#anyway i think this is a really nice sentiment for the new year

[10yearsofdnp]

December 31, 2014: Looking back, 10 years later... I think he did just that! ❤️🥠

[wriokitty]

Sukuna who was never close to his twin brother and never cared about the pipsqueak runt of a kid who’s his nephew.

He doesn’t care and doesn’t want to be associated with that bullshit. His brother doesn’t take the hint ever and invites him to everything. “My sons’s birthday party” this and “my son’s kindergarten graduation” that. What sort of graduation is meant for a kindergartener anyway? That’s a load of nonsense. But Jin is as annoying as ever with insisting on keeping contact and trying to get Sukuna involved and he hates it until by some tragedy out of nowhere, his brother and sister and law are dead. Yuuji’s left an orphan and no one can care for that kid because there’s no one left.

No one except Sukuna.

They ask him, too. The social workers. They turn to him and say some pitiful script about being “the only family left to take custody of him.” He knows pretty well what’s going to happen to the pipsqueak if he doesn’t agree. The foster care system and the possible horrors such a bright (even if annoying) kid could face makes him question saying no for a second. He’s surprisingly conflicted.

And it’s out of sheer impulsiveness alone does he end up as a single, grumpy, begrudging uncle who’s got custody of a child he never really cared to know in the first place.

And then he meets you.

Sweet, bubbly, warm, and so weirdly happy. Dictionary definition of what an elementary school teacher should be. Yuuji’s absolute favorite person on the planet as he waves hello at you enthusiastically every time that Sukuna drops him off and goodbye every time that Sukuna picks him up.

“I heard his new guardian would be his uncle. It’s nice to meet you,” you murmur to him the first day he picks up Yuuji after school, a look of pure melancholy on your face as you stare at him with an unearthly amount of compassion and sympathy. “Yuuji’s parents were wonderful people. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“Wasn’t that close with either of them,” he grunts out. You look over at where Yuuji’s gleefully playing on the slide of the playground. Too young and innocent to realize that���s been ripped away from him. Too naive to understand what it means to grieve. Too hopeful about the world around him to realize just how cruel it can really be.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding slowly.

He thinks that your unnaturally kind demeanor will finally be broken for a split second of judgement. What sort of heartless bastard doesn’t feel an ounce of grief for his own brother’s death? Instead, however, you seem to look at him with some weird sense of wonder.

“You’re a good uncle for stepping up regardless,” you say softly, “it’s more than what most would do in your shoes.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he clicks his teeth, unbearably uncomfortable with how weirdly sentimental this all is. “He’s just a five year old. How much trouble could he be?”

You raise a brow in amusement, eyeing him like he’s got one hell of a surprise waiting for him. He doesn’t like the vague way you hum, “Yeah. How could such a little human cause trouble, right?”

“I’ve got it under control,” he grumbles, a little annoyed that you seem to think that out of all things, a simple child would be enough to cause Sukuna any issues.

“Let me know if you need anything,” you smile.

Yuuji calls to you from the distance, squealing look what I can do! before he does a rather clumsy spin. Sukuna raises an unimpressed brow. You clap and praise him with an exaggerated gasp of approval.

It’s oddly endearing, he thinks to himself—you, not the kid. The kid’s barely tolerable.

“C’mon, you brat,” Sukuna calls. And then he looks at you and gruffly adds, “And I don’t need help.”

“Okay,” you grin brightly. It almost feels like you’re saying that a little sarcastically. “I’m sure you’ve got this parent thing down.”

Before he can even correct you that he’s an uncle, not parent, Yuuji comes running over on clumsy, short little legs and grabs onto Sukuna’s hand.

“C’mon, Uncle ‘Kuna!”

Sukuna doesn’t miss the way your eyes soften. Weirdly enough, he feels this odd sort of squeeze in his chest that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe he’s just getting old—that has to be it.

[king-spite]

update on this!!! it went well lmao :]

so after lots of thinking i decided i'm gonna come out as trans this college year (to classmates, teachers, etc) and when i tell you i'm TERRIFIED🧍

[singingcicadas]

Megatron's Opposite Day

"I free slaves"

This is Soundwave binding Ratbat but seeing as Megatron did the same thing to Pentius by putting his spark into Trypticon and reformatted Rumble and Frenzy into cassettes against their will I think he approves a lot of this practice

Megatron on Optimus and humans, after his defeat in All Hail Megatron ⬇️

he really salty

"I implant ideology" aka brainwashing

Decepticon cause = Megatron. nuff said.

"I liberate cities" says the person who let Nyon burn to make a point

Cities are too small, think bigger

Holding New York hostage.

"Like Autobots, they believe in the sanctity of life" which he doesn't. Kudos for being honest.

Allowing troops to do free-rein massacre is a reward for conquest. Nothing like some easy murder for de-stressing.

The Simanzi massacre which halved the Cybertronian population is off-screen so it doesn't deserve its own pic

"The revolution"

"We only feel good when we stand with a blade in one hand and a throat in another" "Let's make the entire face of the planet into our new gladiator arena"

What nice, confidence-inspiring revolutionaries. I'm sure they'll rule the population with benevolence after they've killed all the Necessary People with Necessary Violence. Final interpretation of what constitutes as Necessary is reserved for the sole discretion of Megatron, ofc.

Good goals.

Sentinel might be an absolute asshole but at least he's got one thing right: they're literally a gang of thugs who gets high off murder.

"The people are my utmost concern"

'The people': ................

"Battling for freedom"

Freedom of what? Function? Autonomy?

Religion?

the ability to choose whether to fight? on which side to fight?

Idk why they used the word "pogrom" for this, it's way too specific

Anyways it doesn't matter, they won't be missed.

Good for Bumblebee for calling him out. Screenshotted this just to appreciate Megatron's bitchy face ⬇️

Other urban legends:

"Megatron loves Cybertron" let's just burrrrn it

He did fight to save Cybertron in Chaos Theory but also made it pretty clear why he did it. It's not out of the goodness of his heart or any sentimental reasons like that. It's an ego/dominance thing.

Plus his wording when he's trying to convince Optimus to let him go with the Lost Light: "I broke the planet. And that, Optimus, is why I owe it to you - to everyone - to find a replacement."

Replacement.

In other words: I made a mess and can't be bothered to clean it up, so I want to get away from it and find somewhere new to start clean.

I don't think Optimus appreciates the favour.

"Megatron tore down a corrupt government" which is true, just too bad that he's worse

He's also, um, a closeted Zeta admirer?

"Megatron advocates equality" ???

Megatron x dictatorship is literally his OTP. They were inseparable for four million years. A lot of people died trying.

"Megatron cares about the Decepticons" no he doesn't. Not his troops nor its cause.

Like for one thing he treats them with complete scorn

Admits that the most useful thing about keeping Starscream around is that he can bully underlings into line

Wants to use the humans' nuke to get rid of his troops and reformat them into peaceful drones after they outlive their use because they were "too ruthless" for his perfect peaceful society

Has zero scruples about fighting Deceptigod, just affronted that his own soldiers are being used against him

And basically just drops the Decepticons like a bag of vermin after he surrenders. He never once mentions them of his own accord, other than to insist he has nothing to do with them. Even his surrender speech is something Optimus makes him do as exchange b/c he wants to go on parole. He wasn't planning on making a public address otherwise, he was just going to leave them hanging.

Looking at the publication timeline, Megatron started out as an established Evil McEvilson-type villain similar to how he is in G1 and it's not until Chaos Theory in 2011 that JRo really gave him a sympathetic backstory that drew his characterization away from the bloodthirsty pugno ergo sum warlord into someone who once held ideals about societal reform and remains convinced of his own moral supremacy throughout the 4 mill years of death and war, adding worldbuilding such as Functionism/oppression/government corruption as justification for the beginning of the Decepticon movement. But because the start of the Decepticons was already written in Megatron Origins and every evil thing he'd done up till Chaos Theory can't be retracted and they had to keep Megatron as a villain until his story was no longer central to the Autobot-Decepticon war line, and JRo didn't try to downplay the atrocities he'd committed (some of the most sadistically disturbing things Megatron did were exclusively in MTMTE flashbacks), but rather tried to distance him from them and placed the focus on the juxtapositions to emphasize change, this as a whole just resulted in Evil McEvilson getting turned into Hyper McHypocrite.

[necromelli]

your first christmas with finnick was a few months after your games. you had isolated yourself in your new home, refused to talk to anyone or do anything, but somehow, sixteen year old finnick and mags managed to drag you out of your house. finnick pretended something happened to mags and he didn't know what to do, and despite the smirk that threatened to dissolve his lie, you followed anyways.

you were greeted with the smell of homemade cooking, even from the outside of mags house. some sort of fish caught fresh cooking. fresh seaweed bread, and all sorts of desserts splayed out on the counter. you were greeted by mags smiling face, outstretched arms, and a big kiss to your cheek. the first thing she handed you was a soft, knit sweater that was specially made just for you. with a simple glance, you saw finnick's grinning face as he held up his own matching sweater. he was so excited that you couldn't help but feel excited too. mags insisted you stood near the tree with finnick so she could get a picture of her 'two favorite kids' (it's one of your favorite photos, and you keep a tiny version of it with you wherever you go).

then, finnick is far too eager to open the few presents that are under the tree. you don't remember the last time you ever saw the boy so excited — childishly excited — and so you try to burn it into your memory. despite the fact you didn't prepare any gifts for you, mags and finnick still had three little gifts wrapped for you. mags got you a nice notebook and spiced, wintertime tea set. finnick got you new pens to go with your notebook, obviously planned. and really, you're having a ton of fun despite the fact you weren't planning on celebrating the holidays.

then, mags is in the kitchen cooking again, and she tells both you and finnick to get out so she can concentrate in peace (finnick is bursting with energy). so, the two of you go sit down by the beach, and as you're sitting there with your new gifts, wrapped in the soft sweater mags made, you decide that you like this little family. while finnick is knee deep in the water saying 'it isn't that cold', you're drawing on three hagstones you found (it was perfect, really. they were all in the small spot, waiting to be found) and pulling fishing wire through to make an ornament. it's got three little stick figures in varying heights, meant to represent the three of you.

and mags tears up when you show her the present, and when you give finnick's his, he's definitely sniffling. (by the next holiday, you realize finnick is just overly sentimental during holidays). you mumble out something along the lines of 'hagstones are supposed to provide protection and you guys make me feel safe and I wanted you guys to feel safe too'. it's cheesy when they both hug you, but you don't mind. even when finnick laughs at you for crying, despite the fact he was crying too. and then mags scolds you two for fighting, but it doesn't last long because christmas dinner is done and you're all eating.

then, just when you think it's over, you three end up on the couch, wrapped in some big, fluffy, duvet drinking hot coco listening to music. you swear they put sleep syrup in your coco without you noticing because you feel so safe and content, for the first time since the games, that you're falling asleep tucked under mags arm like an eight year old listening to her and finnick talk.

