#also I know the prop was a couch but I couldn’t find a similar reference

[giulzart]

Photoshoot Violet cause that scene lives rent-free in my head at the moment so… yeah

Also the anatomy and dress physics are not correct so don’t judge it too much pls I just needed to get these out my system hahaha

[ri-ahhh]

hi can you write about spending a valentine’s day with gray pls?

valentine’s day smut w/ gray? + more haha sorry couldn’t put them all in

A/N: I’m sorry this is a day late. It was supposed to be 90% smut but somehow it took on a mind of its own and turned into this monster.

warnings: smut, extremely cheesy, way too long

***

It should be a given understanding that Valentine’s Day is the dumbest, most antiquated, overrated holiday that’s ever existed. That had always been your take on it, even as a little kid — the worry of spelling your classmates’ names correctly on cards imprinted with cheesy Scooby Doo and Spongebob puns; the expectation to dress up nice in the hopes you would get asked to be someone’s Valentine in the hallways of middle school; the potential embarrassment of being the only person in class who didn’t get bought one of those stupid roses from a ‘secret admirer’ in high school.

There’s simply too much pressure surrounding the idea of professing your love or even your mere fondness for anyone and everyone in your life. The fear of rejection if you do, and the judgement if you don’t. It had always made you anxious, whether you had someone to share the day with or not.

But this Valentine’s Day, as a young twenty-something, you were actually (secretly) looking forward to it. Conner was your first adult relationship, with the title of ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ and labels and commitment. He’s cute and smart and charming and yours. So, sue you if you were quietly anticipating wearing that SavageXFenty set beneath a brand new dress while you went to dinner after being greeted at the door with roses and a box of chocolates.

And yet here you are, on February 14th, hood of your sweater drawn over your head as you rummage through your freezer with a clear target in your mind. Your eyes are blurry and swollen, but you find the pint of birthday cake Nada Moo with ease, and you slam the freezer door closed a little harder than you really mean to as soon as it’s in your grasp.

You’ve just popped the lid off when your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter where you’ve plopped down to eat your depression snack in a more acceptable place than your bed or the couch.

You see Grayson’s name accompanied by a goofy, up-close picture of him smiling filling the screen, and hesitate. He’s one of your best friends, and clearly done nothing wrong, but you’re not sure you’re capable of handling anyone of the male species right now after...everything.

At the end of the day, though, it’s Grayson. He knows heartbreak almost better than anyone, and you’ve coached him through it on more than one occasion. Maybe he can spew back some of your own advice if it comes to that.

You swipe the bar at the bottom of the screen, and your ceiling suddenly replaces the image of his silly, handsome face. “Sup?”

“Yo. Am I interrupting anything? Sorry, just remembered what day it is.”

You swallow. “Uh no, you’re not.”

“What’s wrong?”

You bite your lip hard, digging your spoon into the softened ice cream. Was it that obvious just from your voice that you had been upset? Or does he just know you that well?

“Nothing.”

“You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie. Let me see your face.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you concede. “No. I’ve been crying.”

He’s quiet, and you can’t bring yourself to look at his own face in the corner of the screen. You shove the chunk of ice cream past your lips, and after a moment he says with a softer tone, “Crying on Valentine’s Day is never a good sign.”

You’re glad that you’ve gotten so much of your tears out already, because you feel the inevitable prickle behind your eyes that would have been full-blown waterworks a few hours ago. You scoop another bite. “Conner cheated on me — has been, cheating on me. I found out last night.”

Grayson sighs your name, and something about the genuine sympathy in his voice makes you even more emotional. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. What a piece of shit.”

You shrug even though he can’t see, and sniffle past the lump in your throat. “It’s whatever. I’m still in shock more than anything. Hurts like hell, though, still. I let him have it when I saw the texts and he hasn’t tried to call me once. No texts. Nothing.”

He’s silent, but it’s that raging silence you know oh so well from him. It doesn’t happen often, but anyone who knows Grayson Dolan knows that when his volume comes down, he means business. A loud and obnoxious Grayson is a happy one, but a brooding and quiet one means serious business.

“Do you want me to go beat his ass? I’ll do it.”

A smile cracks your scowl before you know it, and you shake your head. “No thanks, Gray. As much as I’d love to see that happen, I like your face the way it is. And not on a mugshot.”

He chuckles a little, and you feel your chest lift some just hearing the familiar depth of it. “Well, do you at least want me to come over later? I totally get if you need to be alone, but I know from experience sometimes what helps the most is having good friends around.”

You’re a little surprised. “You don’t have a date?”

“Nope.”

“No one from the roster hitting you up?”

“I don’t have a roster,” he argues playfully, but you both know that’s a lie, if not at least a stretch of the truth. “And even if I did, you’re more important. Always.”

You sigh and take another bite. His words make your neck tingle and your toes wiggle, but you ignore it; your brain is full of confusion as it is. “That makes one man in my life who thinks so, I guess.”

You finally prop your phone up against the fruit basket sitting in the middle of your bar so he can see you. Grayson takes in your image, which admittedly must look kind of pathetic, and you watch his jaw clench and release in a way that you can’t deny is utterly sexy.

“Is an hour okay? Tell Vanessa to come, too.”

“Benito took her to Tulum for the weekend,” you say, referring to your best friend and her boyfriend. “She did threaten to get on a plane and come home early for me, though.”

Grayson grins crookedly, but his jaw is still tight. “Well, tell her you’re in good hands. See you in an hour?”

You give it one last quick consideration; you already feel this much better just talking to him on the phone. Nothing bad could come from him being in your apartment, and you trust him. “Yeah, that’s fine. But just so you know, I’m already at the stage of eating ice cream at 10:30 AM.”

“Did you forget you’re talking to the emotional ice cream eating champion? No judgement here.”

You finally let out a giggle, your spirits officially lifted. “I’ll see you soon.”

**

True to his word, Grayson arrives at your door about an hour later, his arms laden with milkshakes from Monty’s, a gift bag decorated all over with sparkly hearts, and a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

You’re stunned. The only thing you’d managed to do in the time it took him to get here was take a quick shower in attempts to rid your face of some of the puffiness, throw on some shorts this time with a fresh hoodie, and toss the used tissues scattered around your place into the garbage.

Before you can say anything, he holds out the flowers. “They were out of roses. But I know you like pink.”

You reach out for them slowly, eyes wide, your fingers brushing his when you grasp the plastic wrapping. His cheeks are a similar color to the petals, and it makes both your heart and your lips smile.

“Peonies are my favorite,” you say truthfully. “And yes, especially pink ones. Thank you, Gray.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, sounding relieved.

As he crosses the threshold of your door, he leans down to kiss your cheek, and you can’t help but hum quietly and pull him in for a hug. “That gift better not be for me, either,” you mumble into his chest.

Grayson pulls back, his eyes sparkling, but keeps you close with an arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. “Oh, this? No, this is for my other best friend I’m trying to cheer up on Valentine’s Day.”

You slap his arm playfully, and lead him into your kitchen, pulling out a vase from the cabinet beneath your sink for the flowers.

The bag has a few gifts in it: a new Comfy (“I remembered you ruined yours when that ketchup bottle exploded all over you the other day”); a huge bag of watermelon sour patch kids (“I know they’re your favorite. Also ice cream gives you brain freeze after the first pint or so, trust me”); and a heart shaped box of your favorite chocolates (“you can eat them or burn them, I wasn’t sure which you’d appreciate more but either is fine with me.”)

You appreciated all of it, more than he would ever understand. All you can do is fling yourself at him weakly, completely overwhelmed. “Fuck you, you’re gonna make me cry all over again.”

Grayson envelops you in those huge, muscular arms, cooing behind that laugh you love so much. “Is that a really backwards way of saying thank you?”

You grunt in affirmation, and with you still wrapped up in his arms, he starts waddling the two of you back the short distance into your living room.

“Here,” he says, coaxing you down into the blanket nest you had created on the couch. “You chill and find a movie. I’ll make popcorn.”

You do, and he does, and the next few hours are spent lounging about in your apartment. Having him here with you is doing wonders from keeping your mind from going down the paths you’d been spiraling towards ever since you saw the messages between Conner and no less than four other girls on Snapchat. You don’t believe in snooping, but finding the first one had been an accident when he received the snap while you had his phone, and your finger happened to press the icon at just the right moment. 

In your eyes, though, the image of one pair of tits that weren’t your own was enough justification to see what else you could find. 

“I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of relieved,” you told Grayson a while later, Shrek playing on the TV quietly. He’s sitting next to you, far enough apart for there to be couch space between the two of you, but close enough to share the oversized blanket thrown over your laps. “Obviously what he did is so fucking shitty and I’m not justifying it in any way, but I can be honest with myself now and realize I wasn’t in that relationship for the right reasons. There wasn’t anything there emotionally at the end of the day.”

“You still have every right to feel hurt by what he did, though. It’s a huge violation of trust,” Grayson assures, reaching out and squeezing your hand gently.  

You squeeze back and grimace at him. “Yeah.” You let out a little mirthless laugh and shake your head, heat flooding your cheeks. “It’s so embarrassing, too. And finding out the day before Valentine’s, no less. Like, I just wanted to look cute, have a nice dinner, have some nice sex, and just... I don’t know. Have an actual Valentine’s day for once. No pressure or anxiety or anything.”

Grayson stares at you in that way he does — so intense and almost intimidating if there wasn’t a genuine warmth behind it. You’re suddenly aware of his thumb brushing the back of your hand slowly. He squeezes your fingers again. 

“So, let’s do it, then. You and me.”

You arch a brow at him, smiling at the rosiness in his cheeks when he realizes what he might have implied. “The dinner part, I mean. And the dressing up. Even though I think you look plenty cute right now.”

You roll your eyes, but for the countless time that day, your heart flutters happily. Looking back, you can’t remember the last time Conner had complimented your appearance, let alone after hours of crying and lazing around in sweats, sugar crystals stuck to the corner of your lip. 

“That would be great, except there’s no way we’re getting into any restaurant at this point,” you remind him. “Probably no delivery, either.”

“I’ll cook for you,” he counters, throwing the blanket off his legs and standing up with a groan. He stops to stretch, and the way his arms go over his head makes his shirt ride up at the bottom, exposing a chunk of hard muscles and golden skin. 

You swallow, eyes trailing up the rest of his torso appreciatively. “I don’t have much.”

He’s already rummaging through your pantry, though, and pulls out a half-full box of pasta, a jar of marinara sauce, and a leftover chunk of sourdough bread. “You got salad stuff?”

You nod, and he opens the fridge to find some lettuce, peppers, and other salad fixings before setting them with the pasta ingredients on the counter. “Go get dressed, look as cute or not cute as you want. I’ll take care of this.”

He’s absolutely unreal. “Gray-”

Grayson holds up his hand. “Ah, no, I’m doing this. You deserve it. Also, I’m hungry. It’s a win-win.”

