#fortunately (for me) i still have a mouse and patience and too much time on my hands

[saint-bestial]

happy pride from the dark signers

[blitzturtles]

Title: It Goes Like This (It Starts Like This Universe)

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): BruAbba

Summary: Abbacchio isn’t a morning person. Never has been. He prefers the comfort that comes with a blanket of darkness to the bright hours of the early morning. There’s less eyes. Less people. Less performance. Unfortunately, he’s gone and fallen in love with a man that believes that the day begins before the sun has even broken the horizon.

Notes: This is for the first place to my 300 Follower Giveaway! @bucciaratisfishmarket requested BruAbba set in my It Starts Like This verse with some disabled slice of life/morning routine. Ngl, I was super excited to get to do something in this verse, so thank you!

Thank you to everyone that followed and participated, and a special thanks to @bucciaratisfishmarket! I hope you like your fic!

Additional Notes: Also, the pill organizer described in the fic can be found on Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/listing/1022344896/boneyard-real-bones-weekly-7-day-pill It's cool and beautiful, and I probably don't do it justice. Definitely go check it out!

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Abbacchio isn’t a morning person. Never has been. He prefers the comfort that comes with a blanket of darkness to the bright hours of the early morning. There’s less eyes. Less people. Less performance. Unfortunately, he’s gone and fallen in love with a man that believes that the day begins before the sun has even broken the horizon. It’s leftover from Bruno’s days helping his father with the boat, and, later, his days running Polpo’s errands. Chasing people down for money and answers. What comfort Abbacchio can find in the night, Bruno can find just fine in the light hours of the morning.

Fortunately for both of them, Abbacchio is more than capable of running on a schedule, of waking up at the same time everyday and forcing his mind and body into cooperation. He did it for years for school and then the academy. It’s nothing he isn’t used to, and he’s happiest when Bruno is happy, no matter what that entails, which is how he finds himself waking up to Bruno’s second alarm before the man can snooze it again.

The thing about Bruno’s new medication—a pill large in size and equally ridiculous in the length of its name—is that it makes it damn near impossible for him to get going in the morning the way he used to. Before, Bruno practically operated on his own internal clock. Waking up before his alarm had even gone off and fetching them both their first cup of caffeine; it used to be the thing that made greeting the day a bit more tolerable.

Now, Bruno snoozes. Alarm after alarm, until they run out. He’s tried music, absurd volumes, and even relocating the damned clock halfway across the room. None of it helps, so Leone compensates. He wakes up around the second or third alarm, turns the rest off, and kisses Bruno’s cheek before he rolls out of bed.

Sometimes there’s a quiet plea, “five more minutes”, that endears Abbacchio so completely that his mood settles, not nearly as bitchy as he could be upon reaching the kitchen and finding someone else already there.

“Why are you awake?” Okay, so. Still bitchy. But he doesn’t sneer his words quite as bad.

Narancia, for his part, looks completely startled by the prospect of someone else existing at such an ungodly hour, but he manages to avoid outright screaming. That’s a plus. Abbacchio isn’t sure his head could take it this early. “What are you doing?”

“I asked first.”

Narancia narrows his eyes, but he caves within seconds. “I got a test in like two hours, and Fugo’s gonna kill me if I don’t pass.”

Abbacchio snorts at the idea, “Yeah, he will.”

“Not helping!”

“Never said I planned to,” Abbacchio points out as he starts rummaging through the cabinets for two mugs. He sets them on the counter and gets to work brewing their coffee. Decaf these days, for Bruno’s sake. Abbacchio could keep drinking his usual, but he takes solace in the bitter taste of his coffee instead. It seems kinder that way, especially when he knows how much Bruno’s been struggling without caffeine.

“Why are you awake?”

“I’m always awake this early,” next is breakfast, which is easier said than done. It’s rare that Abbacchio wakes up with a stomach for anything. Too many years of skipping breakfast in favor of a bottle did a number on him, but it’s not optional anymore. Neither one of them will be able to keep their meds down without something to eat, so he picks through the refrigerator until he comes up with fruit and yogurt as his best solution.

“Really?” Narancia asks, wrinkling his nose, “Why?”

“Ask Bruno,” Abbacchio says, dismissive. He’s really not in the mood to talk to people that aren’t currently snoozing in his bed.

“You’re not much fun in the morning.”

“Am I ever?”

“Touché.”

Abbacchio snorts. He should be offended, but he knows the kid is being a smartass. It’s his own fault for setting himself up. “Why don’t you go bother Fugo? I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you study.”

“Have you ever tried waking Fugo up?”

“No, can’t say that I have.” That’s always been Bruno’s job, assuming that Fugo hadn’t already woken up on his own.

“It’s too early to get stabbed.”

“Touché.”

They go back and forth for a while longer. At least until Abbacchio’s patience runs out, and he’s finished putting breakfast together. He dismisses himself with little warning and doesn’t feel the least bit guilty when the kid looks a little startled by the abruptness of his departure. He has things to get done for the day, and those things don’t necessarily include being part of Narancia’s obvious effort to procrastinate.

“Bruno,” Abbacchio calls when he steps back into their room after Moody opens the door for him. “Your five minutes are up.”

“Five more?” Bruno asks, voice muffled. His head is barely visible with only a tuft of hair sticking out from a pile of blankets. It’s cute, and Abbacchio is a complete sucker for giving in.

“Last one, tesoro,” Abbacchio warns as he sets Bruno’s cup and food down on the bedside table.

There’s a muffled reply that might be a quiet thanks, though it’s almost impossible to tell with the way Bruno pulls the blankets even tighter around himself.

Abbacchio rummages through the drawer of his nightstand until he finds what he’s looking for before taking up a spot at the end of the bed with his food and drink in hand. He sips at the decaf slowly, wrinkling his nose at the first taste. God, he misses caffeine. As expected, he doesn’t feel much better about his first bite of homemade parfait (and he can almost hear Polnareff’s protest at his calling it that). The rest goes down about the same, but the motion is mechanical at that point. One bite after the other with the occasional sip from his mug to wash it all down until everything is gone.