[petriwriting]

Memories - Sirius Black X Reader

Summary: Harry finds an old notebook that belonged to Sirius during his Hogwarts days. In his scruffy handwriting, in an old dusty journal found in Sirius's bedroom is the story of Sirius' first real love.

A/N: Fluff, nostalgia, a little bit of angst if you look too hard. The reader is feminine, using she/her pronouns. Oneshot - blurb is very short but very sweet.

I made a friend today on the train to Hogwarts. She is very sweet and seems very nice. She had a ribbon in her hair, I thought that she looked nice. we talked and she said that she liked my hair too. I also made some new friends. I got sorted into Gryffindor house, it's crazy since my family is all from Slytherin house. I'm sure Mother will be so upset. She is always upset about something.

Harry read aloud to his curious friends, Hermione leaned over his shoulder curiously to look at the small dark grey journal, it was tatted beaten-down bound with leather, covered in dust, but well used.

"Keep reading, Harry," Hermione said gently, knowing that he wasn't reading it with malicious intent, but instead in an attempt to feel closer to his godfather. he turned a few pages until a page caught his eye, and began reading once more.

Reg and I got into a quarrel over some things that didn't really matter. he says I should be more concerned with our family. Reg and I used to be close, but after my third year, he became cold. I love my brother, but I hate to see him hanging around those gits. Malfoy in particular, but I know he is happy now as he has joined the Slytherin team. he's their seeker, but he's no match for Gryffindor this year.

This entry made Harry smile slightly, and chuckle. he continued to flip pages, it was heartwarming. He turned the pages, looking through some messy potions class notes and annotations, and an entry about the marauders map, and how he saw Peter Pettigrew (Wormtail.) sneaking out every night to sneak food from the kitchens. One page, in particular, caught his eye.

I Love Her.

I have loved her every day I've known her. She is brilliant, her eyes sparkle when she speaks, her smile is so bright it lights up the room as if you'd cast Lumos. She's incredibly intelligent, but kind. She's always been gentle with me. I've never met another like her.

I wish that I could make this all go away. All the secrets, the war, the hatred. I wish we could start a family one day, live in a little cottage, and raise children far away from here. We'd visit James and Lily every Christmas, and Remus on halloween. I could give her my mother's ring. I doubt Regulus would mind. We could be so happy. I remember the first day we met. I think i knew then that she was special. She has been unconditionally devoted to me. The night my mother burned my name off our family tree she held me in her arms as i cried and i finally felt what home is supposed to feel like. I wrote her a letter, expressing my yearning for her. I plan to give it to her very soon, along with a locket I picked out. Lily insisted on the dainty silver chain with a locket of our picture from our first year together, she even helped me enchant to image to capture y/n's smile as she sat next to me. she say's it's sentimental, and that girls like this sort of thing.

I never had a home, truly. just four walls surrounding me. My own mother disgraced my name, Regulus has been absent in my life. I'm thankful for my friends but my love for y/n is like no other. i just wish want her to feel the way i do, i hope she does. With everything, she can not get involved it's too dangerous. But I will love her anyway. The kind of love that could break the most heinous curse.

Harry stood for a moment, looking over his godfather's handwriting. it was sentimental. "I wonder if we could find her," Harry offered hopefully. "There's no mention of a last name." Ron pointed out. "I'm sure we could ask someone, if she knew the black family she can't be too terribly hard to find," Hermione said, offering a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "I think Sirius would love that."

[yonomori-rei]

ADA - SECRET SANTA

A/N: Hey all! Rei here! How would our fav Detective Agency celebrate Christmas this year? Why by doing a Secret Santa, of course! Content Warning: strong language and some suggestive themes in Naomi’s part.

[Spoilers for S1 EP 11 and WAN]

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY READING!!! 🎄

Who got who? – they’d probably just draw names from a hat or smth:

Fukuzawa → Kyouka

Ranpo → Fukuzawa (he definitely did something to make sure he gets Fukuzawa – our jealous baby would never let him be taken by anyone else 😂)

Yosano → Ranpo

Kunikida → Tanizaki

Dazai → Kunikida (this li’l mf definitely rigged the game, I feel sorry for Kuni)

Tanizaki → Yosano (bro would be panicking so hard 😂)

Naomi → Atsushi (poor boi)

Kenji → Naomi

Atsushi → Dazai (teehee)

Kyouka → Kenji

General: This IS a detective agency, so most could guess if they tried. Therefore, they would probably agree not to try guessing who got who. But I still feel like Dazai ♥️ and Ranpo 🍬 would have undoubtedly guessed everything by now... Anyways, let’s see what each member decided to get for their Secret Santa!

-------------- FUKUZAWA GOT KYOUKA ---------------

Fukuzawa (probably) wouldn’t sweat it. He would most likely get her something cute (but NOT in a paedophilic way – our president is not like a certainsomeone *cough* MORI *cough*). I want to say he’d get something similar to a maid’s costume if he goes for clothing (yk like the one she was wearing when she begged Fukuzawa to let her stay in the agency) but is that too weird? 

Or maybe, he’d get her a pet cat 😂 as it's canon she also likes cats – I mean, have you seen her with Atsushi? 🤭 But whatever he gets, it will suit Kyouka, cuz I feel like they have similar taste.

--------------- RANPO GOT FUKUZAWA ---------------

Now...I’m scared. Remember in WAN when Atsushi got Fukuzawa rice balls (it was rice balls right?) and Ranpo ate it all...I feel that Ranpo would get him some nice snacks, but by the time the day for their Secret Santa had come...poor Fukuzawa would be present-less cuz our sweet detective decided to eat what he got for Fukuzawa 😂

So, sorry Sacchou, but you’re gonna have a miserable Christmas this year (I’m enjoying this too much XD)

----------------- YOSANO GOT RANPO -----------------

As much as I want Yosano to do her signature, not-at-all creepy, psychotic, sadistic, I'm-gonna-take-great-pleasure-in-murdering-you grin as she hands her victim her present, she got Ranpo, so that’s not gonna happen *Rei proceeds to bang her head hard on the keyboard in front of her because why would she give Yosano the one member she would not be able to scare??? Well...Rei IS a sucker for Yosano and Ranpo’s platonic relationship – BUT SERIOUSLY, AREN’T THEY CUTE?!*

Aaaaaanyways...Yosano would probably know Ranpo the best (after Fukuzawa of course) so she should get him something either sentimental to him – idk what (Ik, I’m so great at headcanons 😩) – or just stick to sweets as we all know how much happiness this boy gets cuz candy. But either way, Ranpo would be happy with his gift and Yosano would put a lot of thought into her gift to him – especially since their first time meeting was so heart-warmingly wholesome!

--------------- KUNIKIDA GOT TANIZAKI ---------------

Oh lord! I feel sorry for Tanizaki. 😂 I feel that Kunikida WOULD NOT GIVE A SHIT about what our orange-haired softie wants 🥲. He’d probably force a timetable planner onto this poor guy and sternly tell him that he expects Tanizaki to have a full-on schedule ready for the new year (Momma Kunikida wants to turn Tanizaki into a mini-him) ... Istg, this perfectionist is obsessed with his ideals – but I love it 😊

----------------- DAZAI GOT KUNIKIDA -----------------

Now, my hubby over here is the ABSOLUTE WORST, and Kunikida...my sincerest apologies *then proceeds to cackle for 10 mins thinking about how Kunikida is going to suffer*

Dazai would either forget about it and get something really really REALLY stupiiiiiiiiid like a silly Christmas hat/jumper or maybe even some really long elf shoes that makes the wearer trip and fall (and gets a kick out of watching cuz he somehow manipulated poor Kuni into wearing it).

AND HE DEFO BOUGHT IT USING KUNIKIDA’S CARD.

Or he would think really carefully from Day 1 to get Kunikida the absolute worst present ever and obsess over it. Why can I see Dazai just wrapping himself up in extra bandages (like the cute mummy he is) and presenting himself to Kunikida?? (It’s like when he told Atsushi in WAN that he was the snack – and I wouldn’t mind if he said that to me 🤭)

Tbh, I can't see him getting a proper gift at all (like with Ranpo) 😔, so, sorry folks...

---------------- TANIZAKI GOT YOSANO ---------------

LMAO, he’d be panicking so hard! But also, one of the only ones in the agency to actually try and make their Secret Santa receiver happy. It's canon he’s scared shitless of Yosano (I mean, anyone who wants to live would be) so we can imagine this poor softie just desperate to find the best present to appease our hot goddess. After all, who wants to get on Yosano’s bad side. (I mean, I wouldn’t mind being punished by her – 😳). I feel like he’d inconspicuously try to get close to Yosano so that he can find out what she likes/would want (although e spent more than enough time strapped to her examination bed – I’d be disappointed of you don’t know what Yosano likes, Tanizaki).

In the end, he’d just get her some brand new medical supplies (maybe she might have been talking about it in the agency and he overheard her) since everyone knows our queen loves to cut people open and I firmly believe that Yosano would literally drag Tanizaki to her lair as soon as she opened her gift and use them on him. Hey, at least someone will be happy...

----------------- NAOMI GOT ATSUSHI -----------------

I'm sorry my innocent kitty 🥺. She definitely gets him something sexual. And no, nothing can change my mind. This bitch came up with the idea of getting Atsushi to fuck for his entrance exam so...nope, she definitely got him some sex toy or another. AND DAZAI YOU LI’L FUCKER, GET BACK HERE RN! Atsushi would probably be blushing so hard, and Dazai would probably be explaining how to use whatever toy Naomi got him in detail 😭. I’m sorry my innocent cinnamon roll...

Maybe Dazai even stole what Naomi got Atsushi, broke into a certain ginger’s house and used it on him...teehee

------------------- KENJI GOT NAOMI ------------------

A cow 🐄. It doesn’t matter who he got, he will definitely get them a cow. Naomi would probably keep it tbh, but I feel that Tanizaki would object...that is, until she puts her hand up his shirt and threatens to punish him at night...

----------------- ATSUSHI GOT DAZAIII -----------------

I’m literary gonna be using WAN as my reference for this. He’d definitely want to put all his effort to give a gift that Dazai would be happy with so Atsushi will try to find out what he likes, but his mind would probably come up with suicide-related stuff. And Atsushi definitely does not want to encourage Dazai. 😂 But Atsushi would want to come up with something that is truly a well thought gift, not only because he’s a kind-hearted soul, but also because he respects that manipulative bastard as a mentor and so would want to give back for everything Dazai had done for him. (I truly do wonder what Dazai did for him...🤔)

Anyway, I feel like Atsushi would get him a mix of stuff...like a gift basket, with bandages, maybe a few books, FLOWERS, and probably delivers a long arse speech about why he is the best mentor ever before giving Dazai is gift on the day. And the expression on Dazai’s face would be PRICELESS 😂😂😂

------------------ KYOUKA GOT KENJI -----------------

Now, this one takes getting to know their Secret Santa to a while new level. I can totally see her STALKING Kenji and trying to gather as much info about him as possible...In the end, she’d probably get him the best present ever...maybe another one who gets a cow for their Secret Santa 😂

She’d definitely make our sunshine boy happy with what she got him, so I think it would be something that reminds him of villages or maybe a souvenir from the city cuz he’s always fascinated about city life and how different it is from his hometown.

