#I’m sure it sounds like Elmo

[siflshonen]

Alright so do they sell Dynamy plushes yet

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 18) tw: minor character death, injuries, and misogynistic language

masterlist

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He’s far off still, the smoking gun held tight in his hand and aimed up at the sky. A warning shot.  

At first, you don’t quite believe it. He appears like a mirage in the distance after wandering through the desert for days, on the brink of starvation. Like a trick of the eye. You squint against the light, sure that you’ve mistaken the familiar felt pinch front hat and the speckled Appaloosa he sits astride for someone else, a stranger come to save you instead of the man you’ve been desperately pining for since Graves stole you from your home. 

But the longer you stare at the man coming towards you, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his face save for the grim set of his mouth, the harder it is to deny that it really is John. 

Your chest is fit to burst. Heart pumping wildly against your ribcage. The sight of him is revelatory—a burning bush, a stream of light through storm clouds, St Elmo’s fire. The euphoric high is almost overwhelming.

“Son of a bitch,” Graves hisses beneath his breath, hand reaching for the revolver on his belt. 

John is quicker though, firing off another round, this time at the ground between them, alarming Graves enough to make his arm jerk away from his side. Even you yelp. The gunfire cuts your swell of adulation short, bringing you back flush to the surface of the real world again. Graves’ horse scrambles back a few steps, nearly rearing up before Graves gets control of him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, now—” Graves booms, right in your ear, so loud that you wince, curling into yourself. 

The gelding chuffs at John’s approach, unsettled. Graves digs his spurs into the horse’s side when it takes a few nervous steps back, making it whinny in pain. You’d tell him off, but you’ve learned by now to hold your tongue around Graves. He only knows how to impose his authority through pain. 

“Easy, alright—” Graves calls out, holding out the hand not tangled in the reins to show that it’s empty, the revolver still sheathed in its holster. “No one’s gonna do anything stupid.”

The horse John sits astride is the one he never dared to train you on. The one you know would buck you straight off if you tried to hoist yourself up on its saddle. He’s bigger than Buttercup, all muscle and broodsome aura like its owner, and he doesn’t take kindly to strangers. 

When it breathes out, you imagine its breath should smell sulfuric. Fire and brimstone. 

Closer to you now, you can see his eyes under the brim of his hat. He glowers at Graves, the same look you’ve seen only once before, staring through the window of the general store at the scowl carved into his face when he dragged a man across town, but intensified. Not so much as a glimmer of sympathy or understanding in his eyes. Just cold rage. 

The lines in his face are deep from lack of sleep, dark troughs under his eyes. Shoulders stiff; every muscle of his tensed, poised to react. You wonder how long after Graves took you John realized and followed the two of you in pursuit. 

“I’m gonna say this once and you best not try my patience: let the lady go.”

The sound of his voice rumbles through you, making the hair on your arms raise. Seldom have you heard him use that tone of voice, more man than sheriff. 

Graves’ hand tightens on the reins, knuckles going white. You don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that he has the same obsequious look on his face as he did back in town, indignation relegated to his extremities. You can see it in the tensed muscle of his forearms.

“Now Sheriff, you may have the run of this county, but I’ve got the power of the law on my side. The state of New York has issued a warrant for this woman’s arrest.” Graves’ smarmy evocation to the legality of his actions rankles you. He acts like the whole situation is out of his control, that he takes no joy in your apprehension. Simply a matter of duty. 

Not that it seems to make a difference. Even you could tell Graves that. 

“I won’t ask again.” John’s voice is threaded with fury, angrier than you’ve ever heard him speak. 

And true to his words, he doesn’t. The silence stretches between the two men, fraught with tension. Graves is a rigid line at your back. 

He’s the first to break the silence; the first to give. “At least let me show you the warrant, Sheriff,” Graves implores. “I ain’t just some vagrant that’s come and taken the sheriff’s wife without cause—and I assure you, there is cause.”

John doesn’t say a word, blue eyes still severe. Colder than the waters of Cocytus. 

Graves must take his silence as permission because he reaches a hand into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He holds it out to John at first, perhaps expecting the man to come close enough to take it from his hand, but John doesn’t even glance at the hand offering him the arrest warrant, eyes still locked on Graves. 

“See now, I’ll even read it out—” he says, clearing his throat and half turning the paper back to him. “‘Whereas it has been represented to Government that—’”

“Give the letter to my wife,” John cuts him off, gesturing towards the warrant in Graves’ hand with his gun. “She’ll deliver it to me once you’ve handed her over.”

The interruption stuns Graves into silence, the warrant still held in his outstretched arm. He must not be accustomed to men deferring to women instead of him, much less a criminal like you. Your stomach cramps with nerves. The blow to his ego worries you more than John getting his hands on the arrest warrant. His behavior up to this point has been predictable—violent, but unsurprising. You aren’t interested in finding out if losing his temper changes that. 

John’s eyes flick to yours. The first time he’s really looked at you since arriving unannounced, just a quick glance over you to ensure that you’re well. He must not like what he sees because the skin around his eyes tightens. 

The moment of inattention is all Graves needs, eyes trained on it like a hunting dog. John’s eyes barely twitch away to meet yours and Graves draws his gun, his aim wild when he shoots. 

You don’t see what he hits, but the gunfire drives John’s horse into a panic, throwing its head back and rearing up onto its hind legs. Graves fires again and the ground between you explodes, dirt and debris erupting into the air. The horse roars, the sound deep and throaty. 

Graves grabs you by the back of your dress, forcing your back to arch and shoulders to pull back, using you, for all intents and purposes, as a meat shield. You can hear John try to take control of his horse, but it’s near mindless with fear, braying and bucking when Graves fires again, white smoke billowing from the muzzle. Panic seizes you by the throat when John’s horse bucks him right off, bellowing a curse when his body slams to the ground. 

A scream bursts from your throat, but Graves holds you in place before you can slide off the saddle, spitting a tense shut the fuck up into your ear before digging his heel into his horse’s flank and steering him around, beating a hasty retreat. His horse moves in a wide arc until his body is turned back in the direction that Graves was originally heading. 

You struggle against him until the horse moves at a speed too dangerous to chance falling from its back. It covers ground fast, moving at a breakneck speed. 

“Stop—let me down!” you scream, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. The howling wind carries your voice away. 

The violent toing and froing makes it impossible to cast a backward glance and see if John is in pursuit. All of your senses narrow down to what’s in front of you; from the saddle horn digging into your stomach and the air whipping past your face to the feeling of Graves’ breath wafting over the back of your neck as he pants. 

A booming crack fills the air and you scream, fear soaring to an unfathomable height. 

Graves grunts and tenses behind you, his hands spasming around the reins and letting go involuntarily. Then you feel the body behind you slump to the side, his weight almost unbalancing you until he falls off the horse altogether, feet slipping out of the stirrups. 

The blood in your ears masks the sound of his body hitting the ground. Your head whips around to follow the trajectory of Graves’ body, but a wave of vertigo slams into you, a head on collision that forces you to dig your fingers into the horse’s mane and turn your body back around. 

The horse barely notices the body slipping off its back though, tunnel vision on the road ahead. Legs pumping furiously beneath it, kicking up clouds of dust and dirt. You’d have thought the horse would’ve slowed up with the sudden unburdening of the other person astride it, but if anything, it picks up speed. 

You can’t calm down enough to catch your breath; it gallops ahead of you as well, your vision growing spotty with the short, jagged breaths you take in. Lungs collapsing under the weight of your chest. Eyes squinted against the piercing wind. Sunspots brighter than light itself. 

Your instinct is to make yourself small; shield yourself from the impending pain. That inescapable reality rushes towards you as quickly as you race towards it. You’re going to fall. It’s almost certain. You whimper when a particularly rough stride makes you slip an inch to the right, your fingers gripping into the horse’s mane ever tighter, desperate to keep yourself astride.

Someone’s voice breaks through the noise and you open your eyes. 

In your fearstruck state, you almost don’t recognize the man riding beside you and keeping pace until he says your name—your real name—and you snap back to yourself. No time to contemplate your name in his mouth though, no time for anything except keeping from slipping into total panic.

“Pull up on the reins!” John roars over the clamor of hooves. 

You peel your face from the horse’s mane to meet his eyes. The parallel of a memory from long ago. It flashes before your eyes and you remember yourself. Numb hands fisted in the horse’s mane unclench. 

“Pull up!” he shouts again, and this time you comprehend. It’s the same as the time before. 

Summoning every ounce of courage in your bones, you tighten your thighs and belly to lift yourself up, gathering and bridging the reins in your manacled hands. Half halt, release, and half halt again. 

“Good—now circle!” John’s voice booms in your ear and through your blood. 

You flinch when you try to steer your horse into a wide, sweeping turn and he resists at first, but on your second try, he follows your pull, his strides gradually slowing, easing up. When your horse finally comes to a standstill, walking its last few strides before coming to a stop, you sit with that bubble of tension until it bursts. Under your thighs, you can feel your horse’s ribs expand and contract with its labored breath. 

The world blurs for a moment. The adrenaline flooding your body dissipates more with every breath you take, but the crash is just as intense as the rise. You can feel the shakes that wrack your body in a way that your mind can’t quite yet take in, still outside of itself. The first thing you truly register is your husband suddenly at your side, coaxing you down from the horse, your handcuffed hands braced on his chest as he helps you down and then holding on to him when your knees nearly buckle under you.

“Thank Christ,” he growls, pulling you into his chest. 

The smell of tobacco and cloves is woven into the fabric of his shirt and you breathe it in zealously because it’s his. The reassurance that your husband has you, that he’s with you now, and the bad is over, nearly bowls you over. Makes you shake all the harder.

When you finally pull your face away from John’s chest, he cups your cheek with a gunpowder dusted hand, tilting your head up so he can press his lips to your forehead. Your gaze flits up and you stare at him with bleary eyes, wondering what he sees when he looks at you. Messy hair and a fleeting breath that quivers out, breaks to pieces, illuminates the sky when you glance over his head and it’s so blue that you could swim in it. 

John frowns when you accidentally roll your shoulder back and wince. “You’re hurt.” 

There’s no use in lying when he'll find out the truth soon enough, so you just nod. 

“His doing, was it?” he assumes more than asks, inspecting you closely now and noting all the fresh abrasions immediately visible to his eyes.  

Most of your injuries are surface level, more than apparent to him after a quick perusal. A split lip and plenty of scrapes just beginning to scab. You’re too tired to recount the events of the day before though, so you just shrug. Then hiss, the pain so intense that your bones go cold for a split second. 

His forehead pinches with his frown, ghosting his hand over your shoulder as if to hold it in place. “I’ll look at it later, okay, darlin’?”

Every inch of you aches. You wish it could just be over now and you could be back in your bed by sundown, but you know the way home will be just as long. No rest unless you want the journey to be twice as long. The exhaustion alone might have you keel over before night falls. 

Then someone coughs and drags you back into the real world. 

You follow the sound with your eyes until they land on its cause. The crumpled form of the bounty hunter that dragged you out of town lies a quarter mile back. It’s difficult to make out the state of him from so far away, but you can tell it isn’t pretty, mangled and bloody from the fall he took off the horse. 

“Oh God…” you murmur, eyes widening when the man twitches against the grass. 

John’s hand falls away from your cheek. His anger is so palpable that you can feel it fill him back up, blue eyes going steely and jaw tightening as he stares at the man that tried to take you from him. 

“Stay here,” your husband growls, hand reaching down to draw his pistol again.

John leaves you by the horses some distance away as he makes his way over to Graves’ prone form. Blood seeps from a gunshot wound in his shoulder, saturating his shirt and wetting the dirt beneath him, and even from where you stand, you can see the odd angle of his ankle from where he hit the ground. 

With no small amount of effort, Graves props himself up on his good arm, the other hanging limp against the ground. Even the sight makes you wince, bile churning in your stomach. He has to be in tremendous pain. Even John limps a little as he approaches the other man, hip likely sore from his own fall. 

Against your better judgment, and your husband’s command, you take a step towards them. And then another.

You have no reason other than the sinking feeling in your belly. If it were you with the gun, things would be different, you think. You’d do it again, without a second thought. Anything to keep Graves from opening his mouth. 

The gun in John’s hand makes clear his intentions in no uncertain terms. Out on the plains in the middle of nowhere, even taking pity on the man and bringing Graves to the nearest town might not be enough. It’s a rough world out there. Tougher still with a wounded shoulder and sprained ankle. 

More to the matter, John’s face says it all, jaw clenched and lips drawn into a tight line. 

“It doesn’t have to go this way, sheriff,” Graves wheezes when the other man draws close enough to hear. 

“You know I haven’t got a choice now,” John says, gazing up at the sky for a moment before looking back down at the man on the ground. “Not after you laid a hand on my wife.”

Despite the distance, Graves’ voice carries when he speaks. “You think you know that bitch? You don’t know this woman from Eve. What makes you think she won’t butcher you like she did that man back east?”

So casually he says it that you almost miss it. And then you don’t. The words pour over you like a sudden rain and you are back in that room, dread so potent that it chars the flesh, leaving cratered, necrotic holes wherever it touches. The worst moment of your life. 

And Graves says it like a sin of your own making, like it was something you wanted, not a moment in your life haunting you from beyond the grave. 

Your heart stops when your husband looks over at you assessingly. The truth lours over the two of you now, out in the open at last. All those months of hiding it, squandered in a moment by an injured man’s words. All you can do is stare helplessly at the man outlined by the blue sky, the horizon forever etching him into your memory. It’s the first time since you stumbled into the sheriff’s office all those months ago that you haven’t wanted him to think that you weren’t the woman that was supposed to be his wife.

