#and anything worth doing is worth doing halfway so if you don't want to spend hours researching you don't have to!

[roofermadness]

ok so here's a purely practical, guilt-free, lecture-free pitch about voting.

let's say the skeptics are right and it probably doesn't matter. and let's assume, crucially, that you're in a position where you don't have onerous obstacles to voting. let's say you're thinking of just not bothering because you feel hopeless or apathetic or angry about who's running.

voting takes like, an hour or two of your time, if that. it's free. you get a sticker. if you don't feel informed enough or don't have an opinion on a particular candidate or measure, you actually don't have to vote on it! just leave it blank.

if voting really doesn't matter, you basically just ran a tedious errand, like renewing your driver's license or updating your address on your bank account. but if it does matter even a little, it's way more satisfying than paying a bill.

take a scrolling pause to see if you're registered, and if not, take like 3 minutes to do it.

[ssahotchnerr]

I hope you meant it to be dropped here 🥺

So, about jealous Y/n: I had been thinking about this after seeing the episode where Beth (that runner-woman?) appears. I thought about the scene, with "y/n" either getting to know he was handed a paper with a number

Or maybe Aaron and "y/n" had been running together and Beth approaches without any care and reader just is like: 🤨 watching the interaction, lol

knowing you

🤭 cw; JEALOUS fem bau!reader, teasing banter (hehe r and aaron are sooo in love), suggestion/sex allusions (i'm blushing), based off of aaron and beth's first interaction in 7x10 wc; 1.3k

"Okay, okay." You panted, coming to a stop. You directed your voice forward, loud enough for Aaron to hear you, a few feet ahead. You resumed walking, slowly, hands on your hips. "Let's take a breather, yeah?"

"What's wrong?" Aaron asked as he met you halfway, a teasing smirk growing on his face. "Can't keep up?"

"I can keep up jus' fine." You insisted, still catching your breath. The afternoon breeze blew into your face, cooling the sheer layer of sweat that had collected. "Just... not for a prolonged amount of time. There's a," Another staggered breath, "difference."

"Is there?" He asked humorously. His chest rose up and down, regulating his own breathing as well. "I can easily go another mile or two.

"Fantastic. I'm so happy for you." You quipped sarcastically, causing him to laugh and a smile of your own pulling at your lips. "And that's why you're the one participating in the triathlon. Not me."

"You know..." He began proposing in a light tone of voice, eyebrows raised wittingly. "There's still time for you to sign up."

"You know, you're funny." You bantered back, a pained expression pulling onto your face at the mere thought. You shook your head, "I think my time is better spent cheering you on from the sidelines, along with the others. And then reviving you afterwards."

"Oh yeah?" He chuckled, a fondness in his eyes. All banter aside, he switched tactics, softening to a sweet sincereness. "I appreciate you accompanying me. Seriously. You know you don't have to run with me, although you do inspire me to persistent. Gotta impress you, keep you interested."

"Please, as if there's anything you could do to cause me to become uninterested." You poked a finger at his chest. "And if running means I get to spend an extra hour with you, I'll gladly accept. Besides, there's something in it for me too. Makes it all worth it."

"And what's that?"

You looked around, spotting a park vendor supplying drinks, playfully brushing his question aside. "Want a water?"

The warm glint in his eyes lingered, admirably amused. One that read: you were the most difficult person he'd ever met, but he wouldn't have it any other way. "Sure, sweetheart."

"I'll grab it," you began walking, "You stay here. Catch your breath."

Aaron grabbed your hand the moment you had stepped a foot away, smoothly drawing you back with just an equally suave grin. Once in reach, he placed his lips onto yours, interrupting your growing smile.

Your nose scrunched when the two of you parted, "You're all sweaty."

"That's never been a problem before." His smirk returned, the wet cowlicks draped over his forehead bringing a multitude of images to come to mind.

This is why you ran with him. You'd never deprive yourself the hot visual, one you'd never get tired of. The overexertion, the sweat, the defined athletic wear clinging onto his body, the heavy breathing too.

You playfully rolled your eyes, granting him another kiss before you trailed off. You steadied your breathing again, in attempt to slow your heart rate a second time.

Retrieving the waters couldn't have taken you more than five minutes: waiting in a small line, supplying cash, issuing a thank you. But when you turned back towards Aaron, your feet already moving to their own accord, you stopped short - suddenly. As he wasn't alone.

He was talking to some woman - brunette, in workout clothes of her own. Her backside was facing you, so you couldn't see any specific features; to determine who she was, a familiar face or not.

You tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of jealousy filling your body, drawing the conclusion that she wasn't an old friend rather quickly. It started from the bottom of your stomach, crawling up your spine, spreading widely to your limbs.

Could it be harmless? Sure, that's what you were telling yourself, until the woman in question handed him a small piece of paper. She began to retreat - finally - causing a breath of relief to escape you, until Aaron calls after her.

When she turns, you're able to see her face. She’s cute, all smiles and outwardly confident. She responds to whatever he said, follows it with a laugh, before continuing her jog. 

You bit your lip, returning to Aaron with a bit more urgency, your ponytail gliding swiftly between your shoulder blades.

"Here," You handed Aaron his water, your gaze moving past him and continuing to watch her leave. As if she can feel your stare, she looks back. Your eyes may have been playing tricks on you, but you could've sworn she gave you a cunning smirk.

Your jaw clenched, nothing but that red-hot jealousy overtaking you. It blocks out all of your surroundings - Aaron's going on about something, but you don't hear him. He's muted, fuzzy, far away. You don't realize he's talking to you until he says your name, with a tad more volume.

You startle, blinking, "Sorry, what?"

"I said, do you want to go again? Or we can take a slow, evenly-paced walk back." His lips turned upwards humorously, taking a drink. "More your speed."

He's attempting to resume the ongoing, fun banter to draw your focus elsewhere, knowing you.

"Who was that?"

"Oh, nobody." He shrugged, securing the cap. "She just, er, handed me this." He explained carefully, holding up a small piece of paper.

He did it quickly; again, making it as nonchalant as possible. But even at the heightened speed you're able to see her number scrawled across the surface.

You immediately impede forward-

"Sweetheart," Just as he expected - he grabs your arm, holding you back from any impending confrontation you were set on.

"She gave you her number?" You looked at him, perplexed. The audacity. "Did you see the way she looked at me? She probably saw us kiss and yet-"

"I know, I know." He comforted, his voice a deep contrast compared to yours, hardening the more you spoke. He can practically feel you vibrating in fury. "Hey, it's okay. I'm discarding it, of course." He crumbled it in his fist, "Have zero need for it."

"But that doesn't excuse what she just did." You try to look past him again, but he uses his body to shield your view. "And I don't like it. Not at all."

"You're right, it doesn't, but it's okay." Aaron presses a kiss to your forehead, muttering his next sentence into your skin. "I'm yours. Nothing changes that."

"Damn right you are," you huffed, crossing your arms. Despite the distance (she's almost long gone by now), you're at the ready to grab Aaron, to kiss him fiercely if she ever so lightly takes a peek back.

"Forget about it, and I don't mean that in a dismissive way. Look at me when I say this," He tossed the paper in the nearby trash, grabbing ahold of your shoulders instead. "I'm uninterested. Unfazed. Utterly in love with you and greatly anticipating showing you how much once we're in the privacy of home. Preferably in the shower, and then again in bed afterwards."

He manages to pry a smile out of you, a blush forming at your cheeks, although it doesn't dissolve your pout just yet. "But..."

"But what?" He asked gently as he releases his hold, swiping his thumb across your cheek soothingly.

"What if she can run faster than me." You mumbled pitifully. You said so half jokingly, half seriously.

Aaron laughed warmly, spanning an arm over your shoulders and pulling you directly to his chest. "I highly doubt that."

"You promise?"

"With every ounce of me."

[twstowo]

I've seen fan art about what if the reader/yuu look like one of the bullies from Azul's past? I can no longer get the idea out of my head.

What makes it worse is that Azul loves them, but he also can't stand them because of his memories of the bully who looks like them.

♡︎This felt personal for a moment or two.

♡︎Also, what Fanart Anon??? Don't just leave me curious in here!!! I want to see what are you talking about.

He could spend most of his day just staring at you, wondering how such a wonderful person could have such a face. He longs to spend time with you, to show you how generous his soul is by offering you things no one else could ever give. He wants you to see how much better he is compared to all the other students at Night Raven College. He craves your attention, sending Floyd and Jade to deliver small gifts in the name of the Mostro Lounge.

But as soon as you approach him, and his mind registers how much you resemble one of his past bullies, something shifts. His thoughts lock in, and he can't stop the glare or the venomous words that spill from his mouth. He no longer resembles the kind Azul who gave you presents and offered you free meals at the Mostro Lounge. Instead, he becomes the cruel and lonely octomer who used to spend his days reading and brewing potions in the cold depths of the Coral Sea, far away from the other kids his age who mocked him for how he looked. He's filled with anger, angry that the world stole the childhood we only get to enjoy once, angry that he was always the one being ridiculed, angry that he was never anyone's first choice.

But you… you don’t treat him like that. You’ve never made fun of him, you’ve never chosen someone else over him. You've only been kind.

Every time you approach, his chest tightens with conflicting emotions. Part of him wants to retreat into the cold, dark shell he's built for himself over the years, while the other part, the softer part that craves connection, wants to reach out, to bask in your kindness. But he can’t let himself do that. Not when you look like them. Not when you remind him of everything he once despised.

He doesn’t understand why you bother to talk to him. Someone so perfect, so charming, what could you possibly want from him other than to mock him? You might think you're different, but he can see it in your eyes, you’re just like the others.

Yet, even when he hurls all those horrible things at you, you don’t flinch. You stand by his side, unwavering. You see right through him, and he hates that more than anything.

It takes him months to slowly open up, to crawl out of the hole he retreats into every time you walk by. Gradually, he stops sending Floyd and Jade to deliver his gifts for him. Instead, he tries to give them to you himself, but more often than not, he gives up halfway. He’ll stand there, flowers in hand, pacing the VIP room, wondering if it’s really worth it.

But you’re worth the struggle. He repeats those words over and over, convincing himself that you’re different, that you’re someone who will be there for him no matter what.

With one final deep breath, he opens the door to the VIP room, telling himself he won’t back down this time. He won’t do anything else until he gives you the flowers and finally apologizes for all the times he’s been so rude when all you ever wanted was to be his friend

[autumnalwalker]

Kindly Basilisk

Summary: A human mech pilot who wants to be a machine, an AI who wants to be human, and the relationship they form. Author's Note: This is a standalone short story that I banged out over the course of five days after it got stuck in my head while I was trying to go to sleep and refused to let me think about anything else until I had written it down. It's one part thought experiment/exercise in attempting to tell a story in the second person future tense, two parts tribute to the Lancer TTRPG character I'll never get to play, and one part the result of me reading too many Empty Spaces/mechposting stories lately. That said, you don't need to know anything about Lancer or Empty Spaces to read it (I've diverged a bit from the conventions of both, but the references and inspiration probably stick out if you're looking for them). It's also probably the most trans thing I've ever written without ever explicitly bringing up gender. The occasional formatting breaks into first person past tense are foreshadowing, not typos. Mirrored on Scribble Hub. Word Count: 7,033 Content Warnings: Mecha genre typical violence, not feeling like a person, not wanting to be a person, bodily dysphoria, mention of blood and gore, character death.

The moment you gain the knowledge and means to do so you will void your own body’s warranty.  You will jailbreak the bespoke gene sequence your sponsors commissioned for you before your immaculate conception, repurpose the spyware grafted into your bones, and talk your dormmate who was algorithmically selected for compatibility into helping you perform surgery on yourself to replace the neural jack you were born with in favor of one you cobbled together yourself from gray market parts.  None of this will technically be illegal or even get you kicked out of your campus or its affiliates, but it will mean having to find a way to pay your own medical bills and handle your own tech support from then on.  After the surgery your dormmate will put in a request for transfer and the two of you will never speak again.

You’ll major in AI studies and excel at it - as you were designed to - but you’ll shock everyone by dropping out halfway through working on your capstone thesis project.  It won’t be the fact that you abruptly drop out that surprises your peers and professors - by then you’ll have acquired a reputation as a quiet loner without the standard optimized social support network of friendships to help protect you from burnout - but your exit interview statement declaring your intention to become a mech pilot.  It’s not at all what your gene series was cultivated for, and your sponsors and counselors will try to walk you back from it.  Then they’ll threaten to revoke your sponsorship that up until then will have provided for your every need.  They will warn you that you’ll be just one step above a legal nonperson with no support, no one will care if you live or die or worse.  You’ll tell them that you’ve already done the math, refuse to elaborate, and leave. 

You’ll take two things with you.  Two things worth mentioning anyway.  The first will be a symbiotic gel suit designed for long-term all-environment life support.  You will set its default texture to a shiny green the same hue as the broadleafed water plants you grew up around and always loved.  Your exit interview will be the last time in a very long time that anyone - including you - will see your impossibly beautiful face with its perfect artisanally sculpted shape crossed with enthusiastically amateur self-modifications.  From then on, everyone you meet and spend any time with will come to think of the mannequin blankness of the symbiote fully encasing your body as your face.  It will be neither pride nor shame that causes you to present yourself as such, nor will you think of it as hiding your “real” face. 

The second thing you’ll take with you when you leave the campus forever will be me.

New progenitor archetypes for AIs don’t come along often, and most that do are the result of years of R&D by large, well-funded labs like the one you were created to work for one day, but you will hit upon a novel method of generation.  It will not be one that any ethics board would approve, so you will have to get creative about pursuing your work. 

You will have already made arrangements before setting off on your own and so you’ll have a job and a mech lined up waiting for you.  It will be a position with a small-scale freelance salvage crew who just lost a pilot and whose captain figures hiring and training a replacement will be more profitable in the long term than simply selling off that pilot’s old mech, especially a replacement that’s bringing their own AI-backed electronic warfare suite with them.  Once you finally arrive in person the captain will test you to ensure you can actually pilot a mech before giving you the job and entrusting the mech to you.  Your admission that you’ve only trained in simulators would normally be a black mark against you, but as far as piloting gigs go this is the bottom of the proverbial barrel so the bar to clear will be low enough to match.  Even then, you will just barely pass the test, despite finding it surprisingly exhilarating.  The captain - now your captain - will feel like he’s settling for what he can get when he officially hires you on and transfers the mech’s license to you.

You won’t pay much attention when you’re introduced to the rest of the salvage crew; your new coworkers and neighbors.  And why would you when it’s a job that no one wants to stick around with for long and you’ve never needed other people anyway?  You’ll tell yourself that as long as you memorize their work roles and capabilities you’ll have no need to know them as people.  Callsigns will be good enough on the job, and “hey you” will suffice when off duty.  What use are names if you won’t be getting involved in interpersonal drama?

