#assortment planning tool

[visulon]

Revolutionary Visual Merchandising Planning Solution

Visulon Visual Merchandising Planning tool is designed to streamline the entire merchandising planning process, from the creation of a planogram to the allocation of merchandise. It enables retailers to plan their seasonal merchandising campaigns and promotions in advance, allowing them to stay ahead of the competition and ensure they have the right products in stock at the right time.

[joeloverture]

fair's fair | pervy!dbf!joel x f!reader

masterlist | notifs blog

pairing: pervy!dbf!joel x pervy!f!reader summary: [no outbreak] joel shoves you in his sweaty pits as a 'joke'. warnings: (18+ mdni) pervy!dbf!joel, age gap (early to mid 20s/38), somewhat mutual pining & sexual tension, joel in a wifebeater and jorts, reader has hair, smacking joel's ass like god intended, degradation, sweaty!joel, musk kink, armpit kink!!!, coming untouched, joel calls reader 'kiddo', 2 spanks, m!masturbation [no use of y/n] word count: 2.1k a/n: in another life, i'd be sorry for this fic. in this life, i am not. as always, a shoutout to the effervescent @lovesickonmybed for moodboard curation + creating this au. love to @seventeenpins for taking a glimpse at this + inspiring me. ty esquire team.... hooooly shit. pls suspend your disbelief if you can't come untouched we're here for a good time not a realistic one. btw you're all pussies for chickening out of the pit fics you 'planned' to write after this esquire photo fell into our laps /j

You awake to a rattling crash on the other side of the wall that you share with your dad’s combination garage/man cave. With an exaggerated groan, you peel yourself out of your creased sheets. Maybe the raccoons that have been terrorizing your garbage cans have finally broken into the garage. You’re still in your pajamas — a low-cut tank top and some bloomers that are entirely too short on you — when you rub the sleep from your eyes and shove your feet into your slippers to investigate. 

The house is quieter than dust so early in the morning. Your dad’s out at work, and the rest of the neighborhood is just beginning to wake up. There’s the tstststststs of the Adler’s sprinkler system and the birds are chirping. In the mudroom, you snatch up a broom and wrap your fist around it. You listen through the paneling of the door for any hissing or scuttling, but hear nothing. You are not looking to get rabies today.

You poke your head out of the door, broom pointed at the ground like a staff. Immediately, you’re blinded by a slice of sunshine cutting through the very much open garage.

You’re about two seconds away from sprinting back inside to call 911 when you see the unkempt, sunkissed hair of none other than Joel Miller.

You set the broom gently back against the wall. Joel’s not a threat – at least not to anything but that traitor between your legs. He’s just your dad’s buddy; drinking buddy, fishing buddy, jack-of-all-trades buddy. He’s also no stranger to those borderline goo-goo eyes you give him. How could you not? He’s just so broad and muscled and God, you swear up and down that you stare more at his ass than anyone has ever stared at yours.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, he’ll even give you shit about it. Bending over directly in your line of sight at block parties, ‘play wrestling’ with you on the dock by the lake whenever you jokingly call him an old man, or, in one very special instant, giving your ass a smack that sent you into an hours long tizzy.

You deserve to give him shit about it, too.

After all, he’s the one ferreting around in your dad’s garage in the wee hours of the morning. You pad into the garage, footsteps muffled by your slippers as you navigate around your dad’s pickup. You catch a better look at Joel when you pass the truck bed. And, for better or for worse, he’s dressed like a slut.

His ribbed white wifebeater stretches over his wide chest, grass stains scattered along the small of his back. Sweat darkens the hems of his shirt under his armpits, glistening and beading on the back of his neck, too. In true dad fashion, he even has on jorts. He’s bent over your dad’s tool bench, thumbing around an assortment of screwdrivers. His denim-covered ass sticks out. A smile spreads across your face.

You slip around the truck and take soft step after soft step until you’re right behind him. You can’t help but notice a cocktail of his pheromones and B.O. surrounding him. He must’ve been outside for a while now with all of the stains he’s accumulated on his shirt already. You keep your breathing muted so he can’t hear you as you reach out and — smack!

Joel shrieks, shooting upright. His head slams into the shelf overhead and a few bolts go toppling onto the concrete below. He cusses like a sailor as his hand goes up to rub the back of his head, nursing where a lump will probably be in a few hours time. Joel whips around to see you, smothering your giggles behind your hand. “You little shit,” he huffs, still scratching at his head. You don’t miss how his cheeks are firetruck red. “The fuck are ya doin’?”

“Me? The fuck are you doing, Miller? Stomping around my dad’s garage at, like, the asscrack of dawn–”

“Nine in the mornin’ ain’t the asscrack of dawn, sweetcheeks,” Joel says. Then, he holds up a set of pliers. “Mower shit the bed. I’m thinkin’ Sarah stole my pliers to make necklaces, but she hasn’t fessed up yet. Your pops said I could borrow his.” He stretches, giving you a long whiff of his scent. The groan he lets out stirs something in your stomach, much to your chagrin.

“I think the mower is the least of your worries,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “You reek. Shower shit the bed, too?”

“You try doin’ yard work in 90 degree heat, kiddo. See how much you smell like that strawberry raspberry peach whatever-the-fuck soap you’re usin’.”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised you don’t see the back of your skull. “Rosemary eucalyptus,” you correct under your breath.

“Hmm, what was that?” Joel asks, tossing the pliers down onto the workbench. “Gotta speak up.”

“Rosemary eucalyptus,” you say. “But I bet you wouldn’t know. What do you use? 18 in 1?”

Joel grunts. “Real funny.” He takes a step closer to you, lips taut with a smirk. “How ‘bout you find out?”

You don’t have time to question what the hell he means – he just cups the back of your head with one of his wide palms and shoves your face directly into his closest sweaty pit. “Mmmmph!” you protest, mouth sealed shut against the thatch of hair that’s spattered across his skin. You hold your breath for as long as you can, but eventually, you’re forced to suck in a breath through your squished nose. His musk, sweet and just as sharp, fills your airways. Your clit all but jerks between your legs in humiliation, drawing a whine out of your throat.

Joel chuckles, ruffling your hair. It’s enough to make your thighs clench. “You’re a little freak, huh?” He presses harder on the back of your head, so much so that you almost get a mouthful of his underarm.

“Youuu dick!” you try to say without opening your mouth too far. It comes out muffled against his sweat-pearled skin. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push him off of you.

Another wry chuckle comes from above. Joel bends his arm so that his elbow is wrapped around the back of your head, effectively trapping you in his funk. “Come on, huff ‘em. Practically fuckin’ asking for it earlier, all ‘a that mouthin’ off. So now you get a mouthful of my pits. Fair’s fair, kiddo.”

Embarrassment ribbons through your body, the kind that makes you leak into your panties against your will. Still looking for a way out, you squirm against his ironclad hold.

It’s only good for making him land a heavy-hitting slap across your ass. You yelp, a new wave of slick saturating the drenched gusset of your panties. You jump where you are, hips bucking into nothing – for escape or pressure, you’re not entirely sure. “Unless you wanna go over my knee instead?” Your face sears with humiliation.

Tentatively, you snuffle a bit against his pit, biting into your cheeks at his musk. It makes you cough a little bit – he’s been carrying the smell of cutting grass and his own sweat all morning.

“Yeah, thought so. But you can do better than that, sweetcheeks. I said huff, not fake an asthma attack.” You whimper, this time sucking in a longer breath. Here he is, holding you down, secure against his pit as you're left with no other option than to take what he gives you, when he gives it to you. All you can smell, feel, touch is just Joel, Joel, Joel. It makes you lightheaded.

Your clit is practically a kickdrum between your thighs, pulsing and doing more work than your head. You try to angle yourself so that you can rub your clit against Joel’s leg, but he puts a stop to that real quick. “Gettin’ all wound up just from being where ya belong, your pretty little face in my pit?” You mewl, reaching for Joel’s sides. You bunch your fists in the fabric of his wifebeater, and he allows it.

“Since you’re so eager to complain about it, how ‘bout you clean me up, huh?” He nudges his pit against your face again, and, confusedly, you furrow your brows. You can’t see much of him, but you do see the edge of his mouth tip up in satisfaction. “You got rocks for brains? Lick, kiddo.”

Hesitance drives the soft kitten lick of your tongue, swiping up and down across a very small portion of his pit. He loosens up on his grip on you, giving you the slightest bit more reign. You try to tell yourself that you’re scared of what he might do if you disappoint him, but hell if you don’t want this as much as he does, tongue, nose, face buried in his pits. Some sort of ultimate form of worship between the two of you.

You lave your tongue across his pit, eyes fluttering with each stroke. You swirl it in the crease of his arm, sucking his goddamn hairs clean with the fervor you’ve picked up. Enthused now, you bob your head up and down. Your clit responds, throbbing with a heartbeat of its own.

You’re panting, inhaling and exhaling him, lapping up his musk like a fucking dog, gone from reluctant to eager. Your clit twitches faster and faster, and you swear that arousal must be tacky on the insides of your thighs, leaking through your panties all over the front of your bloomers, but you can’t do anything about it. You can’t even grind against Joel – you can only slurp against his armpit, something like desperation having replaced all of your previous mortification from when he’d shoved you there in the first place.

You’re so preoccupied with pleasing him that you don’t even notice the thumping of your clit, picking up speed and pressure. Your body seizes in between your greedy little licks. You feel yourself weaken before you stiffen.

And maybe it’s the way Joel keeps groaning with each movement of your tongue. It could be how he exhales, “Kiddo,” in a raspy voice, both demeaning and endearing all at once. But in the end, it’s how he says, “Mmmm, such a good goddamn tongue. Bet it’d feel so good on my cock,” that breaks the dam between your legs.

You shudder, coming completely undone with little moans and whimpers in Joel’s arms without so much as a hand on your clit, just your face smothered in his pit. Drool runs down your lips and across your chin as you jerk and weaken in his grasp. If you weren’t so underwater, so far gone, you’d be able to hear him saying, “Fuck – whoa, whoa, whoa,” trying to stop you from falling on your ass in the middle of the garage. His hands card across your sides as he props you up against the workbench. Your vision blackens at the edges from the intensity of your orgasm, and you’re still coming, at least you think you are, when you blink yourself back to awareness. You’re wide-eyed, tears brimming at your waterline, incapacitated in a way that you didn’t know you could be.

“Holy shit,” you gasp when you finally fully come to, slumped over the workbench, still half-clinging to Joel. “Fuck.”

Joel looks stunned, looking you up and down as if he can’t get enough of you. His eyes land right between your thighs, where, sure enough, you’ve ruined your bloomers. You still feel like deadweight, and you struggle to stand upright. You’re not sure you’ve ever come so hard even with someone’s hands all over your. Joel’s glistening with even more sweat, and it’s impossible to miss the glaring bulge in his shorts. He clears his throat after a minute. “Oughta go get cleaned up before your daddy gets back for his lunch break, kiddo.”

You stumble upright, drenched in sweat yourself now, Joel’s lingering scent still pervading every breath you take. “Y-yeah,” you manage, nodding. You feel out of your own body, stumbling towards the door. You’re so wet that you can feel it with every goddamn step. Fuck Joel Miller, cocky piece of sh–

You’re immediately returned to your own body by the resounding swat Joel lands on your ass. You jump, shooting a glare over your shoulder. He puts his hands up, pleading innocence.

You’re not surprised when you crawl out of your shower, smelling of rosemary eucalyptus and dripping water all over the floor, only to see Joel’s mower abandoned in the middle of his yard. Even worse, you aren’t surprised in the slightest when you squint through your bedroom window, Joel sprawled out across his bed, hips bucking in-time with his fist before catching your eye and spraying ropes of cum all over his abdomen.

You mouth at him through the window with a taunting little wink, Clean yourself up this time.

[mcflymemes]

NATIONAL TREASURE (2004) PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the film, adjust as necessary

i'm gonna steal it.

who wants to go down the creepy tunnel inside the tomb first?

if it's any consolation, you had me convinced.

you're not hurt, are you?

i am so getting fired for this.

is there a question in there?

we have no money.

how about a bribe?

it was cool. you should try it sometime.

we can't go back there.

i've never been so happy to be proven wrong.

you handled that well.

are you trying to steal that?

it's thirty-five dollars.

you know the key to running a convincing bluff? every once in a while you've got to be holding all the cards.

stop talking. start the van.

you're treasure hunters, aren't you?

i'm still working on it.

why don't you just come back down here and we can talk through this together.

don't speak again.

is that the hot girl?

are you with me?

what do you think? i'm a hostage.

do you trust me?

once we catch them, what do we do?

is this real?

i made something for you.

tell me what i need to know.

just another clue.

i can explain, but i don't have time.

i wasted 20 years of my life, and now you've destroyed yours.

what was the secret?

i found something!

i broke a shoelace this morning.

it can't be done.

i understand your bitterness. i really do.

i want you to have a chance to do that.

i've got some duct tape in the back.

promise you won't be any trouble.

i finally figured it out.

the treasure is a myth.

we need more juice.

you're all lunatics!

still a little on edge from being shot at, but i'll be okay. thanks for asking.

see? okay? now could you please stop shouting?

give me that!

you would do well, [name], to be a little more civilized in this instance.

who were those men?

we did the only thing we could do to keep it safe.

we probably deserved that.

i was thinking, what if we go public? plaster the story all over the internet.

it's not like we have our reputations to worry about.

people don't talk that way anymore.

beautiful, huh?

i have no idea what you said.

if there's something wrong, those who have the ability to take action have the responsibility to take action.

what do you see?

what time is it now?

we missed it.

i know something about history that you don't.

i'd be very excited to learn about it.

hold on one second. let me just take in this moment.

this is cool. is this how you feel all the time?

[name], you're a genius.

how do a bunch of guys with hand tools build all this?

the aliens helped them.

i volunteered.

it's invisible.

i'm sorry for your suffering.

when are we gonna get there?

i'm hungry. this car smells weird.

i'm so sorry i dropped you.

i would have done exactly the same to you.

why can't they just say "go to this place, here's the treasure, spend it wisely?"

anyone crazy enough to believe us isn't gonna want to help.

we don't need someone crazy.

[name], are you crying?

look. stairs.

i'm guessing that's significant.

i'm just trying to hide from my ex-husband.

stay as long as you like.

you want something?

i see what you left him.

this isn't a day for "um."

we didn't find the information credible.

well, this might be possible.

i leveled with you one hundred percent.

everything i told you was the truth.

it's not a conspiracy theory.

you know what? i take it back.

i'm in a little trouble.

this... is huge.

you are gonna go to prison. you know that, right?

that would bother most people.

you know what you have to do.

i'm just trying to think if there's anything else we could do.

i'm not letting it out of my sight.

how do you look?

a toast to high treason.

here's to the men who did what was considered wrong in order to do what they knew was right.

why do you need them?

look... this is a waste of time.

i'm still not against you.

i really couldn't accept something like this normally.

we don't actually have it.

did bigfoot take it?

is there a door that doesn't lead to prison?

get out of there. get out of there now!

