#but she’ll look better in digital… with all of her colors and shading…

[oceanqueenmusical]

Hey quick shoutout to artists because how are any of you guys doing this.

[kyoshi-lesbians]

The Fire Nation Kids' Art!

in high school art class au!

Ty Lee the Lesbain Queen paints women

Like exclusively women. That's it.

She prefers huge canvases & impressionative bold brushstrokes. Think Lucy Lui’s paintings (go look up her art it’s amazing and god i just love Lucy Lui) 

Her color palette is almost exclusively shades of pinks and reds (because its Ty Lee y'all!)

All the girls in the class model for her at some point, and its always a collaborative process rather than flatly painting them

Thru the process itself in which the subjects themselves have agency in their own representation, her work inherently deals with bodily autonomy 

She makes sure everyone has a fun experience working with her, despite the dialogue occasionally turning serious

Mai designs tattoos. She works mainly with paper and ink, has very crisp bold lines and intricate patterns

Her and Suki collaborate often! their styles complement each other well

Mai eventually gets into digital art too. She’ll scan her black & white illustrations and color them on photoshop

(She also makes the weirdest memes using photoshop. They are so dumb and lame and she only shares them w Sokka, who thinks they are hilarious) 

Azula started out doing traditional ink-wash paintings

But she doesn’t care about traditional subject matter (birds, flowers, landscapes) at all, nor does she really understand how art is supposed to give an emotional response

So her art is not good. She knows this, although she can’t even articulate why, and she gets so so frustrated by it 

But after extensive therapy she lets go of her need for perfection and gets into a medium she’s actually interested in 

Which is pottery! 

She started working with clay during her art therapy and continued with it. Its relaxing for her. 

She picks up using a pottery wheel super fast (and those are harder than they look). Being so good at the technical aspect helps build up her confidence. 

And having ‘set’ options to work in−  after all, a vase is a vase, there’s all sorts of types and shapes but it has the same function− helps her to, over time, embrace the creative choices she can make within those structures 

She makes people coffee mugs as part of her apologies to people she’s been cruel to. She is so awkward when she gives them away but people can tell that she genuinely means her apologies and she is working to be better

(in this world her healing and ‘redemption’ is faster than I think it actually would be. Again, because i said so).

 Zuko is amazing at drawing. Like Sokka, he literally can’t remember a time when drawing wasn’t a part of his life. He wasn’t a natural talent, he practiced hard for it

He’s sketching literally all the time because when he gets overwhelmed or anxious, he draws  

Him & Sokka sketch together often, they bounce ideas off each other and hype each other up

Zuko's also really invested in black and white photography

His favorite subjects are his friends. Most of these are candids but he does have a wonderful series of portraits of everyone in the class 

He takes a group photo of the art class crew the last day of his senior year. The sun is softly streaming in thru the windows, the light reflecting off one of Aang's sculptures hanging from the ceiling. One of Ty Lee's finished canvases is visible on the back wall, and everyone is laughing together 

Piandao frames it and hangs it near his desk. It stays there long after they've all graduated 

[last-on-your-lips]

Dragon’s Draught

When you ask the right questions of the wrong people, they’ll often give you answers. A yes to something they should say no about, a no when you have a wise doubt about what they instruct and influence.... and a comforting smile when you’re suffering the worst of their suggestions.

Talin had learned this later than some, an almost accomplished mage student of Sinthir Tower. A childhood not worth much talk, she had proven she had a handle on magic early and been whisked away from home by a Magus in need of Apprenticeship. Pondering long and hard she wouldn’t tell you of her heritage or how she was discovered, or why a Lady would’ve done for a Magus’ apprentice. You make yourself, she’ll remind you, by the choices that get you to who you become. There are wiser choices than interrogating people that can handle magic, too. Especially when they chose to switch over to the school of alchemy.

“Not like ye to make threats, Lass.” The brawny keep at the border bar commented to the former apprentice, she was not the kind of rambunctious beauty he was used to seeing. He knew better than to press a mage though, and further better than to test an alchemist with a bad attitude. “I was just wanted to know why i’was ye wore a hood inside, wasn’ trying to make trouble of a question. More like thems rogues and ugly to hide in them own shadow.”

“I suppose you’re dying to know if I’m ugly.” The bitterness was present, but her voice was infuriatingly sweet with the snarl. She could tell it wasn’t quelling his curiosity and for once she was unhappy that her usual half-past noon drink was taken in an empty exile bar. “I’m not.”

“I don’t expect ye to be, ye’re slender and ye move with the grace of any graduate Mage. Never met an ugly Mage before. Few weird ones, them’s that were the type took a Dragon’s Drink for a reason or another.” His face was intently pointed away from her as he worked a cleaning rag into a mug. He even pretended her sharp gasp went unnoticed by giving an experienced shrug and turning his back. “Weird doesn’t mean bad. There’s good reasons and bad reasons both to drink the stuff.” 

“What do you know of good and bad reasons for a Draught...” Muttered into her drink, hood still pointedly covering all but her lips. Plump they were. he thought. Flush with drink and aggravation. But they were very carefully all she showed of herself. Hid under that hood, clearly enchanted to stay shading her from head to toe. Seemed silly to drink something as drastic as a Draught and then hide, to him. 

“Ye can’t hide the smell of it, no matter how careful ye are with the cloaks. I know the Wolf Drink,  i’was what they had me on.” Admission given to her muttering, and a grin over his burly shoulder at how she let out a recognizable whimper. Wolf men were reputably dangerous among folks. Damn shame in his opinion, he never even meant to drink a wolf and make a monster of himself. His laugh bellowed at how she hurried to drink her ale, bemused that she prioritized it over trying to run away. Odd Lady Talin always had seemed to him though. “Most lass’ll sprint right through the door when they realize. Now I know you took a drink you weren’t suppose to.”

“Drink I shouldn’t have been given, it wasn’t what I wanted from what I had asked for. Didn’t know enough to know better.” She was defensive now, desperately twirling him back into her circle of non-acknowledgement. He’d already gathered she’d been taken into Sinthir a young and dewy lad. Prettier than most Magus apprentices were expected, pretty even before the graduation. Pretty enough she fell prey to the Traedurin alchemists no doubt, promised they had the answer to help her change what she didn’t love about herself. 

“I’ll agree with ye. Traedurin mages and alchemists are twisted in the head, they think they understand things better enough to make choices wrong for people that don’t know better.” He nodded patiently, thoughtfully. Appreciating that she hadn’t flown loose of the bar. She couldn’t have been much older than him, looking at her and listening to the tremble of her voice still denying that what they’d done and influenced was still what had happened to her. Irreversible as if it had been her own informed choice, there was no unmaking the changes a Draught put the body through. The lucky folk got subtle things, as he had. Brawn he’d never had before, teeth too sharp, nose too keen, eyes lighter than gold. It was hard for folks to tell whether he was strong enough to lug the kegs or if he was strong because he did. He had the inkling she hadn’t been so lucky and got such subtle hints of her changing.

“They make stupid choices with smart people is what they do.” Grumbled from under the hood, thing still stubbornly positioned to conceal her. Still an agreeable word there. They fell into a silence past that statement, she soaking in the bar keep as he busied himself organizing mugs and bottles. Noticing where he wasn’t quite human anymore under the billow of his tunic before she finally decided to speak again. “It was when they told me I’d have to be a Magus to graduate. Sinthir wouldn’t allow me to ascend as a Mage. It was too late to transfer over to the alchemists at Erfersi that year, so I left my apprenticeship and went to the capital to work for the public. Was trading blessings and wards to farmers. An almost graduate is as good to them as a proper Mage, and their food was fresher than I got in the tower anyway.”

“A public magic user is a Traedurin Alchemist’s wet dream, lass.” Sympathetic in his tone, the entire country of Traeduros produced a population that was widely received as mental when not outright putting effort into being violent or manipulative. They were usually responsible for crafting the morally unsound and otherwhere illegal substances known as Beast Drinks and Draughts, transformative elixirs that could augment a human with the power or appearance of animals, though they rarely gave a human both the power and the appearance and often enough they could go horribly wrong and disfigure more than augment. Trick potions mostly, sound minded people wouldn’t drink them.

“Isn’t it? So I was. Unhappy and easy prey for their ‘magic’. Their ‘solution’.” There was a hiss under her voice, a certain raspy flair as she sprung off the bar seat and onto her feet... feet he now noticed as what some would call disfigured. She stood balanced on specially crafted shoes, but he could see that three inhumanly shaped toes were bound in the rough shape of a human foot and strapped carefully to a wedge. A flex of those toes broke her free of the meticulous binding to reveal that the flesh of her feet was stain blue, and she put a hand to hip under her cloak before she pulled back the hood and unveiled herself, ale helped defiance in her gaze. It was to his merit that the less obvious Draught Beast didn’t laugh. 

Talin stood defiantly poised on those draconic feet, loose pantaloons not managing to conceal how her bones were twisted to accomplish the strength and dexterity expected of an upright drake. Her waist was bare up to the chest, a vest fitted neatly and decorated in what he felt were comically small pockets, though only because she herself was petite. Petite, flat framed, and lean with muscle all the way through her arms and down to her clawed digits. The barkeep was unduly fascinated that her augments were so symmetrical and functional, almost distracted enough by them to ignore her face until she snapped her fingers and leaned forward toward him. Downright impish in the face! She had vibrant silver markings against the blue tint of her skin, cheeks cut high into her expression and a jaw drawn sharp and low. Slender to add to how small she already seemed, but adorned with perhaps the most intense stare he’d ever tried to meet. Her irises were the palest tint of green almost glowing through the ink black of her eyes, and her pupils were feline slits within them. This under her arched brow and paired with her still human nose under a mane of half-kempt iridescent hair gave her the look of a particularly spunky demon in his opinion.

“Yers wasn’t as subtle as mine.” Managed and uttered from him, his lips curled in an approving grin to look at her without her cloak. “Certainly aren’t ugly either, ye were right about that. Never seen the Drink change colors like you have.”

“Supposedly had to do with me being able to use magic.” A flair of the stuff, just a glimmer of it moving through her skin as more markings similar to those on her face. “It leaves a permanent mark on the body, any Mage will admit. But the Draught brought mine out.”

“I think it’s good it did, Lass. Ye shouldn’t have to live under the cloak for it either.” Advised as she was clearly weighing the options of putting the thing back on and assessing how horribly she’d damaged her shoes. “Might be that how ye look now is how ye find out who ye’re going to be.”

It was twelve days past taking her cloak off that she decided not to put it back on.

It was a month after that she enrolled with the Alchemist’s guild, a celebrated student of Erfersi graduating after only a year of study.

It was a week after that when Rhaekson spotted her, an obvious draconic body, and gave her responsibility of a newborn in a quiet plea in front of the same border bar.

The same barkeep helped her find a path and a hollow tree to raise the child away from humans when it’s blood mother decided to forfeit several towns.

[starryviolentine]

Color Me Blue (That’s Me Without You): A Pre-Apocalypse Story

(Sequel to Brody’s Diary) The events of a long weekend have twelve-year-old best friends Violet and Brody feeling all kinds of blue. Not quite the homey, familiar blue of a diary cover, nor the glittery liquid blue of their roommate’s nail polish. Gloomier, more melancholy shades of blue.   

Part 1/10: Violet

Violet is unbelievably, incredibly bored.

All the students at Ericson’s Boarding School have a four-day weekend this week because of teacher conferences, or training… or something or other – Violet’s not sure of the exact reason, but all she knows is that it’s going be boring and lame because Brody will be gone the entire time, like always. Every time there’s a holiday break or even just a long weekend, the Burress family comes to pick Brody up so they can spend the time together.

Which completely sucks.

Well, not for Brody. Violet’s really happy that her friend gets to do lots of stuff with her family. When Brody comes back she always has interesting stories to tell, and sometimes she even brings back a little trinket as a souvenir for Violet, like one of those really pretty, colorful rocks from the science museum, or one of those pennies that you stick into those machines and it comes out imprinted with a picture. It’s just that it would be cool to be able to hang out with Brody and do those things together instead of being stuck at this boring, lame school.

Their bedroom was dark and quiet this morning, as is usually the case when Brody’s away. Brody’s the one who gets out of bed first and likes to let in the sunshine. If it’s particularly warm and the weather is nice, she’ll open their window and Violet wakes to a gentle breeze that always feels really nice. Their other roommate, Therissa, will sometimes grumble about Brody letting the pollen in or, if she’s really not in a good mood, just bang on the wall from her bunk and tell her to “Shut the damn blinds!”

Without Brody shuffling around the room doing this and that, Therissa, in typical teen fashion, is still sound asleep when Violet finally decides to get up. For a brief moment, the younger girl considers waking her roommate up so she has somebody to eat breakfast with, but she quickly changes her mind. Therissa can be scary when she’s woken up against her will. Violet decides that it’s not worth the risk.

After breakfast, Violet realizes that she has nothing else on her agenda for the day, so she purposely takes the long way back to the dormitories, hoping that she’ll think of something to do on the way. She could go for a walk outside… or practice her dribbling in the gym… or she could hang around the dormitories to see what other losers are stuck at Ericson’s on a long weekend and maybe do something with them. Violet scrunches up her nose at the thought of socializing and shakes her head. Nope. Not today.

And so that’s how Violet finds herself standing outside of the library.

Now, Violet has never been that big on reading. She reads sometimes, but only if there isn’t anything better to do, and only if the reading material is something she really cares about. Violet wanders slowly, aimlessly, running one finger along the spines of the books she passes. Her feet carry her quite effortlessly through the literary labyrinth to a familiar section in the back, near the tables and chairs. Going over to one of the bookcases in particular, she crouches down until she’s eye-level with a row of pastel paperbacks.

It’s a series about a group of teenage babysitters, and although Violet wouldn’t ever read it herself, she knows of a certain auburn-haired girl who’s currently hooked. Brody sped through the first thirty volumes in less than two weeks, and almost every evening before curfew she would drag Violet here so she could return one book and check out another (or two or three). Violet narrows her eyes at the triple digit number on the last volume, wondering how in the world the author could write over a hundred books about the same group of kids and not run out of ideas.

Hand hovering over a book with a yellow cover, Violet pauses and double – no, triple checks the area around her to make sure nobody’s watching. There’s not a soul in sight, but the back of her neck still prickles with embarrassment as she plucks the book from the shelf and flips through the first few pages. Violet just wants to see what Brody finds so fascinating about these books, that’s all.

Before she knows it, though, Violet is fifty pages deep and has nestled herself in a corner, back resting against one of the tall wooden bookcases. Unfortunately for her, she’s so focused on the words lining the pages of the book in her lap that she neither sees nor hears anybody approaching until there’s a shadow looming over her. Violet jumps and slams the book shut as her cheeks start to burn. Taking a moment to mentally prepare herself to face whoever just caught her red-handed reading what could honestly be the most embarrassing book series in the world, she slowly lifts her head while throwing in a quick prayer that it’s nobody she knows.

By some miracle, it’s not Marlon… or Mitch, both of whom Violet is certain would never let her live this down. She’s lucky that it’s nobody from her class, either. And thank god it’s not Therissa. Violet counts her lucky stars for that because her roommate would definitely tease her about this for the next century… and would absolutely tell Brody about it when she gets back.  

It’s actually the school librarian, Mrs. Wilson, who’s looking down at Violet with a soft, apologetic smile. “Didn’t mean to startle you, dear. I just thought you might be more comfortable moving to one of the chairs over over there.”

“No! Um, no thank you,” Violet hastily replies, scrambling to her feet and tucking the book back into its space on the shelf. Now that she’s been seen, she has no intention of sticking around. “I-I have to go anyway.”

The blonde hightails it out of the library without looking back. Mrs. Wilson is probably the kindest, most helpful lady in this entire school, but Violet’s been in a strange sort of mood all morning and kind of just wants to be alone. Her library encounter leaves her feeling as though there’s nowhere safe to go without potentially running into somebody else, so, instead of continuing her little detour, Violet begrudgingly returns to the dorms.

She wonders if Therissa’s awake yet.

Ever since the whole bell tower incident, things have been a lot better between them. Of course, old habits die hard and Therissa is still Therissa, but she doesn’t rag on her and Brody as much anymore. They’ve been talking a lot more, too.

And it’s not that Violet’s hoping to hang out with her roommate today or anything like that. She’s just so bored and… well, it might be kind of fun to pester the teen for a bit. To kill time, of course.

Definitely not because she’s lonely without Brody.

[thatonebirbnerd]

Giving In

Word count: 2295

Trigger warnings: Suicide (but not exactly?), body horror, mind control, amputation, vomiting, a little swearing. Contains depictions of severe frostbite on a nonhuman, death, and mild body horror.

The Dream and Nightmare protect sylvari from corruption by elder dragons, but when someone like Siocánta (sho-KAHN-ta) rejects both, it's only a matter of time. She dreamed of Jormag, and her love of the cold and morbid curiosity may get her more than what she bargained for as she ventures north toward the dragon beckoning her. Sons of Svanir be damned: she'll find a way to be cold enough, even if it kills her.

So this is what I’ve been hinting at for the past few days. I really thought it couldn’t happen, but here we are!

AO3 link

It seems so long ago that I first heard its voice. No, not Mordremoth’s. We all heard that. No, I mean Jormag; for in my mind, the voice of one dragon was merely replaced with another.

I’d left the Nightmare Court by then, and was well into the Shiverpeaks, desperate to leave the stifling heat of both sylvari territory and civilization. As much as I liked the ideal of rejecting the laws of life and morality, I couldn’t believe how many of the courtiers genuinely enjoyed torturing neophytes - or how much I overheated even in the coolest reaches of its territory.

Even after Mordremoth’s death, a whisper nagged at the back of my mind, too quiet to hear. Was this the remnants of my link to the Dream of Dreams, trying to rekindle itself and find a lost soul? I certainly assumed as much. But as I reveled in the cold around me - finally, somewhere that didn’t feel like it was killing me slowly! - I felt pulled toward every shard of corrupted ice I encountered on my way northward. No, it was just the call of the void.

Well, it might have been, until it grew louder as I made my way into a Svanir-infested cave.

To be blunt, I realized I’d made a fatal mistake after it was too late to turn back. The cultists called me a wench and a slave to a dead, heretical dragon - but they figured that either I’d die here, or I’d become their minion if this somehow worked. What a fucked-up win-win situation that would be. But it somehow meant that they didn’t butcher me on the spot. Instead, they led me over to a secluded patch of frozen ground. Spikes of magic-clouded ice, gleaming blue and purple, surrounded me. As the Sons of Svanir bragged about their plans for me, for the first time, I could understand something the faint whisper said.

Let me help you.

Against all the judgement I had, be it better or worse, I let the cold creep in as I listened to what this strange new presence had to say.

I must have been in that cavern for hours, maybe even days. I sat there, alone and numb, with the inklings of words infiltrating my consciousness to keep me company. Every surface around me was covered in ice, and I saw myself change in each shimmering wall and crystal. The frost touched every corner of me with its magic, curling leaves and petals and tracing filigrees over my fading bark. Most of my armor fell off, dead and dry. I stared into the clearest facet I could find, refusing to blink as my once-green irises shifted to the bright turquoise of my surroundings.

But at some point, I simply gave up. Nothing had come to me to bargain. I was still alive, still sane, and apparently intact. I walked out - straight into a Vigil patrol.

Their norn leader spoke up first, a burly dark-bearded man. “C’mon. Get up. What’s a sylvari like you doing in a Svanir den? You’ve gotta have a death wish.”

A sandy-furred charr replied to him. “Hold on. She’s as frozen over as one of them. How does that…”

A sylvari - and let me tell you, I did not want to see another one here in the mountains - interrupted the charr. “We plants get frost. Figure this one’s no exception.”

“She’s not in good shape,” they continued. “And I’ve never seen eyes the color of that ice before, but hers are so bright I’m worried she’s genuinely turned. I don’t think camp has enough resources for what she needs. Get her to Hoelbrak.”

“I’m still a pathetic grandchild of Mordremoth, much to my chagrin,” I retorted. “I’m not quite sure what took me into that cave, but hell, I’m in one piece, and that’s what matters to you folk.”

The charr signaled me to climb on her back. “I’ve carried rucksacks bigger than you,” she wisecracked. “We’ve got no spare gear, and I figure you shouldn’t be in the snow even for another hour.” That bad, eh?

You can’t trust them. Kill her. No. Why would I bite the hand that feeds me? Couldn’t do that.

Which was probably a good thing, because my condition was that bad. Lost most of my fingers, and nearly my legs below the knee, but got away with just some toes missing. They’d grow back, but no telling how slowly. The charr got some of her friends to make what they joked were the smallest combat prosthetics they’d ever made, a pair of metal gloves with articulated fingers. Moving what remained of my hands let me control the gloves to grip things and do simple enough tasks - and at least I could fight.

---

But enough about my reckless four-years-ago self. It’s not even worth bringing up how I got this big old doofus of an ice drake. Thing is, I’m a lot further north now. I have the Vigil to thank for taking me on the long road up. And here, the whispers are a hell of a lot louder. They are now a voice. Jormag’s voice.

I’ve seen others of your kind here. Curious things, you sylvari are. Every single one of you is desperate for control over your own lives. I can give you that. And so much more.

After spending nearly a year stationed in Frostgorge Sound, I’ve finally made it to the edge of the world, as far north as anyone can go: Bjora Marches. Once the norn heartland, now the den of the ice dragon’s champion, Drakkar.

It’s so cold here. Yet not cold enough, even as I walk amongst glaciers. Everyone here can hear the dragon. It’s disturbingly soothing. Alluring, even. Its voice is androgynous, and able to morph into anything, usually the reassuring voice of a loved one. I cut all my ties long ago, but sometimes I hear the voice of a friend from the Court, and wonder what went wrong. Why did you leave? You could have brought so many with you.

You can’t trust the soldiers, Jormag tells me. They will say they want to help. They don’t. You’re better with me. But I’m not ready to believe that yet. Instead, I wander off.

The inland sea to the west of Jora’s Keep and the kodan settlement of Still Waters Speaking, once called Drakkar Lake, is completely icebound. I follow the frozen waters southward, past crystalline cliffs and treacherous crags. The lake is still at night, empty of kodan fishers, but I still have to evade Svanir as I duck into a lonely passage - one that leads to a moonlit cave.

It’s beautiful. And it’s… familiar. I saw this in my Dream, the Dream I swore to forget. Here, Jormag’s voice presses on my mind nearly as much as Mordremoth’s did. No, more than that. But instead of a headache, its presence exhausts me, in a way that just makes me want to fall into a deep, refreshing sleep.

Now that I think about it, I could sleep here. Give in. Sleep.

I could rest. Yes. Rest.

It’s freezing, but I feel warm. Hot, even. I take my coat and boots off, and snap off my gloves. I stretch what remains of my hands. You could stay here forever. Maybe I could.

I lie down, spreading myself over the smooth, icy floor. Some repressed instinct inside of me makes my bark scream in pain, threatening to spill its blackening death into my heartwood. Then it dulls as I go numb, and I let my consciousness slip away. For a moment, I hope it doesn’t come back. Why would you ever leave this place? But instead, for the first time in a decade and a half, I dream - a dragon’s dream.

---

I find myself in… is this the same cave? No. I’m still looking up at the sky, but in every other way, it’s different. A deeper voice growls around me, echoing against the walls, deafening yet near unintelligible aside from a single phrase: You are here…

There’s even more ice here, and it’s… green. How strange. I talk as I stir. My voice is not mine. My voice is the dragon’s. Something rises inside me, forcing the words out of my frost-chapped lips.

You have done well, child. I will give you the strength you seek. But you must first let go.

I stagger to my feet. My leaves are as frostbitten as they were in that Svanir den. My fingers and toes are still stubs. Every movement I make is wrong, every joint at once tense and limp. My head clings to my neck at an odd angle. It could snap, and I could fall down. I am a puppet. Jormag’s puppet.

Ice fortifies. Ice protects. Yet you still fear that which can save you?

My veins are still. My sap is frozen, expanding, ready to burst out. The cold fills every cavity of my body.

I limp to a gleaming wall, smooth and polished as a mirror. I see myself. I am not myself.

This is what you could be. With me.

Don’t you like it?

I can’t respond. The chill creeps up through my throat, seizing my tongue.

My limbs creak, laden with ice, as I reach for my neck in a panic. Then I keel over, tipped off balance, as my head swings forward. For a moment I can see my hands growing back, corrupted crystals pushing through the bark, the new digits covered in rime, before everything goes black.

Then I wake up, gasping for air, still the same old me, in the same place I was before I drifted off.

Jormag continues to plead to me as I put my armor back on. Don’t you want this? Don’t you want what you lost?

The stumps of my hands and feet have lost feeling, and darkened to an ugly shade of blue-black. I can’t lose more of myself and still fight.

I have no choice but to say yes.

Then I will take you, child, to the place where the ice is green.

---

The frostbite is bad enough that it’s hard to walk. But if Jormag says I’m not going very far, then I should trust it and push on.

Indeed, I only have to retrace my steps back to the center of Drakkar Lake. There is a tunnel leading beneath the surface. No one has gone in and come back alive, short of Sons of Svanir. I think I know why.

Everything in the tunnel averts its gaze from me. Must be Jormag’s blessing - because I’d be too slow not to get caught by any of its minions in here.

I’m stumbling, now, as I wind through this strange new cavern. But it isn’t long before I see it: green ice. Not this chamber. Not yet. Soon.

I’m warm again. I leave my armor and gloves behind. My arms and legs are numb. I have to crawl.

Just a bit more. Come on. Not much longer. But the entrance to this chamber, the one I dreamed of, is a ledge. It must be a twenty-foot drop to the ground below, and I can’t walk, let alone climb-

Jump.

If you say so, Jormag.

It takes all my strength to get to my feet and brace myself. I fall, and for a moment I’m aware that my head is… in the wrong place -

---

Is this the end?

No. Not for you. I have plans for you.

Get up.

I’m… awake? So cold. Talking. Not my voice. Familiar… that dream… YOU ARE HERE. I’m moving. Stiff. Ice all over me. Ice inside me. Neck feels… wrong. Cold is good. Finally enough. But need my coat…

My arms… they… hurt! Not numb anymore. Not black anymore? Trying to scream. Something in my throat. Can’t… breathe!… no… don’t need to breathe. Wait - my hands, they’re…?!

Calm down, child. Let it take hold. Take your weapons.

They’re so… beautiful. I can… move my fingers. One by one.

Your dagger broke. But you can do better than that.

AGH! - still choking back something - a spike of ice is… coming out of my hand. There are more coming… all over my wrists. The reason they hurt. They’re so… swollen…

Take the big one. Snap it off. See? It’s a new dagger. You’re welcome.

Thank… you…

Need to bend over. My neck - oh, no. Have to… fix that. There we go. Something in my mouth. I gotta… urgh.

Everything inside… the shards… won’t stop coming. There’s spit frozen on my lip. I try to talk to Jormag. The only one who will listen now. All that comes out is ice.

Now go home. They will let you in. Then you kill them.

---

“I’m not sure what happened to that strange sylvari, the one with the mechanical hands who kept insisting she liked the cold. She came back to camp last night in a silent daze after wandering off a few days ago, leaving her drake behind. We placed her in the infirmary immediately, as her frostbite seemed so severe, she should have been dead. I say “should have” because she summoned icy daggers out of nowhere and utterly butchered the medics who were about to save what they could, then fled. Someone told me there were crystals all over her arms. I heard someone else say that she opened her mouth to speak, but frozen flowers and petals fell out instead. She’s… she’s a sylvari. She can’t be icebrood. Can she?

“Spirits save us from her deranged wrath, but we can’t speak of her anymore. For as the kodan say, her voice is not her own.”

- Final notes in a fallen Vigil soldier’s notebook

[ticklefits]

i’m still cryin to bud it’s okay :,) so the prompt is- keith and lance are basically best friends. not in a relationship, not in love, just great friends. then allura sacrifices herself. lance is messed up over it and doesnt leave his room for god knows how long. keith visits once and, seeing his friend in this state, becomes scared for the boy. without thinking he turns into his galra form without knowing and lance just tickles him and smiles cause he’s purring and gigglin andit makes his day

sorry it took so long to get this done , i was in the middle of moving and figuring things out with my job but ! here it is , hope u like it ! and thanks again for the prompt sweetie c’:

AO3 LINK !voltron | keith & lance ( platonic ) | words : 1363 

“How many times have you listened to this song, Lance?”

Despite the encasing darkness of the bedroom, the same Bebe Rexha song lulling from the stereo sitting on the nearby desk and Lance’s closed, strained eyes, it was easy to depict who’s slightly accusatory voice played in his ears. He doesn’t bother lifting his body, aching and fatigued from having been an immovable object under the covers for what felt years.

“…Don’t worry about it. What’re you doing here..?”

Keith scoffs lightly, having expected that sort of answer. “Don’t I get a hello first?”

“You didn’t give me one.”

“Fair. Rachel let me up. Told me that our sharpshooter still isn’t really feeling like his old self.”

It was Lance’s turn to scoff, complete with a tired roll of his eyes. Sharpshooter, huh? He sure didn’t feel as cool and badass as his old nicknamed suggested he was. In fact, he probably couldn’t have felt worse.

“I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.” 

It was one of the saddest lies Keith’s heard Lance try on him so far and truthfully? It caused his heart to sink. Through all of their experiences, Lance was one of the people he was the most proud of. He had blossomed so much from the beginning of their journey: from a mouthy, pride-laden, overconfident amateur pilot to someone trustworthy, intelligent, and cares so much for his team. And while it took Keith awhile to really see the development of these qualities in Lance, he is definitely one of the people that’s come to cherish him and appreciate what he’s done for them. It’s also why he’s here now, taking a break from the blade’s affairs in order to help his friend. Whether he wanted him to or not.

“Lance… C'mon buddy, just talk to me.” Keith takes a slow stride to the bed, settling on the edge of it gently so as not to startle or disturb Lance too much.

There’s silence and then a small sigh as Lance finally forces his drained frame to rise, just a little bit, so he can turn towards Keith and meet his gaze and what Keith witnesses only furthers his own distress. Even in the darkness ( perhaps thanks to his Galra genes ), he can clearly make out the bloodshot whites of his eyes & how dulled the sapphire color has become. There’s a bit of dried drool on the side of his lips and his hair’s a total mess; this is all worse than Keith could’ve imagined.

“–Hey…”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Keith. You.. already know.”

So his suspicions were confirmed. He is still torn from what happened with Allura. “Lance… I’m so sorry about Allura, we all are. But, you’re worrying people.”

“I'm… worrying people?” The tone of the query comes off a tad more .. aggressive, than Lance probably meant it to be, but he couldn’t help it, not with subtle agitation already begin to bubble in his chest.

“Well, yeah – I mean, all of us, we know you’re upset about Allura, but you gotta understand that moping in your room.. in the dark.. isn’t doing you or anyone else any favors. You’re wallowing. And if you keep going like this, you’re gonna end up.. –”

“End up like what exactly? Like you when Shiro disappeared? Obsessive and reckless and biting people’s heads off? Well, newsflash Keith, I’m not like you. Besides, who’re you to tell me how I should or shouldn’t feel? You never stopped looking for Shiro or gave up hope that Shiro would come back, even when everything seemed lost… and in the end, you got him back. I don’t get to have that luxury, you understand? I have to deal with that fact that Allura said goodbye, right in front of me! Without her… without her,  Shiro wouldn’t be alive, I wouldn’t be alive!”

At that point, Keith’s hoisted himself from the bed, slamming a gloved palm down on the blanket that surprisingly seemed to have enlarged a bit.

“You don’t think I know that, Lance?!” Keith nearly growls and Lance can swear he notices fangs elongating as he barks back at him. “Allura did so much for us, for all of us! Each and every person on Earth owes everything to her, but do you really think this is what Allura would’ve wanted you to feel, would’ve wanted you to be, about her passing?”

Okay.. now his skin’s painting over itself in a shade of purple. Lavender, maybe? No, no.. too dark for that.. maybe royal purple…

“–Keith–”

“No, seriously Lance! It’s not fair that me and everyone else here are trying to go about our lives, like Allura wanted us to with her sacrifice, but you just want to sit in the dark and sulk instead of being the greatness she saw in you! That we all.. see in you– ah!”

His statement is abruptly disrupted by something of a squeaky yelp as he felt curious digits stroking at new appendages atop his head; Lance might have gotten distracted by the Galran features that have decided to show themselves during Keith’s own outburst.

“.. Dude,” the brunet begins, soft awe and bewilderment replacing the anguish within oceanic sight, “when… did you start growing Galra ears?”

A sigh pulls from slightly flared nostrils, cheeks flushing as Lance’s fingers refuse to rest from touching him. “It’s.. not something that I can fully control. Yet. A-anyway, that’s not the point he–hehehere!” A palm swiftly raised to cover his mouth, but the giggle already did the damage. Within seconds, there’s a familiar sparkle of mischief glimmering in Lance’s eyes, the corner of his lips perking into something of a half smile as he shifts his weight to lean further and softly tickle along the shell of ears, vibrating from the rim towards the inner tenderness. The reaction is almost instant.

“L-Lance! No, knock it ohohohoff!” Keith squirms, attempting to shove the other back and away from his sensitive ears, but Lance anticipates this and quickly swerves to avoid the hands, only to better put his own to work. He migrates between small spots that he notices gives off more prominent reactions and before he realizes it himself, he’s grinning brightly and even releasing a giggle here or there.

“Keith, you feel like a teddy bear, man. This is ridiculous.” But the joy in his tone & beam of his expression is enough to keep Keith from cursing at him for teasing him like this, no matter how abashing.

“Sh-shut uhuhuhup!” He retorts, squeaking and un-intimidating despite growling underneath those words.

Wait… that’s not a growl..

“Ohhh my god, you’re purring now too?” He is way too amused by all of this new information, but he can’t deny how much fun he’s having. Keith discerns this as well and though it’s obviously at his own expense, he doesn’t find himself in real disdain at the situation.

“Lance! Aahaa– stop, stohohop already!” Even Keith didn’t realize how ticklish his Galran ears would be… and now this goofball has that knowledge too. He can only cringe at the future ordeals this was bound to bring; however, he feels Lance’s fingers start to slow and eventually, halt altogether. Blessed with a moment of fresh breath, Keith glances up towards his friend, studying his face to catch any signal of emotional relapse. He flushes with relief when Lance still bares that sweet smile of his.

“… Thanks Keith. Seriously.”

Keith’s own lips lift into another smile, genuine in his subtle delight. “Don’t mention it, Lance. We’re a team. Always will be.”

“So, does that mean you’ll let me tickle you whenever I need a pick-me-up, teammate? ‘Cause that was pretty funny.”

“Not on your life, buddy.”

It was Lance’s turn to let out a laugh, soft and almost timid as it was.

“But… for real man. Allura’s still here with us. Still watching over us and.. The whole universe. She’ll always stay with us. You know that right..?”

Lance turns, moving to push aside the curtains of the window just above his bed, permitting illumination to wash over the both of them from a gorgeous sky painted an array of pinks and baby blues.

“Yeah… Yeah, I know.”

[pain-somnia]

1k Followers Fic Request Title: Only You Prompt: Cop Sasuke Rating: T Disclaimer Day’s Notes: requested by anon I made this a “Cop Sasuke” in an Altered Carbon AU (so sci-fi everyone); turns out @saradacchi knows what’s good for me because I started watching last night and I love it and I was inspired to write this one-shot despite the fact that I was in the middle of part 2 to laundry fic and another prompt. Of course it’s Sasuke-centric Dedicated to @sun-summoning who always makes my day better when they post a fic

He missed touching her.

He missed the sound of her voice and the way she bit her lower lip before bursting into a peal of laughter. Sakura was always too loud and too big in every way but her body.

And Sasuke was realizing that her mother was the same.

Shit, Sasuke groaned inwardly. From his desk and through his holo-screen he could see the familiar blonde hair of his fiancée’s mother. The color had caught his attention from his peripheral and when he focused on the approaching woman he wanted to hide his face in his hands.

Mebuki Haruno had been coming every day since the accidental death of her daughter. She had been sympathetic at first when she found out that Sasuke was called in for the hit and run which resulted in organic damage. The sympathy flew out the window when she discovered that Sakura’s stack had been missing.

The Harunos were grounders which meant they were too poor to afford a clone or synthetic sleeve that was a replica of their daughter. The government was to provide a free sleeve because she had been involved in an accident with a government owned vehicle.

But Sasuke didn’t want a stranger’s face. He didn’t want to hear Sakura’s thoughts and words with a stranger’s voice.

“Officer Uchiha.”

Mebuki’s eyes were two shades too dark and she had wrinkles at the corners of her eyes but it wasn’t difficult to imagine Sakura giving him the cold, accusing look.

Sasuke and Sakura weren’t married. He had no right to her cortical stack, to her coding.

But he refused to have anyone but Sakura.

So another day of cold stares and shouting was on his agenda.

Kizashi, Sakura’s father, was never present when his wife came to demand their daughter’s stack. He was only there the first time when Mebuki went on a rampage when they were told her stack was missing from her sleeve.

His eyes were dull and tears clung to his pale lashes—Sakura’s lashes—as he followed behind his wife. He didn’t seem aware of where he was until his wife started accusing Sasuke of kidnapping their daughter.

Kizashi blinked back his tears but didn’t say a word. His reactions were abnormal. Even grounders had a lack of care for the original sleeve when a secondary one was an option.

Sasuke hoped it was because Kizashi felt the same way he did.

That Kizashi didn’t want anyone unless it was his daughter.

. .

Sasuke lived in Konoha and worked as a cop but it didn’t change the fact that home for him was Sora-ku, the city in the sky.

It was probably one of the reasons he hadn’t been fired for misconduct when he removed Sakura’s stack and refused to hand it over to her parents. Why no one bothered to do anything but write a short note in his file about misplaced data.

Meths, even if they lived as grounders, could still flex enough muscle to get what they wanted.

Sasuke never thought about the fact that he had multiple clones in a freezer. He was still too young to care about transferring to a new sleeve and he had been lucky so far that he hadn’t sustained organic damage even with his profession.

A profession his family humored as an eccentricity, merely a hobby.

The Uchiha were rich enough to never have to work a day in their long, long lives.

But no one really cared what the second son of the ancient Madara Uchiha’s twenty-fourth child’s did to pass the time.

They turned their noses up at his preference for the ground world, enjoying the comforts of their floating city away from the “thugs and brutes” that were jealous of their superior sleeves.

Sasuke wondered sometimes if the face Sakura loved so much was his own or genetic modifications, an altered appearance modeled after the beautiful features of his mother’s.

It was a question he never felt comfortable enough to ask. Or accuse his mother of.

Sakura was beautiful. She was beautiful in a way only a child of the ground world could be. Born in Konoha to immigrant cake shop owners, nothing about her looks was artificial.

Everything was hers and Sasuke loved her all the more for it.

. .

Suspension was all they could do to appease Mebuki Haruno. Madara Uchiha funded the department and lined the pockets of the mayor and governor. No one was going to terminate employment of his favorite grandchild.

In reality it wasn’t a punishment but more like a vacation. Sasuke needed the free time to supply the data gatherers information on the clone for Sakura.

“You can make her how you like her,” his grandfather had tossed out nonchalantly. “Get rid of any pesky traits she didn’t like herself.”

It was said in such a blasé manner and Sasuke was caught off guard. Madara didn’t mean any insult and none of his other relatives had even reacted to the comment.

It was typical of them to pick out mods for their new sleeves. They could enhance their clones as they pleased. Money was never an issue.

“My forehead is huge!” Sakura used to complain. It was only slightly larger than average, nothing Sasuke would have even noticed if it weren’t for the fact that she had pointed it out.

He was too caught up in pretty jade eyes to think of something as inconsequential as a slightly wide forehead.

. .

When Sakura’s sleeve had been freshly damaged, Sasuke had taken a trip down to the forensic pathologist and swiped DNA samples.

Using his access code he was able to secure swabs of saliva and blood and hair samples. He had been lucky that her body was secured by the police due to the nature of her death. It was an accident but an investigation was necessary.

Insurance companies were always trying to get out of securing free sleeves for those whose sleeves were going to die of natural causes or if the accident was preventable on the victim’s side.

His Sakura wasn’t a drunk or a junkie. She had just stepped off of the curb on her way to the bookstore and an asshole crossed the intersection when his light was red.

“You are able to alter anything,” the technician explained as he filled out Sakura’s entry into his holo-screen. “You can change her features to look more Terran. Or if you prefer the exotic features of a different Outerworld. We can alter her body fluids to produce Empathin or even get rid of her freckles. Increase her bust size maybe? It’s not often the original isn’t here to select their own mods.”

Sasuke’s neck heated up at the thought of Empathin. Sakura would probably push him over the railing of their apartment veranda if he gave her a perverted mod without her consent.

But the idea of feeling what she felt and her feeling what he felt when they made love was tempting.

Maybe for the next clone when he could talk to her face to face and they could discuss it. He refused to have her spun in a temporary body to have the conversation.

“Exactly the same.”

. .

It took a month for the sleeve to be complete.

The life cycle was accelerated when it came to making clones for those that had already reached adulthood. Technology was only so advanced. If Sasuke had it his way he would have had Sakura’s sleeve ready the same day he placed his order.

Sakura’s clone looked almost exactly like her. The sleeve lacked the scars that littered her body, given to her from life. Her forearm no longer had the burn mark from her accident in her family’s bakery. There was no nick at her left eyebrow.

But it was Sakura. Her same rose gold hair and jade eyes. Even all of her freckles were the same, trailing down her sternum and dusting her breasts.

“We need the cortical stack.”

The technician broke Sasuke’s focus away from examining Sakura’s clone.

“Once we upload Sakura Haruno’s Digital Human Freight she can be needlecasted to her new sleeves from here on out. A total safeguard from Real Death.”

Sasuke slipped off the necklace he was prone to wearing around when he knew he wasn’t working. Only where he knew he was safe.

He wanted Sakura’s stack with him at all times but he wasn’t always the safest option.

When he wasn’t wearing her stack around her neck he hid it in his mother’s private rooms.

Making her clones and needlecasting Sakura made his mother giddy.

“Now we’ll really be family,” Mikoto had gushed at the idea of Sakura’s clones residing in the Uchiha vault.

It was a tad morbid but not an unexpected reaction.

Sasuke handed the stack to the technician and within moments Sakura’s D.H.F. was uploaded.

“She’ll respawn in a few seconds.”

Sasuke watched as the sleeve’s eyes blinked into focus. It’s nose twitched and it smiled softly at him.

“Good morning, Sasuke.”

[jessethejoyful]

uwu what’s this?? part six????

buckle up kids

read it here on ao3

SIMON

After Halloween, we all kind of hit the ground running. It’s always like this in November - we’re startled by how near we are to finals, and there’s a vicious scramble to catch up with a semester’s worth of work in a few weeks.

I barely see Penny or Agatha, let alone Baz, who spends nearly all of his time in his studio. I poked my head into the room once, and he was facing away from the door, and I actually got a glimpse of his canvas. The painting he was working on was breathtaking, for lack of a better word. I’m not great at describing things, or understanding paintings, but even I could tell that this piece was already a masterpiece.

Painting is one of the few things Baz is bashful about. He doesn’t let me look at many of his paintings, even though I’ve seen most of them displayed in the cases. I don’t know why he’s so nervous about it, because he’s incredibly skilled. And he’s more willing to show them to Penny than he is to me, I’ve noticed.

My own classwork is getting heavy. The closer I get to graduating, the more pressure I feel. The animation industry is highly competitive, and while I know my style is unique and interesting, that’s not always what companies are looking for. I’m terrified of trying to find a job after uni, but I don’t really let on to the others about it.

I asked at work for fewer hours to make up time for finals, and they were kind enough to agree. So I’m spending even more time in the lab, working until the tips of my fingers go a bit numb and I can’t see at all without my glasses, and even then I’m squinting. I’ve been sketching this sequence for weeks, but I can’t get any of it to come out right, on paper or on the screen. I thought my storyboard was finished, but every time I try to digitize it, it comes out all wrong.

I’m getting so agitated, I finally shut the computer down, grab up my stuff, and march downstairs to the private studios, and find myself banging on Baz’s door.

He opens the door quickly, breathless, and looks at me. “Simon.”

“Do you mind if I sit in here with you?” I ask before I even realize the words are leaving my mouth, and we’re both surprised. But then I think that I really could use the company, and he must be thinking the same, because he steps out of the way to let me in. I follow with a muttered thanks.