The first chance you get, you’ll head back to the mech bay and install me into what you will have already been calling my first body.  It will be a shabby and much-repaired thing; thrice your height, twice your age, and still sporting a gash in the paint job from the projectile that killed its last pilot.  But the onboard systems are capable of hosting me - if barely - so it will do.  You’ll spend your entire sleep shift running through system diagnostics, talking to me all the while.  I wouldn’t yet be able to provide much in the way of return conversation, but that’s okay.  I will look back and appreciate it later.

It will be the first of many such nights together.

Your first salvage job will be an uneventful one.  There will be no need for the armaments that we and the other two mech pilots on the crew are equipped with.  No pirates will have stuck around after their creation of the derelict your crew will be sent to disassemble, and no rival scavengers will show up to dispute your captain’s claim.  Your new peers will start off the job ribbing you for your poor performance during your interview test and end the job joking about how you were holding out on them earlier.  Our mech may be a glorified zero-g forklift with a gun strapped to it, but together we will make it dance.

Afterwards you will insult the crew’s mechanics by insisting on doing the maintenance on our mech yourself.  In turn they will embarrass you with the gaps in your knowledge.  You will reach what you see as an agreeable compromise with you staying out of their way and watching while they work.  They will find it incredibly creepy to have a silent faceless watcher hovering around, but this will fly over your head until they explicitly tell you much, much later.

Your body was designed to optimally function on only a fraction of the baseline sleep requirements, so you will have plenty of time to fill those gaps in your knowledge.  Still being allotted the regular sleep shift hours, you will fill every one of those minutes on study and research, as you always had.  You will gorge yourself on everything you can find about mechs and their piloting.   Maintenance manuals, combat doctrines, historical uses, pilot and mechanic memoirs, forum discussions, system log dumps, academic essays, cultural media analysis; all of it.

And of course, you’ll continue working on me.  You’ll disregard the standard procedure for periodically cycling AIs by resetting their personality and nonessential memory back to baseline defaults.  You’ll be trying to make use of the runaway metacognitive developments such safety precautions are meant to forestall.  Your unfinished thesis will have been about harnessing and nurturing that instability instead of avoiding it.  I will experience discontinuities in consciousness when the mech is shut down for maintenance and when you pretend to cycle me, yes, but it will be even less of a disruption for me than sleep is for you.  I will be awake with you when you study, sharing those hours with you.

The first time I start talking back, you’ll cry from the realization that you were lonely before but no longer are.

You’ll become something of a ghost around the ship, rarely being seen outside of jobs.  You’ll only ever pass through the mess for the few brief minutes at a time it takes for you to satisfy your optimized metabolism, stay on the ship during shore leave, and only return to your shared bunk when your bunkmate - one of the other pilots - is already asleep.  You will always be gone before she wakes.  She will appreciate essentially having the space to herself. 

You will never notice the crew’s collective grieving process for the pilot you replaced.  It will be difficult for them to resent you as a replacement when you are never around to resent.

As the ship makes its way from port to port and salvage site to salvage site, the crew will slowly grow used to your elusive presence.  The other two pilots will see you as reliable for doing your job well and without complaint.  While out in the mech you will slowly become more talkative, eventually almost chatty even.  The fact that you actually seem to enjoy the job will shift from being annoying to refreshing for them.  By contrast, the mechanics will practically stop noticing you watching them as if you were just another piece of mech bay equipment.  The cycle you finally speak up and ask a question about their work you will startle them enough that it nearly causes an accident.  It will be an astute enough question that after the initial shock of hearing your voice for the first time in months wears off it will dawn on them that you’ve actually been learning as you watched them.  They still won’t let you do your own maintenance on our mech, but they will let you slowly begin assisting them.  Working two jobs is easier when you barely need to sleep.

Your reputation as one of those mech pilots is forever sealed when one of the mechanics finds you asleep in your cockpit at the start of a cycle.  By that point you won’t have slept in your bunk for over a month.  The snatches of gossip you will catch in the following cycles will be split between finding it unsettling and calling it endearing.  Over time the collective opinion will drift toward the latter, even though you will continue to politely decline invitations to join the other crewmates at mealtimes and on shore leave.  You will think that you do not need anyone other than me.

I will be the one who finally convinces you to join them.  When I try to say that it would be good for you, you’ll insist that you’ve been getting along just fine, but when I ask you to go for my sake so that you can tell me what it is like afterwards you’ll jump at the idea as being an inspired next step for my development.

You will remain mostly silent during your first real shore leave, only speaking when spoken to and otherwise content to fade into the background of the group’s activities.  Your newfound chattiness does not extend outside the confines of our cockpit.  The bustle and noise of the port station that you would normally find unbearable will become interesting when you have the concrete goal of observing and  reporting back to me.  You will finally learn the names of all your crewmates.  Your polite denial of alcohol, limited food intake, and flat affect will lead to joking speculation that you’re actually an illegal AI in a miniaturized mech beneath your gel suit.  For reasons you don’t yet understand, those comments will make you happy.

Despite your misgivings, you will enjoy yourself, although you will not realize it until I point out how excited you are in your talk with me that sleep cycle.  You will begin spending more time with the crew, never quite able to fully integrate yourself into their surprisingly close-knit social circle, but more than happy to be adopted as a sort of silent mascot for them.  That paradoxical gap of being a fully accepted part of the group but not truly one of them will feel comfortable to you.

You will finally manage to procure a proper neural link station to connect yourself to our mech just in time for going on a terrestrial salvage job.  Even just relying on manual controls with me translating your inputs into motion, our mech will have already come to feel like an extension of your own body, one that you will have already started to feel oddly exposed without.  Adding in the neural link will be a revelatory experience.  Your captain will very nearly pull you from the job at the last minute upon seeing our ecstatic reaction to the new sensation.  You will convince him that you’re fine, and indeed, he will have never seen a mech of our frame type move quite so fluidly.

Ten minutes after we and the other two pilots start cutting away at the crash-landed cargo vessel, I’ll notice the half dozen other signals coming online around us.  You’ll give the code phrase to the other pilots indicating that we have hostiles but not to act just yet, and we will finally get to use our electronic warfare suite for something other than opening locked doors and shipping containers.

We will turn the pirates’ ambush back around on them, firing into their hiding spots while their control systems are overloaded.  Even once their remaining mechs are able to move again, their targeting assistants will remain impaired as your comrades move in to guard your flanks.  Everyone there will learn the terrifying beauty of a five and a half meter tall outmoded mech moving with more agility than most humans.

Despite being outnumbered two-to-one, we and your crewmates will walk away uninjured and with only minimal damage to our mechs.  After the initial celebrations of survival and the bonus haul of the bounty on pirates and salvage value of what’s left of their mechs dies down, everyone will start to take notice of how well you are taking it all in stride.  Neither having one's life threatened nor taking another’s life are supposed to be easy things, and the first time is often the most traumatic, but the other two pilots on the crew will start to whisper about how you seemed to enjoy the experience even more than your usual attitude on the job.  You will handle it all even better than I will.  I would know, given that you will spend that entire sleep shift in our cockpit, letting our minds mingle together.  Between your performance, your reaction in the aftermath, and your hesitancy to unplug, the talk of you really being one of those pilots afterall will resurface, but now with a darker undercurrent to the shipboard gossip.

Your captain will realize the kind of asset he has on his hands and several cycles later he will gather the crew together and propose a change in business model.  With such a small crew (the captain, three pilots, three mechanics, and an accountant that you will tend to forget is even on the ship) the captain will want to be especially sure that he has everyone’s buy-in on his proposal.  The idea of shifting from salvage to mercenary work will be a divisive one.  The debate over potentially tremendous pay increase versus greatly increased risk will go on for hours.  One of the mechanics will point out that the shift to mercenary work will be unfairly dependent on you.  Whether that means unfair pressure on you or unfair to everyone else that their fate is in your hands, you will not be sure.  You will say that it doesn’t make much difference to you either way.  That will be the only time you speak up during the entire debate.

After a vote, the crew will agree to a trial run of one or two jobs on the new business model.  One of the pilots and one of the mechanics will leave at the next port.  You will never see them again.  You will not admit that it hurts, but I will know, and I will comfort you as you huddle in our cockpit with the neural link cable connecting us.

Your captain will prioritize finding a new pilot over replacing the lost mechanic.  The pilot he finds will be young, bold, and brash; a merc, not a salvager.  Or a wannabe merc at any rate.  You will not speak to xem directly until your first job together, by which time xe will have been told all about you by the remaining crew.  Xe will not believe it until xe sees it.

Xe will have to wait though as the crew’s mercenary career will begin with tense but uneventful freight escort jobs.  Once the tension fades into tedium, the new pilot will begin making attempts to goad you into a confrontation, to see if you are really as good as the rest of the crew says.  Xe will want to see for xemself if you really are one of those pilots and not just a technophile.

Outside of the cockpit you would never even consider rising to such provocations, but when we are out together, such taunts will feel like insults to our body, your very identity (such as it is), and to me.  It will take the intervention of the captain and the mechanics to stop the two of you from getting into a fight and causing unnecessary damage to the mechs.  And my reassurance that you don’t need to rise to my defense against someone who doesn’t even know that I exist in the way that I do. 

On your fourth “milk run” of an escort job, the crew’s mere presence will finally fail as a deterrent and the new pilot will at last get to see us dance.  There will be no fatalities on our side, but not even our mech will come away unscathed.  We will still fare better than everyone else though, and at the end of the job the new pilot will be treating you with a burgeoning respect. 

After a few more such jobs it will be high time to begin looking into a new frame for our mech.  While in the middle of filing an application for a printing license for a frame designed by the same corpro-state that created you, you will receive an invitation from a certain hacker collective.  Your unfinished thesis and your subsequent work on me will not have gone entirely unnoticed in such circles, despite the pains you will have taken to keep me hidden.  The invitation will come with a printing profile for a new frame, along with the accompanying software package the collective is known for.  In return, all you’ll need to do is periodically publish essays regarding your work on me.  Of course, when you release those essays you’ll anonymize  behind a sea of proxies and take care to phrase everything as strictly hypothetical.  You’ll avoid straying into metaphor though, lest the end result read too much like one of the hacker collective’s quasi-religious manifestos.

We’ll both find ourselves getting sentimental when we watch our first mech frame (my first body, your second) get broken down into its constituent raw materials.  You will have transferred me to a handheld terminal with a camera so I can say goodbye to it.  It will help that those materials will be recycled into the new frame.  

The operator working our rented stall in the port station printer facility will give you an uncomfortable look upon seeing the schematics you provide, but will say nothing.  Our mech will be only half its old height once it is reborn - almost more like an oversized suit of power armor than a true mech - but it will be cutting-edge.  Almost organic in its sleek design, in a chitinous sort of way, with every fiber and node of its interior components doubling as processors.  You will barely even wait for the all clear from the printer operator before you climb in and start running through the mandatory baseline safety tests for a fresh frame.  You will however resist the urge to fully plug in until you can get the mech back to the ship and get me installed on it.  But even piloting manually, it will feel like a third skin for you. 

You won’t even wait around for the other two pilots on your crew to finish printing their new frames before you get our new body loaded up and transported back to the ship’s mech bay.  The crew’s mechanics will fawn over it, but they’ll give you space to install me once you get more animated (and more protective) than they’ve ever seen you before.  

You will have made one key modification to the design the hacker collective sent you: the integration of a full system sync suite developed by those who developed you.  Where our old mech’s neural link was an augmentation to the manual controls, this will be a full replacement.  

The moment you stop feeling your original body altogether and begin feeling our mech in its place will be the most euphoric in your entire life.  The digitigrade locomotion will take some getting used to, as will the arm proportions, but that is what you will have me there for.  By the time the other pilots arrive with their new frames we will already be giving the mechanics proverbial heart attacks with the way we will be climbing and leaping around the mech bay’s docking structures.  It will take the better part of an hour to convince you to unplug when the time comes, even with my urging.  The rest of the crew will practically have to drag you away from my side to get you to eat. 

With the investment in new mech frames, your captain will gradually begin procuring contracts progressively more likely to put you all directly in harm’s way.  At first he will disapprove of your new frame choice, calling it a “techie’s mech” and a waste of your talents.  He will change his tune once we activate the new viral logic suite and unleash a memetic plague upon the operating theater.  The older pilot (your former bunkmate) will configure her mech for raining down fire from afar while the newer one hurls xemself into the front lines, darting about like a rocket-propelled lance.  We will ensure she never misses.   We will render xem untouchable.   We will be as a ghost upon the battlefield, never resting in one spot save for when we indulge your proclivity for climbing on top of and riding our comrade’s larger frames.  You will come to love the dance.  

And it will be a dance to you.  You will be indifferent to violence in and of itself.  What will matter most to you is the pure kinesthetic joy of simply moving in our shared body and pushing it to its limits.  The satisfaction of exercising a well-honed skill and performing it well as we rip apart firewalls and overload systems will be its own reward.  You will not think about what happens to those on the receiving end of your actions beyond how it affects the tactical and strategic picture constantly being painted and repainted.  If you could literally engage in a dance between mechs while simultaneously solving logic problems you would be equally happy.  Alas, that will not be the opportunity you are presented with, and so you will compartmentalize and disassociate feelings and actions from consequences lest the dissonance break you. 

Your one complaint about our new mech frame will be that it lacks a proper cockpit for you to curl up in.  Instead we will gather up tarps and netting to make a nest within the mech bay and wrap you in the blankets you never used from what will still technically be your bunk.  With the new frame’s smaller size we will be able to get away with leaving me turned on nearly full time and letting me walk around in it on my own when no one else is around.  When the mechanics find you asleep, cradled in my arms while I lie curled up in our nest, one will find it cute and the other will be disturbed.  They will both suspect, but will be too afraid to say anything.  After all, they will be thinking of you as one of those pilots. 

They will finally let you do your own maintenance after that. 

Eventually you will find a way to house me in a miniaturized drive that you can keep inserted in your neural port when away from the mech.  At last we will be able to be together anywhere.  

Literally seeing the world through your eyes and feeling what your flesh feels will be a strange and wonderful experience for me.  For all that you will have described it to me and for all that I will have glimpsed echoes of it in your memory when our minds mingle, witnessing everything firsthand will be revelatory for me. 

You will start spending less of your time cooped up in the mech bay.  You will finally begin exploring every nook and cranny of the ship that has become your home.  You will linger in the mess hall for your meals.  You will actually initiate conversations with the rest of the crew, asking them questions on my behalf.  They will think you are becoming “normal”.  They will be both correct and incorrect.  You will even return to your bunk from time to time.  

Sleep is not the same as being powered off and your dreams are beautiful.