Your stomach growls as well, and that’s all the convincing you need. While he gets busy in the kitchen, you tidy up the living area some before heading to your room. You feel a little silly, making your third outfit change of the day, but you also like the giddiness in the pit of your belly at the thought of Grayson doing all of this for you. You might as well take advantage of having someone like him in your life. Show him some Valentine’s appreciation of your own.

You forgo the slinky red number you had planned to wear to the restaurant with Conner, and opt instead for a rather unsuspecting blouse-jeans combo, which happen to both respectively frame your tits and ass perfectly.

The lacy, bright pink set in the back of your closet might have made it beneath your clothes, though. The prettiness of it made you feel that much better, even if no one else was going to see it.

Maybe.

Padding back into your kitchen after running a flat iron through your hair and throwing on some concealer, mascara, and lip gloss, you find Grayson draining the pasta into a colander in the sink. 

Grayson does a double-take when he sees you standing there admiring the flex of his bicep as he holds the pot. “Hey! You look amazing.”

“If you say so,” you joke, bumping his hip with yours as. You pass him to pull plates and bowls out of the cabinet.

“I do,” he insists quietly.

Arm outstretched mid-reach, you look over at him, locking eyes with his hazel ones. He looks a little surprised by the words that left his mouth, like he meant for them to stay inside his head. There must be some kind of challenge in your gaze, daring him to elaborate.

He busies himself with the pasta again hastily, his voice low. “Conner is a fucking idiot. To do that to you. To let you go. You don’t deserve that. Especially not today.”

Plates in hand, you rest them gently on the counter with your lower lip caught between your teeth, and peer over at this handsome man you’re so proud and lucky to call your best friend. He’s everything you thought Conner was — cute and smart and charming — but so much more — beautiful and good and kind.

And he’s been right here in front of you the whole time.

You reach out and touch his elbow softly. The hairs on his forearm are crisp but soft, and you follow them down to that gleaming watch on his wrist.

“You know,” you start quietly, fingers tracing the links of the band before flipping his hand over to trace the lines of his palm, “you keep talking about what I deserve today. But you deserve all that and more. You deserve someone’s love that matches your own.”

He watches your delicate fingers on his large, calloused palm, then trails his eyes up to yours when he feels their attention on his face. A piece of hair flops into his eyes, and you reach up without thinking or any hesitation to push it away again with a little smile playing on your glossy lips.

You look down and lay your palm flat against his, admiring the difference in size between your hands for a moment before interlocking your fingers with his.

“I love you.”

Your eyes flit up to his in surprise; he beat you to the words.

“In case that wasn’t obvious,” Grayson continues, turning towards you. “And I hope that’s not too much for you to handle, with everything you’ve had hap-”

“I love you too, Gray,” you interrupt, stepping that much closer to him so you’re nearly chest-to-chest with him.

“Yeah?” He sounds almost boyish in his astonishment, and it makes you want to hold him tight and never let go.

“Yeah,” you giggle. “A lot. I’m sorry it took me getting dumped to realize it.”

He shakes his head, his hand resting on your cheek gently. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod once before he’s swiftly ducking down to claim your lips with his. They’re soft and pliable, and you feel their effects from the nerves in your scalp all the way down to your bare toes.

“Grayson,” you breathe, lashes fluttering open as he pulls back just enough to look at you concernedly.

You smile, bigger and brighter than you have all day, and cup his stubbled cheeks with your hands, scratching your nails gently against his jaw. “I just wanted to say your name.”

Grayson grins now, too. He kisses you more insistently now that he’s got the taste of you on his tongue, which he flicks against the underside of your top lip as he breaks the kiss. “Say it again.”

“Make me,” you challenege, voice breathy and excited, eyes closed as you savor his sweet breath against your lips. “In my room.” You feel him tense up a bit, and you open your eyes to meet his questioning gaze, biting back a smile at the inevitable hope also shining there. “I’m sure.”

With that, Grayson hauls you up into his arms, and you wrap your legs around his waist with a squeal as he buries his face into your neck. He starts making the way to your bedroom, cooked food left long forgotten in the kitchen behind you.

“Are you wearing my signature scent?” he asks, inhaling your skin deeply.

“Mmhm,” you hum, threading your fingers through the back of his thick hair. It’s so long again, and you give the dark strands a sharp tug that makes him grunt. “Part one of my gift to you. Since you got so many for me today.”

“Part one, huh?” he says, crossing the threshold of your room. “What’s part two?”

“What I’m wearing underneath this,” you whisper in his ear, giggling loudly when he lies you down on the bed with more of a toss than he might have intended. “If you want it, that is.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind at the mere suggestion that he wouldn’t, and you take that as enough encouragement to tug at the bow tying your forest green silk wrap blouse together.

The folds part open and expose your chest, clad in that pink lace demi-cup bra with the cage detailing over the tops of your breasts. Grayson moans and dips down to nuzzle your cleavage, breathing in the scent of your warm skin. His hands trail up your sides, from your hips to your rib cage, until they settle in the dips of your waist. His touch ignites you, makes your back arch and your hips grind up against his thigh between your legs, just from the sensation of his hands on these new parts of your body.

“Grayson,” you sigh, and he smirks up at you with his chin on your tits when he realizes that’s all it took for you to say his name again.

You grab his cheeks and kiss that smugness away, shifting your legs so they’re wrapped around his waist once again, pushing down on the small of his back to get your centers to meet.

Both of you gasp into each other’s mouths when his erection rubs against your pussy, even through all the layers of clothing still on your bodies. You reach down blindly, still attacking his mouth with yours, and feel around for his belt.

His pants come off, followed by yours, and he sits you up enough to push your blouse off your shoulders rather gently considering the intensity of everything. Once the garment is tossed over his shoulder, you’re down to nothing but that pretty lingerie and he in his boxer briefs.

There’s a moment of pause and clarity for the two of you, staring into one another’s eyes as the reality hits of what you’re about to do. What it means to both of you. Grayson stares down at you, and places a hand over your rapidly thumping heart.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly, dragging his hand up your chest, over your throat, until he’s cupping you’re cheek and stroking your lip with his thumb.

You smile in return, then part your lips with your eyes locked on his, encouraging him silently to slip that digit in your mouth.

Grayson’s eyes darken, and he offers you his pointer finger instead, swallowing hard when you suck and swirl your soft, wet tongue around it.

Suddenly, he’s rolling the two of you over, switching positions so he’s on his back and you straddle him. You smile happily, taking your turn to duck down and attach your lips to the pulse point his neck, grinding down on his cock with a slow, steady rhythm.

“You’re so amazing, Gray,” you tell him, nipping at the lobe of his ear before kissing the underside of his chin. “Can’t believe you’re all mine now.”

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he growls back, cursing when you trail your kisses down the center of his body, giving each one of those moon’s their own special attention before continuing down.

When you get to the waistband of his underwear, you trail your tongue on the edge of the elastic and watch his abs contract with each shaky breath he takes. One little move of your hands, and you’ll finally get to see what he’s really packing.

But before you can even hook your fingers there to pull down, he’s tugging on your hair. “Fuck, fuck, c’mere. Please.”

You pout, but follow his lead, licking back up his muscular torso until he’s able to drag you to him for a deep, wet kiss.

“Sit on my face,” he demands, shuffling down on the pillow to make more room for you.

That takes you off guard. “But—”

“Do it. Please. I fucking have to taste you.”

Your body must be working ahead of your brain, because before you know it, you’re straddling Grayson’s face, his tongue is sweeping through the wetness in your slit, and his dark eyes are peering up at you from between your thighs.

“Oh... oh!” you cry out when his tongue starts flicking against your clit. He goes back to swiping up all your arousal, then suctions his lips around your clit. He’s using one hand to hold the lace of your thong aside, and the other dips first one finger, then two inside of you. “Oh, fuck, that’s so good...”

Grayson moans, the vibrations erupting around your clit and sending you right to the edge already. You reach back and palm his cock, rock hard in his underwear still, and squeeze as he makes you cum all over his mouth.

He gets his fill of your cum as he groans and keeps up the motion of his fingers, the pressure of his lips, the softness of his tongue as your pussy pulses with each contraction of your orgasm. You wait for him to start letting up, but something about the way he’s working you just makes those waves stay steady rather than die down again. Maybe that’s his intention, because when you drop your head down to look at him with your mouth wet and agape, there’s a sparkling mischief in his eyes has he eats you out like his last meal.

Your hips grind against his face of their own accord, and you delve one hand in his hair while the other supports you on the headboard. You gasp out a quivering, breathless laugh as it all becomes just too much, and you try to lift off his mouth.

Grayson isn’t having it, though. He wraps his arms around your thighs and holds you down, reveling in the moans and whimpers and squeals as he makes you cum again.

“Oh my god — enough, enough, I can’t...” you whine, shoving on his forehead until he releases you and drops his head to the pillow. You could already see it by the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, but he’s smirking wide, chest heaving as you slink your way down his body.

You collapse next to him in a daze, and he rolls on top of you smoothly, peppering little kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your nose. When you’re back in your right mind, you nudge blindly at his face so his lips find yours. He tastes like your pussy, and you sigh happily as you lift your heavy arms to wrap around his neck while his scoop beneath you, holding you close.

You continue to indulge in each other for a while, in the kisses you hadn’t been allowed to share until now. There’s something exciting about his familiarity and yet also this strange newness that has you absolutely desperate for him in every way.

“This is crazy,” you say when you pull back for air, studying his face hovering right above yours. You push back that stubborn chunk of hair that keeps falling into his eyes with a soft smile. “How did we end up here?”

Grayson turns his head to press his lips to your palm. “I don’t know. Is it too much? Should we stop?”

You shake your head vehemently, and he grins. “No, please. I think I just have to grasp that you’re really... mine now.”

He chuckles. “How do you think I felt watching you with that loser for five months?”

The mention of Conner makes you feel nothing — nothing other than gratitude for Grayson, that is. You slide your hands down his back, over his ribs, across his abs until your hand cups his dick.

His hips thrust into your touch, and you grin up at him demurely as you finally delve your hand past his waistband until you’ve got his length completely in your grasp.

He’s hot and hard and thick, and you start stroking him just to gauge the reaction in his face. He doesn’t disappoint, his jaw gaping open slightly, his breaths picking up, a flush rising to the apples of his cheeks.

Without warning, he reaches down and grasps your wrist. You pout, but he asks hastily. “Are we gonna have sex?”

You smirk. “Hell yeah.”

Grayson grins and shakes his head. “Alright, then you gotta stop.”

“Already?” you tease, letting him sit back and hook his fingers in the tiny string of your thong at your hips.

He gives you a look as he pulls the scrap of lace down your legs, then stands to push down his own underwear. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and you wish he’d let you blow him some before you hit the main event, but he says, “I’ve wanted you for too long to take any chances about screwing up the first time.”

You melt a little, reaching for him as he climbs back on the bed. “There should be some condoms in the drawer there. Just to be safe after... you know.”

He nods and dips down to kiss you before leaning over to riffle through the top drawer of your nightstand. He comes back with a purple square, which you take from him.

“Gotta practice an activity safely,” you wink, tearing open the condom and rolling it down his shaft quickly.