[name], can you hear me?

can i marry your brain?

our evil plan is working.

why does that never happen to me?

meet me at the car. call me if you have any problems.

no broken bones?

a jump like that could kill a man.

[dollielliot]

͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏the missions (these are excerpts from eric harris's site)͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏͏❀ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏

[CONTENT MISSING]

1 The first was when we put an entire assortment of very loud fireworks in a tunnel, and lit them off at about 1:00AM. This mission was part of a rebellion against these assholes that shot one of our bikes one day. They were rather angry that night, and we were very happy. We will be doing another hit on their house sometime in the near future. And that one will be much closer. And louder.

After each mission we get drunk. Not with wimpy beer, we only use hard liquor. Aftershock, Irish Cream, Tequila, Vodka, Whiskey, Rum, and sometimes a few shots of EVERCLEAR. We also sometimes make up our own shooters. And sample others (never try a prairie fire, its killer!). In our next few missions, we are planning to hit the dorks house a few more times, along with a few other houses. And also set off some more fireworks at that tunnel. We each have a large supply of fireworks...loud ones...and soon I will have my license and we can drive around any place we want to. heh heh. Soon I will be putting our directions for mixing drinks that we make up. We will put up any good shooter or other drink that we try. So check this place out often.

[CONTENT MISSING]

R....e....b....e....l....C....l....a....n

this page was written by REB

REB VoDkA KIBBz

2 Our second mission was against this complete and utter fag's house. Everyone in our school hates this immature little weakling. So we decided to "hit" his house. On Friday night (2/7/97) at about 12:15AM we arrived at this queer's house. Fully equipped with 3 eggs, 2 rolls of toilet paper, the cheap brand, no pretty flowers, (we were disappointed to) superglue, and the proper tools to make his phone box a busy box (for those of you that are stupid, a buy box is where you set their box so that when they try to make a call, they get a busy signal and when someone else calls, they get a busy signal too). We placed 2 eggs in his very large, thick bushes. We just barely cracked them open so they will be producing a rather repulsive and extremely BAD odor for sometime. We placed the last egg on his "welcome" mat. It was very neat, I cracked the egg, put the yoke in the center, and the 2 halves on either side of the yoke. Then we teepeed his large pine tree and this...oak? tree. I don't know, it's big though. It wasn't a complete teepee but it was enough to agitate the homeowner greatly. We also put the superglue on the front door and on the little red mailbox flag. 

3 This mission was an attack on the people who shot Vodka's bike, and on some random houses. First, after sneaking out of my house at around 1:55, we lit off 1 strand of 200 thunderbombs and 6 bottle rockets. We had also set a time delayed assortment too. This was made of 10 bottle rockets and a few crackling balls. We aren't really sure if those went off though because by the time they would have, we were a mile away. After the fireworks we went over to this asshole's house. His name is brooks brown {redacted by FBI and missing in files - possibly home address}. If any of you feel like pranking him. Anyway, we didn't really do much to him. Just put some model puddy on his Merc. Then, we went to another kid's house, and started to teepee his big, tall, thick, thorny-ass-tree. We set off the motion detectors about 4 times, and we dodged 1 car. But we didn't get caught! His tree was completely covered and wrapped in ass wiping paper. Even though we only had 4 rolls, we did one helluva good job. After that we moved some rather large rocks onto people's driveways and tagged RC into a fence. Then, we came home and got drunk while watching Bordello of Blood. 

4 This mission was frehkin unique. The mission was from my house (REB), through the corridor, past the graves, and to the place where we do all of our fireworks. It was supposed to be like the other missions to this place. The weather was nice, we had 4 items made up and ready for use. The first fuse didn't work. The second fuse malfunctioned also. Both of those items were just about 100-120 thunderbombs strapped together. We had one more like the first 2 and we also had a little contraption of bottle rockets. These bottle rockets were strapped together, and put into a bottle. We placed this bottle on top of a large hill. So quite a few people could see. After about the 3rd try, I decided to just light the fuses that were directly from the rockets. Usually we use loooong fuses so we have time to get away. But this time, with Vodka and Kibbz standing over in front of some bigass shrubbery. I just did the direct fuse. After lighting it I ran like a sonuvabitch to Vodka and Kibbz.

 By the time I made it to them the rockets were starting to go off. We had about 50 in the assortment, so it lasted a while. It was rather perrrty. Then we busted the bottle and went BACK to the 2 strips that didn't work. They both had rather crappy quality fuses so they went out before they reached their target. I took the last one, tied the remainder of the first 2 fuses to it, and lit it for the final f*ckin time. Since I am the fastest in the group, I usually light the fuses and Kibbz would be at the point where we stop running. Vodka would keep guard while I light. This time both of them went over and laid down on the side of this hill about 100 yards away. This would be the first time we have ever seen our own work in action. All the other times we just heard them. I lit it, ran to the hill, and watched the lovely ass fireworks go off. They lasted about 45 seconds, a total of around 400 went off. Dogs were barkin and everything. It was really cool to see em all to. 

After that we went to this point in the trails that looked like the Q from quake. We smoked some cigars, and headed home. Except...when we were a few blocks away from home, we had an incident. We were walking along the sidewalk when a f*cking garage door opened at the house that we were right by! We bolted into that person's yard...and ducked down and tried to be as quiet as possible. This adult came out, got his newspaper(it was about 4:30 in the AM) and went back in. I tried to signal Vodka and Kibbz but they didn't see me. We waited...a few minutes later the man got in his car and started down his driveway. The flood of lights from his car just covered us. He stopped, got out, and yelled "WHO ARE YOU!" we got up, said we were just passin through and stuff, and he kept sayin "GET OUT OF HERE", "ILL CALL THE COPS!" and "WHO ARE YOU." We f*ckin hauled assholes and elbows home. 

This mission was also liquor free as a result of this person named Brooks Brown {redacted by FBI and missing in files - possibly home address} who tried to narc on us. Telling my parents that I had booze and @#%$ in my room. I had to ditch every bottle I had and lie like a f*ckin salesman to my parents. All because Brooks Brown thought I put a little nik in his windshield from a snowball.......BS? yes, Anyway, that was mission 4.

5 This mission was one of the best we ever did. This was from Kibbz's house to several locations in his neighborhood. That night was probably the longest walk we ever did. First we went to this soccer field/playground. It was right on the corner of a very busy intersection. So every minute we had cars going by. There was a lot of moonlight that night, we got to the playground and dodged the lights of cars for about 20 minutes. Then we decided what our first strike would be like.

We got a big McD's cup, and went to the center field of the soccer field. We got out about 20 bottle rockets that were stripped together, and a 100 somethin strip of blackcats. Each had very good and long fuses so we had lots of time. We lit them, and ran over and got in front of these big pine trees. We were totally out of vision. The rockets went off first. They launched out over the field and then the strip went off, after that we started goin back the way we came. Which went through this trail about 35 yards wide with houses on either side. We found this large metal tub...perfect for firecrackers!!! We decided that Kibbz and Vodka would walk off toward the street on the other side of the trail and hide behind some trees while I lit it. Except...the street was over 100 yards away. And they were about 15 yards past it. Once they signaled me, I lit the small assortment of thunderbombs and about 50 stickless bottle rockets. They would only make sound, no visual effects. But anyway, I lit and sprinted the whole f*ckin way. About 3/4ths the way the fireworks went off, I was right in the middle of this bigass trail.

I never ran so fast in all the missions. But I made it to the others and watched all these lights go on from the houses. Then we walked over to this big open hill between some houses and a busy street. We got a long wooden board and placed it on the hill. We had a long strip of about 200 and a little brick of about 3 packs of thunderbombs. This time we used a cigarette fuse. We only needed about an inch of it. We lit the cigarette and went over to hide behind some trees. When it went off it was VERY loud where we were so we bolted outa there. After a few minutes we went back to see if all the stuff had gone off and it all did. So we got some souvaneers (i know misspelled) and went home. Drank some Aftershock that night too. We were supposed to have a few chicks come with us, but they couldn't make it...so maybe next time.

[CONTENT MISSING]

              6. Awwww yeya. This mission was so fuckin fun man. Ok, first of all, my dad was the only parent home so it was much easier getting out...but still hard since all these rocks in my backyard make so much noise. Plus the neighbors faulting dog barking its faulting head off. First we went through the corridor...going through some very tall grass fields...not as tall as the ones in the Lost World, but close. Felt kinda cool. Then we set up the strip of 1132 firecrackers. Using w cigarettes as starting fuses, we had plenty of time to spare. We also had a nice little crackering fountain hooked up to the fuses too. After a few minutes of setting it up, we lit it and went over and hid it on top of this big cement pipe going under a street. We were on the side of a hill so we hid in the grass. There was also a full moon that night, and not a foaming cloud in the sky. So it was like noon on the equator when we were out in the open. But, black clothing and tall grass sure helps. After about 5 minutes (forever) it began.

Beforehand we watched as some lights in the target house went on.....then off. Maybe the bastard heard something. But when the strip started, he turned his bedroom lights off. The strip lasted for about 30 seconds.....we think.....it was very fucking long. Almost all of it went off, loud and bright, everything worked exactly how we wanted it to. After about 15 minutes we started down the bike trail to the next target. The first targets lights were on again in the bedroom but we think we got away undetected. While we were walking to the next target we shot some stuff. Heh, VoDkA brought his sawed off BB gun and a few BBs too. So we loaded it, pumped it, and fired a few shots at some houses and trees and stuff. We probably didn't do any damage to any houses, but we aren't sure. The gun was not loud at all, which is very good. At the next target, we set up the saturn missile battery and the rockets. These both had fuses about 2-3 feet long. I lit them as VoDka and KiBBs were hiding in the shadows. 

Luckily there were some trees and stuff at the 2nd target so we could hide pretty good. Anyway, I lit and went over to the others. We watched as the fuses burned and burned...then the rockets went off. It was pretty nice, not so much meant as a prank, but more as a nice little fireworks show. They made some noise, but nothing to shit yer pants about. But the battery didn't work. So I went back, checked it out, and the fuse had burned down to about 2 inches. So I just said up yours baby nad lit it. Right as I made it back to the others it went off. It was pretty quick, and loud too. Since the missiles are whistlers, they probably woke up a few residents. YEY. Then we started heading to this construction site. It’s right on the side of a kind of busy road, but before the houses. We dodged a few cars, messed around at the site and we also swiped some signs from this fence that was put up around the soon-to-be-foundation of whatever is being built. The signs read "RENT-A-FENCE" and had some 1 800 number on them. So we got some very nice souvoneers (spelled close enuf) from that place.

Then, as KIBBz and VoDkA were down in the foundation hole and I was up on top, a cop drove by. We had enough time to see it, take cover, and watch it go by, so it didn't get us by surprise. But once we saw it was a cop we decided it was time to farming LEAVE. He didn't stop, he drove right by, but @#%$ he mighta been looking for us. So we got out of the fence, grabbed our signs and went to the neighborhood again. We didn't have that much trouble getting back home, just some dogs and @#%$. Once we got in, we were tired as a priest after a 5 hour orgy. The total mission took about 3 hours. We left around 12:30 and got back around 3-3:30. We are not very sure but it lasted a while. And damit, it was well worth it. We needed that mission too, we were all pretty tired of waiting and our nerves were just about shot. So it was perdy relaxing to be free like that.

[CONTENT MISSING]

{mission unnumbered} [CONTENT MISSING]

NEXT MISSION=aaaan whenever

Ok people, I’m gonna let you in on the big secret of our clan. We aint no god damn stupid ass quake clan! We are more of a gang. We plan out and execute missions. Anyone pisses us off, we do a little deed to their house. Eggs, teepee, superglue, busyboxes, large amounts of fireworks, you name it and we will probably or already have done it. We have many enemies in our school, therefore we make many missions. It’s sort of a night time tradition for us. 

It’s a very close replica of the missions sites. But we have never seen the inside of the house…so we just guessed. It’s also cut off where the area isn't important (ya know I didn't want to put in all of the neighborhood!).  

The mission has been done. And the rebels…once again… emerged victorious. Vee falking blew de sheeeit outta lossa stoof!!

As for the next mission, we haven't decided what to do or where to do it. I had some thoughts about hiding in some large bushes and shooting stuff. Or maybe some more aerial attacks. But we need to go up to Wyoming and load up on that stuff. We are running low. Plus we just got our paychecks….they aren't big…but they can cover quite a bit of shit. We still need to get the fuses too. So far, the next mission will probly be in July sometime. But we AINT SURE. 

[CONTENT MISSING]

[ninsletamain]

Fluffbruary Day 6: tie | embarrassment | dessert

My contribution to RebelCaptain Fluffbruary PLUS @quarantineddreamer's super ultra amazing fic addition below the cut!!!

The lines of code on the screen were no longer making sense. Somewhere between coffees 4 and 5 of the day they had slipped from Jyn’s grasp, gone from familiar symbols to something more akin to ancient hieroglyphics–as sure a sign as any that it was long-past time for her to take a break from her assignment. 

Reaching her arms skyward–tight knots in the muscles of her shoulders and along her spine protesting–Jyn glanced blearily at the alarm clock that perched neatly on the corner of the desk. 

Shit. Was that really the time? She scrambled to her feet, socks slipping on the linoleum floor, and threw her hair quickly into a bun. (Or what she hoped would pass for one anyways.)

Pants. I need pants. Jyn cast about the room, throwing the covers of the bed back, checking over the back of the roller-chair she’d spent the day–no, longer than that apparently–glued to, but found nothing. 

She could have sworn she had at least dropped a pair of sweatpants at the end of the bed at some point…

Cassian must have tidied up before he left (the neat freak); she hadn’t even noticed. That happened sometimes: the computer consuming her when she was locked onto a particular idea. But it shouldn’t have happened today. Today she had planned to wrap up her coursework early, surprise him… 

Okay screw the pants, Jyn decided, marching from the room towards the kitchen with all the determination of a soldier approaching the battlefield.

(If a soldier’s uniform was your boyfriend’s oversized, university sweatshirt and the fight ahead was the arduous task of preparing a meal.)

It took her more than a few tries to find everything–despite how organized Cassian kept his kitchen cabinets–but before too long Jyn was staring down at the black, glinting surface of a flawlessly seasoned cast iron pan and the looming depths of a large pot, a box of spaghetti, its matching jar of sauce, and an assortment of meat and vegetables thrown on the counter beside them. 

“I’ve got this,” Jyn muttered to herself, eyeing the recipe she’d taped to the fridge like it might grow fangs and snap at her. (Or catch fire and nearly burn the place down as had happened on her most recent foray into chefdom). “You’ve hacked into government systems before,” she continued. “This will be easy compared to that. A piece of cake, or a pot of pasta.” Hopefully anyways. 

She checked the oven clock. If she stood any chance of getting this done before Cassian (Impossibly-Punctual) Andor came home she had to start now. 