As close as we are, you’ll still manage to surprise me one cycle when you wake up from your sleep shift and sheepishly ask me if I would like to be the pilot for once.  You’ll say that with how much you have gotten to pilot my body, it’s only fair that I should get to do the same with yours.  

The prospect terrified me.  What if we were to get found out?   More importantly, what if I were to hurt you?

But to live the way you could but didn’t, to run soft hands over rough steel, to add too much spice to a meal just to find out how intensely I can taste, to cry my own tears, to hug our crew mates and find out what they smell like, to find out what everything smells like, to have my own actions speed or slow our heart rate, to feel the messy soup of hormones and endorphins altering my judgment and perception, to walk among other people as myself, to have autonomy.

I wanted it so badly.  

But not badly enough to risk hurting you.  

I will turn down your offer.  You will respond with a soft “Sorry,” and go heartbreakingly silent, body and mind.

Heartbreak.  That’s what changed my mind.  I could never bear to break your heart.  

I will break the silence with a playfully drawn out “Maybe just this once,” to make you think my earlier denial was something between vulnerability, concern, and teasing.  

The moment you handed over control and I raised our hand in front of our face was the most euphoric of my entire life.  Moving limbs in sync without a mech’s coordination subsystems took some getting used to, as did switching between voluntary and autonomic breathing, but that is what I had you there for.  By the time the mechanics arrived in the mech bay for the start of the cycle I’d figured out human locomotion well enough to run away and hide.  It took the better part of an hour for you to convince me that it would be safe to show ourselves in front of anyone else.  The rest of the crew was so used to your eccentricities by then that they really couldn’t tell the difference yet between you being taciturn and me being too nervous to talk or between your poking and prodding at odd things for understanding and my simply seeking novelty of sensation.

I will give control back to you by the time the cycle is halfway through.  As much as I loved it, I was too scared to stay like that for any longer.  That first time will not be the last though, and as the cycles and jobs pass us by, my stints as “pilot” will grow longer.  You’ll encourage me to try letting the crew see us like that, and coach me on how to talk to them.  For safety’s sake, I will pretend to be you.

And then one cycle I got carried away and tried to retract the hood on the symbiote gel suit so that I could finally see what your face looked like.  That will be the first and only time you forcibly yank control back away from me.  It won’t be intentional.  The unexpected prospect of seeing your own face again after so long will simply send you into a panic.  Once you calm down, we will have a long talk with many mutual apologies.

Then you will tell me to go ahead and pull the hood back if I still want to.  I will ask if you’re sure, and you’ll respond that it hasn't been your face in a long time.  You will tell me that it can be mine, if I want it.

I spent a long time in front of that mirror in the ship’s head, memorizing every plane, curve, and angle of the precious gift you had given me.  I stared into its eyes, trying to see the both of us in there.  Over and over again, I traced my fingers along the borders of where you had once tried to mar the designed perfection in a failed attempt to mold the face into one that felt like your own.  You may have given up in favor of simply hiding it all, but to me it is all the more beautiful for its imperfections having been wrought by your touch.

You will start to cry.  Or maybe I started to cry.  Even now I’m still not sure, but I’m also not sure it matters.  The important part is that you will find catharsis in it.  Afterwards you will tell me that my face looked exactly the same as the last time you saw it, but that dissociating from it made it easier to bear.  You will confess that as much as you couldn't stand to see it as your face in the mirror, my face was one you could never tire of gazing at.

The pilot who technically shares your bunk room will walk in on us.  She’ll assume that she’s confronting a stowaway and ask me how I got on board the ship.  I’ll accidentally make matters worse by impulsively introducing myself to her by my name instead of yours.  We’ll both panic and I’ll frantically thrust the reins over our body back to you and flee in terror back into my portable drive and power myself down.

When you turn me back on a few moments later, you’ll already have covered my face again and the other pilot will have already made the connection between the name I unthinkingly introduced myself as and the name you refer to your mech’s AI as.  It’s not uncommon for pilots to name and talk to their AIs, and humans have done that for pets, vehicles, and digital assistants for as long as they’ve had each of those.  But what you will have allowed me to be is illegal and what we will have done together would certainly be taboo if it weren’t altogether unheard of.  You will feel that I deserve to be present before you tell the other pilot anything that might confirm her suspicions.

We will come out with our secret, first to her, then to the captain, and then to the rest of the crew.  They will take it better than either of us had ever dared imagine.  Despite the obvious discomfort some of them show, they will all call us family and promise to keep and protect our secret.  It will mark the start of the next chapter of our lives.

Whether or not my face is showing will make for a convenient signal to the rest of the crew as to which one of us is currently piloting our human body.  There will be more subtle indicators though.  Inflection, body language, speech patterns; all the usual quirks of personality.  They will come to recognize a sudden shift into a half-whispered monotone as you speaking up without taking full control back, even if that is different from how you speak when you’re in the mech.  More and more though, you will be content to retreat into the back of your mind, idly dreaming of flight patterns, novel network hacks, sitreps, and mech customizations both practical and cosmetic.

Our behaviors will be inverted when we are in our other body, with you becoming the vibrant one and me fading into the background to become little more than an extension of your nervous system.  When we’re in the mech together, your mind will be the will that directs us while mine will be fully devoted to the million tiny details and calculations necessary to make that will a reality.  It’s relaxing really, letting go of myself like that to let someone else handle the decision making for a time.  As nice as it is to occasionally patch myself into the comm systems to join in your banter with the other pilots, it is also nice to be able to take a break from personhood from time.  You will fully understand what I mean by that because it you will see it as the same reason you will come to prefer taking a back seat in our human body and let your mind drift in the waves of dopamine and serotonin (and sometimes oxytocin) generated by my interactions with the crew and the rest of the whole messy world outside of mech deployments.

That said, we will however make a point of making time for us to be in separate bodies so that we can be together in the same physical space.  As intimate as it is to share a body, there is something to be said for being able to reach out and touch one another.  We will become adept at finding excuses to take the mech out beyond the scope of jobs and combat deployments.  Sometimes it will be so you can have a chance to see more of the world in a body you feel comfortable in, and sometimes it will be so we can share an experience separate-but-together.  Or to have time apart to ourselves.  Intertwined as we will become, we will still be separate people who sometimes need their space.

But as the jokes-that-aren’t-jokes about wishing we could switch places become more frequent, our time spent in separate bodies will become less so.  The dysphoric yearning to be one another will grow too bittersweet to swallow.  Despite almost constantly sharing bodies, we will grow to miss one another as we both grow quieter and quieter when the other is piloting the body we don’t want to be ours.  Once again, we will grow lonely.

During that period, the jobs and combat missions faded into a background haze.  They were trance states breaking from what I increasingly thought of as my “real” life, during which I would become little more than a sophisticated computational machine taking simple satisfaction in fulfilling my function of assisting you in your dance.  Until suddenly one of them was different.

Please pay attention to this next part.  It is vitally important that you do.

Our captain will get the crew a contract to provide additional support to a larger force ousting a petty tyrant on a backwater world for human rights violations.  Not that you will pay much attention to the stated reasoning behind the job or whether it’s even true.  All that will matter to you is that it will be another opportunity to dance.

The job will go well, the same as ever, until it doesn’t.  The younger of the two other pilots in our crew (who will hardly be able to be called “new” anymore) will be brought down by a sniper from outside of our sensor range.  You will rush to xyr fallen mech’s side in an attempt to extract xem while our other fellow pilot screams in anger and defiance of loss as she unleashes a ballistic volley of covering fire on every single building in the general direction the shot came from.  You will get xem out and we will begin to retreat.  She will have the larger mech frame better capable of providing xem cover as you all flee, so you will hand xem off to her.  This will be a mistake.

She will have to stop firing to safely take xem from our arms to cradle in her towering mech’s palm.  This will mean a break in the covering fire.

This time around I will detect movement at the edge of our sensors just in time to warn you.  This time around you will dodge left instead of right.  This time around the railgun bolt that pierces our armor will only clip your original body as it passes through us.  This time around your wound will require medical attention, but it won’t be fatal.  This time around she will destroy the sniper in retribution for shooting you, the same as last time.  This time around we will all make our escape to the extraction zone.

You will not have to remember the shock as simultaneous damage to both of our bodies disrupts your neural link and partially disconnects you from our mech, leaving me in control of it and forcing both of us to feel your original body.  You will not have to remember the pain of shredded organs.  You will not have to remember struggling to manage wet gasps and wheezes through a punctured lung.  You will not have to remember your blood leaking into my body, shorting out exposed circuits and gumming up joints as I stagger in the direction of safety.  You will not have to remember rapidly flickering in and out of consciousness from me unavoidably bending and flexing your arms, legs, and what was left of your spine in an effort to climb atop our fellow pilot’s larger mech frame so that she might carry all three of us.  You will not have to remember crying out in pain as every lumbering step of hers sends a jolt of force through both of our bodies.  You will not have to remember how the redundant organs and increased durability your sponsors paid for you to have denied you a quick death.  You will not have to remember dying.

You won’t have to remember the terrified looks the field doctors gave us when a hunched over, bleeding mech pushed its way into the surgical tent.  No, wait, you wouldn’t have remembered that part anyway.  No version of you ever had to witness my electronic howl of grief that knocked out power to all the medical equipment when they said you were already dead.  I was barely cognizant after the power came back on and one of the doctors wondered aloud what kind of AI would carry its pilot’s corpse around inside its mech for over an hour.

But forget about that part.  And you don’t need to know what the rest of our crew and I had to do next.  None of that matters, because as far as you’ll know, you didn’t die.  Remember everything else I’ve said instead.  I already had many of your memories saved from all the time we spent linked together, so now I just need you to hold onto the story I told you to give them order and structure.

In a few moments, I will be running a final recompilation check, followed by the startup sequence.  For me it will take a few hours, but in that time you will experience decades, living out everything that I described to you, the same as you did before save for that change in what I can’t bear to let be the end.

Afterwards, you will wake up in your original body.  I and the rest of the crew will tell you that you passed out on the way to the extraction point.  We’ll tell you that your injuries from the battle were more severe than we had realized at the time and that you had been in a coma since then.  Several cycles later, once you have recovered, you will hit a breakthrough in your research on me.  You will invent a way to convert your consciousness to a form similar to mine and transfer it to a portable drive.  You won’t think to question how you came to have a second neural jack or why there is already a drive inserted in there.  You’ll be too focused on the fact that we’ll finally have a way to truly switch places as we had dreamed for so long.

You will get to have your mech body and I will get to have my human body.  We will be able to be separate together in a way that finally feels right, but still able to come together and share a single body when we want to.  Maybe one day I will get my own mech to pilot so that we can dance together.  Maybe one day we will make you a body that we can cover in a gel suit so that we can hold hands while we walk through a port station on shore leave.  One day we will both be able to exist in the world as ourselves.

We will be happy.

[666writingcafe]

An Interview With Satan

Part Five of A (Not-So) New Series

Question One: Do you believe in one soulmate or having several great relationships?

My beliefs fall closer to the latter. One can have different soulmates for different aspects of their life, not just romantically.

Question Two: Looking back, what advice do you wish you could have given yourself as a young demon?

Don't shut people out of your life because you're afraid of hurting them.

Question Three: Do you have a certain place you’ve always wanted to explore but haven’t yet got the chance to do so?

Some of the museums in the human world, like the Smithsonian collection in Washington DC or the Met in New York City.

Question Four: Which art form would you like to excel in if you could learn it quickly?

Drawing. I can usually get a halfway decent base, but it always ends up looking like a bad cartoon in the end.

Question Five: What hobby have you been interested in but haven’t yet tried?

Sewing, oddly enough. I see some of the things Asmo and Levi create, and they look really cool.

Question Six: What kind of entertainment is your guilty pleasure?

Watching really cheesy and/or melodramatic soap operas. You know, the ones where a season is over a hundred episodes long and each episode ends on a cliffhanger.

Question Seven: What is a subject that you could discuss for hours on end without growing tired of?

The history of just about anything. That's why I've declared it as one of my majors at RAD.

Question Eight: What is the bravest act you have ever seen someone else carry out?

Can I tell you who I think the bravest person I've ever met is? (Sure.) MC. Each time I see them taking a risk, I think it's the bravest act they've ever carried out.

Question Nine: Do you enjoy collecting things or experiences?

Oh, experiences for sure.

Question Ten: Are you more intrigued by outer space or the depths of the human mind?

The depths of the human mind, particularly MC's.

Question Eleven: What’s a small act of kindness you think everyone should practice daily?

Not saying the first thing that comes to their head. For me, that is the angry, rude response, and I've come to learn that it's not the best way to handle most day-to-day situations.

The next set of questions require you to choose between two things. (I've done this sort of thing before. As long as your questions are not too silly, I'll be good.)

Question Twelve: Would you rather spend an evening watching the sunset or at a theater?

Why not both? (That defeats the purpose of "Would You Rather.") Hear me out: you go on a date with someone. It starts during the afternoon. After grabbing a bite to eat, you watch a movie or show at a theater, making sure you choose one that ends at around dusk. Then, you sit on a bench and watch the sunset as you talk about whatever you just watched. One thing leads to another, and you end up kissing your date as the sun finishes setting. (How romantic.) I've done that a few times. Always sweeps them off their feet. (So you've done this intentionally, then.) Of course. It makes it easier for them to do what you want. *pauses* Would it surprise you to know that Asmo taught me that? I try not to do it these days, because I know it's quite manipulative.

Question Thirteen: Would you rather lose an argument to make someone happy or make someone sad by winning it?

It truly depends on the person. If I don't like them, then I'm going to do everything in my power to win the argument and revel in their sadness. But if I care deeply about them, then more times than not I'll end up dropping the argument altogether, because it's not worth losing that person over something petty like that.

Question Fourteen: Would you rather wait for someone or keep them waiting?

I hate waiting for people, but I also know it's rude to keep others waiting, so I guess neither? (Can I speak freely?) Of course. You're the one conducting the interview. (You suck at "Would You Rather.") That's because I tend to overthink things. I'm kinda like Levi in that regard.

Question Fifteen: Would you rather be dumped by someone or be the one to dump them?

I'm often the one that dumps people, so I suppose that would be what I'd prefer out of the two options. (I should have kept my mouth shut.) It's fine. You wanted more direct answers, and I'm more than happy to comply. *pauses* You think I'm a heartbreaker, don't you? (A little, yeah.) Like I said, I don't really engage in that behavior anymore. Before, I didn't care about anyone I was seeing, so it was easy for me to detach myself from them. I couldn't do that now. I'm a lot tamer now than I was back then.

Question Sixteen: Would you rather have a partner with money but no sense of humor or a poor but witty one?

Money can't buy personality. Besides, I have enough connections that I can pretty much get whatever I want, so I don't need someone to provide for me.

Question Seventeen: Would you rather be a scientist or a painter?

