#except maybe those ones with the small dots in the middle

[tooth-com]

thoughts on diatoms...

Ohhh

Look at all those fun shapes

Perhaps maybe too fun honestly but that isn’t for me to decide

One day somebody will, somebody has to make a judgement on these creatures

I don’t know what they are and what they want but I do know that they are a visual delight and have my permission to keep carrying out there deeds until their judgement day

[sanwrioz]

shinsou who you met in middle school. who originally resented you because of your “heroly” quirk. 

shinsou who you found out was an outcast because of his quirk, and instead of believing he would automatically make a good criminal like the others, you just thought his quirk was cool. becoming his only friend, and the only friend he said he “needed.”

you : “i think they're wrong. imagine you brainwashing the villains into doing good!” s : “you think so? that's what i’ve been trying to say.”

shinsou who you grew so close to during your years in middle-school. the boy who, under the false “criminal” facade people placed on him, was a super smart guy (and a normal person) who wanted to be a hero like everyone else. 

shinsou who didn’t really know how to speak to anyone but straight-forwardly because he had no other friends. who you would speak to freely about a million and one things. not once did you fear he’d ever take advantage of you — because you knew him, and he wasn’t like that.

s : “i like cats.” you : “oh, me too!”

shinsou who you confessed to and began to date in your second year of middle-school. who was surprised that you’d want to be with him, even though you knew how he really was. he didn’t want the bad rumors about him to get to you. and people said things, sure, but he never let anyone talk bad as long as he heard it. and the same went vice versa, you corrected those who still forced the facade on him.

“i heard they’re only dating because he brainwashed them” you : “i was the one who confessed???” “they’re weird for being with him.” s : “you dont know them, or me.”

shinsou who you unofficially broke up with in your last year of middle-school. the cause? a silly argument over quirks. you wanted to keep talking about it, and shinsou just couldn’t see eye to eye with you. you didn’t stop, so he made you leave. he needed space.

ex!shinsou who, almost immediately realized where he went wrong. he wanted to go after you, despite being the one that forced you to leave. but he didn't, because maybe he was just like everyone said.

ex!shinsou who received the worst backlash after you two broke up. not because you told everyone he was an asshole, but because people stopped seeing you two together. you were the only person he had, so he had nowhere else to be. it was easy to connect the dots.

“they should’ve listened to us.” “we told them he was a bad person.” “what an asshole.”

ex!shinsou who you never talked bad about, or even told anyone what really happened. who you never reached back out to because he put you out first. you didn’t resent him — at least not days after it happened, you were scared of being too much for him again.

ex!shinsou who missed you heavily, and wanted you back in his life, but was scared you now thought of him like the others.

ex!shinsou whos quietly hoping you come back. he never stopped loving you, despite the small sense of jealousy he felt because of how “good” you were doing without him. when in reality, you didn’t feel like yourself without him.

ex!shinsou who you “re-met” in high school, who just speaks his mind and doesn’t hold back. he couldn’t give a shit about what others think of him, except for you.

ex!shinsou who comes clean about everything he felt that day, and just about every day since you were gone. he promises he wont ever do that to you again, and that he hopes you don't see him as a bad person. when you tell him you don't, he almost cries.

you : “i never saw you in that way.” s : “even after that?” you : “never.”

ex!shinsou who you “resume” dating. shinsou, the boyfriend who tries his best for you, and never makes the same mistake again. the man who, even when it gets hard, still works hard to become a hero because you’ve always believed in him.

boyfriend!shinsou that turns into husband!shinsou as you two become pro heros. your husband, shinsou, who fulfilled his wish of becoming a pro hero. maybe not everyone sees his quirk in a good way, but you do. and its all that matters to him. 

for a friend <3

[blakeswritingimagines]

Picture This (Kinktober)

Word Count: 1.8k

Juraj and you were on a road trip through the rugged backcountry, your love for adventure driving you both deep into the heart of nature's beauty. You left the city behind before hockey season started, seeking solace in the quiet solitude of the wilderness. As you followed the winding road, the towering mountains and dense forests surrounded you, their peaks and valleys like a vast sea of green. You stopped at a secluded spot, a vast clearing hidden from the world, and prepared a meal together, sharing stories and laughter as the sky slowly turned from blue to orange to a deep, inky black dotted with stars. You stood in awe, admiring the breathtaking view of the vast clearing, the tall mountains in the distance, and the dense forests surrounding them. The beauty of nature was something you had always found captivating, and today was no exception. "Juraj," you called out, turning towards your partner. "This is absolutely beautiful, isn't it?" Juraj nods, his gaze fixed on the endless horizon. "It sure is," *he says, his voice filled with admiration and wonder. "There's just something about being out here that makes everything seem so much more… real." He turns to face you, a gentle smile playing on his lips and a flirty tone in his voice. "And I think we're going to make some amazing memories tonight, don't you?"

You grin, the corners of your mouth curving up in a mixture of anticipation and playfulness. "I think you're right," you reply, your voice soft and sultry. "Just you and me, out here in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the stars to keep us company…" You lean a little closer, your eyes sparkling in the dim light. "And who knows what other kinds of… memories we might make tonight?" Juraj's breath catches slightly as he notices the playful glimmer in your eye. A slow, sensual smirk spreads across his handsome features. "Oh, I have a few ideas myself," he murmurs, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your face. His fingers linger, grazing your cheek ever so lightly. "But first things first - how about we enjoy this incredible sunset together? Maybe even open a bottle of wine…" He gestures towards the small cooler he packed earlier, filled with all sorts of goodies for their romantic getaway. "What do you say?" You feel a shiver of excitement run down your spine at his touch. You can tell he has more than just the setting sun on his mind, and you're more than ready to see where this night takes you. With a coy smile, you nod in agreement. "That sounds perfect," you say, your voice laced with anticipation. "A beautiful sunset, a bottle of wine, and some… let's call them 'unexpected surprises.' You really know how to plan the perfect date, don't you?" Juraj chuckles softly, his dark eyes gleaming with desire. "Well, when you've got a partner as amazing as you, planning dates becomes second nature," he teases, before pouring two glasses of rich red wine. He hands one to you, clinking it against yours in a silent toast. "To an unforgettable night under the stars," he whispers, his gaze locked onto yours. As the sun dips lower, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, Juraj leads you over to a blanket spread out beneath a sturdy pine tree, its branches providing a natural canopy overhead. He settles down beside you, the warmth of his body radiating against yours as he leans in close. "Now, where were we?" he purrs, his hand resting possessively on your thigh.

His words and touch send a jolt of electricity through your body, awakening a burning desire within you. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I think you were just about to show me those… 'ideas' you had," you reply, your voice low and sultry. You lean into him, your body practically melting into his embrace. The setting sun casts a warm, golden glow over everything, but all you can focus on is the man sitting next to you. Juraj smirks devilishly, clearly pleased by your response. He sets his glass aside and turns to face you fully, his large hands sliding up your thighs until they rest on your hips. "Mmmm, I am," he growls softly, pulling you flush against him. "But first…" His head dips down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss that steals your breath away. It starts off slow and sensual, but quickly builds in intensity as he pours all of his pent-up passion and longing into it. His tongue delves past your parted lips, tangling with yours. One hand slides up to tangle in your hair while the other grips your hip tightly, holding you captive in his embrace. When he finally pulls back, you're both panting heavily, hearts racing in sync. You feel a wave of heat wash over you, your body responding instinctively to his touch. Your hands come up to fist the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer in a silent plea for more. You can feel his desire matching your own, and it only serves to fuel the fire burning between you. "Juraj," you whisper, your voice ragged and breathless. "You're… you're driving me crazy here.."

Juraj groans at your words, his grip on you tightening. "Fuck," he rasps, his hot breath fanning over your ear. "You have no idea what you do to me." His teeth nip at your earlobe before trailing scorching kisses down the side of your neck. "I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs, his hands beginning to roam your body with increasing urgency. He palms your breasts through your clothes, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them pebble with arousal. "Tell me to stop if you need to," he warns, even as his lips find yours once more, kissing you deeply, hungrily. "But I'm not promising anything." Your moan mingles with the sound of the rustling leaves above, your body arching into his touch. You can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words, but you manage to whimper out, "Don't… please, don't stop." The sensation of his mouth on your skin sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you. Your hands slide down to grasp his ass, squeezing firmly as you pull him even tighter against you. "I need you," you confess, your voice thick with lust. Juraj's control snaps at your desperate plea. With a growl of pure, unadulterated need, he tears at your clothing, tossing pieces of fabric haphazardly to the ground. His mouth never leaves your skin, blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and down to your breasts. He takes one hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking hard as his hand kneads the other. Your gasp of pleasure spurs him on, and he grinds his hips against yours, letting you feel the evidence of his own aching arousal. "Fuck, baby," he pants, his voice rough with desire. "You're so fucking sexy. I can't wait to be inside you." His hand slips between your legs, fingers stroking your slick folds teasingly. "So wet already," he grabbed his phone and angled it to start taking pictures of ruining you on his fingers.

Your back arches off the blanket, pushing your chest further into his eager mouth. The feeling of his lips wrapped around your sensitive nipple sends sparks shooting straight to your core. "Yes," you hiss, bucking into his hand as he strokes you. "More, please… I need more." Your body is alight with a fiery need, craving his touch, his possession. You reach down to undo his belt, wanting nothing more than to free the throbbing cock you know awaits below. Juraj releases your breast with a wet pop, his dark eyes blazing with primal hunger as he watches you work on his belt. "Fuck yes, touch me," he urges, his voice strained with desire. Once you've freed him, he lets out a guttural groan, his hand leaving your dripping sex to wrap around his own thick cock. He gives himself a few rough strokes, pre-cum leaking from the tip to coat his fingers. "Look at me," he commands, his intense gaze locking onto yours. You obey instantly, captivated by the raw lust etched on his face. He lines himself up with your entrance, the head of his cock pressing insistently against your soaked folds. "Ready for me, baby?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly. You nod frantically, too consumed by the need for him to form words. Your hips lift, seeking him out, begging for penetration. "Please, Juraj," you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you inside me now." With a swift, powerful thrust, he sheathes himself to the hilt, stretching and filling you completely. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your walls clenching around him as he begins to move. Each stroke is deep and deliberate, hitting that sweet spot within you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. "God, you feel incredible," Juraj groans, his pace quickening as he loses himself in the tight, slick heat of your body. He captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he pounds into you relentlessly.

Juraj's movements become more erratic as he loses himself in the intoxicating sensations of your body wrapped around his. He breaks the kiss to look down at you, his expression a mix of awe and fierce possessiveness. "So goddamn perfect," he rasps, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the air, mingling with your mutual moans and gasps. His phone camera clicks repeatedly, capturing the erotic sight of him buried deep within you, his muscles straining with each powerful thrust. "Gonna make you come so hard on my cock," he vows, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub. The added stimulation pushes you closer to the edge, your inner walls fluttering wildly around him as your orgasm approaches. "Pose for me, baby." Your body trembles beneath him, overwhelmed by the relentless pressure building inside you. As he demands, you arch your back, presenting yourself to the camera, your breasts bouncing with each forceful thrust. Your hands claw at his back, urging him deeper, harder. "Yes, oh God yes!" you chant, your voice rising to a keening wail as he hits that magical spot within you again and again. The combination of his thick cock pounding into you and his skilled fingers working your clit sends you hurtling towards the brink of ecstasy. "I'm… I'm gonna-" Your words dissolve into a wordless scream as your climax crashes over you, your pussy clamping down on him like a vice as waves of pleasure ripple through your entire being.

Juraj groans in triumph as your pussy spasms around him, milking his cock for all it's worth. He buries himself to the hilt, grinding against your g-spot as he chases his own release. "Fuck! Come on my cock!" he snarls, his hips pistoning furiously as he races towards the finish line. With one final, brutal thrust, he stills, his seed erupting deep inside you in long, pulsing spurts. He collapses on top of you, his heavy breaths mingling with yours as he savors the aftermath of their explosive coupling. After a moment, he rolls off you, pulling you into his arms as he cuddles you close. "That was… fuck, that was incredible," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. "You're amazing, you know that?" Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you catch your breath, your body still humming with residual pleasure. You turn to face him, a lazy smile curving your lips. "You're not so bad yourself," you tease, your voice still laced with satisfaction. You snuggle closer to him, relishing the warmth of his body pressed against yours. "And just think, we haven't even made it to the tent yet," you say with a wicked grin, knowing full well there will be many more rounds to come.

[maritoke]

Stargazing

Have a fanfic for @cuppajj 's Beast Ancients AU. This fic is basically this meme, except somewhere in the middle Salted Caramel starts to trauma dump (he warned Silverbell twice), and Silverbell silently has a crisis (unrelated to trauma dump, lmao).

Just a warning: there is talking about major wounds being inflicted, but it isn't anything graphic (but just to be sure). Also this thing was written mostly at ungodly hours when I should be sleeping, so yeah, might have some mistakes--

---------

This could be definitely counted as treason, oh dear witches…

Letting the soldier of the Silence Legion just go was one thing. The archer decided to show him mercy. Congrats. One dead man less.

But Silverbell was actively talking to him. Enjoying his company even. Specifically now.

Being not so far away from borders. Maybe ten meters at most from the silver forest. 

He didn't abandon his post as a knight. That would be stupid and wouldn't sit right with Silverbell. He had finished his shift. He should be back at the Kingdom and sleeping. That would be the most logical thing to do.

But it was his free time now. And he could do whatever he wanted, he didn’t have to be back at Silver Kingdom. Not yet, at least. It wasn’t suspicious yet. He knew when to go back. He could just tell them he preferred to be in the forest as of late.

“If it's making you so stressed you can go back. I'm not holding you hostage.”

The soldier's words snapped him out of his thoughts. He twitched his wings out of reflex.

Salted Caramel didn't even look at him as he spoke. He kept his eyes on the night sky. A rare sight with the forest growing so thick. The leaves blocked out all of the sky. Keeping everyone hidden for safety.

It was strange in a way. That a soldier of an enemy's army would enjoy something so simple. But it could be because of how much he was taught to fear the Silent Army. For all the correct reasons. Salted Caramel had told him on several occasions how unfortunate it is that they happened to be on opposite sides (thank you, Salted…).

Silverbell just looked back at the stars. There were just so many of them. Shining bright, making the darkness around them lighter. There were plenty of colors too. Not just white dots on black sky. A mix of light blue with navy, a few droplets of pink here and there. Some stars were even golden. And then there was a moon. A full moon in all its glory. Not outshined by the stars but looking even more beautiful with them around. 

“... I'm good, I can stay a bit.”

Silverbell finally answered as he lied down on the soft grass. He was a bit mesmerized by the night sky. It was a pity. That such a beautiful piece of nature was constantly hidden from him.

At this Salted Caramel let out a small chuckle. It was a rare sound. Silverbell didn't hear him laugh yet, although fae wasn't sure if he would ever witness such a thing. They both knew that the soldier was around the forest by his own choice. To honor those who had died long, long ago in a battle.

The knight would be leaving soon. And it seemed that he stayed around longer just to keep Silverbell company. He didn't know how to feel about it exactly… on one hand it was quite nice, to have someone to talk to. To someone who too was serving a beast loyally while feeling a disconnect towards the values and concepts they once held dear. To someone who too feels a stranger in their own home.

On the other hand, he knew that he was going to be a possible cause of Salted Caramel's punishment. The knight himself was unsure whether he would face any consequences for… stalling and if he did, then of what caliber it would be. The Silent Army had apparently a history of being… quite unpredictable even towards their own soldiers. Everyone would either be passive and there would be no punishment, or they would make an example out of a ‘renegade’.