The empty apartment should have been quiet, peaceful. Instead, it suddenly seemed impossibly loud, noises swelling in her ears the longer she stood staring at the array of ingredients and tools––footsteps from the neighbor above, the distant rumble of a washing machine next door, the clicking of the fridge beside her, all clamoring in some insane harmony. 

The longer she stood there waiting (for what, she had no idea) the more power the sounds seemed to hold, quick to dredge up each and every anxious thought she had been so diligently shoving to the furthest corners of her mind since Cassian had told her of his plans to travel to Yavin…

When he cooked, Cassian always had music playing. Maybe that would help. Drown out the worry and the fear.

Jyn pulled her phone from the pocket of the red hoodie and tapped a playlist at random. Something upbeat began playing, muffled through the fabric as she tucked the phone back into the pocket, rolled up the too-long sleeves of the sweatshirt, and drew a deep breath. “Alright, here goes nothing…”

Turning down the hallway that led to his apartment, Cassian smelled something…interesting. 

He tried to pin down what it was. Starch, yes. Tomatoes, yes. Onions and garlic, most likely. But then there were other unexpected notes, the heat of what might have been chili powder tickling at his nostrils, growing stronger with each step closer he got to his door, and maybe the cheese he was smelling was parmesan or pecorino? The combination wasn’t exactly bad, just off–out of balance. 

He thought for sure it was one of the neighbors; maybe Mrs. McCleod experimenting again–after all, she had stopped him just last week to ask him about his favorite market for finding fresh produce.

But as he passed by Mrs. McCleod’s apartment, he noticed the crack under the door was dark, a small pile of mail collecting beneath her welcome mat. She was probably away visiting her niece again. Which meant that the smell was most likely emanating from the door at the end of the hall.

His door. 

Cassian tugged his tie looser, a warmth kindling in his stomach, a smile slowly spreading across his face; Jyn. 

He’d insisted she should stay at his apartment while he was gone–enjoy some solitude away from distracting roommates and loud neighbors–but he hadn’t been entirely certain she would take him up on it. She’d given him a strange look at the suggestion (despite the fact that after nearly a year of dating, she seemed to spend more time in his apartment than her own) and returned to her keyboard, completely absorbed in the endless numbers and symbols flashing wildly across the computer screen at her command.

The reaction hadn’t been a total shock to him. Jyn had been unusually quiet ever since he’d first mentioned his job interview in Yavin. He’d tried to tell himself she was just preoccupied with the workload associated with the final semester before she earned her degree, but deep down he knew that she was likely asking herself the same questions as he was: If I get this job, what happens to us? 

Cassian reached into his suit pocket for his key, twisted it in the lock, and slowly opened the door, his eyes tearing up at the overwhelming burn of capsaicin in the air. Dropping his backpack by the door, he followed the sound of hissing steam, music, and occasional cursing into the kitchen. 

It had been just over a day since he’d seen her, but even so, Cassian had spent the plane ride home longing for the moment when he could wrap his arms tight around her again, kiss her until they were both oxygen deprived and gasping for air. 

He’d envisioned a quick, eager reunion. Unable to hold himself back from rushing towards her; clumsy, grabbing hands and awkward clashing of teeth. 

But then he saw her: standing in his kitchen with her hair wild atop her head, dancing from the stovetop to a nearby drawer; humming along to the song playing faintly in the background as she poked uncertainly at a pan of sauteed vegetables and shot a quick glance at a boiling pot of water–and all he could think to do was lean his shoulder into the doorframe and stare, his breath catching in his chest with a fierce and sudden ache. 

Cassian knew he was helplessly, hopelessly lost–had known it for a while–but it had never been more apparent to him than in that moment, hovering at the threshold. He was certain that if he did nothing else for the rest of life but watch her, he’d still die the happiest man on earth. 

She’d decided to borrow his favorite sweatshirt while he was away–red, well-worn, with Ferrix University emblazoned across the front. As she rose on her tiptoes to reach into the spice cabinet, the bottom of the sweatshirt rose too, revealing the faintest glimpse of black panties, serving in sharp contrast to the perfect, pale curve of her ass. 

The sight inspired a different kind of ache. Cassian made his way across the kitchen, and placed his hands on Jyn’s shoulders. Somehow, the only words he could seem to find were, “You’re cooking.”

A string of swear words fell out of her mouth in quick succession. “I could’ve stabbed you,” she grumbled, even as she set down the knife she was holding to lean backwards into him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I’m surprised I managed to.”

He felt her shoulders rise and fall against him. “I was distracted.” 

“I can see that,” he mused. “You’re cooking. You hate cooking.”

He could just make out the faint flush that rose in Jyn’s cheeks as she glanced back at him, her hair tickling his chin. “I do hate it,” she agreed, “but I figured you’d be hungry and…well, I don’t hate you.” 

A soft laugh escaped him, “What a relief.”

“Shut up.”

“No really,” he said, pulling her closer. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“Do you want food or not?” Her scowl was made significantly less believable by the smile catching quickly at the corners of her mouth. 

Cassian gave a considerate hum. His stomach had been rumbling as he stepped off the plane, but now a different kind of hunger was taking hold. His skin was hot beneath his suit where Jyn’s body pressed against his own; all he could seem to think of was her in his sweatshirt–in only his sweatshirt. 

But Jyn seized his brief lapse of silence as an opportunity to change subjects. “So…How’d the interview go?” she asked lightly, though her muscles went tight as she dipped a wooden spoon in the red liquid that bubbled on the stove in front of her.

He watched as she blew steam away from the spoon before bringing it to her mouth to taste and wincing. “The interview was fine,” he murmured, pressing (what he hoped she would as) a reassuring kiss to the top of her head.

The smile had already vanished from Jyn’s face. “You think you got the job then?”

Cassian moved his hand slowly up and down her arm, earlier ideas already forgotten. “They made me an offer,” he admitted quietly. 

“They did…” The energy seemed to have drained straight out of her–the dancing, humming, swearing woman from moments ago turned to shadow. 

Like she didn’t know. Like she couldn’t feel the frantic stuttering of his heart where his chest pressed between her shoulders blades. Like she couldn’t sense him, standing right here beside her on the knife’s edge. 

“I told them I couldn’t give them an answer yet,” he told her. Of course I did. As though there had been anything else he could do…

“You did what?” Jyn twisted in his arms. “That is your dream job. You know you want to go, so just go. Why would you–”

“Jyn,” he cut in, and she went still–let him hold her in place for at least a moment longer while he continued. “I said yet. I told them I couldn’t give them an answer yet.”

Her knuckles were white, wrapped tight around the wooden spoon. He reached past her and switched off the burners before anything could start smoking or boil over.

Cassian’s own nerves were starting to take hold. He gave a hard swallow, trying to clear the tightness from his throat. “I don’t want to go to Yavin. Not without you… I don’t want to go anywhere without you.”

“What are you saying?”

“Come with me. After you graduate in the spring, come with me.”

“Cass…”

He was about to tell her she didn’t have to answer right now–to delay whatever pain he sensed was coming from inevitable rejection–when she closed her hand around his tie and tugged him closer, tilting her head back to press her lips to his. 

Beneath his mouth, he could feel her smile forming, but it still took his breath away to see it when they broke apart. “Is that a yes, then?”

Jyn wound his tie tighter around her hand. “I like this suit,” she commented, eyes sweeping across the blue fabric and back to the black silk of the tie. 

“I’m taking that as a yes…” Cassian told her, his attention splitting as she began to playfully undo the top buttons of his shirt. 

“I cooked for you…” Her lips passed over his throat, her voice muffled. 

Heat was racing up Cassian’s spine, his thoughts going increasingly hazy. “You did…” he replied, inhaling sharply as the hand not wrapped in his tie found the back of his head, fingers tugging lightly at his hair. 

“I’m a terrible cook, but I cooked. For you.”

She still hadn’t answered him. Not really. He wanted an answer, a definitive answer. “What does this have to do with–”

“Are you still hungry?” 

“Jyn–” he pleaded.

“Because I was thinking we should forget about the food,” she continued, her mouth brushing over his ear–words like sparks to his skin. “I changed my mind. There’s something else I want to do for you instead. Something I’m much, much better at…”

He relented slightly, instinct shoving reason aside as he tugged at the hem of the sweatshirt, her skin soft against his fingertips. “What did you have in mind?” 

“You mean, aside from moving to Yavin?” she murmured with a teasing grin, pressing even closer, tips of their noses brushing, her breath warm against his cheeks.

“So that was a yes earlier…”

Jyn rolled her eyes at him. “What do you think?”

He lifted her off her feet, and she laughed, wrapping her legs tight around his torso. “I think you’re coming to Yavin with me,” he said, slightly breathless, not quite daring to believe it. 

“I’m coming to Yavin with you,” she echoed, delivering a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Welcome home, Cassian.”

[corralinesage]

Portrait of a wounded heart (1/8)

Summary:

You attend a live figure drawing class with the intention of falling in love with your favorite hobby again, instead you set your sights on something entirely different.

Lesbian fall romance for those in need ;)

‼️This work has been posted to ao3 as well and you can find the complete book there if you don’t wanna wait for the updates here!

18+ toward the end, read at your own risk⚠️

CHAPTER 1 Obsession, digression

You had been putting off signing up for a live figure drawing course for the entirety of your summer break when you had had all the time in the world to really get into studying anatomy with various different mediums, but inspiration and motivation had been very sparse for longer than just a few weeks or months. You didn’t really care anymore. You had lost what was perhaps the most important part of creating, you’d lost your passion toward art, the very same passion that you had kept alive since childhood. You knew you should’ve kept practicing, should’ve put more effort, more love, into the part of your life that kept you mentally nourished, but you just couldn’t seem to get over the artistic block that held you back. So, as a result you had made the decision to take part in a quick art course at your university to really push yourself out of your comfort zone. It might have either been the best or the worst idea you had had in a while, but there was no telling until you would enter the classroom and get to work.

You heard a loud honk through your earbuds, something that seemed to be more than frequent during rush hour, the sound blending in with the music that you were blasting into your mind to keep it quiet as you hurried across the street in case the honk was directed at you specifically. You tossed your empty takeout cup of coffee into the nearest bin you could find, tugging your coat tighter around you to shield yourself from the aggressive wind that made you shiver violently as you walked down the dark and busy street to find the university building that offered night classes to anyone who paid an excessive amount of money. You couldn’t really tell why you had decided to spend so much on a month-long course, but you could no longer withdraw your payment which left you no other choice but to go.

The door to the building you were heading for opened, a tall woman stepping outside, scrunching her nose at the humidity in the air, her hair dancing in the wind as she walked down the steps and disappeared out of your sight. You pulled on the handle of that same door, finding yourself inside an ancient building that had a rather striking, old-fashioned interior, the academic decor of bookshelves and plaster statues gaining your attention immediately. You had never been inside it before because your studies were mostly located on the opposite side of campus, but you managed to locate your classroom with only mild difficulty, feeling nervous butterflies in your abdomen, the odd sensation fluttering through you in waves of discomfort. You kind of wanted to leave, backtracking in your plans of reawakening the creative part of your mind. You could bring it back to life in the comfort of your own bedroom, the easels and assortments of charcoal pieces suddenly feeling more than intimidating by the minute as other artists slowly filled the room with their presence. None of them had even touched a single pencil or a piece of paper, yet you felt intimidated, like you had already failed before even getting the chance to prove your skills. You bit the inside of your lip, fiddling with a raw piece of coal, unintentionally staining your fingers black with the unrefined drawing tool. You felt like you couldn’t draw at all, like you had been shoved into a room filled with Michelangelos and Van Gohs who would all notice your incompetence before you had even been assigned a task.

Your anxiety flattened your mood rather effectively, the teacher’s words going right past you as she introduced herself, telling the class about her history with the university. You briefly wondered if you should have paid more attention to her because you were paying to be there after all, but you failed to keep your ears open and eyes on her, so you began to shade in the corner of the paper with no further purpose than to kill time, patiently waiting for the teacher to give you something to do. She rambled on for quite a while before asking the class to draw a quick five-minute sketch from memory of a person golfing, reminding everyone to focus on the line of action that often defined movement in drawings. You hated the prompt. You had never drawn a person golfing because nobody wanted to see that. Golf? Golf was for old people, but you began to draw random strokes on the paper anyway without even knowing what pose you were going for. You tried to see a golfing person through your mind’s eye, but apparently that part of your brain was out of use. You just couldn’t figure it out, the time limit only adding on to the pressure you felt.

You came into the conclusion that the exercise sucked. You stared at your sketch of a lanky golfer holding up a golf club, deciding that the figure was unintelligible and looked stiff in its unnatural position. You wanted to rip the paper into shreds but allowed the teacher to give you a second prompt without you making a scene in the corner of the large classroom. You hated that you had no way of finding references for what you were drawing, but you guessed it to be some sort of teaching method that would allow you to see your faulty way of thinking, as well as encourage you to actually learn anatomy that would eventually grant you the skill of drawing from memory. The subsequent prompt the teacher gave you went in from one ear and came right out the other, leaving you to ponder what it had been for the next five minutes while others sketched said figure. You pretended to do something with your easel and piece of lead to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the enthusiastic students as they worked on their sketches. With no prompt to follow, you zoned out completely, your eyes falling out of focus, freezing you into place as you sat still on your small stool. You barely even registered the teacher’s timer going off somewhere in the background, your body remaining in the same position for the next fifteen minutes as the teacher explained the meaning behind the first exercise and moved on to introducing a second one. Your mind was empty and full at the same time. You were stuck, stuck both physically and mentally, a sense of despair clawing at your chest for the wasted opportunity. You should have been happy, excited, eager to learn more, eager to give yourself what you needed, but you just couldn’t. You were too overwhelmed, too nervous to even give your creative side a chance, so you just sat, staring ahead. What finally drew you out of your troubled mind was the plain door to your left that opened suddenly, the gentle sound alerting you of an entering presence that caught you completely off guard in the state of comfort that you had found in the lonely corner of the classroom. You watched as a red-headed woman wearing a white robe slipped through the door. She gave you a polite smile as she shut the door behind her, walking over to the teacher who had a bright smile on her face.

“Here’s your model”, she announced in that overly sweet tone of hers, clearly ecstatic about the exercise. There was something about the way she spoke that made you not want to listen to a single word she said, but the remarkably beautiful woman who she was introducing to everyone seemed to be enough to hold your attention. “I want to go over the appropriate etiquette one more time so that there is no confusion”, the teacher said a bit more sternly. “There will be no photographing the model. There’ll be no touching, no talking, no commenting on appearances. Her safety and comfort come first which means you’re not allowed to make any kind of contact with her unless she initiates it”, the teacher reiterated, your eyes lingering on the model’s soft features, her striking red hair styled into loose curls that reached past her shoulders. “If I see so much as a glimpse of a phone or some other photographing device you’ll be thrown out of class and charged a fine. And finally –you would think this goes without saying, but apparently not– you’re not allowed to ask her out on a date or ask for her phone number. She is here to model and that is it”, the teacher asserted, brushing her hand down the model’s back, discreetly guiding her toward the center of the room where a tall stool stood. “Now… shall we get started?”