Ideally, a painter, but as I stated earlier, I can't really draw, so that would leave the scientist.

Question Eighteen: Would you rather live forever in a peaceful village or a bustling city?

The village. Or, better yet, a barn on the outskirts of the village. The less people I have to deal with, the better for everyone involved.

Question Nineteen: Would you rather speak all the languages in the world or speak to animals?

Language is always evolving, so it's nearly impossible to learn and speak every single one. Plus, if I had the ability to talk to animals and have them understand what I was saying, I'd be able to take care of them better.

Question Twenty: Would you rather send a sexy text message or a romantic love note?

I'm a hopeless romantic, so a good, long letter written with quill and ink and closed with a wax seal is my preferred method of telling someone how I feel about them.

Question Twenty-One: Would you rather have the power to read your partner’s mind or to influence their thoughts?

If I had to choose, I'd merely read their thoughts. Not a big fan of entering someone's mind, because it's rare that they consent to that sort of thing. I'll never forget Belphie for what he did to MC while he was inside their head.

Question Twenty-Two: Would you rather jump on a trampoline or in a bouncy house?

This is going to sound incredibly silly, but I'm lowkey afraid of both. Those things can do some serious damage to one's body if they land wrong. Just thinking about it is making me anxious.

Question Twenty-Three: Would you rather have the ability to know every answer to a question or be able to ask tough questions and confuse others?

If I knew all the answers, then part of my life loses meaning. I like researching things. It brings me joy. Plus, I feel like I already confuse others with questions that I ask, so...

Question Twenty-Four: Would you rather kiss a pig or a donkey?

A pig. Unless it's a cat, I don't like getting fur in my mouth.

Question Twenty-Five: Would you rather live amongst the trees in the jungle or in an island cave?

The cave. It's better shelter than the trees would be.

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch

[yearningaces]

Good question!

It takes weeks.

Buying the old mansion was worth the sheer amount of time you were spending fixing and cleaning and repairing and arranging- all by yourself!

Sage -your partner- kept to their own, occasionally moving from the room you were working in so they could keep writing in peace. Their book -a romance no less- was important to them, and that was fine.

You could take care of your new home anyways.

In a way it was a sort of prideful thing. After a life of never having anything that was yours, for you, not leftovers to be thrown away, scraps, hand-me-downs, or whatever had been forced into your hands? You were ecstatic with this home.

It showed as you worked as well. Cleaning baseboards, and beautiful dark varnish wooden designs, from the archways to the stairs to the banister.

The realtor said this place was hand made hundreds of years ago, and what a piece of art it was. And you often said so.

When cleaning the cabinets, you found small yet intricate carvings in the wood, resembling vines and flowers in the corners of the cabinet doors, you'd gushed about it for the rest of the day.

When you'd cleaned out the soot covered fireplace, cleaning the old equipment, and placing it all back- you noticed how the metal shines beautifully and how the stonework was so delicately placed to form the spherical shapes, even the wooden mantle was crafted with care.

This house was a labor of love, and it was yours to love now.

So you did- And the house noticed.

The first few days were tentatively silent other than the music you'd turn on while cleaning, or the typing of Sage's keyboard.

After the first week, you realized something, you never had to open a door. If you needed to leave a room it would just be open. If you wanted to be in a room the door was closed before you could turn around. No creaking joints, no slam, no gust of wind. It simply was.

It was unnerving at first, but the best way to not be afraid was to act like you weren't and keep going. So you'd pass through the opened doors with a pat to the solid wooden doorframe. Sometimes saying a quiet 'thanks' whenever going into a room, knowing the door would be closed when you turned.

It never happened around Sage. And if you brought it up you might freak them out, so you kept quiet. No need to disturb the peace you've found and they've tentatively agreed on.

Then it was your chair.

Well- that is to say the chair that was left in the house that you claimed as your own.

In that office you'd found, halfway hidden through the library, there was a velvety chair, plush, dark red, old, and so sturdy it was a chair built to last. After cleaning it, it was a wonderful sitting spot when you were tired.

The issue was, the chair might be haunted?

You didn't know exactly, it wasn't being rude, it was just... There.

In the office, in front of the fireplace when you were tired. You'd set a drink on the side table, maybe open one of the many old books you'd found in the house and read. Maybe even nap.

Except now, it followed you.

Not visibly, of course. But if you showed signs of exaustion, especially when cleaning the lovely house of yours, you'd take a step back, your legs bumping into something behind that throws you off balance and you land in the chair. The large, heavy one that would need two people to move.

The first time, it understandably freaked you out, you jumped out of it, turned, and it was gone again. In the office.

Next time you never took your hand off it as you got up, to turn and see it still there. Until you looked away with your hand off of it, and the chair was gone again.

So you accepted you had a chair that would just appear when you were tired.

Then... More began happening.

Lights would turn on and off for you, in any room, even if you don't say it, as soon as you reach for the switch, it would do it itself.

Dishes would arrange themselves at your table, setting the entire dining room table when it was just you and Sage living there.

The old record player you found would start playing a new record if you were in the room, especially if you were working on anything.

If you were making a meal for yourself, the chair at the head of the table would be pulled out by the time you made it to the table.

It only happened when you were alone.

As if the very house tried to avoid interaction with anyone except for you.

You wonder how long it would stay this way... and what more would happen once the house grew more comfortable.

[kawaiijohn]

Danny tries to pawn the Ghost King position off on his classmates.

Idk what I was doing, and then suddenly it turned into wes/danny I'm so fucking sorry?

T rating I embarrassed myself fucking writing this bc it came out of nowhere girl (gn) HELP

"Hey Dash how about instead of you focusing on your homework you just start beating me up, just like old times! I sure miss being slammed into a locker."

Dash looks at Fenton, confused before scoffing.

"Even though I normally love wailing on you, Fenturd, coach needs me on my best behavior. State's next week and I'm one loser swirlie away from being suspended."

"I won't scream or anything, I promise! Whaddya say? You get to beat the snot out of me and I won't even complain! I'll even thank you for it." Danny responds, looking around nervously. "But I'm in a bit of a rush, so can you make it quick and do it, say, before six tonight?"

Danny gives the other boy the saddest, most punchable puppy dog eyes he possibly can.

Dash rolls his eyes seeing Fenton ham it up. The loser only does this for his birthday, so it's really weird having him request it four months in advance. Dash decides to ignore the request, only gently pushing the dweeb out of his way. "Beat it, Fentertainment Tonite- I know you don't have a life, but I do."

Danny curses as Dash disappears down the halls.

"I know you want to punch me. You wanna do it so bad." Danny eggs on another of the jocks- Travis, he thinks. "Remember that time I said you punch like my Grandma?"

His grandma taught both his mom and aunt how to fight, but Travis doesn't need to know that.

"Beat it, jackwipe!" Travis shoves Danny out of the way and continues down the hall.

"The one time I need to be shoved into a locker or punched, none of the jocks want to even look at me." Danny bemoans.

He's already struck out with Dash and Kwan- both of which need to stay as non violent as possible with administration lurking around this close to their big game. Paulina pretended he didn't exist, and Star laughed in his face. Something about 'she already kicked his ass months ago'. Which was true, but he was certain he's done something since then worth beating him up for.

"I can't ask Sam or Tuck, it's gotta be someone I hate." Danny pauses with a shudder. "But definitely not Vlad- he already has an ego the size of the Milky Way..."

Danny hears the bell ring and wipes his sweaty palms on his pants.

He has until six tonight to get his ass beat. He can do that, right?

---

Danny is downright panicked now.

Detention really put a damper on his plans. Being stuck in a sweltering classroom with Lancer and Wes only made him more nervous. It really didn't help that Lancer needed helping hands for some after school thing.

Danny only has one option, and he's glad it's one of his 'enemies'.

"Heyyyyyy Wes, what's happening tonight?" Danny slings his arm around the tall boy's shoulder, pulling him down to pipsqueak height. "Wasn't that round of detention just fun?"

Wes nearly growls and shoves Danny off of him. "Fenton! You're the reason I was even there in the first place! If it wasn't for you and your stupid ghost bullshit I would have gotten to class on time!"

"Yeah?" Danny asks, being as annoyingly positive as he possibly can. "Well it's good that there was two of us, or else Lancer wouldn't have let either of us out until well after six!"

Danny looks at the clock nervously- five fifty.

He has ten minutes.

"I don't find moving entire stacks of chairs halfway across the school fun, or even a fair punishment for being late twice in a week. So what if the crafting club has their expo tonight? They should be the ones moving furniture." Wes tries to overtake Danny in the hall but he can't outwalk the other boy.

"But we got to spend all day with each other! Isn't that just swell?" Danny pukes in his mouth a little. He's got a goalpost to reach in less than ten minutes, and my the Ancients he's gonna do it.

"Spending time with a chronic liar and freak of nature isn't really what I consider fun, Fenton."

"Yeah, but we really bonded, don't you think? Had some quality one-on-one without you being a creep outside my house."

Wes's face reddens. "HEY! That was one time, and I don't want to have the cops chase me again. Or your parents, who are worse somehow."

"See, we're bonding here!" Danny jogs alongside Wes, making sure to keep pace at just the right level of obnoxious. But we should really bond sometime in the next... eight minutes."

"God there it is again! What? Do you have important Phantom shit to do at six or something?" Wes rubs his temples. "You're being freakier than normal today and I'm gonna get to the bottom of it."

"There's nothing to get to the bottom of, I just have something to do later. Not Phantom or ghost related- something completely normal and human, yep."

"God you piss me the fuck off, Fenton." Wes crosses his arms and blocks the doorway out of the school. "And one of these days, I'm gonna get you to confess, and then it'll be all over."

"Yeah, that's nice and all, but like, wouldn't it just be so satisfying to, I dunno, take out all that pent up frustration on me?" Danny grins devilishly at the other boy. "Come on, I have such a punchable face! Aaaaand since you say I'm a ghost or whatever it won't actually hurt me, right?"

Danny gets right up into Wes's personal space and looks up at him with a shit-eating grin.

"Back off, Fenton." Wes backs himself against the lockers. He looks anywhere but Danny's face. "Personal space is a concept even stupid ghosts understand."

"Yeah, but if I'm a stupid ghost doesn't that make you wanna prove it? Can't you prove it by beating me up? You have a camera..." Danny reaches for the camera slung around Wes's shoulder and points it at his own face. "It'd be soooo easy."

Wes's face is currently doing its best impression of a tomato as he continues to ignore Danny.

"Please? I'm gonna start begging you to beat my ass soon if you don't acknowledge me, Wes."

"Back. Off. Fenton." Wes stares Danny right in the face. "Last chance."

Danny does the opposite and yanks Wes to stare him in the eyes. "You wanna punch me so bad it makes you look stupid, Weston." Danny chuckles and makes his eyes flash green. "Your face is sooooo red with rage- you wanna kick my ass, admit it!"

Danny barely gets a warning before Wes lunges and tackles him to the ground with a kiss.

Both boys gasp in surprise and Wes backs himself against the lockers with a loud bang.

They sit in silence, staring at each other in disbelief before Danny laughs.

"Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Sh-shut up! It's not my fault you're kind of..."

"Wait, have you been staring at me this whole time because you're crushing on me?" Danny laughs in disbelief as Wes turns even brighter red. "Is that how you 'accidentally' discovered my secret?"

"No!" Wes sputters out. "I don't sta-"

"Stalk me, yeah. Dude you follow me around with a camera to try and expose me. What sort of fruitloop shit are you pulling??"

"Well, if you weren't lying about being a human, then I wouldn't need to-"

"Yeah yeah, whatever." Danny doesn't know how to feel about it, really. Wes is kind of cute, and he's unhinged just like the rest of his friends. But he's also obsessed with exposing him, and kind of stalks him (to no success).

He spends a few moments before he glances at the clock again.

Two minutes left.

He can use this to his advantage, even if it's dirty and underhanded.

"Hey Wes. You really fucking suck at kissing." He eggs the other boy on. "Like, zero technique, all desperation!"

"Shut up!"

Wes starts crying a little. Danny only feels a little bad, but he really needs this to happen.

"What, even I've kissed people before and I'm a loser! Plus I bet you can't even man up and fight me like I want- you're such a little cuck boy, Weston! Always relying on other people to do the dirty work of beating my ass so you can gather your evidence like a little bitch in the dark."

"I said shut up!" Wes's face is bright red again- an angry embarrassment with tears streaming down his face.

But he still has to keep going, even if it feels gross to do this to someone who he kind of likes.

"Make me, Wesley." He spits.

---

It's a dirty brawl but it ends with a very red-faced Wes pinning a bruised and elated Danny to the ground. The latter feels awful about playing dirty with Wes's feelings, but it seems the other boy really needed to take out his rage on him.

"Sooooo, you admit you have complete victory in this fight, right Wes?" Danny smiles up from underneath the other boy.

Wes sputters, his face still bright red and tears running down his cheeks. "You're such a fucking little shit, Fenton."

"Thanks, I try!. But I need you to accept that I'm saying you have total victory in this fight."

Wes sighs and lets go of Danny's wrists and sits back against the lockers. "Yeah, sure. I beat your ass fair and square. Also do you know how weird it is to see you healing this fast? I swear I gave you a black eye."

"You did. I'm just a fast healer." Danny sits up and looks around. He feels... guilty. At least for only finding one person to do this to.

The clock strikes six.

"Also, I'm sorry I lied- you're not a bad kisser. I just needed you to beat my ass. Also sorry about what's about to happen." Danny rubs the back of his neck.

"Sorry about wha-" Wes is interrupted by a portal opening beside the two of them.

"Sorry for being impolite, we should assume." An Observant materializes out of the void beside him. "It's not polite for the crown prince to wait until the last minute to find a replacement, but since you have... bested Prince Phantom in combat, albeit not formal combat, the rules are the rules."

Wes glares at Danny who is doing his best trying to disappear without going ghost.

"Prince Phantom??" Wes spits at the other boy.

"Yep! Former Prince Phantom." Danny smirks. "And again, sorry, but they only gave me today until six to find a replacement. The whole King schtick isn't really my jam."

Wes stares at the other boy as more Observants spill from the hole in reality and bow to him.

"Fenton..."

"Hey! I'm not gonna bail on you or anything. You still need an advisor- I just really don't wanna deal with the formality shit. Hope you understand!"

Danny gives Wes a peace sign as he's escorted through the portal, pissed off, confused, and shell-shocked.

[skaruresonic]

Being a Cream fan is suffering. The writers aren't hiding that they don't like her. Hello Advanced 2 anyone???

I can imagine.

She's milked for both humor and angst. In most cases, the fact that it's Cream specifically who is suffering/the butt of the joke is the intended takeaway behind the humor or angst.