… Well. At least they both would be renegades in that case.

“Glad to hear you a bit more relaxed than back in the forest.” Salted Caramel said.

“In the forest I was afraid of the Queen. And other faeries could've found us.”

“And they can't now?” This time Salted turned his head to face Silverbell. His unnatural yellow eye almost glowing in the darkness. 

Silverbell didn't answer the question. Just glanced at the knight next to him and looked back at the night sky. The archer didn't know how to answer, for he himself wasn't sure.

Faeries wouldn't go search for him, that he was certain. But Queen Lily? She never elaborated how her powers worked exactly. Keeping it a secret. The less faeries knew the less they had to fear apparently. He had experienced it only once when she had used her powers to take control over faeries.

It had felt awful. He hadn't felt like he belonged in his own skin.

She had used it only once. To check the extent of her abilities. She had been apologizing for it for a few days. Feeling awful for doing something sudden, without knowing how it would end…

She probably would do it again, if there was a need. Silverbell was simply happy that just one knight from Silent Legion wasn't enough of a threat. That is if she could sense Salted Caramel. Would she know that a knight of her direct enemy is around? Or did she not sense him because he was already dead?

He'd rather not think about it. Too many questions. Little to no answers. Just his imagination running wild, creating countless scenarios, each more grim than the previous. 

He moved again as his body shivered because of too many unpleasant thoughts. Grass underneath him ruffled softly as he shifted around. From the corner of his eye he could see Salted Caramel glancing at him.

“You can go back if you–”

“No,” Silverbell cut him off. 

He knew the knight meant well. That he wanted to reassure him he could go back to Faerie Kingdom. That he was free to go. That if he feared for their safety, then he maybe shouldn't take more risks.

But he wanted to stay there just a bit longer. Just a few more minutes. It was hard to return to places that no longer felt like home. Yet you were attached to them nonetheless. Or at least to the memories of them.

“I… I still have time. Don't have to go back yet…” He said with a small smile. His voice had a false confidence. For he himself wasn't entirely sure anymore how much time he had left. But he didn’t know when or if he would see Salted Caramel again. 

He didn't want for another person in his life to become only a memory. Not so soon, not so early. He wanted for this moment to last just a tad longer. If Silverbell would return so late it would be suspicious, Midnight Lily would give him the benefit of a doubt. She liked him enough to let it slide as just a one time occurrence. 

A part of him felt guilty. That he was lying to her and abusing her trust. That everytime if she asked he would just tell her there was just a mere traveler passing by. Hiding a member of Silent Legion, the servant of a very beast who was an original holder of Queen's soul jam.

And Silverbell slowly came to an awful realization. This couldn't be just counted as a treason. As if someone was trying to look on the bad side of things. No.

This was a treason.

Not just a simple misunderstanding. Not a complicated situation. No. Silverbell had had one job. Shoot any outsiders who are an active threat. And the moment an actual enemy had shown up – he had let him go.

Alright, he had shot him once. But when it hadn't worked? He should have kept shooting. He should have gone back to the Kingdom and sounded the alarm. Not had stood there, paralyzed in horror, watching how an arrow to the neck hadn’t killed his target. And definitely not had kept talking to him afterwards, when the soldier had awkwardly offered to give the arrow back.

Silverbell should feel shame. That a memory of their first encounter was now funny to him in retrospect. That it was something that would make him smile. And he did feel shame, but for an entirely different reason. Because he knew that if he happened to see Salted Caramel again in future (hopefully outside of the battlefield), he would still not report him. He would continue this masquerade of guilt and shame. 

So much for being a loyal silver knight, huh?

Meanwhile Salted Caramel kept observing his friend in worry. His brows furrowed when he heard Silverbell's tone. The distant and sad look on the faerie's face wasn't helping his case either. 

He glanced back at the forest, then at the archer again. He considered arguing for a moment. That he clearly felt nervous, and they shouldn't risk it. There was no shame in it.

But instead he kept silent. Simply nodded again. Letting go of whatever words he just wanted to use. It was better to just not speak up sometimes. Keep it as it is – a bit bad, or start a useless fight – make it even worse. Choice was easy.

And so he laid back at the ground. Gazing again at the glowing sky. Although not as calm as before. His expression was more… bitter? No, too strong of a word. Lackadaisical? Detached? That sounded more correct. 

Silverbell looked up at the sky too. Still finding it as beautiful as before. He smiled at it.

“Why did you want to go stargazing?” The Fae finally asked. 

It took the swordsman a few longer moments to answer. He didn't look away from the stars at all.

“I don't think you want to hear a blurry war story.”

Normally he would argue that of course he wanted to hear. He always liked to hear the songs of battles of the past. To hear older knights speak of how they served the kingdom, and how they protected it.

But he knew better than to say such things around Salted Caramel. It wasn't as if the man didn't want to tell him anything, for he had told him various stories of many battles and wars. But he was around for too long, and many of his memories were getting either blurry or mixed up. And there were of course the memories Salted Caramel avoided for obvious reasons. Memories many knights avoided. Memories that were just too painful to recall. 

Silverbell opened and closed his mouth. Trying to formulate a sentence, but failing. He wanted to bite a bullet and just ask. But there was fear of wording it wrong, of offending his friend on accident.

Salted Caramel shot a quick glance at him.

“I wasn't looking at the stars when I died, if that's what you think.”

The archer couldn't help but relax a bit. His tense frame loosening at his words. It was stupid of him to assume such morbid things. 

“Though I was close to dying.”

… Nevermind. 

Silverbell took a deep breath in and out. To steady himself for a question. To actually speak up. Don't leave it quiet. 

“... can you say more? I like hearing your stories.”

He wasn’t fully sure why it was so hard to say. He had prompted Salted Caramel to speak many times before. 

Actually no, scratch that. He knew why it was harder to say it. Because he wasn't asking about a story from a battle. He was asking about one of the moments his friend was the most vulnerable. He simply didn't know why he considered not asking at all. Given how important star watching was for Salted Caramel. 

The knight didn't answer him for what felt like a few minutes. Silverbell almost came to the conclusion that he simply wouldn’t be given a reply. A bit disappointing, but understandable. Not everyone would want to speak of moments when they almost died. Such moments were often recurring nightmares for many. And yet Salted Caramel spoke up.

“I think it was… at the beginning of Grand Cross’ corruption? Or in the middle of it… I can't say… I just know they were different… but not that different.”

It often took Silverbell a few short seconds to figure out when Salted Caramel was speaking about the original beast cookies. As he often tended to use their former titles. Be it from respect or out of habit. Although, one could argue that Silent Salt could still be called ‘Grand Cross’. As it was not a title given because of their previous virtue, but because of how hierarchy in chivalry worked. And Silent Salt was of course at the very top of it.

“We were sent out to fight off the Giant Gravel Jelly Worms… They were a threat to one of the cities I think… and normally it would not be a problem, even if they were fully grown but uh… two or three are… let's say manageable.” He paused for a moment. “Six of them are a rather big issue.”

“How did those worms look?”

Silverbell could see a grimace on Salted Caramel's face. His body wincing for a moment.

“... maybe as big redwood trees? Maybe a tad smaller?”

Silverbell just stared at him blankly. Trying to convey without words how little it narrowed it down. These trees grew fast and tall. They could grow up to over one hundred meters with enough time. He doubted that Giant Gravel Jelly Worms could get that big. Although, maybe they could. Maybe they could and Silverbell was underestimating it. 

“Listen, they were just enormous, okay? Bigger than I had thought possible back then,” knight said in his own defense. A tiny note of frustration in his voice.

“Regardless…” he continued. “They had a body covered with strong scales, and a bunch of sharp spikes on each segment of their bodies. They could spin them. I think it normally helped them move around while digging in the ground? But at the surface it was as lethal as a newly sharpened sword. A sword made out of a very strong mix of metals.”

A pause again. A longer one. This one lasted maybe two minutes. Maybe a bit longer. Salted Caramel put a hand on his stomach. Soon however he tensed up again. Making a fist, trying to grasp something. As if he could dig into his own body and just rip his insides out.

Silverbell was about to tell him that he didn't have to continue. Because it clearly made him relive some absolutely nasty memories. The story wasn't worth it if it was putting him through such things. But before he could even say anything, Salted Caramel continued:

“With six of such monsters the battle lasted long until it was well into the night.” Silverbell could hear Salted Caramel rush a bit. Trying to get to the main point faster. “I got cut by one of the spikes. It dug deep. From my stomach almost up to my chest. A miracle it didn’t slice me in half.”

Silverbell couldn't help but hiss at description. He felt a knot in his stomach. He couldn’t imagine how much pain it must have been. Such a big injury. If one had looked down they would have seen their own organs… a very gruesome image, even more that it had happened. 

And yet Salted Caramel seemed to relax a tad bit. Faerie assumed that the worst part of the story was behind them now. The moment of when the wound had been inflicted. 

“After that I fell to the ground because I couldn't stand anymore, of course. I was bleeding out so much, I was terrified I would die.” The knight let out a dry chuckle. Finding the past a bit ironic given his current situation. “After… a rather big blood loss I didn't have energy to panic anymore. And then I realized that I was looking at the stars.”

Salted Caramel finally relaxed the fingers in his hand. Lying it again flat against his abdomen.

“And then I thought to myself… that it wasn’t the worst way to die. Despite the chaos happening around, despite it hurting so much… it would be a good death. To die in a battle with honor, able to look at the stars last time…”

There was new calmness to his voice now. A strange sense of melancholy mixed with hopefulness. It fitted him. It fitted him a lot.

“That's the main reason why stargazing is important to me.” Salted Caramel admitted. “It gives me solace. Especially now…”

“... why so?”

“... because I'm stuck here. We are stuck here. In probably the worst Era possible. But we did the best we could. We're trying our best still… and we still might just end up bloodied anyway… just one more corpse of another tired soldier…”

A pause. A deep breath in and out. To calm down. To gather thoughts. 

“But… There are things that are beautiful nonetheless. Things that were here before everything and will continue to be after… and we can enjoy them… even as we are dying there are things we can enjoy. Things that cannot be destroyed because it's just… impossible. I mean…”

Salted Caramel sat up. The metal plates of his armor quietly creaked due to sudden movement. He was now sitting on the grass with his legs crossed. 

“There are some things that just… can't be gone, right? I mean… Witches, I… give me a moment, I've lost my own point…”

Silverbell sat up too. Out of the corner of his eye he watched how Salted Caramel looked at the ground. Trying to get his thoughts back together. 

The archer hugged his legs and rested his head on his knees. He no longer observed the stars but his friend. 

He couldn’t see his face at the moment. He was partially covering it with his left hand. He used his right hand to play with his own long hair. Trying to regain focus and put his thoughts back together. Frustration he felt at himself was almost radiating. 

Silverbell only let out a soft sigh, his wings flexing a bit. It seemed that Salted Caramel hit his limit for tonight or even for this week.

The faerie loved talking with the knight. But Silent Legion had its name for a reason. Of course, the main reason was the fact it was one of if not the deadliest army recorded. Often winning battles before even a scream of their victims could arise. Ever the quiet death armored and armed, never leaving a sound. 

Another reason could be also because the very members themselves were apparently a quiet bunch. Salted Caramel included. He could easily remember how first their talks had been very one sided. Where it was mostly Silverbell talking at Salted Caramel than to him. Only the more time they'd spend the knight decided to start talking too. Still, he mostly spoke short sentences.

Therefore whenever Salted Caramel would tell a story, Silverbell would consider it a treat. Because even if it would take a while, it was nice to hear him talk. To hear him recall various battles or even just mundane situations that he remembered. Oftentimes speaking fondly of memories that could be sometimes very painful ones.

Because even now, when Salted Caramel had tensed up and grimaced various times while recalling the fight against the Giant Gravel Jelly Worms, he still finished it on a somewhat happy note. Despite the memory being mostly about a brutal battle and almost dying, it ended with him finding solace in that moment – regardless of what an outcome could have been. Peace even when the world around was dying, disappearing. 

“I think I know what you mean,” Silverbell said as he leaned onto Salted Caramel. 

The knight tensed up for just a moment. A short second of uncertainty before relaxing again. He shifted just a bit, to allow Silverbell for a more comfortable position. Despite being cold, Salted Caramel’s presence was a calming one.

And so they both continued to watch the stars. The eternal painting never to be erased or destroyed. Shining endlessly throughout all the years that had passed, and would continue to shine when the world was falling apart at the seams.

And regardless of the outcome. Regardless if there would be peace or wars, regardless if there would be thousands of cookies or if they all turned into nothingness or simple flour… stars would remain. For they were here before it all started, and would still be after everything ended.

It was strangely comforting. That even if everything was destroyed, there would be something that remained.

---------

So just to answer some things:

Why didn't Salted Caramel die if he was shot in the neck?

Salted Caramel is undead. He isn't revived. Think a spirit possessing its own corpse. He can be killed, but that would require either decapetion, or purification if you want to get rid off his soul (doesn't need to be Saint purification, Wind Archer would also do the job). That's also a reason why he is described as cold! He's cold because his body doesn't really need to maintain a body heat anymore! Ain't that convinient.

Why didn't they start fighting when Silverbell had first shot Salted Caramel?

If I shot someone in the neck, and they just stared at me confused, I would personally die right where I stood out of pure horror. Silverbell is braver and was just paralyzed by fear. Salted Caramel? He'd rather avoid fighting when he can, after all he was just going through the forest to go honor the fallen soldiers. So when he got shot he thought he must have tresspassed accidentaly, and felt awkward.

Are they meant to be platonic or romantic in this? (My own friend asked me this)

¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Honestly interpret them however you want, both interpretations are cool

[brookediamonds]

you can hear it in the silence | Axel Kovačević x Fem! Reader

Summary: It's a normal summer day of getting your monthly self-care done with your friends when Sam and Tory start to play a game of truth or dare in the nail salon. You being as bold as you are choose dare... what do the girls have in store for you? Apart of my Sunshine!Axel x Grumpy!Reader trope.

Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: None, sm fluff, reader in her soft girl era

gif is not mine

It's one of those sticky summer afternoons where the sun feels like it’s personally attacking you, and you're only surviving thanks to overpriced iced drinks, air conditioning, and the fact that Sam and Tory dragged you out for a self-care day.

You didn't want to go, obviously, but you came. Mostly because they wouldn't shut up.

And maybe because you secretly like the way it feels to do something soft like this, even if you grumble the whole way.

You're halfway through choosing between two shades of nude polish while your nail tech gently files your hand into perfection, when Tory leans over with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Okay. Truth or dare."

You glance over at the blonde girl next to you. "What?"

"We're doing it," Sam confirms, eyes on her own hand as the nail tech buffs her nails to a perfect shine. "We're officially bored enough."

"Fine," you say slowly, narrowing your eyes. "But Sam goes first."

Sam sighs dramatically but relents. "Truth."

You and Tory exchange a look.

"Okay," you say, grinning evilly. "What's your biggest irrational fear during sex?"

Sam almost chokes on her sip of iced green tea. "What the hell!"

"Answer the question," Tory sings, grinning.

"Okay, fine," Sam blushes down to her shoulders. "My biggest irrational fear is sneezing. Mid—like, in the middle of it."

You can't help it. You snort, then try to cover it with a cough.

Tory's wheezing beside you. "That's the most Sam thing I've ever heard."

"Shut up!" she laughs, covering her face. "Okay, Y/n, you're next. Truth or dare?"

You sigh, like the weight of the world has been placed on your shoulders. "Dare. Obviously."

Tory leans in, her grin downright devious. "Get Axel's initial on your ring finger. Both hands."

Your body stills. You glance between them, deadpan. "You want me to what?"

"You heard me," Tory says sweetly. "A little 'A'. Just a dot of commitment."

"That's not commitment, that's… fan behavior."

"Own it," Sam teases, kicking your ankle gently. "You're his number one fan anyway."

You shoot her a glare, but your face betrays you—heat crawling up your neck as you fight the very real urge to smile.

"You guys are insufferable," you mutter.

"But you're doing it," Tory responds, smug.

"Fine," you roll your eyes, but you nod once. "But it better be minimal. Like, blink and you miss it."

Your nail tech doesn't even flinch at the request, just helps you choose the cleanest fine-line font, and soon enough, there's a tiny silver A stamped right at the base of both your ring fingers—subtle, tasteful… and stupidly telling.

"Ugh," you mumble, staring at your hands once they're done. "I'm going to look so whipped."

"You are whipped," Tory grins. "And he's gonna lose his mind. Sunshine boy's probably going to frame your fingers."

"You have to show him the second he sees you," Sam says, kicking her feet like this is the most exciting event of the week.

"Or don't," Tory adds, sly. "Let him notice on his own. Make him work for it."

You snort. "You guys act like I tattooed his name across my face."

They just smile wider.

You glance down at your fresh manicure—clean, glossy black polish, short and neat like always. Subtle. Sleek. Except… the tiniest little silver letter on your ring finger.

A.

It's dumb. And small. And not even that noticeable unless someone's really looking. But suddenly your palms are sweating and you hate that your heart skips just thinking about him seeing it.

You roll your eyes at yourself and grab your phone. "Whatever. You two are worse than he is."

"Thank you," Sam says sweetly.

Tory clinks her water bottle against yours. "We try."

You cross your arms, trying to look as unaffected as possible… but you already know the second Axel notices, he's going to make the biggest, cheesiest deal out of it.

And secretly?

You kind of hope he does.

─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─

You're sitting cross-legged on Axel's bed, pretending to scroll through your phone while he moves around the room in the background, tugging on a clean shirt and spritzing his cologne like he's going to war and not just shaved ice.

You don't say anything, just flick your eyes to his reflection in the mirror and back down to your screen.

He looks good. Unfairly good. But you'll die before admitting that out loud right now.

You're… just testing filters. On his face.

The camera is aimed at him, zoomed in from across the room. Bunny ears. Nah. Sunglasses? Kinda hot. Glitter hearts? Okay, definitely saving that one for later.

"You look stupidly good in this one," you murmur under your breath.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, flipping to the next filter and snapping a few more silent photos as he scratches the back of his neck, completely oblivious.

You bite your lip, trying not to smile at how domestic this all feels.

He walks over, pulling his chain out from under his shirt and adjusting it in the mirror. "What are you even doing?"

You shrug, noncommittal. "Testing something."

He flops down next to you, peering over your shoulder. "Wait… are those filters? On me?"

You say nothing, but your thumb pauses over the screen just long enough for him to see a picture of himself with giant doe eyes and sparkles.

"Noooo way," he grins, reaching for the phone, but you pull it out of reach.

"Touch it and I swear I’ll get a real tramp stamp of your name in Comic Sans."

He freezes. "Tempting… but I'll behave."

He laughs under his breath and leans in, kissing your cheek in that annoying, affectionate way that makes your stomach twist.

You try not to react, but then he shifts slightly and grabs your hand without warning, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across your knuckles.

That's when he freezes.

You feel his eyes on your hand before he even speaks.

"What's this?" he asks, voice dipping into something soft and stunned.

You raise a brow, not looking up. "What's what?"

"This little 'A' on your finger…" His voice gets higher. "On both your fingers—What is this?!"

"Oh. That?" You glance over lazily, trying not to laugh. "It's a letter."

He blinks at you, mouth open. "My letter."

"Well," You shrug, completely nonchalant. "Could be for apples. Or anarchy."

"Y/n," his voice cracks a little and you can't help the tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

"It was a dare," you say finally. "Tory made me do it."

But Axel isn't even listening anymore. He's still staring at your hands like they've just become national treasures.

He picks one up gently, inspecting the tiny tattoo like it might disappear if he breathes too hard.

"I can't believe you did this," he says softly. "You—You let people see this? In public?"

You roll your eyes. "It's barely visible, don't get dramatic."

"I'm always dramatic," he grins, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing the ring finger, right over the little A. "This is the best day of my life."

You snort. "Seriously?"

"Yes. I feel so honored. So chosen." He's glowing. Like actually glowing. "I'm going to hold your hand everywhere now."

"You already do."

"Yeah, but now it means more."

You groan, shoving him lightly. "You're unbearable."

"And you're in denial," he sings, tossing himself back onto the bed with your hand still clutched to his chest. "You're so whipped for me."

"Shut up."

"I'm gonna cry. I'm gonna tell my mom."

"Don't you dare—"

"Oh my god, I'm gonna take pictures. I need evidence. My contact photo of you is changing immediately."

"Axel."

But it's too late. He's already rolled over, pulling you half into his chest while reaching for his phone, grinning like you handed him the moon on a manicure.

You wrinkle your nose. "You're so dramatic."

"And you're so mine," he teases, tugging you into his lap and nuzzling your temple with a grin.

You try to scoff, but your hands stay right where he wants them—resting on his chest, ring fingers tilted just enough for him to steal one more glance.

And a picture.

"Smile," he whispers, turning your phone around and switching it to selfie mode. "You and me. No filter."

You roll your eyes again, but you're already smiling.

─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─

A few weeks later...

Axel's mom answers the door with her usual warmth and a knowing smile.

"He's out back," she says, stepping aside to let you in. "And try not to fall for his sad puppy eyes. He's been pacing around waiting for you like a puppy on espresso."

You roll your eyes playfully, biting back a smirk. "I make no promises."

You find him lounging poolside when you slide the glass door open.

He's got one leg dangling in the water, sunglasses pushed back into his hair, and a popsicle in his mouth like he's trying to win a summer cliché contest.

At the sound of the door, he sits up instantly, squinting toward you.

"There she is," he beams, already on his feet and walking toward you like you haven't seen each other in weeks, even though it's only been a day.

You meet him halfway, letting him press a sticky kiss to your cheek, his fingers sneaking around your wrist to tug you closer.

"Hey," you mumble, trying not to smile too much.

"Hi, gorgeous," he echoes, grinning down at you. "What'd you do today?"

You tilt your head toward the pool chairs and start walking, Axel trailing behind like a very tall, very eager shadow.

"Sam, Tory, and I had a little self-care day. We hit the outlet mall, grabbed smoothies, and then got mani-pedis again."

He instantly lifts your hands like they're made of glass, inspecting each finger with exaggerated focus. "Please tell me you got it again. Please tell me there's a tiny 'A' somewhere or I might actually combust."

"They're just turquoise," you bite back a smirk, letting him look.

He frowns. "Just turquoise?" His voice is so tragically disappointed it makes you laugh.

"Why would I get your initial every time?"

"Because I'm the love of your life?" He deadpans. "Because your ring finger misses me when I'm not around? Because you're secretly obsessed with me?"

"You are such a drama queen," you chuckle slipping your hands out of his grasp so you can set your tote bag down.

He drops your hands with a sigh, throwing himself backwards onto the patio couch. "This is worse than when the ice cream truck drove past our street."

You roll your eyes, kicking off your sandals and heading toward the pool. "Come on, sunboy. You begged me to come over and now you're sulking."

"I'm not sulking," he calls after you, already following. "I'm just… passionately grieving."

You spend the next hour hanging out in the heat—him in the pool, you stretched out on a towel, half-lazy and half-listening as he narrates his swim tricks and fails spectacularly at a handstand.

He brings you a lemonade, steals your sunglasses, and insists on laying his head on your stomach like a golden retriever in need of constant validation.

Eventually, the sun gets too high, and you scoot to the edge of the pool to dip your feet in.

Axel swims over, arms resting on the ledge, chin tilted up at you like you're the most interesting thing in his world.

"New bikini?" he asks, his eyes shamelessly dragging over you with a lazy smile. "Because, no offense, you're kind of making the sun look like a background prop right now."

"You're so full of it," you snort, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

"I'm serious," he grins. "You look good. Like, 'I'm about to risk drowning just to be near you' good."

Your smirk softens just a bit. "Didn't you already do that trying to handstand earlier?"

"That was different. That was athleticism. This is me trying to flirt while treading water."

You tilt your head, amused. "You're very committed to the bit."

"And you," he says, flicking water up at you playfully, "are very cute with your hair all wet and sun-warmed. I like this version of you."

"This version?"

He shrugs. "The one who's a little pink from the sun and hasn't told me to shut up yet. It's rare. I cherish it."

You roll your eyes, flicking water back at him with your toe. "Shut up."

"There it is," he laughs, dodging the splash.

Before he can hit you with some absurd reply, because you know he's cooking one, his gaze drops.

Then it stills.

Then it lingers.

"Wait. Wait." He scrambles upright so fast the floaty wobbles behind him. "What is that?"

"What?" you ask, eyes still closed behind your sunglasses.

"Lift your foot."

"Excuse me?"

"Your foot, baby. Let me see—oh my god."

You peek at him through your lashes, barely hiding your smirk. "You good over there?"

He's staring at your toes like they hold the secret to life. "You did it again. You did it again."

You wiggle your toes innocently, letting the sun catch the faint shimmer of turquoise polish, and the tiny, black A stamped delicately on the tip of your big toe.

"You didn't even tell me," he says, breathless like you just gave him the world's most heartfelt gift. "You just walked in here like it wasn't a big deal. Like you weren't walking around with me on your toes."

You shrug. "Didn't think you'd notice."

"Didn't think I'd—babe. I notice everything. I would've noticed if you spelled my name out in invisible ink across your collarbone."

You raise a brow. "Don't get any ideas."

"No promises."

Hmm. You'd tuck that idea away for another time.

You yawn. "Guess I'm just obsessed with you or something."

"Oh my god," he groans, leaning forward to press a kiss to your wet toe with zero shame. "This is art. This is devotion."

"Okay, calm down."

"No, you don't get it," he says, still holding your foot like it's sacred. "This is commitment. This is soulmate behavior. You're literally marrying me."

You yank your foot back and flick water in his face. "If you propose in this pool, I'm drowning you."

"Hot," he mutters, before dunking under in one smooth motion.

When he resurfaces, he's right between your legs, blinking up at you with water dripping from his lashes and the most ridiculous smile on his face.

You sigh and shake your head, but your smirk gives you away.

Yeah. He's annoying. And dramatic. And hopelessly obsessed with you.

But he's also yours.

And apparently, now, so are your toes.

─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─

Masterlist

Taglist: @ggrgcribg

(A/N: okay so... there's gonna be kind of a pt.2 to this 👀 same trope but omgggg it's so spicy. we've also never seen them behind closed doors so i'm excited to write it. please like, comment, reblog, appreciate you all 🤍)

[everwhovian]

Jun-ho and his hyung make the cutest card for their mom on mother's day!!

That's so cute!! But I couldn't just let them make a card for their mother, so Jun-ho also makes one for his hyung!

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The paper carnation drooped a little to one side.

Jun-ho frowned at it, elbows on the table, tongue caught between his teeth as he reached for the glue stick again. There was glitter on his cheek. Crayon smudges on the table.

And In-ho, still in his hoodie and pretending he wasn’t invested in the outcome, sat across from him helping. Kind of.

He didn’t do much except pass the glue and hand him the green crayon when Jun-ho asked for it, but he stayed the whole time. He read over the sentences with a quiet nod, didn’t even tease when Jun-ho frowned and re-wrote the word “morning” three times to make it look nicer. When the petal edges curled up, In-ho gently smoothed them flat. And when Jun-ho looked up and asked, “Is this okay?” – he just said, “She’s gonna love it.”

Jun-ho smiled at that.

“You used too much glue,” In-ho teased.

“You said more was better.”

“I said more was sometimes better. This flower looks like it fought in a war.”

Jun-ho giggled. “It’s a brave flower.”

That made In-ho smile, soft and sideways. He leaned over, straightened the leaf with one finger, then passed over a new dot of glue with more care this time. Jun-ho watched closely, soaking it in.

The card was nearly finished – the front was pink, folded carefully. He’d drawn flowers and a big yellow sun with eyelashes. Inside, he’d written the neatest ‘Eomma’ he could manage – right in the middle, in red crayon. Under it:

Thank you for brushing my hair even when I’m squirmy. Thank you for the warm rice in the morning. Thank you for loving me even when I spill juice on the blankets.

His hand got a little tired writing all that, but he didn’t mind. Eomma always liked his notes. She said she kept them in her drawer, even the wrinkly ones.

His chest felt full just looking at the card.

Still, something tugged at him.

Not in a bad way – not like a string pulled too tight – but a quiet kind of nudge in his chest. Like something soft, sitting behind his ribs. He glanced across the table.

In-ho was watching the glitter dry, one elbow on the table and his chin in his palm. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, faint purple smudge on one wrist from something Jun-ho had drawn earlier. His eyes were tired but warm. When he noticed Jun-ho staring, he didn’t say anything – just reached out and ruffled his hair gently.

“Think she’ll cry this time?” he asked.

Jun-ho grinned. “Maybe.”

“She better not. I didn’t come all the way back to watch her sob into a glitter flower.” He stood, stretching until his hoodie pulled at the hem. “I’ll make tea. Want bori-cha or oksusu-cha?”

“Oksusu-cha,” Jun-ho said, already leaning over the table to fix a crooked sticker.

In-ho disappeared into the kitchen. He was still talking – something about getting dinner later, treating Eomma to those noodles she liked, reminding Jun-ho to wear his better socks and not the ones with the dinosaur hole. The faucet hissed on.

Jun-ho didn’t answer right away. He waited until the kitchen faucet ran – until the clink of cups meant his hyung wasn’t looking – and slowly opened his notebook again.

From underneath his spelling sheet, he pulled out a second blank card.

This one was blue. A little bent at the edge, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be his.

He smoothed it gently on the table, brushing off a stray flake of glitter, and reached for his crayons. He picked the purple crayon – In-ho liked that color, even if he never said it out loud – and started at the top.

He didn’t think too hard about what to draw.

Just that it should have a hoodie. And messy hair. And probably a little heart, small in the corner.

And when he pressed the crayon down and started to write – slower this time, more carefully – he didn’t think in full sentences. Just in moments.

There were a thousand quiet things. Little things. Waking up to warm blankets even when it was still dark out. Finding his hair already brushed before he’d even realized he was squirming away. That time he’d fallen asleep on the couch and woke up with his favorite stuffed animal tucked in beside him. A mug of corn tea when he was sick. A steady hand on his back when nightmares made his fingers tremble. All those moments. All those small, gentle things.

The kind of things you didn’t ask for but still got.

The kind of things someone gives when they love you.

And maybe his hyung didn’t expect anything – but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t get something too.

The last little line curved beneath Jun-ho’s fingers just as he heard the quiet shuffle of socked feet returning to the living room.

He barely had time to press the card closed, smearing the soft edge of a still-drying heart. He slipped the blue card under his notebook, pressing it flat with both hands. His heart did a little stutter-step in his chest, like it always did when he had a secret he didn’t want found out.

By the time In-ho stepped back into the room, mug in each hand, Jun-ho was calmly nudging a sticker into place on the pink card. He didn’t look up right away.