“Shoulda listened to me, sheriff,” Graves laughs, his voice pained and raspy. “That Jezebel needs to answer for what she did.”

You can see it in his eyes that he believes Graves. And why wouldn’t he? The man has committed no crime; spoken not a lie to this point. 

John looks at you in such a strange way though. There’s no surprise there; just a glint in his eye meant only for you. A glint that says darlin’, this ain’t nothin’ new; you never could’ve fooled me. 

He knew your name after all. And you wonder how long he’s known. If he found out sometime in those first days or somewhere down the line or if the arrest warrant fell across his desk in recent days and he knew it would come to this, someone hunting you down across state lines to bring you back. If he knew he’d always have to come after you and rescue you from the jaws of death. 

Everything comes all at once, each moment flashing across your mind barely long enough to leave an impression. Everything is proven immaterial in seconds. 

There’s so much between the two of you. History, obligation, duty. Tenderness shouldn’t even be the half of it, and yet it bears down twice as hard. It’s the only thing that matters when you look at him—not the thought of being dragged back east and forced to stand trial, not the injustice of being made to atone for protecting yourself against a worse fate, but the thought of being taken away from him, of never seeing him again.

You can feel that worry evaporate the longer you hold his gaze. There’s something intentional there, something he is saying without words. 

These days, you do not think to tremble when his hands are on your lips. You tilt your head instead, wait for him to make his next move. Your trust, implicit, underlying everything. Knowing he’ll break the bread and feed you from his hands if need be.

Though you can’t unhinge your jaw enough to ask him to promise that he’ll keep you, his eyes say that it’s a foregone conclusion. How could he ever let you go? You’re everything he’s ever wanted, the only thing even duty could never take from him. 

John looks back down at the man lying at his feet. “Couldn’t help runnin’ your mouth, now could you?”

Graves opens his mouth, but John doesn’t wait for a response. He pulls the trigger.

[suguwu]

WOULD THAT I: PROLOGUE

The Gojo boy doesn't have a soulmate.

When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.

You forget, but Gojo—

Gojo never does.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

masterlist

pairing: gn!reader x gojo

wc: 2.6k

notes: thank you to my beta, as always! especially for putting up with my bratty ass and reading this early so i could post it earlier. this has been a fun fic to get started and i hope you enjoy the prologue!

content warnings: none. see masterlist for series content warnings.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate.

You don’t think you’re supposed to know; it’s only ever talked about in hushed voices. The clans all speak like that, sometimes, each word a butterfly’s wing as it flutters from their mouths.

The servants, however, are louder.

One of them has a voice like a lark, a sweet, trilling song. It carries. You learn to hear her coming, to recognize her shadow against the shoji. You know the edges of her by heart. Sometimes she spreads her arms out as she makes her way through the hallway; her kimono sleeves flare out behind her like wings. 

“There’s something wrong with the Gojo heir,” she sings one afternoon, her fluting voice half-muffled by the shoji. “Those eyes of his—it’s like he can see right through you. And Fujioka says he doesn’t have a soulmark.” 

Another servant hushes her. “Don’t gossip,” she chides. 

“It’s true, though!”

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it.” 

She huffs, grumbling something too soft for you to hear anything aside from the melody of it. The other servant laughs quietly before chivvying her forward. You watch until their shadows disappear, leaving only the hallway light to filter golden through the shoji. 

You return to your coloring book.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean anything to you.

Not yet. 

—

There’s a boy in the courtyard.

He’s hopping from stone to stone in the koi pond, his snow-white hair glittering under the morning sun. He moves like a dancer, each step sure and swift, never once slipping on the wet rock. When he gets to the biggest rock in the pond, he crouches down, his back to you, and drags his fingers over the surface of the water. The koi rise to meet him, firework scales flashing in the sun. 

You watch him from the engawa, peeking out at him from behind one of the columns. You’ve never seen him before, and you’d remember him, with his starlight hair. 

“Who’re you?” he asks, not turning around.

You stay quiet.

“I know you’re there,” he says. “You can’t hide from me.”

He glances over his shoulder and the world goes blue.

It’s the cold burn of a comet’s tail streaking through the velvet night. It’s oceantide, relentless and unyielding. It’s a slice of the sky brought down to earth, heaven devoured.

Then he blinks, and he’s just a boy again. 

“Who’re you?” you ask, stepping to the edge of the engawa. 

He lifts his chin. “I asked you first.”

You introduce yourself the way your mother taught you, bowing to him shallowly. 

He scoffs. “You’re not even from the main clan.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not part of your stupid clan.”

“Oh.”

He stares at you, his crystalline eyes sharp-edged, all prismatic ice. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Nope.”

He rises to his full height, unfolding like an elegant crane. “I’m Gojo Satoru.” 

You tilt your head. The servants’ humming gossip made the Gojo heir sound ethereal, a fallen star that had burned away into human form as it plummeted through the heavens. His eyes are otherworldly, and you can feel the power rippling out from his lean form, as unstoppable as the tides, but—

“You’re just a boy,” you say. 

He scowls. “Am not.”

“Are too.” 

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says again, deeper this time, an intonation, a promise, a curse. His eyes flash, St. Elmo’s fire, a lightning strike of blue. “I have the Limitless and the Six Eyes. I’m not just a boy.”

You would believe him, but the last bit sounded more sulky than anything else. You’re about to tell him so when someone calls your name. You glance over your shoulder, but there are no shadows against the shoji yet.

When you turn back around, there are wet patches shining on the stones in the koi pond, an imprint of the past, but nothing else.

The Gojo boy is gone.

—

Your mother is hovering. 

She smooths down your yukata, chasing creases from the thin cotton with trembling hands. There hadn’t been time to change; she’d pulled you out of your lessons and hurried you down the hallways of the estate. 

“Bow low when you meet him,” she tells you, though she hasn’t bothered to tell you who ‘he’ is. “Understand?”

You nod. 

There’s a fine layer of sweat gleaming at your mother’s nape as she kneels before the shoji. She reaches out to open it; her kimono sleeve slips down, revealing the elegant curve of her wrist. You focus there instead of the opening shoji, the slow slide of it a hissing snake, coiled to bite.

The shoji clicks, a chime of teeth, its maw wide open. You take in a deep breath and step through, your gaze on the tatami mats. Someone shifts.

“Oh, it’s you.”

You glance up, directly into the gaze of Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as otherworldly as you remember, a crisp, clear blue framed in long lashes, like a snowy-edged mountain lake. He tilts his head as you gape, his hair gleaming bone-white in the sun streaming through the open shoji. 

You blink. “What’re you doing here?” you ask, and next to you, your mother hisses in a low, sharp breath. 

Gojo shrugs. “Dunno. The clan said I had to come and they caught me when I snuck out.”

The woman behind Gojo clears her throat. “Gojo-sama,” she says, her voice like the shivering leaves when the summer breeze stirs to life, “they’re a candidate for you to train with.” 

He eyes you. “Why?” he asks. “They’re not very strong.”

“Hey!” 

“You aren’t, though,” he says. “I can tell.”

You throw yourself at him.

His eyes widen, a devouring sea, and he grunts as you make impact. He’s sturdier than you thought; he’s slight, but it’s all lean muscle, even though he can’t be much older than you are. Your mother calls out your name, horrified, but Gojo is already recovering, grappling with you for control. 

By the time the adults pull you apart, Gojo is nursing a rapidly-purpling mark high on his cheekbone. Your split lip aches; you tongue at it and wince. You can taste blood, sour and metallic. You glare at Gojo even as your mother bows deeply to the woman.

“My deepest apologies,” she says, tightening her grip on the sleeve of your yukata and forcing you to bow with her. “I don’t know what came over them.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “The child should be punished,” she says, and your mother stiffens. “I would suggest—”

“No.” 

Everyone looks at Gojo. He thumbs at a rip in his kimono, grinning widely. It bares his teeth. 

“I’ll train with them,” he says.

“Gojo-sama—”

“I said I’d train with them. Now can we go? I want a popsicle.” 

The woman sighs. “Yes, Gojo-sama.” 

Gojo sweeps by you and your mother. He pauses right next to you. “You’re weak,” he tells you, ignoring the way you bristle, “but at least you’re fun.”  

He’s out the shoji before you can respond.

—

Summer settles over Kyoto, a wet lick of heat. Even the wind seems to feel it; it ripples honey-slow through the trees, barely strong enough to stir the air. Frogs move into the koi pond in the courtyard; they sing along with the cicadas’ sawing choir. 

“Catch it!” Gojo shouts as your hands spear through the murky pond water. It gushes free from between your fingers as you come up empty-handed, the frog you were aiming for frantically disappearing further below the surface. “You’re so slow.”

“Am not!”

“Are too,” he counters, holding out his cupped hands. A plaintive ribbit sounds out from between them. “I already caught one. It was easy.”

“You’re annoying.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes icy. “You’re annoying.”  

“You’re the one who came over.”

He rolls his eyes. “We train at your estate.”

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come we train here? Your estate is probably better.”

He shrugs, opening his hands enough to peer down at the frog. It glistens in the sunlight, the same deep green as the lush courtyard. It makes a break for freedom; he closes his hands again, his long fingers sewing the gap shut. “I like it better here.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why?”

“I just do,” he says, voice flat.

You don’t ask again.

—

“Why are we here?”

Gojo blinks, his long white lashes sweeping over the sweet curve of his cheek. “Why are you whispering?”

Your cheeks heat. The Gojo estate is a sprawling, massive maw; you’ve felt devoured ever since you set foot in it. Even the golden light that slants through the shoji feels cold. There are ikebana arrangements lining the halls, the leggy, deep purple irises sculptural as they rise proudly from the vases, but it still feels like a mausoleum. 

“We’ve just never trained here before,” you say, taking care to use your regular voice. “So why are we here now?”

He shrugs. “They insisted.”

“Who?”

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, his long pianist’s fingers cutting through the air. You roll your eyes, long used to his occasionally imperious ways. The two of you continue along the hallways, you trailing after him closely, as if caught in his gravity, an orbiting moon. 

You almost run into him when he comes to a sudden halt. You peek around him—in the last few months, he’s gone through a growth spurt, one that your mother says will come when you’re his age, and he’s too tall to peer over his shoulder—and see a servant bowing low, her ebony hair glinting.

“Gojo-sama,” she says. “Please follow me. The elders are waiting.”

He sighs, a dramatic heave of his chest. “What do they want?”

“They didn’t specify.”

“Ugh.”

“Gojo-sama—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Go tell those geezers I’ll be there soon.” 

You wince right along with the servant. Gojo’s disdain for the elders is not new, but it still unnerves you every time, as if they will come along and smite you down. 

“C’mon,” Gojo says to you. “Let’s get it over with.”

The servant clears her throat. “Only you, Gojo-sama.”

He glares, his blue eyes burning, a comet streaking through the sky. “No,” he says. “They’re coming.”

“They cannot.”

“I said they’re coming.” 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Really.” 

Gojo looks back at you. For a second, his mouth is a wound, tender and pink, but in the next breath, it’s gone, frozen under a layer of ice.

“Fine.” 

You bite your lip, but he’s already walking away. You catch yourself before you reach for him. He disappears down the hallway, his hair glinting like exposed bone.

The servant turns to you. “This way,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral.

You follow her to an empty room; she slides the shoji shut behind herself as you settle onto the cushion at the chabudai. You gaze around the room. There’s not much to take in; it’s wealthy in a subdued way. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve and then get to your feet.

You slide open the shoji leading out to the engawa; it opens onto a huge, lush courtyard. The plush flowers are weighted down by their own blooms, their stems curving like a dancer’s back. A shishi-odoshi rings out with a hollow thud; a few songbirds scatter, their wings rustling like leaves as they soar towards the sky. 

You step out onto the engawa. It’s still early enough that the sun slants onto the wood, warming it. You sit down and bask in it, tilting your face up for the sun’s sweet kiss. You lay back, your eyes fluttering shut.

A voice wakes you.

“He’s an insolent brat!” a man hisses. “He needs to be taken in hand!”

“He’s too powerful,” another man answers. His voice is calm, but you can sense the ripples in it, the thing lurking underneath. “We can only do what we’re already doing.”

You go still. They can only be talking about Gojo. Their footsteps echo; they’re drawing closer and closer.

“It’s not enough.” 

“He’s still young. Maybe we can mold him.” 

The first man snorts. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t.” 

“There’s something wrong with that boy,” the first man says. “Those eyes—that power—and not even a hint of a mark. He’s barely human.”

Their footsteps are starting to fade; their voices become murmurs. But you still hear it when the second man says:

“I don’t think he’s human at all.”

Then they’re gone, fading from your world like malevolent spirits, dissipating on the wind. You unclench your fists and find that your nails have bitten into your skin, little half-moon curves cutting through the leylines of your palms. 

Gojo shows up a mere minute later. He slides open the shoji with a bang; his eyes find you immediately. 

“C’mon,” he says, stepping out into the courtyard. His eyes are shadowed; his lips are pulled tight, an unstitched wound. He’s heard them, you realize. You’ve never seen him bothered by other people’s opinions; your chest aches, a pressed bruise. You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words. 

He grabs your hand as he passes by you, tugging you along behind him, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Let’s go before those stupid geezers find me again.” 

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

“But my shoes—”

He glances back at you and you drown in blue. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t answer; he just tugs you along. You stare at the back of his head for a moment, trying to make sense of the expression you’d seen flash across his face before he’d turned around again. You can’t understand it, but you know one thing.

He’s never looked more human to you.

—

The next time you see him, you’re prepared.

