#I’m a professional keep things running nerd

[ambiguous-avery]

Blind Date

Dean Winchester x Castiel | WC: 3360

Summary: Sam sets Dean up on a blind date, but nothing is quite what it seems. 

Tags/Warnings: Destiel, modern AU(? IDK what to call it), fluff, mechanic!Dean, accountant!Castiel, no beta we die like men

A/N: Alright, writing something a little out of my SPN wheelhouse but back into territory I used to always write! Saw this post by @colorlessjay and inspiration just hit. Whatever’s in your coffee, keep it up (and share with me, please!). Hopefully I did your idea justice! Thanks for sharing it 💜 (Also, please forgive me if Castiel is mischaracterized. I’m still in the early seasons of Cas)

It was a stupid bet. 

Not because he was opposed to a blind date. But because Sam was throwing away money, and Dean was all too happy to abuse the hell out of a free meal. And some post-date sex too, if he was lucky.

The restaurant he pulled up to was far too swanky for Dean’s liking, and the two cars he parked his Impala between were worth more than yearly rent. He tapped his fingers nervously against the steering wheel and tugged at his collar, wishing Sam would’ve given him a bit more of a warning about the restaurant he had picked for Dean. 

This was upscale. Like, way upscale. The kind of fancy where they probably had fifteen different forks and expected you to know which one to use first. The valet had given him a once-over when Dean had insisted on parking Baby himself, their eyes raised in silent judgement at Dean’s apparel. His second-best flannel and jeans with only a single tear at the knee were hardly the appropriate attire for this place. But it was too late to back out now.

“Fuck it,” Dean muttered, checking his watch – 6:55. Five minutes to spare. He was early, which never happened. Sam would’ve had a field day with that information. But knowing Dean’s luck, the person Sam had set him up with was probably already there, wondering if they had been stood up. Dean cracked his knuckles and gave his reflection a quick once-over in the rearview mirror before climbing out of the car, his usual bravado and swagger in place. It was a good thing Dean was used to faking like he belonged.

The interior of the restaurant was all polished wood and low lighting with a live jazz band playing in the corner.

“Reservation?” the hostess asked, her smile professional and polite even as she looked him over.

“Yeah, should be under Cas.” Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortable. Sam hadn’t even told him his date’s full name, just that they had “similar tastes” and “would get along.” Knowing Sam, she was going to be some bookworm who’d spend the whole night talking about nerd stuff.

The hostess lead him into the restaurant, weaving between tables of laughing couples and groups of friends. Dean tugged at his flannel again and silently cursed Sam.

“Your party is already seated,” she said, stopping at a corner table.

Dean paused mid-step.

A man was seated there.

Not a woman.

A man.

This had to be a mistake. Or more likely, this was Sam’s idea of a joke. Set Dean up with a dude, take photos from the outside, and laugh about it for months. Classic Sam. The hostess cleared her throat. “Sir?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” Dean mumbled, approaching the table. He was going to kill his brother. Slowly and painfully. Possibly with one of those fancy forks. Okay, kill was a little extreme. Maybe some Nair in Sam’s shampoo again would be enough. Or supergluing his laptop shut.

The man looked up, startled by Dean’s arrival, and holy shit – those were some blue eyes. Like, unnaturally blue. The kind of blue that put the sky to shame. They were striking, even in the dim restaurant lighting. The man tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing in confusion. His dark hair was tousled, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times and somehow managed to make it look intentionally messy. He wore a crisp, button-down with a tie that matched his eyes, a stark contrast to the rumpled trench coat that pooled in his seat. Despite that, he was still better dressed than Dean.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly deep and gravelly. Dean sank into his chair across from the stranger and swallowed hard.

“Look, man, I know what’s going on. Sammy put you up to this? I gotta say, it’s a good one. He really went all out.”

The man’s confused expression only deepened.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any ‘Sammy.’” He glanced around as though he were looking for the parent of a lost child. “I believe you may have the wrong table.” Dean’s eyes narrowed at him. The man was certainly committed to the bit, he’d give him that.

“Right. So you just happen to have a reservation under the same name as my blind date? Come on, man. You’ve gotta do better than that.” 

The stranger’s shoulders tensed.

“I wasn’t aware I was occupying someone else’s reservation. The hostess seated me here ten minutes ago.”

“Look, you can drop the act. I know Sam set this whole thing up to mess with me.” Dean scowled and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “What’d he promise you? Free drinks? Dinner?” The other man’s expression shifted from confusion to annoyance, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Listen,” the man began, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. “I don’t know who you are or who this ‘Sammy’ is, but I have had too long of a week to be dealing with this. I simply want a quiet dinner. I’m not part of whatever game you think you’re playing.”

Dean’s certainly wavered. The guy seemed genuinely irritated, and as Dean studied his face, there was no hint of recognition there. No smug little smile that would give away the joke. Either this guy was an Oscar-worthy actor, or Dean had just made a complete ass of himself.

“Wait, so you’re not… Cas?”

“I am Castiel. Or Cas, as some call me,” he confirmed. “But I am certainly not your blind date.”

Dean ran a hand down his face, suddenly feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.

“So you’re not here because my brother set us up?”

“No,” Castiel replied firmly, his annoyance clear in the way his mouth formed a tight line. “I’m here because I wanted to treat myself to a nice dinner after a particularly rough week.” Then, as if the universe were laughing at him, the waitress appeared at their table, her friendly smile faltering slightly as she immediately picked up on the tension.

“Are you gentlemen ready to order, or should I give you a few more minutes?”

“Actually,” Dean began, already pushing his chair back, “there’s been a misunderstanding–”

“Wait,” Castiel said, and he seemed as though he were a little surprised at himself. Something about the embarrassed flush creeping up the stranger’s neck made Dean pause. The waitress slipped away. “I... believe we both may be the victims of circumstance. You were expecting someone named Cas for a blind date, and I happened to be a Cas who was seated at your table. Since you’re already here, you might as well sit back down. No sense in both of us eating alone.”

Dean hesitated, hand still gripping the back of the chair. This wasn’t how this blind date was supposed to go. Then again... Sam would laugh his ass off if Dean came crawling back home with his tail between his legs. The thought of his brother’s smug expression was enough to make Dean sink back into his seat.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak,” the man replied, holding his hand out over the table. Dean took it, surprised at the firm grip and rough feeling of calluses on Castiel’s palm. He had expected soft hands from someone who dined alone at a place like this.

The waitress returned with a smile that seemed to touch her eyes this time when she noticed that the awkwardness had dissipated.

“Have you decided what you’d like to order?” she asked, pen and paper at the ready.

“I’ll have the bourbon-glazed steak, medium rare,” Castiel said, closing his menu. Dean cracked open his own menu, eyes going wide at the prices. Oh, he was definitely making Sam pay for this.

“Uh, I’ll have the same.” He doubted this place had any burgers. “And a whiskey would be great.”

When she walked off, Dean drummed his fingers on the table, suddenly struck by a distinct lack of words. Blind dates were usually never awkward for Dean. All he had to do was lay the charm on the gal across from him, and things just went from there. But this? This was uncharted territory. 

“So...” Dean started, “bad week, huh?”

Castiel sighed, and Dean could see the way the weight of the week pushed on Castiel’s shoulders.

“You could say that. I’m a tax accountant, and April 15th is three days away.” Dean grimaced, suddenly remembering that he needed to bother Sam about his taxes for the year.

“Tax day. That’s rough.”

“Especially when people who have known about the filing deadline for years still act surprised when it arrives,” Castiel said dryly. Dean tried not to look guilty at that. “How about you? What do you do when you’re not crashing a stranger’s dinner?”

Dean chuckled, feeling himself relax slightly. Maybe this wouldn’t be as awful as he thought.

“I’m a mechanic. I co-own a garage with my uncle. Not as fancy as number-crunching, but I’m good with my hands.” Dean immediately regretted his choice of words, feeling heat creep up his neck. “With cars, I mean. I’m good with cars.” Castiel’s lips quirked up slightly, the first hint of a smile Dean had seen from him.

“I imagine both skills come in handy.”

Their drinks arrived. A whiskey – neat – for Dean and a red wine for Castiel. He must’ve ordered it before Dean sat down. Dean took a healthy swig of his drink, the familiar burn putting him back into safer territory.

“So this... Sammy,” Castiel said, taking a careful sip of his wine. “Your brother, I assume?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Little brother that’s not so little. Guy’s a sasquatch. Stanford law and everything.”

“And he often sets you up on blind dates?”

“No,” Dean snorted. “This was a first. I usually do just fine on my own.” He paused, realizing how that sounded, then added, “I mean... not that I’m... well, you know.”

“I don’t actually,” Castiel said, his head tilting slightly. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

There was something disarming about Castiel’s direct gaze. It wasn’t judgemental or mocking, just... interested. Dean wasn’t used to being studied so intently. To someone who seemed to actually hear every word he said. If he was being honest, he wasn’t used to people not swooning. Not that he wanted Cas to swoon. Not that he would mind. That thought dredged up a weird feeling that Dean didn’t feel like grappling in the moment. In fact, he’d be happy if he never had to confront that at all.

Their steaks arrived, perfectly seared and glistening with the bourbon glaze. Dean cut into his, letting out an appreciative sigh at the first bite.

“Damn, that’s good,” he said, momentarily forgetting his manners. “Sam may be a pain in my ass, but at least he picked a decent restaurant.” Castiel nodded in agreement, savoring his own bite with closed eyes.

“I’ve been coming here on particularly difficult days for years. They have a honey cake that I find... comforting.”

“You come to a place like this for comfort food?” Dean asked, making a vague motion to the crystal glasses and linen tablecloths.

“Everyone’s definition of comfort is different,” Castiel replied. “What’s yours?”

Dean’s knife paused mid-cut, and he actually had to stop and think about it for longer than a moment.

“I guess my mom’s apple pie. Nothing fancy, just... home.” Dean hadn’t meant to reveal something so personal to a stranger, but something about Castiel made him easy to talk to. The two of them fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence as they ate. Dean found himself stealing glances at Castiel between bites. The guy was good-looking in an unconventional way. Perpetually rumbled but somehow still put together with that intense stare that seemed to see right through Dean’s usual bravado. It was unnerving. But not in a bad way?

“So, no date tonight for you either?” Dean asked, pushing his empty plate away. Castiel dabbed at his mouth with the cloth napkin.

“No. My social calendar is rather sparse these days. Work takes up most of my time.”

“All work and no play makes Cas a dull boy,” Dean quipped. He mentally facepalmed. “Sorry, that was–”

“Accurate,” Castiel cut in, a self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “My brother Gabriel tells me the same thing. Though he uses considerably more colorful language.”

“Younger?”

“Older, actually. Though you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise considering his behavior.” Castiel shook his head. “He once filled my office with live ducks because he thought I was ‘quacking’ under pressure.”

Dean just about choked on his drink. Maybe it was Castiel’s dry delivery of the line. Or maybe it was the mental image of Castiel sitting at his desk with ducks waddling around the office. Either way, Dean laughed, deep and genuine.

“No way. Like actual ducks?”

“Twelve of them,” Castiel confirmed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “It took maintenance three days to repair the damage, and I’m still finding feathers in my filing cabinets.”

“Sounds like our brothers would get along. Sam once filled my car with packing peanuts while I was sleeping. Took me a week to get them all out.”

“And yet you still love him.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean shrugged, trying to come off as unbothered as possible. “Family, right?”

The waitress came by again.

“Can I interest either of you in dessert?” Dean glanced at Castiel expectantly.

“You said something about a honey cake?”

“Yes.” Castiel nodded, his expression brightening.

“Two honey cakes, please,” Dean said, the words surprising himself. He typically didn’t care for cake, but the way that Castiel’s face lit up had Dean curious. Must’ve been pretty good to get a tax guy excited.

When she left, a blanket of awkwardness settled over the table again. The impromptu blind-date-turned-friendly-dinner was coming to a close, and Dean found himself oddly reluctant to let it end. Dean cleared his throat.

“So, your original date. What happened there?” Castiel blinked and tilted his head again.

“I didn’t have one. As I said before, I merely wanted to treat myself to dinner.”

“Right,” Dean nodded, mentally kicking himself. “Sorry, I just assumed. Because it’s Friday night, and this place is...”

“Romantic?” Castiel offered, glancing around at the couples holding hands and the soft lighting designed to flatter features. 

“Yeah.”

“I suppose it is. I never really noticed. What about your date? The real Cas?”

“I dunno,” Dean said with a shrug. “Sam’s the one who was in contact with her.” Dean grimaced, realizing that he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings during his meal. Poor gal probably showed up, couldn’t find him, assumed he stood her up, then blown up Sam’s phone. Oops. He actually felt a little bad about that.

The honey cake arrived, and as Castiel’s eyes lit up as he took his first bite, Dean found himself more interested in Castiel’s reaction than trying his own dessert.

“You weren’t kidding about this cake,” Dean said when he finally dug into his own. It was surprisingly good. Not too sweet, and the sliced almonds on top added just the right texture. “This might be the best dessert I’ve ever had. And I’m more of a pie guy, usually.”

“Don’t let Gabriel hear you say that,” Castiel replied with a small smile. “He owns a bakery that specializes in pies. He insists they’re superior to all other desserts.”

“Smart man.” Dean took another bite. “Though I guess I’ll have to make an exception for this cake.”

And just like that, the two of them fell back into a comfortable conversation as they finished their desserts, sharing stories about their brothers and work. Dean found himself laughing more than he had in months, surprised by Castiel’s dry humor that showed up once he relaxed. When the check arrived, Dean instinctively reached for it.

“I’ve got it,” Castiel said, his hand brushing against Dean’s as he also reached for the leather folder.

“No way, man,” Dean insisted, tugging the check closer to him. “This was supposed to be my treat. Well, technically Sam’s treat since he got me into this mess.” Castiel hesitated.

“You’re going to pay for dinner with a stranger who wasn’t even your intended date?”

“Hey, this turned out better than whatever Sam probably had planned.” Dean shot Castiel a grin. “Consider it my apology for crashing your solo dinner.” A beat passed between them before Castiel’s grip on the check loosened, and he relented.

“Very well. But next time, it’s my treat.”

Next time.

The two of them paused as the implication of next time hung between them, heavy but not entirely unwelcomed. Dean tucked Sam’s card into the folder and passed it off to the waitress, doing his best to ignore the strange flutter of something in his chest.

“So,” Dean leaned back in his chair, leg bouncing anxiously. “I’m supposed to report back to Sam about how this all went.” Castiel raised an eyebrow at him.

“Are you planning on telling him about our... misunderstanding?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Dean laughed. “This is too good not to. But I can’t help but wonder what the person I was supposed to meet would’ve been like.”

Castiel’s expression shifted slightly, something unnamable passing across his features before he neatly tucked it away.

“Well, I hope she would’ve been worth your time.”

“Honestly?” Dean shrugged. “I doubt she could’ve made tonight any better.” A hint of color touched Castiel’s cheeks as he glanced down at his empty dessert plate. The waitress returned with the receipt, and Dean signed it with a flourish, making sure to leave a generous tip.

“Thank you for dinner, Dean,” Castiel said, rising from his chair. “It was unexpected. But pleasant.”

“Yeah, same here,” Dean replied, standing as well. The two of them walked toward the exit together, shoulders occasionally brushing in the narrow path between tables. Outside, the night air was cool and crisp, a welcome change from the warmth of the restaurant. The sky was clear, but with all the light pollution from the city, the stars were barely visible. Dean hesitated at the bottom of the restaurant steps.

“Hey, you, uh... got a card?” he asked. “In case I need a tax guy?” he added quickly. Castiel’s expression softened, and he reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat before producing a business card.

“My work number is on here. But you can find my personal cell on the back.” He handed it to Dean, their fingers briefly brushing past each other. Dean took the card and flipped it over to see the neat handwriting. Castiel Novak, CPA. He smiled and tucked it into his own pocket.

“CPA,” Dean repeated. “Sounds official.”

“It is,” Castiel replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile. “I even have a special calculator and everything.” Dean laughed. Another awkward silence.

“So,” Dean finally began, rocking back on his heels. “Guess I should let you get home. Long day and all that.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Castiel looked up at the night sky then back at Dean, a soft, genuine smile gracing his features. He took a half-step back. “Give me a call if you need help with taxes.” A pause. “Or a next time.” And with that, the two parted ways.

Dean slid into Baby’s front seat, still reeling over the evening. What the hell was that? He typed a message to Sam, his leg bouncing as his fingers tapped against the screen.

Sam’s phone pinged. Two notifications.

The first was from his bank, notifying him that his card had been used.

The second, a message from Dean.

Jokes on you. I ain’t paying you shit.

Sam typed a response back, frowning. He had been so confident about this gal.

Damn, and here I thought Cassie’s love for Led Zeppelin would’ve gotten you.

Three dots appeared, signifying that Dean was typing. Then they disappeared. Then they popped up again. Then, a text.

WHO?!

---

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Tags: @yftmaifky123 @from-my-dark-and-twisted-mind @j12at3 @omgisthatfrog @youchangedmedestiel @sadundefinedbread @lab-trash @pancakesyyrup @donotknowblr @themaidenofdarkness @theroundbartable @treeg0at @ballistamoon @letmebefrowny2 @illusionremember @totally-not-a-dragon-in-disguise

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist! (heads up that I don't typically write Destiel)

[izxz-is-deranged]

Baptism by Fire | Matt Murdock x BAU!Reader

Summary: You love your position at the BAU, but your life is uprooted when Hotch sends you on a temporary assignment to the FBI field office in New York. Apparently, someone had the bright idea to make a deal with a crime boss named Wilson Fisk, and now it's your job to build a profile to determine if the information he gives can be trusted. As you realize quickly things aren't as they seem, you must find a way to protect yourself- If protecting yourself has something to do with a masked vigilante... That's no fault of yours.

multiple crossovers | slow burn

A/N: Starts about ep3 of S3 of Daredevil! Reader uses a fake name, and can be seen as an original character if desired. Future storylines may involve Reader's past coming back to haunt her (Supernatural) and the trials and tribulations of her day job (Criminal Minds)

< ao3 link > <Masterlist>

7: Means to An End

Where the hell are you going?

What the hell are you doing?

All your training at the FBI couldn't've prepared you for this. Luckily, your previous life running in hunter’s circles didn’t make you panic having to act outside the law. You couldn’t go back to the hotel. God knows its crawling with Agents who you weren’t sure were compromised or not. Plus, Fisk is there too. You’re not keen to be in the same city, let alone the same building as him. Obviously, you’d underestimated how deep Fisk’s tendrils ran. Your wounds throb as a brutal reminder.

You try to focus on driving, but your mind doesn’t leave Matt in the backseat. What the hell sort of abilities did he possess? Was he actually blind? Was it some sort of psychic ability? Was it possession? He did take a scary amount of punishment without stopping.

Slipping a coin out of your pocket, you keep one hand on the wheel. You’d seen him touch iron bars of jail cells, but a silver test wouldn’t go astray. You could rule out a few monsters that way. You thumb over the tarnished coin, placing it calmly on his hand. No reaction… Good. You feel a bit partial to the man who you owe your life too. You run through a scenario of that riot where he wasn’t in that nurse’s office with you. You’d like to think you would’ve survived, but you know deep down without his weirdly adept fighting and sixth sense… You’d have left in a body bag.

God. That’s another question. How does he fight like that?

Exhale. You had to take this all one step at a time. He’s a civilian, there was time for speculation later. Priority one is getting Matt somewhere safe. He asked you to take him home. You could deal with your problems with Fisk after that. You steal a glance in the rearview at him laying limply in the back. Matt’s dark hair flicks back and forth in the rushing wind from the broken window. You should probably take him to a hospital- Jesus, you should take yourself as well. Yet, if Fisk had eyes in the prison, they’re probably hidden in the hospitals too.

The road your driving slowly turns more urban. You’d get lost if you weren’t careful. You needed his address quick. There’s only one person you can call.

“Office of professional genius, be prepared to grovel at my feet- How can I dazzle you today?”

“...Garcia?” Your voice cracks. Relief floods you hearing a familiar string of words from a friend, even if it was through the speaker of your phone laying on the dash board.

“Oh, tweety bird, you okay?” She asks quickly, concern evident.

“Is that Wren?” Another voice pops up.

A warm smile grows on your face. “Hey, Spence.”

Spencer Reid (Affectionately, Spence) was like a drop of sunshine. Most intelligent man on the planet and huge, huge nerd. Him combined with Garcia was a recipe for long nights watching Doctor Who, and deep dives into the weird and wonderful. It had been all of 3 days since you’d been in the same room as them, but it felt like a lifetime.

“I don’t have long to talk- I’m on a bit of time crunch,” You start again, then add, “And yes. I’m fine. It’s just been… a day.”

“How’s New York?” Reid asks, voice cheerful.

“...Chaotic.”

“Well, New York City being home to about 8.8 million people it’s likely-”

Garcia begins to shush him, and he trails off. You can see his guilty face in your minds eye.

“You said time crunch, girlie. What’s up?” Garcia cracks her knuckles.

“Can you send Matthew Murdock’s address to my phone?”

Furious key typing projects from your speaker and it ends with a ding. “Easy. Done.”

“Matthew Murdock? Isn’t that the lawyer who-” Reid starts.

“Yes, that one,” you affirm, knowing he already had the information correct and memorized. It’s more surprising when he didn’t know something than when he did.

“Ooh! Did you find out more about him up and vanishing?”

“Well, funny story…,” You look over your shoulder at Matt’s unconscious figure, “I, uh… May have just found him.”

“Was he missing?” Reid asks. A rare instance of being lost.

Garcia responds, “Catch up, Boy Wonder. Wren’s solving a case for the ages.”

You shake your head, smiling softly and grabbing your phone and setting the navigation up. You say your goodbyes and they wish you well. Garcia adds that you have to bring her some tourist trap New York nick-nack for her desk. You promise to. When the call ends, you’re thrust back into the reality of your situation. Should you tell them? Should you ask for the help of your team?

… No. This is too dangerous. You can’t drag the BAU into this. Trained agents or not, risking your life is not the same as risking theirs.

~

God bless New York. People truly mind their own business here. You’d been worried someone would catch you in the taxi driving around a half dead guy, but you pull into the Matt’s street without question. Your mind is on a one way track: Get him inside. Get him safe. Get yourself out. You veer the yellow hunk of metal into an alley, tucking it behind dumpsters and trash cans. To any passerby, it’d look like any other taxi parked off duty.

There was a back door entrance to his apartment building through here. You spot it as you step out of the vehicle. Good. You really didn’t want to drag his bloodied self into the broad daylight of sidewalk. You hope internally his neighbors mind their own business too. The smell of the trash, the steam from the sewer grates, and the laundry exhausts fills the alley, an assault to your senses. You don’t think you’ll get used to how pungent this city actually is.