[hausofanya]

 ͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ ͏ ͏ 11:10 PM ͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ — ͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ new sentiments, old memories.

featuring cléo anya torell, bang chan, and the hsk ensemble. word count 1.3k ( 1347 ) notes from june 🙂 ( haunted ) + told thru chan’s pov.

“everyone get the fuck out.”

the room instantly chills. conversation and laughter are cut short, silence washing over the studio room. the staff startle at his crass language, immediately scrambling to get their things and leave, bowing hastily.

alexei and malani frown instantly as well, moniqa hovering a few feet away near a piano. cléo doesn’t look up from where she’s sitting.

“it’s okay.” her voice is calm, irritation flaring up in him. he watches as she turns to her friends and twin with a soft smile. “he doesn’t know. i didn’t tell him.”

“so everyone knew except for me? when were you going to tell me—”

“back up.” he blinks and alexei is between him and cléo, expressionless other than a blazing stare. a chill runs down his back but he stands his ground. “you’re a nice guy. don’t make me have to do something drastic.”

“alexei.” moniqa’s tone is warning, but she, too, throws a loaded look chan’s way.

chan watches as malani reaches out to squeeze cléo’s hand, the younger offering a timid smile in return. “it’s okay. we needed to talk anyway. you guys can go.”

the other three look reluctant, alexei more than all of them, but he’s the last to leave before cléo shuts the door behind them.

chan stares at the back of cléo’s head.

“i’m sorry you weren’t able to find out through me,” she eventually starts, turning around to face him in the now empty studio. “i didn’t expect word to travel so fast. that was my mistake.”

her formality sickens him. “we were supposed to get through this together.” his brows furrow in disbelief. “were we not helpful enough? i know—i know we’ve been busy, but the activities—but you’ve been practicing with me, with us, what—”

all his words leave him in a rush, stuttering as he tried to make sense through it all. was she giving up? after everything?

“i don’t understand, cléo.” he laughs incredulously as he runs a hand through already tousled hair. “do you not want to be in the group anymore? is that it?”

cléo frowns. something in his chest leaps at the change in emotion. “no. i mean—it’s not about you. or any of you. i did it because i wanted everyone else to have a career free of my mistakes.”

chan stares at her for a moment before sputtering out a laugh. her expression sours even further. “so you speak for everyone now? you should have talked to me! to us! none of us care about your scandal!”

“it’s not about the scandal—it’s about me,” cléo’s voice raises to meet his budding hysteria. “it’s about me constantly making mistakes, and fucking up, and—”

“bullshit.” cléo physically flinches at the word spat out with so much vitriol, her expression bordering on betrayed. a mirror image of his own shattered heart. “you are ours. ours! one of us. and we were going to get through this together!”

“chan, please—”

“do you really think any of us give a fuck about what anyone else thought?” his voice cracks on his anger, sadness, hurt. “you weren’t supposed to make this decision alone! what about me? or the group, or—”

“you said you wouldn’t blame me if i left!”

he freezes, eyes widening at her sudden blurt. confusion clouds his mind, still riddled with intense emotions. and then his remembers.

i’m just glad you stayed, honestly. there were times when i seriously though you were going to quit. i wouldn’t have blamed you, though. if you did leave.

“you said—that you wouldn’t blame me if i chose to leave. this is me leaving. i’m sorry i didn’t consult you, or—or tell anyone but the company, but i did it for you. for all of you. i don’t want to be selfish anymore and i'm so tired.”

she looks devastated. for the first time in the almost six years he’d known her, he was at a loss for genuine words. his hands twitch at his sides. out of frustration or despair, he didn’t know. it stung to even think about.

“there’s nothing you can say to change my mind. i’m moving to the other label. and you can wash your hands clean of me.”

“cléo, can you just—we can figure this out—”

“this is me figuring it out!” her eyes brim with unshed tears. his first instinct is to reach out and wipe them way the same way he’d done all those years ago. “i’m sorry it’s not the decision you wanted to hear. but it’s what i think is best for everyone.”

(this is what i think is best for you.)

“we would have fought with you.” his voice is stilted, stepping closer to her. hurt spears his chest again when she steps back. “we were fighting with you. don’t do this to us.”

(don’t do this to me.)

jokes aside, um. thanks for believing in me and what i could do. i’ll work hard to bring the best version of myself in all that i bring to not just stray kids, but to everything that i set out to accomplish. it’s more than just having a dream, i’ve realized. putting in the hard work to actually achieve it speaks more volume than just waxing poetic, so. here’s to letting myself go.

“i’m letting go, chan. jyp thinks i’ll be better under aura.” cléo sniffles, her tears finally spilling over. “miss kandi is actually pretty nice, and everyone i know is there, and—”

“i’m not part of that.”

cléo’s hand snaps up, fear and panic swirling in her eyes. “no! i mean—no, i’m doing this because i care about you!”

disgruntled, he just shakes his head. “it’s okay.” he sends her a pained smile and backs up when she starts to approach him, palms raised. “i get it now.”

you’re very brave, you know that, right?

“i’m doing this because i care about you,” she stresses again, voice wavering. “i’m going to fuck up again. i don’t know when, and i don’t know how, but if this is what it’s like to be associated with me—then i don’t want your name to be attached to it.”

“you care.” cléo’s expression crumples when he says such, nodding vigorously. “you’re very selfless. but i’m not thanking you for it.”

she looks distraught again. “chan—”

“i don’t know how else to put it for you, but when you care about someone, you suffer with them.” chan shrugs in the face of her denial. “it’s true. it’s what me and the other boys have been doing. or not suffering, exactly. but shouldering your pain. it shouldn’t be yours to hold on alone. that’s what having friends are for.”

he cuts her off when she attempts to explain herself again. “it’s fine. this is what you think is best, so i support you. we’ll support you. ‘cause that’s what friends do. but i wish you would have talked to me first.”

his (somewhat) strong façade cracks once more when she begins to cry again, finally stepping forward to wrap his arms around her. she falls apart in his arms just like she’d done before. only this time it feels like they’re worlds apart.

“i should have listened to you when you said you didn’t trust him.” cléo burrows deeper into his hold, her tears staining his shirt. i’m sorry.

“i wish we could have been more than enough for you,” he murmurs in response, resting his head atop hers. i’m sorry, too.

thank you for believing in me, too. ‘cause it’s not all one sided, you know? you chose this as much as we chose you. and it goes the same for the others, too. i think we’re very fortune to have you on our team, and stray kids wouldn’t be the same without you. so thank you for letting yourself go.

[everythingwasalreadypicked]

Tw: mentions of past death and murder, suicidal ideation

Alabaster sighed, trying to ignore the gurgling of his stomach as he patrolled through Manhattan's desolate streets. It was empty, had been empty for one and a half years. The wreckage left from a long won war loomed over him like a phantom, the ghost city judging him with every step he took.

Abandoned buildings towered over the entire city, lifeless save for the occasional Monster Donut shop still crackling with vibrant lighting. The sweet smell was tempting, but no doubt an employee would report to Lord Kronos that he took a food break during his patrol.

Alabaster took a shaky breath, wedging his cane out of the crack on the asphalt it got stuck in.

His mother had finally gotten a throne. Nothing else mattered.

Maybe if he said it enough he'd start believing it.

The silence was deafening, with no signs of New York's infamous uproar.

He wondered whether Morpheus was pleased that he'd put down 'the city that never slept'.

Well. Almost put down.

Annabeth Chase, of all people, stood in front of him. Her hair done up under a scarf, her face scratched and scraped. Interestingly enough, she wore a Camp Half-Blood shirt. It seemed to barely hold itself together, with different coloured stitches and patches made of vastly different materials plastered on the fading fabric, but sentimentality and all, Alabaster supposed. Didn't matter it was small for her frame, not when it might as well be the only camp shirt left.

It looked more comfortable than the satin chaffing against his skin anyway.

"Torrington." She acknowledged, spinning her knife in her hand, eyes glaring daggers.

He really really didn't want a fight. Not only was he tired and hungry, but this was Annabeth. They knew eachother, once.

A traitorous part of him whispered; you knew Sherman too, didn’t stop you from driving your sword right into his heart, did it?

An acrid feeling stabbed the back of his throat.

"Are you mapping out where to stab me or just plain checking me out, Chase?" Alabaster forced out a cocky smile.

Her eyes flashed, "Why are you here? You're not welcome, General."

"Routine patrol." He shrugged. "I should ask you that question, technically."

"Not your business." Annabeth circled him, holding her dagger between them the whole time. Alabaster didn't attempt to move an inch, to draw his sword from where it hung on his back. "But someone needs to keep watch on Olympus."

Alabaster glanced to the side. Empire State Building stretched towards the skies, deader than Zeus’s chopped up pieces resting beneath the deepest part of Tartarus.

"You're wasting your time," he murmured, "you lost. Your gods abandoned you. They aren't coming back."

Annabeth growled behind him. She could very well strike and stab him in the back with their current positions, but Alabaster found he didn't really mind the possibility.

"Maybe try out the remains of Camp Half-Blood instead? I heard the weather is real nice there at this time of the year," he mused, shifting his weight onto his cane more, "I'm sure Grover will be fine. Never took you or Jackson as the gardening type, though."

It was quite hard to miss the giant tree growing out of an apartment fire escape. Even if it hadn't been an open secret that Perseus Jackson and Annabeth Chase took refugee in the former's home.

The truth was neither of them were worthy of being considered a threat by his lord anymore.

Or so Lord Kronos said and who was Alabaster to argue. Less work for him.

A whooshing sound... and a cold metal pressed against his throat while a body pressed against his own.

Annabeth hissed into his ear, "If you think you're scaring me—"

"I just hear what people say about me, that's all." It would be so easy to lean forward, to finally be able to sleep for more than four hours for once. To rest as his blood spilled all over the asphalt. The brand on his back flared up as if his Lord heard and disagreed with Alabaster from the throne he sat upon kilometres away. "Monster of Mount. Tam, was it?"

"You're no monster," Annabeth sneered, backing off and clearing her dagger with her shirt as if it touched something dirty, "You're a dog if anything. Wandered far away from your owner, did we? Lost your leash, Torrington?"

Alabaster flitted his gaze to the ground, shame curling inside his chest. Always trust Annabeth Chase to find the words that hurt the most. Hadn't changed a bit from when they were eight. "Go home, Chase. I do not want to fight you."

"You would lose," Annabeth slotted her dagger inside the hilt strapped to her belt. She declared, "I don't know you."