“Shut up.” Grayson rolls his eyes, but smiles softly as he settles between your legs just right. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you whisper, gasping as he starts to sink inside you.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpers as your walls suck him in and grip him tight.

He goes slow for a couple of minutes, allowing both of you time to adjust to each other. He stretches you out so much better than anyone you’ve ever been with, and you can’t help but clench around him when you see those tattoos and smell his cologne and hear his voice — all things that remind you that this is Grayson fucking you.

He growls the first time you do it, then sits up hastily, pulling his face out of your neck when you do it again. He tucks his knees beneath him, sits on his heels, and hauls your hips into his lap as the speed of his thrusts picks up incrementally. Until he’s fucking you for real, and your tits bounce in your bra with every upstroke.

You shove an arm beneath your pillow, enunciating the curves of your body, and watch his expressions as he fights to hold back. His hair is disheveled, lip caught tight between his teeth and muffling his deep, satisfied sounds that mingle with your open higher-pitched ones. He catches your eye and his hands on your hips grip you so tight for a moment that you’re sure little bruises will be there in the morning — not that you mind.

“Fuck,” he whispers harshly before slowing his hips and shifting down to give you a deep, sloppy kiss. “Turn over.”

You moan into his mouth, then follow his order, rolling onto your front as soon as he pulls out. You expect him to haul your hips up into the air, but he moves your hair off your neck and trails sweet kisses from shoulder to shoulder, his hand sweeping down the subtle curve of your back until he’s gripping your ass.

Grayson’s hand moves down your thigh and pushes it up and out once he’s cupping the back of your knee. The angle encourages you to twist your upper half until you have sight of him once again in all his angled, sweaty, muscular glory.

“Fuck me, baby,” you beg him, already anticipating the fullness inside you again. Needing it.

“Want me to fuck you?” he asks needlessly, pushing into your pussy once again. You moan loudly, either in confirmation or from pure pleasure, it doesn’t matter. The angle is tighter, the tip of his dick hitting a spot so perfectly accurate inside of you that you can’t concentrate on anything other than how good he’s making you feel. “Yeah. So fucking sexy. So beautiful...”

“Gray.. oh fuck yes, right there,” you whimper, catching onto his arm as he leans over you and gives you those hard, steady strokes.

“Open your eyes, baby, lemme see them when you cum,” he growls out.

You open them as much as you can, your vision blurry, but you can still make out those handsome features soaking in the pleasure on your face. Watching and waiting for you to get yours so he can get his.

As soon as you’re clenching like a vice around him, Grayson is letting go into the condom. You can vaguely feel the throb of him as he cums in spurts, the sound of his masculine, drawn-out groans making you shiver and tense up even more on his dick. If it’s possible for anyone to sound as sexy as they look, Grayson achieves that in spades.

He collapses on the bed next to you, and you have just enough strength to roll over until he’s got you gathered in his arms. You nuzzle into his chest and try to process everything. You had been hoping for nice sex today, and instead you got the best sex of your life.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence while you both catch your breath, after he pulls and ties off the condom, you smile into his cooling skin with a satisfied sigh.

“Thank you for making this the best Valentine’s Day of my life. Especially after it was starting to look like the worst.”

“You made this the best day of my life, period,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Gray.”

[black-streak]

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting (but Sundays are meant for rest) - Routine

Part 3

Hey! I came up with a name for this finally! Might've been listening to Elton John at the time.... Completely self induglent fluff for part 3. Also changed the part title for timinette thing to 'the beginning'. Very original, I know. So I've decided to not have anyone aware of identities here. And Mari also does not use the ladybug in this.

Lastly, from what I gather, Tim canonically seems to swing between sharp, calculating and carefully selective with words aaand a complete disaster child with severe anxiety, weird obsessions, and no filter. So if anyone has any notes on my characterization of him, I'd be happy to hear it.

...Please don't get use to this rapid update schedule, I have no control on the speed in which I write these.

~---~

Marinette meant to make good on her request for a movie with Tim. She really did. She was not some shy little teenager anymore and if she wanted to have a date with the guy she liked, no one could stop her from trying!

Except maybe a spike in her commissions, an Arkham breakout, and three narrowly avoided confrontations with multiple of the bat… people. So maybe she was exhausted and overworked and it had been over two weeks since the morning she woke up on Tim. Maybe at this point she couldn't even concentrate on the date portion and just wanted to skip right into the napping together bit. But who could really blame her? Life is cruel to the sleepless. So perhaps the way they actually ended up dating could be forgiven.

It started on a gloomy Sunday afternoon that Mari found him at a desk in the manor library, pouring over what looked like a criminal case? In a manilla folder? What? Who even uses manilla outside of a filing cabinet anymore? And for what purpose did he need to read it so intently? 

Shaking the confusion off, she refocused on her current mission. Tricking him into taking a nap.

Pushing down a blush, she tapped him on the shoulder.

Startling, he turned partially to look up to her while closing the file, not expecting the interruption.

"Oh, hey! Did um… did you need something?" 

Taking in the dark bags building under his eyes, two empty cups on the desk, and overly comfy clothes, she realized this might be easier than she originally planned for. He looked perfectly nap ready and as over worked as she was. 

Nodding, Marinette took hold of his hoodie sleeve and gave a small tug.

Tim turned further to face her fully, watching for only a moment before seemingly coming to some conclusion.

"Whatever it is will have to wait. You need sleep."

Only she didn't argue, simply nodding again and tugging at his sleeve again, pleading eyes latching onto his.

"Nap?"

Understanding dawned on Tim and lit a small smile across his face as he moved his attention back to the desk, closing up all his work and compiling it to transport.

"Let me gather this up."

A happy sound of approval sounded behind him before lean arms wrapped around his shoulders, a face ducking close to his neck, quietly resting in wait.

Not entirely surprised with the contact, Tim took it in stride, though his mind was whirling with possible causes, attempting to determine whether this was a show of further affection or simply the way she interacted with those she deemed close to her. He'd seen the way Mari leaned into Jason when he ruffled her hair or tossed an arm about her shoulders. The happy cheek kiss she graced Dick in thanks for helping with one thing or another. The way Damian allowed her to pull him around by the hand all the time. Maybe she decided on sleepy cuddles for him? But then, it had sounded like flirting and an offer for more last time. Had he read too much into it or was this the offer come to fruition at last? 

Speaking of which, as he grabbed the last file, she slid one hand over and down his arm to grab at a hoodie sleeve to tug once more, simultaneously shifting away so he could get up.

In a fashion similar to two weeks ago, he paid little mind to her dragging him about until he noticed her aiming for the door, quickly twisting a hand to grab her wrist and redirect them towards the couch in the room. 'Whatever this is, there's no need to advertise it for my brother's to see.'

Meanwhile, Marinette was trying to figure out the best way to get Tim to put his work aside and just cuddle her. Obviously he seemed to be following along now, but if the way he brought over the case file was any indication, he planned to continue working while she slept beside him. 

'Hmm… he followed suit last time, maybe it'll work again this time,' she thought, smile regaining momentum on her face when she saw the library couch went much deeper than the living room one.

He must have read her mind, because he immediately sat sideways, upper back pressed into the arm of the couch, still holding onto her wrist to guide her towards him.

Climbing over, she sandwiched herself between his body and the couch, leaning into his shoulder. He hesitated slightly, then adjusted his left arm behind her and reopened the case in his lap.

"What's with that anyways? Not your usual work there," she murmured.

"Old cold case. Hobby of mine to try and solve them. Or at least find details that were missed in the initial investigation," he intoned smoothly, use to the line of questioning.

"Hmm," she adjusted her legs to lay across his lap, reaching to prop the folder on them as a makeshift desk, "tell me about it?"

"The details are pretty grim, you sure?"

"Mhm, I don't mind. It's like rubber duck coding, right? Maybe if you explain it out loud to someone the missing pieces will pop into place."

And that's how Tim found himself explaining the intricate pattern of a series of connected murders to Marinette, who took the horrific descriptions in stride, sometimes throwing in theories for him to pick apart as he went. Even if it didn't look it with her closed eyes and relaxed disposition, she was obviously actively listening and paying attention to his rapid fire rambling which in turn encouraged him to continue despite his initial hesitance.

Stopping mid sentence, he yanked the file closer with his free hand, the other wrapped around her waist, studying it intently for a moment. 

Letting out a frustrated breath, he murmured in a way indicating her almost forgotten presence, "Really? That's it?" And proceeded to move both arms to hold the pages steady, incidentally shifting Mari fully up onto his chest to accommodate the movement as he wrote across the page, connecting the dots to give a final full picture. Closing the folder up and moving it to the side table, Tim rewrapped his arms around her waist, taking smug satisfaction at successfully transferring her fully into his lap without it seeming to be on purpose.

"You make a good duck."

"Told you it would work, Drake."

"You sound like my brother."

"Hmm, don't call me a duck and I won't call you a drake."

"You're the one who brought up being my metaphorical rubber duck. You only have yourself to blame."

"And your the one who's last name literally means 'male duck', Drake," she deadpanned back to him.

Narrowing his eyes, Tim stared her down. However, Marinette was not one to back down to a challenge and only quipped, "So, still going to call me a duck?"

"I'll concede this round, but you're not cuddling back up to me until you find something else to call me. I'm not trying to hold my brother's clone here."

"Oh? But you are trying to hold your little brother's best friend?" She teased, turning a little pink and marveled at his own flushing face.

"If I remember correctly, you're the one who came in seeking My attention."

Giggling, she squirmed so that one leg was curled over his, torso shifted to in between his side and the couch once more, and tucked into his neck for the second time that day, smile pressing into his skin.

"Not denying it, Mon Cher."

Not expecting agreement nor the endearment, Tim gave a hum in response, not wanting to let on how flustered he felt. Lifting a hand, he hovered it over her head, not sure it'd be welcome, but holding a sigh of relief when she pressed up towards it, as though sensing its proximity and craving the affection it seemed to promise. Which is how he found himself nuzzling the side of her head, hand running down her hair in a soothing pet, listening to the almost purr that reverberated from her into his skin. 

"You cut off earlier. How did the case end?" She spoke, lifting only enough to speak, but close enough that her lips still brushed his neck with every word before lowering back in.

And so Tim told her, giving her the answer before going back and explaining the connection and then finally the less notable details as he sensed her slowly falling into a light slumber listening to the low timber of his voice warm in her ear.

With a small smile, soft and unsure, he settled further against her, pulling her tighter just a moment before allowing himself to drift as well.

…..

Every few days, Mari would seek him out. The same tired, pleading look. The same gentle tugs and soft embraces. Helping him finish whatever he was working on before falling asleep curled up to him, humming with his hands in her hair and warm breath fanning across her skin. Sometimes the side of her head, other times murmuring random details into her ear, and on one notable occasion, down the side of her neck.

Sometimes they wouldn't sleep, just pass jokes and obscure references or talk about her latest project, finding rest and solace in one another without the need for immediate sleep.

And then finally, finally, one of them took a step forward. 

… maybe not the way either of them planned. They'd been running this routine for three weeks straight but now.. It'd been 4 days and Mari had yet to come find him. This did not sit well with Tim, who counted on her to enforce something along the lines of regular sleep for him. Even if it was only in the form of long afternoon naps every couple days. Needless to say, he was grumpy, over caffeinated, and not entirely in his right mind when he sought her out. 

Tim found her eventually, probably in Damian's room based on the bed and katana above the headboard. He hadn't paid attention enough on his mindless search to be 100% sure. Either way, she was there and that's what mattered. Taking a page out of her book, Tim walked over, took ahold of her wrist and tugged her up and towards the door, grip loose enough to slip out if she so desired, only to be stopped by large hand gripping his own wrist. 

That's when Tim decided to actually take in the room fully, surprised to see Damian standing there, scowling with a raised eyebrow, not appreciating the abrupt interruption or kidnapping attempt.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"It's naptime," Tim stated, blinking back with a blank, unfazed expression.

Taken off guard, Damian stared at him, speechless, hand falling back to his side. Tim decided to take advantage of this and made way for the door once more, only to be blocked off once more, tired anxiety and frustration building by the moment.

"That doesn't explain you bursting in here and kidnapping my Angel." Damian stated, arms crossing in defiance, more annoyed at the lack of permission to enter his room than the way Tim sought her out.

"Mine."

"What?" The two younger occupants voiced.

"It's not naptime without Mari. You've been monopolizing her time. Mine now."

Neither of the younger could make heads nor tails of that. One use to Tim cutting off emotions and speaking so directly without consideration, but not the possessiveness being displayed. The other use to the clinginess and sleepless, unthinking words, but not the deadpanned delivery. It was weird to see the two sides mix together into this.

Mari was yanked from her stupor as Tim wrapped his arms around her, chin resting on her head, uncaring of their audience for the moment.

Eyes wide, she turned towards him and tilted to look up and meet his own dead ones.

"Yours?"

Reigning her in again, he rested his cheek in her hair, murmuring, "Mine."

Her and Dami met eyes and a smirk stretched across his face as he realized what this finally met.

"It's on."

"I suppose it is. If you'll excuse us, I think my attention is being demanded elsewhere."

"Oh, you think?"

"Mhm."

With that she allowed Tim to tug her away from the room, surprisingly not questioning the exchange, only to hear more invasive voices from down the hall. Not wanting to deal with the inevitable teasing and questions, he twirled on his heel, bringing her back past Damian and over into his own room. Surprised, but willing, Mari allowed him to lead her into his bed, hands holding her to him as he curled around her petite form, blanket coming up around them.

Finally finding her words, bright red painting her face, she turned in his arms, "Where'd that come from?"

"It's been 4 days. You never take that long."

"Miss me?" She teased, but the effect was ruined by the hope her voice betrayed.

"Terribly," he admitted unflinchingly. Surely, he was going to have an absolute anxiety attack when he woke up, but for now, his thoughts weren't coherent enough to be monitored or analyzed before falling out.

"What took you so long?" He wondered, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Kept getting too busy. You're not the only one who gets sucked into too much to think of sleep." She whispered, settling closer and running her hands over his shoulders in a soothing manner, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

" You should be apologizing to yourself. You need our naps as much as I do." 

Humming, she guided her fingers up into his hair, glancing at his lips without thinking, "Do you think we could watch that movie you promised me next time?"

Waking up a little more at the seriousness of the question, even under the pretense of playfulness, he sent her a calculating look.

"I'd like that, ma lutine. Sunday night? We can watch it in my apartment..." He asks, purposefully looking down to her own parted lips before meeting her eyes again.

Silvery blues lit up at the endearment slipping out, moving further up into his space, lining up without touching.

"Yes please," whispers out.

Taking the plea for what it is, Tim slowly cups the back of her head in one hand, the other moving to tilt her chin. It's only for a moment, but he kisses her with such sweet affection, she feels dizzy with it.

He pulls away to her soft, happy humming, sleep creeping into the edges of his mind. Tucking her back under his chin, he falls into slumber with a quiet murmur.

"It's a date then."

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

hello 🍓🍍 and 🍅 please !!

🍓 - What is one word that would describe the feeling your character gets when they think about their childhood?

Harrison: Demanding

Lonan: Lonely

🍍 - What was the funnest scene to write in your WIP so far?

Scene G in chapter four of Feeding Habits, Coup de Grace is the most fun I have had with writing... probably ever? I couldn’t share a lot of it because I didn’t think it would be appropriate, but the section where Eliza cuts off Lonan’s hair and they chat about mating habits of the preying mantis is SO GOOD I really peaked. How can I not love that scene?? It’s the birthplace of the iconic “I’m the grass” Lonan dialogue.

🍅 - What is your OC currently in denial about?

I’m going to answer this for Harrison because him being in denial about missing Lonan is literally the entire brand of his POV!! Here’s a compilation of Harrison being in denial about missing Lonan for an entire chapter straight:

Subtle denial:

“You didn’t tell me she was Lonan’s sister.”

Harrison pokes at a flake of pastry and wipes his hands on the front of his jeans. Reeve’s bangles clatter in a cyan jangle as she applauds at the same contestant she previously ridiculed. There are so many things he could say to his mother—he knew Reeve first, Reeve isn’t just Lonan’s sister to him, more like his own, but when he adjusts himself, swallowing and tidying the hem of his shirt, all that comes out is, “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

more OVERT denial:

“I would’ve like to,” Suz says. “Does she know? That you don’t know where he is?”

Harrison’s fingernail catches on a loose thread, and he yanks it out so even Reeve glances back at its upholstered plink. “I know where he is, Suzanna.”

mans said “though he knows it should no longer matter to him”:

Though Suzanna eventually leaves, joining Reeve on the couch, propping her feet on the same coffee table so their polished feet touch, toes pink like raw cherry tomatoes, though he knows they’re both right in knowing and not knowing where Lonan is, though he knows it should no longer matter to him, he finds himself leaning against the table where the kittens encase each other in a plastic shoe bin, ticking his fingers at his side.

Suzanna: stirs the pot Harrison: let’s just completely ignore this:

“How’s your brother?” Suzanna asks, yawning like the answer will bore her even though she’s the one who’s asked. She rests her chin against the rib knit throw, her hair frizzing against the yarn.

The fake audience cranks out another caw of laughter, and on comes a commercial for kitchen scrubbing pads. The woman’s voice sudsy, vinylic, like the sheen of dish soap as a mannequin-like hand smooths grease from a ceramic saucer.

Harrison reaches for the kittens, and onto his finger, one crawls, its paws no bigger than the size of a pencil eraser. When Harrison looks back to the women, Reeve’s face is paler than before, her red-wine thrush receding.

More ignoring:

Harrison turns his back and pretends to tend to the kittens. They all know he does nothing but thumb the backs of their heads, let them suckle against his fingertips—they all know, and yet, he continues doing it. Silence cuts through the apartment like hot glass.

Harrison at a Las Vegas party:

Also Harrison: *thinking about not thinking about Lonan*:

There was no emptiness, no bare spot needing to be filled when he levitated between them. There was no Lonan, no faces to remember, nobody to impress, no one to be responsible for.

OH OH is this addressing the denial??

He hadn’t come to the party thinking about Lonan but managed to attract the same people. He hadn’t drunk the magenta liquid thinking about him but managed to exit the house stumbling, as he did, his knees knotted like a newborn lamb. There was something inconceivably indissoluble about them—their bond mirror-like, one making one decision, and the other mimicking it with vigour, unknowingly inseparable.

lmfao he really didn’t try to save this one he said pass me the wine lmfaoo:

“Why did you want to see me?” she asks, her face shielded in shadow, which he’s grateful for. She adjusts her hood around her ears, fingers tapping absently on the kitten’s shoebox.

“I missed you.”

“You wanted to see Lonan.”

“I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“It also helps that he’s got my face.”

Reeve hands him the bottle, and Harrison drinks a swig of wine gladly.

oh here we have overt ADMISSION (regarding the above^^)

Under the streetlamp, Reeve is softer than she was in the apartment, and this orange haze of her both comforts and saddens him. Reeve is not wrong. This is the only truth he knows.

I did not lie when I said he was in denial:

Lonan does live in her face, as she’s suggested, and he understands it’s why he finds it difficult to look at her. The same shift of their hair, like the smear of oil, the same chin, like it was carved out of soapstone, the same set of their mouths, not quite a frown, not quite at rest. It isn’t why he rummaged through a phone book the day Foster left looking for any semblance of her name, calling everyone he could find with a name similar to Reeve—the Eves, the Revas, finally settling on an Evie M. Aldridge—this is what he tells himself. It isn’t why. But what other reason would there be?

Proof:

“What do you miss about him?”

Harrison blinks. He hasn’t expected her to speak to him again, in fact he’s pictured the night whittling into gauzy silence, them setting the box afloat in the fountain, and then leaving once more, wordless. Reeve drinks another sip of wine. Its scent stings, like earthy cranberries.

“I don’t,” he says, which is a lie, and they both know it.

my thesis, proven:

She looks at him in absolutes, like she sees his every answer scraped into his cheek and doesn’t need to check his work. Her eyes are feline and rimmed with kohl and aquamarine mica—she doesn’t need anyone to tell her the truth because she holds it in her fist. “He has a girlfriend. He’s happy.” Harrison rations more wine down his tongue, three times as much as he’s intended to drink.

“But what do you miss about him?”

Harrison misses nothing. He sleeps little and smokes too much because he misses nothing. He walks by himself, eats by himself, talks to himself because he misses nothing. He jumps from job to job, person to person, place to place because he misses nothing. He wakes up in dazes the colour of blackberries because he misses nothing. He blinks dreams from his eyelashes like they’re bad spells because he misses nothing. He holds himself, he drinks himself, he leaves no company for anyone because he misses nothing about Lonan. He misses absolutely nothing.

I *wonder* who he is referring to:

The man must ask him if he’s intoxicated, never noticing the shoebox floating in the fountain, because Harrison says, “Who’s to say? I miss so many things,” and isn’t talking about the bottle of wine, and Reeve, that both seem to have vanished, as if they were never there.

This is indisputable at this point:

Harrison draws his index finger through the slush, doodling nonsense—letters of his name, an eyeball, a singular, faceless nose. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Harrison in Denial: The Finale:

His hands move for him. Dividing the snow in slopes, curves, lines—letters. When he’s finished, he rests his chin on his own shoulder and dries the slop of slush from his nail. The security guard leans over, bends down to get a better look, but Harrison doesn’t have to look to know what he’s written. Chiselled so the flurries fill its gaps, like cement. His name will be erased by dawn. Lonan.

and my point! is proven!

[quillsareswords]

Robin, Meet Robin.

Damian Wayne

Requested (anonymous [4]; @annielimajackson ; @crissy1603)

Prompt List // Masterlist (both in bio)

"My name's Robin," you answered politely.

The first time he had heard your name, he hadn't thought too much of it, beside the automatic twitch at hearing his moniker.

It was admittedly a bit difficult for the first few months when you had first started attending Gotham Academy. You were in quite a few of his classes, and for the first few weeks, it took an exhausting amount of awareness and control not to react every time someone addressed you.

When you ended up becoming friends? That was far more difficult. Especially given your similarities in personality. You were often just as bitter and biting as he was, which, coincidentally, is how you bonded: you hated all the same people.

Calling you by your first name always bother him. Not only was it strange addressing someone with the name he thought of ad his own, but to add the fact that it was an entirely secret name made it all the more uncomfortable. This is why he often refers to you by your last name.

[L/N] didn't make it sound as if he was talking about himself in third person.

When he realized he had somehow, accidentally, uncontrollably fallen for you? Oh, it was ironic and painful.

He didn't plan on telling you. He never planned on telling you anything about the mask or his feelings. Maybe it wasn't fair to you. You'd subtly expressed interest before, when you were younger, but now you both stood evenly at seventeen, and you'd gone on dates with other men.

In any case, he refused to tell you anything. He had a plan. A plan that meant you stayed friends until you were utterly sick of him, and you'd never know a thing.

And yet, it all came crashing down in a blazing ball of fire one stormy night in May.

You had been in the sitting room of Wayne Manor with him. Papers and projects scattered around the floor you sat on and the couch beside you, carnage of the joint effort of trying to finish as many papers and projects as you could before the school year was up. You'd been here since noon, and now it was nearing eleven. You had decided hours ago to take up the guest room adjacent to his balcony tonight.

Presently, you were sitting beside him on the couch, papers shoved to the side for the time being, eyes glued to the plasma flat screen mounted to the wall.

The wreckage of the Joker's latest attack was displayed on the news channel, the reported speaking rapidly as words of warning scrolled across the screen, all screaming to stay out of the mile surrounding the harbor.

You were still on the phone with your mother, making sure she made it out of the bowling alley safely.

"Okay. Tell Dad I said goodnight," he hears you say. "Love you too. Bye."

You withdraw the device from your ear, a low breath parting your lips. You click the big red button on your screen, leaning your head on Damian's shoulder.

It's an action that sets his skin on fire, makes his heart beat just a little harder. Oh, how badly he wishes to comfort you properly, with an arm around you and a kiss on your forehead.

"Mom made it home," you report quietly, eyes jumping back up to the television, phone dropping in to your lap. "She said the streets are as empty as she's ever seen them." Your tone is grave.

"Good. People should be staying inside."

You don't reply. For a few long moments, you sat in silence together.

Then, the double doors to the kitchen burst open, and Tim races into the room. "Robin!" You both whip around to face him.

"What?"

"What?"

He realizes his mistake a beat too late. He can feel the confusion in your stare, but Tim continues with an apologetic expression and a hard tone. "Bruce wants us downstairs A.S.A.P."

"Tell him I'm on my way."

You look between the two of them as they move, Tim bolting back through the kitchen, and Damian standing from the couch.

He's aiming to get out of the room before you can put it together, but he should have known better than to think it would take you that long.

You reach out, catching him but the hem of his tee shirt. "Damian?"

He turns to face you, green-blue eyes locking with yours. He finds confusion and a hint of fear. It's understandable: you are sitting in a seemingly easy target during a ruthless Joke attack, and he's leaving you here alone.

He moves closer, dropping to his knee in front of you. He trades your grip on his shirt for a grip on his hand. "I will be back. I'll explain then, alright?"

"But Damian-"

"Please," he beg, "trust me."

You hesitate. Eyes dart toward the television. The wreckage is ready beyond measure, and the body count is only going to get higher. Your eyes move back to meet his. You nod twice. "Okay."

You could say that plan of his was a phoenix. Sure, it burnt up in flames, but, a sunrise later, it was revised incredibly.

For starters, no longer were you clueless. Now you knew damn near everything.

For another, you were no longer just friends. The moment a confession of love rolled off his tongue, you'd had half a mind to slap him silly. You the went on to explain that, yes, you'd gone on dates, and you had called one or two of them a boyfriend for a short amount of time, but you'd only been trying to move on from him.

It was a moment he had wanted to simultaneously sing with joy and scream with frustration.

Months passed comfortably now, without the strife of secrets and names tripping off tongues.

He had taken to calling you any bird name he could think of, besides Robin. You'd heard too many to remember; bluejay, parrot, mockingbird, cardinal, finch, sparrow -- if you'd seen it, you'd heard it. Though finally, he did settle on one he seemed to like the best.

"Hummingbird," he groans, "please turn that dreadful nonsense off."

You crossed your arms, leaning back against his headboard. "Nonsense?" You freign offence. "The Marvolus Misadventures of Flapjack is art, you uncultured acorn."

He turns to look at you over his shoulder, combined the glow of two computer monitors alluminating his features unevenly. "What did you call me?"

To any sane person, his tone was an obvious threat. A warning, if you will. To you, it was a challenge of power. A question of weather or not you had the balls to call him anything other than royalty.

"An uncultured acorn," you repeat.

He sighs heavily, turning back to face the left screen, skimming the panel of images, stills from security cameras. "I've been to more countries than you could name," he reminds. "Most women in this city would kill to sit in your place."

You uncross your arms, repositioning yourself so you lay on your stomach, your head propped up on your hands at the foot of his kind size bed. "Sure, but you can't wash my sink out of your sheets, so you haven't got a choice, do you, Feathers?"

You can hear him chuckle adoringly, followed by the low, loving mutter of, "No, but I can burn them."

With the nicknames practically set in stone, the two of you were set apart easily. However, it wasn't quite as simple for most of his family.

Alfred, ever formal and polite, addresses you as he always has: Miss [L/N].

Bruce calls you by your first name, though there isn't any confusion as to who he's talking to, as he uses a much firmer tone when addressing Damian with is moniker.

Dick doesn't find any difficulty in keeping g your original nickname. Birdy, he calls you. He says it reminds him of a younger you (likely because that's when he first gave you the title, much to a 10 year old Damian's dismay).

Jason, however, struggles greatly. You weren't introduced before you and Damian we're dating (he was officially dead, and because you didn't know about the masks, you couldn't know about him), so he didn't feel he had any place to give you a nickname. He also calls Damian by his hero name fairly often, using the same tone as he does for you. It was months before he finally gave up, forever referring to you as "the demon's sidekick" or "she-bird". Including when he speaks directly to you.

Tim nearly never calls Damian by his mantle, so he doesn't particularly see any reason to call you anything other than your name, despite Damian twitching every single time. It was only recently he's started calling you by your middle name instead, after figuring out that Damian was slowly becoming desensitized to anyone calling for him on patrol.

His sisters, though you don't see them quite as often, have cycled through too many nicknames and random words that you gave up keeping track.

Outside of his family, Jon is one of the only one you see on a regular basis. He's always thought the whole thing is hilarious. He's taken to calling you "moroon", an inside joke the three of you share that relates to an ever present memory involving an eggplant, a purple shirt, and an entire pack of Crayola colored markers.

Had he known what he knows now, this would have been a much different story. Had he known just how much the name of a common bird would ever hope to impact his life, maybe -- just maybe -- he would have paid a little more mind when he first heard you say it so long ago.

[teamvnla]

Cutscene ; A Friendly Chat

They had decided to take him to the the gym it was past closing so they didn’t have to worry about being interrupted, renting out a private training room and strapping the unconscious Faunus to one of the benches. Having removed the cloak and mask when they were checking for weapon revealed a man who appeared to be around the same age as MKRL and Jae. Somewhat surprising, though a group using younger people to do their dirty work wasn’t all that unbelievable.

“At least his nose stopped bleeding.” Russ commented as he tilted his looking over the boy, Opal was setting up some things to monitor the males pulses and aura levels. Tarragon and Leo had stepped out to work some things out with the owner of the building.

“You don’t think you could have captured him without knocking him out?” Jae quirked a brow, having to wait for the male to wake up was only adding more time on finding Nava.

“He started running, it was what made the most sense in the moment.” Kash responded, he scrunched his noses rubbing a knuckle against it. Something about the way the male smelled was making him nauseous, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. “I dunno how you guys can stand so close to him, the smell he’s giving off is making my head hurt all the way from here.”

This earned a confused look all around, the twins and Russ who all due to their Faunus trait had rather good sense of smells didn’t pick up anything odd. More than anything he smelt extremely clean, chemically so really.

“Maybe you should take a step out for some air, come back in when you start feeling better.” Van spoke up first, it was just going to be questioning if anything they could just give Kash a run down later. Kash nodded not needing to be told twice as he turned around leaving the training room, passing Leo and Tarragon as he did.

“He’s still not up?” Tarragon looked towards Opal and her screens.

“Shouldn’t be too long now, his aura has leveled out. That damage to his nose seems healed for the most part.”

“Take a step back kids, let the adults handle this.” Leo stepped past the four gesturing for them to give him some more room, Tarragon stood next to Opal watching the readings.

“I went ahead and set the blood samples to the forensic lab nearby, its not a listed priority so it might take a bit for us to receive a response.”

“Hey. Come on, bought time you come to.” Leo couched down tapping a hand on the side of the males. “He didn’t hit ya that hard? Maybe you’re just not as tough as we were expecting.” He commented with a sigh.

The lizard’s Faunus body jolted at the comment, the reaction earned a quirked grin from Leo showing he was awake.

“There you go, just make this easy for all of us and start talkin’.” There was a pause without a response, Leo stood up sliding a gloved hand into the front of the male’s face hair. With a harsh yank he pulled the sagged head up to look at him. “We’re tryin’ to be nice here, but I’m not as patient as the others. Better start talkin’ before I get upset.”

The male winced slightly, there was an attempt to hide it. “I don’t have to tell you shit.” He responded dry blood cracking as he gave a cheeky grin.

“That’s what you’re sayin’ right now, but this is the part of the talk where we go easy on you.” His grip tightened on the male’s head. “Doesn’t tend to last long.”

———

“Miss Lavender you need to eat, your vitals will start to take a hit if you keep this up. If you continue down this path we’ll have no choice, but to insert a feeding tube.” The doctor stated with a sigh as she read the information on the wall, Veda Lazuli as Nava had learned was the doctor that had been assigned to her. She had short light brown hair and blue eyes, with AB-22 constantly follow her around whenever she stopped by Nava could only assume that this was the doctor she had been referring to when they first met.

“Our chefs work very hard on these meals, have you at least given them a try? If there’s something specific you’d like to eat you can always request it.” She stated taking a seat at the chair near the bed, taking the tray of food from the table onto her lap looking over it. AB-22 stood by the door, watching the interaction with a composed expression as she did each time Dr.Lazuli came. “Miss Lavender what we’re doing here will help many people, but first we need friends like you to help. Can’t we be friends?” She asked softly placing a hand atop of Nava’s.

Nava yanked her hand away. “My friends don’t call me Miss Lavender.” She responded bitterly, glaring sharply at the women. “Nor do they kidnap me from my home.”

Veda let out a soft sigh in defeat, she stood up setting down the tray in reach of Nava. “Please try to eat some, it worrisome.” She responded with a soft smile walking towards the door to leave gesturing to AB-22 to follow.

“I’ll return later to retrieve the tray.” She stated with a small nod farewell as she followed the doctor out of the room.

The moment the door closed Veda’s face dropped, she looked her scroll at the information she had just collected. “What a troublesome child...” She muttered as she began to walk down the hallway.

“May I ask a question?” AB-22 walked a few steps behind the doctor.

“Hm?” She gave a slight hum in response not looking up from the screen.

“Why are we taking this approach?”

“Dr.Pine believe’s that a women doctor would make Miss Lavender more comfortable, Dr.Hibou seems to believe the same. He also wants to build trust, she the closest match to the type of Semblance we need. She’s a higher priority than the other patients.” She expained stepping into the elevator, slipping the scroll into her pocket she turned a digital dial for the floor number and soon enough the elevator closed and shot up with the pair inside.

They made their way through the winding halls before stopping at an office, she knocked before letting herself in. In the room sat two men and CF-6 who stood behind the chair where the brown haired man sat not at the desk towards the back of the office.

The man who sat at the desks and owner of the office was Dr.Fir Hibou, a tall broad man with grey white hair and orange eyes. AB-22 knew that like her he was a Faunus, unlike her however his trait was unnoticeable unless he intended it. “Right on time as always Dr.Lazuli, AB-22.” He greeted the pair with a warm smile.

“Miss Lavender is not taking to me as you intended.” She got straight to the point as she sat down at the plush chair across from CF-6 and the other man.

“Well you aren’t exactly matron of the year Veda.” Dr. Ruffus Pine responded with a small tilt of his head, he had styled brown hair and dark green eyes. Dr.Lazuli wouldn’t have been his first pick for the doctor to assign to Nava, but Fir wanted to keep a closer reign on Nava than the other patients so a different female doctor wasn’t an option.

“Why don’t we do what we always do? Break ‘er down, ‘til she has no choice but to cooperate.” CF-6 spoke up eagerly leaning forward as she paced her hands on the back of Ruffus chair.

“Pine, control your dog.” Veda snapped not understanding how Ruffus could allow CF-6 to behave in such a way.

Her lips quirked in a grin as she flinched forward, mimicking a bark at Dr.Lazuli.

Ruffus stifled laugh under the sharp glare of Veda, he cleared his throat before looking over his shoulder. “The adults are talking right now...” A slight pause. “You have to be patient or Dr.Lazuli is going to have you sent to the pound.” He added on with a chuckle earning a giggle from CF-6.

“Back to the matter at hand, if Miss Lavender isn’t taking to you. I believe it’s about time we take a different approach.” Fir spoke up before the two doctors could start their bickering.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I’ll take a visit to Miss Lavender personally.”

———

The man was bloody and bruised, but he still wasn’t talking. Lye felt a discomfort in her stomach, she knew that they would push him in the interrogation but she hadn’t expect it to go this far physically. Cherry had stepped out for a call, Van and Russ didn’t seem to be bothered by the tactic. She could only assume that they had seen similar before.

Her ears shifted in the direction of door as it opened once more, Kash entered the room, his nose scrunched at the smell. It wasn’t the blood that bothered him, it was the underlying scent from earlier. It still smelt so strong to him.

“....” Opal’s brow rose noticing a spike in the man’s heart rate, her gaze shifted from the screen to search for the cause. Her eye soon landed on Kash. “Leo..” She spoke up gaining the attention of the older man. “Switch out with Kashmere.”

Leo gave her a confused look before a slight nod as he stepped away, he opened his mouth as he passed Kash to give him some advice since he seemed like one of the more naive members of the group.

“I know how to do this part...” He muttered with a wave of his hand,the smell grew stronger as he walked closer to the man. He better make this quick before that headache returned. He propped a leg up on the bench, placing one hand on the lizard Faunus’ throat holding his head in place. “What your name?”

“Like I told yo-“ He was cut off feeling and immense cold around his throat, Kash had used his semblance to form a collar of ice around him against the wall.

“I don’t care what you told him.” He let go of the man’s throat knowing the ice should keep it in place. “Ms.Amas we just need him to talk right?” He asked glancing over his shoulder.

Opal took note of the spike in the male’s heart rate. “Yes.” She responded simply.

“...” Kash gave a small hum, he placed a hand on the Faunus’ face holding open one of his eyes lifting his free hand in front of it he extended a quill. “Then if we lose an eye I won’t get in trouble..” He muttered, he extended the quill further and further while the male attempted to move his head the ice stuck to his skin. Opal watched the heart rate on the monitor bounce around erratically.

“HZ-23!” He burst out in a panic, upon receiving an answer Kashmere quickly shifted his hand the tension of the quill releasing as it shot off into the wall scratching HZ-23’s ear as it went by.

“HZ-23?” He quirked a brow glancing over his shoulder at Opal, she gave a slow nod. Nothing she was viewing was telling her he was lying.

“Alright, then next question....who’s the group you’re with?” He asked, the reptile Faunus’ lips formed a thin line as he pressed them together. “We can do this all day, my quills can just keep coming. Probably will get harder to hold ‘em from shooting off too quickly though...”He trailed off flexing his hand, he repeated his previous action lining up his hand. He did similar interrogations like this when he was still in the Fang, he was a blank slate it easy to guide him down a certain path. If this is what they needed from him at the moment then it was what he would provide, he had to be useful.

Lye squirmed in her seat, he looked so at ease. Her attention shifted as Tarragon enter the room walking straight to where Opal sat, leaning down to whisper something to her. Opal turned to the other women with a look of surprise.

“I fear the doctors far more than you.” He responded through gritted teeth, he had already given them his name that would already be a heavy punishment when we returned. Anything more the doctors would just see him as a liability.

“Too bad.” He nearly released the quill until he heard Opal’s voice, instead he released the quill into HZ-23’s cheek.

“Kashmere, that’s enough for now. We’ll continue in the morning.” She spoke up standing up, Kash let go of the Faunus. He returned the ice to a liquid form guiding it back into the pack on his hip.

“Tarraggon and Leo will take watch for the remainder of this evening, I need you five to return to the alley and retrace your path. I believe his scroll could have fallen out somewhere along the line.” She spoke in a hushed tone, not wanting HZ-23 to hear. The Faunus and Jae nodded, making their way out of the training room.

———

AB-22 walked down the hallway with CF-6 skipping behind her, the pair stopped in front of Nava’s room. She turned to CF-6. “Wait out here.” She order earning a pout from the other girl.

The door slid open allowing AB-22 to enter, she made her way over to where the food tray was. Left untouched again, without saying anything she picked up the tray walking towards the door. She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Sleep well....Nava.” She wasn’t expecting the response so she left the room, the door slid open causing CF-6 who had her ear pressed against the door to stumble.

———

The team sent out to search for the missing scroll found it, however there was an obvious encryption on it. Opal and Russet had started working the momment the group brought the scroll to the hotel, even as the sun poked though the curtains they continued typing away. It was going far faster with two people, but an ecryption like this took time even for the skill set the pair had.

Lye opted to stay at the suite instead not wanting to return to the loft alone after Van and Kash took over watch from Leo and Tarragon, she was given Opal’s bed the older women seemingly knowing she wouldn’t be using it that night. In the afternoon when Leo and Tarragon had woken up they along with Jae returned to the gym to continuing questioning, Lye decided to stay in the suite. Not too long later Kash entered the suite citing how he couldn’t stand the smell from HZ-23 as the reason for his return.

———

They usually brought her dinner around this time, Nava gaze fell onto the clock. Dr.Lazuli and AB-22 always arrived right on the dot with her meals like they had with her breakfast and lunch, maybe they had decided to wait to see if she finally gave into hunger or thirst. Shaking her head she layed down, time would pass faster if she just slept.

She pulled the blanket closer to her upon hearing the door slide open, there was a single pair of footsteps and they sounded too heavy to be Dr.Lazuli’s. She steadied her breathing trying to make it seem as though she was already asleep.

“Miss Lavender..” The voice began, she could hear the metal tray of food being set down on the desk followed by the sound of the chair being moved. “I know you’re not asleep, nice attempt however...” He commented after receiving no reply, a warm chuckle slipping from his lips.

Begrudgingly Nava sat up looking towards the man, unlike Dr.Lazuli he didn’t have a companion with him. Perhaps that was just specific to her.

“I heard you weren’t taking too well to Dr.Lazuli, also that you hadn’t to CF-6. My apologies for how she acted, she’s rather....rambunctious.”

“Who are you?” She didn’t care what he had to say.

“Ah, that reminds me why I’m here.” He blinked a warm smile on his lips. “I’ve been informed that you haven’t been eating, that quite worrisome especially for a girl of your percentile. So how about we make a deal?”

She didn’t respond, her gaze looked him over suspiciously it did show however that she was listening.

“For every meal you eat, I will answer any question you have.”

“What do you define as eating?”

“Preferably the whole meal, but as much as you can muster is also good.” He grabbed the tray from the desk holding it out to her.

“How do I know there’s nothing wrong with it?”

“Well I don’t believe you’re allergic to anything in this.” He teased lightly to lighten the mood. “I knew you would suspect such a think, would it make you feel better if I tried it.” He watched Nava face remained still with a sense of expectancy, he reached for the extra fork he had brought along. He took a bite of the pasta, chewing and swallowing. She waited a moment, before taking the tray and fresh fork as it was offered to her. She tentatively ate the pasta, it was far better than she would like to admit. She was probably just hungry, having only ate the pasta she handed the tray back. He a quirked a brow at the tray.

“It all I could muster.” She responded bluntly, earning a soft chuckle from the man as he took the tray.

“Your question then?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Fir Hibou, the head doctor here at the White Willow. It nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Lavender.”

“White Willow? Where are we?”

“I believe I only said a question not questions, so that next question will cost you another meal. I even gave you a bit more information, I could have been more stingy.” He stated setting the tray nearby in case she was still hungry, he stood up. “AB-22 will be by later to retrieve the tray, have a goood evening Miss Lavender.” He gave a polite smile before leaving.

Nava furrowed her brows, he had given her the information so easily. Had it really been that simple? She glance to the tray, she had room for more... Shaking her head she layed back down closing her eyes as she tried to collect her thoughts.

———

They had reached a wall, Opal took as a sign for a break while Russ sat in his chair racking his brain for an answer. She had gotten up from her chair and made her way to the kitchen to begin preparing a pot of coffee.

“We’ve been working non-stop this was bound to happen.” She commented noticing the younger males furrowed brows and hunched posture.

Lye stood from her spot on the couch making her way to the kitchen to offer some help to Opal, she could prepare something small to eat in the meantime. She looked through the fridge there wasn’t much, gathering the ingredients for a simple dish she went ahead to begin preparation.

Kash swiped the owl mask that was on the coffee table and put it on, he stood up mimicking HZ-23’s posture.

“Tryin’ to get in his head?” Russ asked with a small chuckle, this wasn’t the first time he had seen Kash do something like this. He paused a momment, wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. “Toss it over here for a sec.” He held out his hand to catch the mask, he turned it over in his hands looking it over. It held up rather well for receiving a hit from Kash, only a faint crack could be seen on the beak. He was about to put it on when he paused upon seeing a symbol engraved on the inside of the mask, it wasn’t perfectly carved like everything else about the mask it looked as though someone had carved it in themself.

It looked so familiar, yet he couldn’t quite place why. He traced his finger over the carving, he stared at the mask bringing it to his nose he sniffed. It was the same clean smell as the lizard Faunus. Something clicked in his head. He set the mask down on the table pulling up a separate tab, he quickly typed in something. His ears shifted back and forth. “Opal, will you come look at this and tell me if I’m crazy?” He called out taking the image he had on screen enlarging it.

Opal walked back over to the desk with a cup of coffee, curiously both Lye and Kashmere approached. Russ pointed out the carving in the mask before gesturing to the the screen, on the screen was a symbol of a willow tree with an owl nestled in it branches. The carving in the mask appeared to be mimicking the style of the symbol, with a blob to seemingly represent the owl.

“What is it?” Lye spoke up looking from the mask to the image.

“Its a..a hospital....in Atlas...” He trailed off, saying it out loud made him realize how unlikely it was.

“How do you know?” She asked taking notes of the carving and the symbol.

“Well y’see I’m from a seaport village on the eastern coast, and the city thats more west from us has this hospital. Real up to date and fancy, been there forever. That carving looked familiar and they have like a saying about an owl in a willow tree providing protection or something.” He tried to explain his hands moving as he did, his ears folded against his head. “But then again thats in Atlas...whose borders are closed....”

“We did follow them here from Atlas, getting in and out of Atlas is tough but not impossible...” She handed Russ the mug of coffee and patted him on the shoulder. “I need to make a call.” She stated grabbing her scroll and a pack of cigarettes from the table before walking out to the balcony.

[hellotinywonder]

(re)Generation 2018: meet your heroes.

DAY THE FIRST, Wednesday:

Snow. Darnit.  I’m going delay my trip a day.

DAY TWO, Thursday:

I got up at 5:30a, trekked down to my conveniently already-packed car through the snow, but the streets were clear, and I began my drive westward and northward. Dawn over snowy mountains is spectacular.

I visited with puppeteer friends in Richmond, saw their local makerspace, and hung out with an old friend from my touring days and her new dog, Dave, a rescued sweetheart from Puerto Rico.

DAY THREE, Friday:

Off to DC, with literally NO traffic. I had brunch with the incredible JoJo (Burlesque Poetess), who is a Doctor Who nerd of equal or greater value, and extended bandfamily from ten years ago.  It’s been so great to reconnect and talk art and ideas and nerdy references. And how we engage with the universe, and how sometimes the universe engages right back.

After brunch I headed to visit my friend Matt and his wife.  It was great.  I met Matt a few years ago at a convention, all because I had PuppetCapaldi with me, Matt used to write and draw for Doctor Who comics, and has since become one of my closest art friends and advisors and person to send random texts to in a crisis.  Good people, but this is the first time we’ve hung out in person since our initial meeting.  It was great.  A few hours later I was off to Baltimore.

It took 3 hours. Which didn’t mean much to me, as I don’t drive DC to Baltimore often.  But yes… I later learned it should be a 45 min trip. I parked eventually and made my way to the hotel for ReGen.  I knew only one person going in, and I promptly sought him out: Drew Meyer.  I snuck into the back of his panel (it’s worth mentioning that I met Drew the same day I met Matt, and PuppetCapaldi did those introductions too) and tried to use context clues to make out what it was about.  I got as far as Drew referring to the Tardis as “sort of like a windowless van”, when I abandoned that notion and decided I’d just make a note of it, so I could mock him in my end of trip summary… like… now.

After touching base, and handing off my puppet suitcase (Drew was storing it onsite so I could attend the March for Our Lives the next day without needing to worry about a giant rolly-bag and crowds) I caught Irene Richard coming out of the panel she had just hosted with Rachel Talalay.  I feel like I’ve known Irene for years, I think it’s how decidedly New Yorker she is, but this was our first time actually meeting.  We hit it off, as I knew we would, and then by some twist of awkwardness and fate, I was standing at a table with Rachel Talalay admiring a scribbled storyboard movement sketch.  I love things like that.  Process-peeks. I realized I didn’t have anything to say to Rachel (aside from the whole: You’re awesome, inspiring, and your eye is fantastic), which is bothersome, because I’m a fairly interesting person at times, and I want to learn so much from her, she’s a powerhouse in the industry I am just starting to dabble in, and am always keeping an eye on.  I didn’t have any puppets with me to reinforce that I make stuff, etc.  That’s fine, there was a whole weekend ahead.

I skipped out to dinner with Drew and his friend Brent, and shortly after went home to my friend’s house, where there was a party.

The party, I won’t get into too much, but I walked in and it was like knowing everyone.  They were activists, peers, they had a prison letter writing campaign going on in the dining room.  I had such a wonderful time meeting everyone, it was a completely unexpected bonus.  I miss my punkrock anarcho activist friends. Good to see organization like that in Baltimore.  I slept in a room with multiple accordions.  Perfection.  Thank you Jonathan for your hospitality and your excellence.

DAY what is it now? Four? FOUR, Saturday:

I got up early, mostly because I had been and would be antsy about giving my panel on puppet and prop-making that night.  No one else in the house is up, and I need coffee and to get to the March.

I get a Lyft to town, remembering seeing a Starbucks a block or two away from the hotel. I’m traveling with just a little backpack and my travel mug as my puppets are stored at Drew’s so I get out and head off to it.  *Normally I’d avoid Starbucks and hit up a local cafe, but the Baltimore Harbour is rather commercialized I couldn’t find an indie place to scope out.  I was not alone in this…

I walk in, an amalgamation of bleary-eyes and nerves, and to my left I see a familiar figure and hear a voice, and at first I dismiss it, as I don’t quite place it- holy damnit.  It’s Peter Capaldi. ***Now, I am going to stop you here.  Peter Capaldi is a big deal to me.  I met him last year, PuppetCapaldi in tow, and some friends got me to make a 24 hour comic about it. (It’s here https://tinyurl.com/y9cfma2t) worth a read, and it’s flipping cute, and I might reference it once or twice more.***

He’s talking with Rachel. I make my way past them, because they are having a conversation and the day is young, and I am about to go shake my fist at government, and I need coffee and… While I’m waiting in line, they finish their conversation and get up. Fine, universe, I might as well, I wanted to reconnect with Rachel anyway, so I do.  I say hello, I explain that this is a very bizarre and rather delightful start to my day at least. Rachel introduces me, Peter shakes my hand. “I’m Peter.” “Valerie.” We talk for a short while. Peter grabs my travel mug and inquires about my Scottish flag sticker with EU stars super-imposed. I explain that, while I am not from the UK, I’ve kept up on Brexit and I talk about meeting with the remainers outside of Westminster, and when I was in Glasgow- Glasgow?  Oh yes, and then I point to the sticker next to it, which is a map of one of my favourite cities in the world: Glasgow (my travel mug is adorned in stickers from places I’ve been recently, namely Glasgow and Berlin, and Tokyo…) Peter doesn’t quite recognize it, so I point out The Clyde, and it clicks. “Oh!”  He says, then we start to talk about Glasgow.  It’s brilliant.  He points to a place on the map and shows us: “I have a flat right around here.”  I show him where I stayed, across from Kelvingrove. “Oh, that’s the West Side.”  He’s right, but I act jokingly incensed.  Glasgow, Glasgow, Glasgow, and then it’s time to go.  We say our goodbyes.  And they are on their way and I will see them later and…. I need coffee.

I walk back to the hotel a few minutes later (to set eyes on puppets, make sure everyone’s all set, and tuck them away at the Pixel Who booth, who have lovingly adopted us for the weekend), glowing.  It occurs to me I just got to talk to Peter Capaldi about Glasgow.  Not Doctor Who, not The Thick of It, not Puppets, just Glasgow, a city we have a mutual fondness for.  This is somehow the best thing ever.

Okay, get your head together, Valerie.  It’s time to go to the March.  So I do, it’s about 4 blocks away, an easy walk and the whole time I’m overwhelmed with what today might end up being like. The March is indescribable.  I went to the local Baltimore version, knowing DC would be too much to contend with if I am to teach a puppet workshop that evening, but I believe it was worth stepping out wherever and being counted in the hundreds of thousands of people demanding better gun control in the US.  Kids are on the microphone, empowered by their peers, and finding their voice, and demanding their safety, and I’m already just emotionally dilated and I begin to cry. It was such a powerful morning.

After a couple hours, I’m starting to fade.  I leave the March, return to the hotel, get some food and grab my date, a 3 year old, beat to hell, semi-retired PuppetCapaldi.  He is the goshdarn belle of the ball when it comes to conventions like these, especially when Peter is present. We go to a panel interview of Peter.  As he’s my aforementioned ArtHero, I am terribly interested in what he has to say, but I don’t care as much about meta Doctor Who information unless it’s fun anecdotes of monsters and puppetry, of which there are a couple.  The only thing I am interested in him answering related to Doctor Who is what was it like to make something like this in the world of Brexit or Trump, or how does Doctor Who intersect with our current reality, because sometimes it seems to offer direct commentary, and Saturday (with the March) was just a particularly important day.  A sort of: did Doctor Who, the franchise, feel it has a duty of care, with how it couches its viewpoint in media, etc.  I never got to ask that question, but someone asked one similar. His answer was lovely, talking about how ultimately Doctor Who is being made for kids, and giving them the globalist (universalist) perspective of The Doctor will help shape their thinking and the world as they inherit it.  That world leaders should be afraid, because Doctor Who is communicating with the generations that will replace them. It wasn’t quite the question I had, but it was close enough.  Thank you, whoever asked it.  I looked for her after (she had blue wristlets), but never found her.

I ran into Rachel again after this, and donated to WhoAgainstGuns and got a lovely postcard of the (now dismantled) Tardis interior, which I love, a set I desperately wish I could have seen, could have been on, and I did try.  She signed it to me. “To Valerie from Starbucks” and we talked about how we both ended up there that morning for lack of other options.  I apologized for bothering them, but there was no need.  It also caught me offguard to be remembered. That’s a long time problem for myself.  I’ve written about it many times before.  I am getting accustomed to the concept that people do in fact have object permanence when dealing with me.  It’s nice to be remembered.

I’m about to go get our little family photo taken, when Michelle Gomez passes by and sees PuppetCapaldi she makes “the face” as I have come to call it. “Whaaaaarghourgh!”  She yells as she’s rushed by.  I make a note to find her later.  She made the “I know that guy!” face, and I think she wants a picture with it.

I am currently, in present as-I-write-this day, realizing how darn wordy I am.  I’ll try to condense. We have our photo taken.  Peter puts together that I am me.  The woman from this morning, but also that we have met before, once he sees the puppets.  I let him play with the finger puppet, and before I know it we’re looking into the monitor (THEY HAVE A MONITOR, BLESS YOU!) and I’m talking about finding focus, etc.  A photo is taken of me adjusting Peter’s arm while he stares down the camera, and then one where I look at the camera but he, and all puppets present, are focused on the monitor. Both are super adorable.