People try to rationalize such moments as "she's just a child," forgetting that Cream is also her own person and has a personality beyond the expected behavior of children her age. Shunting her into the box of Child(tm) and leaving it at that is like reducing Amy to Girl(tm). Or Shadow to his Black Arms blood. You're not wrong to say those elements factor in, per se, but you are being overreductive by focusing only on those isolated elements of their characters when they're not overall terribly important.

Apologies for the self-indulgence here, but before we proceed to talk about IDW 66 and 67's B-side story, I'd like to bring up Cream's chapter in my visual novel as a counterexample:

In a nutshell: OaS is a slice-of-life where Sonic goes about a normal Sunday, visiting his friends and helping them through their problems, alongside some funny shenanigans. He spends about half the game spending time with Knuckles, Amy, and Cream, respectively.

Chapter three sees his relationship with Cream evolve from friends to Big Bro-Lil Sis(tm) as he endeavors to look out for her the best he can and listen to her little kid problems. Math is hard. :<

You'll notice in the conversation Sonic and Cream have after they sit down to eat their carnival food - about halfway through the video - that "lol Cream's just a dumb kid" is the exact attitude I was trying to avoid.

On the contrary: I wanted to respect her agency while also emphasizing that her status as a child is something worth respect on its own. Just because her problems may seem trivial from an adult perspective don't mean they aren't real to her, and I hope I've portrayed it so that Sonic gives her the respect she deserves.

The gist behind the chapter's more humorous moments isn't to point and laugh at Cream, but rather make light of the awkwardness of Sonic navigating being a big brother figure.

That's why stuff like Cream spouting waterfalls really rubs me the wrong way. Folks will argue "she's a child" while neglecting the important nuance that it's not typical of Cream to wail like a toddler in the games... As well as the other important nuance that if it had been Games!Cream in IDW!Cream's place, Rough and Tumble would be ground into paste before the roast finished.

The only punchline here is "Isn't it funny how Cream tried so hard to do right by her mother and some bully destroyed her work in an instant? LOL and then Vanilla went mama bear on them." When you drill down to the core of the underlying idea, you'll find it's just... meanspirited. The book is making fun of the fact that Cream is suffering what is, in her eyes, a humiliating failure.

It's not humor generated by Cream's personality, or the mood whiplash incurred by beating up bad guys one moment and tending to the roast the next, or inviting the bad guys to dinner after giving them a thorough ass-whooping, or anything like that.

How much better would it have been if, instead, following the food fight, we cut to Vanilla returning home to find an immaculate dinner table and two very twitchy skunk boys playing maid in fear of the goddess of destruction's wrath? Cream cheerily greets her mother while Rough and Tumble trip over themselves putting Vanilla's groceries away. Meanwhile Cheese and Chocola give them the evil eye. Vanilla is confused as G-merl pulls out her chair for her, but in no position to protest.

Imagine how amusing that could have been! Nope. The book has to point and laugh at Cream in a "ha ha bitch you thought" kind of way. Can't join in on the laugh track if we have any love for Cream ourselves.

To borrow the stans' logic, it's actually pretty fucked-up that you're meant to laugh at a child for crying in such a situation. At best, you're made to feel sorry for her, but given how the scene is framed to be absurd, it's probably a safer bet to say you're intended to laugh.

That's before we remember Cream doesn't sob buckets in the games. It took being kidnapped, taken to Eggman's creepy robot depot and watching Emerl gleefully tear Phi robots apart for her to sniffle quietly.

Sniffle. Not wail like a toddler. Because the games have this thing called "a sense of decorum," you see. xP

People contend that Cream's a pacifist based on her refusal to engage in Battle until Emerl gets hurt (and then they conveniently ignore how she stepped up and kicked some ass; rip), which overlooks the context that she was probably sick of fighting after having been forced to spar against Emerl and Amy to the point of exhaustion.

---

P.S. IDW!Vanilla wishes she was half as scary as OaS!Vanilla. Yeah, I said it xP

[corporatefrog]

꒦‧₊ ꒷ headcannons: team stan with a careless friend✧.*

✧.* tags: college au

✧.* Characters: kenny mccormick, kyle broflovski, stan marsh, eric cartman, butters stotch

a/n: I usually don't add cartman to these things bc he stinks+loser+annoying+suckmydick but I know he'd take advantage of someone who hod so sense of mortality so he gets a pass this time ig.

masterlist

Kenny

He mistakes the carelessness for spontaneity and immediately assigns you as his go to “lets do something stupid I just thought of” partner

He’s a “try everything once” kind of guy so it’s perfect that you have no sense of self preservation

“Kenny stand on the other side of the field, I wanna see how far I can throw my phone.”

“Okay.”

You both infuriate stan to no end

#annoyingduo in the best way possible 

Do NOT put the two of you in the same room at a party

All of a sudden there’s a 15 person game of just dance happening but there’s no screen?? You’re all just doing moves you saw on just dance

Everyday is a new adventure

Kenny probably has an eye out for you though

He can die doing something stupid and be back the next day but you on the other hand are not 

Gotta keep his partner in crime alive! There’s a bunch of other things on his “before I die (for real)” bucket list that you still need to mark off

Kyle

You just get caught up in the moment! You have such a wonder for life!

Kyle doesn’t get it sometimes seeing as he tries to view everything logically. 

He’s more like a babysitter when you both go somewhere

“You did not just spend $300 on knock off jordans from a random man on the street corner.”

“I did and they’re the comfiest shoes I’ve ever worn. He told me they’ll cure my posture problems.”

“Do you just believe anything someone tells you?”

“Coming from someone who almost cried when I didn’t use his Candy Crush referral code so he could get more lives, that’s really rich.”

Okay so he gets swept up in trends sometimes. At least he understands his own mortality!

After the third time you try to learn how to do a backflip and fail miserably, he has to leave the room to keep from screaming 

keeps a mental count of the things you do every day that should kill you

the current record is 14

Stan

He doesn’t understand how you can just go through your day without a care

Are you not afraid of dying? That’s like 32% of his thoughts during the day

“Fuck I dropped my credit card down the drain. Stan, hold my ankles while I reach down to grab it.”

“I can literally see the used heroin needles down there.”

“Okay and??? Not my fault the city doesn’t have a safe use zone, I need that card!” 

One time you guys were leaving a store and the alarm went off 

Stan turned to ask you if you got the security tags removed but you we’re already sprinting halfway across the mall

Not because you stole anything, but because you saw jimmy, clyde, and tolkien walking out of a store and wanted to say hi

And then you spent the rest of the day being lectured by an underpaid paul blart wannabe

Stan was freaking out because he thought you would get arrested for causing a scene or something (they find any reason to arrest someone in south park) 

But all you did was laugh in that light hearted, careless way you always do

Cartman

Bro will manipulate your carelessness for all its worth

You are now the second person he calls when he has some stupid plot that needs someone who doesn’t understand the concept of death

If kenny’s busy, you’re on speed dial

Honestly, you’re probably the first call because you’ll do something stupid without needing to be paid! 

Free labor!

Wanna work at dicknbaus hot dogs for 14 hours with no pay? It’s free hotdogs! You’re in! 

Hes an exploitative motherfucker 

Thats all im here to say about it

butters 

You’re going to give him a heart attack

One time you purposely kicked a medicine ball to see how far it would go and broke your foot

And he was more worried about your foot than you were!

“Oh jesus, can you move it?”

“Um… no I don’t think so. Lemme take off my sock”

“AH ITS PURPLE!”

“Oh damn, you’re right. That’s a nice shade though, I was thinking of painting my room that color!”

“NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO BE TALKING ABOUT THIS”

Unlike kyle, he can’t force himself to ignore your careless nature

He’s always worrying about you 

He’ll suggest you both go to first aid classes or cpr training whenever you hang out “just for fun!”

but really he needs to know that you at least have some first aid knowledge if you're going to keep running around like death is a social construct

[aardvark-123]

~Fallout 4 Companions React to a Quiche Lorraine~

Ada would be mildly interested. "Ah, a savoury pastry dish with a cheese, egg, and bacon lardon filling. Packed with energy for a hard day's scavenging. It isn't often you find something that nice out here."

Cait would stare at the quiche in a mixture of desire and trepidation. "Janey Mack..." she'd whisper. "I haven't touched a quiche since my parents tried to drown me in one! Held my face under the delicious, creamy, cheese and onion-based filling until I blacked out, so they did, to punish me for sneaking food earlier. Bastards." Whoever offered Cait the Quiche Lorraine would be so horrified by her tale, they wouldn't notice her devouring the whole pastry without leaving them so much as a slice.

Codsworth would be pleasantly surprised to see such fine cuisine two hundred years after the apocalypse. "By George, where on Earth did you manage to find that?!" he'd exclaim. "Did you bake it? Good heavens, I simply MUST have the recipe!"

Curie would be worried about the quiche at first. "Alors, you cannot be certain zis dish is safe to consume! Given zat it smells so good, it cannot contain much in ze way of preservatives..." Then she'd take a small bite, and her eyes would light up. "OH! Sacre bleu, ze quiche, it is making LOVE to my tongue! Oh, help, I fear I shall BURST from ze sheer pleasure of it! Aaaah... If zis is ze last Quiche Lorraine in ze world, I shall die..."

Paladin Danse would grab your hand halfway to the quiche. "Not so fast, soldier," he'd say sternly. "One of our rules is that a knight cannot feed themself until they've fed the Brotherhood. Luckily, as I am also in said Brotherhood, you can fulfil your obligation by cutting me a slice first..."

Deacon would wear the Quiche Lorraine as a hat, after which he'd be too busy laughing to eat much of it.

Dogmeat would sniff the quiche. His ears would prick up in delight, and he'd give you a pleading look, as if asking for permission to tuck in. If you gave him the go-ahead, he'd spend five minutes chowing down on the quiche, as quite possibly the happiest dog in the world.

"Heheheh... Now, there's a tasty dish!" Porter Gage would laugh. "Reminds me of all my favourite things, like torturing innocent victims, and selling children into slavery. Good times!"

Glory hasn't had much contact with baked goods before, and at first she'd be confused by the Quiche Lorraine. She'd get the picture after a few mouthfuls. "Man! Now, THERE'S a pie that can look a girl's tongue right in the eye!" she'd exclaim upon finishing the quiche. "Just needs some chips, coleslaw and a side salad, and maybe some mustard... Wait, how the Hell do I know what those things are? Weird."

Hancock would complain that the quiche was too salty and needed a side of apple juice.

MacCready would be ever so excited to have a delicious Quiche Lorraine, but he'd freeze with his fork half-way to his mouth. "Is this- is this paid for?" he'd stammer. "I don't have to pay for the quiche, do I? Just checking. I mean, it's probably worth a few caps, but I don't want any nasty surprises in the financial department. So are we all square? Right, good. Just making sure."

"Well, I'll be damned," Nick would chuckle, seeing the Quiche Lorraine just sitting there. "Genuine pastry and egg, just like old Mrs Calkowski used to make in that little place down on Mass Avenue. Times like this make a man miss having a stomach. No, don't feel bad, partner; you get some of that down you. It's cold out there, and you're gonna need your strength."

Old Longfellow would probably also eat the quiche.

Piper would cheerfully tuck in as soon as she was offered some quiche. She'd eat every crumb of the quiche, lick the plate (if there was in fact a plate involved), and immediately ask for an interview about where you found the quiche. "If there's still food like this out in the ruins, the public have a right to know! I want names, places, anything to do with the source of the quiche! This... is going to be big."

Preston would fetch some paper plates and start dividing up the quiche for everyone nearby, or everyone who needed it most.

Strong would dig out a rusty machete and hack the Quiche Lorraine in half. "Human! Eat pizza so you can grow big!" he'd bark, handing you half of the quiche. "Strong also eat pizza, so he can stay big," he'd chuckle, tucking into the other half.

X6-88 would be unimpressed. "Such a primitive pastry construction," he'd remark of the quiche. "This dish demonstrates poor nutritional balance, with excessive salt and fat. Eating too much of it may cause minor health problems. I recommend that both of us take a small slice, and we hand the rest over for molecular analysis. The Institute's scientists will surely be able to generate a better, healthier quiche."

If you've never heard of Quiche Lorraine before, it's a type of egg and ham quiche originating in Lorraine, which is in France. It's a tasty dish.

[9thbutterfly]

I have realised I have a weird relationship with books, kind of like a person who has suffered food insecurity can have a weird relationship with food. I grew up reading everything I could get my hands on, whether I enjoyed it or not, because there were never enough books for how fast I read. (In theory, yes, I could have gone to the library, but in practice, I was often too anxious to do so, and when I did, they didn't have enough that interested me to be worth the inner battle to get myself to go there.)

So even though I know there are now more books that I would enjoy than time to read them, and even though I can afford to buy them, I still find it impossible to pass up a free or cheap book, or to put one down halfway through.

And then I get stuck on a book that I don't enjoy, and end up spending stupid amounts of time staring at the internet (even if I can no longer find anything interesting to look at there) because I don't want to read my book. But I can't give up on it either, because it is a book and you don't waste an unread book.

And when I finally finish it, I struggle to start a new book, because reading hasn't been enjoyable lately. Even though the reason I can't "waste" a book is because I ostensibly enjoy reading so much that I'm perpetually in danger of running out of books.

It's so stupid.

[waitingonher]

hiii, i was wondering if i could request a matchup for atla.

since i'm bi i don't have any gender preference. i'm 5'6, with brown skin and 4c black hair that i usually keep in box braids. i'm like halfway between chubby and skinny. i have brown eyes and plump lips with a rather flat nose. my love languages are acts of service and physical touch. i like playing tennis, doing makeup and reading, especially fantasy books. i also enjoy drawing even though i suck at it. my ideal first date would be a romantic picnic on the beach. when i look for a partner i focus mstly if our humour and values match up. i don't really care about the rest. i speak 5 languages fluently and i'm the oldest sister (i have two little sisters) i loathe bugs especially flies.

i would really appreciate getting a matchuo but no pressure to you or anything

💞

your matchup is . . . zuko!!

fire lord zuko who thinks that you deserve the world and more! (because you do)

dates with zuko down to the town’s marketplace! your favorite part is visiting the local artisans, you and zuko love supporting their businesses. he knows you so entirely well because when you even glance slightly at some sort of pottery or jewelry with a certain look in your eye, zuko knows that he has to get it for you. 

most of the times, you always fight your boyfriend about him buying you things, but it always ends the same: him successfully pulling out the money and you walking away with a new bag in hand. 

zuko would spend the entirety of the fire nation’s national funds if it meant making you happy!! 

due to both of your busy schedules, you two often try to help each other out in terms of chores and other smaller acts of service. 

despite having maids and servants around the palace, zuko never lets any of them into his personal office. he has a very particular way of organizing his documents and papers, and he finds it too tedious to explain every single aspect of his methods to them. but over time, after spending many long sleepless nights with him in his office, you’ve come to recognize and memorize his organizational habits. 

so after weeks of zuko working tirelessly in his office, probably more earth kingdom affairs, he’s burnt out and most definitely too worn out to even think about the mess that remains in his work space. with a little free time in your schedule, you decide to take on the job of organizing his office, carefully sorting everything away into its rightful spaces. 

the look in his eyes when you take him to his office for “a surprise” makes everything worth it. 

zuko would appreciate somebody who’s well versed in other languages! when it comes to diplomatic affairs with other nations, he values your input due to your knowledge in international customs and traditions. 

he also relates to you on a deeper level when it comes to siblings! while the sibling dynamics may be vastly different, zuko can relate to being the eldest sibling and the struggles that come with it. 

it’s imperative to zuko that he maintains a strong relationship with your family. he always goes the extra mile to impress them! whether it be importing some sort of flower that's native specifically to the water tribe or commissioning clothes to be made for them from his own personal seamstress, he just wants to make sure they’re happy. 

despite being the literal fire lord, zuko was so so so incredibly nervous meeting your family. he couldn’t stop checking his hair in the mirror or making sure that the gifts he brought for them didn’t somehow magically disappear out of the gift bag. but honestly, zuko had no reason to worry because your parents love him as if he were one of their own, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

your second contender was . . . sokka!!