Fast, devoid of any attachment. Just like ripping off a bandaid.

"No," He agreed, a grim smile on his face as he pushed past her, "and for Titans's sake, don't get out of the house when my Lord knows I'm here."

"Coward," A scoff made him stop on his track yet again, "I hope you die in a ditch."

Alabaster stared at the hand he was clutching his cane's handle with. It was harder to see under the black nail polish, but the dried blood was there, sitting atop his nail beds and laughing at him. Just like the green magic staining around his veins in splotches, just like the feeling of never being able to wash away the blood on his hands. Just like the screams and pleas for mercy plaguing his nightmares.

"You and me both, Chase. You and me both."

[aledethanlast]

If I'm already on the topic of the foxes and grown ups, let's talk about Kevin.

I think Kevin mellows out a lot by the time he goes pro. In part because there's not nearly so large an axe over his neck anymore, but largely because around his fourth year, when pro teams start seriously trying to recruit him, he realizes that his caustic and dismissive attitude towards his teammates can't really fly anymore. It's a Raven behavior, a label he's both disavowed and been disowned by, and most coaches are not his dad who will let him do whatever and kowtow to his expertise. He was an assistant coach for one semester, and never a captain. His behavior has a deadline and if he misses it, it might end his career. He's gonna need to make an actual effort.

And he wants to make the effort! He always admired the Trojans for their good nature, and while he is definitely a fox, he thinks he'd very much like being part of a more friendly team.

So when he signs on to his first pro team (the culmination of six weeks of studying various teams for play style, lineups, press reputation, and point stats), he feels ready to turn over a new leaf. If nothing else, he thinks he'd like to make more friends now that he doesn't have Andrew and Neil around all the time. And the team seems like a nice bunch! They're talented, driven, he can see how he can mesh with them.

This sentiment lasts him about a week.

"Put Neil on the goddamn phone," he says as he slams the door of his car.

"Kevin," his father says on the other end of the line. "We are at practice right now."

"I know, that's why I called you."

His father sighs in the way he does when he needs a few seconds to debate who he should blame for this latest headache. Then he hears a fist on glass on the other end, and a minute later the little fucker says "Kevin. How are you."

"I don't know how you did this or why, but I am going to fucking end you."

"Please be more specific." Smug little motherfucker. Kevin slams his foot on the gas and pretends it's Neil's neck. Though he eases up a bit when he almost tailspins out of the parking lot. He hasn't driven a car in six years, fucking sue him.

"Practice ended three hours ago, Neil. I am now leaving the stadium. Can you guess what I was doing in that meantime?"

"Rediscovering the lost city of Atlantis," Neil says, deadpan, and when Kevin goes to trial for homicide he is going to play this recording back for the court and they're going to call it justified.

"No, see, by the time Gotlieb started talking about Atlantis, I knew he was fucking with me. That doesn't salvage the two goddamn hours I spent trying to convince my teammates that the pyramids weren't, I shit you not, built by Napoleon." He pauses as he reconsiders what just came out of his mouth. "This was Andrew's idea, wasn't it?"

"Kevin, if you only talk to people about exy, they're going to think they can only talk to you about exy. Now your team knows you're an actual fucking person. Have fun with that."

Plague upon his fucking house. "Are you expecting a thank you?"

"You promised yourself you'll make more friends. I'm just holding you to it. So...yes."

Kevin doesn't say it, and he tells himself its because Neil doesn't need the ego. Somehow Neil hears him anyway. "Drive home safe, Kevin."

"Go get your rookies in line, Captain," Kevin says, and hangs up. He dials Andrew next; he needs to know just how much of Kevin's thesis Andrew turned into conspiracy fodder.

[jesuis-assez]

Which holiday or special event would you most like to see celebrated on an episode of The Rookie, and how do you imagine Chenford would celebrate it?

Here we go:

Their wedding (special event)

Birthday

New Years Eve

Wedding - They did an episode [their 100th] for Nolan and Bailey surrounding this They eluded to and dare I say foreshadowed the possibility of this happening for Tim and Lucy. So it'd be really amazing for that to transpire.

I crossed out that last part in the second gif, 'cause I don't even want to entertain that thought. There is no IF about it. Otherwise, I'm happy to live in delulu land and pretend it happens… in my head.

Since they clearly did see a future there, while together. Enough to talk about kids, grandchildren etc. It stopped being even a question, after they started dating each other. So, I mean?? They were that certain.

Also there's that theme of them dancing at weddings. From Tim saying to Rachel "I don't do weddings." -> to dancing with Lucy at every wedding he's been to thereafter, with the added exception of him asking her to save him a dance. And then flash- forward dancing with her at their own wedding. Can you see the vision? 🤣

Perhaps they could do something special with Lucy's moon ring. It already holds such a sentimental value for both of them. I wonder if Lucy thinks of it as their ring rather than just hers? Considering the events of Day of Death.

Perhaps Tim proposes to her with a new ring, but it's the same moonstone. He has it remade for her. I think that be something special. OR.. she loses it? And Tim is the one that finds it AGAIN and brings it back to her. Only this time he proposes to her with it? During that proposal, he mentions how this ring led him to her once and he can't imagine spending the rest of his life without her (a little parallel to his speech in 6x10)

MAYBE they have Angela help him with the proposal and he does it at the station, where they first met. He proposes in the briefing room, IN THE SAME ROOM HE FIRST SAW HER, ON THE SAME DAY HE MET HER. That's romantic AF 🤣 and we know he is that with her whether he's intending to be or not.

[ I would write all of this in a fic or something, but I'm not sure if anyone would want to read it 🤣 My one motivation would be to emotionally destroy you all... affectionately ofc :) But also.. I don't think I have the emotional capacity needed to even attempt to plan and write a whole a** fic right now. ]

I'd imagine they'd celebrate their wedding with something that's more them (as most couples do anyway) Do I know what that looks like? No. If I were to write it, would I know by then? Yes. But, for right now.. I have spent a long time on this question, as I do with all asks. *slowly nods* Besides, I talk a lot of shit about writing for them, but I've never done it. So, it'd be nice to finally write a piece 😂

Birthday - I don't think Tim cares for his birthday. (But either Tim or Lucy, preferably Lucy... This time It'll be a much happier birthday. Instead of all that *erm* chaos that occurred. Y'know, like Mad dog jumping off a roof and everything horrible after. Like, fuck... 😦 VERY unhappy birthday 🤣

Tim makes Lucy breakfast in bed 🤪But first he lets her sleep in for a little bit. (We know he does this for her) They each have thoughtful ways of being there for the other. Sweet gestures they do for each other.

And then he'll wake her softly with a forehead kiss (because I need another one) Or she'd wake to the smell of pancakes and she'll find either a single rose resting on an envelope or a bouquet of Lucy's favourite flowers waiting for her.

I really think he'd go all out for her. Like... a whole day's worth. He'd take a 'personal day'. As for his birthday gift to her? Goodness... He's really good at gifting, as we know. After all, he took notes from her 🤭 He really notices.

He really listens and pays attention to her, he's that in tuned with her. And THAT in love with her. He wouldn't fuss over his own birthday, but if it's Lucy's? He's going to make it special for her.

I have an idea of what he would say in the birthday card, something on the lines of:

" If I could give you one gift, it would be for you to see yourself through my eyes. You are the most beautiful, extraordinary, kind-hearted, strong person I have met. I am so grateful for your presence in my life and to know you. I know without a doubt in mind, that you will achieve anything in your path. And I will be there with you every step of the way, as I always have and always will. With every smile, word and touch, you are the best thing that came into my life. I love you with all my heart and that love only grows stronger in your presence. Happy birthday, sweetheart. "

I don't know. Something like that. Hopefully they'd be in a much better place than where they were at in 6x08, that he can sign off the card with his name.

I think Lucy would like for Tim to also see himself through her eyes, as well 🤔Tim believes in Lucy more than she believes in herself and despite how low Tim may think of himself, Lucy mutually thinks the world of him.

New Years Eve - Oooh... What about a parallel to them sitting on her couch? Like when they first kissed in her apartment, only they're sitting down instead? They talk about how far they've come and they bring up their undercover mission, how they had to pretend to be a couple. They talk about what they would love to happen in the new year. Then they toast to new beginnings, possible advancement in Lucy's career etc.

Thaaankk yoouuuuu for this ask. I ♥ it. I spent a whole hour typing it out + more time happily making gifs to support by babbling 🤣😉

[needleanddead]

I hope you're prepared for a few questions packed all in one ask then! *cracks knuckles*

I've actually just discovered Lucas a few days ago, and whenever I find something/someone I'm interested in, I consume every piece of information available, same with all your amazing Lucas asks and fics. I'm a sucker for horrible people being all lovey-dovey in their own sick way. So!

What does Lucas do with his darling's belongings? You once said, if I remember correctly, that he throws them away because he doesn't want them to have any ties to their old life. But does he look through their stuff? Their backpack? And does he keep some things? Like maybe medication, hygiene products, makeup (because asking Lucas to buy makeup for his darling would be disastrous, I feel like. He would not know which products in what shades to buy), clothes, or just things he knows they'll be happy to have back? For example: I have a stuffed animal that I cannot sleep without, so would he throw it away too or maybe even get it back if I asked him nicely for it? Or would he just get me a new one? (Which would make me cry, btw.)

Does Lucas allow his darling to go to the bathroom alone at night? This goes for both when he still sleeps on the couch in the beginning but also when he sleeps with them in bed after a while. Does he want them to wake him up each time? I bet this is one of those privileges he grants over time, once they gain his trust.

I've read in an answer to an ask that Lucas is in his forties, and so I'm wondering: does he treat his darling differently based on how old they are? Is he more prone to playing a caretaker when they're like, what, 15-20 years younger than him? Also, does it bother him in any way when his darling is literally old enough to be his child - maybe early to mid 20s - or is it something he doesn't even think about?

One of the asks you answered a few hours ago intrigued me as well, so I just wanna explore it a bit. (This part is NSFW, just FYI!) How is the first time being intimate with Lucas? Is it more unrestrained, since he's wanted them since the moment he saw them, or is he overwhelmingly gentle? Especially with a more nervous darling, all sniffling and nervous because they just see him as a ruthless killer still, not wanting him to touch them, but they don't really have a choice in the matter. Would he just shush them and take from them what he wants, or would the focus be on them entirely, just him wanting to make them feel good? Make them feel safe and like they can - and *should* - trust him? I wonder how that would play out, especially when his darling is trying to push him away.

Okay, wow, this is probably the longest ask I've ever sent! Have fun with it and I'm looking forward to your answers. (:

Ah anon, sitting down to answer this with a cup of tea and thinking very hard . . . like all characters, Lucas shifts around a bit and some of my older posts may be outdated (sometimes the character tells me differently to what I have always believed of them!), but I will answer as best I can!