The backseat car door opens with a whine when you pull the handle. Replacing the scents of the ally is the sharp twang of iron- of blood. It muddles with whatever warm cologne and sweat Matt has clung to his skin. He doesn’t stir at the sound, or your intrusion leaning into the back, or the unbuckling of the seat belt you’d secured him with. You press a delicate two fingers on his neck, making sure his heart was still beating. It’s slow, but steady. He’s warm under your touch. You exhale, allowing your fingers to dance upwards with urgency. You peel back his eyelids, but then realize just how unresponsive his pupils are to the light. Holy shit. He really is blind.

You feel the exposure weigh in on you, leaned into the car like this makes it almost impossible to track your surroundings of the alley. How the fuck are you supposed to get him inside if he was out cold? It’s not that you weren’t strong, it’s just that this man was about 5 foot 10 inches of lean muscle and all of it is densely packed dead weight right now. You grip his shoulders, delivering a decent shake.

“Mr. Murdock- Mr. Murdock, can you hear me?” You speak a little louder than normal in an attempt to reach him in the distant recesses of his psyche.

His eyelids barely flutter in response.

You try again, shaking a little more fiercely, but trying to avoid actually aggravating his wounds. Your voice is the picture perfect example of the cool, calm Agent you were trained to be, and not the panicked wreck that rattles against your rib cage. “Mr. Murdock. I need you to try and stand for me. This is Agent Singer- We need to get you inside your apartment.”

His breathing picks up, and his face has the faintest hint of alertness. You see his limbs begin to stir, dragging like they were tied down by bricks.

“Where… Where are…?” Matt begins, voice scratchy and pained.

“Your home. Your apartment,” You coax, repeating, “Which floor are you on?”

You knew the number, 6A, you just needed to know how many stairs you were about to scale.

He makes an attempt to shift towards the door, hands loosely grasping at the leather seat around him. “...Top. The top floor. Door on the… left when you get up the… Ah, stairs.” Each phrase and word takes tremendous effort on his part. His sentence is intermixed with gasps of air and pain.

Matt practically rolls out of the car, footing failing him. You let out a gasped “fuck” as you go pull him back up. His hand smears a line of rusty red across your shoulders. While he was lightyears away with about as much control as a newborn deer, he still manages to stand, leaning almost all his weight on you.

Now you just have to get inside.

It’s a goddamn struggle, but why wouldn’t it be? You’re doing most of the heavy lifting. It’s through the door from the alley, up maybe 5 flights of old new york staircases. You wonder what could possess a blind man to live with all these stairs. That has to be some sort of risk, right? The thought doesn’t stay long, and by the time you reach the top, the only thing your focusing on is keeping your breathing steady. It reminds you of the training drills from the academy.

The dark wood of the floorboards creak as you take the step onto the final floor. The hallway his apartment door is on is yellowed with age. It’s lighting dim, with only the sparse coolness of a singular ray of daylight reaching from the other end of the hall. It feels old, but not like a discarded lamp at a goodwill feels old. It’s in the way a grandparent’s chair feels old. Well worn, lived in and safe. It briefly reminds you of Bobby’s house. Nostalgia hits you like a old friend punctuating a joke.

Matt becomes more alive at the presence of his door. He must’ve been counting the flights, or using whatever sense helped you both out of the prison. His step picks up, and he points over at an old radiator heating system.

“My spare key… Hidden behind the third rod.”

He shrugs off of you, leaning on the space of wall next to his door. You fish the key out of the hidey-hole and go towards the knob, prepared to unlock it. A wide hand is placed over yours, interrupting the process.

“No. No need, Agent… You’ve done enough. I’ll be fine from here,” Matt breathes out, words dismissive in a way you didn’t expect. His hand radiates heat into yours, and you glance down at the vicious splits and bruising in his knuckles.

You feel an emotion snap like a rubber band in your chest. Hurt? Disappointment? Indignation seems like the right word. You scoff. “Respectfully, Mr. Murdock, I didn’t get myself almost killed in a prison riot nor by a crazed cab driver to let you bleed out on your couch now. You at least need someone to look at your headwound and logic says hospitals are out of the picture.”

His sightless eyes are fixed in your direction. Even through the foggy sedative wearing away, you could see flickers of running thoughts in his expression. Hesitation. Deliberation. Call it what you will, you just saw the warryness of man not keen to trust you any farther, but to your surprise, he retracts his hand.

Matt nods, granting you permission to stay.

You unlock the door, eager to get out of the hall. You both had luckily missed any neighbor encounters and you attributed that to this all happening in the afternoon of a workday. Matt pushes in first, stumbling through the entrance. You walk in more hesitantly, locking the door behind you.

If your profiling skills didn’t serve you wrong, you imagined Matt’s apartment would be something practical, sparse of furniture that could be a tripping hazard. Something distinctly bachelor pad, but still put together enough to show that he was a working professional. Matt blows through the space like second nature. You step out of the entrance hall slowly, taking it all in.

Light spills in from big glass block windows, which almost remind you of a warehouse from the early 1900s. Each pane is a slightly different shade and hue. The ceilings are high, with a bedroom on the far side and a kitchen on the other. Met in the middle under the windows is about as an intense of a living room as you’d get in such an open concept apartment. Everything is as you guessed, but the entrance to the roof rising to your left surprises you. What does he want roof access for? Rent here couldn’t be cheap, there had to be a reason he chose this particular unit.

“What happened with the cab driver? After I was out?” Matt calls, digging in his bathroom. He exits carrying a hodge-podge of first aid items. His steps are heavy and so is his breathing, but you can tell he’s still trying to conceal how much pain he’s in. He’s growing more cognizant the longer he stays awake, though.

“He pulled a gun on us,” you respond swiftly. Matt moves aside 3 neatly stacked piles of mail to make room to place all the items on the coffee table, prompting you to meander over to it.

“Did you kill him?” He asks. His voice is low with his back to you. Matt says it like it’s somehow a test. You squint at him. He’d directed you to not shoot anyone unless absolutely necessary in the prison. Guess he had a bit of an opinion on taking a life.

“No. We fought. I broke his arm and forced him out at a roll,” You answer.

He huffs in amusement. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”

Matt begins to slowly peel off his suit jacket. His motions are slow and pained. You track the way his broad shoulders move, just barely cloaked by the thin fabric of his white button down. Red splotches of blood and grime stain the front, but he doesn’t remove the shirt, opting instead to push up the sleeves and loose his tie. It joins the grey jacket on the floor.

You pick both up wordlessly and drape them over a chair.

“Listen, do this quick,” Matt groans, eyes fluttering as he drops onto the couch with a sharp exhale. “Then you need to pack up and leave town.”

You don’t take your eyes off him, but your brow knits together in response to his commanding words. As you sit down as well you can’t help but scoff. “Like hell I will. A bad 2 hours doesn’t send me running, I’m too stubborn. Fisk can try to kill me all he wants but all that’s gonna make me is more pissed off.”

Matt shakes his head. “No. You don’t understand. If he wants you dead, it’s over. Your best bet is to leave.”

“I’m assuming this line of thinking excludes you?” You slyly remark, beginning to fiddle with the first aid supplies. Matt looks lost in his thoughts and you prep a few wipes to get the dried blood off his face. A nasty split in his forehead is really what you wanted to fix. It definitely needs stitches.

“I can handle myself.”

“Like you handled yourself at the prison? Sick moves for a blind dude,” You say, turning to him. You raise the alcohol wipe, but pause a few inches from his face. “Can I?”

He nods lightly. You notice he tenses when you place your hands on his face. A worry of hurting him bubbles up, but he relaxes just as fast. You hold his head steady with one hand and gently clean away the dried blood in rhythmic, delicate wipes. It’s quiet in the apartment, and that quiet makes the action laced with an intimacy you didn’t expect. You pretend to not notice the raw feeling.

“People usually accuse me of faking it after seeing something like that,” Matt mutters as he blinks slowly at you.

“I’ve seen weirder things,” You hum, working on a particularly tough spot near his cheek. “And unless you magically know how to keep your pupils from constricting in direct sunlight, I won’t question it.”

A ghost of a smile graces his face. “You don’t seem like the type of woman to not question things.”

“What do I seem like then?”

It’s like all his attention is trained on you, even if his eyes miss the mark slightly. The tilt of his head, the parting of his lips, the relaxed arch of his shoulders. There’s an intensity to him that simmers just below the surface of his skin. A deep set well of emotions, with such a tight and fallible lid. You feel like if you pressed just enough, he’d snap closed like a mouse trap… Hurting you in the process.

“You seem smart, if not a bit reckless. Capable, driven. Fisk said you went to Rikers to investigate further despite warnings from your Superiors, so definitely more independent that the FBI bargained for,” Matt explains slowly. “Stubborn. But you just said it yourself, so don’t hold that one against me.”

You toss the dirty wipes to the side, and begin to focus solely on the headwound. If this was any other situation, you would’ve assumed Matt was lightly flirting as he spoke. There’s always this look men get in their eyes; The way their smiles look distant enough that you know they’re lost in the thought of you. You could swear you see a glimpse of it, under the weight of the day. You smile for the first time, almost on instinct, not seeing it as the trap it is.

“I’d say I’m impressed, but I work with the BAU, you know,” You answer playfully, “So I’ve seen better.”

You’re stringing the suture needle with the thread when he speaks again.

“You want better?” Matt cocks his head.

“If you’ve got it.”

“Alright,” He says before his voice drops into a sharp whisper, “Why did you lie about your name?”

Your mind goes blank in shock and dread, then it kickstarts like it’s running a hundred yard sprint. How does he know that? Did he somehow figure out your past? Did he research you before you walked into that prison nurse’s office? No. Not possible. Think. Profile.

Matthew Murdock is an orphan. He grew up in the system. Children who do have issues building deep relationships or opening up due to lack of trust in others. Since he grew up in a strictly catholic upbringing, it’s likely religion is a corner stone of his psyche. Lost his father to mob violence, so he deals with that grief and guilt by becoming a lawyer to do good in the legal system. But you saw today he’s not above the dirty work, making deals with Albanian mobsters and fighting like a rabid animal. His sense of justice is too great-

Wait. Stop. It’s too familiar. Where have you heard this before?

…Holy shit.

You turn agonizingly slow to face him. Flashes of the way he fought today overlaid visions of a man in a black mask. You focus in on his lips, recalling the spilt you spotted last night. Sure enough, the wound was still there. A nothing short of evil grin cracks open you face. If he airs out your secret, you’ll air out his.

“And how long have you been Daredevil?”

It’s his turn to act shocked, but Matt masks it expertly. Doesn’t mean you still can’t envision the flames seeping out of his nostrils as they flare.

“I asked you first.” His tone is nothing short of icy.

“I ask you second. How’d you know I was lying?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me!”

“Do you work for Fisk?”

“Is that was this is about?! No! No. I don’t work for him. Goddamn, you really do have trust issues.”

The room quiets as the tension from the quick exchange releases. Matt shifts, letting out deep exhale. He nods like he just accepted something to himself. You wonder if you just offended him with that comment. A long silence fills the space, both of you judging your next steps forward.

“...Did you really think I worked for Fisk?” You ask slowly as you resume your prep of the needle.

Matt thinks for a second. “Maybe. I just wanted to make sure.”

“After you let me into your apartment? I feel like that’s bad instincts,” you turn to him to, ready to stitch the wound closed, “I could be lying anyway.”

“You’re not.” He’s resolute.

“I go back to my question: How do you know that? Is it a psychic thing?”

Matt laughs as his face brightens into a surprised amusement. “No, no it’s not that. It’s… It’s more of a sensory thing. It’s really how I fight… or see for that matter.”

You blink. “That doesn’t clear much up, you know.” You bring the needle up, and Matt leans his head down for you to get the best angle. “This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“I’ll be fine.”

And he is. Beside the odd hiss as the needle works through his skin, Matt doesn’t give any indication your stitching his forehead closed. Even still, you keep talking, your curiosity eating at you. “What do you mean ‘sensory thing?’”

He considers for a second, and internal debate happening. You can almost feel his thoughts humming under your fingers as you hold his head.

“When I went blind, my senses… changed. Heightened, or whatever people like to say. I woke up and everything was just more. The sounds. The scents. The feeling of fabric. The ragged breathing of patients down the hall. It was like someone dialed everything up to 11, and then never turned it back down,” He’s stills as he talks, lost in the memory, “Eventually, you start to differentiate them, how to put the pieces together to… see a scene. It’s just my reality.”

“That explains how you navigated the prison,” You note, pulling the thread taught, “I still don’t get how you can tell if someone is lying.”

Matt shifts ever so slightly to focus more directly on you, careful not to interrupted the stitching process. A long moment passes until he says, “Heartbeats.”

“You can hear heartbeats?”

He nods. “Yours jumped when you introduced your name. It didn’t when you said you denied working for Fisk. Lie v. Truth.”

You’re just beginning to tie off the last stitch, trying to decide whether or not your believe him. You, unfortunately, didn’t have some super sense to tell you the difference, just a keen eye and FBI training. It’s such a wild and novel concept you can’t help but take it at face value. I mean, you really have seen weirder, to be fair. You weren’t lying about that.

“Alright, so you’re a human polygraph, and more aware of you’re surroundings than most seeing people,” you drop the needle onto a tissue on the table, “Stitches are done. Any other life threatening wounds I need to look at?”

“No, no, just bruised.” Matt brings a hand up to lightly touch the stitched wound. He nods. “It’s good work. Where’d you learn to stitch like that?” he asks, probing you to open up further.

You’re wiping the last of his blood from your hands when you chew your lip, hesitant to go there. You knew exactly where you learned to stitch like that, but talking about your past didn’t come easy. You hid it from everyone, the BAU, the FBI in general (It’s for the best, most of your close “family” was on multiple watchlists), but it wasn’t an admission of anything terrible. And, in complete fairness, Matt already talked about his “super senses”, so perhaps there wouldn’t be too much harm in repaying the favor.

You sigh, “My brother- Well… Sort-of brother, Dean… He used to come home all busted up, with Sam, our other brother, dragging behind him. Sam was the baby, unless I was in the room, and I’m pretty sure half the stitches I helped with, Dean earned trying to protect him while…”

You trail off, trying to figure out how to dance around the subject of hunting. All these years and it still bled through into your actions. It was weird, saying Sam and Dean’s names out loud to anyone besides Bobby. You couldn’t risk saying a word in front to your team. Lord knows Reid alone probably had their files memorized, and you didn’t want to put a target on your back… human or other.

Matt’s eyebrows raise. “You didn’t go to hospitals then either?”

“No,” You quickly say, then try to cover it, “It was… a religious thing.”

His head cocks, and he cracks a knowing smile.

“Yeah, yeah I get it. It’s a lie.”

Matt gingerly touches your arm. His touch is gentle and you feel taken aback by it, compared to how swiftly you saw those fists just earlier that day connect with convict’s faces. Your eyes watch him, warily. “Listen… We don’t have to talk. We’re not friends. You can lie about whatever you want to. The less we know about each other the better. But, if you’re not going to leave town, you’re still FBI. We find Jasper Evans, get him to confess? You arrest him and help put Fisk back where he belongs. We can be a means to an end for each other. Put Fisk back in prison and get you back to the BAU.”

You’d already resigned yourself to the fact you’d have to find Jasper Evans. You had a feeling, even if you left New York, Fisk would find you, and that could put your team at risk. This was new territory for you. Fisk’s game was larger than you anticipated, and you’d made a damning move waltzing into that prison. But, what Fisk didn’t anticipate, was that it may have made a very, very dangerous alliance. Working with Matt, who just so happened to be the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, could be lethal. Together, you could do some real damage.

“That sounds like a plan, Mr. Murdock.”

---

taglist <3: @echo-dreams-of-recs @juskonutoh @groovycass

[footygirl114]

Estrellas (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

Sooo part # 6, thanks for sticking with me for this long (if you made it this far lol) This one is basically fluff and it gets a bit spicy - 18+ if you squint.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

As the time ticked closer to 7pm, the more your nerves grew. You were so excited to take her on a proper date, but you were also so nervous that you would mess things up. You had ran around all afternoon getting thing together, that you barley had time to shower and get ready before you needed to be out the door. You had texted Alexia earlier and told her to dress warm and comfy as you’d be outside, and asked her to meet you at the car in the garage. 

You were standing there 5 minutes before 7 running through the mental checklist you had going on to make sure the date was perfect you almost missed Alexia getting off the elevator walking up behind you. It’s like you can sense her, he nerves in your body were ignited and as you turned toward her, the nervous butterflies disappeared and were replaced by excited ones. She smiles softly at you and when she’s in range you softly say “hi beautiful.” 

She steps up right in front of you and you run your eyes down her body, noting the black leggings, comfy sweatshirt and trainers on her feet. “hola hermosa, I missed you today” she says and reaches out to squeeze your hand. 

“I missed you too” you whisper into her hair as you pull her into you and wrap her in a hug. 

She squeezes her arms around your waist and you take a moment to savour it, before you pull away and open the front door for her. With an exaggerated bow you say “your chariot my lady.” 

She chuckles and moves to get into the car, leaving a kiss on your cheek and whisper of “you are a nerd.” 

You chuckle along with her and move to close the door, jogging around your side to get into the driver seat. Turning towards her as you put your seat belt on you ask “are you ready to be amazed?” 

“Amazed?” she asks with a smile. 

“It has been a long time since I had someone I wanted to impress, but I am confident you will still like me after this date” you finish with a wink.

She chuckles and asks with a smile “how long has it been?” 

“Since I’ve been on a date or had someone I wanted to impress?”

She shrugs and says “both.” 

“Over a year and a half since a terrible blind date, and the last girl I tried to impress was in the 10th grade, but she was dating the quarterback and I never had a chance” you finish with a wink. 

She laughs and says “well I feel lucky to be the one you now want to impress.” 

You lean closer and press a kiss to her cheek and say “i’m the lucky one cause you’re letting me Ale.” You lean back and start the car and say “lets get this amazing date started.” 

The drive to the date is filled with comfortable small talk, and Alexia’s pestering about where the date is. She keeps asking and when you finally pull into the parking lot and turn off the car you simply say “lets go gorgeous.” 

You hop out of the car and move to grab two backpacks from the back seat, and you meet her at the back of the car. She asks “where are we?” 

“My spot. Now I can carry both bags, one on the front and one the back, or the professional athlete I am taking on an amazing date could carry one for me?” you ask her with a smile. 

She chuckles and holds her hand out and says “this professional athlete can carry a bag for you.” 

You move to help her put the bag on her back and once she’s secure and you hold your arm out to lead her towards the trail you are walking on. When she walks by you smack her on the ass and  say “we don’t have much time so I hope you can keep up” and you take off at a slow jog towards the trail and she chuckles but you hear her footfalls fall into step behind you. 

A few minutes into the short hike you slow down and turn around and ask her “I thought you were a professional athlete Ale.” 

“You are going to get it Hermosa, you better know who your teasing” she says as she moves to pass you up the trail. Before she can walk by you grab her hand and press a kiss to her cheek and then move to follow her. “Letting me lead?” she asks over her shoulder. 

“No I just want to watch your cute butt babe.” you chuckle and keep pace behind her, her chuckle making your smile grow bigger.

The last few bits of the trail are completed in comfortable silence, and when you break into the opening and you notice that your timing is perfect and the sun will be setting in about 15 minutes. You pause and let her walk a bit closer to the edge. You have been here many times, you found it on one of your first runs in the city, you liked the quietness and that you can see the whole city over the edge. The sun sets behind the city and it makes the scene even better. 

“Its beautiful” she says as she keeps looking out over the city and the sun. 

You move closer to her and you say “you’re beautiful.” 

She turns towards you and smiles and hold her hand out for you. You chuckle and move closer and pull the bag off her arms. She watches as you pull a blanket out, and spread it out on the grass. Then move to grab the container of cheese and crackers and the container of sandwiches you had prepared and place them on the blanket. Last you move to grab the bottle of champagne, and when you dig you cant find the glasses you knew were on your list. 

“fuck, where are they” you are talking to yourself as you dig into the bag. “They must be in the car, maybe I can run down quickly, I’ll be right back” you say as you look up at her. 

“whoa whoa Y/N, hold on” she stops you and places both hands on your cheeks making you look at her. “Whats going on beautiful?” she asks you. 

“I wanted this date to be perfect, and I forgot the glasses for the champagne and now its not gonna be perfect. I need to run down to the car and hope they are there or this date will be ruined.” You can feel the anxiety building in your body and you dig your nails into your palm trying to ground your self. 

“hey look at me” she says to you “Hermosa, I am right here look at me.” When you meet her eyes she smiles and says “this date is already perfect cause I am with you Y/N, glasses aren’t going to change that. We could have had Mcdonald’s in your car and I’d be happy beautiful, I just want to be with you.” 

“really?” you ask her.

She nods and moves to grab the champagne, she opens the bottle and then takes a swig straight form the bottle and says “anyways who needs glasses.” 

You chuckle and step closer to her and press a kiss to the corner of her lips. You pull back and ask her “Shall we watch the sunset?” 

You both sit beside each other on the blanket trading sips from the bottle of champagne, eating the food you bought. You both keep the talking to a minimum enjoying the silence and the sunset, when the sun finally disappears and the champagne is gone she gets up and moves to start packing up, you let her put the empty containers away and then you move to lie on your back. 

“come lie with me Ale” you tell her patting the blanket beside you. 

She smiles and says “okay.” She moves and lies beside you both on her back your hands tangled together, you can feel her head against yours. After a few moments she asks “what are we looking at?” 

“the stars, I love looking at the stars.” you say quietly. 

She squeezes your hand and asks “why the stars?” 

You take in the moment and keep your eyes on them as you tell her “When I was over there, I would lie awake at night, listening to distant gunfire and explosions, but I was able to focus on the stars. No matter where I am I know the stars are the same ones, and they’re always going to be there. It helped me sleep knowing that the stars I looked at every night where the same ones that the people I was protecting here were seeing.” 

You feel her turn on her side beside you, and when you turn your head towards her she meets your eyes and says “My father loved the stars, and he always said the same thing.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yes, i have always loved them.” she says with a smile. 

You keep your eyes locked on hers and you whisper out “Kiss me Alexia.” 

She smiles and leans down over you, and presses her lips to yours. When your lips meet its like something inside you shifts and feel the tight coil of control you always have relax, and you let yourself feel her and enjoy her touch. Moving one hand up you cradle her cheek and pull back smiling at her. 

“wow” she says with a smile. 

You smile and lean up and press another kiss to her lips, pulling back and asking “want to get out of here?” 

