#but instead we were gifted KAZOOS

[crowshapedvoid]

looking back one of the funniest things my one of teachers ever did was back when i was in like fourth grade, right (9/10 yrs old for non-usamericans). anyway my class were all gifted recorders (the instrument) to learn in music class that year and we were all so excited to be getting a whole ass instrument to learn and keep.

and one of my classmates asked our music teacher smth like "wow, are we going to keep these even after we graduate?*" and the music teacher was like, "yeah, ofc! but you might not want it by then :)". at the time we all kinda laughed at her bc why would we not want the cool instrument we knew how to play?

anyways literally all of us hated them with a passion by the end of fifth grade and we still had three more years to go.

*this school went to eighth grade, so about 5 years after we got them in the beginning of fourth grade

[stnicholascage100degrees]

They Say It Was A Stall

Did we investigate enough to credit in the usual manner of the profession? Sometimes The Devil works close. Who did it though? True it doesn't say not to tempt the tempter but they pay me by the hour in the usual Godly way.

Try imagining a human. When you describe it, that's my punishment, God explains.

In the impulse there is music like a friend who's never been as proven in the string song of a throat who never knew any (songs or friends or people). So many variations as so many throats whose strings demanded pretty to hear it inside pretty whether possible or shitty they remit to Walter Mitty whose secret was that everyone who loved or hated everyone to him were just ok. That's a theory in the middle of somebody else's fiddle, never cared itself that much so at least it's not Tom Riddle but perhaps the one who killed him and that's the one he was but the other one more evil he who kills the spirit is of course more evil and you didn't get it did you? Neither me, but put it.

Where? Look there in the oven where the woman from the coven, hooperish from top to somewhere apron greased streaky Susan. Had a future (might have thought) if delinquent transition knocked one down instead of kicking mean and nasty where we see her. Either way she's dead. They put it in a play.

We all know why I write transition, nonetheless a proclamation. Boy of evil, sprung from mind of woman evil genius must yes kill her in all universes (hint they're all the same). But in some (not all of course) he prefers to be a woman who society demeans as child so I can be consistent in my consistently offensive way. And in some (the one I'm in I think this time) it happens well before she kicks Rowling else it's like when Flintstones met the Jetsons and Kazoo's place in it was not explained sufficiently.

Never could have been. Above please find the reference to the relevant protagonist, antagonist, if you prefer the agonist just someone we'll continue sitting with while silent throat strings tell us whether friends we miss were dear to us or we to them, or what the name to every random thing or can they have it can they make us give it break us just to pass the time or pass sometimes our frank insulting gifts. I say they ask and we do give most days.

The one they know did not explain, had discipline, so he doesn't care who gets it, and I don't today. I did it last night and I'm ok.

St. Nicholas Cage

[c-swirlz]

Love and Tolerate {Janus ‘Birthday’ Special}

Summary: Virgil and Remus throw Janus a surprise party. They’re lucky Janus loves tolerates them.

Pairing(s): Platonic Anxceitmus

Warning(s): I can’t think of any except Remus says, “Harder, daddy,” at one point.

[AO3 link]

|| This takes place before Accepting Anxiety. ||

Janus knew something wasn’t right the moment he stepped into the empty common room of the Others’ sector of the Mindscape. It was mid-afternoon, which was usually when Virgil and Remus would be fighting over who could wield the almighty television remote (Janus still didn’t understand why they couldn’t just put a movie on, preferably one they both liked).

Yeah, something was up.

“Virgil? Remus?” Janus called.

He was met with silence, save for the low buzz of the fridge in the kitchen.

As panic began to creep up, Janus pushed it down. He took a deep breath, composing himself.

They probably just had a disagreement and locked themselves in their rooms. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

Janus ascended the stairs and entered the hall. He approached Virgil’s room first, knocking somewhat loudly on the door just in case the anxious Side was listening to very loud music (Janus was glad soundproofing existed).

“Virgil?”

No answer.

“Virgil, are you in there?”

When Janus didn’t receive a response, he grabbed the door handle, willing the door to unlock (something he never did unless it was an absolute emergency). He flung the door open, making sure he stayed beyond the threshold.

The room was empty.

Janus all but slammed Virgil’s door and arrived outside Remus’ room in an instant. He didn’t even bother to knock (Remus wouldn’t mind either way), instead immediately flinging the door open after unlocking it.

Empty.

Janus lifted his hat from his head and ran a frantic hand through his hair. His foot began tapping rapidly as he tried to think of where else the duo could be.

They wouldn’t be in the Imagination -- Virgil hated it there. Plus, Remus had made a bet that he could stay out of it for an entire week, and he still had two days to go.

They wouldn’t be with the Cores, because who’d willingly hang out with their mortal enemies?

That left... several other places.

Then Janus felt a presence in his room. Two presences, actually.

Well, that narrowed his search down.

Janus closed his eyes and sunk out, appearing inside his room. Without opening his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“How many times do I have to tell you two to stay out of here if I’m not around--”

Janus opened his eyes and immediately cut himself off, staring in pure bewilderment at the sight before him. Remus -- for whatever reason -- was halfway under Janus’ bed, and Virgil was watching with a deadpan expression as he sat precariously on the bedside table, somehow having not knocked anything over.

Virgil glanced up and met Janus’ eyes, performing his iconic two-fingered salute. “Sup, J.” He glanced down at Remus momentarily before looking back up. “For the record, this was his idea,” he said, gesturing to the Side halfway under the bed.

“Why am I not surprised.”

Remus seemed to perk up at the sound of Janus’ voice and scrambled out from under the bed.

“DeeDee! We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Janus didn’t say a word in response, instead opting to simply raise an eyebrow. Virgil snickered while Remus just stared, smiling. Janus lowered the eyebrow and crossed his arms, releasing a quiet huff of frustration.

“I’ve told you two several times not to come in here unsupervised. What’s so important that you had to break that one simple rule?”

Remus grinned and grabbed Virgil’s arm, yanking him off his perch. “C’mon, Emo, we gotta show him!”

Janus’ brow furrowed in both confusion and suspicion. “Show me what, exactly?”

“You’ll see~”

As Remus practically dragged Virgil out of Janus’ room, Janus could’ve sworn he heard Virgil hiss and say something about him being able to walk on his own.

Janus rolled his eyes before stepping out of his room and following Remus and Virgil, anticipating the worst.

~---~

Remus, Virgil and Janus came to a stop in front of a door Janus hadn’t so much as spared a glance at in a long time.

“Alright, what did you two do to the spare room?”

“Nothing!” Virgil elbowed Remus’ side sharply. “Ow! Okay, nothing bad! And is that really the best you can do, Doctor Gloom?”

“Don’t test me.”

“Harder, daddy--”

“Okay you two, enough.”

Virgil and Remus stopped.

“What was the purpose of bringing me here?”

Remus grinned and threw the door open, darting inside the room before anyone could blink. Janus glanced over at Virgil, a question in his eyes. After a moment, Virgil caught his gaze and shrugged, curling in on himself awkwardly.

“We remembered what today is and thought we’d set something up. For you, obviously. The whole thing was Remus’ idea -- I just wanted to go back to my room.”

Janus sensed the half-lie and smiled before following the anxious Side into the spare room. The moment he entered, he was assaulted by streamers.

“What--”

Remus blew a fanfare on a kazoo. Out of the corner of his eye, Janus saw Virgil slink into the shadows in the corner of the room.

“Happy Birthday, Doctor Trickle!” Remus cheered.

Janus blinked. “I... what?”

“It’s the third of February, genius,” Virgil called from the shadows.

Janus blinked. “...oh.”

“Did you seriously not realise?”

“I--”

Janus cut himself off when Remus grabbed his arm and dragged him into the centre of the room. He then clapped twice to dim the lights before snapping his fingers to turn on numerous strings of yellow fairy lights strung up across the ceiling. The light revealed Virgil walking towards the duo, his jacket pulled tightly around him.

“You’ve always said you don’t like parties,” Virgil said, shuffling awkwardly on the spot, “but we learned how to detect lies from the best, so... yeah.”

Janus looked around the room in awe, his eyes wide. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, he subtly cleared his throat, regained his composure and gave Virgil and Remus a stern look. The expression quickly dropped, however, and he sighed.

“You’re lucky I tolerate the two of you.”

Virgil smirked. “Aww, you love us.”

Remus bounded over to Virgil’s side and began shaking him violently. “C’mon, Virge, let’s give the snake boy our presents!”

“Yeah, okay -- please stop shaking me otherwise I swear I’m gonna puke--”

Virgil and Remus dashed over to the far left corner of the room, where a table holding a pile of presents sat. Janus followed close behind, and as he was handed the wrapped goods by his boys, he couldn’t help but smile.

You were right, Virgil, Janus thought as he tore a gift open.

I do love you. Both of you.

[writing-radionoises]

family

ship: pre-relationship akuatsu / shin soukoku, implied kunikidazai

genre: pure fluff

prompt: yosano hears that atsushi has never had a birthday party and she will not have it

notes: i wrote this for atsushi’s birthday! i love atsushi very much im going to give him the world 

Ring, ring, ring.

The sound of his cellphone ringing is what brings Atsushi out of the dream world, feeling around his futon for his cellphone with his eyes closed until he, eventually, finds the damn thing.

He flips it open to answer the call, slowly opening his eyes and beginning to fully wake up.

"Good morning, Nakajima," says the voice on the other end of the call.

It's Akutagawa, which is rather strange as he never calls Atsushi.

"Akutagawa? Hey, you used my actual name!" Atsushi points out happily, sitting up, "Why are you calling?"

"Point it out and I'll continue to call you mantiger for the rest of your life," Akutagawa replied, taking a moment to cough away from the phone, "It is common courtesy to call and send birthday wishes on someone's birthday, is it not?"

Atsushi paused for a moment, "Birthday…?" He says, bringing his phone away from his ear to look at the date, "Oh, I guess it is my birthday, huh… but still, you hate me. Why would you do that?"

"It's complicated."

Atsushi rolls his eyes, "Sure. I'll get the answer out of you later. Thank you for the birthday wishes, though, Akutagawa."

There's mumbling in the other end of the phone as Atsushi gets out of bed, opening the closet door and stepping out. Kyouka had apparently already gotten dressed and left for work…

"Are you seriously embarrassed that I thanked you?"

"No! Why would I be embarrassed by that?"

Atsushi laughs, "Whatever you say, I'll talk to you later."

*Later? When I try and kill you again?"

"Probably. Bye, Akutagawa!"

Akutagawa stutters on the other end, to which Atsushi laughs a bit and hangs up, then continuing to get ready.

--

Atsushi gets off the train to the agency, walking in like everyday, only to see about half the agency in the room.

Dazai has himself draped across maybe three desks, lounging about carelessly as Kenji has Ranpo on his shoulders, Ranpo putting up decorations and banners with Yosano directing him where to put what.

Kyouka, Kunikida, Junichiro, and Fukuzawa are nowhere to be found.

It takes a few minutes for Atsushi to realize what the banner Ranpo and Kenji are putting up actually says, and another minute for Yosano to realize he’s here.

“Atsushi, hey!” She says, running over to him and giving him a hug, “Glad you’re finally here, happy birthday!”

Atsushi blushes for a moment, then smiling, “Ah, thank you Dr. Y-”

“Atsushi!” Dazai calls, sitting up from his spot over three desks, “Didn’t even realize you were here, how are you?”

Yosano releases him from the hug, and Atsushi turns towards Dazai, “I’m good, just, where is every-”

Within that moment, Kyouka bursts through the door with a kazoo, blowing through it half mindedly with a smile.

“Happy birthday,” she says.

Atsushi can’t help but smile back, “Thank you.”

“Food is ready in the coffee shop, courtesy of Kunikida-san and Tanazaki. Just about everyone else is already there.”

Dazai throws his legs over the desks and gets down, “Kunikida is an excellent cook, I assure you, Atsushi,” he says, throwing an arm around Atsushi’s shoulder.

Kenji sets Ranpo down, to which Ranpo sighs and sets the basket of decorations on the ground, “Finally, I’m starving!”

“Ooh, food!” Kenji exclaims, following closely behind Ranpo as they head downstairs.

Yosano ruffles Atsushi’s hair with a smile, “Kyouka-chan told me you had never celebrated your birthday before, we decided to change that.”

“Lesson twenty of being with the Armed Detective Agency, never underestimate Yosano’s ability to mother,” Dazai hummed along.

Yosano glared at Dazai, “Lesson twenty-one, I’ll kill you.”

Dazai laughs nervously.

Kyouka whistles from her place in the doorway, “Are you guys coming or not?”

“Coming!” Dazai replied eagerly, practically dragging Atsushi away as Yosano follows.

--

If the Agency was over the top in decorations, the coffee shop was even worse.

There were streamers and balloons everywhere, some of them had pictures of cats and bunnies drawn on them, which Atsushi could assume was Kyouka’s doing.

Tanizaki was slumped over the bar of the coffee shop while Kunikida was yelling at him, hitting him with a wooden spoon until eventually Dazai dragged Kunikida away from poor Junichiro.

Kyouka had disappeared back into the kitchen, while Yosano sat on the table, having a conversation with Fukuzawa.

Fukuzawa had dressed much more casually than usual, he wore a pair of jeans with a white tee shirt over a green long sleeve. The white shirt had a picture of Atsushi printed on it, with the words “this is my son, I love him,” printed on it in comic sans.

Given what Atsushi has seen on Fukuzawa’s other casual tee shirts, this was honestly the best outcome. He had a habit of wearing various tee shirts with the most random things on it, and owned a myriad of tee shirts condemning pedophiles.

Kunikida eventually sat down at a booth with Dazai, and Atsushi joined them in that same booth.

The booth behind them housed a very tired Junichiro, Ranpo, Poe, and Kenji. Ranpo and Kenji were having a nice conversation, something about cows, while it appears Tanizaki had fallen asleep on a very uncomfortable Poe.

Atsushi couldn’t help but smile.

Eventually, Kyouka and Lucy began to bring out bowls of chazuke, giving them out to everyone before Kyouka took a seat beside Atsushi, and Lucy sat beside Yosano and Fukuzawa.

“Everyone in the agency was well aware it was your favorite dish,” Kunikida explained, watching Atsushi stare at the bowl as if he had just met god, “Kyouka-chan insisted I try to make it.”

“He taught me how to make it too,” Kyouka added on, “Thank you, Kunikida-san.”

A slight smile appeared on Kunikida’s face before Dazai elbowed him in the ribs.

“And you say you don’t even like Kyouka-chan,” Dazai teased.

“Well, I don’t!” Kunikida insisted, elbowing Dazai back as Kyouka laughed.

The agency ate happily, at some point Poe attempted to get Tanizaki off of him and accidentally woke him, resulting in Poe deciding to continuously apologize and occasionally sob about it for the next hour and a half. Yosano threw one of her heels at Dazai after he said something about Yosano being over the top, to which Dazai swiftly dodged, and instead the heel hit Kenji in the back of the head. Kenji remained unphased, however.

By the time everyone was finished with the meal, Tanizaki removed himself from his booth and went back into the kitchen, returning with a two tiered chocolate cake he had baked himself, Lucy and Fukuzawa helping him hand out the pieces.

Fukuzawa ruffled Atsushi’s hair when he passed by him, humming something about Atsushi being cute over him shocked at the fact that Junichiro actually made such a cake.

With that, gifts were slowly handed out. Kyouka had gifted him a white tiger plushie, it was one of the first things she had bought with her own money, so she was incredibly proud of it.

Junichiro, on the other hand, gave him a set of hair clips so he could properly pin back his bangs without borrowing some from him.

Yosano gave him a set of new clothes, a sweater with a cat on it with a set of shorts and knee high socks. She assured him that all of it would fit perfectly, as she had already had his measurements, somehow. Fukuzawa had gifted him a couple different picture frames with photos of Atsushi with Kyouka, Dazai, or some even with Akutagawa. It was a very cute gift, Atsushi had hugged Fukuzawa right after receiving it.

Ranpo and Poe gave Atsushi a simple basic of snacks and such, mostly Ranpo’s doing, though Poe slipped in a couple different recipes and such into the basket as well. Lucy admitted the moment she gave Atsushi a gift that she had never really given or bought gifts before, so she wasn’t entirely sure what to do, though she gave him a couple boxes of bandages and a hand made cat plushie.

More and more gifts went by, and eventually it came Dazai’s turn, to which he handed Atsushi a simple box with a purple ribbon tied around it. Atsushi rose an eyebrow as he began to untie the ribbon and open the box.

Instead was a cropped purple jacket with cuffed sleeves that ended at the elbows, the sleeves could be unbuttoned and rolled down as well. There was a zipper, and pockets on the chest, and under the folded jacket were a couple of different iron on patches.

“So, it’s sort of a tradition from where I came from to give your pupil some sort of item of clothing, usually a clothing item of your own. However, I’m well aware that we are very different in fashion tastes, so I decided to go off script a little bit,” Dazai explained.

Fukuzawa looked at Dazai with a knowing smile as Atsushi slowly began to tear up, quickly rubbing the tears away as he slipped on the jacket, rolling down the sleeves before looking at Dazai with a teary-eyed smile.

“Thank you so much, this is all too much, you guys are too kind…”

“It’s nothing at all, Nakajima,” Fukuzawa replies, “The agency is like a family, we intend to treat you like such.”

With that, the door to the coffee shop opens, and reveals a young woman with her hands up, a bag resting on her elbow. She has medium length black hair, wearing a flowy black, long sleeve dress and a white trench coat over it.

“Don’t shoot the messenger!” She calls calmly with a smile, slowly putting her hands down and making her way over to Atsushi, handing him the gift bag.

Atsushi takes the bag, staring curiously at the woman before Dazai speaks up.