He does, usually, get rid of darling's belongings. For one thing, he can't risk them having things like phones or wallets in their possession (phones get taken to the edge of the woods and smashed up, he's paranoid of trackers!). ID cards get cut up, other identifying things get thrown in wells, scattered through the woods as far away from Lucas's cabin as possible. So yes, he looks through their stuff too! He might keep a FEW things, if they look particularly sentimental (a bear? Perhaps. Sometimes underwear or pyjamas or clothing, if he's not sure yet if he has things that will fit them - and if not, he'll keep them for the wardrobe anyway). These things he does keep won't get given to them right away, though; like all things, they have to prove that they deserve them! Earn them back. He probably WOULD keep medication for them (he's not foolish enough not to realise what it is), but makeup . . . no, that probably goes. If they come with him willingly, actually, once he's slaughtered everyone they're with, he might just let them bring the whole bag once he's checked it through for the most dangerous items (weapons, ID, etc)!

No. They're expected to wake him up. Chances are, if he's sleeping on the couch, he hasn't actually fallen asleep anyway - he's used to every little noise in the cabin, and he's excited about having his darling under his roof - even if they think that they're being quiet, they probably end up seeing a shape in the hallway and a voice rumbling out to ask what they're doing and to reassure them that he's there to help. You're right in that it's one of the privileges that get granted over time; a few months in, once they've proved that they can be trusted, he might get woken up by darling saying they need the bathroom and instead of getting up he just smiles sleepily and tells them to hurry on back to bed afterwards, then.

Honestly, he doesn't really think about his darling's age! A younger darling who says something he doesn't understand might get a fond and exasperated "kids these days" kind of response, but other than that . . . He would put himself into the caretaker role even if his darling is older than him (and yes! He's forty eight!). It's not about age to him, but about how . . . helpless they are. How much they need him. If they are a lot younger, it doesn't bother him; he doesn't think about them being young enough to be his own child, but more he thinks that they haven't had enough time in the world to be truly corrupted by it.

He tries, very, very hard not to hurt his darling and not to let his desires get the better of him when the time does come that he can't hold himself back. He's aware that he's big and strong, and often his darling is smaller and softer - it's easier, actually, if darling is sniffling and whimpering and begging, than if they fight back. He reassures them with kisses and soft murmurs and asks them not to cry (the feel of his hardness against their thigh, twitching when they take a great sob, proves that actually he really doesn't mind the crying). He tries to take his time; work them open slowly, make sure that they're ready to take him. Tries to make sure that they get to come too - but when it comes down to it, when he's actually inside, he can lose himself just a little too easily in how it feels and might bruise or be a bit too enthusiastic. He's always terribly sorry about it afterwards, kissing and soothing them - and he promises that they won't have to get up in the morning and he'll make the breakfast. As long as they're not outright screaming and clawing, he'll accept a little bit of tearful whimpering - it's a big thing, after all, sleeping with someone you love for the first time!

[apparitionism]

Bonus 2

Here’s the second part of a holiday story, begun in part 1, about how Myka and Helena, in a vaguely season 4 world in which nobody’s going to go to Boone but through which they have thus far been separated, are reunited for a day-before-Christmas-eve retrieval in Cleveland. Helena has been summoned by Claudia to serve as Myka’s backup, for Pete is spending some holiday time with his family... but as it turns out, the retrieval is necessary because—plot-semi-twist!—Pete Christmas-gifted his cousin, who is a bigwig at an accounting firm, with an artifact, a pen that apparently has something to do with Santa’s naughty/nice list. Which said cousin used to confer end-of-year bonuses—and penalties. As this part opens, Myka is just beginning to process the fact that the whole situation is Pete’s fault...

(And no, I didn’t manage to bring this thing in for a landing in this part. Nobody faint from the surprise.)

Bonus 2

“Okay,” Myka acknowledges, because what else can she do? The fact is that in any Warehouse-related context, “coincidence” is a non sequitur, and she begins formulating a plan to Christmas-gift Claudia with a T-shirt featuring that sentiment. How fast can she get a custom T-shirt made?

The irony is that Claudia would know.

“Yeah,” says Pete’s cousin—Pete’s cousin! She might be affirming the Claudia-irony in Myka’s head, or the situational irony Myka is now stuck in, or any of the vast array of ironies that make up the Warehousian unfolding of time itself. Myka would not have expected Pete’s cousin’s words to contain multitudes. And yet.

“He told me it was the kind of thing he thought I’d like,” that cousin continues, “and he was right. Effects aside, it’s a gorgeous implement. Perfectly balanced... which I guess works on an existential level too, doesn’t it? Naughty, nice.” She shifts the pen to rest a delicate crosswise on an extended index finger, testing its equilibrium as a chef might a knife.

The pen—or is it merely a different species of knife?—basks in Nancy Sullivan’s regard. “Resonant little instrument,” she says, with clear affection. “Anyway, we were talking about Pete.” A different sort of affection now colors her voice. “He went into this big production-number apology about it being sort of secondhand.”

“Oh?” Myka says, distracted by pens, knives, resonances... but, right, secondhand. Of course it’s secondhand. No new item could be an artifact. Or could it? This seems like a Steve-conversation topic.... and it certainly beats “H.G. is god knows where” for philosophy.

“Not because it’s not new,” Pete’s cousin says, apparently reading Myka’s mind, “but because he initially was thinking he’d give it to somebody else.”

Myka repeats her interrogative “oh?”, but she’s getting a feeling again.

“Yeah,” says Nancy Sullivan, and Myka really has to applaud her talent for broadly applicable affirmation. “He said he wanted to give it to his partner because, and I quote, ‘she likes the old-fashioned stuff,’ but then he realized he shouldn’t because, and I also quote, ‘she’s got this whole family feathery-pen dealy-thingy and I don’t want to upset her.’” She waves the pen again, this time directly at Myka, like a conductor imploring the oboes to pick up the pace. “And he told me his partner’s name,” she concludes.

“I’m sure there are lots of Myka Berings in the world?” Myka tries, weakly, raising her hands as if to offer Nancy Sullivan all those other Myka Berings. The last vestige of defensibility... then her hands drop, because really. She looks at Helena in apology, with only an indistinct, tangled sense of what she’s apologizing for. I’m sorry I occasioned this is part of it, yet there’s a deeper fault she feels but can’t quite ideate, one more consequential than an anodyne “oops.”

“Listen, he’s a really good guy,” Nancy Sullivan says.

“I agree completely,” Myka assures her. But in the interest of full disclosure, she adds, “Mostly completely. I mean, I’m going to kill him for this.”

Helena says, “Are you.” Her tone brings Myka up short: it’s impossibly knowing, suggesting insight into everything Myka has been thinking, about someday and talking and things.

Again with the reading so right.

Myka would love to have the panache to do more than glance furtively at Helena, to pull off a playful, similarly knowing response, like “that depends on my backup” (or something actually clever that will doubtless occur to her during some post-holiday post-mortem). Instead she goes with a not at all interrogative “Oh.”

Nancy Sullivan looks from Myka to Helena. Then she says, “Okay, revision: A really good guy who might be hanging onto some unreasonable hope.”

Myka wishes she could keep from glancing yet again, now, at Helena—now as she grasps the fullness of her underlying error, now as she formulates a hopeful plan regarding someday saying out loud “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize that he had any such hope and that I didn’t make completely clear that any such hope would never have been anything but unreasonable”—but the wish doesn’t work. She glances... thus proving Nancy Sullivan’s point.

“He didn’t mention you,” Pete’s cousin tells Helena. “I think I see why.”

“I’m both offended and pleased,” Helena says, with her customary little thank-you head-bow.

Rather than luxuriating in the familiarity of that head-bow, Myka tries to head off a more detailed discussion of Helena’s role in it all (and what a nondescriptively limp phrase that is) by observing, “The sixth-sense thing is quite the family trait.”

“Ah. Sure. You’ve had experience,” Nancy Sullivan says, a little droop in her voice.

Has she taken Myka’s words as criticism? Myka hurries to reassure, “Sometimes it’s very helpful.”

“But. Other times.” This is heavier, and now she must be referencing her own vibe-related experiences.

“Your family get-togethers must be really... charged?” Myka tries.

Nancy Sullivan offers another all-encompassing “Yeah.” Then she laughs. “But at least we don’t have a feathery-pen dealy-thingy like your family does.”

Helena clears her throat, an attention-garnering ah-ha-hem, as if it’s in the stage directions preceding her next line in some farce. She inclines her head: more stage-direction drama. Finally, “You do now,” she says in benediction.

Nancy Sullivan’s jaw drops. “Wow,” she says, and “wow,” she repeats. Then she laughs again and says, “He really should’ve mentioned you.”

Myka might laugh too, but she is preoccupied by the way in which Helena’s well-chosen articulation has persuaded her body to remind her that it and she have reached no mutually satisfactory agreement about appropriate reactions.

And that in turn sparks Myka to a realization: once the retrieval is accomplished, there may be a nonzero chance that she and Helena could enjoy a bit more of that liminal together-presence...

Myka’s body makes its best effort to crash through the gauzy ideating her brain would prefer to do about what such time could entail, and after no small amount of nethers-vs.-cerebrum struggle, she manages to propose, truce-wise, a simple Let’s just hope it exists.

Surprisingly, body and mind are willing to shake on that, giving Myka leave to slip on a glove and pronounce, “Just give us the pen. Then it’s over. Mostly. The money will probably revert... so you’ll most likely have to redo the bonuses the old-fashioned way.” Hearing herself, she amends, “Well. The regular way.”

“I don’t mind redoing. But reverting...” Pete’s cousin tightens her fingers around the artifact, pulling it near to her body as if she might be considering, for one last “maybe,” the idea of punching her way out.

Myka tenses, and she doesn’t need to cast a glance to know that Helena is doing the same.

She glances anyway... and indeed, Helena alive with wiry readiness is a sight worth the seeing. So worth it, in fact, that Myka is genuinely, if improperly, disappointed that said sight doesn’t cause the truce to collapse.

After a moment, however, color returns to Nancy Sullivan’s knuckles, and Myka removes the pen from her slackened grip.

But then Nancy Sullivan cocks her head. “Is it really over though? I feel like something else might be happening.”

No. No. Absolutely not. “Something else is always happening,” Myka says, affecting nonchalance as she slides the feathery foolishness into a static bag, ignoring its yipping sparks of protest. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nancy Sullivan casts a skeptical look at the barky little bag. “If you say so. Anyway seeing Pete’s face when I tell him you and I –and he and I!—are fellows in family feathery-pen dealy-thingies now? Might end up being the second-best end-of-year bonus of all, given everything.” There’s a little mockery in her voice, echoing the cousin Myka knows so well.

“And the best such bonus?” Helena inquires.

“Docking Bob’s pay,” Nancy Sullivan says instantly.

Myka snorts, and Nancy Sullivan turns back to her and says, “Are you okay with me being glad we met?” Like she’s mostly but not entirely sure of the response she’ll get, and that’s another echo.