The model exuded confidence, she knew what she was doing, how to act, her captivating exterior letting you know that she had posed more than a couple of times before. She dropped her gown to the floor, your eyes suddenly nailed to your fresh sheet of paper. You couldn’t look at her, it felt too disrespectful. You couldn’t understand why because you’d seen naked women before, you had seen multiple naked people in your lifetime, yet suddenly it made your cheeks heat from embarrassment, your stomach swarming with butterflies. She was too pretty to be looked at, too enchanting, but deep down you knew you were beyond curious. You wanted to see more of her beauty, suddenly reminded of why you always gravitated toward figure studies specifically, and why you had chosen the course in the first place. You loved anatomy, and more explicitly female anatomy. You treated the female physique with a certain reverence, appreciative of both its capabilities as well as aesthetics. You felt a spark of excitement within you, allowing yourself to be intrigued by what was to come, but you also knew that it wasn’t just the artist in you that wanted to see her, wanted to witness the extent of her charming looks. You felt like everyone was looking at you, judging you for exhibiting homosexual tendencies. You shut your eyes, wincing at your reeling mind before gathering yourself, preparing to take a look at your subject as the teacher gave some more insight on the exercise.

“I want you to draw her in ten seconds, and ten seconds exactly, no more, no less. You’re going to produce me a loose sketch. Make it as loose and wild as possible, but make sure it still lets the viewer know that the subject is human. Utilize light strokes, curves and circles. Remember, the human body has no straight lines. There’s always a slight curve”, the teacher instructed, walking back and forth in the classroom, observing everyone to make sure no one was falling behind. You picked up an HB-lead pencil, whittling the tip with a utility knife to get your desired lead sharpness for drawing. “Ready?” You heard the teacher’s voice, preparing yourself to take a look at your model. So what, she was pretty? You drew pretty people all the time. “Three, two, one, go!” The teacher cheered with so much enthusiasm it sounded like she was commentating a sports event.

You peeked your head from behind the board propped up on the easel, your eyes landing on your model only to find her staring right back at you. Holy fuck. Your face flushed. Out of all the directions she could have been looking at she had chosen yours. She sat on the stool, her right foot supported by the beam that connected the legs of the chair at the bottom, left foot up on the edge of the seat. Her arms hugged her bent leg loosely, the position hiding her bare breasts from most angles. Her head was slightly tilted to the side to give her pose a sense of casualness, her natural color-palette and dominating presence begging for you to find any kind of assortment of pigments that you could utilize to replicate the soft hues of her complexion. There was no other way to capture her beauty, her poise, her hair, her skin, her eyes, her lips. You just stared at her, unable to move as the sound of charcoal on paper filled the room, the rest of the students putting admirable effort into their sketches, whereas you just stared. You could not pull your eyes away, you simply could not, the woman holding your gaze with impressive consistency. Her eyes were so intense, so green and warm even though the shade of green was on the cooler side. She had a mole on her cheek and a slight pout to her lips, the very last seconds of your time spent on observing the gorgeous shape of her round nose.

“Time!”

The corner of the woman’s mouth quirked up in a small smirk as your eyes widened. There was not a single line on your paper, not one, not even an accidental smudge of lead, and she knew it. She had seen you stare at her for every single second of the assigned time. You pulled back, forcing yourself to take a glance at the teacher who was looking over everyone’s work. Shit. You gripped your pencil, quickly drawing an oval shape to represent the model’s bent up leg, drawing a messy circle for her head, and a couple loose lines for the rest of her limbs. It was poor, but it wasn’t supposed to be good anyway, your hand leaving the paper when your teacher walked to your side, eyeing your plain sketch.

“Good job everyone!” She congratulated rather vaguely, moving back to the middle of the class where the students could see her. “I want you to draw the same pose again, but this time I’m giving you thirty seconds. Make it more detailed, take it a step further. You’ll be surprised by how much the extra twenty seconds will affect your work”, she said encouragingly, glancing down at the timer in her hand. “Is everyone ready?” After receiving affirmative nods and a couple verbal responses she pressed the button to start the timer again. “Go!”

Your gaze returned to the model, her eyes still on you. It was ridiculous. Why did she have to look at you? You were going to get nothing done in a class you paid a fortune to be in. You sighed in defeat, allowing your eyes to drop down to her body, trying your best to keep your cool as you studied her toned legs for a moment before going back to your sheet of paper. You reproduced the ten-second sketch, defining the shapes a little more, pulling back a bit to place your pencil in front of you, measuring the length of her limbs by looking at her through your dominant eye only to get accurate proportions. Once you got the sketch going and found a way to direct your attention to the sheet of paper, drawing became significantly easier, allowing you to get over your initial feeling of being flustered, but when the chair and limbs were done and you moved on to her torso and head, you felt your mind blank again. There she was, looking at you, staring at you with those steadfast eyes, unmoving like a carefully chiseled marble statue. Something made her unique, made her different from the other people you had drawn in your lifetime. She was so incredibly captivating that you felt like it couldn’t possibly be replicated through any art medium. You were positive that not even the highest quality camera could capture her energy, her entity, quite right.

You spent more time looking than drawing, but you didn’t mind it in the slightest, and neither did your teacher as long as you were drawing something and putting at least a bit of effort into it. You continued the exercise, the teacher increasing the time limit with each round, the model’s pose remaining the same for the rest of the two-hour class. You were sure you could have drawn her in your dreams from how many sketches you had made of her, but you didn’t feel satisfied. You wanted to be able to capture her perfectly, you wanted a fresh sheet of paper and thirty hours to create a piece of art that would match her regal composure. She deserved more than messy lines and quick sketches. She deserved better materials. She deserved a canvas, the richest paints you could find, an atelier with the most perfect natural lighting. She deserved a real artist, someone who could do justice to her beauty.

You felt like you couldn’t get a single sketch right. Objectively they were good, and there was nothing wrong with them, but to you they didn’t feel right. Time and time again you failed to bring out that same sense of awe and admiration that she awoke in you when you looked at her. Your sketches were flat, void of the thrill you felt whenever your eyes locked with hers. You weren’t sure if you were even skilled enough to capture such a feeling, but you were willing to try, vehemently sketching away every single time your teacher set a new timer for the next round. It bothered you that you felt rushed by the time limit. You wanted to draw in peace, constantly getting fixated on different details on her body or face. You couldn’t focus on her as a whole because every small curve and arch of her body demanded your undivided attention. You couldn’t just look over the small freckle on her calf, or the ivory of her thighs, or her auburn curls, or the purple shade of her nail beds as she slowly grew colder over time, her lack of clothing making her hairs stand on end. You felt the urge to walk over to her and drape the robe back over her body, despite how unbothered she seemed by the low temperature.

“Time! What have you guys noticed so far?” The teacher inquired in genuine curiosity as she started walking again, eager to observe everyone’s work. You couldn’t think of an answer, no, your eyes straying back to the model, once more allowed to watch her without having to draw. You had moved your small stool to the side a bit, the model noting that she could see you fully in your new set up. Her gaze flicked down your body for just a split second to see all of you before her eyes were back on yours, the model maintaining her pose meticulously. You felt your body burn up when her lips pursed the slightest bit, threatening to curve into a smile, her eyes turning almost playful.

“You… um, Y/L/N, right? What have you learned?” The teacher asked suddenly, walking beside you to see your sketches. She clearly had impeccable name memory. Your eyes widened, the model scrunching her nose discreetly as if apologetic for the situation you had found yourself in.

“Yeah, uhh…” You simply could not think, struggling to form a single word in your brain that had been caught off guard by your teacher’s inquiry, anxiety creeping up your neck to squeeze your throat. “Lots”, you mumbled, glancing at the model, which turned out to be a mistake because she was biting down on her lower lip to keep herself from laughing at your poor answer. “You can go a long way with just… shapes”, you elaborated, the teacher seeming to accept your answer, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, precisely! I want you to look at your subject and draw shapes”, she began, her words clearly aimed at the entire class, her attention no longer on you or your work. “We often overcomplicate things by focusing on what they are instead of the shapes that build up the whole picture”, she explained, your attention going back to the model, your teacher’s voice fading into oblivion.

You weren’t sure whether it was all in your head or not, but you felt like there was tension between you and the woman in front of you, a connection. It almost made you feel like it was just the two of you in the classroom. Maybe it was because she was looking at you and you only, or because you were being delusional and a hopeless romantic who caved at the very thought of being the object of someone’s observation. You wished you could have spoken to her, could have somehow confirmed whether you were crazy or not, but it wasn’t allowed. You weren’t allowed to contact her in any way which caused a sudden wave of sorrow to go through you. Something about her made you want to get to know her, your predicament striking you as rather unfortunate because you didn’t feel that way about a lot of people. You couldn’t remember the last time you had even cared to waste a single thought on someone who you didn’t know. You glanced at the model again, trying to give her a small smile, wanting to give her some kind of signal of communication, but your smile was shy, so shy in fact that it probably didn’t look like a smile at all. You almost didn’t dare to look if she reacted to it, but to your utter surprise she returned your smile, the look in her eyes shifting the slightest bit. It was like she could smile through her eyes.

“Thank you for today. I’m looking forward to seeing you all next week!” The teacher’s voice drew you back into reality. You blinked your eyes, nearly flinching when the model moved suddenly, the effect very similar to that of a moving statue, the woman getting off the stool to pick up her robe, sliding it on to fight the cold of the classroom as the other students cleaned up after themselves, loud rustling of paper sounding in the air. You couldn’t move, still far too occupied by her energy, your eyes lingering on her, and then all of a sudden, she was closer. She was walking closer to you. She came to a stop in front of you, taking a good look at your sheet of paper filled with sketches of various levels of effort. She glanced down at you on your seat, pursing her lips to hide her smile.

“You’re very talented”, she said quietly, her voice low and smooth, not something you had expected, but it suited her perfectly. You didn’t know what to say or do, looking up at her with your lips parted, searching for words, but you didn’t have to figure out anything to say because she turned around and walked away, disappearing through the door that was on your left.

You exited the class in a haze, so deep inside your mind that you didn’t even realize it was dark and raining outside. The wind blew in your face, wetting your hair and skin as thoroughly as possible, your fingers doing their best to untangle your earbuds as you walked down the street, dodging a couple pedestrians who you nearly ran into on the narrow sidewalk. A man hit you with his shoulder, not far from pushing you into a pole in his hurry to avoid the rain. You would’ve thought that New Yorkers would have been used to the rain, but apparently you were wrong. Yet the normally irritating encounter didn’t manage to ruin your mood, not when you had someone who tended to steal your attention time and time again with her red hair, and sweet voice. You kept replaying her words in your mind, trying to remember the tone of her voice as accurately as possible, but you could already feel it slipping away from you despite your efforts. It frustrated you. You needed to know more about her, hear more of her voice, anything at all really. You wanted more, unable to shake her from your mind as you hurried down a staircase to catch the subway that had just come to a stop and was opening its doors to new passengers. You picked up your pace, running along the platform and slipping inside the train.

The memory of the model would not leave you alone, your mind returning to the way she had smiled at you, the way those impossibly green eyes had looked at you for minutes on end. She was there when you went to bed, when you woke up the next morning, when you rode the subway to the university, when you sat in class. You wished to draw her again, noticing your notebooks slowly fill up with quick sketches of that same pose that was forever going to be ingrained into your muscle memory. However, you struggled to remember the smaller details, none of your sketches resembling her enough, a growing frustration alerting you of its presence. You had to get it right, you had to see her again.

You were sitting in a lecture hall, shading in the muscles of her thighs absentmindedly as your professor spoke about the significance of Victorian literature. You liked your professor, finding her voice soothing, which often ended up being deceitful because it made you zone out without you even trying, her calm way of speaking allowing you to focus all your attention on the sketch in front of you. The model was beautiful, she was so beautiful even in your inaccurate sketch. You sighed quietly, tilting your head as you tapped your pencil against the sketchbook. You wondered what her name was, how old she was, what she did for a living. She looked like someone with an elegant name like Eleanor, or Francesca, or Antoinette, well, maybe not that fancy, but something along those lines. Maybe Anastasia or Madeleine. She looked older than you for sure, but certainly not too old for you. You liked older. Maybe she was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, and possibly a full-time model. Although it didn’t seem to quite fit her. In your head she was not exactly a model by occupation which made you ponder how she had ended up in your classroom. She was athletic and worked out, that was for sure, her defined forearms and calves flashing through your mind. There was so much you didn’t know, so much room for possibility, room for you to make assumptions, the ambiguity allowing you to see whatever you desired. She was a blank canvas, a mystery for you to uncover.

An entire week’s worth of lectures went to waste as you daydreamed about your next art class in the hopes of seeing her again. You had far too much time on your hands to let your imagination run wild during lectures, every minute spent sketching as you thought about her. You thought about drawing her, painting her, holding her hand, your fantasies advancing to scenarios outside of art class to silly things like her waiting for you at campus, the autumn wind fluffing up her curls, a cup of coffee in her hand. You imagined the way she would smile at you, those pillowy lips sipping on her drink as she watched you do your homework at the library. You had decided that she liked pumpkin spice lattes with extra syrup and whipped cream on top. You thought that she looked like someone with an office of some sorts and maybe a nice flat in Brooklyn. You imagined that she wore classy clothes with an occasional odd piece that didn’t always fit her style. Of course you didn’t know because you had only ever seen her naked. The thought made you blush, an urge to hide away taking over you as your gaze met your professor’s. Hopefully she couldn’t read your mind. Her eyes flitted down to the sketchbook on your table, but she didn’t say a word despite seeing you do anything but focus on what she was talking about. You felt mortified, but only for a split second because then you were already dreaming of the way she would cup your face and pull you in by your waist to plant her lips on yours, and then before you could control your mind her fingers were buried deep inside you, her tongue licking into your mouth. Your entire body was lit on fire in mere seconds, your tight jeans only amplifying the arousal you felt pool between your legs. Oh, crap. You had a crush.

You weren’t one to flirt with women, you weren’t one to spend time around people, but for her you could’ve made an exception. You didn’t have crushes, you didn’t daydream, you weren’t a lover girl, yet slowly, you were becoming one, your mind consumed by a woman you knew nothing about. You couldn’t understand it. It was so unlike you to have silly crushes like that, but you couldn’t deny it. She was on your mind day and night, visiting you in your dreams. You loved and hated the feeling, finding joy in the thrill of liking someone, yet at the same time it was agonizing to know that it would never actualize into anything real. You were struck by an intense wave of affection, the subject of your admiration having no clue about any of it, which was both a relief and a disappointment to you.