She nods and moves to hop up and holds a hand out to help you up. She pulls you into her when your standing and you wrap your arms around her and squeeze tightly. She pulls back and says “Let’s go before it’s too dark to get back.” 

The walk down is quiet and you both walk together hands intertwined, with soft smiles exchanged along the trail. You help her in the car again, and before you start the engine you lean in and kiss her again. You both have to pull back when you cant stop smiling into the kiss. 

The ride home is soft and filled with laughs and her hand on your thigh. When you get back to your building, and you pull into the parking garage, when you cut the engine, you smile at her and ask “so was it an amazing date?” 

She smiles softly and leans closer to you and says “It was okay, It could be better.” 

“Oh yeah?” you ask and lean closer placing a hand on her cheek.

“It’s getting better” she smiles. 

You smile and press your lips to hers and when you pull back you ask “better?” 

“Its getting better” she smiles. 

Chuckling you hop out of the car and open the door, and hold your hand out to her. She takes it and hops out of the car, you pull her with you to her elevator and scan your pass and push her into it. You crowd her into the back wall, pushing your body against hers, you connect your lips and when you feel her tongue tangle with yours, you can’t help but let out a soft moan. The dinging of the elevator breaks you apart. You pull her off it and ask “better now?” 

She smirks and pulls her hoodie off leaving her in just a tank and she walks backward and says “It’ll be amazing soon beautiful” and holds her hand out for you to follow her. 

You smile and slowly follow her step by step until she has her knees against the bed. You stop right in front of her and push her back onto her bed. You pull your hoodie over your head leaving you in a t-shirt standing over her. You smile at her and raise an eye brow watching her. 

She chuckles and undoes the button on her pants, pushing them down past her hips. You move to pull them off asking “Will this make it amazing babe? or should I work a bit harder?” 

Throwing her pants across the room you move to kneel over her “I think you are doing just fine gorgeous.” 

You straddle one of her legs, settling your weight on your hands on either side of her head, you press your thigh to her covered core and ask a hairs width from her lips and ask “how are you feeling now?”

She lets out a low moan, moving her hips to find more friction against your thigh and she warns “y/N, don’t tease me.” 

You move to press harder against her core, and you ask again “tell me how your feeling babe.” 

She moans and says “so good, I am so wet Y/N.” 

You lean in and connect your lips with hers, and you press your tongue into her mouth at the same time you press your thigh harder into her core, using your hands to encourage her to grind on it. You slide a hand down and move it under her shirt and push her bra to the side, you find her nipple and twist it and the moan she lets out makes you even wetter. 

You pull your mouth back from hers and lean into her ear asking  “can you cum from this babe? I want you to feel so good for me pretty girl” Finishing with a bite to the bottom of her ear.

“fuck Y/N” she moans out and grinds hard against your thigh, “i am close.” 

You tug her ear again and press your thigh harder into her core as you tell her in her ear “cum for me pretty girl, let me make you feel so good.” 

She lets out a loud moan of your name and you can feel her body let go, you pull back and watch her face as she cums with another moan of your name. When you feel her body slow down you pull back and move to lay beside her leaning on your arm, with one arm on her stomach you press a kiss to her temple and let her settle down. 

When she’s come back down she turns to meet your eyes and says “holy crap babe, I have never done that before.” 

“done what?” 

“orgasm with my clothes on, but this whole night has been amazing” she says with a smile. 

Smiling you ask “so it was amazing?” 

She smiles and before you can blink she’s straddling your hips and has your arms pinned behind your head. “You are amazing, and this date has been amazing. But its now time for me to show you how amazing I can be” she says with a smirk and leans down and presses her lips to yours.

[nellyellie]

I’ve decided to make my own interpretation of a Modern AU for Arcane, starting with the Zaun Family ref sheets! They are… very dysfunctional but they do love each other and will one day get family therapy

Pre-Incident

Vander (pre-incident): A very laidback, gentle man. He’s got a pretty disturbing past, but he put it behind him for the sake of his children. He isn’t the best father, but he isn’t bad by any means. I kept his design pretty similar to canon, but not identical

Vi (pre-incident): The oldest, and the most headstrong of her family. A lot less stressed out than her canon self, since any stupid shit she and the others get up to is typical teenage mischief rather than actual crime. Still views herself as responsible for her siblings. Wants to enter professional football

Claggor (pre-incident): The family nerd. Easily the most reasonable of all his siblings, to the point where Vander wants him to inherit the bar’s management. Does some very insane shit off screen, like his canon counterpart

Mylo (pre-incident): The walking definition of a middle child. Really admires Vi, and wants to be like her, but she never really seems to acknowledge him— this results in him feeling insecure, which results in him failing, which results in Vi criticizing him, aaand you see where I’m going with this. Still unsure what he wants to do later in life

Powder (pre-incident): The clumsiest child you will ever meet, and she’s got the bandaids to show it. Makes friendship jewelry instead of bombs. Wants to try making a firework because she thinks it’s pretty! Surely nothing will go horribly, horribly wro—

Post-Incident

Vander (post-incident): Trying to bottle up his emotions and dissociating because of it. His head was injured in the explosion, and he struggles to recognize his kids sometimes. He doesn’t know how to interact with Powder anymore

Vi (post-incident): The only one besides Powder that was relatively uninjured. Lashed out at Powder the same as in canon, and wound up regretting it. Trying to keep everyone together, but nobody really thinks she’s being genuine…

Claggor (post-incident): Lost his sight in the explosion and isn’t handling it well. He’s scared of Powder to the point where he can’t be in the same room as her, and he can’t help it but he still feels guilty

Mylo (post-incident): Had to have his lung amputated. Probably the angriest about the incident

Powder (post-incident): Convinced everyone hates her now. Trying to make it up to them in any way she can, but it doesn’t really work because let’s be real, how the fuck do you make up for something like this?? She’s planning to run away at some point, and she’s already drafting a note

Present Time

Vander (present time): Getting old now. Running the rebuilt bar, but plans to retire in a few years and pass it on to Mylo. Doing okay, but misses his youngest, who he thinks is dead due to the statistics on that sort of thing

Vi (present time): Got a scholarship thanks to how good she is at football, met Caitlyn at college but they aren’t the healthiest couple. Convinced Powder is alive and is still looking for her

Claggor (present-time): Goes to a different college than Vi, majoring in plant related classes. Wants to start his own plant shop one day. Has a service dog named Warwick. Convinced Powder is dead and misses her, but he doesn’t like to think about it

Mylo (present-time): Going to the same college as Claggor, and won’t admit it’s because he’s being overprotective. Majoring in business so he can take over the Last Drop when Vander retires. Thinks there’s no way to know whether Powder is alive or dead and he’s helping Vi look (if she’s alive he wants her back, if she’s dead he wants closure)

Aaaanyways, that’s all I’ve got for now! Lemme know what you guys think

[shinelikethunder]

Hello there! I hope you don’t mind me just dropping into your asks like this, but by all means def feel free to just delete this if so, it is kind of a weird ask.

This is the anon from the computer blog asking about a private laptop for collage! After doing (a small amount of) research into Linux, one thing that’s super confusing to me, is… how does one know which distro to use? You mentioned in the replies of the post that you use Ubuntu Linux, which seems to be one of the more popular ones. Would you recommend — and if so, why? Is it good for privacy, do you think? The best? Does the user need to have a good deal of experience with computers to keep it running? (I’ve never used a laptop before but I don’t mind trying to learn stuff)

Also this is an EXTREMELY stupid question my apologies, but how….. exactly do you put Linux on a laptop? OP from my ask said to buy a laptop with no OS but is that something you can do? I’d think so, since 0P works with computer and stuff as their job, but Reddit says that it’s not really possible and that you should just “buy like a Windows laptop and scrap the software”??? Is that… correct? How did you install Linux on your laptop — did y ou have to remove software off it or did you, as OP says, manage to find a laptop with no OS?

Again, feel free to ignore if you don’t wanna put in the time/effort to reply to this, I absolutely don’t mind — it’s a lot of stuff I’m asking and you didn’t invite it all, so ofc feel free to delete the ask if you’d like!

ha, you've zeroed in on one of the big reasons Linux is kind of a contrarian choice for me to recommend: the wild proliferation of distros, many of them hideously complex to work with. luckily, the fact that most of them are niche offshoots created by and for overly-technical nerds makes the choice easier: you don't want those. you want one of the largest, best-supported, most popular ones, with a reputation for being beginner-friendly. the two biggies are Ubuntu and Linux Mint; i'd recommend focusing your research there.

this isn't JUST a popularity-contest thing: the more people use it, the more likely you are to find answers if you're having trouble or plugging a weird error message into google, and the greater the variety of software you'll find packaged for easy install in that distro. some combination of professional and broad-based community support means you'll find better documentation and tutorials, glitches will be rarer and get fixed faster, and the OS is less likely to be finicky about what hardware it'll play nice with. the newbie-friendly ones are designed to be a breeze to install and to not require technical fiddling to run them for everyday tasks like web browsing, document editing, media viewing, file management, and such.

info on installation, privacy, personal endorsement, etc under the cut. tl;dr: most computers can make you a magic Linux-installing USB stick, most Linuces are blessedly not part of the problem on privacy, Ubuntu i can firsthand recommend but Mint is probably also good.

almost all Linux distros can be assumed to be better for privacy than Windows or MacOS, because they are working from a baseline of Not Being One Of The Things Spying On You; some are managed by corporations (Ubuntu is one of them), but even those corporations have to cater to a notoriously cantankerous userbase, so most phoning-home with usage data tends to be easy to turn off and sponsored bullshit kept minimally intrusive. the one big exception i know of is Google's bastard stepchild ChromeOS, which you really don't want to be using, for a wide variety of reasons. do NOT let someone talk you into installing fucking Qubes or something on claims that it's the "most private" or "most secure" OS; that's total user-unfriendly overkill unless you have like a nation-state spy agency or something targeting you, specifically.

how to install Linux is also not a dumb question! back in the day, if you wanted to, say, upgrade a desktop computer from Windows 95 to Windows 98, you'd receive a physical CD-ROM disc whose contents were formatted to tell the computer "hey, i'm not a music CD or a random pile of backup data or a piece of software for the OS to run, i want you to run me as the OS next time you boot up," and then that startup version would walk you through the install.

nowadays almost anyone with a computer can create a USB stick that'll do the same thing: you download an Ubuntu installer and a program that can perform that kind of formatting, plug in the USB stick, tell the program to put the installer on it and make it bootable, and then once it's done, plug the USB stick into the computer you want to Linuxify and turn it on.

Ubuntu has an excellent tutorial for every step of the install process, and an option to do a temporary test install so you can poke around and see how you like it without pulling the trigger irreversibly: https://ubuntu.com/tutorials/install-ubuntu-desktop

having a way to create a bootable USB stick is one reason to just get a Windows computer and then let the Linux installer nuke everything (which i think is the most common workflow), but in a pinch you can also create the USB on a borrowed/shared computer and uninstall the formatter program when you're done. i don't have strong opinions on what kind of laptop to get, except "if you do go for Linux, be sure to research in advance whether the distro is known to play nice with your hardware." i'm partial to ThinkPads but that's just, like, my opinion, man. lots of distros' installers also make it dead simple to create a dual-boot setup where you can pick between Windows and Linux at every startup, which is useful if you know you might have to use Windows-only software for school or something. keep in mind, though, that this creates two little fiefdoms whose files and hard-disk space aren't shared at all, and it is not a beginner-friendly task to go in later and change how much storage each OS has access to.

i've been using the distro i'm most familiar with as my go-to example throughout, but i don't really have a strong opinion on Ubuntu vs Mint, simply because i haven't played around with Mint enough to form one. Ubuntu i'll happily recommend as a beginner-friendly version of Linux that's reasonably private by default. (i think there's like one install step where Canonical offers paid options, telemetry, connecting online accounts, etc, and then respects your "fuck off" and doesn't bug you about it again.) by reputation, Mint has a friendlier UI, especially for people who are used to Windows, and its built-in app library/"store" is slicker but offers a slightly more limited ecosystem of point-and-click installs.

(unlike Apple and Google, there are zero standard Linux distros that give a shit if you manually install software from outside the app store, it's just a notoriously finicky process that could take two clicks or could have you tearing your hair out at 3am. worth trying if the need arises, but not worth stressing over if you can't get it to work.)

basic software starter-pack recommendations for any laptop (all available on Windows and Mac too): Firefox with the uBlock Origin and container tab add-ons, VLC media player, LibreOffice for document editing. the closest thing to a dealbreaking pain in the ass about Linux these days (imo) is that all the image and video editing software i know of is kinda janky in some way, so if that's non-negotiable you may have to dual-boot... GIMP is the godawfully-clunky-but-powerful Photoshop knockoff, and i've heard decent things about Pinta as a mid-weight image editor roughly equivalent to Paint.net for Windows.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

things that happen in original wip:

- a massive corporation five seconds from overthrowing the emergency government (the corporation caused the emergency) is defeated by a not-tiktok-but-obviously-tiktok trend

- the main character fights and kills a corrupted monster version of herself from another timeline in the first chapter. this monster also kills the secondary main character, whose disembodied soul lives inside the main character’s iphone for the first act. the main character works retail and was literally just trying to close the store two minutes early

- they defeat the final boss, who is the actual boss (ceo) of the evil corporation turned into a big scary monster, by hitting it with a car

- online community of hyperfixated nerds who edit a wiki about the overworld for fun serve as integral sources of information and plot development

- the premise is transparently a metaphor for graduating college/being in your early 20’s during the pandemic. also losing interest in passions from adolescence bc of capitalism and depression and failure and grief

- main character keeps doing damage to herself with bombs, bc the entire thing is very zelda tropey and i strive for realism

- that super cringe oc you made with your bestie at 14 years old is real and she “died” for your sins (the sins are hers. she’s not real. she’s not dead. you made her real. you let her die. she’s your friend, and she’s not gone, but neither of you know it. you betray each other at the end of the second act. she dies at the end. you ride off into the sunset together. it’s complicated)

- there’s a big worm monster in the desert section, naturally. it’s your transmasc online friend and he is saved by his own need to correct people who are wrong about his big worm monster hyperfixation. i’m obsessed with this minor character. i just need to mention him whenever possible

- imagine the health potions from zelda are sold like monster energy drinks and also responsible for mass terror and death but everyone is too busy doomscrolling to figure it out. that’s fucked up

- heroic influencers exist and they fight ar monsters (think pokémon go) on instagram live bc no one is allowed to go outside and fight real monsters anymore

- the two main characters are so in love it transcends memory and physical form. i am still not sure if i will make them kiss

- your overbearing pretentious conservative-leaning 11th grade ap lang teacher who definitely clocked your undiagnosed adhd, the weirdly professional and mysterious thirty-something running your preferred fandom discord, the ceo of an evil corporation trying to control the world, and botw dark beast ganon are all one character. she is betrayed and destroyed by your best friend, the brilliant young person she once groomed and manipulated into dooming the world. you kind of take a back seat for that one

[yearning-soft-domme]

Hi sweetheart

I’m so sorry for the late reply. I really did mean to write you back sooner, but I got hit with a massive headache yesterday out of nowhere and couldn’t think straight at all.

And I have to say, I actually love the nicknames you come up with. Being called by my name always feels a bit too professional, like I’m back at work. So if you feel like keeping up the nicknames, I’d be really happy. Plus, they get me smiling and blushing every time…so I’d call that a win-win situation, right?

About that rest you ordered…well��I meant to. And I kind of did. Sort of. Maybe (guilty little shuffle). I slept in a little on Saturday, went for a run before heading into the office, and in the evening I treated myself to a bit of shopping, and came home with a new dress I probably (most certainly) didn’t need, but absolutely adore. On Sunday, I even squeezed in a yoga class around lunchtime. That counts, right? And hey, I’ve actually been thinking about switching to decaf lately…still stuck in the contemplating phase, though.

Just for the record: The way you ordered that…that was very…persuasive. Let’s just say my inner good girl took notes.

I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I would never strategically slip a Ma’am into a sentence with a very particular intention…shocking accusation, really (I’d wink here, but apparently I’ve already been charged with excessive winking)

I’ve been exposed to a few more languages over the years. English and German are the ones I’m fluent in and use the most. I understand a bit of Italian, though I can’t really speak it. I’ve taken some Spanish, and I speak a little French. Though I didn’t learn it in France, so I’m pretty sure any actual French person would strongly disagree with me saying that. I also tried Arabic and Persian when we lived abroad, but I don’t remember a single thing. We didn’t stay long enough for anything to really stick, and I was still quite young. I’ve always been more of a math, science, and social studies kind of girl. Languages were never exactly my strong suit. How about you?

Oh, I do love museums too, but somehow I always end up spending my time outdoors when I travel, so I tend to miss some of them. I’ve still made it to most of the big, famous ones. But I adore science museums and aerospace museums. Always visit those. It’s like feeding my inner nerd with facts and figures no one really needs, but I find so fascinating.

Oh, you really should try traveling on your own, it’s addictive! You don’t have to start with a month-long backpacking tour. Just take a weekend or a few days to get a feel for your own travel rhythm, to figure out what you need and want. It’s such a liberating experience!

All this talk about traveling is seriously making me want to jump on the next plane and just take off somewhere…somewhere with sunlight on my skin, slow meals, cold (and strong) drinks, and the ocean stretched out right in front of me. Days spent in a bikini and sunglasses. No schedule, no rush…

Those Berlin plans of yours sound intriguing. Have you ever been to a BDSM club before, either where you live or while traveling?

I actually haven’t been to a nightclub in ages. I’d rather end up in a cozy wine bar or a classic cocktail spot. I just love being able to really talk to people. Give me a quiet corner, good drinks, and a slow-burning conversation over shouting into someone’s ear on a crowded dance floor any day (wow, this really makes me sound ancient…)

And as for power…hmm, I think every woman carries her own kind of magic, don’t you? For me, it starts there, being fully, unapologetically myself. The rest? That little submissive streak? Oh, it definitely sweetens the deal, adds a bit of intrigue to the mix, right? But I’ve always believed power in a D/s dynamic is something beautifully shared. Different in nature, sure, but equally necessary. Two halves of something electric.

So yes…maybe I am aware. And maybe I’m just a little curious how that power you seem to sense so clearly in me might stir something in you. How much you’d enjoy holding your kind of power…and I wonder, darling, how tempting that balance might become.

That curry tofu sounds amazing, especially if you’ve made it a million times and still love it. That’s always the sign of a really great dish. I love developing my own little tricks over time too, it makes the recipe feel more mine somehow.

Oh, and I make a pretty decent vegetarian lasagna as well, but I’ve never thought about replacing the pasta. I mean…my Italian ancestors are probably clutching their rosaries and rolling in their graves just because I typed that.

Hmm…as for your question, that’s a tricky one. Let me think. I once almost went bungee jumping, but I chickened out last minute…I went skydiving instead. I used to be (maybe I still am?) a bit of an adrenaline junkie, trying new things, pushing limits, doing things that scare me a little. That thrill, that rush of overcoming fear? Nothing quite like it. I’m sure there are other things that would fall into that category, but I honestly can’t think of anything right now. So I guess I don’t have a better answer for you, darling, at least not yet.

An easy one for you: What’s your favorite song to play on the piano, and why?

~🖤~

Darlinggg i'm finally gonna answer. Sorry, this week is being extra busy.

I hope that headache subsided, sweet one. That kind of sensation is awful... Does that happen often to you?

I love when you reassure me about the nicknames because, in Spain we have a tricky ettiquette for that stuff. So i'm really glad you like them <3 i also love to call you those things. And yes... It's a win-win situation. Making beautiful women like you blush is a personal goal of mine.

All of that counts, sweetheart. I know how difficult it can be to stop and put yourself first for a second, so i know that was an effort. So, i'm very proud of you. You took care of yourself beautifully, and you also proved to yourself you can do that. You're allowed to do that.

I also like that little whim you satisfied. That dress sounds... Pretty. Can you indulge me describing it to me?

Persuasive, huh? Cute. That inner good girl of yours can totally come out, you know? I don't bite... Most of the time.

Hahah you're such a flirt. You have 3 more winks for the week, use them wisely. And yeah you're also allowed to call me Ma'am "not strategically" at all... Those are infinate.

Well that is all so incredibly sexy. Accents are kind of my thing, so when you say you talk german, i imagine you murmuring random words in german that i obviously don't understand while it... Entertain you.

The other ones you mentioned are all so hard so i understand why you almost don't remember. I personally just speak fluent spanish and english. Took french classes in highschool but i always hated it, and I haven't been really interested in any more languages enough to try and learn them.

I'm interested in languages but in a literature level. I myself am also more of a social sciences girl, since i study psychology.

Science museums and aerospace museums suit you at all, given your nerd tendencies ;) i actually smiled when i read those lines. I imaging you pacing delightfully, absorbing information you'll memorize to drop fan facts every now and then when you decide to let yourself be irresistibly cute.

Oh and those facts are needed, pretty lady. I wanna know. And also everyone who is interested in you should also find the beauty in those random facts you keep in that pretty brain you have.

That is actually a very good idea! I'll think about that possibility. Oh and that image you're describing... You know, I know a country perfect for that. It's known for its incredible wine, jamón, tortilla de patata, croquetas... Oh and in the summer the serve "cold strong drinks" like sangría and kalimotxo, even rebujito in some areas, and "slow meals" like paella or melón con jamón... Definitely good beaches, sunlight... Yeah, pretty good option, i think ;)

I haven't been in a bdsm club just yet 😭 i want to, soon, but i have to do some research and find good ones around my area. I know for a fact that there are none in my city, but i'm certain i could find some in bigger cities nearby.

Oh come on, you don't sound ancient for that. That's something we do a lot in spain, actually. It's called el terraceo. Comes from the word terraza, terrace.

We'd ask for drinks, some patatas bravas, and nice conversation with tons of laughs for hours... You stay there till like 2am in the summer, and the breeze is still quite warm. Then you take a walk home or you continue the night at a club, indoors. Ugh i actually am impatient to do that again this summer.

I totally agree. The other day a friend told me that when someone is offering something, like in a flirty way, and the other person falls for that seductivity, the one seducing is who holds the power. Even if that person is the submissive and the other the domme. The domme is falling. The sub is at charge in that moment.

And then the domme takes what the sub is offering, and the power dynamic shifts. Because suddenly the sub is melting and the domme is holding her. Uuughh so poetic and horny.

Well that balance is definitely quite addictive. I feel attracted to your power. O have no problem admiting it.

Oh yeah, you do that as well? Then my question for today is, what recipe feels like it's your own now, and you feel confident and good making it?