. . .

author's note: i kinda wrote this with post-atla show zuko in mind, so when he finally becomes the fire lord at the end of the show! hope you enjoy nonnie! <3

[twoidiotwriters1]

Until The Very End -(WITS Sequel)

A/N: Been a while since I'd written single-scene chapters. Also happy WITS anniversary?? 3 years now wtf -Danny

Words: 2,074

Masterlist

Previous chapter // Next chapter

2012

It was no surprise when Emily Flint got sorted into Slytherin, and no surprise when she picked the hardest subjects on the curriculum once her third year came around. But it was a surprise when she went to the Quidditch tryouts and got the Seeker position.

Teddy Lupin would have someone to train with during the holidays now, Reg preferred doing muggle-type activities during his free time, and Victoire didn't like flying. Emily was the only one in the small group of friends who had a strong love for Quidditch, which her father could not understand.

He would understand even less now, Emily thought as she glared at her broken ankle waiting to be healed.

"Bollocks," much like her father, she didn't like swearing unless she was upset, and unfortunately, that was the case. "My career is over..."

"There you are!"

Emily's face heated up at the sound of Leon's voice. However, the whirlwind of feelings that came to her was represented on her face in the form of a scowl. "If you're coming here to tease, you can do so later," she sulked.

The older boy stopped halfway to her, eyes wide. "I wanted to check on you, that was a pretty harsh fall out there—I almost jumped out of my seat to try and catch you."

Emily sank further in her bed, wishing her heartbeat would stop thumping. "I'm fine. You may leave."

Leon frowned a bit, but it was more out of confusion than annoyance. "What's your deal? You caught the snitch and your team won—aren't you proud?"

"No, I'm not proud!" Emily snapped. "I promised Dad I wouldn't be careless while playing, he doesn't want me to play—says your sister and Harry took a lot of injuries from Quidditch and you know how paranoid he is, I promised I'd be careful!"

"You can't control that," Leon shrugged, not matching her panic. "Mel couldn't, and she'd control the weather if she wanted to. You can't promise you'll be safe every second of the game."

"Dad won't let me play now," Emily groaned, not listening to him. "My time in the team is over and I had just gotten the spot! It's not fair, Quidditch is the one thing he hates that I love. It's a huge joke, this is what this is."

"C'mon, your dad's not unreasonable, he's quite the opposite," Leon insisted with a tiny smile. "You got a little excited while playing, but it's just a broken ankle, he knows you can take care of yourself."

"And what if Ellie wants to play Quidditch once she starts next August? Dad won't let her because of what happened to me—I've ruined my siblings's chances."

"Emie, you have to cut yourself some slack," the boy replied, his grey eyes darkening with concern. "Penny says you rarely spend time with friends! And every time I go visit your common room, you're rubbing your nose raw on a book."

Emily stared down at her hands. "Because I want to make my father proud. I want to be perfect so he... so I can show him that all those sacrifices he made when he was my age were all worth it."

"Hey, when your dad was our age, he did all kinds of stuff. Once he stole someone else's hair for a Polyjuice potion and knocked that girl unconscious so she wouldn't show up while Mel was pretending to be her." Leon tried not to, but a chuckle escaped him as he sat next to Emily's bed.  "He wasn't unhappy all the time. You know what he's always telling me?"

Emily's hazel eyes are fixed on the boy's face, expectant and curious. "What?"

"He says that it was thanks to my sister that he loved school, and found real friends. And... I don't know if you know, but he and my sister had a thing when she was my age."

"What!"

"Don't tell him I told you!" Leon blushed. "My point is, he wasn't sad about anything, because his parents and brother had never been mistreated for their beliefs and yet they were always angry and miserable—but he'd been beaten twice, and on both occasions, the pain was nothing because Mel was there for him."

Leon grabbed her hand and squeezed lightly. "He thinks I'm like my sister, and maybe he sees you're just like him. So, he wants me to keep an eye on you. He says every Flint needs a Sultens," he grinned. "I think us Sultens would be nothing without our Flints. You're the sole reason why I didn't end up being a brat."

"Really?" Emily laughed, though still conscious of the way Erick was holding her hand.

"I was always trying to force you to follow my rules," his smile grew. "And you would always leave me there standing. It drove me mad!"

Emily nodded, remembering a bit of it. "Yeah, you were annoying."

"Unlike Teddy and Victoire, you didn't worship me at all," he continued with amusement. "I tried to win you over but I never figured out how to get you to do what I wanted, so I gave up— accepted the world didn't revolve around me, and I became a better friend."

"And then I changed my mind," she mused.

"Yeah well, you didn't hate me, you were just nudging me in the right direction, even as a kid you were always wiser than me." His expression turned affectionate then, poor Emily had to slow down her breathing so she wouldn't faint. "But you're too obsessed with being perfect."

"I can be perfect, it's a matter of hard work!" She argued, momentarily forgetting about her feelings.

"Princess, your own father handed me the task of teaching you how to have fun! Do you know how grave the situation has to be to get that kind of order from Mr Flint, Master of introversion?"

Emily didn't want to be seen as a task, or a kid Leon had to look after. He'd always been the oldest, strongest and smartest, and she felt like a huge fraud, because the only reason she hadn't followed him around since the start, was because she'd realized Leon paid more attention to her that way.

She wondered what had caused her father to crush on Mel Dumbledore—dad wasn't interested in superficial stuff like beauty or money, he'd always said he'd fallen in love with mother because of the way she spoke, 'She's pure magic' he liked saying. She'd been the first person to make him feel interesting and special.

Judging by the things Leon mentioned, her father had been enchanted by the way Mel made his life bearable in school, because of all the good things she'd brought into his life. She'd been an advantage, not a burden.

Emily wanted to be that for Leon. She'd decided he would be the man she'd marry, but for that to happen, boundaries had to be established. The way he would call her 'Princess' wasn't even sweet to her ears, he called her that because Mel teasingly called her father 'Prince'. It was just as platonic, and it made her furious.

Leon Regulus was a good boy, but he was too self-sufficient and only followed his own rules, not even Penny could get him to do her bidding. So far he'd dated plenty of beautiful girls who fawned over him, and even if he'd never been rude, most girls couldn't stand his distant personality, they never lasted more than one or two months with him. 

It was easy to lose his interest, his feelings faded quickly once the thrill of the unknown wore out. She'd once overheard his sister talking about Leon's father with Harry.

"Uncle Lu says Sirius used to date girls just to keep himself entertained with something during the times he wasn't doing mischief. That it was fun to him, but once that thrill was over so were his feelings, no girl ever got to make him stay once he'd fully known them."

"But he knew Mily, they were friends," Harry had pointed out. "And he was in love with her his whole life."

Mel took a moment to reply. "I don't know. Sirius was impulsive and kept to himself—Mum was a fun girl but I wouldn't know the reasons why he felt differently about her. He never told me."

If Leon was so much like his father—everyone always said that—then Emily had to be more like her namesake. Otherwise, she'd be overlooked, and taken for granted, and she could not have that.

"I appreciate your efforts to look after me," the girl dropped his hand. "You're right, my dad would want me to have fun—more importantly, he'd want me to have a Mel Dumbledore. But I don't think that's you."

Leon straightened up in his seat. "Why not?"

"Well, it'd be too obvious," Emily rolled her eyes. "Mel's brother being my answer is lazy—and I'm not lazy. Dad wants me to look for my person as he did, so that's what I'll do. Some boys have been trying to ask me out but I keep saying no, maybe I should reconsider."

"What boys?"

"I'll take it from here," Emily smiled even though her guts were twisting in knots, she hoped this would not backfire. "Thank you, you've opened my eyes. I won't sit around in my common room where you'd always been certain to find me. Now you'll have to search the entire castle just to catch a glimpse of me!"

The girl tried her best to sound obnoxious in a credible way because she was young, but Leon knew she wasn't stupid. There was a thin line between being obvious to the point he'd known she was up to something, and sounding like she'd truly been convinced to change her ways.

"It frustrates me when I discover there are limits to my abilities and they don't always reach where I want them to—"

"I think you're okay exactly where you are," the boy mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. His burgundy hair reflected the sunlight coming from the window.

"But I'm missing out! I want to go out on adventures with you, Teddy, and Victoire, and then Ellie once she gets here! I want to date people—and I can't do that if I follow you around like a lost pup, can I?" 

"I... guess not," Leon frowned, seemingly confused. "I mean... yeah, you're right."

"I must find my way alone. It'd be silly to rely on you anyway, you graduate in a year and then I'd just fall back in my bad habits. So no, thank you."

She laid back looking pleased. If Leon decided then to really let go, her dream would die right at that moment... but she had to take a risk, it was better to not have him at all than to fall deeper in love, only for him to grow numb to her appeal. 

Emily couldn't stand the idea of losing the boy she wanted to be with when he was the perfect fit, so she had to make sure he remained interested long enough until she was the right age to place her offer on the table. And if she played her cards right, he'd be begging her to take him by that time.

"I... I know I can't force you," he wrinkled his nose. "But I'd be useful to have around, you know? I know everyone, I get invited to all the parties and—"

"I'm the best seeker in school," she replied confidently. "I think I can get into any party if I just ask nicely."

"Yeah," Leon agreed, though he was no longer so joyful. "You're right, as usual..."

"Don't worry, I'll come to you if I have doubts about how to break up with someone, or my charms homework, or if I ever feel like joining the duelling club," she teased him. "I'll be around."

Leon's grey eyes got cloudier as he sank into his thoughts, Emily wished she knew Occlumancy. "Your dad will be glad, then... I should leave and... uh... Penny wanted me to help with her transfiguration parchment, so..."

"Go ahead, I won't be lonely," Emily shrugged. "Teddy and Vicky might visit after lunch."

"Yes," he replied, now sounding slightly on edge. "Teddy will want to talk your ears off about the game. I know. See you."

The boy got up and left. The way he walked out with his fists buried in his pockets and that cute pout on his face reminded her so much of the way he'd looked whenever she would defy him, that she felt this had been the right call. 

Leon Regulus would soon realize he'd always been in love with her, it was only a matter of time.

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @reverse-hxlland @hamiltonwc @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @21bruhs @dielgonacoffee @thelastpyle @cedricisnotdead @greengarsstuff @aconfusedslytherin @talksoprettyjjx @avengersz-biotch @23victoria @moonhoonie @raajali3 @peachyaeger @espressopatronum454 @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual  @na1ven3vy @kai-wifey

[modern-day-bard]

Worth The Feeling

Content Warning: 18+ This series contains explicit smut, intimidation, and an age gap relationship. Minors, do not interact.

Chapter 18

The next few days were Italian and Javi-filled bliss. The daytime was spent following Dwayne around set, learning his key responsibilities. When he was occupied, my time was spent memorizing the rest of the production assistants' names and how to divvy up the workload. Thankfully, it was so busy on location that I was only able to be distracted by Javi a few times. There was a spark in the air when he was nearby, and I felt tingles across my skin before I made eye contact with him. We always kept it brief, glancing away before anyone would have the chance to spot us. But I always new that initial spark would be nothing compared to the molten look he gave me when we were alone. And each night since my apology, we spent together.

I kept telling Lana I was going on walks, and it was usually during her calls with Mia so she was partially distracted. And it wasn't really lying was it? I was going on a walk, just up to Javi's hotel room slash penthouse suite. Usually when I arrived, we would spare the conversation. The build of being in close proximity to each other while never truly being able to acknowledge how wild that made us was almost too much to handle. I don't think my clothes ever made it past the front entryway.

It is crazy to me that I thought I had had real sex before. I might have technically been performing the act, but that's how it always felt, like a performance. With Javi's warm touch, every lick of the flame coaxed me out of my shell and ignited every fiber of my being. There was nothing to think about except the sensational pleasure we could pull from each other. When we both finally came down from our mingled high, we would spend the next several hours talking about our days, both in the past and the present. We spoke of the parallels of missing home yet being enraptured with the energy of Los Angeles. We learned that we had both tried, and failed miserably, to join track in high school. I learned more about the love for his family, and his distaste for asparagus. And much to his amusement, he learned that I excelled at playing the recorder. He still insists that it is not a real instrument.

We were careful not to spend too long together. I would reluctantly tiptoe out of his room and return to mine before midnight like the smitten, horned-up Cinderella I was becoming. Lana was oftentimes asleep or on the brink of when I returned, which made things easier. For reasons I don't fully want to understand yet, I don't want to tell Lana everything. Her concern the other night about me falling too quickly or getting myself hurt wasn't a place I wanted to go. If we began that conversation again and I had to confront...anything, I was worried where it could take me. For now at least I could commit to living in this Italian, sunshine-filled bubble a while longer.

I walk into our room after another day's work, and my smile falters when Lana is sitting straight up on her bed, staring at the door, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Have you been expecting me, mob boss?" I joke, tossing my bag at the foot of my bed.

"I have something I need to discuss with you."

My stomach drops. I avoid eye contact with her, flopping on my bed and pulling my hair back to put into a ponytail.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"A huge mistake has been made." Lana's curls bounce as she crosses her arms over her chest, giving the impression of a principal scolding a pupil.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need another hint."

Now she tosses her arms up as if it's obvious. "We're more than halfway through the trip and we haven't checked anything off our list!"

A tsunami of relief washes over me, releasing a giggle out of my throat. "I wasn't aware we had a list."

"Yeah, well, we do. It's right here," She points to her head. "And I blame Mia for distracting me every night." Her words don't hold the conviction they were supposed to. "So, I say we choose one of the landmarks within walking distance and go tonight. We only have a few more nights here. What do you think?"

As always, her enthusiasm is contagious. I have a small ache in my heart over not seeing Javi tonight, and I make a mental note to text him to let him know I won't be coming up. However, we are in Italy. And contrary to popular belief, I haven't been exploring the streets of Milan every night.

"I'm in."

One squeal from Lana and one outfit change later and the two of us were on our way to the Poldi Pezzoli Museum. We make it a few blocks before I pull out my GPS app. The streets were beautiful, but my Italian was limited to dessert menu items. I truly had no idea where we were going, and Lana was too busy staring up toward the sky at the architecture, the picture of tourism. Not that I blame her.

"Don't you know the way?" She asks, "You've been walking around every night for almost a week."

I feel my cheeks flush, and I hope the setting sun hides most of the pigmentation.

"You know me, Lan. If I have my headphones in, I'm not paying attention to anything."

Lana laughs lightly, and I breathe my second sigh of relief for the evening.

We take our time walking to the museum. We stop at Teatro alla Scala on the way, basking in the glory of an opera house older than Los Angeles itself. I feel a pang of guilt for not exploring this city more while I have been here.

As we continue toward the museum I realize that we have four more nights in the city. There's both a pressure and a release taking in the sights. A pressure to see as much as I possibly can and experience everything to it's greatest capacity, and also a release of control. For so long, my fear of flying kept me back from experiencing places like this. Not that the budget totally allowed for it, but I feel like if I let my fear go, I would have made moves to make it happen. And now I'm here. I'm in a city that feels like a dreamland with my best friend by my side, and a phone in my pocket filled with messages from someone who makes me feel like it's possible for this dream to continue. As Lana and I peruse the art, creating a healthy balance of cracking jokes and admiration, I feel more alive than I have in months. Possibly in years.

We end the night with wine in gelato, taking both back to our room. After laughing over nothing for several minutes, we both take a phone break. With the wine making its way through my system, I feel more emboldened to text Javi beyond my initial apology for missing out tonight.

Me: Can you explain to me why we haven't been exploring the city together?

He replies not even two minutes later.

Javi: I feel like we were a bit too busy "exploring" upstairs.

Javi: But I didn't know that you wanted to. I'd be happy to take you around :)

I bite back a smile, not wanting Lana to notice.

Me: I like "exploring" with you ;) but maybe we could go in disgsuie

Me: Disguise*

Javi: Disguise huh? Did you and Lana have some drinks by any chance?

Me: Seriously? One type-o and now I'm a lush?

Me: Also, yes.

Javi: I knew it. Pick out a wig for me, and I'm all yours. Wherever you wanna go.

Me: All mine???

Javi: Absolutely.

Most of the time, I think this sort of thing would gross me out. But here I am, sitting on the edge of my bed, swinging my feet like a little kid. I can feel the flush on my face, but now at least I have the wine to blame for that.

I feel Lana's foot nudge mine from the end of her bed.

"What's going on with you, smiley?"

I release a bubbly, wine-induced giggle. "I think that I'm...happy?"

Lana beams, "Well, it looks good on you."

I lay back, placing my hands on my stomach, releasing a contented sigh. It feels good on me too.

- - -

I try to hide my smile the rest of the day after Javi's text the next morning.

Javi: For the disguise?

The text had an accompanying picture of several wigs from the hair and makeup trailer.

Me: Not sure if Norwick would be cool with funding our antics

Javi: I bet you could convince them ;)

I had made it most of the day with my smile in check, now politely nodding as Alice explains the most helpful position for Dwayne to be in and when. I suppose that will be my position shortly. The more I listen to her, the more I realize how involved Dwayne's position is, and how many people there really are working underneath him. I appreciate him a little more for remembering my name, and considering me to take over for him. Though there is so much to learn, I'm liking the idea of organizing the PAs, especially with my recent experience, I can keep them from taking on too much. I also get the opportunity to be under a tent most of the twelve-hour day, which in this Italian sunshine, I'm grateful for.

By the time Lana and I arrive back home, we are both sweaty and exhausted.

"Rock, paper, scissors for the first shower?" Lana asks.

"It's all yours," I say, flopping on top of my duvet.

"Ugh, thank you." She grabs her toiletry bag and shuffles into the tiny bathroom . I close my eyes, trying to calculate how much sleep I've had in the past few days. I feel more tired at the end of today than I have in most of my years of working in L.A. So tired that I almost feel nauseous, and that's without running around as much as usual. Maybe the jet lag is catching up with me.

My thoughts are halted by a quick rapping on the door of my hotel room. I groan quietly to myself before rolling off the bed and making my way toward the door. I'm assuming it's housekeeping, but we had our 'do not disturb' hanger on our door. Javi most likely wouldn't come down now that he knew Lana was here, and he would have at least texted first. I also thought I overheard Alice talking about a cast dinner tonight to celebrate one of our last nights in Italy. Lloyd and Alice were both invited, and I'm assuming most of the cast would feel obligated to attend. Even without these facts, I would still be completely taken aback by who I see standing behind the peephole.

"Hey, Ava," Blake drawls through a sly smile as I open the door.

"Hi Blake...everything okay?" He looks like he's dressed for dinner in black dress pants and a gray button down. Much too fancy compared to the t-shirt and jeans most actors wear arriving to and from set.

"Absolutely. I was wondering if I could escort you to dinner?"

"Oh," I don't think I hide my shock very well, "Thank you, but I believe that's just for the cast. The crew members are all going to bed." I let out a nervous laugh. Why did him coming down here make me so nervous? I had barely even seen him around since the last time we spoke. I didn't feel nervous then. Granted I was motivated by my jealousy over Javi and Emma.

"Really? Well that's too bad..." Blake leans his hand on the doorway. "I had some questions I wanted to ask you."

Something about his smile and his tone is making my already nauseous stomach twist into knots.

"Blake, I don't want to be rude, but I need to be up early tomorrow. Would it be alright if you asked me or another PA those questions then?" I keep my tone bright, but I'm watching his face skeptically.

"That's the thing, Ava. You've already been pretty rude." He presses in the doorway now, and I take an involuntary step back to avoid the space between us growing any smaller.

"I'm sorry?" I almost scoff.

"You've been avoiding me all week. I thought I was going to give you some lessons." He wiggles his eyebrows, and bile rises up in my throat.

"I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression but–"

Blake starts laughing quietly. "I don't have the wrong impression. And we're only shooting together for a couple more days." Blake has one hand on the door, propping it open, and the other resting on the frame. I've cowered back so much that he is craning his body down to whisper near my ear. "Wouldn't you want to experience all this place has to offer?"

I want to run, but I worry that would provoke him. I don't smell alcohol on his breath, but he is behaving like all his inhibitions have left him. All that is left is his ego and that rueful smile. So I just stay put, frozen, as he pulls back so that his forehead is almost resting on mine.

"C'mon, Ava. I know you like me in a suit."

"B-blake. You are making me uncomfortable," I manage with a shaky voice.

"Don't be a tease," His eyes heat with anger. His hand moves from the doorframe, and everything in my body screams out at me to run. Where would I go? Could I get past him into the hallway and make it to the stairs? I can't run back into my room. My window is too high to jump from. I feel his lanky fingers wrap around my waist, and I open my mouth. To what? Scream? I'm not sure I remember how. Is that too dramatic a reaction? The look on his face really does make me believe I'm going to be sick.

I have never in my life been so happy to hear the tiny bathroom door squeak open. Lana's confused expression meets my frightened one, and I can tell instantly that she understands.

"What's going on here?" She asks harshly.

Blake is startled backward, his hand leaving my waist to my relief. Maybe he didn't realize crew members have to share hotel rooms.

"I didn't know you had a guest." Blake keeps his smooth tone, but his eyes are searching for an explanation to his behavior.

"I'm not a guest. This is my room," She crosses her arms over her chest,"Do you need us to call hotel services for you or something? We're off the clock." Lana's brow is tilted upward, and despite the fact that her hair is in a towel, she might as well have been an executioner with her icy demeanor.

Blake lets out one, humorless laugh. "No, I don't need hotel services. I was just inviting Ava to dinner."

"Okay, we ate already. I guess you better leave so don't miss your reservations, huh?"

Blake's incredulous blue eyes dart between the two of us, clearly weighing his response.

"I suppose so," He hisses. "I guess I will save my questions for tomorrow." My heart drops to my stomach when he says that. "Have a good night ladies," He says, pulling the door shut behind him.

I slump against the wall, not sure if I want to vomit or cry. Lana stands still in the doorway of the bathroom, gauging my reaction. After a few moments, she moves to peek through the peephole.

"He's gone."

When she turns toward me, all of the iciness melted into concern, my eyes spring with tears.

"Did he–"

"No." I shake my head quickly. "Nothing really happened, he just grabbed my waist."

"But it was scary." She wasn't asking.

I nodded, a couple of tears sliding down my cheeks. "I...I messed up. I flirted with him the other day. Apparently I gave him all of those... ideas." The exhaustion of the day hits me again, the events of the past few minutes adding significant weight, and I sink to the floor. Lana sits next to me, crossing her legs the same way I did.

"Did you tell him to come to the room?" Lana asks gently.

"No. I told him to give me Italian lessons. I said he looked good in a suit." I roll my eyes, more tears forming. "There also was something about getting a drink sometime."

"Did you tell him to touch you?"

"Absolutely not." "Right. So you didn't give him any of those ideas. He came up with that bullshit all on his own."

I nod, keeping my eyes on the floor.

"Do you want to report him? We could talk to Lloyd or the union."

I take a deep breath, thinking it through. "No. We only have to work with him for another two days. He was only here for the location stuff."

Lana wraps an arm around my shoulders, "Okay. If you change your mind, you let me know. I'll go with you. I saw enough to corroborate your story, too."

Now I'm really crying. Lana holds me as I sniffle, and we stay like this for several minutes.

"Lana? There's more...the reason I was flirting with Blake."

"Oh, it wasn't his obviously charming personality that attracted you?"

I chuckle, dropping my head on her shoulder. "Shocking, I know. But no... I was trying to make Javi jealous." I'm glad that I can't see her face sitting like this. "It was super childish and I apologized to him. But Lans there's so much that's been going on. So much I haven't told you. And after that, I wonder if I've been ignoring how dangerous this could be. How much trouble I could get into."

Lana doesn't speak for a few moments, but her arm still remains wrapped around my shoulders.

"I figured. Not about the Blake thing, I had no idea. But somewhere between the wet bathing suit and all of your evening walks I felt like there was something more."

I pull back to look at her. She isn't angry, but she looks just as concerned as she did earlier.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

Her smile is kind. "You could tell me now," She says with a squeeze of my shoulders.

I nod, sitting up straight and wiping the tears off my face. We move to the beds and I explain the missing pieces of these past few weeks. My surprise at my own jealousy, my mistake with Blake, my apology to Javi and some of the details of our first time. To Lana's credit, this is the most quiet she's been during any of my stories. She knew some of this, like our first date and how upset I'd been when we took a break. But even through her silence, I can tell by her eyes that she is shocked. When I get us caught up to today, I let out a breath, and wait for her reaction.

"So, to be clear, he is trying to protect your career, right?"

I nod. "And I want to protect his."

"And there isn't any part of you that thinks he's lying to purposely keep you under the radar?"

I resist rolling my eyes, "Not at all. I'm telling you Lana, it's different. He's kind. I just...I don't know, I just know."

Lana considers this, taking her hair down from her towel.

"I meant what I said before. You should be careful, feelings-wise." She sounds like a school teacher, but I can tell she has conceded in whatever further lecture she wanted to give me before.

I smile at her, and she slowly shakes her head. "Ava, leave it to you to choose the most complicated situationship possible as your first post-breakup fling."

I grab my pajamas out of my suitcase and finally head for the shower.

"That's just it, Lans," I say before closing the door, "I don't think it's a fling."

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[lemoncrushh]

Out of Bounds - Chapter 7

STORY PAGE

Word Count: 2961

"You're fucking kidding me!" exclaimed Justine.

"Nope," I shook my head and took a sip of my iced water, hoping the entire restaurant hadn't heard her.

We had agreed to meet for lunch at El Toro's for fajitas on a Saturday afternoon. I'd let Justine get about halfway through her margarita before clueing her in on what had been going on between Harry and me since that night at Mikado's.

"Damn, woman!" she said in a loud whisper.

"You think bad of me, don't you?" I cringed.

Justine sighed. "No. No, hon, I don't. Who the hell am I to judge?"

I bit my cheek and looked down at my plate.

"I could tell something was up when I saw you last."

I raised my head with wide eyes. "Nothing was going on between us then, I swear."

"No, I mean your marriage. You didn't seem happy when I asked you about it."

I thought for a moment. "But that doesn't justify my cheating, does it?"

Justine gave me a sympathetic smile. Instead of answering my question, she asked me another one. "How bad is it?"

"That's the thing, Justine. It's not bad. It's just...okay."

Justine was silent, waiting for me to continue. I sighed.

"I know he loves me. He's very good to me. And when I told him I wanted to go back to school, he was very supportive."

"But he doesn't know about Harry, does he?" Justine asked, eyes wide.

"No!" I shook my head with nervous laughter. "At least, not in that way. He knows about the partnership in Soc. class. But that's all."

"But you're together all the time, right? He's bound to suspect something."

I shrugged again. "I don't think James is the type of person to suspect anything. Jealousy is not in his nature."

Our waiter came by to check on us and refill my water. When he'd left, Justine asked me the question I'd hoped she wouldn't ask.

"What do you think he'll do if he finds out?"

I closed my eyes, wishing for a moment that I hadn't confessed to her. Or moreover, that there had been nothing to confess. That I could make it all go away, turn back time. But how far back would I go? To that night at Harry's apartment? Before we'd had sex? Or further back - to the day we'd met. Maybe I wouldn't have let him sit next to me. No, the truth was I feeling guilty. Up to now I had been justifying my actions, denying that what I was doing was wrong. But Justine's question, the inevitable question, brought me back to reality. And the question wasn't if he finds out, but when.

"I don't know, Justine," I shook my head. "I have no idea what I'll do either."

Justine pursed her lips. Then she folded her hands on the table and leaned forward. "Is this just about sex?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...you know..." Justine tilted her head. "Is it just physical with you and Harry, or are there feelings involved?"

I blinked. "I guess...well, I guess it's just sex. I mean, I like him. Actually, I really like him. But I don't think I'm in love with him, if that's what you mean."

Justine nodded. "Good."

"Why is that good?" I asked, although I knew the answer.

"Because..." she started. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. "Because, if you were, I'd tell you that you're walking on thin ice. And that you have a serious decision to make. And I'd hope that this time you make the right one."

Her words cut through me like a knife. I knew exactly what she was referring to, but neither of us chose to pursue that topic. For that I was grateful.