“Still decorating?” In-ho asked, setting the warm mug beside him.

“Mm-hm.” Jun-ho blew on the glue like it needed help drying.

In-ho didn’t push. He settled back into his seat, one leg stretched out under the table, fingers wrapped around his own mug. His hoodie sleeves were rolled up again – the right one still smudged faintly with glitter. He took a long sip of tea, then let out a quiet sigh, one of those bone-deep ones that sounded like it came from somewhere older than him.

Jun-ho didn’t say anything. Just watched the steam curl between them and thought about the second card tucked beneath his spelling sheet. About the way In-ho had smoothed petals flat without teasing. About how he’d stayed the whole time.

Later, they went out – just the three of them.

The restaurant was one of those cozy, tucked-away places with low wooden tables and the clink of chopsticks always in the air. The owner knew them by now and gave Jun-ho a lollipop with his water, ruffling his hair as she passed.

They took a table near the window, where Jun-ho could press his knees against In-ho’s under the table just to be annoying. He did it once. In-ho nudged him back without looking.

Their mother sat across from them, her eyes crinkled with quiet laughter at something Jun-ho had said about dinosaurs and dumplings. The steam from the noodle bowls fogged her glasses, and In-ho kept passing her tissues like it was a running joke.

Jun-ho’s chopsticks were sticky with sauce, but he barely touched his food.

The card was in his pocket.

Folded carefully. Pressed flat between the pages of his reading log all the way here. He’d checked it three times before leaving the house – once to make sure it was still there, once to make sure the flower hadn’t bent, and once just because. It had stayed warm against his side the whole walk over, like a secret waiting to be shared.

Now, under the soft clink of bowls and low restaurant music, he shifted in his seat.

Across the table, his mother was reaching for her tea. Her hair had started to slip from its clip, soft at the edges, and the corners of her mouth were still turned up from something In-ho said about the state of Jun-ho’s pencil case. She looked happy. A little tired. But happy.

Jun-ho’s chest gave a funny squeeze.

He wiped his hands on his napkin. Then, before he could overthink it – before he got shy or nervous or decided maybe he should wait until they got home – he tugged the envelope from his hoodie pocket and held it out with both hands.

His voice came out smaller than expected.

“Eomma.”

She turned, eyes blinking in quiet surprise. “Oh?”

Jun-ho didn’t say anything else. Just pushed the card forward, his palms warm against the paper.

Her fingers closed around it gently. She looked down at the pink crayon flowers on the front. Then back up at him. And smiled.

She opened it slowly, careful not to tear the folded corner, and read the first few lines in silence. Her thumb brushed over the writing. Then paused.

Jun-ho held still.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Her hand came up, thumb pressing softly beneath her glasses, just under her eye. Then the card lowered, and she reached across the table and pulled Jun-ho into her arms.

He went easily. Arms tight around her middle, cheek pressed to her shoulder, crayon dust still faint on his sleeve. He could feel her heartbeat under his ear. Could feel her hand in his hair. He didn’t mind the way her glasses bumped his head, or how she held him like he was still tiny.

“You made this for me?” she whispered.

Jun-ho nodded against her shoulder.

“It’s beautiful.”

His throat felt too full to answer.

When she let go, she kept one hand on his face. Brushed his hair back, smiled like the sun had come out, and kissed his cheek with a soft pat. Then – without warning – she reached over and tugged In-ho into a hug, too.

It wasn’t long. Just a quick squeeze around his shoulder, a kiss to his temple. But it made In-ho blink fast, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

Jun-ho swore his ears turned pink.

“Okay,” In-ho said under his breath, awkwardly chuckling. “That’s enough of that.”

“You helped,” she said simply, and let him go.

In-ho muttered something about tea being too hot. Jun-ho didn’t stop grinning.

Their mother didn’t say anything else – just picked up her chopsticks and took a bite of her noodles like it hadn’t just happened.

Jun-ho leaned into In-ho’s side as he sat back down. Nudged him a little, just for the satisfaction of it.

“Hyung,” he whispered, grinning.

“What.”

“She hugged you.” Jun-ho giggled. “You blushed.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

In-ho didn’t answer. He just bumped his shoulder gently against Jun-ho’s and stole a dumpling off his plate when he wasn’t looking.

After dinner, they stepped out into the cooler air, the restaurant door swinging shut behind them with a soft clatter. Jun-ho slipped between them on the sidewalk, one hand reaching for Eomma’s, the other finding In-ho’s without thinking. He didn’t say anything. Just held on as they walked, full from noodles and something quieter he couldn’t quite name.

In-ho carried their mother’s bag without needing to be asked. Jun-ho yawned into his sleeve every few steps and leaned harder into his brother’s side each time, until it felt more like being guided than walking.

By the time they stepped into the apartment, Jun-ho’s feet were dragging.

“I’m not tired,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Sure you’re not,” In-ho said, already crouching to untie Jun-ho’s shoes.

Their mother laughed softly, easing off her coat as she stepped into the kitchen. “Thank you for today,” she said, glancing back at In-ho.

He shook his head. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” she said. “Even if you don’t believe it.”

He gave her a tired little smile – half shrug, half something quieter – and waited until she disappeared down the hallway before nudging Jun-ho lightly in the back.

“Go brush your teeth.”

“I’m not even –”

“Teeth. Now.”

Jun-ho groaned dramatically, trudging down the hall like he was being sent to the gallows. “You’re so bossy,” he called over his shoulder.

“You’re so dramatic,” In-ho replied, already gathering empty cups from the table.

The moment Jun-ho rounded the corner and heard the soft clink of dishes in the sink, he doubled back.

His heart thudded in that fizzy way it did when he had a secret.

In-ho’s room wasn’t really a room. Just the corner of the apartment with a desk and a futon he unrolled whenever he stayed the night. His real home was across the city now – an apartment he shared with Yuna – but he still came back often. Especially for days like this. Especially for Jun-ho.

But even without a door or walls, that corner had always felt like a fortress. Books stacked in uneven towers. A hoodie slung over the back of the chair. That faint, familiar smell of detergent and pen ink clinging to the fabric of the futon. Safe.

Jun-ho tiptoed there and scanned the desk – then carefully slid the blue card halfway under In-ho’s pencil case. Just enough that he might miss it at first. Just enough that it’d feel like something left behind on accident.

He hesitated for a second, fingers pressed to the folded edge.

Then he turned and bolted – bare feet slapping softly on the wood floor – back into the bathroom before In-ho noticed he was gone.

By the time In-ho wandered back into the living room, Jun-ho was on the couch in his pajamas, curled up with his stuffed duck and pretending not to be falling asleep mid-complaint.

“You didn’t even rinse properly,” In-ho muttered, reaching for the towel to pat his damp cheeks.

“I did so,” Jun-ho said, voice already drifting.

Ten minutes later, he was out cold.

In-ho stood nearby for a long while, arms folded across his chest. He watched the way Jun-ho’s hand stayed curled in the blanket, the faint upward curl of his mouth, the way his lashes brushed his cheeks. Peaceful. Just like when he was a toddler.

Eventually, he turned toward his desk – intending to plug in his phone or maybe just grab a pen.

That’s when he saw it.

The card was barely visible. A folded corner of blue, peeking from under his pencil case like it was trying not to be found.

He paused. Reached out.

Unfolded it carefully.

The moment he saw the drawing, his breath hitched – just slightly. The hoodie. The mess of scribbled hair. The little purple heart in the corner.

And the writing beneath it – clumsy, a little wobbly, but unmistakably for him.

His throat went tight.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, card in both hands, and stared at it like it might disappear.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And slowly, a smile began to pull at his mouth – quiet and shaky, like it had crept up on him without warning. His eyes burned before he even noticed they were wet.

It wasn’t the drawing. Or the glitter still clinging to the crease. It was the fact that he’d helped Jun-ho make a card that afternoon for parent’s day and never expected one of his own. Never thought he’d be seen that way.

But Jun-ho had.

Without being told. Without being asked.

He’d just… known.

Across the room, Jun-ho shifted in his sleep and let out a little sigh, his face soft and unguarded. One hand still rested on the duck’s fuzzy head.

In-ho looked at him for a long time, the card held gently in his hands.

Then he leaned over and placed it on his nightstand – right beside his wallet, his keys, and that old wristwatch he never wore anymore.

His smile lingered. Small. Crooked. A little watery at the corners.

“Love you too, kid,” he murmured.

He turned off the light.

And let the quiet settle around them – gentle and full, like the weight of something too big to name but easy to carry when it was love.

[yerimbrit]

[flufftober day 20, wc: 631] - gingerbread man : k. minjeong

“AREN’T GINGERBREAD MEN A CHRISTMAS THING?” was what you asked your girlfriend when she suggested making them. it’s the middle of october, halloween hasn’t even happened yet, and minjeong wants to make gingerbread men.

you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t interested, though—you’re not one to skip out on something just because it’s not winter. that, is loser behavior. and you (contrary to minjeong’s beliefs) are not a loser.

the process of baking them goes well, because you and minjeong have baked together on multiple occasions, but your real confusion comes when she starts decorating the gingerbread man like a… a christmas gingerbread man. “i thought it was autumn.”

“y/n,” she rebukes, “are you complaining after you’re the one who agreed?”

“no, ma’am,” you deflect, “i’m just curious about your seasonal tastes.”

minjeong doesn’t answer after that, focusing on adding the face with a thin-cut piping bag. the finished product of the one cookie turns out to be one of those generic gingerbread men, with a white outline of its sleeves and face, and a green bowtie and red buttons. once she dots the last button, she looks up at you and grins, “are you ready?”

you tilt your head, confused. “for what, exactly?”

the girl grabs the cookie, staring at it for no longer than a few seconds, and then promptly snaps the head off, leaving you horrified. the poor gingerbread man! it hasn’t even seen its first day of joy and whimsy! 

“why!?” you cry out, mourning the cookie whose (two part) body is carried back to the counter. again, your girlfriend doesn’t answer but grabs the piping bag with red frosting. then, she draws what seems to be blood on the edges where it was decapitated.

maybe you are a loser for mourning a gingerbread man. but you have to admit, what she did is pretty funny. and so you burst out laughing, which makes minjeong burst out laughing, and then the gingerbread corpse is left on the counter as you two are on the floor laughing at something extremely absurd. 

the rest of the cookies are decorated in some horror-ish or halloween-esque way, like the usual vampires, werewolves, serial killer (with an odd knife-shaped piece of gingerbread), but in the end there ends up being two cookies that resemble you and minjeong. except you’re a vampire, and there’s two tiny red dots on the gingerbread-minjeong’s “neck”. you decided to add those small details after seeing minjeong give gingerbread-you fangs, all for the “shits and giggles”.

she points at the cookie resembling you, giggling, “i think i like this, you, better.”

“excuse me? what, are you into vampires or something?”

“um…”

soon the kitchen becomes a chasing-ground. to be honest, you started the chase for no good reason—that and it’s really fun to tease minjeong. sometimes she makes this super angry face (which was most effective when she went blonde for a few months) and it’s so endearing that you made “annoying kim minjeong” at the top of your daily checklist. once you catch her, she calls a truce and taps out, panting heavily to catch her breath. “vampire-gingerbread-you wouldn’t do this, see?”

“would you like me better if i bit you?” you pant, leaning against the counter next to your girlfriend.

she narrows her eyes at you, eyebrows downturned, “that’s gonna be the start of the zombie apocalypse.”

after a short break, the last three gingerbread are decorated as your friends jimin, aeri, and yizhuo, and into their respective halloween costumes from last year. there’s some more discourse and banter, and then you spend the night watching dramas while eating your gingerbread-friends and talking shit about the antagonist.

“for the record, i think i like gingerbread-you better than you.”

“is that a death wish?”

flufftober masterlist!

a/n : guys there's only 11 more days of october this is actually crazy

[czytling]

CM x DC day 2 @criminalmindsxdc

Meta!BAU Agent || FBI Fitness Test/Certification || Attending a Wayne Gala || "What kind of nickname is ...?"

Also Day 4 prompt Double Crossover

Criminal Minds x Batman x White Collar

------

Since apparently this whole week will be me changing the style to experimentail, this one is a cross between meta, 3-4 sentence fic, and pick your own adventure.

-----

All-division testing day

The all-division FBI testing day happens roughly every two years and involves all divisions being tested simultaneously and against each other, much different compared to more frequent in-division testing days, where it is one or two divisions at the same time. Now, normally, this would be the fun day everyone is waiting for, but for the two Bats undercover in their teams, it is nervewracking. Not only do they have to show appropriate skill level while hiding their true, much more advanced skills, but also they have to do it while another bat is watching - batspar in middle of FBI precint is unthinkable, and the odds are small enough that they won't have to fight one another, right? Right???

Choose your BAU undercover agent:

Tim Drake as Spencer Reid: go to options starting with A

Dick Grayson: options B

Damian Wayne: options C

Choose your White Collar agent, undercover as Neal Caffrey:

Dick Grayson: suboption 1

Jason Todd: 2

Tim Drake: 3

Damian Wayne: 4

----

Options A1, B2, B3, B4, and C1 are actually likely to maintain their covers successfully. Good job.

Option A1/B3:

Spar proceeds mostly normally. FBI are impressed by how decent their agents/CIs are. There is a bit of confusion due to following exchange afterwards: "Good job Baby bird!" "Thanks dick ... for brains!" What kind of nicknames are those?

Option B2:

Spar proceeds mostly normally, though there is some more viciousness than expected, maybe they had to deal with each other in the past as cop/criminal? Suddenly Spencer!Dick exclaims: "Careful there Little Wing!" and is met with uncharacteristically rude answer from Neal: "Fuck off, Dickhead!" What kind of nicknames are those even?

Option B4/C1:

Spar proceeds mostly normally, it is most like true spar instead of a fight. FBI are impressed by how good their agents/CIs are. There is a bit of confusion due to following exchange afterwards: "Nicely done Baby bat!" "Tt. You went easy on me, Ri... dick". Baby bat? Riddick? What kind of nicknames are those even?

-------

Now to more dramatic options:

Option A2:

Neal!Jason: Oh no.

Peter: It will be okay Neal.

Spencer!Tim, knowing that Jason can't fight at anywhere near his real level: at first opportunity when Jason is falling next to him due to very effective bodyslam followed by a series of 'accidentally' extremely brutal takedowns and broken nose, with extreme menance: "This is for the Titans Tower".

It is not "okay".

Option A4:

Neal!Damian: I will not be bested by this weakling!

Spencer!Tim, through his teeth: We need to maintain plausible deniability.

The only reason why the FBI doesn't look like a slaughterhouse after that fight is that weapons were not allowed. The covers are holding by a thread, Tim at least has some explanation in form of childhood bootcamp, but Damian the nonviolent conman is in deep trouble; as is Peter Burke, who somehow didn't notice for nearly two years that his CI is extremely violent when pushed.

Option C2:

Some LoA techniques are used. Everyone is fine, the spar went well, their bruises barely have any bruises and no bones are broken. What do you mean we need to answer a series of uncomfortable questions about our skillets, i didn't see anything violent at all?!

Option C3: basically option A4, except for excuses in aftermath.

Spencer!Damian has to explain a bit about his childhood in murder cult. BAU is a bit frustrated they hadn't connected the dots themselves, but are nice and understanding. Neal!Tim manages Peter Burke's questioning much better than Neal!Damian would and nearly manages to make everyone forget what they saw. Nearly.