Abbacchio sets the dishes on the floor and reaches for the pill organizer sitting on the bed beside him. He absently runs his fingers over the lid, where small bones have been set in resin. He can still remember the first time he saw it. The black shine had caught his eye first, but, on closer examination, the thing that had convinced him to buy the organizer had been the mouse bones, delicately placed and striking against the background.

What he hadn’t realized then is that the little organizer would a significant adjustment to his daily routine. Having a week’s worth of medication in one place, already sectioned in dosed amounts, had significantly increased his medication compliance. Oddly enough, it’s had a rather hefty impact on his overall mental health. Now, when anti-inflammatories and bronchodilators and steroids are part of his daily regiment as much as his SSRI’s, it’s even more vital for him to consistently get his meds in. Otherwise, the consequences tend to be pneumonia and an unwanted hospital trip with a round of antibiotics and even stronger steroids. And that’s to say nothing of what happens when he’s running low on serotonin.

He’s caught up in his own thoughts when Bruno hooks his chin over his shoulder and peers down at the little organizer.

“I never did ask you if those are real,” Bruno muses quietly.

“I thought you were taking five more.”

“‘m awake,” Bruno answers, clearly half-asleep.

Abbacchio huffs a soft, amused laugh. He turns his head to press a kiss to the side of Bruno’s nose. “Sure you are, amore.”

“I am.”

“M’hm,” Abbacchio smiles, reflecting the expression on Bruno’s face, though his is notably less sleep-depressed. Bruno looks a lot like a light gust of wind might knock him out, and it’s so damn endearing that Abbacchio can barely handle it. Instead, he looks back down at the pill organizer and answers Bruno’s earlier question, “They are. Real, I mean.”

“They’re lovely,” Bruno says, and he means it. Odd as some might find Abbacchio’s taste, Bruno has always found beauty in it. “Perhaps I should get one.”

“Might be a good idea.” It would be easier to see if Bruno ever missed a dose, and it would certainly be easier to avoid that disaster all together. “There are other options. You could go with something—oceanic, maybe?”

Bruno hums at the thought. “I think I’d like that.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” by which Abbacchio means that he’ll actively go looking for one. Anything to make Bruno’s life a touch easier.

“Oh, you brought breakfast,” Bruno says, moving away from Abbacchio to peer curiously at the morning’s offerings. “You’re entirely too kind.”

Abbacchio huffs a laugh at that, “For all that you’ve done for us? Hardly.” He pops open the side hatch of his organizer and dumps the day’s pills into his hand. Abbacchio pulls a face at the number of them and looks down at his mug. Right, he had meant to save a sip.

“Here,” Bruno offers his own with a smile. “We’ll get more in a bit.”

“If you’re sure...” Abbacchio could always go get his own, but he has a feeling that doing so will result in more small talk, and he’s not quite up for that yet.

“I am,” Bruno reassures him before taking up the bowl of yogurt and fruit in absence of his coffee. “Just leave enough for me to take mine.”

[prettyinlimegreenboots]

"I could kiss you right now." "Then what's taking so long?"

Mentions of drinking and cussing in this one. Also there’s a book and book passage mentioned in here - I don’t own either.

He sighed, laying his head back on the couch, thrilled with the silence around him. It had been a long day at work and he was glad it was over with.

Hearing the door close, a grin slid on his face, waiting for his favorite person to appear. “Honey I’m home and I picked up dinner.”

“You’re amazing!” Race pushed himself up from the couch, heading towards the kitchen. "I could kiss you right now.”

“Then what's taking so long?" Spot raised an eyebrow, dropping bags into the counter before looking at his husband. “Still waiting ….”

Rolling his eyes, Race pulled Spot into his embrace before placing a deep kiss on his lips. “I’m sorry I made you wait.” Kissing him again, Race sighed. “How was your day?”

Spot pulled away and started pulling out Chinese takeout boxes. Race sighed happily at the scents around him. “Let’s just say I’m glad I never have to repeat today. High schoolers are little shits.”

“I’m sorry. Middle schoolers aren’t much better.” Race grabbed plates, handing one to Spot. “I had to break up three different cat fights today. I even got injured.”

Inspecting the scratches on his arm, Spot quickly kissed them before adding food to his plate. “I’m sorry. At least I didn’t have to do that. But I did have to deal with sass …. so much sassiness today.”

Putting his plate on the dining room table, Race headed to the fridge to grab a beer, holding one up for Spot who nodded.

The two were quiet as the food was inhaled. A game of footsie broke out under the table as silence enveloped the two. Sitting back in his chair, Race sighed happily, taking a sip of his drink. “Thanks for picking up dinner. I was trying to figure out what to make.”

“I figured that out by the text you sent earlier.” Spot smiled, lacing his fingers with Race’s. “Chinese just sounded good and I figured you wouldn’t object.”

Shaking his head, Race stood. “I never say no to Chinese. Fortune cookies now or later?”

“Now. Are you gonna have another beer?” Spot asked, watching Race grab their plates, putting them in the sink before putting all the food in the fridge.

He grabbed two beers and the four fortune cookies before sitting back at the table. Motioning to Spot to grab his two, Race grabbed the remaining cookies before tearing it open. He snorted reading his fortune before chuckling.

Spot raised an eyebrow at him as Race cleared his throat. “A dubious friend may be an enemy in camouflage. Are you a dubious friend, Spottie?”

“Do I look like I could be dubious, Racetrack? That sounds more like Blink or Mush than me.” Spot shook his head, laughing at his fortune. “The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.”

Race nodded, opening his second one. “That’s true. Good one. Patience is your ally at the moment. Don’t worry!”

“You’re constantly worrying so that doesn’t work for you.” Spot smirked, opening his last one. “A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not why ships are built.”

Race finished his cookie with a nod. “That fortune is actually a good one.”

“Glad you approve.” Spot smirked, picking up his beer bottle and moving into the living room, plopping down on the couch with a sigh.

Race followed him, laying on the couch with his head in Spot’s lap. “Love you Spottie.”

“Love you too Racetrack.” They both sighed enjoying the quiet evening and each other’s company. Running his hand through Race’s hair, he smiled. “Was it just the cat fights today or was there more?”

“Uhhh …. I had my observations and a couple of kids thought it was the perfect time to start complaining and pitching fits.” Race rolled his eyes. “I swear these kids are angels until someone other than me is in the class then they’re all heathens. Some days I think of moving up to high school with you.”

Spot’s eyes widened. “Really? That’ll be amazing if you really want to do that.”

“I mean I already teach 8th graders so would 9th or 10th graders be that much of a stretch?” Race murmured, looking up at Spot. “Or am I just destined to be an 8th grade teacher all my life?”

Leaning down, Spot kissed him. “You’ve got to decide if you can handle teaching just one or two subjects instead of 7 you’re teaching now - I think that’s the main difference.”

Race hummed, enjoying the sensation of Spot’s fingers raking through his hair. “If you’re gonna fall asleep, go to bed. I’m not carrying you again - nearly threw my back out last time I did that.”

Popping open an eye, Race stuck his tongue out at Spot who chuckled. “Come on, let’s go lay in bed. You doze and I’ll read.”

Spot pulled Race off the couch before walking into their bedroom. He changed into PJ Pants and a shirt, flopping into bed before getting comfortable. He grabbed his book and opened it, just as Race came into the room. “Don’t worry, I took care of the beer bottles and turned off all of the lights.”

“Thanks snookums.” Spot blew him a kiss with a grin. He grabbed his glasses from the side table, sliding them on before starting to read.

He didn’t pay Race any attention as he got ready for bed until he flopped into bed, groaning. “You missed it.”

Looking up from his book, Spot cocked an eyebrow in question. “What?”

“I did a strip tease and you didn’t even notice.” Race shook his head and made a noise. “Too enthralled in whatever you’re reading …. what are you reading?”

Showing him the cover of his book, Race snorted before laughing. “You missed my strip tease because you’re reading “Code Name Verity”? What the hell kind of book is that?”

“Don’t mock this book. It’s brilliant.” Spot gave him a look. “Besides I’m doing a discussion on it tomorrow in my history glass and I’ve got to make sure I am on point.”

Race laid down on his pillow and looked at him. “Read to me.”

Clearing his throat, Spot smiled, before starting to read. “But she is a prisoner. They caught her almost immediately. She looked the wrong way before crossing the street. Typical Julie. Oh - I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. So fed up with crying all the time, but too upset to laugh. If she’d had the right ID on her when they first questioned her she might have got away with it. She didn’t stand a chance without ID.”

He looked down and Race was asleep, quiet snores escaping his mouth. Spot smiled, leaning over and pressing a kiss to his forehead before whispering “goodnight, sweet dreams” to him.

Thanks @wide-eyed--wonderer for sending this in!! If you haven’t read “Code Name Verity” by Elizabeth Wein, I highly recommend it. It takes place in WWII and it’s about two best friends, one of which is a pilot and the other is a spy. One of my all time favorite books!

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: You sound like a remarkable woman out of her time. Your posts suggest you are modern and feminine yet your cultured intelligence and cleverness seems from an earlier lost time. Would you prefer to be living in 18th Century Georgian England? One imagines you would fit right in as a heroine in Jane Austen’s Regency world of aristocratic manners and clever barbs over tea in the drawing room.

I had to smile to myself a little because the last thing I ever saw myself was a Jane Austen character. I certainly don’t see myself as heroine of Austen’s world. After all don’t most if not all of Austen’s literary heroines spend their time pathetically pining away for the socially aloof and yet heroically vulnerable gentlemen they profess to love, men who are usually too dense to know that these whining women have childish schoolgirl crushes on them? I know I’m going to angry mails now from pouting Austen fans but I have to speak my mind.

Like most people I do profess to liking a nice, cosy Jane Austen adaptation on television. The fabulous frocks, fans, feathers and finery soothe us with images of a gentler, well-mannered time when gentlemen in cravats and breeches wooed perfumed ladies across ballrooms and well-manicured lawns.

However the reality was not quite so lovely. It’s not that women - like Austen’s literary women - were caught up in the social constraints of their time but also I would get restless just sitting down all day to tea and gossip. I would sooner catch the first ship bound for India and have adventures in the Orient along the way. Tea with Mr Darcy in well stuffed breeches might not be enough for me but then again a well stocked library as most landed gentry homes had would make me reconsider.

I’m fortunate that within my family we have a wealth of diaries, correspondence, private papers, and other family heirlooms that go back a few centuries which we have scrupulously stored to hopefully pass onto future generations.

So when I can decipher some letters of my ancestors it gives me some insight into what life was like for them as men and women of their time. It’s not always easy to read as they loved to scribble in ink (now faded) in the margins on nearly every page of the books they read. And so the penmanship is stylish but minuscule and therefore sometimes hard to make out. The letters are somewhat more legible but it requires patience and perseverance to make sense of what they were writing about. It’s a wonderful way to flesh out the genealogical tree with titbits of personal anecdotes that could be perfunctory, mundane, scandalous, salacious, romantic, and even political.

I’ve read Jane Austen like every other girl at boarding school I imagine. I like her writings but I wouldn’t say my heart is in it to actually live through that time.

Life for Georgian women, even of high birth, was harsh enough in a time when men still held all the power and husbands could beat and even rape their wives. Noblewomen caught diseases passed on from their husband's prostitutes and were still subjected to confinement and the barbaric medical practice of bleeding when pregnant. Even their fashions and frippery provided cold comfort when their make-up poisoned them, unwashed dresses and undergarments stank and their fancy foods made their teeth rot and fall out.

The fact that women did survive and even thrive is a testament to their strength and fortitude which I find admirable. 

I’m used to mud and sweat and even living rough because as ex-army officer I was trained to suck it up but it’s also in my nature because I love going rough when I hike or climb mountains or trek to other places off the beaten track. So I’m not squeamish so long as at the end of the day I can bathe or shower my aches away and I can put on a fresh change of clothing. However even I recoil in some horror when I consider that despite their elegant appearance, Georgian women carried a world of stench. While hands and faces would be washed daily, immersive bathing was considered bad for the health and was only indulged in occasionally.

The heavy gowns of the period would have caused the wearer to sweat profusely, with only perfumes such as rose water and orange blossom to mask the smell. The clothes themselves would also be pungent. Due to the huge amount of work involved in laundering, most households would have a maximum of one wash-day a month. Linen undergarments were changed as often as possible, but their "clean" smell would still be unappealing to us. Linen was often bleached in chamber lye, a kind of soap made from ashes and urine.

As if bodily odour was not bad enough, there was also the whiff of rotting teeth. A sugar-rich diet led to frequent tooth-decay in the upper classes. Cleansing tooth-powders had started to emerge but most of these featured "spirit of vitriol", known to us as sulphuric acid, and stripped teeth of their enamel. Often the best remedy for smelling teeth and bad breath was to chew herbs such as parsley. Where a tooth was past hope of redemption, it would be pulled with pliers or a tooth key, a claw that would fix to the teeth so it could be loosened in the jaw. To avoid a gummy smile, ladies of fashion sought false teeth made from ivory or porcelain but, where possible, they preferred to have "live" teeth in their dentures. Poor people were encouraged to sell healthy teeth for this purpose. While such a practice was unethical, it was better than the other method of sourcing human teeth: pillaging them battlefields and graveyards.

Georgian women were renowned for their snowy faces and dark eyebrows but achieving the fashionable skin tone could be extremely dangerous. White face powders were lead-based and some also featured vinegar and horse manure. Years of coating the entire face, shoulders and neck with such a mixture could lead to catastrophic consequences. Society beauty Maria Gunning died at the age of just 27, having spent her life addicted to cosmetics. Lead-poisoning could cause hair loss and tooth decay but ingeniously, these problems were elegantly adapted into the fashion and it became desirable to have a high forehead and pencil-thin eyebrows. If your own eyebrows failed you completely, you could always trap a mouse in the kitchen and use its fur to make a new artificial pair.

I usually wear my hair straight or tied up in a bun so I don’t fuss too much over my hair. This would certainly be out of place if I lived in Georgian times. Georgian ladies were the mistresses of big hair. They piled their frizzed and curled locks over pads or wires to create show pieces for the drawing room. Often their own hair was not sufficient and had to be supplemented by horse hair and false pieces. Styles from the 1760s were domed or egg-shaped, elongating into the pouf in the 1780s. But Georgiana, the infamous Duchess of Devonshire, had to take things a step further. She introduced the three-foot hair tower, ornamented with stuffed birds, waxed fruit and model ships. Following her example, women competed with one another to make the tallest headdress. Since these styles were costly and took hours to arrange, they were worn for several weeks. Ladies had to sleep sitting up and travel on the carriage floor to avoid spoiling their creations. With no combing possible, lice were inevitable so a special scratching rod was invented for irritated ladies to poke into their piled up hair.

It wasn’t any real fun being a woman and I often think Jane Austen is selling a false bill of goods in her books. You never see women in her novels deal with their menstrual problems. No one has proved for certain what they did, if anything, for sanitary hygiene. With no knickers to hold in strips of linen or rag, they were left to Mother Nature’s mercy. I can imagine that being a conversation stopper in the drawing room over tea with the vicar and his prissy wife. Their toilet habits were a little more civilised. When ladies at the royal court were caught short, they resorted to porcelain jugs much like a modern-day gravy boat. This contraption, called a bourdaloue, was stuffed up beneath the skirts and clenched beneath the thighs. Apparently it was quite normal for a lady to continue her conversation while urinating into the device! I think Jane Austen missed a trick by not having at least one scene with Elizabeth Bennet urinating under her skirts whilst trading clever barbs with Mr Darcy.

Speaking of which marriage was not a box of chocolates in the early 18th Century or indeed later in Austen’s day. Upon marriage, a lady and all her worldly goods would become property of her husband. It was therefore essential to guard a well-to-do bride’s interests with a legal marriage settlement before the ceremony took place. I read somewhere that Henrietta Hobart, later mistress to George II, had reason to be thankful for the settlement drawn up before her marriage to Charles Howard in 1706. It stipulated that two thirds of her dowry should be invested, with the interest at her sole disposal. Should Henrietta die, the funds were to pass to her children. This arrangement was to prove life-saving when her husband became an abusive gambling-addict and alcoholic.

Lower class women were known to take extreme measures to protect their future husbands from their own debts. "Smock weddings" were intended to show that the bride brought no clothes or property to the union, thus exempting each spouse from the other’s financial liabilities. The woman would be married wearing only her undergarment or smock – or sometimes nothing at all. Of course no marriage settlement, however generous, could save a woman from a violent husband and it remained legal for a man to rape or kidnap his wife. While excessive beating was frowned upon, whipping was considered a reasonable measure to discipline a wife.  Even so, it would appear many men pushed their rights beyond the limit, for laws were later amended to say a man could only beat his wife with a stick "no thicker than his thumb".