A week rolled by on its own, bringing a sense of anticipation with it. You had patiently waited for your second art class in the hopes of seeing your newfound muse again, beyond thrilled that the agonizing wait was over. You said goodbye to one of your only friends at the university, heading to the beautiful, old building you had entered for the first time a week ago. You located your classroom with ease that time around, pumped full of excitement as you set everything up according to your teacher’s instructions, trying to remain patient as you waited for the class to begin. You were thrilled to create, to draw, to lose yourself in your work –in her– much like what you had been doing the previous week of school. You just needed to see her again, you needed to refresh your memory, even if you wouldn’t be allowed to talk to her. It didn’t even matter because you had gained your spark back, found passion, found something artistic to direct your energy toward. You had finally found a reason to create again, your heart longing for that consistent flow of inspiration, that high of creation, success, that state of mediation. You waited with the utmost patience for your teacher to bring out your model, but to your utter disappointment, she never showed up. She wasn’t there. Instead, you got a male model and an exercise for practicing color theory, which normally would have been greatly appreciated, but you just couldn’t get past the heaviness in your chest. Every time the teacher came to check on your work and tell you that your colors were looking sad you felt like crying. You wanted to ask her if she could bring your model back, but you knew you couldn’t even mention the woman without coming off as weird and unprofessional, so you bit back your sorrow, your wounded heart bleeding onto the canvas in dull, muddy colors that made the lively, young man sad and hollow.

When you finally escaped the classroom at the end of the night you burst into tears. You felt so desolate, like you had been abandoned, left alone, which was of course more than ridiculous because she didn’t even know your name. She wasn’t in your life, she was merely a person who you had crossed paths with, yet for some reason it hurt so much. It hurt unbelievably much considering you had never been anything at all, not even acquaintances, but the lost possibility of something more seemed to linger in your mind as you rounded the corner and entered a coffee shop to escape the frigid wind of September, in search of something that could provide comfort to your depressed mind. You got yourself a warm drink and a fat muffin, finding a seat in the corner of the cafe where you could cry in peace, looking out the window at the wet streets that glistened under the streetlamps as the rough wind whipped the leaves off the defenseless trees.

More chapters to come!

[arriansarchive]

Enoch O'Connor/Horace Somnusson

RAAAAAH 🔥🔥💥💥 The story has been decided

Honestly, enorace is probably my favorite ship..

It and jillard switch out every now and then

Love them both though

Set in Jacob's house after the third book since that's my favorite setting of all time

Can you tell I'm American by the dialogue???

Didn't know how to end it sooo forgetful Enoch I guess

EDIT... I READ THIS ON MY CHROMEBOOK AND I SWEEEEEEAR TO ALL PC READERS THAT THE NUMBERS WERE CENTERED

Summary: One Enoch tried to give Horace a gift and one time he succeeded.

-0-

It was a cold night in the broom closet where Enoch chose to stay in Jacob's gigantic house. The blankets were crowding him, and he just needed to escape.

Jacob had told him that the basement was also a place that he could go to work on his homunculi. Climbing out of the nest of blankets and pillows he had made, Enoch opened the door slowly.

He listened closely for any sign of footsteps and came up clear. His socked feet padded on the wooden floors. He was used to living in a space with toys all over the floor, so it was a relief not to have to watch where he stepped.

Now, Enoch didn't really want to work on his homunculi per say. He actually wanted to work on a gift that he had been conjuring up in his mind for a while.

Birthdays hadn't been celebrated for centuries in their original home with Miss Peregrine; but now that it was the present and all their clocks were reset, they could finally have the glory of birthday parties.

It was March third. March fifth was his.. something's, Horace Somnusson's, birthday. He supposed that Horace thought that Enoch was his best friend; he certainly acted so, but Enoch thought something more. Something he could never say.

So, obviously, he was going to make Horace a gift. Stupid, stupid Horace who always got red in the face whenever Enoch did something for him. Enoch didn't understand one bit why he couldn't just take the generosity and laugh at it. Meanly.

He never understood kindness or generosity until he met Horace, anyway. The boy had so much love to give, even to Enoch, that it was sickening. That's why he was trying to repay the ugly gift.

He downed the stairs two at a time, trying to get down quickly but silently. Nobody could catch him making a gift; he'd never hear the end of it.

He quietly opened the basement door, creeping past various sets of tools and the damaged car that they still hadn't replaced after they sent Jacob's parents on vacation. It's not like they planned to let them come back.

"Finally." Enoch whispered, coming to an empty work bench.

He pulled materials out of his pocket which consisted of: black fabric, white fabric, some random assortment of sewing materials from Jacob's mom's room, clay, and a flower. Oh, and a mouse's heart. Just the essentials.

He stumbled with the fabrics, poking himself with the needles a few times, but it got done nonetheless. He held it up with two fingers carefully. A small, horribly sewn suit that was made to fit on a homunculus.

Yes, that's right, his gift to Horace was going to be one of his little army men. Enoch grabbed a random cardboard box beside him and shoved the little man into it, closing the box hurriedly.

"Perfect." He chuckled with wiggling fingers.

Enoch decided he was going to give this gift to Horace tomorrow, so it could be more special than his other gifts. Jealous, yes, but it would pay off.

Now, he just had to wait.

-1-

Enoch woke up and cracked his neck from lying his head on the desk all night. He hasn't even realized he fell asleep. The banging from the cardboard box he shut last night blew him back to reality.

It's time for the gift of his life.

He trudged up the stairs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The box was thudding around in his hands; it wobbled him slightly. He spotted Horace in Jacob's kitchen, some of the others standing around him, hovering over the food.

Enoch stopped in the next room over, tapping his foot on the ground as he tried to find out a way to get Horace alone. A slow, evil smile spread on his face whenever he thought of his idea.

Reaching his hand out to the vase beside him, he knocked it over loudly. He suppressed a chuckle and his behind the corner, knowing Horace would come and check it out.

"What was that?" He heard a fiery, female voice ask.

"I'll go check it out. It is my house, after all." An uncertain voice said.

But it wasn't a good uncertain voice. It wasn't Horace. It was Jacob!

Jacob came into the room, and his eyes narrowed when he saw the vase, almost as of he knew that Enoch had been the one to knock it over.

Immediately rounding the corner, he spotted Enoch against the wall, looking guilty. Jacob huffed and crossed his arms.

"Really, Enoch?" He paused to run his temples, "What is wrong with you? What is that box?"

Enoch scowled and looked around the room to avoid Jacob's eyes, clutching the box tighter in his arms.

"It's a bunch of organs that I'm going to spread around your pillow tonight if you don't buzz off!" He spat angrily.

Jacob rolled his eyes, pointing the the banging box. "Whatever you say, but I don't think organs do that."

Enoch jerked the box away from Jacob's accusing finger and walked away, clambering up the stairs to his broom closet. He'll store his gift in there tomorrow. His gift will just have to be normal, he guessed.

-2-

Enoch sighed, grabbing the box out from its hiding place on one of the shelves in the broom closet and prepared to bring in down to Horace's room. He had one last chance to make his gift special.

He would give it to him before anyone in the house woke up.

Quietly closed the door and shushed the little homunculus in the suit before padding quietly down the hallway in his cartoon socks that used to be Jacob's.

Horace's room was on the right next to the bathroom. Enoch entered quietly, hoping he wouldn't be asleep.

Much to his delight, Horace say on the side of his bed as he looked in the mirror, fixing his hair. It was tussles, and he looked a mess, but something in Enoch really liked that mess.

"Hey!" Enoch whispered, crossing the room swiftly.

Horace jumped and looked at Enoch with a hand on his chest. "You had me petrified, Enoch! You need not do that ever again."

"I need not do a lot of things that I do."

Horace rolled his eyes, but he stopped whenever he saw the box that was thudding from the inside that's in Enoch's arms. His eyebrows raised slightly as he pointed to it.

"Are there organs in there?" Horace asked.

"I don't think organs do that." Enoch shrugged. "But it is for you."

Horace smiled and stood up from his bed. He took the box from Enoch, caressing the side. He had such a sincere smile on his face that it made Enoch want to puke.

Horace opened the box, and the grin got even wider. It seemed like it would stretch from ear to ear. He put his hand in the box, pulling out the fancy homunculus.

His cheeks got all rosy, and it made Enoch scowl even harder. The little homunculus wrapped it's little arms around Horace's long fingers in a hug.

"It's so cute, Enoch! I love him." Horace cooed.

Enoch rolled his eyes fondly. "I suppose you've already named him?"

"Not yet, but I definitely will." Horace giggled.

He giggled!

Enoch coughed a little to hide the smile that was spreading across his face unwillingly. Seeing Horace so happy had made something in his presumed dead heart start to flutter.

Horace looked Enoch in the eyes, and his grin lowered into a calm, still happy smile. "You know, despite your outward look on life, you're quite the romantic."

Enoch's eyes widened.

Oh yeah, he forgot. Horace has asked him out five days ago. Somehow he was always forgetting.

[rpmemepalkia]

ASSORTED PAPER MARIO TTYD QUOTES

modify as desired.

"Hey, back off, you creep! You want something, or you just like sliding up to people?"

"Like I'd go anywhere with smelly lunatics like you! Hmph! Not likely!"

"Phew! What a bunch of loons! Let's just sneak out of here, what do you say?"

"... Anyway, no offense, but it looks like you just rolled into town yourself. Right?"

"Whoa whoa WHOA, bucko! Whatcha got there?"

"Um... Excuse me! Err... I beg your pardon! Wait a moment! PLEASE!!!"

"Pardon me for yelling like that... I was panicking. Umm... How to begin?"

"Who dares approach me?"

"Awfully sorry, dear boy, but when I say "no", what I mean is...NO!"

"Rather odd threat, eh?"

"Well? I'm dying to hear the rest of your hilarious story, Mr. Comedian! Do share!"

"Now, out with it! Why have you called me here?"

"Am I [NAME]'s baby–sitter? I don't care what he's doing! Are you going to call me every time that guy blows his nose, or what? Sheesh!"

"They sound like good world–conquering tools! I want 'em! "

"A picnic?!? You MORON! This is no time for fun!"

"See, THIS is why my evil plans always derail! Because you clods always goof off! AAARGH!"

"I am gonna DESTROY you! And I have witnesses!"

"No! Out of the question! You mustn't come in here!"

"DO speak up! You! Whoever just spoke! Do you have some clue as to my necklace's whereabouts?"

"My! Such wonderful drama! I imagine we have to do something now, don’t we?"

"Oooh! That sounds exciting! A little…on the seedy side. Show me the way!"

"Oh, come off it, you airhead! I know it's tough for you, but don't play dumb with me!"

"I knew it was brilliant, but seeing you fall for it REALLY gives me a warm fuzzy!"

"I can't believe there are other thieves here besides me. How very strange..."

"Oh, I almost forgot... I have a little secret to share with you. ♡"

"Oooh, it's so chilly… I wonder where this place is."

"Oh, my! That was quite fun! I can't say I ever thought I'd take a ride like THAT!"

"I'm fighting by your side from now on! I've made my choice... and I'm not turning back!"

"I'll never forget my time traveling with you. So... don't forget about me, either..."

"You're not really doing much to impress me either, bud!"

"Looks like we overdid it a little bit, Are they OK?"

[mapplestrudel]

Five Times You Met Reacher - Chapter 1: First Meeting

Fandom: Reacher (TV)

Pairing: Jack Reacher & Reader

Summary: You needed to get away from everything and decided to travel wherever your feet would take you. Along the way you crossed paths several times with a particular tall blond man.

Additional Tags: travel friendship, no banging, hugs and cuddles eventually, i once again craved fridge built man hugs and took to fanfiction, Not Canon Compliant, Asexual Character, Set in the mid 2000s, Minor Violence, assorted crafts make some cameos, cursed knitting needles, Mentioned Death of Parents, Fluff

Wordcount: ~1.1K

This chapter on AO3: Here

------

The first time you met Reacher, you were on the Greyhound and didn't even catch his name.

You didn't know when he entered the bus because you were busy with a crochet project and it needed all your attention.

It had been a hard time for you. Your father had died recently, a few years after your mother, leaving you with your parents' house, and after every bureaucratic thing had been dealt with and you felt like you should, at last, have time to breathe - you found that you actually could not.

Everything was too much, your new homeownership just put the cherry on top. You didn't have the heart to sell it. But you also couldn't stay there. Everything felt... suffocating. Everywhere memory ghosts of your parents were lingering.

You just had to get out.

And so you did, one rainy morning.

No real goal in mind you packed a bigger backpack, a smaller backpack and a project bag with wools and tools and left.

As your bus took a turn to leave the station, a sunbeam hit your face and you smiled back at it, knowing you were on the right path, and you sighed out breath of relief.

You didn't even know where you would get out but you were sure you would know it when the right moment had come.

Time passed. Miles passed. Cities passed, while people boarded the bus and left again.

You stared out of the window, brain empty - finally! - and admired the views.

You fell asleep, and woke up again.

An idea hit you, and you got a 4 mm crochet hook and a plushy yarn out of your tools and wools bag and started making an axolotl plushie for a friend's daughter who's birthday was coming up.

****

A guy with a guitar entered the bus.

A busker as it turned out, with a bright yellow t-shirt under a flowy colourful Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat, and he entertained the passengers with a few upbeat tunes and smiles. You put five bucks into the hat he offered around afterwards, secretly hoping he'd take a break because even though you liked the music, you did not like to be locked in with music you had no control over.

****

Another guy entered, hair slicked back, dark polo shirt, sunglasses tucked into the unbutttoned button placket. He looked around, made a beeline straight towards you, and sat down in the seat beside you. He struck up a conversation as soon as the bus moved again, and you started to regret travelling at all because he just did not. stop. talking.

At first you nodded and smiled politely. After all, you did like meeting people and getting to know their stories. But this guy soon became *too much*. Too much talk, and much too close for your liking.

And no escape.

You told him, politely, but very directly, that you did not want him to sit beside you and asked him to chose another seat from the plenty that were free at this moment. But this spurred him even more as he tried to convince you that this was a long ride and wasn't it nice to have somebody to talk to and that the two of you could have some fun and then his hand was on your thigh...

You tensed up, but a plan had already formed in your mind. With jittering hands, blood rushing in your ears, you grabbed your bundle of 3 mm double pointed needles from your project bag and without any more warning rammed them into the back of his hand.

He jumped up, bleeding, screaming, throwing insults and then his fist in your direction.

But another fist hit him first.

The big blond guy from the seat in front of you had gotten up, punched the sleazy guy, making him stumble backwards a few steps, and now stood blocking the entrance to your seat.

"You heard her. Leave her alone."

"Mind your own business!" Sleazeman hollered and tried to throw another punch which... well, proved that he must have been lacking some essential survival instincts, because the blond guy was about 6'5" and built like a brick shithouse. One more punch and Sleazo tumbled back, nose bleeding, words failing.

Your rescuer whispered something into his ear. Given the how much Sleazo's eyes widened in fear you could only imagine it being something along the lines of "If you touch anybody ever again, I will break other things than just your nose," (and that wouldn't have beeen far away from the truth). Sleazo whimpered and nodded and went to sit down quietly at the back of the bus, and was not seen again after the next stop.