Oh my god italian ancestors... Hot. Yeah they'd be scandalized but they would probably enjoy it anyways. It's really really good, i promise

Wow skydiving. Was that less scary than the possibility of bungee jumping? 😂 Both sound terrfying to me. I've always been a bit fearful, and the vertigo goes craaazy for me in those situations.

That's actually not an easy question. I had to think about it for days. I used to be really really obsessed with Ballade n°1 by Chopin, but i never got to play it properly because i didn't have the time.

I'm a pretty obsessive person in general, at least when it comes to musical pieces. So, when i became obsessed with one, that one was my favourite.

Anyways, i recently rediscovered this impromptu by Schubert, one of my students is gonna start working on it now so i had to revise it. Ugh, my fingers still remember a bit! Even if i last studied it properly when i was like 17.

Have a wonderful day, my pretty lady <3

[kerrycfendley]

Elevate Your Business with Expert Payroll Outsourcing in the UK: A Mathematical Approach from a Sleep-Deprived Accountant

Ah, payroll — the unsung hero of business operations. Or, if you’re like me before I discovered the wonders of outsourcing, it was more like the villain in a soap opera: always dramatic, surprisingly complex, and showing up just when things were starting to go smoothly.

As an accountant who’s spent far too many Friday nights screaming into Excel, let me walk you through how expert payroll outsourcing doesn’t just "help" your UK business — it elevates it. And because I’m a numbers nerd, I’ll be throwing in some math. Fun math, I promise. Okay, mildly tolerable math.

The Business Equation of Payroll

Running payroll in-house looks something like this:

Stress Level = (Employees × Tax Codes) + (Late Submissions × HMRC Letters)²

And if you factor in changes to employment law, holiday pay accruals, auto-enrolment pension obligations, and Gary from sales “just asking” why his payslip is £4.73 lower this month, your stress graph starts looking like a rollercoaster.

Enter payroll outsourcing — the elegant variable that simplifies the entire equation:

Peace of Mind = Payroll Provider Expertise – Your Admin Hours

Now let’s get into how this really elevates your business — by number, because accountants love a good numbered list.

1. Increased Efficiency: The Productivity Multiplier

In-house payroll requires time, software, staff, and caffeine. Lots of caffeine. Outsourcing removes the time sink and hands it to professionals who can process 100 payslips before your office kettle finishes boiling.

Efficiency Boost = (Hours Saved per Payroll Cycle × 12 Months) In one client case, that was 96 hours a year back to the business owner. That’s two full workweeks — or, as I like to call it, a tax-season nap.

2. Accuracy that Saves Face (and Fines)

I once miskeyed a tax code and accidentally gave an intern a £900 refund. Outsourcing payroll means those calculations are handled by software built for it — and reviewed by people who don’t panic at the sight of “BR” tax codes.

Accuracy Rate = 99.99% (Outsourced) vs. Hope & Prayers (DIY) Also, HMRC is far friendlier when your RTI submissions are flawless.

3. Compliance is Included (So You Don’t Need to Memorise the Pensions Act)

UK payroll is bound by layers of regulation: PAYE, NICs, statutory payments, student loans, apprenticeships... I’ve seen grown adults cry over maternity pay calculations.

An expert provider keeps up with this ever-changing mess. You don't need to know the difference between SPP, SSP, and SMP — they do.

Compliance Cost Reduction = (Fines Avoided) + (Fewer Gray Hairs)

4. Cost-Effectiveness: Math That Actually Works in Your Favour

Hiring in-house payroll staff, paying for software licenses, training, support — it all adds up. Most SMEs find outsourced payroll actually saves them money.

Total Savings = Internal Payroll Costs – Monthly Outsourcing Fee

And that doesn’t include the cost of correcting mistakes (financial and emotional).

5. Scalability Without the Headaches

When your team grows from 5 to 50, payroll complexity doesn’t scale linearly — it explodes. Tax codes, salary bands, benefits — it multiplies faster than printer errors.

Payroll Complexity = Employee Count × Variables × Chaos

Outsourced services grow with you, no re-training required. Just send them the names, start dates, and watch the payslips roll out like magic.

Personal Experience: The Great Payroll Awakening

A few years ago, I handled payroll for a retail client with 22 part-time employees, all on rotating shifts. One pay cycle, three missed timesheets, one miscalculated holiday accrual, and a frozen payroll software update later — I had an epiphany: I’m an accountant, not a wizard.

We outsourced it. Errors vanished. Staff got paid. I stopped twitching every time someone mentioned “overtime.” That’s when I realised outsourcing doesn’t just help a business run smoother — it makes the people behind it human again.

Final Thoughts: Numbers Don’t Lie (But DIY Payroll Might)

If your business is growing, you’re juggling clients, marketing, inventory, and everything in between — payroll should not be the thing that keeps you up at night. Trust me, I’ve seen what sleep deprivation does to basic math skills.

So, elevate your business. Outsource your payroll. Reclaim your time, reduce your risks, and do what you do best — while the experts crunch the numbers behind the scenes.

And if you ever want to talk about the joys of monthly reconciliation reports over coffee, you know where to find me. (Hint: I’ll be with the people who no longer do payroll by hand.)

[captain-kit-adventuress]

I like that there’s nuance being introduced to this, so I’m going to bring some more for everyone to enjoy.

Climate change is definitely about warming, to be sure. But it’s not the only thing that’s going on. One of the ongoing challenges is that US weather event reporting hasn’t really been widely standardised except in the last 70 years or so, maybe a bit longer depending on where you live. That doesn’t mean anything before that isn’t reliable—weather nerds like meteorologists (professional or not) have been collecting great data for centuries—but it doesn’t always mean it’s covered in the same way we would today or that the same emphasis would be given to the same events. Sometimes it’s a tech issue, too, where we just didn’t have the equipment or the techniques to record the data in the first place.

A feature of global warming that doesn’t get mentioned nearly enough is that the planet isn’t just getting warmer, it’s that the climate is becoming more extreme. So, climate change is causing obvious seasonal changes in a lot of places, but it’s both that the hots are getting hotter and the colds are getting colder. Snow events that used to be steady and small might now be dumping feet at a time and then melting right away, only to repeat itself a few times a season. Billion-dollar weather events that used to be rare are becoming suspiciously common.

The person who pointed out about Australia isn’t wrong, either. The rest of the world is super impacted by climate change, but not in exactly the same ways as in the US. Most of the rest of the world is getting noticeably warmer and having more extreme weather events become quite common, at a much faster rate than in the US and sometimes without the social and physical infrastructure to support it—though I would argue that’s actually the same in the US, but on a different scale.

This year (2023) might seem especially potent in the US because of a weather phenomenon called El Niño, which is exacerbating already-warm conditions and making them warmer.

There’s also the idea of how long the timeline of climate change really is. When did it actually ‘start?’ I don’t think we can exclude the idea that style of industrialisation specific to the global northwest might have been some sort of mini kick in the pants, and as that style was adopted elsewhere, it spread those changes wider. Though there is no doubt that the US in particular has been a shameless catalyst of climate change via corporate industrial practice, corporate actors in other nations around the world have certainly done their part to make it worse.

I live in an area which regularly sees a lot of snow pretty evenly spread throughout the winter, and it is absolutely not normal for us to have a span of 60-degree days in December. I know there are plenty of years with outliers, that’s just how statistics works. What’s most concerning to me is that when we’re breaking those records, it’s not decades apart anymore, or even one or twice in the same decade; feedback loops in weather patterns are pretty common. Instead, it’s becoming a long run of consecutive years. What the data appears to suggest, in both my home state and across the US, is not so much that outliers exist but that they’re closing the gap between common and and less common. Our outliers, on the other hand, are becoming more extreme. Where I live, the chance of even a single 80-degree day in November should be as close to zero as is possible barring freak events, and yet, the last few years have had just that, or temps close to it, and this year had a span of them.

All it really means to have been in keeping within normal weather averages is that maybe the climate isn’t changing quite as fast in that particular locality. This is demonstrably not true in most of the world, as pretty much any climatologist will tell you. Moreover, if we are talking local, most of what climate scientists have predicted both for my state and my region has come to pass, and my region was predicted to change one of the most since 2013, I believe—I unfortunately can’t remember precisely when I read that particular set of articles.

I don’t think it’s simply nostalgia for something specific in a carol or depiction of the holiday season. And quite frankly, while I’m a big fan of accurately representing the world as it is, I’m not certain a little more alarmism isn’t warranted if it ushers in more change. Good things are happening. But we need even greater participation, both in the US and around the globe, and I’m not seeing nearly enough resources being put toward cooperative efforts to rein in this very manmade acceleration we’re seeing.

That said, I understand why you said what you did, Marzi, and you’re right, it can feel completely overwhelming. It is an overwhelming thing to consider. I’m not trying to ‘dunk’ on you or invalidate anything you said. But I also don’t want people to downplay what’s happening, either. Outliers in weather are a lot more common than people realise, for sure. It’s more that the outliers are changing in nature, too, and I think I can pretty safely say that we both agree it’s important to recognise everyone’s feelings.

It’s okay to take a breather from this stuff if anyone needs to, absolutely. It’s so hard to reckon with and stay even a little optimistic for the future, and there are reasons to be optimistic! But as I said, I like nuance, and this is my very, very, very long-winded way of showing that.

Christmas as a cultural icon is starting to get really dystopian in a climate sense, december has historically been a time of year in which there would be snow in a significant portion of europe and north america, and the fact that its not even icy this time of year and all the christmas songs and decorations reference a time of year that will likely never exist in the same way again in my life time is so strange.

[mcdonaldsnumberone]

LOVE ME HARDER!

you swear your favorite color has nothing to do with kaiser. but unluckily for you, the boy’s fallen madly in love with you and has somehow convinced himself that he can connect the dots to make you fall madly in love with him. when you meet his flirting with a tough front though, kaiser has a secret weapon up his sleeve (or under his uniform collar).

gender neutral reader

content warning(s): reader’s favorite color is blue, kaiser’s tattoo isn’t super visible with his uniform in this fic

You loved blue.

You still do. And for the foreseeable future, you weren’t going to ever stop loving the color. It was a color so dear and special to you, and as much as you loved all the other colors, there was something indescribable about the blue hue.

It was everywhere. The color of the sky. The ocean. The small Google Docs icon while you scribbled down notes on your computer. A stray car in the distance while you crossed the road. It was the color of loyalty and knowledge, the cool tones even embodying the mystifying feeling of melancholy. And, if you allowed yourself to get a little pretentious and philosophical, probably the color of the universe. 

What a dignified color. You would never stop loving blue. Not ever. Certainly not now. And you would never extinguish your love of the color because of a man.

But boy, was someone making it difficult.

You always heard him before you saw him: the rumble of footsteps, Ness gushing incoherent praise, the shrill trill of German words hanging in the air. Like an overture before a grand opera, except those thirty seconds were the only prep time you’d get to turn on your heel and book it out of there if you didn’t want to say hello to your biggest headache.

“Oh, daaaarling! There you are! Hey- Don’t run away!”

An outstretched pair of arms materialized on either side of your body, and you let out a loud yelp before you were pulled backwards into a tight hug. You screeched like a feral cat, clawing helplessly at the air while a loud haughty laugh rang out against your eardrums.

It was only when you turned around that the sense of hearing gave out to the sense of sight. Beautiful strands of blond-blue hair swept across your eyes, the twinkle of his golden locks not too unlike the catlike gleam in his pupils. Speaking of his eyes, you hated the stupid bastard for how much blue he had on him and more importantly, how good it looked. Even the smug azure of his crinkled eyes made you stop breathing for just a split second, and your lips parted unconsciously as your hatred momentarily dissipated into wonder at the delicate hue.

“Staring at me? Awwwww, do you think I’m handsome? Of course you do. You wouldn't be so starstruck otherwise,” he chuckled. You instantly snapped out of your stupor, and you twisted your face into a disgusted frown.

“Take your hands off of me, you idiot,” you snarled. “I’m not in the mood to talk to you.”

“Oh? Perfect. I think that’s perfect timing to talk to you.” Kaiser kept one arm slung firmly over your shoulders, expertly placing himself at your side. You dug your heels into the ground and kept your place whenever he tried to edge you closer to his torso, egging you to relax into his touch. “Busy being a little color nerd again? I think it’s adorable that you’d pick your favorite color after me-”

“-I did not pick my favorite color after you,” you huffed. You crossed your arms, and you glared directly up at him (this time, you took extra care not to get lost in his eyes). “Do you really think I don’t have a personality or something? To pick a favorite color after a man?”

He shrugged. “Hey, I’m a pretty charming guy, if I do say so myself. Just now, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of me. I’d say I wear the color well. Say, if I swapped my red eyeliner out for a blue one, would that make you stare at me even more?”

You wanted to push him off, but you knew better than to engage a professional athlete in a half-wrestle-half-run-for-your-life-thing. “In your dreams. You’re an atrocious mix of colors.”

“Sure.” He easily brushed your words off. He broke out into his usual smug grin, chuckling at you as if he were a cat toying with a mouse. If he could, you swore that he’d gobble you up in one bite and leave no crumbs. “But I’d say blue is totally my color.”

Red hot annoyance flooded your body. This was so unlike you, to be moved to such anger that you’d be thinking of any color other than your favorite cyan hue, but something about this man made you want to beat him to a bloody pulp until he truly was nothing more than a mix of crimson and black and white broken bones. 

“Blue is MY color!” You grumbled. “I liked it even before I met you! Hell, I probably understand it better than you do! Dipping your hair in Kool-Aid and being born with blue eyes doesn’t automatically make blue your color! It’s my favorite color, and me liking it has nothing to do with you! Not everything revolves around you, Kaiser!”

You fumed at him, having blurted out all of the tension mounting inside of your chest. You stood there, wanting to claw off the weight of his arm across your shoulders. You wondered if Kaiser would yell back at you, if those beautiful sapphire eyes of his would narrow into small slits before he’d wind up for the pounce, if he truly would swallow you up into a void of blue nothingness just to prove you wrong.

But instead he threw his head back, and he laughed heartily.

“You’re too funny for your own good.” He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye with his other hand, and he barely held himself together long enough to look at you. “The world? Revolve around me? Maybe to all those other stupid commoners. Those brainless fools need a stunning star to guide them. To give them any purpose in life.”

You grimaced, skin crawling with disdain as he yanked you closer. His free hand caressed the outline of your cheeks and jaw, and you let out a small “eep!” as he hooked his fingers under your chin to gingerly lift your face to meet his. You held your breath as the German prodigy leaned in, until the silhouette of his peach-pink lips were much too close to your mouth for your liking.

“But, darling… Oh, my sweet, stupid darling…” His voice was far too smooth for your own liking. Like the lining of a regal blue mink-fur lined cape, the kind you’d see in a 1700s painting of a king, the edge you get from swallowing down a mouthful of ice water. He looked too pleased with himself, having you ensnared perfectly in his arms like this. The thick tension that hung between the two of you felt like poisoned honey, and he shook his head at you mockingly. “If anyone were to pay attention closely, they’d know that the script is much more different for you than it is for those everyday fools.”

“Don’t lump me in your weird fantasy.” You blinked at him defiantly. He pursed his lips slightly, but Kaiser didn’t waver even once. 

“All I want to say is that there’s nothing wrong in admiring beautiful things. If you like blue that much, nothing wrong with admiring the blue on me, is there? It’s unhealthy to deny yourself the things that you love so much.” He let you go finally, and you practically leapt out away from him. “If you don’t want to throw yourself at my feet and beg to play the role of my dedicated love interest, that’s fine too! Although, I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to. Anyone would be honored to have my attention the way you do.”

“You’re a self-centered prick. I don’t want to give you any more attention than what I’m already wasting on you.”

“That’s what I’m saying! If you let down your high walls and properly let yourself admire me for the beautiful, charming, handsome guy I am, then it wouldn’t be a waste of your time.” He expertly flicked his hair over his shoulder, winking at you as some of the strands tumbled down his collarbones and back. As atrocious of a haircut as it was, you did have to admit that the color of his weird gradient was very pleasing to your eyes.

But you’d rather eat knives than admit it out loud. 

“You’ll have to try harder than that. Anyone can dye hair,” you muttered, thoroughly unconvinced. “And before you ask, I’m not interested in staring at your eyes either. Blue eyes mean nothing to me. And I can always go buy color contacts off the internet and stare at those instead if I really want to.”

“Boo! That’s so boring! Wouldn’t you want a real living person? Someone with personality?” He pouted.

You rolled your own eyes. “Yeah. Someone that doesn’t have a stick stuck up their ass.”

Kaiser pressed his lips into a line, suddenly lost in heavy thought. He knew your patience was already running thin with him, and while it was frustrating that the typical antics he’d lavish onto his fans wasn’t netting him the reaction he wanted from you, it still thrilled him the same. You were so tough to crack! He knew deep down that you had some heart for him and that you loved admiring beautiful things! And was he not the most beautiful thing of them all? He was skilled, talented, the kind of guy anyone should be flattered to have. All he needed was to convince you with something unique, something that no other groupie or fan of his couldn’t have, and maybe that would be the key to luring you over.

To turn that burning red hatred of yours into a calm, placated blue interest.

“Well, what if I give you something truly special then? If I could show you something that you have to admit is beautiful, would you admire me then?” He offered tentatively. You sniffed, keeping your head held high, but he took your silence to mean that it wasn’t a complete refusal.

He broke out into the biggest grin you had ever seen. Your confidence wavered slightly at his smug smirk, and nervousness prickled over your skin. You held your breath as Kaiser slowly raised his hand to his neck. Two fingers hooked onto the golden collar of his Bastard Munchen uniform, which covered a generous portion of his neck.

He yanked down. 

A flash of deep, royal blue stunned your vision, and your eyes instinctively widened. Kaiser tilted his neck to the opposite side, making sure you could catch a proper glimpse at the part of his throat that was normally concealed by his uniform. You felt like something inside of your brain had violently hit the brakes the moment the color hit your eyes. 

Roses.

Beautiful, beautiful blue roses. 

You’re automatically entranced by them. They’re tattoos, each expertly painted on his skin with a careful hand. The black outline makes the rich hues pop even more against his body, and while you tiptoe forward to catch a better view, you can only make out the better part of one of the bigger roses. The rest are covered by his uniform, and you can see the hint of inked thorns traveling away from the flowers and towards his arm. 

Kaiser instantly caught the shift in energy from you. He wisely kept his mouth shut, but some prideful part of him was celebrating inwardly. He let you step closer to admire the handiwork on his body, your curiosity delighting him to no ends.

You wanted to touch them. To touch him. Oh, you could imagine the feeling of soft rose petals under your fingertips while you were utterly mesmerized by his tattoo, almost forgetting that it was just an inked drawing rather than real flowers.

“Well? Isn’t it lovely?” 

You flinched, snapping back to life. Dumbfounded, you were at a loss for words. It was completely unlike you to not have some kind of mean comeback to snark at him with, but the secret weapon Kaiser had on hand was too much. His tattoo had overwhelmed you in a heartbeat, the artistic touch only making you want to see it again.

But unfortunately for you, he adjusted his uniform back into its regular position with a cruel smile. “See? I knew you’d like it. Do you want to look at it again? Oh, I know you do. C’mon, tell me. Tell me you want to see it again. It’s not like I’m going to refuse.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, and very hesitantly, you swallowed back your pride. “Can… Can I see your tattoo again?”

“With pleasure, darling.” He cooed. He paused for a moment, and he pulled you closer towards him. You gulped nervously when he peered down at you, clearly savoring the victory he had earned by pulling wool (or in this case, a lovely tattoo) over your eyes. 

“But why don’t I take you to my room instead? I’ll take off my shirt for you. That way you can see the entire thing. And then you can fawn over me properly. You just said you wanted to see my tattoo again. Those pretty roses,” he leaned in, tempting you over and over with the fleeting memory, “Those pretty, pretty roses that are in your absolute favorite color.”

You were torn, and Kaiser reveled in that tormented expression of yours.

He held his hand out. “No need to be shy. Let me show you all sorts of beautiful blue things, my darling.”

x

[privateanxieties]

stability, reciprocity and a romance for the ages

Summary: Peter Parker seems to be made of sunlight and comfort, and she seems to know just how to love him. Both sides of him.

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (she/her pronouns); fluff, romance, just so much sentimentality, happy ending.

Warnings: allusion to past abuse/abusive people, but no details are given, it’s not glamorized - there’s a focus on healing.

Words: 8k

-------------------------

Peter feels like such a cliché, letting the thought of the pretty girl who just moved in next door twist his attention and occupy his mind to the degree it does.

The degree in question being mortal danger coming much closer than usual to finally putting a nail in his coffin.

He finds it hard to stomach, while staggering home, that he was almost disemboweled by a crane hook while thinking of the cinnamon rolls she left on his doormat that evening.

He isn't nineteen anymore, and he isn't even among the most youthful twenty-somethings. At twenty-seven, with everything he's seen, being so distracted by her makes him feel like a hormonal teenager, and he doesn't long for those days at all.

If anything, Peter Parker keeps dreaming of stability in every aspect of life, but especially where romance is concerned. He's grown tired of the thought of going on dates with strangers, even if he's realistically only done it three times in three years, all of them single dates. As in, he met them once and then never again.

He wonders, and often, if he's just too picky, but whenever he finds it in himself to be brutally honest, he knows he's a sucker for pretty eyes and kindness.

He likes intelligence, of course, but he recognizes that he needs a good level of differences between himself and a potential partner. So far, the only people he's found attractive who also happened to be nerds, well, they all had their lives together. At this point in life, people were aggressively competing on the corporate ladder, fighting over research grants or taking the tech world by storm with some innovation or other.

Peter is a journalist on his best day. His biggest professional accomplishment to date was getting a full-time job at the Bugle after nearly eight years of independent contractor work, and Jameson still has him occasionally investigating the top ten patriotic recipes for the 4th of July.

Yeah, Spider-Man definitely made sure Peter Parker would always take a backseat to his own life.

He's proud of all he's done as his alter ego, but he'd also like to crash into someone's arms when he comes home. Have his significant other run a hand through his hair. Maybe a forehead kiss wouldn't hurt, either.

Peter is lonely, and those warm cinnamon rolls help immensely as he scarfs them down straight out of the pan. He keeps thinking he should go over to say thank you in between bites, but the exhaustion keeps erasing his mind like a goldfish every few seconds, and the cream cheese frosting certainly doesn't help.

So he passes out on the couch, still in his suit, crumbs all over his chest and her little note grasped in his right hand.

'I hope this isn't too forward of me, but I wanted to say hello properly. Hopefully you like these and you're not offended, but if you are, I'm sorry.'

He hopes she's not offended that he dreams about her that night.

--------------------------------

The next week, he's wallowing in shame.