Escaping an abusive marriage then was well-nigh impossible. Divorces were so expensive that they remained the privilege of the very rich. Even if a lady did have the money to appeal for divorce, she was by no means certain of success. She would have to prove both adultery and "life-threatening cruelty". And if she won her freedom, it would come with more than just a social cost - any children from the marriage would remain property of the husband. Certainly in my family - on my father’s English side of the family - they had their fair share of scandalous behaviour that didn’t reflect well to our 21st Century minds.

Certainly the Georgians were not sexless and they enjoyed their carnal pleasures but of course being aristocratic they never did things that would publicly expose them to scandal. I was reading one such letter of an ancestor who was writing to her older sister about how hard it was for her to conceive her first child - a son naturally - that her rakish husband first took to prostitutes in an era when such things were common and the risk of infection from sexually transmitted diseases was rife. And then later settled on one mistress whom he seriously gave thought to impregnate her. However the mistress was an actress and thus such a union was frowned upon in landed gentry circles and so he was shamed back to his high born wife and to ‘try harder by God’s Providence’. The duty of any aristocratic wife was to produce a healthy son and heir but if nature did not take its course, they could seek help and so these ancestors of mine did.

Like many other aristocratic couples with trouble conceiving children they sought out quacks who made promises to cure infertility. One such person was a Dr James Graham who had invented what he called ‘The Celestial Bed’ that guaranteed conception and unearthly sexual pleasure. The bed itself was electrified and stood on insulating glass legs. The mattress was stuffed with stallion hair to increase potency. Mirrored floors and music from a glass harmonica heightened the experience, while the air swirled with exotic perfumes. Having made love on this bizarre contraption, the couple were encouraged to take ice baths and have a firm massage. The lady would also be advised to douse her genitals with champagne.

It must have worked because the family line did not die out but flourished. It proves to me that champagne is the answer to almost every question in life. A woman’s travails were not over just because she was successfully pregnant. More hazards lay in her path. Despite advances in medicine, a shocking number of medieval practices remained in the Georgian birthing chamber. The long period of rest or "confinement" leading up to the birth was still enforced for wealthy women. The rooms would be kept dark and sweltering with the expectant mother wrapped up in fustian waistcoats and petticoats. As soon as she had given birth, the room was made even hotter, with the curtains round the bed pinned and even the keyhole in the door stopped to prevent a draft. When I lived in China I discovered this is what Chinese mothers did and still do to this day. So I wasn’t so surprised when I read such a practice happened in other cultures like my own.

Those more fortunate might find themselves in a birthing chair. This had a sloped back and a semi-circle cut from the seat, designed to let gravity aid nature. It was certainly a better option than staining expensive bedding and linen. With only female relatives and an unofficially trained midwife to help, many women and their babies died in childbed, as it was known. Even when male surgeons became involved in obstetrics toward the end of the century, treatments were woefully inadequate. I read in the correspondence of one of my female ancestors that she was frequently ‘bled’ during her pregnancy. Somehow she survived any risk of post-partum haemorrhage.

Even when a birth was successful without complication the wife/mother was not out of the woods just yet. In keeping with custom in landed gentry circles of the times, the new mother would not suckle their own babies. In keeping its custom this taks was given over to a wet nurse. In the case of one of my ancestors whose correspondence I read she got a village girl from the family estates to breast feed the baby. The reason for doing so was brutally simple. Firstly, it was to ensure that the lady could conceive again as soon as possible. And secondly, Wealthier women often had difficulty breastfeeding due to their tight corsets or stays. It was also believed that a child would grow up stronger and hardier with a country-woman’s milk.

But even when the baby sprog was weaned, it was common practice for it to be handed to foster-parents until it was old enough to run about and talk. Interestingly enough Jane Austen and her siblings were fostered by a cottager in Deane village, two miles from their family home.

So overall I’m no so sure I would be thrilled to be living in the Georgian and Regency era even if it meant challenging that scoundrel Mr Wickham to a sword duel (and kicking his arse), match making with Emma, or even missing out on the pleasure of taking tea with Mr Darcy.

Sorry Mr Darcy.

Of course I’m fascinated with history and one sometimes wonder what it might be like to live in a particular time. However it’s just a flight of the imagination because to paraphrase Sir Roger Scruton I prefer to live in “the pastness of the present” rather than the past itself. This is the difference between being an historically illiterate reactionary and being a true conservative.

Thanks for your question

[kittenwritesstuff]

Knocked down

Gif’s not mine!

Fandom: The Hobbit Pairing: Kili x dwarf!reader Genres: fluff Words: 1.540 Summary: Kili is secretly admiring you since the beginning of the quest. One evening, after teaching the Company kick-boxing, you stumble upon a great discovery - requested by Anonymous.

Fortunately, although Thorin wished to move as fast as possible, you somehow manager to convince him that the break is needed. The Company was going quick and you all were keen to arrive at Erebor swiftly, however the journey started to take its toll on all of you.

You were accustomed to hardship. As the only dwarrowdam among your sibling you had to learn how to fight and protect yourself as soon as possible. Your brothers taught you well and let you use them as practice bags.

You loved adventures and travelling so in one small town you saw something called kick boxing. The men were not convinced that “a tiny lady” like yourself should be learning it but you were fast to assure them that you could handle it.

And you surely did.

Offering your services as a kind of protector and Oin’s apprentice, you persuaded Thorin to join him in no time. He needed as much help as he could get.

Also, once in a while you were training the boys much to their excitement.

“Y/N,” Fili calls as you help Bofur seeting up the camp for tonight.

“Yes?”

“Will you train us after supper? I wonder if I can win this time!”

“You tell this every time and yet the lass beats you. Aren’t you sick of gettin’ your arse kicked?” Bofur jests, winking at you. He doubted your skills once. You proved him wrong as you sent him to the ground in a blink of an eye.

“No! I will not have my arse kicked tonight!”

“We shall see, Fili…” you muse and the golden haired dwarf frowns.

“So it’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes. Challenge accepted.”

________

“Kili, if you don’t make a move tonight, I will harm you, I swear. I can’t allow to be beaten again.”