The big guy watched him with a sharp stare, and only when Sleazeman sat down, not moving, turned around.

"You okay?" he asked as he returned to his seat.

Still shaking, you nodded bravely, finishing a big swig of water from your canteen. "Thanks!"

He nodded back in acknowledgement and sat down, but soon turned around again, with an inquisitive quirk on his brows.

"What did you stab him with?"

You huffed a laugh and it released some of your tension. "Well.. I've been trying, and so far failing, to learn how to knit socks and I have these double pointed needles made of titanium... " You held them up, bunched together with a rubber band, a protective cover on one side of the tips, and a little blood on the other side.

He chuckled. "I’ve seen my share of things, but up till now no knitting needles in a fight."

You shrugged. "I got them from my grandma. I think she might have stabbed some more people with them. … They may be actually cursed and need a blood sacrifice every once in a while, lest one’s knitting turns to shit."

"Oh, so then that’s a good time to try again."

"Knitting socks?"

"Yeah! Now that they’re 'recharged'?"

"Ha!" you laughed. "You might be right. But I wanna finish this axolotl first." You held up a pastel pink coloured three-dimensional crochet shape that was indeed slowly starting to look like an axolotl.

"Good luck then!"

"Thanks! And thanks again for your help." Your smile was still a little shaken, but genuine. He nodded, and turned around again, giving you the space and peace the other guy had denied you.

****

You did almost finish the axolotl, but fell asleep again.

When you woke up, the tall blond guy was gone. You looked around for your crochet stuff, finding it in the seat beside you. Apparently it had fallen down when the sleepiness took you, and somebody had picked it up and you had a feeling that it had been the helpful stranger.

[hirazuki]

For Now [Chapter 16 snippet]

Sasori/Haruno Sakura, Sasori & Haruno Sakura | T | Blank Period | canon divergent | angst, hurt/comfort, enemies to friends | ongoing [AO3]

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

The moon is bright over Konoha, spilling full and white on the village, complementing the colored lights from the lanterns that have been hung on every street. The warm night air is filled with the smell of fried food and the sound of games and laughter, a low thrum of talking running endlessly throughout. There are performances and sweets and goldfish prizes, and fireworks scheduled to start a couple of hours from now.

Everyone is out here – shinobi and civilian, adult and child alike – dressed in assortments of traditional clothing and tall sandals and masks, enjoying the food and the sights and the company that come with the kind of night a summer festival brings.

The kind of night that Jiraiya loved best.

Orochimaru can’t stop the thought before it crosses his mind, and he closes his eyes against the memories, though he knows from experience that it does precisely no good. Bumping into Tsunade earlier was bittersweet, as always – one of those medicines as hard on the body as the ailments they cure, or tea that has been steeped for too long – and for all that he appreciates being able to reconnect with the only other person left who remembers, it leaves him feeling far more sentimental than he’s comfortable with.

He didn’t quite run away but he did make a strategic exit, when she hit her seventh bottle and her assistant started arguing with her about wrapping things up, retreating to a dark corner right off of the main street and shaded by one of the large trees that Yamato has regrown in the center of town, purchasing a stick of ikayaki on the way.

Chewing slowly on the fried squid, he studies the crowd, and considers the best way to get the children, who finally convinced him to all come here for the last night of the festival, to regroup. 

They can make their own way back to the hideout, of course – they’re all adults, now; they’ve been adults, frankly, for quite some time. But he’s been enjoying this new relationship he has with the Hidden Leaf, and he doesn’t trust any of them not to accidentally ruin it. Jūgo is mild-mannered and doesn’t drink and Orochimaru has done his best to stabilize his condition, but there’s always a chance that he’ll snap and go on a rampage; Suigetsu is a handful, whether inebriated or not, and likes to get into arguments; and Karin has been wanting to spend more time with Naruto-kun – and there is no world in which two Uzumaki tampering with their clan jutsu unsupervised does not end poorly, especially those two.

As though thinking about her has summoned her, a head of bright red comes into view and he’s about to make his way over – 

But no, he realizes a moment later; the hair is much too short to be Karin, and the yukata is dark brown, not purple.

He clicks his tongue in mild annoyance and is about to move to a different area to see if he can track them down, when the person he had been observing turns, and Orochimaru is confronted with a face that he last saw whole lifetimes ago, from behind falling rubble and blasts of sand and the white blur of C2 explosives.

Golden eyes immediately sharpen, riveting on their target, pupils blowing wide and black from the delicate slits they normally are.

How… interesting, he thinks, as everything else around him fades to a muddled blur and he allows his body to thrum with a type of regard that he hasn’t felt in years. It’s an old excitement, bearing the smell of spilled iron and damp, underground rooms and that particular sting of newly-disinfected surgical tools, and it washes over him so strongly that he nearly dips his head to the right for the snide remarks, the plans, the worries, that once would have issued at his shoulder.

He crushes the pang that bursts in his chest instantly – he knows better than to address it, to indulge it, to pay any attention to it; he’s made that mistake before – and focuses on what is in front of him, instead of what is gone.

Sasori looks older. 

It must be his original body, then – which means that his seal worked, after all this time, and the customary satisfaction of a project’s success warms its way through his veins. How long has he been back? Why is he here? It can’t be purely for the sake of keeping a low profile, even though it’s unlikely that anyone in Konoha would recognize him – surely a smaller town deeper in the country, rather than one of the great shinobi villages, would be better for that, if anonymity is what he’s after.

Orochimaru is still mulling over this absolute gift when fate proves to be in a terribly generous mood, and the surprises don’t stop – a girl joins Sasori. 

An exceedingly familiar girl.

Sakura-kun?

[strangelysamantha]

HIIII!!!! can you write a JJ x routledge reader where he sees the reader struggling with their curly hair so he helps them? and, if possible, them confessing that they like JJ?

thank you already, i love your fluff concepts!!!

hair tech ❀

jj maybank × curly haired!reader.

warnings: none just cute fluff.

words: 2,249

summary: your hair wasn’t looking the way you wanted, so jj offered to try and learn to fix it. with the newly learned hair techniques, came the exposure of feelings. having to avoid telling john b, he conveniently walks in during the worst time.

request: yes!!

a/n: if you’ve sent in a request, i’m working on them! they will get done! :) i hope whoever sent this actually sees it. i’m worried i waited too long to write these requests :(. i also got carried away with this so hopefully you still like it!

masterlist link

——————————————————————————

“jj my hair is so frizzy!” he frowns, seeing how upset you looked. “i’m sorry. at least i can say with confidence it doesn’t look bad!” he tries to lift the spirits but it doesn’t work. “i guess so, but it could look better.” he sighs, “honey… anything and everything could look better in this world, doesn’t mean much.” the words are more reassuring than you’d like to admit. “thank you.” you look up at him. he smiles, “hey, i can try and help you if you’d like?” he hesitates, “i’ll understand if you say no, i know i don’t know much about hair.” you shake your head fast, “no actually, i would love that.” he bites his lip with excitement. “okay! lead the way.”

you stay sat in front of the mirror, a comb, leave in conditioner, a spray bottle with water, and other assortment of tools are sprawled on the counter top. jj intensely examines every item, he claims he’s just getting a feel of what he’s working with, but you believe he’s trying to memorize what supplies you use so he can beat you to it when it comes to buying them in the future. you blush at the thought.

“so, what i like to start with is spray my hair down with water, comb it out, and then lather my hair in leave in conditioner.” you explain your technique. he nods listening, “have you tried that yet?” he asks. you shake your head, “no, i’m worried if i get my hair wet it’ll just look greasy.” he nods. “is that the worst thing that could happen?” you think for a second, “yeah, i think so. i mean my hair could fall out any minute but, overall i think that my biggest concern is the grease.” he nods. “you look pretty, regardless of if your hair is greasy or not.” you can’t help but look away. “you’re very sweet jj.” your compliment gives him butterflies. he reaches for the spray bottle. he separates your hair, giving each section a sprits. you were worried he’d “jokingly” spray you with water, but he refrained from doing so.

after your hair was slightly damp, he starts to comb it out. you can’t help but ask, “are you enjoying this,” he smiles, “i am. it’s fun.” he waits a second before continuing, “i never thought i’d be doing this which is a plus.” you laugh, “what can you say? it’s always something new for us pogues.” silence settles between you two again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable.

“can i tell you something?” you don’t know how to break the ice really, but you’ve been dying to tell jj how you really feel. “of course, i’m all ears.” you think for a second, “do you like anyone at the moment?” he smiled and looked down at you, “whose asking?” you roll your eyes playfully, “me, i’m just curious.” he nods, “well, i’m not sure. i don’t think i’m really ready for a relationship. you know, my dad and all that?” he begins putting on the leave in conditioner. “your hair is looking nice! i think it’s my magical touch.” you smirk, “oh yea totally… it’s not the 20 dollar conditioner you’re adding or anything.” he gasps, “twenty dollars!? why?” you shrug, “i’m not really sure. a lot of people with curly hair pay a bunch of money to maintain it.” he nods, “well there goes my plan for buying you more when you run out.” you point at him, “i knew you were looking a little too close at the products!” he sighs dramatically, “you caught me!”

“see and that’s why i like you, you were fully prepared to buy it for me.” jj stopped abruptly. “is everything okay? did you put too much?” he looks down at you, “that’s why you what?” he questions. “that’s why i like you?” you repeat, he looks concentrated. “i can’t tell if you mean, more than a friend?” you stare at him like a deer in headlights. it’s the perfect set up. without thinking of the consequences, you let it out. “i do like you more than a friend. that’s kinda why i asked about your crush.” he smiled at you and lightly used his hand to squeeze your cheeks. “why didn’t you tell me sooner!?” you roll your eyes, “rejection? maybe?” he nodded understandingly. “i forgot that’s a thing.”

“of course jj maybank forgot about rejection.” he immediately backtracks, “oh no i get rejected i just don’t mind.” you nod, “i wish i was that way.” he stares at you, and it’s unreadable. “so?” you question. “so what?” you can’t believe him, “what do you say?” he’s adding the final dab of leave in conditioner, “i say your hair is perfect.” you’ve been too focused on your confession you haven’t even checked on your hair. you look up in the mirror and see that the frizz died down, and the curls were in tact. you jumped up excitedly. “thank you so much!” he goes in for a hug and you happily accept. he continues, “i think you could have done it yourself, you were just frustrated which made it difficult.”

you wait to see if he mentions your confession, and after a few minutes of you two sitting on the couch, semi cuddling in silence, he speaks up. “so, about your confession.” your heart speeds up and you listen intently. “i really like you. but your my best friends brother, and he’d kill me if we dated.” you frown, “why?” he looks around, and gets quiet, “he wouldn’t like the idea of us making out and hooking up.” you sigh, but you understand. they are really close and you didn’t want to get between what they have. he places his hand on your thigh however, and the two of you make eye contact. “that doesn’t mean he has to know.” your shocked at his comment.

“he’d find out eventually which would make it worse.” while john b sometimes isn’t the brightest in the bunch, he notices change. he would easily be able to tell if something was happening between us. “let’s see. if we pretend for a bit, we can think of ways to break the news to him? i mean, he can’t be that mad, he never said when he introduced us that we couldn’t date.” you hear john b and pope talking outside, while the distance you were sitting at wasn’t necessary abnormal, you didn’t want to risk anything. you smoothly pulled your phone out and relaxed on the opposite end of the couch.

the door opened and they walked inside, john b announced his arrival and then laughed when he noticed he screamed for no reason since you both were on the couch together. pope immediately left the room to go to the bathroom. “since when do you guys hang out alone?” john b questioned. you look at him confused. “you told me when i met your friends that you wanted me to get close to them, and now you’re confused as to why we are close?” you laugh at his logic and he shrugs, “jj is different.” jj groans, “thanks man, appreciate it.” you look at your brother, “how?” john b blinks a few times before pointing a finger at jj. “he’s a heartbreaker, and i don’t want you to fall for his charm.” oh the urge you had to just exclaim right then and there that you already had fallen for it. “don’t worry john b, he’s not even my type.” he puts his hand on his hip and questions you. “oh really?” you nod, “yes really.” he laughs, “what’s your type then? who are you crushing on?” you blush, and avoid eye contact with jj, despite the fact you feel his eyes drilling on your skull.

“john b! stop!” you try to deflect but he wasn’t having it. “if you can tell me who you actually like that’s your “type”, then i’ll let it go and i’ll believe there’s nothing going on between you too.” you act confused, but decide to just give in. “well, you promise not to tell him?” you ask. john b smirks, “yes sis, i promise i won’t tell this guy you like him.” to make it more believable you glance over at jj too, “you too jj. promise you won’t tell him.” he’s staring at you, you can tell he’s holding back. “i promise. i won’t tell this mystery guy that he has your heart.”

“okay. well i kinda have a crush on rafe…” to make it more believable you add on, “i was at the beach yesterday.” you were there, so it’s accurate. “rafe was there. he looked so hot, his shirt was off and he was playing catch with topper. the ball accidentally flew my way, and he rushed over and immediately apologized. he then asked if i’d like to join, and i was too nervous to agree, but i told him i’d rather watch.” you glance over at jj, his face stern, his fist hidden from john bs view, was balled into a fist. john b cackles, “rafe! really?” you groan acting embarrassed. “hey! i never said i was proud of it.”

“what do you think of this jj? you’ve been awfully quiet.” john b interrogates jj, not fully sure your crush on rafe was real. “i think he’s a worser heartbreaker than me. and you..” he looks at john b, “should be more worried about him then me.” john b nods, the realization that his sister has a crush on a kook settling in. “oh no! no, not rafe. no way.” you frown and immediately get frustrated. “so you don’t want me to date jj, and now rafe?? who can i date?” he thinks for a second, “i’ll come back to you. let me think.” you lean back onto the couch, “okay, sure.” you cross your arms. “on that note i’m going to take a shower.” you nod and return back to your phone. pope still absent, and john b leaving the room left you alone with jj again. you stay quiet, engulfed in your phone.

he sighs. loudly. you glance up. “yes?” he shakes his head, frustrated. “we need to talk.” he stands up and reaches for your hand. you give it to him and follow him right out the front door, past a five minute walk to make sure everyone’s out of earshot. you stay silent.