He still hasn't said thank you, and with each passing day, he feels like he's left it too long to still be viable. He knows it's ridiculous, but the solution he finds is returning the clean pan with a thank you note of his own, sticking it to her door with the tiniest bit of webbing, enough that you wouldn't be able to tell what it is.

And then he realizes it looks suspiciously gross, so he tears it off and uses a sticky note like a normal person.

'The only thing offensive about these is how quickly they disappeared. I wanted to say thank you in person, but I chickened out after day 4. Welcome to the neighborhood, Ms. Baker.'

He goes about his day before he can cringe at himself too much, and when he turns in for the night at 2 a.m., the note on her door is gone and his is sporting a new one.

'You're always welcome to stop by, with or without chickens. Sorry, that was terrible. If you can handle more lackluster jokes, my door is always open. Thank you for the welcome, Peter.

P.S.: Mrs. Dalton from 18b told me your name, I promise I'm not a stalker.'

He smiles when he sees that his roundabout way of finding out her name worked, as she signed it at the bottom.

He doesn't know what comes over him two days later when he shows up at her door, rotisserie chicken in hand that Dean & DeLuca charged him an arm and a leg for, but her laugh and brilliant smile are definitely worth the hole in his pocket and attempt at avantgarde humor.

He feels comfortable inside her home, and her demeanor encourages him to relax. She makes fries to go with the chicken, and they eat more messily than either would in the presence of a stranger.

He volunteers a world of information he normally wouldn't, and his heart is soothed by her reciprocation. He learns that she's not just new to the neighborhood, but the city, and chokes very casually when she offhandedly mentions the resident superhero.

Apparently, she feels safer just knowing Spider-Man exists, and Peter doesn't like the feeling in his chest when her eyes avoid his, but he doesn't press the question.

Later, when she offers him blueberry pie, he smiles like a doofus at her confession of having come to New York to open a bakery someday, and pledges his patronage with equal parts mirth and seriousness.

He drags his departure and she allows it - or maybe it's the other way around. All he knows is he doesn't want to go back to his empty apartment, much less back to the dark streets of the city, but he's reassured by the promise to hang out again.

She thanks him for his company, promising to cook next time, and they exchange numbers just for… reasons. Who knows when you need to let a neighbor know some vital piece of information. Yeah. That was why.

That night Peter has a pep in his step, and even the feral cat he rescues from inside a lead pipe can't ruin his mood, even if it does leave a nasty scratch on his temple - so far, the only villain this week who managed to draw blood.

She spots him when leaving for work the next morning, and though the scratch looks much better, she frowns upon seeing it, retrieving a band-aid from her messenger bag.

They're both too old to have a favorite cartoon, but what is even more ridiculous, is that they share one.

He wears the Pingu band-aid for far longer than necessary.

 ---------------------------------------

After that, it's all about sporadic encounters around the neighborhood, and sometimes even randomly around the city. Peter is surprised by the amount of times they seem to bump into each other serendipitously. His favorite one happens at the supermarket, where they proceed to shop together and she chastises him for the amount of sugary snacks in his cart.

"Oh, I'm sorry, mom, I'll put them back right now," he mocks with a shit-eating grin.

She scoffs, insulted, before tilting her head in defiance.

"Do you know how much insulin costs in this country, Mr. Parker?" she counters with a light tone, playing into his game.

"Is it a gazillion dollars?" he ponders innocently.

"And 99 cents, yes. So maybe, it's not a good idea to buy, hmm… let's see: 8 packs of M&M's, 5 boxes of Starbursts, 5 bags of chips and… didn't peg you for a Nerds kinda guy."

"Peg me? You were thinking about pegging me?" he says all-too-seriously and entirely too loudly.

Her eyes widen, and in an instant, her hand is over his mouth, but it does little to stifle his laughter.

"Shh! You can't say that in public!" she whisper-shouts.

"But I can say it in private? Good to know!" he manages through her fingers.

"No! Peter, shut up!" she pleads, but soon, even she can't contain her laugh.

They giggle like teenagers in the corner of the snack aisle, shushing each other with little success and completely ignorant of the dirty looks from some disgruntled shoppers.

The rest of the shopping trip is spent in easy companionship, Peter teasing lightly when he sees her pouting at the empty fish tank, and in a stellar move (if he says so himself), seizes the opportunity to invite her to the NY Aquarium at Coney Island.

Is it a date? He doesn't mention it, not wanting to make her uncomfortable or play his hand too early, but when she accepts with a soft smile and an 'I'd love to', he dares to hope.

A conversation on favorite foods runs in the background of their journey back home, and Peter's stomach is already growling just from her waxing poetic about her love of soup.

He laughs copiously when she refuses to let him carry any of her grocery bags up the stairs, despite the fact that they clearly require two trips. She mutters something about needing to learn her lesson, and how she never will if she gets handsome men to haul her spoils of war up to the tower of greed.

At the top of the stairs, Peter's stomach growls once more, this time embarrassingly loudly, and he tries to hide his warm face by pretending to unlock his door, but she's already ahead of him.

"Hey, so… since I bought an ungodly amount of food… I was thinking maybe I could cook for us tonight, if you'd like?" she asks timidly, pretending to shuffle some of the bags around to avoid looking at him directly.

Peter's sold the moment she says it, eager to spend more time with her and this feeling of walking on air, so he puts his groceries away in his own apartment and wonders if he should change before heading over to hers.

He wonders, and ponders, and turns in a stupid little circle before deciding to play it cool. He puts on a green hoodie, and it isn't because he's been told it brings out his eyes, no. It's just to be comfortable.

He rummages around his cabinets for something, anything he could bring so he doesn't show up empty handed, and he remembers the bottle of wine he received as a congratulatory gift for the full-time job at the Bugle.

He pops open the fridge and retrieves it, hoping it's at least half-decent, and mutters a small prayer to whoever would listen that he doesn't put his foot in his mouth tonight.

With that, he heads over, and when she opens the door to reveal an outfit change of her own, Peter suddenly gains an appreciation of polka dot dresses.

Easy laughs and life anecdotes fill the rest of the night, but it all comes to a screeching halt when Peter drops a glass he'd meant to place on the counter. This was why he never drank wine, or any alcohol really - despite his metabolism, it appeared Spider-Man was a lightweight. Before he can apologize, however, he hears short gasps from the table, and he turns his back to the counter to look at her.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Still seated, she holds a hand on the edge of the table with a white-knuckled grip, and the other she keeps on the side of her neck, breaths coming in haphazardly.

It takes her some time to gather herself, and Peter remains where he is, knowing instinctively that her reaction couldn't be explained away as an ordinary scare.

Shaking her head, she takes one more deep breath before speaking, but she doesn't look at him.

"I'm sorry, it's… That's just how I am sometimes. I don't really like it when…" she begins, yet can't find the words to explain, to justify what he just saw.

She's already thinking of the worst things, and can't really believe that that's all it takes for her composure to falter: just some broken glass.

"Can I come over?" he surprises her by asking, and it's enough to bring her gaze to him.

He's slouching all of a sudden when she's never seen him do that before, and his hands are in the pockets of his hoodie. His gaze is on her, but it flickers every couple of seconds or so, and it's enough to make her realize that he knows. It's why he's making himself look small and inoffensive, and it's why his words are almost whispered.

Peter Parker is more precious than she gives him credit for, and if the affection she carries for him was abundant before, it's overflowing now.

She nods before she can change her mind, but holding the tears at bay is another story entirely. He approaches slowly, crouching down in front of her so they're at the same level.

"Hey there…" he murmurs and offers his hand, palm up.

She takes it with her shaking one and grips it tightly, the tears that have gathered in her eyes unable to be restrained any longer. She hesitates, but ultimately can't deny herself the safety he offers. When she looks up at him, seeing brown eyes clouded over with sadness and moisture, that's when her head drops onto his shoulder and the little sobs begin.

They sit there, at her kitchen table, no words spoken other than soothing reassurances and blurred apologies.

Later in the night, small, broken confessions make their way past her lips, but she reveals only a part - only enough to make him understand, or perhaps to justify herself somehow. It's an effort he meets with a calming embrace, wishing more than anything to transfer some of the strength he's been graced with to her.

Alas, he cannot, but he tries nonetheless. A gentle kiss pressed to her forehead while they're burrowed into the couch, two arms creating a shield around her frame over the blanket - these are the ways Peter Parker imbues the atmosphere with comfort and security.

Vulnerable words spoken with a calm heart are how she lets him know he's doing a good job. Most of all, they're clearing out a spot in each other's souls and setting it aglow.

It won't be tonight, or even many nights from now, but they'll find their footing around growing tenderness. They've progressed to something unfamiliar and delicate, and Peter, well… he promises himself to bestow it every effort until it blooms into what they both admit craving: stability and reciprocity, and perhaps a romance for the ages.

Leaving provokes a gnawing sensation, but they are both equal parts exhausted and mollified, so sleep beckons irresistibly. She presses a lingering kiss into his cheek at the door, thanking him in a hushed tone, and inspiration, or genius, or madness seems to strike, because he feels he could reinvent the world just looking into her eyes.

They sleep dreamlessly that night, and he awakens to a good morning text that has him springing to work like Jameson has just made him editor-in-chief.

Weeks and weeks pass by in a comfortable dance, and he's beginning to forget what cold sandwiches and tv dinners taste like. Frankly, he's also starting to find it just a little bit tricky to pull together enough willpower to never spend the night over.

They're not ready for that, and he knows it, but he's also giving consideration to his other job - the one with flexible work hours. He doesn't know when to approach the subject, much less how, but it is non-negotiable in his mind that it's done. A life lived with a partner, the kind of life he wants, isn't one he can build out of a lie, even one of omission.

Peter isn't naïve anymore, and he isn't cynical either. He's been done pretending to be the brooding hero for a while now, and he also understands he won't be doing this forever.

He needs to know that when he's done his duty and can give the city no more, there will be someone at home who can love both sides of him.

-------------------------------------

The first time she encounters Spider-Man is not, as Peter imagined, in one of their apartments as part of his confession, but under much more horrible circumstances.

It was one of his only daytime sessions behind the mask, since Jameson gave him the afternoon off - or, should he say, was forced to evacuate the building due to a bug infestation on the first 5 floors.

He's in lower Manhattan, having just barely changed into his suit, when his hair stands on end. His heightened senses direct him where to look, and when he sees it, his heart pauses for just one tenth of a second.

There's a kid in the street running after a toy.

There's a truck without a driver going downhill.

And he is too far away.

He knows it, even if his body springs into action immediately. He pushes himself as hard as he's ever done, and it isn't enough, until a running figure enters his sight, and he wishes it weren't whom he knows it is.

He pulls on web after web with brute force; he grunts and feels a pain blossoming in his spleen when it still isn't enough. The kid disappears from view once the truck gets close. He can't find his breath anymore as he lands in the street a second too late, several cars screeching to a halt at his sudden presence.

It's all over in a long moment.

He moves frantically as the truck crashes into a line of parked cars on the right side of the road, but he can't see anything. There's nothing. There's -

There's a cry, coming from a small boy. The street seems to have come to a standstill, but the cry continues, and he knows where it's coming from, but it's as though he can't coordinate his limbs yet.

Then, a soothing reassurance, but from a different voice; one he knows. It puts him back in motion and sends a strength running through him that he seldom feels.

He plants himself horizontal to the ground right next to the truck, thanking every deity for what he sees.

The small boy, at most five years old, is cradled protectively in the arms of his girlfriend, and they are both extremely shaken, but he can't see any major injuries.

"Hey, hey, you're ok. I'm gonna get you out of there, alright? I need you to stay very still for me, can you do that?" he says.

The little boy whimpers his name and huddles further into her arms, but she nods, unable to speak quite yet.

Peter keeps talking to them while he assesses the situation quickly, and decides it's unsafe for them to crawl out, as the crash has made parts of the truck protrude through the bottom and other jagged pieces explode all over on the ground around it.

As though it weighs nothing, especially with how high his adrenaline is, Peter grabs and lifts the truck, making sure his grip is structurally sound. Clearing them completely, he moves it aside and drops it down as gently as he can so as to not spook them further. When he turns back around, they've barely sat up, and he can't help hugging them both. Checking them over for wounds, he releases a rushed breath when he sees that the boy is unscathed.

Only, he skips the next one when his eyes land on her bloodied clothes.

"Am- Ambulance. We're getting you - " he begins, but is cut off.

"No… no, I'm - I'm fine. I'm fine, it's - it's just a scrape. It's just my - knees and elbows. Maybe my side." She stumbles around her words, voice shaken and grip still on the boy in her arms, who's now burrowing even further into the crook of her neck.

Peter's listening, but he's surely not understanding.

"Ma'am, we gotta get you to a hospital, alright? A doctor has to look at you. There might be more than that, you don't know," he reasons, struggling to find his words as well.

Commotion from the other side of the street interrupts her response, and Peter tears his eyes away from her to see what's going on.

A few people have gathered around a woman lying on the ground. They're trying to help her in hushed whispers, while others are calling EMS and the police.

It takes Peter only a second to deduce that that must be the boy's mother, and he can't imagine a more natural reaction to seeing your child in mortal danger when you know you can't do anything to save him.

Just like he couldn't.

Someone else had to.

The woman he -

The guilt would have to be pushed aside, because he has to make this right, as much as he can.

"Listen, ma'am, you both need to get looked at. Please. Let me take you to the hospital," he tries again, and sees the resolve in her eyes dwindle.

When she sighs, he mirrors the action almost subconsciously.

"I just need to get some… gauze on these and I'll be ok. They can do that in the ambulance," she concedes.

He knows he can't fault her for refusing to go to the hospital. After all, he got bit by a radioactive spider and decided to sleep it off, so this would be a pot-kettle situation if he insisted any further. And so, he waits there for the police and ambulance to show, during which time the little boy - Matthew, he learns - asks to be taken to his mom, and he obliges when he wants to be carried by Spider-Man, even if he doesn't want to leave her side.

It only takes a couple of minutes for the police to show up, and a couple more for the ambulance, as New York has definitely upped its game in the past few years when it comes to emergency responses.

The mom comes to, and her son is returned to her in the arms of Spider-Man, and she can barely find the words to thank him, when he stops her.

"I wasn't the one who saved your son. I'm sorry."

He motions behind him, where his girl, all of a sudden extremely shy, shakes her head discreetly - but it's too late.

The mother goes over to her, Matthew secured in her embrace. With tears in her eyes, she hugs the young woman and whispers a heartfelt thank you upon letting go.

"Thank you miss!" Matthew adds sweetly, much in the way young kids do when they copy their parents' manners.

Unable to say much in response, she nods with a watery smile and wishes them both well, reassured by Matthew's hushed promise to his mom to never run after a toy again.

When her eyes leave them, she notices Spider-Man is staring at her without much motion in his body, but she has little time to dwell on it before a paramedic asks to see her. They're both in agreement that she needs some hydrogen peroxide and bandages she ought to change every day, but when she is asked some basic questions like name and age, she struggles, and it doesn't go unnoticed.

Vigilant and difficult to deceive, the medic performs more checks, and when she squints uncomfortably and can't perform basic math, the diagnosis is unavoidable.

"Miss, you have a moderate concussion. If you still don't want to come with us, you should have someone take you home," the older woman says - more of an order than a suggestion.

"I can do that!" Spider-Man calls from a nearby light pole, from where he resolved to keep careful watch to avoid suspicion. Dropping down near the back of the open ambulance, he stands still as though waiting to be handed over his girlfriend in ceremony. The medic is unimpressed.

"You're going to swing my concussed patient around the city, young man?" she asks with a raised brow.

"Uhh… no?"

"Mmhm, that's what I thought. You're walking her home."

"That's really not necessary…" the young woman tries, but she's ignored by both parties.

"If she can't stand straight, you bring her to us, you understand?" the medic continues.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm really ok, just a little dizzy," she tries again, and this time the older woman fixes her with a look.

"You're just a little dizzy, yes, alright. Who was the 3rd President of the United States?"

Blank.

"Um…"

Point proven, the medic once again stresses the importance of remaining on the ground to Spider-Man, gives her patient a list of things to do to care for herself at home, and bids them both goodbye.

As soon as the ambulance drives off, she tries once more to convince the masked hero that she can find her way home just fine on her own, but he declines gently.

"I really can't do that. If that nice lady finds out I let you walk home alone, I'm gonna get in trouble."

She regards him for a few seconds, before heaving the biggest sigh and making him chuckle.

"Hey, come on, I promise I'm not bad company.", he says in amusement.

"Could we at least… you know… what's that thing you do? You know, when you thwip the web?"

Peter tries not to laugh. It's not funny, because she's injured, but it is funny, because…

"You can remember 'thwip' but not 'swing'? Then we're definitely not swinging,” he says, shaking his head.

"Please? I promise I won't vomit on you."

"I'm flattered."

He wasn't going to give in, no. He really wasn't planning on it. But then, she pouted, and he felt cornered. Pretty girl he's head over heels for, bandages on her arms and knees, looking at him dazed and pouting?

Yeah - he ends up swinging her home and she keeps her promise to not throw up on him, but only barely. When he drops her directly on her fire escape, she doesn't even question it, and Peter thanks his lucky stars that she's too out of it to notice his fuck up. She never even gave him her address, let alone her floor or apartment number, but if she suspects anything, she doesn't mention it.

Once safely inside, she thanks him sweetly and absently waves goodbye before he's even finished talking, but he knocks on the window before she can leave. She turns back around quickly and nearly falls over in the process while Peter's eyes nearly bug out of his head.

He definitely couldn't leave her to take care of herself until Peter Parker made it home tonight.

"Ma'am, you should really call someone and have them come over. You don't seem fine," he insists gently but firmly.

She appears to ponder his words, before letting out a small 'oh', but not moving any further.

"Do you have someone who could come over?" he asks again, trying not to sound too desperately obvious.

"I think so."

"You think so?"

Has he not - is the concussion making her believe she can't rely on him, or is that what she usually thinks? Because he's gonna have to remedy either option immediately.

"Yes!"

It's the only thing she says before she plops onto the floor and starts rummaging through her bag, and Peter can't help but stare, incredulous. Maybe he should've taken her to the hospital like the scary doctor lady said, because this is starting to freak him -

His phone rings.

Fuck.

He realizes too late what she was doing, and when the sound of his phone reaches her ears, she looks up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

Peter panics, but her words knock the wind right out of him in a way he doesn't expect.

"I didn't know Spider-Man has a phone."

He can't help the laugh that's forced out of him, but it's more horrified than genuine.

"Well, I think you should take that. It might be important. It might be… hero stuff," she says, waving her hand whenever she has trouble settling on a word.

With a big sigh, she looks back down at her phone and ends the call, not noticing that Spider-Man's phone stops ringing at the same time.

Peter is downright frozen in place, brain a little bit broken by his own ineptitude. He should've taken her to the hospital.

"He's probably busy. I never call him at work," she sighs again.

"Who?" he asks with a slight cringe. This whole thing was getting old. He had to come clean soon.

"Peter. He's my…" she trails off, staring at her hands.

"Your boyfriend?" he says helpfully.

"No."

No.

No??

No?!?!

What the hell did she mean, no?

"Peter isn't your boyfriend?" he asks, trying his absolute hardest not to sound offended. Or heartbroken.

"He's uh… what do you say when you think you want to spend the rest of your life with someone? Not a boyfriend, but a…"

Just like that, she ends him with one sentence. This girl would put his heart in an early grave.

"It's… it's soulmate, ma'am," he stammers, mouth suddenly dry and eyes suspiciously moist.

When she lights up with a smile, he mirrors it.

"Yes, that's it! I mean, he's probably also my boyfriend, but it's weird to call him that. Is it weird that it's weird?"

He needs to leave before she says anything more that has the potential to demolish him where he stands, so he urges her to call Peter, her soulmate, again, because he's sure a soulmate would like to know that she was just injured in an accident.

She hesitates briefly but ultimately agrees, and he leaves before she can ring him again while he's right there.

He says goodbye as Spider-Man, and hello again as Peter Parker half an hour later, which was the most he could pretend to wait in his apartment before knocking on her door.

He finds a half-assed excuse that he was given the afternoon off, which is technically true while not being wholly sincere, and that's how he was able to make it home so fast when she called. She explains her afternoon with some gaps in the course of events, and he's able to hug her properly for the first time since everything happened.

He asks to see the instructions sheet the paramedic left her with, and she pouts for the second time that day when he confines her to the couch for the rest of the evening.

"I'm sorry, baby. Doctor's orders. You go lie down, keep your head elevated, and I'll make us something to eat, alright?" he says gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Mm… alright. Don't burn down my kitchen, I don't think I can afford the… the - what's the thing?"

"Cuddles?"

"What? No! It's the…"

"Bunnies?"

"Peter…" she whines.

"The damages baby. You can't afford the damages, and I can't believe the - frankly, offensive - insinuation that I'm such a bad cook I'd burn down the kitchen."

"Pete, I can smell the Chef Boyardee coming from your apartment sometimes," she says so softly and slowly that it brings a laugh to the surface. It reminds him of the honesty of children who don't yet understand why you sometimes lie to people to spare their feelings.

This lack of filter was turning out to be both emotional and entertaining.

Should he talk to her about the soulmate thing? Or should he wait until his throat doesn't close up anymore just at the thought of it?

The thing is, he feels like such a small person, letting his fear of ending up alone keep him from being truly honest with her. He wants to trust in her love for him entirely, and he wants to believe she'd accept him for all he is, mask included, but it's a simple fact of his being that Peter fears lack of reciprocity more than most things.

He fears filling someone's hands with all his heart and then his own being forever empty.

He does feel somewhat… emboldened by her earlier confession, however unreliable it should be considered.

Soulmates, he thinks. It's a serious thing to say, but it's an even more serious thing to keep private as she has. If she hasn't told him yet, it must be because it's an intimate feeling. He wasn't a stranger to keeping his innermost thoughts hidden, even from someone whom he knew he could trust to keep them safe.

He remembers, while rinsing some basmati rice, her first mention of Spider-Man. He remembers how she said she felt safer just knowing he exists in the same city, and an ugly feeling makes its way to the surface when he realizes today has just proved her wrong. She has no reason to feel safer, given that she almost died this afternoon.

Some hero.

His previous worries of confessing grow exponentially, as the guilt paints the red and blue suit in a different light entirely. What could he say to her now? What would she think of him?

He wallows in his thoughts, appetite nearly lost as he gets close to the final steps of meal prep, when her voice cuts through the silence.

"Baby?"

He moves instinctively at her call, slowing his stirring of the chicken and turning to catch a glimpse of her on the couch, but with little success. He never knows how she manages to entertain a conversation while cooking when she can't see him, because Peter is, above all, a very physical being. He needs to share some kind of tenderness with every word, or it's like it isn't spoken sincerely.

Needless to say, he isn't happy with this arrangement.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Spider-Man brought me home today!" she informs happily, and while Peter's relieved she sounds more like herself, he can feel a layer of sweat starting to form.

She has this uncanny ability to synchronize her thoughts with his at times, and it has never once worked out in Peter's favor.

"Really? You left that out earlier," he probes, trying to keep the conversation steady.

She derails that hope with a well-placed reply.

"I was trying to figure out how he knew where I lived, because I never told him."

Peter's eyes close momentarily as he bites his lip so hard it splits instantly. He curses under his breath, but his brain is not up to the task of diffusing the situation. He finds nothing to say. The anxiety of seeing the rice start to turn brown in the pan further exacerbates the problem. He can't multitask in the kitchen, he knows this. He shouldn't have ventured outside the realm of sandwiches, or perhaps grilled cheese. If he hadn't, he'd now have more brain power to allocate to everything going on. He can smell the burning spices.

"Do you think he can read minds?"

She has to be kidding.

He just about entered panic mode, thinking this would be how his secret finally comes to light, and she hits him with that?

Mind-reading. Your girl thinks you're a mind reader, Parker. Better make it count, he thinks.

"Uhh, I don't know. Maybe he can?" he finally says.

"Can you imagine how hard that must be? Makes me respect him ever more…" she replies, and he must've missed when she got up and came over, because she's much closer all of a sudden.

He's really riled up now, so he keeps his back to her and pretends to focus on salvaging the food.

"You respect him even more? How?" he asks, trying not to let his feelings through in his voice.

He can feel her coming even closer until she's right behind him, and there's a brief pause before her arms envelop his midsection, clasping together over his stomach in a loose hold. Her forehead comes to rest between his shoulder blades a few seconds later, and it's enough to make him melt.

"Is this ok?" her quiet voice asks, and his heart follows swift.

He wants to turn around and reassure her with a million kisses, but he stays put, knowing how important this is for both of them.

"It's more than ok. I'm yours, you know? Anytime you want me, you can have me," he murmurs.

She's been trying more things like this lately, and he's immensely proud of her. Crossing boundaries that were placed there by another person, and doing it of her own accord - Peter understands that each and every time is difficult and special, but he can't help his sadness occasionally. The thought of her struggling to offer affection, thinking it unwanted - or worse, punished - is enough to put a lump in his throat that takes his breath away.

She tightens her embrace in response, placing a small kiss at the nape of his neck.

"Thank you."

They spend the remaining couple of minutes like that, and Peter has forgotten what they were even talking about before. He shuts the stove off and turns in her arms, searching her eyes briefly before leaning in.

He's equal parts surprised and happy when she seems to be on the same wavelength as him, parting her lips almost immediately to deepen the kiss. Peter often holds back the intensity of his feelings for her sake, letting her meet him halfway at her own pace.

His heart swells with pride, both in her and in himself, when he sees her become more comfortable with intimacy. When she nibbles his top lip and runs her tongue over it to soothe the sting, suddenly it's him who needs to slow this down.

Hands on both sides of her neck, he pulls away gently, but when she seeks his lips again, he leans his forehead against her own, lightly brushing his nose against hers.

"Peter…" she murmurs wistfully, making the air flee his lungs.

He tries to keep himself in check, keep his body from responding the way it wants to when she says his name like that, but his self-control goes out the window with a little bit of his soul at her next words.

"I think I'm ready."

He really is going into an early grave.

"Baby… you have no idea how happy that makes me, but we… can't. Not tonight, we can't," he says, although her breath hitting his face derails his train of thought every few seconds. Her sweet pout doesn't help much, either.

"Hmm… but do you want to?" she asks quietly.

"Do I - Yes. God, yes. But I also want you to enjoy our first time, and right now you're hurt."

He makes a point of lightly tracing a finger over the bandage on her right elbow, and she understands when even a fleeting touch makes it sting. She just sort of… forgot about those. He always has that aura, that pull about him that makes her head swim in fog and sentimentality.

"And you're concussed, so you could be throwing yourself at me right now and I'd still have to say no," he adds humorously for both their sakes. He needed to cut through the palpable tension before it got to a point where he had to cool off on the balcony.

She chuckles lightly against his lips, placing just one more kiss on the corner of his mouth before putting some distance between them without leaving his arms.

"That's a very respectable statement, Mr. Parker," she teases, looking into his brown eyes with nothing but adoration. Before Peter can say anything in response however, her own eyes light up in remembrance.

"Oh! You asked me how come I respect Spider-Man more now, right?"

Peter almost groans at how swiftly the moment is ruined, even though he knows it's only a problem because he still hasn't come clean. Every mention of his suited-up self is like kryptonite, especially after today.

He busies himself with serving the food before it gets cold, and she clears her small kitchen table and grabs drinks from the fridge while she talks.

"I just think it must be hard to do what he does, but especially - and this is a theory - if he can read minds. Just hearing all the horrible things people think, can you imagine that?"

He doesn't have to. Peter has heard and seen the horrible things people say and do, and reading minds wouldn't provide much more insight into the lives of New York's underbelly. He doesn't know why she zoned in on that specifically, or why it would raise him up in her eyes, and he says as much.

"Well, even if he could, he's probably used to it. Not really praise worthy, right?" he attempts, bringing their plates over and setting them on the table.

She doesn't say anything back for a long enough time that he worries he said the wrong thing, and he searches for her expression, but it's hidden by her hair as she washes her hands in the sink.

"I think it is. I think… it takes a lot to see cruelty all the time and turn it into kindness. I've known people who can do the opposite. It's comforting to… to know he exists."

There's nothing he can do. The force with which those words knock the air out of him can't be fought or resisted. He simply has to sit there in silence and take it in.

He tries to understand how he can feel so reassured with such few words, but the rush of affection is turning his brain inside out. There he was, wondering and questioning and running his mind into the ground with scenarios and consequences that he thought inescapable.

And there she is - unknowingly taking away his worries and replacing them with steadfast resolve, turning all the insecurity he's amassed about his identity over the years into a silly-seeming thing. Her perspective was so uniquely personal, so intimate to her experience, that it touched him to the bone.

What she found good about Spider-Man was entwined with her need to believe, her need for proof that cruelty and kindness alike are nothing more than individual choices.

He realizes this, and the knowledge carves a spot inside his heart where it will dwell for the rest of his days. It was only himself he didn't trust, not her, and it entices long-lost confidence to come to the surface.

The confidence that he will be loved, that he is lovable. That she will know how to love him.

On a shaky breath, he sees her coming over to sit down, taking her hand gently when she's close. With the tears that have gathered in his eyes, he isn't surprised when her brows pull together in concern.

"Peter? What is it, baby?"

"I need to tell you something. Please. And you… you need to let me explain. I need to do this right," he confides, high on emotion he can feel in his trembling voice.

"Anything. Peter, you can tell me anything. I'm right here," she coos, soothing the creases above his left brow with her thumb.

"I love you. You're my person. You are. And I should've done this sooner, but I was scared of… losing a good thing. The best thing. But you… you have this way about you, you know? You say things sometimes that knock me on my ass and you don't even know that you do. So when I say what I'm about to say, I need you to hold onto me, yeah? Just hold on."

Unable to speak, she nods, wiping a tear from his eye first, and then her own.

"I'm the one who brought you home today."

There's only silence, and a tiny escaped breath.

"You mean…"

She doesn't finish, because she doesn't have to. The turmoil pulling at his features, the watery eyes, his soft-spoken plea - they are enough.

He brought her home today.

Spider-Man cannot read minds, because he knows where her home is.

When she called her soulmate, Spider-Man's phone rang, though she was too out of it to notice.

When she spoke to him of the accident, he wouldn't meet her eyes.

He knew about the list the paramedic gave her, when she never mentioned it.

All these things that she would have noticed, had she been more alert, but here they are, flooding back.

Her Peter brought her home today.

"You're Spider-Man…" she whispers in wonder, brushing her fingers through his hair.

She isn't sure what this revelation means for the future, but she can't even fathom being anywhere other than right here, making sure he knows there's nothing to be scared of. All she wants is to chase the unease from his eyes.

"I've got you. I promise… I love you, Peter. All of you."

His intake of breath is muffled into her shoulder, arms searching aimlessly across the expanse of her back, molding her to him but unable to stay still. She finds it difficult as well, only it's her lips that can't help gracing every spot she can reach. Whispers of reassurance fill his ears and settle the rhythm of his chest, sobs winding down. He returns to himself, guided by the safety she provides.

It feels good to be seen and known at last, for all he is, but he worries there are things she isn't telling him.

"Are we ok?" he finds the words to ask, and they're said so faintly she nearly misses them.

"Yes. 'Course we're ok," she responds, punctuating it with another kiss to his cheek.

"You don't wanna… ask me anything?"

She smiles at the uncertainty in his voice and raises an eyebrow.

"I have nothing but questions for you, Spider-Man. But I'm saving them for later, you know, when I'm a little sharper up top," she motions to her temple.

"Oh, you're gonna quiz me. Got it, got it. I'm gonna get my story straight," he says seriously, drawing an incredulous laugh from her.

"Then you better start with what today was all about. You know, with the whole… 'Who's Peter' on the fire escape earlier."

Peter blanks, then gets immediately defensive to a comical degree.

"Well if I have to explain that, you have to explain the whole soulmate thing. Because that - why have you never told me that?"

The question isn't accusatory, but the embarrassment is immediate. She tries to squirm away half-heartedly, but Peter doesn't let up, trying to get her to look at him, placing teasing kisses all along her neck and jaw, knowing exactly what her reaction will be.

Giggles. Small, suppressed and wrapping around his heart like icing around a cake.

"See? That - right there. My favorite sound."

"Peter!" she exclaims in a half-laugh, half-moan.

Tilting her head back when his lips find a sensitive spot right at her pulse point, she decides to give him what he wants. If he was honest with her, showing unprecedented vulnerability, then she could meet him halfway.

"I said that because that's how I feel. I know that maybe… it's early. I know we haven't known each other that long, and we haven't faced that many things together, but that's not how I decided… that I - it's not why I - pff… I can't say it."

"Just say it how you wanna say it. However you feel like saying it."

"I know how to say it, it's just really corny."

"Doesn't matter."

"It's soppy. It's disgusting, actually."

"The worse, the better," he encourages.

"Ha-ha. Seriously."

"I'm serious too. Just tell me!"

"Ok fine! I don't have to wait until I know everything about you, to know how I feel. I just look at you sometimes, and I see… a whole life with you. You know… everything: our own place, our own traditions, maybe a dog, maybe…" she trails off, losing courage and avoiding his eyes, but he leans his forehead against hers, and she has to look.

"Babies?"

Though her face feels like it's on fire, she nods timidly, unable to tear her eyes away. She'd remember the way he's looking at her for a long time.

"Sweetheart… Kiss me," he pleads.

With a final look that imprints this moment in their shared history, their lips meet in a searing kiss, and Peter remembers all he's ever wanted as a manifestation of the present: stability, reciprocity and a romance for the ages.

-fin-

A/N: I welcome any and all feedback, even if it’s just a keysmash!

[pynkhues]

Okay here is my argument for Kim Possible being satire so sorry for how wordy this is in advance. This is based off of the four techniques of satire being exaggeration, incongruity, role reversal and parody. I think Kim Possible uses exaggeration, parody and a little role reversal within those.

Kim Possible would be parody of most superhero shows with slight role reversal in the parody. Most superhero shows with teenagers have them being much more adult than the average teenager. Kim Possible is very rooted in her being a regular teenage girl. Her power is that she’s an insanely good cheerleader and smart which is implied to be a genetic gift from her neurosurgeon mom and rocket scientist dad. Typically these teenagers are plagued by emotional turmoil by feeling the weight of saving the world, often in secret, while a running joke on the show is Kim seeming to find the insane things she does not a big deal or emotionally damaging. Kim relies on emotional support from her parents and talks out problems with them. She doesn’t keep it a secret and asks for understanding from her family, friends and squad when saving the world interferes with her life. She attends school which also never seems to actually happen in superhero shows. Kim isn’t treated any differently by her peers and is even consistently fighting to be seen as cool by Bonnie. She doesn’t fit the weird nerd (Spiderman comes to mind) or effortlessly always on trend (Alisha from Misfits) that teenage superheros often seem archtyped into.

There’s also an episode where Ron gets studied bc they think his “Ronness”is the key to Kim’s success. They don’t believe that Kim could just be that competent without a secret advantage which they first think is Ron and later Rufus. It shows that adult professionals are literally more willing to believe in the skills of a naked mole rat than a woman.

They also exaggerate the typical male/female hero dynamics with Kim and Ron’s relationship, as discussed earlier. I think their relationship really showcases how often we force women into being the mature ones by making her so competent and him so goofy. However, they also subvert this by having Ron be genuinely emotionally supportive and intelligent. There’s episodes where he encourages Kim to be more authentic to herself. He also never belittles her achievements and is truly her loudest and proudest supporter. He frequently sincerely compliments her. He listens to her issues and is emotionally vulnerable with her. There is some role reversal here with Ron almost playing a typical damsel in distress by needing saving from Kim, being her biggest hype man and by being the person that in many ways keeps Kim grounded. I think the episode where Ron moves to Norway shows how much Kim depends on him to meet her emotional needs and without him doing so she’s unable to focus as completely on the mission at hand.

Anyways. I may be completely wrong or off base. I’m in no way an expert on heroes, narratives, gender, satire, tv or even Kim Possible. Just some high thoughts that I really hope somebody out there will enjoy, lol! Very sorry if this was dumb or disappointing but I love your blog so much and always enjoy your takes on everything. 🤍

(x)

It's not dumb or disappointing at all, anon! I loved this analysis, and particularly loved the way you unpacked a range of superhero tropes and looked at how Kim Possible subverts them. You're really making me want to rewatch the show, haha.

It's an interesting one to look at too, because there have been a lot of superhero parodies and satires out there, but they tend to lean hard into a really mean humour. Like stripping the polish from characters like Superman and Batman can only be done through exploring the toxicity of fame and power, and I love your point about how in many ways Kim Possible does it by instead exploring the space for emotional vulnerability and honesty in a way that most traditional superhero narratives eschew. It makes it feel a lot more unique and in many ways more original than shows that have even come after it, and it'd be a really interesting exercise to compare it broadly to other parodies.

Thanks for sharing!

[disturbedbydesign]

Take Me Home - Part 2

PAIRING: Dennis Baker x Reader

SUMMARY: It’s been nearly a year since your ex-boyfriend dumped you and left you with a laundry list of insecurities, and you haven’t been able to really put yourself out there since. But when Dennis shows up at the adoption fair you’re running for your job at the animal shelter, there’s just something about him that makes you feel like you’re ready to try again.

WORD COUNT: 6K

WARNINGS (more to come): Body Issues (Dennis and Reader), References to Past Animal Abuse, Emotionally Abusive Exes (Dennis and Reader), Eventual Smut. 18+ only, no minors.

Series Masterlist

Part Two

You’re still in shock as you leave Dennis and Jax at a table outside and go in and order your coffees, holding the $20 that Dennis insisted you pay with. Your brain is overloading because you don’t know how you ended up here, using Jax as an excuse to basically throw yourself at this poor guy. You know Dennis is just being nice—it’s just coffee, after all, and he probably just wants to get to know Jax a little better and ask you some questions about him before he brings him home. You need to pull yourself together and start acting professional instead of asking a client personal questions about his dating life and telling him he’s hot. What the fuck were you even thinking?

“Who’s the beefcake?” the cafe owner, Cassie, asks from behind the counter. She waggles her eyebrows at you and you shake your head.

You’ve been coming to the cafe at least once a day since you started working at the shelter and Cassie has become one of your good friends. She’s also a major cat lady and has adopted three of your kitties. She might know more about your life than even Mal does, and she clocked Dennis the second you sat him outside.

“Just a client, Cass,” you say.

“Well he’s a hot client,” she replies. “He’s got that whole sexy nerd thing going on.”

“He’s adopting Jax,” you say and you can’t help the dreamy smile that spreads across your face. Cassie notices because of course she does.

‘Oh, so you’re in love in love.”

“I am not,” you snap. “I don’t even know him.”

“Sweetie, with a body like that, what else is there to know? And he’s adopting your baby boy? I know you’re thinking about it. Don’t even try to lie to me.”

“Maybe,” you admit. “But I can’t just, like, ask him out.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because… I- I don’t know. He’s obviously not interested.”

“He’s been staring at you with his damn mouth open the entire time you’ve been in here, sweetie. I think he’s more than interested.”

“He probably just wants his coffee,” you reply.

“He’s thirsty for something,” Cassie says, “that’s for sure.”

The man waiting in line behind you clears his throat impatiently and Cassie scowls at him before getting your coffees. You hand her the $20 but she refuses.

“You’re not paying today,” she says. “It’s for good luck.”

You roll your eyes, knowing it’s pointless to argue with her when she’s got her mind set on something, so you pocket the $20 and grab the coffees. When you turn around, you see Dennis focused on Jax, not you. Of course Cassie was exaggerating, you think to yourself as you walk towards the patio. You hand Dennis his coffee and the $20 back.

“On the house today,” you say. “The owner is a friend.”

“You can, uh, just keep it,” Dennis says, and you furrow your brows at him.

“For what?” you ask.

“I- uh, I dunno. Next time?” He scratches the nape of his neck and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I just… uh…”

You wait for him to say something else but he doesn’t finish. He turns his focus to Jax and it’s like he wants to pretend you’re not there. You need to fill the silence, so you just start talking—telling him every possible thing he could ever want to know about Jax and what you would recommend for when he takes Jax home. He barely looks at you the entire time, just quick glances out of the corner of his eye, and you feel so incredibly stupid that you thought even for a second that he might be interested. You’d even entertained the idea of asking him out on an actual date? Are you crazy? What the hell has gotten into you?

Dennis clears his throat and you think you must have been rambling on too long.

“Sorry,” you say. “Too much information?”

“No, not at all. I just… I was wondering if you’re working on Saturday? Like, if you’ll be there when I take him home?”

“I’m always working,” you reply. “I don’t really have much of a life outside work, honestly. It’s pretty sad.”

Dennis gives you a tiny smile. “Same. I mean, since the divorce…” He trails off and shakes his head and mumbles something under his breath that you don’t quite catch. “Sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to hear my sob story.”

You would actually very much like to hear it and anything else he wants to tell you about himself but you just nod. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with, Dennis.”

You see his leg bouncing and you want to reach out your hand to still it, to calm him and feel the corded muscle underneath the fabric of his pants. You don’t, of course, because that would be insane and you have to remind yourself that you are not the crazy, clingy, needy person that your ex convinced you you are. He takes a deep breath and he’s about to speak when your phone rings—Mal’s ringtone—and you remember you’ve got dinner plans with her.

“Shit,” you say. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

“Where the fuck are you?” Mal asks, and you can hear the bustling restaurant sounds in the background. “We were supposed to get drinks at 6.”

“I know, I just…” You look up at Dennis and he turns his head quickly to Jax, who is very much enjoying the head scratches Dennis is giving him. “I got caught up at work. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’m starting without you,” she says and hangs up.

“I’m so sorry, Dennis. I totally forgot that I’m supposed to meet my roommate for dinner. I have to go.”

“No,” he says. “It’s my fault for keeping you. We were just supposed to go for a quick walk and I’m taking up too much of your time.”

You smile at him. “Hey, coffee was my idea, remember? I’m the idiot who forgot I had plans.”

He speaks low, down into his lap, and you almost can’t hear him when he says, “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“I’m really sorry about this. I was… this was nice. And I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah? For the big day?”

He gives you a smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, ok. See you then.” He turns to Jax with enthusiasm and tells him, “You too, buddy. I’m gonna get the house all set up for you.”

Watching the two of them together almost makes you lose it. You feel like you could cry happy tears seeing Jax find his person after all this time, but it’s something else, too. You’re really going to miss him, and it’s only just occurred to you that you won’t get to see him every day anymore.

“What’s wrong?” Dennis asks. “Did I do something?”

You realize you’ve let a tear slip out and you wipe it away.

“I’m fine,” you say. “I’m just… I’m gonna miss him.” You feel your cheeks heating up with embarrassment and you sniffle and shake your head. “I should be used to this by now. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m such a fucking mess. This is… embarrassing.”

“Well,” Dennis says, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “You’re, uh, you’re welcome to come see him any time you want to.”

You know he doesn’t mean it, that he’s just saying it to make you feel better. After all, Jax is his now (or will be in a few days). He’s going off to start a happy new life with Dennis and he doesn’t need you anymore. You’d just be an imposition, an interruption, an intruder—someone for Dennis to tolerate for a little while until he can politely kick you out of his house and go on living his life.

“Thanks,” you say. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

“I mean it,” Dennis says, and his tone is dead serious. “Anytime.”

You still don’t believe him, but you appreciate his kindness.

“I gotta get Jax back,” you say. “But you can come by any time after 10 on Saturday.”

“I’ll see you at 10:01 then,” he replies.

You laugh as you take Jax’s leash from Dennis’s hand, and when your fingers brush against his, you feel a spark shoot through you, leaving the hairs on your arm standing up straight. You can’t look at him. You’re so fucking touch-starved that just that one brief moment is enough to have your desperation written all over your face. He sees it, though. You know he does, because when you finally look at him, he’s flushed bright pink up to his ears. You’re so fucking pathetic that you’ve managed to embarrass him. You’ve got to get the fuck out of there.

“I- I, uh, I gotta go. I’ll see you Saturday,” you stammer, and you grab Jax and double-time it back to the shelter to put him away for the night.

By the time you make it to the restaurant to meet Mal, you’re an hour late and she’s three martinis in and flirting with some hipster at the bar next to her.

“I’m so sorry,” you say as you rush over to her.

“Don’t be.” She’s wearing her naughty drunk smile and you know you haven’t seen the last of the guy next to her. “I made a friend. But I’m fucking starving so can we eat?” She turns to her friend and puts her hand on his shoulder. “Call me,” she purrs, and hops down off her stool, waltzing over to the hostess without a backward glance.

Mal makes it look so easy. All she has to do is bat her eyelashes at a guy and he’s a goner. Mr. Hipster probably asked her out before she said two words to him, but you… you can’t even manage to make it through coffee without making a complete ass of yourself. After the hostess guides you to your table, you plop down in the booth opposite Mal and put your head in your hands.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I’m just… I’m so fucking sick of being me. I wish I could be you for a day.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Why? What happened?”

You sigh and grab her martini glass, taking a big sip before returning it to her. “There’s this guy…”

“Oh my god, fucking finally,” she says. “Show me.”

“I don’t have any pictures. He’s just a client. He’s the one adopting Jax.”

She whips her phone out. “Name?”

“Dennis Baker.”