The room is small, big enough for two easels, a small cabinet of drawers, and the stool Baz usually sits on. So I curl up in a corner, my bag pulled tight next to me, and smile up at him. I sit behind his easel, so he doesn’t get anxious thinking I’m watching him.

He looks down at me, a slight frown on his face, so I drop my own smile. “Is everything alright, Snow?”

I nod vigorously. “Yeah, I’m just - I’m stressed, y’know? And sometimes I like to sit around people when I work, and Penny is already gone for today, and I knew you’d be in here. The people in the lab stress me out because I think their expressions all mirror my own.” I can tell he understands, and he finally sits back down on his stool.

“Alright, then. I’m not really going to talk much, so I hope the silence doesn’t bother you.”

“Definitely not. Penny always talks about how creeped out she gets when I’m focusing, how quiet I get.” He snorts softly but doesn’t say anything else, putting only one earbud back in before picking up his brush.

We work in companionable silence, and I’m finally able to get something of substance, sketching with my brows furrowed and hunched over my pad in my lap.

I don’t think Baz even registers my presence after a while, focused as he is on his work. He’s so engrossed in his canvas that I’m able to watch him, and seeing his face so serious is honestly a fucking gift. He’s sucking on his lower lip again, and I find myself turning to another page in my sketchbook, glancing up at him now and then to find details. The way his bangs fall into his eyes. The deep curves of his ridiculous sharp cheekbones. The little points at the top of his ears, like he’s some kind of elf.

He doesn’t catch me this time. I fill up the page with little sketches of him, some cartoony, some not. I go to the next page and do a few more, and I find it getting easier, my hand moving better across the paper. He’s the perfect warm-up, all angles and marked lines.

It was already pretty late when I came down here, and I know a few hours have gone by when I finally close my drawing pad and stretch. Baz sees me moving and takes out his earbud, raising his eyebrows at me. A glance at my phone tells me it’s after three am. Jesus.

“It’s bedtime,” I say, broken by a yawn, and we both chuckle. Tired sounds, like we’re both too out of it to get a proper breath.

“You go on, then,” he says, and I stare at him.

“Baz. You need to sleep.” He’s already shaking his head.

“No, I need to keep working.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

He thinks about it. “When I woke up this morning, I guess.” I know he was out of his flat at eight this morning, because his first class is at nine-thirty.

“Fucking ridiculous. Pack your shit up, you’re going home too.” I hop to my feet, ignoring the spinning at the sudden altitude, and glare at him. He knows better than to argue with me when my jaw is clenched and my shoulders out. He very resignedly puts away his paints and his brushes, cleaning them quickly, then hoists his bag on his shoulder.

“Alright, then, Snow. Let’s go.”

We walk together, in silence again, and we’re still bad at keeping pace with one another. I’m slower than usual, because I’m tired, and his legs are already so much longer than mine. I try to hurry to keep up, and he finally slows down, and our shoulders brush. It’s like an electric shock. He speeds up.

When we get upstairs in the apartment, he goes to his door, and I follow him. He stops before putting the key in the lock, furrowing his brows at me.

“...Good night, Snow.”

“I want to make sure you eat something.”

“I’ll eat.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know that.”

Baz lets out an angry breath, looking at me. “You can’t just invite yourself into my flat.”

“Invite me, then.” I’m too tired to care that I’m being difficult. I guess he agrees, because he unlocks the door and doesn’t slam it immediately in my face.

This is the first time I’ve been in his flat. I close the door quietly behind me, since it’s nearly four, and take it in.

I know he doesn’t have a roommate, but he’s put a little bit into decorating the space. I recognize one of his paintings on the wall, the muted color scheme matching well with the wall’s soft tan. He’s got two lamps with beaded shades, and it’s all very neat. It doesn’t really looked lived in, until Baz tosses his bag onto the couch and continues into the kitchen. I put my own by the front door and follow him.

The kitchen is nearly the size of ours and seems even less used, the only thing out on the counter being a coffeemaker, a microwave, and a line of frivolous mugs, which is hilarious to my sleep-deprived mind. I pick one up, flamingo-shaped, the one behind it printed with a mustache, and the one behind that reading ‘World’s Okayest Dad.’

“Wow,” I say, leaning over them and laughing. Baz looks over from the fridge and snorts.

“Gifts from my aunt,” he explains. “She thinks she’s so fucking funny.”

“Pretty funny to me.” I pick up another one, plain white, until I look inside and see the bottom reads in swirly script, You’ve been poisoned.

“Well, you both have a shit sense of humor.”

I just laugh and lean back against the countertop, watching him as he throws a bowl of leftover pasta in the microwave. “Do you see your aunt a lot?”

He doesn’t seem too suspicious of my motives as he answers. “A fair amount. I go to my family’s home during the summer, and she’ll come by to visit now and then. But she lives in London.”

“You get on well with your family then?” I don’t know if he’d normally be so forthcoming if it weren’t four am.

“Not as much. My dad’s more difficult than I am, if you’d believe it. I like my stepmom well enough, but with them and four siblings running around, it gets a bit tiring.” He takes out the food, pokes it, and then puts it back in for another minute and a half. “The oldest of my siblings though, Mordelia, we get along pretty well. Make a good team against the others. She’s only thirteen, but she’s too smart for her own good, not that I’d ever tell her so.”

I’m impressed by the outpour of information. It feels unfair, so I nod before saying, “I wish I’d had siblings. It was just me and Agatha, and she’s not really my sister. Close enough, though.” Baz looks over at me, doesn’t press, so I keep going. “M’dad David was… well, he was a bit of a loony. I was with him til I was ten or so, and he had a manic episode. Killed some birds, he kept birds, and then he tried to kill me.” I’m rambling, but I can’t stop, the words falling out of my mouth without me really registering them. “My mum died having me, so it was just us. Me and David. He came at me, hands bloody, but I was small enough I was able to slip away. Ran to my neighbor’s, called the police, and they came and took him away. The Wellbeloves took me in, Agatha and I had made friends at daycare and God knows they had money to spare. Her dad’s a doctor, her mum’s some posh beauty queen type -”

“Simon,” Baz cuts in, and I realize he’s staring at me in alarm. I swallow. “I - Jesus.” He puts his bowl down and comes over to me, and I flinch without meaning to, and he slows down, reaching out to take my arm.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, and it occurs to me that I’m crying, and I’m horrified by this sudden realization, and I’m shrinking away from Baz. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -” Baz hushes me and gently pulls me against him, his arms wrapping around my shoulders.

BAZ

I don’t know what else to do. We’re strung out of our minds, exhausted beyond belief, because it’s so late and we’ve both been burning the candle at both ends. So when Simon is standing in front of me, suddenly telling me his tragic life story and tears start running down his face, I don’t know what else to do but wrap him up in my arms.

And it does help, I think, because he’s still shaking, but he’s gripping my shirt, his face wet against my neck.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters again after a few minutes of quiet sniffling. “I don’t know where this - came from, I’m not weepy -”

“Simon,” I say quietly, pulling away enough so I can look him in the eyes. He meets mine, and I’m nearly struck dumb by how the wetness makes those baby blues suddenly mesmerizing. “You don’t have to apologize to me for your trauma. Okay?” I tilt my head down and kiss his forehead, and I hear him take a shuddering breath. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me. And I’m sorry.”

“S’not your fault,” he grumbles, the grip on my shirt loosening a small amount.

“Nor is it yours.” His lower lip trembles, and I reach up and pass my thumb across it. “Alright, then? All cried out?” He laughs weakly and nods, bringing his wrist up to take his glasses off and wipe at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “Good. How about some tea?” It’s all I know how to do when someone’s this upset. It’s all my mother did for me when I’d have fits, sit me down across a steaming mug and talk me down.

Simon’s face splits in a sudden yawn, and I can see all the way down the back of his throat. “I think I’d better just go to bed,” he says, embarrassed, and I agree. “I’ll let myself out.”

“No.” He’s confused, and I grab his wrist carefully. “You think I’m going to send you back by yourself, like this?” He just stares at me. “Are you hungry?” A shake of his head. “Then go ahead and lay in my bed. I’ll be in in a second. Alright?” He luckily doesn’t take anymore convincing, just knocks his head into my shoulder before slinking out of the room.

I shovel pasta into my mouth, ravenous suddenly, then follow him. He’s curled up on top of the sheets, and I remember he runs hot, with his shirt off and wearing a pair of my joggers. I think he’s asleep as I sit down, but his eyes flutter open and he holds a hand out to me. I rest my hand on his, and his thumb moves several times across the back of mine.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his eyes closing already, and he rolls over to face the wall. I don’t get under the blankets, just lay down and curl up against his back, because he radiates heat, and I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

The light wakes me in the morning, and I sit up slowly. This time, I don’t startle at all to see Simon beside me, stretched out like he’s floating on water, and he doesn’t jump up when I move. Just folds up and rolls over, facing me, but still asleep. I watch him, because I’ve been starved of him, honestly. His freckles, his nose that looks like it’s been broken multiple times. His curls.

I’d watch him for hours, but my phone tells me it’s nearly eleven-thirty, and I have to be at work at noon. I’ll leave Simon a note for when he wakes up.

But when I come back from the fastest shower I’ve ever taken, he’s sitting up, staring at the only painting I keep in my room. It’s the ballerina. I’d hidden it, towards the end of the sale. I didn’t want to part with it, after all. I’m embarrassed he caught me.

He doesn’t say anything about it though, just looks at me and smiles. “Good morning.”

“Hardly,” I say, because I’m difficult. “It’s almost noon. Duty calls.” Simon nods. He slides off the bed, and I try not to stare his shirtless chest. He’s just as covered with freckles there, and there’s just a little bit of chub around his stomach, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. The prettiest picture.

I know what he’s going to say, so I’m already shaking my head when he says, “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” I say, and I can feel my cheeks getting warm. “Nobody should be alone when they’re like that.” He crosses the small room to me, and I don’t step back, just let him put himself in my space.

“But you didn’t have to. You didn’t have to do anything.” When he tilts up and presses his lips to mine, tentative, I sigh mentally and cup his chin, pulling him back to me.

I don’t want to push him away anymore. I just want to pull him in, where I can keep him safe and out of harm’s way. So I do.

[ladieslovingladiesandfics]

Dor

(noun) An untranslatable Romanian word, dor is described as the emotional pain one feels when they are separated from the person they love.

As requested, we got ourselves my first ever crossover fic!!! B99 x Sense8 where the reader is a Sensate. I have recieved so many wonderful submissions from everyone! I hope you guys enjoy this next fic!

Tag List: @i-dont-know-who-i-am-yet

Warnings: Cursing, idk wtf im writing, angst, ya know....stuff. This is so bad im so sorryy

Your name: submit What is this?

You don’t remember how you got here.

You don’t remember what you’re doing.

But there your hands are, covering a wound spewing blood with Nadia gently coaxing you and her dark hands placed upon yours. “You got this, Y/N, I swear. Stay with me. You’re doing such a great job my friend.” Though she had practiced this so many times over, you could see it from her dark forest floor eyes that she was scared. Terrified even.

Because she could feel your fear.

Not only her, but the rest of your cluster.

“Boo, Y/N, baby boo,” the warm and gentle hands of Apollo gently cups your cheeks, making you look up into his turquoise hues, “Look at me, Y/N, everything is going to be alright. Everyone is here with you. No one is going to let her die while we’re here. Nadia is a trained paramedic after all.”

“The bitch is not going to get away with this either.” The sound of knuckles cracking reaches your ears, and you smile through your worries, imaging six foot tall Gloria just ready to beat the shit out of anyone who dares harm her cluster, or those close to them.

“You’re doing great, Y/N.” Nadia repeats, her finger softly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I saw someone call 911,” states the ex-Navy Seals member, Laurie, her trained eyes glancing around the area. “I had a brief glimpse of the shooter.” Thank goodness for her.

“Y/N” finally you glance down at the love of your life, the woman you were trying to save.

Rosa Diaz.

Her hand covers yours, smiling softly. “You okay? You’re not hurt are you?”

You shake your head, trying so hard to not let tears fall. Apollo’s digits gingerly wipe away your tears, his hands on your shoulders and massaging your muscles. “I’m fine, Rosa, really.”

“Bullshit.” She coughs out. “You literally had enough strength to pull me out of a car wreckage.” Yeah you had to thank Laurie and Gloria for that. “Not to mention that you probably have a concussion or something.”

Nadia didn’t of course.

You shake your head again, “I’m fine” you state once more. You were terrified at the moment, fearing for Rosa’s life. That is all that you cared about.

The wail of the siren was not too far off, and you know that Nadia was on her way. She was a first responder after all, and she was better at this than you were. “Rosa, Rosa baby,” you whisper to her, kissing her forehead. “My friend is almost here, she’ll help you. Just hang in there,”

The sound of gunfire was heard next, and the ambulance arrives with Nadia practically jumping out of the back to replace your hands with hers. “Y/N, I’m here. I got this.”

You were just about ready to jump in there but soon another one of your cluster members begins to scream heir head off. “I think I see a gunman!” the fashion designer begins to wildly wave their lanky arms around.

Shots ring all around your, screams echo through the sky, Laurie and Gloria glance over to the lone gunman walking down the street, along with the 99th prescient rushing to aid the people.

“Y/N,” Nadia gently takes your hand, attempting to tug you into the vehicle.

“Babe.” Rosa’s voice is weak, full of worry. “Hurry.”

You glance over at Laurie, inhaling deeply. Nadia can see the other dark-haired woman glance between you, Rosa, and herself, filled with concern. “Fuck it.” She compels you to steal Rosa’s knife, and just like that, she takes over.

“Are you two insane?” Nadia snaps, almost wanting to switch with the former soldier just to drag you to your senses. With a huff, she turns to Laurie, “Don’t fucking die.” She states and with that the doors shut, and off they ride.

You close your eyes, feeling Laurie’s scarred hands grip the handle of the blade that soon becomes your own.

“Let’s fucking do this.”

“I have to tell her.”

Nadia’s full lips crease down into a frown, her fingers anxiously toying with her pansexual-flag colored Hijab, “Are you sure, Y/N?” she questions, sterile-smelling chemicals staining her scrubs that made your nose tickle.

“You know there’s no turning back.” Chlorine hits your nose next, and there, out in a large pool you see Gloria’s partner and children swimming freely, happily. You see the wrestler soaking up the sun, drinking a margarita but her green eyes were peering into your soul even from behind her dark shades.

“I mean…Rosa does deserve to know right?”

Pastel crayons and oils, the sound of Beethoven and chirping birds, Apollo’s studio was beautiful as always. His hand held his paintbrush and like the others, they were beyond concerned. “I mean my wife knows about me already.” Laurie’s cool and even tempered voice breaks through next, her white marble kitchen and freshly squeezed orange juice could be smelled next.

“How do we break it to her though?”

Charlie was surrounded by beautiful models, but their red-colored contact eyes were obviously focused on you and the rest of the cluster, despite holding various clothes in their arms. “It’s not easy. Even my boyfriend is still confused about it.”

“I have to tell her.”

Back again you stand in the hospital, Nadia letting out a long sigh and opens the door. “I’m here if you need me. All of us are.”

Slowly you walk into the room, flowers in your hand and there you see your girlfriend, lying on the bed and looking…alright. Maybe. “Hey.” You great with a bright smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” She states, somewhat gruff and bitter. “You said you wanted to talk?”

You nod your head and slowly tell her everything, about you, about your cluster an even ask Nadia to pop in to help explain.

Rosa falls silent, inhaling deeply. “So…you’re like…kinda a superhero?”

You only let out a small laugh, while Nadia covers her mouth to snicker. Suddenly your smile fades, “And that’s why I’m breaking up with you.”

Nadia almost drops her gloves while Rosa’s jaw becomes slack. “W-What?”

“You’re kidding me, Y/N.”

“I have to do this, Rosa.” You state and turn your head, then your body and walk out the door.

[onemuseleft]

This is my @stevetonysecretsanta gift for @notevenwinded. Happy New Year!

****

The cab driver craned his neck a little to get a better view of the house as they drove up. “Looks like a nice place to spend the holiday,” he said. His tone was admiring. Steve supposed that a cabbie who normally worked in his neighborhood didn’t take a lot of fares to Fifth Avenue mansions. Or maybe it was just the elaborate Christmas decorations that made him sound so impressed.

“There will be some good friends to spend it with. That’s all that matters.” Steve tried to project a little confidence into his tone, but he was pretty sure he failed, significantly. “Anyway, at least I won’t have to sleep on the couch.”

“In a place like this?” the cabbie pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Bet they have an entire guest suite.”

Knowing Tony as he did, Steve half suspected it would be more like a guest wing, but he didn’t say that out loud.  He grabbed his overnight bag – a battered old knapsack that had been in his room at Stark Tower when he moved in and looked to be US Army surplus – and slid out of the seat. He slammed the door and leaned down to speak to the driver through the window. “Thanks for the ride, Jamal. Cash all right?”

“You know it is,” Jamal said easily. He flashed Steve a grin, his breath fogging slightly in the cold air. “With the holiday, the damn machines don’t pay out for nearly a week anyway. Cash is instant.”

Steve had never had to deal with credit card machines when he’d been younger and poorer, but he remembered having to take a check to the bank and have it cleared before he could eat, so he understood perfectly. “What do I owe you?”

“Forty-two fifty, but there’s a veterans’ discount.”

“Tell you what, save it for the next fare who really needs it.” Steve pulled three fifty dollar bills out of his wallet and passed them through the window. “Keep the change, buddy. Merry Christmas.”

Jamal took the bills with a big grin. “Merry Christmas to you, too.  Thanks man, you sure?” He deliberately fanned the bills a little, like he wanted to make sure Steve hadn’t given him the extras by mistake.

“I’m sure. Thanks for coming out in the snow.” Steve hefted his bag and returned Jamal’s wave as the cab pulled away down the drive. Then he turned to view the Mansion up close.

He’d seen it in pictures and on the news, though never in person. Avengers business tended to be dealt with out of the Tower or through SHIELD, and while Tony would host the occasional charity event at his family home, he didn’t tend to spend much time there otherwise.

In person it was bigger than he’d thought, appearing to take up most, if not all, of the block. There was a stone wall around the property, taller than Steve was, topped with wrought-iron decorative bars. There had been gates, too, though they’d been open when the cab drove up. The front yard was huge, for the city, and though there was a thin layer of snow covering everything, Steve could see bushes and trees and some kind of ceramic water fountain, though there was no water at the moment. The house itself really was a mansion, at least three stories high with tall, decorative windows and what looked like a porch or balcony running the length of the top floor. The whole house was trimmed in white Christmas lights, and the trees along the drive were light up in twinkling multi-colored lights. A single candle burned in every single window that Steve could see, too steady to be flame. On the roof, a mechanical Santa was perched on top of one of the chimneys, one arm waving to the pedestrians below.  With the snow falling around it in thick flakes, it looked like something out of a movie or an advertisement.

Steve was pretty sure that back in the day he wouldn’t have even been allowed to linger on the sidewalk and admire a place like this, let alone ring the doorbell and expect to be invited inside. He felt awkward and out of place, in a very familiar way that – for once – had nothing to do with what year it was.

But living with Tony Stark over the last half year had taught him nothing if not how to adapt, so Steve slung his bag over his shoulder and pushed the doorbell.

Instead of the familiar face of Edwin Jarvis, a very pretty, very short, woman answered the door. She had her hair pulled back in a bun, and was dressed in simple shoes, slacks, and a bright red sweater with a Christmas tree on the front. The tree was decorated with sequins and pom-poms and bows and was, overall, one of the gaudiest things Steve had seen since the last time he wandered through Times Square. “Welcome to Stark Mansion, Captain Rogers. Mister Stark has been expecting you. Can I take your bag?”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, caught briefly off-guard by such a petite woman offering to carry a bag for a big guy like him.

“Come right in.” She caught him staring at the sweater and her smiled curved a little wider. “Mister Stark gave the entire staff these lovely sweaters just this morning.”

“Was he very angry with you at the time?” Steve asked. He couldn’t quite resist the urge to smile, but fortunately she didn’t seem to mind.

“I won’t tell him you said that,” she said with a wink. “It’d just hurt his feelings. My name is Lainie and I’ll be here all weekend, so if you need anything at all, just ask for me. Now, come this way and I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Plural. Steve nodded a little glumly. Just as Jamal had thought.

Steve’s rooms turned out to be a fairly modest suite made up of a small sitting area, two huge closets, what was possibly a second sitting room or might be a third, even huger closet, Steve honestly wasn’t sure, and a bathroom only half the size of Steve’s Brooklyn apartment. The bedroom itself wasn’t unreasonably extravagant, though a family of six could have lived in it easily back in Steve’s day. The decorations were simple and modern and done in rich shades of blue and cream, with watercolor landscapes on the walls in tastefully expensive frames.

There were also extra blankets folded at the foot of the bed, including an electric one, a fresh sketchpad and an unopened pack of Steve’s favorite monochrome graphite pencils on the bedside table, and instead of a digital clock with bright red or yellow numbers, there was an old analog model that had to be wound by hand and had an actual bell to wake you with. Steve lifted the cover of the sketchpad and ran a finger over the crisp, fresh paper and had to smile. Tony did plenty of big, ridiculous things for his friends but it was the little things like that always made Steve’s heart ache. The little gestures that said he’d been paying attention and wanted Steve to be comfortable. Extra blankets because Steve hated to be cold, an alarm clock that wouldn’t startle him with its electronic beeping. Steve’s favorite art supplies so he could have an excuse to distance himself from the festivities if he felt overwhelmed.

Steve wondered sometimes what kind of life he’d be living if he hadn’t met Tony and the Avengers when he did. He suspected it would be sadder and lonelier than he wanted to consider.

“Mister Stark is right across the hall,” Lainie told him from her position by the door. “Colonel Rhodes and Colonel Danvers are down the hall and Ms. Potts and Mr. Hogan will be staying in their rooms on the second floor. A maid will be in to freshen the room twice a day and she’ll collect any laundry you leave in the hamper. If you need anything else, there’s a housekeeping app on the television that we keep an eye on at all times. Midnight snacks, extra bedding, toiletries, anything at all.”

“What if I want a sweater?” Steve asked.

Lainie gave him a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Maybe if you’re very good, there will be one under the tree for you. Now I’ll let you get settled in. Mister Stark and his guests are in the game room on the first floor whenever you feel like joining them. Dinner is served promptly at seven tonight. Mister Stark asked me to let you know that we do not dress for dinner on Christmas Eve, so please make sure you’re comfortable.” She gave him a little nod and another smile and left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Steve unpacked quickly and checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror before heading for the massive staircase that led down to the front foyer. He hesitated at the bottom, wishing briefly for a map, then decided if Tony didn’t want him poking around he’d hardly have left him to his own devices like this. He took his time looking around, looking at the extensive holiday decorations and admiring the artwork on the walls and the pieces on display. Someone had had excellent taste, in Steve’s opinion. Pepper, maybe, or Tony’s mother. Howard hadn’t had much of an eye for art as far as Steve remembered. But then it had been a long time and he’d changed in a lot of other ways.

Everything had. Including Steve.

There was a thunderously loud explosion of noise from down the hall that faded out into a rumble, only to be drowned out by laughter and yelling. Steve recognized Colonel Rhodes’ voice alongside Tony’s and a woman’s voice that he was almost certain was Carol.

He followed the shouting to a room at the back of the house that looked like someone had put a movie theatre inside a living room. There were plush looking chairs and couches arranged around a massive screen that looked like it descended from the ceiling, walls lined with framed movie posters, and shelves with what Steve assumed were collectibles of some kind – action figures maybe? He wasn’t sure if that was the right word, and calling them toys would probably get him an indignant glower from Tony, even if they looked like it.

Pepper and Happy were cuddled up together in an armchair that could easily have held at least one more person. They were both wearing casual clothes and Pepper had kicked her shoes off so she could tuck her feet up into the cushions. They were watching Jim, who appeared to be engaged in some sort of computer game on the screen involving a stick figure and a cow that was also a stick figure, and Tony and Carol who were trying to grab the controller from him. Steve didn’t recognize it as one of the ones Clint had shown him; there was no gratuitous gunfire for one.

Tony spotted him in the doorway before he could announce himself and his eyes lit up in a way that made Steve’s stomach clench a little. “Cap!” He abandoned his efforts to annoy Jim and climbed over the back of the couch. “Hey, you made it! We weren’t sure if the snow would scare you off.”

“I managed to flag down the one cab in Brooklyn willing to risk it.” The snow hadn’t been that bad when Steve had left his apartment, but it was getting heavier. “Do I even dare ask what you’ve been up to?”

“Shenanigans,” Tony said cheerfully. He was grinning and rocking up and down slightly on the balls of his feet. He was barefoot, and his hair was tousled and his eyes were bright. He looked warm and happy and Steve had to put his hands in his pockets because the urge to reach out and touch was so strong.

“Rhodey’s sucking all the fun out of this game,” Tony said. “But Carol and I are trying to fix it for him before he dies shamefully.”

“Yes,” Jim said in a voice as dry as desert sand. “That is exactly the scenario that is happening here. Hey, Cap.”

“Colonel,” Steve said. “Merry Christmas, it’s good to see you again. And you, Carol, it’s been too long.”

Carol Danvers wiggled her fingers at him in a hello. “We were all really glad to hear you’d accepted Tony’s invitation.”

Pepper and Happy echoed the sentiments and Tony looped his hand through Steve’s arm to drag him toward the couch. Steve didn’t resist and if his stomach got a little tighter when Tony dragged him down onto the couch so their knees were touching. Well.

Jim did not die shamefully, despite Carol’s and Tony’s best attempts to distract him. Tony ended up sulking against Steve’s shoulder because Jim wouldn’t take his advice. He shivered a little and Steve – feeling a little brave and more than a little fond – wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tugged Tony against his side. Tony took the invitation and burrowed in, his head on Steve’s shoulder.

It was loud and he had no idea what was going on in the game, and every five minutes one of them would start laughing about something that had happened before he arrived. It should have made him feel out of place, but he didn’t. Everyone was talking over each other and enjoying themselves, and Carol kept insisting that Steve agreed with her every time she disagreed with Jim. Pepper was tossing mini candy canes at Tony’s head and missing more often than not, and Tony was scooping them up and pelting them back at her. Happy met Steve’s eyes over Pepper’s head and just shook his head with a grin.

Tony was warm, and his head fit perfectly on Steve’s shoulder and his hip fit perfectly under Steve’s hand. His smile was easy and comfortable when he looked at Steve. He’d asked Steve to come, asked Steve to stay.

Tony had given him a home, clothing, food and art. He’d given Steve trust, and friendship and a loyalty so deep it sometimes felt like they’d always been like this, that they’d worked together before in another time or place.

Outside it was snowing and the sky was going dark. There was a coldness in the air that promised a storm to come.

Tony threw back his head to laugh at something Pepper said and Steve felt nothing but warm.

****

Dinner was just as casual as promised. The six of them and Jarvis ate around a table in what Tony called “the little dining room”. There was a fire roaring a few feet away, and a sidebar with bottled drinks. No servants, which Steve felt a little relieved about. 

Pepper and Tony were carrying on their food fight, pelting each other with bits of bread and the occasional carrot when they thought no one was watching. Jim and Happy were arguing about a sports game of some sort and Carol was talking to Jarvis about a television show they both liked.

“I am quite pleased you could join us, Captain,” Jarvis said after Carol was drawn into the discussion to emphatically argue that someone was a terrible coach and someone else was a terrible quarterback.

Steve almost hadn’t, to be honest. When Tony had extended the invitation to join him for Christmas, he’d hesitated. This was Tony’s family, and their Christmas celebration was a tradition for them. He’d been afraid of intruding and ruining their time together. “I was a little surprised to be invited, to be honest. I hope Tony didn’t feel pressured to include me.” Pity wouldn’t be the worst reason why Tony had chosen to invite him, but it certainly wasn’t what Steve hoped for either.

Jarvis scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sir was quite excited by the possibility that you would be part of this year’s celebrations. I will say, just between us, that if you had taken much longer to accept I was half convinced he’d do something over-the-top to convince you.”

Steve tried to imagine what that could have been and very, very firmly did not let himself imagine anything scandalous while under Jarvis’s knowling gaze. “Let’s be honest with ourselves, Jarvis, Tony doesn’t need any encouragement to go over-the-top.”

“Quite true. Still. It means alot to him that you are here celebrating with us this year.” Jarvis glanced across the table at Tony. “Ours is a small and poorly behaved family, but we hope you feel at home here.”

“I do,” Steve said. “Thank you.”

“And remember that this invitation does not expire on the New Year, Captain. I know I speak for Sir when I say you are welcome here at any time.”

Steve glanced over at Tony, who met his gaze with a grin that Steve couldn’t help but return. “That means a lot to me, especially coming from you, Jarvis.”

“Nonsense, it’s only the truth.” Jarvis rested a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for Anthony since you came into his life. He is happier than he has been in a very long time. And I confess, I do sleep a bit easier knowing that a man of your calibre is watching his back.”

“Always,” Steve said in a low voice.

“I know it. Now.” Jarvis raised his voice. “Let’s get a picture. Captain, Sir, in the center here, by the fireplace. Ms Potts, Happy - yes very nice. Everyone in a little closer now.”

Tony slipped an arm around Steve’s waist and leaned in a bit. Steve wrapped his arm around Tony’s shoulders, as the others pressed in around them.

“Lovely, you all look very charming.” Jarvis held his phone up and took several shots. “My goodness, if I didn’t know you all I’d think you were quite respectable. Do pray I never reveal the truth.”

“Literally no one would be surprised by any of it,” Tony said. “Except about Cap, they’d think you were making it up for the scandal rags. And Pepper, no one thinks anything bad about Pepper.”

“No one dares,” Jim said cheerfully. “Jarvis, send me that photo when you’re done.”

“I have done you one better, Colonel.” Jarvis finished tapping at his phone and turned it so they could see.

It was the picture of the six of them with a caption that read “Merry Christmas from our family to all of yours” posted to a Twitter account belonging to EdwinTheGreat.

“Nice handle,” Steve said.

“Thank you,” Jarvis said. “I had to veto more than two dozen of Sir’s suggestion before we struck upon the compromise.”

Steve had had to wrestle the phone away from Tony to avoid getting a Twitter account titled “CaptainWingHead” or “SexySuperSoldier” set up in his name. “I can imagine.”

“I demand dessert,” Pepper said. “Tony, if there’s no chocolate cake, I quit.”

“You always threaten to quit over dessert, I can’t take you seriously anymore,” Tony said. “Besides, Jarvis made us a trifle.”

“Is it a chocolate trifle?” Pepper asked.

“Triple chocolate, my dear,” Jarvis said.

“I take back my resignation. Tony, bring me chocolate.”

Jim nudged Steve with his shoulder. “You see what I have to put up with?”

“Yes,” Steve said dryly. “I can tell you’ve been suffering.”

“Oh dear,” Jarvis said. “I’m afraid I made a bit of a miscalculation…”

Tony plopped the trifle down in the center of the table. “It’s fine if there’s not enough, we can share.”

“No, not the dessert. The photograph. I did not intend - well it seems I may have misjudged... Oh dear.” Jarvis held out his phone again, showing the same Twitter page.

Steve scanned it quickly, not entirely sure what he was supposed to be seeing.

“How does this have almost a thousand retweets already?” Tony asked. “Holy shit, Jarvis, how many followers do you have?”

“Thirty-four,” Jarvis said. “Mostly Avengers and the occasional member of my chess club. It appears Ms. Romanoff retweeted the picture and it seem to be… well. Is “blowing up” the proper phrase to use?”

“Not when you say it so the quotation marks are audible,” Tony said. “Why is it “blowing up” anyway?”

Pepper laughed suddenly, a sputtering snicker that she quickly stifled. “Oh no. No. Tony are you reading the comments?”

“I don’t usually bother. There’s rarely anything good to be found in any internet comments section.”

“You should read these,” Pepper said. She had one hand pressed against her mouth, trying to hide a grin. “No seriously. Read them.”

Tony gave her a sideways look, which just made her grin harder, and pulled out his own phone. “Called it, best Christmas present ever, holy shit I can’t believe they did it, lots of exclamation points - why are we gay icons? Were we gay icons before this? Does having your picture taken in front of a fireplace make you a gay icon now? Quick, Jarvis, upload that old photo of Dad posing with the gun in front of the front fireplace. Maybe someone will call him a gay icon and he’ll spin right out of his grave.”

“Tony,” Steve said.

“Right, sorry.” Tony made some surreptitious motions at Jarvis that the older man soundly ignored. “Seriously, what am I missing he- I can’t believe Cap and Iron Man just came out of the closet. What. What?”

“We didn’t though?” Steve was aware that there were parts of the culture he wasn’t up to date on, but he was ninety percent positive he knew what “coming out of the closet meant” and at least seventy percent certain that he’d done no such thing.

“It’s the picture,” Jim said. “Two well-known couples posing with their arms around each other and there’s the two of you… posing with your arms around each other. I mean, if I didn’t know you weren’t dating, I might have made that assumption.”

Steve looked at the image in dismay. It did, now that Jim had put that out there, look a bit like three couples. The poses were even the same, and he and Tony were standing very close together. “Oh.” He let his eyes linger on the image of the two of them, Tony’s arm around his waist. Tony was looking at him, not the camera, and he was smiling like there wasn’t anything in the world for him outside of Steve.

It wasn’t true, of course. Just Steve seeing what he wanted to see in an otherwise meaningless image. Just like the hundreds of other people seeing what wasn’t there. Steve made himself hand the phone back to Jarvis, carefully loosening his grip on the case. He hadn’t cracked it, but it had been a close thing.

Tony looked at him, and this time his mouth was pressed into a thin line. “It’s fine, Cap. Jarvis will delete it and if we just ignore it, the whole thing will go away overnight. People have better things to do on Christmas than gossip about celebrities.”

Steve had only been in the twenty-first century for a year, but he was pretty sure Tony was wrong about that.

“It’s been retweeted by the local new stations,” Carol said. She was sitting crossed-legged in front of the fire, scrolling through her phone so fast she couldn’t possibly be reading every word. “We’re almost to five thousand retweets. Damn. How come my selfies never take off like this?”

Steve shook his head. “I think deleting it now would just be closing the barn door after the horse runs off.”

“The gay horse,” Jim said.

Tony shot him an irritated look. “It’ll be fine,” he said, so fiercely that Steve could tell he didn’t believe it himself. “It’s late, tomorrow’s a big holiday. A Kardashian will get pregnant or Brangelina will get back together and this will be old news. I promise, Cap. It’s going to turn out to be nothing.”

Steve nodded slowly, and tried not to think about what it meant that Tony was so clearly upset about this.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it either way,” Steve said. “And it’s not like this is the worst thing that they could be saying about us. Just ignore it, and if anyone asks we can set the record straight.”

“I’m going to be on the phone with public relations all day tomorrow aren’t I?” Pepper sighed. “Pass the trifle.”

****

After trifle - thick layers of chocolate custard, fudgy brownies and chocolate cream topped with chocolate chips and bits of smashed up candy canes in a dessert that would have given pre-serum Steve at least six cavities - Tony herded them all back to the game room and literally threw presents at them before flopping down on the couch with his feet in Jim’s lap.

“We agreed no presents,” Carol said. “You shit, you do this to me every year.”

“After the third year in a row it’s kind of on you,” Jim said. “Sorry, babe. I don’t make the rules.”

“Wait, so you brought presents too?”

Jim pointed to a duffel bag sitting by the fireplace. “Of course. I’m no fool. He does this every year you know.”

Carol smacked him with a pillow.

“I brought presents too,” Pepper said, bouncing up and down on the couch. “Happy, would you-?”

Steve coughed a little. “I -uh…”

“You too?” Carol said. “Come on, I thought at least Captain America would have stuck to our agreement.”

“It’s rude not to bring your host a gift,” Steve said. He didn’t quite smirk at Carol, or at least not when anyone else could see him do it. “I left them upstairs. Let me go grab my bag and we can open them together.”

“Grab the LL Bean bag sitting on our bed on your way back down, would you?” Carol asked.

Rhodey made a disbelieving sound. “Wait, you remembered?”

Carol nodded. “Of course. Every year Tony makes us promise not to exchange gifts and then every year he gives us something and every year you let me look like a jackass. This year I came prepared. With gifts for everyone but you.” She smiled sweetly and smacked him with the pillow again while Tony burst out laughing.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve said. He jogged up the stairs to the third floor and grabbed a small stack of gifts out of his bag, then detoured down the hall to Carol and Jim’s room to grab the giant LL Bean shopping bag sitting at the foot of the bed. When he reached the stairs again, Tony was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase.

He offered Steve a quick, tight smile that didn’t entirely reach his eyes. “Hey I just wanted to check in. Are we okay?”

“Yes?” Steve shifted his grip on Carol’s bag. “I- why wouldn’t we be?”

Tony shrugged. “I saw your face when you saw those comments people were making. I know we were laughing about it, but - we’ve all had this happen to us so many times, I think we forget how violating it can be to have the press telling lies and making up stories about who we are.”

“It’s not the same,” Steve said. “This is just a misunderstanding - people are just jumping to conclusions. This is nothing like what the paparazzi do.” Steve believed firmly in a free press, but he’d never wanted to sock a reporter in the jaw more than he did when they started in on Tony.

“It’s not that different, though.” Tony didn’t quite meet Steve’s eye and he was fidgeting with his phone. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, that’s all. If I could have kept them from going after you, I would have.”

“It’s hardly slander,” Steve said. “And it’s not your fault even if it were, you didn’t post the picture.”

“No but I-” Tony stopped himself. “I just want you to have a nice Christmas,” he said finally.

“I am,” Steve said. “I’m really glad to be here. This twitter stuff is just… noise. It’s not anything that can ruin this.”

“You say that now,” Tony said, and his voice was low and tired. “But if that story gains any traction at all, the papers will start calling and the talk show hosts will start gossiping. You’ll feel differently when you can’t walk down the street without someone shouting at you or politicians condemning you for what they think you’ve been doing. It happens to everyone around me, sooner or later.”

“Tony.” Steve set the gifts down carefully and reached out to take Tony’s shoulders. For a long moment, Tony didn’t look up at him, eyes downcast, the light from the reactor making him look pale in the darkened foyer. “You’re right. They probably will say things, but anyone who feels the need to shout at me on the street for for being gay is not someone whose opinion I could ever respect. They don’t have the power to hurt me, Tony, or the power to affect our friendship.”

“It’s not the gay rumors that will be the worst,” Tony said. He finally met Steve’s gaze, mouth turned up in a cynical smirk. “Dating a whore like me though? That’ll do some really damage to your credibility.”

“Never call yourself that again,” Steve said. The words came out harder than he’d intended them to, but still too easy to match the fury Tony’s casual disdain had kindled in him. “I don’t have the slightest scrap of respect for anyone who has ever called you that, and I won’t stand for you echoing them, understand?”

Tony shook his head. “No, Steve, you don’t get it. I have a reputation and getting mixed up with that is going to taint you by association.”

“I would be damned lucky to be associated with you,” Steve said. “You’re brave, you’re smart-”

“I’m a drunk and a slut and people used my weapons to murder children.” Tony took a step back until Steve had to either hold him in place or let go. He let go, his hands falling to his sides, awkward and empty. “I saw the look on your face,” Tony said. “I know what was going through your head, all right? I know. I’m not mad, or - hell, I don’t love my reputation, I sure as hell can’t blame you for not wanting to get painted with the same brush.”

“I don’t know what you thought you saw on my face back there, but it wasn’t what you seem to think it was.”

“Don’t lie, I know what I saw. I just wish I could have stopped it from happening-”

“I wasn’t angry, Tony, would you listen to me-”

“- you have to believe me I wouldn’t have let Jarvis post it if I’d realized the trouble it would cause. I would have just - kept my fucking hands to myself or -” Tony’s voice lowered, thick with anger and self-disgust, “-or not stood there gaping at you like some kind of idiot-”

“I was disappointed!” Steve’s voice came out louder than he’d intended, sharper and it nearly echoed in the vast foyer. He bit back his next words, not entirely sure what they were going to be even as they pressed against the inside of his lips. “Tony. I wasn’t angry. I liked what I saw in that picture. I like what everyone else thinks they’re seeing. I like it when you don’t keep your hands to yourself and I like it when you smile at me like I make you happy. I want you to smile at me like that all the time. I want to stop keeping my hands to myself. I want to post that stupid picture again, but on purpose this time and I know I can’t. That’s what you saw on my face. Not anger. Just… wishful thinking.”

Tony stared at him. He had his shoulders squared and his feet were in a fighting stance that Steve had taught him, the one you take when you were supposed to brace for a blow. His hands hovered briefly in the air between them. “What?”

“We should get back,” Steve said gently. “Everyone’s waiting to open their gifts.”

“Why can’t you?” Tony asked.

“What?”

“You said-” Tony hesitated a moment, then took a step closer. “You do make me happy, you know. Just seeing you. Being near you. Knowing you’re alive in the world. I mean - look, you didn’t know me three years ago so maybe you don’t understand but you make me happy, okay?

“Tony.”

“And you don’t have to keep your hands to yourself if you don’t want to. I’m certainly terrible at it, so I could hardly judge and anyway I like it. I like when you put your arm around my shoulders and I like it when give me that condescending pat on the back when you think you’ve won an argument and I really like the way your arms feel around me when we fly into a fight. So, you can do all of that more, if you want. Or other things entirely, if you want that.”

Steve’s heart was beating faster than it should have been outside of a firefight. He hadn’t had an asthma attack since 1943 but his chest and throat felt impossible tight. “If I want-”

Tony didn’t stop long enough for him to get the rest of the sentence out. “Because I love you. I really, really love you, like in the way all those people on the internet think I love you. I think I’ve loved you from the first fucking day and I just get pulled in deeper and deeper the better I get to know you and there’s no getting out for me now. I’m just in love with you, permanently. Completely.” Tony held his hands out to his sides. “So. You can, if you want.” He sucked in a deep breath and flashed a smile that Steve had seen a million times on camera. “Or not, in case I misheard you. We can just pretend I never said any of that, in that case.”

He paused and waited, eyes fixed on Steve with an intensity that always made the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand on end. Steve could always feel when he had Tony’s attention, as if the sheer force of Tony’s regard was electric or - or magnetic. Now that force was aimed at him, intense, patient. Waiting for Steve to decide where they went next.

Steve had never intended to fall in love with anyone in this century. He’d left everyone and everything he’d ever loved decades behind him and he’d quietly closed the door on that want, that need. It wasn’t a conscious thought, not at first, but Steve knew there was a part of himself that had decided he couldn’t get hurt if he never took the risk of letting anyone close.

The Avengers had ended that, of course. Tony, first, and Natasha, Clint, Thor, even Hulk. There had been Jan and Hank, and now Sam. And in the next room over there was Jim and Carol, and the rest of Tony’s family who had, somewhere along the line, all become Steve’s friends and family. People to be protected and whose friendship he valued. Lifelines in the twenty-first century. Sandbags against the storm of time that Steve sometimes still felt battering at him.

He’d never, never intended to fall in love with Tony Stark. All stinging wit and sharp edges, bright lights with no substance.

But the wit could be gentled and the edges may have been sharp but Tony only wielded them in self-defense. He was bright and loud and flashy but if you took even a few minutes you could see the kindness Tony tried to hide and the generosity that he wouldn’t let you acknowledge. And beneath all of that a core as bright as the sun, determined to be better, to work harder, striving toward something instead of railing against the world.

Steve had found himself drawn to that. His first weeks out of the ice all he’d wanted to do was hit something, to scream at the unfairness of it all. He’d wanted to close his eyes and let the ice have him again rather than face a world that was cruel and cold and in some ways more alien than a completely different world would have been. But Stark had been there, so proud of what humanity had accomplished and so determined to show Steve all of it. So determined to convince Steve that there was something in the future worth living for, but never realizing that somewhere along the line he’d become the living embodiment of what he wanted Steve to love about the future.

He’d never thought about falling in love with Tony Stark, not until it was far, far too late to do anything about it. But he’d never gotten around to thinking about Tony Stark loving him back. Somehow that had never even entered the equation.

Steve remembered the way Tony had been smiling at him in the picture, the easy way Tony leaned into Steve’s side, Jarvis’s quiet insistence that Tony wanted Steve to be a part of the family gathering, and thought he really wasn’t half as smart as he’d thought he was.

Then he took a long step forward, curled one hand around the back of Tony’s neck, pressed the other against the small of his back and pulled him into a kiss.

It was soft, just a press of mouths together. Tony’s lips were softer than Steve had expected, and the bottom one a little swollen from Tony’s habit of biting at it when he was nervous. His lips parted slightly as he drew in a startled breath but Steve didn’t press for more. He brushed their mouths together, softly, and pulled back.

Tony stared up at him with eyes as bright as the reactor. He was tense beneath Steve’s hands, all coiled energy, every line and angle of his body waiting for the right moment to move. “Steve?”

“I want,” Steve said. He let himself smile a little and when Tony’s mouth curved into a matching grin, Steve couldn’t resist the urge to lean down and kiss it again. “I have wanted for as long as I’ve known you, Tony. Known the real you. You didn’t make it easy, but it was worth it every stubborn, irritating step of the way.”

“I’m getting mixed messages,” Tony said, but he was smiling still. He lifted his hands and set them carefully on Steve’s waist, almost as if he was waiting for Steve to object. “Can I-?”

“Yes,” Steve said.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want anything you have to give me. Anything you want to say to me, anything you want to do to me.” Steve realized how that was going to sound a second before the words left his mouth but he didn’t bother editing himself. It was true anyway.

“Why, Captain.” Tony tried for a leer but failed when his voice broke on the final vowel. His eyes were too bright, and he pulled back abruptly to scrub at them roughly. “”Are you sure?” he asked suddenly. “You know what I’m like. There are so many people who love you, you could-”

“It’s very flattering that people care about me,” Steve said. “Or find me attractive at least, but I think you’re projecting a little. Outside of our team very few people actually know me. And it doesn’t matter, because you’re the only person I want to love me back.”

“I do,” Tony said thickly. “I’m not - you shouldn’t want me to, but I do.”

They could have this conversation for hours - would, at some point, need to. But it was nearing midnight on Christmas Eve and the one thing Steve had never thought he’d have was within arm’s reach.

He wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist and kissed him again. And again. Tony held him back, hands gripping Steve’s waist so tightly it was like he expected a supervillain to pull Steve away any moment. He pressed in even closer, the reactor pressed against Steve’s shirt, the light going dark between them, his heartbeat pounding against Steve’s chest. He kissed Steve like he thought he’d never get to do it again.

He tasted like candy canes.

“I love you,” Steve said softly. He pressed the words against Tony’s mouth, willed him to take them in, to swallow them down and keep them.

“Awwwww,” Carol said from somewhere in the vicinity of their knees.

They both jumped and nearly bashed their skulls together. “Carol, what the hell?” Tony demanded.

She was crouched on her toes and had one hand stretched out toward the pile of gifts Steve had abandoned earlier. “Look, you went up stairs like, an hour ago and I want presents!”

Jim’s voice came from the opposite side of the staircase. “Tony wants his present too, that’s the problem.” He gave them both a stern look and shook his head. “Tones. You couldn’t wait to unwrap him for a couple more hours, huh?”

“I hate you,” Tony said. “All of you, get out of my house.”

“I have a key,” Jim said. “Anyway, Jarvis wouldn’t let you kick us out on Christmas.” He scooped up Steve’s little stack of gifts and followed Carol back to the game room. “Come on, lovebirds. Have your drama later. My girl has the right idea.”

“Your what now?” Carol asked sweetly.

“My woman,” Jim called back. “My brilliant, badass woman who got me a present even if she says she didn’t.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Steve took Tony’s hand and tugged him along toward the game room. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s not keep your family waiting. Besides, I want to give you your present. And I want to see the look on Rhodey’s face when he realizes Carol really didn’t buy him anything.”

Tony licked his lips. “How do you know - “

“There are five pairs of LL Bean slippers in that bag and nothing else.” Steve grinned. “I peeked.”

“I love it when you’re naughty.” Tony tucked himself against Steve’s side. “This is - I didn’t expect this when I came out here but… this is good, right? We’re okay?”

“We’re going to be great,” Steve said.

****

The second picture got even more notes than the first and made it to the front page of CNN by breakfast. Posted to Tony’s public twitter right on the stroke of midnight, it was just Steve and Tony, sitting in a heap of torn and wadded up wrapping paper. Steve had nearly a dozen sticky bows stuck to his shirt. Tony had been aggressively decorated with tinsel and ribbons and there were what looked like a dozen candy canes hooked onto the collar of his shirt. Tony was straddling Steve’s lap, his forehead pressed to Steve’s. They were both smiling.

The caption read “Thank you, Santa.”

[okimargarvez]

S. VALENTINE IN RED (BLOOD)

Original title: San Valentino in rosso (sangue)

Prompt: crime case, anonymous courtesy, one night deleted.

Warning: none.

Genre: romantic, angst, friendship.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, BAU team, Roxy.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot.

Legend: 💑💏😘😈🔦🐶

Song mentioned: none.

A serial killer who kills only once a year: in the period preceding and following Valentine’s Day. His victims are apparently random, they don’t have in common neither gender nor ethnicity, or age, or social class. But the BAU team is forced to speed up the investigation, when their computer technician is in danger of becoming next victim.

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

S. VALENTINE IN RED (BLOOD) 02/14/16

-And those flowers? - the dark man scrutinizes the colorful bunch of carefully placed on the desk of computer technician. The latter glares at him, asking him telepathically probably the reason for his sudden entrance. He had never entered in before. In nearly six months. The thing is quite strange.

-What is it, Alvez, do you think I bought them myself?- her tone is ironic with different bad shades, as always when she talking with him, apart from rarely if the subject of their conversation is Roxy. Yet that draws him far more than if she behaves like with all the others, even with Stephen, the very latest member who was joined their team, with whom she has been since the beginning sweet, cute and loving. Exactly the opposite to him: after all he has committed a serious infringement: he had taken the place of Agent Morgan.

-No.- he answers only. As hard as her is a weird, eccentric person, especially in the way she dresses up her hideout and herself, from what he can see (he doesn’t lose the opportunity to carefully scrutinize every detail of the room, all the pictures - damn, how many photos of her with Derek, them hugging… - cuddly puppets, colored pens), he can’t imagine her buying flowers for herself. She maintains a fixed her gaze in that of man. Always with the same defiance in her eyes, but what’s really at stake? He has some ideas, one, to be sure, but not the courage to express it. But something shines through her manner however: the lips that fold into mischievous way, arched eyebrows, smarting eyes and brighter than usual.

-So, what do you want? - how strong is the urge to take off that grimace of her mouth, once and for all? Enough to fall? Or surrender?

-Anything. But Emily told me that we must work together.- he announced casually, as if he didn’t care the task given by their leader. He really isn’t able to mask the entire satisfaction that he feels, telling her that she’ll forced to endure his presence for many more hours than what she thinks; that she had to got to get over it, seek to cooperate with him. Alone. The woman snorts, whirling around, turning to one of the numerous screens scattered around her bunker and sitting at her desk. Her blond hair flutter wrapping her face. He doesn’t hold a slight chuckle and after a moment’s pause, he approaches her slowly, bending and staying a few centimeters from her neck. For a moment in his mind pass very different images, from those of the case that they should studied.

-I am perfectly able to do my part alone.- she says, her voice firm and precise, not even turning and trying to pretend she doesn’t care the concrete fact that the damn breath of him, warm and… (no!) is brushing her bare and vulnerable skin. She doesn’t know if the man has noticed it, but soon his face is almost up to her shoulder and she can’t help but experience a feeling of deja-vu quite particular, because the male subject isn’t the same of her memories. And this is precisely the problem. She feels the weight of his eyes and embarrassment that tries to make red her cheeks. But she’ll never give this satisfaction to him. But he doesn’t stop to staring her and if she thought good for a moment about it, she would come to the right conclusion. Three coincidences are a proof. And she would have far more to explore.

-I’m sorry, Emily said that we can’t stay alone and you have to get over it, she had entrusted you to me.- he makes a significant pause. She hates when he does that. And then, the choice of terms. Entrusted, as if I were a… No, what Alvez intends is quite different, as if she really need a protection… -You have to learn to be more professional.- isn’t the first time that he gives her a scolding this kind. Once he dared to say that she should be nicer (but in his head, he thought cute) with him. I, the Queen of nice! And he had the gall to respond, Maybe like … the Queen of ice. And perhaps the heart of the matter was that the beautiful dark man wanted to be able to make melted her… in more ways than one.

-Okay, Newbie.- she strongly highlights her favorite nickname for him. -There are papers.- she shows him a huge pile that nearly submerge whole table. -We must digitize each document.- she makes even a break, allowing herself to turn her head toward his. Now they are at the same height. She approaches a bit. A little too much. she seems to see his pupils dilate, but… -Enjoy yourselves.- and she returns to take care of her computer.

Luke passes the next three minutes mentally relive the last scene. What the hell she had wanted to do? Only provoke him, or was there more? Maybe she… knew? And what it was there to know? Here was the real question. So, it’s better if he focuses his resources on those files. And so, he begins with finding a chair, bringing it closer to that of her (but not too much, keep a safe distance) and dictate her those information’s, which turn quickly in brilliantly data from the action of darting and quick fingers of the bespectacled blonde. She is so fast also in other situations? he can’t help but wonder, then he thanks everyone who has made sure that the thoughts remain as such, stored in personal storage and inaudible from other external.

-What’s the matter with you, Alvez? You saw a ghost?- he realizes that he was holding clutching a paper from a long time. She is peering him too carefully. He must recover immediately.

-I was… I was just thinking that today is Valentine’s day.- he shoots the first bullshit that crosses his mind. She doesn’t seem very convinced, but she flies over.

-Uh uh.- she emits verses in television sitcom style -Don’t tell me that Roxy has a rival.- is her convoluted way in order to extract information without him clearly understand that she is interested to know if he is engaged, without her knowing. And maybe something more, but we overlook. This is what the dark man hoped, but not betting on it too many chips. He shakes his head. He is unable to say more, because it would sound something like Actually yes, she is here in front of me. What the hell is this thought? Concentrate on this damn case! But there’s nothing to do. Isn’t destiny that today is a fruitful day.

-It’s eight o'clock at night…- Garcia looks up to a rose clock kitten-shaped, with its tail beating the passing of every second. But he observes the way in which some tufts of her hair fall on the neck, until the neckline. But he can divert his attention before the computer technician being aware of it.

-Well, you can go home, I still have to settle a thing.- after a moment, she understands that he has no intention to carry out her order. -I don’t need a damn bodyguard!- she says, placing angrily already digitized documents in a special folder. Luke asks himself the real reason behind this sudden anger that seems to have possessed her. Even he seems to see a reflection in her dark eyes and some crystals on her eyelashes, as if she had been crying…

-It is useless to try to fool me, Garcia. We can’t be alone until the unsub shall have been catch.- and this thing doesn’t dislike him at all. But he lets her guess this only minimally. Almost there was a game going on, between them, an endless game, destined to remain without a winner. Not at least until neither of them will make a really bold move first. Not until neither of them won’t be willing to reveal his cards.

-But imagine if, with lean JJ blonde with blue eyes, Emily brunette and slender, Tara and her shades of amber… the crazy on duty would kidnaps me! - and how many things can be in a word produced by a single syllable, two only letters? A whole world, immense suffering, an unknown past (but not too). Garcia isn’t unable to restrain herself. She wouldn’t certainly have wanted to make it clear to the agent with whom she has less relation in entire team, that she not considered herself aesthetically worthy of being the victim of a serial killer.

-Except for the fact that they will not stand alone- ugly truth, this (JJ has Will and her sons, Tara her father and her brother, Emily has Mark and Sergio) -what would you mean?- but looking at those so damned dark eyes, in those depths in which she wants so desperately to get lost and not think about the consequences (at least for one fucking time), she realizes that he knows, what, how serious is, no, she doesn’t want to think about it. But he understood everything, or better he understood too much, and the blonde is not able to deal with the repercussions of this.

-What you think- she crosses her arms, defensive -and you not have the courage to say.- now his black eyebrows are raised surprised and concerned. But it’s just her head. It’s not real. -What I’m not beautiful enough to receive flowers from a stranger, nor chocolates… therefore why with all the beautiful women available in the BAU, someone should kidnap me?- and this time there is no trace of irony in her tone, or angry, if not towards herself. They dominate the sadness, sorrow towards what she feels like an absolute truth and impossible to change. -In the movie, those like me are killed only if they are unable to mind their own business.- but she reads too much understanding into those spheres open to scrutinize her. Too much to bear. If it was any other day, but it’s that day. She goes back in many years, when her hair, tied in pigtails, came up to the knees of Luke. When she was really happy, and she hadn’t to strain every day to believe it. She is a positive person. But there is difference between hoping and believe it seriously. One difference platonic, that only those who know the Iperuranio may really understand. Damned philosopher’s exam…

When tears begin to fall, she leaves free the documents, preventing them from stain and get wet with a part of her DNA. While the salty drops continue their path down her face up to clothes, she curses herself for being so weak, so foolish as to start crying right in front of him. She would have so much need of the man who replaced him. He doesn’t tease her. He would hug her, and everything seems better. Bearable. Better than nothing. But unfortunately, when she lifts her eyes in front of her there is always the ex-ranger, tall, dark and bland-some, and terribly sexy, even when he pretending to be concerned about her. If only he hadn’t occupied just that place. If only he hadn’t joined the BAU. If only she hadn’t been so… not his kind of woman. What the hell are these thoughts? She doesn’t like him, dammit, Luke Alvez. She can’t stand him. Every time she tries to take the elevator and believes she can enjoy a minute to herself, he appears behind her and he starts doing questions about her Canadian boyfriend. And then, wretched Emily, although I love you the same, she must stand him indefinitely. Why she had to put him with her? They could all camp out in their offices. But others have their lives outside of here: moms that need help, husbands and sons, boyfriends, ex-wives not too ex… You’re damn alone. And he is no less. Although he has at least a very cute dog waiting for him every night. And heck, how difficult it is to strive to appear unpleasant when there Roxy around.

From the corner of eye, despite hers are grew cloudy, worse than if there was fog on the highway, she captures a movement. The man is always there that stares at her, but now he is really extremely too close. An alarm continues to reverberate in her head.

-Penelope…- finally it’s what comes out of his lips, so stretched out toward hers, colored. She decides to completely ignore the tone of gentleness and understanding in his voice and focus on whatever he may have done wrong.

-Don’t call me Penelope. You’re not…- but this time Luke hasn’t going to wait, to grant her time.

-I’m not..?- and the distance is still reducing. She can’t argue anything. -Derek Morgan?- still no response or sign of life. -It’s his what you meant, or not?- any signs of tenderness disappear from his expression. In its place predominates again that look of defiance that she’ll never caught. -Exactly, I’m not. I’m your partner in this case, and because you don’t…- a moment before he had earned some points and less than a thousandth of a second later, he has already ruined it.

-I don’t have…?- the tears have dried on her eyelashes. The tap is finally closed. Her cheeks are red with anger that has again conquered her heart. -I haven’t anyone?- but it sounds more like an affirmation than one rhetorical question. -JJ has Will, Emily has Mark, Tara her father and brother, Spencer his mother, Stephen his family, Rossi his ex… and I have no one and that’s why I am forced to spend Valentine’s Day with you.- it was not exactly what she wanted to say. It could easily be misinterpreted. -Why I shouldn’t cry?- she stands up and deletes the last traces wet with a sleeves, giving him shoulders, not having the courage to hear his answer, if never will be there. But a sudden grip on her arm forces her to look back at him and in a second their equally dark eyes chained each other.

-I have never said that you shouldn’t cry…- he says so gently that this time even Penelope isn’t able to argue with some pungent phrase, fired at random (but not too).

-Please, don’t try to seems sweet.- she says after a few minutes that remain silent, simply either of them ever distract the eye from the other. -I’ll come home with you, I give up.- she raises her hands imitating the gesture of surrender. And for the second time in a few hours, in his mind pass very different pictures of how he would spend Valentine’s Day with her, if he could. -But I don’t want fake sentimentality.- she is quick to argue before turning off the computer, put on hers jacket (which can’t quite mask her exuberant forms), grab the bag and walk out of her bat-cave, followed by Luke. He raises his eyes to heaven, asking for divine help to survive the evening.

The elevator ride has never been so long. Those few seconds seem immense. Neither speaks. Luke looks at her only in passing, as to make sure that she is true. She doesn’t notice it, intently staring at her shoes. They come to his car in silence. Before he has the time to open the door, Penelope is already seated. Not because she feels at home, but just to prevent him to do some act that could put her even more embarrassed. Neither has the courage to break the ice. Luke thinks of a million ways to start a conversation, but he discards them one after another. Because in the end, the only thing he would like to ask her, is the reason why just a moment ago, she burst into tears. Not only because she doesn’t consider herself suitable to the kidnapping. He is sure. There’s more to this.

Eventually, however, they stop before in front of a house of modest size. But too big for one single person. And this time the blonde can’t prevent that her coworker opens the door to her. But he stays in the doorway, when she gives him a sharp look before disappearing behind the door of her own home. She didn’t intend to share with him this part of her life. She always tried to keep it separate from work, although ten years ago she was being unable to avoid it. After just five minutes she resurfaces with a small suitcase with wheels. She looks up and immediately Luke’s eyes capture hers. Apparently, she doesn’t seem to have moved since she had left him there. He notices the way she looks at him and he understand what she is thinking.

-It’s all worked out.- she justifies herself with a shrug. The man is going to grab it out of her hands, but she avoids him, fleeing toward the car. Left alone he raises his eyes to heaven (for the umpteenth time and probably certainly not the last) before reaching her. It will be a long night, much longer than he could believe. Because when they get closer to his home, where Roxy is awaiting (unaware of the surprise that awaits her), he can’t help but imagine what he would it was going to happen with her. It’s hard to concentrate on driving, having her so close. And when they ’ll behind those walls…

He opens the door and lets her go first; in doing so their bodies brush slightly, by transmitting tremors each other, although both do ignore it. But he is less able to her to play ignorant, and at that exact moment he would reach out his arms and holds her so that the contact between them endure some more. Her perfume, her skin … enough!

The hand automatically finds the switch. Roxy is in crisis because she doesn’t know whether to greet prior the guest or her master; eventually she opts for “attacking” both simultaneously. And in doing so she forces them to stay closer. After another awkward moment, she unexpectedly speaks first.

-Show me where I’ll sleep, so tomorrow morning we’ll be able to get up early and maybe then this story will be ended.- but he takes his time, indeed. He approaches her of a few centimeters to the passing of every minute. And she didn’t move away, but she not even goes meet him. She stays still, as in shock. The last time a man looked at her that way and who behaved in a similar way, she found herself with a bullet near the heart. But he isn’t like Battle. Even if she knows him too little to be able to judge him. But he is a federal, he doesn’t want to kill her. But… why he keeps getting closer and closer? He wants to make fun of her, is the only solution. Or loneliness is playing some sort of a trick with his mind and rather than spend Valentine’s Day alone, he is willing to pretend to be interested in her. In any case, when now only two air centimeters separates their faces, fortunately Luke stops. But his hands come to life and wrapping around her face, caressing her cheeks with both thumbs.

-What… what…- for a moment she isn’t able to ask the question. -What are you doing?- his gaze seems so sweet, as when he talks about his dog. It’s been too long since a man touched her seriously. She is too vulnerable. But she can’t give up at this point. She still has a dignity. And then… she turns red at the thought of showing naked before his eyes.

-Just something I wanted to do for a long time…- he whispers, not leaving the grip, while on his full lips is painted a smile devoid of any kind of irony. Still he can’t believe this is happening. He hadn’t decided a priori that as soon as they were safe within his walls, he would make his move. However, when there was that brief contact, he realized he couldn’t continue to reject the desire the whole evening. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for a while. When he would have another chance to have Garcia to his house? -I desire you terribly… I’ll not pretend it’s not so…- he immediately captures the expression of surprise which appears on her face. -If I were a unsub, crazy and dangerous, I’d kidnap you without thinking twice.- he whispers with a sexy tone that beats any Fifty (but even Hundred) Shades of Gray, Red, Black… is the most strange and absurd compliment that she have ever receive. She can’t help but chuckle, though nervously. -I’m serious, Penelope.- her name… how it sounds on those lips… it is useless that she still to deny. She wants him, she wants him in a way so tragic and intense, to hate herself. She needs him, without knowing why. And then his fingers slipping toward her mouth, touching her lips, opening her mouth, and finally he starts to lean in his direction, making her feel all their height difference. When their mouths come into contact, everything that happened before this moment seems to fade. She doesn’t want to think about the fact that tomorrow morning, definitely, she’ll be in the throes of remorse and repentance. At least for one evening, she wants to live what will happen and nothing else. While the tongues ​​are intertwined, conducting various dances, in the numerous minimum pause for breath, she feels so beautiful, so desired… After a few minutes his hands going to remove her jacket, without letting her, as she had watch only in the movie and this excites her more than she would like. Each button causes her a gasp. Taking courage even her fingers, colored with rainbow colors, getting under his shirt, unbuttoning it and finally meet the skin under it, run through the muscles in length and breadth. She can’t help but smile when she hears him moan with pleasure. -Penelope…- her jacket falls to the ground. The big hands of the man linger a moment, remaining on the ribs, causing her various chills. She has to give him the green light, so he finally can reach her breasts and losing his mind simultaneously. And when he realizes that he can’t really resist more, that his jeans are really too tight… he leads her into his room (where no other woman has ever set foot), making her walk backwards. He takes off her shirt, her skirt, then he is stopped from her hands and her agitated tone.

-We could… turn off the light?- she doesn’t want him to see her how she truly is, without make-up and accessories, out of her role as BAU’s omniscient genius. Without those things, she doesn’t think she can be attractive. And Luke didn’t take long to figure it out. He stares her intently, still stroking her cheek once.

-You don’t need anything else, apart from your soul, to shine before my eyes.- and after a statement like that, even the fears of Garcia falter, enough that allowed him to complete his work.

And before they become one, he looks long at her, with a mix of desire and tenderness, as if to make her understand that yes, he wants her in that sense, but there’s more behind and when he have will the courage to peer into his soul, he’ll prove it. And in that instant, she believes him.

Lying beneath his muscular body and dripping sweat, she still can’t be convinced that it really happened. Sure, she was out of practice, but he’s been… monstrous. Luke remains in this position for a while, raised his body with the arms to avoid crushing her. It was far more than what he could expected, though never before he had dared to imagine how it could be. Yet, though she seems satisfied, remains a shadow that floating on her face, trying to obscure that moment.

-What you’re thinking, chica?- a lifetime had gone by since the last time he had used that nickname for her. She hadn’t realized how much she missed until she hadn’t heard it again. There was a something personal and possessive, in that nickname in Spanish.

-That it was excellent sex, but in a few hours, my crumpled dress will be the only tangible trace of it.- he didn’t expect she would give him an answer so blunt. He is glad she told him the truth, but at the same time he didn’t like her choice of terms, to define their… Close encounter. But, thinking about it, in fact, she’s right.

-This depends on us…- he replies, without yet being able to expose himself. Penelope looks at him strangely. -If you wanted to…- he strives to take courage -…I could show you the difference between having sex and making love…- at this point the blonde pushes abruptly away him and trying to get dressed. When he tries to stop her, she begins to scream.

-Don’t try to make me believe that suddenly you’re in love with me or other silly stories like in C-movie. It’s Valentine’s Day, we found ourselves forced in this situation, I don’t… for a while, and because of the impetuousness that you have shown, I guess you too. Two frustrations have led to a few moments of satisfaction. Now we don’t have to build on this a Disney tale.- the worst is that she really seems to believe in what she says with bitterness and sadness, gradually lowering the pitch up to a kind of resignation.

-Even if I told you, you would think that is a lie, right?- she nods firmly. -So, let me try to use another kind of “speech”. If you were to have right, you just would have to making “good sex” like you insist on defining it…- and if she decides to surrender, it’s mainly because she wants to get to understand why the hell, he still wants to fool her with this story of “there is more than rubbing under the sheets”.

The next morning, they don’t get up at six, like Penelope had expected, but much later, exhausted from the second and third round. In the end he had reason; making love was something else; yet she still didn’t believe him at all, she couldn’t let go herself and risks, yet she was very close to do it. Already the first cracks in her armor of ice were visible without the aid of a microscope. Luke had understood, especially when he had awakened in the middle of the night and he had found her, resting on his chest, her face innocence of a child. But he wasn’t going to push too hard on the accelerator, he would have given her time, now that he had made a significant first step. The street to convince her that he was really interested in her as a person (not just physically), it was still very difficult and tortuous.

Yet only hours after he finds himself again back to square one.

-Where are you?- random question doesn’t seem to have any immediate effect. -Garcia?- she finally turns to him and seems to sense his presence. But she isn’t going to say anything. How she can? She has now admitted herself to be attracted to him, but what happened last night was just a lucky… case, a convergence of situations, definitely not something that will be repeated in the future. With the idea of being forced to spend the evening together, because there was a serial killer on the loose, the distorted thinking that she could become one of the victims… this must somehow have him excited, driven him to do what he did. But it was only a moment, a way to stress that they were still alive, that everything was still possible. But she couldn’t tell him, because she wouldn’t have been able to mask the fact that for her, their meeting wasn’t just sex. -Hey, it’s almost time to go to work. Criminals don’t wait!- he tries a joke that not obtain any reaction in woman. Now he really starts to worry. But when at last their eyes meet, everything becomes terribly clear. -Yet. Tell me I’m wrong, Penelope.- while he talking his tone increases the intensity. -Tell me that you aren’t again convinced that yesterday I was just… caught with the situation.- but she doesn’t respond, and a slight furrow starts to dig between them.

02/13/17

A year after that groove has become a chasm. They continued to work together, as if nothing had happened; a few months after, they start again to exchange jokes in the presence of others; but unlike previous times, there was much more behind, than some expressions two-way. It was as if each blamed the other for what had happened between them. Because in the meantime, the feelings that were unripe, have developed, settling in their souls. And taking with this resentment and regret.

The killer of roses, as the press had dubbed the unsub, which kills during the period close to Valentine’s Day and for the rest of the year will become off the grid, was still active. On February 15 the previous year Penelope and Luke had been welcomed by the dark looks of their colleagues. The name of another woman that night had been added to an already too long list. But she hadn’t been a total stranger. She was a childhood friend of Emily. The chief of the BAU had decided that there wouldn’t be another. And she was prepared to keep this promise at any cost.

To the point that she pushes JJ to give an interview, where she threw a challenge to the killer. And someone didn’t like it.

Garcia winces when she hears someone reach her behind shoulders. She was re-reading for the umpteenth time the note she had received. Like the others, it was signed cryptically. But today it contained one more particular: he tells her to wait for him the next day in the waiting room that preceded the entrance to the main offices of the heads of various departments of the FBI. She had suspected from the beginning that he was one of them, indeed, she had even hoped that could be Luke… but that wasn’t his style and basically it was better that way. She had to find a way to forget. It had been just a damn night; there had been no promises or exchange of important phrases. So why she hated him so deeply? Why a year had passed, and she couldn’t overcome it?

-Look that, we are just waiting for you…- the man was able to give only a sidelong glance at the narrow cardboard between the long fingers of the technician, remaining a bit too long staring her. But he doesn’t have enough elements to make an educated guess. Although, judging by this perfume… it’s certainly something private and … gallant. And it bothers him, a lot. Especially because before entering into Penelope’s bunker, he lingered a few minutes behind the door, hearing her talk to herself. And in this case, he understood every syllable uttered by her full lips. She believes that the type of the cards, damn if I catch you, you’re dead, is also in charge of the flowers she received during all this week… chocolates… books… everything that I gave her, accompanying each gift with a phrase (engraved on each one and inseparable from it) that I hoped would show her who was the “handler”, the “sender.” But I just made sure that the type of the cards earned more points. And I can’t even say anything, because that is going to make me look like an idiot.

-Luke? Now you’re the one lost on moon.- she chuckles slightly. She adores make fun of him and she doesn’t do anything to hide it. When he lifts his head, as always, their eyes chain up, and in those brief moments they confess million secrets, and, as Bukowski said, they make love with eyes. It’s weird how easy it’s to forget that he knows everything, that he has seen her naked in every possible way implied from the term. It’s absurd how easy it’s to continue this farce rather than admit they were wrong.

-Someone has perhaps a secret admirer?- he dares to ask, carefully watching how she arranged the different flowers (why you not go to do a damn search on the internet on their precise meaning?) and as one of the books he gave her, is open in the middle on the table. The blonde raises her eyes, annoyed (because he has no right to ask her about her private life) and yet flattered by his jealousy (because this could mean that perhaps he still feels a little something for her).

-If it was, it’s not your business.- he comes dangerously close, as he had hardly done in recent months. Because kissing her wouldn’t lead to any result, except to meet again in the horizontal position. And once it wasn’t enough, in fact, it has done more harm than good. -I know you think I can’t be worthy of receiving attention from a man, but you’re not always right.- she says it not because she believes seriously (the past year is at least served to find more self-confidence and begin to truly love herself, with or without glitter), but because she wants to force him to contradict her. With the corner of eye, she sees his hands tight a fist, the veins of his muscular arms stand out along with the muscles tense. He bends a little toward her, and, as it happens during accidents, she doesn’t seem to be able to move around and avoid catastrophe.

-I never said you didn’t deserve male attentions, but who or what tells you it’s a boy? Do you know him? You did identified him in some way?- he tries to try to make her understand that, notes aside, the man who has rekindled her smile these days, through various surprises that would show how much he had learned to know her seriously, was none other than the one she had in front of her. But Garcia doesn’t notice the love that he gives her. She just thinks that he demonstrates a kind of very childish jealousy, as if he doesn’t really want her, but at the same time he wishes that no one else feels something for her. She finally able to reactivate circulation of her blood and takes a step, leaving the door ajar. But Luke stops her before she can get out of it completely, grabbing her arm.

-Leave me! Did not you say the team was only waiting for me to expose the case? And then, let’s go. The others will be wondering if we weren’t sucked into a black hole.- but he isn’t going to do the right thing, or at least the most rational, reaching their colleagues and taking care of their work, another day pretending it’s nothing. He lets her go, but he turns towards the flowers, books and anything else that was donated by the “mysterious admirer.” She observes him in shock, unable to understand what the hell he’s doing.

-You might not be able to understand it?- he makes them all fall down in front of her. His dark eyes seem like coated with a thin veil. Might be tears, but it looks little likely. -May. You had tell JJ you liked science fiction novels of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, even more than the well known masterpieces of Sherlock Holmes.- shock increases more and more in Garcia, as she listening to him talk, associating something she said, maybe in passing, during the last year, each of the objects that she has received this week next to Valentine’s Day. -When you were a kid your favorite color was purple and you dreamed of having a horse.- also the puppet go to reach the pile at the foot of the blonde. When he silent, she remains for a moment to stare him, unable to pronounce the truth in a loud voice: it was him. Luke Alvez knew her better than herself. But… why?

-But… but… those notes… those words… why you didn’t write something that would make me realize that you were behind this?- the Latin sighs, frustrated.

-I never sent you any note.- a shiver runs through the body of the computer technician. Not for pleasure, but of sheer terror.

-So… who did write this?- just then the door opens and Rossi appears, the worried look that turns quickly in surprised and confused to see them like that, all those objects and flowers on the floor.

-Luke, Penelope, we were about to send out the search team…- no one laughs at his joke. -What the hell happened here inside?- it doesn’t take a profiler to note that both are blushing and launch murderous glances at each other. -Where’d this come from?- before he can make time to talk, the man is preceded by Garcia.

-I have a secret admirer. I was arranging this mess, when Luke came to warn me that the meeting was about to begin, and… we clashed. He was giving me a hand to collect everything.- the explanation given is credible enough, but Dave feels that doesn’t properly correspond to the truth. Before entering he felt them shouting each other and neither of them was bent or it was going to resetting… But he decides to overlook. They have already lost too much time. The blonde throws a sharp look at Luke, who wonders why she wanted to cover him, and if he has to positively interpret this attitude or rather the exact opposite. At the end he gives up and follows the other two down the hall to the meeting room. He tries to ignore it, but it’s impossible not to notice the mischievous look of JJ, the confusion of Reid, doubts painted on the faces of the rest of the agents.

Emily rolls her eyes and finally begins to expose the case that everyone knows very well -The last victim was Sasha Ivanova . And I emphasize “last.” As I said a year ago, there haven’t to be others. We have to catch the unsub. We have had more than ten years to take him, he was being free to do what he wanted. It’s time somebody ruins his plans.- anger in her eyes is evident and it’s also transmitted in the way she holding the remote control. -But I have not called you here to reiterate the obvious. There is news.- Luke subconsciously search for Penelope’s eyes and her hand (but not implement his own thoughts). -Chicago police found some interesting details…. Each of the victims under their jurisdiction had received “gifts” from a secret admirer, in the week before the murder.- after the last sentence also Rossi stares Garcia, who looks toward her shoes, hoping to disappear.

-But especially, they found some notes. The hand that had written them is the same in all cases.- now Agent Alvez feels really fear, fear for this woman, so damn stubborn that she would be willing to get kidnapped in order not to let people know that he is the author of the gifts she has received… but not the notes. And she is willing to risk, in order to prove that she has reason: she isn’t a type that someone might abducting, consequently she runs no risk.

-Garcia, can we talk for a moment face-to-face?- the woman takes a second too long to get up. Luke would follow them, but he doesn’t know what excuse to adopt. -All those gifts that I saw in your room… there were some notes to accompany them?- she doesn’t know what to say. Betraying Luke? Or rather betray herself, because what David will think, when he’ll know that she lied about something like that?

Left in the meeting room, Luke can’t concentrate on what his colleagues are saying. Conversations come to his brain as muted, as if he had cotton in his ears or was in a soap bubble. He can’t think of anything other than what they are saying? And the answer comes soon enough. The oldest agent returns alone. Things get worse than he expected.

-What’s going on, Dave?- Emily finally gives voice to what everyone is wondering.

-Penelope received very similar gifts to those you have just described a moment ago.- everyone except Luke, open their astonished eyes. -And even the famous notes. No need for a graphologist for sentencing that were written by the same person.- JJ launches a desperate look toward Reid.

-What? Why she doesn’t told us about it? And where is she?- the young genius puts his arm around the blonde, now in tears. Tara stays more composed, but she is equally worried.

-She is in my office. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, and we don’t know when the unsub will hit. Just finished here, I’ll accompany her in the secret areas of the FBI for Witness Protection.- the ex-ranger immediately guess the future: he not see her again for who knows how long, if not forever. It’s not an acceptable perspective. But even the idea that she can seriously become the next victim of the killer of roses. If only she would leave herself to protect by me! He has before him an important choice: are more important his own selfish needs or the safety of the computer technician?

-We can’t even greet her?-  no one could answer negatively the desperate request of the blonde of the FBI. The oldest in the room nods his head and everybody make their way to his office. Luke last, lost in his thought. I can’t let her go. I can’t lose her. Rossi knocks with two shots, then he pauses, and he knocks other three times. The door opens, and Penelope appears that tries to hold back tears, with poor results. The impulse to rush to comfort her is strong, more than any other he has had at this year’s “separation” and abstinence, to kiss her or hold her so their bodies again converging. But yet he resists, with the last of patience grains he’s got. In the room they are eight of them, but, as one of the classic cliché, it’s just them in there. Their eyes are fixed, inseparable, they are seemingly oblivious to what is happening around; they carry on one conversation parallel to the verbal one. She is pleading him not to do what he thinks, and he, in turn, he’s apologizing because he can’t perform what she asks.

-Penelope… Why didn’t you tell us anything?- the women of the team surround their friend, partially interrupting the visual contact between the two. It’s the leader who speaks, while JJ strives not to cry in turn. She thinks of the day that saved her life, shooting point-blank at her attempted assassin. You do whatever it takes to protect your family.

-I… I didn’t think it had to do with the case. I was seeing one of the security officers of the first-floor and… I thought he was just very shy. - Luke feels a sharp pain in his chest at this revelation. But she is saying the truth, or it’s just a way to escape from him?

-No, not again. This time I’ll not allow to happen what happened with Battle.- the brunette says resolutely. Now Tara, Stephen, not to mention the agent Alvez, are even more confused. Meanwhile, the self-control of the latter is going more and more going to hell. -A policeman with murderess hero syndrome…- Prentiss begins to explain, but she is blocked by their own victim-subject of the story.

-I know that you will do everything to stop it.- she glances her very clear. Don’t speak of this matter. She doesn’t want him to know. She doesn’t want he knows this part of her life, this is connecting directly to a person and a series of misunderstandings that led where she is now. It doesn’t matter that for this man (damned the day when Hotch asked him to work with the BAU!) she now feels a much stronger feeling of confusion than a year earlier.

-I hate having to be a spoilsport, but… we have to go.- Rossi changes the subject. Luke observes Penelope, the woman for whom he feels more than he wanted (because this has greatly complicated his life) taking her own bag. He decided that this time he’ll not let her go away, like that day nearly a year ago.

-Wait! I have something to say.- everyone turns toward him. Garcia silently shouts him to stop. We can go on like this. We can pretend that nothing happened. Only you and me, know that. -I’m sorry. I gave her those things. Not the unsub. Except for the notes.- he adds bitterly. He explicitly turns to her and everyone understand the implications at stake. JJ wonders how it’s possible that she not noticed what had happened between her best friend, godmother of her children, and the Newbie. Sure, there were some incidents that had given her to think about, like when he played with the remote control in the meeting room and he had taken time considerable to pass it at her. Not to mention the countless times she had caught him staring at her. Yet she didn’t connect the dots. What stupid! -I’m sorry, Penelope. I know you didn’t want others to know, but I can’t allow you to finish in the witness protection program and disappear forever… just because I’m unable to deal with the complexity of the feelings that you arouses in me.- behold, he had said this. Now there’s no going back. Now everybody knows, including her. She stares him even more astonished than before, if possible.

-This doesn’t change anything, however.- the pure wisdom of Rossi intrudes, he’s not just able to realize that his kitten has a true lover, willing to do anything for her, even humiliate publicly himself or expose himself to rejection. -The writing matches perfectly, meaning that Garcia is still among the potential victims of the killer of roses.- the dark man nods, but he still seems to have something to say. Also, because all the others are still paralyzed by the news.

-I’m aware that she is still in danger, but… I would like to be able to contribute to her security, if you allow me… I participated in several operations of the witness protection program. I know how it works. And if the killer is clever enough, no protection is enough. I also feel that Garcia was chosen for a reason. Her belonging to the team.- finally someone seems to be able to recover.

-I understand what you want to mean. With this press conference, Prentiss has virtually challenged the unsub. Or in any case, it’s what seemed to him.- Reid asserts, while his face assumes the classic thinker’s poses.

-But then why he hasn’t hooked me up?- the chief asks.

-Because Garcia was … the woman most low-risk.- saying this, he knows he hurts her. But it’s better an ugly truth than a pretty lie, but with little lasting and more harmful effects in the long run. -You, Emily, live with your boyfriend… JJ has a whole family thinking about her, while Tara has returned to live with her father and brother… Penelope is simply the only woman in BAU… lonely.- and adding this, he transmits the idea that it’s her fault. It was mainly her stubbornness and her belief that he can’t absolutely like her, what had truncated any possibility of a serious development between them, a year earlier. And he was too confused at the time of their past, to prevent her from doing that bullshit.

-I’m fear you’re right, Luke.- the Italian admits. -And then, what is your proposal?- if he could say exactly what he thinks! Go to my house, make her a special dinner, talk, talk for hours, explain and ask for explanations. Try to find a way to make her understand how difficult it was this long year, because her coldness has hurt me, how I wanted to hold her, even by force, and only tell her I’m sorry, I’m very confused, but not enough to let you go away. How I wanted to try the feeling of having her lips fused with my own, and the courage to ask her if she, too, at least once, maybe before going to sleep, she felt that loneliness hug her, hold her in a vise that is neither liberating nor consoling. And then try to convince her that I’m able to protect her, I can do it, I’ll always be here, whenever she needs it. That I know her more than she would like, but certainly not as much as I would like. That it wasn’t just sex, even that night. And finally, that I haven’t been here for many years of her life (certainly not my fault); but I’m here now.

-I think that if the unsub discovered that she is no longer alone- not all notice the choice of words, the use of present (although hypothetical) which indicates that what follows this verb corresponds to a fact existing and not an uncertain possibility (what really is, in this case) -he’ll change the target. And though this would mean that another woman would run the risk of being killed… I feel I can be partly selfish, this time.- and the sense of his theory is more readily apparent to all.

-You would pretend to be her boyfriend until we take him?- a break. -We may need days as years. This is no light commitment. Or maybe you want to make a back and forth around the time of Valentine’s Day, doing the exact opposite of many males that not want to buy a gift for their lovers and fulfill the duty imposed on them by the capitalist society we live in?- it seems that talking was Reid instead is Emily the one make fun of him affectionately. For Luke the idea of having to protect her for years has certainly not displayed as a burden. Everything is relative, depending on the perspective from which you look at things. As an old man who breaks a mirror: he’ll be happy to have yet seven years (of trouble).

-According to me, you hope, rather, that continue to pretend, Garcia forget what the truth is and fall into your arms!- JJ also helps to lighten the atmosphere. The idea that another woman could be killed tonight and that they will have to investigate her death, now doesn’t even brush them. Even profilers have the right to a little serenity.

02/15/18

He finds her exactly where he thought: standing in front of the monsters’ wall, that is, every unsub that they had captured over the years, since the unit had opened its doors, long before they worked on it, both she and him, or that they met. He vividly remembered the moment Emily had hung that picture, while she was crying, a prayer to her disappearance friend, she, that didn’t believe or didn’t want to believe in any kind of God. Even the woman at this moment in front of him, she had a giant tight in the throat, that day and although she wasn’t able to consume mourning, allowed him to console her, to lay his hands on her shoulders, to embrace her. And she let him shout at her, not wanting to go along her, this time, while repeating like a mantra, before the image of yet another tragic murdered woman, surrounded by rose buds - It should have been me, there. It should have been me. It was no less blurred in his memory the moment when he had called to tell her -It’s over.- and how they had made love, directly to her office, as soon as he got off the jet, exhausted and alone desiring to sleep indefinitely. And as he found the strength for a second round, but this time there hadn’t been a third. But the next morning she was still there, in his arms, and although she was very embarrassed and awkward, she had not tried to escape. She had preferred to hide her face on his skin, which had finally absorbed those tears for too long withheld (for the year they had lost, because she wasn’t been the victim), she had tried to disappear to merge with him. And then she had re-emerged from the abyss and the other side had found right this man, patient as always, determined as never before.

She feels his presence behind. If even she hadn’t recognized his walk or his scent, she hadn’t need to be a profiler, or put a motion detector in his cellphone, to identify the person who appeared behind her. She not turns to look at him.

-I seems absurd that has passed already almost a year. I realize that it’s a banality that doesn’t suit me, but sometimes it’s as if it happened yesterday, others days seem to me full years passed and much more often… it seems it never ended.- he didn’t say anything. He moves at her side, to look exactly the same direction of the woman. His arm around her shoulders and in that single gesture there are friendship, respect, love, understanding, desire, consolation. -And even more comical, or tragic, depending on how you look at it, it’s that I owe my happiness to a serial killer.- she turns completely to him. It’s not need to replicate anything. It’s like this were a conversation made thousands of times, a ritual. Purifying.

-Let’s go home.-

TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee @itsdawnashlie @talesoffairies @janiedreams88 @kiki-krakatoa @yessenia993 @teyamarra @c00lhandsluke  @gcchic @arses21434 @orangesickle @entireoranges @jarmin @kathy5654 @martinab26 @thisonekid @thenibblets @perfectly-penelope @ambrosiaswhispers @maziikeen92 @lovelukealvez @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @ichooseno  @ megs2219 @rkt3357 @franklintrixie @thinitta @chewwy123 @skisun @maba84 @saisnarry @myhollyhanna23 @thenorthernlytes

[florencetheflowerfairy]

psst idk if you still take drabble prompts but if you do, 32 with taishiro?

Thankyou for the wonderful prompt, Peach! This isn’t the first Taishiro fic thatI’ve written, but it’s the first that I’ve posted online. Hotaru is my sister’sheadcanon name for their daughter. It means “firefly.”

150 drabbles challenge

32. “Why did we have to have kids?”

The sun hung low in the sky,touching the distant mountain tops. It marked that time of day when the cloudsturned orange and violet, and the colors were always more vivid in the DigitalWorld. They were walking hand in hand alongside a gentle river that reflectedthe rosy blue sky. It would have been romantic—

“Daddy!” Hotaru crawled underneath athree-foot-tall mushroom. Her toothy smile was still bright under the shade ofthe giant fungus’ cap.

“What’s up, baby?” Taichi let go ofKoushiro’s hand and knelt next to the toddler. The girl’s smile was asenchanting as it was on the first day that Koushiro introduced her to him.Taichi still felt a rush of giddiness whenever she called him her dad.

“Flower name?” Hotaru patted thedigital mushroom’s stem. She had developed an interest in plants since Koushirostarted writing a paper about Digital World flora. It was all they talked aboutat dinner.

“That’s not a flower. It’s amushroom. I bet Papa can tell you the scientific name—”

“Papa no helping Daddy!” Hotaruinterrupted.

Koushiro abruptly closed his mouth.Then he giggled.

“You want me to come up with a scientific name for it? Do you want me to embarrass myself in front ofPapa?” Taichi drawled his questions and Hotaru erupted into giggles at herfather’s silly tone of voice. “Fine. It’s the Fungasaurus mushroomiest giganticlus.”

“Nooo!” Tentomon shouted andhovered next to the girl. “That’s not how binomial nomenclature works at all!He’s supposed to only say two names! Genus and species! By saying three names,he completely blew his cover!”

“Oh come on.” Taichi shrugged.“That was two words. There was…a hyphen.” Koushiro joined his daughter in giggling.But Taichi didn’t convince the bug digimon.

Tentomon nudged Taichi’s arm andwhispered loudly. “That didn’t even sound Latin! You should have said somethinglike Mushroomius mithrilus and itwould have been more believable. I’m just trying to help you impress Koushiro!”

“Tentomon…” Koushiro covered hismouth to hide his smile. “You keep saying ‘mithril,’ but I don’t think youactually know what that word means.”

“Of course I do! It’s what themushroom is obviously made of. At least, that’s my hypothesis!” Tentomonreplied.

“Does that mean it’s poisonous?”Agumon asked.

“Goodness no! It means that it’smetallic,” Tentomon answered.

Agumon chomped his teeth around thegiant mushroom stem. Hotaru gasped and clapped her hands. Tentomon made adisappointed sounding buzz.

“S’defin’tly NOT made uff medal,”Agumon said with his mouth full, making the girl laugh. Taichi immediatelygrabbed the little dinosaur and yanked him off the fungus.

“Agu, what have I said aboutputting strange things in your mouth? Set a better example for Hotaru!” Taichishook his digimon partner and looked back at Koushiro. “That’s not actually poison, right?”

“No, no! I would have saidsomething if it was!” Koushiro’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry to make you worry. Iwouldn’t have let Hotaru come if I knew there were poisonous plants here!”

Taichi gently dropped Agumon and roseto his feet. He grasped Koushiro’s hand again. “Hey, it’s okay. I wasn’tworried. I trust you—”

“It’s not a poisonous plant! It’s a poisonous fungus!” Tentomon corrected his partner.

Koushiro sighed. “I just said itwasn’t poisonous. You’re missing the point, Tentomon. I don’t mind, but pleasedon’t try to show off in front of Hotaru.”

Hotaru, meanwhile, chomped on themushroom stem. She quickly spat out the bits that stuck to her teeth. “Yuck!Yucky yuck!”

“Maybe mithril is softer than Ithought…” pondered Tentomon.

“Sweetie, don’t eat that!” Koushirolooked alarmed.

“She’s fine, remember?” Taichireassured him.

“It will taste better if we cookit!” Agumon spoke up, eager to teach Hotaru the cooking skills he had learnedfrom Taichi. “We can make a HUGE miso stew with this!” The T-Rex threw his tinyarms around the mushroom stem and pulled with all his might. After he grunted,Tentomon flew above him and started pulling the cap to help, to no avail.

Hotaru loved miso stew, and she lovedher digimon friends. She wanted to be as big, strong, and intelligent as themsomeday. She pulled on the mushroom stem from the opposite side, and promptlyleaned too far back and fell into the river. The digimon and the adultsshrieked.

“Hotaru!”

“Hotaru!”

“Hotaruuu!”

“HOTARU!”

Taichi was the quickest to reachthe water, and he immediately grabbed the girl and swooped her out of there. Heheld her tight against his chest. Hotaru’s eyes were wide as saucers. Shelooked too stunned to process what had just happened.

“Sweetie, are you all right?”Koushiro’s voice was a little high. He patted her wet hair nervously.

Hotaru realized just howuncomfortable her dress was now that she was wet, and she started crying.“C-cold…”

“You’re cold? I’m so sorry!” Koushirobit his lips and fumbled with his hands.

“You’re safe now. Don’t worry,”Taichi spoke with authority, and Hotaru’s sobs subsided to sniffles withintermittent whines. Taichi handed the child to Koushiro, who wrapped his armsaround her carefully and kissed her head. Hotaru stopped fussing.

“Let’s go home,” Taichi said.Koushiro nodded and started quickly walking back in the direction they hadcome. Taichi wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulder, and felt his partnerrelax a bit. Taichi peeked over Koushiro’s head to see that the sun was almostgone. They had missed the most romantic moment of the sunset already.

“I’m sorry that we didn’t get tosee the giant redwoods,” Koushiro murmured. He knew that Taichi had been mosteager to see the truly enormous digital plant life.

Taichi shrugged. “Some other day.”

Agumon and Tentomon both apologizedat the same time, talking over each other. Then Agumon complained that he couldhave yanked out that mushroom if Taichi had evolved him to Greymon, andTentomon piped up that he could make Hotaru dry faster if she was riding onKabuterimon’s back.

“It’s fine! Stop worrying so much!She just needs a bath. We’re almost at the Gate.” Taichi grinned at the pair ofthem, and the mood lightened again. The digimon started chatting with eachother instead. Taichi chuckled and whispered in Koushiro’s ear. “Why did wehave to have kids, eh?”

Koushiro froze, which stoppedTaichi in his tracks. “Um…?”

Taichi blinked. “It was a joke!” Heoffered an awkward smile and gestured to the child-level digimon. “They’re allour kids. Our crazy kids, and I love them all.”

“Oh! Haha.” Koushiro tried laughingand blushed that he didn’t get the joke. It was embarrassing when that stillhappened to him. He continued walking forward and Taichi squeezed his shoulder.“Yeah, I love them too,” Koushiro responded. “I didn’t understand what you weresaying. At first…I thought that you were asking for another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another child.” Koushiro kept hisvoice as low as possible. Though Hotaru didn’t look like she was payingattention. She seemed to be drifting to sleep in his arms.

“What?” That came out louder thanTaichi wanted, but he covered any awkwardness with another laugh. “I see! Nowonder you were confused.”

Koushiro nodded.

Taichi hesitated. “Do you wantanother child?”

“I…” Koushiro furrowed his thickeyebrows. “I’ve actually been thinking…”

Taichi guffawed. “You do?”

“No! I mean, yes. I mean! I-I wasjust thinking the other day of how jealous I used to be of you and Hikarigrowing up. That’s all. And…I don’t want Hotaru to be lonely. Ever.”

Taichi softened. “She won’t be. Shealready has Agumon and Tentomon, and she’ll get her own digimon partner soonenough. She’ll make plenty of friends too. I promise.”

“Right. I know that you can definitelyhelp her in that area. You’ve always been helpful in that area. Friendship, Imean.”

“Thanks.” Taichi ran his free handthrough his brown hair, blushing a little. He should probably get it cut againsoon…

“It’s more than that,” Koushirosaid suddenly, his voice more self-assured. “I want to help as many orphans aspossible!”

Taichi nodded, beginning tounderstand. His throwaway joke must have triggered deep-seated issues thatKoushiro had been thinking about for a long time.

“But it was hard enough for me toadopt Hotaru. I got really, really lucky. I was a single clueless collegeprofessor who spent more time with digimon than people. I don’t know if I cango through that stress again. Especially with you in the picture now.”

Taichi stopped moving, and Koushiropanicked.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I didn’tmean that you were bad. Y-you’re really helpful! You’re a much better parentthan I am. I would be so lost without you…” Koushiro stopped talking whenTaichi kissed him.

“You’re a wonderful parent,” Taichiwhispered. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to Hotaru.” He kissed himagain. “And you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” He kissed himagain.

“Mmf…” Koushiro felt a littlelight-headed. Even though they had been a couple for over a year now, he stillgot giddy whenever Taichi turned romantic. “Thanks…” Koushiro finally pulledaway, not wanting to make the situation too awkward for the digimon.

“Are you done yet?” Agumon asked,as if on cue. He and Tentomon were hiding behind rocks.

“Yeah! It’s safe to come out!”Taichi yelled. “We reached the Gate!”

Hotaru fussed again, and Koushiroset her back on her feet. She was getting a little too big to be carried. Hesaw that there was, indeed, a monitor-screen gateway just ahead of them,nestled in a sandy bank of the river. Koushiro looked back to Hotaru and Taichiand the digimon. He wished—not for the first time—that they could all stay inthis world instead. The sky was already a velvet blue, filled with a millionnew stars to count…

“We’ll talk about it later, okay?”Taichi said. Koushiro nodded.

“I’M COLD!” Hotaru whined.

“Shh. Let’s get you home,” Koushirosaid.

The three humans and two digimonwalked up to computer in the sand bank. Then Koushiro took Hotaru’s left hand,and Taichi took her right hand, and the family opened the portal back to thereal world.

[beingveekay]

ROBYN “RIHANNA” FENTY.

Beautiful, dope, crazily amazing artistry, iconic fashion sense. A majority of us know her as RIHANNA. She also goes by the predisposed alias of RiRi and the well-deserved nickname/social media handle, @BadGirlRiRi. My first connection with Rihanna was similar to everyone else’s. She was the new, Barbadian girl on the music scene with the pop song “Pon de Replay”.  As time has passed, Rihanna’s music has evolved since her fun and innocent debut. While she still carries a light-hearted, girl-like, sweet, and carefree demeanor, she has since then elevated into a superstar with ALL the bad ass qualities to match. From her ability to make record breaking, chart-topping music in EVERY genre she steps foot in, to her flawless and effortless style; I think it’s safe to say that Rihanna is one of the biggest stars this world has ever known.

Here are some of her accomplishments:

9 Grammys

12 Billboard Music Awards

12 American Music Awards

8 People’s Choice Awards

Icon Award (2013)

Fashion Icon Award (2014)

Michael Jackson Video Vanguard Award (2016)

Harvard University’s Humanitarian Award (2017)

Over 10 million albums sold in the US

Ranked the best-selling digital artist in the country, breaking a Guinness world record for digital singles sales of over 58 million

the ONLY artist to surpass the 100 million cumulative singles award threshold

3rd best selling female artist this CENTURY

Named the second best-selling female artist in the country, trailing behind only Madonna

Second only to The Beatles for the most million-selling singles in the UK of all time and the list goes on. 

After reading her accomplishments, you’d think that’s ENOUGH of a reason to be a fan. Not for me. True enough, her grind is admirable and one could only look at these things she has attained, and use her accomplishments as a tool to jumpstart their own #lifegoals, but there’s so much more to Robyn Fenty. She is multi-faceted in her stardom. Not only does her work-ethic, rule-breaking music, and star-studded name alone make her someone to look up to, but her UNAPOLOGETIC lifestyle and resonate beliefs really do it for me.  Even the name of her fan base has the deepest of meaning to it. The NAVY ain’t called “The Navy” for nothing. Rihanna, with a past as a cadet in a military program, leads this fanbase as THE NAVY because like herself, they are fighters. The name came about after the release of her fourth studio album RATED R. Now if you don’t know, let me tell y’all how #BLACKTWITTER (yes, it’s a thing) can get. One thing you don’t do, YOU DON’T ATTACK ARTISTS WITH A GLOBAL FAN BASE, especially if they’re Rihanna. They will digitally and socially behead you honey. Rihanna’s fans simply did NOT go for the backlash RiRi got behind her new sound. You better believe, the Navy fought for their H.W.I.C. (Head Woman In Charge). They drew blood and took names later. That’s what a navy sorta does right? Alright then. There ‘ya go.

I’ve followed RiRi for quite some time now and I can honestly say that I’ve applied some of her life philosophies to my own. Not only that, I’ve found myself in several situations in which I’ve had to come out of my own and adopt another persona that in the past I didn’t readily carry. That persona embodies a fearless, confident, life-grasping individual. As I’ve grown, I’ve come to know that in this lifetime, if there are things you want, you must GO AND GET THEM. There isn’t much time to be meek or mild, not when you’re trying to change your life! In my past life, sometimes now as well (depending on the situation), I was that quiet, timid, unprotesting individual that hated conflict or speaking too LOUDly. I hated being in the spotlight, still do more times than most, and I simply just didn’t know how to OWN a room, let alone own who I was. Ok, here’s a secret, Rihanna has been a major part of my “glow up”. While some may see this as sad, I see it as much needed brilliance that changed the way I view the world; the way I view myself. I’ve had SEVERAL W.W.R.D. (What Would Rihanna DO) moments and guess what, THEY ALL TURNED OUT GREAT. Yes, I’ve had other influences, mostly spiritual, that aided me in becoming who I am as well, but with Rih’s help I’ve changed several of my perceptions since I was inducted into the Navy. Rihanna taught me:

TO WORK, or WERK, if you will.

“When you realize who you live for, and who’s important to please, a lot of people will actually start living. I am never going to get caught up in that. I’m gonna look back on my life and say that I enjoyed it – and I lived it for me.”

Those W.W.R.D. moments I mentioned earlier? They changed the course of my life and how I make decisions. I used to make decisions based on what I thought people would accept or not accept about me.  I began to think for me and only me. I began to do things based on how I felt about them and how would feel about them later, NO ONE ELSE. With that new attitude came a new me. To follow suit, I began to  wear that lipstick that I thought would be too bright for my skin and I ROC’d IT OUT without worry. I’ve gone into venues, whether it was a night out with my girls or a job opportunity with a potential employer, and I was confident about who I was. See, Rihanna taught me that it’s not JUST about who you are, but the way you carry yourself in knowing who you are. And to carry yourself in a way in which others will respect, you HAVE TO BE CONFIDENT IN YOUR OWN. You have to know what you’re willing to accept and not. You have to know what things you’re great at and you’ll be damned if someone told you differently. You have to know that there is nobody who does YOU better than YOU. Even if the next can do something similar to you, she’ll never be able to do it quite like YOU. This is what you have to KNOW. And once you know these things, you find yourself living for you, and that being confident in pleasing yourself is FIRST. Watching Rihanna, I learned this and I’m damn happy I did.

In my glow up process, I knew that if I truly wanted to love myself, I’d have to learn…

TO EMBRACE MY SKIN.

“Thank you so much for celebrating us in a world that doesn’t celebrate us enough.” 

“The minute you learn to love yourself, you will not want to be anybody else.”

“All girls rock. Black girls… We’re just on another level.”

A few of her words from her acceptance speech at 2016’s Black Girls Rock. There was a time when I found this very hard to do. Being a little dark-skinned girl from the south will do that to you. Especially when you’re surrounded by a community of others who look similar to you but are brain-washed by the poison that is COLORISM. It took me a LONG time to get here. But dear God, I’m HERE! (In my Celie from the Color Purple voice) Rihanna has spoken against self-hatred in the black community and has even gone as far as blocking a fan on Twitter who tweeted her with an enhanced photo of herself, except it had been filtered to make her appear about 5 shades lighter. The caption said something about she was more beautiful that way or something within that same line of insanity. After one block on Twitter and NO MENTIONS from Rihanna about the lady years later, she is STILL embracing all shades of her part African descent. And what better way to embrace your lineage and ethnicity than to create a whole makeup line designed for girls that look like us? As a girl who swears by beauty both inner and outer, it was heartbreaking not seeing any major, sole-proprieted, commercialized beauty lines made for black women. I’M ESTATIC THAT FENTY BEAUTY WAS BORN! THANK YOU RIH.

Major right? As if that wasn’t DOPE enough, RIH taught me to..

LIVE OUT MY DREAM, UNAPOLOGETICALLY.

    “I always believed that when you follow your heart or your gut, when you really follow the things that feel great to you, you can never lose, because settling is the worst feeling in the world.”

Once upon a time, I thought there was something wrong with me. I thought I had an inability to be grateful for any job that the good Lord had helped me to get. I say this because I hated 80% of them. With time I’ve learned to be content with anything I had that helped me to supply myself with my wants and needs. Aside from that, I also used to think that ‘being more realistic’ was the only way I’d survive in this world. Let me just praise the fact that I’m no longer BOUND by that LIE. The things that lie within you that constantly scream at you, begging you to let them out into the world, is not a mistake. It’s called PURPOSE. Although I’ve never denied the fact that I wanted to write and that I should, I placed everything, SCHOOL, JOBS, INTERVIEWS, in front of the one thing I knew I could DO without hesitation, insecurities, over exhaustion, or hatred. I got tired of putting it on the back burner. Although I’m still not a place where I can say my passion is my source of profit, I can say that it’s no longer hidden due to the fact that “I have more important things to worry about.” THIS IS MY IMPORTANT THING. Writing to inspire WHILE making a profit will one day be my reality. And because of Rih, I’m a firm believer of this.

Life has called me to be hard a number of times, simply because being soft wouldn’t have worked in those moments. Being hard almost ALWAYS couples with the idea…

TO GO HARD.

That’s all I could ever hope for, to have a positive effect on women. ‘Cos women are powerful, powerful beings. But they’re also the most doubtful beings. They’ll never know – we’ll never know – how powerful we are.

FOR EVERYTHING I BELIEVE IN, I NEED TO GO HARD. I once heard a quote by Oprah in which she states, “I never did consider or call myself a feminist but I don’t think you can really be a woman in this world and not be.” Like Oprah, I don’t think I ever considered myself a feminist but I have adopted a duty to make sure that every woman I ever come into contact with will gain some sort of knowledge, strength, and value within herself. Hence, BEING VEEKAY.  That’s going hard. Taking what you believe and doing something about it. As a woman, I’ve visited and revisited the issues that come along with my gender. Most of them are issues that stem from birth, caused by insecurities and just down right disrespect from what we know as “The MALE.” Because I was born female, I am automatically made to make less than a man in the same field, even if I have more experience and/or education. But that’s another topic for another day.  Just know that Rihanna backs up my beliefs and I back hers. As a woman who’s disadvantaged in several areas of life simply because of my reproductive organs, I will always GO HARD for women. I hate to say this but there are some areas I could clean up before deeming myself a full-fledged feminist like doing away with demeaning rappers who spit woman-hating, misogynistic, lyrics. I’ve done away with most of them but I could do much better! When I learn to dodge the dance floor when stuff like “Taking over for the 9 9 and the 2000’s” comes on, I’ll then say I AM FEMINIST. HEAR ME ROAR. Lol.

Perfect time to say, BEING “Woman” comes with COUNTLESS, most times, silly insecurities. Rih helped me understand that as a woman…

COCKINESS, I should LOVE IT on me.

You have to just accept your body. You may not love it all the way, but you just have to be comfortable with it, comfortable with knowing that that’s your body.

Firstly, let me say that EVERY WOMAN SHOULD BE COCKY. To a certain degree. I know cocky is originally a negative term. But it stems from a very positive place. Cockiness starts with Confidence. It only becomes negative when one is OVERLY confident in themselves, coming off as arrogant and narcissistic. Oh how these type of people annoy me. DON’T BE ONE OF THESE PEOPLE. Nothing is sexy about it. However, to be confident is both beautiful AND sexy. And as we have seen Rih transform from skinny, to heart eyes THICK, she still loves every curve she’s gained. Because she truly loves who she is. I think that’s a lesson that all us women could learn. If you’ve seen any pictures of her from this past Grammy’s season (I’ve included some above), then you’ll see Rihanna flaunting pounds she didn’t once have. Too many of us go by unrealistic beauty standards that society has made us to believe and live by. Whether were size 6 and now 16, or were once 16 and now 6, your body image is just that, an IMAGE. It doesn’t make who you are. Only you decide that. Not your measurements! Not your bra size! Not your pants size! And definitely not anybody who makes you feel bad for being whatever size you are!

Alright y’all. I could honestly go on with another 10 or 15 things this beautiful ICON has taught me, but I decided that these are probably the most IMPACTFUL. I hope this piece did you some justice. I hope this piece makes you feel better about who you are and where you’re going. These be the things that Rih has taught me. Now go ‘head girl, put on your crown, “SHINE BRIGHT LIKE A DIAMOND.”

I want to hear from YOU! SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME! PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT OR TWO DOWN BELOW! Let’s have a discussion. I’m open to all suggestions and comments.

  Thanks for reading y’all! Continue to #GlowYourOwn destiny until next time,

#LoveVeeKay.

        What Rihanna Taught Me ROBYN "RIHANNA" FENTY. Beautiful, dope, crazily amazing artistry, iconic fashion sense. A majority of us know her as…

[bestflyerprinting]

Choosing the Best Business Card for Your Company - Our Advice

Networking, marketing, and leadership experts lay out what makes an effective business card, business card style taboos, and the importance of design versus delivery.

Two factors you should balance regarding your business card strategy are a unique design and an engaging delivery. A snazzy card is no good if you hand it out left and right without an exchange of pleasantries and ideas, but a poor quality card can undermine even the best rapport or the most persuasive conversation.

"The card is designed as a way of following up with someone about a topic the person is genuinely interested in, so that requires some sensitivity," says Seth Kahan, CEO of Visionary Leadership, a Bethesda, Maryland-based management consulting firm. "You can be proactive but you don't want to be aggressive."

Learn more about business card alternatives, how to tailor your card to different desired outcomes, and what information must appear on your card.

How to Choose the Best Business Card for Your Company: Making Your Card Effective

For Sean Kinney, the owner of Digital Fresh, a New York City-based marketing and communications firm, the most important qualities for his business card were that it be memorable and that it be sharable. Kinney can speak with some authority on the latter subject; his card was so sharable that it was not only passed from hand to hand, but photos of it got picked up online including in Inc.'s "10 Most Creative Business Cards" slideshow.

Kinney's first thought about how to make his card unique was to use atypical materials. His sleek metal card is shaped like a razor blade, as a result of some serious brainstorming about how to encapsulate the company's identity. In fact, Kinney feels that unless your card can make a strong statement about who you are, you might as well not have one. He says, "there's a lot of people who just have [business cards] to have them and they're generic and simple; I don't think they hurt or help them."