“rafe cameron… out of every guy in this shitty town, he’s the one you choose? really?” you smirk, “why, are you jealous?” he stares at you. “yeah i’m fucking jealous. the girl i find out i have a mutual crush with decides five minutes later to go in detail about another jerk off guy.” you frown and walk closer to him. “what happened about lying to john b?” he breathes deeply. “i know. i know. it just? i don’t know why hearing that shit about rafe affected me so much.” your heart is racing. you want to make a move, and the last time you randomly initiated something it went well. “i can make you feel better.” he, still frustrated and jealous, didn’t know what you meant. you put your hand on his jawline, and softly pull him into a kiss. it lasts longer than a first kiss should, but it was soft, slow, and passionate. he groans when you pull away. “fuck. promise me that shit with rafe was fake?” you nod. “it’s fake. when i went to the beach he intentionally hit me with the ball, and all the interaction was him coming to get the ball and then asked me to move because i was in the way. total dick.”

this soothes his mind. “i don’t know why i’m already so possessive over you. you’re not even mine.” you bite your lip and look away from him. “i want to be yours. so bad jj.” his heart drops at your comment and he shyly smiles. “can we kiss again?” he questions you, and you’re so glad he asked. “yes please.” he pulls you in for another kiss. this one more passionate and rougher than the last. you pull away and ask him, “how long have you had a crush on me?” he pretends to do the mental math. “i always thought you were gorgeous when we first met, but for the last 8 months i’ve been so infatuated with you and i’ve been longing to be yours.” you bite your lip. “i’ve liked you since the first day i met you. your blue eyes entranced me and i knew there was no one else i could meet that would ever effect me and give me butterflies like you do.” your words shock him and all he can do is pull you into a tight hug. his muscular arms squeeze you and you inhale his scent. your new favorite place was his arms.

“will you be mine? in secret i mean, until we can figure out how to tell john b?” he was so nervous. you wrap your arms around his neck. “i never thought you’d ask.” you and jj sit farther away from the house, talking. you found yourselves moving closer to each other without even realizing it. by the end of the session, you were in jjs lap, facing the water, his arms wrapped around your torso. you felt safe, he felt at peace.

[m4gp13]

Okay time to talk about Al's hero complex and Ethan's martyr complex more in-depth because I love it so much <3

Al's hero complex is pretty obvious. He thinks he's Katniss Everdeen fighting a valiant battle against the Capitol because no one told him he's not the main character. He sees himself and those who agree with him as the Heroes (tm) while any who oppose them are the Villains of Unrivalled Evil because obviously his people wouldn't be fighting them if they were anything less. Al definitely has the overwhelming optimistic approach of a heroic paragon who believes it's impossible for him to fail because he's the good guy and good guys always win (Ladies, Gentlemen and Assorted Genders I would now like to direct your attention to "heroes never die, right?"). Which is how he ended up getting the remainder of his army massacred because he wouldn't accept defeat and pushed them on for a last-ditch attempt at victory. He's willing to sacrifice his people for the greater good, and in this way he and Percy are like the inverse of "Villains will sacrifice the world to save their loved ones, heroes will sacrifice their loved ones to save the world."

Al was the most powerful child of Hecate and as such was chosen to lead the rest of her children into battle. For such a young guy, this probably gave him a sense of grandeur, importance and self-respect which translates well into him seeing himself as the hero of his story. He had Luke and his propaganda to look up to, Mt Othrys to run things from and the Princess Andromeda to help things along, as well as a swarm of younger demigods who saw him as a hero. Now I'm not saying it all got to his head but that is pretty much what I'm saying. There's also Hecate, who is a pretty loving mother all things considered and was helping and supporting Alabaster and her children all the way through the war. With her encouragement exacerbating Al's self-righteousness instead of giving him a reality check, his hero complex could only grow until it made the Al we see in Son of Magic. He has lost everything and has never been in a worse place but he is still so sure of himself and his own moral superiority.

Ethan's martyr complex is a little more subtle but it's there if you're looking. My guy sacrificed his eye to his mother and was A-Okay with the arrangement. He was asked, from a very young age, to go through a lot of short-term physical pain with the result of a long-term disability in order to make a change in the world, which he agreed to. So he already doesn't think too highly of himself which is a great start! His mother uses him as a vehicle for her goals and he is aware of this and consenting to it. He has already relegated his own life as a tool for someone else. And then there's the arena battle in the labyrinth where he was very quick to offer Percy his own head on a platter. He was thinking very pragmatically at the time. He didn't seem to care much about "holy shit I'm going to die" and was instead just thinking "If he kills me then I die but if he spares me then we'll both die 2-1=1 so if we go with the first option then that will be one less death" HE DOESN'T GIVE A FUCK. His own life is something he can step back from, view in the context of the bigger picture and figure out how detrimental the loss of it would be to everything else going on around him. And then to further prove my point the last thing he ever does in the series is actually martyr himself to stop Kronos from ruining his mother's plans. Way to make it easier for me buddy.

As for how he ended up like this, his mother is fucking Nemesis. A hero complex and a martyr complex run antiparallel to each other with the key difference being that a hero will do whatever it takes to succeed while a martyr is all too happy to throw their life away for The Cause. In the eyes of a young child desperate to please his mother who is known for harshly punishing the prideful and arrogant of the world, being a hero who desires personal success and glory would be far too egotistical, and in order to be a hero his mother would approve of, he must be entirely selfless about it. She would despise anything else.

[xhorhaus]

staying up till 2am to watch the latest candela episode was entirely worth it for so many reasons!! as someone currently writing a unit plan to teach about sff and horror and social justice issues this episode was perfect food for thought!! assorted things:

this circle in particular, but candela in general, is asking one of those important questions in the horror genre— what makes a monster? typically, in traditional horror, it's what society fears (even in early work such as vampiric folklore and frankenstein— the "Other" always reflects something that threatens to upturn societal values) but i love the way candela is flipping that on its head. Like social injustices ARE the real evil all along and it is so refreshing to see that

it started with Sean in the last circle: is revenge monstrous? is the blood of the people who ordered him to war somehow worth more than the blood of the people he killed when he was ordered? how do you stop being a weapon once you've been honed into one

And this circle is all about monsters. On technicalities, most of them have something supernatural in them but i was particularly struck by aabria's response to and elsie's reflection of her role in cullet research: sometimes inaction against power structures is a root of evil and while guilt makes for interesting self reflection in the aftermath, it is not an excuse (a fantastic mirror of so many real world things)

And then there was the "evil" they were fighting in the first place: a child who was scared and fighting tooth and nail with all the tools she had to keep her people safe. Watching from a country where those indigenous to the land do not have equal access to clean water; and are often prosecuted for defending further desecration of their land and communities, i think the way this was dealt with was an excellent story choice. The characters had a choice to be real allies, to support mina in the way that she was asking for with the tools they had, while also taking care of her and acknowledging that there were things she did not want from them. Whether or not they follow through on it remains to be seen, but i think letting her keep the water sentinel, and offering to cart water over were both great. Hopefully they can live up to their commitments because i have a feeling that candela, like most structured institutions, isn't gonna view it quite the same way

i think between the war trauma and lack of veteran support, terrible mental health treatment, the clear differences in social class across newfaire, and the bug in a jar approach candela has to studying even its own people— i would not be surprised if we slowly headed towards more circles that not only actively hid things from their lightkeepers, but also went rogue entirely! And i, for one, look forward to that

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Cobbler

Cordelia wasn't supposed to be a pirate. Most pirates weren't, of course, but she imagined that they'd started out as sailors or thieves and transitioned in one direction or the other. For her part, she'd only been a cobbler, a mender of old boots: she'd never stolen nor sailed at all, let alone served as a buccaneering captain. But this ship had needed a crew, and so she'd cobbled one together. 

It was all in aid of the mission, or so the prophets had explained. The Caterian Empire had hung for too long like a shadow across their coastline, lurking just across the water from the town where Cordelia had been born, raised, and hoped to one day retire, if they survived this voyage of the damned. Their island was small, and couldn't muster much of an army to slow the Empire's ravenous advance, which had already consumed so many of their peers.

But it could muster her - and she'd pulled together the rest.

"Why have you come to me?" she'd protested at the time, when the prophets appeared at her door. Cordelia had understood their warnings of imminent doom, the threat of conquest, the need for a chosen one to defeat the evil once and for all - she just hadn't understood why that meant her. "I'm not a soldier. I'm a shoemaker, for crying out loud. I'm not the sort of person who wins battles."

"Well, that's sort of the point," one of the prophets had replied, knocking one of a pair of boots off the shelf behind him. "Are you familiar with the concept of langrage?"

"Not unless that's you struggling to speak ours."

"It's a nautical term," he continued, ignoring her. "When a ship runs out of conventional shot, it loads its guns with whatever lies handy: nuts and bolts, cutlery and clockwork, anything that might tear an opposing sail to shreds. Even shoes, in a pinch. Sometimes they even do it by choice, a cannonade of loose ephemera over your traditional balls of steel."

"That still doesn't answer my question," Cordelia stood firm, demonstrating some of the latter. "Why are you in my home? What do you want from me?"

"We've studied the histories," another said, and from the lines around his eyes she believed him. "Any sufficiently potent evil, your archetypical dark lord or dragon, is always defeated by a motley band of unlikely heroes. Always and only. The soldiers on their own can't make it all the way. We don't know why, but something about having a mixture of backgrounds and skillsets works out better."

"Many organisations have found they benefit from diverse hiring practices," the first prophet said. "Why not an army?"

The other shoe dropped, and Cordelia leant against a wall, momentarily deflated. "You want to build an army... of people like me?"

"Well, sort of."

"A load of old cobblers?"

"We thought so too, but it checks out." The prophet paused to stack the boots back up. "But the point is to find people who aren't like you. A real assortment of profiles, you know? Think about all the tools you use in your craft, the rasp and last and awl and all of that. Each serves a different function. That's the sort of effect we're going for."

"But who, specifically?" she asked, still wondering why they'd chosen her. Perhaps they hadn't, and just knocked on a random door. "How will you decide upon this perfect, random mix?"

"Well," they said. "We were rather hoping that you would."

Cordelia tried her best to follow their approach. If she was planning this endeavour of her own accord - perhaps after some trauma to the head - she knew that there were certain people she'd look to recruit for her crew, and others who she wouldn't trust to scrub the decks. But if the prophets had chosen her house at random, she would have to do the same.

Her list of customers was a solidly mixed assortment of potential allies, and she thought about drawing names from a hat, before realising that she already had them in order: she had a schedule of commissions, and figured she'd just press-gang those who'd come to her. It would mean acting out a reverse Cinderella: choosing anyone who had a shoe that didn't fit.

She had to start somewhere, so she started with those who already owed her for repairs, including Aldous, the actor whose boots had been shelved by the door. A career of treading the boards had worn them down. She wondered how he'd feel about walking the plank.

"I've got your boots," she said, once he opened the door. There was no time for pleasantries. They'd have plenty of chance to catch up on the open seas.

"Ah, wonderful." He beamed for his audience of one. "You know, costumes come and go, but you absolutely cannot beat a comfy pair of shoes. One does so much of one's work on one's feet, and people really do underestimate-"

"Speaking of which," she interrupted, wishing to be spared the soliloquy. "Are you in the market for a new role?"

"Well, one would never rule oneself out at first blush, so to say, at least without-"

"Excellent. It's yours."

"Mine? I mean, one's? But what is it?"

"First mate."

"A nautical tale?"

"A pirate adventure."

"Oh, how marvellous! Yes, one always fancied oneself as a swashbuckler, but of course such roles are rare nowadays. When do we start rehearsals?"

"The ship is being readied as we speak. We leave at dawn, two days for now." Then, because it was important to maintain a sense of fun. "Please bring your own costume."

It hadn't been how she'd pictured it, until the prophets had explained. The Caterian Empire was a fortress, their borders well-defended, and even a small band of adventurers would struggle to sneak all the way into the palace at its heart. But sea was a different matter, and every now and again the Emperor found the need to travel to one vassal isle or the next, placing himself uniquely vulnerable to attack.

"If you challenge them under the flags of this island, there will be reprisals here first," they'd said. "But under a black flag, you can operate in the shadows. Befriend the others who live there, if you can. Form a pirate fleet, guerrillas of the sea, chipping away at the Empire's naval strength. If they can't leave the mainland, their armies are irrelevant. That is how you'll win."

"By starting at a disadvantage."

"The heroes always do. They're never under an official flag, the admiral of their own armada. They're rogues, rascals, underdogs against overwhelming odds. The less likely your victory, the more inevitable it will be."

Cordelia's next recruit came to her, which was convenient, although she wouldn't have chosen her in a million years. Janina worked in the citrus orchards, and was famously all fingers and thumbs with anything smaller than a clementine, but she just about managed to knock on the door with a pair of shoes in her other hand.

"I'm sorry to bother you with this," he said, handing one over with some gratitude. "But I'm afraid I've done something awful to the laces. They'd unravelled when I came to put them on this morning, and I seem to have made more of a mess trying to rethread them. Sorry, I know it's a difficult one."

"Mhm." Cordelia held her tongue, and inspected the eyelets around it. She didn't know much about sailing, but she suspected a pirate's life involved some quantity of ropes and knots. If she was choosing a crew from her customers, she might choose those who tied the neatest bows. But the prophets had stressed the hodgepodge nature of successful groups, thrown together by fate. She would have to trust in the randomness of shoe entropy.

"Oh, thank you so much," Janina said, once the first aglet was successfully laced back through. "I don't know what I'd do without your help. Is there anything I can do to make it worth your while?"

"Funny you should say that," Cordelia said. "I'm looking for a quartermaster, and a bulk order of oranges. have some concerns about scurvy."

So it was that she formed her makeshift crew. Aldous and Janina were followed by Leonore, a smith whose steel toecaps had come loose, and Florian, a draper who had simply lost his sole. As the prophets had insisted, they were a diverse mix of characters as well as trades. Leonore was a pillar of the community, as straight-laced as they came, whereas Florian had been a misfit his whole life - although Cordelia had given him some insoles to help with that.

"Have you ever made a sail before?" she asked, making her own stitches where the rubber had come away.

"I have many customers," he said, taken aback.

"No - I mean for a ship. I'm looking to commission one. I'll need help with the installation, too."

"Oh, well. Yes, I could certainly help with that."

She felt a bit of a heel, fixing his shoe for so great a cost, weaving him into her multicoloured tapestry. None of these people knew how to fight, or sail; life at sea would be hard for them, even without the dangers of rebellion . But she was in the same boat, and supposedly that was the point. They were bystanders turned to weapons: collateral damage that went the other way, a human sword instead of a shield. That was what the prophets said would work.

So it was they assembled two days later, arrayed across the deck like cards of different suits. The prophets had arranged the ship, and dubbed it in her honour: the Shoemaker’s Levy, for the rabble she'd been able to rouse. Not the island's most seaworthy individuals, nor the most skilled, but those who'd had the most trouble walking on land.

Those who hadn't already been assigned were quickly shoehorned into roles, but it would take a while before they could be called a crew. Even Cordelia would struggle to adjust to life as their captain: she'd always been a sole practitioner, only used to working with winklepickers and brothelcreepers, not actors and blacksmiths and the rest. She wasn't supposed to be a pirate, let alone their leader. But they would have to learn the ropes together, just as she'd once learnt about shoes. One foot after the other. One step at a time.

[cherrycoloredfaith]

Kiss Off

Pt 1 | pt 3

Chapter 2: Two for My Family

Steve was certainly disappointing Eddie. He couldn’t accurately test the concrete. He couldn’t properly hold the nail gun. His soft hands blistered at the slightest wears.