“Ah, Gin, it’s good to see you,” he says with a smile, “Is your brother too embarrassed to come in himself?”

The woman, Gin, nodded, “As you know, Ryunosuke is a coward outside of work.”

“Ryunosuke?” Atsushi asked.

“Akutagawa,” Kyouka replied, softly, “Were you not aware he had a sister?”

“Really? That’s a shame,” Gin replied a frown, “We’ve even met before, many times!”

Atsushi can’t help but look at her in confusion, scanning his memory for some sort of memory of this woman before it hits him.

“Oh. I’m so sorry!” He calls out, to which Gin just gives a smile, followed by holding two fingers up in a cute manner by the doorway.

“No bombs or anything, I promise!” She replied, then leaving the coffee shop and closing the door behind her.

“I feel stupid for not recognizing her,” Atsushi says with a nervous laugh.

“No need to,” Dazai reassures, “It’s her whole thing, she’s just teasing you.”

Atsushi sighs and shrugs, beginning to go through the bag.

The first thing in there is a yellow sticky note with messy, yet cute handwriting.

It reads, “From Ryunosuke Akutagawa, who’s too much of a little bitch baby to give this to you, Jinko-san! Signed, Gin.”

There’s a little heart at the end of the message, and Atsushi stifles a laugh.

Inside the bag is a soft, handmade pastel purple sweater, “Jinko” is neatly stitching over a white patch of fabric towards the top of the sweater. Below it is another sticky note, this time in purple and with much nicer, more elegant handwriting.

It reads, “Happy birthday. You’re foolish and I hate you. Please call more. -Akutagawa.”

Atsushi smiles happily, and Kyouka laughs.

“That’s cute,” she says.

Atsushi nods, “He’s kinda funny. Really bad with people.”

By the end of the day, Kyouka helps Atsushi bring everything home to their shared dorm, and Kyouka falls asleep almost instantly. Atsushi doesn’t keep her up much longer, but instead decides to sit in the kitchen chair, going through his phone when he gets a mysterious text.

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 9:58 PM

pissyryunosuke.png

The image is Akutagawa sitting in a car with his arms crossed over his chest, pouting. He has a yellow sticky note on his face that says “stupid fucker” in Gin’s hand writing, and a hand, presumably Gin’s, pointing at him.

ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA, 9:59 PM

hdbchbgciasxh thank you so much for this image. ill frame it.

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 10:00 PM

g  IN I HATE Y OU

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 10:00 PM

you’re welcome.

Atsushi smiles, standing up from his place in the kitchen and deciding to go to bed.

As he lays in bed in the closet, he looks at his phone one last time, before drifting to sleep.

I did it, I’ve managed to live to turn nineteen, he thought.

[we-dont-have-a-side-anymore]

Of Birthdays And Binders

Ship: Agender!Aziraphale x Genderfluid!Crowley x FtM!Reader

Content Warning: Gender dysphoria, mention of transphobia, reader had been disowned and kicked out prior to the story (brief mention, but might as well throw it out there.)

Summary: His birthday, and only two people cared. Not even people, two beings cared. No people. Don’t question why a legal adult with his own apartment can’t afford a new binder...? Convenient plot device. This can be read as FtM OR masc!nb. I use he/him the whole time.

—————

He woke up alone. Not only in the literal sense of being alone in bed, but no one had made any attempts to contact him. The street was unusually quiet too. It was like the one day where he wanted to be surrounded by people, he was…

Alone.

His second alarm rang, and he rolled himself off of his bed and onto his pile of plush pillows. His phone buzzed. Twice. Reaching for his phone, he yawned, expecting it to be a notification from Twitter or Instagram. So naturally, it wasn’t.

It was two texts.

‘Hello, darling! Happy birthday! I have a surprise for you, so if you could pop on by the bookshop at noon, that would be lovely. I love you, (y/n)!’ Azi’s texts never failed to make him wiggle with joy. They were full of gentle, affectionate words, oh so different from what he was accustomed to.

‘Someone told me it was my favorite baby goat’s birthday today. <3 So I figured I’d stop by in 30. You don’t need to do anything, just be in your flat. Love you, handsome ;)’ If someone walked up to (y/n) and said that the demon Crowley invented emoticons, he would believe it. Nonetheless, his texts were always flattering and made him feel appreciated.

He sent them both a heart emoji, and went to get dressed. Dressing didn’t really require much effort. He slept in his clothes, with the noteable exception of his old, beat up binder.

He had bought it in secret when he was sixteen years old. Had it shipped to his friend’s house, and paid for it with his birthday money. He almost got away with it, too, until his parents walked in on him washing it.

They were quick to start yelling at him. Calling him a sinner, a disgrace. They told him that if he was going to be a tranny, that he would do it far, far away from them.

So he packed his duffel bag, bought the cheapest ticket to London that he could find, and he left Massachusetts for good. Cut all ties with his blood relatives, and texted his friends goodbye.

Now, four years later, he had two loving boyfriends, and his life was getting back on track. Every weekday he worked a nine to five job at a diner, which paid just enough to pay rent, buy food, and pay his cell phone bill. He had some money set away for education, and medical expenses. But he still only had his old, beat up binder. It didn’t bind very well anymore, it was so stretched out. He couldn’t really afford to spend so much on one thing, no matter how happy it would make him. Money was tight, but what did he expect, being a high school dropout? He would give anything to have completed high school back in his hometown, but life didn’t work in his favor.

He sighed and shrugged it on, then pulled his oversized T-shirt back on. Five minutes until Crowley said he would arrive. Then, three knocks. Quick, sharp raps on the thin plaster door. (Y/n) rushed to open the door, and his boyfriend blew the birthday song on a tacky kazoo.

He laughed and opened the door wider so that the redhead could step in, playfully slapping his ass as he sauntered towards the couch.

“Happy birthday, hot stuff!” Crowley smirked, the pointed tips of his tongue showing slightly. He pulled out a small box. There was wrapping paper on it, but he could hardly call it wrapped. An attempt at wrapping was most likely made, but that’s really the extent of it. “I think you’re gonna like this.”

(Y/n)’s eyes softened. “Oh, you really didn’t have to.”

The look on Crowley’s fact could only be described as offended. “Oh, baby goat, I know I didn’t have to. But I wanted to. It’s your twentieth birthday, and the first birthday since we started dating. This is special. Now, take the box and open it, hm?”

He laughs and grabs the box, pulling it sharply and sending the demon flying into (y/n)’s arms. “I love you, my love.”

The tape was slowly peeled off, and the box flaps popped open. Inside was a full-tank, nude binder. In his size.

He stared in silent shock, eyes wide and teary. “Oh my God.” He pinched himself twice, before tackling his boyfriend into the old couch. He tenderly kissed the tip of his nose, smiling widely. “You got me a new binder. You actually got me a new binder. Oh my goodness.”

Crowley ruffled his hair affectionately. “Well? Go try it on!” His smile only got wider as (y/n) sprinted into the bathroom to put it on. After a couple minutes of silence, (y/n) yelled from the bathroom.

“Erm...sweetheart, darling, sweetcheeks, pretty boy, love, sexy ass, hottie, aha, erm…” he trailed off, and Crowley knew immediately that he had done something stupid. “How would you respond if I said I was stuck?”

Biting back a laugh, Crowley started walking towards the bathroom. “I’ll come help, hot stuff.”

He was indeed stuck in the new binder. It had been quite a long time since he had put on something so tight, and while he was euphoric, he had forgotten how difficult it was. Most of the binder was on properly, except for his arms. Somehow, he managed to get his arms stuck along his torso, and it was too tight for him to wiggle them out. Crowley’s face scrunched in a snicker that was met with an indignant pout.

“Oh poo, love.” He sticks his tongue out, and attempts to cross his arms (this doesn’t go well).

Crowley mock gasps. “So you don’t want my help?” Immediately, (y/n)’s eyes switch into a very persuasive puppy dog impression.

“Please?” He wriggles pathetically, in an attempt to invoke sympathy. “Pretty please?”

Crowley deadpans. “The physical appearance of the please has no effect on me.” But with a snap of his fingers, (y/n)’s arms were through the proper place, and he wasn’t stuck anymore.

Immediately, he ran up to the demon and tackled him. The twenty year old peppered his face with gentle pecks until he was breathless, finally pulling away to bury his head in Crowley’s shoulder. “Thank you, Crowley. Thank you so much.”

They spent the next couple hours cuddling on the couch, spooning with Crowley whispering sweet nothings to his boyfriend. Before they knew it, it was a few minutes to noon. Crowley pulled him up, and snapped his fingers. Instead of being in a small, musty flat, they were standing in an alleyway next to an even mustier bookshop.

A. Z. Fell & Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books. Where his other darling boyfriend lived. As the clock struck noon, Crowley burst into the bookshelf and held the door open for his more timid boyfriend.

His eyes lit up when he saw a cake, and three mugs of cocoa. By no means was it small, in fact, it was the size of a traditional wedding cake. Large and extravagant. Aziraphale burst out of the back room and jogged over to his boyfriends. “Oh, happy birthday my darling boy!” He reached over (y/n)’s shoulder and pulled him into a tender hug and kiss on the top of the head. “Now come, else the cocoa will get cold.”

The three of them sat at the table. The angel pulled out a daintily wrapped, but rather large package. It was covered in a creamy white paper, and tied with little blue bows. Crowley nudged (y/n), prompting the boy to blush and tug the box from his boyfriend’s hand. “Gosh, you guys, you really shouldn’t have done all of this stuff.” He carefully untied all of the bows, and peeled the tape away. Everything was perfectly intact, except Crowley’s patience. “Honest, I don’t deserve any o-” (Y/n)’s eyes widened as Crowley leaned over and kissed the human until he had to pull away for air.

Wordlessly, the redhead poked the brown box, and his boyfriend got the message. He opened the box eagerly, and his eyes widened once again. Tears welled in his eyes and an infectious smile spread across his face. The box fell to the floor as a trans flag emerged.

Aziraphale’s eyes closed in a giddy giggle. “Look in the box again!” His bright eyes opened, and it was clear that watching (y/n) open gifts brought him joy. He did what he was told, picking the box up, only to drop it again.

“Oh, wow!” He cooed, awestruck. A hand-knit throw blanket, that doubled as a rainbow pride flag. “Oh, I love it! Did you-?”

Aziraphale cut him off with an excited hug. “Oh, I did hope that you would like it! I learned how to knit right before we began courting, and the day we, er, performed coitus, I knew exactly what to do!”

Crowley’s mouth dropped. “You didn’t use miracles? When you said you were going to make a blanket for him, I didn’t think you would spend a year making it.” Aziraphale blushed, and twiddled his thumbs. (Y/n) kissed both their cheeks lightly.

“I love you two, so much. I don’t deserve you, honestly.” He tugged them over to the plush couch and threw the blanket over the trio. Safe, warm, and happy. Just how life should be.

[acrobaticcatfeline]

Logan and His Little Bumble Bee (Single Dads AU) Chapter 2!!!

Word Count: 5924

TW: Ok geez, so Logan outright hates his ex, hes pan, abuse, cheating, drugs, abandonment, smoking, mental disorder, neglect, swearing, uhhhh I think that’s all. Let me know if I missed something!

Notes: First chapter here!!! I’m so tired guys. I’m so tired of everything and this was the best de-stress I’ve had in forever. I’m glad to be done with this part, I probably wont have time to write for real until summer. I have like 6 more weeks of school then comic con and then I go to my moms so I’ll probably write while I’m there. I love these boys and I’m glad you all enjoyed it, and I hope you enjoy this part just as much!!!

Pairings: logicality, past Logan and OC (her name Mercedes and I hate her a lot), familial logince, familial moxiety, platonic prinxiety

Summary: “DAD!!! VIRGIL WANTS TO HANG OUT AT THE PARK CAN WE GO???” It’s been 9 years. Yeah yeah what a time skip!!! It’s Roman’s 11th birthday, and he has to have dinner with his mother. We already know he has a large distaste for his mother. Logan is weighing the pros and cons of trying to keep his ex in their life, neither of them like her but it’s healthy for Roman to have her around isn’t it? He makes a big decisions and mistakes, but you know, it ends well in the end doesn’t it. I mean, this is a fluffy fic.

“DAD!!! VIRGIL WANTS TO HANG OUT AT THE PARK CAN WE GO???”

Logan sanders was tired. Yes still, we haven’t jumped that far yet! His son Roman, 11 years old today was as talkative as ever. He was in 5th grade now and he had made more friends and proved to learn words very quickly. In fact, Roman had been put into the honor program at his school and was excelling in all his classes, and to Logan’s surprise and delight, he enjoyed them all too. Roman would come home from school and do his math and science homework and would do his English homework with Logan when he had the time. Logan would have to hold his tongue when Roman told him about what he learned in history, he wouldn’t tell him just how horribly biased the information he was getting was until he was older. He still stayed friends with Virgil, as they went to the same school, but that also meant Logan has had to continue to keep his cool around Patton, who has only gotten more attractive in the past 9 years. And yes, he still hasn’t said anything about his affections, listen, he’s nervous and what if he says no it would ruin their relationship and then Roman would hate him for making him not able to spend time with his best friend and he can’t do it. I mean Roman already had trust issues with his mother he couldn’t do that to him.

Speaking of his mother…

“sure Ro, but remember your mom wants to come over and celebrate your birthday ok? We can’t be out too long, she’ll be here by 8 and its 4 right now. Grab your phone and we’ll go ok?”

“oh yeah. I guess… yeah I’ll be right back.”

Logan hated how deflated Roman got whenever his mom was brought up. He had tried, he tried so desperately to repair what she had broken with him, but he had no clue what had happened and as such couldn’t even begin. His ex had started making an effort supposedly, almost immediately making an appearance to attempt to fix what was broken.

She failed. Roman refused to visit her alone, he wouldn’t stay at her place for a weekend, he would almost go into a panic attack if Logan had asked her to babysit, causing him to find a way to cancel it every time. He hated that his ex had ruined her relationship with him so badly. He was desperate to give Roman a good family, but he constantly wanted to strangle her. She was just… so insensitive! He would get things for Roman that Roman hated, or something that Logan expressly said Roman wasn’t allowed to have, and directly going against his wishes as his caretaker. She would bring noisemakers, leading Roman to be infinitely noisier, and what person gifts a kazoo to a 10-year-old whose dad still got little to no sleep? Either way, it would be… cruel, to keep Roman’s mother from seeing him on his birthday, especially since she had put forth the effort. So here he was, forcing himself and his son to go through the interaction. At least he would be able to commiserate with Patton. That would give him the energy to get through dinner with her. Roman ran around the corner in his star fire teen titan’s black t-shirt and jeans.

Logan smiled at his son and ruffled his hair as they headed out to the park. He was especially proud of himself for raising his son without the idiotic idea of gender roles. Sure, Roman loved iron man and captain America, but his favorite superheroes had been wonder woman and star fire ever since he had started watching tv or reading comics. When Roman took a liking to star fire from the teen titans’ cartoon, Logan had taken him to the local comic book store and had bought the first 5 issues of the new teen titans comics, having done the research to ensure he got the right thing.

They walked to the park, and as soon as they got within distance, Roman took off running, already seeing Virgil. Logan chuckled, and continued walking. When he caught up Roman was clinging to Virgil who was laughing loudly. He approached Patton with a smile, and Patton held up a bag with a gentle smile.

“Virge said it was Ro’s birthday, so we got him a little something. I imagine once he can stop laughing, he’ll tell him. How are things lo?”

“oh geez, you didn’t have to, he’s spoiled rotten by you guys enough on every normal day.”

“nonsense!!!”

“heh, anyways, things are… tense. Mercedes wanted to come over and celebrate Roman’s birthday, and Roman is… less than excited to say the least.”

“oh gosh, that sounds like a time. Hopefully things are ok?”

“hopefully. I have a strong feeling she’s going to start an argument with me about how she should have custody if I’m not in a relationship because its detrimental or something idiotic, which you know I think is funny considering that Roman literally gains symptoms of anxiety and ptsd when around her, as well as the fact that I am a medical professional who works with children in actual detriment for half of my work days. Besides, even if Roman did want to live with her I wouldn’t be able to let him be there with her new boyfriend. I’m at least 70% sure that on top of his addiction to cigarettes he’s a drug addict, and I’m not putting my son in that situation. Oh, sorry that was, word vomit I apologize.”

“no no don’t worry about it, you have valid concerns and emotions. Its better for you to talk about it now instead of blowing up at her, if not for your sake, for Roman’s.”

Logan smiled and nodded. He often forgot that Patton was a therapist and had similar training in psychology. He looked over to see Virgil and Roman running over, Roman directly at him, and steadied himself for the incoming impact. Roman launched himself at him and Logan caught him and dispersed the energy towards him by spinning the boy in a circle. He lifted him higher with a smile.

“is this my little bumble bee? Hmm, I don’t know, my bumble bee giggles when I do… this!”

Logan flipped the boy upside down and Roman squealed with laughter. He put him back down and Roman surged forward again to give him a hug. Roman looked up at him with a big toothy grin and if there had been a piece of his heart that hadn’t yet melted from that little smile, it didn’t survive much longer. He smiled back and nodded his head in the direction of Patton and Virgil.

“I hear vee and pat got you a birthday present, you wanna go thank them and open it?”

Roman’s face lit up brightly and he nodded. He thanked the other two profusely and gave them big hugs and went to open the gift. He gasped loudly and showed Logan the contents, being a video camera, a set of big headphones and an adult coloring book, one of the few Roman hadn’t gotten yet. Logan smiled gently and silently thanked Patton for the gift, Roman had a tendency to break earbuds quickly, and would play his music on his phone very loudly. It was a much-needed expense that Logan hadn’t been able to get yet.