You uncap the marker with your teeth. You reach out for Gojo’s arm; he pulls away before you can grab hold, as quick as a darting fish. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Give me your arm.” 

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” 

He eyes you for a moment, but gives you his arm.

You push up his yukata sleeve to expose the tender underbelly of his wrist. You start to write, laboring over each stroke of the marker, keeping it as neat as you can. The silver ink covers the rivers of his blue-green veins as it sinks into his skin, a childish tattoo. 

“There,” you say, finishing with a somewhat-shaky flourish. “Now you have a mark.”

Gojo stares at you, his cerulean gaze lit from within, the sea beneath the sun. He covers the katakana of your name with his free hand, careful not to smudge the still-drying characters. Under the shadow, they fade to gray, but they still glint and glimmer the same way real soulmarks do. 

You hum, pleased with yourself, cap the marker, and toss it to the side so you can start training. 

You don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session with him. He disappears into the dawn like a fading star, spirited off to Tokyo to continue his training. You’ve only spent six months with him. Still, it aches, a pressed bruise, but you’ve always known he would outgrow you; his power is a black hole, always devouring. 

Life, ever unmoved, continues on. 

The boy you knew fades from your memories, though you never forget him. It’s impossible, with the stories that come out of Tokyo, how he completes missions that no one his age should be able to handle. 

Still, you forget things. The tilt of his mouth; the cadence of his voice. He becomes a shadow of himself, a shade with burning blue eyes. 

You forget that you once wrote your name on the delicate inside of his wrist. 

Gojo, though—

Gojo never does.

[queenimmadolla]

Maybe could you write a dad Eddie x reader fic where penny wants to have a baby of her own so she can be a mom like reader

You were cuddled up to Eddie’s side on the couch, your toddler playing with her toys on the floor and your newborn curled in your arms, his face nuzzled against your bare breast as he nursed.

  The TV was on, but you and Eddie had long forgone your horror and dark fantasy movies for child friendly films and shows like Sesame Street, which was currently displayed on the screen. It was far from your favorite thing to watch, for either of you, your daughter was entranced with reruns of the show, and had a special love for Kermit and Elmo.

  “I’m telling you, there is no way they’re just roommates.” Eddie remarked with a scoff, during the Bert and Ernie segment.

  “They so are! I mean, the romantic tension is obviously present but neither has acted on it yet. Ernie’s too oblivious to do anything about it, probably thinks it’s only one-sided, and if Ernie’s not showing his interest, Bert’s not gonna make a move.” You countered, sinking further into Eddie’s side. His arm was around your shoulders, hand stroking along your forearm before latching onto his son’s tiny sock covered toes and giving them a gentle wiggle to which baby Wayne curled his feet further into his body, depriving his father of access to his toes. It didn’t distract the little glutton from the task at hand, your baby just mouthed a little at your nipple, head moving around until it was in place before latching once more.

  Eddie chuckled at that, watching with affection as his baby continued to stare up at you with wide eyes while he nursed, before his gaze moved back to the characters in question.

  “Sweetheart, they are clearly in a domestic partnership, they’ve just grown very comfortable around each other. We don’t need to see their affection to know they’re in a relationship.”

  “They sleep in separate beds, Eds.”

  “Okay, you got me there.”

  Penny chose then to get up from the floor, rushing over with the baby doll you’d gotten for her when you’d told her you were pregnant. She leaned against Eddie’s leg, resting her head on his thigh and letting him stroke over her curls before she pushed herself up and held the doll out to you.

  “Is that your baby doll?” You asked, assuming she was trying to show it off and she nodded, continuing to extend it and you realized she was trying to give it to you.

  “Hew you go, mama.”

  You made sure your actual baby was secure against you, glancing down to meet his unwavering stare as he ate, satisfied grunts sounding from him every so often, before you took the doll into your free hand, “Oh, you want me to hold…her?”

  You didn’t know what gender it was supposed to be, you’d heard Penny change it constantly.

  “Uh huh!” She nodded, grabbing onto Eddie’s knee and using it to sway back and forth. Sounded simple enough, you could play along, “She’s hungwy.”

  “You want to hand me her bottle then?” You could see the toy baby bottle, it had come included with, on the floor where Penny had previously been playing.

  “No, you has to feed the babies.” Penny released her dad’s knee to poke at her chest with both index fingers. “Fom wight hew.”

  You could hear and feel Eddie choke beside you, trying to muffle his laughter as you realized your toddler wanted you to breastfeed her doll.

  “Oh. Um.” You tried to think of a way to get out of it, casting Eddie a glare when you caught sight of his wide smirk from your peripheral vision. “Brother is eating right now.”

  “Udda one.” She pointed at your freed up, covered boob rather than the one your son’s wispy curl covered head was blocking for her.

  Damn it, Penny was beginning to become too self aware.

  Reluctantly, and very awkwardly, you held the baby doll’s plastic head against your other breast as Eddie literally started shaking against you. He might as well have just laughed outright with all the wheezing he was doing. Even Penny was casting him a few side-eyes.

  You turned your head towards him, eyes narrowing as Eddie continued to try to muffle his amusement behind a fist, face turning red with his effort but not even his fist was large enough to conceal the grin at your expense.

  Penny, however, looked like the cat who got the cream, happy you were once again complying with her demands. 

  You thought you’d be able to put the doll down once she went back to the toys, no luck, she’d apparently come over with the intention of watching you ‘feed’ her baby. So for like seven entire awkward minutes, you held the doll to your boob, its plastic face pressed against it, while she stared at you and Eddie suffocated on his amusement. The reason he didn’t just openly laugh at you was because he knew Penny would get mad at him. He could tell this wasn’t a game to her and if he laughed at something she didn’t intend to be funny, he’d have an angry toddler on his hands.

  Then you’d be the one laughing. 

  Mercifully, Penny eventually grew bored of watching you and reached up for the doll, which you were all too happy to give back. “You want to burp her?”

  The answer to that was no. Penny adjusted the baby doll in her hands until its face was smashed to her chest. It was half her size, but her motive was clear as she beamed up at you.

  She was imitating you.

  “Look! I A MAMA, LIKE MAMA!”

[popponn]

dating consultations. [nagi seishiro x f!reader]

notes: it's like 'wow feelings eh' read in elmo voice. then add my nagi phase and my recent obsession with childhood friend!nagi, it turns out like this. warnings: mentions (in a very unserious way) and (manga esque) depiction of break up at the end (not between you and nagi), mentions of bunch of break ups on your part, pinning, childhood friends + gaming buddies (?), obliviousness, post canon au, minor cursing. wo/ta/koi influenced this in some ways.

“Nagi Seishiro, listen to me,” you began.

“Don’t wanna,” Nagi replied, without lifting his head from his phone.

“So, I think my boyfriend broke up with me after finding out I spent money on gacha game,” you continued on, ignoring Nagi’s refusal. “I mean, sure, that's not a good financial decision. But hey, my husband gotta go home somehow and it's like an extra money that I already planned to spend anyway. Don't you get it?”

“No, I don't.”

“Exactly—but you see, I also think that he was honest, and what bothered him the most is because he found out that you and I play better in another game that he also played…” you trailed off at a sudden, more unpleasant that appeared in your mind. “…Seishiro, if I suddenly kick you out of the leaderboard’s number one spot, you will still be my friend right?”

“Nope,” Nagi replied without missing a beat. Like a rite of passage, you knew what came afterward would make you angry. “Your aim at FPS sucks way too much for that to happen.”

Immediately, you heaved out a short huff. You then threw your body over Nagi’s quickly, cuddling the soft blanket draped over him and enjoying the soft detergent scent left on it. Whining and protesting, you “Cheer me up, you brat! I raised you on my back since kindergarten and this is how you repay me?! We grew up in the same litter—spare some sympathy for me!”

(Seishiro found his whole body stiffening when you buried your face on his shoulder and pressed your chest towards his arm. Through the blanket, he could faintly feel your warmth and body. Five years ago, this would have been something he would brush off without batting an eye. Having crushes on oblivious childhood friends who only saw you as childhood buddies is hard—Seishiro noted dully.)

“Eh, why?” Nagi questioned back, blankly, focus still drilled on the PVP shooting game he was on. “This is your…how many breaks up it had been already?”

“…I know your social IQ is low, but can you stop rubbing salt over my wounds?”

“Anyway, don’t you think you break up way too often already to feel hurt?”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…ah,” Nagi mindlessly cut the silence between the two of you. “That headshot was dirty.”

“…you are really bad at this whole cheering up thing,” you chided, sounding all too fond for it to have any effect at all. “And stop making me sound like some Whatpad bad boy.”

(From the corner of his sight, Seishiro saw a small smile etched itself on your lips. It was still too bittersweet for his liking, but at least after this—like always, as Seishiro had come to remember after all this time, without willing to—you would cheer up and stop talking about your nth ex. You wouldn’t sulk anymore and go on with whatever else except some guy who happened to be your ex.)

“Didn’t you say you want to be one, back in middle school?” Nagi questioned. “Also hurry up and log in, I need to grind for new artifacts.”

“That was middle school!” you screeched, feeling your whole head heating up due to some embarrassing flashbacks. “And you are still playing another game—I will log in later—”

“I’m done,” Nagi said, perfectly timed with the winning screen his phone displayed. “Log in. Hurry. Hurry.”

You glared dirtily at Nagi and his timing—or luck, whichever it was this time. “I hate you. Also, use Al-Haizen and Seno, I want the full ikemen academy team today.”

“Their synergy is shit.”

“And they are handsome. Your point?”

“I don’t wanna.”

“I will curse you with all defense and flat sub stat if you dare.”

“…that’s awful,” Nagi said, finally. His defeat was imminent from the start.

You sent him a wolfish smile, “And I’m still your only gaming buddy. Shush and just log in, big koala.”

“The one who is stuck on my back is you,” Nagi commented, while still following your words and changing his team before requesting to go to your map.

You laughed as you pressed your phone. With a certain brand of closeness laced in your voice, you protested, “Why are you this nosy with me? Last time I checked you are pretty obedient to Mikage, Isagi, and your captain.”

(Seishiro tried to process your words for a moment. To him, the answer has always been obvious in the way that both you and him even bothered to stick close to each other even as the two of you approached the age of twenty together. In how the one you told everything to is still him despite everyone in your life. In how if you ask, he will walk through the city just to pick you up after a terrible date and walk side by side to your home.)

Nagi stayed silent for a moment. From his side profile—adorable, handsome, yet still as baby-faced and familiar as ever—you could see how he was thinking. Then, he offered you an answer in a half-baked, dry tone, “…because it’s you?”

Once again, you laughed. Trying to swallow whatever odd beat his answer managed to draw from your heart deep and away from your face. “Gosh—watch your wording, Sei—oh, you are in already. Let’s go artifact farming! If it’s shitty let it just be Seishiro’s and not mine!”

As you hurriedly pressed your screen, you tried to not realize Nagi’s stare from your side.

You were not ready yet to admit whatever you felt for him was real. This was only a side effect of consecutive terrible break ups.

That was it and nothing else.

(”I don’t think I am the one you are in love with,” your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—told you gently. This was yet another same reason, just told to you in a gentler, more understanding way.

You could only watch him silently. You were confused, yet a part of you somehow managed to understand what he meant. However, you still couldn’t put what it was into words despite all that.

“..well, I don’t think you do it by purpose,” the man in front of you said with a nervous laugh. “…nonetheless, I’m rooting for the two of you. Don’t make him wait for too long, okay?”

Hearing that, even if you still couldn’t grasp much yet, you forced yourself to respond through your tears. “…I’m sorry...?”

“Don’t be. It should be me, really.” Ever the nice guy, your ex-boyfriend still smiled. “This is more of me saving myself from hurting in the future… just, think of it as me being bitter for being worse than you and that childhood friend of yours in that shooting game, okay?”

You laughed bitterly at that. Your crying hadn’t ceased yet, yet you managed out another reply, “Seriously? You are a shitty nice guy.”

Still smiling, your ex—a good friend, a gentle person, a diligent worker—gave you a chuckle that sounded guilty. “…sorry. I really hope we can still remain friends after this.”

“Of course. No way I’m letting go of a star student as a group project member just because of a breakup,” you joked, even if you were unsure of the future. Then, remembering how he is, you added, “And get your ugly mug off my sight now. We are breaking up—stop smiling, you bastard.”

“…well, then… should I… accompany you home…?”

“You are my ex now—no way, nice guy,” you shut him off quickly. Then, after a pause, it felt like an answer as you continued.

“…I will just call Nagi. Go away.”)

[kirikiss]

Nightmare on Sesame Street!

prohero! bakugo It was no shock when Bakugo became one of the top heroes after high school. He was a powerhouse, and anyone could see he had a real shot at becoming #1. But being the best hero isn’t just about strength—popularity plays a big role too. So, it wasn’t surprising when his agency brought you on as his PR manager. Your job? To make sure people saw not just the fierce hero side of him, but also someone they could admire and root for. After all, with his temper, smoothing out those rough edges was going to be a challenge. not proofread...

tw: none!,

As you trudged down the hall, you could already hear the sound of Bakugo’s gauntlet tapping against his desk, the noise echoing from his office. Even though you were his PR manager, he had a knack for shooting down every opportunity you brought him. First, you pitched the idea of him having his own cereal. “Kids shouldn’t eat that crap,” he snapped. Then you suggested a hairspray ad. “Hell no. You couldn’t recreate this even if you had a blueprint,” he scoffed, gesturing at his hair. Every idea, every proposal, was an immediate no.

It was clear Bakugo had zero patience for PR stunts—he thought they were stupid, plain and simple. So, as you prepared to pitch him on a new opportunity to guest star on the Sesame Street Halloween Special, you could already see the scowl forming on his face. The tapping of his gauntlet stopped.

"Are you dumb?" he growled. "A hero isn’t an entertainer. We’re here to save people. Stop asking me to do dumb shit like this."

The office was silent as you began to walk out, only hearing the click of your shoes as you headed for the door. This was bad. If you couldn’t get him on board with these opportunities, his agency would fire you for sure. 

While Sesame Street was a kids' show, it would help soften Bakugo’s image and make him more family-friendly—something crucial for climbing the popularity polls. But since he seemed allergic to saying yes to anything, you started to devise a plan.

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It was a chilly, spooky, day, with leaves drifting in and out of the streets, carried by the wind. It was October 31st, and the town was soon to be filled with children in costume. You were on your way to the film studio, minus the explosive hero, who was stuck at the office buried in paperwork. As you fought against the wind, you quickly checked your phone. I really hope this works, you thought, having stayed up all night brainstorming any possible way to get him to say yes. The harsh reality was that he probably wouldn’t.

But there was one last idea you had in mind. As you reached the studio, you took a deep breath, thinking, I really hope he doesn’t kill me. You opened the door, and the director greeted you with a smile. “Hi, Y/N! Nice to finally put a face to the name! The live taping will be starting shortly. Where’s Dynamight?” he asked, glancing around.

“He should be here soon, but if you could just excuse me for a second,” you said with a nervous laugh. Stepping outside, you dialed his number, clearing your throat as you prepared for the act of your life.

“Yeah, what is—” Bakugo started.

“BAKUGO, HELP ME! A VILLAIN IS ATTACKING! I’LL SEND YOU THE ADDRESS!” you shouted in a fake worried tone, then quickly hung up praying it would work. You sent the address as you stepped back inside and crossed your fingers.

The director approached you, looking a bit anxious. “He has three minutes until the show starts. There’s a one-minute Oscar the Grouch act before his interview with Elmo. Do you think he could make it?” he asked, scratching the back of his head.

“I’m sure of it,” you lied through your teeth, hoping your gamble would pay off

Elmo walked onto the screen, and as if on cue, you heard a loud crash. The door flew open, and Bakugo stormed in. “WHERE IS THIS FOOL?” he barked, taking in his surroundings before locking eyes with Elmo. “Wow, our guest for today has an explosive entrance,” Elmo chimed cheerfully. Bakugo shot a glance at you, then back at Elmo. He realized he’d been tricked, and there was no backing out now.

“Elmo is very excited to welcome Bakugo!” Elmo continued, his voice unwavering. Bakugo slowly walked toward him, clearly unimpressed.

“Welcome to Elmo's live talk show! Elmo is just gonna ask you a few questions!” Elmo announced.

“Alright,” Bakugo scoffed, already annoyed at the oversized teddy bear in front of him.

“If you had to pick a favorite color, would it be red like Elmo, or would you choose something like… ‘explosive orange’?” Elmo asked, chuckling at his own joke.

Bakugo's face shifted to his default scowl. “Yeah, I guess,” he muttered, realizing this was live. He was making an effort to be somewhat kid-friendly.

“Okay! Elmo has another question! Today is Halloween. Elmo loves trick-or-treating! What are you planning to be for Halloween this year?”

“Well, Elmo,” Bakugo replied in a mocking tone, “I’m going to be patrolling later, so there’s no dress-up this year.” You sighed in relief, relieved to see he was trying to keep it together.

“Okay! Elmo has a few more questions. Elmo heard that some heroes take their costumes off at the end of the day! Do you ever take your grumpy face off, or is that just for show?” Elmo asked, clearly testing his patience, and it was wearing thin

You could see Bakugo’s irritation brewing. His fist clenched, suppressing the urge to turn Elmo into a pile of red fur. “Yeah, Elmo, I take it off when I’m not around annoying stuffed animals.” he retorted

He’s really pushing his limits now. 

Bakugo managed to keep his cool through most of the questions, but the last one pushed him over the edge. “Hey, Bakugo! Elmo was wondering... Do you think maybe you’d be a better hero if you smiled more? Elmo thinks smiles make everything better!”

Bakugo’s eye twitched, and you could see this was the breaking point.

“THAT’S IT!” he shouted, jumping out of his seat. “BAKUGO WILL SMILE WHEN HE BLOWS UP THIS SET! HOW ABOUT THAT, ELMO?” he yelled, mocking Elmo’s voice. Fiery sparks began crackling in his palm.

“DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO YOU DAMN PUPPET!” Bakugo growled as he aimed one of his grenades at Elmo. In a fit of rage, he let loose, and Elmo was suddenly engulfed in an explosion of red fur and smoke. Most of the staff stood there shocked while the others handled turning off the live footage. The cameras immediately panned to the ground as Bakugo turned around to take his leave. 

After apologizing profusely to the staff—and mourning what was left of the Elmo puppet—you headed outside to try and catch him. But he was already gone, leaving you no choice but to send a slightly irritated text.

Y/N: Are you serious right now? Why on earth would you do that? This is going to be a nightmare to clean up. You’d better get back to the agency ASAP so we can work out some kind of apology.

Read 4:18 PM

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Bakugo decided to start his patrol early, hoping to get some peace and quiet before the evening rush. But as soon as he hit the streets, he noticed they were already flooding with kids decked out in costumes. Some wore miniature hero getups—his own included—while others sported characters from whatever kids' shows were trending these days. Though he’d never admit it, Bakugo couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them laughing and running around.

His momentary calmness shattered, however, when something out in the distance made his blood run cold. A tuft of red fur peeked out from behind a lamppost, and slowly, menacingly, a kid in an Elmo costume emerged. Bakugo’s eyes went wide as the bright red, wide-grinning creature came closer, waving in slow motion, its vacant stare drilling into his soul. He took a step back, heart pounding.

“Not…again,” he muttered, half to himself.

Of all the villains he’d faced, of all the foes he’d defeated, somehow, this puppet was the one that struck true fear.

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taglist: @sofiascripts

a/n: Sorry for not posting, im in school and its midterm season :/. Thought I should put this out, I promised myself I would put out a funny bakugou fic before Halloween , so please enjoy!!!!

[ornitharts]

So Wiggly is basically a tickle me elmo and Pokey is a doll that sings, but what would the other lords in black toy gimmicks be?

I think Blinky would have a baby cam in it. A little strange and unethical but hey, it’s Hatchetfield.

Nibbly would be one of those dolls that you feed, but somehow whatever the doll eats just doesn’t come back out. it just kind disappears. Also they would definitely eat kids’ hair and fingers as well.

Tinky I’m not sure about. He could come with a little maze (the bastards box). Maybe he’d be one of those scented stuffed toys, but he just smells awful for some reason. I also think a ferby style Tinky would be fun. He won’t shut up even when kids take the batteries out and he ends up in the closet where he continues to turn on in the middle of the night and giggle. I think he also makes an ominous ticking sound, but not all the time, just enough to make you feel like you’re going crazy.

[rayneisnotwet]

Well that isn’t what we expected is it? Trump winning the white house. In the salient words of Miss Juicy, ”What the hell we gon’ do now?”. Everyone has a different idea. “We need to engage in our communities!” , “I’m moving to Canada!”, “I’m doing c*ke in the bathroom!” some cry out. Others are disengaging from the zeitgeist, and with it, apparently, social media. But when people announce these reactionary ideas of theirs, it feels more like a child yelling that they hate their parents because they got their Xbox taken away than a serious strategy to avoid oppression. I get it though, everyone just wants a change now. The hottest new accessory is going to be a poorly thought out style choice. Short haircuts with clumsy dye jobs and a trashcan full of “I’m with her!” memorabilia is how everyone dealt with this last time. But what is really the answer to this feeling?

Well, you’re all in luck. Because as a Trans drag queen in the midwest with an enhanced ID, I have the insight into all these coping methods. I write this while smoking a skinny cig. sitting on a picnic table in my childhood backyard, on property that’s interest rates doubled so fiercely it convinced both my parents to vote Trump and pushed me farther left than I thought was possible before I just detransitioned into Mao Zedong. I doubt that social media breaks announced via Instagram story or a vote for a failed businessman turned reality star or a jar of Manic Panic Amazon Primed to your door is going to make any of us feel any better, or bring the dollar menu at the drive thru back.

The Canadian immigration website crashed in 2016 after Trump won the first time, and to be fair I can see why. Everytime I visit, a feeling of relaxation washes over me. Not just because it's where my boyfriend lives, but because it's a genuinely very easy place. People stroll instead of scurrying through the streets. Even in Toronto, the largest city. The food is fantastic as well. The cosmopolitan-and just like that, I started ordering them-attitudes lead to a huge mix of cultures that seem to coexist in a much more mixed fashion than the notoriously segregated US. Sure, there’s the french-speaking Quebecois, but every country has annoying people. The friendliness is no joke either (as long as it’s not a service worker), people ask you how you are as a question, rather than a greeting.

Canada isn’t a liberal wonderland though, despite what Justin Trudeau might lead you to believe. During my Toronto visit, I checked out Dundas Square, the canuck equivalent of Times Square (there was no one in knockoff Elmo costumes). As soon as we stepped out of the subway station it was awash with the sounds of protest. A First Nations demonstration played out, with people chanting “LET HIM GO!” while drum beats punctuated the cries. A woman sat on a speaker holding a microphone, telling the heart-wrenching story of her son who had been shot during a wellness check by police in the midst of a mental health crisis. I wanted to support and join in the chanting, but my boyfriend advised not to, warning me the TPS were just as brutal as any American police department, especially to Trans women. Moments later a man, middle aged, bald, and white, started hitting on me aggressively. My boyfriend immediately shielded me from him, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer and made a scene. Another man chimed in, “That's not a ‘She’ bro!”

We got out of there fast.

So while Canada may have a more charismatic leader on the world stage, and policies that protect its vulnerable communities slightly better than the US, it’s not a utopia for Queers. Least of all Trans women or Two Spirit people. The truth is there is no such thing as safe spaces. As long as tribalism is baked into our monkey brains, we will find something to point at and feel superior about over someone else. I’ve actually felt more disrespected in some majority white gay male bars than I have in dives in my hometown of bumfuck Jackson playing the UofM game on their tv. A word of advice to The Dolls, don’t underestimate the cruelty of men. 🚬 or not. That isn’t to say I hadn't found community in a lot of Queer parties.

I had started my post-election-pity-party at Necto in Ann Arbor for the finale of the UofM-student-powered drag competition reality show Runway Rumble. Michigan’s best and brightest new talent (and others) battling it out for the belt. Those of us that had been eliminated were doing a group number with the finalists and accepting awards. The energy was electric, people were excited to see each other and drinks were flowing. I can't speak for coke in the bathroom because I was in an outfit that didn't allow for bathroom visits, and frankly a bank account that didn't allow for coke.

With all the excitement and nerves in the air about who would clinch the win, it felt like our community’s political turmoil was dead and gone. Although, some people were drinking so much I thought they might go the same way.

Spoiler alert, Belladonna won the competition, and for me that was such a relief. To see a Trans woman win a competition like this and receive the recognition she so rightly deserved as a fixture in the Detroit scene was vindicating as a Doll Supremacist. Shoutout to you diva, you did that shit. Big shoutout also to one of the judges, Pineapple Honeydew, for finger-waving my look that night. I hugged Bella and joined in on the rest of the cast and crew who were inundating her with congratulations, and that's when I realized something. In this bar, on this stage, in THIS moment, Trump wasn’t president. He’ll never be president of Necto, or president of drag. This place, these people, were presidentless. This country may have elected him with the popular vote, but that didn’t matter here. His political success couldn’t take away Belladonna’s Drag excellence. Or Portia’s for creating the show. Or mine for leaving my mark on the show as Drama Diva and holder of the Golden Boot. No. Our community, its survival and ability to thrive, was entirely dependent on US, not THEM.

So yes, things will be much more difficult now. This will be a tough time for Trans kids, for immigrants, especially mexicans. A tough time for the elderly on social security, a battle for young mothers and young women trying NOT to become mothers. For blue collar workers in unions, for their families. Entire classes of people, communities, towns, families, they’ll be ripped apart. We’ve already seen how populism injected into right-wing politics can create the perfect siren’s song to attract members of our family, turning them into strangers. But at the end of the day, the days gotta end. Will we all take this lying down? Or with a smile on our faces, a tequila sunrise in one hand and our loved ones hand in the other? Our community, no, we protest and sing and dance and drink and dress up and be gay! Openly! Loudly! Until they realize we really aren’t going anywhere.

[seabirdtxt]

Event batch 1

Thank you so much for the first batch of requests!! I'm already started on the next few requests as well!! :D

🩵 Check out my 200+ followers request event! 🩵

for @featuredtofu || Skateboarder!Scara x clumsy!Reader - Modern AU, fluff

for Anon || Alhaitham & Reader - Modern AU, texted the wrong number, humor/fluff, swearing, one use of ‘blank’ name

for Anon || Diluc & Reader - SAGAU, Reader doesn’t know they’re the Creator, and Diluc takes care of them

----- ⚘ -----

Skate and Die

The skatepark is noisy from the dozens of people rolling in all directions, the sound of wheels against the smooth surface and exclamations of awe when a trick is successfully performed fills the air. 

You sit on the ledge of one of the quarter pipes, away from the bulk of the action. Kicking your feet against the concrete, you watch as grown-ups and kids alike go about the skatepark enjoying the sunny day.

There is a blur of black against the bright background, and your attention naturally turns toward it. You watch with a fond fascination as your boyfriend weaves between park goers of all sizes without a care in the world, the agility he displays on a skateboard continues to impress you to this day. 