“Oh, so you’re ashamed that Y/N is better than you?”

“No! And she’s not better than me! She just knows this kick-boxing more than I!”

“Right, Fili. I will do something. I promise.”

“You already promised like a hundred times. I don’t believe you,” Fili glares at his brother and shakes his head.

“What?” Kili glances at you from the other end of the camp. You chat with Oin, pointing at some herbs in his hands. On Kili’s face a smile appears, fond and warm.

“Mahal, you’re hopeless…”

“Fili!”

“Don’t deny it, little brother.”

“I know…” Kili sighs. “I’m just scared she would reject me. And then I would have to deal with laughs and mocking for the rest of the journey. The rest would not let it go…”

“Or maybe you wouldn’t have to deal with all that. I think Y/N likes you. You might have a chance. A small one, but still…”

Kili nods. Fili’s right. It’s time for a move.

_________

“Alright, little lion. Your turn!” you taunt as Fili takes off his jacket and vest.

“No need to be harsh, Y/N. You’ve already taken down Nori, Dwalin and Thorin.”

“And I’m about to take down you as well. Ready?”

“Aye!”

You take a position, waiting for Fili’s move. You’ve learnt that he, just as the most of the members of the Company, is restless and has little patience. Except for Thorin. There were time when he out waited you easily.

Fili starts to round you but you remain unaffected. He’s predictable – most likely he will pretend to advance at you, but you are prepared.

As he nears you, you turn around and kick him lightly on left knee. He loses balance but quickly gathers himself.

You hear a cheer from the rest. You look at them quickly but much to your surprise there is no sight of Kili among them.

Weird, usually he’s in the first row, clapping loudly at your every little success.

You focus on Fili. Maybe Kili got bored? He’s full of energy yet he never attempted to fight with you, although he always watches. Once or twice you caught his gaze outside of trainings and you must admit it was flattering.

Even though you would never dream of being Kili’s love interest. Yes, you may have a crush on him. Yes, he’s nice and funny and kind and sweet, but he is a prince and you’re only Oin’s apprentice and very good at kick-boxing.  You doubted Thorin would approve…

“Ouch!” you exclaim as Fili’s leg lands on your right arm, kicking you out of stupor. You let down your guard and he used it perfectly.

“Oh, no, Y/N…” Fili mumbles but you wave a hand.

“It’s fine. Good job. But I think the training’s over.”

“Sure, right.”

“I’m gonna take a bath. No peeking!” you announce loudly as you grab your towel and head towards a lake in the forest.

What’s happening to you? You never allowed your feelings or side-thoughts break your focus during trainings. You hoped he’d watch as you finally won with Dwalin. Sure, he saw how good you were, how Fili or Thorin never managed to beat you but it was nice to know he would be there to witness.

You wanted to impress him. Over and over again, so he could think that you’re worth.

“No, no, no, I can’t…”

You stop in your tracks. There a distant voice coming from your right but you cannot see anybody. Obviously, you will not start calling out because there is a chance that it’s nobody from the Company.

Quiet as a mouse, you tiptoe your way towards the noise.

“Y/N…” your heart stops for a moment and you’re sure you’ve been spotted. But the voice continues.

“You’re an amazing lass… no, a dwarrowdam, that’s better,” the unknown talker clears his throat and you manage to sneak closer.

Your eyes widen as you recognize Kili. His back is turned at you and as of now he hasn’t noticed you yet. But what is he doing?

“I was wondering if you would… ah, Kili, be more brave! I would be happy, well, sure I would if she said yes… oh I’m rambling…” he moans and tugs on a sleeve of his jacket. He is evidently struggling with something.

And you, you have yet to connect the dots…

“How do I say it? I like you? It’s not good enough… or, I would like to ask you if you’d allow me to court you? Y/N’s special, I need to do more than that…”

And then, it hits you. Kili is practicing for you…

You gasp, loud enough for Kili to abruptly turn and look around.

“Fili, is that you?!”

You hide behind a tree and put a hand over your mouth. Should you go to him and most likely cause him terrible embarrassment? Or should you pretend like you’re not here and try to withdraw? But then again, you were supposed to take a bath, the boys would figure out something’s not right and start asking questions…

“Fee, come out! I know Y/N kicked your arse and you’re mad at me, but I can’t do it! I don’t know what to tell her…”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Go out or go away?

Kili groans quietly and you realize that he feels exactly like you. Insecure, not good enough, confused.

Well, why dwell on this when you can go and fix it?

You step out from the tree and call out his name.

Kili freezes, his face pale, his eye wide and gaze terrified.

You try to smile but you know it doesn’t look great or reassuring.

“Ho-how much did you hear?” Kili stutters, blinking rapidly, not knowing where to look.

“Uhm…”

“Nevermind, I’ll just go and hide under a rock or something…”

“No! Please, stay!”

“Why?” he asks with his brows knitted.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I, uhm… I like you, too,” you manage to mumble as you glance at Kili shyly.

At first, he’s obviously surprised. In his wildest dreams, he never thought you would say this. Of course, he hoped for it, but still – he was more prepared for rejection than for reciprocation.

“Really?!” he lets out, beaming with joy.

“Yes, Kili, really. I just thought you didn’t like me that way.”

“Oh, I do! I very much like you, Y/N! You’re so wonderful, strong and wise,” he takes a few steps towards you so he could face you. Slowly, he takes your hand in his still shaking palms. “You’re my dream gal. And I would be very honored if you allowed me to court you.”

You smile fondly at him as you nod your head.

“I allow, Kili. A thousand times yes from me.”

Without second thoughts, Kili wraps his arms around you, rises you a little and sways around, laughing loudly. You start to giggle and swat his arm.

“Put me down, I’m getting dizzy!”

“Alright. Now, I reckon you were going for a bath.”

“True.”

“Mind if I keep an eye so nobody comes peeking?”

“I mind. I’d rather you join me.”

“Oh, that I like more, Y/N.”

“I bet you do,” taking his hand, you start leading the way to the lake.

Obviously, announcing your courtship can wait. After all, firstly you need to have a little celebration with your dwarf.  

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 69 - Denerim

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Fereldan Culture and Customs, Fereldans, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3

--

Twenty-third day of Wintermarch, 9:33 Dragon

Spring flowers bloomed along the western road to Denerim, but the column of riders and infantry that approached was no proud company in parade shine. They were bedraggled and muddy from weeks of fighting along the coast, tired from the day’s march, and while Rosslyn and Alistair straightened in their saddles as they waited at the gate to be let in, they had to roll their shoulders beneath their armour and hide yawns behind their hands. The decapitated heads of traitors watched them sightlessly from hooks set into the walls above them, many of them fresh enough to still be recognisable despite the depredations of the crows. Mother Berit wasn’t among the number, perhaps saved by her Chantry connections, but Bann Loren was, and next to him a younger man with blond hair and a crude green sunburst painted onto his forehead.

“That was Vaughan Kendells,” Rosslyn said, noticing the direction of Alistair’s gaze. “I can’t say I’m sorry.”

He glanced at her, remembering what she had told him, and the lift of Tabris’ chin as she spoke of her escape from the city. “Me neither.”

Before she could do more than smile at the reply, the gate opened and an officer waved them through. The market-day traffic was thinner than it had been the last time Alistair had visited capital, and he saw more beggars on the streets, but those who stopped to watch them pass did so with open, curious gazes instead of the harried suspicion that had met them in Amaranthine. On impulse, he nudged his horse closer to Rosslyn and held out his hand. Gaze soft, she took it and linked their fingers together as she had in Uldred’s dream, only this time they bumped knees, and there was a smudge of dirt under her eye, and all of his bones ached from days on the road to tell him it was real. People cheered, and it made her blush.

Her smile still lingered when they reached the palace gates and dismounted to hand off care of the army to the officers, and their horses to the grooms that had appeared from a side arch as if by magic. In the momentary confusion, he stepped close to her so he could distract himself from their formal welcome by brushing away the smear on her cheek.

The last time he had been brought to the palace, as part of Teagan’s entourage, he had been all but smuggled in under a helmet to hide his resemblance to the various portraits of Theirin ancestors hung in almost every room; there hadn’t been two flanking rows of guards waiting at attention as they walked up the steps, nor an announcement by a herald. Rosslyn’s titles outnumbered his, and it gave them a moment to pause before they were ushered through.

“Relax,” she told him. “You’re not heading to an execution.”

He only pouted. “This is just as bad as Summerday.”

“Is it really?” she asked, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Well. Maybe some things are better.”

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face at the wry look she tilted at him, but before he could say anything else, the doors to the great hall swung open to reveal not just Cailan and Anora sitting on their thrones on the dais, but also Rosslyn’s grandparents, straight-backed and magnificent in their finery.

“So here ye are,” the Storm Giant boomed. “At last! We were starting to worry ye’d upped and run off with her.”

Anora shot him a peeved glance. “Your Highness, my Lady Cousland, be welcome in our hall.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn replied as she sank into a graceful bow.

“I trust your journey was not too eventful?”

“Given your track record, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a slew of rescued damsels left in your wake,” Cailan interrupted. He was frowning, and a bitter, sullen note coloured his voice. “Perhaps you stopped by Soldier’s Peak to rid it of all its ghosts?”

“Not quite,” Alistair supplied, with a careful glance to the woman beside him.

The king seemed to shake himself out of his bad humour. “A jest, of course. It’s good to see you both unharmed.”

Rosslyn adjusted her stance, folding her arms behind her back as if she were delivering a report from the field. “Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine proved difficult to convince of her allegiances, Your Majesty. We are sorry for the delay.”

“We are glad of your safe arrival, of course – especially given the happy tidings you bring with you,” Anora said easily, without looking at her husband. “My congratulations to you both.”

“Indeed.” Lady Lileas, who until that point had merely watched proceedings unfold before her like an augur scrying bones, swept forward and pulled her granddaughter into a hug. “It’s good to see you, mo chridhe. And as for you,” she added, turning to Alistair with a stare that made him shrink away like a mouse, “You bested An Sgòrnan Aigeinn. I am satisfied.”

“Uh…”

“Can we be away now?” the Storm Giant interrupted with impatience. “My oald joints are starting to creak like a mizzen in a hoolie.”

“You’re not staying in the palace?” Alistair asked.

Lady Lileas smiled. “My grandson has kindly granted us use of his estate while we see to the preparations for your wedding, and we are still Rosslyn’s guardians.” Her expression darkened. “That swine left it in a terrible state. His death was well deserved. Come, granddaughter, you must wish to change out of armour, and there is much to discuss.”

A frown creased Rosslyn’s forehead. “It’s almost dark already and we’ve been travelling since dawn. I’m sure Their Majesties would not begrudge their hospitality – any discussion can wait until tomorrow.”

“You are not staying here,” her grandmother replied, as if the suggestion were absurd.

“I’m Commander-in-Chief of the army,” she pointed out. “I’m needed to plan the spring advance – the war isn’t over yet.”

“You are also not married yet.”

“This is because…?” Her eyes flew wide. “What do you think will happen? It’s not like we haven’t –” Faltering, her gaze flashed to Alistair and skittered away again as crimson bloomed across her cheeks. “We’ve been together on the road for weeks, what difference does it make now?”

“This is how things are done in the joining of two houses.” Lady Lileas drew herself up. “You know this.”

Behind his wife, the Storm Giant cleared his throat and said something in Clayne that Alistair failed to catch, but instead of lifting Rosslyn’s expression it only served to set her mouth in a line of petulant defeat. It was adorable.