“you remember the rules with that right bee?”

Logan doesn’t have to elaborate, Roman nods firmly, pulling the red beatz headphones out and putting them on. He smiles even wider than before and launches into a hug for Virgil and Patton. Logan grabs the book and camera and smile at the 3. What he wouldn’t give for this picture to be a constant, where the 4 were simply happy in each other’s presence.

“remember Ro, we only have a few hours, we need to make the house presentable.”

There was tenseness in Roman’s shoulders at the reminder, and god he wished he could cancel, could tell her off, could keep her away from Roman but he had no proof, no evidence, that anything had ever happened, only the few things Roman had told him which essentially added up to ‘moms not here’ and while that could be from neglect or trauma, it could also just be that he was stating the fact of the moment. He had no way of knowing and Roman may not even have those memories stored. Regardless, they had to meet her, or she would try to press charges. And even if he would win, he didn’t have the time or money to deal with it.

Roman and Virgil played for hours, and Logan just talked with Patton until they had to leave. Roma was immediately uncomfortable as soon as they started walking home, and Logan hated it passionately. They cleaned a bit and Roman insisted he had to change. He came back down in a black long sleeve shirt and a white avengers t-shirt over it. He didn’t look comfortable, actively making himself look small, and he looked unhappy. Oh geez, how could he let this happen to him? He had a right to tell his ex off, to keep her from seeing him, she had formally signed over full custody when she first dropped Roman off, he had the right to keeping her out of his sons’ life, especially when her presence caused the poor boy so much stress.

That’s it. This is the last time. If Roman ever wants to spend time with her he will let him of course, but at the moment she was damaging Roman just by being brought up. He would tell her after Roman went to bed. If she had a problem, she could figure it out. She was… as Roman had put it years ago, bad. Plus, she had been a huge drain on his life as well. If he never saw her again it would be too soon…

Knock knock

Speak of the devil and she shall appear…

“hello Mercy, please come in!”

Please leave and never come back you spineless wretched bi-

“why thank you Logan! Roman!!! I’m glad I get to see you again!!! Happy birthday kiddo, I have a gift for you!!!”

I bet it’s a gift card to an adult shop, you have no tact you wicked monstrous ba-

“oh! Um, yay! Dad made dinner, do you want some pasta Mercy?”

And there was a look shared between the adults, an accusing one that made him out to be a tactless a- uh, jerk… who never referred to her as Roman’s mother as if that was the case… how dare she imply, assume that he would stoop to her standards.

“oh yes please Ro! I would love some!”

Roman gave Logan a look and Logan gave a small nod before Roman dashed into the kitchen. Mercy gave Logan another angry look as Roman rounded the corner, speaking in a hushed tone.

“so, I see you truly haven’t taught him to respect his mom?”

“I do my best to keep my disdain for you under wraps, so he doesn’t see it. Either way I rarely refer to you as anything other than his mom regardless of how little you deserve to be referred to as such.”

“oh yeah well it seems you’ve failed. I was so much more successful taking care of him you really should relinquish custody to me”

“listen if you want to have this pointless conversation again it can wait until Roman goes to sleep. I would prefer not screaming at you while my son is just around the corner.”

“oh woe, however could you let MY son see you being the truest form of you! A vicious monster who hates all women!”

“keep your voice down Merce. None of what happened more than a decade ago matters right now. I’m not vicious and I certainly don’t hate women. I just hate you.”

“why I outta-”

Roman bounded the corner with three bowls of pasta and a content smile on his face. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his parents glaring at one another. Logan turned towards him and the scowl faded into a grin. Mercy also fixed her posture and made her face neutral. She turned and smiled at Roman sweetly, and it made Roman’s skin crawl. Nevertheless, he smiled back and set down their bowls. He couldn’t wait for dinner to be over, then he could go take a shower and go to bed. He just had to make it through dinner…

“thank you, Ro, I made some veggies too, I’ll go make us some plates of that. Why don’t you unwrap your gift Roman?”

Roman nodded and mercy smirked as she handed him a bag. As he walked into the kitchen, he heard the bag open and a small gasp. When he returned, he saw a t-shirt on the table and a plush captain America plushie in his hands. He slowly brings it into a hug and thanks mercy. Logan put down the plates and signals to start eating. Halfway through dinner, mercy asks the question he knew was coming.

“so, what did you get him Logan?”

He refrained from cackling and backed up to grab Roman’s gifts. He set down two boxes and Roman looked at him with stars in his eyes. He opens the top one first, revealing a rotating constellation lamp. He smiled widely and wiggled happily in his seat. Mercy’s face was already less proud and conceited. Then Roman opened the next one, causing him to squeal and tackle hug Logan.

“I really really wanted a ukulele!!!!! Thank you so much dad I can’t believe you actually got one!!!”

He smiled softly as he hugged the boy. He looked up at mercy and felt his smile widen at the distaste on her face. He coaxed Roman to sit back down and finish eating, and he gave mercy the smallest hug afterwards and then Roman went upstairs to get ready for bed. Now he and mercy were in a free for all. No holding back. Logan could already hear the shower upstairs running, nothing here was sacred. Mercy could and would play dirty now. And Logan wasn’t about to back down. They were both ridiculously stubborn and absolutely hated each other and thus why their breakup was particularly ugly.

“you outdo me every time. You know you don’t need to buy his love? You can just try to be a halfway decent father.”

Oh ok. No build up this time, straight to the arteries.

“listen mercy I know you’re narcissistic, but I didn’t realize you projected so hard! If I had realized I would have therapized you sooner! Please, tell me how your home life was like?”

“oh, ha ha! You need to give me custody of him Logan. He needs a stable REAL family and a constant mother figure. Its mentally damaging to him-”

“oh? Oh really? Really please do tell me, a mental health doctor, how it is mentally damaging for him to have a single parent? Please bestow your wisdom on me high and mighty waitress from Denny’s without a college degree!!!”

“listen jackass its been scientifically proven that it causes mental disorders!”

“by fucking who??? Freud??? Because if you listened to anyone ever in your high school years instead of fucking a grand total of 9 guys at once maybe you’d know that Freud is full of shit!”

“its not my fault you’re shit at relationships lo”

“yeah well its also not MY fault that you cheated on me with 8 OTHER GOD DAMN GUYS!!! Its also not my fault that your boyfriend is a fucking druggie!!! Of all the guys you’ve fucking dated I think I’m the only one who doesn’t do drugs, and you know I don’t feel comfortable letting my son that you DROPPED ON MY DOORSTEP and handed full custody of over after 2 years live in a coke den. Don’t particularly want him to get second hand smoke either. I’m not giving you custody. If you wanted fucking custody you would have fucking raised him. You know I’ve taken him to therapy, and I’ve figured something out. Apparently, he likely has DSED. But you don’t know what that means do you? Its disinhibited social engagement disorder. It’s a trauma disorder that has to be related to a traumatic series of events from before the age of 5. Seeing as some of Roman’s first words were ‘mom bad mom not here’ I have reason to believe that you have neglected and abused him and then handed him over to me so you couldn’t be held responsible. Now you want him back so you can claim its my god damn fault well its too fucking late Merce. I’m giving you a choice Mercedes. Either you walk away and keep out of Roman’s life unless he requests you, or I will file a restraining order. Your choice.”

“…you never change do you Logan. I hope you grow up some day. I truly do. I guess this is goodbye.”

“sayonara Mercedes. If I never see you again it will be too fucking soon.”

And she left. She’s gone. He’s never going to have to do this again, and neither is Roman. He lays against the front door once she’s gone and calls Patton.

“hello? Logan its pretty late for you, you don’t usually call this late, is something wrong?”

“no. no something is wonderfully great Patton I’m free. Roman is free, I finally gathered the nerve. She’s never coming back Patton. She’s gone, she’s out of our lives no more whispered arguments just out of hearing range, no more cursing yelling matches while Roman goes to sleep, no more pretending I can stand her for Roman’s sake, its done, its over good god I haven’t felt this happy since Roman spoke his first words.”

There was silence on the line for a minute. Then a chuckle.

“I’m so happy for you L!!! I’m so glad you don’t have to put yourself in that situation anymore! I’m so proud of you!!!”

Logan held the phone with both hands, feeling like a teenage girl in a love song video. He smiled wide and nodded before remembering that he wasn’t on video call.

“thank you, Patton. I’ll let you get some sleep. Good night pat.”

“night L”

He hangs up and make his way upstairs. Roman is sat in his bed patiently waiting for Logan. He dives under his covers when he sees him. Logan sits on the side of his bed with a smile.

“hey kiddo. Guess what?”

“what?”

You don’t have to see your mom ever again if you don’t want to. Any meetings will be completely your choice.”

Roman’s eyes widened and his smile grew.

“you really mean it?”

“yessiree”

Roman gave Logan a huge hug yet again, and Logan stroked his hair. He was finally able to protect his baby boy. When Roman let go, Logan walked to the wall and pulled out a bag and handed it to Roman. Roman looked at Logan and began ripping the bag apart at the nod Logan gave. He opened it to see statuettes of wonder woman, star fire, and Harley Quinn, his favorite superheroes, and villain, ever. He let out a gasp and tackled Logan in a hug for a third time in the last hour. He sets the half foot tall statues on the nightstand next to his bed.

“do you want me to set up your constellation lamp?”

Roman nodded excitedly. Logan hooked up the lamp and calibrated it with the date, so it showed tonight’s stars. He fixed a few other things in Roman’s room, cleaning up his laundry corner, rearranging his book shelf, and putting the last few toys away in his toy box. He hung up the new shirt Roman got and tucked the captain America plushie in with him. He set the new ukulele in a stand on Roman’s shelf. Finally, he unhooked Roman’s dream catcher from the string that hung above his head. He took it to the window and blew on it. He hung it back up and walked right next to Roman’s bed. He began to tuck the boy into bed.

“you want a lullaby Ro? And would you like me to plug in your night light as well as your lamp?”

“yes, and yes please dad?”

“of course, Roman”

Little child, be not afraid the rain pounds harsh against the glass Like an unwanted stranger There is no danger I am here tonight

Little child Be not afraid Though thunder explodes, and lightning flash Illuminates your tear-stained face I am here tonight

And someday you’ll know That nature is so This same rain that draws you near me Falls on rivers and land on forests and sand Makes the beautiful world that you see in the morning

By the time he reached that point in the song Roman was completely passed out. He smiled fondly on him and kissed his forehead before lighting the night light, a bumble bee on a lily, and the constellation lamp and leaving.

He went about his own routine until he laid in bed. He looked at the clock next to his bed. It read 10:03. He impulsively picked up his phone and dialed Patton.

“…uhh, Logan? What’s up? I was just settling down for bed…”

“um, sorry I just uh…”

“out with-it L, I’m too tired to understand your silliness.”

“…I’m in love with you. Have been for a long time now but I just um, I just had a burst of confidence and that confidence is abandoning me so I’m sorry, this is stupid, I’m stupid, ignore this I’m sorry I’ll go, sleep well Patton good night”

“wait what?! Logan wait hold on-”

Click.

Oh good. He’s going to have to own up to that in the morning. Maybe he should go have a drink? No no, much too late for that. He’d just sleep it off. Yeah that’ll work.

When he woke up the next morning his phone was blown up with missed calls, voicemails, and texts from Patton, which makes tons of sense in hindsight, but you know the saying, hindsight is 20/20, and his normal vision is significantly less. Either way, he hesitantly listened to the voicemails, after ensuring that Patton wouldn’t see that he did. There were varying levels of distress in each.

“Logan! Its Patton, please pick up? I need to talk to you about this. Are you ok?”

“Logan!!! Its Patton I swear its not what you think, please just pick up and talk to me!”

“Logan? Its Patton. I don’t know if you’re ignoring me or if you’re just asleep, but I… I need to tell you something too. Call me back when you get the chance.”

“………………”

Logan felt awful. He already felt awful, but now he felt even worse. Look what he’d done! God he was a mess and he had the gall to drag poor Patton into it. God why did he do it, why didn’t he think it through? Imagine what Roman would think of him now!!! God, he messed up so badly. He grabbed his phone and walked downstairs to get hugged by Roman as he met the bottom.

“dad dad dad! Virgil asked if he and pat could come over, can they can they can they???”

Of course. He should have prepared for this. Its Sunday, the only time he and Patton’s work schedules coincided the whole day. Patton worked evenings on Saturday and Logan worked mornings on Friday and it was always Roman and Virgil’s favorite thing to do to come over to their house for breakfast then play all day. The two were never bored of each other. And it just meant Logan would get his just desserts sooner than he intended. Patton lived about a 10-minute drive away and that gave him very little time to look presentable.

“yes of course ro. In that case, I’m going to fix myself up, and when I’m done, how’s about we make some blueberry pancakes?”

Roman squealed and jumped up and down, before running to his phone. Logan made his way back upstairs. He brushed his hair, his teeth, and he got dressed. He put on blue jeans that he liked, a black t-shirt, and a soft light blue hoodie with a heart on it. It was a birthday gift from Patton from he thinks about 3 years ago. He had treasured it, even though it wasn’t much his style, it was something that felt inherently Patton to him and as mentioned a multitude of times before, he is really really gay. He fixed himself a gaze in his full-length mirror, checking to see that he was truly presentable. He saw the faintest of bags under his eyes, but those were probably from ro. He gave himself a silent pep talk before going to the kitchen. He saw Ro had already gathered all the ingredients and utensils they needed. He smiled and ruffled Roman’s hair. He rolled up his sleeves and put his hands on his hips.

“you ready to get cooking Ro?”

“absolutely!!!”

They had made the mix, and a few pancakes when the doorbell rang. Logan set the scoop down in the bowl and pushed his hair back. He smiled at Roman and asked him to get the door. The second Roman rounded the corner his façade fell. He was lost and scared and had no easy escape from the conversation he knew would happen as soon as the boys went off to play. He wasn’t ready. Not at all, but he had no choice anymore. He’d have to face it sooner or later.

“hi pat!!! HI VERGE!!!!! Come in, dads making pancakes!!!”

“oh, does he need any help?”

He heard Patton ask and he really hoped Roman would cover for him. He needed a bit more time before he had to be alone with him.

“oh no, he’s got this, he’s the most epic master chef to chef the seven stoves!!!”

Oh, thank god. He chuckled at Roman’s antics, always amused at how ridiculous he could be. He finished the last of the pancake mix and brought out 2 plates staked high with pancakes. He set them down with a smile and retreated again to grab sugar, butter, and syrup. He set them down and invited them to seat themselves. He had sat next to his son, and of course Virgil sat next to Roman, leading Patton to sit next to him. He did his best to just… eat and listen to Roman talk about this newest obsession, but his gaze kept wandering towards Patton, and it seemed that every time he glanced at him, Patton was doing the same. It wasn’t long at all before Roman and Virgil were finished and racing each other upstairs. He quickly made himself busy with gathering the dishes, his included, and bringing them to the sink to get rinsed off. He bounded the corner again, seeing Patton still making his way through a pancake on his plate.

“that the last pancake you want?”

“uh yeah, sorry I’m taking so long today, I’m still a bit tired.”

Logan felt himself twitch at that. Had he kept Patton up with worry? Nope nope not yet, not ready yet. He grabbed the extra pancakes and packed them in a bag. He rounded the corner yet again, seeing Patton finish his pancake. He stood with the plate and Logan grabbed it out of his hands. He smiled gentle at Patton, and he could have sworn he’d seen a blush on Patton’s face, but he was sure he was imagining. While rinsed the plate he started his coffee maker.

“you want coffee pat?”

He looked at Patton and Patton shook himself out of some sort of trance before making a sound of affirmation. A few minutes later he poured them both mugs of coffee, pulling out his creamer and sugar for himself and Patton to choose from. After they finished mixing it up, he saw Patton start to think of something to say, and he interrupted. He’d already had one argument in that room, he didn’t need the possibility of another one.

“would you like to step outside?”

Patton, who was staring firmly at his mug, looked up suddenly with an odd look on his face. He nodded quickly and followed Logan out onto the patio. Logan stood next to the fence around the deck, leaning on it and looking out on the little empty field that was behind his house. He had spent so much time there with Roman, he could barely remember a time before he had the kid. He heard soft footsteps approach the railing and smiled down into his coffee, hating the show of emotion and weakness he was having. He heard Patton take a deep breath and he nearly laughed at the situation he was in.

“so…”

“yeah.”

He heard Patton turn around, his back now against the railing. He hated this. He couldn’t stand this he didn’t want to have this conversation, he wanted to go back to sleep.

“so um, what you said on the phone last night… was-was that true?”

“heh, yeah. All of it, I’m-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you with that. Especially not as late as it was.”

He felt Patton’s gaze fall on him and he was harshly reminded how much he h a t e d this. He looked like a moron, can’t the time just reverse so he can choose not to decide to ruin his and Roman’s lives. God why did he fuck this up so bad-

“yeah no, if you had told me that literal years ago it would have saved us both some turmoil lo.”

Wait-

“what?”

Logan stood straight up and finally really looked at Patton. He had a gentle smile and soft eyes and god he never thought he would see that perfectly gorgeous look directed at anyone other than Virgil, let alone him. That was the look Patton gave Virgil constantly. It was a look of adoration and affection and love and god that was directed at Logan and he didn’t think he would be able to keep his composure if he kept looking at those beautiful blue eyes that were peering into his soul.

“I-I didn’t think-I mean you were just-god how oblivious am I?”

“only a lot when it comes to emotions. I mean, it’s not like I knew ether, and I literally talk people through their emotions daily for pay, so you know I think its pretty even there. You know you look really nice in that hoodie. I almost forgot I got that for you, I hadn’t seen you wear it in a good long while. I had thought you had gotten rid of it.”