You notice his head turn toward you, so you raise your arms to wave wildly in his direction. To your delight, he sends you a timid wave of his own. You know he probably hates the attention you’re calling to him. 

He changes his course and starts skating toward you. With excitement brewing, you scramble to your feet to greet him.

Or, well, that’s what you would do if your foot didn’t catch on the edge of the quarter pipe, sending you sideways down the ramp. The roll you perform is undignified in the worst of ways, and you’re pretty sure you make a squeaky toy noise at some point, before coming to an abrupt stop on your back looking directly up at the sky.

The area around you falls mostly silent as people look over to see if you’re alright. To assuage their fears, you give a terse thumbs-up, and thankfully the noises resume as the onlookers return to their business.

A shadow falls over you as you’re lifting yourself up on your elbows, and you wince at the familiar shape.

“Really? Again?” Kuni shakes his head at you, arms crossed over his chest. His foot rests on the deck of his board, keeping it in place as he gives you the most disappointed stare. 

“Well, eheh…” you sit up properly and give him a shrug. “I can’t help falling for you, y’know?”

“That line only worked the first seven times,” Kuni tells you, kicking his board up and grabbing it. He also reaches down and pulls you up by your hand, helping you brush off the dust you’d accumulated during your tumble. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.”

“It’s not bad this time!” you exclaim, showing off the shallow scrape on your forearm from where you braced against the initial impact. 

“You’re still getting a bandage.”

“Noooo, not Elmo…” you lament, looking up at him with your best puppy eyes. He doesn’t relent. He leads you by the hand around the edge of the skatepark until you reach the spot where he’d dropped off his backpack. The picnic table is laden with the backpacks and spare gear of a few other skaters. Gently moving some of the stuff aside, Kuni points at the vacated space with an expectant expression.

You sit obediently and wait as he retrieves his first aid kit, watching as he dutifully cleans up your wound and unpeels the dreaded bandage, revealing a cheerful Elmo face pattern. He sticks it on with practiced precision, and you sigh knowing the bandage probably won’t budge even under water.

“I can’t believe you make me wear these,” you grumble, pouting at Kuni as he smooths the edges of the adhesive with his thumb. “I look like a big baby…”

“That’s because you’re my big baby,” he replies, darting in to press a smug kiss against your puffed-up cheek. 

“Stop! You’re not allowed to be cute when I’m mad!” You stomp and stick your tongue out at him, to which he only laughs and kisses you again.

“Don’t fall, next time, and you won’t need to get an Elmo,” he retorts smugly, leaving you on the bench as he kicks off with his board again, his laugh echoing in your ears as he skates away.

----- ⚘ -----

Unknown Caller

???: WITH MY DEAD HAMSTER’S ASHES YOU LYING SON OF A BICTH????

The message comes to Alhaitham sometime around 1 in the morning, the text tone rousing him from his peaceful slumber to announce the arrival of the chaotic unknown sender. 

Alhaitham spends several minutes staring blearily at the phone screen, trying to conjure up a memory of ever having interacted with ashes of any kind lately, and coming up blank. The offending typo at the end of the message is just the cherry on top of the confusing sundae.

Alhaitham: Who is this?

???: DON'T FUCK WITH ME PALLAD I CANT BELIEVE YOU BROKE UP WITH ME OVER TWITTER POLL AND THEN BLOCKED ME ON EVERYTHING ???: LITTLE CHICKENSHIT 

???: IM HAVING TO USE DIONAS PHONE RN YOUR MAKING ME USE THE NEIGHBORS KIDS PHONE 

???: THIS IS WHY YOU SUCK AT FORTNITE

It’s much too early to be unpacking everything he just read, but the increasing absurdity of each statement is scratching an itch in the back of his sleep-addled mind. Before his rationality can catch up to him and simply block the offending stranger, he types up a reply.

Alhaitham: You have the wrong number. (unsent)

… But now he’s curious. What other kinds of absurdity can he witness? Instead, he deletes what he’d wrote and instead sends is this:

Alhaitham: Why are you using your neighbor’s kid’s phone? If we were together then you presumably already know where I live.

???: YOURE RIGHT FUCK IM COMING OVER TO BEAT UR ASS YOU BETTER NOT HAVE THROWN THAT JAR AWAY OR I SWEAR NOT EVEN UR MOTHER WILL RECOGNIZE YOU WHEN IM DONE

???: wait a sec ur not pallad are you

Alhaitham rubs the last of the sleep from his eyes, now fully committed to this conversation despite his brain screaming at him to put the phone down and leave the whole scenario alone.

Alhaitham: No, thankfully. Whatever problem you have with this Pallad person sounds interesting, though.  

???: who is this then??

Alhaitham: This is Alhaitham. Who is this?

???: the library guy??? 

While not technically incorrect, since he does spend quite a bit of time in the campus library, Alhaitham finds himself slightly irked to be reduced to just ‘the library guy’. 

Alhaitham: So? It’s better to be uncomplicated and quietly reading than to become part of the sort of drama you seem to be tangled up in.

???: honestly true bestie i wish my live was less complicated rn

Alhaitham: Pallad’s fault, I’m assuming.

???: YES he LIED TO MR AND BROKE UP W/ ME ON TWITTER OF ALL PLACES AND NOW HE STOLE MY DEAD FKN HAMSTER

???: 100% DESERVES THE ASS KICKING THATS COMING HIS WAY

This might be his tired brain talking, but Alhaitham really can’t help but be intrigued. He’s already this far in, and he would hate to come out of this baffling encounter with more questions than answers.

Alhaitham: Tell you what, since you apparently do know who I am, how about you go beat up this Pallad character and meet me in the library tomorrow.

???: huh?? why??

Alhaitham: I’m invested in the outcome of this situation now, I want to know how it goes.

???: LOL ur really just here for tea i can respect that ngl

???: TARGET ACQUIRED I’LL KEEP U POSTEED 

With no new messages forthcoming, Alhaitham puts his phone back on charge and sends a silent, slightly exasperated plea into the universe to keep this new unknown caller out of trouble.

When he wakes up, the first thing he does is check his messages. Aside from a handful of daily reminders from apps, there are a few new text messages from an unfamiliar number, but with familiar writing style.

???: this is _____ btw

???: ik its early as hell but i was out all night KICKING PALLAD INTO NEXT WEEK hamster ashes has been safely retrieved btw mission success

???: so like im gonna gt coffee and go to ur library do u want anything??

Alhaitham: Small black coffee please.

Alhaitham: Be there in 30. I want to hear all about it.

----- ⚘ -----

C’est lui qui me relèverait

“Diluc, look what I can do!” 

Your voice floats on the air, amplified unnaturally by Anemo, a thread of power that you aren’t even aware you’re pulling. The redhead follows, helpless to your innocent whims.

He’s lucky he found you when he did, coming upon you just as you’d been heading toward Mondstant with carefree joy. Your unfamiliar clothes, and strange accent did you no favors to the few Adventurers’ Guild members you’d met along the way. How unaware you’d been, seeing only the beauty in Teyvat and blind to the potential dangers that surround you.

You are the Creator, the Divine Grace, but you stumbled through the world like a newborn foal, your arms full of sweetflowers that you’d immediately presented to him with a sweet call of his own name. That’s when he knew he couldn’t leave you to the wolves of Teyvat, not yet. 

That’s what brings him here, just on the boundary of the winery grounds and stepping heavily on the packed earth as he follows you, floating through the vineyard like a crystalfly.

He comes up behind you, watching as you cup one of the blue flowers at the edge of the lake, the petals falling open at your slightest touch. Even from this distance, he can see the faintest glow of Pyro in your fingertips.

“I didn’t know they bloomed on their own!” You laugh, delight painting your features. You pluck the flower with care, and the cut stem slowly regenerates under your watchful gaze. Within moments, a new mist flower stands proudly where you’d taken the previous one. 

‘They don’t,’ he doesn’t say, because you are the Creator, the Divine Grace of Teyvat, and you don’t know it yet. ‘This world only bends this way because it will do anything to please you.’ 

He stops beside you, gently prying the mist flower from your hands. Even through the fabric of his gloves, the ice bites at him. 

“Be careful, you don’t want to get frostbite by accident,” he grumbles, softening his tone as much as he can. “Let’s go back to the winery, we can have Adelinde put this in a vase for you.”

“Oh, that would be nice! Race you there!” You stand and brush the dirt from your clothes, turning back toward the winery and flitting over the rest of the distance. In your wake, the vines bloom a little bit greener. 

Diluc stands as well, holding the mist flower carefully. He removes the ascot from around his neck and uses it to wrap the stem of the plant to protect himself from the cold now that your presence is no longer there to soothe the bite. He follows you at a moderate pace, the doors of the winery just coming into view, with your silhouette standing in the doorway talking animatedly to Adelinde. He walks slowly up the steps to join you, thinking back on how he’d brought this situation upon himself.

He couldn’t bear to see your joy crushed when you found out just how far into disarray your beloved creation had fallen. Several nations are still in political disarray, and with an increasing presence of criminal and monster activity there’s no way that Diluc could, in good conscience, set you loose on this world unprepared.

And so, he will take care of you. He’d been a big brother for as long as he’d known, and despite being a little bit rusty he can take up that role again. He can babysit you, nascent godling that you are, as you slowly come into your own, and when the time comes he will gladly take his place at your side as your knight. 

[cleolinda]

Weekend links, May 12, 2024

My posts

Your head is hurting and your wifi is out because the biggest solar flare/geomagnetic storm in 20 years hit this weekend. I didn’t actually get to see the aurora borealis, but apparently it really did come down as far as Alabama. 

I admit that this was an extremely glib reply. But like, Athena specifically doesn’t like people claiming they’re better than her, so you can imagine the carnage when you throw in two more goddesses as well.  

(I feel like that post happened a month ago. This week has felt so ungodly long.)

Reblogs of interest

Hot Vintage Lady Bracket: Round 6. Eight polls. Poll Mod immediately chose violence and put Marilyn Monroe against Hedy Lamarr. Since Ava Gardner is out (actual shockers: Greta Garbo and Rita Hayworth are also gone), I was going to say “I’m just Chaos Elmo Flames Dot Gif about it all” but now I’m just scared. 

(Why would you ask us, a hot vintage poll blog, this)

Dracula Daily is in full swing again, and you can eat along!

The Met Gala was honestly decent this year! I reblogged only (some of) the ones I liked, including some of the construction details and a lot of Zendaya, although my favorite might have been Rebecca Ferguson with the crows. 

A while back and not what he wore to the Gala, but: Lil Nas X looking beautiful in a rose garden.

Hozier Watch 2024: I really thought there wasn’t going to be anything else and then he was like, “Oh I should probably put out a video for my accidental international #1.” I am entirely disgruntled that he was here last weekend and I couldn’t go. 

From the top of the week, Drake vs. Kendrick Lamar: An explainer. Also, Kendrick recs.

MrBeast is living in a joyless hell of his own making, and I at least understand now why he has always freaked me out. 

So anyway noted plagiarist James Somerton is alive and well on Twitter, where he’s... well, he sure is there. The words “hole posting” are involved. Another explainer for you. 

Lynda Carter proves she’s on Tumblr

We put our faith in BLAST HARDCHEESE

Peace and love on planet Earth and also in the Uber

“thinking about middle aged gay love is like. we have a future and we have time”

While there are merits to this concern, “Writers should all clown on Americans by making up places in THEIR country” doesn’t really sting when we’re all like “Yeah we love doing that!!!” I personally give you all permission to make up as many wackadoodle state names as you want. You can have West Mainolina for free. 

Meanwhile in Alabama: Bad, bad Leroy Brown, the baddest fish in the whole damn town

RIP Walnut the crane: “The Bride”

Dinosaurs are terrible lizards

Teaching consent is a many-faceted thing

Become ungovernable: grill edition

Video

Galadriel’s opening Fellowship of the Ring monologue, but it’s the Deep South (U.S.). “Across the county line in Mordor, the Dark Lord Sauron made his self another ring outta everything mean the devil put in him.” Absolutely pitch perfect. 

Also pitch perfect: Wellness influencers with terrible advice

“Mooom, the chocolate alchemist has an accomplice now!”

I will always reblog cheetah sounds

The Collage Atlas: a hand-drawn game on Steam

The sacred texts

South Canada. South South Canada. Canada A Bit to the Left

I think I’ve listed this compilation of parody lyrics (”I’m sorry Ms. Jackson/I am four eels”) before, but there’s more now

“Roses are red, that much is true, but violets are purple, not fucking blue”

Personal tags of the week

Scrungly and, as a related topic, Belphegor the Devon rex kitten.

[toshitophchan]

Even before the gang had truly gotten to know Elmo Zimmer the Third, they’d gotten to know his hair. His curly ginger haie meant he was a target for bullies all through primary school. Kids thought it was funny to say he had no soul and call him a wide variety of orange foods, but it wasn’t just that. Elmo had always kept his hair fairly short like all the other boys had, curled around his ears and remaining that way up to year seven. When Elmo was twelve however, he stopped cutting his hair suddenly. It grew long and it grew fast. By the time the kids had become teenagers, sixteen to be precise, Elmo’s curly ginger hair reached his lower back. It was definitely an odd look, no one was ever quite sure if it really worked or not, but despite a lot of teasing, Elmo’s hair remained stubbornly long. Elmo often wore it down, or in a messy ponytail that just screamed ‘I’m a dag.’ He didn’t seem to care about looking after it, but he never cut it.

“It’s so infuriating.” Richelle sighed one day at lunch, eyes fixated on her nails.

“What is?” Liz asked patiently after it became clear Richelle wasn’t going to elaborate.