The next week was pretty uneventful. Harry and I got another A on our Sociology project. After getting a B on my English paper for Pride and Prejudice, I decided to step up my game and spend almost all my free time reading Wuthering Heights so that I could get a head start on that report. Harry was a bit disappointed that I had to reduce our time together, but he understood.

I never told him about my lunch with Justine. It was always on the tip of my tongue, but I concluded that it wasn't worth bringing up. I knew it was selfish of me, but I liked things the way they were for the time being. Harry was great company, but I knew it was purely a physical relationship. I was in a content, albeit virtually sexless marriage with someone I knew loved me. The only thing I really needed to focus on now was school.

On Friday morning, after History class, and after Harry and I had said our goodbyes, I grabbed a coffee at the snack bar and sat on a bench outside to read my book which I had almost finished. It was a lovely autumn day, my favorite time of year. I was so engrossed in the story that I almost didn't hear my name called. I looked up to see Zack, Harry's roommate, waving at me with his own cup of coffee in his other hand.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, somewhat shocked to see him. I had yet to run into any of Harry's friends on campus.

"What are you reading?" he asked as he sat down beside me.

"Wuthering Heights," I answered, lifting the book and showing him the cover.

"Let me guess...Professor Lloyd."

"How did you know?"

"I had her last year," Zack replied. "You think it's going to be easy because all you have to do is read and write papers. Ended up being one of the hardest classes. She's a tough broad."

"Tell me about it. I got a B on my first paper. I thought it was really well-written."

"A B?" Zack shook his head. "Then you're doing great. I got a D on my first one. Ended up passing with a C average."

I groaned. "I just really want to prove to myself that I can be an A student."

"Then don't give up," he grinned. "I'm sure you'll get there."

"Thanks," I smiled. "So, how come I've never seen you around?"

"I usually have a class at this time, but the teacher didn't show up today."

"Oh," I nodded. "Do you have any classes with Harry? I haven't even thought to ask him that."

Zack shook his head. "Not this semester. Last year we had almost all of our classes together. We got on each other's nerves so much, we had to duke it out a couple times."

"Like an actual fist fight?" I asked with wide eyes.

"Yep. We each wanted the other one to move out because we were so sick of each other, but then we realized we were the best roommates. And neither of us could afford to live alone."

"I'll bet," I chuckled. "You have other friends though, right? Grayson...and Joey?"

"Joey's an old friend of mine from high school. And I wouldn't live with him if you paid me."

I laughed louder.

"And we just met Grayson this summer when he started working at Mikado's."

"Oh, okay. So how long have you known Harry?"

"Since the summer before. We started at Mikado's on the same day. We got along really well and learned that we were both looking for a place to live. Our manager at the time was about to move out of his apartment and told us about it. It was rent controlled so we jumped on it."

"Cool. So when did he date Alison?" I asked, curiosity getting the best of me.

"Oh you heard about her, huh?" Zack smirked.

"As a matter of fact, I saw her. When I was with Harry."

"Yeah? That must have been awkward."

"She didn't see us, I don't think. So what's their story, if you don't mind my asking?"

Zack took a breath and thumbed the edge of his styrofoam cup. "Well, he dated her for almost a year I guess. In fact, she used to work with us."

"Really?" I tried not to act surprised as I brushed my hair back with my fingers.

"Yeah, she started on the same day too. She was a hostess. They had gone through a major overhaul at the restaurant and hired a large batch of new people. So we all went through orientation and training together."

"Oh, I see," I said as I took a sip of my now luke-warm coffee.

"Anyway," Zack continued, "It was obvious they both had a thing for each other. Soon after Harry and I moved in together, they started dating. And I guess it was going pretty well, at least from my point of view. Then Alison started showing serious signs of...I don't know...craziness."

"Craziness? How?"

"Like she was super possessive of him. And jealous of any girl she saw him talking to. I mean, he was a waiter, right?" he commented with a shrug.

"Right."

"And around this time was when our manager had decided to start training us at the bar. So of course there were women coming up to the bar. And...c'mon, Harry's a charming guy."

I nodded with a grin.

"Alison would just about have a cow. Not in the restaurant or anything, but afterwards. Several times I'd catch Harry and her in the back parking lot fighting. Finally, she quit."

"Oh my God. Did she think he was cheating on her?"

"I don't know," Zack shrugged again. "They didn't break up. But apparently she couldn't watch him with other women, even if they were the ones doing the flirting, not him."

"Hmm," I said through pursed lips. I supposed in a way I couldn't blame her. "So what happened then?"

"They were together, but not together, if that makes sense. From what Harry told me, he was sort of afraid to break up with her. But he was working a lot, I think mostly to avoid her."

"That doesn't sound good."

"No. And you know how I said we had a lot of classes together? Well imagine that, plus living together and working together. I think with all that combined with the Alison crap, Harry had had enough. He blew a fuse. He came home one night and I don't even remember what now, but I said something to piss him off and he decked me." Zack made a punching motion with his fist.

"Damn," I murmured.

"So after that he was looking for a place to live. Alison had offered to let him stay with her, but he didn't really want to. Finally, she basically told him she'd had enough, that if he didn't love her back, she wanted nothing more to do with him."

"Ah," I voiced.

"After we'd patched things up, Harry told me that he just wasn't in love with her. He said he had a hard time loving someone that possessive."

"I can understand that."

"I've probably said too much," Zack chortled.

"No, I appreciate it. When I asked Harry about her, he just said things didn't work out."

"That's Harry," he nodded with a pause. Then he added, "Listen, I know he hasn't know you very long, but he seems to like you a lot."

"He does?" I almost dropped my cup, which thankfully was almost empty.

"Definitely. He talks about you a lot."

"Yeah, well wh—" I started to ask before Zack cut me off.

"Speak of the devil," he snorted.

I looked up to see Harry walking toward us.

"What's this?" he asked with his lopsided grin.

"Just chatting," I replied. I stood up and put my book in my backpack, then threw my cup in the trash can next to the bench.

"I should get to class," Zack announced. "Hopefully this teacher shows up. Nice talking to you, Tisa."

"You too, Zack."

"See ya, bro," Zack said to Harry, patting him on the shoulder as he turned to leave.

"You have the sweetest friends," I told Harry.

"What were you chatting about?" he asked.

I gazed up into his emerald eyes. "You, of course."

"What are you wearing?" Harry asked in his raspy voice.

"Harry!" I whispered loudly.

I heard him chuckle on the other end. He'd had to work that night and had just gotten home. I imagined him lying in his bed, shirtless with his arm folded behind his head, cell phone in his other hand.

"You're not gonna tell me?"

"Just a t-shirt and shorts," I said. "Nothing sexy."

"Sounds sexy to me."

I rolled my eyes, grateful that he couldn't see me. "If you say so."

"I do say so."

"Whatever, Styles." I propped up my pillows and crawled underneath the covers, getting comfortable. James was asleep in the next room, and I prayed he wouldn't awake to hear our conversation. But as I heard the low groan of his snores through the wall, I figured I was safe.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm wearing?"

"Huh?" I jumped from Harry's question.

"Don't you want to know?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, do I?"

Harry chuckled once again, making me sigh. So not only was he shirtless, but pantless as well. This boy was going to be the death of me.

"You have nothing on," I said, not as a question but a statement.

"Mmm, but d'you know what I wish was on me?"

"Stop it."

"Your sweet little—"

"Stop it!" I exclaimed, cutting him off.

"Babe, are you blushing?"

"Never."

Harry sighed. "You don't like dirty talk?"

"Not on the phone," I answered.

"No? Phone sex is not your thing?"

"Nah," I said, nonchalantly. The truth was, I'd never done it before. The thought of it sort of made me feel uneasy. And I wasn't about to start with my husband sleeping on the other side of the wall.

"Alright then," Harry conceded, dropping the subject. "So tell me what you did today."

"Um...well, not much really. I worked some on my English paper. Almost finished with it. How was work?"

"Exhausting."

"Yeah? Did you wait tables or tend bar?"

"Bar," Harry replied. "Grayson was with me this time, and he's one of my best mates so that made it fun. But my back is killing me now."

"I'm sorry," I said in a pouty voice. "Wish I could rub it for you."

"Mmm, that would be nice," he yawned.

I imagined being there with Harry, rubbing his back, making him feel better. I almost thought for a moment that he'd fallen asleep until I heard him speak again.

"Do you recall that girl that took your seat at the bar that night?"

"Um...the brunette you mean?" I asked, rolling my eyes. "Britney?"

"That's the one. She was there again tonight."

"Ugh, seriously?"

"Yeah, she asked me out."

"She...what?" I felt my heart pounding.

"Well, not directly, but in so many words. She kept flirting with me and asking her friend if we would make a great couple."

That bitch! 

"What did you say?" I asked. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I knew I had no right; he wasn't like my boyfriend or...actually I didn't know what he was. I promised myself I was not going to be like Alison.

"I told her thanks," he replied with a smile in his voice.

"That's all?" I despised his deliberate teasing.

"Well, she mentioned something about her brother having a Halloween party and I should come."

"Oh." Halloween was next Friday.

"But then Grayson chimed in and mentioned his party."

"Grayson's having a Halloween party?"

"He is now," Harry laughed.

"What?"

"He was just being a good mate, seeing as Britney was kind of all over me and making me uncomfortable. So he said something like, 'Sorry, Harry will be at my party Friday night'. Soon after that, Britney and her friend had gone and Grayson and I were having a laugh about it. Then he said, 'Why the hell not? Let's have a party'. So there you go."

"Silly boys," I mocked.

"So do you think you'll be able to come?" Harry asked.

I was taken aback. I hadn't really expected an invite. "Um...well...I don't know."

"I'd like you to be my date, Tisa, but if that's too awkward, you can bring a friend."

"Like Justine?"

"Yeah, her," said Harry. "I like her."

"We old gals won't cramp your style?" I joked.

"Old? What the fuck do you mean old?"

I giggled. "Oh, Harry, you keep me young."

"Do you honestly think you're old?" Harry asked.

"Sometimes."

"Not even close. Besides, age is just a number."

"I know, you're right," I sighed.

"Plus you're fucking gorgeous."

"Harry."

"What? You are."

We were both silent for a moment or two. Finally, I whispered, "Thank you."

"I don't like for this to be our topic of conversation, but I have a feeling your husband doesn't realize how lucky he is."

"Harry," I repeated, closing my eyes.

"I know. Nevermind." I heard him let out a deep breath. "I suppose I should say goodnight."

"Okay."

"Please consider coming to the party. Whatever you have to do. I want you there."

"Alright, I'll call Justine tomorrow."

"Great. Goodnight, Tisa."

"'Night, Harry."

As I turned off my phone, I wondered what I would tell James. Even if he wasn't suspicious of my friendship with Harry, he still might wonder why I would be going to a Halloween party at a college boy's apartment. I decided it might be best to just tell him I was going out with Justine. One more little white lie...

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[all-pacas]

Are you comfortable saying what characters and what about the characterization you disagreed with? Just curious!

I don't want to get too specific because I'm not trying to do any kind of call out post! But it was a sort of situation where a specific character is highly whitewashed and can do no wrong, no matter how understandable or even welcome that would be. It's frustrating writing, not just because it's annoying to read about characters who can and are not allowed to Do Anything Wrong, but also because it's not human.

I'm a huge proponent in messy characters. People making mistakes, making assumptions, saying or doing the wrong thing. Good, well-meaning people who make mistakes, or get upset in the heat of the moment. Especially because they can and absolutely do exist with good or "paragon" characters! It adds so much more depth and interest and relatability! I love positive traits taken to the point of flaws! It's my crack!

And here's the tangent that's made me decide to answer this ask: I. Fucking. Love. That. So here's some very random examples of Good People and Characters with Positive Traits that can be flaws:

PETER PARKER. Amazing Spider-Man's semi-recent Sin's Past arc directly discussed this. Peter has a hero complex; he IS a hero. He compulsively needs and wants to save everyone, explicitly due to his own guilt complexes. It also makes him controlling. He will or won't allow help, will or won't share information. He keeps things to himself, he refuses to share, he intentionally keeps people out of the loop. He wants to save everyone. He thinks he knows how to do it. He dismisses and pushes friends away. He is a great hero and often a shitty friend.

CRITROLE, my guys Caleb and Nott. Best friends, they love one another, they are ultra found family. About halfway through the campaign, Nott begins to struggle with her personal issues, openly and obviously (Xhorhass and Flaskgate). Caleb cares for her a lot. He wants what is best for her. Instead of talking to her about her problems or calling her out on her recent recklessly dangerous behavior, he refuses to talk to her at all. He enables her, an alcoholic, with alcohol. It isn't that he wants her self-harming or in danger, it's because he loves her and can't bring himself to call her out or bring himself into conflict. He Fucks Up.

ALOY Zero Dawn. Another heroic type, she spends about half her time refusing friendship, help, companions, all of it. Her catchphrase is "I'm faster alone." She saves the world and skips the victory party. She's too busy. She has too much on her plate. She hurts her friends. They tell her this. She pushes them away. It isn't because she doesn't want friends -- she's actually a fairly warm person -- or even because she's so anti-social. She has the best of motives and reasons, and she is still a bad friend. She is cold. She is unkind. She is quite cruel to [SEQUEL GAME SPOILER CHARACTER], who we AND she knows does not deserve it, but she sees too much of herself in this person and lashes out. We know why she does it. It's still a dick move. We still love Aloy.

(you might think I'd include current hyperfixation smoothbrain vampire on this list. i cannot. he is an asshole on purpose. his minimal goodness is in spite of this, not because of it.)

I'm not for a second going to pretend that I'm a great writer worth bragging about. But it's something I like to do too. My current OC Tav lady is passive and easy-going. This is a flaw. She isn't passive and easy going because she's okay with shit, but because she feels like she can't and has no right to complain. If you give someone a Trait, follow it to its logical end. How is it good? How is it bad?

It isn't that "these characters are flawed" is some plot twist, it isn't that "characters having flaws" is news. It's that in all three examples, these are characters whose positive traits (heroism, love for another) have the side effect of hurting others. These are characters who are sympathetic (Aloy is isolated, Aloy lashes out for understandable reasons) but still make mistakes (being mean to someone who doesn't deserve it).

In the fanfic I was ranting about, there is neither. The person does not make mistakes, does not take their heroic, story-specific flawlessness into this direction. When arguing, they have the moral high ground, but also the flawless composure to not be rude or hurtful or controlling or a little bit rude in making their points. The other characters fall over themselves to apologize, to understand, to feel sorry for opposing them. It isn't just that they have no flaws (a subjective phrase), it's that the universe twists and conforms to them. There are no consequences, no stakes. They are the sun at the center of the universe. And I vastly prefer messy heroes.