[shazzbaa]

Please disregard my ask about spoiler tags lmao I was looking at a reblog and not your actual post. Thanks for tagging stuff! It really bugs me how people are super casual about deep-cut spoilers! Sorry for com8ng at you about nothing!

Oh, thank you, that's nice of you! I too wish for a more consistent spoiler etiquette in this fandom lmao, though I look at it a little differently? I think there's a big difference between posting untagged spoilers on your own blog, vs adding a spoiler to someone else's post.

Like, I kinda understand this fandom having a more spoiler-lax culture, not just because Fallen London is a 15-year-old game, but also because its worldbuilding is all so well-integrated that it becomes quite difficult to just talk about the world or your character if you're being really mindful of spoilers! It's one of my favourite things about FL honestly -- there's some actual Reveals, but so many of the world's mysteries aren't reveals so much as just Things You Don't Know Yet. Characters or text refer to something odd, and it feels like a mystery, until you've stumbled over enough references that you connect a bunch of the dots, and then it's just a straightforward part of the world that changes how you see all those other references, in a way that makes it hard not to just, integrate this new information into your basic understanding of the setting. I think it's part of the reason why FL can have such bonkers lore and still feel so grounded. So while some things can be straightforwardly tagged, so much is just impractical.

And, like, not everybody can even DO tagging for various brain reasons, competing access needs etc etc (as an OCD-haver I VERY MUCH understand how something that seems small can end up a huge, brain-swirly difficulty that you have to just drop to have fun on tumblr dot com), so like, all that to say if someone does not want to bother tagging spoilers on their own blog, I think that's fine! I won't follow them!

Anyway, I tag ambitions, railway ("great hellbound railway"), evolution ("evolution spoilers" and "fallen london evolution"), and exceptional stories as a group ("exceptional story spoilers" and "es spoilers"). If I get around to and post about firmament (please tell me nothing about firmament!!!) I'll tag that too. I don't often tag for content warnings, these are unreliable and I think unfollowing or blocking me is your best bet if you really need content tagged with a lot of care! SOME DAY MAYBE I'LL MAKE A PINNED POST ABOUT THIS.

I do enjoy discovering Fallen London for myself as much as possible, to an extent I kind of think the general fandom doesn't even consider spoilers? Haha. There's sort of a General Assumed Fandom Knowledge and you really have to signal constantly if you want to sit outside of that, thus my frequent "no spoilers, please!" notes on posts (because you absolutely might get major spoilers in the tags if you don't mark posts that way, even posts about the middle of a storyline. That's wild to me!! but tbf everyone's been super polite when I DO include the note, so I can't complain!) But this all just means I don't look at the Fallen London tag, I don't follow Fallen London blogs outside of friends who are at roughly the same stage of the game, and in general I think that's kinda the only way to get that experience. There's a couple more things I want to experience for myself, but after that I hope to finally peek into the tag, just enjoy the fandom, and discover things through other people, too. Coming into the game so late but really enjoying the world's mysteries, this is the way that made the most sense to me, and while I've missed out on fandom stuff, for me it's been worth it. I've never played another game like Fallen London.

[deeplyridiculouslyinlove]

My favorite Moiraine moments in The Eye of the World

EOTW only spoilers below the cut

1. “[The mist] follows the river as if drawn with a pen,” Moiraine was saying in satisfied tones. “There are not ten women in Tar Valon who could do that unaided. Not to mention from the back of a galloping horse.” (Chapter 12)

This is "Siuan Sanche waits for only one woman" energy right here.

2. “I suffered more injury to my pride than anything else,” the Aes Sedai said irritably, plucking at her cloak blanket. She looked as if she had been a long time ill or hard-used, but despite the dark circles under them, her eyes were sharp and full of power. “Aginor was surprised and angry that I held him as long as I did, but fortunately he had no time to spare for me. I am surprised myself that I held him so long. In the Age of Legends, Aginor was close behind the Kinslayer and Ishamael in power." (Chapter 51)

Not babygirl being surprised (and a bit self-satisfied) that she held off a powerful Forsaken for so long BUT ALSO her pride being wounded that she couldn’t do it for longer.

3. Even Aginor seemed stunned. Then his head lifted, cavernous eyes burning with hate. “Enough. It is past time to end this.” “Yes, Forsaken,” Moiraine said, her voice as cold as deep winter ice. “Past time.” The Aes Sedai’s hand rose and the ground fell away beneath Aginor’s feet. Flame roared from the chasm, whipped to a frenzy by wind howling in from every direction, sucking a maelstrom of leaves into the fire which seemed to solidify into a red-streaked yellow jelly of pure heat. In the middle of it, Aginor stood, his feet supported only by air. The Forsaken looked startled but then he smiled and took a step forward. It was a slow step, as if the fire tried to root him to the spot, but he took it. And then another. “Run!” Moiraine commanded. Her face was white with strain. “All of you, run!" (Chapter 50)

"I'm as strong as I have to be" 😭

4. In Algomar’s private garden, under a thick bower dotted with white blossoms, Moiraine shifted on her bed chair. The fragments of the seal lay on her lap and the small gem she sometimes wore in her hair spun and glittered on its gold chain from the ends of her fingers. The faint blue glow faded from the stone and a smile touched her lips. It had no power in itself, the stone, but the first use she had ever learned of the One Power as a girl in her royal palace of Cairhien was using the stone to listen to people when they thought they were too far off to be overheard. (Chapter 53)

Obsessed that her version of the all-knowing Merlin character is an affinity for eavesdropping--maybe it's mystical wisdom, maybe it's being a nosy bitch (affectionate)!

5. Her eyes fell on Mat as she stepped through the doorway and she hissed as if she had touched a hot stove. "Get away from him!" Nynaeve did not move, except for turning to stare at the Aes Sedai in surprise. In two quick steps Moiraine seized the Wisdom by the shoulders, hauling her across the floor like a sack of grain. Nynaeve struggled and protested, but Moiraine did not release her until she was well away from the bed. The Wisdom continued her protests as she got to her feet angrily straightening her clothes, but Moiraine ignored her completely. The Aes Sedai watched Mat to the exclusion of everything else, eyeing him the way she would a viper. (Chapter 41)

Sorry I didn’t hear you I was distracted thinking of canonically tiny Moiraine dragging Nynaeve across the room like one of those mothers who finds super strength and lifts the car off her kids.

6. Moiraine climbed down from Aldieb's back. Calmly she removed something from her pouch, unwrapped it. Rand glimpsed dark ivory. The angreal. With angreal in one hand and staff in the other, the Aes Sedai set her feet, facing the onrushing trollocs and the fade's black swords, raised her staff high, and stabbed it down into the earth. The ground rang like an iron kettle struck by a mallet. The hollow clang dwindled, faded away. For an instant then, it was silent. Everything was silent. The wind died. The trolloc cries stilled. Even their charge forward slowed and stopped. For a heartbeat, everything waited. Slowly the dull ringing returned, changing to a low rumble, growing until the earth moaned. The ground trembled beneath Cloud's hooves. This was Aes Sedai work like the stories told about.... Abruptly Moiraine wavered, and would have fallen had Lan not leaped from his horse to catch her. "Go on," he told the others. The harshness of his voice was at odds with the gentle way he lifted the Aes Sedai to her saddle. "That fire won't burn forever. Hurry! Every minute counts." The wall of flame roared as if it would indeed burn forever, but Rand did not argue. They galloped northward as fast as they could make their horses go. The horns in the distance shrilled out disappointment, as if they already knew what had happened, then fell silent. Lan and Moiraine soon caught up with the others, though Lan led Aldieb by the reins while the Aes Sedai swayed and held the pommel of her saddle with both hands. "I will be alright soon," she said to their worried looks. She sounded tired, yet confident, and her gaze was as compelling as ever. "I am not at my strongest when working with earth and fire. A small thing." (Chapter 18)

She's ridiculously proud of her fog along the river and then just a few chapters later channels EARTHQUAKES and WALLS OF FIRE like she's not one of the last Aes Sedai of a dying age and SHRUGS IT OFF.

7. "The The Wisdom won't help. She says she can't. But the stories--" She raised an eyebrow and he stopped and swallowed hard. Light, is there a story with an Aes Sedai where she isn't a villain? ...

She used the staff to pull herself to her feet. “Take me to your father, Rand. I will help him as much as I am able. Too many here have refused to let me help at all.” “They have heard the stories too,” she added dryly. (Chapter 7)

Rand is lucky he's the Dragon Reborn or he and the Two Rivers folks would have been met with some wasps.

8. Thom Merrilin stepped forward grandly and held up one empty hand, turning it slowly. Suddenly, he gestured with a flourish and a dagger twirled between his fingers. The hilt slapped into his palm and, abruptly nonchalant, he began trimming his fingernails. A low, delighted laugh floated from Moiraine. (Chapter 12)

This peek at the girl who watched court bards at the Sun Palace in Cairhien is so cute it makes me almost willing to ship her and Thom in the books.

9. “The Dark One is after you three. One or all. And if I let you go running off wherever you want to go, he will take you. Whatever the Dark One wants, I oppose. So hear this and know it true. Before I let the Dark One have you I will destroy you myself.” It was her voice, so matter of fact, that convinced Rand. The Aes Sedai would do exactly what she said if she thought it was necessary. He had a hard time sleeping that night, and he was not the only one. Even the Gleeman did not begin snoring until after the last coals died. For once, Moiraine offered no help. (Chapter 13)

This is controversial but I personally adore this speech where she threatens to kill them all and then acts petty about healing them just because she hears Rand talking badly about Aes Sedai.

10. “Do they have sheep in Tar Valon? That's all I know. Herding sheep and growing tabac.” “I believe,” Moiraine said. “That I can find something for you to do in Tar Valon. For all of you. Not herding sheep, perhaps, but something you will find interesting.” (Chapter 48)

I giggled.

11. Rand made ready to put Cloud to a gallop right away, and everyone else settled their reins with the same urgency. Everyone except Lan and Moiraine. The Warder and the Aes Sedai exchanged a long look. “Keep them moving, Moiraine Sedai,” Lan said finally. “I will return as soon as I am able. You will know if I fail.” Putting a hand on Mandarb’s saddle, he vaulted to the back of the black stallion and galloped down the hill heading west. The horns sounded again. “The Light go with you, last Lord of the Seven Towers,” Moiraine said, almost too softly for Rand to hear. Drawing a deep breath, she turned Aldieb to the east. “We must go on,” she said, and started off at a slow, steady trot. (Chapter 18)

11. I can't help but think how much they've grown since New Spring when I read this and it makes me want to cry.

Bonus: Every scene of Moiraine greeting the cats at Basel Gill’s inn. (Chapters 41 & 43)

Bonus Bonus: The way Rosamund delivers Moiraine's "it will be as the wheel wills" in the audiobooks after Loial says he is worried the bridges in the Ways are breaking and they might be trapped in there and die. (Chapter 45)

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Hello! From the Hypothetical OC Ask Game! For any character you want:

3. Your OC unexpectedly wins a prize in a competition or quiz

(referring to this ask game)

Thanks for the ask @houndsofcorduff!

I chose Reese Takari from Tales from Valaria for this one, mainly because she would actually participate in a contest without really expecting to win. I also seem to always write angst for her, so something a bit happier is a nice change she deserves some wins.

Words: 1200

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion

@scaewolf @the-ellia-west @melpomenelamusa

A/N: Takes place pre Magician's Bait, post The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure, minor references to THtMatC but nothing too crazy

----------

"Knife throwing?"

Reese flipped the provided knife experimentally, getting the feel for the weight and balance. "Yeah, why not? I mainly practice with a knife anyway, I've tried my hand at throwing occasionally."

Luc raised an eyebrow. "Your knife isn't weighted for throwing."

"Well, that's kind of the point. It's unique, and if I threw it at someone attacking me I could lose it. Octavian showed me a few things with his throwing knives, though Draven didn't like it when we practiced at his place." She grinned. "He didn't want to lose his deposit because of holes in the walls."

"That's the first thing I've heard about Draven that makes him sound almost reasonable," Luc muttered.

Reese tossed the throwing knife into the air and caught it before nodding at the attendant who'd given it to her. "Okay, I think I'm ready."

Luc folded his arms. "I'll be watching from a safe distance."

She made a face at him as she removed her personal knife from her belt and handed it to him. No outside weapons were permitted except those provided. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

His response was lost in the noise of the gathering crowd as the contestants lined up at the stations, provided with three throwing knives and a target placed ten feet from a line drawn on the ground. This particular contest was for teenagers between the ages of fourteen and twenty, so Reese was on the older side, next to a girl about her age and a boy a couple years younger. She bounced impatiently on her toes, giving her knife another twirl.

The targets had three bullseyes, one in the middle, one halfway above, and one halfway below. Each bullseye was worth five marks, and every ring spreading out from the center was one mark less until the outer ring was worth a single mark.

A single, shrill whistle split the air. Reese flinched and realized she hadn't been paying attention as the small arena filled with the sounds of blades slamming into wood.

Inhaling sharply, Reese shifted into the proper stance, lined up the knife with her arm and the target, and wound up.

She exhaled. And threw.

Thud. The knife hit right between the middle and bottom bullseyes. It wasn't where she'd intended, but it wasn't a bad throw, either. Three points possibly, maybe four. The knife was a little heavier than she was used to, she should've asked for a warmup. Whatever, she wasn't here to win.

Adjusting her aim slightly higher, she exhaled and hurled her knife at the middle bullseye.

Thud. This time the knife slammed right into the center of the red dot. On Reese's left, the younger boy cursed under his breath as his second throw accidentally knocked his first one out of the target. The girl on Reese's right also had a bullseye in the higher of the three, though her second throw had gone too wide and landed further off to the left.

Reese considered the remaining bullseyes on her target. If she went for the bottom one, she ran the risk of aiming too low and landing in a lower mark ring. If she aimed for the top one, at least if she missed it still might land closer to the middle.

Top one it was.

Reese closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, remembering Octavian's lessons in the Fells so long ago. "This one's only about ten feet away," he'd said, "so you'll only get one rotation, at least with these knives. Always account for the weight and length of the knife, but don't throw unless you're certain it will incapacitate the threat. Because if it doesn't, or you miss, you'll be left without a weapon."

Check, check, check.

She opened her eyes, pulled back her arm, and threw.

Thud.

The tip hit right on the lower edge of the red dot. Any lower and it would have missed. Reese grinned and whirled around, looking for Luc. She found him immediately, at the edge of what the people who'd set up the contest had determined 'a safe distance' by placing a temporary rope fence. He had found a spot behind her and looked... proud?

Two quick blasts of the whistle caught Reese's attention, and she quickly turned back to the target as one of the judges started walking along the lanes, writing down the scores. Reese took a few deep breaths and realized her heart was racing. She began fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. Why was she so nervous? She didn't care if she won or not. Luc didn't care if she won or not.

The judge was skilled at appearing impassive. He could've given Octavian a run for his money in poker, though Reese knew Octavian didn't play. He reached the lane on Reese's right, noted the girl's score, and moved on to Reese. She couldn't tell the number he wrote down, and she didn't know if that made the anticipation better or worse. 

After he finished jotting down the scores, the judge returned to the table with the other organizers, and the girl on Reese's right turned to her. "Hi," she said quietly, eyeing Reese's jacket. "I'm Evanna."

"I'm Reese," Reese said.

"Are you a Watcher?"

"In training." Reese nodded behind her towards Luc. "He's my mentor."

Evanna's eyes widened. "Wow."

Reese shrugged. "We don't really use throwing knives, I'm surprised I did as well as I did."

"Better than me," Evanna remarked, frowning at the off-center knife on her target. She glanced over at the judges. "Oh, they're ready to announce!"

Reese followed her gaze to find one of the other judges holding a piece of paper and waving for silence. The spectators quieted.

"Third place," she called, "at twelve marks, Simeon Alekson!"

Further down the line, a boy of about fifteen cheered and high-fived the older boys next to him, all grinning ear to ear. Applause rang out from the spectators, Reese and Evanna joining them.

The judge waited a few moments before waving for silence again. "Second place, thirteen marks... Evanna Gwynsdottir!"

Evanna blinked as applause erupted around her, her surprise quickly shifting to excitement. Reese shared her smile, even as her mind raced. Evanna got thirteen, and that was second place. Does that mean...? She glanced back at Luc, who seemed to have come to the same conclusion as silence fell across the crowd once more.

"First place," the judge called, "at fourteen marks... Reese Takari!"

Reese barely had time to register her words before cheers exploded around her, not just from the spectators but the other contestants, who crowded around to congratulate her and high-five her or shake her hand. It was almost too much to keep track of.

And suddenly Luc was there, herding the rest of the teens away. "You okay?" he asked, guiding her towards the judges table. "You were looking a bit overwhelmed."

She nodded. "I definitely did not expect to just win that."

He squeezed her shoulder. "You were certainly selling yourself short."

Reese glanced over at Evanna, who stared at Luc with something akin to awe. "I guess so."

[nekko-astrocat]

Abe moved at a brisk pace as he weaved around the edges of rooms filled with party goers. He made sure to keep the drink in his hand from spilling even though he hadn't touch it in the 10 minutes since it had been handed to him by the hostess of the party. He honestly didn't even remember her name, it was something that started with an S, or maybe a V. He moved on. He'd come to this party with a purpose far foreign from socializing.

He threw a glance acrossed the crowded rooms to check if his date, Jordan, had noticed his absence. Although Abe doubted it since Jordan was three drinks in by the time he had chosen to make his move. From the fumes wafting off the cup of jungle juice in his hand he doubted Jordan would be noticing anything for the rest of the night. Just the smell was making him nauseous and he left the highly caloric cup in an opening on a side table before squeezing his rail thin form between a couch and a couple making out against the wall.

Past the couch and sliding down the hallway between partygoes like a paper flower between the pages of a book he arrived at the end of a year long search. A seemingly dark oak door boasted a paper sign with the words "Do Not Enter" printed on it. Abe entered.

In the dark, unoccupied study, Abe began his search. His phone became a flashlight as he scoured the spines of shelved books.

There near the corner on the lowest shelf, where Abe had to drop to his knees to see clearly, was a maroon book bound in a strange material. The spine was blank, giving it the appearance of a journal. Pulling it out, the cover was blank too, except for a small red stamp in the bottom left corner. It appeared to be a small star with 8 points, the triangles that made up the points each having two small dots in them, and in the center was a swirl made of 3 lines. Abe had found his quarry.

His flashlight became a reading light as he poured over the contents of the journal whilst sitting on the floor. He flipped frantically through pages only half reading one before moving on to the next until he found the ritual he was looking for. He then rose from the ground and crossed the room to the desk.

On his way he saw a flash of light and jumped. He turned his flashlight only to see a small mirror on the wall of the study and within the mirror a reflection of himself. Skinny, not a healthy skinny but not as skinny as he would have liked. Black painted nails with the middle finger painted electric blue. Messy black hair. He knew if you looked closely enough a small line of black eyeliner could be seen under his eyes. Hazel eyes like his sister's. He scowled at the mirror then turned back to the journal, back to his ritual.

He lifted his shirt revealing a thin hidden travel bag underneath and began pulling things from it as he read the instructions from the ritual. Many of the components he had been able to ascertain from his previous findings but only now did he have the full ritual. He began mixing things in an empty ash tray on the desk, grinding them together with the butt of a small pocket knife he had brought with him. A reddish paste emerged and using the edge of his knife Abe began to draw with it upon the mirror.

Symbols to match those depicted in the book. Strange words that felt foreign to his tongue became easier to pronounce as the ritual progressed. What little light there was began to fade from the room. In deep shadow Abe scraped and muttered as the faint ruddy glow of the runes reflected from the lightless depths of his scorned canvas. Then silence.

The light of the runes blurred, twisting themselves into the void upon which they had been painted. Then they reached. They reached from the mirror to the reflected soul who stood before them. Abe reached back.

Tentacles of red mist coiled and tugged. Extending like an umbrella from their canvas they enveloped the seeker embracing him in ruby darkness.

Abe felt from deep within him his soul pulled into a hug that seemed to lull him to sleep. He blinked slowly, lazily. Once, then twice, then again. Then he saw.

Before him, amidst pools of ruby light, was a short but grande staircase that led to the base of a throne that stretched up into the darkness, and sat upon that throne was a pale figure dressed in reds and blues, and blacks, with their sweeping robes flowing to cover their feet and the ground before them, but open enough to reveal their chest though not their gender, and neither did the face framed in silken silver hair reveal itself to be male or female, kind or cruel, angry or compassionate, it simply gazed upon the mortal soul that had trespassed into its domain. It called to Abe.

"Who are you?"

The voice was soft as silk as it flowed around and filled the space like waves of water.

"I am Abe."

"What do you want, Abe?"

"I want to become a vampire."

The figure leaned forward, it's robes swaying as if legs were uncrossed but the skirt continued to shift and twitch as if it held a life of its own. Piercing eyes bore into Abe's as the deep, silken voice flowed through the space once more.

"Why come to me with such a request?"

Abe swallowed, feeling pressure unlike any he had faced in life before. He opened his mouth to recite a speech practiced 100 times, nay 1000 times, but paused. The consequences of all he had done, or rather all he had failed to do in his 26 years of life lay before him. The force of the entity's gaze squoze from his tattered soul the last few drops of honesty. Tears began to fall from his face.

"I want the pain to end. Every day I see my failures. I am hungry and do not feed. I stretch and stretch myself to fit another's frame. I paint myself to hide my scars. Every time I look in the mirror I see my sister in my eyes. Recently they've started to look like her's right before her final breath."

Abe wiped away the tears and met the steely gaze.

"I don't want to die. I don't want to see my scars. I don't want to see her in the mirror, or in my dreams. I want to be a vampire, because vampires don't have reflections. Vampires can't see their scars or flaws, so they can't see the pain behind them. They can forget and move on. Vampires are free from finding beauty in one's self."

The being nodded, and rose. It glided down the stairs it's skirt slithering like tentacles bound together by flowing fabric. The soft voice flowed as It approached Abe.

"Then from your reflection I will set you free. May your time with immortality allow your scars to fade, and your bleeding heart to heal. Although I warn the memories and their lessons never will. I shall give unto you what you seek and with it the gift of a name by which I shall call you by."

A gentle hand caressed Abe's face and found a grip within his hair, the otherworldly being's thumb pressed just before his ear. Then it tugged.

Abe winced expecting piercing teeth and flowing blood but was met with a hug. Gentle but strong arms and a cold chest with no heartbeat. An odd material wrapping itself around him, and clouds of inky darkness enveloping him. Then he felt the bite.

Pain pierced his heart for a moment but he felt no tearing of flesh, as if he had instead been struck in his soul. He gasped and pulled away from his entanglement. Stepping back and opening his eyes, he saw his reflection in the moonlit study mirror.

The pain began to fade as quickly as it came and he yanked at his shirt to reveal his chest in the mirror. Upon his chest, above his heart, was a blood red mark. A symbol, as if an eight pointed star, with each triangle of the star having two dots within it and the center being a swirl made of three lines. He raised a hand to touch the mark, but although he felt his hand make contact with his chest, he could not see the action reflected in that hated looking glass. His eyes widened, or at least he felt them widen, as his reflection revealed nothing to him anymore. The glassy mirror showing only an empty moonlit study.

Abe patted himself down, his body still the same it seemed but now reflectionless. His ritual complete he tucked his knife and journal within his hidden bag. Then slipped like a paper flower back into the crowd, a hitherto unseen, honest smile upon his face.

As the door closed behind him a silken voice flowed through the crack and found his ears, and he heard his name.

"Adelon."

[gangstalkerbarbie]

You're not a god, technically. A god is one of them big ones, the extraterrestrials, see?

You, like everything else in the world, were born here; your beginning is not before time and outside the world. Not a god. You're a daimon. It's a common misconception.

Still, in the space of that misconception there's honest work.

You're not sure the council upstairs (if it's even a council anymore) pays much attention to most of mortalkind, really, otherwise there wouldn't have to be witches to do work scholars are jealous of, but doesn't someone have to?

Sometimes the ones that do enough of it become angels. Sometimes the ones that do something better than anyone else become... well, just what is Silence, actually? Is that still what he goes by? When he was Death All-Devouring he had a few more teeth, you think.

Anyway: when official channels fatfinger a prayer, you have to know, and it's just sort of the case, ethically speaking, that you're to do something about it. Even if only to keep up the illusion that the world-machine works. That's kind of a duty incumbent on all of you immortals, these days. Just until the big boss ... well, the big boss cannot be said to ever be doing or thinking or going to do or think anything, so you're not sure where that was going.

And that's why you're here at this wedding — because a hundred, two hundred years ago they realised the big kahuna might not be listening, deep down, somewhere, and so now you are the wight of the marriage bed. Some say the angel. They're not sure. You're not sure either; you have perhaps a dot more free will than angels tend to, but you find yourself doing a lot of angelic kinda work.

Is the Immanence here, like She's supposed to be? Doctrinally (you are a daimon, you don't really care about doctrine outside the mechanics of your own existence) She doesn't fuck with mixed marriages, but She also conveniently is present every time two men talk about lofty matters, yes, even if they're talking objectively heinous anti-sense about women and children and beasts. So, you know. It's kind of touch and go here. Is mixed marriage more bad than womanhatred? Very important scholars debate the issue even now. Six thousand years of debate have yielded the answer 'yeah idk probably'. You cannot perceive the Immanence. You wouldn't know.

You do, however, know the future, and in the next thousand years, thankfully, they will perfect the shaping arts and learn to make men into women, and maybe they'll all be women then, what the hell. It's an optimistic thought. The other immortals kind of snicker at you and tell you to go look forward at what they do with chymics, self-made new forms of life, in that future, and what they themselves go mad with pain and grief and loneliness and do, for which reason you kind of don't want to.

You might go and listen in on some of those last debates instead, except, again: wedding.

To your profound disappointment, this wedding expects to make you co-in-laws, sort of, with a small unfriendly god, one of the daimons that really believes in it, waves their essence around. This is... about to get really annoying.

You actually don't even dislike Sowulo. Everything you know about them boils down to the fact that they've been experimenting with themself after their mortal followers degendered them — that's the trouble with the overreliant ones, the essence moulds to the understanding of the souls they shepherd and then you end up in no end of annoying circumstances. This would be why personally you've never investigated what gender you're supposed to be. Less for your people to contradict that way. Maybe you predate gender, how's that for a thought exercise? (You don't; you were born in the middle of the Age of Chitin; they don't have to know you're something smaller and duller wearing an old god's pelt.)

And, well, it's just... they're a little weird? OK. They're a lottle weird. You are pretty sure they are, like, super mega ultra weird. The situation is like this: their people, their little guys, they used to be these peaceful cattle nomads. Then the Aeon of Sails and the Great Industrialisation, and the dire circumstances that led them into the ghettos, and so on — and somewhere in that transition, the travelling spirit of the warmth of the sun that was their constant companion came into conflict with the new State doctrine that the stars are unfeeling miasmas of incandescent plasma. (Is that doctrine? That's how you understand most things. You're not sure of the semantics.)

So now: degendered, deprived of influence, a cold light, not a warm one. Invoked, at best, at afterbirth burials, confirmations, weddings, cremations, premarital haircuttings, housewarmings, slaughters, and for the end of winter when it dies under their hand. They're annoying and dangerous and haggard and raw-voiced as a hungry buzzard because they are starving, because they have lost themself, because they don't remember what they used to be and they don't know what they want to be now.

Sometimes a ship launches from the harbour of this city, and you are there because you have one of your people to look after, and they look out at you from shore, forlorn, jealous, abandoned, so hungry. So hungry. Mourning something they half remember, something they are convinced you have. That's why they incite their sophonts to kill yours, maybe. You wouldn't know. You've never asked. You're busy doing your job, keeping those sophonts safe.

They envy you your vitality. They wish they knew what they were. They think you know what you are, and they want you to get off your inconceivably tall high horse.

You're not on a high horse. You just are, and you try to make sure your sophonts can just be, too. But Sowulo doesn't know that.

Sowulo knows that their people are small and broken and scattered, and that each wedding with any other people weakens them — weakens the people and weakens their god.

Sowulo hates you.

And, like, you don't really play favourites, all mortals are the same to you deep down, but you understand that there is a Teensy Weensy little problem, perhaps, with the favourite son of their most warlike clan's Great Chanter running away from home to elope with a witch-midwife from beyond the Pale. Not because she's yours, but that doesn't make it better. Her own huntedness and fear and old pain doesn't do anything for the situation either. Sowulo doesn't understand yet that suffering is a universal condition of settled life.

Your marriage priest, a jolly little roundish woman in veils against the interference of spirits with her work, pounds her cowhide drum and begins her chant. Sowulo's shakes his solar rattle, completely unaware that his god is seething in the rafters of the fane. Are you going to have to save his life, then, before the sun is up? This is going to be a very long, unnecessarily laborious, and probably also very interesting night.

You are a god whose most devout follower is marrying your rival God’s follower. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem except you both are asked to bless the union, and for that both of you must attend.

[szlez]

Against a wall - now with a fanfic!

Dean & Cas

A bit more of Dean's panty!kink here, here, here, here and here 😉

Reblogging, since now the art is accompanied by an amazing fic written by my incredibly talented friend ani_ona 😘

Dean's head was turned away when Castiel pushed the door open. And honestly, even if it wasn't, there hadn't been enough time for him to react. So he did nothing, just lay there on the covers of his bed, one arm casually under his head, the other resting on his stomach. Cas noticed the hand was rising and falling along with Dean's breath. He stared for a while at the wide, strong palm with a little scar on the thumb and always clean and tidy cut nails. No matter what, wendigo in the woods or grave digging all night, Dean always took care of his hands. Cas liked that about him.

If asked, Sam would tell him, that this was part of the job hygiene, learned the hard way, and not without some casualties. But Castiel never thought of asking Sam.

So Castiel was busy watching Dean's fingers, and it took him a while to realize, that he himself was being watched too. Dean's gaze darkened, or maybe it was his face paling a little as he was looking straight into Cas' eyes. Something about his posture changed to less relaxed, fingers on his stomach were rising and falling slightly faster as his breath quickened.

That was when Castiel recalled that damn discussion they'd been having from time to time. The concept of privacy, personal space, and all those things Castiel really didn't get and didn't bother to learn about. He hadn't knocked before walking in, so now he briefly closed his eyes and braced himself for yet another slightly annoyed speech. He didn't like being told off. On the other hand, he did enjoy observing Dean in those moments – looking so commanding and in charge, his back straight and voice firm. Castiel imagined him using this tone talking to misbehaving children if he had any. The angel had to make a conscious effort to suppress a smile. It wouldn't be appropriate in the current situation.

But this time Dean didn't say anything about privacy. In fact, he didn't say anything at all, still looking at Cas with anxious eyes as if expecting a blow. That was strange and unpleasant. Why would Dean think that Castiel might do anything like that to him? The angel frowned and took in a view of his lover in the dim light of his bedroom one more time. Lying on his back, not wearing much clothing except for his favorite old t-shirt and… And… Oh. That was something new.

At first, Castiel thought that the lingerie was simply too small for Dean. He needed a second to realize his mistake: it didn't look like anything he encountered in any male underwear drawer. They were pink panties, for ladies, with a little bow in the middle. That was interesting. Involuntarily, Castiel moved slightly forward to look closer at the shape the undergarment took on Dean's body.

Audibly shaky breath made him pause. Dean was still looking at him, frozen, his gaze intense and somehow… scared. Castiel connected the dots. It was something about this underwear that made Dean so guarded. But why? He searched through information concerning human culture he had gathered over the years.

Humans were extremely sensitive when it came to their gender. Mistaking someone's sex for another was almost always offending and embarrassing. So maybe this was it. Castiel sighed. He would never understand what the fuss was all about. Male, female, something else, who cares? Plus, he clearly remembered wearing a female vessel some years before, and it was… nice. Soft and delicate in some parts and firm and powerful in others… Such a potential, though looking so fragile and light.

If this was what bothered Dean, Cas had to tell him… But Dean spoke first.

“I hope you don't mind…”, he started but trailed off.

Cas was still studying the panties, which seemed to fill out in the meantime… Finally, his vessel's hormonal system helped. After several moments of awkward silence, he realized that his breathing quickened as well, and it was uncomfortable wearing so many layers… Suddenly, without thinking about it, he knew what to do and what to say.

“Not at all.” He smiled and slowly licked his lips before adding, “Would you accept a little help with…” He cut himself off, pointing to the object of interest.

Dean looked down at himself, then back up at Castiel and smiled. It was a genuine, slightly mischievous grin that was so rare on his face that Cas caught himself staring again. It made Dean look younger and less tired, and Cas swore to himself that he was going to bring it on Dean's lips as often as possible.

Before Castiel was done thinking, Dean was up, closing the distance between them. He put his hands on Cas' shoulders and helped him shrug off his trench coat and jacket. Then he proceeded to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt. Cas smelled Dean’s hair and put one finger under his chin to make him look up. Once their eyes met, the angel closed his lips around Dean's mouth and slid both hands down his back to finally grab his buttocks and feel the panties that proved to be silky in touch. Slow circular movements resulted in Dean gasping into Castiel's mouth and pressing himself closer to his, now naked, chest. The angel hummed low and broke the kiss. Dean took in a gulp of air, and the sound of him exhaling against his ear sent shivers down Castiel's spine. Sliding his hands back up, under Dean's t-shirt, the angel felt firm muscles and well-formed shoulder blades. He traced their shape with his fingertips, and it was Dean's turn to tremble. When the t-shirt joined the shirt, tie, and jacket on the floor, Castiel made an attempt to remove the rest of his clothing. He had some difficulties with his belt, too distracted to remember how the damn thing worked. Then he felt Dean's fingers on his hands, and for a moment he forgot about breathing, hearing only the rush of his blood and seeing dark dots before his eyes.

When he recovered somewhat, he felt fabric sliding down his thighs and a carnal sense of freedom. Dean hummed approvingly and murmured into his ear, following the pattern Castiel set:

“I will be happy to help you as well.”

Hearing a playful smirk in his voice, Cas pushed Dean onto the nearest wall and busied himself kissing every inch of his neck, feeling the heat of a human body and those manicured fingernails scratching his back.

After a while, Dean opened his eyes and cupped Castiel's face in both hands. His kiss was firm and steady. As was his body when he turned around nimbly in Castiel's arms, pressing his back against the angel's chest and resting his cheek on the wall. He glanced at Cas over his arm, waiting. Castiel sobered immediately.

“Dean… you sure…?”

“Sure.” Came the firm answer promptly. “Would you…”

And Castiel did.

[schrijverr]