“Hmm, ok. Lots of Dennis Bakers.” She hands you her phone with the Facebook search results open. “Find him.”

You hadn’t let yourself look for him on socials. You’d thought about it a few times, but every time you almost sought him out, you’d hear Brad’s voice in your head: crazy, clingy, needy, desperate. But now Mal is forcing your hand, and when you see his profile, you click on it and smile. His profile pic is very him—glasses slightly crooked, awkward smile, same fucking polo shirt and khakis he always wears that do nothing to hide the body he’s got underneath it all. You hand her the phone back and she laughs.

“This is the guy you’re spazzing about?”

“What?” you say, slightly offended on Dennis’s behalf. “He’s cute.”

Mal considers him for a moment. “Ok, I kind of see it. He looks like a total dork, but that bod…”

“You have no idea.”

“Ok, so what happened that’s got you all turned around?” she asks, setting her phone down on the table. “I mean, no offense, but this guy doesn’t look like he’s turning women away at the door.”

You sigh. “He came by to see Jax this afternoon and I asked him for coffee-”

“Wait, you asked him?” Mal is beaming as she looks at you over the top of her menu. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Well don’t be, because I was totally awkward, and I’m pretty sure once he gets Jax on Saturday he’s never going to talk to me again.”

Mal rolls her eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

“I’m serious, Mal. It was bad.”

“First of all, I’m sure it wasn’t. Second of all, he wouldn’t have gone with you if he wasn’t into you.”

You shake your head. “He was just being nice. I’m sure he just wanted to know more about Jax before he takes him home, and then my pathetic brain turned it into a date even though it totally wasn’t at all.”

“I really hate that you do this,” Mal says. “You always fucking do this. I don’t know why you can’t just accept the fact that you’re gorgeous and sweet and funny and that any guy would be lucky to have coffee with you. Brad really did a number on you. I swear to God if I ever see that fucker again they’ll be cleaning his teeth off the floor.”

“Well as much as I’d love to see that, it doesn’t change the fact that Dennis isn’t interested.”

“Bullshit he’s not. What did he actually say?”

“Not much,” you reply. “I was rambling on about Jax and he barely got a chance to say anything. I mean, Cassie said he was staring at me but I think she was just saying that to make me feel better.”

Mal scoffs. “Cassie has never in her life said anything just to make someone feel better.”

You laugh because she’s not entirely wrong, but still—if Dennis liked you, he certainly wasn’t showing it. When the waiter comes by, you both place your drink and dinner orders before Mal picks up her phone and resumes scrolling through Dennis’s pictures.

“There’s not much here,” she says. “Kind of a red flag, honestly.”

“He just got divorced a couple months ago,” you reply. “He probably deleted a bunch of shit.”

“He got kids?” she asks, and you shake your head no. “Well then he’s probably lonely as fuck. I bet you a million dollars that if you asked him out to dinner, he’d say yes.”

You shake your head vigorously. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? What’s the worst that can happen? He says no? Then fuck it and move on.”

“That’s not the worst thing that could happen,” you mumble.

“Then what, then, because I really don’t understand what you’re so afraid of.”

You’re grateful when your cocktail arrives and after taking a big sip, you decide to tell Mal the truth.

“I’m scared of, you know, being with someone again.”

“What, like sex?”

You nod. “I just… I feel like, if he does actually like me and we went out then he’s obviously going to want… you know…”

“To fuck you. Yes. I would think so.”

“I’m just not ready.”

Mal sighs. “It’s been almost a year, sweetie. What the fuck is going on with you? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

There’s so much you haven’t told her and you still can’t bring yourself to go into details but you know you have to give her a little something, if only so any of this makes sense to her.

“I just feel gross. I hate my fucking body. I hate so many things about it and I just… the idea of someone else seeing it makes me sick. I get so anxious even thinking about it. So why the fuck would I go out with him if I’m just going to end up disappointing him?”

Mal reaches across the table and takes your hand and you feel the tears start to well in your eyes.

“There is nothing wrong with your body. I’ve seen you naked, you idiot. You’re fucking hot. Where is this coming from?”

You sniffle and wipe your eyes. “You know where.”

“What the fuck did that asshole say to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mal. Please don’t make me talk about it.”

She lets go of your hand and takes a sip of her drink. “Fine. I won’t make you. But just know that whatever it was, he’s wrong.”

“Can we talk about something else now?” you ask.

“Of course, but let me just say one last thing. This guy… he might surprise you. I mean, he’s divorced. He might want to take things slow, too. Not every guy wants to fuck on the first date.”

“Just the guys you date,” you reply, and she gives you a wicked smile.

“Yeah, but if I didn’t want to fuck on the first date, most of them would be willing to wait. And something tells me that this Dennis guy would be willing to wait for you. So promise me one thing. I’m not going to pressure you to ask him out, but if he asks you, I want you to say yes.”

You take a deep breath and release it as your food comes. “I will,” you say. “I promise.”

***

Dennis pulls up to his old house Thursday morning before work dreading having to deal with his ex, but he made a promise and he keeps his promises. It feels strange to ring the doorbell to his own home—the home that he paid for and which he should have kept in the divorce if he wasn’t such a fucking pushover. But he didn’t want to fight over money and assets and all of that. By the end, he just wanted to get it over with. He couldn’t stand one more day of her toxicity and constant degradation, his days filled with nothing but her insults and cruelty. In the final weeks of his marriage, he felt more alone than he does now as a single man.

Dennis grips his toolbox tightly as his ex-wife opens the door in her robe, hair all messed up and a smug smile on her face.

“You’re late,” she says.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, even though he’s right on time. “So, uh, what’s the problem?”

“Same shit. It’s not draining right. Just take care of it, will you? I have shit to do.”

Dennis hears a man’s voice call out from upstairs—from the bedroom, his bedroom. “Who’s that, babe?” the man asks.

“No one important,” she calls out to him, smiling at Dennis as she twirls a strand of hair around her finger.

“Yeah, uh, so I’ll just… take a look at it then.”

Dennis heads straight to the kitchen with his head down, not wanting to give his ex the satisfaction of seeing the heat blooming on his cheeks. He knows she did this on purpose, that this is what she wanted. He wouldn’t be shocked to find that there’s not actually anything wrong with the dishwasher (although there is). He’s halfway done fixing it when he hears the thunk thunk thunk of the headboard on the wall upstairs, the stranger in his bed moaning and his ex-wife shouting all sorts of filth as he fucks her.

“You fuck me so good, baby. Yeah, just like that. God I love your fucking cock. Feels so good.”

Dennis tries to drown out her sounds by turning on the tv in the kitchen but he’s heard enough already—enough to bring him right back to that dark place he used to live in. He hears her voice in his ear.

You have a bad penis, Dennis. All that cock and no idea what to do with it. You’ll never be able to fuck me right. You’re the worst I’ve ever had. Don’t kiss me. Don’t touch me. You disgust me.

Dennis leaves the dishwasher job unfinished as he walks out the door and slams it behind him. He knows she’ll laugh when she sees he didn’t finish, probably make some joke to her new man about how she never finished when she was with him. But this was a new level of cruelty, even for her. He’s angry, sure, and he wants to hate her but he doesn’t because Dennis doesn’t hate people even when they deserve it. Instead, he takes all that hatred and turns it on himself. But today, at least, he took a stand. He walked out the door, telling himself that she’s not worthy of his help or his kindness, and she will never get it again. He makes a promise to himself to reserve his kindness for people who deserve it, tells himself he’s done letting people walk all over him. He thinks about Jax coming home in a few days and he decides to dig deep and find some strength. He’ll need it for what is sure to be a tough transition.

Because he’s worried about bringing Jax home. Dennis has been preparing the house for his arrival, buying him the type of treats and toys you said he likes, a brand new Casper dog bed and a nice fuzzy blanket for his spot on the couch. He’s been cleaning like crazy (even though he keeps his place very neat to begin with) and all the while he’s been thinking the worst. What if he doesn’t like it here? What if he doesn’t like me? What if he misses you and wants to go back?

Dennis wouldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t want to leave you either. When he’s not worrying about Jax’s homecoming, he’s thinking about you—how desperate you seemed to get away from him after you’d made the mistake of inviting him for coffee. That call from your roommate was a convenient excuse to leave, but he stops short of believing you a liar. No, you just got a lucky break, because what reason would you have for wanting to stay? You’d given him all the information he needed; that’s what you were there for. And what did Dennis do but talk about his ex and his fucking divorce?

Dennis replays your “date” over and over again in his mind, only in his fantasy conversations with you, he is the man he wants to be instead of the man he is. He asks you questions about yourself. He tells you how smart and sweet and beautiful you are. He tells you that he wants to take you out anywhere you want to go and do anything you want to do. And in his waking dream, you say yes and you tell him how handsome he is, how much you want him, all the things you’d let him do to you. And the man he wants to be can actually do those things instead of just having a sad wank watching other men do them in pornos.

Which is exactly what he spends his Friday night doing. With only a few short hours left until he goes to pick up Jax (and sees you again), his mind is racing with thoughts of everything that could go wrong. He tries to distract himself by having a few beers and watching baseball but he can’t quiet his mind. No, there’s only one thing that’ll put him right to sleep. He grabs his phone and gets in bed in just his boxers, scrolling his favorite Twitter porn account until he finds a girl who looks enough like you if he squints. He pulls his cock out and strokes himself hard and slow as the man in the video eats the girl out until she’s shaking and pulling his hair. It’s only 2 minutes long but that’s more than enough time for Dennis, especially once he closes his eyes and pictures your face and what it might look like contorted with bliss and moaning his name.

He wants to make you feel that way, wants to taste you on his tongue and make you scream for him. He knows he can’t, though. Even if by some miracle you’d let him anywhere near you, he could never make you cum like that. The last time he tried to go down on his ex, she laughed at him, told him he was no good at it, and made him watch as she used her clit suction toy on herself—talking shit the whole time about how easily replaced he was by a piece of plastic with a motor. The idea of trying with you, of disappointing you, makes him want to curl up and die.

But Dennis would give anything just to touch you again—just another brush of your hand like the one that set him on fire and had him half-hard in his pants in public within seconds. And he’s sure you noticed; you were so horribly embarrassed and practically ran away from him, because you’re a nice girl who doesn’t need to associate herself with a touch-starved loser who pops a boner when a woman’s fingers graze his knuckles. As badly as he wants to see you in the morning, he’s dreading it, because he knows it’ll be the last time. Once he has Jax home, there are no more excuses for him to text you or come see you, and he knows he doesn’t have the balls to ask you out. Even if you said yes, you’d realize soon enough it was a mistake. No, tomorrow is the end of his delusions of you and him. He just hopes to God he can make it through without embarrassing himself.

***

You get to work early Saturday morning, wanting to spend as much time with Jax as possible before he leaves. You feed him his breakfast and take him out for his morning walk—a nice, long one today, because it’s the last one—and you start to cry on your way back inside. When he hears you sniffle, Jax looks up at you with his sweet eyes full of concern.

“It’s ok, Jax,” you tell him. “You’re gonna be so happy.”

He nuzzles up against your thigh as you walk him back to his pen and part of you considers leaving now just so you don’t have to watch him walk out. If you’re honest, though, it’s because you’re scared to see Dennis after making such a fool of yourself. Mal is convinced he’s going to ask you on a date today but you know he won't. He hasn’t texted you since your disastrous coffee date—not that he has any real reason to, but you thought that maybe he might have some last-minute Jax-related matters to discuss. But nope. Nothing. Radio silence. As much as it’s going to rip your heart out to see Jax go, you stare at the clock, wishing you could speed up time and just get it all over with. Once Jax is gone, so is Dennis. Then you can stop thinking about him and all the what-ifs and just go back to normal. You can stop wanting things you can’t have.

You’re in your office reviewing a new application when you hear his voice at the front desk. Your heart starts thumping in your chest because you know you have to go out there and slap a smile on your face for him and for Jax and make sure everything goes smoothly but you just want to hide in the bathroom and cry. You take a quick look at yourself in the mirror and see the complete mess you’ve made of yourself—all puffy eyes and smudged mascara. You’re such a wreck that you have to laugh, and even though you try to do a quick touch-up on your makeup, it’s pointless. You look like shit. You feel like shit. You just want to go home and curl up with Badger and a box of wine and watch sad movies until you pass out.

“Hey Dennis!” you say, thinking that the false cheer in your voice and in your smile must be completely obvious. “Today’s the big day!”

He looks as nervous as you feel, standing there with his hands shoved into his pockets and shuffling his feet. “Yeah,” he says. “So, uh, how does this-” He stops talking when he finally gets a look at you, and he furrows his brow. “Are you ok?” he asks, his concern genuine, and you almost start to cry again.

“Oh, totally!” you lie. “Just… uh… you know. High pollen count today. Anyway, why don’t you come into my office and we can fill out the final paperwork and then we’ll get you boys home.”

You can feel his large presence a few steps behind you as you walk to your office, all the way telling yourself keep it together keep it together don’t be crazy keep it together. Dennis sits opposite you in a folding chair that is much too small for his broad frame and you almost laugh. You can’t keep the smile off your face, though.

“What?” he asks, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses.

“It’s just… you’re a little big for that chair. Do you want me to get you another one?”

He looks down at his body, as if he’s only just realizing how massive he is in comparison to the seat, and he shrugs. “I’m ok,” he says, but you can see you’ve made him self-conscious and you’re already wishing you’d kept your damn mouth shut.

“Here are the papers. Nothing too complicated,” you say, handing him a few sheets. “You just fill those out and sign them and I’ll go get your boy!”

You rush out of the room before he can say anything and make a pit stop in the bathroom. You talk to yourself in the mirror. “Get your fucking shit together. What the fuck is wrong with you?” And then you hear a toilet flush and Betsy comes out looking radiant as always. She takes one look at you and she knows.

“Jax leaving?”

“Yeah,” you answer. “I just… I need a minute. Can you make sure he’s all ready to go? Dennis is in my office filling out the final paperwork and I just… I can’t go out there yet.”

“Sure thing,” she says. “And, hey, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure Dennis would let you see as much of Jax and of him as you want to.”

You spin around to face her. “Why do you say that?” you ask.

“I saw the way he looked at you,” she replies. “That dopey lovestruck look. That’s how Jack used to look at me.”

“He still looks at you like that, Bets.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess he does. Anyway, just thought you should know. I’ll go take care of Jaxy. You stay here and get that shit of yours together.”

You take a minute or two to just breathe, and when you return to your office you find all 80 pounds of Jax sitting on Dennis’s lap in the tiny chair.

“Oh my God,” you say. “I have to take a picture. Can I take a picture?”

Dennis is all smiles and giggles as Jax licks every inch of his face and neck.

“Yeah,” he says, coming up for air. “Go for it.”

You grab your phone and take a few shots and then a video, telling yourself they will be great for the website but really you want them, too—a memory of a happy Jax on his way to his new happy home.

“Get down, Jax,” you say. “That chair is about to collapse.”

Jax does as he’s commanded and bounds over to you, jumping up to give you a few kisses, too. And that’s when you lose it. You try not to, but it’s pointless. The dam breaks and the tears pour out and you fall to your knees in front of Jax, wrapping your arms around him.

“I’m gonna miss you, buddy,” you say into his fur. “I love you. You’re gonna have such a good life. I just know it.”

You hear Dennis get up out of the chair and come kneel next to you, and when he places his big hand on your back, it just makes you sob harder.

“I’m so sorry,” you say. “This is so unprofessional. I never do this. I usually just cry at home like a normal person.”

“Hey,” he says, his deep voice soft and soothing. “I meant what I said the other day. You can come see us any time you want.”

“No,” you say. “He needs to adjust. It would just confuse him.”

“What… What if… I want you to come see us?”

You look up at him and wipe the tears from your eyes and you can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows deep.

“You… you’d want me to?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I would. I really really would. We both would, right Jax?” Jax barks right in your face and you laugh. “See? How can you say no to that?”

“Well, I never could say no to this guy,” you reply, pulling Jax’s ears down and letting go so they pop back up into place.

“So you’ll come over?” he asks, all nerves again like you hadn’t already agreed. “Once we get settled in?”

“I’d love to come visit,” you reply, looking from Jax to Dennis. “The both of you. Now get the hell out of here before I start crying again, will you? Time to take this good boy home.”

Dennis stands up and holds his hand out for you to hoist yourself up off the floor, but you both pull a little too hard and you end up stumbling into him, catching yourself on the hard muscle of his chest. You let your hands linger a beat too long as you stare at him, his hand still holding yours and his other hand cradling your elbow. He licks his plump bottom lip and your whole body feels like its throbbing.

“Sorry,” you whisper, unable to find your voice. “Clumsy me.”

You both let go at the same time. Dennis straightens his polo shirt where you’d bunched it with your fists and you wipe your hands on your jeans because now you’re starting to sweat. You haven’t been that close to a man in months, and you’d never been that close to one so fucking huge with such pretty eyes who smells so good.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, still breathless from your little accident.

You lean down and give Jax a kiss on the head and you watch the two of them walk down the hall and out the door, your heart still racing from the absolute insanity of what just happened. You need to call Mal. You need to call her now. You shut the door of your office and dial her up and she picks up on the second ring.

“So,” she says, “what happened? Did he ask you out?”

“Sort of,” you say. “He wants me to come over and visit and I may have accidentally felt him up.”

You have to pull the phone away from your ear because Mal is cackling so loud. “Oh, yeah, ‘accidentally’—right.”

“No, I sort of just… I don’t know… stumbled into the great expanse of his chest and maybe I stayed there longer than I should have.”

“And what did he do when you groped his man titties, hmm?”

“Nothing,” you say. “He just sort of… stood there and, like, held my… I don’t know, Mal. It was an accident. It doesn’t mean-”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. It does absolutely mean whatever you think it doesn’t mean. Now hurry up and finish work because we’re going to shopping to get you something cute to wear over to Big Boy’s house.”

“Mal, it’s not a date. And don’t call him that.”

“It’s a fucking date. It counts. And I’ll call him whatever I want. See you later, you minx.”

Mal hangs up before you have a chance to tell her she’s wrong. It’s not a date. He’s just being nice. He saw how upset you were and he wanted to make you feel better. If anything, he’s a friend. Yes, a friend, being friendly. And the other part… well, that was an accident. Best to just forget about it. It didn’t mean anything. You fell, he caught you. That’s what friends do.

PART THREE >>>

Taglist: @littlelioncub43

[ygreczed-3]

The Walking Dead/Detroit Become Human AU

(so basically I was tempted to make a post to apologize about the mess my blog has become lately - feels like I’m posting AUs, artworks, sketches and comic updates in such a chaotic way… I’m really sorry about it ahaha 😅 Hopefully it will get better soon)

So this post is me drawing for hours and forgetting to eat on my break day (I finally did !!! Don’t worry ahaha) because I became obsessed with an idea again. Also I like to make concept arts and storyboards as if I was working on a professional project for a TV show/animation. I find it fascinating ! This time I don’t really have any plot or finished story, I just wanted to draw these scenes badly so… I just did.

I’d like to draw your attention to Connor’s curly hair and Hank’s design (strongly inspired by Kristoff from Frozen). I just LOVE these details.

⚠️Remember this is NOT a new series. Just me having fun with characters and a universe I like (aka The Walking Dead) ! 

Anyway, more ideas below 👀

*POW*

Hank open his eye again. The walker was shot in the head. Hank pushes the walker away, it falls dead on the concrete.

Looking up, he sees Connor with a gun.

Hank : Jesus… Thank you.  I thought I was…

Connor : I wouldn’t have wasted a bullet for you if it wasn’t for your kid back there. Your car, does it work? Hank : … Yeah… I just… I was looking for some gas when… well… Can I drive you somewhere? Connor : Not really, I’m looking for someone.

___________________________

Hank and Cole are walking in a gas station with jerricans and pour what’s left of gas from the pump.

Cole : Dad, that mister from earlier, do you think he’s gonna be okay ? Hank : I think, pumpkin. He was the one helping us. Cole : Being alone sounds dangerous… He should have come with us. Hank : …

___________________________

It’s nighttime, Cole is sleeping in the backseats with a blanket, Hank is sleeping in the driver seat. He wakes up brutally as he hears something tapping softly against the car window : the young man from earlier. He rolls the window down.

Hank : You ? Connor : I’ve looked around the whole city. Now it’s too dark… I need a safe place to have some sleep, I was thinking you could let me in. You owe me after all. Hank : … Yeah sure. Get in.

Connor gets in the car. He takes his bag off and keeps it by his side, out of Hank’s reach. He takes his coat off but keeps a gun near him. Hank stares at him with narrowed eyes.

Hank : … You’re safe here, really. You can trust me. Connor : Sorry, but I only trust myself.

___________________________

It’s dark outside, Hank can’t really sleep with the stranger next to him. His guts dictate him to stay alert. He watches carefully as Connor turns his head to him, half-opening his eyes.

Connor: Can’t sleep ? Hank : … Well you were right… I don’t know you. What about you ? Did you sleep a little ? Connor : … No. I’m too… cautious. My brain won’t let me sleep with a stranger next to me. Hank : … My name’s Hank. You ? Connor : What the hell are you doing ? Hank : We agreed we couldn’t sleep next to strangers. I’m introducing myself. Connor : It won’t make it any better… *after a silence* I’m Connor. Hank : Nice to meet you. Connor: … Where were you before ? You… you act like a newborn in this hell… Hank : … I had a neighbor with one of those bunkers… with tons of food, water, enough to live for months. We… We were hiding there with her until… until a few weeks. Connor : What happened ? Hank : She thought she had heard a chopper. Thought someone was out there to rescue us… she opened the hatch and she was… attacked by those things… Connor: … the kid… he’s yours? Hank : Yeah… Cole. Connor: … Where’s her mom ? Hank : He’s never known her. Connor: Sorry.  Hank : Don’t be.

*silence*

Hank : I think… I’m starting to relax… we should try to sleep huh ?

Connor is already sleeping.

___________________________

Connor takes his backpack as Hank and Cole take a breakfast with some fire.

Hank : You sure you don’t want to eat anything ? Connor : No thanks, I have my own stock. You should save your food for your kid. Hank : … Hey, if you ever need to find us… after you’ve found what  you’re looking for, I have a police radio. Frequency 58,7 kHz. Connor: I won’t need it but- thanks. Good luck.

Connor leaves.

___________________________

Cole : What should we do now? Hank : … We need to find more food… and weapons. I’ll go downtown today. You… You’ll stay here alright? Cole : No I… I want to stay with you… Hank : I know you’re scared Cole… But it’s too dangerous. You’ll be safe hidden in the car. Cole : You’ll be quick? Hank : Back before sunset, pinky swear.

___________________________

Hank finds an axe on a bar counter.

Suddenly : *BONG BONG BONG BONG*

Hank : What the-

He runs outside and hides against a wall as walkers pass nearby, heading to the source of the ringing.

He looks up and sees Connor climbing on a ladder but a Walker is trying to grab his leg.

Hank comes and kills the monster. Connor : You..! Follow me !

On the rooftop, they see the church. It’s an automatic bell, the walkers are massively getting around the building. There is something painted on the wall that says “Find Jericho” with black paint and scribbled under it “Find 9s”

Connor : Nines… Hank : What is Jericho ? Connor : … A safe place for survivors. It’s hidden… to keep the thieves and killers away. Hank : … The church. Connor : What ? Hank : Jericho, it has to do with the bible. The message is written on a church’s wall. It’s not a coincidence, there might be… a hint in there. Connor : … But we can’t get inside with those creeps around… Hank : … Maybe they leave when the church stops ringing the bells. Connor : Or maybe we should try to lead them away with… Hank : With what ? Connor : … Your car.

___________________________

Connor : So, let me get it straight. You drive around the town honking. It will attract the creeps away from the church. I get inside the church and look for any kind of hint. When the bells start ringing I get out before the creeps come back. And what do we do with Cole ?

Hank : He’s going with you. I don’t want to have him in the car with hundreds of undeads trying to get me. Connor : … I don’t- Hank : Don’t worry. He’s a smart kid. He will do as you say. Right Cole? Cole : …Hmm. Connor: … Fine. Let’s do it.

___________________________

Connor and Cole sneak into the church. Connor kills two of the Walkers still inside the church as Cole follows him cautiously. 

Cole : … Look. *he points out a book on the altar* Connor : … It’s a bible… The chapter about the Battle of Jericho… it can’t be a coincidence. *They look up and see something written with old blood on the wall behind the altar. It says “Rahab the harlot defied the King of Jericho. Here lies the key to the fortress.”* Cole : What’s a harlot? Connor : … You should… ask your father. Now… I have to read… and think. Cole : … We only have one hour left before the bells ring again… Connor : I know.

___________________________

Connor : … I don’t get it ! There must be something I’m missing ! Cole : … Connor, I found a map ! Connor : Not now Cole, I’m trying to focus… Cole : Connor, look ! Connor : Cole please I really need-…

Cole shows him the map… there is a “9s” written on it.

Connor : Nines ! Cole : Does it help ? Connor : … I don’t know-…

The bells ring suddenly.

Connor : Crap… we have to get out of here. Give me your hand, buddy.

___________________________

Hank is waiting for them : he has lit a fire and when Cole sees him, he lets go of Connor’s hand and runs to hug his dad.

Hank : I gotcha, pumpkin. *looking up at Connor* Did you find something ? Connor : I think…  Hank : You think ? Connor : I have this map my brother left for me inside the church… there was some kind of riddle on the wall, and it must have something to do with this but… there is nothing noted on it. Hank : What’s the riddle ? Connor : “Rahab the harlot defied the King of Jericho, here lies the key to the fortress.” Rahab was a prostitute, she helped Joshua by hiding spies he sent inside the city… and Joshua spared her when he took the fortress. But I… I don’t see the connection. Hank : … Let me see the map.

Connor gives it. Cole sits next to his father, near the fire, and soon falls asleep. After some time thinking and overthinking it, Hank finally points to a town on the map. A city called Defiance.

Hank : Look. Connor : Defiance… Of course. The key lies in Rahab’s defiance… Defiance is a town… Fuck- You’re a genius…! Hank : Man, I was feeling like a Detective again… felt nice for a moment. Connor: You were a Detective? Hank : A police Lieutenant, to be specific. But yeah. Detective works too. Connor : … I don’t think the treasure hunt is done yet. You’re gonna need your supercop sense again ! Hank : … It’s good to see you all excited. Feels like meeting the real Connor under the survivor’s shell. Connor: It’s nice… that Cole and you don’t have that shell yet… humanity is a rare thing to find down there. Hank : … So, who is “Nines” ? Connor : My little brother. We lived together, in the same group of survivors. Our camp was attacked… we got separated. Hank : Looks like he’s smart. He solved the riddle all by himself. It took the two of us to understand the hint. Connor : He’s always been a nerd. Hank : Pffft… Well we should try to get some sleep. We should be able to reach Stoneton, then we’ll have to find more gas.

Hank gets up and carries Cole to the car seats.

Connor: … Hank…? Hank : Yup ? Connor : Can I… Can I come with you two ? I could go to Defiance by myself but… if you’re heading there too, maybe we could… Hank : What the heck ? Of course you’re coming with us. With our two half-brains we’re gonna need each other’s help to find Jericho and your brother, don’t you think ? Connor *chuckles* : Right.

[absolutepokemontrash]

Kid!MC/Teen!MC Needs someone to go to Parent Teacher Interviews for Them and Guess Who’s Available?

Masterlist

The brothers being bad babysitters/dad figures is something I love very much, I bet you all could already tell that considering the Fic/Headcanon series I have going on. I would just like you all to know that Asmo’s section is based on a true story. Anyhoo~ onto the Headcanons!

Why? Why Him? (Lucifer)

Is MC really dumb, or are they just a kid? No one knows.

Obviously MC asked Lucifer, the only competent one in the house, the most professional, hard-working, controlled-

MC got their things together and gave Lucifer the run down on their teacher(s) before Lucifer got too absorbed in extolling his own virtues in an intense internal monologue.

News flash Lucifer, this isn’t a Shakespeare play, you can’t have a dramatic monologue or soliloquy about how great you think you are

At the actual meeting, if MC is in there, no, MC is not actually in there. Lucifer will speak to the teacher as if MC isn’t there. As someone whose not a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down kind of person, Lucifer expects the teacher to behave the same and not spare MC’s feelings.

Feelings do not deserve to be spared if MC is being a nuisance. No fake-kid/little sibling of his gets to be the class idiot!

If MC’s doing very well academically, he expects to be pointed at projects or tests they’ve done and the grade on it. It really makes him proud to see MC doing well.

Even if they’re not the best academically, if they’re not failing and they’re doing well in other aspects of school, he’s proud.

If MC really struggles in a school environment and just hates it there but they’re still keeping their head above water, they get a head pat of approval.

On the drive home, if MC came with him to the parent teacher interviews and everything went well, he just happens to turn onto the street that has a Baskin Robin’s or something of that caliber.

If they didn’t go, he picks something up on the way back.

No fun treats if MC is being a disruptive little heathen in class, no kid under Lucifer’s care is going to be the class Mammon. Not on his watch.

MC was busily stuffed their face with the treats that were gifted to them. Lucifer had to hold himself back from rolling his eyes at the kid’s blatant disregard for basic table manners when it came to sweets.

“Is everything the teacher said true?” Lucifer asked, MC looked up at him with a smile.

“Yep!”

“Good, good.” Lucifer held out his hand and patted them on the head. “You’re doing well. Keep it up.”

“Geez,” MC mumbled as they continued to stuff their face. “Can you get anymore affectionate?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, MC. It’s uncouth.” Lucifer said sternly. “Besides, I’ll have you know that many people enjoy my headpats. I’m quite affectionate.”

“Really now? Name one person.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He and MC stared each other down, one pair of eyes much more nervous than the other. Spoiler, MC was still calmly eating their treat as they maintained eye contact.

“…Cerberus.”

“If you’re reaching for Cerberus, you’ve already lost.”

…his pride was under attack. Right in front of his desert…

“You’re grounded.”

“Worth it.”

*Rides by on a Skateboard* School is for NERDS (Mammon)

Pff! Stupid human! He’s not goin’ to some lame parent teacher conference-

Wait! What’s with that face?! Ugh… fine. MC’s gone and forced his hand with those damn puppy dog eyes…

Mammon does not dress up for this event, he dresses like he would every day, maybe throw on some designer stuff to let all the parents and teachers know he’s hot shit.

If MC goes with him, he pulls up in his beloved car and takes up two parking spaces (pure evil.). Every parent present already hates him, but at least the other kids there are impressed with MC’s sweet ride. MC would have gained some street cred if Mammon hadn’t managed to trip up the stairs to the classroom in front of everyone.

He’ll act way to casual with the teacher, turning the parent chair backwards and sitting down so he can lean on the seat.

Mammon gets bored crazy quickly while the teacher lists and explains all the stuff the class is learning, so his eyes begin to wander to any and all displays in the classroom. Projects, annoying posters, class pet, anything is more interesting than this teacher’s explanation.

When MC finally becomes the main topic of the interview, he’s all ears. MC’s doing great in school academically? Ha! Nerd! Maybe giving MC a playful noogie and interrupting the whole interview wasn’t a good idea, but whatever.

If MC’s failing anything, or just isn’t that gifted when it comes to grades, it’s very much a “Aw man me too” from Mammon.

This teacher is speaking with the Great Mammon, the first demon in RAD’s history to fail three semesters in a row. If this teacher thinks bad grades will phase him, they’re dead wrong.

Grades don’t mean anythin’ about smarts anyway! I mean, look at him! He’s a fuckin’ genius but he can’t get through a history test without sobbing even though he LIVED THROUGH MOST OF IT.

MC gets treats no matter what’s up in class. Though, if MC didn’t go with him, he’s likely to forget and just order something for the two of them when he gets back home.

“Goddamn teachers and their rambling!” Mammon whined, grabbing a slice of pizza from the open box on his coffee table. “You owe me, MC! Ya really do!”

“Yeah yeah yeah.” MC said, they leaned over and rolled a pizza slice into a pizza-scroll then proceeded to eat it like a veggie roll. “How do you think I feel, listening to them every day? You know how long it takes to get to the actual class material?”

“Five years?”

“Ugh! Five years if I’m lucky! I swear, I know more about my teacher’s grievances with like… five of my classmates than I do about trigonometry, and guess which one’s on the test next week?”

Mammon winced in sympathy, then remembered he was supposed to be whining and went back to it. “School’s shit and a waste of money, ya should drop out as soon as you can and help me run my new business.”

“You mean your pyramid scheme?”

“It’s not a pyramid scheme, MC! It’s legit! It’s a multi-tiered marketing-”

“It’s a pyramid scheme.”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SOCIAL INTERACTION (Leviathan)

Everyone else must have been sick or something for MC to have asked Levi. He’d flat out refuse to go otherwise.

So, Levi couldn’t exactly go to the interview in his usual “I haven’t left my room or changed clothes in eight weeks” look. With the help of MC, he was able to find his military uniform at the back of his closet.

Asmo nearly fainted when he saw Levi in the uniform, not because “oooo, a man in uniform~”, it was because the outfit was so crumpled and wrinkled that it made it physically painful to look at. No time to iron and wash, the conference was in an hour!

Levi (and MC if they went with) rolled up to the school in a less than impressive ride, but one look at the uniform and all the other people present went “yep, time to be respectful (tm)”

For the first time in his life Levi was more intimidating than Lucifer! And he wasn’t even trying!

When the teacher starts explaining the course material, Levi spaces off in horror as he realizes he remembers literally nothing from school (AND HE’S STILL IN SCHOOL!) all that’s running through his head is “A squared + B squared = C squared” and “the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell”.

The actual interview was the least interesting part of the trip, the real stuff happened when Levi passed by some art on display in the hallway and something caught his eye-

Those colours… that hair… that adorable smile..!

IT WAS HER! LEVI’S PRECIOUS RURI-CHAN IN ALL HER GLORY!

Levi immediately started fawning over the art class fanart and by sheer coincidence, one of the kids walking through the hallway happened to notice.

The kid asked MC if their… parent and or guardian liked anime. MC responded with “obviously.” Levi then asked the kid if they drew his adorable Ruri-chan. The kid said no, and that they drew the My Hero Academia fanart a few rows down.

Levi was absolutely floored that there were two anime fans in one class, then his entire world shattered when MC explained there was more anime art inside the art room and other classrooms.

H-hang on… did that mean that… a lot of people here… liked anime..?

Levi needed a while to process. No snacks on the way home…

Levi and MC were sat in the back of their Uber, Levi, the Avatar of Envy himself, was having his entire sense of reality warped. S-so much anime fanart… in a school of all places..! What did this mean for the future of anime?!

“Levi. Stop.” MC sighed. “If this were an anime, the camera angle would be doing that thing where it’s right on the bridge of your nose and dramatic music plays in the background.”

“S-so many kids in your class like a-anime huh..?” Levi stuttered, weakly trying to smile. “Must be nice..?”

“Oh, that’s just my class. The other classes and grades have their fans too.”

“Oh… really?”

“Levi,” MC stopped looking out the window and looked at the otaku that was having a full scale silent mental breakdown. “Anime isn’t even a niche interest anymore. It’s a pretty casual thing to watch now. At least a third of my class watches- Levi?”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHH! ANIME! A THIRD OF THE CLASS?! ANIME… HIS PRECIOUS ANIME… WAS BECOMING A NORMIE INTEREST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-

“Levi?” MC waved their hand in front of their spaced out demon’s face. “Leviiiii? Okay he’s dead.”

The Know it All (Satan)

Ah, a smart choice, MC. Satan would be glad to help further their education. He’ll do everything in his power to make sure that the human’s brain is fed all that sweet sweet knowledge.

Satan can’t dress himself normally, MC had to coax him into a suit jacket, but he still only wore one sleeve.

MC was coming along to the interviews whether they wanted to or not, it’s important to hear what they need to improve on from the teacher themselves after all.

The two arrived pretty early, so Satan asked MC for a tour of the school. It was pretty tame until they reached the library. Satan was horrified at the state of some of the books…

Their spines lined with duct tape… pages missing and torn… someone apparently used a taco as a book mark…

The first thing Satan does when it’s time for his interview is demand the teacher take better care of the library, even though they’re not the librarian. MC tries to explain this, but Satan is too distraught to listen to reason.

He enjoyed hearing about the course material, but he made it known if MC thinks the assignments are too easy that they need to be given more challenging work. THEIR BRAIN NEEDS TO BE STIMULATED DAMN IT.

It was up to MC to either agree with Satan and nod to the teacher, or make frantic eye contact with them to try and communicate “NO DON’T PLEASE”.

Similar to (ugh) Lucifer, as long as MC is doing their best, he’s happy for them.

…but if they are in any way in the running for valedictorian he is HELPING THEM WIN.

He decided to stop at a cafe or bookstore to let MC pick out a “congrats on surviving your pitiful school” present after the interviews.

MC gleefully perused the shelves of the bookstore, there were so many books too look at…

“I’ll buy you as many books as you’d like, MC, just,” Satan shuddered slightly. “Promise me you won’t treat them like those poor library books…”

MC put their hand over their heart. “I swear on the duct taped book spines that I will never treat a book like that.”

“Good… good…” Satan breathed a sigh of relief and went back to looking at his book about cats.

“Are you… reading a Warrior Cats book..?” MC asked tentatively.

“Yes, why?”

“Satan, put that back.”

“I Will Seduce the Teacher For the Sake of Your Grades, Don’t Worry.” (Asmodeus)

Oh MC dear! He’d be delighted to go! Just let him get ready~

Asmo may not be the best choice, but he was at least going to be the best dressed person at that conference. (And MC just had to come too so all the other parents could be jealous of how well coordinated their outfits are)

He teased MC a little by saying he was going to flirt with their teacher to make sure they passed the class, but he was just kidding! …but he made sure to ask if their teacher was cute, he needed to know!

While waiting for his turn, Asmo flirts with some of the single parents, if he doesn’t see a wedding ring, they’re fair game.

Once his time slot arrived, MC realized that Asmo is one of those “my child has done and will do nothing wrong ever” types. This may have ended up working in MC’s favour if they were a class nuisance.

If MC is doing very well in sports, clubs, grades, anything, Asmo is fawning over them and gushing to the teacher about how great, smart and adorable they are.

Asmo surprisingly does not exactly flirt with the teacher, he was just teasing MC after all. But um… if MC’s teacher just happens to be cute and young, he may turn up the charm, just a little. Enough to make the teacher giggle and make MC cover their face in embarrassment.

After the interviews Asmo will probably schedule a nice day out for the two of them, shopping, a movie, mani pedis, something fun!

The real weird stuff happens in the months after the interviews… if Asmo did lightly flirt with the teacher, MC gets quite a few questions about their guardian. Questions that ask if Asmo is single in not as many words…

Oh lord, MC’s teacher developed a crush on Asmo.

Nail painting night was supposed to be a fun occasion, but MC was hopping mad and embarrassed. Asmo didn’t seem to notice as he continued to paint the little human’s nails.

“And then I told Phenex to get lost. The nerve of that little monster, right MC?” When MC didn’t reply, Asmo looked up and tilted his head. “MC?”

MC’s angry face would have been much more threatening if they weren’t just so adorable, but it was getting the message across.

“MC..?”

“Asmo.” MC’s glare deepened. “My teacher wants to know if you’re single.”

Asmo blinked a few times, before he hit his tongue to keep from laughing. “Really now~. I knew they’d be madly in love with me-”

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIIIIIIIIIIIS?!”

Oh My Demon King is That a BAKE SALE?! (Beel)

Of course Beel said yes! He’d gladly go to MC’s parent teacher interview!

He even put on a nice outfit :D he ended up looking a bit like a secret serviceman guarding MC, the tiny president.

Beel stopped for McDonald’s on the way there, all the other kids were so jealous of MC when they stepped out of the car eating fries.

But a little something something caught Beel’s eye when he and MC walked into the school… was that a… bake sale?

MC quickly explained that the bake sale was fundraiser for their class trip that year and the snacks weren’t complimentary. He had to pay.

And pay Beel did. He cleared out the entire table. MC’s grade’s overnight trip was going to be decadent as hell. That was no longer a crowd funded thing, that trip was privately funded by a tall buff ginger secret service member and this tiny in comparison child.

Kids are incredibly blunt, just like Beel, so when a random kindergarten kid wandered over, looked up at Beel, and very knowingly said “you’re very tall”. Beel was like “yeah”. The kid then said “what’s it like being that tall?”

Beel’s response to this kid’s question was to pick them up and hold them for a few seconds before placing them back down. For just a few moments this kid knew what it like to be over 6’4. Of course, more kids swarmed in and asked to be picked up.

Sure it was cute, but Beel now has an army of kids ranging from kindergarteners to third graders.

Finally, the conference actually began. Beel snacked the entire time and dutifully listened to everything the teacher had to say.

After the interviews are over, he checks with MC to make sure everything the teacher said was true and that they weren’t lying. If all was well, the two made their exit.

They stopped at Wendy’s on the way home.

“I’m so full…” MC groaned, Beel held up a massive cookie.

“So I can eat this?”

“No. Gimme that.” MC took a very defeated bite out of it. “My stomach says no but my mouth says yes…”

“I don’t want you to get a stomachache, MC,” Beel said worriedly. “No more snacks.”

“It’s a little late for that. It’s past nine and I’m still eating, there’s no way I’m getting to sleep at a reasonable hour.”

“Oh…” Beel mumbled. “I may have not completely thought this through.”

“*Snore* Huh? Wha? MC’s Grades? Uh… Fuck…” (Belphie)

MC must be failing a class or something because why on earth would they pick Belphie otherwise.

They ask him to go while he’s delirious from just waking up from a nap, he sort of half nods and mumbles some gibberish before going back to sleep.

MC had to basically carry his ass to the school. Belphie drooled all over them in the waiting room, and when it was their time to go into the interview, Belphie had to be manually put into the chair and slapped awake.

He barely listens, he just sits and nods along with whatever the teacher is saying. The teacher could say MC brought an alligator to school and he’d just go “uh huh…” “mmmph… yep…” “really now?” then yawn.

The only thing that could possibly get Belphie to be interested is if MC is studying space. If they are, than boy howdy is Belphie suddenly interested in their education.

Other than that? *snore*

If MC is in fact failing or doing poorly, MC’s teacher asks to see another one of MC’s guardians at a later date. Their plan failed miserably.

MC drags Belphie out of the school and yells at him for not helping them. Belphie, still sleep delirious, tries to press the snooze button. MC does not have a snooze button.

“Belphie!” MC shouted, shaking the Avatar of Sloth awake. The House of Lamentation’s resident bastard was somehow sleeping standing up outside. “HOW COULD YOU?!”

“Eh?” Belphie half-snorted and looked around confused. “What’d I do? Where are we?”

“At my school! You said that you’d go to my parent teacher interviews!”

“…MC I don’t think I’d pass well for you.”

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO GO AS MY GUARDIAN!”

“Sheesh,” Belphie murmured while he rubbed the remaining sleep from his eyes. “You humans are so noisy.”

MC looked up at their dearest demon friend, and gave him their best glare. “I’m going to take all your fancy temperature changing pillows and switch them with normal pillows you traitorous bastard.”

[copperbadge]

Calling Museum Staff

So, this started out as a joke that isn’t even on @letsgostealthelouvre yet because it’s still in the queue, but now I have genuine concerns stemming from being a) a professional data nerd and b) an amateur museum nerd. Thus I have a story to tell and a question to ask of anyone in my readership who might work in museum catalogue-keeping or museum-specific website design. Or, you know, if you work at the Louvre, that would also be helpful. 

I am reading through the Louvre’s entire online collection, chronologically. Starting around page 200 or so, when I should have been in 1800 BCE, I noticed a sculpture that was definitely not from 1800 BCE. It was in fact from the 18th century and had been partially miscatalogued (one of the dates was “-1800 to -1700″, the other one clearly said “18th century”).

It seemed evident that someone had either selected the wrong tickey box or started typing and hit enter on the autocomplete too soon when they were building the record, but this kind of thing happens and I just threw it in the queue with a “lol” and let it slide. 

Here’s the thing, though. As we started to get into the area of 1500 BCE, it started happening a lot. Fully half of page 300 (so, about 3000 records in) is 16th century decorative chinaware, and it keeps going like that for another page or two. And I don’t care if it’s miscatalogued on the website because the website isn’t where scholars of art are going to go to do their actual publishable research, at least generally, but I’m worried that this dating error extends to the museum’s actual catalogue, which means that if you were to search for “hideous china from 1501 to 1601″ in museum records, this stuff might not come up.

It might not seem that serious but in academic terms it can be a real issue if stuff isn’t dated right and therefore isn’t findable. But the Louvre is in France and the website is in French and I don’t know if I should like...locate someone there who speaks English (probably not that hard) and bring this to their attention, or if they’d just think I’m some weird American, or what. I wouldn’t even know who to talk to -- Communications offices generally run museum websites in America, but I don’t know if the same is true in Europe, and would they have anything at all to do with the catalogue beyond getting it loaded into the website? 

I can’t believe I’m actively fretting about a museum’s online catalogue, and I don’t want to get some poor probably-intern who misdated this stuff in trouble, but it gnaws at me.