“Only if you’re okay with me being glad too,” Myka says, her own voice sounding a familiar note—one she’s pretty sure Pete would recognize.

After a nod, Nancy Sullivan turns to Helena. “I’d say it to you, but I feel like there’s something extra going on with you, like—”

Myka steps in: “Honestly, always,” and then she’s hustling Helena out of the office even as Helena chirps, “I’m both offended and pleased by that as well!”

Back in the elevator, Helena speaks first. “I did not expect that,” she says, sounding entertained by—practically bubbly about—the entire scenario.

“I should have,” Myka grumbles.

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“Oh god no,” Myka says, involuntarily. “Too easy if anything.”

Helena’s eyebrows rise, and her eyes accuse. “I’ve known you for no small amount of time,” she says.

Myka’s previous review fights that statement, but she doesn’t speak of it.

Her lack of response prompts a heavy I-am-no-longer-entertained sigh. “Must I return to the phrase ‘your truth’?”

“Please don’t,” Myka says. That’s also nearly involuntary, but it sounds too harsh, like she’s dismissing as unimportant that bookstore interaction, as well as the entirety of those in-extremis manifestations of herself and Helena. Rather than apologizing for that, for surely it would prove far too entangling, she tries to draw Helena’s attention back to the entertainment. “I like Nancy Sullivan. She reminds me of Pete and his mom.”

“Pete’s mother? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

That’s a bit more jousty, backed by curiosity. Good. “She’s a Regent,” Myka says, for it’s the most salient piece of information she has about Jane Lattimer.

Helena stills. Her jaw hardens. “Then perhaps I have indeed had the... pleasure.” Cold. Cold. Cold.

You idiot, Myka scourges herself. Why couldn’t she have done the normal thing and left Pete’s mom as “Pete’s mom”? But now, but now: now she’s seen this wound, down there under the ice, and she wants to test that ice, but she can’t, regardless of her wish and want to know know know, to know everything Helena has been put through, so as to know whom to hate (and she hopes that doesn’t include Pete’s mom) and whom to someday thank (and she double-hopes that does include Pete’s mom). “Anyway I think the cousin had the right idea,” she says, pushing back to the now, to what just happened. “Using an artifact to do what are really decent things, even if they were judgmental.”

“Rather Old Testament,” Helena says. “Strangely inappropriate for this holiday, no?” She asks that like she’s really thinking—wondering—about it.

Myka congratulates herself on having provided a distraction, however minimal, from whatever Regent-pain her unthinking reveal caused to surface. “I hadn’t thought about Santa being more Yahweh than Jesus,” she says, to enhance it, “and I’m not sure what it says about my position on salvation that I genuinely wish we could have let her keep that pen. Or even better, if we could maybe ferry it around to deserving arbiters... wouldn’t that contribute to the greater good, even if it’s in a judgy Old-Testament way?”

Helena’s face moves as if she’s about to answer, but before she can, a rupturing screech of metal-on-metal complication resounds decisively through the space, and their ear-popping descent slows, slows, slows...

...and stops.

After an appropriately irony-bearing pause, Helena says, “This elevator seems to disapprove of your suggestion. Or perhaps it’s your theological indecision that displeases?”

All Myka can manage is an extremely resigned “I am not surprised.”

Efforts to summon help strengthen the “disapproval” interpretation: they’re fruitless. No one answers the emergency line, and this mirrored box is, according to both their phones, the place where cell service goes to die. Or where that service is interfered with by a theologically offended pulley-based mechanism.

“I genuinely cannot believe we’re stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. It may be the most true statement to which she’s ever given voice.

After a beat, however, she concedes, “But of course I can.”

Helena casts her gaze around. Once again, exaggeratedly stage-direction-y. “At least it’s reasonably well-appointed. For an elevator in which to be... stuck.” She seems to relish articulating “stuck,” so she’s back to being entertained. Not quite bubbly, but definitely entertained.

Myka can’t get past her annoyance with the elevator’s disapproval, so she says a peevish, “I don’t like mirrors.” She’s painfully aware now that they cover not only the walls, but also the ceiling. She can’t even look heavenward in supplication, sarcastic or otherwise, without regarding herself. It really is too much.

Given that no other communication technology is working, she resorts to the Farnsworth. She gives thanks for Warehouse mojo, or whatever enables it to elude the elevator’s wrath, when Claudia answers with, “No info on ‘lists, making them’ yet.”

“We dealt with that,” Myka tells her. “New problem.”

“Another artifact?”

“Who knows? Maybe Pete’s in an elevator somewhere else in this town making bad decisions, and they’re redounding to our detriment.” She’s vamping. Stuck in an elevator with Helena, she’s vamping. Instead of simply basking in such fantasy-made-fact, she’s vamping.

She doesn’t bother wondering whether Helena knows she’s doing that; if this little adventure has done nothing else, it’s reminded Myka that Helena always knows. It’s both wonderful and terrible to be so legible, particularly to someone Myka so often finds frustratingly illegible.

“I’m not following,” Claudia says.

Speaking of illegible: Myka, heal thyself. “We’re stuck. In an elevator,” she clarifies.

Claudia makes a noise that, impressively, marries a gasp and a snicker. “Are you really? Or did you push the stop button, like people do?”

“Like people... what?”

“When they want to have a little uninterrupted chat,” Claudia says, pedantic, as if now she’s the one who’s “clarifying.”

“Nobody does that in real life,” Steve says from offscreen. Myka is pleased to know he’s around.

“Myka just did,” Claudia insists in his direction. “Didn’t you,” she insists at Myka.

“If I did,” Myka says, “why would I be calling you to get us out of here?”

“Yeah, why would she?” Steve asks, but from farther away.

Don’t leave! Myka wants to exhort. She would never admit to needing backup in a counter-Claudia sense... but she does appreciate when Steve provides it.

“Oooh, because maybe the chat didn’t go so well,” Claudia says with great, and to Myka’s thinking entirely inappropriate, relish.

Trying for calm pragmatism, she says, “Wouldn’t I just... unpush the stop button then?”

“Myka,” Claudia says. It’s the most chiding, disappointment-laden use of her name Myka has ever heard, even when measured against all the times her father has uttered those two designating syllables. “Believe me when I tell you I’m a fan,” Claudia goes on, turning mollifying, “but you really need to lean in when it comes to tropes.” Myka can’t imagine how to respond to that, so she doesn’t. Claudia sighs—seemingly everyone’s preferred go-to when Myka fails to produce words—and says, “Did you try calling maintenance? Pushing the emergency button? Using your cell?”

“Yes, yes, and no service. Do you genuinely think I don’t understand modern communication technology?”

“I think you pretend you don’t understand newfangledness all the time. Particularly when you’re trying to show off how sympatico you are with H.G., who incidentally doesn’t seem to be piping up like I’d expect. Did you knock her unconscious after your terrible chat? Or maybe during it?”

Helena has indeed been very—very surprisingly—quiet while Myka has explained the situation to Claudia. And she doesn’t step in to help Myka out now. So much for any counter-Claudia backup.

“There was not a chat,” Myka says.

Helena is regarding herself in the mirrored ceiling.

“But there could be one now?” Claudia nudges. “Let me see if I can see what’s up. I’ve got cell service.” She disconnects.

Helena abruptly abandons her ceiling self-contemplation, focusing her gaze upon Myka. It’s disconcerting. “Are you attempting to avoid an uninterrupted chat?” she asks.

Myka can’t suss the question’s sincerity. And notwithstanding all her ideas about talking, she suffers a cringing internal “yes.” Externally, however, she says, in what she hopes offers at least a veneer of sincerity of her own, “No.”

She doesn’t follow up by asking “why would I be doing that,” because Helena would probably have a guess. And because that guess would probably be accurate: “You are a coward,” Helena might say, and Myka would regrettably have to either tell the truth and agree, or lie and disclaim any emotional investment in whatever the outcome of such a chat might be.

Silence. Longer than it should be... or is it as long as Myka deserves?

You wanted time together. Don’t bellyache about the form it takes.

“Your objection to mirrors,” Helena eventually says.

“What about it?” Myka asks. Her very soul flinches.

“What is it?”

Myka has never before stated her dislike of mirrors aloud, and she regrets having done so now. To play it off, she says a dismissive, “An artifact.” And yet the truth is that despite the unnerving nature of her interaction with Alice’s mirror and how it continues to prey on her mind, it isn’t really that—or rather, that only intensified her dislike.

But when Helena proposes, “Yet another ‘dealy-thingy’?”, clearly (and preciously) trying the phrase out in her mouth, Myka misleadingly (intentionally misleadingly) nods and says, “They’re all dealy-thingies.”

To that, Helena says, “Interesting.”

Myka would probe that word, but to do so might destabilize the ground, here in an elevator. Instead, for the moment, she tilts her head in the direction of the Christmas muzak, the literal elevator music, being piped in. “Oh, sure, that still works.” She gestures at the speaker, a thin dark stripe between two mirror-panels, from which the sound is emerging. The elevator is nothing if not insistent.

In truth, she doesn’t mind Christmas carols. She does mind the bowdlerization thereof, and isn’t that an attitude the dogmatic elevator really ought to share? O holy night, the stars are brightly... synthesizing? It’s wrong.

Now even her mind is vamping. Great.

Helena tilts her head toward the speaker, however, and Myka appreciates her willingness to be redirected. At least for a moment.

In fact, for all her vamping, mental and otherwise, Myka finds herself absurdly content to simply stand against a mirrored elevator wall and regard Helena... who in that instant of Myka’s acknowledged contentment seems to accept their predicament as unlikely to be resolved in a timely fashion: she sits down, of course elegantly, resting her back against her side of the box and stretching her legs (her legs, Myka’s body notes, just to let her know it’s still paying close attention) out in front of her.

The looking-down perspective is a bit disorienting—although at least this time it has nothing to do with being stuck to a ceiling—but Myka has no time to process it, for Helena’s next salvo, looking up, is, “You’ve been expecting me to remark further on naughtiness, haven’t you.”

Reading, yet again. “I kind of have,” Myka admits. It seems an overly judgmental statement, particularly given that Myka has to deliver it as if from an elevated bench. And yet... she kind of has.

“I’d rather not fulfill that expectation,” Helena says. “If we could speak of other things.”

Myka is a little thrown, but thankful. “That is entirely fine by me. What do you want to talk about?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly,” Myka says, meaning it as an answer to either interpretation of Helena’s interrogative: Are you asking what I want to talk honestly about? or Are you asking, with honest intent, what I want to talk about? She hopes Helena will respond similarly.

“Something that interests you,” Helena says.

That’s not in any way what she was expecting. “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s a word similar to, yet very different from, “honestly.” What, in a real sense, interests Myka? In this moment, all she can think to say is “you.” And perhaps because her normal inhibitions are disordered, here in this stopped elevator, that’s what she blurts out.

And that seems, incongruously, to take Helena aback. “What about me?” she asks.