“His hair,” Richelle yawned slightly. “It’s hideous.” Her eye flickered over to Elmo, sitting along, hair frantically flapping in the breeze that was lingering from winter.

“Looks like someone set his head on fire.” Tom laughed.

“Well if he likes it like that, then who are we to judge.” Sunny said firmly and that was the end of that conversation. Sunny had that sort of power within the group, when she talked, people listened. Still, they kept shooting glances over at the teen throughout the day.

The next day, Nick stumbled across Elmo in the boy’s bathroom with a pair of those cheap blue handled scissors every classroom had in his hands. His eyes were slightly red like he’d cried briefly or encountered something he was allergic to.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Nick’s mind flew to one conclusion. “Hey buddy, do you wanna put the scissors down.”

Elmo spun at the sound of his voice, staring first at the stationary in his hands, then at Nick, eyes wide with confusion.

“Um…I’m just trying to cut some gum out my hair.” Elmo chewed his lip nervously. He turned slightly to show off the tangled wad. “I do it all the time, it’s not going to go wrong.”

“Oh,” Nick willed his cheeks not to flame out of embarrassment. “Wait, you do it often?”

“Well yeah,” Elmo shuffled his feet. “I mean this curly mop of hair is just asking to be targeted.”

“Oh, right.” Nick turned and left the bathroom. He didn’t know what else to say. He needed to pee but it was more awkward to stay.

He waited outside the door however, ear pressed against the cheap wood in an attempt to eavesdrop. He heard the faint sounds of scissors snipping and then Elmo sighed loudly and footsteps approached the exit. Nick darted away, round a corner and out of sight. He didn’t want Elmo to know that he’d been hanging around and listening in.

He peered round the corner cautiously when he didn’t hear Elmo coming towards him. He spotted the boy leaning against the wall, head buried in his hands. His shoulders shook with…sobs? He was probably trying to compose himself, but why not do it in the privacy of the bathroom?

Then, Nick saw that Elmo was laughing. Giggling. Snorting as he tried to be quiet. Something in Nick told him that Elmo was laughing at him. He couldn’t be sure though- it was just a feeling. He could always ask, but Nick also had the feeling that he’d overstepped some sort of invisible boundary today. He’d reacted like a dumb idiot, implying that Elmo was about to commit suicide in the bathroom and not perform a hasty hair cut.

Damn.

Nick turned and stalked away. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

No more fraternizing with Elmo Zimmer the weird.

Roddacember 2024 Day 2 | Feels Good Activity

This is the start of an incredibly indulgent Nick x Elmo Teen power Inc fic I've been writing for like, 5 years at this point. I'm not writing it for anybody but myself really (this is the first time I've posted anything about it), and it's a total feel good piece of work I tap away at whenever I'm in the mood. Happy Feels Good Roddacember!!!!!

[swiftiebookwormlogastellus]

ATYD Characters As Stuff My Friends Have Said:

……..

Sirius: Is it Arthritis when your heart clenches?

James: I’m pretty sure that’s love

Remus: No, that’s a heart attack

………..

McGonagall, about the Marauders: I wanted to say no but they didn’t give me enough time

………..

Lily, during potions: BOILING WATER WILL NOT CATCH FIRE

…………

Remus, when asked about money: I have 1.90 plus a paper clip

…………

James: Keep my dog’s name out of your barking mouth. Woof.

………..

Peter: Is lactose intolerance ice cream phobic?

………..

Lily: Pregnancy is not a birth defect, Sirius.

……….

James, when asked about quidditch: Hustle. Slay. Repeat.

………

Grant, concerned: Remus is like thank u, next to my next life

……….

Regulus: History is one big meme and we’re all fools in it

……….

*texting*

Regulus: Who’s drowning Debbie?

Regulus: wait

Regulus: that says downer

Regulus: nvm

Voldemort: I mean if someone’s drowning it’s gonna be you

……….

Sirius: You’re gonna be proud of me.

Regulus: Doubtful, but go on.

………

*while doing a presentation*

Remus, just before a full moon: Lily, if you see anyone talking, throw your shoe at them.

Sirius, from the back: You sound like my mom

………

Sirius: *rapid French*

Peter: Si?

……….

Sirius: I will sue my bloodline

……….

Remus: I met 5 people today. I hated this experience. I’m an introvert.

………

Walpurga: What are you gonna sue me with?

Sirius: ….A lawyer.

……….

Snape: It’s not racially motivated if you hate everyone equally

………

Peter: I’m attracted to cheese

……….

Remus: I traded intellect for chocolate.

……..

Chris: 10/10. I’m recommending it to the person who recommended it to me.

……..

Grant, about Sirius: And that, my friends, is what we call materialistic.

……..

Sirius, during PoA: This is animal abuse at it’s finest! *kicks rat*

……..

Sirius to Professor McGonagall : Have you tried hop on?

……..

Remus, holding up a scrabble tile: Stop giving me D!

……..

About Fenrir: His favourite food is gay people.

……..

Sirius, when trying to become an animagus: I have a condition in my hair where my mouth won’t move.

……..

Lily, trying to explain muggle technology: Do you know what a gigabyte is?

James, completely lost: Gigachad?

……..

Mary and James about English cuisine: Isn’t it ironic how you colonized places and started wars over spices but still have the blandest food ever?

……..

Sirius: *kicks snow at James*

Remus, narrating: As you can see, the Cold War has begun

……..

Sirius, drunk: J’ai no stupid

……..

James: What does KFC stand for?

Sirius, to the tune of California Girls: KaliFornia Curls

……..

Remus: *starts beatboxing*

Peter: *starts dancing*

Sirius: *raps about peppa pig*

James: BUM BADA DA DA BADADADA DA DA

……..

Snape: Pigeons are fat and ugly.

Sirius: Look who’s talking

……..

Walpurga: You can punt kids without legal repercussions.

……..

Sirius: I’m gonna do what the Canadians did to the First Nations. *stabs someone with an exacto knife a wand*

……..

Sirius: Applying cell theory to my hair to dye it…

……..

Marlene, after meeting James' mom: GUYS I JUST MET A MILF

……..

Dorcas: Lucrative! That's a big word for...

Barty: Elmo?

……..

James: A PUNK ROCK DRUMMER AND HE'S SIX FOOT-

Sirius: *tackles James*

……..

Pandora, about Barty: Evan! Talk some sense into this British goblin!

……..

Sirius to Snape: I will drain your spinal fluid and shove it up your butt.

……..

[solartranslations]

AF2 Arcana Academia: Elmo

Elmo: [Now that La Primavera is over, spring brings more new changes to Regalo]

Elmo: [Arcana Academia]

Elmo: [Sparked by the lord’s plan to turn the island into a center for learning, Arcana Famiglia aims to establish a school]

Elmo: [With a goal to promote learning among the citizens]

Elmo: [Today, everyone in the Family is once again busily fulfilling their young Donna’s wishes]

~*Scene: Alchemy Room*~

Elmo: Hey, Ash

Ash: What?

Elmo: What should you do if you want to always be with the person you like?

Ash: …Where’d that come from? And you have someone like that?

Elmo: Yeah, I do. I like someone

Ash: Huh…anyone I know?

Elmo: Yeah…

Ash: Okay, so why do you look so gloomy?

Elmo: I want to be with her, but I don’t have good reason to be

Ash: Reason?

Elmo: She’s always busy, so I don’t a reason to be with her

Ash: Hm…that sounds like a pain

Elmo: …I’m being serious here

Ash: Is this person a student?

Elmo: Um, I guess…so?

Ash: Then just ask her to study with you

Elmo: Study?

Ash: Yeah. If she came to the Academia, then she should at least want to study

Elmo: Oh…you’re right. I’ll go try it!

Ash: …Right now?

Elmo: Yeah! Thank you, Ash

(*door closes)

Ash: …He’s surprisingly assertive

~*Scene: Hallway*~

Elmo: Miss

Felicita: Elmo…what are you doing here so late?

Elmo: I wanted to ask you on a date

Felicita: A date…?

Elmo: I wanted us to study together

>We can do that anytime/p>

>Why the sudden invitation?

Elmo: Anytime?

Felicita: I won’t always have time though

Elmo: Am I bothering you?

Felicita: No, you’re not

Felicita: (Studying as a date…? Elmo can be so strange)

Elmo: Thank you, Miss. Can we do it now?

Felicita: Okay

Elmo: I’ll be waiting in the study

Felicita: Okay. I’ll be there once I’m ready

~*Scene: Study*~

Felicita: You sure seem to be having fun

Elmo: Huh?

Felicita: You just look so happy

Elmo: Yeah. I am happy

Felicita: Yeah. …I guess I’m the problem

Elmo: Why?

>You’ve been teaching me this whole time

>It’s hard to enjoy myself like this

Felicita: I’m not helping you learn much

Elmo: That’s not true. I’m happy just being helpful to you

Elmo: And Jolly said that teaching people also helps you study

Felicita: I started the Academia because I wanted to make studying fun…

Elmo: That’s fine. I’m happy for a different reason

Felicita: Huh?

Elmo: It’s because I’m with you

Felicita: Elmo…thank you

Felicita: …It’s a little frustrating. I need to try harder

Elmo: You don’t have to be frustrated. All I used to do was study

Felicita: Huh?

Elmo: Maybe becayse my only purpose was to be useful to Jolly

Felicita: Oh…

Elmo: The more I learned, the more he praised me. That’s why I studied

Felicita: I see…

Elmo: …Miss, are you having fun with me right now?

Felicita: Huh?

Elmo: I invited you to study because I wanted to spend time with you

Elmo: But, if it made you look sad, then I guess our first date was a failure

Felciita: Elmo…

Elmo: So, can you give me another chance?

>What are you planning?

>Right now?

Elmo: I have a great idea. Can our date go on a little longer?

Felicita: …Gladly

Elmo: Thank you

Elmo: Yeah

Felicita: …

Elmo: Is that a no?

Felicita: No, go ahead

Elmo: Can we maybe go outside for a bit?

Felicita: Outside?

Elmo: The outside air feels great after a long study session

Felicita: That does sound convincing

Elmo: So, let’s go

Felicita: Okay

Love

~*Scene: Beach*~

Felicita: I haven’t been to the beach at night in a while

Elmo: You don’t like it?

Felicita: That’s not it

Elmo: I thought we could look at the stars while listening to the waves

Felicita: The stars? …Oh, wow

Elmo: I just read a book that said they look the prettiest this time of year

Elmo: Do you like it?

Felicita: Yeah

Elmo: I’m glad

Felicita: They really are beautiful. What’s that white band of stars called?

Elmo: That’s called the Milky Way

Felicita: …You know a lot

Elmo: I like it when you’re happy, so I studied a lot

Felicita: You did it to make me happy?

Elmo: You’re happy when I talk about things you don’t know, right?

Felicita: You studied for that?

Elmo: Yeah

Felicita: …I’d like to hear more about the stars

Elmo: Okay, just a little more…

Elmo: Did you learn about Cygnus in Dante’s class?

Felicita: Yeah

Elmo: That’s the constellation over there that looks like a bird

Felicita: That one?

Elmo: Yeah, the Northern Cross is in the center of it

Felicita: It’s so big

Elmo: Cygnus represents the form a god took when he fell in love with a human woman

Felicita: Huh?

Elmo: He loved her so much…and couldn’t stop even though he knew he couldn’t have her

Elmo: So he turned into a swan so he could see the one he loved

Felicita: That’s a nice story…

Elmo: The god already had a wife, and the woman also had a husband. It’s not all that nice

Elmo: But, it still stuck with me. Maybe I relate to it a bit

Felicita: You do?

Elmo: To love and yearn for someone…you’re not allowed to be with. But you still can’t help but love them

Elmo: It’s just like me

Felicita: …

Elmo: Can we walk for a bit? We’ll get cold just standing around

Felicita: …You’re right

Elmo: Give me your hand

Felicita: My hand…?

Elmo: Yeah. I wouldn’t want you to trip on the sand

Felicita: …Thank you, Elmo

Elmo: I want to stay with you a little longer

Felicita: …Okay

Laugh

~*Scene: Alchemy Room*~

Ash: Jolly, is Elmo here by chance?

Jolly: Elmo? No, he’s not

Ash: Just where did he go?

Jolly: He’s not a child. Leave him be

Ash: Well, I guess it’s not urgent

Ash: Oh, wait…he might be with a girl

Jolly: A girl…?

Ash: He left saying he just had to be with the person he liked

Jolly: …When was this?

Ash: Why are you upset all of a sudden?

Jolly: Answer me

Ash: Just now

Ash: Hey, where are you going?

Jolly: To bring Elmo back

Ash: Huh? Didn’t you say to leave him be?

Jolly: Did I?

(*door closes)

Ash: What was that?

~*Scene: Rose Garden*~

Elmo: Watch your step, Miss

Felicita: Okay

Elmo: The way out is just through here

Felicita: I didn’t realize there was secret passage here

Elmo: It’s a secret, okay Miss? Just between us

Felicita: Okay

Jolly: Stop right there

Elmo: Jolly!

Jolly: Where are you taking Ojou-sama at this hour?

Elmo: Just outside for a walk?

Jolly: And what if something happened? Can you take responsibility?

Elmo: Nothing would happen. And even if it did, I’d protect her

Jolly: I have no time for childish nonsense. You can’t protect her

Elmo: I’m being serious

Jolly: If you must go outside, I will accompany you

Elmo: No way. I want to be alone with Miss

Jolly: So does everyone else in the Family. You don’t get special treatment

Elmo: Everyone? Even you, Jolly? You want to be alone with Miss too?

Jolly: Yes, that’s correct

Elmo: Then are you just doing this because you don’t want us to be alone together?

Jolly: Frankly, yes

(*grip) Elmo: Seriously! Don’t get in the way of our date just because you’re jealous!

Jolly: Jealous… Hmph, don’t you realize that you’re also troubling Ojou-sama with your selfishness?

Jolly: Throwing a tantrum isn’t very attractive

Elmo: …I’m causing her trouble?

Felicita: ……A little

Elmo: I’m sorry

(*sigh) Felicita: We should be careful not the get caught next time

Elmo: Huh?

Jolly: Let’s go, Donna. You should have some more awareness yourself

Felicita: I’ll be careful. Let’s go, Elmo

Elmo: …Okay!

~*End of Scene*~

(Back to Directory)

[oliverreedmasterass]

Can I request a fic of twins being young kids and playing Pirate with baby Sam

You've got it! I love the idea :)

Argh

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: N/A

While the week was typically spent trapped behind a school desk, running errands with their mom, and their tedious tutoring sessions, the weekends were wide open for Jake and Josh to get into whatever trouble they pleased. Being out in the more rural part of Michigan meant that they had plenty of space to explore and get lost in their minds, playing in the grassy fields and under the canopy of the tall birch and cedar trees. They had a routine set where, after finishing their cereal and getting dressed, they raced each other to the front door and spent their day outside playing pretend until the sun started to creep down over the horizon. The weekend prior Josh had been the mastermind behind their weekend adventure, where they were wood nymphs trying to protect the forest from evil gremlins. Jake wasn’t a big fan of the imaginary world that Josh had built, but he kept his mouth shut because he knew he would get to call the shots the next weekend. 

When that weekend came, Jake could hardly sleep the night before. Even though he was in his comfiest pajamas and tucked tightly under his constellation covers, his mind raced as he went through his plan again in his head. 

“We’re gonna be pirates,” he told Josh the following morning as they bound down the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast. 

“I like it,” Josh nodded with a toothless grin. 

“We’ll hunt for treasure and fight the bad guys and fire cannons.”

“Do I get to pick my pirate name?” 

“As long as I get to pick mine.” 

They both stood on their toes to rest their elbows on the kitchen counter so they could watch their dad, still clad in his plaid robe, groggily making a pot of coffee. 

“You want your usual?” he asked his sons over his shoulder. 

“Yeah!” they both brightly chirped. With a grunt, Kelly grabbed two Scooby Doo-branded plastic bowls from the cupboard and carefully set them down in front of Jake and Josh. He grabbed an open box of Mini Wheats from the counter and filled each bowl to the brim with cereal. Jake and Josh both stared intently as Kelly poured a splash of milk in, monitoring to make sure he gave them the right amount. 

“There you go,” he said, handing them both spoons. While Jake and Josh hungrily tore into their breakfast, Sam came clomping into the room, dressed in his Elmo onesie pajamas, carrying a Bionicle in one hand and a Dr. Seuss book in his other hand. 

“Ronnie won’t read to me no more,” he whined out in his squeaky voice. Jake and Josh were too busy digging into their sugary meal to make much of Sam’s complaint. Sure, he was 5, but he really did whine a lot for a little kid. 

“Ronnie has a playdate to go to,” Kelly tried to explain to his youngest son. “She can read to you later.” 

“Can I go with her?” Sam’s face brightened. Kelly winced. 

“I’m afraid not, buddy. You weren’t included on the guest list.” 

Sam’s face contorted into a deep frown and he looked on the brink of tears when Kelly cut him off to do some damage control. 

“Why don’t you play with your brothers today?” 

“Dad!” Jake couldn’t hold himself back from protesting. Sam just got in the way. He was going to ruin Jake’s pirate game, which Jake wouldn’t accept. 

“C’mon,” Kelly gave Jake a pleading look. “Let the little guy join you. Just for today, okay? I promise.” 

“We can play pirates tomorrow,” Josh leaned into Jake’s side to whisper. 

“I want to play pirates today though,” Jake was now the one who looked on the brink of tears. Kelly accidentally let out a loud sigh and chugged down his cup of coffee. 

“Just play pirates with Sam,” he said. “I would keep an eye on him, but I’m practicing for a gig with the guys.” 

Jake knew that this was an argument he couldn't win so, with a locked jaw, he nodded. Josh patted him on the back, as if to tell him that everything was okay. 

“I get to be a pirate?” Sam sounded hopeful as he stood in between Jake and Josh, looking up at them in eager anticipation. Jake took a break from his cereal and patted on the top of Sam’s head with probably a little bit too much force. 

“You get to keep an eye on the booty.” 

“Oh boy!” Sam exclaimed, even though it was obvious he didn’t know what Jake was talking about. 

“Why does he get to keep an eye on the booty?” Josh asked Jake under his breath. 

“We’re gonna steal the booty from him,” Jake whispered back. “He’s the bad guy.” 

“Oh,” Josh breathed out. In unison the twins finished the rest of their breakfast and let their spoons clatter down on the counter. Kelly looked up from the newspaper he was scanning and pointed back upstairs. 

“All of you get changed and then the day is yours.” 

The three brothers sprinted upstairs and tore into their shared bedroom. While Josh helped unzip Sam’s pajamas and tug his Detroit Red Wings shirt over his head, Jake reached into the back of their closet and retrieved his Halloween costume from the year prior. He had given it a lot of thought during his restless sleep the night before that he couldn’t successfully play pirates with Josh unless he looked the part. Josh finished dressing Sam and watched as Jake pulled up his patched pants, black and white striped shirt, and black vest. 

“I don’t have a pirate costume,” Josh complained. 

“You can wear my eyepatch,” Jake tried to compromise. It was hard to see out of anyway. That seemed to be enough for Josh since he nodded with a goofy grin and got to work getting into a pair of jeans and white t-shirt. 

“I want to wear pirate clothes too,” Sam’s shrill voice rang out again. 

“You don’t have a pirate costume, Sammy,” Jake turned around to tell his brother. 

“Why not?” Sam crossed his arms. 

“I don’t know,” Jake responded as he carefully placed his pirate hat over his unkempt hair. “You can wear a bandana though.” 

It was Jake’s luck that Sam accepted that as enough for his pirate costume. He fetched a red bandana from underneath his bed and brought it over to Sam. Sam held the cloth in his hands and stared down at the paisley design. 

“What do I do with it?” he finally asked. Jake had been in the process of tugging on his fake pirate beard, so he tsked in aggravation and returned to Sam’s side. 

“You do this,” Jake explained as he took the bandana out of Sam’s hands and sloppily tied it around his head, pushing the fabric back so Sam looked more like a milkmaid than a first mate. Even though Josh looked equally as ridiculous with the eyepatch and a bucket hat on, he let out a small snort at the sight of Sam. It didn’t seem to bother Sam at all though, since he was already in character, running around his side of the room yelling out “Argh!” 

Jake finished getting into costume and cleared his throat. While it didn’t stop Sam, Josh joined Jake’s side. Jake cleared his throat louder a second time and Sam skidded to a stop and whirled around to face his older brother. 

“There’s booty out on the high seas, there is,” Jake growled out in his best pirate voice. “Argh, booty as far as the eye can see.” 

“I want the booty!” Sam shouted out as he danced from foot to foot in excitement. 

“You have the booty, boy,” Jake told Sam. “You need to hide it from us because we’re going to take it from you.” 

“No!” Sam exclaimed. “I won’t let you!” 

“Well get in yer boat and set sail, sonny boy. We’ll give you a head start.” 

Sam took Jake’s cue and booked it out of the room, squealing out in glee. As his thrilled cries disappeared from earshot, Josh turned to Jake. 

“What’s your pirate name going to be?” 

Jake combed his hand through his fake beard as he pondered his options. 

“Captain Brown Beard,” he decided. 

“I wanna be Curly the Pirate,” Josh shared. “I’ll be your first mate.” 

“Ay,” Jake said. 

“I want a parrot too,” Josh added. “He’ll talk sometimes, but I’ll let you know when it’s the parrot talking and not me.” 

Jake nodded at Josh’s request and then motioned towards their open door. 

“The lad’s far enough ahead. Let’s get us some booty.” 

Jake led the charge, letting out the best pirate whoops and calls he could afford, which Josh echoed behind him. They made their way downstairs and, sticking to tradition, raced each other to the front door. Since Josh was technically blind in one eye from the eyepatch, he was at an unfair disadvantage. Jake won by a landslide, but that was mostly because Josh accidentally ran into a wall while they were trying to pass through the living room. Jake opened the front door with a grunt but waited for his twin to catch up, basking in the warm glow of the early sunlight. When Josh joined Jake’s side with an embarrassed grin plastered on his face, Jake craned his neck to shout outside, 

“Sammy boy! We’re coming for ya!” 

He was certain he heard Sam call out in shock at Jake’s announcement, followed by the sound of his tennis shoes crunching on fallen leaves as he tried to run away. 

“The booty’s not far,” Jake turned back around to share with Josh. 

“Roger roger,” Josh chirped back. “That was the parrot,” he added in a whisper. 

With Jake leading the way, they crept through the front door and down the front steps to their front lawn. Jake had his hands cupped together to form a makeshift telescope, which he used to scan their property. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but Jake assumed that meant he was hiding in the backyard. Sam always ran for the shed in any game of hide and seek. Jake reached into his pant pocket and pretended to retrieve a compass, which he held out to Josh to observe. 

“North is that way,” Jake said, pointing towards the backyard. “We have to go north.” 

“Ay ay, captain,” Josh saluted Jake. They started to make their way around the side of their house, Jake pretending to steer their impressive ship while Josh was in charge of keeping an eye on the sails. 

“What will you do with the booty, Captain?” Josh asked after Jake commanded that he weigh anchor and pick up the pace. 

“I’ll buy an even bigger boat, argh,” Jake announced with his arms wide. “So I can get more booty!” 

“Brawk, more booty,” Josh imitated a parrot. “I’m going to use the booty to make a movie,” he continued in his normal voice. This made Jake stop in his tracks, Josh nearly bumping into his back. 

“Josh,” Jake thought hard. “I don’t think movies existed when pirates were around.” 

“Oh,” Josh frowned. “Then I’ll buy an island, I don’t know.” 

They reached the backyard with the shed clear in view, and Jake grabbed a long stick from the ground to serve as his sword. He knew using a stick as a weapon was something his parents wouldn’t approve of, but he wasn’t going to actually use it as a weapon. It was just a prop. 

“My compass says to go that way,” Jake ordered, pointing his stick in the direction of the shed. “Booty ahead, matey!” 

“Yarr!” Josh agreed. They pretended that a strong gust of wind had propelled their boat forward and started to run for the shed. 

“Ahoy, Davy Jones’ Locker!” Jake exclaimed as he pulled the shed door open. “What treasures are here?” 

“No booty,” Sam’s small voice squeaked from the corner of the shed, behind their dad’s lawn mower. Jake and Josh shared an amused look before cornering Sam. 

“Yo ho ho, that was too easy,” Jake couldn’t help but muse. He lowered his stick back down to his side and pretended to swing from his ship down to Sam’s side. As he started to reach for the imaginary treasure that Sam had been given, he was shocked to find that Sam slammed his own stick down on Jake’s hand. 

“OW!” Jake hollered, clutching at his throbbing hand. “Whaddya do that for, Sam?” 

“You won’t take my booty!” Sam shouted with a newfound sense of confidence. “It’s mine!” Because he had caught Jake and Josh off guard enough, he managed to squeeze between them and rush out of the shed and back around to the front yard. 

“Captain?” Josh checked in with Jake, lifting his eyepatch to make total eye contact with Jake. “Is your hand okay?” 

“It will need stitches, but I’ll live,” Jake decided to stay in character, even though internally he wanted to swing his own stick at Sam in retaliation. “Fetch me the surgeon.” Josh hurried to a separate part of the shed and then came back with the eyepatch gone.

“I’m the surgeon, Toothless Pete,” he introduced himself, shaking Jake’s uninjured hand. “What’s the problem?” 

“The enemy got me,” Jake explained, showing his red hand to Josh. “He got me with his sword.” 

“That’s a deep cut,” Josh said as he pretended to examine Jake’s “wound”. “Let me work my magic.” Jake was pleasantly surprised to find that Josh dancing his fingers over Jake’s hand while mumbling gibberish did, for some reason, make his hand feel better. “Good as new,” Josh announced, letting Jake’s hand out from his grip. 

“Let’s get that bad guy,” Jake said, pointing his stick out the shed door. 

They hustled back out into the sunlight and snapped their heads around, trying to catch a glimpse of their younger brother. 

“He can’t be far,” Jake reasoned. 

“Use the compass,” Josh reminded Jake. They acted as if they were looking down at Jake’s trusted compass again, and Jake pointed back to the front yard, where there was a scattered collection of trees. If he had to guess, Sam was probably hiding behind one of them. They set sail once more, this time with Josh and his parrot singing sea shanties while Jake attempted to do tricks with his sword. By the time they approached the trees, the twins were in high spirits. That quickly disappeared though when it was obvious that Sam wasn’t there. 

“Where did he go?” Jake’s voice rose. “He has me booty!” 

“In the house?” Josh guessed. 

“We only play outside,” Jake countered. 

“Maybe that’s why he’s inside,” Josh suggested. Jake shook his head. 

“I’ll bet he’s on the other side of the house.” 

Since Jake was the captain, Josh couldn’t challenge his judgment. They crept to the other side of the house and, again, were left disappointed that Sam wasn’t there. 

“The rascal,” Jake muttered under his breath. 

“I was thinking about it,” Josh commented. “Should we tell on Sam to Dad? He did hit you with a stick.” 

“Maybe,” Jake realized. That would have been a good way to get Sam off of their hands. But, now that they were deep into their game of pirates, Jake was determined to keep Sam in the game so he could find him and rob him clean of his treasure. As Captain Brown Beard, it was his life’s mission. “We have to find the booty first,” he turned back to tell Josh. Josh gave Jake a salute. 

They circled around the house once more without catching even a glimpse of Sam. Jake knew for a fact that Sam wasn’t that good at hiding, which meant Josh had been right all along, that he was inside their house. Jake made a mental note to coach Sam that going inside was against the rules as they steered their ship through the front door. 

“Blimey,” Jake and Josh both whispered in awe. Sam, still wearing his bandana, was sitting on their leather living room couch, happily munching on a bowl of cheddar Goldfish. 

“The booty,” Jake turned to Josh to widen his eyes. They both gazed at Sam’s snack with a newfound hunger. Sure, they were still playing pretend and the Goldfish were a nice tangible thing to steal from Sam, but Jake also realized how hungry captaining an imaginary ship made him. 

“What’s the plan, Captain?” Josh asked in a hush. “Brawk, plan,” he added. 

“An ambush,” Jake conspired. “He won’t know what to do.” 

“On the count of three?” Josh checked in. 

“Ay,” Jake readied his stick. 

“One.” 

“Two.” 

“Three.” 

Jake felt a rush of exhilaration as he and Josh both tore in Sam’s direction, yelling out in their best pirate voices. Sam had been in the middle of shoving a hearty handful of Goldfish into his mouth when he jumped in shock from the sound of his brothers. 

“No!” he cried out as Josh rushed in front of him and pulled the bowl of Goldfish out of his hands. Jake ran in the opposite direction and snatched the bandana off the top of his head, just because. 

“The booty is ours, Curly!” Jake whooped in glee as they rushed out of the room. 

“My snack!” Sam wailed. “My bandana!” 

Jake and Josh both returned back outside and ducked underneath the porch so they could take inventory on their bounty. The bowl was nearly empty, but Jake hardly cared. In that moment he felt as if he was really a pirate, swinging in from a rope, slashing away at the bad guys and taking what was rightfully his. 

“There’s five Goldfish,” Josh realized as he sorted through the crackers. 

“Enough to buy a new boat!” Jake exclaimed, waving his hands up in celebration. 

“And my island!” Josh was back to pretending, joining Jake in his glee. They patted each other on the back and divided the bowl between them, happily munching away on Sam’s food. Jake had to admit that they were probably the best Goldfish he’d ever had. 

He was finishing crunching down on his last one when he heard heavy footsteps above them. Within seconds, Kelly was down by their side, gazing down at them in a mixture of disappointment and amusement. Behind him was a sniffling Sam, who was holding onto the back of Kelly’s shirt. 

“Did you take Sam’s snack?” Kelly asked Jake and Josh. They both exchanged a quick look. It was hard to deny that they had, considering they had Sam’s bowl between them and were both holding Goldfish up to their mouths. 

“He cheated and went inside!” Jake tried to divert the blame. 

“I didn’t know!” Sam raised his voice. Kelly took a pause to turn around and address his youngest. 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he calmly told him. “You’re not in trouble.” 

Kelly returned back to Jake and Josh. 

“I’m disappointed in you both,” he said. Those words stung. Jake and Josh winced and tried to avoid looking their father in the eye. “You shouldn’t team up against your brother like that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Josh was the first to crack. 

“I am too,” Jake echoed. He did feel bad; he had never told Sam he couldn’t go inside. Plus, it was unfair that Jake and Josh had teamed up against him, two versus one. If Ronnie was with Sam, Jake wouldn’t have felt a sliver of remorse, but Sam was all on his own. He didn’t stand a chance against his older brothers. 

“Good,” Kelly was finally able to make eye contact with his sons. “Sam, do you feel better now?” 

“I want my booty back,” Sam’s eyes still glistened with tears. 

“We can get you some more booty inside, how about that?” Jake asked as he handed Sam his bandana back. Sam cautiously grabbed it from Jake and then held it up to Kelly to tie around his head. With a small grin, Kelly took the bandana from Sam and motioned for him to stand in front of him so Kelly could properly secure it around his head. 

“There you go,” Kelly softly told him. “You’re a pirate again.” 

That was apparently all that Sam needed to hear, since he called out in glee and ran back towards the house, hollering “Argh!” all over again. Jake, Josh, and Kelly all looked amongst each other and couldn’t help but let out a laugh. It felt like there was never a dull moment with their family.

Kelly trudged after Sam and Jake and Josh shortly followed behind him. 

“Was that a good game of pirates?” Josh asked Jake. Jake reflected on their day. 

“I’d say it was pretty good,” he replied with a large grin through his fake beard. Josh tugged on the fake hair, revealing Jake’s chin for a split second, and let out a hearty laugh. 

“Curly the Pirate and Captain Brown Beard got their booty today!”

[doueverwonder]

Notes: Any state oc's belong to @rosethreeart this thing was meant for Trinity's birthday but took an ungodly amount of time for me to finish and i'm v sorry Trin <3

ao3 link here: also under cut if you just want to stay on tumblr <3

Abby was out for the day; leaving Lars in charge of the house. That mostly meant just watching Mason and making sure the three year old didn’t get himself into anything; unfortunately the baby gate had broken a week earlier and Mason discovered he could now get up and down the stairs himself. Sam had accidentally tripped over it, and while she was fine, the gate was not. 

Lars normally had no problem reaching things on the top shelf. But trying to reach for something at the back of the top shelf, and simultaneously trying to not drop a squirming three-year-old wasn’t the most fun in the world. He knew if he set Mason down he would bolt for the stairs, but Mason's favorite cup was up there and he was being difficult, refusing to use any one in closer reach. 

“Need help?” Vinny had come into the kitchen for a snack, but instead saw the unusual sight of his dad actually struggling to reach something. 

Lars shook his head, “No, no, I almost have it” 

Vinny tried not to laugh, watching as Mason titled his head backwards looking at her upside down instead of simply turning around. They went over to his dad, looking up trying to figure out what he was reaching for. Vinny stood barely two centimeters taller than his father who only couldn’t get the thing because he was holding Mason. 

Lars sighed, “If you want to help hold this” and handed him Mason, Vinny was surprised suddenly having his baby brother in his arms but didn’t complain. 

“Really pop?” he changed how he was holding Mason, setting him on her shoulders, holding onto his legs. “Blame it on Mae?” 

He was able to easily reach the short difference to grab the sippy cup. “I’m not blaming it on him” 

Mason had taken more interest in playing with his siblings hair, than in the conversation going on below; “I don’t know, sounds like it” 

“I’m not, it’s not anybody's fault that someone has decided to bolt for the stairs every chance he gets,” “And it’s not anybody’s fault that he’ll only drink water out of his elmo cup?” 

“That one I’m actually blaming your mother for don’t tell her that though” He went to fill up the cup, screwing the lid back on before handing it back to Mason; “He’s going to take a N-A-P in just a little bit” 

“Oh? I thought he was done taking N-A-P’s?” both spelled it out knowing a certain three year old would get quite upset if he knew he was scheduled for an N-A-P. 

“He was, until he stayed up half the night and kept your mother and I up with him” He held his arms out reaching back for Mason, the response from Vinny being to back up a bit. “I got him” he cracked a smile, “if you’re about to fall over I better keep a hold of him” 

Lars scoffed a bit, but didn’t complaining sitting down at the kitchen table; “I’ve gone with less than four hours for weeks on end before, I think I’ll be alright” 

“And i’ve gone on less than four hours for years, so I win” 

Lars hummed, “sounds like someone else is also scheduled for an N-A-P then” 

Vinny changed how he was holding Mason, setting the toddler in his lap as he sat down across from his father, both of them pushing their chairs back, their knees too tall to fit comfortably under the table. Height was a blessing and a curse they shared. “I don’t need one. I have coffee” 

“Ah, In that case you’re fine to keep on with that terrible sleep schedule.” The sarcasm dripped heavily off the words; Vinny knew not to argue back; very few people could argue with him with the same amount of sarcasm as his father–his grandfather being the other one who could. 

Vinny looked at his little brother who sat content in his lap; when Mason was announced everyone had been surprised. They had been sure there were going to be no more kids as Lars specifically would lodge–joking–complaints about having too many mouths to feed as is. Then he happened anyway. Now the main complaint was tripping over toys when getting up to use the bathroom or get a drink, and that was from more than one person. Obviously there weren’t any pictures of Vinny when he was a baby due to it being well… 1788. But he liked to think he looked like his baby brother, minus one or two things; 

“Do you think Mae will look like me when he’s older?” 

Lars, despite claiming he’d done far more with much less sleep, was clearly starting to doze off as he answered: “probably not you looked like an old man when you were his age” 

Vinny’s jaw went slack, Abby always insisted he was one of the cuter babies she had. Though apparently Florida would always be number one, the spotlight hog. “I did not” 

“If I could show you a picture you would agree” He smiled a bit leaning against the table, “it’s okay though, you were still cute because you were a baby. Growing up too fast now.” 

“I’m not that grown up” 

“Oh? And when is the Dane planning on proposing?” Vinny got excited before he could think, “He won’t tell me but said I should expect a ‘surprise’ by–” He stopped pouting, realizing what they were being tricked into.

Lars got up, stretching a bit, moving to the other side of the table, putting a firm hand on his kid's shoulder, “don’t rush in. you’re still plenty young.” Vinny went to complain in response, but before he could Lars was walking off; “But to prove how grown up you are, watch Mason, I'm going to take a nap.” Vinny snorted as it was followed by a mumbled ‘we switched places and now I’m the old man’.

They looked at Mae, still only three years old, in his arms; still just excited about the world–though not so excited by naps. …maybe growing up could wait just a bit longer.

[ladysternchen]

All of Arda is autistic- Finwë and Elwë

“You look somewhat unhappy!” Finwë said, letting himself sink onto the ground beside his friends. Ingwë looked up from his flute in surprise. “What, me?” “Nay…” Finwë laughed. “You just look as if you’ve never seen that thing before, despite never parting from it. No, I meant Elwë. Who apparently isn’t even listening!” He prodded the younger elf with one finger, which made Elwë jerk out of his thoughts. “Ow!” “Yes, sure, because that hurt.” Finwë huffed, but cuddled up to his friend anyway. “What’s wrong? Don’t you look forward to seeing everyone again?” “I am. A lot. Only… aren’t you nervous?” Ingwë had apparently decided to leave the two best friends to their conversation and resumed the polishing of his flute, but Finwë looked at Elwë in surprise.  “Nervous? Why in Arda would I be nervous?” Elwë opened his mouth to answer, then, reconsidering, closed it again.  “You really are nervous, aren’t you?” Finwë added in much gentler tones, now that he had realised that his friend really was worried. “Will you explain to me why?” Elwë shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m… I guess I’m nervous about… facing everybody. What… what if they hold us now to be something special?” A grin spread over Finwë’s fair face. “Well, I hate to break that to you, but of course we’ll be held as something special, because we are. We’ve been singled out, given work to do. We’re the chosen ones!” “But why? It’s not as if we’ve done anything extraordinary.” “Didn’t you listen to what the Valar said? That great deeds would yet have to be done? We’ve been given honours, and now we have to live up to them!” There was a note of pride in Finwë’s voice that told Elwë how eager his friend was to prove himself, to get into action. Just about the exact opposite of how he felt. “So no pressure, huh?” He answered, with a brave attempt at bravado. Finwë considered that.  “I don’t think I’d call that pressure, but rather an opportunity. We can live in that bliss, in the light, learn how to craft things the way Lord Aulë does, and Lady Vairë. And just think that we won’t ever have to worry again about the Shadow, won’t that be wonderful?” Elwë frowned. “And you were the one who needed to be persuaded to follow Lord Oromë in the first place…” “Well, true… the other side sounded pretty convincing, too, at least at first. But, Elwë, are you actually having second thoughts now? Isn’t it a bit late for that?” A lump had built in Elwë’s throat, and he tried in vain to clear it. “Um… no. I mean, yes, I do have second thoughts, or third or… whatever. See, I really want to go back to Aman as quickly as possible, I want to know that Elmo and Olwë are safe, but…” “See?” Finwë cut across him eagerly. “And not only our families, but all Quendi. And we are going to lead them!” Elwë remained silent for a moment, then said, slowly and deliberately: “And what if they don’t want to come?” His friend shrugged. “Then we’ll persuade them! Once they hear what it is like, they’ll surely want to come!” “And if not? How am I ever to convince them? The Valar trust me to lead my people… oh, that alone sounds ridiculous! We’re very nearly still children, and we are supposed to convince the elders to follow us when they have already stated that they have no desire to leave Cuiviénen? How?” Finwë reached calmly over to take one of his friend’s hands into his own, gently prising open Elwë’s tightly clenched fist. The younger elf shuddered a little as Finwë massaged the palm of his hand where his fingernails had left marks. He hadn’t even realised just how agitated he had become. “You will find your way. And I’ll always be there, to tell you that you think way too much, and are too scared of change, and too self-conscious and too much in need of order and control, just as you are going to tell me that my heart got way ahead of my head again, and that I’m reckless and over-enthusiastic and too trusting in my own skills and good fortune. We don’t need to do everything perfectly. That’s for Ingwë… he’s the one who has it all together. But we have each other. And we’ll do great! Promise?” Elwë nodded, barely swallowing down tears. He did not know how Finwë did this, but he could always make things seem so easy that even looking back, Elwë could not determine what he had been worrying about only moments before.