Robin's Friend Steve

When Robin comes back from summer break in ‘85, she keeps talking about her friend Steve. At first Casey doesn’t believe her, however, over time she observes the strange duo, who are attached at the hip.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: some of the girls are mean, like behind Robin's back

~~~~~~~~~

Casey has never been friends with Robin, no one really has. She’s too loud and talks too much and is just weird overall. There’s nothing wrong with her per se, she just doesn’t fit in. There is something different about her.

However the two have been in band together since middle school and are friendly in the halls. And sometimes she even sits with Casey’s group during lunch.

Robin is nice, everyone gets along with Robin, she just doesn’t tend to stick.

Honestly, Casey feels kind of bad for her, but she is awkward during sleep over games and can never gossip along, preferring to talk about her book than the cute boys in their school.

That is all to say that it is very weird when Robin joins them again for lunch, first day back senior year, and seems different in an unknown way. None of them can place a finger on it. It’s Jessica, who opens her mouth first asking: “Did you have a good summer, Robin?”

“Yeah,” Robin grins, oblivious to the stares send her ways. “I spend most of it with Steve, worked as an ice cream scooper together. It was fun, besides the whole mall burning down thing. He’s my schmuck, my dingus, you know. We watch movies together. He dropped me off at school this morning.”

“Steve?” Jessica asks, obviously as intrigued as Casey about this boy, the first one Robin has ever mentioned.

“He’s a bit of a goof, but he makes up for it,” Robin informs them happily and obliviously. “He doesn’t go here anymore, though.”

That makes a lot more sense to Casey, a stab of pitying sympathy going through her, Robin has made up a friend – a boyfriend maybe even – to fit in. There are a lot of boys named Steve who graduate each year, so it’s vague enough. It’s honestly a miracle she didn’t say he went to a different school and she met him on holiday.

More people seem to connect the same dots Casey has, because they smile at her awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Luckily Amy changes the topic, before it can get too awkward. She says: “You worked at the mall? Were you there when it burned down?”

It’s definitely more interesting than Robin’s made up friend, so they all lean in curiously. Everyone has heard of the tragedy, the rumors still churning the mills endlessly even if it has been almost two months ago. To hear a first hand account would make them a big player in the talks about it.

However, Robin stills, hunching into herself, before she swallows her bite. All the goofy playfulness is gone from her face and she nods: “Yeah, I was there.”

“What was it like?” Casey finds herself asking, practically holding her breath with the excitement at the admission.

“A lot more yelling than you’d expect,” Robin says tersely. “It was horrible.” At that she looks up, her face look a little haunted, making all of them wince back, unable to meet those eyes.

Robin takes a deep breath, then gets up and goes to sit at another a table. It houses the people who run the Hawkins High newspaper, but Robin doesn’t interact with any of them, except giving a small nod to Nancy Wheeler, before focusing on her meal.

The message is received by those in the band: Robin does not want to talk about the mall fire. She will actively walk away if you ask, as if it had been terrible, which does nothing to quell the rumors it brings with it.

Another weird facet to Robin Buckley.

Still, the first part of the conversation would likely have been forgotten due to the weirdness of the second part, were it not for the fact that Robin keeps mentioning her new friend, Steve. She brings him up whenever she can and it’s like they’ve moved in together with how much she knows about him and talks with and about him. If he’s even real that is.

Casey honestly doesn’t believe he is for a while. No one talks this much to one person. It’s weird to never spend time with anyone else. Even Jessica, who is now dating Micheal spends more time with other people.

“She makes up everything he says to fit in,” Jessica rolls her eyes when Casey expresses this. “She wants to have someone to mention like we do, but she doesn’t. She can know all those things about him, because she is the one coming up with it.”

“That’s kind of sad,” Amy comments. “I would rather just be alone than do such a thing.”

“I mean, I guess,” Casey says, she thought that too at first, but- “It’s just- She’s so consistent, you know? It always matches up.”

“God, do you think she has a notebook?” Amy giggles, Jessica joins in and that is the end of that conversation.

However, next band practice it happens again. They’re discussing The Breakfast Club and Robin interjects: “I liked Allison the best, but Steve liked Bender the best, which doesn’t even make sense, because he’s such a jock,” she wrinkles her nose. “I thought he would find solace in Andrew. He did, but he likes Bender better.”

And Casey can’t help, but think it’s weird Robin made up a person with such different hobbies to hers. She would think Robin would claim to have found someone like her, but instead she never seems to agree with his movie opinions or jocky-ness.

“What sports does Steve play?” Casey asks Robin, which gets her a few looks and some giggles, they probably think she is about to call Robin out on her made up friend, but she is genuinely curious what sort of person might befriend Robin.

“Well, he doesn’t do sport anymore, he graduated,” Robin starts. “But I think he still goes running, which is like insane. What kind of person even likes running? You get all sweaty. But I think he was on, like, every sports team before. He loves sports. He tries to explain, but I can never get it, you know? I only know basketball and swimming for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was more, the jock.” She fake shudders with a grin.

“Of course,” Casey smiles, the gesture feeling awkward and fake, though Robin doesn’t seem to notice. A guy who did every sport, yeah, right.

“Truly, it’s horrible,” Robin continues on, oblivious. “He tells me the scores of the game each morning. I guess it’s fair, because he watches my art house movies. He claims that they are at least, most of them are just classics and he’s uncultured. I mean, I love him to bits, but who hasn’t seen Citizen Kane?”

Casey herself hasn’t seen Citizen Kane either and wants to avoid getting a detailed explanation about it, so she cuts Robin off. She asks: “Why are you friends with this Steve if you have nothing in common?”

Robin pauses and looks at her like she is the crazy one, as if she suddenly has two heads. She answers: “Because he’s great,” like that is obvious information.

“Oh my god,” Jessica exclaims gleefully, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Robin, do you like Steve?”

If she’s honest, Robin kind of looks like she has never considered the possibility, however before Casey can be sure, the look is gone, replaced by a blush. “I- I mean, he is attractive,” she stutters and Casey can barely believe it.

Some rumors are going around about Robin and why she might never talk about a boy, but here she is, blushing about a boy.

It doesn’t occur to Casey that Robin might be embarrassed by the question, flushing under the sudden attention. She doesn’t think that Robin is stuttering, because she has to find an answer to protect herself, mentally bracing herself for the minefield she found herself in without warning.

“Tell me more,” Jessica demands.

“His, uhm- His hair is floppy and nice,” Robin starts, everyone oblivious that she is thinking off what all the girls said when Steve was in the back room when they worked at Scoops Ahoy. “And he’s nice.”

Casey almost can’t believe her ears as she pounces on the topic with Amy and Jessica, sadly interrupted by the teacher, who cuts the conversation short, before they can truly get into it. Robin slinking away.

After that, she avoids them, however the curiosity of Casey and the others has been sparked and they discuss it later.

“This makes so much sense,” Jessica exclaims. “She didn’t make him up, but she isn’t friends with this guy! She just imagines she is, because she likes him.”

“Which Steve do you think it is?” Casey wonders, able to picture what Jessica is sketching, feeling bad for Robin.

“Oh my god, do you think it’s Steve Harrington,” Amy exclaims. “I think my sister said he works at Family Video now, doesn’t Robin work there too?”

“He totally does,” Jessica agrees, looking like someone gave her a goldmine. “I can’t believe Buckley has a crush on king Steve.”

“She did seem obsessed with him, remember, when they shared Mrs. Click’s class,” Casey brings up, having also been in that class.

“Exactly,” Jessica agrees, excitedly.

“That’s so sad,” Amy says, not sounding like she pities Robin much. “That she makes up that he is friends with her.”

Casey feels a little uncomfortable at the comment, it sounds a bit too mean. Especially when Jessica adds: “Yeah, at that point go all in and say you’re dating.”

“Maybe she’s friendly with him, if they work together,” Casey says. “She might have exaggerated a bit, but it’s not too out there.”

“Come on, Casey,” Amy rolls her eyes. “She claims he drives her to school every morning. You don’t believe that, do you?”

“I guess not,” Casey says, not wanting to be excluded from their group. She is a band nerd, she knows to be happy with the friends she has, okay.

However, the next morning, before band practice, they all linger outside, instead of waiting inside with the rest. Robin is hardly ever late, so they don’t really worry. They’re just curious why Robin thinks she can keep up the lie when anyone can just check in the morning.

The car that rolls up is quite obviously not Steve Harrington’s. It’s a bit beat up and behind the wheel is an older man with glasses. Robin says goodbye to the man, stumbling out.

As to not look conspicuous, Jessica light a cigarette and waits until Robin is nearby, before she says: “I didn’t know your dad’s name is Steve, Robin.”

Casey cringes at the faux-sweet tone that Robin doesn’t pick up. Her heart plummeting when she replies: “It isn’t, his name is Frank. Truly an old man name in my opinion, like, who names their kid Frank, honestly. Steve was busy,” without seeing the trap.

“Really?” Jessica asks, faking interest. “What was he doing?”

“Oh,” Robin says surprised and shifts her eyes away. She shrugs: “I don’t know, I don’t live in his pocket, you know.”

The whole thing feels like a lie, because it is. Robin knows exactly where Steve is. His parents are home, so he has to play house with them. He hates it and she isn’t about to tell some random people that, there’s a besties code. Plus, she doesn’t want to fake a crush on Steve. Iew.

Of course, Casey doesn’t know this and winces, knowing what sort of rumors will be circulating about Robin by the time lunch period arrives.

“Just thought you would,” Jessica shrugs, like she actually was and stubs the cigarette. “Walk to practice together?”

“Sure,” Robin smiles, seemingly relieved the conversation is over and not seeing the look Amy and Jessica share. Casey keeps her eyes on the ground, not wanting to be in on the look. Robin seems a lot nicer than her own friends.

Indeed, rumors circulate about Robin. About how she’s making up being friends with Steve Harrington, like a sad weirdo.

And Robin remains painfully oblivious. She still talks about Steve daily, brings him up at practice or during lunch. Sometimes however, she falter as she does, glancing around. It makes Casey feel like she does know that she isn’t believed. In those moments, she can’t look Robin in her eyes, guilt eating at her.

It feels a bit like passive aggressive warfare. Robin’s ability to bring Steve into every conversation she has vs. the ability of the other to not snap that she should stop lying. Tensions that are rising and bound to break.

However, before they can, the impossible happens.

It’s an after school practice and Robin is doing that thing she does when she’s anxious when she’s unable to stand still. Casey notes she doesn’t have her trumpet with her.

“Where is your trumpet?” Vickie asks. Casey doesn’t really talk to Vickie, but she seems nice enough and her words stop Robin’s nervous fiddling, which Casey is grateful for. It can be really distracting.

“I, uh- I forgot it,” Robin squeaks.

Vickie frowns for a second, then smiles, putting an arm on her shoulder as she says: “I’m sure there is a spare. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, uhm, thank you,” Robin stutters, now blushing. She must be embarrassed at being called out like that, Casey thinks. Then Robin finds her footing again: “That is really nice, but it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine that I forgot, because I need it, so that sucks. I’m always forgetting stuff when I shouldn’t and it’s annoying, so I know it’s not fine. Sorry, what I’m trying to say, it’s- I called Steve, he’s bringing it over.”

Silence.

Now, it is up to Vickie, whether she will go along with it, or tell Robin that she can’t rely on her imaginary friend to bring her stuff. Casey thinks Vickie will go along with it, never one to believe rumors. However that still leaves everyone in proxy, who heard.

Before anyone can make a decision, a different voice calls out: “Oi, Robbie, come get your flute thingy.”

Robin’s head whips around, big smile on her face, though she complains: “It’s not a flute thingy, dingus, you know that. It’s a trumpet. A glorious instrument that should be honored by all-”

“Yeah, yeah.” She is cut off, at the door stands none other than Steve Harrington. His hair is perfectly coiffed and his muscles bulge under his polo. He waves Robin’s rambling away, but he’s giving her an equally big grin. “If it’s such a glorious instrument, you shouldn’t leave it in my car like you do with all your other shit.”

Casey honestly can’t quite believe it. No one there can. It is actual king Steve, who took time out of his day to bring Robin her trumpet. The trumpet she left in his car. She hasn’t been lying. Robin Buckley is friends with Steve Harrington.

“You love all my shit. Besides, it’s not that bad,” Robin argues, taking the trumpet and pulling Steve into a hug.

“Yes, it is that bad,” Steve protests as he hugs Robin back, head resting on hers. “I don’t even know why you own that many hair ties, you don’t even have hair.”

Offended Robin pulls back and says: “I have hair, you’ve braided it. Just because I’m not like you, Mr. Hair, doesn’t mean you can insult my locks.”

In turn Steve sticks out his tongue and they continue to bicker. The rest of band just watches the duo, unsure of what to think. Ever since that first hug, they haven’t let go of each other, arms looped around waists even as they argue about Robin’s hair tie habits and Steve’s nickpicky-ness surrounding his car.

They look comfortable, so intertwined together, Casey thinks. However, she isn’t reminded of Jessica, who is often disgustingly wrapped up in Micheal, instead she is more reminded of her two baby cousins. Twins. They never leave each other alone. Robin and Steve look like them as they talk.

The duo is cut off by the teacher, who comes in and calls out: “Everyone get ready. Yes, that includes you, Buckley. Say bye to your boyfriend.”

Steve and Robin share a look, before they burst into giggles. Steve plants a kiss on Robin’s forehead, Robin leaves one on his cheek. Then she’s walking back to her spot, though she keeps hold of Steve’s hand until he is too far to keep a hold off. They keep waving until the door is closed and Steve leaves, practice beginning.

After that, different rumors pop up. These spread further than band, being deemed more juicy than a delusional girl.

Because that girl isn’t delusional. She is friends with Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins High, even if he lost that throne to Billy in the end. Steve has befriended someone, who no one would have ever thought. Of course people want to know.

Amy and Jessica enjoy the attention, however, Casey feels uncomfortable. They hadn’t believed Robin and now they were talking about her and what she told them like they always had. Just to be popular.

Casey doesn’t want to be an outcast, she wants to fit in and have an okay high school experience before she can get out of Hawkins and move to college. Amy and Jessica have always been her friends and she doesn’t want to give that up.

However, she finds herself sitting with Vickie during lunch more and more often as her friends parade around the tables with the more popular kids.

Robin has taken to sitting with Nancy during lunch. The friendship stirring more rumors, since Nancy is Steve’s ex and Robin is either Steve’s girlfriend or illicit sibling if you want to believe what people say.

Not only that, but it seems that with the conformation, Casey sees the duo everywhere.

She is out to buy some ice cream, the last of the nice days of the year and there is Steve, Robin hanging off him as a little black girl who’s with them says: “You made a deal, sailor. I want four scoops.”

“You never finish four scoops,” Steve protests. “Plus, all that sugar is horrible for your teeth, your mom will kill me. You can have two. I’m serious, Erica.”

Erica turns to Robin, lifting an eyebrow as she asks: “Do you know something about honoring of contracts or do you need me to pull out the constitution?”

“I don’t know, do you want me to explain to him that contracts with minors aren’t upheld by most courts?” Robin counters. “Just let him pay for the two.”

“Fine,” Erica says after a moment, throwing up her hands.

“Thanks, Rob,” Steve tells her, nuzzling his face into her neck.

“Course, dingus,” Robin smiles back, ruffling his hair, a thing that seems illegal to Casey. Though the whole interaction in front of her already seems like something from another dimension.

Casey also spots Robin getting out of the very recognizable car that Steve owns at the drop off each morning. Sometimes they’re joined by a Freshman, but often it is just the two of them. Whenever she goes, she gives Steve this big hug that he returns, the two of them clinging to each other as if they’re afraid to let go.

And every time Casey sees them, they look happy. They have lively conversations, hold hands, give each other big grins.

At some point Casey sees them walk on a cold day. Robin is inside Steve’s coat, the two of them sharing it as they awkwardly hobble along. She hears Robin loudly say: “This sucks. It’s almost as cold as that bunker.”

“That wasn’t this bad, you just don’t know how to dress for the weather,” Steve protests.

“I do, the weatherman just lied to me,” Robin pouts. Whatever Steve replies to that is lost as the distance between the duo and Casey grows bigger.

If Casey is honest, she is quite jealous of the easy friendship the two seem to share. Amy and Jessica always make Casey feel like there are wrong answers or if she can do the wrong thing and be dropped. Steve and Robin seem to just like each other, even if they disagree on things. Though, Casey suspects they just like debating over random things.

She wonders what it is like to have a friend like that, but she doesn’t dare approach Robin. A part of her still wants to get out of high school semi-normally and befriending Robin is counterproductive in that. So, she just watches from the sidelines.

They go together to homecoming, both in suits and dancing like idiots. Neither of them seem to care about the stares, wrapped up in their own worlds.

Robin briefly shows up to a Halloween party, has one drink, then disappears into a toilet. Steve later shows up, uninvited and picks her up. She looks shaken and clings to him as he soothes her. Casey wonders what happened, but doesn’t dare to ask. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have been told about a bunker under the ground and cold needles.

Over winter break, they’re everywhere together as well, even if they’re not working. Casey is reminded of what she thought when Robin was lying, about how they must have moved in together with how much she seems to know about him. Looking at them sharing a scarf that doesn’t seem so far fetched.

Of course after winter break, school truly takes off. They’re all drowning in acceptance essays, mock exams and stress. No one is immune.

Casey looses sight of Robin and Steve, the odd duo not important enough for her as she tries to get into a good college with her grades.

Amy and Jessica barely hang out with her anymore. She stopped seeking them out a while ago and they haven’t cared to reach out to her again. It’s a bit lonely, she’ll admit, but she can use the time to study and do volunteer work that’ll look good on her college applications. Besides, she has been feeling better about herself without her old friends.

1986 is shaping up to be a pretty good year with the Hawkin’s Tigers going to the championships for the first time in years. This obviously means that band is there as well for the prep rally. Casey isn’t in the same section as Robin, but she’s close enough.

She isn’t sure if she should be surprised that Steve is also there and the two manage to make jokes through the National Anthem. However, she can’t help but note that Steve keeps ignoring his date to make faces at Robin. How he seems to have changed from when he was in school.

They have become part of her scenery over the past half year, she realizes. The duo has been popping up everywhere and she quite likes observing their weirdly close antics. When asked if they were dating, Robin denied it and she looked genuine. Casey believes her, unable to shake the twins from her mind when she looks at them.

A part of her wonders what made the two so close after the summer, when before then they had seemingly never interacted. Another part of her is resigned to it remaining a mystery, the odd duo continuing to be odd to the end.

However, they are blasted out of her mind when the news of Chrissy’s death hits the news. The whole town is on edge, looking for the unfamiliar. If Casey would have thought about Steve and Robin, she only would have noticed that the two seemed to have disappeared from the streets, likely in hiding as so many other that were afraid.

Casey herself is very afraid. She kind of looks like Chrissy and while the other two targets were boys, she can’t help but fear he has a type. That she’ll be a target.

It is almost funny how quickly worrying about a murderer can be overshadowed by something bigger. Way bigger. Hawkins splitting open kind of bigger.

She is lucky that her house has survived. Still, her parents are taking her a few towns over to where her grandma lives, hoping to let Casey graduate there on time, since Hawkins High now functions as shelter. They’re not yet selling the house, it’s worth less that its mortgage now and both her mother and father hope to return. Both grew up there and both wish to stay.

Right now Casey is delivering some stuff to the shelter, everyone wants to help those less fortunate after the earthquake and her mother has been planning on doing a deep clean anyway. All the clothes Casey has outgrown can be used by someone else.

And it is not until she is on her way to bring the clothes to the folding table that she remembers the duo, because Steve is folding clothes.

The moment she sees him – she knows Robin must be okay too, a stab of guilt for not worrying about her earlier going through her – because there is no way Steve could look like that if Robin had been hurt. Not even if the world got flipped upside down. Those are a package deal.

Indeed as she gets closer, she spots Robin at a table with Vickie, the two of them laughing as they make sandwiches. They look happy despite it all and Casey feels a little bit of jealousy in her bones as she watches.

Casey has never been friends with Robin, but when she sees the people she has befriended, she wishes she had. Robin loves them loudly and wholly and that seems like a nice thing to have, people who care. It’s different than what Casey knows.

She stays a few minutes, sees Vickie say goodbye, before Robin makes big eyes at Steve and runs to him, jumping on his back. Steve catches her like this is routine, swinging her around, before setting her down.

There’s a lot of tragedy in this town, but they have found happiness in the other.

~~

A/N:

I hate all the girls I made up so much!!! It was so hard to write them, bc I keep wanting to fight them ://// (I couldn’t keep writing this and have Casey be too mean, lmao, I had to make her a little bit nicer to not throw this out omg)

Also Robin is at that intersection where she doesn’t notice the indirect digs at her, but she knows that she is being excluded in some way and sometimes she chooses to ignore it, trust me, she’s aware :(

But I hope this came across well enough with the outsiders POV! Steve and Robin are besties, always together and a little odd and I love that for them <3

[thislovintime]

Performing in Houston on October 27, 1979; photo via RockinHouston dot com.

“The Great American Food and Beverage Company is an institution in [Santa Monica, Calif.]. […] A waiter in his ‘30s, older than the others, made his way to the podium, banjo in hand. He seemed strangely familiar in an unusual outfit whose suspenders gave him a whimsical air. He was very thin, with an angular, almost bony face and straight, mid-ear length dirty blond hair that was parted in the middle. That was all fine. But he also had a mustache and bags under his eyes that somehow didn’t seem quite right. […] Then came the memory of who he was. His name was Peter Tork, and more than a decade ago he was one of the four Monkees […]. And now Tork was a singing waiter. I assumed that few would recognize him — and that he’d probably rather not be recognized. So I decided to respect his privacy. But then, on the way out, he overheard me mention to someone that I was a writer visiting California to do some celebrity interviews, and he said to me, just a trace of bitterness in his voice, ‘Hey, how’d you like to do a story on a former great?’ Peter Tork now lives with his wife and two small children in Venice, Calif., […]. His home is a ramshackle duplex with badly chipped white paint on the outside and a gate that’s locked by a clothes hanger. Inside, the apartment has second-hand furniture with wobbly legs and sports bare wood floors of the kind it’s not fashionable to leave uncovered. An old sheepdog with a very doggy smell lies under an even older piano. In 1965, Peter Tork was washing dishes in Huntingon Beach, Calif., for $50 a week when he was recommend for the Monkees by a musician friend named Stephen Stills […|. ‘In those days we were both folksingers, and we were known as the two cats who looked alike,’ Tork said. ‘He turned me on to the situation.’ […] Today Peter Tork is 36. In his three years as a Monkee, he guesses he made a million dollars. Except for a trust he can’t touch until 1985, it’s all gone. ‘It just poured through,’ he recalled, without being at all maudlin. ‘It was like a tidal wave after a drought. The amount was so grotesque that I didn’t know what to do with it. I spent hundred-dollar bills like quarters.’ He calls himself a socialist now and says he’d be ‘philosophically and religiously prone to give that kind of money away anyway. But I dribbled it away.’ And that bothers him. ‘
I lived in Studio City in a big house that cost too much. I didn’t know how good I had it. I had no basis of comparison. I never got competent professional advice (from his producers, on how to invest his money). I’m bitter about that. They didn’t know how to handle a flash rather than someone who’d clawed his way to the top. Now I’ve been on the fringes. Now I know what it’s like to claw.’ Among other things, the fringes found him busted for alleged dope dealing. ‘It was ‘72. I was caught coming across the border from Mexico with some hash in my pocket,’ he said. ‘For a while, they thought they’d get me for a big smuggling rap. I ended up spending just three-and-a-half months in custody. I recommend it to all my good friends.’ After that experience, he worked for three years as a teacher. Then the school closed in the midst of a strange embezzlement scandal. So Tork decided to take another stab at show business. He has reactivated some old contacts and recently tried out at Paramount for comedy spots on ‘Happy Days,’ ‘Laverne and Shirley’ and ‘Mork and Mindy.’ ‘
I’m trying comedy because I know I’m glib, and I know I’m good at it,’ he said. ‘And I’m taking acting lessons. I’ll be glib one day in drama too. ‘Maybe first I can get a walk-on, then some solid comedic roles, then maybe in time a feature role in another series, then films, then maybe I can make enough to finance my music, which is really what I want to do,’ he said, the bounds of his quite sincere fantasy mushrooming in a minute. […] In the meantime, while he waits for a casting call, his show-business career still consists of The Great American Food and Beverage Company, where he has worked since last summer. ‘It’s something to do with my hands while I’m waiting,’ he said. ‘It’s a place where you’re allowed to sing, and everybody uses it to keep their chin up while waiting for their big break — like “The Gong Show” or something.’ A touch of bitterness there, again. ‘It’s just that the people don’t shut up (at the restaurant). I wish they would. You basically have to drown them out. But… it is a chance.’ With that, Peter Tork picked himself up to go to work. It was his turn to wash dishes.” - article by Steve Sonsky, The Miami Herald, February 18, 1979

“Well, what I thought was great was that [Peter] always seemed to be humble and very, very gracious in his actions and his attitude. He always treated everybody with respect. He stayed low-key until we would kick up with a group number and then he would join in. […] Everybody else has been joking about how he wasn’t Pete, he was Peter. You can tell a lot about a person when they do whatever they need to do for their family. And the only thing else that I would add is that the fact that he stayed so humble and so gracious after a lot of us had grown up with him as an icon means a lot.” - D J Barker, Tales of the Road Warriors, 2019 (x)

“I worked with Peter in the mid seventies. A kinder, gentler, gracious and giving human being you could never find. His sense of humor and positivity was a gift to all of those lucky enough to be around him. He loved his life, (in spite of it sometimes!)[.]” - D J Barker, Facebook, February 13, 2023 (x)

“There was a period where I was broke. And I called home, I said, ‘Send money.’ ‘No, sorry, kiddo, you’re on your own.’ So there was a restaurant, a two-restaurant chain, there were two restaurants — a short chain, a very small chain, two links — in L.A. called The Great American Food and Beverage Company. And the trick to this establishment was that you had to be a musician, you had to audition to work at this restaurant. And I really, really, really, really, really didn’t want to work there, but I really, really, really needed the money. Anyway, so I’m standing in the kitchen, it’s my first day, and I’m dressed in this ridiculous outfit, and a bunch of us are lined up. And the coked up manager was marching up and down in front of us like a drill sergeant. And as we’re standing there listening to this madman, the kitchen door swings open, and who should walk in but none other than Peter Tork from The Monkees. And I watch Peter Tork walk by me, take a time card and punch in the time clock and get in line right next to me. And my mouth dropped open. And it became evident at that point that he was working as a waiter at the restaurant. And this is Peter Tork from the fucking Monkees. This man was, you know, as big, if not bigger, than The Beatles in the U.S. at one point in his career. And I watched my whole life pass before my eyes.” - Matthew Wilder, Speaking of Music with Jason Faber

More about Peter's time at the Great American Food and Beverage Company in a second post.