The project they were on was simple: constructing a ramp and walkup for an elderly woman’s front yard. They were in a suburb on the outskirts of the city with only a small crew. It would take them only a day to complete.

When Steve drove up to the office to meet everyone and travel to the site together, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Before yesterday, he would have imagined a group of big, burly, hairy men, probably chewing tobacco and losing their hair, but as he pulled into park, he saw the assortment of characters waiting for him.

They were gathered around the bed of the truck, Eddie sitting on the tailgate, lighting a cigarette as soon as Steve stepped out of the car. The boys were making Eddie laugh, and Steve caught a glimpse of that same smile from yesterday, this time real. He did have a good smile.

As he walked up, he took in the scene before him. A shiny new hard hat and yellow vest rested beside Eddie’s thighs, covered once again in a dark denim. The truck was loaded with fresh lumber and large dusty bags of cement mix. The truck next to it also looked packed, full of various types of equipment and tools safely strapped in. Wayne wasn’t in sight, so Steve returned his attention back to Eddie. When he wouldn’t meet his eyes and stared at his watch, Steve quickly decided to introduce himself to the two strangers before him.

“What’s up, I’m Steve,” The two other guys smiled and murmured hellos; Eddie’s attention was finally on him.

“Stevie. This is Gareth, and this is Jeff,” said Eddie, gesturing. Steve blinked at the nickname, but nodded in acknowledgment at the others.

Gareth was short, a curly mop of hair nearly covering his eyes. Jeff was taller, dark-skinned, clean shaven, and looked at Eddie with a smirk once Steve waved hello. They looked young, aloof. Altogether, delinquent.

“Hey, nice to meet you guys,” said Steve. He could almost admit it was the truth, considering these guys didn't look half as intimidating as he expected.

“Riveting. Alright, we can talk small later. Right now, we’re running late,” said Eddie. He clapped his hands on his thighs and hopped down off the tailgate, closing it.

“I thought we were supposed to be here at 7:00?” Steve inquired, concerned. He followed Eddie around to the side of the truck, watching distantly as Gareth and Jeff quickly moved to the other truck full of equipment, snickering at something. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“We want to be at the site at 7:00. Usually it takes us thirty minutes to load up. Try to be early next time,” he stated bluntly. Eddie pressed his gear to Steve’s chest, none too gently, and got in the driver’s seat without another word. Steve didn’t know what else to do other than follow him.

Climbing up into the passenger seat alone in the truck with Eddie, he couldn’t help thinking this was a shit way to welcome a new team member. Steve didn’t know what his problem was, but he clearly didn’t want him around. He decided to try and appease.

“Sorry, Eddie. About being late,” Steve apologized, attempting to seem genuine. “Is there anything else I messed up?”

Eddie looked up, cocking his head to the side, and started the truck. He seemed to think about it for a moment, then his features softened.

“No, man, I’m sorry. It’s my problem with Wayne right now. I… I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I wasn’t expecting a new crew member so soon, and he just kind of sprung it on me.” Eddie pulled out and started to drive, Gareth and Jeff trailing behind.

“Oh, I hear you. Maybe we could start over?” Steve holds out his left hand for a shake. After a pause, Eddie takes it with a small smile that looks like it pains him.

On the drive over, he gave Steve a rundown of the project, telling him what parts he’s planning to train him on for today: mostly carpentry and quality assurance practices. Steve did his best to keep track of all of the new information, but he’s pretty sure any progress he made with Eddie in the truck was shot by the end of the day. Steve kept forgetting key details, almost punched a hole in his hand. He couldn’t help thinking he should have had a safety course before all this. Gareth and Jeff did most of the work under Eddie’s instruction as he trained Steve who was working at a much slower pace. Eddie got more and more frustrated with him throughout the day, but Steve would notice when he schooled his emotions back to calm. He could see he was trying to be patient with him. He appreciated Eddie making an effort. It also made him feel slightly feverish.

Not that he wasn’t already feeling that. The hot Indiana sun bore down them all day, reddening everyone’s skin except Jeff’s. Steve couldn’t understand how Eddie was wearing a black t-shirt and still had his hair down. It wasn’t until the late morning that he stretched upwards, pulling a hair tie off of his wrist with his teeth and gathering his curly, wispy locks into a high ponytail. Unruly pieces at the front of his face sprang free and some stuck to his forehead and he bent back down to continue hammering a nail. Steve was on a water break and had to take an extra few minutes to look in the opposite direction.

Their day ended without many hiccups, and Steve was exhausted by the end of it. The ride back to the office was quiet as Eddie played music. Steve was mostly lost in thought.

Suddenly, Eddie leaned over to turn the volume down, and glanced over. “What’d you think?”

Steve blinked the sleep out of his eyes in the bright afternoon light. “About what?” he said.

“The job, Steve. This is your first construction job, I can tell.” He tried not to squirm as Eddie’s eyes flitted from Steve’s face to his blistered hands in his lap and then, after a beat, back to the road ahead. “No shame,” he started again, “just observations.”

Something lit up in Steve. “Nah, you’ve got me all wrong. Maybe Wayne and I are hustling you, and next week I’ll blow it out of the water.”

“Not sure how that would benefit you, Stevie, and I haven’t placed any bets,” Eddie laughed.

Steve took a moment to think. “Okay, well, to answer your question, I don’t know what I’m really doing. Today was cool though, I learned a lot. Lately…–I’m just trying things out I guess.”

Eddie nodded like he understood, but Steve knew he didn’t explain it well. He didn’t know if he should share that ending up at this kind of place was not in his plans.

“Well, you did good for your first day,” Eddie said. Before Steve could think about it, he was grinning, heart fluttering from the praise; he instead looked to his hands clasped in his lap. Eddie glanced over but didn’t return his smile.

When they were finally back, Gareth and Jeff had beat them, already walking to their respective vehicles. Eddie slowed the truck and rolled the window down. “See you losers tonight?” he called out. They yelled out their agreements, Gareth saying something about how he better be luckier than last time. When Eddie made no moves to invite him on their outing or whatever, Steve decided to forget about it. Moments later, as they parked, the other boys had already left.

His hard hat and vest sat in his lap, and he thought about how he should write his name on them, even though the guys didn’t need them for today’s job. Eddie held his hand out; sitting in his palm was a key. “To the clubhouse,” he clarified. “You can put that stuff away, whatever locker you like.”

Steve took the key and nodded, trying to ignore the feel of Steve’s fingers brushing Eddie’s rough palm. Dirt caked their fingernails and formed a layer over everything. Steve couldn’t wait to shower.

Their eyes met over the center console of the truck. “Same time Monday,” Eddie stated. “Well, earlier next time, big boy.” He winked. Steve’s heart skipped a beat. “Have a good weekend.”

Before he knew it, Eddie was out of the truck, trekking towards Wayne’s office, probably to go tell him what an actually bad job Steve did today and how distracted he was by Eddie’s arms. He took a deep breath and tried to steel himself, heading towards the clubhouse. Once inside, he was surprised to find Max there, sitting in one of the seats at the table playing a Gameboy. She looked up as he opened the door, but quickly returned her attention. A skateboard sat at her feet and she was absently rolling it back and forth.

“First day?” she asked.

“Yep,” answered Steve.

“Rough?”

“Yep,” he repeated. He placed his gear into the first open locker he saw, trying to ignore the way his skin screamed as he stretched.

“You might want to invest in some sunscreen next time,” said Max, grinning at his pained expression.

“Ha-ha, thanks,” he responded sarcastically. He admittedly was concerned if Max could see his redness from so far away. He dashed to the bathroom to look in the mirror. A harsh blush decorated his nose and cheeks; his ears were mostly protected by his hair. His arms felt warm and tender to the touch. He decided to wash his hands and face while he was there. He heard the front door open and slam shut once he wet his face.

“Goddamn it,” he heard Eddie’s voice yell from the other room. “Goddamn it. It’s just like last summer. He’s going to ruin everything.”

Steve froze. Was he talking about him?

“Whoa, Eddie, calm down,” Max had an emphasis to her tone that he knew was trying to communicate to Eddie that Steve was still here. He heard hushed tones after that, finished up in the bathroom just as he heard the door at the end of the hall close. Steve stepped out.

The door to Eddie’s office was shut, and Steve grew an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Didn’t he say Steve did a good job?

He came into the kitchen and looked to Max; she gave him a slight smile but made no moves to explain what had just happened. He only checked to see that she seemed alright, then gave her a small salute, and he headed out the door. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to get home. If Eddie was going to complain about him behind his back while being nice to his face, what was Steve even doing? Was he really that bad?

He placed the key on his key ring, climbed into his car; all the short-lived joy from the praise earlier disappeared. Feeling defeated, Steve headed home.

[runawaycatwalker]

Part 23. Contracted Liberation

<< First | < Previous | Next >

Description below the cut

Gabriel bangs his fists against the wall.

Gabriel: Nothing.  No sign of Adrien.  No leads.  And my arsenal of tools is completely ineffective.  My thumb on the mayor to control the police's search?  Marketing initiatives backed by a global brand?  The powers of the most feared supervillain in the world?  All useless!  And just to twist the knife, my akumas have started dying before they can evilize anyone!

Nathalie interlaces her fingers and looks away, in thought.

Nathalie (internally): It sounds like Catwalker has been using his Cataclysm preemptively.  Best not to point that out to Gabriel right now, though.  We shouldn't target Catwalker so soon after my truce with him and Ladybug.  Even if the heroes don't know how to contact Adrien, remaining cordial with them may open doors later on.

Nathalie points outward.

Nathalie (aloud): It's possible that the police who have been investigating Adrien's disappearance have been nearby often enough that they're shooting akumas on sight.  Perhaps you should consider going back to akumatizing those without any connection to Adrien?

Closeup of Gabriel gnashing his teeth.

Gabriel: Unacceptable!  I must find my son!

As Gabriel continues to bash against the wall, Nathalie comes up behind him.

Nathalie: If Adrien has any sort of agency right now, he might see all the akumas targeting him as a reason to stay in hiding.  Let up on that and he might consider Paris safe enough to come home.

Gabriel flings out his arm dramatically as a vein pulses in his forehead.

Gabriel: And if it wasn’t his choice?  Stopping my pursuit for even a moment could result in him slipping through my fingers permanently!  I will only stop using my akumas to search for my son when he is back under my roof where he belongs!

Nathalie puts her cellphone up to her ear.

Nathalie: Very well.  I'll make some calls.  If you need an akuma who is upset about Adrien, we can make one...

Nathalie (internally): One who will keep you busy until I figure out what to do next.

Cut to Kagami seated on the pink cushions in the ditch that comprises the seating area of Gabriel’s atelier.  She folds her hands over her lap on top of her notebook.

Nathalie: Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Kagami.

Kagami: You asked my mother to send me here.  How could I refuse?  I assume this is about Adrien?

Nathalie: It is.

Kagami: I suppose you want to involve me in a publicity stunt for your 'Find Adrien' campaign?  Is the 'kidnapping' story you fed the press no longer working?

Nathalie: This has nothing to do with marketing, I assure you.

Nathalie sits on the other side of the seating area and reads off something from her tablet.

Nathalie: Our 'Find Adrien' inbox received a peculiar anonymous tip: 'You have security cameras, go check the footage!'  We did.  Our security cameras caught nothing.  Just Adrien entering his room after he returned from his fencing lesson.  Nothing else.

Closeup of Nathalie’s face, her eyebrows accusatory.

Nathalie: It's strange that we acquired those security cameras from Tsurugi Industries, isn't it?

Nathalie puts down her tablet on the seat beside her.  Kagami folds her arms.  On the center block between Nathalie and Kagami, an assortment of Find Adrien posters have been placed, including a large billboard design near where Kagami is sitting.

Kagami: You think my mother had something to do with this?

Nathalie: No, Tsurugi-san would have no motive for hacking her product or absconding with Adrien. But you might. You would have been one of the last people to see him.  You had the opportunity to coordinate a plan with him.  Not to mention that you have a history of encouraging Adrien to go behind his father's back.

Kagami: So do a lot of his friends.  Blame them for hacking your cameras, I wasn't involved.  But if I had been asked, I would have helped Adrien flee this place.  He shouldn't have to put up with living by his father's rules anymore.

Kagami folds her arms and grins evilly.

Kagami: Frankly, I'm happy that he finally grew enough of a backbone to actually act.  There's nothing you can do to stop him now.

Cut to the back of the atelier by Emilie’s painting.  The hole for Gabriel’s secret elevator is open, inside of which the head of Shadowmoth is poking out of.  Shadowmoth taps out a message on his cane.

Nathalie (internally): This isn't working.  Kagami's not overwhelmed by emotion, she's just smug.  I'm out of my element here.  I've gotten used to defusing situations before they become a problem, not inflaming them.  Gabriel's far better suited to being a provocateur.  He knows what buttons to push and won't let anyone get in his way for long.  But since he insisted on hiding nearby to sic his akuma on her before anyone can interfere, I get to be the one to ruin someone's day...

Cut to a closeup of Nathalie’s tablet as it beeps with a new text message.

Nathalie (internally): Hmm?  A new message?

Shadomoth (text message): I left some stronger motivation for you in the Find Adrien inbox.  Use it. --🦋

Nathalie (internally): Gabriel, what are you up to now? *sigh* I guess I'll just have to go along with this...

Nathalie holds up her tablet and reads from it.

Nathalie (aloud): Oh my.

Kagami: What now?

Nathalie’s tablet: Banner: FIND ADRIEN.  From: villain@dummy.com. We have Adrien Agreste in our clutches and are going to unalive him and you can't do anything about it!  Muhahahaha!

Nathalie: A ransom message just came through.  They're threatening to kill Adrien.

Kagami: To kill...?

Nathalie passes through the door out of the atelier.

Nathalie: Excuse me, I need to... speak with Mr. Agreste about handling this development.

Nathalie (internally): That should be enough motivation, right?

Cut to a closeup of Kagami opening her notebook, where she has taped a picture of her and Adrien and preserved a dried rose.

Kagami: Adrien didn't choose this?  This whole time I assumed that he ran away, but he really was kidnapped?

Kagami holds the rose in her hand, teary eyes clenched shut and teeth gritted.

Kagami: Whoever took him needs to pay for what they've done!

From the elevator hole, Shadowmoth raises out his hand and unleashes an akuma.

Shadowmoth (internally): Yes!  I can feel her anger now!

Shadowmoth (under his breath): Go, my akuma!

The akuma makes contact with the rose in Kagami’s hand.

Shadowmoth: Hello, Oni-Chan.

Cut to Nathalie eavesdropping from just outside the atelier, looking startled.

Nathalie (internally): Wait, Oni-Chan?  He was supposed to make her Riposte again, not—

Cut back to Kagami as the light mask illuminates her angered face.

Shadowmoth: The boy you so deeply care for is in grave danger.  I'm giving you the power to track down the last person who saw Adrien Agreste.  You will make them powerless to do anything ever again.

Kagami: With pleasure, Shadowmoth.

Below is the same image as above, only without text: