#cubby creative

[bengals-barnesbabe]

Picture Day

Tee Higgins x Chase!Reader

Desc: You start getting antsy 5 weeks postpartum and find something to do with your hands.

TW: nothing too bad, mostly fluff.

Princess Ti | Main Masterlist

WC: about 1k

＊✿❀ *. ꕥ * · ❀✿＊

The buzz from your clippers fed your creative soul. You had only come in the salon to reminisce and take some time to yourself while your baby girl naps. You couldn't help but miss the chatter of clientele and the smell of coconut oil usually in the air. The pristine white counters in front of each station were completely bare, only each counter’s handheld hair dryer sticking out of the black cubbies.

Sitting in front of the first station, you think back to when your husband asked you what you really wanted in your home. It was a ballsy ask, in your opinion; you weren’t even sure what he meant by it. But he said you could turn the basement into whatever you wanted. It baffled you because you thought he’d want a man cave to escape the realities of marriage. That’s what your dad did, so you thought it was normal to think so.

So you tossed around the idea of taking on more personal and private clients in a home suite. A month later, he pleasantly surprised you with a fully furnished and functional home salon. It resembled a mini version of your main salon in the city. There is nothing that man wouldn't do for you.

After giving birth, Tee kicked into full dad mode. When he said your only job once Tiana was born was to just take care of her, he did not go back on his word. He's been an absolutely phenomenal father and partner, always taking her when you need a break, making sure you eat and stay hydrated, and even getting up during the night to calm her down. Him and your brother are literally upstairs putting together a new nursery glider so your morning feedings can be cozier.

Maybe that's why you're so antsy. You were so used to always caring for others; now that someone is holding you down the same way, you don't know what to do with yourself. You don't even cook anymore. Your mom has been handling all the meals so you can take time and heal. Everything they were doing was amazing, and you deeply appreciated it, but damn, you were bored.

The sound of your phone buzzing made your train of thought drown.

Bigheaded Dumbass🐧

we're done with yo fancy ass chair, come see it while Titi still sleep

sent at 2:23 pm

You thought about going back upstairs for a minute, but a different idea caught your attention.

To: Bigheaded Dumbass🐧

I have a better idea, you bring your wack ass fade to the basement and come sit in my chair😌

read at 2:27 pm

Bigheaded Dumbass🐧

arent you supposed to be resting, imma tell momma👎🏾

To: Bigheaded Dumbass🐧

Im offering you a free haircut and you wanna go rat me out😑 don't you have team pictures in a few days👀

Bigheaded Dumbass🐧

fine im coming, but when momma finds out I'm blaming you

To: Bigheaded Dumbass🐧

yea right, just come down here. AND DONT TELL TEE!

Bigheaded Dumbass🐧

yea... a little late for that one😬

read at 2:33 pm

Great, just when you thought you'd be able to do your own thing, your little brother goes and fucks it up before it happens.

Oh well, you shrugged and walked over to the back of the salon for your supplies to set up for Ja'Marr's haircut. You grabbed an apron for you and a barber cape for him (even though you should let him be itchy for threatening to snitch), your black pro clippers, a razor, a number 1 and 2 comb, some holding spray, and a brush. Then, set up your chair.

Minutes later, you were all ready, and your client walked in with your husband.

"Y/n, what are you doing?" He asked with an amused smirk on his face.

"I'm giving my brother the haircut he so desperately needs." You smile back, patting the back of the chair for J to sit down.

"You're supposed to be resting." He crosses his arms as you drape the cape over your brother.

Smirking, you untie your apron and walk up to your husband with your hands on your hips. "Look at me, babe." You slowly spin around to give him an eyeful of your postpartum baby body.

"I see you, mamas. Trust me, I see you." The very nice thing about everyone making sure you take care of yourself these last few weeks has been your ability to prioritize your "snap back." You weren't working out to get to a certain shape. You were just prioritizing strengthening your core, which meant some belly binding, light ab exercises, and self-care. You were nowhere near your pre-baby weight, but you liked the extra curves, and someone else did too.

"You can't just expect me to just sit down and wait for Tiana to wake up. I gotta keep my body active, practice my trade."

He knew you were saying words, but ever since that apron came off, his mind was somewhere else. "Oh, I know how you can get active."

"Alright, y'all just nasty. Am I getting my hair done or what?" Ja'Marr groans from behind you.

"Yea Tee, you gon' let me work or what?" You say, biting your lip.

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Fine," he says, pulling a waiting chair over to the corner of your area. The 6-week rule playing over and over in his mind.

"Good, now let's get to work. Don't worry babe, you're next." You chirp, picking up the brush to begin the haircut.

But Ja'Marr jerks his head away. "Ay, Y/n don't go too rough now."

You can't help but snort. "Yes, yes, I know. You too tenderheaded for my skills."

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

~ a/n: yall see what I did there ;) last addition to the au for a while. time to go work on some other fics ♡

[charlesf1leclerc]

For kuwtl can we do one with like friendship bracelets where the family or mum and kids makes friendship bracelets to give to the fans and it’ll be like a cute family bonding moment also absolutely love this series

warnings: none

summary: Charles comes home to his two girls making some special gifts

It was a quiet Tuesday evening after school and the girls were in their play room while you were preparing dinner downstairs and Remy watched cartoons on the Tv.

The door to your house creaked and clicked as a key unlocked it and the door flew open revealing your husband, revealing Charles. He took his shoes of placing them into the cubby after shutting the door behind him before he made his way over into the open plan living room

Hearing the footsteps and the familiar sound of the door Remy perked up.

“Papa” he giggled and tan towards his father who bent down to pick him up and plant kisses all over his cheeks.

“Hello baby, I missed you” he laughed patting his sons head. Continuing to hold his son he walked over to you kissing you on the cheek. 

“ and I missed you” you leaned in to give him a kiss on the lips.

“Mm what’s this” he swiped his finger in the pasta sauce.

“Hey!” you smacked his hand

“ stay away from my sauce”

“Sorry just looks irresistible ” he laughed, “ where are my other two babies” he questioned as his put the youngest back down as he run off to continue watching his show almost as if he papa didn’t matter anymore.

“ in the playroom”

He nodded his head moving to walk up the staircase.

He pushed the door open to his two girls seated at the table in the middle of the colourful room. 

“Papa “ Sicily squeaked in delight.

Charles walked over to the girls giving them both a kiss and crouching down at the table next to them.

“ what are we doing my loves?” He asked stroking Indy’s hair. If you couldn’t tell Charles loved physical affection to all members of his family in the sense of hugs and kisses with his girls and more with you if you know what I mean.

“ we’re making bracelets “ Indy spoke

Charles looked at the assortment of beads and string out on the table and the few already made bracelets from each of the girls.

“ ah I see they’re very pretty”

“ there like your ones” Sicily explained 

“ the ones you get at race day papa” Indy went on further 

“ yes your right” he nodded

“ it’s not fair you get all the bracelets so we thought we would make some for you to take next race so you can share” Indy explained

“ that’s very thoughtful darling I’m sure they will love them, can I make one?”

“ sure papa” Sicily pushed the beads towards him.

The three of them continued on until dinner was ready making many bracelets in the meantime.

“ you must put them in your bag now papa so you don’t forget them” Sicily said as Indy collected them up handing them to their papa.

“ I will do it right now, you two go downstairs l be down in a minute” and with that the two girls ran towards the food.

Charles was proud to have such thoughtful daughters and creative ones two. He was proud of his whole family.

A/N: Thank you for the request I hope you liked it and it’s what you wanted. xx

[not-wholly-unheroic]

I recently found a copy of the graphic novel version of Straight on Til Morning at my local used bookstore and got a great deal so I wanted to share a few of my likes, dislikes, and general observations. I’d been meaning to write up a proper review of the book for awhile now but have been SUPER behind. Anyway, the graphic novel follows the book pretty closely and I’ll be sharing some images from it, so this WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS for those of you who haven’t read it.

First off, the artwork for the graphic novel is beautiful and some scenes are illustrated in a really creative way. For example, I love the depiction of this particular scene where Wendy is writing her stories and Hook sort of…comes to life off the page.

I also really love that while (most of) the characters are still recognizably Disney’s version…they also look a tad more realistic and have some of the illustrator’s own personal interpretation mixed in.

George Darling is a great example. In the graphic novel he is slimmer than in the film and looks remarkably like J.M. Barrie…which I have to consider was probably intentional.

And then there’s the Lost Boys in their animal costumes…Tootles, Skipper (excuse me, this is Nibs erasure—you can add Skipper but don’t just eliminate Nibs!), Slightly, Cubby, and the Twins.

The pirates, however, are a totally different story. Who the heck are these guys???

Anyway… at least they get Hook’s personality right. I love this bit, in particular, where one of the pirates gets a little rough with Wendy and Hook is having none of it. Also, the idea of Hook capturing Wendy to be a mother to the crew is a nice nod to the book.

One big complaint I do have is that the characters are, on occasion, a little TOO self-aware. Like in this scene where one of the pirates makes a sort of on-the-nose observation about Hook’s feud with Pan.

But I will admit, I did cackle at Hook’s reaction.

He said would you please stop trying to psychoanalyze me and look for symbolism and just let the story be about a boy and a pirate? (Hook, how do you even know who Freud is??)

You may have noticed by now that I haven’t said anything about Peter… That’s because Peter barely features in the story at all and honestly when he does show up, he’s…kinda useless and clueless. Now, admittedly, Wendy is meant to be older in this (around 16) so of course, it’s reasonable to think she might not quite view him the same way she did at 12…but in having her team up with Tink to do all the heavy-lifting of the plot (because, ya know, girlpower and all that), Peter sort of ends up not really doing anything. I’d almost rather have an evil Pan, as annoying as that trope is because at least then he actually does something. In this story, it truly feels like Wendy has just…outgrown Peter altogether. And that hurts.

Speaking of which…ya know what hurts even more for me as a Hook fan? THIS.

This poor man is curled up on the deck in the fetal position, terrified of a crocodile who has been long-dead, crying out for a best friend who never even existed except inside his own mind because he was so alone that he made him up.

O W !! Why would you do this to me, Disney?!

It ends for Hook with the crew deciding to drop him off somewhere with enough gold to pay for his keep and hire a caretaker because he’s so mentally unstable they don’t trust him to live by himself.

I hate to say it, but honestly, watching him die would be less painful. At least that would be over with fairly quickly. This just hurts.

But everyone else lives happily ever after, so it’s okay, right? Right??? 😫😭 (Don’t mind me, I’ll just be over here in the corner, crying over my pirate boy.)

[florencemtrash]

Hummingbird: Chapter Three

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

Warnings: Terrible science jargon

It was almost silly how quickly the world returned to normal.

Alchemax was splashed on every local newspaper, website, social media account, and TV channel for a solid week before complaints shifted to the neverending construction on the streets of New York. The subway somehow got tighter, packed bodies grumbling about the thirty minutes added to their commute after ten subway cars had fallen through a spot and landed in the Hudson river. 

But the events never faded away from your consciousness. The only way you could fall asleep was by leaving all the lights on. It racked up your electric bill like hell, but you couldn’t stand seeing the shadows creep along the wall as nighttime descended on the city - it reminded you too much of the Spot’s blank face and how he managed to stare into your soul without eyes.

Then there was the growing problem of your forgetfulness. You’d never been the best at keeping track of belongings - Mamá always blamed it on your creative brain - but now everything was being misplaced. The alarm clock would disappear from the nightstand and appear in the kitchen, your sock collection was dwindling every day and never making it into the dirty hamper, for Christ’s sake you still hadn’t found your favorite yellow sneakers and it was irritating you to hell and back. 

I’m losing my goddamn mind. You often found yourself thinking.

You threw yourself into work, staying in the classroom late to grade and lesson plan until the night crew got used to vacuuming around your feet. You took on extra projects at the Academy, signing up to run after-school detention and volunteering for props and set design for this year’s spring musical “The Addams Family.”

Anything to stay out of your apartment. Anything to keep you from being alone.

Three empty coffee cups mocked your bleary eyes as you sat hunched over the sewing machine after hours. Cheap black lace trailed off the table, slowly shortening as you incorporated the material into Morticia’s dress.

“Fuck!” You hissed in pain and stuck your thumb in your mouth, sucking away the blood from your fourth needle prick of the night. At this rate you’d have more holes punched into you than swiss cheese.

It was time to give up for tonight.

Before you could forget you slipped the stolen Brooklyn Visions Academy uniform from your bag and hid it in the bottom-most cubby in the storage room. The sleeping bag and pillow from your apartment were also stuffed there, ready for Miles to use whenever he needed an extra break from being a superhero. You suspected Gwen had also been sneaking by to visit Miles now that she had more freedom to explore the multiverse - hence the spare uniform.

“How’s he doing?” You’d asked Miles earlier that day. Miguel’s unspoken name had lingered on the tip of your tongue, forcing the color to rise into your cheeks. Luckily Miles knew exactly who you were talking about.

A knowing grin grew on his face, “Not too bad. He seems more on edge than usual, but I hear he’s working on his temper.” 

“He’s not body slamming any more teenagers?” 

“Not that I know of.”

“Good.” You paused, “If he gives you any more trouble, send him my way. I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” 

Miles saluted you, “You got it.”

You meant it as a joke… but you also wanted a reason to see him again.

You were just about to switch the light off in your classroom when a flash of yellow caught your eye. Tucked behind a stack of newsprint, the vine charcoal rubbing away on your fingers as you carefully lifted the papers, was your prized pair of yellow converse.

It was too late to think about how they’d ended up so far from home, so you tossed them in your bag, threw out the coffee cups, and saved your muddled mind the trouble of figuring it out tonight.

The midnight subway car was filled with the usual Friday-night suspects - overworked nurses, loners just killing time, drunk party goers covered in more glitter than a kindergartener’s Valentine’s day card, and you.

You didn’t miss Richard, not really. What you really missed was coming home to someone and the feeling of another body weighing down the right side of the bed. More recently you’d been imagining what it would be like to come home to Miguel.

You kicked off your shoes at the bottom of the landing, shuffling up the steps and pulling off your clothes as you went, modesty be damned. By the time you face planted on your bed, hair still damp from the shower, it was nearing 2am and Miguel still hadn’t left your mind. He’d planted himself in your thoughts like a spider too high up on a wall for you to squash and too large for you to ignore.

Mercifully you didn’t have to endure the pains of a schoolgirl crush for very long. Sleep dragged you under and you welcomed it as your mind finally went quiet.

You awoke with a start, suffocating under the heavy blankets that you’d buried yourself in last night. You’d been dreaming again about the collider. You’d been dreaming about Miguel - this time in a feverish haze that left your mind in a puddle on the floor. 

How was it possible that a stranger could occupy so much space in your mind? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he’d held you like you were everything and then left without saying goodbye.

But you weren’t complete strangers…

“Aren’t you his wife?” 

Miles had asked the question so innocently and Miguel hadn’t said anything against it, so it must be true. Somewhere, in some other universe, you’d been married to one another. 

Are you thinking about me too? You wondered, opening your eyes in hopes of chasing the memory of him away.

…Maybe you were still dreaming, because the last time you checked you hadn’t fallen asleep under a tree in Central Park. And even if you had, you highly doubted you could have lugged your mattress and bed frame with you all the way from Brooklyn.

Oh por el amor de Dios.

The glorious thing about New York City is that everyone knew how to mind their own business. So when people saw a high school art teacher in Star Wars pjs leap for joy upon finding a $5 bill on the ground, they didn’t question it.

You were so ecstatic about saving yourself the two-and-a-half hour walk back to Brooklyn that you didn’t remember a highly important piece of information until after you hopped off the subway - you didn’t have your keys or your phone.

Joder. 

Your forehead knocked against the front door of your apartment building with an audible clunk.

“Por el amor de la mierda, ¿por qué mi vida es así?” You muttered under your breath. 

“Y/n?” Your landlord, Mrs. Fleming, pushed her tortoise-shell glasses higher up on her face, the thick lenses magnifying her eyes to bug-like proportions. “Oh it is you, my dear.” 

You groaned, color rushing into your cheeks as you turned around sheepishly. “Good morning, Mrs. Fleming.” 

The elderly woman gave you a once-over look, crocheting needles clicking together as she rummaged around in her bag for her keys, “The old walk of shame, I see.” 

“What?! Wait, no-this isn’t-I’m not-”

She patted you on the back before unlocking the door and holding it open for you, “I only use the turn of phrase because that’s what you young folks call it. Ain’t nothing shameful in it. It’s good of you to get out there. I never did like Richard much.”

You were at a loss for words.

Mrs. Fleming, sprightly as she was for her age, followed you up to your apartment with her extra set of keys jingling merrily in her hands.

“Now, you have a good rest of your weekend, dear.” She said once you’d been graciously let into your apartment, “And don’t forget your keys next time!” 

“Thanks Mrs. Fleming.” You said. Her amused chuckle echoed through the air as she shuffled off to her own apartment.

You sprawled out on the ground where your bed should have been, trying to even out your breathing as the reality of the morning’s events crashed down around you like a house of cards. 

This can’t be happening. ¿Qué diablos me pasa?

You rolled onto your stomach, repeatedly banging your face into a spare pillow to muffle the sound of your aggravated screams. 

The pillow accepted your frustration with little complaint until something in you just snapped. 

All at once the pillow disappeared from beneath you and then blinked into existence by the closet allowing your face to crash into the floor unprotected.

You grabbed at your burning nose, eyes swimming with tears of pain as you registered what had happened. 

“No… oh no.” 

>>>

The rain beat down irregularly, fluctuating back and forth from being barely a drizzle to a torrential downpour. 

You gripped an empty to-go cup in your hand, the tea you’d hoped would calm your nerves long gone. 

It took you three hours to make it here. First you kept teleporting your keys away every time you touched them, futilely chasing them around the apartment. Then you’d nearly gotten hit by a taxi and teleported yourself to the bathroom of a tea shop on the Upper West Side. Miraculously your powers had quieted after that, allowing you to get on the subway and here without incident.

A familiar figure made its way down the block, hood up to protect from the rain.

“Miles!” You leapt up from your seat, racing across the street to the annoyed honking of two taxis. 

“Miss Y/l/n? How’re you doing?” Miles narrowed his eyes in worry, seeing the way your fingers nervously pulled at a loose string from your sweater, “What happened to your face?” The flesh around your nose was red and tender, slowly transforming into a purple bruise.

“I’m sorry for bothering you like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.” You looked around carefully before lifting the cup in the palm of your hand.

You furrowed your brow in concentration, willing that same power within you to snap into place again.

“What’s supposed to-” 

“Just-just give me a minute.”

A minute passed, and nothing. Your heartbeat quickened as you grew more and more flustered.

“Miss Y/l/n are you sure you’re ok?” Skepticism and genuine concern laced his voice.

“I’m fine!” 

Snap!

The cup blinked out of existence like an old-school television that had been turned off. Miles saw it reappear over the park across the street and land on a dog walker’s head. The man in question looked up at the sky bewildered, like he expected to find God there.

Miles’s wide eyes met yours.

“Oh shit.” 

He pulled you into the empty alleyway behind his building, using his spider webs to straighten the trash cans that rolled around on the ground and clear out a space large enough for the two of you to comfortably stand side by side. 

He hung close to the street, Gwen’s face shimmering to life above his wrist as he spoke with his back turned to you.

“Hey, Gwen. I’ve got a situation.” He whispered into the watch.

You caught snippets of their conversation, shrinking in your coat as you tried to suppress the anxiety growing in your chest. If there was anything you’d learned about your powers it was that they tended to flare up with your emotions.

“Do you think we can trust him with this? I don’t want anything to happen to her… Yeah, yeah. No, I understand. I’ll bring her in. See you later.” 

Miles turned back to you, a strained smile on his face, “Sorry about that.”

“Miles, what’s going on?” “I got to bring you into Spidey HQ. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but Miguel might.” 

He unzipped his raincoat and hoodie, exposing the black and red spider-suit beneath and tugging on his mask. 

Your heart gave a flip at the mention of your husband’s name (could you even call him that?). Would he be happy to see you again? Would things be awkward between the two of you?

A familiar watch flashed on his wrist as he began pressing buttons on the orange holographic screen. You’d seen it happen before, a portal of wild glitching colors pulsing to life in front of you, but that didn’t make it any less impressive. Miles stepped into it, dragging you along with him like he was just passing through any regular doorway.

He swept his arm outward, smiling at the expression on your face.

“Welcome to Spidey HQ, Miss Y/l/n.”

Your jaw dropped as you passed through the portal - an actual portal - to Miguel’s dimension. 

Hundreds, no thousands, of Spider-People roamed the open air halls, some on two legs, some on four, some on wheels, and some just preferred to swing through the air on webs, catching and releasing the nimble strings with practiced grace from the walkways that crossed overhead like… well like a spider’s web. 

Miguel certainly hadn’t wasted the spider concept when it came to their headquarters.

“I didn’t know there was a universe composed entirely of Spider-Men…Spider-People?… Spider…” A cat hissed at your feet when you nearly stepped on its tail as you blindly followed Miles through the crowd, “Spider-Things?” 

“Sorry Spider-Cat!” Miles said as the feline grumbled, tail high in the air as it calmly leapt onto the wall and continued on its way as though gravity were only an inconvenience. 

“Actually, every world has only one Spider-Person, but the Alchemax explosion last year ended up opening holes into other universes. Miguel created this place as a hub for Spider-People while everyone tries to fix the anomalies.”

“Anomalies?”

“Yeah, beings that have accidentally gotten stuck in another world.”

“Oh… yeah that makes total sense..” Your words trailed off as a roaring laugh caught your attention, “Is that… is that a dinosaur?” 

You pointed at the group crowded around a cafeteria table howling with laughter. Burgers bounced on trays as the T-Rex doubled over to slap the table for dramatic effect.

“AY YO, REXA!” Miles shouted over your head, throwing his arms up wildly. 

Rexa exposed razor sharp teeth in a grin and waved one short arm towards you. You returned a meek wave in return. 

“That’s Rexa. She’s super funny. Just uh…” he covered his mouth before whispering in your ear, “Maybe don’t mention anything about her arms. She gets a little sensitive.”

“Oh…yeah, of course. No problem.” 

Miles continued to lead you through the building, periodically taking breaks for you to catch up as you kept your eyes trained on everything except the path he’d carved in front of you. At one point you simply disappeared from view, reappearing four stories up in a psychiatrist’s office.

A tweed-suited Spider-Man jumped in his seat, dropping the box of tissues he’d been preparing to throw to his client. 

“Oh! I… I’m so sorry.” You said, flustered at the sight of a sandy haired Peter Parker variant sobbing his eyes out into a spider plushie. You inched along the wall towards the door, “I’m just-I’m just going to make my way out.”

You closed the door as quietly as possible, turning around and coming face to face with Miles again. You jumped and snapped, this time landing on Rexa’s table, foot squishing her burger into roadkill.

You groaned and tilted your head up, watching Miles sail out the office window and swing his way down. 

This was going to take a while.

There was no shortage of Spiderpeople to steal your attention, but finally after a few (uninterrupted) turns down pristine white hallways and an elevator ride into the belly of Spidey HQ, it was just you and Miles again.

From his lair, Miguel traced your figure with his eyes. When you caught sight of the camera in the elevator, its red pupil narrowing in on you, you smiled sheepishly and waved. The small action made his stomach flip like a schoolboy who’d been given his first kiss. 

He needed to pull himself together before he saw you face to face again.

“I’m just saying, I think this is a good thing, Miguel.” Peter B. said, swinging up to the platform and wrapping an arm around Miguel’s broad shoulders. Mayday crawled out and onto the control board, pressing buttons haphazardly and closing half the screens. She clapped her hands in wonder and Miguel grumbled half-heartedly. 

Once she started walking, all bets were off. She’d be an absolute menace to Spider Society. Already she liked to treat Miguel like her personal playscape, crawling onto his shoulders and tugging at his brown curls. 

Her antics almost made him smile… almost.

“If she’s here then that can only mean something’s wrong.” Miguel said, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen and ignoring Mayday as she slumped over his back, slowly sliding down his chest and into his waiting arms with a dramatic sigh. 

You looked tired and nervous, fingers tugging at the strings of your raincoat. A purple bruise spread out from your nose, moving with the curve of your cheekbones. Had someone hurt you? 

Miguel’s blood began to boil.

“Or,” Peter bumped his hips against Miguel’s, “it could mean she wants to see you again.” 

“Stop that.” Miguel growled.

“Stop what?”

Stop giving me hope.

Miguel was about to bite back at Peter and wipe the mischievous grin on his face when the doors slid open. Miles’s voice rang through the empty space. 

“These are all those anomalies I was telling you about. Doc Oc, Rhino, Sandman, Mysterio. I don’t even want to know who that is.” 

“Why is it so dark in here?”

“Miguel likes to brood. I think he’s part vampire.” 

Miguel tossed Mayday into her father’s arms, swiftly turning around and busying himself at the control panel to distract from the pounding of his heart. A dozen screens flashed to life above the control board and Miguel concentrated on none of them.

Peter grinned like a madman. This was going great. 

“Miss Y/n!” He shouted out, throwing his hands in the air before hopping off the platform. Mayday squealed in delight and copied his actions. Miguel only cursed under his breath and rubbed his temples. Leave it to Peter to be the cause of 90% of his headaches.

“Looking good, teach!” 

“Ummm… thanks?” You responded as Mayday grabbed at you with chubby fingers. You didn’t have much choice but to hold her as Peter thrust her into your arms. Fear jolted through you like a lightning strike and you quickly handed her off to Miles, the poor girl frowning and continuing to make grabbing motions at you. The last thing you wanted was to make Mayday disappear from your arms.

Peter tipped his head to the side but for once made no comment. He continued to chat you up, pulling small smiles from your lips and ignoring the way you kept glancing at Miguel as his platform slowly lowered to the ground. 

He had his hands on his hips, bright red and blue Spider-suit cutting a striking silhouette against the dark background. 

If he’d noticed you walking into the room, he didn’t show it and you tried your best not to deflate at that realization. 

“Don’t worry. He just likes to make an entrance,” Miles whispered in your ear. And some entrance that was. He stepped off the platform, back tight and straight as he moved forward with measured, even footsteps. 

Miles took one step forward, angling his body in front of you with a weariness in his eyes. 

Miguel stopped, face betraying nothing as he looked you up and down once.

“I never thought I’d see you again.” The words would have sounded romantic coming from someone else’s lips, but from him they just sounded dry and clinical.

“Same here.” You said. The words came out breathlessly.

“What’s happened?”

His hand hovered in the air between you two before he swiftly dropped it to his side. He wanted to reach out and touch your face. He wanted to tilt your chin upwards so he could take a good look at the damage done to your nose and make sure you were ok. Perhaps if you’d been alone he would have allowed himself to do it, but as it was, they had company. 

“We need your help, Miguel.” Miles cut through the tension, “Something’s up with Miss Y/l/n. She’s got powers now - teleportation similar to the Spot’s.” 

His heart stuttered in his chest.

“Is that true?” he said, desperately looking to you for answers. The Spot’s powers had made him unstable in more ways than one and Miguel shivered to think about anything happening to you.

You nodded, “Things keep disappearing when I touch them. Sometimes I accidentally teleport to places when I’m frustrated. I didn’t realize what was going on until I woke up in Central Park last night.”

Miguel turned around, muttering under his breath as his mind raced a thousand steps ahead of him. 

Of all the people this could have happened to, it had to be you. He thought he’d done the right thing by leaving you alone, forcing himself not to portal to your dimension every night. His multiversal travels had taught him a thing or two about the ways things operated. Some figures, like Peter Parker’s Spider-Man were well represented across worlds. Some figures, like himself, were harder to come by. 

As for you? He only knew of three worlds where you existed - in one world, his actions had led to your death and the death of your daughter. In the second, Spot had murdered you in his quest to figure out Spider-Man’s identity. 

And in this one… 

Well he thought he’d been keeping you safe. 

Teleportation was a dangerous ability - unpredictable and difficult to control. Left unchecked you could find yourself in front of a car speeding down the highway or at the top of Mount Everest or in a different dimension altogether, constantly glitching as your molecules broke apa-

“Wait,” Miguel stiffened, back tightening as he swiveled around on his heels, “Where’s your watch?”

“My watch?” you glanced at your naked wrist, “I mean I usually just check my phone for the t-”

“No, your day pass watch. The thing that stabilizes you in this universe.” 

Miles’s eyes blew open. “Mierda. Sabía que había olvidado algo.”

“How long have you two been here?”

“Maybe two hours.” You guessed.

“And nothing’s happened?”

“Is something supposed to happen?” 

Even Peter B. looked concerned. Panic rose in your chest and you threatened to snap. Miguel reached out and grasped your wrist, palm sliding down until you felt the weight and warmth of his hand wrapped in yours. He led you to the med bay, Peter and Miles following closely behind.

The paper atop the padded examination table crinkled as you took a seat, watching Miguel’s broad shoulders flex and stretch as he dug an extra watch out from the back of a cabinet.

“Lyla, run a scan of Y/n.”

The woman flickered to life in front of him. “What’s the magic word?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“Lyla.” He was in no mood for games today

“Ok, ok. Don’t be testy.” Lyla appeared in front of you, an orange scanner materializing in her hands that swept across your body with a cool touch. “Scan complete.” 

“Here you go,” Miguel felt some relief pour back into his body as he fastened the watch around your wrist, hand lingering against your pulse like he wanted further confirmation that you were alive and well.

“Hey, why does she get one of the fancy ones?” Miles protested. The watch, identical to the ones worn by Miguel, Peter, and Miles flashed its face at you. It was far too elaborate and expensive to be just a day pass.

Miguel ignored him, walking over to one of the monitors and skimming through the output data.

“It took six months for Miguel to give me one of those bad boys,” The paper crinkled again as Peter hopped onto the table beside you, whispering, “Looks like someone’s got a favorite,” and earning a glare from Miguel. 

Peter winked suggestively.

Miguel scowled.

Your cheeks turned a rosy red, your coat disappearing from around your shoulders and landing in a rumple at Miguel’s feet like the world’s worst suggestive gesture. Peter howled with laughter.

“No puedo creerlo.” Miguel whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Lyla, am I looking at this right?”

“You sure are. Y/n’s DNA is perfectly stable. Not a trace of multiversal quantum poisoning to be found. And! Her radiation signature matches that of more than a thousand different universes. Bet you’ve never seen that before.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Hmmmm, let me think.” Lyla spun around in a digital office chair, waiting for her moment to break the dramatic pause. Miguel groaned - he would need to improve her code and tone down the dramatism. “Looks like packets of quantum energy from across the multiverse were released during the Alchemax hypercompact fusion explosion and merged with the only unaltered sentient lifeform in the vicinity.” 

“Dios mio.”

At the end of her explanation she bowed gracefully, arm and fur-lined coat sweeping off to the side.

“Did you get any of that?” Peter asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“Peter, I took forestry as my science gen ed in art school and barely passed so… no.”

“Uhhh, can you repeat it for the rest of the class?” Miles piped up. 

Lyla leaned forward, one hand on her hip and the other tipped her heart-shaped sunglasses onto her head. 

“Y/n absorbed energy from a ton of different universes so as far as the multiverse is concerned, she doesn’t register as an anomaly. No glitching. No dying outside of her universe without a watch. No predicted multiversal collapse.” Lyla smiled. “Predicted.”

You looked less than pleased. The last month had been filled to the brim with life-altering events from finding out Miles was a superhero, to getting kidnapped and nearly dying, to finding out your variant’s husband was an all-too-attractive, brooding Spider-Man. It was getting to be too much - you were a teacher for crying out loud! Maybe you’d have handled it better if you were a crime-fighting detective, or a fancy scientist, or a millionaire with access to the latest tech and weapons. Instead you were just… you.

“Can you fix it?” 

Miguel flinched at the look on your face. You were looking to him for help and for answers, but he couldn’t provide them in any satisfactory way. He’d never encountered anyone with your abilities. 

The confusion and fear that came with discovering your powers - that was a journey all Spider-People went through, and they usually went through it alone.

Miguel sighed, “There’s nothing to fix, Y/n.” He said the words with a softness no one had heard from him in years, perhaps ever, “This is who you are now.” 

“So I’m just going to be stuck like this forever?”

“Having powers isn’t so bad.” Peter chimed in with a small smile. “From time to time, it can actually be pretty awesome.”

You allowed a small, empty smile to grow on your lips. It was a smile Miguel was well acquainted with - the kind of smile that said I’m not fine, but I want you to believe that I am.

“I have some tests we could run.” Miguel offered up, “I can’t reverse what’s happened but maybe I can come up with something to help you control your powers, at least while you’re learning how to use them.” 

You nodded, the smile turning into something real, “I would like that. Thank you.” 

Peter was practically vibrating with excitement when he caught the look that passed between the two of you and the hint of hope on Miguel’s usually stony face. 

He clapped his hands down on Miles’s shoulders, “Well would you look at the time? I need to put Mayday down for her nap and grab some food. You’ll learn this soon enough, but being a superhero does burn the calories.” 

He hopped off the table, waltzing all the way to the door before he noticed that Miles was missing from his side. “Miles! Come join me.” 

“Actually, I was going to wait with-”

“Miles.” Peter coughed into his fist, bug eyes burning into Miles until he got the hint.

“Oh? Oh! Yeah, sorry Miss Y/l/n, I forgot I told Gwen I’d meet up with her.” 

You waved him off, “I’ll be fine, Miles. Thanks for everything.” 

“I’ll show her how to use the watch and send her home when we’re finished.” Miguel said, pulling on a lab coat that had been draped over his office chair. He rarely had time to work in the lab, more focused on his primary duty of maintaining the stability of the multiverse, but the familiar glide of the fabric over his skin did help to relax him. It reminded him of the old days when Spider-Man didn’t exist and the multiverse was just a fun theory tossed around at company lunches. 

A thin silence stretched between you two after Miles and Peter left, and you contented yourself with watching Miguel as he busily typed away at his monitor, labeled vials, and prepared the syringes. Every movement was practiced and controlled like he’d done this a million times before.

Miguel was screaming on the inside. You were close enough for his heightened senses to pick up on the honey lemon shampoo you used tinged with the woodsy scent of linseed oil. He was powerless under your gaze like an insect trapped under a microscope.

“I just need to collect some blood samples.” Miguel said, gently holding out his hand. You offered your arm up without complaint, distracting yourself from the pinch of the needle by reading the faded name tag printed on his lab coat.

You whistled low to break the tension, “Dr. O’Hara. That’s impressive. What kind of doctor are you?”

“I was a geneticist. Not the medical kind though. I worked in research at Alchemax.” 

“Is that how you got your spidey powers?”

He rolled his eyes, “They’re not spidey powers, they’re acrachno-humanoid genetic augmentations.” 

“Qué estúpido. Just call them spidey powers. You scientists just like to give things complicated names to feel superior.” The corner of Miguel’s lips quirked up every so slightly. The thrill of seeing any emotion on Miguel’s face lightened the feeling in your chest.

“Was it hard becoming Spider-Man?” You asked.

Miguel shrugged, wiping away the small bead of blood on your arm. “I had it easier than most. I was already looking into the possibility of combining human and arachnid DNA and I had the resources to study my powers.” Miguel paused. It had been a long time - too long - since he’d had a conversation like this with anyone. He could cast his mind back to talks with you his wife, but those had always been domestic in nature.

“The hardest part was not having anyone to talk to.” He said, finishing his thought.

“Sounds lonely.” You remarked, accepting the q-tip from him and swabbing the inside of your cheek. He collected the sample in a vial of greenish liquid and gave it a thorough shake, “Do you have people now that you talk to?”

“No.” His answer was short and to the point. 

You’d touched a sore spot and you decided to prod it. “Would you like someone to talk to?” 

Again, the corner of his lips twitched, “Are you offering?”

You copied his shrug from earlier, “Maybe.” 

He took a few more cheek swabs and then a strand of hair. His hand lingered by your cheek, frowning as he took in the bruise on your face. 

Now that you two were alone he dared to gently tilt your head to the side.

“You never told me what happened.” 

Your hands flew up to your face in embarrassment and Miguel saw the tips of your ears grow red. He liked it.

“I may or may not have teleported my pillow away right before smashing my face into the floor.” 

The breath left his lungs in a quiet chuckle. That sounded like something you’d do.

“But no one’s bothering you?”

“What? Oh no. No, it’s nothing like that.” 

He nodded, the tightness in his chest unraveling with that knowledge. He knew you weren’t his wife and he knew that you didn’t know him well enough yet, but that didn’t stop him from caring. The truth was he liked you from the moment you slapped his shoulder and cursed at him, and it wasn’t just because you looked like someone from his past.

“This will take some time to work through.” He tilted his head towards where the tabletop machines whirred and spun, “But if I’m right, I may be able to adjust your watch to stabilize you in a specific place, not just a specific universe. It’s not a permanent fix but you won’t be waking up in Central Park again anytime soon.” 

“That would be preferable.” 

You moved to take off the watch and hand it over to Miguel but he stopped you.

“Keep this one. In case anything happens you can contact me or the other Spider-People,” He said, walking her through the steps of using the watch, “Headquarters is always open so if anything happens, come here.” 

You nodded. With an encouraging look from Miguel you punched “Earth-1610” into the locator and then your home address. 

Just like last time the portal bloomed open beside you, scattering a few loose papers on the ground. Through the portal you caught a glimpse of your living room, citylights flashing outside your window.

“Come back next week. Until we have a better understanding of your powers it would be good for us to monitor you and check that you’re stable.” 

And it would be good for you to see her again. 

Miguel squashed the thought as soon as it popped into his brain in Peter’s voice. He really needed to stop spending so much time with him. 

You stepped through the portal and were embraced by the familiar smell of your apartment. It made you feel better about what was to come. You turned to smile at Miguel, his tired eyes lighting up ever so slightly.

“I’ll see you next week then.”

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

_________ Author's note: Here's the next chapter! Let me know what you guys think of the writing and where the story is going. I'm hoping to dive more deeply into Y/n x Miguel's relationship in the coming chapters so get ready for angst and fluff!

Taglist: @geraskier-thots @howabouticallyou @sweetheartlizzie07 @dont-mind-me27 @omg-edzia-stuff @sarcastically-defensive17 @trouble-sistar @saltyluminaryvoid @lunablue001 @sadslasher13 @yas-v @thel0v3hashira143 @trishuh8 @vague-flying-shape @tiana76 @dinuxia-bhm @mxtokko @devilsrose666 @natbratty @zettoaizawa-shusband @dorck26 @notasadgirlipromise @niyanispunk @thecraziestcrayon @athenxt @imnotyourbcbe @jannajuju @lunamoonbby @elle-19 @aces148 @sseleniaa @elaineiswithyou-blog @summerli-u @rattlethemskulls @sunseekerlove @bubbabobabubbles @loonalockley @aleombre @littlelilies @07-bilin @nerdalicios @insanely-creative-things @enby-rising @nataliahemsworth @coralineyouareinterribledanger @louderfortheback @damnzelsoul @enheduannasposts @bontensbabygirl @mynameiswilliamblake

[capquinn]

Does Quinn go overboard and spoil the kids with giant presents for Christmas? I know they probably will always have more than the average kid for everything but he seems very levelheaded and doesn’t want to raise his kids in a mindset of getting anything and everything they want just because their dad is Quinn.

Nah I don't think he would. Quinn strikes me as the kind of dad who’d be thoughtful and intentional about the way he approaches Christmas — and parenting in general, honestly.

He’d never want his kids to grow up with the mindset that they can have everything just because they're able to. He’d make sure they understand the value of what they have, the meaning behind the holidays, and the joy of giving as much as receiving.

Sure, there’d be the fun, flashy toys they’d been talking about for months — the Bluey playhouse Bug wouldn’t stop mentioning or the Paw Patrol set Cub kept pointing to in commercials — but there’d always be a layer of thoughtfulness underneath.

The bigger gifts would have purpose beyond just the joy of unwrapping. Things like a soccer net for the backyard, something that would get them outside as a family on sunny afternoons, or maybe new skates so they could practice gliding across the ice together. It wouldn’t just be about stuff but about creating moments. The kind that turn into memories.

Even the smaller gifts would have meaning. A new set of paints and brushes for Bug, who’d been fascinated by colours lately, or blocks for Cub to stack and tumble over as he giggles at his little triumphs. Every gift, big or small, would be tied to what makes his kids light up, encouraging their interests, creativity, and, most importantly, time spent together.

Because for Quinn, it’s not just about giving his kids everything they want. It’s about teaching them the joy of shared experiences, of giving thoughtfully, and of appreciating the moments that come with each gift — whether it’s their giggles during a backyard soccer game, Bug’s serious little face as she paints, or Cub’s excitement as he crawls around the inside of the soccer net after the ball. For him, those are the true gifts.

And when they’re old enough, he’d absolutely instill the act of giving back. Every December, he’d encourage the kids to go through their old toys, explaining how there are children who might not have as much as they do. It wouldn’t be a chore but more of a tradition, one that builds empathy and kindness.

He’d make it feel special, not like giving something up but like sharing something wonderful. Bug would sit cross-legged on her bedroom floor, surrounded by stacks of toys she’s outgrown, while Cub sits nearby, babbling curiously at the scene.

Quinn crouches beside them, his tone gentle and encouraging. “This one could make another kid really happy,” he’d say, holding up a well-loved doll, his warm smile reassuring Bug as she carefully considers.

Bug nods after a moment, placing the doll into the donation box with the careful determination of a little girl who’s taking her job very seriously. Cubby, always eager to mimic his big sister, babbles excitedly and reaches for a toy car to drop in, though it’s not quite one for the box yet.

“It’s like sharing Christmas magic,” Quinn adds, ruffling Cubby’s soft hair as Bug beams at his words.

When the box is full, he’d scoop Cub up and take Bug by the hand, letting them come along to drop it off at the second hand toy drive.

He's just the type of dad who always gives his kids a magical holiday while keeping their feet firmly planted on the ground, and honestly? It’s impossible not to love him even more for it.

[raccoonsrummagerostrum]

Meeting the Clan

Part 3

Yautja x Reader

Word count: >1k

Warnings: loud noises, fighting, eating, drinking, nausea, light gore, alien blood, slightly drunk reader, short of breath reader

Summary: your lover's clan invites you to dinner and it just keep getting worse

A/N: sorry I've been gone for so long, all my creativity was put into another project. I've got a lot of wips and a few requests/asks to get too, so look forward to more writing comming soon ❤

Part 1 & Part 2

This was not anything like meeting the parents. Even in all the sitcoms and bad reality tv that you had watched, you had never seen anything go so wrong. As the two faced off with each other Amedha, your lover's worst rival, still took the time to look over at you and whistle. Your lover lunged and dug their mandibles into his throat. Amedha responded by digging his claws deep into your lover's side, causing them to scream in pain, and thus release their rivals' neck. You knew better than to get in between them, but you couldn’t just let your lover get beat up like this. 

Amedha looked over to you again and winked. The food you had just eaten bubbled up in your throat, and you couldn't stop the disgusted expression from spreading across your face. However, this gave your lover the perfect opening to give their rival a hard right hook to the jaw. The crack of bone rang out around the room. They quickly gained the upper hand maneuvering to hold their rival down, holding his face against the floor. Amedha scoffed, earning a loud deep and angry growl from your love. They pulled his arm back until there was a sharp snap and a roar. You quickly shielded your eyes from the gruesome sight. 

You liked to think that you had a strong stomach. You didn’t mind gory horror movies, and could handle most everyday ooman injuries. Broken bones, and bloody cuts didn’t phase you, but this. Between the sounds of injury, the reactionary screams of pain, and the sight of all the blood and backwards facing limbs. You struggled very badly to deal. But the uproar from the table encouraged you to look again. 

Your lover now stood, one clawed foot atop their rival's head. They let out an ear splitting victory roar that rattled every plate on the table. The rest of the party cheered, and you added some meek applause. 

They then returned to your side, placing a kiss on your head as they sat back down. 

"Apologies, starlight. Such displays are not uncommon at these types of events."

"That's all right," you whispered back, "I was just worried." You reached out to the glowing green dripping from their abs. They chuffled in an attempt to calm you. It worked, but only slightly. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted your lover's rival slinking off. The moment the door closed behind him the table roared again and the festivities continued. 

--

After eating your weight in food, and more "wine" then you maybe could have handled, your lover, still somehow upright, guided you to their room. You tried to argue, suggesting you go back on the space plane and spend the night at your place, but your lover responded that space travel was not a good idea in your condition. They were right. 

A panel on the wall slid open to reveal a small two room cabin. The first room was meticulously organized, every wall was covered in weapons, tools, and trophies. The next room was more homey. As homey as the yautja get. Furs covered the walls and floor, trinkets and personal items littered every surface, and you recognized more than a few gifts from you. A cubbie was cut out high on one wall. 

You walked (stumbled) over and stuck your hands up to climb in, but didn't even come close. Your lover came up behind you and you noticed that the cubbie was even taller than them. You threw your hands up at them, demanding uppies. They chuffed at you in a way that sounded more like a laugh. That is when you noticed that they had a mask in their hand. It was much smaller than their usual helmet. They offered it to you, but in your inebriated state you still didn't understand. They turned the mask around and affixed it to your face. It was only then that you noticed that it had been getting hard for you to breathe. 

You greedily sucked in the fresh air from the mask. Only now realizing how out of breath you were. Your lover took the time to remind you that 'the air on earth is different to what we are used to, and thus the air on the ship is different to what you are used to'. But you were far to drunk and sleepy to pay attention.

Without any more time to process, your lover scoped you up and effortlessly carried you up and into the cubbie. You very quickly found yourself surrounded by soft furs, and plush covers. Your lover wrapped themselves around you with their back to the entrance. Between the soft bed, the exhausting dinner, and your lover's purrs you struggled to keep your eyes open. 

"We're gonna need to talk about what happened." You said fighting for consciousness. Your lover only replied.

"In the morning"

--

As your eyes opened you struggled to remember where you were. Eventualy the soft scratch of your lover's claws jogged your memory and you recalled last nights fight. And last nights announcement. You thought briefly about turning over and walking your lover, but you had now way of telling what time it was. But the second you stretched your legs your lover was awake anyway.

"Good morning starlight"

"How can you tell?" They turned the screen of ther writs gauntlet tword you, and using every ounce of yautja language skills you had you deduced that it was 9am. At that you let out an exasperated sigh.

"Are you all right starlight?"

"What happened last night?"

"Well," your lover began "we boarded my space plane, and then-"

"I remember what happened." You said, cutting them off and Flipping over. "I just don't understand what happened."

"What do you not understand?"

"Now your my mate? And that means I'm part of the clan?" They took a moment before awnsering.

"I do not understand either, but I am not unhappy. I am glad that you have been accepted so publicly."

"Honestly I am too, but what does this mean? Does this change anything?"

"Do you want things to change?" They asked tentively.

"No. That's why I'm worried."

"If you do not want anything to change, then nothing will."

"It just feels so official. Almost like were getting marrried."

"What is, getting married?" This earned another sigh.

"Its a ceremony where two people are joined In a legally binding commitment to eachother." Its a really big deal."

"Would you like to get married."

"Woah woah woah, slow down. I don't know about all that right now. I mean I do love you, but thats a really big commitment, and suddenly being called your mate and being part of the clan already feels like too much. I-I I just don't know."

"That is all right. I am happy with where things are now too."

[josnhoes]

Hmm knak au w/ Delicious in Dungeon would be hilarious. Like imagine reader is a young half-foot, the double wammy of being a child as the one race that's confused for human children all the time

I want to do half-foot too because it's cute. But I don't think the ever looming threat of such a short life span would be fun. So how about a dwarf? Still small and cute. Plus Senshi would just dive deeper into dad mode.

This is set pre finding Falin hence no Itsumi

Content warning: Canon violence mentions, eating monsters, panic attack mention

The group finds you in their task to find Falin. It wasn't hard to when they could hear your crying. And why wouldn't you be crying? You had woken up in some unknown place, a place where everything was so big that you felt small. Well that had been your assumption that everything was big, they you looked at your hand and had your *first* panic attack.

Then things got *worse*, you ran into actual monsters. And all you could do was run. Run and hide and pray to whatever diety would listen to save you. You couldn't help the tears as you bunkered down in the cubby hole in the wall.

The sound of a child crying had put the entire group on edge. Was it a new monster mimicking a child? But ultimately the group decided to check. And their shock was intense as they found a small Dwarven child sobbing in a hole in a wall. The kid was lucky the cleaners hadn't started fixing the hole.

It took some time to lure you out and Liaos had almost been tempted to leave you. Not out of malicious intent. But their mission was time sensitive, and a kid would slow them down... but those thoughts were quickly silenced with his own guilt at having considered it.

Marcille was asking how you got here, she hoped a group of adventures wouldn't bring a *child* into the dungeon. But only had more questions when you said you woke up here. You didn't tell her the whole truth about your origins, fear of being abandoned in such a dangerous place overruling the instinct to tell the truth.

Senshi is already working on a meal. He knows they can get answers later, right now the youngin need to eat. If they woke up in the dungeon they probably hadn't have eaten. It also helped cooking made him calm, and the entire situation had him stressed.

Chilchuk was just as panicked. There was a child in the dungeon. Had some adventure group drugged or used sleep magic to keep you unconscious to use as monster bait? With his guild protecting the half-foots did some horrible group decide to get *creative*. That could be figured out later. Right now he had to convince the group to take you back to the surface... a task he didn't know he could manage. Either way he refused to leave a child like this, flashes of his own daughters in his mind fueling that.

[chimimon]

Clay Dusted

College AU - Nanami x f!Reader

Disclaimer! What you are about to read contains the following: fluff, some passionate kissing and clay.

& what I have to say is… I miss my ceramics course… and Nanami gives me warm chai on a cold autumn school night vibes, and so that’s exactly what I wrote.

Crisp Autumn air filled your lungs, and stung your nostrils upon inhale. It was up hill from the parking lot to the art building, the trees swayed in the wind shaking warm colored leaves onto the ground. The street lamps lined your walk toward the ceramics room and if you were lucky there would only be a couple of students inside this late in the afternoon. Luck was on your side as only one student had beat you inside, Nanami. He was throwing clay and carefully kneading a pale lump sum with a darker brown. But it was apparent there were at least three other students prior to your arrival. The room was freckled with dots of mud on the floor, containers of glaze right in front of where they should have been tucked away and carving tools that still needed to be washed off on the table like decor. Unless Nanami was feeling very creative, this was not a one-person mess. He worked quietly, occasionally bobbing his head to whatever he was listening to with an earbud in place. Nanami was always thoughtful when working. He was organized and ridiculously skilled in ceramics.

You would nod or grin on your way in if he noticed you, if not then you would find your cubby, coveralls, and an open wheel. There was no pressure to speak with him, Nanami carried a calm and easy air whenever he worked. But you wanted to, especially since you never got to see him outside the ceramic studio.

“Good evening,” he grinned at his ball of clay.

“Ah, yeah. Hello.” The sudden greeting clearly caught you off guard. Nanami let out a light hearted sigh as he shook his head, still smiling.

In the storage room you found your cubby, slipped on your coveralls and realized your clay bag had been slightly open as one end looked cracked and matte. There was no need to waste it, but you weren’t sure if mixing it directly with water would save it. You were stretching it around in your palms, warming it up as little crumbles escaped your manipulation. There was a partially filled plastic container of slick beside Nanami which you eyed shyly. He noticed your stare before he noticed that dry lump in your hands. “Do you need some mud?”

“I would love some mud.” You nodded.

Nanami waited for you to press a well, before picking up the slimy clay and dripping it into the center. Once the folding started, wet clay slipped through the cracks but as a whole your lump sum was becoming malleable. Finally able to wedge all the air out, you turned to Nanami to thank him, only to notice a muddy line of evidence that he had fixed his glasses immediately after helping you.

The clay on his nose made laugh, and Nanami was looking up at you again as you picked up a damp clean rag. You motioned him to lean down and without a second thought he did so you would wipe his nose. There was a shade of pink under the clay, and you knew that you hadn’t wiped with any harsh force, but as he retracted, a more roses shade bled onto his cheeks.

“Thank you.” He nodded before kneading again.

The rag was now partially tucked into your pocket and you were now a bit embarrassed over how casually you approached him. But Nanami did that with you all the time. Sometimes when he’d pass by Nanami would ask you to face him before using his sleeve to clean off your forehead or cheek like it was second nature. Then again, before it became routine you had first asked him to. Maybe you should have waited for him to ask but he looked so soft with his metallic, forest-green rimmed and rounded glasses a little foggy with dust, and that speckle of clay on his face that made him seem small. Even more than that, the blush gave you confidence before taking it away.

The whirring of the wheel's engine hummed in the shop as you cut a slab of clay, throwing it onto the table a couple of times. Kneading clay felt therapeutic in the calm aura of the classroom, and it was especially nice when it was nights like these where you could have Nanami to watch all by yourself. He worked carefully making perfect dishware, stackable sets and carefully carved vases. Despite his work being lovely on its own, his hands and arms were delicious to the eyes as his veins protruded in careful craftsmanship, his hair dropping over his view as he lifted off his seat to lean into the shape of his projects. You wondered what kind of face he made at the clay. But for now, he had apparently asked for something.

“Please?”

“Hmm?”

“The string of wire.” A clay covered finger pointed to your table.

“Oh yeah.” You waddled over, carrying your clay along with the wire.

As he wiggled the line under his bowl, he spoke to it. “Should I wear contacts when I’m throwing?”

A smile could be heard in his question. “What makes you say that?” You asked.

“You know. So, I don’t get clay on my nose when I fix my lenses again.” He leaned to you with crossed eyes, fixed on the bridge of his glasses, smirking as he wordlessly asked if you could push them up. You did and he bumped your finger with his nose as you pulled away. “Thanks.” The deep warm tone tickled finger tip sending goosebumps down your arm.

Nanami’s grin was enough to get someone drunk. He bore into your eyes and caught this dreamy look that he reveled in. “Anytime,” you practically mouthed.

As he carried away his project, you spun yours. Building and flattening out your piece of clay before shaping. Nanami was cleaning himself off, scrubbing his forearms and massaging his fingers. Unable to keep your focus on your spinning mound, you watched his back as he used the sink across from you. His apron hugged his waist, tugging on his shirt and outlining the muscles in his shoulder as he diligently scrubbed. The water stopped, your gaze dropped, and he began to dry off, patting his arms with paper towels. Nanami appeared beside your wheel. “Can I ask you something?”

The soon-to-be spinning cup slowed in your grasp as you looked up at him. “Yes?” You modestly smiled.

“Will you be in tomorrow night?” His tone was temperate and his face sober.

You rolled your head in thought, “I think so, they said they’ll be firing tonight, I hope. Did you need me to mix a glaze?”

Nanami shook his head. “No, but if you do come in after classes, let me know if you’ll have afternoon coffee or if you’d prefer tea.”

The grin that spread across your face probably looked psychotic but you nodded and let him know you’d like chai. Nanami nodded back and headed back to the storage room. He left the studio before you could finish cutting your mug off the wheel.

Only on the rare nights it was just you and Nanami to left behind, if you left before he did, you would stay after and pick up after him. Cleaning up alone was the worst. But tonight, Nanami left the room spotless and you’d thankfully only have to clean your wheel.

The following afternoon you nearly ran uphill to the ceramic studio. He was waiting patiently as you sat at the table he was carving at. Nanami pushed your warm chai forward and you hummed a thank you that made him blush again. The need to speak didn’t come but there was something romantic that sat between you two. On your elbows you leaned in and watched as he flicked little lines at the bottom of his bowl. As you watched Nanami lifted his brow at you with the lack of clay on your surface.

“They didn’t fire anything last night, or this morning.”

“I know.” You sipped.

Nanami smirked at how you held the cup with both hands on the table, warming them up as he continued to flick little details. He watched one single hand raise the lid to your lips as you drank some more. Nanami placed his bowl on the table, and he was now leaning on his elbow as well, melting into the moment.

“So, you came to see me?” He teased.

The chai nearly traveled into your lungs before you could speak. “You could say that.” You cleared your throat.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” He chuckled, “I’m just glad you came anyways.”

Nanami meant that and you knew it. Anytime he had something to say to anyone, he wasn’t wasting breath. He was honest, or blunt and it was captivating. Different from other men that tried to sweep you off your feet as the world's worst comedian, assumed you were already smitten or occasionally forgot your name. Nothing on those dates filled you with butterflies the way Nanami’s steady gaze did. Nothing was as charming as a man who began to tuck your projects behind his own after students in another class tried to pass yours off as their own. Stale kisses and too tight embraces couldn’t hold a candle to warm chai and clay carving. In your mind, sitting next to Nanami topped every other date and you wish you had dressed up in something more than jeans and a sweater.

His iced coffee caught your attention as he swirled it around bringing to straw to his mouth. “Nanami.” You said, unsure of what you wanted to say next.

“Hmm?”

Your focus moved to the indentation of leaves at the base of his bowl. “Have you always been good with carving?” A small nervous voice convinced you not to ask if this was something more than him being thoughtful.

“No, but I do enjoy this class.”

“I noticed.” You hit a dead end. “I like it too… I really appreciate you looking after everyone’s projects and work space.” Lumping in the whole class in your gratitude was to test something in his honestly.

“Everyone?” He asked pensively.

You nodded.

Without missing a beat, he corrected you. “Your projects. Your work space. I’m looking out for you.” When Nanami said your name and it burned in your ears. His frankness like small flames. “I hope you don’t think I buy teas for any classmate I see in this building.” He scooted in with a devilish smirk up. “Do I seem like that kind of man to you?”

Coffee filled the closing space between you. “You definitely seem like a man.” his arms flexed and your resolve wavered. “So, Nanami, the chai was just for me?”

Nanami rolled his eyes to the ceiling and massaged his neck. “Absolutely.” Blush bled from his nose and you could imagine the clay on his nose again.

When his eyes dropped from the ceiling back onto your face you had scrunched your nose, giggling. Something in your spice scented laugh forced a clay dusted hand to pull you into a gentle and hasty kiss. Your eyes grew wide, your heart racing as he pulled you deeper into him. In another hasty move Nanami tore his lips from yours.

He watched anxiously as you slowly blinked and slipped off your chair.

“I’m, I’m sorry if that was-”

You closed the space again using both of your hands catch his jaw pulling him in one more time. Nanami opened his lap as you moved between his legs. With his face cupped in your grasp you controlled the movement of one another's mouths, leaning into the shape of his hunger. Nanami grabbed your hips in-between each kiss as his fingers snuck under the hem of your sweater. Cold finger tips drew long, lazy lines which in turn drew a gasp from you when he gripped your waist.

“You're so warm.” Nanami purred biting your bottom lip. You squealed as his tongue slipped into your mouth. The taste of coffee was waking you up as he forced you to arched into him. Nanami used on of his hands to travel back to your hip, pulling you to sit on his lap. Once you were seated, he tore himself away, the kiss abruptly stopped. But Nanami placed a quick kiss to the bottom of your jaw. “I’m sorry if my hands were too cold.” He said in place of being honest about the near loss of control.

You squeezed your legs together while on his thigh, biting the inside of your mouth as you smiled again. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

Nanami massaged your hip again, patting you twice before you could slip off of his lap. “Could I- when I see you next can I take you somewhere?” He joined you in standing, grabbing his bowl to place onto a sheet of cardboard.

A plastic bag was slid toward him before you picked up your tea. “You may, Kento.”

The crisp air didn’t bite as hard with Nanami in front of you, holding your hand as he walked you back to your car. He opened your car door and placed two kisses on the back of your hand as you dropped inside. “I’ll call you when I have something set up.” He said sure of himself.

“I don’t get to pick?” You teased, thinking back to those boys who pretended to be men.

“Well,” Nanami massaged the back of his neck before leaning on your roof. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I couldn’t plan a first date with a beautiful woman?”

© 2024 chimimon

[tymime]

Public Domain cartoon characters from the Golden Age of Animation (and beyond)

Revised and expanded version of this post: https://tymime.tumblr.com/post/648495121557585920/instead-of-whining-about-mickey-mouse-not-falling

While Mickey entering the public domain is exciting and all, I do think a lot of people are overlooking the many other animated characters that are available to use in their creative works. This list isn't entirely exhaustive, but it does highlight some of the most interesting and/or appealing characters, as well as ones that have the potential to be so.

Koko the Clown

One of the oldest cartoon stars from the Fleischer studio, almost all of Koko's silent-era cartoons are PD, and have been for quite some time. A handful of his appearances alongside Betty Boop are also PD.

Oswald the Lucky Rabbit

Oswald's PD status has been greatly overshadowed by his fellow Disney star Mickey, but I believe that he deserves more recognition. All of the shorts produced by the Disney studio are PD as of this year, and let's face it, those are the only ones most people care about. Pegleg Pete's bear design is also PD.

Keep in mind that the blue shorts that Oswald wears in Epic Mickey and elsewhere are likely copyrighted, so I recommend steering clear of that.

I'm also not entirely sure you can use the name "Ortensia" for his cat girlfriend, since that name first appeared in Epic Mickey also. She was called "Kitty" back in the day, among other things.

All of Van Beuren Studio's cartoons

The Van Beuren Studio was active during the rubberhose era, and their cartoons, especially the earlier ones, are like a cruder, possibly even more bizarre cousin to Fleischer and Disney. They went bust in the late 1930s, and no one renewed the copyright later on, so the entirety of their output is PD.

Their most notable characters include Tom and Jerry, a pair of average Joes who always get into strange adventures. They shouldn't be confused with MGM's Tom and Jerry, and in fact they were called Dick and Larry when their shorts were rereleased for the home-movie market in the 1940s.

Also notable is Waffles and Don, who are basically just animal versions of Tom and Jerry. You might consider these two as a better alternative, just to avoid confusion.

There's also Cubby Bear, a pretty blatant Mickey Mouse clone, but unique enough that I don't think anybody’s going to confuse the two nowadays.

In the previous post, I mentioned a rumor that Disney threatened legal action over the character, but I can't find the source for that now. I may have been thinking of Milton Mouse, who was so extremely similar to Mickey that they actually did sue the studio for copyright infringement. So maybe don't try selling any Milton merchandise...

Finally, there's Molly Moo-Cow, who appeared in several Rainbow Parade cartoons in the mid-to-late 1930s. Molly is arguably not the most interesting character, but I have a fondness for her since we grew up with one of her shorts on a VHS tape.

Toby the Pup

Another very obscure character, about half of his cartoons are lost media. The little that does survive is hard to find online, but I think his design has appeal.

Dr. XXX

Disney's The Mad Doctor was never renewed for reasons unknown, though some speculate that the studio thought that the cartoon was too scary and decided to let it go. Fortunately for us, that means that this iconic character is now in the people's hands.

Goopy Geer

Goopy appeared in the three Merrie Melodies cartoons alongside his unnamed girlfriend. Despite his name and appearance being similar to Disney's Goofy, he actually made his debut about a month before (Goofy was named Dippy Dawg at the time anyway, so it was undoubtedly a coincidence).

Claude Hopper

Claude appeared in a single Looney Tunes cartoon in 1943 called Hop and Go, alongside a pair of Scottish rabbits who antagonize him. The cartoon ends with a very unfortunate depiction of Tokyo being blown up (World War II was still going on at the time), so it's no surprise that Warner Bros. decided not to renew this one. Despite that, he has a very appealing design (imo), so I think he has potential. (Also, he's voiced by Pinto Colvig, the original voice of Goofy!)

Private Snafu and Mr. Hook

Snafu and Hook were created for the US government, so according to the law are automatically public domain. The shorts were made to be shown to members of the US army and navy respectively, in order to teach them valuable lessons for fighting in WWII, but are nevertheless hilarious cartoons- animated by the Looney Tunes team with scripts by Ted Geisel- aka Dr. Seuss!

The Dover Boys

Yes, Tom, Dick and Larry, Dora Standpipe and the villainous Dan Backslide are all public domain. A bunch of YouTube Poops were created after this fact was discovered by the internet a few years ago.

How Warner Bros. could ever let this one get away I'll never know. Their loss is our gain, I suppose.

Also of note are the ComiColor cartoons from the Iwerks studio, Rainbow Parade from Van Beuren, and most of the Color Classics by Fleischer. These don't have any especially memorable characters in them, but I thought I ought to mention them.

Caveats and other concerns

Krazy Kat

All of the strips up to 1928 are definitely fair game. According to the Public Domain Superheroes wiki however, the entirety of the strip's run is PD. I'm not sure if it that's true, but the Fantagraphics collections don't credit any newspaper syndicate, so it seems likely. (Apparently the copyright status of newspaper comics are a whole can of worms on its own...)

At any rate, the strip's cast was pretty well set in stone by 1928, so it shouldn't be much of a problem. A large number of animated shorts starring Krazy are also PD, but those were pretty much in name only.

Felix the Cat

Felix was pretty much the first cartoon superstar, and almost all of his Golden Age appearances are PD now. Keep in mind that this does not include elements from the 1950s cartoon like his magic bag, or from The Twisted Tales of Felix, as amazing as that series is.

The character's name and appeance are still trademarked by NBC Universal however, so you might be able to use him in a minor role, but not much else.

Flip the Frog

I'm uncertain about this one. According to most sources Flip is PD, but according to the Thunderbean Blu-ray collection he's copyrighted by the Film Preservation Archives, whatever that means. Additionally, Flip himself is supposedly trademarked by Leslie Iwerks, Ub Iwerks’ granddaughter, though no one seems to be able to confirm that. I don't know how the trademark hasn't lapsed yet, considering that Flip hasn't appeared on any official merchandise or anything in decades.

Bosko and Honey

I believe there's nothing stopping anyone from using Bosko's classic design (later appearances at MGM and in Tiny Toons are still copyrighted), but the character himself is a bit problematic, considering that it's all but stated outright that he's a blackface caricature. Use with caution.

Foxy and Roxy

Like Goopy Geer, Foxy appeared in three Merrie Melodies cartoons. Roxy's name originates from an episode of Tiny Toon Adventures however, so keep that in mind. Though I'm not sure what else you would call her (or if Warner Bros. would even care). Supposedly her original name was "Fluffy", but I can't find a source for this.

Like Bosko and Honey, later appearances in Tiny Toons are still copyrighted.

Noveltoons

Ginger Nutt (and rest of the Animaland cast)

Noveltoons was a series produced by Famous Studios, the successor to the Fleischer studio. The characters include Baby Huey, Herman the mouse, Blackie the sheep, Little Audrey, and of course, Casper the Friendly Ghost. Only a small handful of the shorts are PD though, and Casper is trademarked, so one's options are limited.

Baby Huey's first cartoon, in particular, was not renewed, so his original design, his mother, and the fox who tries to eat him are probably free to use.

This one I'm not entirely sure about either, but Ginger Nutt's Christmas Circus has long been a staple of grey-market tapes and DVDs, so I'm just going to assume all of the Animaland cartoons are also PD. Considering that the series wasn't very sucessful, and is very obscure nowadays, it seems pretty likely.

If anyone has any insight on this, let me know.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964)

Now here's an interesting case. An all-time classic Christmas special, and yet large parts of it are PD because they accidentally put the wrong date on the copyright notice. Instead of the Roman numerals MCMLXIV (1964), it reads MCLXIV (1164), and according to the law at the time, that meant that the film immediately went into public domain.

Of course, Rudolph himself is still copyrighted, and will be until 2035 when the original book falls into the public domain. Even then he's likely to still be trademarked. Not to mention the songs featured in the '64 film will be copyrighted for a long time afterward.

Still, this means that anyone is free to use all the other characters, including Hermey, Yukon Cornelius, King Moonracer, Clarice, and all the Misfit Toys. It's a wonder no one seems to have taken advantage of this. And of course Santa and his reindeer have been PD for ages, especially Santa since he comes from folklore- and you can't copyright folklore.

Calvin and the Colonel

This cartoon is based on and stars a lot of the same voice cast as the old-time radio show Amos and Andy, which, while not overtly racist, featured white actors pretending to be black. The cartoon obviously has animals instead, but still, tread carefully. Someone is bound to point out the characters' history.

Hoppity Hooper

Another one I'm not sure about. The Public Domain Superheroes wiki has characters from this show among its articles, but I wasn't able to confirm if it really was PD. It was created by Jay Ward, the same studio who made Rocky & Bullwinkle and George of the Jungle, but was also a huge flop for some reason, so that may be the reason why they let the copyright expire. Again, I'm not sure, but no one seems to care that the entire series is on YouTube, so who knows?

...Well, there you have it. Lots of obscure and forgotten toons waiting to be rediscovered and reused! If anyone has any more info or corrections, leave me a comment. I'd love some clarification on some of these.

[pruneunfair]

For princess jewels,I wanna say I hate her and everyone in the manhwa community hate her. Let me stated the reasons,1. shes fatphobic(no offense,I love cubby characters very much and I feel insulted of her. Seriously,she disgust me because she doesn't like her fiance when he is fat and has freckles,now shes so into him because he doesn't look fat anymore). 2. She crosses boundaries that she literally forced that blue haired name jade to be in her harem(the fact he has a fear of women but the fl doesn't acknowledge it is just ew). finally,she seems to have a terrible job managing her harem(because that red haired guys is so possessive yet she didn't acknowledge and always favour her other concubines which is just idiotic. Also,dog collars on the only black haired guy wow creative(*sarcasm). I heard the spoiler that the red haired guy is so jealous of the fiance that he murder him(smooth red haired guy,your just a concubine so that's really freaking smooth of you how very idiotic of a prince huh really idiotic)

Yeah reading this myself and of course watching a blacklightjack video I knew that it was garbage and I wasn't the only one who thought that. Thank God it got canceled after 50 chapters because the artist is a groomer.

[schrodingerscollective]

Here is our mind palace! We made this using Inkarnate - we used the free version which is pretty limited, however we were still able to do a lot with the free tools through some creativity and the layout is really nice! Lore dump under the cut:

I'm (Parker) gonna be talking about this along with Redfang, so we'll indicate who's talking by our names. Also, our inner world isn't sentient and not nearly as tangible as some other mind palaces, so we don't have a lot of lore and most areas aren't that detailed, however we're working on that! Also, we use the terms "headspace," "inner world" interchangeably (though I like to call it our mind palace as you can see lol) Ok, I'll go first!

Parker: My home is labelled "Parker's Tent," which is pretty much what it sounds like :) it's a HUGE tent, kinda like the ones kids dream about and it's super cool! There's lots of pillows and stuff and it's built a little bit off the ground with wooden panels (like, there's a big square platform that raises up like half a meter off the ground and the platform slopes down to meet the ground on all sides, and the tent is on that), and sometimes I just sit by the river bank outside and chill.

Then there's Wild's treehouse! It's built in a massive tree and has like a balcony all around in a circle (that's what the wooden circle under the tree in the map is) and inside there's lots of books and a hammock high up and the windows are really high up and you can see so many things! There's wooden panels that go up the side of the trunk to make a ladder, but Wild doesn't use it that much since he has wings most of the time.

There's also Nova's cabin (it's covered by trees and mist on the map because there were NO stamps that looked even remotely like a cabin lol), which is very rustic and cool :) the wood is all dark and the lights are warm and there's some awesome plants! I think they have some venus flytraps in there, but I don't know what the other ones are. There's also a circular wooden slab like the one Toothless lies on in HTTYD for Fennec (he/him), though it has some blankets and pillows and other stuff. Fennec is one of the oldest headmates in our system and works similarly to a Daemon (and is happy to be called a Daemon)! He usually appears as a brown dragon, though he's getting more comfortable changing forms to other animals so he doesn't use it all the time. He's very nice!

Redfang: I don't want to disclose much of Paint's cubby (indicated by the tree stump as there wasn't an appropriate sticker), however I will say that it's a very elaborate kid's cubby. It looks like a mushroom house and there are patches of gardens outside; the air is very peaceful.

The "little guy department," is what my headmates call the camp the warrior cats live in. It's situated in a small set of caves behind a waterfall, however I can't say much about it as they usually keep to themselves and I don't go over that way a lot. I don't even know how many of them there are, though they seem nice enough.

Then there's my den. The entrance is along the side of a small cliff, and my home is a decently sized cave that sits just below ground level. There are some pelts on the floor but not much else as I mostly go there to sleep. There's a small meadow outside my den, and when fireflies appear in the inner world some nights, a few will crawl inside my den. They don't bother me and I don't bother them, but I do think their lights are rather pretty.

Second last is the fairy door, which is likely the oldest part of the headspace and has a function different to anything we've seen in other system's headspaces. It was inspired by the small children's fairy door toy(?), however our fairy door is the size of a normal door and sits on the side of a tree trunk. Ours also opens, so there's that too. There's nothing inside as we don't have a fronting room - when we're fronting, we're just... in the body. And when we're not, we're in headspace. We don't often have use of it as forces unknown usually dictate who fronts, however it's very useful to have a visual when someone is actively trying to get in or out of front. The fairy door is on a small island, which you can cross by using the stepping stones.

The last area is the campfire, which is the group meeting place. The paths connecting all our homes also connect to the campfire, and we go there for meetings but also just for fun. We eat marshmallows, some folks fish and when it gets cold, we light the campfire (contrary to popular belief, the marshmallow-eating is not dependent on the lighting of the campfire).

That's about it. Parker has since left the building (brain) while I wrote my part, so I'm not sure how he wanted to end this post. I suppose I hope this is interesting to some of you? Feel free to ask any questions, we'd be more than happy to answer.

[waklman]

Double Take

Chapter three: The Chase

synopsis: the hard-deck believes their prized solo artist needs to boost her social presence before a long awaited album release, with the help of a manager (babysitter). yet, you manage to ditch or chase away every artist manager that gets assigned to help you. as a last resort, the label contacts the only manager who was able to tie you down, the now retired Pete Maverick Mitchell, asking for a referral. lucky for you, the one person that comes to his mind is Bradley Bradshaw—who’s in need of a new job.

warnings: no use of y/n, mature themes 18+, explicit language, reader is 21 and bradley is 23.

word count: 3.4k.

previous chapter | next chapter | double take masterlist.

Maybe you should’ve tried harder when it came to your efforts towards evading Bradley. Or maybe you shouldn’t have underestimated his determination in the first place. He was brung up by Maverick, after all. And the old man wasn’t exactly known for being a quitter—nor does he raise them. 

It was three weeks ago when you first ditched Bradley, abandoning him at some after party you can barely recall. And it took him less than five minutes to track you down—tucked away in a corner of a nearby coffee shop. 

Since then, you were met with many more failed attempts at shaking him off. Whenever you thought you had finally escaped him, he would appear right behind you like a second shadow. 

You make a run for the library to avoid a public dinner appearance? He’s waiting between two hard cover books—until you skim through that shelf. You think you successfully slipped past him during a promotional event? Yeah, no he’s already standing by the exit with a grin on his face. 

There was nothing you could do without him already being one step ahead of you. He even stalked you enough to learn about your special spot. The Miller’s Bookshop. 

“Hey, sweetheart?” Mrs. Miller, softly calls out for you by her spot at the register, knowing you’re not too far off. 

“..Yeah..” you answer absentmindedly, nose stuffed deep into a poetry book. 

“Your handsome friend is here looking for you again,” she chuckles, amused by the little cat and mouse game you two have been playing at.

It seems like everyone finds this situation funny—but you. Like it’s some fool-proof joke that you’re left in the dark about—doomed to never grasp understanding of. 

You toss your head back against the wall, closing your eyes in defeat. Handsome friend? No one else comes to mind. “I’m back here, Bradshaw.” 

“Anyone in the mood for breakfast?” He sings loudly, shaking the bag of food for you to hear—trying to beckon your interest. 

Bradley offers Mrs. Miller a polite smile, before making his way to you—turning his body to fit through the narrowly spread bookshelves. He ducks his head, dodging the paper cranes that hang from the ceiling, knowing how to maneuver around the place from being here so often. 

He assumes it’s just part of your creative procedure, to stow yourself away in here until you’re able to pump out song lyrics. 

You recently entered the process of songwriting, after finally getting back to Javy about his project files. And with that, you’ve been quietly sneaking out of your apartment and into the bookshop before Bradley could even stir in bed. 

If anything—it worked out in his favor, because Bradley’s slowly starting to catch up on sleep—and he knew exactly where to find you in the mornings. 

It was a dingy little bookstore—small, cluttered, and tightly tucked between two trendy cafes that wildly outshined it. Yet you were always there—sitting quietly in one of the reading cubbies–a private space for customers to look through their books after a purchase. 

His eyes skim over all the little nooks, spotting the toes of your sneakers peeking out from one of the occupied cubbies. “Mind if I join?” He asks, pulling back the worn out curtain that hid you away. 

“I mind very much, actually,” you reply, not bothered enough to look away from your book. Opposite to your word, you’re already scooting over to let Bradley sit besides you. His determination lets him squeeze his big frame into the cozy compartment with you. 

“Ouch–watch it,” you scold, finally snapping your eyes to him. “Are you trying to sit next to me or sit on top of me?” Bradley lightly laughs, lifting his butt so you could pull your loose pant-leg from under him. 

Bradley sits back down. “You know,” he starts, leaning the opening of the bag towards you “..girls don’t typically complain when I’m on top.”

“Why? Because they’re too busy rethinking their life choices?” You mockingly remark, reaching inside to grab your bagel. You skim a hand through the rest of the bag, there’s nothing else inside there but napkins. “Where’s yours?” You ask, withdrawing your hand.

“Ate it on my way over,” he shrugs, extracting the item of food from you. He carefully peels back the wrapping paper, uncovering enough for you to take a bite. You hum, taking it back from him. 

Then it falls quiet again, with you taking slow bites of your toasted bagel, waiting for inspiration to strike while Bradley flips through the book for you—closely waiting for you to nod, a signal for him to turn the page. 

It’s oddly intimate—the routine you two fell into. Bradley started to pick up your regime faster than you expected him to, adjusting himself seamlessly into your daily life.

Graham even pointed out that Bradley’s outlasted all your previous managers, with the exception of Maverick—and he was right. Bradley’s already learning how to deal with you.

Finishing the page you’re on, you nod for Bradley to detect the motion. But he doesn’t move, leaving you to stare at the same text. 

Again, you nod your head, waiting for him to flip to the next page. His reaction is delayed—swiping to a fresh page for you, one full minute after you signaled him to. “..My bad.” he mutters the apology, with a yawn following right after. 

“Take a nap,” you mutter the command, with a mouth full of food–plucking the book from his hands. 

Bradley’s cheeks fills with air, holding back a second yawn. “Why? So you could sneak out while I’m knocked?” He asks, finally pushing the sign of tiredness away. 

It was a joke, yet you provide him with a serious answer. “No—I’ll be here awhile, since they’re closed for the next few days. The Millers are taking off to celebrate their anniversary,” you reply, adjusting the book in your lap. 

“What about your book? I always hold it for you.” 

“Just sleep. I can read on my own–been doing it long before you came around.” You’re only half paying attention to what you’re saying, too busy reading over a line of poetry that brews an idea.

Bradley purses his lips, seeing that you’re already set on it. “Whatever you say boss.”

“You’re funny if you think I’m letting you sit like that, Move in,” he scoffs, reaching backwards to pat the empty space between you two. 

When you guys finally left the bookshop, you expected to leave in his Ford Bronco–not a brand new Harley. 

“How’d you convince Ms. Benjamin into buying a company motorcycle?” You question, leaning over to check out the side of the bike. It’s not as sweet as Maverick’s ride, but you can’t deny that it’s definitely a looker. 

Bradley grins under his helmet, knocking back the kickstand with his heel. “Told her it’s better for your image. I figured you have car sickness. You can’t keep showing up to events lookin’ like you’re about to hurl.” 

“How'd you figure that one out?” You ask without thinking, grabbing his shoulders as he balances you two. 

“Are you kidding me? The image of you hanging out the side of my car like a paper doll lives rent free in my head,” he reminds you, slightly offended that you forgot about that whole fiasco. 

“Hm, forgot about that,” you brush him off, with a shrug of your shoulders. 

Bradley’s tongue presses flat against his teeth. “Lack of lyrics clogging up your brain?”

“Horrible jokes clogging up yours?” You plainly throw back at him. 

“You just love rewording my jokes, don’t you?”

“Yeah, cause I make them funnier,” you answer flatly, with an empty expression sitting under your own helmet. 

“Right. Now hold on tight, dollface,” he pats the side of your thigh. 

You listen to his instruction, scooting forward to lightly press your front onto his back—until you fully catch what he said. “What did you just call me?”

“What? Isn’t that what Mav calls you when he drives you around?” He inquires, revving the engine—letting it roar back at him. 

“I was one of his clients–not one of his flings,” you correct him. 

“What is it then? My girl? My sweet litt–”

“Don’t make this conversation weird, freak,” you cut him off coldly.

Bradley’s tongue pokes his cheek at the insult. Freak? 

He stretches his jaw, annoyed. “I was told by Mav growing up that if little girls are mean to me, it means they have a crush on me,” he says, mockingly. 

“Well, I was told by Mav that if your helmet is on too tight, you can’t think properly,” you start to fire back. “So maybe you should loosen that thing on your big head before you say anything stupid. Oh wait—it’s already too late for that.” It’s like getting repeatedly shot by a gun after already being killed. For once, he would rather you turn to physical violence instead of using your words. 

Bradley bites his tongue, knowing this is only getting messy since you’re both just spurred on by hunger. It’s been hours since you both had breakfast—and a small one at that. 

He lets out a sigh, willing himself to ignore the blow to his ego. “…Wanna try to get those poke bowls again?”

You puff your cheeks, embarrassed by the burst of anger. “…I want spicy salmon in mine.”

If Bradley learned one thing from his babysitting days, it was that—playing with a toddler til they drop was the best way to tire them out.

But in this case, you weren’t a toddler—just a restless girl who can’t keep her hands off that stupid book you brought home. 

“I’m never touching that copy again,” you voice your annoyance, turning your back to him. 

“Good, cause you’re addicted to it,” he sternly replies, fluffing the pillow under your head. 

The only way Bradley could keep your paws off the damn book was to finally stuff it down his pants after wearing you down in a fight for it.

Before reaching that conclusion—he managed to snatch the book from you, holding it up in the air, leaving you to jump on your tippy toes—trying to reach for it, for almost an hour as insults came flying out your mouth.  It was like watching a toddler discover what curse words are.

After successfully wearing you out, Bradley’s now crouched next to your bedside, watching your shoulders relax under the sheets. 

“What’s in that damn thing that’s got you so hooked anyway?” He whispers. Bradley doesn’t think of any consequences when reaching out a hand to stroke your head next. And to his surprise, you let him do it.

In some ways, you remind him of the untamed puppy he had as a child. You were stubborn and grouchy in every way possible—but for some reason Bradley wasn’t willing to give up on you. Maybe he just liked having a challenge. Just maybe.

“Reading helps me write all my hit songs…I’m nothing without it,” you mumble tiredly, unsure if you’re imagining the comforting strokes or not. 

His pinky slightly brushes over the shell of your ear at your confession. “Are you sure? I haven’t seen you write down one line, Taylor Swift.” 

You’re starting to doze off, but you still catch his lame joke. “That better not be an insult to Taylor…” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare Mousey, not with you around,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair back.

You don’t answer him. 

As carefully as he can, Bradley leans in to hover over your still body. A small smile tugs his lips, seeing that this the first time you’ve fallen asleep before he has. 

That hard expression you’re always wearing is long gone—and your lips are just barely parted as you let out calm breaths. You look cute. 

For someone who was so adamant on you getting to bed, Bradley’s pulling you right out of it. 

“What.” you grumble—pulling the door open to see him fully awake—not one part of him screams tired. 

The grin plastered on his face, just sets your annoyance to sink in even deeper. Was this why everyone called him Rooster? For waking up at criminally insane hours? You would ask, but your reluctance to be out of bed right now overweighs the curiosity. 

Bradley’s purpose for appearing at your front door slips his brain for a moment, and his eyes shamelessly rake over your sleepy appearance. The oversized shirt you had on is wrinkled from sleep and he could barely make out if you’re wearing anything under there or not. Were you one of those people who strip in their sleep or something? 

As if on cue, Maverick’s stern face appears in Bradley’s head like an unwanted pop up ad–reminding him that he should make a better effort to be professional.

“Hello?” you make a face at him, weirded out by his silence.

Bradley clears his throat. “Your stylist told me she needs you to try on these archives. We’re uh-we’re attending a big movie premiere tomorrow,” he reports awkwardly, lifting the stack of black garment bags into your line of sight—attempting to distract you from his stuttering.

Your brows knit together, wondering where his kiddish demeanor wandered off to. 

Bradley remains motionless, letting you scan him up and down with an unimpressed look in your eye.

He probably hit the gym before knocking at your door. Bradley’s sporting athletic wear—he has on a pair of running shorts—probably as short as yours, riding up his lower thigh with a navy blue long sleeve clung tightly on his upper half, revealing his progress at the gym. 

Without saying a word, you turn around to let him follow you inside. 

He carefully picks out his next words, trying to find the best way to bring up his following request without sounding predatory, afraid he might tick you off. “She also asked me for videos of you in the outfits, you know—to see how they fit.” He sets down the bags onto your couch for you to grab. 

“Do you have your phone on you?” You reach down for the garments. 

“Um. Yeah.” 

You leave him unanswered, dragging your heavy feet over to your bedroom–with the racks of clothes thrown over your shoulder.

“Bradshaw?” you call out for him, hesitantly. “Are you sure this doesn’t belong to someone else?”

You’ve finished changing into the first outfit, speaking to him from inside your room while he waits for you on the couch. “Can you come look? I don’t think this is mine.”

Bradley throws his phone off to the side, pulling himself up from your cushions. “Are you sure? Your name was labeled on the bags and everything Mouse,” he assures you, walking towards your bedroom.

He patiently stands in front of your door, watching the knob jiggle as you work to unlock it. 

Slowly, the door is pulled open, revealing the outfit that's causing you so much uncertainty. “This is…I don’t think I put this on right,” you mutter, awkwardly stretching out your arms for him to see.

Bradley blinks. 

He’s not even sure what you have on. It looks like you have a scarf wrapped around your body, covering only bits and pieces of you that make him nervous to even acknowledge. 

It doesn’t help that the fabric is dangerously thin and looks like bandage wrappings.

Bradley begins to sweat. You’re starting to resemble that sexy nurse out of that bad 70s porno he and Jake watched one time—as a joke. The woman wore nothing but bandages.

Bradley licks his lips, trying his best to appear put together with a serious look on his face—but you start to turn—to show him your backside. “..Like the back is even worse, Bradshaw. Here, look,” you tell him, unaware that his beads of sweat had spawned from looking at you—and not from his previous visit to the gym. 

And all it takes is one peak at the sparkly thin band of your underwear to get him to snap his head to the door frame beside him. Why the hell did you own so many cute pairs of underwear? He took you for a girl who wore those unflattering granny panties. You preferred comfort over looks, didn’t you? 

“Christ. Stay still, you’re gonna fucking flash me,” he warns, turning you back around so your front is facing him again—as if that even helped his case. 

“Maybe we should ask her to pick out something different for me. This won’t capture well on camera,” you conclude, stiffly looking down at your outfit. 

Depends on what kind of camera, actually. There’s a dreadfully long list of willing participants who would love to see you in this get up. 

He clears his throat, dismissing his awful imagination–hesitantly dropping his gaze back on you. “I’ll have to agree with you on that Mouse. We shouldn’t let paparazzi see you in this.” He scans you one last time. 

“When I make this hand gesture, you guys can step up for your pictures.” The man with the clipboard makes a signal with his hands, showing Bradley what he means. 

“Got it. Thanks man.” Bradley gives the staff member an understanding nod. 

As the worker walks off, Bradley looks over to you, checking if you paid attention to the directions. But you look like you’re on the brink of fainting, staring at the swarm of men juggling their heavy cameras behind the velvet ropes, repeatedly clicking their shutter buttons. 

His curious eyes drop down to your neckline, noticing that you’ve been anxiously twisting the pendant on your necklace. 

Bradley cups his hand over yours—prying your fingers off the expensive piece of jewelry. 

He sighs to himself. Your stylist would kill him if he returned the necklace damaged. He was sure the french woman already had his name on her hit-list the moment he came back with your outfits in hand, asking for a new set of clothes.

The crowd of fans camping behind the horde of paparazzi collectively awe at Bradley’s seemingly romantic gesture–yelling over each other to catch your attention, waving their cd copy of your last album over their heads–paying no mind to the well-known actress who’s currently posing on the red carpet. 

Bradley drops his hold on your hand, to protectively move his body in front of you–shielding you from the next set of rapid flashing lights, as the actress strikes a new pose for the cameras. You look up at him, surprised by his sudden mannerism. 

Bradley’s hazel eyes finally meet your nervous ones. The stress of being next in line for photos is clear as day on your face. 

This is the first time you’re ever officially appearing with someone on a red carpet. If this didn’t poke at the flame of your dating rumors with him, you wouldn’t know what will. 

It’s perfect for what Penny wants for you. If Bradley wanted to keep his income steady, he wouldn’t ever let you walk out on this. 

For fuck sake, Bradley can practically imagine the praise he’d get for this—leading you in front of the cameras, holding onto the small of your back as he gives you a loving look as instructed.

You spend the next minute staring up at him, tuning out the layered shouting and deafening chatter swirling the air around you two. This is it. You can’t run from this.

Bradley’s determination starts dwindling the more he looks into your eyes. It tugs at his chest, leaving him unbelievably weak. 

Bradley lets out a breath, not believing what he’s about to do. 

“Let’s ditch this place. We didn’t get to eat lunch yet,” he casually offers with a shrug.

What? 

Confusion washes over you, as he tilts his head towards the exit, the one you both marked upon arrival. 

“But Penny–”

“Won’t fire me. If we just say you ran off again,” he proposes, raising an eyebrow at you. “I technically have to chase after you if you slip past me.” He steps aside, hinting at you to go.

You look over at the exit, then back at him with an unsure look on your face. 

He nods, giving you the go ahead.

You finally give in, lips pulling into smile. Bradley falters at the unfamiliar sight. You’re smiling at him for the first time.

“You think you can catch me Bradshaw?” You tease.

He loosens his tie, with a grin. “Oh, I will,” he answers, playing along. “Preferably outside? Where my bike is parked?” 

“I mean, where else would I run off to?”

note: ahh this took me a second to get out..but!! mouse and bradley finally being friends?? who would’ve thought..! but that only means trouble will start to truly stir soon

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taglist: @bethbunnyy @averyhotchner @alexa4040 iamaslytherin0

[possumcollege]

Does the prospect of tailored, AI generated media where "YOU are the star" sound like a fucking nightmare to anyone else?

Everything about AI has the stink of depersonalization all over it. Maybe it's the ptsd talking, but the idea of watching a character with my face and voice doing things on TV is disturbingly close to the times when I couldn't recognize my own face in a mirror.

Like a dissociative episode with a laugh track.

Sounds like the narcissistic brainchild of someone who can't internalize anything that isn't literally about them.

"Everyone must want this too right? Especially people who aren't as interesting as me!"

I'm viscerally haunted by the presence of my own body on a daily basis. The thought of seeing it accurately scanned and pasted into a movie or skinned onto a more dashing frame makes me ill.

As does the way producers and executives want to use tech to circumvent fair labor practices, fair contracts, residual compensation, copyright law, employment benefits, and human performers to bring their absolute dogshit ideas to light.

AI devs want it to do everything "just like a person" when there ARE PEOPLE to do those things. The problem to be solved is that PAYING and supporting humans costs them money. Employees who don't want to be worked into the ground to bring their dream to life feels like someone eating their lunch.

So they imagine a future where we drive to a building, sit in a cubbie, wearing headsets so our hovering torsos can occupy a fun, budget-friendly, office of the mind for $15/hr 12hrs/day, sleep in the office during crunch time, and praise them for all their great and generous brain ideas!

AI kills jobs by convincing investors that it's cheaper than human workers, and that the remaining human workers will mostly be there for QC, which they don't consider skilled labor. We're the safety net for their machine.

By the time the consumers start realizing actually, AI support sucks, its products are either creepy or trash, and its judgment is dangerously inadequate, the developers have got their payday and aren't legally liable for the mess we made with their tools.

AI is wonderful for separating workers from profits, producers from criticism, manufacturers from liability, and people from each other. We don't share the profits because we just helped keep the Boss' machine from falling over. Our reward is pretending to be the person on a screen before we go back to work.

When we're the star of our own bizarre google-ads-ass media, we're robbed of the opportunity to see ourselves in someone who is not us. It makes us more of a puppet in someone else's play. Our Selves become another product we get to pay someone else to show us.

Why the everlasting fuck should we want to copy/paste ourselves into a product made by an industry that no longer places value on human creative labor? When the brains at the helm of these industries are stone blind to the reality of human experience?

These are the beautiful dreams of people whose lives are so irreparably insulated and disconnected from consequence and the reality of other people that they see "other people" as a problem to be solved.

I don't want a thing from those people.

[lovelylogans]

the parent trap

CHAPTER SEVEN: operation augstus

The realization of having an identical twin does quite a bit to spur some out-of-the-box levels of creativity.

The realization of having an identical twin does quite a bit to spur some out-of-the-box levels of creativity.

⁂

The rest of the day passes in a giddy, unreal blur.

They eschew camp activities and communal meals—who needed any of that when you’d just found your twin brother for the first time?!

The wedding photo, placed as close to reunited as they could manage, has taken place of pride in the midst of their communal bulletin board.

Cubby and Paddington—in their own way, reunited, long-lost twins—are put in pride of place at the forefront of Roman’s dresser, the best-lit location in the room at the moment. They even look like they’re holding paws.

They spend a lot of time going I can’t believe it! and who’d have thought and I really, really can’t believe it! but that one’s mostly Roman, but Remus can totally get the urge.

Because seriously. A long-lost identical twin brother.

A long-lost identical twin brother who is currently telling him all about life with Dad—who exists and walks and talks and is generally a real person with thoughts and opinions rather than a frozen figure in just one picture—and Dad’s cousin, Uncle Logan, and their Grandfather (“we have a Grandfather?!”) who all live together in—

“How big’s the townhouse?”

“Oh, don’t make me try to translate proper measurements to your awful system,” Roman complains. “I don’t know—big enough that we all have our own bedroom? It’s a house.”

“Still—you’re in London, you all have to be squished in between other houses. That sounds really—”

“How could they have never told us about each other?” Roman says, and that stops Remus in his tracks.

He tries to come up with something. Anything.

All he can come up with is “I dunno.”

“I know that Dad doesn’t tell me everything in his life, especially if it has to do with Papa,” Roman says in a small voice. “But I’d have thought he’d at least tell me something as important as this.”

“And hiding this is totally unlike Pa,” Remus says. “He’s a total open book. He’s so lovey-dovey with so many people, and he’s all about that importance of family junk, he schedules in bonding time and everything. Almost a little too much, sometimes.”

“...maybe he schedules too much with you because—”

“—what, because he’s missing you?” Remus says, then stops to think for a literal second. “No, yeah, that actually sounds a lot like Pa. Huh. That’s definitely part of why he’s so…”

He struggles for the word, then, “You’d get it if you met Pa.”

“I wish I could,” Roman says glumly. “If our parents didn’t even know that we were going to meet each other—”

But that jogs a thought for Remus and he interrupts immediately.

“So you haven’t written Dad about me, right?” Remus checks. “Like, back in the fencing match or whatever.”

“Certainly not,” Roman says, affronted. “He’d be lecturing me for weeks that I managed to get caught pulling tricks on someone else.”

“Me either, with Pa,” Remus says, “except he’d just be lecturing me for weeks period. Dad sounds cooler about that sort of thing, but I’m getting off track: you never mentioned the name Remus or Parker, right? Because I never said anything about a Roman or a James.”

“No, I was so sick to death of the conversation that I just completely blocked out the fencing match from my letter,” Roman says. “And then—well, all the trouble started. I think I mentioned going to play poker, but that would be it.”

“Well,” Remus says. “They can’t know that we’ve met.”

Roman looks stung. “Why not?”

“Uh, hello?!” Remus says. “I don’t know about you, but I think a letter home going Dear Pa, Guess who I met! My identical twin brother, and you’ve got some explaining to do! might not get the results we want, will it?”

“But we can’t not write about anything,” Roman says. “I don’t know how I’d feel waiting to talk to Dad about camp until we got home again, I’ve been writing him fairly consistently, unless—”

Roman pauses.

“Unless?” Remus prompts.

“...unless we come up with an alias,” Roman says slowly.

“A what?”

“An alias! Like a codename,” Roman says. “That way, we can write home saying we’ve made a new friend this and that, and then when we get home we can lay all of our cards on the table. Like, we know we have a brother out there, look at this Polaroid for proof and explain yourself!”

“That’s a pretty good idea,” Remus admits. “What’s our codename, though? Like, Harry M. Welsch?”

“That’s a movie character, isn’t it.”

“Oh yeah, for sure.”

“That would give it away immediately. No, we need something unique…”

Roman hand-to-God starts tapping his finger against his chin, like some kind of movie character, before: “I’ve got it! Well, part of it.”

“Well, tell me your part, and I can come up with my part.”

“Roman,” he says, placing a hand to his chest, then pointing, “Remus.”

“Yeah…?”

“You’re familiar with the story of the creation of the Roman empire, aren’t you? Isn’t a name for something related to both of our names obvious?”

“Your codename cannot be Rome.”

“No!” Roman laughs, then, “I’m saying the real-life founder of Rome instead of the mythical ones. Our codename should be Augustus.”

“...Huh,” Remus says. “You know, that’s… not terrible.”

“I’m making friends with a boy in my cabin named Augustus,” Roman prompts. “We play poker and we’ve found an abandoned cabin—”

“—no mentions of our exile then—?”

“—of course not—and we hang out together a lot more, we’re getting to be really close, practically like brothers…”

“Oh, I catch your drift,” Remus says. “Hm. I guess I should come up with a last name, then…. oh!”

“Is it going to be awful?”

“Augustus Plotka!” Remus says, nudging him. “Because Augustus is key to our plot?”

“Awful.”

“I could just call him last name Operation, first name Augustus.”

“Plotka’s fine,” Roman says hastily.

⁂

Hi Pa and Virgil,

Sorry I haven’t written in a while! I got real caught up in stuff with a guy from Pine. He’s pretty cool, I guess, he knows a lot about fashion and fencing and poker and stuff. His name’s Augustus Plotka and we’ve had to spend a lot of time together lately since it’s raining like crazy here so it means we spend a lot more time talking to other people. 

Which also means more letter writing, since there’s not a lot to do out while it’s raining. I guess everyone needed a rest anyway, so much has been happening here that you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you. There’s been a bit of a shuffle around for scheduling since I guess the counselors trust us enough to know our way around now and me and Gus found this abandoned cabin—I’ll stick a Polaroid in the envelope—isn’t it spooky?! It looks like someone’s going to come and murder us in the dead of night and this cabin used to belong to the founder of camp who haunts it to this day, I love it. 

I haven’t actually found any evidence of hauntings or grisly murders. Yet. But give me time!!!

I think Gus would probably like that if just through a storytelling perspective. He’s kind of squeamish but I guess everyone is compared to me. You should’ve seen his face when I started making Sludge at the dinner table! He didn’t think I would eat it! It’s like he’d never even met me!

How’s stuff at the vineyard? How’s Sprout doing? Apparently there’s going to be some rinky-dink old donkey down at camp sometime, but there’s no way that ass is gonna hold a candle to Sprout. (I can write it! That’s the technical name for a donkey!)

Send suggestions of junk food to st request from the kitchens!!! I think Gus is Amish or something, he’d never tried a Dunkaroo or a Fruit Roll-Up until he came to camp, can you believe it?!

Pet Sammy and Sprout for me, and also don’t even worry about whatever noises are coming from the closet in my room,

—Remus

⁂

Dear Dad (and Uncle Logan, and Grandfather),

At last, some semblance of home here! The downpour we’ve had lately is truly something; Augustus from my cabin keeps trying to tell me various American turns of phrase for it, but I think at least one of them is fake. Probably “the devil’s beating his wife,” because that seems rather uncouth, doesn’t it? But Augustus swears up and down that’s what Americans say when it rains while it’s kind of sunny outside so long as his last name’s Plotka.

This means much more time for drawing and painting—we got to explore a bit more before the rain shut us in, and Augustus and I found this abandoned cabin (sketch enclosed) that makes for a nice quiet area to sit in shelter without worry of any interference from other campers, who seem to ignore this cabin’s existence entirely.

Augustus likes to paint too, but he tends to a bit of a more… impressionistic style, let’s say? Lots of bright colors, lots of interfering with any brushstrokes with using his fingers because “the paint’s not going where I want it,” but it turns out pretty good, so I suppose I know what he’s doing.

We’ve rather settled into a rhythm here at camp, and the counselors seem to trust that we know where we’re going now, so we have much more freedom in picking our tasks. So that means less basketball (I really am rubbish at it) and much more footie, arts and crafts, and hanging out by the lake, which is as I prefer rather than trying my best to avoid being tackled by the brutish sport that is American football.

Anyway, this weather ALSO leaves us plenty of time to play poker (Augustus gets close but he’s hasn’t beaten me in three matches, even though he tries to count cards and is absolutely unrepentant) and talk about things. His home sounds interesting, but I find myself missing you all more and more.

Your son/cousin-once-removed/grandson,

Roman James

⁂

And now, to close the night, they’ve pushed their beds together, arms tucked under their heads, talking and talking, the way they’ve been talking and talking all day, and it’s just—

It’s just so weird. Even for Remus.

“Did Papa ever remarry?”

“Nah,” Remus says. “He always says he’s too busy with me and the vineyard, and that romantic love isn’t the end-all be-all of life anyway and that he’s perfectly happy with the platonic love he’s got. How about Dad?”

“No—he said that marriage isn’t much for him,” Roman says, then, thoughtfully, “I’m sure he’s gone on dates, but nothing too serious.”

“Same as Pa, then,” Remus says. 

“That’s rather poetic, I suppose. Both of them mirroring each other even after all this time.”

“I don’t know if they sound too much alike,” Remus says. “Actually, they sound real different. They did end up getting divorced for some reason, you know.”

“Do you know?” Roman says. “The reason our parents got divorced, I mean.”

“Not really—Pa doesn’t talk about it, much. It makes him too sad.”

“Dad either. He always changes the subject. I don’t know much about their partnership, really. Well—clearly, neither of us knew that much, considering our current predicament.”

“Do you know much about how our Dads met?” Remus asks, adjusting slightly so he can see Roman better.

“Some,” Roman says. “Probably the same as you.”

“Say it anyway, in case you know any little details different from me.”

“Well,” Roman says. “Dad’s scared stiff of flying, you see, so when he had to go from London to the States he booked a ticket on the Queen Elizabeth II, an ocean liner. Dad was put next to Papa at dinner, and I’m told that was history. They were married onboard the ship in less than the two weeks the voyage took.”

“Going from strangers to marrying them in two weeks,” Remus says with a shake of his head. “That’s wild. And I’m saying that.”

“Well, I think it’s rather romantic,” Roman declares.

Remus wonders, in a daze, if hearing about the opposite life he could have had is as strange for Roman as it will be for him… if they’d just been switched at birth, it’s the life Remus could have had, knowing his Dad instead of his Pa, but then…

But then it clicks.