“what? No, I would never! It’s the most comfortable thing I own honestly, and um, I was certain I was going to need comfort for this conversation but I… guess I was wrong.”

“Logan what did you think was gonna happen? That I would reject you and hate you or something?”

“uh, yeah? Well my worst-case scenario was that you would slap me for even thinking about it and then you would cut yourself and Virgil out of my life and then Roman would hate me as much as his mother, but you know its just how it goes I guess.”

“…Logan for such a smart man you can be exceptionally stupid sometimes.”

“I’ve heard that regularly, and I’m pretty sure my ex said something to that effect yesterday, so I mean you’re probably not wrong.”

Patton giggled softly. He continued to just gaze at Logan before stepping closer and placing a hand on Logan’s cheek.

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

“I-um, I uh me-me too-”

“may I?”

Logan nodded. Patton leaned in slowly, and Logan being who he is, impatiently closed the gap. It was… soft. It was soft and warm and everything Logan had imagined. However, cliché it may be, as Logan closed his eyes, he swore he could see fireworks. It felt like his own personal Disney happy ending that Roman loved so much. He was close enough to smell Patton’s hair, like a forest of olive trees and strawberries and happiness and love. Logan had never really been one for dramatics, but at the moment, he felt more at home than he had ever been before. He felt happy and he felt calm and he felt Patton’s arms snake their way around his hips and he wrapped his around Patton’s neck and god he was at peace.

“EWWWWW ROMAN OUR DADS ARE KISSING!!!!!!!!”

Well there goes the moment. Patton quickly broke the kiss and turned to see Virgil covering his eyes and hopping on his feet. He saw Roman run the corner and there were stars in his eyes. He covered his mouth and squealed while hopping around.

“is Patton gonna be my dad too???”

Logan couldn’t help but hide his face in Patton’s neck.

“maybe? We don’t know yet Ro, we’ll need a bit more time to figure that out.”

Logan was eternally grateful at Patton’s talent for answering children while also not revealing everything. He mumbled a small ‘I hope so’ into Patton’s neck and Patton giggled. He whispered back a ‘me too’ and Logan could swear he felt his heart swell in his chest. Virgil uncovered his eyes and looked at Patton with awe.

“wait… does that mean me, and Ro will be brothers??? We’ll be eternal playmates!!! Ro we’ll get to play together for forever this is so cool!!!”

“YEAH!!! I went from having one parent to two and a brother!!! YAY!!!!!!”

“oh gosh they’re excited”

Logan turned his head, now laying on Patton’s chest and looking at the kids.

“you two are so silly. You go back to playing unless you needed something”

“well uh we wanted to ask if you would play with us?”

“yeah!!! We wanted to play princes and villains, but neither of us wanna be villains. Could you please play with us?”

Logan leaned back and looked at Patton who had a bright smile on his face.

“why not? I’m actually already hungry again. I think some little princes would be delicious!”

The boys squealed and ran away, and the two adults gave themselves a moment, as well as the boys a head start.

“you know as over used as it is, I really am glad I get to be with you now. You have been my dream guy for years and now its not a dream anymore. Now I don’t know about you, but I have an appointment with some princes.”

“you know, so do I. how about it then? Ready to go?”

Patton gave a toothy grin and placed a small kiss on Logan’s cheek. He chuckled at the blush that grew on his face before releasing him. He held out his hand to Logan.

“as I’ll ever be! Let’s go!”

Logan grabbed his hand and two rushed upstairs. The two were so completely utterly in love. For once in their life they had another person by their side who they could hold close and trust aside from their kids. It was nice. It was really nice.

Taglist: @fivebyfive-finebyfive @tacohippy56900 @analogical-mess @crookedlyoptimisticdestiny @angels-and-dreams @asleepybisexual @starbucks-remy @idioticsky @ijustreallylovesanderssides @superwholocked-for-life @band-be-boss-blog @llamaly @logicality-trash @fiive-second-cookies @whats-going-on-kiddos @snowshoe-main-blog @007ardra @internetwhy @musikasworld

Let me know if you want to be tagged in my writing!!!

Thank you for reading I will see you later ladies lords and nonbinary royalty!!!

[ghostheadcanons]

Papas + Copia: Saying “I Love You”

@just-here-for-copia​ said:

Okay, I swear I'm not sending a sad ask this time! I know in your HC's about the Papas/Copia wooing their s/o, you had brief mentions of them saying "I love you". Would we be able to get a little bit more in terms of how/ they said "I love you" for the first time?

They say it on their deathbeds to you and you cry really hard. It’s very, very sad.

OKAY, NOT REALLY.

It’s always so wonderful to think of our favorites confessing to us, isn’t it? Especially the grumpy ones....hee....

Let’s get started! 

Papa Nihil:

You had come to see him. 

Papa Nihil always looks forward to your visits (he always enthuses about them to Sister Imperator), so of course he smiles at you when you walk through the doors to his office. “Ah, cara mia! It’s so good to see you. In fact, I believe I have something for--”

“Ah, actually,” you cut him off, walking closer with your hands behind your back. “Before you give me anything, I...I wanted to bring you something!”

He blinks. Normally he has a gift for you every time he sees you. “What’s this?” he murmurs. “You brought me something, cara mia?”

“Close your eyes for me, Papa?” 

He chuckles. “Such a silly thing you are, caramellino...” But he obliges. Something warm and fuzzy is placed in his hands.

“Okay! Open them!” 

Papa Nihil does, and sees the dark red scarf, made from woven yarn. His eyes widen.

“Tada!” You grin. “You’re always giving me presents, so I decided to make you something nice! I remember you complaining about how cold it’s gotten...”

“Cara mia....!” He looks over your fine handiwork. “You...made this, for me?”

“I did!” You lean in slightly, eyes sparkling. “...do you like it?”

“Like it?”

Papa Nihil is known for spoiling his lovers with gifts; he never expects anything in return for them. Yet you had decided--not only to get him a present--but to make him one. You had taken a lot of your personal time to do something nice for him, and you had remembered something he’d said when deciding what to make. 

He was a man who could have anything in the world--foods, jewels, wines...he had enough money to get them with a snap of his fingers. And many gave him these sorts of things as gifts, or offerings to win his favor.

Somehow, this scarf topped them all. 

“I love it.” Now the old man is beaming, slipping on the scarf as neat as you please. “I love it, cara mia.”

Your eyes meet. 

“...I love you,” he whispers. You blink twice, cheeks reddening considerably. 

“P-Papa... I’ve been waiting to hear you say that...”

“Have you? Then let me make it up to you for taking so long.” He pulls your hands into his, and the two of you kiss. 

Papa I: 

Papa I has homemade tea and biscuits ready when you walk into his bedroom. “Ah--there you are, lamb.” 

“I came just as soon as I got your message, Papa.” You nod respectfully. “You wanted to speak to me about something?”

“Indeed I did. Please, sit down. Sit down.” He gestures to the opposite chair, to which you do. He proceeds to pour you a full cup of tea.

“What have you brewed today, Papa?” you prompt him.

“Rose hip and chamomile,” he responds, expression softening. “Your favorite.”

The touched look on your face makes his heart flutter. “....thank you, Papa. Ahem. What did you want to tell me?”

“Ah, yes.” He finishes pouring his own cup of tea before clearing his throat. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something...personal.”

“Yes?” You sip at your cup, eyes never leaving him. He can see you drinking in his words along with his tea. 

“My child, I am not one for mincing words, so I am just going to say it.” Papa I takes a deep breath. “I have feelings for you.”

You choke on the tea, sputtering slightly and making a bit of a mess. Papa passes you a napkin, patting you on the back. “Are you alright?”

“I’m--I’m fine,” you wheeze, coughing a bit. “What...what was that?”

“I have feelings for you,” he repeats. “I have never met someone I have felt so in tune with, spiritually and mentally. And I would be honored if you would join my side in my worship of the Olde One. ...if you do not feel the same way, I completely understand,” he adds, his face falling a bit. “And I won’t bring it up aga-”

You cut him off with a kiss. You’re leaning across the table and pressing your lips against his, gentle and sweet. Papa I is taken aback by you being so forward, but he doesn’t mind one bit.

After all, it’s just one of the many things he loves about you. 

Papa II: 

He is not happy with you. 

“I can’t believe you,” he growls. “Going out in the rain like that, without even a coat? What were you thinking?”

You sniffle in reply from your bed, blowing your nose. “You...you needed the ingredients by the end of the night....full moon....had to hurry..”

“I could have waited another month!” snaps Papa II. “Or sent the ghouls out to get them. Why would you do something so foolish, getting yourself sick like this? You had me w--you had my ghouls worried to death!”

You hadn’t noticed his slip-up. Thank Satan. 

You’re avoiding his eyes like a scolded child. “...you’re...always doing such nice things for me...”

As you sink further into your pillows and blanket, you trail off. Papa II raises an eyebrow, leaning in a bit. “Yes?”

“...wanted...wanted to help you, for once.” Your eyes slide closed. “Wanted to make you smile.”

Your answer knocks him off-guard. “...you what?”

“You’re so handsome when you smile...hee....like a king, all regal and stuff...”

You let out a weak giggle, one that turns into coughing before long. He sighs; you were obviously addled by the fever you’d caught. 

He turns his back on you. “Sleep. I’ll send you up something to eat in a little while.”

“Stay with me?”

Your words are quiet. Weak. Pleading. 

“....you’re lucky I love you, caro.” he murmurs, so quietly it’s almost inaudible.

“Huh....?” You open one eye, staring blearily up at him. “You...you gotta speak up, Papa...can’t hear so great....”

“I said you’re lucky I have the night off.” Turning back to face you, Papa II sits at your bedside. 

And even after you’ve drifted off to sleep, he’s still there with you. 

Papa III:

“Figlio di puttana!”

The youngest Emeritus brother slammed his fist into the dressing room table, knocking off all of the bottles and brushes there. He was furious--Sister Imperator had spent the evening arguing with him, and to make things worse, his brother wasn’t there for him to vent about it. 

And, he was more than a little drunk.

“Papa...?”

He whirls around to face the door. Oh, no--now you were poking your head in, looking Concerned for him. The look makes him even angrier; the last thing he needs right now is anybody’s pity. 

“Go away. Leave me alone!” he snarls. 

You don’t heed him. Instead, you come into the room, closing the door behind you. “Papa, tell me what happened.”

“I said get out!” He attempts to shove you back out the way you came. But his feet get tangled, and he ends up hitting the ground hard. 

“Papa--!” you gasp. 

“Fuck...cazzo...” he mutters. As he stares up at the ceiling, the full reality of his situation dawns on him. His hair is a mess, his makeup is smeared to hell and back, he’s so drunk he can barely remember his name, and one of the people he likes the most has seen him at his lowest. 

He bursts into tears. 

“It’s not enough,” he hiccups. “I’m not enough. Fucking....can’t do anything right....Imperator, that bitch...with her standards...can’t preach right, can’t walk right, can’t talk right...” He jabs a thumb to his chest. “I’m supposed to be Papa. If I can’t be Papa...then who in the hell am I?” He closes his eyes, tears rolling freely. 

“You’re Dante.”

His eyes fly open at the use of his first name. You’re kneeling beside him, your tone and expression kind. “You like cheesy horror movies and playing kazoo. You have a wild and wonderful imagination. And you always have a joke ready if you see your friends sad.”

You smile. “You’re Dante Emeritus, and you’re my closest friend.”

He’s speechless. 

You help sit him up, dabbing away the smeared skull makeup with plenty of kleenax. It’s when you move to help him to his feet that he blurts it out. “I love you.” 

Your face goes a little red. “You’re drunk. Come on--let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I love you. More than anything,” he insists, as you lead him out of the dressing room to get him to the bathroom. 

He will not remember his confession the next morning. But he will remember that you were there for him when he needed someone with him. At some point in the future, he will make a grand, romantic gesture and confess his feelings to you that way. But he won’t quite understand just why you’re smiling so wide the whole time. 

Cardinal Copia:

(Continuing from Copia’s part, here!)

His heart is hammering wildly in his chest. One minute to the arranged meeting time, and then you would finally see the man behind the pen. 

And you would reject him. He’s sure of it

Cardinal Copia is hidden slightly out of sight--you would be able to hear him speak, but not see him. It was his final line of defense. 

Footsteps! That had to be you. He peeks out from his hiding place and immediately recoils. It is you. And you’re looking more beautiful than ever. Had he underdressed? He looks down at his red cossack. Oh, Lucifer, had he overdressed?!

Your voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “Hello?”

“Gah--!” Copia pulls back even further into his hiding spot. You hadn’t gotten a good look at him, thank Satan, but now you knew for sure he was there. 

“...’Cyrano?’ Is that you?” you prompt his pen-name, leaning in, but he holds up a gloved hand.

“Not any closer,” he chokes out. “Please. I. Give me a minute...” 

You oblige him, waiting patiently for him to catch his breath. 

“I....got your letter,” you say quietly. “With the meeting time. Are you alright?”

“No. I am not alright.” Copia stares up at the ceiling, feeling his heart sink. “Because I am not worthy of your time.”

“If you weren’t worthy, then I would not be here.” You cross your arms. “...will you come out, at least? The entire point of meeting was to finally see one another, face to face.”

He says nothing.

“It’s hardly fair, don’t you think?” you add. “You know everything about who I am, and yet I know next to nothing about you. Please. Show me your face.”

Slowly, ready to bolt at any second, Copia comes into the light. 

Your eyes widen. “....Your Eminence?”

“I really must be going--”

“Wait! Don’t go. Your last letter moved me to tears, Copia. May I call you Copia?”

He blinks, looking over at you. You had not reacted in revulsion...in fact, you were staring at him in awe. “...you may.”

“I never would have imagined that you were so talented,” you say breathlessly, smiling at him. “You’re so good with words, has anyone ever told you that? Sheer poetry.”

You weren’t laughing at him. The Cardinal watches you carefully, not quite able to find the right words. How ironic, for a man who could write such wonderful letters. 

“I saved them all, you know. Every single one.” You’re walking closer. “I like to read them before I go to sleep at night.”

“...do you really?” is all Copia can say. You nod, smiling wider. 

“They make me feel at ease. I...I know this is forward of me...but I can’t keep this hidden any longer. I love you, Cardinal Copia. And I want nothing more than to spend my days with you. Even if you can only confess in your letters, then I will confess here, in conversation.”

It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

You stand there with your arms outstretched. “....will you accept me?”

Copia is hugging you close to him before you can even finish the sentence. 

“I love you, too, topolino.”

[embracethefeels]

The moon is a fucking rock in space

(tw: suicide)

Hello Anon,

I just want to point out that the moon is a PLANET in the solar system that orbits Earth. Now that we established that, I just want you to know that the moon has special meanings for many people. Instead of being upset at you, I’m going to educate you because the world would be a better place if you weren’t so ignorant.

There is a kpop group called SHINee and there are five members. There are only four who currently stand on stage because one is no longer with us, but he is just as much a member as any other. The kpop industry is messed up and unfair, which was one of the reasons he decided to take his own life. Now, I want to stop you before you say anything else that will make you seem like an even bigger insensitive asshole. 

This member, Jonghyun, will always be our “little prince on the moon.” We love him, his members love him, other artists love and respect him. He wrote so many amazing songs and gifted it to us, his fans, while always thinking he wasn’t enough. In his absence, his Poet | Artist album continued to proved his talent and love for music by winning him many awards on national and international music charts. He continues to hold the hearts of his fans, family, and fellow artists because we all continue to listen to and sing his songs. 

He brought awareness to LGBT+ groups in Korea, discussed the importance of mental health, and always made sure those around him knew they were loved and important. There are so many artists (Korean, Japanese, Western, etc..) who suffer from mental illnesses, but their profession often prevents them from getting help or seeking the right type of help. Unfortunately, it took us losing Jonghyun to reevaluate these problems and even till this day it is not addressed correctly. However, we have made some strides (i.e. fans calling out entertainment industries, fans telling artists that it’s ok to rest, etc..). 

So, yes the moon might not mean much to you. That’s totally fine. However, before you insult something that might carry important significance to another, think about how it would feel if someone insulted something meaningful to you. Not everyone will share the same ideas as you, so before you say something insensitive again, I want you to remember the hurt you brought upon to others by saying this. If you don’t think you did anything wrong, that just proves how insensitive and ignorant you are.

To those who are still hurting and still healing, keep doing what you need to do. Jonghyun wouldn’t want you to be upset about this. He wouldn’t be mad at this anon either. He would simply shrug and continue to play his kazoo.

[rosecolouredsecrets]

The night time air was cool and quiet. The only sound was the occasional chirp and hoot from a bird somewhere. Rosewood’s courtyard was cast in a deep blue light, fireflies sparking around the rosebushes every so often. Lola’s legs dangled from her bedroom window, her eyes sparkling brighter than the stars as she stared thoughtfully at the sky. It was a clear night. Not a cloud was in sight. Lola blinked at the moon; its sharp curves shone wide and bright in a way that made Lola feel nostalgic and sleepy.

She took in a deep breath of the air and allowed herself to relax. This was her happy place. What could possibly make this any better? She wondered, swinging her legs a little. Then it hit her. She leaned from the window back into her room and opened the top drawer of her bedside table, took out a chocolate muffin, and a tiny, yellow notebook. She winced as her hand brushed against an object she had tried to forget, but had been to fond of to throw out. A wave of old memories filled her brain.

Lola shook the sadness from her head and took a bite of her muffin, sketching the moon. An hour later, the clock struck 1am. She lifted her sketches in comparison to the moon and yawned. Not quite… she considered the sketches. It’s missing something, but what? Lola chewed the end of her pencil and stared intently at the moon.

It twitched.

She froze and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Tiredness is playing tricks on me, isn’t it? She rubbed her eyes and stared at it again in doubt. The moon twitched, and twisted upside down until it looked like a grin. Two, all-knowing, turquoise eyes blinked open above it. Lola gasped and stared with her mouth wide open in disbelief.

‘Good morning,’ a voice purred. Lola folded her arms and turned away, pouting in childish defiance. The Cheshire cat twirled in the air, revealing his bright pink, fluffy stripes from his invisibility. He glided gracefully to eye-level with Lola and rested his head on his chin, his tail flicking cockily behind him. ‘What, no ‘how-do-you-do’ for me this fine day?’ He asked humorously. Lola did not find anything about this situation funny. She had been having a lovely time, and now it was ruined by a ghost from her past. She glanced at him and shifted her body away from his direction, crossing her legs to make a point. The Cheshire cat chuckled and floated onto his back, wafting his tail into Lola’s face. She couldn’t help it. Her lip twitched and bubbles began to pop inside her stomach as an involuntary smile plastered her face. ‘Stop that!’ She giggled, waving him away. His tail was still so soft. It made her fingers prick with memory and sadness.

Lola remembered herself and cleared her throat. ‘What do you want?’ The Cheshire cat rolled onto his belly and leaned his head on one hand, examining the claws of the other. ‘I thought I’d drop in, see how you were,’ his eyes shone with something secretive that made Lola sit up straighter and tug on a bit of her hair. ‘Maybe you could play me a song…’ he teased. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. ‘No, I haven’t… it’s…’ her heart thudded loudly, ‘it’s been so long.’ she couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice and it made her want to cry. Why was he here, after all these years? There hadn’t been one single letter, gift, carrier pigeon, or anything to let her know he still cared. Well, Cheshire’s always been like that. He never showed that he cared Lola thought bitterly as tears pricked at her eyes. She squeezed her skirt in her hands, willing herself not to cry. The Cheshire cat sat up and padded the air, like a housecat trying to get comfortable. He was still grinning from ear to ear. ‘My dear lollipop, you know how I feel about apologies; however, I should tell you I’ve truly come here to redeem myself,’ he bowed and rolled the ‘r’ as he said ‘redeem’. Lola sniffed and pulled her knees up to her chest. ‘Come on, lollipop, remember how we used to be?’ he drifted over to her and rested on her shoulders. Lola could smell his inviting scent of strawberry ice cream and lavender. It made her feel dizzy as she conflicted her old feelings and the hurt he had caused her. The soft purring in her ear made her frown dissipate and she let go of her dress. The Cheshire cat came round to face her again. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to dance.’ He purred whimsically, making his pink stripes flash different colours.

Lola smiled and wiped her nose on her arm. Maybe one dance can’t hurt? Something at the back of her mind told her she was wrong, but The Cheshire cat had a way with her. She swung her legs into her room and rushed to the top drawer, pulling out two pairs of tap shoes, and the object she had avoided for so long, but had been too attached to throw away. She clasped the kazoo tightly in her hand and stepped out of the window onto The Cheshire cats back. His body squished under her weight into the proportions of a book and he flew them down into the middle of the courtyard. They stood side by side. ‘A one, a two, a one, two, three,’ They began to tap to music only they could hear, twisting perfectly in time with each other, creating an enchanting melody of taps that echoed into the still night air. The fireflies seemed to bounce to their beat, flying faster and faster in a whirl around them. Lola giggled, feeling dreamy and content. It felt so right for them to finally be dancing together again, but something dark tugged at the back of Lola’s mind, trying to remind her of something. Or warn her.

‘Play the kazoo!’ The Cheshire cat called to her over their tapping, bringing her out of her thoughts. She blew the melody she had tried to forget for so many years. It was haunting and beautiful. The fireflies responded by speeding up in a whir of excitement, whizzing around and around the both of them until they were but a blur. Lola didn’t think anything of it. She just kept tap dancing to the wii soundtrack she was playing on her kazoo, so enraptured in the sounds and feeling of nostalgia that she didn’t notice The Cheshire Cat twist his hands in odd movements, or the bright white light open up over her, and the things that began to crawl out of them in disturbing and distorted jolts.

She played, and tapped, and twirled until she realised she was unable to stop. Panic formed a knot in her stomach and she looked about for The Cheshire cat as she danced. When she finally saw him – and everything around him - she paled. Her brain was yelling, clawing, screaming at her, calling her a fool, begging her to run as fast as she could, but she had been hypnotised. Tears streamed down her eyes as she blew the melody. Instead of running, her feet tapped to the Nintendo tune. The Cheshire cat drifted to eye-level with her. His grin was menacing, his fur a multi-coloured flash of lies and evil. Lola’s feet ached and her breath was running out. A weight of guilt and horror planted her shoulders and she felt cold sweat drip down her back. Slowly, her vision blurred and began to fade. ‘Good night,’ The Cheshire cat purred in a sickly-sweet voice as Lola lost consciousness.

[phandomphightclub]

Phinal Round, First Place Match: @reallydumbdannyphantomaus vs. @heyheyitsstillgay

The ring was repaved. Vic and Tali were back in their seats. Tucker had finally gotten some decent food.

Finally, finally, everything was ready for the final battle.

“Bug versus Anri, huh?” Tucker asked.  “Is it too late to place bets?”

“Who would you bet for?” Danny asked in return.

“Probably Bug, honestly,” he said after taking a big bite from his burger.  “They might be a pain, but they’re apparently pretty good.  Not a ton of ghosts can get the whole duplication thing down.”

“I’d still vote for Anri,” Sam argued.  “They’ve got more raw power.  Plus it looks like they have more abilities than they let on.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out who’s gonna win!”  Tali said brightly as the two ghosts once again entered the ring.

“Our phinal match here, pholks!  Winner gets all glory, honor, bragging rights, and a year’s supply of free Denny’s pancakes.”

“Really?”  Danny perked up at that.  The Denny’s might not have the greatest food, but their pancakes were pretty good.  And a year’s supply of free ones?  He might enter the tournament next time for that.

“Really!  So let’s get this phight started!  From the Observant’s Keep, a ghost who once tried to eat fake grass out of an escape room, we have Reallydumbdannyphantomaus!”

“That was one time!”  They shouted up at Tali, who just laughed.

“And their opponent from Nightmare Valley, a ghost with memes so dank they can’t be seen by the mortal eye, Heyheyitsstillgay!”

They waved to the crowd with a staff made entirely out of Danno faces.

“PHIGHT!”

Bug extended their PowerPoint staff like a lightsaber, red glow and all.  “Ready to finish this, binch?”

“I died ready.”

They two ghosts clashed over the freshly-paved center of the ring.  The Danno staff squealed each time it made contact with Bug’s PowerSaber.

“Is that, like, gonna burn your face too?”  Tucker asked Danny.  “Like some kind of voodoo or something?”

“Shut up, Tucker,” Sam said offhand, her entire attention glued to the fight.

Anri brought her Danno staff down in a heavy overhand blow, putting more of their extra-dense weight into the attack.  Bug blocked, using all four of their arms to hold up the PowerSaber.

“You… have strength, I’ll give you that,” Bug said through gritted teeth.  They couldn’t have blocked that attack if they’d used any of their energy on making duplicates; this was going to be tough.

“I’ve got more than that. I’ve been around longer than you can imagine,” They said, their face inches from Bug’s.  “My core is ancient and fueled by things you’ve only seen in your nightmares.”

“Your… core, huh?” Bug asked, getting an idea.  Twisting and diverting Anri’s staff, they slipped one hand free to punch them in the gut.  Anri grunted and gave Bug an opening to dart away.

“You’re not gonna break my core that easily,” Anri said, spinning her staff and coming back in swinging. Bug snapped theirs into two halves, blocking with one red-glowing half and striking Anri’s side with the other.

“I don’t plan on breaking it.”  Bug smirked. Then they plunged one half of the PowerSaber into Anri’s unprotected stomach.

Anri stopped for a moment, stunned at the wound – but then, as Danny knew would happen, the dark energy began coalescing around it.

“What’s Bug thinking?” He asked.  “They know Anri can’t be beat like that!”

“Why not?”  Sam asked.  That’s right, she and Tucker weren’t there for that match.

“They’ve got a special power.  Instead of being fueled by ectoplasm, the inside of their form is – well, just watch.”

The memes began to trickle from Anri’s stomach as they pulled out the Power Saber.

“You’re in for it now.” They grinned ominously.  But to their surprise, Bug grinned back and stabbed the half of the PowerSaber they had left into the ground.  The projector screen unfurled from it, casting blinding light onto Anri.

“That’s not going to—”

But blinding wasn’t what Bug had in mind.  The two halves of the saber created a link – one that siphoned the memes from Anri’s form and projected them onto the screen.

“What – no!”  Anri shouted, feeling their form begin to droop as it lost its power.  Bug folded two hands behind their back, using the other two to point to the presentation.

“And if you’ll look at this diagram, you’ll see the different types of memes that Anri contains broken down by type and percentage.  I would draw your attention to this slice of the pie chart, which depicts the percentage of bad Danno edits.  It’s unusually high in comparison to the other types of memes, though they are all equally impressive…”

“You can’t just – my memes – my PowerPoint slides – how can you take them from me!?”

Bug pointed to the half of the saber that Anri still held.  “You did that to yourself, my good binch.  You should’ve kept your hands to yourself.”

“NOOOOO!”

And with that last shout, Anri’s flesh prison deflated completely.  We won’t describe what that looked like, because we’re sure it’s already frightening enough, and probably wasn’t suitable for children to watch.  However, the Denny’s does not have insurance for psychic and/or emotional damage caused by exposure to any of the phights, so hopefully everyone could deal with it on their own, or had officially-licensed, non-Spectra therapists who could help them cope.

“Dude, are they gonna be okay?”  Tucker asked.

“Oh, Anri?”  Tali laughed.  “Don’t worry, they do that about once a century.  They’ll replace those memes with even worse ones and come back stronger than ever.  Kind of like molting, or something.  But in the meantime everyone can press F to pay respects.”

Danny looked down and saw a tiny button labeled F on the armrest of his chair.  He pressed it.

Tali blew her kazoo to the tune of Never Gonna Give You Up.  Every verse.  All three minutes and fifty-six seconds of it.  The crowd listened with their arms raised in a respectful dab.  Danny figured he might as well dab too, and eventually even Sam caught on to the mood and obliged.

When the song was over, Tali finally said the fated words.

“Heyheyitsstillgay is unable to battle!  Reallydumbdannyphantomaus wins!”

XXX

“Tucker!  Sam!  Wait!”  A voice called as Danny was about to fly them out of the Denny’s.

“Oh great.”  A resigned glare slid over Sam’s face as she turned to the ghost.  Of course, it had to be Bug.  The one ghost she’d wanted to see get their butt kicked, and it never even happened.

“What do you want?” Tucker grumbled.  “Come to make fun of us again?”

“No, well, actually…” Bug ruffled their blue hair with one hand, two others fidgeting in front of them. “I came to make up.  Here.”

With their last remaining hand, they held out three CDs, one for each of the friends.  Sam took hers with a critical glare.

“Exactly what you think?”  She read the title.  Bug’s signature was scrawled below it.

“It’s the song I wrote for the phinal.  As a friendship gift.”

“If I wanted some lame music, I would’ve gotten something signed by Ember.”

Danny elbowed her, and her she winced.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t fair to hold a grudge for something Bug said one time.  It wasn’t like they had to go out of the way to give them something.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Thanks.”

“What song is it?” Tucker asked, a little more brightly. He’d never learned to hold a grudge like she did.

“You’ll see!”  They grinned.  “But if you want to know just how lame my music is before that, come watch the closing ceremonies of the Phight.”

“Closing ceremonies?” Danny asked.

“What, Tali didn’t tell you? She does forget a lot.  Anyway, we’re holding it out in the ring in a few minutes, if you’ve got time!  See ya!”

They flew back out of the Denny’s, leaving Danny, Tucker, and Sam confused.  They shared a glance, but figured they already knew what they’d be doing.

“So… who’s up for one last blast in the ghost zone?”

XXX

A few minutes later, the stadium was packed again, this time with ghosts holding candles over their heads. As Danny didn’t have a candle himself, he settled for lighting the tip of his finger and swaying it in time with the music that Bug began to sing.  Tali backed them up on kazoo, putting her soul into the tune’s melancholy air.

Oh Danno boy The phights, the phights are calling From den to den and through this portal side The show is on and all the blows are falling Tis you tis you must go and I must bide But bring ye back when Denny’s is reopened Or when the ring is hushed and in limbo It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow Oh Danno boy oh Danno boy I love you so.

Danny turned at the sound of sniffling.

“What?”  Tucker asked, drying his eyes on his beret.  “It’s a very emotional song!”

Sam sighed and patted his shoulder, to which he mumbled a thank you.

Then slowly and more orderly than they had after any of the phights, the ghosts began to filter away. Almost like they too were mourning the end of a tournament that they’d all enjoyed.  As they left, Danny pondered the lyrics.

“Does this mean… the Denny’s is closing?”

“Only physically,” Tali said, suddenly appearing beside him.  “But in our hearts, the Denny’s is forever.”

“I’m not sure if that was sappy or ominous,” Sam said.

“Both.”  Tali smiled.  “We’ll still be around, but we’ll be on the downlow until the next Phight.”

“When’s that?”  Tucker asked.

“Next year, probably. It’s a lot of work to run a Phight Club on nothing but a few pancakes and the money we conned out of Vlad.  But don’t worry, it’ll come sooner than you know it!”

And somehow, in spite of all the crazy things that had happened in the past month of watching the Phight, Danny looked forward to it.

[minttoy]

all that we lost

CHAPTER THREE

Summary: Five years since the war has passed. Five years since she joined the Dragon Guard. Five years since she saw either of the princes. One of them is a King now. Rayla doesn’t consider herself blessed. How could she lose so much of herself and gain nothing back? The war has come and gone, and still she’s counting her losses. Amidst this fractured peace, she returns to Katolis to make up for lost time.

Pairings: Callum/Rayla

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

For Chapter 1:

Chapter 1 (FF.net)

Chapter 1 (AO3)

A violin plays a joyful and melodious tune in the background.

Streets lined with vendors, music, dancing and games with stuffed prizes. Concession stands catering foods from around the world are found at every corner. Wherever she looks, there’s a joyous atmosphere, reminiscent of the celebrations that took place at war’s end.

They’re standing at the castle entrance. Callum has taken it upon himself to entertain a curious group of kids with an assortment of ‘magic tricks’, the irony being it’s real magic, and they’re not tricks. Rayla watches with wry amusement from the side.

“Again! Again!”

She offers him silent pity as the children start another round pleas to see the trick for the tenth time.

Callum smiles tightly. “Alright, but this is the last time.”

He kneels to the ground, using the bottle of bubbles that has the kids so enthralled to blow another set. Drawing the sky rune in front of him, he whispers the incantation and a small gust of wind sends the droplets gliding and dancing in the air. The kids run in a flurry, trying to pop the most soapy water blobs before they soar too high.

The gust of air magic catches the hem of her pants. For the festival, she’s opted for loose human clothing. If it weren’t for her horns or markings, maybe she could pass off as one of them. 

When she looks up again, Callum is doing his best to wave off the kids, promising them another show sometime later. There’s a wave of disappointment, but one kid pulls out a kazoo from his party bag and sputters out noise as he darts off in the street. The others eventually follow and Rayla eyes one girl in particular.

“Hey, little one. Be careful. You might trip and fall with your shoes untied,” Rayla calls out to the small girl that reminds of her of a younger Ellis.

The girl looks down to see that her boot laces have come undone and then she sort of waddles towards the elf. Rayla drops to her knees, levelling herself with the child. “I know you’re eager to join the others, but do you want to know what’s not fun? Getting hurt,” she says, tying her boot laces and then doubling it for extra measure.

Once finished, Rayla notices she’s been glancing between her non-human features, from the top of her head down to her fingers. The small girl soon erupts in a smile, having finally decided. “Miss, I like your hair!”

Rayla smiles the compliment. “Thanks. You can run along now.”

“See you later!” And then she bounces off towards the other kids with energy like the sun, reminding Rayla that kids are freer than anything in the world.

She rises to stand and dusts off her trousers. Behind her, she hears the faint sound of sketching. Charcoal on thick parchment paper. She glances up to catch Callum drafting something in his book. Something he wants to remember. She watches idly from where she is, studying the small ritual and fixed concentration in his eyes as he shades and fills the lines. Callum is so handsome still, and his boyish charm has aged well. 

He soon finishes with the drawing, notices her staring and then tilts his head.

She looks away and waves off his silent inquiry. “It’s nothing.”

He arches a brow, but she walks over to him and peers down at his sketch from his side. Back then, he’d always let her appreciate his works, scrutinize them even.

In the book, he’s drawn the busy streets before them, the banners hanging across the rooftops, the food stands, the assortment of flags, a few passerby. She marvels at his talent, even as she’s seen him do it hundreds of times. He could draw in his sleep if he wanted.

“Figured I should remember this day somehow,” he starts.

She nods, because that’s how he remembers. Callum always draws people, places and memories that are important to him. She saw them firsthand, back when those pages were mostly of his mother.

“By any chance, do you still use that…book?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

She’s lost at first, but clues in afterwards. Of course. Her own book, littered with lists it would confuse anybody with no context. He’d given her the first one she ever used.

“I do.”

He doesn’t avert his gaze, instead searches her eyes for understanding. “You…still get nightmares every night?”

She shakes her head. “Not every night. It’s better now.”

They’re silent for a brief moment, but only because it’s a topic to be discussed later. He finally averts his gaze, closing his book and slinging it over his shoulder. He motions her forward, suggesting they go for a walk and the two walk in step.

“You know, I think sky has always been my favourite class of magic,” he strikes up conversation, shifting the tone.

Rayla looks ahead of her, careful to maneuver around passerby. The streets are littered with folks now, but she has no doubt it will be busier later today. “Sky, huh? Why is that?”

He hums noncommittally. “I don’t know exactly. I just find myself using it the most. Maybe I’m biased, since it was the first Arcanum I learned.”

“Well, you’re also good at it,” she says as a matter of fact.

Callum beckons her to cross the street and she keeps close when they pass through a horde of vendors and their moving carts. People stare and steal curious glances. She sticks out in human garbs and it doesn’t help they’re a tall pair walking amongst a crowd. For a second, they glaze over her form or peek at her horns, but sometimes they look over at Callum with a glint of familiarity. He has no crown or regal showing, so maybe he’s not the prince they have in mind.

She almost wants to take his hand.

Make a statement. Somehow show the world that humans and elves can get along. Remove the judgment in their eyes and make peace. She knows he’d go along with it too, even squeeze her hand in steady reassurance, because he believes it too, but instead, she keeps her arms crossed in front of her.

“So is this what humans do when there’s no war?” she pipes up, shifting her thoughts.

He casts a lazy inspection to a particularly loud group across the street selling tickets for a show. “I guess so? I mean, after the treaties were signed, we threw a festival much like this one and the town settled down quietly ever since.”

She tilts her head at him. “And you?”

He looks down to the ground, hands in his pockets. “I sort of became a…diplomat?” He seems to think the title sounds silly out loud, so he quickly waves it off. “It’s fancier than it sounds. Basically, I go back and forth between towns, attend all kinds of meetings, negotiate trade, arrange foreign affairs, deal with disturbances at the breach, make big speeches…it’s not that bad, not so complicated.”

She snorts. “It sounds complicated.”

His lips tug to a small smile. “When I’m here, I like to teach at the school.”

Rayla marvels at the thought. “I had no idea you kept so busy.” She reflects on what she’s done in her last five years. “Is being a diplomat still frustrating as you once said?”

He chuckles. “So you did read my letters.”

“Of course I did,” she says, surprising him with blunt honesty.

They settle for brief silence, letting the sounds of the festival fill the space. When she hears him exhale, she looks up again.

“It’s gotten better, or easier, I should say,” he starts. “It’s a lot of work getting people to agree with each other, but I shouldn’t complain so much. I mean, I get to travel the world and see all kinds of things, right?”

“And attend a lot of festivals?”

He smiles. “Yeah. That too.”

Callum looks at her and there’s a thoughtfulness in his eyes. He’s preoccupied with something beyond this mindless conversation, but she knows him very well and it’s only a matter of time until he comes out with it.

“What’s on your mind?” she presses.

A sighs escapes his lips and he submits to it. “There’s room for one more, you know,” he starts. This time, he doesn’t play it too serious, not like he did five years ago, and she’s thankful for it. “You could still come with me. I’m sure everyone would be interested to hear your side of the story.”

Back then, these had been her choices. Join him or join the Guard, and after three days spent holed up in deep thought and rumination, she left him and chose the latter.

Rayla casts a dubious look. “Everyone? Really?”

“Well, maybe not everyone,” he amends. “Most people. The good ones will listen, at least.”

Her mouth tilts up in a small smile. “I hope you’re not trying to convince me to quit my job.”

Callum shakes his head, laughs it off quietly. “Nah. It’s just something for you to consider. My point is you’re always welcome here. I just wanted you to know that.”

She smiles again, but it fades quick as regret comes back to sting her. A blank expression shapes her features again. “Umm, can I be honest for a second?”

“What is it?”

“It’s about your letters.” Rayla sighs as she runs a hand over her face. “I’m just…sorry I didn’t write back.”

He turns to her, and she finds no resentment or malice there. “It’s okay.”

For a while, they sit at the square, listen to the band play folksy tunes, watch townies perform traditional dances. Rayla taps her foot loosely to the beat, reminded of the ceremonies and traditions held in her hometown.

Afterwards, they join the lineup to enter the town raffle. The prizes sit on the back table, courtesy of King Ezran himself. Baskets of foods, houseware, kitchenware, boxes of wine, stacks of books and smaller gifts stacked neatly. Callum needs neither of these things and Rayla can’t bring back any of the gifts with her on horseback. She think it’s reason enough to opt out of the raffle, but everyone is doing it so they toss their ballots anyway. 

They catch the noontime showing for the play re-enacting a dramatized version of the war’s end. She snorts at the interpretation of Azymondias, a name half the performers can barely pronounce. He breathes thunder and has sharp teeth, but years ago he was never as menacing as the play suggests.

Later, Callum somehow convinces her to try her hand in the archery tournament.

She’s not here to gloat, but he pushes for it. Maybe he’s improved over the years and thinks he can best her. Curious, she says nothing of it and motions for him to take his turn.

His first shot misses the bullseye by four markers, the second lands on the outermost ring and his third is the best, just one ring short. He’s not ecstatic with the results, but she gives him some credit. Back then, he could barely figure out the mechanics of the weapon.

“Pretty impressive,” she says as she accepts the bow from him.

Callum smirks. “I’m more curious about you, to be honest.”

He’s not the only one, it seems, as her eyes drift to the crowd. More onlookers have come to watch since they arrived. Families and cliques and tourists watch with wary anticipation. Even the brawny man supervising this tournament ignores the rest of the matchups to eye her with some suspicion. There are no other elves amongst this crowd, let alone this festival. She’s the only one with horns.

The matter is paltry.

Rayla eyes her target, sets her arrow and pulls back the string, releasing it with a deftness taught to her as an assassin, but honed in the Guard. With no moving targets and harsh fogs, she knocks the easy bullseye, and behind her there are gasps of surprise. She wastes no time, lifts the second arrow and launches it with more speed. It lands beside the first, just edged into the middle ring. Her third attempt goes awry, her concentration snapped when the large man in her periphery coughs loud into his mouth and her arrow goes straight into a hay bale behind the target.

She lowers her bow and briefly acknowledges the crowd before spying the burly man a look. Even some of the townsfolk have the decency to quietly applaud.

Raylat tips her head at him. “Is there a problem?”

He ignores the question entirely, getting up from his stool to yank out her arrows. “Sharp shooter, aren’t you?”

She shrugs. “Lots of practice.”

He raises a brow. “Are you trained in combat too? The art of the blades? Magic, even?”

Her expression sours a bit. “Does it matter?”

“You tell me,” he answers vaguely. He follows up with a half-snort, half-chuckle before snorting in ridicule. “Here we are, throwing all kinds of festivals and parties, thinking the war is over. Meanwhile, everyone living across the border act like it’s not.”

She doesn’t twitch. Her face is wooden. She silently hands him back the bow when he comes to get it. At his size, she guesses maybe he’s a retired guard. He speaks like a hard-bitten man, not necessarily contemptuous. Perhaps he served under the liege of King Harrow, now hardened having failed to protect his principal. Maybe he was there that fateful night and he’s seen firsthand what she’s capable of.

She stops herself from overthinking and swallows uncomfortably. “Umm, thanks for letting me play.”

He scoffs. “You can thank the prince.”

Rayla turns around, finding Callum in the corner speaking with a family across the fence. She stays nearby and tries to shake off the slight, but she’ll need something strong to forget that happened. Idly her gaze falls to the other matchups, where archery is done in good fun, but she knows when she returns to her post things will be different.

She hears clapping from her side, flushes with mild embarrassment as Callum walks over.

“Amazing as always,” he says, and her cheeks are noticeably pink now. “To be honest, I kind of underestimated you back there. I thought you were a swords-only type of warrior and maybe I could best you with my mediocrity, but I was wrong. Well, lesson learned.”

She sneaks a glance to the brusque man, unable to help herself. He’s still looking her way, curious of her relations with Callum. “Thanks,” she says absently.

“Is everything okay?”

Her mind reels back to what Callum said before. About how the war should have ended. What could have been done to end the persistent prejudice and bigotry. Suddenly, she stands to block Callum’s view of the archery tournament. “Everything’s fine.”

But she knows that face. Filled with question, concern and disbelief – he sees right through her. After years of separation, maybe he no longer feels obligated to act on it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he tips his head towards the streets and she sighs in relief.

In truth, she hadn’t anticipated spending the day with him. She’d resolved to watching a few festivities from a rooftop and then spending the rest of the day in the forest. Instead, Callum takes her to the bakery for the afternoon. This place is famed for their jelly tarts, but today they’ve cooked up all kinds of delicacies, treats and pastries she’s never seen. All pretty and glittered with extraneous icing and sugar dust. Ezran would love it.

Rayla looks up from the glass counter and eyes Callum at the register. He’s on friendly terms with the baker behind the counter and they exchange smiles as the older man hands him a box of sweets.

She walks over curious. When she tries to get a peek, he just hands her the box. Inside is a dozen of bare cookies. A concoction of butter, sugar and flour mixed together and baked to golden perfection. Plainer than anything displayed in the counters.

Out of age-old connections, the baker lets them head into the back kitchen. Callum goes straight for the piping bags with a strange child-like eagerness.

“Something you probably don’t know, when Ezran and I were kids, we always snuck in here,” he says, making a frosting bag with a tip for her with leftover icing. She takes it with hesitation, having never done this before.

“You two would sneak in here? What kind of castle lets their princes do that?” she asks idly, trying to figure out the bag.

“Well, the guards were always busy doing something else, or guarding someone else. And the bakers would let us sample the treats so it was well-worth it,” he explains, chuckling at himself. “Back then, the palace was always…tense, and sometimes we needed a break. Things never really settled after my Mom died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t feel so bad. That was years ago, and now this place holds good memories. Ezran got his jelly tarts and for me, the bakers were always nice enough to let me try my hand at decorating. I always looked forward to that the most.” 

It makes sense, she thinks, because Callum always had a knack for art. She watches his demonstration on how to write with frosting, outlining a neat ‘R’ for Rayla on one of the cookies.

She tries to frost the primal moon next. It comes out as a sloppy oval. She doesn’t even try attempting the smaller details and moves on. She figures she should try something easier, but the next cookie she pipes out too much on the first squeeze and the most she can salvage out of it is a blob. She sprinkles chocolate bits to cover it up before deciding she has no affinity for the art and instead, leans on the counter to watch Callum instead.

She marvels at his concentration and studies the way his brows furrow when he connects his lines. He makes anything from snowflakes, trees and precise swirls that look like roses. On the last cookie, he sneaks a glance at her pair of sprinkled blobs before tracing the moon rune himself with more care and attention than she will ever obtain.

He slides it over to her and she thinks there’s a hint of smugness on his face.

“Well, you win this one,” she says, standing straight and glancing over the array of frosted cookies.

“I had no idea we were competing.” His smirk is still smug. “Does that make us even?”

She snorts. “Well, I’m not sure how much your cookie decoration skills would help you in a fight. I think I could still knock you down.”

He raises a brow. “What if I use magic?”

Rayla tilts her head in interest. “Is that a challenge?”

His smirk disappears and he hesitates, considering it over. “Err, you know what? I take it back. I already underestimated you once today. I’m not looking to embarrass myself again.”

She smiles and before they know it, they run into a silence. Eventually they would run out of things to talk about. She’s not going to recount the days they spent apart or their days spent in war. Unfortunately, there’s hardly anything in between.

The silence is interrupted and she’s glad for it. The baker walks in at the right time, beckoning Callum over. She makes a quick guess, like a small game, and she’s right on track when after their quick exchange, Callum looks over apologetically.

Peering over at the storefront, she catches a couple of guards whispering to each other. They’re looking for him. Her guess is he’s needed elsewhere, maybe due for some big hero speech.

“You go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you later,” she says for him.

He nods. “There’s going to be a dinner celebration at the castle later,” he brings up. “I’ll see you then?”

She sends him off with a nod. When he’s gone, she packs up their snacks to go, not missing that the baker has chosen to stay nearby. She shoots him a second-glance over her shoulder in acknowledgement.

“You’re a friend of the prince, huh?” the old man pipes up. “What’s your name, lassie?”

She turns around, finds the baker appraising her. “Rayla.”

“You’re in good hands, you know,” he says for some reason.

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugs loosely. “The prince. He doesn’t judge. I mean, I don’t either – you’re welcome anytime here – but it’s different with him.”

Rayla raises a brow, unsure if that made anything clear.

He motions vaguely in her direction. “I’m guessing he met you through work?”

She hums noncommittally. “Not quite.”

“Well, I think he kind of likes you. I’m no expert, but I’ve known the kid his whole life,” he starts. She’s starting to wonder if this is some cautionary warning. “But hey, if you don’t like him back, that’s okay. Just – let him down easy. Rumour has it he had his heart broken by an elf a few years back.”

“Oh,” she says. “How…unfortunate.”

The man is only protecting him, it seems.

“I’m not worried. He’s got plenty of years ahead,” he says before sauntering towards the work table where a lump of dough waits to be kneaded. “It’s nice to meet you, Rayla. I hope to see more of your kind around.”

[finsterhund]

This con is big but not too nice.

I like the accessible washroom of the building

I like how spaced the artist tables are. But geez.

Artists are upset about the crappy wooden tables, people are talking about the artists who got banned for complaining about getting scammed out of their second table.

The artists here are great though. I wish the con cared more about them. Lots of people I know here. Many I already commissioned. I'm not going to get a second commission from someone if I haven't scanned and uploaded the one I got from them previously. Doesn't seem right.

I commissioned an artist who it was their first con, and I have an artist I want to commission online later.

I had to pay extra money for the sky train to refill my card. Would have been nice if the one lording it over us about having a car would actually have helped us today with said car but I think maybe we need to give those poor cyclists a break (okay, maybe I'm being a bit too petty with this now)

The pain medicine keeps me feeling okay. I love cosplaying as Andy again. Maybe in the winter months I'll get new converse so they're not hurting my legs and back. I need them up one size that's a big reason why cosplaying as Andy hurts.

I wish I wasn't so hot I hate sweating. I wish I was healthy and that I could finally finish my cosplay. Someday. I finally get to see a specialist soon. Hoping that puts me on the road to finally having normalcy and a body that at least tries to work properly.

My friend reminded me that we first made my cosplay when I was still ten pounds underweight so the fact that my shorts are tighter on me than usual shouldn't be too unexpected. My back flaring up definitely contributes to it too. I think a big chunk of me thinking I'm an ugly lump is not because of things like diet and more just my body being the unfortunate way it is. Thanks to bad genetics and scar tissue I'm bottom-heavy and no amount of fixing my diet is going to change that. I'm the Danny Devito of Andys. But admittedly the bad situation of July likely made it more noticable. I hate being a thicc boy. I meme about being the designated "fat kid who dies first" but I'm actually sensitive about it.

For how expensive it is to buy a single pass and a falling apart table here, this con has no internet for artists. But that's consistent. Was that way the last few years too. Funny how the cons that cost less and come with the right number of badges and a clean table also have free internet for the artist alley.

To be honest as much as I love all the artists and attendees here and being more likely to be recognized as Andy I really do not like this con.

The art of Andy I got from the first convention attendee artist is very cute. Crisp black and white inks so it'll scan well and I can't wait to share. But no internet!

There's an artist who does custom buttons but they're unlike any buttons I've ever seen. They are wrapped in an acrylic casing instead of punched around a metal piece. I want to get an Andy button from them. That reminds me I haven't scanned any of my custom Andy buttons.

Someone offered the take a photo of me against a banner but I didn't feel good enough. I probably should have taken them up on the offer but I just felt yuck.

The only video game sellers did not have PS1 games which actually angered me lmao.

Sales aren't good I think.

I'm sweating real bad. So glad I got a bath last night and brought my deodorant. Good god. Where's the AC? It's days like these I wish Andy ran around the Darkland barefoot so I could get out of wearing socks. I expell so much heat through my feet and hands I don't want to eat my chocolate snacks I brought for fear they will melt all over my fingers.

I went outside to bring my friend back a coffee (I can do this all by myself because of how close it is hurray!) But as soon as I went back in I started to sweat again.

I found a friend lined up in front of the ATM. We talked. It was nice to see them again. I found another friend elsewhere and also the first friend came around later. Was fun.

WHY DOES NO ONE KNOW HOW TO USE DEODERANT? I WANT TO DIE. I have had to walk behind people who smell like absolute death and it's made me feel really gross. Here I am concerned about a little sweat and there's people who you'd think are UNDEAD because of how the scent of ?????? trails behind them for like ten feet. You can smell when they pass behind you. I want to throw up.

I got some more art. The Andy button I was interested in, found someone else to commission something digital. The Andy button is AMAZING. I LOVE IT SO MUCH. it's hard to clip it closed but it's so cool and it opens so I can scan the art inside.

I got stickers from my friends I wanted to get, and a secret gift for Fishy made by my friend Sam. I intend to make a care box (is that the word?) cuz I know your birthday is coming up this month.

My stickers already got scuffed on my new folder so I'm sad. I hate being a bumbler who bumps things.

There was an artist who drew dogs but I couldn't find them again :(

I think I made a new friend. He is super cool and does panels at vancoufur. His fursona also wears a bandanna.

I feel a lot better about pain medicine. My friend says I could be able to take it every day and I just need to be careful not to take too much. I know people like me run the risk of becoming immune to them and having a sick liver but he says as long as I don't take too many it's fine.

Is this why I'm so miserable all the damn time!?

Legit what if that's the problem?

So I'm feeling pretty good about that. You guys might see a brand new Finsterhund. I'm so excited to have energy and feel comfy again. I was raised with fear mongering of "only using pain medicine when it was worse than usual. Because it'd kill you." But all that is untrue and I've been suffering needlessly this whole time.

So yeah. Now I'm going to start taking them bi daily. As well as the ones to help me sleep.

Genuinely feeling good about this. Andy cosplaying! Pain relief! It's all here! Things finally looking up for lil ol me.

I'm budgeting this con better too. Half of that is because I'm getting lost and can't find artists i wanted to commission again but that's a side effect of my worsening memory. I want to get a small ocarana but I might not be able to afford it by the end. It'd be nice to play Andy's Mission on. That way it won't annoy my friend like a kazoo would. Even though he said my kazoo is fine and he wouldn't have given it to me if it wasn't.

There's more artists I wish I could commission but I'm trying to be careful.

I was very hungry and they had hotdog rollers right outside the con and I really wanted one and they were SIX DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS. That's awful. But I got one because I was so hungry. It tasted good at least.

There's an hour and a half left of the day. I don't know what we will do after. I don't want to socialize except with my friends and if I go to bed early I'll be up at 4AM again.

There's now a little under an hour left and I'm tired. Wanting to go back to the hotel room and relax. I'm disappointed in myself for buying the expensive hotdog.

Whisky has been shedding since I brushed him and part of me is all AAAAAAAAAA but the other part is all "this would definitely have been canon."

My friend left his table under my care for the last twenty minutes of the day and I'm kinda anxious. I'm scared that ex roommate "took revenge" on my stuff back at the hotel room. He's never done stuff like that before, but he has threatened to. I also have that sense of emptyness inside that I get sometimes. The one where you just feel bad, no reason to, just emotionally hurt.

[hazzabeeforlou]

WIP snippet: H’s sweet 16

“I swear, this thing is a heart attack on a plate,” Gemma muttered, flinging the finishing touches of chopped chocolate onto the Bavarian Torte.

 By some miracle Gemma had agreed to come home for his birthday, and Harry would take her, sardonic comments and all. He smiled as he reached for the napkins.

“You do not have to partake, Gemma,” Anne huffed, raising one eyebrow

 “More for me,” Robin teased from over at the table, where he’d been attaching blue balloons to the backs of the dining room chairs.

  “If fact,” Anne said, turning to Harry, “Even without your sister’s help, the cake might disappear fast tonight. Louis has a large family.” Anne said it with a taunting twinkle in her eye.

 “I don’t mind.” Harry hid a sheepish smile behind the package of paper plates he’d  started unpacking.

As he and Louis were attached at the hip most days, no one had batted an eye when Harry asked if they could have the Tomlinson’s over to celebrate. Their parents got along splendidly and the girls absolutely worshiped Gemma, so it seemed only logical.

 The doorbell rang, and Harry raced to answer it, his socked feet skidding between the rugs.

 “THOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!”

  As he swung the door open Louis blew a loud party kazoo right in his face, the shiny, curly end of it thwaking Harry’s nose.

 “Happy sweet sixteen, Harold!” Louis yelled, springing on him in a giant bear hug, his whole being luminous with excitement.

  “Thanks, Lou.” Harry smiled so big his dimples felt like trenches in his skin.

 “And look who I brought to celebrate! Thing one, thing two, thing three, AND thing four!” Louis ushered his sisters into the house, Lottie and Fizzy shooting him exasperated looks as they passed Harry.

 “Hello dear, happy birthday,” Jay said warmly, embracing Harry as her and Mark slipped their shoes off and put them by the door next to the girls’.

 As Louis made to follow Harry into the dining room, Jay caught his arm.

“Louis, your shoes,” she reminded, pointing to his sneakers.

 “Mom,” Louis moaned, returning grudgingly. Though it was the dead of winter he’d forgotten socks. Again.

 “S’okay Lou, I promise I won’t smell your feet,” Harry said helpfully, grinning at Jay as Louis mock fumed.

 “You’re both the worst, see if I come to any more birthdays, just see,” Louis mumbled, toeing off his shoes and walking gingerly towards the kitchen in his bare feet.

“This is from Mark and I, Harry. We hope you like it.”

Harry took the bag from them, nodding his thanks. “I’m sure I will, Mrs. Tomlinson.”

They gathered around the table for food and festivities. Gemma had prepared popcorn, chips and salsa, and a stellar platter of cheese and crackers to complement Anne’s taco dinner. Everyone soon became engrossed in board games, save the twins, who wandered in and out of the dining room, easily bored. They tried playing Pit first, but Fizzy found it difficult to reach the spoons, so they switched to Uno, and later to monopoly. 

Time flew by. Harry laughed until his stomach hurt when Jay snatched Park Place, thwarting Louis’ elaborate and well-voiced plans of real-estate domination. Louis proceeded to dramatically pout like the world had ended. Harry giggled secretly behind his hand when Louis’ pawn landed in jail for the hundredth time and instead of hollering complaints he stuck one of the discarded Pit spoons on his nose, balancing it there until the twins started squealing with glee and trying to jostle if off.

Sometime after dark Jay and Anne disappeared into the kitchen. Gemma stood and flipped off the lights, and soon only the incoming glow of candles illuminated the streamers twisting down from the dining room chandelier.

“Happy birthday to you…”

 Robin started off the singing as Anne rounded the corner carrying Harry’s cake, bedecked with sixteen striped candles. Harry had difficulty picking out individual voices due to the twins’ yowling, but Louis’ voice cut through. It floated to his ears silkily, like melted caramel, yet sharply distinct. It had a tone like the clear peal of a bell amidst a storm. He latched onto it and locked eyes with Louis, who smiled back as his cheekbones caught the candlelight.

 Harry should have been looking at the cake before him, not at his best friend. But he didn’t much care.

 “Make a wish, Harry!” Daisy called out as the chorus ended.

 “Okay.” Harry cracked his knuckles and closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the flickering wicks against his face. A wish came to him, half formed and inarticulate: he wanted this always. He wanted these people, these families, and Louis around him always. He wished that Louis would always be his best friend.

 The ache swelled against his ribcage.

 Quickly, he opened his eyes and blew out the candles, banishing the discomfort from his mind. Everyone clapped and cheered, but Harry looked only at Louis, meeting his eyes as Gemma flipped the lights back on, seeing in them blue, pupil-huge mirrors of his own.  

 Anne sliced the torte and gave Harry and Louis the biggest pieces, much to Robin’s protest. Everyone enthusiastically complemented Anne’s signature back, the twins liking it so much they fought over who had the biggest chunk of cream-cheese-and-chocolate-flake icing.

 Harry ate his cake slowly, savoring it. Louis had no experience with the word ‘savor.’ He devoured his quickly, enjoying it far too much, seeming to slip into a personal ecstasy. Harry watched as he forked bites to his pink lips and closed them over the creamy icing, the flakes of chocolate melting into the edges of his mouth, lining it like makeup. His jaw worked slowly, smoothly, making angles Harry imagined were sharp to the touch. When he’d finished, Louis ran his fingers over the remnants of icing on his plate, popping them in his mouth and pulling them back out clean and damp and slightly red.

 “Hairball, earth to hairball,” Gemma waved a hand in front of his face.

“W-what?” Harry stuttered, blinking at Gemma dazedly.

 “I said, want me to get the presents now?” 

“Oh. Oh sure,” Harry smiled at her, hoping Gemma couldn’t see how his cheeks had warmed.

His presents were small, nothing extravagant. Harry opened his parents’ first, a small package wrapped with shooting star paper. They’d gotten him a soft-knit shirt adorned with a penguin. Harry loved it.

Next he opened Gemma’s, an encyclopedia of C.S. Lewis quotes she’d found at the second-hand store on campus. The girls had also gotten Harry a gift. He unwrapped a shiny new board game to their excited shrieks.

 Harry opened Mr. and Mrs. Tomlinson’s next, a gift card to Barnes and Noble. He thanked them enthusiastically, realizing, with a clenching gut, that only Louis’ gift remained.

He opened the card first, smiling at the goofy picture of two dogs gobbling birthday cake. He read Louis’ small handwriting to himself.

Happy sweet sixteen to my very best friend!!!! Hope you had a wonderful day, Harold. You deserve it. My gift’s pretty lame, but I hope you like it. Open the bag but don’t open the thing on the bottom until we’re alone. The girls would tease me forever. –Lou

Harry bit his lip. He set the card down quickly and fished into the bag, pulling out a Packer’s jersey.

“No way,” he said, his mouth hanging open in shock. Harry had always wanted a Favre jersey, a no. 4, but they were too expensive back when Favre was quarterback.

 “Where on earth did you find this?” Harry asked, clutching the shirt to his chest.

“Oh, I got lucky at a thrift store,” Louis smiled brightly.

 “I should say so, let me see that,” Robin motioned for the jersey and Harry obliged. It got passed around the table to much fuss, Jay even asking when on earth Louis had the time to poke around in thrift stores.

Harry met Louis’ eyes as the shirt came back to him and nodded just slightly at the bag. Louis blinked twice.

 “Mommy can we play the new game?” Daisy asked, fidgeting around in her seat.

 “Maybe you kids can just play, honey, I think the adults are going to sit in comfy chairs in the living room,” Anne replied for Jay, getting up and clearing the dessert plates.

 Gemma broke away with the parents, though instead of joining in whatever adult conversation they started, she curled up in the armchair on her phone. Lottie and Fizzy were un-boxing the new game with Harry’s blessing, trying to explain the rules to the twins. Harry listened half-heartedly, curiosity gnawing away at his stomach. Louis caught his drift.

“Harry, think I could borrow some socks?”

Harry frowned at him. “Sure, Lou. Go ahead.”

 “Where are they, exactly?”

 “In my room,” Harry blinked at him. “Oh.” He stood up so abruptly his chair nearly toppled over. “I’ll get them for you, come on.”

 Louis smirked triumphantly, stealthily tucking the bag behind his back as they hurried from the dining room and up the stairs.

They tumbled into his bedroom and plopped down on the rug.

“Go ahead,” Louis said, eagerly presenting his gift yet again.

Harry felt around inside until he grasped a hunk of thick paper. He pulled it out and stared at the little booklet of construction paper, the spine held together with staples, the cover a pasted picture of Luke Skywalker and Han Solo. In thick, markered letters across the top it read, “Best Friends Book.”

Harry dimpled terribly and side-eyed Louis in wonder. “Did you make me a book?”

Louis fiddled with his hands, nervously chewing his lip. “Maybe. Open it.”

Harry did. Inside were pages and pages of inside jokes and quotes, clipped magazine pictures movies they’d watched, and attempted illustrations of all the various activities they’d done together. It looked adorable overall, and spectacular in detail, every page inked over with Louis’ writing, which he’d been neater about than normal. Harry flipped through it, his grin growing with each new page.

 When he got three quarters of the way, he found blank pages. Louis coughed delicately into his hand.

“Er, that’s for, you know. More.”

Harry swallowed down whatever had lodged in his throat. He folded the book closed and pressed it to his chest.

“I love it, Lou. It’s the best present ever.”

“It’s so girly, isn’t it,” Louis muttered, a smile playing about his lips though he continued to stare at the carpet and fiddle his hands.

“I think it’s awesome,” Harry stated, scooting closer to Louis and throwing his arms around him, drawing him into a hug.

Harry tipped them slightly off balance with his gangly limbs, though, and instead they toppled over, their arms twined together messily.

“Oops,” Harry said apologetically.

“Hi.” Louis had landed on top, pinning Harry to the floor. “I’ve heard you’re ticklish. Some people outgrow such things, though, so we need to test you again, this being your birthday and all.”

Harry had only a moment to squawk out a protest and try to cover his belly before Louis attacked him, his lithe fingers hitting just the right places, making Harry squirm and yelp and twist and laugh under Louis until his sides hurt and his eyes were streaming.

 “Uncle unlce uncle!!” Harry screamed, trying desperately to get his legs up to Louis’ torso so he could push him away, but Louis knew that trick too well.

“What’s that you said? Buckle? Chuckle?”

Louis was merciless. Harry thought he might wet himself.

“Uncle!” Harry cried, his fingers trying to reciprocate the tickling, but to no effect.

“I think I’ve gone suddenly deaf, must be all the yelling in here,” Louis giggled, bearing down hard right above Harry’s tender hips.

“Louuuuuuu I’m gonna pee my pants stooooooop,” Harry moaned, his muscles jerking in twenty different directions.

The tickling ceased. Louis didn’t move, though, just hovered above him, his face flushed and close enough Harry could smell his cake-sweet breath.

“Alright, birthday boy, I’ll relent just this once. But only because it’s your birthday.”

Harry tried to recover some ounce of his stability, panting. “That’s noble, Lou. Gold star for you.”

“Eh, I try. I have a reputation to maintain and all.”

“I know.” Harry smiled up at him, his eyes maybe falling for too long on Louis’ thick eyelashes as they batted like sleepy caterpillars each time he blinked.

“Harry,” Louis started.

“Ya?”

 Louis looked down at him a moment, a strange light coming to his eyes.

Nevermind.” Louis pushed up from him and stood. “We’d better get back down, make sure the girls haven’t caused any disasters.”

Harry wanted to press, wanted to ask further, but Louis had already launched into the hallway, his smelly, bare feet trumping down the stairs.

Before he followed, Harry tucked the book under his pillow securely, replacing Azzy on top with the admonition, “Make sure you guard it, okay?”

The stuffed animal made no answer, but Harry smiled anyways. He grabbed a pair of sock on his way out.

[jamfingers]

[it's your birthday so i know you want to ride out]

Another short piece for @reginakc’s #BonkaiStoryChallenge’s. Using #s 1 (love birds) and 5 (hot bk/lust). This is my last tribute to this challenge, but writing these two blurbs was a blast!

NSFW for birthday sex, which - incidentally - is the name of the song that the title came from. Also I managed to do fluff without a drop of angst, yay me. *blows kazoo*

Bonnie steals another glance at the clock as she arranges the last of the flower petals, anxious about the timing. Today had to be perfect.

Mentally, she runs through a checklist. The cake is in the kitchen, on display in its glass dome. The restaurant reservations have been made for weeks and will be ready in an hour. The gift was in the car. Looking around the decorated bedroom, she checks off balloons, champagne chilling on salted ice, and a romantic mood.

The petite woman puffs her cheeks and blows out a huge breath, trying to relieve her stress. Today is a happy day. It’s Kai’s birthday.

Deciding she’d done enough angsting over this - Kai would just be happy she acknowledged his birthday, so used to being overshadowed by his twin as he was - Bonnie goes to quickly shower and dress so she could pick up Kai from work soon.

Carefully applying her makeup, she eyes the lingerie she had donned once she finished her shower routine. For a second, she frets about her choice; perhaps she should have gone with the red instead of black? Then she remembers exactly who her fiance is and tells herself to calm the fuck down.

Pulling on a soft, knee-length, blush pink sweater dress that covered her garters, the pretty gold choker Kai had bought her for their anniversary, and a pair of black pumps, Bonnie gives herself one more cursory glance and decides she looks goods enough. A spritz of Kai’s favorite perfume and she was off to pick him up.

Kai is his usual chatty self when he gets in the car, saying something about how hilarious it was when his co-workers tried to celebrate his birthday, but that guy Todd, from marketing? Yeah, he totally tripped and ruined the bean dip, but at least the cupcakes made it. Bonnie bites her lip, latching onto the cake detail - would Kai even want the one she got for him? - when Kai’s faltering monologue registers. She refocuses to discover him staring at her, his gaze raking up and down her form.

“Shit,” Kai chokes. “Is it my birthday or something?”

The wide-eyed appreciation makes Bonnie grin.

“Or something.” Suddenly at ease with all her plans for the day, Bonnie reaches into the glove compartment and tosses the bandana she grabs into Kai’s lap.

“Suit up,” she orders. Nodding complacently, Kai does as she says and when Bonnie is certain he didn’t cheat (he could be so mischievous), she drives off to the restaurant.

Why had she been so nervous? It was a good day. Kai wasn’t the type to bitch her out over small things, so all her worries were things she built up in her head.

At the restaurant, they’re seated out on the balcony, overlooking a gorgeous view of the bay. The late afternoon sun halos Kai’s profile as he looks out at the water and sips a margarita. For whatever reason, the sight makes Bonnie recall that Lucifer was the most beautiful of angels even after his fall.

Kai’s bashful and cute when the servers bring out the oyster platter and sing him happy birthday. He loves the Rolex she gives him, softening up because he knows how much she had to penny pinch to save up for it. His eyes are soft on her, appreciative of her beauty. Any and all stress Bonnie has dissipates.

By the time they get in the car to head home, Kai’s pretty tipsy, humming “Kiss the Girl” in her ear, his arm slung over her shoulders.

“You are…the prettiest thing ever,” he murmurs during the drive. “Like…since the dawn of time. Helen who?”

Bonnie snorts, bemused by his antics. He’s completely sobered up when Bonnie leads him up their porch steps - his metabolism for booze would never cease to amaze her - but he gets stupefied once more when the hall lights flick on.

He looks around the decorated house.

“Fuck, babe,” he breathes. She beams.

“There’s some cake in the kitchen,” she offers. “It’s why I didn’t let you get desser-ahh!”

Her explanation dies off with a squeal and some laughter as Kai scoops her up over her shoulder and bounds up the stairs two at a time. He kicks their bedroom door open and Bonnie feels him pause, taking in the way she slightly redid the space for the occasion. Her fiance heaves a thick sigh.

“I’m gonna wreck you,” he announces plainly.

Bonnie chuckles and wiggles a bit, so that her dress rides up enough to flash her garters at him. She raises herself up as much as she can to look at him, precariously balanced.

“Is that what you’re gonna do?”

Her love sends her a heated, devilish grin.

He makes a mess of her, but since it’s his birthday, Bonnie gives him a free pass. Champagne trails down the flat planes of her stomach and joins Kai’s tongue in soaking the seat of her black panties. She slides one of her legs from its spot over his shoulder, places her heeled foot on his bare chest and gently pushes him back.

