are silly and having to constantly erase the last number of the year will be frustrating, but this—being together, celebrating together—really isn’t so bad at all.

 The countdown reaches ten, and Tim begins to vocalize the numbers along with it as they flash across the screen, altogether too loudly for this time of night. Sasha and Martin join in at eight, and Jon finally makes up his mind as the counter hits one, his lips shaping the word along with the rest of them.

 Glasses clink and champagne is drunk (not heavenly, Jon thinks, but more palatable than the rest) and kisses are shared as Happy New Year! flashes across the television screen. And, Jon thinks, it’s really quite lovely after all. To bring in the new year with the people you love.

.

0.

That’s how many of them wake up the next morning without mouths full of cotton and pounding headaches, the several empty bottles of champagne making themselves known.

 “Ughhhhh,” Tim groans eloquently, and falls back asleep.

[keanureevesisbae]

So Henry, you want to start a YouTube channel? - Chapter 3

Summary: Twenty five year old YouTuber Sandy Choi has no idea that one of her five million subscribers is the one and only Henry Cavill. When he asks her to help him out with starting his own YouTube channel, she falls more and more in love with her. But she should’ve known that dating one of the most desirable bachelors, does come with a prize.

Henry Cavill x Sandy Choi (ofc)

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 4k

A/N: If you want to be on the taglist, please let me know. Also, I really like reading that you like the story. Such a great way to make my day xx

Masterlist // Channel introduction // Previous chapter // Next chapter 

So, this is where Henry Cavill lives. It’s a cute home, but never figured he’d be the one that would live here. I take a few deep breaths, but it doesn’t calm down my nerves. I look down at my white dress and wonder if it’s too much.

I think it’s too much.

I don’t know what I could wear to meet him. I was thinking about a short and a top, but felt that was a little bit too revealing, but come to think of it, this dress is pretty short.

I still don’t know, it looks almost wedding dressy. I shouldn’t have worn this. I stare at my Dr. Martens sandals, thanking the fashion angels that I didn’t wear the cute white heels that I initially had in mind. The only thing I would be missing, was a bouquet.

I grab my phone from my purse, to check what time it is. I was supposed to be at his place at eleven and 10:59.

I walk up to the door and press the doorbell. I hear a loud bark, causing me to jump. From behind the door, there are some stumbling noises and I can even hear his long and deep voice. The door opens with a crack and Henry greets me with a bright smile. ‘Hi Sandy.’

Holy shit, is this even legal? Why on earth is he wearing a tank top? Why would he do that to me? What is the point of doing such thing? Is he actively trying to kill me, because if so, it’s working. I can barely function anymore, since his arms are really distracting. I mean, I noticed it yesterday, I noticed it on the best video online, the PC building one, but now…

Holy shit, I can’t even seem to find the right way to greet him.

‘Are you okay, Sandy?’ he asks, when I haven’t said anything at all.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I say, way too quickly. I clear my throat, not knowing what to say to him.

‘Please,’ he says, ‘come in.’ Henry takes a step to the side and I walk past him. He has a nicely decorated house, something that I hadn’t expected. It’s really neat too, didn’t expect that from him. ‘You want something to drink?’

‘Water would be nice.’ Kal has noticed me too, because he slowly struts towards me, his butt wiggling from side to side, while he wags his tail. ‘Hi, you big ball of floof. You are nice and clean again.’

‘It was pretty hard washing him in the tiny bath tub,’ Henry recounts and hands me a glass of cold water, with some ice cubes in it.

I clear my throat. ‘Right,’ I say. Standing in front of him shouldn’t make me feel this awkward, especially not after yesterday. I slowly managed to loosen up, but from the looks of it, we are back from square one. I feel my hands shake a bit from the nerves and my shoulders feel painfully tense.

It doesn’t help that Henry is this tall, this bulky, the complete opposite of me. I can’t seem to make eye contact with him and I curse myself for that. Why do I even feel tears out of pure frustration burning in my eyes?

‘You play video games, Sandy?’ Henry asks me. His voice is sweet and thick at the same time.

I scratch Kal behind his ear. ‘Just some Animal Crossing.’

‘Is it worth the hype?’

��Mhm.’

‘Why do you play it?’

Though it almost feels like a third degree, I’m happy that he is asking me questions about simple things like Animal Crossing and not those deep questions about the existence of life. ‘It’s relaxing,’ I confess. ‘I need that from time to time.’ I look up again, when I know for a fact that my eyes aren’t glossy anymore.

‘So, you don’t play other games?’

I shake my head, not ready to confess that I sometimes grab my old Nintendo DS to play Style Boutique on it. I mean, I like Henry a lot, but sharing this, is one—or five—bridges too far.

‘I think you played this one,’ he says with a confident smile, while he walks to the television.

Is he wearing some perfume? I inhale again, only to be met with a mix of salty and sweet, the perfect combination for a male perfume. He didn’t wear that yesterday and I know that, because I was pretty damn close to him and you bet your ass I took a sniff.

Henry holds up two Mario Kart wheels and I see the remotes are already attached to it. ‘Look at that precious smile,’ he says and only then I realize that I’m indeed smiling. Did he just call my smile precious? ‘You want to play?’

‘Mhm.’ I walk up to the couch and place my glass on a coaster. He hands me a wheel with a remote and plops on the couch, as he starts up the Wii. There is only one more spot left for me to sit and that is right next to him.

As if Kal senses I’m hesitating, he pushes his nose against my leg and I sit down next to Henry. I feel his warmth radiating against my skin, causing me to nearly hyperventilate. His bulky arm accidentally touches me and I clear my throat, not knowing what I should do with myself. Sitting next to him on this couch, is less intimidating than standing in front of him, but it’s still pretty scary.

And I know that I shouldn’t be scared of him, but I can’t help but feel nervous. ‘Are you any good?’ I ask quietly.

‘I always kick Jackson’s ass.’ He looks to the side and our eyes meet. ‘But he is so so. Usually ends at sixth place.’

We pick out our characters (he is Donkey Kong, while I opt for baby Daisy) and once we have chosen our vehicles, Henry leaves it up to me to choose an entire cup for us to race. ‘Special Cup.’

‘You know Rainbow Road is on that cup?’ he mentions.

‘I’m aware, yes.’ I get ready for the first course: Dry Dry Ruins. ‘Good luck,’ I say to him.

‘You think I need it?’ His eyebrow is cocked and he has a smug grin on his face. Besides him getting more and more confident, he is also getting more handsome every passing minute. ‘I’m really good, Sandy.’

‘I figured. Just, don’t hold back for me, okay?’

‘Sure?’ he asks. ‘Because… I don’t want you to feel bad or anything afterwards.��� That’s adorable, oh my God.

‘I’m not a sore loser, so just race like you would usually do.’

The first race is about to start and we both watch the countdown. I push in the right button at the exact moment I know it’s going to give me a better start. Baby Daisy shoots from the 11th place to the sixth, while Henry stutters Donkey Kong to tenth place (from twelfth, if I may add so). While I soar over the roads, pushing myself to a first place, I manage to stay there for the rest of the race, making the gap between me and second place (and everyone else) bigger and bigger as the race continues. I race over the finish line, making a wheelie as I do so and I watch Henry trying to get himself from seventh to sixth place. He is muttering to himself, growing more and more annoyed.

He finally crosses the finish line. ‘I do need luck,’ he mutters. ‘Can’t believe you kicked my ass like that.’

Our second course is Moonview Highway and I snort every time Henry gets run over by a car or a truck and even drives himself off the road multiple times. He ends up in twelfth place and he is visibly frustrated now.

I shouldn’t be thinking like that, but he looks hot as hell when he’s angry like that. He could easily break the Mario kart wheel and the remote in half and knowing that he can do that, it’s something I’ll probably dream about tonight.

‘We can stop, you know,’ I say to him.

‘No, no, no,’ he says, ‘there is still a chance I can not make a total fool out of myself.’

The third course is Bowser’s Castle and this time, Henry is not a total disaster. He managed to earn himself a third place, while I’m still at number one. ‘I have come to realize and accept that I won’t be beating you, but I have to make sure I’m not losing from the computers.’

I can’t help but chuckle.

The final race is my favorite. I love Rainbow Road and know exactly how to maneuver over the roads. While I’ve crossed the finish line, Henry is still falling behind. I press the + button to pause the game. ‘Let me,’ I say and gently pull the steering wheel from his hands. I race Donkey Kong from eighth place to fourth (I’m good, but I’m not a magician. I can’t poof myself over the finish line) and when I cross the finish line, I hand him back the steering wheel. ‘Congratulations,’ I say, ‘you managed to become fifth.’

‘How on earth are you this good? This was unbelievable!’ Henry starts to laugh. ‘You were crossing the finish line twenty seconds before number two would finish, or worse, a whole minute.’

‘Back in college, we did this a lot. We even had a championship.’

‘Tell me you became first.’

I smile. ‘I did, was the best of entire UCLA, three times in a row.’

‘You never shared that on your vlogs.’

That’s cute. He really watches my videos intently, something that is insanely endearing. ‘I didn’t, no. Seemed a bit: oh look at me, you know?’

‘There is nothing wrong with flaunting,’ Henry says. ‘I mean, you do it with your dance videos right?’

I know that he has seen a lot of my videos, but thinking about him sitting on this couch, Kal pressed against his side and him watching those particular videos, makes me uncomfortable. ‘It’s barely flaunting.’

He tilts his head, I notice from the corners of my eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be this hard on yourself, Sandy,’ he says in a soft tone. ‘You are amazing, five million people and probably more watch your videos. There are a lot of people who are reading your books and…’ He doesnt finish his sentence, while he is looking for the right words to say.

‘You’ve read my books?’ I ask him.

Now he’s blushing a bit and he isn’t looking at me anymore. ‘I’ve read them,’ he admits.

I chuckle. ‘That’s sweet.’

‘But I’m not the only one who adores your videos and finish your books from cover to cover in one sitting. There are tons more and you being modest is absolutely admirable and it only makes you more likable, but there is nothing wrong with admitting that you are talented in many other ways. There is nothing wrong with saying that you are indeed amazing, because it’s true and it shows confidence.’

I bite my lip. ‘Well, fake it till you make it, isn’t that what they say?’

‘Eventually it’ll not be fake anymore.’

A deep sigh leaves my lips and I look at my hands, my thumbs fumbling together. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

‘Why are you apologizing, Sandy?’

‘That I’m like this again,’ I say. ‘I have a lot of trouble meeting new people and after yesterday…’ Why am I sharing this with him? He’ll probably think I’m the biggest whiny baby on the planet. ‘Never mind.’

‘No, no,’ Henry says, ‘tell me, please. I want to know.’

Kal sits in front of me and I place my hands on the sides of his face, scratching him. ‘I felt really good yesterday after we met, but now I feel like none of that is left. I feel like we’re starting over again. It’s just that I’m not sure what I can say to you now. And you do make it easier and I’m already less nervous and you being a total loser at Mario Kart obviously helps too… I think I don’t want you to think that I’m not having fun.’

‘Sandy,’ Henry says, ‘we’re not starting over. I’m happy that you told me this, though.’

I look up from Kal, to only notice he is already looking at me again.

‘You’re not mad?’

‘This is the last thing I should be mad about. I’m just grateful that you trust me enough to tell me this.’ He bumps his knee against mine and says: ‘I don’t think I can handle it again if I lose.’

‘Figured.’ I look around me, to find something to talk about. As if he is waiting for me to take the first step, he doesn’t say anything. ‘Do you have filming equipment?’

‘I have my phone.’

I scrunch up my nose. ‘But a camera is better. You can separate your files more easily, believe me, you’d want that.’

‘I’ll have to believe the expert on that one,’ Henry laughs.

‘Editing software?’

‘Well, I have a few computers around here, but I also have a MacBook, with iMovie on it. Heard that was pretty good. I bet you use something else.’

‘I used to use iMovie,’ I tell him, ‘but now I use Final Cut Pro. It’s around three hundred bucks, maybe a bit more.’

Henry nods. ‘So, I should buy a camera?’

‘Mhm and more.’

‘What?’

‘A hard disk, a tiny tripod, a big tripod. I was thinking you should buy like a microphone and better lightening, but that’s not really necessary. Yet.’

‘Right.’ Henry rubs his hands together and asks: ‘Want to go shopping with me?’

⟢⟡⟣

Henry spend around five hundred pounds on a camera. In a different store we bought a hard disk and indeed two tripods, though they were heavily overpriced, but Henry said that it was fine.

For the occasion, Henry put on a shirt, but this one still accentuates his arms. For a second my mind wanders to my lovely daydreams: thinking about how it would be if he’d wrap those arms around me, pulling me against his insanely strong body and kissing me on top of my head. But to not go into cardiac arrest right here and now, I decide I’ll just have to wait and dream about that when I go to sleep.

Henry is unpacking his camera and turns it on. ‘God, this is beautiful,’ he says, holding the camera up, to take a picture, while he is watching the screen. He packed everything in a blue backpack, that rests between his legs as we sit on a park bench in the shadow. He looks around him and his eyes fall on a field filled with flowers. ‘Let’s have a little photoshoot,’ he says when he turns around, to meet my eyes.

I frown. ‘What?’

‘I have to test out this camera and when I have you with me, you should be my model.’

I’m visibly confused. ‘You want to take pictures of me?’

‘Yes,’ he simply states. ‘Come on.’ He grabs his backpack and walks to the field. I follow him, but now I’m growing more nervous.

Henry Cavill wants to make pictures of me?

‘Go stand over there,’ he tells me and points to the sunflowers. I walk up to it, my legs nearly turning into jello as I stand next to the sunflower that is around my height.

He crouches down and I cock an eyebrow. ‘I’ve seen your editorials, Sandy, you’ll do amazing here. Besides, it’s just me.’

It’s never going to be just you, Henry, don’t you get that? I take a deep breath and start to pose for the pictures. He clicks his tongue, as he continues to snap pictures, telling me I’m looking beautiful, but finally the sun is frying my head. ‘Can we stop?’ I ask him. ‘I’m a sweaty mess.’

Henry starts to chuckle and looks at the screen. ‘Sure thing.’

I walk up to him, so I can look at the pictures as well and oh my God, these all look really good.

‘Wow,’ I mention. ‘Those are pretty decent.’

‘It helps when the model is easy to photograph.’

I clear my throat. What does one say to that? ‘Judging from these pictures, you’ll probably do great with filming,’ I say and together we walk back to the road again. ‘Oh look,’ I say, when Henry has put the camera in his backpack. ‘Cotton candy.’

‘Candy floss. You’re in the UK now, Sandy.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Fine, candy floss then.’

Henry tells me to wait, before he takes a few strides and he’s at the stand, buying one. I decide to watch from a far, especially when the man behind the stand wants a picture with him. I don’t want to intrude, so I wander a bit down the road, making sure that Henry can still see me.

Henry walks up to me, with a giant ball of cotton— candy floss on a stick. He plucks off some of the sweet stuff. ‘Open your mouth,’ he tells me.

If that isn’t something right out of my fantasies, then I don’t know anymore. ‘You’re going to feed me?’

‘Yeah, so your hands don’t get sticky.’ Henry has a lovely smile on his face and I wonder what is he going to be like as a boyfriend? As my boyfriend to be exact.

Would he be rough, dominant and strong, like the fanfics suggest (yes, I read those) or is he soft and cuddly? Now I do suspect a bit of both.

He could be pretty dominant. I mean, he told me to open my mouth and my first reflex was wanting to ask how far open he would’ve liked it. But on the other hand, he is also pretty soft, especially towards me. He wants me to be at ease with him, keeps giving me thoughtful compliments and he even said I was beautiful and that I’m easy to photograph.

I mean, who says that kind of stuff?

Boyfriends do right?

Rolling my eyes, I open my mouth and he feeds me some of the candy floss. He retract his hand, before my lips can reach his fingers. I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I can barely look at the man from time to time, let alone if I have these kind of impure thoughts.

‘Last time I had candy floss,’ he says, ‘was when I was sixteen. My friends laughed at me, because I wanted a pink one. I know they all taste the same, no matter what color, but pink is the color it’s supposed to be, right?’

I nod. ‘Agree,’ I say as the sugar dissolves on my tongue.

‘When was the last time you had it?’

‘I think I was eight. My dad took me out to the park, because we knew there was a stand where they sold cotton candy. We always walked passed it a few times, because my mom told us that it was really unhealthy and that your teeth would rot off if you ate it. But my mom wasn’t with us then, so we ate like three of those sticks together and we had to lie down on a park bench for about an hour, because we felt so sick.’

‘Does your mom know now?’

‘No, we’re too scared to tell her.’

Henry chuckles. ‘Are you close with your parents?’

I nod. ‘Yeah, I am. My mother reminds me every single day I should take my vitamins, to stay hydrated and not to frown, but that’s her way of showing me how much she cares. My dad texts me everyday, just telling me how his day is going.’

‘Don’t you miss them?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Why did you even move to London?’ He plucks off some more cotton candy and brings it to my lips. Butterflies flutter inside of my stomach. I feel myself getting more relaxed around him again and him doing this, it feels so normal to us. ‘You never mentioned it in your vlogs.’

I smile, licking the sweet stuff off my lips. ‘I wanted to see the world and I earned enough  money to afford it. My parents were really supportive and they wanted me to explore the world. They just hoped I was going to New York or Canada. But they are excited for me. They always watch my videos and even wake up in the middle of the night if I post in the mornings. They have been there for me since the beginning and though I’m in another continent, I feel like they are always right there.’

‘Isn’t it scary?’ he asks. ‘Being in another continent, without your parents at like twenty five?’

‘Every single day.’

We walk down the street and he continues to feed me the cotton candy. It feels weirdly intimate, but not awkwardly intimate. I open my mouth again, but he holds it a little above my reach. ‘Henry,’ I mumble, ‘not funny.’

He chuckles, lowering his hand, but I could’ve known that he was just messing with me. When I stand on my toes, he holds it further above my head and eventually eats the pink stuff himself.

I want to grab some off the stick, but even that he holds above my head. ‘Henry, come on. Don’t be mean.’

He doesn’t think this is mean, because he continues to do it, laughing the entire time. He does it again and I jump up, hoping I can reach it, but it’s hopeless.

I jump up again, but this time I fold my fingers around his forearm, pulling his strong arm with me so I can finally get a bite.

But holding his thick arm like this, it’s giving me all sorts of thoughts. He feels so strong and it’s quite intimidating of course, but something about his warm skin, is also intensely soft.

‘I knew that was there,’ he says with an almost proud smile.

‘That was there what?’ I ask, letting go of his arm.

‘That bit of assertiveness.’

My cheeks flare up. ‘Hardly.’

‘Hence the bit part.’

I glance at him, but it doesn’t last long. He can’t seem to stop smiling and to be fair, I don’t  want him to. He looks breathtakingly handsome and like a perfectly sculpted human. He licks his fingers and I bet he knows exactly what that is doing to me. He throws the stick away and wants to wipe his fingers to his shirt or pants, but I stop him.

‘Wait,’ I say, before digging through my small purse, finding a tissue. ‘Here.’

‘Well prepared,’ he comments, as he takes the tissue out of my hand.

‘Always.’

He cleans his hands and throws the tissue into the bin. ‘Thanks for coming with me today.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘What do you want to film first?’

‘No idea yet. I want a bit of everything, you know.’

I nod. ‘Get it. When I started my channel, I was thinking about doing a fashion channel. When I thought about it, I realized I didn’t want that and wanted more lifestyle related videos.’

‘What stopped you from doing fashion videos?’

‘Not being fashionable enough.’

‘Nonsense,’ he tells me in a stern voice. ‘You look fashionable.’

I hold in a giggle that bubbles up. Dominant boyfriend Henry is definitely a concept.

‘What even made you start your channel?’

‘I wanted to romanticize my life,’ I answer. ‘I felt like I was wasting my life and realizing that ever moment is worth noting, it’ll give you tons of footage. Just keep that in mind when you film. Nothing is too boring for a vlog, as long as you edit it nicely.’

Henry nods. ‘That’s beautifully said, Sandy.’

Taglist: @flhorah​ // @henrythickcavill​ // @toomanystoriessolittletime​ // @tumblnewby // @newts-fan-case // @thelastsock​

[tessatechaitea]

Justice League #1 (1987)

This is actually a more impressive line-up than I remember.

I'm pretty sure this line-up is a huge scam. I don't remember Doctor Fate interacting too much with this group and I think Shazam bows out fairly quickly. Batman probably does that thing where he acts like he's leader (even if Martian Manhunter actually is) and only helps out every sixth mission. So at that point, the line-up is already decreasing in strength and intimidation factor quickly. Adding Fire, Ice, and Booster Gold later won't really improve the team much. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My impressions from this initial cover were "Wow! Pretty interesting team!" and "What asshole fucking decided on the shit stencil font for the title?" Sorry, I cuss a lot when I'm writing on the Internet and trying to seem like a bad-ass. The issue begins with Guy Gardner calling the other Green Lanterns jerks and suggesting, to himself, that he should be the Commander-in-Chief of the new Justice League. Some people would read this first page and think, "What an arrogant fucking asshole." But my stomach got all queasy and I giggled a little bit and I muttered quietly under my breath, "I love him."

I'm not saying it isn't composed of some truly ridiculous aspects but Guy still has the best costume in the DC Universe.

I don't love everything about Guy Gardner because most writers at the time didn't truly understand him. They made him a jerk that nobody would like because they were too cold-hearted to see the brain damaged cool guy that he really was. Guy Gardner often needed to be written by somebody who loved the character; it would have done him a world of good. He could still have been that abrasive jerk. But written deftly, those who actually cared to take the time would see his true self. Sure, that would also be an abrasive jerk! But a little bit more likable!

Stallone was pretty sensitive in a few scenes in Rocky IV!

Black Canary is second to arrive, after which Mister Miracle and Oberon show up. I never quite understood how Oberon fit into the Justice League. Wasn't he like an agent or a manager? Did Batman and Martian Manhunter need Oberon to sign off on every mission or else Scott Free would have to remain behind? I bet he was included just so Giffen and DeMatteis could make dwarf jokes.

Why would Guy choose Sneezy?! Oberon's breathing has been impeccable since he arrived!

Normally after some kind of cynical prediction about the comic book that immediately is proved true, I'd write, "Grandmaster Comic Book Reader!" But it doesn't feel right to say it in this case. I mean, Oberon is present for four panels before he becomes the butt of a joke based on his diminutive nature. And by Guy Gardner, no less! Is this why I loved him so much at sixteen?! What a terrible and typical sixteen year old white heterosexual male I was! Black Canary (whose costume I'm just now noticing is really fucking weird) responds to Guy's awful behavior by saying, "Dozens of GLs around and we get 'Rambo' with a ring!" That's unfair to Rambo! I'm also unsure who in this story (including the writers of this story) have actually seen First Blood. Gardner is more like the authority mad Sheriff Teasle than the sensitive green beret John Rambo! Rambo should be admired as a hero, battling back against corrupt cops who think they have the right to use as much force as they want for any stupid fucking reason! It's possible they were talking about the Rambo from the second film who gets to kill more than one person because the people he's killing are Russians and Vietnamese. He does get a bit murder crazy in the second film. Or maybe they're talking about Rambo from the third film which wasn't actually out yet so I don't have to read up on it. Next to arrive are Captain Marvel, Blue Beetle, and Martian Manhunter. Martian Manhunter proves to be a buzzkill, reminding everybody how the old series ended in total death and disaster.

His view of the media is pretty spot on though.

J'onn calls up the files of Steel, Gypsy, Vixen, and Vibe before purging them completely from the Justice League computer. That's probably a good idea, like deleting old joke tweets on Twitter that were a bit racist and also boring. Meanwhile Maxwell Lord IV watches from a distance, doing that Ozymandias thing where you watch dozens of televisions at once. I think it proves you're a genius whose done the research and contemplated all sides of an issue before making up your totally rational and logical mind about any issue. As opposed to us losers who simply use compassion and empathy to almost immediately understand the correct and most ethical path to take. Maxwell Lord IV watches all of this television and decides the correct course to take is to leave the "America" off of the Justice League of America this time. Oh, and also the "of".

Maybe this is why I liked Guy so much: because he knew the saying was "you've got another think coming." Look, I'm going to be desperately finding good reasons to have liked Guy Gardner so much when Giffen and DeMatteis are this determined to make him a huge and unlikable jerk.

Look, I was sixteen! Hardly the best time in a young man's life for qualities like compassion and empathy and fashion sense and hair styles! I'm also fairly certain it wasn't this comic book that made me like him so much. I'm pretty sure he gets knocked out by Batman with one punch before the year is over and I remember loving that scene. So I probably despised him like a good reader of Justice League was supposed to do. Hopefully he'll have some character moments during this series that will show why I wound up liking him so much as a character. Right now, he's just a complete and utter asshole. The five panels following the one I just scanned consist of Guy once again calling Oberon "Sneezy" and then suggesting Black Canary is going to want to fuck him soon enough. Martian Manhunter tries to break it up and just winds up part of the chaos.

Okay, I'm starting to get why I might have liked him at sixteen, even after the first few pages. To a sixteen year old white male, mocking Martian Manhunter with a "Ho-ho-ho" trumps ableism, sexism, and, with this attack on J'onn for his inherent physical Martianness, almost certainly racism as well.

Guy continues to play the role of Squeaky Wheel for another page or two. I suppose if you want more on-panel time than the other heroes, you've got to be a raging asshole. I can't say I'm not entertained by it!

Captain Marvel earns a little of my love with this line as well. No shame in drinking warm milk at night!

This is only nine pages into the first issue and Guy has completely derailed the formation of the new Justice League. Was this blasphemy to previous fans of the Justice League where the team may have had some minor squabbles about various things and Batman would quit every six issues but mostly they didn't break out into brawls whenever they got together? Or were internal struggles and arguments a regular plot point? I have no idea because the only Justice League comics I read previous to this title were the terrible months where everything was breaking down and then Steel betrayed them and Vibe was killed off and Martian Manhunter felt like a huge failure. Although was Aquaman leading the team at the time? I dislike Aquaman so much, I'm just going to believe he was leading the team and that's why everything completely fell apart. He sucks. Once per day, I think about that lousy meme trying to prove Aquaman wasn't useless by using the image from New 52 Justice League where he controls a bunch of great whites to breach and kill a bunch of parademons and I hate everybody who actually thought that was a cool moment. Batman and Doctor Fate arrive in the middle of the Justice League brawl (which even Martian Manhunter, the only adult in the room, is taken part in) and shuts shit down The Batman way.

I guess heroes are also a cowardly lot.

Meanwhile, Doctor Light winds up being held hostage with the rest of the United Nations by some white terrorists. I felt I needed to say they were white because a lot of racist assholes can only envision terrorists one way. Also, I should always describe people as white when they're white since I don't want to be an accomplice to maintaining a world where we assume a person mentioned is white, male, and heterosexual unless they're described more fully. Doctor Light was given a Justice League emergency beeper by a mysterious figure some time previously. This isn't revealed but I just read Justice League Spectacular #1 so I know Maxwell Lord gave her the device so that she could alert the Justice League when the United Nations was taken hostage by terrorists that Maxwell Lord IV paid. It's all about getting some early press! There's an advert for the new Flash which I'm surprised I didn't pick up since the advert shows him having some kind of accident in a sperm bank.

Ew Flash is right!

The Justice League head over to stop the terrorist attack. At some point, Doctor Fate disappears to go do something else and I think he never comes back? Is that why I barely remember him as a part of this league? Was he just there to look cool on the cover and fool all the lovers of DC magic users? The League storms the UN, murdering several terrorists.

Look. Manhunter either phased their heads into the solid ceiling or he smashed their skulls straight through the roof. Either way, I don't see a high percentage chance of their survival.

The Justice League capture all the terrorists and then Batman has the building evacuated, leaving just the leader of the terrorists alone in the United Nations building threatening to kill himself so that the bomb attached to his heart would detonate and kill them all. He does kill himself but the bomb doesn't detonate. And the thing is, Batman realized during the mission that the bomb was almost certainly a bluff. So he left the man alone to kill himself. Later we discover the man had a history of mental illness. So this, to Batman, is justice? Batman almost certainly realized the man was being manipulated and that he'd definitely kill himself to blow the bomb and Batman let the man do it. Batman is a fucking monster. After the event, the media points out that the terrorists were mostly composed of 60s radical groups like the Weathermen and the Black Panthers. Which is odd because there wasn't one black terrorist in the bunch. The issue ends with Max Lord talking to himself and admitting to being the one who staged the terrorist attack. He also knew the leader was unstable enough to kill himself for the cause and he sent him in with a bomb that definitely wouldn't blow. So he's a fucking monster as well. And Martian Manhunter is a monster, not because he's a weirdo martian, but because he basically popped the heads on a few of the terrorists. No way will I believe those guys hanging from the ceiling by their necks survived! All in all, Guy Gardner is starting to look like a rational member of this group! Justice League #1 Rating: B+. A better than average start to the new Justice League, building some intrigue and conflict right from the start. Who is Max Lord? What are his plans for the Justice League? Why is he acting like it's his group? Will Doctor Fate ever return? Will Oberon poison Guy Gardner? Will Black Canary and Doctor Light become best friends because they're the only women in the League? Will Guy Gardner and Batman ever come to blows? I can answer that! They will not! They'll just come to blow. One punch by Batman. And that one punch causes some severe psychological trauma to Gardner and nobody thinks he should get medical help simply because he starts acting nicer. They're all fucking monsters!

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 009 [LordXplosionMurder]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 1,554 ☁

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“It never goes the way that you planned. Success is a door that always slams. I’m trying to break it.” The Score, “Miracle”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I rubbed my eyes, trying to keep myself awake. The last of the students were leaving the school after the exam, but Toshi made me wait for him while the staff held a meeting. Rin had offered to wait with me, but I told him I was fine. A part of me hoped he got accepted into the school, he was a good kid. The same for Fumi and Shadow. And what about Toshi’s successor? What was his name again? Mido something, I think.

More importantly, would I get accepted?

I tilted my head back, watching fluffy clouds slowly floating across the azure sky. I managed to take down that stupid ass robot but I nearly lost control again in the process. What if I had killed a student this time? The thought made me shudder. Guess I still have a long way to go.

“Young Jen,”

I glanced over, meeting Toshi’s blue eyes. Aizawa was standing next to him, glaring at me. I cleared my throat and stood up, deciding to keep my distance. “So~ how was the meeting?”

The scarf around Aizawa’s neck shot out at me like fucking homing missiles, wrapping tight around my body. I did not enjoy having my arms pinned to my side like this, but I honestly don’t even have the energy to try and fight back. Not like I could escape this stupid fucking indestructible piece of cloth. It lifted me off the ground and pulled me close, just inches away from him.

“I told you not to use that move!”

I looked away. “Where’s that cat at? Did you return it to the kid you stole it from? Shame, I wanted to -”

The scarf suddenly disappeared from my body and I fell hard to the ground. “Stop playing around, Jen.”

“What’s the big deal?” I muttered, rubbing my sore ass. “It worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

“You lost control,” he stated simply, cutting me off before I could reply. “Don’t try and tell me you didn’t! What would you have done if you had killed someone else?”

I flinched, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of his harsh tone or the words he spoke. I scowled, pulling myself to my feet. “As if I haven’t thought about that! I got it, I fucked up again. Fuck,” I started toward the gate, shoving my hands angrily into my pockets.

If I hadn’t felt such a strong need to prove myself, I wouldn’t have lost control. God, what is wrong with me?

A warm hand rested on my head. “What’s done is done. Learn from this experience, young Jen.”

I sighed deeply, unconsciously leaning toward the warmth that he offered. “I’m sorry, Tosh. That was pretty stupid of me…”

He ruffled my hair before removing his hand. “You’re quite strong, which is all the more reason not to push yourself so hard. The two of you have that in common, but at least you didn’t break any bones…”

I raised a brow in question but he just shook his head and smiled.

“Let’s go get some tacos,”

“Fuck yes!”

それ以上に上昇 ☆ One Week Later

I sat on the couch, eyes focused on the racing game I was playing. It was an online lobby and I had been duking it out with this same guy for the past three hours. He’d lose the race then demand a re-match via the in-game texting feature. I’d lose and then do the same. Neither of us could get two wins in a row and we refused to give up until one of us did. Toshi had left early this morning, just as he had been for the past week. I haven’t talked with Aizawa, either… I bet he’s still pissed off at me.

“Shit!” I zoned out and crashed at the finish line. That makes two wins for him. Damn, he left the fucking lobby before I could challenge him again. Fucks sake.

I glanced at the clock; it was just after eleven so the mail should have been delivered already. The door creaked as I pulled it open, lifting the lid of the rusted mailbox that had been nailed to the wall beside the door. Let’s see… light bill, phone bill, pyramid scheme, coupons, more coupons. Oh fuck those are taco coupons, I’ll just keep those. Wait, what’s this? It had my name on it and felt like… a metal drink coaster? Curious, I headed back inside and plopped down onto the couch.

It’s from U.A…. shit, are these my results? I broke the wax seal on the back of the envelope and pulled out a metal disc, nearly dropping it when it sprung to life, producing a square hologram like a TV screen. Damn, technology is pretty advanced in this world.

Toshi’s grinning face greeted me. “Booyah! I am here… as a projection! Young Jen, you have passed the written exam with eighty-five out of one hundred, congratulations! However, you only earned fifteen combat points in the practical exam.”

“Goddamn it,” I cursed, kicking the table. It screeched backward as it scraped the wooden floor.

“Fortunately, there were other factors! But before we get to that, let’s watch a video!” The camera panned to a wall-mounted TV behind him. The video started to play, showing the monstrous zero-point robot destroying the mock city.

Why is he showing me this shit? I was fucking there, I know what it looked like and the damage it caused. I kicked the table harder and it slid toward the wall. Seconds later, there was a banging on the floor from the batty old woman that lived in the apartment below ours. “Che,”

The video panned toward the treads of the robot, where a giant pile of rubble had fallen from the building it was smashing its way through. My eyes widened as a large piece of rubble was throw off the top of the pile. Wait… that’s Rin! His upper body was covered in green scales and he looked unharmed, but when he tried to climb out of the pile, he couldn’t un-wedge his leg. The camera pulled back to show the robot quickly approaching. He was gonna be crushed…

And then a blur passed by the screen. It was… me?

“You see, young Jen, the practical exam was not graded on combat alone! How could a hero course not recognize someone who is committed to saving others no matter the consequences to herself? After all, that is what makes a hero! And that is what my alma mater is all about – training those that would risk their lives for the greater good. So, we have rescue points! A panel of judges watches and they reward points for heroic acts beyond just fighting villains. Jen Winchester, fifty-five rescue points!”

The scoreboard flashed on the screen, with my name in fourth place with seventy points total. My eyes widened and I nearly dropped the disk. I didn’t even… why is he looking at me with so much pride?

“Your hard work has paid off, young Jen! I am so proud of you! You have come a long way since -”

I heard someone whispering loudly off camera as they waved their hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, I will wrap it up! Now, I know what you’re thinking.” He clicked the remote in his hand and a second video showed on the screen, showing my body as it fell from the sky. A flash of green followed by a cloud of dust. “Hiryuu Rin, forty-five rescue points! He passed the exam, as well! Welcome, Jen.” He held his arms out on either side of him, a proud look on his face as he smiled brightly. “You’re now part of the hero academia!”

I let my hand fall as the hologram disappeared, a shaky breath leaving my lips. I kinda feel… like a total fucking fraud. I didn’t even know Rin was there. I wasn’t trying to save him, I just wanted to test my damn power. But he saved me without hesitation. “Goddamn it…”

My phone dinged. It was a notification from the gaming system app I have installed on my phone. I had a new friend request from LordXplosionMurder. Attached to the request was a simple message, ‘Loser’.

My eye twitched in annoyance and I accepted so I could message his ass back, ‘The fuck are u callin a loser?! With that name, u must be a fuckin 5 yo. Explosion is spelled wrong too, u tryin to be edgy?’

He responded quickly, ‘BITCH UR NAME IS TACOQUEEN R U 3?! THERE WAS A 19 CHARACTER LIMIT FUCK U’

‘AND? WHATS UR FUCKIN POINT’

‘UR NAME IS STUPID!!’

“Argh!” I ran a hand through my hair in frustration, sliding off the couch and flopping onto the floor with a thud. There was a knock right by my face and I scowled, bringing my fist down onto the floor. My phone buzzed again, this time baring a message from Toshi.

✉ ‘Congratulations! I am so proud of you, Jen :)’

I frowned. Why the fuck did I feel so guilty about this shit? Rin deserves those points a hell of a lot more than I do. I wonder if I should ask Toshi if I could give them to him instead, but… I can’t bring myself to send that message.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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[whenisitnottimeforbed]

Tricks Before Treats (Ichabbie Fanfic)

Well, I haven't done this in a while... I'm kind of excited, I guess- I finally have a new trope that I want to incorporate and I haven't been able to think of one till literally this night. I hope everyone can read this and think kindly back upon something from the show fondly.

**********                               ****************                                 **************

It had been as far back as June when Abbie and Crane had gone out drinking with Jenny and the young Master Corbin, let the revelry take them and became more focused on the moment than the future, but Abbie was beginning to suspect Jenny hadn't been quite as inebriated as she'd made it seem. At some point during the night they'd made a bet on a game, she couldn't quite recall which one, but the prize had been to pick a costume for the loser come halloween. It had seemed like a drunk rambling kind of wager, the kind that made no sense before or after and would probably fade away with the memory of the night, and yet, without missing a beat, Jenny had showed up at Abbie's house with two hangers covered in travel bags giving both the the house's residents their task for the night.

Not only did they have to wear them, Jenny had further explained, but they had to go out and be seen in them. Not at a bar either- they always went to a bar or bowling, or a fright fest movie marathon of the old classics. This year, they were going to a Halloween fair, complete with a corn maze, apple bobbing, haunted houses, hayrides, pumpkin patches, and costume contests. Jenny also informed them they'd been entered in the couples division of such an event and she had money on their success.

Face heavy with makeup, Abbie could hardly stop smiling- a begrudging and duplicitous kind of smile- as she strode through the night in the field between all the other fairgoers in her large glittering pink dress with so many skirt layers that if puffed up a bit just below her knees. It had all the glittering satin overlay, puffy chiffon-like sleeves that bulged like orbs around her bicepts and a strapless corset bodice with magenta-purple ribbon and detail work. Her face was nearly bereft of visible skin, instead covered in eye shadow that went up to her eyebrows and out to her temples, and cheek contours all in glitter filled shades of pinkish or purplish with a few tiny glued on rhinestone assets at the corners of each eye, and dangling pink stoned earrings with multiple pieces. The only thing about the outfit she'd been allowed to use of her own choice were her boots, and only because Jenny had gotten the heel size wrong and there wasn't time to go out and get another pair. Ichabod thought she looked quite cute, but he'd thought twice about using those words and instead complimented her as looking delightful when they'd left.

Compared to her, Ichabod's couple of lines down the corner of his mouth and light 'wood' looking detail work down his face was nothing. He also wore... well, he actually wore something he was quite familiar with in style, though not color. While she'd been dubbed The Sugar Plum Fairy, Crane had been dressed as the red jacketed Nutcracker himself, complete with giant drum major hat and a real, working sword that he'd really bought off the internet some time ago when he'd learned such things could be done. Abbie always thought he looked good in uniform- and he filled it out well. Even if he didn't like the coat, she made sure he knew he was pulling it off. There was this look she'd give him, this one that he liked, and it had quelled all complaints about his implied patriotism.

"Jenny says the contest isn't till near the end of the night, so we just have to hang around till then." Abbie told him as they walked through throngs of witches, zombies, sexy "insert  prosaic noun here"s, Trump satire, wearable puns, and t-shirts that read "this IS my costume". A small group of teenagers came shoving by dressed in their best, most costume-less trappings and in such a rush that they neglected an 'excuse me' as they headed past the glaring fairy cop in their backpacks.

"If you'll excuse my ignorance," Crane began, redirecting her attention, "as I haven't seen the play these costumes seemed to be based on in any capacity more than televised advertisements and references within other works-"

"-I'll take you come Christmastime."

"-Appreciated- but, isn't the character whom I am portraying in love with a ballerina?"

"It's a ballet- everyone in it is a ballerina."

"Of course, but isn't my love interest some sort of music box statuette or toy?"

"Nope. She's a 10 year old girl, Crane."

"-...?"

"Yeah."

"And your Sugar Plum Fairy?"

"Just a benevolent character with a popular song."

"This doesn't seem to be a particularly well thought out 'couples' costume."

"Did I pick it out?"

"You're right, we're in this together."

"Always."

"Hey there, you two-" A man not unlike a carnival barker called to them, "The haunted hay ride's about to leave and we've got two spots just waiting for you, come on over- we promise a 'Frightfully' fun time!" The two of them stood for a moment, figuring whether or not they'd go, but what was the harm, it was still a while before the contest, and what else were they gonna do?

"Shall we, Ms. Fairy?" Ichabod asked, extending his arm with a teasing smile.

"Why, of course, Mr. Nut." She responded in kind, taking the offering.

"That's Mr. Cracke-"

"I'm not saying that."

The two of them were led back through the lane of stalls and to the edge where a few pumpkins had been arranged to create a line holding pattern, which they stepped over as no one was in line. Well, he 'had' needed to come out and grab people for it. When they arrived at the vehicle, though, it wasn't empty.

"Hahaha!" Jenny immediately began to laugh, "Man, you'd think I'd be done laughing about this by now."

"Yes- I would." Abbie agreed with a snide smile while Crane assisted her up on the lifted vehicle.

"Are you the Nutcracker and the Sugar Plum fairy?" A woman asked, she was was doing one of those sexy vaudevillian cigarette girl style costumes, "You guys look so cute together- way to play up the height difference."

"Oh, we got this contest in the bag." Jenny smiled, reaching up to compel a high five from the woman before leaning back with her arms over the back of the wooden railing holding in the hay on which they could sit.

"Alright, everybody, strap in for the most haunted hayride this side of Salem!" The man called from the truck, and then into a walkie "Cue it up, Dewey."

All at once lights flashed once at them, and some metal music blasted from speakers Abbie now noticed were attached to the sides of the truck. Up ahead, the sounds of screams rang out. The man inside laughed into a mic attached to the speakers, which did not cut out the music to let him speak,

"Listen to that? That's the sound of any who get taken away by the 'real' frights of our genuine haunted hayride! There have been some REAL mysterious happenings in our little town these last few years, and it's all for tonight!"

"Profiteering off of our work-" Ichabod leaned in to muse into his companion's ear as quietly as he could over the motor, the mic, and the music. As they rounded a curve, a spring loaded zombie jumped at the vehicle complete with it's own speaker sound effect, an orchestral screech, and a weird moan-scream. The only scream in the vehicle came from the vaudevillian woman who also reacted by ducking toward and clasping onto Ichabod's arm. Abbie glanced across Ichabod at the woman, and though she couldn't bring herself to say anything, as she had no real place to, it was clear she was upset. She harrumphed quietly, biting her bottom lip and sitting back with this posture and face that just begged what gave vaudeville the gall? There was a small bubble of nervousness from Ichabod, but it was easily overtaken with bemusement. He reached over with the offending arm, and tucked some of Abbie's neatly ringleted hair back behind her ear and gave her a smile. Glancing up at him, she immediately softened, relaxing again. She leaned into him and the woman on the otherside easily scooted a bit over, a light blush on her cheeks, but a little grin as she watched them.

"The undead walk our world tonight," The man in the truck began again, "led by denizens of the damned demons who torture them behind the gates of hell every other day of the year to come and drag down souls to take their place-"

Just then a giant pillar of fire exploded from up ahead, lighting the faces of everyone in the vehicle as they stared up into the sky at it.

"Who-ho-hoa-" Jenny smiled in awe.

"Impressive-" breathed Crane.

"Yeah, that's the best effects I've ever seen- Pyrotechnics went all out, huh?" Abbie agreed as the whole vehicle began to clap.

"Uh-" The mic cut out before the man talked into his walkie, barely audible beyond the music, "Godd*mnit, Dewey! Didn't I tell you to stay away from the 4th of July stuff!... Dewey-.... Dewey!" Crane turned to look at Abbie- his instincts were flaring up and if the look on her face was any indication, her's were too.

"Hey, is everything-" It was a good thing the lieutenant had gotten up to lean over the railing and speak to the man because if she'd stayed where she was, the super sped projectile that burst through his windshield and out the back window would have smashed right through her too, instead of just slamming the man's head into his door, exploding the sludgiest black mess on the windshield, the seat, and splattering it all over the bed of hay they rode on. The events managed to set the truck to speed forward with their driver's dead foot on the gas.

"Abbie!" Jenny called as soon as they lurched forward, having to catch the vaudevillian woman who was clearly terrified, her face splashed in the foul smelling liquid, and her eyes dilated in the kind of horror that you only see in movies.

"He's done!" She shouted back, reaching for him to try and wake him up, pull or knock him over and get him off the gas but she couldn't get the right force of strength from this angle and with the bouncy jostling of the unsteered vehicle, and they were headed right toward a stack of hay that'd been made into wall. A witch toy jumped out as they approached and was quickly smashed to bits over the broken windshield, rolling up over the top. The apparatus would have clipped Abbie if Crane had not yanked her back into the bed of the truck. Long arms wrapped around the purple-pink bodice of his partner leaning over to protect her from the stacks of hay that exploded against the chevy's grill, rolling over the top or under the wheels. The woman screamed from where she ducked and covered on the small floor drowning in the sounds still blasting from the speakers.

"I got him!" Jenny called out once they were around- they were headed for a hill. While she climbed onto the side of the runaway vehicle, thrusting herself in feet first through the passenger's window, Abbie and Ichabod quickly scanned their surroundings and as she swivelled around to the front, they crested the hill. Down below, right where the pillar would have been, there was a searing black spot in the ground, like the edges of a paper burned by a cigarette, and out from it flew ugly, black as ink winged gargoyle looking things and jostled ugly, melted, fleshy human forms.

"It's never been so dramatic before!" Abbie called.

"You heard the man! The only place we've ever opened was purgatory- That was supposed to be hell!" Just as she answered back, Jenny got the door open and safely rolled the man out, and their ride, going somewhere over 60 mph to be sure, ran up the hill and sailed high into the air. The group was left without gravity just long enough for the scene of madness below to be burned into all of their eyes. Familiar uncostumed teenagers screaming and running, things flying like bats or pterodactyls after them in dives, and ghouls tackling the living to the ground in a cacophony of screams, inhuman screeches, and gurgling snarls.

The vaudevillian woman wheezed, clearly dealing with an attack, and sprang from the bed in panic, disappearing in all her black into the night behind them. Something overhead circled back that direction, though it didn't seem to be able to find her once she made it into the corn.

"Abbie!" the car slammed back down onto the earth with a squeal of chassis and suspension.

"Lieutenant! We need to get down there!"

"Agreed! Jenny-"

"Oh, we're going whether we want to or not- we got no brakes, guys! But we do have this-" And she pushed the nozzle of a hunting rifle back through the hole in the window to her sister. Abbie pulled open the lever to check and found it loaded and ready.

"Well, alright-"

"I believe this just turned into a business event." Crane noted, relieving his scabbard of its cargo, the unused metal glinting in the moonlight.

"I guess so." Abbie agreed, "Jenny! Let's go to work!"

The engine revved hard, the younger Mills sister flooring the gas pedal and kicking up dirt behind them and all at once it was the music, a change in song after a brief pause, that filled Abbie's ears. The growing feedback and hard crashing drum beat adding to the channelled adrenaline of the moment. The car swerved in the loose dirt and grass, but Abbie, standing on a hay bale, lifted her leg and steadied herself on the roof of the black truck, zeroing in down the sights of the firearm at the winged demons above and began to fire. Behind her, Crane moved from one end of the bed to the other, clinging to railings while he thrust his blade out at any and all ghouls and undead husks that were not mowed down with fleshy smacks and underwheel thuds by the road warrior in the driver's seat.

Though they might be in the middle of battle, there was a quiet kind of tension among the people underneath the blanket of screams and electric guitars. In fact, Abbie and Ichabod fell into step so quickly and comfortably that somewhere under the drive and focus, there was a glimmer of fun. When she spun around, he was right at her back with no warning or word, spinning too, out of her way and her out of his, delivering fatal blows one after another. When she swiveled, he ducked under, and when she leaned, he slid around. Each step she took in this contained space, he matched  with ease and grace, as hay continued to be thrown out of their way. A hand reached out at her hair, from a being that had managed to grab onto the vehicle and yet Abbie felt no fear. The limb was separated from it's body no less than an inch from her and it's owner was impaled while Abbie's boot planted firmly into the face of another and she used it to thrust herself into the air and use the gun's butt to smash another enemy from the sky.

The truck swerved, and Abbie landed on the edge of the roof, the metal sliding out from under her, but when her hand thrust out in instinct, another grabbed it just as thoughtlessly, fingers curling around each other's thumbs. For a moment, Abbie and Ichabod stared into each other's eyes while the dichotomy of fear for each other, and yet the utter trust that nothing could ever happen to them because they would always be there to protect each other washed over them. She lifted her gun though and unloaded a round into a demon that thought it'd get the drop on her partner from behind, and the feeling broke with smiles.

Abbie did not lack confidence, not for quite some time, but fighting side by side with Crane bolstered it. What she would have avoided, viewing as 'reckless' or 'dangerous' when she was alone, she could do without hesitation with him. Ichabod knew she could take care of herself, and it was because of that that he could fight so freely- he did not have to constantly be worried or leading his Lieutenant around. She did not require coddling but instead room to do her job, and that was something he could do with, not for, her.

"It's kinda like a dance isn't it?" Abbie chuckled, pulling ammo from where her sister thrust it back at her to reload her weapon while the bumps tried to unsteady them.

"Not the music I would have chosen, but-" Ichabod began, but in concentrating on the pass, Jenny now needed to quickly course correct and threw the truck into a hard turn, and Abbie slammed into Ichabod, her face pressed into his shirt. She peeled herself off him and though they both smiled, clearly about to say something, the truck made it evident that it was not meant to handle a corner in this manner and began to tip up onto two tires.

"Gimme a boost!" Abbie called grabbing his hand and turning around. Ichabod planted a food on the floor of the now empty truck bed, and without releasing hands, Abbie used it as a springboard to go jump onto the edge of the fence with only him to steady her while she leaned herself out as counterweight, and he planted his own foot on the inside of the wooden bars to accommodate her weight and press on the side.

Floating on a wicked guitar solo that poured from their speakers like a crashing storm, time slowed as the adrenaline coursing in their bloodstream heightened their every sense. Abbie's dress sparkled in the moonlight and her face glittered like a diamond. Her dress, dirty and torn, fluttered like a flag of her own independence and ability, a reminder to Ichabod of what he fought for, and who he cared about; what really mattered in times like these. Her hand clasped his with admirable strength and he gripped her so that she would never sail away even as she was slanted dangerously off the high, precarious edge of the border against the wind with ripped satin overlay fluttering behind her like the Winged Nike of Samothrace. She was beautiful. Even as her face curled into a snarl and she shot one handed with her rifle braced against her shoulder at the oncoming threats.

He had seemed to be distracted, but when Abbie glanced back down she saw his long fingers wrapped around her wrist, and his strong arm reaching out the other way to swipe his gleaming, silver sword down the face of one nearby ghoul, spin the blade around and push it back through the gut of one that tried to climb their ride. It was in moments like these she was absolutely sure she could not do this without him. Who else could she trust so completely? Who else could be an asset as opposed to a liability? Who else knew her in battle so well? No one. There was only him. She smirked, and turned back around as Jenny took the truck back the way they'd come apparently, using the hill to help them get back onto four wheels.

With another squeal, the heavy vehicle came back down and Ichabod pulled Abbie back into the bed, where she snapped around. There out in front, just above the reach of the headlights, was the last of their problems.

"Keep me steady!" Abbie called and the truck straightened itself out once again climbing this hill, but now the passengers realized what they were headed for. Crane's hands gripped Abbie's hips and as the truck lifted off once more her feet remained planted to the floor and in one shot, the monster exploded it's black sludge from the head and fell like a stone where they landed on it and headed back into the fairground. There was still no pedal brakes, but plowing through crowd ahead was not an option. Jenny reached down and quickly clicked up the emergency brakes as high as they would go and braced as the truck's tires stopped spinning but the momentum carried them forward, crashing to a final stop in a tailspin while they clung to each other, against one of the other vehicles, destroying the sound system to end the ride.

"Are you alright? Abbie, are you harmed?" She was practically in his lap now, at the end of it, and he lifted her face to look quickly for injuries.

"I'm fine, I'm fine- it didn't even hurt- what about you?" She shook her head, feeling around his sides. He winced once, and took her hand. He'd managed to put as much of his body as possible between her and the collision, and the look her eyes were giving him were telling him that she recognized it. He had not lost her yet, and he would not tonight. She stared at him, her hand reaching up to his cheek, but there was a bit of a ruckus starting up behind them.

"I'm fine, but we should check on Jenny and the others-"

"You're right."

Abbie and Crane quickly jumped out of the truck, and after being waved on by Jenny- fine after the impact- ran around to the people who'd all gathered together in the middle of the fairground. The two of them hopped up on some boards laid across some hay for a higher vantage point with attention grabbing thuds of their boots,

"Is everyone alright?!" Abbie shouted over the crowd who had watched their crashing stop in fear.

"Are there any more of them among you?!" Ichabod demanded after her, his sword at the ready. Several dozen wide eyed and injured faces stared back up at them, now with no music from the smashed speakers on the truck, in the silent kind of confusion that follows a group trauma. Then a sound broke the silence- the sound of clapping. It was singular at first, but soon joined by a partner, and then a couple more, and it became clear among the applause and whistles, that the trouble was over.

People threw themselves at the pair's feet on stage with thanks and waves and shouts of pride and compliment, and someone thrust a trophy at them. Ichabod tried to deny it but Abbie took it up from the crowd with a thanks and a laugh. The relief and the sound of her laughter lightened his heart, and before the group of them, he leaned down and placed a peck on her cheek- the best he could do considering he felt fairly giddy right now, but thought better of kissing her outright in front of all these people. Seemed he didn't need to worry though- she'd been surprised at first, but turned back, pulled him down by his neck and pressed her lips to his joyously, smiling widely when she released him and staring into his sparkling, laughing eyes. In their tattered and black splattered costumes, messed hair and weapons wielded in hand, the held each other, and Abbie lifted the trophy up for the both of them among the second crashing  wave of cheers.

[withickmire]

Shot in the Dark

Fandom: Deltora Quest Characters: Jasmine, Doom, brief appearances/mentions of others. Summary: Jasmine and Doom let their competitive sides get the best of them, and indulge in a local game.  Notes: This is for the ever lovely @dragonloverdoran who requested some Jasmine-and-Doom bonding. Sorry this took a million years, Zann! This is technically bonding, but it plays up the ‘rivalry’ aspect of their relationship more. I’ve been dying to put a game, or something else Rodda-esque into my writing, and I thought this prompt was the perfect excuse to do so. Sorry for disappearing, but I think I’m back, and prompts are still open!

—

The long road from Del to Rithmere was once a hard path. For many years it had crawled with bandits and thieves, and only was used by those who were willing to fight their way through. But, like everything in Deltora, twelve years of peacetime had changed it. Jasmine had travelled it alone without fear, unaccompanied by any companion or guard, save for a chestnut horse called Sunflower. It was always strange to travel without Lief and Barda— and without Filli and Kree, who now preferred rest to adventure. She missed them all, and her children, but when the wind sang in her ears and the trees whispered their secrets, it was easy to feel at home.

She rode hard during the day, and camped in the bordering woods at night. The sun was fading as she reached Rithmere and tied her horse in the small stables outside of Triumph Inn.

Five years before, someone had laid a torch to the abandoned building that had once been the Champion Inn. No one had been harmed, and although Brianne of Lees had happily proclaimed her guilt to anyone and everyone, Lief had taken no action on the matter. A new inn had been built where the ashes had settled, and Fardeep took possession of the property— and promptly renamed it— although the construction had been paid for by an unknown donor.

The entrance to the inn was found only through the attached pub, so Jasmine was greeted by chaotic chatter as she hauled open the door. The pub was not overly crowded, but it was certainly noisy. A couple of people turned to the door as she entered, as if their nerves were permanently set on edge by decades spent living in fear. Conversations trickled into silence as faces turned towards their queen. She caught sight of the person she had come for, and began to weave her way through the haphazardly placed tables. Her name was whispered on the lips of those she passed, and she felt the heavy weight of their eyes upon her. Long years had passed since the sensation had made her stomach churn, but time could not prevent the blush that bloomed upon her cheeks.  She graced those she passed with a practised smile. Later, they would relay this story to their friends, but for many the idea that the queen had looked upon them would be laughed away as drunken foolishness.

“Well met,” Doom called, a smile in his voice, as she drew close to his table. She grinned as she sat before him, forgetting the peoples’ stares. It had been far too long. He was dusty and road-weary, but then, so was she.

Doom had been on his way to Del from the far, far west, when he had written, wondering if she would wish to meet him on the road somewhere. They had picked a fitting place for their reunion, for neither had been to Rithmere for years, and certainly not together. They would spend the night in Triumph Inn before they made their return journey.

Fardeep had shooed away the bartender, and seated them himself, when he saw who they were. He placed mugs of mulled cider at their table before they had a chance to order, and waved away their coins, despite Jasmine’s protests. Doom had little to say to him.

They made pleasant small talk for a while. Neither felt like talking much; being together was enough. A table near the wall suddenly erupted with cheers. A woman with short black hair raised her fist above her head with a laughing victory cry. She gestured grandly to a rectangular board dotted with darts set with brightly-coloured feathers. Beside her, a tall man sank into his chair with a groan of defeat, as his friends jeered and jostled his shoulders. Someone shoved a cup into his hands, and he drank deeply, until he had emptied it. The woman sat beside him and kissed his cheek, sipping daintily from her own drink. She whispered something into his ear and he laughed, apparently not too wounded by whatever had transpired. Two men rose from their table, and one collected the darts from the board on the wall.  He set them onto the table and took a tin offered by one of his friends. He shuffled through the contents for a moment, before procuring a white card. He nodded and set it back on the table, shooting the man at his side a wicked grin. The table fell silent as he aimed the dart. He released it, letting it hit a rectangular board on the wall. Jasmine, seated on the same side as board, could not tell if there was any sort of target.

Jasmine turned to Doom, who was watching the game with a mild interest. She leaned towards him, her bare arms pressing against the sticky table. “Do you know what they are doing?”

“It is called ‘Shot in the Dark’. It is played in pairs: the first person picks a word from a box, and has to spell it on the board by throwing darts. It is very popular these days, especially in the west.”

“They play it while drinking?” Jasmine curled her lip. “How do you win? Does the prize go to the person who still has two eyes when the sun rises?”

“Only when it is played in Broome,” Doom jested dryly. “Elsewhere, if their partner guesses before they spell it, they have won. If not, the dart-thrower wins. The dart thrower gets as many throws as the word has letters, but they cannot miss their letters more than three times, or they lose.”

“What do you get if you win?”

“Nothing. But the loser has to drink all that is in their cup.”

“That is a strange way to play a game,” Jasmine said scornfully. “The winner should get a prize.”

Doom grunted and sipped his wine. “One might say the triumph is prize enough. Glory, if you will.”

“Glory,” Jasmine scoffed. “What can you do with glory?”

She sipped from her cup. The cider was not overly sweet, as she had feared, but quite pleasant She rarely partook in drinking, but visiting her father after so long apart seemed like an occasion worth celebrating. She eyed Doom over the rim of her cup. He was gazing at one of the free boards, with his head tilted toward her.

She had drawn a bow on occasion; thrown her dagger when she had to, but her only experience with darts could be summed up in the small scar on the palm of her hand. Still, her aim was good, and her desire to best her father was greater. There were five game boards on the wall— Doom was clearly correct in the game’s popularity— but only the one in play by the far table was occupied. Despite her scornful words, she could not deny the appeal the game held.

“Have you played before?” She asked him casually.

Doom’s eyes narrowed above his cup. “Once or twice.”

“Have you ever lost?”

“Never.”

Jasmine grinned and climbed to her feet. “You will, tonight,” she said, and sauntered to the board closest to their table. She pulled a tin of cards and a tin of darts from where they had been carefully hooked underneath, and brought them to a ledge that divided the room. A chalk line had been drawn before it on the floor, marking where players were meant to stand. From the first tin, she plucked a small white card.

Doom joined her, leaning against the ledge.

“I will throw first,” she announced. Doom shrugged and gestured for her to begin. Sure that Doom could not see, she flipped the card over.

She smiled, for she had hoped for a long word. She placed it face down on the ledge.

“How many letters?” Doom asked. Jasmine frowned and shook her head. “You must tell me.”

“Nine,” she trailed her fingers across the feathered tips of the darts, and regarded the board for a moment. It was lettered, as Doom had said, and small enough to pose a challenge.

“How are the children?” Doom asked suddenly, when Jasmine turned her attention and had begun to inspect the brightly-coloured darts in the tin.

Jasmine regarded him with suspicion. He truly wanted to know, no doubt. Anna adored her grandfather. She could spend an age in his lap, fascinated by the way his huge, calloused hands felt clasped by her tiny ones. And Doom had only been to Del one other time since the twins had been born. Still, it was a curious time to ask. She fixed him with a glare, but as usual, his face betrayed nothing.

“They are well,” she said evenly, selecting a green-feathered dart. “Be prepared: Anna may be cross with you, she says you do not visit nearly enough. But her anger will not last, for she missed you far too much. And you will be surprised by how the babies have grown.”

She looked up at him, and was startled into a laugh. Even if his question had not been genuine, the smile on his face certainly was.

“It will be good to see them,” was all he said.

Jasmine stepped behind the line, and drew back the dart in her hand. She thought of Anna’s easy laugh, of Jarred and Endon, no doubt long asleep in their crib. She thrust her hand forward, and let the dart fly. It sunk neatly beneath the curve of the ‘G’.

She turned back to Doom, feeling smugly pleased with herself. “This game is not so hard,” she told him with a toss of her hair. “Particularly when you do not play it as they do,” she nodded to the rowdy table who had begun yet another game, well into their cups. One of the men who played the second round was sulking in his chair, and would not respond to any cajoling from his friends.

“You hit your first target, do not get too excited,” Doom said cooly.

Jasmine shrugged and pulled out a purple-feathered dart from the tin beside him, and returned to the game-line. ‘R’ was her next goal, and the loop at the top of the letter looked wonderfully like a target.

“And Lief?” Doom called suddenly, over the din of the room. “How is he?”

Jasmine suppressed the urge to groan. “Does he not write to you enough?” She snapped, instead.

“He does,” Doom said, with a smirk that betrayed him. He was trying to distract her. Well, she would not fall into his trap. But even veiled with annoyance, she could not set aside the undying love and tenderness she felt for Lief. She thought of his face, so full of happiness and warmth.

“You will not let him win, will you?” she knew her husband would tease, were he there. She threw the dart, and it hit the ‘R’ with a solid thud.

“Would you like a minute to think?” She asked triumphantly, as Doom regarded the board gravely.

“Not yet,” he said, although his focus had clearly changed.

Her third dart hit the ‘A’ without trouble or interruption from her singular audience. Her confidence was heightened by her achievements, so she was significantly distracted when Doom spoke again.

“Any word from Barda these days?”

Jasmine had already aimed her dart, and so had no choice but to throw it. Distracted by the unexpected conversation, her dart curved to the left and sailed into the larger space left by the ‘U’, rather than the ‘V’ that had been her target.

Jasmine ground her teeth and stomped to the board, tearing the faulty dart out. “Often,” was all she said through gritted teeth.

“A mistake?” Doom called. She narrowed her eyes at the pleasure in his voice.

“My first one,” she reminded him. The feathers on the ends of the darts that had flown true quivered as she breathed out hard through her nostrils.  “I still have two more chances, but I will not need them.”

She turned around and her eyes widened. Most of the patrons, and Fardeep and his staff were watching the queen and her father play with vast interest. Jasmine’s cheeks flushed as they stared, and she wondered if they had all seen her error, too. No matter. She tossed her hair and raised her chin, ignoring them all, and Doom’s knowing half-smile. She turned back to the board and, without thinking, threw the dart she had retrieved. It sailed neatly into the ‘V’. Doom’s smile faded.

“Wait,” he said. “I am ready to guess.”

“Are you sure?” She taunted. “There are five letters left, would you rather not wait?”

“I am no fool,” he snapped. His eyes flickered across the board. “Gravesite.”

“Gravesite?”

“Gravesite.”

Jasmine laughed in delight and flicked her chosen card toward him. A few cheers rose up as the spectators realized their queen had won, but they returned to their own affairs quickly after they saw Doom’s thunderous expression.

“How close you were!” Jasmine teased. “If only you had waited two more turns.”

Doom cursed as he flipped the card over.

“It is so interesting to be back here after so long, do you not think? And it has been even longer since I was here with you.” She smiled slyly, as he narrowed his eyes. “I recall a different game we played here, and another loss you bore.”

“I let you win then,” he reminded her, through narrowed eyes.

Jasmine shrugged. “You may believe what ever you wish. But tonight, I won even through your tricks.”

“Not many would call a man asking after his family ‘trickery’,” Doom muttered as he retrieved his cup from their table.

“And fewer still would ask after their family to trick their daughters,” Jasmine pointed out.

Setting aside his wounded pride, Doom raised his cup to toast her, and Jasmine grinned fiercely as he brought it to his lips. He had been right, triumph was a prize itself.

Doom finished the drink and placed it back upon the table, none-too-gently.

“Well, old man,” she pushed the tin of cards towards him. “You may try and recover your honour, if you would like.”

“I think I would,” Doom conceded, to Jasmine’s delight. “We shall see how long your smile lasts.”

Jasmine looked at him fondly as he shuffled through the cards. His dark hair and beard had acquired violent streaks of grey, which suited him in a strange fashion. She retrieved her abandoned cup, and drummed her fingers against the side. It would be good to have him home again, even for a little while. She remembered the conversation she had held over her daughter’s bed, as she had kissed Anna goodnight, and sworn to return soon.

“Grandfather never stays long enough,” Anna had frowned, as Jasmine hid a smile.

“Perhaps not,” Jasmine had agreed, and tucked a wayward curl behind her daughter’s ear. “But he always comes back to us.”

[northelypark]

Amelia and Phoenix for the ask ;)

Gonna steal your idea of combining answers because that seems a lot less clunky.

Why I like themAmelia’s personality is similar to mine and I really like the idea of an unassuming, quiet school-girl who’s actually an extremely intelligent chess prodigy.  We only get to see glimpses of her character: her relationship with her granddad, her more sassy side, her ability to solve puzzles. All very intriguing, just under-explored. I’m always left wanting to know more about her character and backstory

Phoenix is just such a great every-man character and really relatable because of how flawed he is in ordinary ways. He’s awkward, a bit of a hapless loser, and just barely scrapes by, but never comes across as incompetent or a buffoon as can sometimes happen with characters like this. I also just finished the second game and I really liked the struggle he went through in the last trial, wrestling with what it means to be a lawyer.

Why I don’tWe know so little about her, I’m left with more head-canons than actual character traits from the movie.

I really can’t think of anything right now. He’s perfectly imperfect, I guess.

Favorite episode (scene if movie)When she solves the wolf puzzle and the more determined side to her personality is seen.

So far, like I mentioned before, the last turnabout in the second game where I feel he really comes into his own as a defense attorney.

Favorite season/movieEternal Diva ;)

I really love him in PL vs. AA. Maybe because it’s the first PW game I played or just because I like seeing him interact with the Professor and Luke. Also, Baker Phoenix.

Favorite line

“I’ll remember, as well.” I have mixed feelings about her voice actress, but I really like the delivery of this line.

So many good ones. I just like all the random stuff he says, stuff that really wouldn’t make sense taken out of context and his snarky inner dialogue, of course.

Favorite outfitShe only wears one outfit, but I do really like it, especially the boots.

His classic blue suit, I guess?

OTPHonestly, her devotion to chess would probably outweigh any romance in the end, though I do have certain head-canons about her time at school that I’m a bit attached to ;)

Not really anyone for Phoenix. I’m not opposed to the idea of him finding someone, there just doesn’t seem to be anyone in the series that fits the bill.

Brotp*shoves head-canons aside* She doesn’t interact with anyone in the movie that much. Her granddad as father-figure and teacher, I guess, though I wouldn’t really consider that a “brotp”.

Maya and Edgeworth for Phoenix.

Head CanonSo many, but my favorite is that her granddad taught her chess, which is sort of implied in Eternal Diva, but never outright stated. 

I’m still pretty new to the Ace Attorney series so I haven’t really developed many head-canons yet. 

Unpopular opinionShe’s such an obscure character there’s not many opinions on her in general.

I’m not really familiar with the PW fandom. I don’t care to ship him with certain characters, so there’s that.

A wishThat she would appear somewhere somehow in the new series, even in a cameo role.

I hope he makes it through this turnabout I’m in the midst of, haha

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happenCan’t even think of anything. Stay away from opera composers and giant mind sucking machines.

Please don’t let him lose his memory for a third time. Unless it happens again in a game I’ve yet to play.

5 words to best describe themSixteen-year-old chess champion

He has a law degree?

My nickname for themChess daughter or little Miss

Don’t really have one for Phoenix. Just THIS MAN. Especially when he presents the wrong evidence, like, all the time.

Thanks, my friend, this was fun :D

[analogscum]

CHRISTMAS EVIL (1980, d. Lewis Jackson)

MERRY SCUMSMAS! Welcome to the very first installment of our 4-part Christmas series, in which we’ll be covering some truly twisted holiday flicks! Now, if you’re anything like me, you may find the Christmas season to be a difficult time of year. Sure, there are decorations and hot cocoa and all of your favorite animated TV specials return for their yearly viewings, but something about Christmas just feels…sad. Hollow. Disappointing. The opposite of Halloween, if I really had to put a finger on it. Maybe all the cheer only reinforces what a crappy year you’ve had. Or you find splurging on gifts to be a financial strain. But what I really think it all boils down to is a human problem. It’s hard to wish for peace on Earth and goodwill towards your fellow man when your fellow man seems dead set on making sure that Earth is anything but peaceful. Hell, it seems like most people don’t even care enough to put in the effort to simply just be nice. They’d rather just settle for naughty. Well, wouldn’t you know it, that very problem is addressed, albeit by a maniac in a dirty red costume, in our very first film, 1980’s Christmas Evil!

We open on Christmas Eve, 1947. Two little boys, Harry and Phil, and their mother sit on the staircase and watch as Santa Claus shoots down the chimney. Now, this is the first instance in which I was genuinely surprised and confused. Does this film exist in a universe where Santa Claus is real? I saw that motherfucker shoot down the chimney, don’t try to gaslight me on this one! Or, is this supposed to be viewed as just a childhood memory, laced with some magic realism? Don’t worry, we never quite get a straight answer. Anyway, Santa leaves a bunch of presents, hears one of the boys giggling, gives them a wink, and shoots back up the chimney (again, do NOT try and gaslight me here!) Then all of a sudden the boys and mom disappear, like that one shot in Blue Velvet after Frank Booth yells “I’ll fuck anything that moves!” Now Phil, the younger of the brothers, does not believe that that was the real Santa that they just saw. Harry, however, still believes that the big man exists, so he heads back downstairs for some unspecified reason, and what doe he see? It seems that Santa Claus has snuck back into the house, and Mommy is, um, doing a little bit more than kissing him underneath the mistletoe. In fact, Mommy is writhing in pleasure while Santa Claus says hi to the little man in the boat. Yikes! Harry, totally traumatized, runs upstairs to the attic, where he smashes a snow globe and slices his hand open with one of the shards of glass, spilling blood everywhere. And thus, the horror movie trope of Santa Claus as a lecherous old creep was born!

Now it is present day. Harry, despite the fact that he saw Chris Cringle feasting on his mom’s lady sandwich all those years ago, seems to be totally well-adjusted and normal. Well, there is the fact that he listens to Christmas music all year round. Oh, and his apartment is furnished with Christmas decorations even when it’s not Christmas. Right, and when he shaves in the morning he gives himself a shaving cream beard and goes Ho Ho Ho! into the bathroom mirror. Yup, totally well-adjusted and normal. Another hobby Harry has that is very healthy and not deeply disturbing at all is spying on the neighborhood kids from the roof of his apartment building via binoculars. Don’t worry, he’s only doing it so that he can record which of them have been naughty and which of them have been nice! And c’mon, it’s not like he’s whispering incredibly creepy things to himself while he watches them, like oh what a sweetheart and oh my dear little angel and…wait, no, never mind, he’s definitely whispering those things to himself. One boy takes out the trash, so he’s good. A girl is brushing her doll’s hair, which strikes me more as neutral but Harry seems very taken with it. However, this one little bastard named Moss Garcia is looking at the centerfold of a Penthouse magazine! Ooooh, does that ever burn Harry’s grits! How he hates Moss Garcia! In his book of naughty children, he notes that Moss “throws rocks at dogs, uses profane language, picks his nose, impure thoughts, negative body hygiene.” Ummm, hey, at least the guy is observant?

Would it surprise you to learn that Harry works at a toy factory? I didn’t think it would. Over at the Jolly Dreams toy factory, Harry is bummed out. On one hand, he’s been promoted to an office job, but he misses working on the factory line, because he cares about the quality of the toys. You know who doesn’t? The fat cats in corporate, that’s who! However, his former coworkers on the factory line aren’t much better, they’re portrayed as lazy and cynical. In fact, one such working stiff, a guy named Frank, basically bullies Harry into working his shift so that he can leave for vacation with his family early. Harry begrudgingly agrees, but when he’s walking home later that night, he passes by the local redneck bar, and who does he see? Why, it’s Frank! And he’s knocking back some brewskis and yukking it up with his roughneck buddies, laughing his head off about how he lied about leaving for vacation and shoved his shift off on that schmuck Harry! Harry handles this incredibly well, i.e. he runs home like an embarrassed child, then angrily hums “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” while crushing a doll in his bare hands. Could this be, I dunno, some sort of fancy pants foreshadowing? Well read on, college boy!

It’s Thanksgiving, and now we get to meet Harry’s younger brother Phil, who is played by one of my favorite character actors, Jeffrey DeMunn! This seems to be one of the first in a series of uptight assholes that DeMunn made a career out of bringing to irritated, deeply caucasian life, and for my money, few out there play an uptight asshole better than Jeffrey DeMunn. In the case of Phil, he’s always yelling at his kids to turn down the volume on the TV, and he seems to be offended by the very existence of his brother Harry. He thinks that Harry is a loser and an emotional cripple, which is kinda harsh. But at the same time, his wife makes up for this by going TOO easy on Harry, and is basically like, hey, Jeffrey DeMunn, when Harry comes over for Thanksgiving dinner, could you maybe not bring up the fact that he works in a factory and lives in a shitty poor part of town and is clearly mentally ill and possibly a pedophile? To which Jeffrey DeMunn is like, grumble grumble grumble I’m Jeffrey DeMunn! As it turns out, he needn’t have worried, because literally a minute after having this conversation, Harry phones up the house and is like, hey, it’s me Harry, I can’t make it to Thanksgiving this year, because I’ve got to take some nascent steps into full on Santa psychosis, ok byeeeee.

Harry goes about setting his plans into motion. The guy’s a bonafide craftsman; he’s sewing himself a Santa Claus suit, he’s in his basement like, smelting his own toys, he’s painting a sled on the side of his creeper-ass Econoline van, he even manages to smear some mud on his face and hands and terrorize that little shit Moss Garcia, ooooh he’s just the worst with his potty mouth and nudie mags! Anyway, now it’s time for the Jolly Dreams factory Christmas party! Everyone is getting super schwasted and dancing to a terrible disco version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” (does this now qualify as a motif?) when Harry is introduced to a new exec named Gordon. Gordon, it turns out, spearheaded a project wherein Jolly Dreams is going to donate a bunch of their surplus toys to a local children’s hospital. Harry is like, this plan seems really nebulous and non-specific, like, how many toys should we be setting aside, how many children are at this hospital, etc. And Gordon is just like, hey, I dunno, it’s just a publicity thing, who cares about those sick kids, it’s the me decade, babe! As you can probably imagine, this does not sit well with Harry. He storms out of the party, stealing a bunch of Jolly Dreams products on his way out the door, goes home, and immediately attaches a fake beard to his chin. He laughs and winces in the mirror, mumbling to himself, “it’s me!”

Now, I’m going to jump ahead a bit, usually I reserve final judgments for, well, the end of these pieces, but I’ve gotta say, I really enjoyed this movie, and part of what makes it hold together so well is the lead performance by Brandon Maggart as Harry. Maggart usually played supporting or cameo roles throughout his career, but here he truly gets to shine, totally revealing the wide range of Harry’s psychosis, and making you ultimately sympathize with him, even when he goes totally off the deep end and starts straight up murderizing people. Speaking of which…

Hey everyone, it’s Christmas Eve! But instead of St. Nick, it’s fuckin’ Harry Claus roaming the streets in his creeper-ass Econoline van. He breaks into Phil’s house and swaps out all of the presents for the kids with his homemade presents. He goes to the children’s hospital and almost gets shot by a hundred year old security guard, but then everyone is like look he brought presents what an awesome Santa Claus! He even gets in one final swipe at that rotten shitheel Moss Garcia by leaving him a giant sack full of dirt! Haha, take that you little pervert! Things kinda go off the rails a bit when Harry finds himself in front of this ridiculously gigantic church that looks straight outta Tim Burton’s Gotham City, and these three upper crust preppy assholes decide to poke fun of him for absolutely no reason. Sho what does Harry do? He pulls out a hatchet and butchers these people to death right there on the church steps in front of at least a hundred witnesses. Do any of them try to stop him? Nope!

So Harry is on the lam, and he finds himself at a very cheery Christmas party. All of the adults are super nice to him, and the kids are happy to see him, so he just plays along for awhile, and he’s in his element. He’s dancing the polka and giving the kids presents and knocking down shots that people are handing to him, they’re lovin’ this Papa Nöel, and apparently don’t notice the giant blood stains on his robes. When he decides it’s time to leave and go pay Frank and his family a visit, Harry Claus leaves the children with the following speech:

“Be good little girls and boys. Listen to your parents and do what they say. Obey your teachers and learn a whole lot. If you do this, I’ll make sure you get wonderful presents every year...But if you’re bad little girls and boys then your name goes into the bad little girls and boys book. And I’ll make sure you get something...horrible."

Shit, if that ain’t genuinely chilling, then your chill-o-meter may be broken.

Harry is really feeling his Santa Claus oats at this point, so he hilariously tries to actually go down the chimney, and nearly breaks his back. So he just breaks in through the back, the kids see him leaving some presents, and then Harry makes his way back to the master bedroom. Frank wakes up and is like, uhhh, Harry? What are you doing here, ya schmuck? And Harry starts to smother him with his bag full of toys! Whoa! Somehow this doesn’t wake up Frank’s wife, and Harry starts to get bored, so he grabs the star from a miniature Christmas tree next to the bed and fuckin’ SLASHES FRANK’S THROAT WITH IT! The wife wakes up and starts screaming, the kids watch as Harry Claus flees the premises. Ummm, Merry Christmas?

Christmas morning arrives, and Phil has an uneasy feeling. He just knows that Harry was somehow involved with these murders and break-ins last night. His wife, of course, is like, you’re being too hard on Harry, you’re totally blinded by your disappointment in him as a brother, you need to be nicer to him, to which of course he replies, grumble grumble grumble I’m Jeffrey DeMunn! Meanwhile, the cops are on the hunt for a murderous Santa, pulling in all sorts of drunken reprobates and mall goons for lineups. Harry, apparently realizing that the jig may be up soon, goes over to Jolly Dreams and destroys the rest of their toys. When he’s driving his creeper-ass Econoline van home, it gets stuck in a snowbank, and he finds himself on a gorgeous, picturesque suburban street lined with beautiful Christmas lights, and a bunch of kids are like, Yaaaay it’s Santa! He’s like oh, hey kids, here are the last of my presents from my murder satchel! The parents of these kids, meanwhile, realize that this guy must be the murderer, so one of them, this fuckin’ guy who’s dressed like a 1920s street tough for some reason, pulls out a switchblade and is like, the show’s over, Cringle! You make one move towards those tots and I’ll box your ears, seeeeee?! And Harry is like, you dumb asshole, you’ve forgotten the meaning of Christmas, children need an adult figure to look up to, who can teach them the difference between right and wrong, and the whole goddamn world seems to be in dereliction of that duty. Our 1920s street tough, of course, understands none of this, and despite protests from both the children and the fellow parents, who just wanna let the cops handle it, this guy lunges at Harry, and a minor brawl ensues, but Harry gets away.

Now, here’s where things start to get a bit…loopy. All of a sudden, these adults have formed a LYNCH MOB, and they’re chasing Harry down the streets while brandishing TORCHES AND PITCHFORKS! Where the hell did all of these Frankenstein-esque accessories come from?! So Harry hightails it to Phil’s house, where they finally duke it out once and for all. Phil is like, I always wanted a normal, strong older brother to look up to, and you let me down, and now you’re murdering people you sicko, to which Harry is like, you broke my heart by not believing in Santa Claus and I saw some crazy shit that you wouldn’t understand, to which Phil, quite understandably, is like, all of this shit is because of something I said when I was six years old?!?! THAT’S BULLSHIT, HARRY! GRUMBLE GRUMBLE GRUMBLE, I’M JEFFREY DEMUNN!!! And he fuckin’ chokes Harry out until he’s unconscious. He brings Harry’s lifeless body out to the van, at which point Harry wakes up and hilariously sucker punches Phil in the face, and goes speeding off. But oh balls, he’s surrounded! He’s got the angry mob coming from this direction, his angry brother coming from that direction, so what does he do? He drives his creeper-ass Econoline van off of a bridge. So that should be the end…but hark! What is that I spy? A dirty white van, and it’s starting to fly! In the light of the moon, all the townsfolk are stunned! They’re totally speechless, even Jeffrey DeMunn! “And I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight, Merry Christmas to all! And to all a good night!” GODDAMN WHAT AN ENDING!

So yeah, I highly recommend Christmas Evil. Based on the title, I was expecting your typical high body count, gory slasher faire in the vein of the Silent Night, Deadly Night series, but instead I got something way more special: a dark character study about a vigilante loner who just so happens to be obsessed with Santa Claus. Like Travis Bickle but with a red stocking cap instead of a mohawk. And it helps that this is a genuinely well-made film too. The pacing is on point, the camerawork is full of really good tracking shots, and the soundtrack is buzzing with industrial Lynchian madness. It’s too bad that the director, Lewis Jackson, never made another film aside from this one. Still not convinced that Christmas Evil deserves to be a weirdo holiday classic? Well, here’s what no less an authority than John Goddamn Waters had to say about it, in his 1985 essay “Why I Love Christmas:”

“Forget White Christmas, It’s a Wonderful Life and all the other hackneyed trash,” Waters tells us. “Go for the classics: Silent Night, Bloody Night, Black Christmas or the best seasonal film of all time, Christmas Evil (“He’ll sleigh you”).

This true cinematic masterpiece only played theatrically for a few seconds, but it’s now available on videocassette and no holiday family get-together is complete without it…I wish I had kids. I’d make them watch it every year and if they didn’t like it, they’d be punished.”

Well that settles it, Scumbags! If this movie is good enough for the Prince of Puke, then it’s sure as heck good enough for me!

[thatwriterchickrachel]

Mysteries at Midnight - 23

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Relationships: Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng; Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe; Chat Noir/Ladybug

Characters:

Chat Noir (Miraculous Ladybug)

Ladybug (Miraculous Ladybug)

Alya Césaire

Adrien Agreste

Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Nino Lahiffe

Plagg (Miraculous Ladybug)

Tikki (Miraculous Ladybug)

Madame Bustier (Miraculous Ladybug)

Chloé Bourgeouis (Miraculous Ladybug)

Nathaniel Kurtzberg (Miraculous Ladybug)

Lila Rossi (Miraculous Ladybug)

Additional Tags:

dance au

Ballroom dance

College

Grown up AU

Royalty AU

Language:English

Read on Ao3   [for reliable updates please read on Ao3 I forget about tumblr]

Chapter 1                        Chapter 2 Chapter 3                        Chapter 4 Chapter 5                        Chapter 6 Chapter 7                        Chapter 8 Chapter 9                        Chapter 10 Chapter 11                      Chapter 12 Chapter 13                      Chapter 14 Chapter 15                      Chapter 16 Chapter 17                      Chapter 18 Chapter 19                      Chapter 20 Chapter 21                      Chapter 22

Chapter 23 - Connected Inside

Summary: Adrien learns that Marinette has supernatural forces on her side, and Marinette confesses her concerns to Adrien.

Marinette couldn’t believe what she had just done. She had hit Adrien Agreste with her sketchbook! What was wrong with her?

And he was laughing. The sound was almost enough to bring her out of her shock. Almost.

“Sorry, I forgot you don’t like to share your designs,” the boy laughed, pulling out the nearest chair and slumping into it before reaching out to take one of the glasses and drink from it. “Forgive me?”

His green eyes were kryptonite; she was sure, because she didn’t even have it in her to be annoyed with him.

“Th-they’re not designs,” she stammered, her voice crackly. She cleared her throat and tried again. “They aren’t… designs. I mean, well they are designs, but more like doodles, not anything important or anything like that,” she continued, awkwardly knocking her bag to the floor beside her chair as she spoke.

"I um, I was just looking at your father’s folio and was taking notes and then suddenly I wasn’t. How weird is that? Like you know when your brain just zones out and you’re not doing what you think you’re doing and you just lose time, you know? What am I talking about? You’re Adrien Agreste, you don’t know,” she added as she shakily reached for the other glass and pulled it to her lips.

“I told you that you didn’t have to call me that,” the boy said quietly. “You’re my friend Mari, I don’t want you to see me as a model or someone famous. You’re my friend and I want you to see me as a friend.”

“S-sorry, I’m trying, it’s just a big thing for me you know? I’ve been a fan of yours…and your fathers, for a very long time.”

“I understand,” Adrien sighed, looking at Plagg who was sitting in another chair cleaning himself as if no one was watching.

“H-here,” Marinette said, carefully sliding her sketchbook across the table to him. She didn’t want him to feel like she didn’t trust him, especially when that wasn’t the case; but she couldn’t very well tell him that she had a massive crush on him which is why she was weird around him.

The boy raised his eyebrows and looked at her. She nodded at his unasked question and he carefully turned it over so he could see the pages.

He was quiet as he flickered through the pages. After a moment, he gestured for the folio he had given her and Marinette obliged, paying attention not to touch his hand as she passed it over and staring at the ice cubes in her drink, trying incredibly hard not to speak or shake.

“I can see you used my father’s work as inspiration,” the boy said after a bit.

“I-I know, which is why it’s just a doodle, I couldn’t actually use any of those anyway,” Marinette forced a laugh.

“What? No, I mean, I can tell because I know what I gave you to look at, but it’s just the colour scheme and the shapes you’ve taken notes from. They are definitely original Marinette’s,” the boy grinned as he slid the book back to her. “So are you going to use any of them for Ladybug or Chat Noir when they compete?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” she replied honestly as she stared at the shapes in her workbook. “I mean, in my eyes they are almost plagiarisms of your father’s work, I wouldn’t, I mean I couldn’t, disrespect another designer like that.”

“I understand. You could still use them for your assignment though, right? I mean you could talk about the elements of my father’s line that inspired yours,” Adrien offered and Marinette smiled.

“That’s… that’s genius, I hadn’t even considered… Thank you,” she finished, cheeks rosy. He grinned back at her and Marinette returned her attention to her drink, unsure of what she should say next.

“Marinette…”

The boy sighed before reaching out and touching her arm, his whole body shifting in the chair to face her. She looked up at him, surprised by the seriousness of his features.

“I have a confession to make to you,” he said quietly, looking down at his feet.

“Adrien? What’s wrong?”

“I got a letter from Volpina as well… and she visited me the other night.” Adrien’s voice was so quiet; Marinette wasn’t sure she had heard him right, but if she hadn’t already had known, she would have guessed she hadn’t.

“Vol-Volpina?” Marinette managed to reply. “W-w-why, why would she contact you? You aren’t involved with Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

“Actually… I don’t know if Ladybug had told you, but she and I have hung out a few times… Volpina seems to think there is something going on between us because of it.” The boy looked away, his fingers sliding from her arm and into his lap.

“What did Volpina’s note say?” Marinette asked quietly, unwilling to go into it, but knowing she should ask. She wasn’t supposed to know as much as she did.

“Basically that Volpina wants me to be with her,” he ran his hands through his hair and turned back in his chair. “Like, not just as dancers, but as a couple. And I can’t do that, I have too many other commitments, you know?”

“I understand,” Marinette nodded, trying not to think about the pressure he must be feeling.

“Besides, it’s not how two people should get together. There should be friendship and feeling… a genuine connection, you know?” Adrien met her eyes and Marinette nodded almost hypnotically.

“Y-yeah, I know what you mean,” she mumbled before shaking herself and realising she had been staring at him. “So, um did you want to study?” she asked.

Adrien sighed, leaning back in the chair. “Actually, I’d really rather not. I mean, I know that’s why you came over, but after this morning… I’m just drained.”

“That’s understandable,” Marinette nodded. “I can go if you want to be alone,” she suggested, her heart jumping in her chest as he immediately protested.

“N-No, please stay. I mean, it’s so rare for me to have someone to hang out with,” he smiled.

“Okay,” Marinette nodded, putting her stuff back in her bag. “What shall we do?”

“Well, I may have acquired the new Mecha Strike Ultimate Tournament game,” Adrien gave a small grin and raised an eyebrow.

“Well why didn’t you start with that,” Marinette cried as she leapt out of her seat. “Let’s go!”

Adrien grinned and lead her into the living room, Marinette’s eyes finally able to wander over the intricate décor of his apartment. He had a basketball hoop attached to a far wall, and beneath it, rock climbing knobs decorated the entire corner wall, leading up to the platform landing where Marinette could only just see bookshelves filled with large and impressive collections.

At the end of the landing was a large cat condo and beside it, a spiral staircase leading back down. Marinette could only guess that the two doors on the wall beneath the platform, lead to the bathroom and Adrien’s bedroom.

The girl shook off the blush on her cheeks as she returned her appropriate attention back to the blonde boy who was setting up the console attached to the large television. Marinette sat on the large couch, a little surprised that it was stiffer than it had looked.

“Sorry, my couch isn’t a marshmallow like yours,” Adrien apologised with an almost sad chuckle as he joined her. “My father is against any comfort that could affect my posture,” he explained with a sigh before handing Marinette a controller.

“He sounds like he really is all about appearances,” Marinette mumbled but then froze as she realised what she had just said… out loud, where Adrien could hear.

“Unfortunately, since my mother disappeared, it’s all that really matters to him.”

“Hey, look, the game is starting,” Marinette cried suddenly, hoping to take his mind off of it. “Let’s see if you can even get close to my score this time,” she said, desperate to get a smile out of him.

“Yeah right, like I could even get close,” Adrien scoffed, but there was a smile on his face.

“I dunno, you never know what could happen.”

“I’m not that lucky, Mari,” Adrien winked.

“Honestly, neither am I, but I have this,” Marinette smiled, holding out a pink bracelet with jade charm and some small beads.

“You’ve been using supernatural forces this whole time?” the boy gasped exaggeratedly.

“Do you want to try it or not?” Marinette laughed.

“Sure,” Adrien smiled, reaching out and taking it from her, their hands lingering together a little longer than necessary, sending Marinette’s cheeks burning.

******

Adrien and Marinette battled for an hour or so, Adrien somehow managing to almost match Marinette’ wins with his own, despite his score still being significantly lower.

“Maybe this charm of yours works after all,” Adrien grinned after he managed to secure another win – just barely. The girl gave a small smile in reply, but her brow was furrowed. As it turned out, Marinette wasn’t a very graceful loser.

“Or maybe it’s the fact you’ve been playing the Ultimate Tournament longer than I have,” she huffed and Adrien let out a laugh.

“If that’s how you feel, why don’t you play on your own for a while?” he suggested, putting down his controller and Marinette’s face dropped.

“N-No, I didn’t mean…” she frowned at herself and Adrien wondered if he had done something wrong. However, he was unable to ponder for very long, his stomach letting out an obnoxious growl and causing his guest to look up in surprise.

“Ah, I guess we should think about food at some point,” he chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. “I could maybe order a pizza or something?”

“I thought you had spent ages learning to eat properly this afternoon?” Marinette asked.

“Well, yeah, but you know how like royal people in movies tend to have tiny spoons and forks to go with their over-priced tiny portions?” Marinette nodded and Adrien continued. “It was just one of them and with Astor teaching me what to do, the one course took over an hour.” He added a small chuckle at the end to try and lighten the seriousness, but Marinette’s face said she saw through him.

“Pizza sounds great then,” she said with a forced cheerfulness. Adrien was grateful she didn’t say anything about his food portions. He knew their lives were greatly different due to their parent’s philosophies.

“You better get a whole one for yourself,” Marinette added when his stomach growled again and Adrien felt a small self-conscious blush on his cheeks as he nodded. The boy got up to get his phone, noticing he had a few messages from Nino begging to come over and free Adrien from Astor’s torment. He shot back a message saying Marinette had come ‘round and saved him with some basic ballroom and now they were just hanging out.

Adrien scrolled through his contacts to find the pizza place’s number before hitting call and calling out to Mari what she would like on her pizza.

“Um, just cheese please,” Marinette said, looking up from Plagg who had crawled into her lap.

With a nod, Adrein relayed her order to pizza man, adding in another pizza with the lot as well as garlic bread and a bottle of coke. Once he was done, he went into his room and pulled some cash out of his wallet, sitting it by the front door for when the pizza arrived.

"Adrien?" Marinette asked as he returned to the couch. She was scratching Plagg's stomach, but her expression was troubled. "Do you think we should do something? A-about Volpina, I mean."

"Volpina?" He asked confused.

"Well, yeah. We can't let Ladybug and Chat Noir cover for us forever right? Plus, there is only so much they can do... They aren't super heroes," she added quietly and Adrien tried not to smile at the idea. The two running across the rooftops in Paris in spandex and masks.

"I-I think they're okay with it, Marinette," Adrien said slowly.

"B-but what if we could do something? Like, I dunno, go on the Ladyblog and tell Paris that Volpina is threatening more than these seemingly perfect beings," Marinette suggested, looking up but staring ahead of her, as if determined not to meet his eyes.

"We can't do anything, Marinette. This is in their hands, we have to trust them."

"I can't just sit by and let my friends be in danger," Marinette finally looked at him, her expression fierce, her eyes full of emotion. "I have no doubt they can take care of themselves, but they mean a lot to me. Chat Noir and I... well we get along really well and we're kinda close, despite his tendency for puns," her eyes hand fallen back to the cat in her lap who was squirming, almost demanding more scratches. "He's not all that bad once you get used to him, and he's actually quite funny and smart, when he wants to be," Marinette's cheeks flushed a little before she hurriedly continued. "L-Ladybug too, you know, she's a really good friend, a-as well."

Adrien felt his cheeks flush but tried to hide with a nervous laugh that came out more as a cough as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I-I understand."

They both fell into silence for a moment, Marinette's eyes glued to the black feline in her lap who had resumed purring with the scratches. She seemed determined not to meet Adrien's eyes until he took a deep breath and began again.

"Look, I want to protect them too, Mari, really... but I don't... I don't think that would help them. I mean, if Volpina felt threatened by you and had someone track Ladybug and plant a letter in your home, then who knows what she will do if we take to the public," Adrien reasoned. "B-Besides, I couldn't do that. Not only would it put Ladybug, Chat and you in danger, if my father finds out I have anything to do with this stuff, that's my tiny slither of freedom gone," he paused as his mind began to whirr and spin. "That's it, no clubbing, no dance lessons, no uni, nothing that makes me happy. It'll be back to work full time and royal lessons, my life will be over... Mari, this Volpina thing can't get out, It just can't-" he was cut off by Marinette's hands on either side of his face.

"Okay," she said softly. Her eyes were a familiar shade of soft blue that calmed him almost instantly.

"O-okay?"

"Okay," she gave him a small smile. "I understand how inportant this is to you and I know your relationship with your father isn't easy, so we won't do it. Or at least, you won't. But I have to tell Alya what I know... I hope you understand that. You know she and Nino will do whatever they can to protect you too," the girl added.

Adrien nodded, letting out a sigh of relief as his eyes left her to see Plagg on the floor between their feet, letting out an annoyed yowl. Marinette and Adrien both gave him a small smile before pulling themselves apart.

"Adrien, we're all here for you, even if I'm the only one who knows the truth," the girl said, shuffling back to her side of the couch.

Adrien blinked before his knee was headbutted by his feline. She didn't know what Alya knew, but that didn't matter, he realized as he stood to feed the cat. She was his friend, his first true friend since he had met Nino.

"Adrien? The pizza is here, do you want me to get it?" Marinette called.

"Y-yeah, the money's on the table," he called back as he fed Plagg who looked indignant as his bowl was placed in front of him. "Don't look at me like that," Adrien frowned. "You aren't normally this friendly, we will be talking about that later, I promise you," he added sternly before making his way back to Marinette who had somehow retrieved their glasses from the dining table and set all the food up on the coffee table. It looked like a lavish banquet of calories calling his name.

"W-wow, you make take out look almost regal," he grinned as he sat beside her. "Is there anything you can't do?" He winked as she took a bite of garlic bread.

She coughed and spluttered, her face turning red and Adrien worried if she was choking.

"T-trust me, there is, I mean, there are so many things I can't do," she stumbled and Adrien realized she was okay, just surprised, he guessed. "S-so, um, do you maybe wanna watch something while we eat...or?"

"Y-yeah, oh do you like anime?" Adrien bounced out of his seat and moved to a large cabinet. He swung the doors open to reveal a large collection of cases neatly arranged in alphabetical order.

Marinette's eyes widened as she took in the collection. "Well, what would you recommend?" She asked with a grin and Adrien took a moment, staring at the rows before sliding one thick case out of it's place and closing the cabinet.

"I think you'll love this," he grinned.

[ahwhite2208-blog]

Tranmere Rovers: No Longer The Bridesmaid

IT’S June of 1991, and Tranmere Rovers are celebrating promotion after a playoff final at Wembley. John King and Chris Malkin hold aloft the prize, blissfully unaware that it would be almost three decades before anybody else in Rovers colours would share the same honour. 

At the time, my old man was living in the States. The LA riots were brewing after the Rodney King tape, Nirvana were about to release Nevermind and I was some six years off existence. Since then he, along with every other Tranmere fan, has had to wait twenty seven years for another taste of success. He’s gone through three houses, had two kids and a divorce along with countless jobs. At fifty seven years old, he finally got to celebrate promotion with his football team for the first time since he turned thirty. To put things into perspective, there would have been a significant percentage of the crowd at Wembley yesterday that have never seen us win anything. No cups, no trophies, no leagues, no finals. The “millenials”, Gen Z, whatever - no memories of glory with Tranmere Rovers whatsoever. 

It’s hard to explain what impact that has on you, both emotionally and spiritually. You can swing violently from pessimism and a defeatist, almost nihilistic attitude about football (I’ve sat in Prenton Park on a cold Tuesday night contemplating my existence more times than I could ever count) to uncontainable excitement when the smallest chance of a major victory comes our way. Sure, there’s been good times with Tranmere - Everton, Southampton, several games at Oldham, Stockport 2010, the first half of 12/13, Cooky’s winner at Chester - but none of those victories compare to yesterday. Saturday 12 May 2018 was perhaps the most important test this club has ever faced. It wasn’t a derby, it wasn’t a league game, it wasn’t a cup replay. It was a final. Not just any final, but he second consecutive winner-takes-all fight to the death for the privilege of playing league football again. Twelve or thirteen thousand loyal troops of the Super White Army marched down to Wembley, again, to lay their lives metaphorically on the line in the hope that the players would do the same. Last year we all got caught up in the occasion, taking photos on Wembley Way and enjoying the sunshine in the Green Man beer garden. It was a celebration before the whistle had gone, an occasion in itself rather than a do or die affair. In a way, I was glad it was raining this time around. No messing about, no distractions, just get the job done and get back to Birkenhead as winners. 

In typical Rovers fashion, we made it ridiculously hard for ourselves. Liam Ridehalgh seeing red after 50 seconds was a Tranmerian suicide attempt that should have surprised absolutely no one, given our almost impressive ability to shoot ourselves in the foot whenever we get the opportunity to do something great. But surprise it did, as jaws dropped and people slumped in their seats. I looked at my da, as surprise turned to dejection and made its way to anger. “Why the fuck do we always do this?” was the general sentiment. What could possibly be so hard about not letting us down every single time? We barely had time to contemplate the necessary tactical changes before Andy Cook crashed in a header at the far end and sent the travelling troops into a confused and unexpected state of elation. After it had settled down, we looked at the bare facts. 82 minutes to hold onto a 1-0 lead with a man down was not going to be pretty, but it was what we had to do. I’m sure Micky and Jacko had millions of thoughts racing through their heads about how best to see the game out, but one thing was clear: Do. Not. Concede. 

I was in the toilets when they scored, in what I’m told was the eighth hour of added time at the end of the first half. Having seen it back, it was the one ball that had been causing us trouble out on our right hand side. Neither Manny Monthe nor Jay Harris could claim to be right backs and Boreham Wood exploited it, cutting it back to find the excellent Bruno Andrade who was never going to miss. Operation Do Not Concede was out the window, and the concourse underneath our end was tense throughout half time. Wembley’s overpriced piss in a plastic cup was not settling my nerves and I began to get flashbacks of Forest Green last year. The one redeeming factor, as I told anyone who would listen, is that we had enough quality on that pitch to score. Connor Jennings, Andy Cook, Jeff Hughes, Ollie Norburn and of course Lord Norwood were all capable of that magic moment that could get us through this ordeal. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about the second half. It passed by with me praying that Scotty Davies would have magnets in his gloves and we could miracle our way out of this place. 50, 60, 70, 75... the minutes ticked by and you could feel the dread. I’m not sure if we even touched it for most of the second half, but Boreham Wood weren’t peppering the goal and we were seeing glimpses of a breakaway. 

I still don’t know how it managed to get over the line. The looping, deflected cross from Jennings hung in the air for an eternity and Norwood was between their centre halves, leaping early - too early! - to place a downward header straight at the keeper except it wasn’t straight at him, it had spun away and he’s saved it no he hasn’t where’s it gone ITS IN YEEEERSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!

That was my thought process before my mates tackled me to the floor. I’d barely seen it nestle in the back of the net before the burst of jubilation from the West stand spilled into full out celebrations. Perhaps it’s bias for the club and the fans that I love, but nobody does limbs quite like Tranmere Rovers. The pure emotion that goes into celebrating a goal so important is unmatched by any team I’ve seen in a long time. It has everything to do with the long wait for glory, the character of the Birkenheaders in the stands and the sheer unpredictability of this football club. The joy, the hugging of strangers and the punching of the air is common in every football ground, but you feel something special attached to Tranmere. It means so much because the opportunities knock so rarely. Yesterday’s win was the first time in almost three decades we seized one properly, got a good grip of it and claimed it for ourselves. This was our time, our day, our fucking moment. My old fella was too nervous to watch, but in the final 10 minutes, Boreham Wood barely threatened to equalise. How could they? Norwood’s sucker punch of a header had deflated all five of their fans, and their long balls into the box were meat and drink for Manny and Macca. Yet as ever with The Rovers, we don’t celebrate until the final whistle goes. Only then did the outpouring of emotion begin, a cavalcade of white shirts racing to the front of the stand to be near their heroes. Some cried, some cheered, some screamed. I hugged my dad and told him it’s all been worth it. The ten men of Tranmere made themselves heroes, valiantly breaking a near 30 year curse that has haunted this club and its loyal fans. They’ll never have to buy a pint in Birkenhead again. The players have said all season that they’d die for each other, and on that big Wembley pitch they proved it. 

Tranmere Rovers were the nearly men. The second choice. The unlucky loser. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride - but this weekend that changed. We’re getting married to our childhood sweetheart and our best friend, the Football League. I can’t wait for the honeymoon. 

Alex White