We’re removing puppets, etc and Peter says “You made all these, yes?”  Oh yes.  Someone prompts me and I mention the puppet I brought that is loosely based on Armando Iannucci, not that anyone would recognize it.  “I would recognize him”  Peter says. “Bring him by and show me.”  So, that’s that.  I’m off.  A bit thrilled that I’m getting a reputation as the puppet lady.  I mean, I’m certainly working at it, but attaining it is an altogether different feeling.

I’m sitting outside in the hallway playing with two little girls who were there for photos and talking to them about puppets and Sesame Street, and that sort of thing, when Peter and his folks pass us.  The girls and I (and PuppetCapaldi) wave at them, and I continue to pack my photo into my Spacejunk sketchbook and then I’m alone in the hall.  I head for the elevators and as I turn the corner I walk into the most wonderful scene:

Young Theo Tidemann (who I did not know at the time) has just started playing ukulele at Peter’s request, while we’re all waiting for elevators. Theo starts “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.”  It’s wonderful.  It’s sweet. It’s about to get even better.  Peter starts to sing along, then slowly we all do.  A bunch of strangers, singing in impromptu harmony.  It’s so magical. Singalongs are like my religion.  That metaphysical energy of communion through song?  It’s transcendent to me.  Early on I realized that I was in a perfect moment, and I thought of this kid I was about to meet, and he deserved a video of this. So I juggled my puppets a bit and took some poor quality video with my phone, it pans up and fades out, and it doesn’t matter. It’s the perfect moment, and we can rewatch it anytime.  (It’s on @hellotinywonder’s instagram… https://www.instagram.com/p/Bgt7jO8Ar25/ and BBC-A put it in an article about Doctor Who’s Day recently) Other things happen that day.  I get a moment with Michelle, she takes a photo with PuppetCapaldi, but I’ve never seen it since.  I am still looking for it.  It’s a great exchange, though. Showing someone your art because they are excited about it.  I’m pretty proud of that. I play ukulele in a room of other ukulele people… it’s ukubiquitous!

I sit in a dark corner and just breath a bit. I end up talking about puppets with the custodial staff, and it’s one of the most delightful conversations of the weekend. Throughout, I am adrift.

PUPPET PANEL!  It went WELL!  Kathy O’Shea David helped out and brought her army of puppets as well, I would go on, but really, it was mostly just me talking about puppets, how to build, what to use, asking questions, answering questions, and corralling  a puppet petting zoo.  Unexpected hit of the posse was Kyle the Fish! Everyone loves Kyle, I demonstrated my feelings on ventriloquism with him (when using a puppet, in my opinion, moving your mouth doesn’t matter, if your focus on the puppet is correct, and your manipulation is believable and you hit your lipsync, people will just accept it.) As I started to put puppets away, when my panel was over I looked up and saw Kyle, some kid was manipulating his mouth, and it was so moving.  I make reference puppets like I do fanart, to expose people to the other stuff I do. Do you like PuppetCapaldi?  He’s a portrait puppet, a skill I possess, and can do for anyone! Do you like this Rick from Rick and Morty? He has moving eyes, a mech I designed, and also use over here… People fell in love with Kyle, who is my very own intellectual property, and that meant the world to me.

At some point, I and my puppet rolly-bag float away to bed.

DAY I FORGET, IT’S THE LAST ONE, Sunday

I drive myself in this time, so I can scoot off when I’m done. Puppets stay in the car, with the exception of PuppetCapaldi, my date, and Armando, who I debate quietly… I mean, he’s janky, he’s not quite right, he’s not a portrait puppet, he’s just *based* on Armando Iannucci… do I want to show a piece to Peter that I don’t fully stand behind?  I’ll decide later.  I stuff him into my travel tote which I realize then is my tote from the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.  I sigh. I am the biggest nerd ever, even when I don’t mean to be.

I have Coffee with the Creators.  This is delightful.  I get to pick some people’s brains, and let others just tell me about what they do.  I am thrilled to get to speak more with Simon Fraser, a comic book artist for Doctor Who, I swear, I do collect them as friends, it seems. I also get to meet Steve Gostelow whose table I’d been eyeing throughout, but we missed eachother.  He was a monster maker, and sculptor, and having a materials and process geekout was fantastic.

There’s a moment when Rachel is about to come to our table, and she has to get up and leave, we make this brief sort of eye contact and I realize as she’s headed out, that it’s fine.  We’ll catch up later, that is such a strange and wonderful feeling.  She tells me later she had to run up and get her photo taken with the three Doctors.  Adorable.  Flipping Adorable.  I will see her again in a little over a month, and that is spectacular.

I am walking around the con, taking it all in and Peter and his small group walk by, I’m talking with my new fellow blue-haired early 30’s lady friend Gale at Nightengale Needles, and I look up and see him.  I have nothing to say to him so I resort to my clown communication skills and make a friendly, but decidedly silly face.

It is returned.

This is a professional milestone, in my book.

Later I am in the vendor area, and I meet up with Simon Fraser and his family.  We talk a bit more, he likes PuppetCapaldi (really, that puppet handled nearly all my introductions, it’s great).  I am looking through his portfolio of work for sale, mostly because what he is selling is traditional blue pencil and ink, and I like just looking at people’s work, understanding how they develop a peice.  Then I see the page.  It’s 4 vertical panels of Osgood throwing her scarf to a falling Twelfth Doctor.  She saves him.  He is appreciative and grumpy.  She looks like me. I’ve seen this page, I’m told it’s from a Free Comic Book Day issue, from Titan, I assume.  I was eyeing a wallet made out of it on Etsy, I love it.  I love the composition, the dynamics, the SHELOOKSLIKEMEness of it all.  And here it is.  Waiting for me.

I rarely buy things at conventions, but this page has been in my mind for almost a year? And I love it, and now it’s mine. And in some strange cosmic organization, it was always mine.

On my way out I touched base again with Steve Gostelow.  I show him my “Celastic: Do It Old School!” button.  While he didn’t use Celastic, he still appreciates it. We talk a bit more maker shop and it’s wonderful.

Okay, the last line for meet and greet and autographs.  As I said in my comic, these are the people PuppetCapaldi was made for.  We had time, and I struck up conversations with all the lovely people around me, especially this woman, Michelle, who gave me a clif bar.  Smart folks.  I showed her the comic, which gave her a bit of context into what was about to happen.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with getting an 8x10 glossy photo signed, but that is not where I am at.  When people set down what they would like to have signed, I pulled out my do-not-lose-me-orange A4 #Spacejunk notebook and open to a random page.  That is what I want signed.

When I’m about to meet Peter, again, I take off PuppetCapaldi, that’s not what this is about. The woman in front of me is having her Missing DoSAC Files book (one of my favourite books ever) signed “by Malcolm”.  Peter pens a short, furious, and F-laden diatribe for her. She thanks him and wishes him a happy birthday. “Ah yes!” He says. “Thank you.” He goes on to sign a photo she had in her collection of signables. “You know, I’ll be 60,” he starts, “and when you’re 60 the government gives you a little pass.  And I can take all the buses and trains for free.” The public transit junkie in me is thrilled. It’s always nice to have common geekery with the people you look up to.

Oh, then it’s my turn. Okay, then. I try to briefly and calmly (everything is madness around me) explain that I am here to ask him for some advice, or encouragement, that I, and many like-minded friends of mine are all at these weird professional empasses, and I look up to him, and have for some time, even this puppet has gotten me work out in the big crazy world of TV and Film.  He smiles and grabs a blue sharpie (which I realize I had secretly hoped he’d use blue, despite the several black, silver, and gold sharpies on the table).

“Shall I make it out to you?” “Sure.”  I say, (I mean, fair is fair, I’ll share the advice, but this is my letter, sorry kids.) “...I’m Valerie.” I continue. “I know.” He says and continues to write.

I’m again caught off guard at this display of object permanence. This hero of mine knows me.  Knows my work…

He is writing, but stops. “Have you got your Armando with you?”

Ulp.  More object permanence.

“Well, I mean, yes, but it’s not quite-” “I want to see it!” He puts the pen down. He’s written something about stars aligning.

I dig Armando out, explaining that he’s only *based* on him, for a show I’m building… I slip my hand through the secret hole in the sleeve, and lift the puppet’s head.

Peter makes what I have described earlier as “the face”.

He gasps, giggles, then buries his face in his hands. Armando looks around a little frantic, and a little jangly, scratches his head.  Peter lifts his head, locks eyes with me, locks eyes with the puppet, and devolves into laughing.  “It’s *so* like him!”  he says.  “I need to show this to him.” His handler takes our photo together.  Peter explains “this one is special, this is for a friend of mine.”  A woman who I guess knows Iannucci’s likeness also gets it and now she’s laughing.

“I’m going to send this to him!” Peter tells me while his friend takes the photo, “He’ll love it!”

Peter sits back down, again telling me how much Puppet Armando is like Proper Armando and recomences writing. He just keeps going, we’ve stopped talking, and it’s rather quiet, surrounded by the din of the convention. Sharpie on paper, scratching.

Someone behind me taps me on the shoulder and checks to see if I am doing okay. I tell them I am fine, and I am. I am perfect.

He’s stopped mid-sentence, and is just writing “work” over and over in the margins.

He finishes.  Having filled the page, which is adorable. “There. Is that alright?”  He asks.  I tell him it is. And I thank him. “Good luck.”  he says, handing it up to me.  “And have fun.” (I will.)

“You are very talented.”

All of this means so incredibly much to me, I don’t think I can properly explain. I thank him again and look up. The rest of the world races back into my consciousness.  Michelle, my new friend from the line, is only a little bit crying.  “Are you crying?”  I ask.  “Maybe!”  She says. And I realize she is, because she gets it.  Because she read a silly little comic about this weirdo art girl who is just collecting advice, inspiration, and encouragement from the people she looks up to, and somehow today it’s coming together perfectly. 

Empathy Abounds.

Peter and I say good-bye, and I’m off to put Armando away more properly.

(Oh, I also scurry back to the table to pick up Armando’s eyebrow which fell off.  Peter looks up and I hold the eyebrow up to my own and it all registers.  Such a puppeteer move, you guys.)

After that it’s just a farewell fanfare finale.  I say goodbye to everyone and then I am off.  Completely rejuvenated artistically, emotionally, professionally… I can’t describe it all, and I’ve been doing nothing but describing it all for seven pages of a google doc!

I drive through the evening and end up in Staunton, VA, just as the sunset turns to night, to stay with my friend before heading home the next day.  We order Chinese, as she’s also just come back from performing and we are prolevel ladies that deserve a night in.  We’re talking about art, and Fringe festivals, my weekend, and hers, it’s great to continue this creative thread outside of my Baltimore adventure. I open my fortune cookie, which says: “Watch for a stranger to soon become a friend.” That’s sort of how I’ve been living my life, as of late. We make more tea.

Pan Up.

Fade Out.