“It’s your birthday, shouldn’t I be the one giving you head?” she queries, moving the crotch of her underwear so that it covers her once more. Kai pouts, moving to kiss the champagne off of her belly.

“But.” Kiss. “I.” Kiss. “Didn’t.” Kiss. “Get.” Kiss. “My.” S-l-o-w lick. “Dessert.”

Bonnie giggles at the protest. “There’s cake downstairs,” she reminds him. Kai sits up straight, wide-eyed and finally giving her the space she needs to properly maneuver. But Bonnie knows what he’s thinking and before he can bound up to get his birthday cake to do god knows what with it, she pounces.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she says, pushing him back on against the pillows. She leaves her own trail of kisses on his stomach, harder than hers, but just as flat. Peeling back his black underwear, she kisses around his cock, leaving lipstick stains on the silken skin.

“Fuck,” Kai mutters, his head falling back from watching and his eyes closing. They open again to focus on the balloons floating above them when Bonnie swirls her warm tongue over his head, tasting the salt of his precum and purring her appreciation. Kai shudders, fingers threading her hair gently, moving it out of her way when she bobs her head shallowly, her eyes on him the whole time. When he looks back down, she smiles slightly, sliding down just a bit more until his tip is pushing past her uvula, her nose brushing his pubic hair.

“Fuuuck,” Kai repeats. Bonnie comes back up, releasing him from her mouth with a pop. His dick glistens with her saliva, trails of it wetting his balls and Bonnie has an absurd moment when she wants to wax poetic about the astounding beauty of Kai Parker’s blown penis.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” she urges and her voice is already husky from the brief deepthroat. The sound makes him growl softly and he rises slightly, clasping the back of her neck and pulling her down into a kiss, tongue caressing hers. His hand falls between them and there’s a ripping noise that makes Bonnie nip at her lover’s lip in reprimand, but he only chuckles and pushes her beneath him.

And then he’s in her and there’s more ripping sounds as Kai literally tears the lingerie off her body and chucks her heels somewhere on the floor. When she’s as bare as he is, he grips her hips and drives into her, pounding away so hard it aches and makes Bonnie’s back arch almost in half. His stomach flexes in the low light and he’s fucking beautiful and now Bonnie’s the one muttering “fuck” under her breath.

Kai lets out a breathless laugh, and leans over her, hands leaving her hips to lace his fingers with hers. He pulls her hands away from where she had been gripping the edge of the bed, pushing her arms down by her head so that she’s caged there beneath him. And then he just watches her as he fucks her, rhythm flipping between luxuriant and onerous. And Bonnie watches him back, the way his his pupils have dilated to make his grey-blue irises almost black, the way sweat beads on his brow and his chest and mingles with her own as his bare flesh scrapes her pebbled nipples. Bonnie nuzzles her nose against his lightly, and Kai smiles briefly in response, nuzzling back. Eyes closing, he buries his face in her neck and releases her hands to band his arms around her back in a firm embrace and Bonnie wraps her legs tighter around his waist and they pull each other closer. His pace picks up and shudder after shudder racks her body before Kai finally pants his own release, sticky warmth filling her.

Kai shifts his weight slightly so that he’s not completely smothering her when he rests his form over hers. Bonnie just holds him, enjoying the weight. His heartbeat drums against her chest and she has no doubt he can feel her own echo the pattern. He palms her cheek and rubs his lips against her sensitive neck where his face is still buried. The sensation sends another shiver through her.

“Happy birthday,” she murmurs and he hums in reply, brain still too addled from sex to come up with a proper reply. Peaceful quiet settles between them.

“You know,” she finally speaks up again. “I did get some other stuff. Like rope. And handcuffs. And candy underwear. And we still have your cake downstairs.”

Kai rolls over and props himself up on one arm to look down at her with mock expression of disbelief.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Is it my birthday or something?”

[stevepotterwrites]

A GLORIOUS THOUGHT EXCURSION: On John Olson’s Novel In Advance of the Broken Justy

https://bookshop.org/a/8227/9781935835172

John Olson's thoughtful and often humorous new novel, In Advance of the Broken Justy, opens with a somewhat Kafkaesque quest to find medical attention for the narrator's wife's infected eye late at night in Paris during a doctor's strike and ends on January 8th, 2015 with news of the previous day's terrorist attack on the Charlie Hebdo offices playing on the television in their hotel room as they prepare to leave for home.

In the pages between the personal crisis and the international one, we are introduced to the oddball mix of neighbors in the narrator's thin-walled building who are driving him and his wife, Ronnie, crazy with noise from construction projects, stomping feet, and rather explicitly audible sounds of digestive functions from a neighboring bathroom. Noisy neighbors are enough to drive any introverted, bookish homebody nuts, but our unnamed protagonist tells us, during a seemingly obsessive and often hilariously aggrieved section of narration reminiscent of Thomas Bernhard, that he additionally suffers from hyperacusia — a heightened sensitivity to noise, and tinnitus — ringing in the ears, as well as Generalized Anxiety Disorder for which he has been prescribed a variety of antidepressants through the years.

It's not only their immediate living situation that is cause for aggravation, the couple are also dealing more generally with a growing dissatisfaction with life in rapidly-changing Seattle. Olson writes that his dislike of Seattle, “evolved over a period of time, like an allergy that starts out with a minor rash and then grows into strange secretions and the constant application of topical ointments.” As their disaffection with Seattle grows, so does their love of Paris. “...we each felt an attachment that had become deeply emotional, like a drug. We had become addicted to this city. It inhabited us, as Ronnie put it.”

The love of Paris among certain artistically-inclined Americans has a longstanding literary and cinematic history, of course. Mr. Olson's novel continues a lineage tracing back at least as far as Ernest Hemingway's A Movable Feast and F. Scott Fitzgerald's “Babylon Revisited” through Richard Yates's Revolutionary Road to Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. Unlike Gil Pender, the protagonist of Mr. Allen's film, who is mostly enthralled with fantasies of Cole Porter, Hemingway, the Fitzgeralds, Gertrude Stein and other American ex-pats in Paris during the Jazz Age, Olson's two protagonists are most interested in actual French poets, writers and artists such as; Rimbaud, Georges Perec, Michel Tournier, Gaston Bachelard, Raymond Queneau and Pierre Michon. And while their yearning for Paris is similar to that of the couple at the center of Revolutionary Road, it is a rather more grown-up and grounded love of the City of Lights. Olson's protagonists are a pair of older, working-class poets not young, upper-middle-class, suburban dilettantes like Yates's Frank and April Wheeler.

In addition to their dissatisfaction with home and city, the couple are also dealing with the loss of their beloved car, the broken Subaru Justy of the novel's title. After attempting to adapt to a car-less life, including several comic misadventures with public transit and Car2Go, the narrator takes some money out of savings to buy another used Subaru but somewhat spontaneously decides he'd rather take a trip to Paris than own a car again. Ronnie agrees. Plans are made, tickets are purchased, and their ongoing study of French is kicked into a higher gear. Away they go.

The narrator alludes to dark and outrageous moments in his past, back when he was still drinking and taking drugs. “At the age of eighteen, I left my father's house and struck out for California, following the scent of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. I was into Dylan and the Rolling Stones. I liked the Beatles, but they remained a bit too wholesome for my rebel-without-a-cause setup. And after reading Aldous Huxley's seminal essay, The Doors of Perception, I had a raging desire to experiment with psychedelic drugs.”

He tells briefly of getting beaten up at a New Years Eve party in Burien, attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and three failed marriages. One suspects Olson could write some fine fiction of wild times, drunkenness, heartache and despair in a Kerouacian or Carveresque vein if he felt the urge to mine his past, but part of what I love about this novel is that it doesn't do that. The image of the artist as a young wild man is a popular one and there have certainly been more than enough misbehaving poets, musicians, painters, novelists and so forth to give that cliché some weight, but what makes an artist an artist is serious, longstanding dedication to one's art. It's refreshing to read a novel that dispenses with the youthful misbehavior in a few short sentences and instead depicts the couple at its center as actual grown-up artists.

In Advance of the Broken Justy is not a novel which glorifies the wild kicks of youth or wallows in the despair of drunkenness and divorce, but rather one which celebrates more mature, quiet kicks like the contemplation of works of art in the Musée d'Orsay, the Louvre, and the Georges Pompidou Centre. It is a celebration of bookstores not barrooms. The narrator and Ronnie go on a sort of literary safari, with guidance provided by a list of the best bookstores in Paris received via email from the French poet Claude Royet-Journoud, and enjoy a cafe visit with the poet and translator Michel Deguy.

“One of the main reasons I wanted to go to Paris was so I could stand in a real bookstore once again before I die,” Olson writes. “The bookstores in the United States have deteriorated into something little better than a gift shop, or those book and magazine shops you sometimes see at the airport. Trashy titles. Nothing of any real interest.” He's not grown so jaded that he's lost all perspective, however, and can still see quality on those rare occasions it may be found. He goes on later in that passage to praise Elliott Bay Books and Open Books and elsewhere declares Magus Books in the University District to be one of the best, if not the best, used bookstores he's ever been to.

While at certain points it's clear that the author's imagination is at play, much of In Advance of the Broken Justy reads close to straight autobiography. That, of course, does not necessarily mean that it is, but the pleasures of reading the novel, for me, were often more akin to those of nonfiction. David Shields, among others, would argue that the distinction between fiction and nonfiction is meaningless. Whiile there is some validity to that stance in that in either case the author is working with a blend of memory and imagination, I think it is a bit of an overstatement. Phillip Lopate writes in a section of To Show and To Tell: The Craft of Literary Nonfiction in which he compares and contrasts the tendencies of nonfiction versus those of fiction that, “What makes me want to keep reading a nonfiction text is the encounter with a surprising, well-stocked mind as it takes on the challenge of the next sentence, paragraph, and thematic problem it has set for itself.... None of these examples read like short stories or screenplays; they read like what they are: glorious thought excursions.”

It is Olson's surprising, well-stocked mind which is of the greatest interest here, the consciousness which regards what happens more so than the particulars of what happens, that takes interesting digressions into considerations of the work of Bob Dylan, Marcel Duchamp, Georges Braque, and organic chemist August Kekulé among others. Of the other books I've read recently, it is Patti Smith's second memoir, M Train, I find it most similar to in both tone and content. Smith, the poet-rocker legend, and Olson, the poet's poet who can count luminaries such as Michael McClure, Clayton Eshleman and the late, great Philip Lamantia among his fans, are exact contemporaries, Ms. Smith being the elder by only a matter of months. Their influences overlap to a considerable degree. Both books weave together narratives of domesticity and travel. Both books present the day-to-day lives of practicing artists and consider the lives of their artistic influences. Both books recount journeys to literary sacred ground in search of a sort of spiritual contact high with forebears and idols.

Mr. Lopate's phrase, “glorious thought excursions,” seems like the perfect description of much of Olson's output. Fans of his prose poetry will find moments replete with the reeling riffs of surrealistic, hallucinatory lyricism familiar from his books such as Oxbow Kazoo, Echo Regime, Logo Lagoon and Eggs & Mirrors in the pages of In Advance of the Broken Justy. Preparations for the sale of their 500 square foot condo and a move away from their infuriatingly noisy building (preparations for naught, as it turns out, for neither sale nor move ever transpire within the pages of the novel) instigates a stream of thoughts on the nature of reality leading eventually to the following passage:  

“When consciousness meets reality the result is milk. Traffic lights blossom into prayer wheels. Laundry folds itself into armies of tide pool angst and marches around like generalities of floral chambray. Rain falls up instead of down. The acceptance of frogs liberates bubbles of pulp. Time sags with basement ping pong tournaments. Garrets ovulate glass bagatelles. Realism percolates prizefight sweat. Details sparkle like crawling kingsnakes in the mouth of a Mississippi attorney.”

In Advance of the Broken Justy is a thoughtful, grown-up novel for the sort of thoughtful, grown-up readers who seek out real bookstores and is not likely to have much appeal to fans of those trashy, escapist titles found in the sad, little book and magazine shops in airports Olson derides.  

Review by Steve Potter. Previously appeared in A Screw in the Shoe from Golden Handcuffs Review Publications. 

[yespoetry]

A Mystic Journey into a Woman Loving Herself: A Review of Savannah Slone's Book

A review of Savannah Slone’s Hearing the Underwater

By Adedayo Agarau

Savannah Slone’s Hearing the Underwater opens as a departure into miracles— the fervent gift of gifting oneself through words, through stories—and ending in magic. I have always envied how poets do it, how they cut themselves open for us to peep through where their souls leak. It is rare to see a poet like Slone, the sincerities that she spills through her craft and the bliss, the grace, the unraveling of ease that powerfully storms her work. In her chapbook, Hearing the Underwater, Slone’s illusory words and storytelling wasn’t lacking in aptness.

The opening poem, Venal Exodus, unbolted a line as corruptible:

“playing sex” in Grandma’s Powder Room.

Slone purported the difference between innocence that comes with juvenile wonder and, of course, the baggage of adulthood: grief, guilt, and loss.

“Now:

 fall face first into the couch. Real

 sex in Grandma’s Powder Room. Fast,

 fast forward. Child drives, child

graduates high school, child”

Slone wakes up into the sense of time and brings us into the reality of adulthood. It is quite exquisite how art does it all, how the sense of time, place, and season can be shoved down the spine of its readers with very singular words. In the now from the verse in “Venal Exodus”, playing sex quickly transforms into Real sex. She takes us further into the grief that unfolds with reality, believes that innocence dies with adolescence. Don’t we all sometimes envy little kids, in how everything seems to be right with them? Their innocent laughter at the burial ceremonies of their uncles; I didn’t prepare for this adulthood and Slone knows that so well.

She pounds self into being within the pages of this book. While she teaches us to hear the silence gulping itself out in the underwater, she tells us I’m going to tell you a truth and a lie: I love myself in “A (Self) Love Story.” The magic of body is an undefeatable one, and Slone, from the poem, wrote a reminder that I hate myself for hating myself. Her brilliance did not leave out a place for recognizing mental illness. She puts every piece on this slate to create a book flying, wearing the colors of the rainbow.

Castled in her mild way of telling her poems, the anguish in her voice cannot be erased. In her work, “280 days in,” Slone opens the poem into a tears-filled bath-tube and says:

“i am a calf. i am a newborn. taken from my mother and thrown onto the ground. the passersby look down

 at me.”

Anger and pain, slowly grow into trees in this one. Just like her poem, “hollow lungs, eyes, kazoos, and fingernails” where “we bury disassembled rag dolls.”

I am particularly thrilled about how the collection grew through the pages—each flip: a stronger dose, a weightier punch, actively retorting, authoritatively asking “Confined: to endure?”

The concept of paging is also the art of pacing the heart of the reader, asking it to be gentle here, be fierce here, asking it to prepare its armors, that there is a war begging to be read in the coming pages. While I read through Savannah Slone’s works, I stopped over certain lines like “I crave meaning from/This weary world where/I live and will leave” and “What are you/going to be when you/grow up?” Effortlessly, Savannah has written a book that innocently bleeds too much importance. The voice, the themes, the severed parts of her body aching while she wrote still breathes in these poems.  Slone writes from a place of memory, I am sure. She carefully examines misogyny and burns it to ash in Hearing the Underwater. This book multitasks shoots at a thousand birds at the same time and still brings us to the calm where we hear the underwater speak. In “Shot Down”, a poem written in response to Frida Kahlo’s “La venadita (little deer).” Slone states reasons why she was shot down, the most striking of it all is:

“Ninth for saying I had a boyfriend,

just so you wouldn’t shoot

me in the heart with an arrow.”

 But I will instead choose the fifth reason:

“Fifth for not going swimming on the first date.”

 Or sixth?

“Sixth for not submitting to my husband’s every dictation.”

The poem is spectacularly rebellious in the most upright way. Slone’s approach mocks the world’s concept of acceptance, a one-sided, left-handed, one-eyed pirates’ kind of acceptance that does not bend to take us first as humans, before anything else. I tell my friends that in those split seconds between birth and the naming of sex, we were first human.

Slone sure crossed several lines in her book, Hearing the Underwater. According to her, the underwater is a gold mine of unheard voices, a place where we are probably too scared to reach, but is a safe house, a lighthouse, a city on the hill. She trumps the harsh reality of living in America ruled by Trump into the book because it is worthy of being heard from this underwater.

Elsewhere, in “Maternal Encounters of Disregard,” Slone masterfully explores reproductive rights, and tenderly leaves us with a heartbreaking closure.

If you listen carefully to the underwater, you will hear the loud voice of Savannah Slone in “Because You Asked About Love, I’ll Tell You.” She believes that Love should be heard / should be felt / should be unanticipated / should be finding home. One who reads this work and assumes that Slone must have found what real love means would not be gunning too far away from the bull's eye. The poem expands into the metaphoric richness that carefully strings together the totality of what Slone believes that love should be. And if you ask me, I believe in what the water goddess, Savannah Slone, believes. She believes that love should be your voice, and also believes that it should make you reconsider every thought. I am sure she finds a renewable miracle in love. Slone leaves us with “exit / ignition / ascend / deadbolt / mute / recharge,” from her poem “Muzzled Magic,” but unlike the title, the poem is loud, violent “[Playground of ghost tongues],” and of course, magical. The perfect exit is this “Muzzled Magic,” which brings us back to our endearing but threatening real world.

Adedayo Agarau is a student and poet hoping to make the world a little better with his words and photography. He has works up at Barren Magazine, Geometry and 8poems. He is the author of For Boys Who Went. His manuscript "Asylum Chapel," is coming to light for publication and looking for a good home. Please connect with him on twitter @adedayoagarau and on Instagram @wallsofibadan, where he documents the beauty and pain of his Nigerian city home.