“Roman,” he says, turning to grin at his brother—his brother! “I have a completely perfect, totally awesome idea!”

Roman blinks at him, briefly lifting his head, propping himself up on his elbows.

“You want to know what Pa is like, right?”

“Well, of course,” Roman says.

“And I wanna know what Dad is like,” Remus pushes. “I’m thinking—Roman, when camp is over, I think we should switch places.”

Roman gapes at him.

“I’ll go to London to spend time with Dad and Uncle Logan as you,” Remus says, then, “so weird I have an Uncle, by the way—”

“—he’s not technically our uncle, he’s Dad’s cousin—”

“—same difference—and you’ll go to California to spend time with Pa as me!” 

“Remus,” Roman protests, “we’re so completely and utterly different—”

“Roman, we’re identical twins!” Remus urges. “This is the kind of thing that pranksters dream of! We can teach each other—you can tell me about why I should like beans on toast—” (“they’re good!”) “—and I can teach you cool things, like how to build stink bombs—look, I can be you already!”

Remus covers the streak in his hair with his hand and puts on his haughtiest English accent.

“But do you want to know the real difference between you and me? That I know how to fence and you don’t? Or is it that I have class and you don’t? Take your pick.”

Roman grins sheepishly.

“Come on, Rome,” Remus urges, clasping his hands together under his chin. “I gotta meet my Dad—and I know you wanna meet your Papa.”

He juts out his lower lip and widens his eyes in his best possible puppy-dog eyes impression. 

Roman chews his lip. Then—

“You know,” Roman says, some realization dawning over his eyes. “You do realize, if we switch…”

“Yeah?”

“Then Dad and Papa are going to have to reunite to switch us back.”

Remus gasps, the realization hitting him.

“And when they do—” Roman prompts.

“They’ll have to reunite again!”

“After all these years…” Roman sighs, “oh, it’s like a romance movie, I could just die!”

“Ugh, I dunno about romance,” Remus complains.

“Oh, hush,” Roman says happily. “So… if we were to switch…”

Remus nudges him with an elbow. “You’re gonna have to work on your accent.”

“Oh, as if yours is any better.”

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[coriander-candlesticks]

I've been able to work on the veiling cloth I've been knitting, but I've hit the stage where I'm used enough to the pattern & worked out enough kinks that I'm starting to lose motivation like a flat tire loses air, so I figured I'd share my progress here as a way to keep myself accountable & motivated. This is after about a week of working in several-hour chunks most days. I won't always be able to work on it that much, but if I get a good system down to prevent losing my place I might be able to take it with me to work to knit it on the train or during my lunch break.

I'm trying to make it long enough to drape over the top of a small cube bookshelf in my room and cover the top two cubbies, where I'm planning to set up my altars to Athena and Apollo. That way I can keep them hidden while friends are in my room, since I'm still not sure when I want to start talking to them about my exploration of paganism and I don't want them to ask about the altars or absentmindedly pick something on them up. I have some books I associate with the two gods that I'm either going to place in the back of their altar shelves or on the shelves under them (for easier accessibility): art/worldbuilding books, journals, & books that have inspired me creatively for Apollo's and philosophy & fiber arts books as well as texts related to ancient Greece & Greek mythology for Athena's.

I was going to just use the black speckled yarn, but I'm not sure I have enough, so I'm adding in the pink yarn both so it's not jarring and so it'll be easier to add another color later if need be. The ruffles weren't intentional...I'm using a lace pattern chart from Hitomi Shida's Japanese Knitting Stitch Bible and wrote one of the symbol keys down incorrectly, so I was decreasing every other row for a while when I shouldn't have. And by "for a while" I mean the first 20 or so rows. 🤦 The pattern should come through better in another 10-20 rows; I haven't actually finished a full repeat yet because even after I fixed the decrease problem I lost my place and got frustrated, so I just knit straight across for a row and started the pattern over from the beginning. This took way too long to cast on and knit the first few rows, so I'm not going to fully start over unless I absolutely have to. This is a learning process, after all, which is part of what Athena and Apollo are about anyway. And if I frog (unravel) it all and start over it's just going to be frustrating and feel like a chore, which is absolutely not the mindset I want to be in when making anything, let alone something that's going to be connected to a sacred space.

[edupunkn00b]

Decoherence, Ch. 9: True Faith and Allegiance

Creative Commons 1.0, Public Domain

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“I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same…” -United States Congressional Oath of Office

WC: 2112 - Rated: T - CW: swearing -

2035, April 9 - The White House, Washington, D.C., US

“Lo!” Remus shot up in bed, hand scrabbling at the cold, empty expanse next to him. “Lo?” he called again, louder, but the ensuite was dark, empty. He rushed to his closet, the lights automatically flicking on with his movement. His suits and dress shirts lined one rack, more casual clothes tucked neatly into their little cubbies along the other wall. 

“Lo?” he said one more time, quieter. Was it all a dream?

There was a sharp knock on the hidden door just before it opened and a Secret Service agent—Craig? No, Keith—stepped inside. “Mr. President? Are you alright? We heard shouting.”

“I’m fine, Keith, thank you,” Remus nodded, swallowing hard against the growing lump in his throat. It had felt so real. “Just a dream,” he smiled. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Very good, sir. Sorry to intrude,” he said and stepped back into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Both hands tracing the chain around his neck, Remus gently pulled it from under his pajama top and kissed the rings. They were warm to the touch, clinking quietly together in his shaking hands, and they shone under the bright closet lights. 

These rings were real. 

Lo was real. He had to be.

Lo’s voice echoed in his mind. “Find me, Meus… Find me…” Gold had glinted on his hand as he’d poured the wine. Their matching rings had clacked together when they’d held hands. It was real… real-ish, at least. The rings were real. 

He stood in front of the mirror, curls frizzed and sticking out from every which way on his head, eyes wild and he clung to the rings from his dream. 

His vision layered and he saw himself tucking two gold rings under his shirt. Under a bright green tank top, a worn and patched blue denim button down layered with a heavy leather apron. An open nehru collar, golden flowers stitched on green silk. A shirt and tie underneath a white lab coat emblazoned with CERN on the breast pocket.

It was all real.

The computer screen next to the closet door dinged and droned out the day’s agenda. Moving by rote, he let his hands ready himself for his jog, mind wandering through possibilities as he dressed. He needed more information and startling the Secret Service with out of the ordinary behavior was not the way to get it.

~

“Gladys,” he buzzed the intercom. “Can you gather my appointment books for the last six months, please?”

“Of course, Mr. President,” she chirped back, hesitancy in her voice. “Your calendar on your computer should be up to date, sir, if you wish to query it.”

“I… I know.” He’d already scoured the calendar for any mention of Lo. There’d been nothing. ‘Dr. Sanders’ floated through his mind, but he couldn’t find any Sanders or Lo named in any of his appointments. “The sign-in book sometimes has extra details. Assistants’ names, that sort of thing.”

“Understood,” she replied, clearly not understanding. But that was alright. It certainly wasn’t the first odd request he’d ever had, and likely wouldn’t be the last.

While he waited for her to gather the books from Archives, he paced the office, reciting his speech for the new Climate Accord ratification ceremony. He was due to tour the new flood plain outside San Francisco this afternoon, with Airforce One due to take off in three hours. He’d review as much as he could before the flight and, with any luck, might begin to unravel whatever the hell was going on.

2036, September 15 - London, England

Saturday dawned muggy and quiet.

Remus woke early, a swirl of thoughts pulling him in different directions from the moment he opened his eyes. He had the distinct sense of jet lag, but he’d finally drifted off at a reasonable hour the night before.

Shaking his head, he pulled himself out of bed and straightened the quilt before padding across the room to shower. The familiar space gradually cleared his mind and he moved automatically, stripping off his sleep shorts and quickly washing and conditioning his hair. He reached without looking for his face soap, wishing he could just as easily scrub away errant thoughts.

He stepped out of the shower and brushed his teeth, staring at himself in the mirrored cabinet. There were two doors. The right side had held his toothbrush, aftershave, and mustache wax. His hand shook as he opened the other side of the cabinet.

His toothbrush clattered to the basin.

The shelves were lined with familiar products. Another toothbrush. That vanilla spice pomade. A bottle of aftershave. An eyeglass repair kit.

Remus rinsed his mouth then pulled out the aftershave and uncapped it, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and sandalwood and vanilla. It was him. It was Lo’s. He was real, he’d been here. Carefully, reverently, he replaced the cap and moved to the wardrobe. It wasn’t until he’d caught sight of himself in the mirror that he realized he’d lost his gold chain.

Hand slapping his chest, his own gold ring sparkled. Remus stared down at his hand and touched the smooth gold band. If he was wearing his ring, where had Lo’s gone? 

One hand reached up and clawed at his neck where the chain had once been—had he worn it last night? He must’ve… He could feel it under his flannel pajama top. Without really thinking, he checked the hamper. But he hadn’t worn pajamas, just shorts. Too hot for that in their little flat with only a ceiling fan to keep it cool. 

Remus hurried back to the bed. He ripped off the quilt, feeling along the seams of the mattress, the pillow cases, the joints along the bed frame. He checked the floor and under the bed, retracing his steps between the closet and the main room.

Lo’s ring was gone.

He’d had two rings, hadn’t he?

He stared down at his hand. It looked right. A vague recollection of making a ‘practice’ ring for his brother and his partners flitted across his mind and he shook his head. 

Coffee. Everything would make more sense with a little coffee. He started toward the bedroom door and realized he hadn’t dressed, so he took a moment to straighten the quilt and pillows on the bed, the mundane action meditative, then opened the wardrobe.

His own clothes were there, familiar and worn.

But, impossibly, so were Lo’s. They weren’t labeled, of course, but… These were Lo’s. A rotating tie rack held a rainbow of colors, hanger after hanger of neatly pressed button down shirts and soft sweater vests. He stepped into the closet and pressed one to his face. It smelled like him.

Lo was real. So where the fuck was he?

Remus dressed quickly and hit the streets. Shoving his keys in his jacket pocket, his fingers brushed his phone screen. He yanked it out. Two missed calls.

Stabbing at the screen, he sighed, disappointment and guilt mixing when he saw it was his brother, and he checked his voicemail. Just Ro announcing they’d made it to the train station for their trip, then again just before they hit the trail to the cabin and lost cell service. Remus scrolled through his call history and found Lo’s contact. 

He was real. He was in his phone. Remus’ thumb shook as he tapped call, but the number went right to a generic voicemail greeting announcing the mailbox was full.

Sighing, Remus pocketed the phone and let his feet guide him down the quiet pavement.

~

Remus walked for hours, finally looking up when his grumbling stomach reminded him he’d skipped breakfast. He turned on the spot, working out just where he’d ended up. He’d passed a café down the street and the rich scents of freshly baked bread and syrupy coffee drinks grew stronger as he approached, likely the trigger of his sudden hunger.

He got a table outside and, after drinking half his coffee in one gulp, nursed the rest as he waited for his order. Foot traffic had picked up during his walk, and the quiet street had transformed around him into its typically bustling state.

Families filled the pavement, likely taking in a bit of fresh air before the late afternoon sun left the streets too balmy to breathe. A doting couple stopped in front of the hat shop—a haberdashery, Lo’s voice filled in—across the street, one turning to the other to straighten a skewed collar.

It hurt to watch, and Remus looked away, fuzzily scanning the opposite side of the street. His eyes snagged on a man at the far end, distinctive blue and grey Aldi’s vest tucked under one arm, eyeglasses barely visible, head down as he maneuvered through the busy walkway. But his raven hair was unmistakable.

Heedless of traffic, Remus stood and ran across the street, only vaguely registering a blaring car horn. He waved it away and stopped a dozen paces from the man.

“Lo—” he began but the man wore no recognition in his eyes and the splash of grey at his temples and lines around his mouth and forehead weren’t Lo's. Remus started to turn away, but then remembered. “Wait—you’re the guy at the store.”

The man—his name badge said ‘Luke’—looked him up and down and shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t know you,” he said, side stepping him and continuing on his way.

“Please, wait!” Remus called after him, stopping short when a large group of young tweens poured out of the Daiso shop next to him, chattering about their purchases. “Wait, Luke, please, do you know—”

He wormed his way through the gaggle of laughing children but by the time he’d cleared the throng, Luke was nowhere to be seen. Moving more carefully this time, he crossed back to the café and reclaimed his seat. Dreams clashed with reality but Remus was now more certain than ever Lo really was out there.

He just had to find him.

1838, August 21 - Wyoming, United States

“Knock, knock, knock,” Ro called from the other side of the heavy bottom half of Remus’ barn-turned-workshop door. He unlatched the little hook and pushed it open, hinges creaking. With a peal of laughter, Virge dashed into the room ahead of him, a flash of denim and grasses clutched in his hand. 

“Uncka Re! Wook wha’ I made!” Virge announced proudly, tugging his sleeve and drawing him closer to the big workbench in the center of the barn.

Remus pulled off his smoke-lensed visor and lifted his newly four-year-old nephew up onto a stool. “Well, look at that,” he murmured, tilting his head at the hay-stuffed doll Virgil walked across the worn wooden surface. “May I?” he asked, hefting the toy in his palm.

“Poppy he’ped me put sand in his tummy and feet and hands so he’d sit,” he grinned, clapping briefly when Remus sat him up against a roll of spectrometry paper. The doll sported big eyes, dark blue dots with wide circles drawn around them in the shaky hand of a four-year-old still learning to write.

“He’s wonderful, Virge,” Remus ruffled his hair with a smile. “What’s his name?”

Virgil laughed up at him, his tiny face scrunched adorably. “Unka Woe!” He pointed at the circles around the doll’s eyes. “See? Those are his g’asses!”

“What?” Remus’ wrench hit the floor, narrowly missing his toe and taking a big bite out of the packed dirt floor. “What’d y’say?” 

“Hey, Vee,” Ro crouched down and met Virgil’s eyes. “What’s this little guy’s name?”

The little boy’s smile wavered as he looked between his uncle and his dad. “He’s my friend,” he finally said, plucking up the doll and hugging it close before curling into Ro’s arms. He tucked his chin over Ro’s shoulder and watched Remus’ expression.

“Oh, you’re all tuckered out from running your foals, aren’t you?” Ro cooed. “How about we get a little supper into you and then call it a night, yeah?”

He nodded against his dad’s shoulder, nervous eyes following Remus’. “Y’can ho’d him,” he whispered and pushed the doll into Remus’ hands. Virge smiled and wiggled the doll in his hands. “He says ‘It’s supper time.’” 

“Come, now, Meus…” Lo’s laughter fills my mind. “The dynamo needs to charge. You worked through the midday… It's supper time.”

“Oh, really?” I pull off the smoked visor and tiptoe closer, swooping in at the last moment to scoop Lo up into my arms. He’s warm and solid and melts into my hold like he was meant to be there. “Only if you come along with me!”

“I reckon he does,” Remus nodded, ruffling Virge’s hair. “Lead the way!”