Myka can’t say “everything.” It’s the real answer (really), but it’s far too... big. For an unexpected reunion, an unexpected uninterrupted chat—although Claudia or rescuers could at any point interrupt it, which Myka should hope happens (should)—it’s far too big.

So: smaller. What occurs first to Myka is “where have you been”—but that would most likely seem accusatory. She needs something else. Something something something...

In the aftermath of the Warehouse not being destroyed, she’d felt herself full of hard-earned wisdom and bravery: enough, surely, to stop hesitating. Enough, surely, to act. Or enough, at the very least, to articulate.

“Wisdom” and “bravery” now seem nothing more than labels on empty containers, and so “faintheartedness” is the fullness with which Myka here initially accuses her today self. But as Helena breathes and waits for an answer, Myka revises that, gentling it to “caution.” And she adds “care.” Because she is trying to attend to, to appreciate, that breathing. And that waiting.

These might be nothing more than self-indulgently comforting shifts in vocabulary... but then again they might be akin to the shift from “Christmas” to “end-of-year.” Gentle. Inclusionary.

The something something something that occurs to her—because in attempting to avoid her own reflection, she is confronted instead with multiple Helenas—concerns a topic she probably should censor but doesn’t: “When you were a hologram... or a projection, or whatever we should call it... did you have a reflection?” She then reflexively backtracks, “It shouldn’t matter? But I don’t know.” That last, she means both ways. She doesn’t know: whether the reflection existed, or whether it matters. But maybe it’s a sneak-up on things, because she shouldn’t ignore things, and because a seemingly inconsequential tangent might tiptoe toward importance.

“I don’t know either,” Helena says. “I suppose I would have?” Her face contracts. “Or perhaps not, as I don’t know how that holographic projection of myself was... projected. But I do intend to look into it.” She says this last as if Myka has caught her in some inattention, a recklessly uncompleted assignment.

“I never even started majoring in physics,” Myka laments, which is true but also, she hopes, reassuring in an I didn’t do the homework either sense, “so I don’t know the optics of it. Projections. Light and mirrors. “ She doesn’t mention that in the wake of Pittsburgh, she had indeed tried researching such things... she’d got as far as some advanced volumetric displays, ones using dust particles as screens onto which lasers projected light, but at a certain point, a tipping point, the idea of Helena existing as—being relegated to—nothing more than light and dust seemed to scream a surpassing insult, a degradation conjuring death, and it was more than she could bear.

For now she puts that away. She shakes her head, shakes it free, and changes tack. “Anyway, that’s probably the wrong approach. This is Warehousey, so thinking outside physics, the laws... okay, all I know about reflections, unphysically, is that vampires don’t have them. So if you didn’t have one, then maybe all holograms are vampires?” Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. She would have done better to speak of dust, that and light and despair. Going with vampires instead? Talk about vamping...

“Presumably not vice versa,” Helena observes, seemingly taking Myka’s words far too seriously. “Certainly fictionally. Also not overly flattering, in the syllogistic sense of ‘Helena was a hologram, therefore.’”

“They’re very popular though,” Myka temporizes.

“Stoker’s novel was all the rage,” Helena allows.

The chat stalls out. Interrupting itself?

Myka nevertheless feels pressure to fill the silence: it’s her fault. Will a simple truth suffice? “I didn’t expect to be spending the day before Christmas Eve with you,” she says. “Or any day with you. In Cleveland.”

A small smile from Helena marks this as a more welcome fill than a question about reflection. As do her next words: “Nor I with you. In Cleveland, or any place. Equally, I didn’t expect to be sent on a mission with you.”

“That part of it went well.” Myka gestures at her bag that contains the artifact.

“We did—and now do once again—make a good team.”

“I’m glad we got the chance to do it again. Glad, but also... relieved.”

“Relieved,” Helena echoes.

That wasn’t a question, but Myka answers anyway. “Well, obviously, first,” she says, feeling herself launching into an explanatory babble that she fears she’ll be powerless to stop, “because you didn’t have to talk anybody out of using Joshua’s trumpet, so that really makes a difference in terms of how we—”

“‘First’,” Helena quotes, interrupting (stopping), conveying her full knowledge that that too is a vamp. “And second?”

“That we still are.” This, Myka says simple and frank.

“A good team?”

That is a question. Myka knows “yes” is the only sensical answer, so she tries to say it. But the depth and weight of the ways in which she and Helena “still are” choke her: they “still are” in the basic sense of existing, which was never a certainty; and even better, higher, these hours they’ve spent together today have made clear, to Myka at least, that they “still are”... well. She’d like to finish that with something like “in love,” but instead she tries to leave it, even in her head, at “still are,” with their time-crossed, maybe-destined predicate undefined.

“A good team” should be good enough—true enough—for now.

So after a stretch of time during which Myka knows she’s been focusing her gaze far too intently on Helena, she manages that “yes.”

Helena waits to speak.... are her eyes glistening more brightly than usual, or is Myka hallucinating? “I’m relieved as well,” she says, and Myka chooses to simply delight in whatever prompted such a saturated sparkle.

It draws her closer.

She crosses the small-yet-large elevator-width that separates them. “I need to either sit down beside you or help you up,” she says. “Do you have a preference?”

“For?” Helena’s eyes continue to glow.

That shine... Myka has hopes. They may not be realized, but she has them: the product of relief, “still are,” and an unknown predicate. “Whatever’s next,” she says.

A bit of time passes, with Helena now being the one focused most intently. “I’ll stand,” is her verdict.

Myka reaches down with both—both—hands, offering, and Helena reaches up, accepting. Their fingers meet and clasp, and too cold, Myka thinks, for both of them have a chill in those extremities... but first impressions of temperature promptly fall away as the new reality of the clasp roars into precedence.

Myka has never been so certain of, so certain of and enchanted by, what must and will happen next in her life. Never in her life so certain, as the clasp tightens, as their torsos lean, as Myka’s body begins an at-last congratulation, one that will become a celebration—

A voice from somewhere overhead barks, “Everybody okay in there?”

TBC

[madeintheniamh]

Heyyyyy! Can you do one where Tilly gets her first boyfriend, and Harry really wants to meet him so she brings him home for dinner? And after words Harry is all sentimental that she’s going up and stuff :))))) Love your stories btw

it's here! i put a bit of a spin on it but hope you still like it anyway xx

posh boys with rich girls

stmf one shot #15

when harry dropped tilly off at the prep school gates for the first time nearly fifteen years ago, he didn't realise that he had signed his future self up for having to deal with the notoriously stuck up private school boys.

a/n: this is exactly what i think a casual saturday in the styles house would be like. pizza and wine always. absolutely no 'posh people' food as harry would probably call it.

warnings: fluff, dadrry, teenagers, rich stuck up boys lol

Tilly had convinced herself that she could keep a secret from her Dad for once in her life, because she knew how protective he could be over her. He got scared when she fell from extension as a flyer in cheer- so imagining how dramatic he’d be when he found out about her new boyfriend made her stomach churn a bit. In his eyes, no one would ever be good enough for his girls- apart from him. This was quite a narcissistic way of putting it, he knew that, but he couldn’t help his standards being so high.

“You’re going out with Este again?” He joked. “I didn’t know she got a new car,”

“Yes, haha,” Tilly tried to chuckle, her face going red. “It’s really nice,”

“Can I come outside and see it?”

She shuffled around on the spot, trying to hide the fact that she was lying through her teeth.

“We’re busy, Daddy,” She bit her lip slightly, as he surveyed her guilty face. “We’re already late, I-”

Her face was now a shade of crimson as he pressed the button on the control to zoom in on the image on the security cameras that were on the driveway.

“Wow, didn’t know Este had her haircut, either,”

She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and began to bite one of her nails. “Yeah, looks nice,”

“Matilda Gemma,” He tutted, a line forming in-between his eyebrows. “Are you lying to your Daddy?”

She scorned slightly. “No, I would never lie to you,”

He took her chin in his palm and forced her to look into his eyes. “You know I don’t like it when you lie to me, Tilly Gem,”

She shivered, feeling his cold breath on the side of her neck. “M’not lying, I swear,”

“Why don’t you want me to come out there then, hmm?”

“Okay! I’m lying! Stop looking at me like that, it’s scaring me!” She threw her hands up in defeat.

“Well, is he from school? What’s his name? How long have you been seeing him?” Harry panted, his voice beginning to become shaky. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I knew you’d be funny about it!” Tilly shouted as she began to turn back towards the front porch.

“What do you mean?” Harry protested. “I’m never funny about anything!”

“Right now, look, you’re being weird, stop!” Tilly scolded, one hand on the door handle, the other on her purse.

“You tell him he’s coming round for dinner this weekend, no excuses!” Harry shouted back at her, as she was now halfway down the drive. “I need to meet him!”

---

Henry had gotten with a few rich girls in his time, and had met many of their rich Dads as a result. But none like Tilly Styles. Most girls who went to private school in North London had Dads who worked as plastic surgeons on Harley Street, or were big bosses in corporate in those tall towers in Canary Wharf. She had promised him that her dad was perfectly normal, even if he was one of the most famous men in the music industry. But of-course he was normal to her, he thought, because he was her dad.

“I’m not scared of a man who sings about fruit, I’m not scared of a man who sings about fruit,” He muttered to himself repeatedly as he sat nervously behind the wheel of his BMW. He looked up at the house in front of him, and shuddered slightly. He was rich himself- his father was a CEO at one of the big law firms in Westminster. But he hadn’t realised just how rich Harry Styles really was. He couldn’t understand how Tilly was so humble, having grown up in a house like this. He was probably half a mile away from the front door- fountains at the centre of the drive which a lush collection of cars hid behind, including Tilly’s little Audi TT, which was pretty scratched up as a result of her questionable parking every morning at Sixth Form. He jumped slightly as the hands-free system on his car began to speak.

1 new message from Tils

“we can see you hiding in the car… just come out already he’s really not that bad”

Swearing to himself, he opened the car door and made the long trek down the drive, before finally reaching the sheltered porch and ringing the button on the door. He thought that Tilly almost looked out of place as she opened it. She was wearing a white button up dress, her hair curled into tiny blonde ringlets that rested just below her collarbone.

“Hi,” He smiled awkwardly, struggling to put his hands around her back with a bottle of red wine in one hand, and a bunch of flowers in the other.

“These are so pretty, thank you,” She smiled, as he handed her the bouquet. “I love daisies, they’re my favourite,”

He caressed her back slightly, as he heard a deep laugh come from down the hallway. She took the bottle of wine from his other hand and began to laugh.

“Think Daddy’s already had too much of this,” She chuckled, as she turned and began to walk towards the kitchen. She turned around and noticed he was still stood by the front door.

“Come on, don’t be scared,” She giggled again, dimples beginning to show on her cheeks, gesturing for him to follow her. “He’s just a tall, soppy man,”

Harry still had a glass in his hand as he watched Tilly walk into the kitchen, and stood up from where he was sitting at one of the bar stools. He was wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a loose band t-shirt. It was hard to tell that he was a 42-year-old multi-millionaire just by looking at him.

“Daddy, this is Henry,”

“Hi, Mr Styles,” He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Harry is fine,” Harry laughed, holding his hand out. “Although, our names are similar, so that could get confusing. You’re the posh version of me,”

Henry tried to laugh as he shook his hand, but it sounded more like a cough. He looked over at Tilly, who was clearly amused by the awkward situation. He noticed all the tattoos littering his left arm. His father had always told him that rich people never got tattoos, because it wasn’t classy. But he had to admit- it looked good on Harry, even if some of them were starting to fade.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tilly asked, trying to break the silence. “The pizza’s going to be here in a minute,”

You had been in the utility room, silently listening in on the conversation whilst waiting putting the finishing touches on the crème brulee which you planned to serve for dessert. It was almost perfect timing, as the timer went off and you strolled into the kitchen, chuckling slightly at the wide-eyed look on Tilly’s new boyfriend’s face.

“Hi, Henry,” You smiled. “I hope he hasn’t scared you,”

“Oh, no, Mrs Styles, it’s just, you have such a nice house and everything,”

Tilly jutted in. “Daddy works hard, too hard,” She giggled, as Harry passed her a handful of 20 pound notes to give to the delivery driver. Henry looked at her wide eyed. His father would never give tips to people in those sort of jobs.

“I hope pizza is okay for you, it’s what we always have on a Saturday night… a Styles family tradition, I guess,”

“No, that sounds lovely,” He smiled. “But we usually have filet mignon on Saturdays,”

You swore you heard Harry scoff, as Henry’s eyes grew even wider when he saw the three of you begin to open the boxes, not even bothering to plate up the food properly.

“So, Henry,” Harry drawled slightly, the wine beginning to go to his head, as he shovelled a slice of pizza into his mouth. “What do your parents do?”

“Well, my Father works in the legal sector, and my Mother well, she spends most of her time at the country club,”

Harry tried not to choke on his food as he held back a laugh. “Wow, clever people jobs,” He snorted slightly. “What are you going to do when you finish your A-Levels?”

“My father says he is going to get me a job, in the legal industry,” Henry replied, you cringing slightly at the received pronunciation with which he pronounced his words.

“Sounds… interesting,” Harry replied, turning at you and rolling his eyes slightly.

---

After a couple of hours of awkward conversation, he had gone home and Tilly had gone back upstairs. You and Harry were still sat at the kitchen counter, as Harry filled up his glass of wine for the 5th time that night. His voice had gotten slow- painfully slower than it usually was, as he told you literally everything he had been thinking for the past few hours.

“I knew Mum was right when she said we should have sent them both to schools up North,” he sighed, fiddling with one of the rips in his jeans.

“What do you mean, lovey?” You asked, not quite understanding what he meant. “They’ve both been fine, here,”

“Ohhhh, my Father works in the legal sector,” Harry mocked, too drunk to notice the room’s newest occupant, who had come downstairs to get herself a glass of water, and was now staring wide eyed at Harry. “Their accents are already too posh for me, I just want them to be normal, and be around normal people, not with a load of rich twats,”

“Harry,” you gestured to your daughter who was now stood still at the opposite side of the room.

“Oh hey, Tils, you okay?”

“-You don’t like him.” She scorned, her brows becoming furrowed in the way that his did whenever he was annoyed.

“Tilly, I- that’s not true-”

“I knew I shouldn’t have brought him round.” She sulked, beginning to walk away, before Harry got up from the counter and blocked her from leaving.

“Hey, look, baby-girl, it’s not that I don’t like him,”

“Then why did you just say that? I heard everything,”

“Look, come and sit down with your Daddy,” he sighed, gesturing for her to follow him to the sofa next to the patio doors. He stroked a hand through a ringlet of her hair as she lent into him.

“I don’t not like him. He seems like a nice guy, he really does. It’s just hard for me to see you growing up, sometimes, because you and your sister are my babies, and it’s really hard for me to let go of you both,” He explained, as she placed her arm around his shoulder. “I can’t really explain it, but that’s just how it is, and I just don’t want you to get hurt, because it would hurt me, too,”

She laughed slightly, almost not believing what he had said. “But Daddy, I’m nearly eighteen,” She laughed. “You’ll have to let me go when I go to uni in September,”

“I know, I know,” he exhaled slowly. “Doesn’t make it easier, though, because you’re still my little girl. I still remember when you were little and I used to take you to ballet lessons,��

Tilly giggled a bit. “I made you wear the tutu, didn’t I,”

“You did,” He laughed, peppering a kiss to her forehead. “And I loved every second of it,”

She fully relaxed into his tall frame, feeling his slow heartbeat underneath her.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all,” He sighed. “Boys can be arses, I know that. And you’re the most important thing in the world to me, and it would break me,”

She took a deep breath, nuzzling her chin into his warm chest. “Okay, Daddy,”

“You promise me that no matter what, you know you can tell me anything, and I’ll be there, always. Promise.”

He looked down at her, green eyes identical to his staring back at him. “And fuck filet mignon on Saturdays- what even is that? Pizza is way better.”

---

i had to google what filet mignon actually was lol. looking at the photos it looks absolutely grim. how do people eat that. harry is right. pizza is always better.

if you enjoyed this one shot, i have linked the masterlist to my slipping through my fingers series here!

also thank you to the anon who requested this- please request more i beg you <3

[moonspirit]

So Ik Annie has a confirmed birthday, but realistically do u think that’s her real birthday? Like how would they know her Dad just picked her and was like look at this new weapon child I found. Like he knows nothing about it so how would they know?

She probably never celebrated either so I wonder if she even knows

Hello anon!

I don't actually know if more about this was ever elaborated upon anywhere, like in some kind of official content. But anyway, I'll just put forth my thoughts on it, assuming there's no more information.

Unless there was a note (from whoever abandoned her) attached to her blankets when she was found, this date of 22nd March is probably what her father gave as her birthday. Maybe that's the date he found her, maybe it's something else. If we take this to be how it is, then there's no way of knowing the date she was actually born.

But enrolling as a candidate in the warrior programme would need, I'm assuming, some papers to show your date of birth, race (Eldian) and such. So perhaps her father got those documents made after he took her in, which is what would appear everywhere, from Marleyan Military records to the information about herself that she gives once she gets to Paradis.

Annie probably knows that's not her real birthday though. She knows Mr. Leonhardt isn't her real father, so I'm thinking he'd have minced no words in telling her straight. There's no emotional sentiments lost between the two, after all.

As for birthday celebrations... yeah, I like to think she'd never have celebrated her birthday, really. There is nothing joyous about getting older, once you are a shifter - just a countdown to the end of your pathetically short lifespan. Her father certainly doesn't seem the kind who'd even think much of it xD

But it's nice to think someone prepared a cake for her in Paradis during the cadet years! Mina, or maybe Sasha, even Mikasa helping out :3

[whoslaurapalmer]

anyway it felt weird to be the only person singing my brother happy birthday. i know he's not as like delighted by his birthday as i am about mine or about other people's but it's still, yknow, his birthday, and there was cake and ice cream and my present and a little bag of stuff from our grandmother. but. yknow. i felt the space where our mom was supposed to be. we ordered from the ramen place and he got a breaded chicken rice bowl and that ramen place makes like, every dish a serving for like four people so we had this insane amount of gorgeous breaded chicken that he kept insisting i took more pieces of to eat because he could not eat it all (stunning words from a man who WILL eat almost anything you put in front of him, despite also being particular as hell) and i thought mom would've liked to have had a bite of this. we had supermarket cake and i thought, mom loved this cake. i'm still eating her lactose-free ice cream because there was a carton and a half of it in the freezer and like, i'm not throwing that out! that's perfectly tasty ice cream!! also the lactose-free kind stays soft and isn't a pain in the ass to get out of the container. anyway, anyway.

i know the mail is weird even after a holiday but it's also weird to have specifically sent out cards to say 'hey you sent my mom a christmas card and i have such bad news for you' (not an actual quote, i was much more polite than that, as per THAT POST) but i haven't heard back from those people yet. a sympathy card would be, nice, but like, i shouldn't expect anything from anyone, but i also specified i was moving so maybe they didn't want to send one idk i don't know i also don't know if i'm moving actually but i probably will be i've been trying to not think about staying here bc it's not financially feasible probably but i still don't know but anyway anyway anyway. it's been just over two months without my mom and sometimes i'm like. doing fine. i do get out of bed INCREDIBLY late but that's mostly bc i sleep through most of my alarm but i can, in fact, conduct myself as a functioning person and cook and clean and do things and i'm proud of that!! but then other times it actually hurts more than it did two months ago. my mom was here and now she's not and she should but she's not and sometimes i want her here so badly!! when my stupid freestyle libre 3 falsely alerts in the middle of the night because i'm sleeping on it and it does that multiple times because it is, while an incredible advancement in technology, STILL STUPID, and i'm pissed about it!! when i shovel the snow and come back inside and want her to tell me i did a good job!! i wanted to. idk play in the snow and i wanted to make a snowman last year but i didn't get to but my mom pulled me outside last january and made me make a tiny little mound of snow in an approximation of a snowman but i didn't even want to do that this week because i couldn't show her (and i didn't want anyone on the street to. feel bad for me idk). but i feel her in like. hugs or the way people decorate or people doing something nice or her favorite songs on the radio or all kinds of things.

it took me like a decade to feel comfortable dreaming about my dad after he died because every time i dreamed about him i avoided him in it because i knew he wasn't alive and i didn't want to see him. (i have this sentiment in a fic and everyone's gonna read it and know i'm projecting but it's also such a good scene. this is also the way life, and writing, works. it's sooooo about me please pretend you are not seeing my soul, sha na naaaaa~) also i was 14 and repressed the hell out of that. i'm not 14 anymore. i dream about my mom and sometimes that happens but sometimes i'm just telling her something i really wanted to tell her and she just smiles at me. her mom called while i was washing my hair in the fucking shower the other morning and i wasn't gonna not pick up for my grandmother or tell her to call back (even if her leading statement in the conversation was 'hello lulu what do you think of all this snow!!!!!') so i stood in the bathroom trying to get a towel around my hair while i talked to my grandmother. and i wanted so badly to tell my mom because it would have made her laugh. but also if i could've told her then my grandmother would've been calling her, not me. and i had a dream i told it to my mom and she smiled and she laughed. and that was nice and it still made me cry. this was initially all one paragraph and that actually would've been long as hell but it flowed better that way but did you know there's a character limit for paragraphs in a tumblr post???????? what a fucking discovery. what a time to make this discovery. i'm doing my best.

ALSO MY BROTHER BLOWS THE CANDLES OUT ONE AT A TIME SIR THAT IS NOT HOW BIRTHDAY CANDLES WORK but i wasn't gonna say that.