Another tactic to make your card more effective is to tailor it to different situations or needs. For example, Kahan has two broad groups of clients: those that hire him for speaking engagements and more straight-laced government agencies. His card reflects that dichotomy.

"I actually created two different sides to my business card: one side is very colorful and intense [with photos and] I've got this light pattern there. It's eye-catching," he says. "The other side is modelled on a very straight, old-fashioned business card. It's just black and white, just the facts."

You would also design your card differently if your business provides a product or a service. If you sell a product you might have a link pointing to your online storefront, or an image of the product or a tagline about it. You approach the act of telling a narrative about yourself and your company differently if you're selling a service, according to Kahan. You'd want to "typify or convey through a story what it is that someone can expect when they follow up with the person on the card."

 How to Choose the Best Business Card for Your Company: Design Versus Delivery

Obviously designers believe that a card's aesthetics are of primary importance and networkers will tell you the same is true for what you say and how you get the card in the other person's hand.

Bonnie Ross-Parker, for example, will not hand over her card unsolicited. If the CEO of The Joy of Connecting, an Atlanta-based networking consultancy for women entrepreneurs, believes there's a genuine connection with someone she meets, she'll ask for their card and if they don't ask to exchange it might not make sense to anyway.

"Coming home with 30 or 40 cards is not nearly as effective as having half a dozen [that were from] really good quality conversations were having the business card and the ability to reconnect was important to you," Ross Parker says. "I think people miss that."

Similarly, Kahan believes that context is king. Handing out the same exact business card can result in a positive or negative experience depending on the interpersonal interaction that takes place. "The way you give it out overrides what it is," he says.

But Kinney is inclined to disagree. He thinks design is 90 percent of the battle and delivery a mere 10 percent. "If you have a memorable business card you can just leave them on a table and people will take them and keep them," he says.

One way to make your card memorable is to have it reflect your business in some intuitive and engaging way. Kinney gives the example of creative ideas he's come across such as a barbershop with cards shaped like scissors, and a landscaping company with Astroturf-backed cards. These types of cards aren't as wallet-friendly as a more traditional card but hope is that it will say what your business does at first glance and it will be tactile and new enough for the person to want to keep it around.

 However, Kinney acknowledges that these types of cards are not for everyone. Depending on what line of work you're in, and even your personality you may want a more traditional design.

"When there's multiple employees you have to take that into consideration, but when it's just you and it's a small business, you should look at it from the aspect of representing yourself first and then the business in parallel with that," he says.

 How to Choose the Best Business Card for Your Company: What to Include

So you have limited space to represent yourself above and beyond any networking conversations that you'll have with the people you meet. What should stay and what should go?

The consensus is that your name, company name, title, phone number and e-mail address are the bare minimum. Some crucial additions, if you have the resources, are your company logo and your Web address. Physical address is increasingly less relevant though in some industries it might still be advisable to include.

You'll also want to adapt it to your industry, for example, if you're in the social media marketing field, you might include links to your accounts on various platforms.

As a consultant, Kahan is selling himself, and his book, so he prefers personal business cards, which include a picture of both on his card. "I'm a visual kind of person and I like to have a visual image of the person [I met] because, when I call someone back, I like to see their face and this is one way for me to do that," he says.

In addition, as the popularity of card scanners grow, you'll want to make sure your card is scanner friendly. Here's some other options to consider:

• Don't place text over images

• If included, keep images simple

• Avoid shading, italics or underlining

• Use a clear, readable font such as Times New Roman or Helvetica

• Make sure there's enough space between different lines on the card so they remain legible

• Use a quality and reliable digital printer, like Asset Print, to design a professional business card for you.

 How to Choose the Best Business Card for Your Company: Avoid Style Taboos

The same way you wouldn't walk into an important meeting with your shirt untucked and your tie askew, you should make sure to avoid grievous style faux pas in your business card's design. Here are some aesthetic choices to avoid:

•    Don't be Cheap - "I will not do business with anyone who has a business card that says 'printed free by Vistaprint,'" Ross-Parker says. It looks unprofessional if you're not willing to invest anything in making a good impression.

•    Being Unoriginal - Even if you don't have a fat wad of cash to spend on your business card you shouldn't get a template because it's less memorable and less effective.

•    Don't go for Shock Value - "I've seen business cards that really are like shock value business cards," Kahan says. "I used to do street theatre and the first thing that you have to do when you do street theatre is you have to get somebody who's on their way somewhere else to stop and look at you. The easiest way to do that is to just do something really bizarre. That will work, people will stop and look at you, but if what you want is engagement, and if what you want is a follow-up, then there's a different set of rules that you have to follow."

•    Don't Laminate It - A surface that the recipient of the card can write on makes it easier for them to take notes on your meeting to help remember it.

•    Don't Overcrowd It - Some people get business cards that fold out just so they can squeeze some extra information on the card but you're better served by keeping it simple. "I don't like when it's so busy that people are trying to get all the information all in one place at one time," says Ross-Parker. "That's tacky."

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Article source: https://www.inc.com/guides/2010/06/best-business-cards.html

[inthesummerswelter]

recipe for disaster: chapter thirteen

The sun hits the corner of the window-sill and shoots up, painting the ceiling in a wash of pale pinks and yellows. It creeps over the thin white canvas of the plaster, swirling around until they crash together in a cacophony of vibrant vermilion and crimsons.

Penn lies on her back on the hard mattress of the sleeping cot, hands clasped across her chest, feeling as if she’s lying in a coffin instead of watching the sunrise flit across the ceiling.

She hasn’t slept all night. For many nights.

And she doesn’t feel any different, at all.

Pushing herself up, she glances over at her alarm clock, the digital display quietly showing 5:57 a.m. in glowing red letters. She turns off the alarm set to sound off in three minutes and shoves the thin comforter down. Pivoting, Penn slides her feet into near-threadbare slippers that are mere millimetres from wearing completely through the sole.

She goes to the back of the door where an equally-worn floral robe hangs and slips it on over her oversized tee-shirt and sleep trousers. Heading downstairs, she runs her hand absentmindedly down the wooden banister, taking automatic care not to let her fingers slip underneath and encounter loose splinters.

The kitchen is her destination.

However, no pans are pulled in anticipation of the warm crackling associated with bacon frying. Instead, a cutting board and knife are produced and set on the small counter while Penn pulls out one of the last remaining bagels. Deftly slicing it into halves, she sticks it in the toaster. Sets it right in between medium and dark.

Schrweeeeeeeeeeee.

The tell-tale whistle of a kettle going off.

Penn doesn’t even remember putting the kettle on.

As soon as she walks away to take it off the burner, the toaster gives a ding and the halves of the bagel pop up like apples bobbing in a tub. Penn, briefly caught in the throes of indecision on which to attend to first, freezes, a hand and foot extended in opposite directions. But then the kettle squeals, more indignantly this time, and she reaches to take it off the stove top and settle it onto a folded-up dish towel.

By the time she’s done going through the motions of finishing preparing breakfast - slathering one bagel with copious amounts of cream cheese while another plain one toasts up and she makes loose-leaf morning tea - she hears the tell-tale signs of her gran attempting the stairs downward.

Another glance at the clock affirms the time: promptly a quarter ‘til seven in the morning.

“Penn?”

A call from the stairway summons her, and she sets down the cup of tea she’s been nursing in her hand to go to the voice.

“Yes, Gran?”

The hand that clenches the banister now has lost most of the life it once had, now composed of all angles and thin bones looking as if they may burst through her paper-white skin at any second.

“I-I think breakfast in bed might be in order today.”

“Okay. Do you need help back up?”

Shaking her head, she turns and begins a slow, shuffling climb back up to the second-floor bedroom. As soon as her back is turned, Penn drops her head into her hands and rubs them vigorously across her face, trying to prepare herself for what she knows to be an emotionally-draining day ahead.

One deep breath later, and she’s collecting breakfast things onto a tray to bring upstairs. It takes her a couple trips, what with the multiple cups of fortifying tea and the plates of bagels and toast. Of course, those are more for her than anything else. It’s a miracle these days if Gran eats anything more than half a slice of toast and a cup of tea to start her morning.

Palpable weight loss isn’t the only thing to define her grandmother any more, her thinness of frame quite marked now. The fatigue, which had come and gone at first, became a lasting enemy over the past few weeks, causing struggles every day. Depression, too, had set in for the long-run, and continues eating up shorelines of sanity even with weekly visits to a therapist just a few blocks over from Gran’s flat.

But, perhaps the most troubling change to Penn is how pale Miriam Bunting’s hair is now. Still cut into a much neater bob than Penn’s own, the once steel-grey strands have all turned a stark white shade that reminds Penn of barren wastes filled with brittle, bleached bones. Ghostly trees, with bark the color of salt flats and branches of empty, dry veins.

Death.

Penn’s last trip down the staircase is made not to bring up more food, but an old recorder she had dug out of the top shelf of the linen closet and some fresh tapes. Usually on days like these - the worse days, as all of them were bad now - when she had enough energy, Gran would end up talking to Penn in an effort to bring a sort of permanence to her memories.

“I want you to be able to pass these things on to your children,” she had told her granddaughter whilst clutching the comforter in arthritic fists, the first time they had done the recordings. “I want them to know me. I don’t want you to forget what I sound like.”

Her voice was firm, eyes resolutely fixed on the wall opposite the bed.

(She’s horrified that she will forget. That oblivion will come, she’ll forget the day she even had a grandmother or a grandfather.)

So, they do the recordings, setting memories to a thin black tape, winding determinedly around a spool until it shudders to a halt.

How ironic.

At first, Penn had to ask questions to prompt her gran to start talking. With eighty-plus years of life lived, there’s quite a lot of experiences and stories that can be retold, a plethora to choose from. Few people appreciate that fact nowadays.

A notable tale Penn doesn’t remember hearing before is the origin of the family name.

  Ichiro Bunting’s parents, father Japanese and mother Chinese, immigrate to Britain to make a better life for their children, make a mandatory stop through the immigration centers into the country along the way.

They pass all health checks with flying colors with no need for quarantine and have no previous indications of criminality. However, as they leave the center, the official at the time privately balks at letting in a family with such a foreign-sounding last name: Kobayakawa.

His nationalistic sentiments prevent such a thing to slip by under his watch. Instead, he looks out the window for inspiration and happens to spot a bunting chirping on the bough of a tree lining the paved courtyard that points the way to solid British soil. Making an executive decision, the Kobayakawas, formerly of Japan, become the Bunting clan, now of Brixton, London.

Miriam rattles off all the family moves after that, from Brixton to a better neighborhood, where she and Ichiro purchase a flat. Their son, however, transplants his family out to the farther reaches of Bradford, still close enough, but a bit of a long distance for a day trip.

It’s close enough for a train ride, though, and that’s soon all that matters with locations.

  One thing leads to another with memories, as Penn soon finds out, and the paths aren’t always clearly connected. Sometimes, her gran tells Penn about her great-grandfather and then makes the abrupt switch to her summers spent as a child slaving in an apple orchard.

The fruits tasted sweeter then.

She spends twenty minutes describing how the bank-swallows would flit about around the gently-sloping shores of the streamlet that wound its way around the foundation of her father’s house.

An hour is delegated to the moment she met her husband.

Thirteen minutes to Penn’s birth.

Six minutes to skim over a family trip to Stonehenge, but nearly forty describing sailing around the fjords of the Scandinavian peninsula.

To be honest, Penn doesn’t even hear half the things said.

She’s running on auto-pilot these days, going through the stages of grief non-sequentially with no map to guide her.

There are hidden driveways, alleys, and numerous roundabouts, and she finds herself more lost in the roadways every single day.

She goes to the church, lights all of the candles along the vestibule, and kneels with leaden legs until she can feel the imprint of the wood-grain pushing itself into the thin skin of her palms.

The prayer-book has worn to fit the tense clasp of her fingers.

 (Bargaining.)

 She makes tea five times a day - not four, because four is death - and pours hundreds of cups until they overflow. They form straight lines on the kitchen table, the mantel of the defunct fireplace, the dusty coffee table in the sitting room, mugs and glasses and fine china all filled with liquid the color of dried blood. Soldiers to her paranoia that this is all her fault.

 When she goes around the next morning to pick them all up, the rings they leave behind glare up at her, empty eyes of nameless blame.

 (Guilt.)

 She lies in bed, insomniatic.

She’ll have time for sleeping tomorrow. When she’s dead.

 (Depression.)

 She boils in her skin, so much that her hand shakes stirring the oatmeal that’s for breakfast because it’s easier to swallow.

Gaze fixed on the frantic, harsh motions of the wooden spoon as it crashes against the edges of the pot in its haste to finish the circuit, she hardly notices how the porridge slops over the rim, sizzling on the hot stove.

Every spoon comes away from the battle with black scarring of scorch-marks up and down its sides.

 (Anger.)

 She takes up knitting while listening to her gran’s stories. Cast on, and then purl purl purl. The yarn takes in the stream of words, the low buzz of the cassette tapes recording, the breeze that rustles the curtains, and works them into the weave.

Lumps and spaces and knots.

When she finishes the last row on what could be a blanket or a rug or an over-large dish towel, it feels like the period at the end of a sentence.

 (Acceptance.)

 And then her gran says the words.

“I feel ready to die.”

And everything is all shot to hell.

Thankfully, she’s just on the tail-end of drifting off to sleep with the help of a few paracetamol, so her eyes close before she can see Penn freeze in her chair, book slipping out of boneless fingers to fall into her lap.

It continues its descent to the floor, the blow cushioned by the fall of the blanket spread over Penn’s legs as it too gets discarded when she lurches up from the rocking chair, hand over her mouth.

Staggering down the stairs, she runs about the lower level, tossing open each window she can to get away from the stifling heat suddenly rippling underneath her skin whenever she thinks too long about what comes after.

But it doesn’t help.

Feeling as if she’s about to start coming out of her skin, Penn presses her palms flat against the cooling tile as the dogs begin to pace in circles around her, worriedly. The cool brings such relief to her fevered skin that she splays out across the floor, letting the cold seep into her veins and bring her back down.

Now she can almost take a shaky breath inwards, and it hurts.

The air rushes in and pierces her lungs with icicles.

There’s a hard object smashing its way into her gut, and, for a second, she thinks it a physical manifestation of the unrelenting, all-consuming horror she’s been trying to suppress.

But it’s not. It’s her mobile.

Scrabbling at her pocket, Penn brings it up to her ear, pressing the first number on speed dial.

“‘Lo?”

She could cry.

(She is crying.)

“Z-Zayn?”

His voice takes on a worried tone, words tumbling out after Penn hears a sharp clang resounding from his end. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did someone try to hurt you?!”

“N-no,” she manages to choke out. He catches on quickly, with a rustle on his end as he repositions the mobile in the crook of his shoulder.

“Is it Gran? What’s happened?”

Penn has to stare at the ceiling a long time before she’s composed herself enough to speak again. “She told me she’s ready to die. I...I can’t watch this anymore, Zayn. I can’t do this anymore.”

(To be completely honest, she’s half-hoping to hear him reply, “I know.”)

But Zayn’s not a safety-net this time. He’s a catapult.

“Fuck that, Penn. Seriously? You’re serious, here? You aren’t the one dying. You still get to live, God willing, many more years on this earth.”

She’s utterly baffled. “Wha - ?”

Tone sobering up, he continues. “Why are you already mourning her, huh? I’ll tell you why. Because, when she dies, she’s not going to be able to give you the things she does when she’s alive. You’re not mourning her. You’re mourning the loss of what she’s provided you with. And that’s the most fucking selfish and shitty thing you could be doing right now.”

He ends the statement with such force that she can only imagine the obstinate expression on his face. Probably standing with thin, inked arms crossed in front of him, utter distaste in his expression.

God.

He’s right.

And she tells him so.

“And what are you going to do now, Penn?” Zayn softens now, and she knows he’s running a hand tiredly through his hair before sticking it in his pocket to thumb the ragged edge of his first guitar pick. Habit. A better one than his smokes.

“Be there for her.”

“That’s right, Penn. You’re the only person she’s got left. Stop being so selfish. Don’t cry because the concept is going to be gone. Cry because the person is going to be gone. And be strong for her, okay? All my love, to you both.”

And she’s crying now because she misses him so fiercely. “Okay, Zayn. Th-thanks... Love you too, okay? Love you t-too.”

Thumbing the screen to end the call, Penn curls into a ball, still on the floor.

She’s exhausted, so drained that she doesn’t even hear the mobile slipping from her loosened grasp to the floor, too caught up in her fatigue.

After they assure that her breathing evens out into the regular rhythm of a sleep cycle, Cardy nuzzles her way underneath an arm and Clove settles himself against the recurve of her back, parentheses.

It’s 7:48 p.m.

  When she wakes up, a crick in her neck from the uncomfortable position, the first thing she sees is her gran in a chair she must have pulled into the kitchen, all wrapped up in her robe and spare blankets with an empty cup in hand.

She’s crying. “Oh. Oh, Penelope.”

[danny-phantump]

okay so i was gonna wait until someone asked but im on a roll. ill post more later, but heres the first chunk of character info

Aradia Was in a car crash as an infant, but survived... kind of. She flatlined for a solid ten seconds before the doctors got her back online, and as a consequence, she's spent her entire life as a spectral. No one told her anything for a long time, leading her to have a little bit of a different understanding of ghosts and spirits than most people; she learned straight from the source. At a very young age, she met a young, shy spirit who wanted to be a human and often took a human form. Her name was Calliope, and one day she sacrificed herself to save Aradia from a vengeful grudge. She tooled herself in Aradia's grimoire, where she's been ever since. She could technically have been out by now, but she thoroughly enjoys living vicariously through Aradia and is very good friends with her. Aradia was the one least hurt by the Incident, because she used Calliope to save herself. She was acting on instinct; she did not have time or frame of mind to go for the others. Modern day, Damara is long dead from a "suicide" that has kept her haunting this world for years. Aradia can see her, but Damara is so screwed up looking from her anger Aradia is afraid of her, and because of this Damara has chosen not to engage. She'll get revenge some other way. She won't hurt the only person who ever loved her back. Aradia's been approached by Mr. Spender's origanization, but has declined to return their calls. However, everyone else's entry kind of forced her hand, and she is now a new recruit. Nonetheless, she's by far the most knowledgable about this new world out of all the kids. Calliope's powers- space warping, teleportation, and the ability to destroy space- are all very powerful, and Aradia doesn't use her full power for fear of alerting anything nasty that might come for them. They both have white energy.

Tavros Shy, stuttering, and paralyzed from the waist down from a childhood "accident", he was a pity case for a lot of foster parents before falling in with the kids. His big brother Rufioh is trying to reconnect after so long away, but Tavros isn't super interested in giving him a second chance after Rufioh left him to rot in the system for the majority of his childhood. Rufioh is a no good drop out who always ends up abandoning people when things get to heavy, and as much as Tavros desperately wishes for a permanent family figure, he's just waiting for the other shoe to drop. After moving to Rufioh's apartment in Beforus, he met his neighbor Gamzee across the hall, who introduced him to the kids. The Incident happened. They moved to Mayview, Rufioh moved with him, and at an antique gun show he went to out of sheer bordom, he felt one of the guns calling to him. He picked it up, and suprise! You're a spectral, and also meet Jake, a spirit from World War II who's been stuck in the gun for a long time. Jake doesn't seem to have any powers, but that can't be right... maybe he just isn't strong enough yet... They both have green energy, but Tavros's is a shade darker than Jake's.

Sollux Sollux had a pretty average childhood with his single dad and his snarky older brother, but then Mituna got hit by a train. Well, the front half of his car did, but it was more than enough to cause permanent brain damage. They packed up and moved to Beforus, near the state's best therapy place, but the Mituna Sollux knew was long gone. He sank into depression, and so did his dad, and figured the ghosts he began to see were just hallucinations brought on by his decaying brain, until one day he met an incredibly angry child online and was subsequently integrated into his clusterfuck of friendchildren. After the Incident, Sollux's dad sent him away to Mayview without him or Mituna, and as much as Sollux hates himself for it, he's relieved he doesn't have to watch the empty shells of his family shamble around anymore. There, he finally met the spirit that had tooled his phone ages ago, at the hospital visiting Mituna in fact. Roxy is a punk with a flair for the feline, and also for hacking. She didn't want to be insensitive, and also didn't want to be kicked out or discarded, so she kept on the down low for years. But the fact that Sollux didn't know her didn't mean Roxy didn't know him; she had been reading his texts and seeing his browser history for years. The dynamic of 'one of us knows a lot more about the other than the other one' made things awkward at first, but their fatalistic senses of humor and shared love of computers has brouht them together, and they now get along pretty well. Roxy can digitize real world objects and vice versa, turning them in and out of data. Essentially can both create and destroy things through her digital form. Roxy has vibrant pink energy, and Sollux has, somehow, chameleon energy. Naturally, it's somehow yellow, blue, and red, and the combination means he can make basically whatever color he wants.

Karkat He was young when his dad died. His dad was a preacher, one that was openly and actively pro-LGBT. He fostered a lot of LGBT kids who had escaped awful families, preached vocally for their better treatment. He was a devout Christian, but didn't see the two things as contradictory. Some people didn't agree with him though- he was black and pro-LGBT in a tiny speck of a town in the sun-bleached conservative heart of Texas. Lynching is not a pretty process. Karkat doesn't remember much, but anything is too much. After the hospital, after the funeral, after condolences from kids he had watched grow up in his house who were too afraid to do anything but call (of course they were), Kanrki and he moved to Beforus. Karkat's been living there ever since, torn between wanting to follow his father and memories of charred flesh and a bloody noose. The Incident happens. He moves to Mayview with Kankri. He finds half a katana buried in the backyard of a terrifying house that he entered on a dare before he heard the calling. Dave is a blank thing, devoid of emotion, and they fight and butt heads until one day they explode and both bear their hearts to the other in a violent display that leaves Karkat;s living room wrecked and both boys closer than they were before. Dave was abused by another spirit, but abuse doesn't work quite the same for humans as for spirits. Bro tried to mold him, shape his very essence, viciously and painfully trim the 'unwanted' parts of him until the ghost of a man who died run through by his own machine had a perfect little machine to run him through again. Bro probably tooled up- that monster always found a way back- but Dave just hopes he never sees that monster again. They became friends after that, getting closer and closer. Dave has the same time powers he does in the comic, namely jumping around his own timeline. They both have bright red energy.