“My things will need to be forwarded,” she said. “And I’ll require a schedule for meetings with the army’s officers and outfitters.”

“It will be done,” Cailan told her, having watched the whole exchange from behind steepled fingers. “And the sooner you get married, the sooner we can move your things back, eh?”

With nothing left to say, and a last helpless glance back at Alistair, Rosslyn was chivvied from the hall less like a war hero and more like a child caught shirking lessons, taking their plans for a quiet, shared evening with her and leaving him to wonder at just how quickly their fortunes had been turned around. Anora and Cailan’s gazes itched on the back of his neck, and he only barely remembered to turn to ask their leave before running after her. The clanking of his armour echoed ahead of him, and he found them already waiting just inside the entrance hall at the top of the steps. The looks being levelled at him were not favourable.

“Uh – can I have a moment to speak to my betrothed?” The word still sparked on his tongue. He doubted he would get used to it before he was calling her his wife instead, but thinking about that too closely made him dizzy. “In private?” he added, as he slipped his hand into Rosslyn’s.

The Storm Giant nudged his wife with his elbow. “Ach, go on.”

The clan leader of the Mac Eanraig pursed her lips at him, but it didn’t quite hide the twitch of her amusement. “We will wait in the carriage.”

He didn’t dare breathe until Rosslyn’s grandparents had reached the bottom of the steps, and then, spying an unobtrusive side door leading off the hall, he tugged on their joined fingers and pulled her after him with only the thinnest veneer of patience. The door swung open easily onto a small room lit by a single arrow slit, and the latch clicked back into place behind them an instant before he dropped her hand so he could take her face instead. She giggled as her forehead pressed against his.

“What is this place?”

“A storeroom – something – I don’t care,” he answered. “How long do you think it will be before they come looking for us?”

Gently, she shook her head and nudged a kiss against his lips. “Nowhere near long enough for all these layers of armour, my love.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he purred.

“I’m sure.”

One gloved finger traced the line of her jaw. “I told you we should have stayed in bed this morning.”

“Soon, we’ll be able to stay in bed every morning,” she reminded him.

“In our bed.” His breath stuttered.

“No sneaking away back to separate rooms.”

“Then…” He steadied himself and found her hand again. “This is just another reason why Guardian can’t come fast enough. How am I going to last without you for so long?”

She laughed, lightly pushing him away so she could get to the door again. “I’m not disappearing off the face of Thedas, and it’s only a few weeks. We’ll see each other every day – we’ve been through worse.”

“I’ll dream of you,” he promised.

“My grandmother would be scandalised.” She pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth as she turned to leave. “Everything will be fine.”

--

It was not fine.

Aside from the wedding plans – fabrics and food and guest invitations and the small feud that erupted between Anora and Rosslyn’s grandmother because of it – they were kept ridiculously busy organising for the march south, and assisting in the city’s rebuilding efforts. They saw each other only in snatches for daily meetings, and barely exchanged two words that were not about policy or supplies. In addition to the schedule, Rosslyn had to drag herself across the city every morning to oversee the army’s drills, which meant most moments she had to herself during the day were spent trying to catch up on sleep.

To keep himself from missing her too much, Alistair took on oversight of the alienage. Nobody else seemed to care about the damage done to the elves, and while Cailan indulged him, or perhaps lacked interest, many of the other nobles already in attendance for Wintersend muttered that he was wasting both time and money on a worthless cause. They quieted after he pointed out that having to contend with an uprising would only add to the strain being faced by all of them, but having to appeal to their self-interest left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anora, at least, offered support for his efforts. As the time went by and Cailan’s preoccupation with finding Loghain took up more and more of his thoughts, the day-to-day politics of the palace fell to her. For this reason, relations with her continued to be fraught, especially in regards to military matters. She didn’t like people stepping on her toes. She didn’t stand for breaks with decorum, either, but she was fair and even-handed in her judgements, and for the sake of peace, Alistair tried his best to follow her lead and stay out of her way.

The only bright spots in all the blandness of days passing too slowly came in the notes he and Rosslyn managed to smuggle to each other during meetings and meals, the only times they got to touch, or even stand next to each other. She had passed the first to him in a chance encounter in one of the corridors, a brief press into his hand and she left with just the flash of her smirk tossed over her shoulder, and a glance down to where a neatly folded square of paper sat in his palm. Before anyone could call him away, he had slipped into a nearby empty room and pored over the lines, just a few sentences written in her elegant hand, but more than she had been able to say to him since they had arrived in Denerim.

I’ll not trust any messengers this time save our own hands, my love, and the time cannot come soon enough when I get to hold yours. When I get to be alone with you. When I can fall asleep beside you once more and never again worry about how long it will be until we must part. I love you.

He passed her his reply with the salt cellar at dinner.

I love you too. I wake up thinking of you. I miss curling around your body and waking you with kisses, even if your hair so often gets caught in the middle. I miss the sound of your voice and the brightness of your eyes. I’d write poetry about them, but you haven’t married me yet and I don’t want to risk it.

It became a game between them, this sly exchange of notes, each one a tiny rebellion at the strictures of propriety, a private conversation when no privacy was allowed.  

My hair would not get so wild if a certain someone didn’t take such delight in tangling it the night before. In case you start to worry, that was not a complaint. I miss your voice as well, and your hands, and what both can do to me, although one benefit of distance is that I get to admire my future husband from afar without him noticing. Your footwork showed great improvement when you were sparring today, though you still drop your elbow too far when you block.

~

You enjoy making me blush, don’t you? Perhaps I can return the favour, Wife-To-Be. There was a moment in the gardens yesterday where you were wandering among the shrubbery with no idea that I was stuck only a floor above you, listening to Brantis drone on about the advantages of a trade deal Cailan has already agreed to. My attention may have wandered, and my hand was nothing but a thrall to the vision before me. I’m sure you can guess the subject.

~

I will treasure this likeness, my love, if I am allowed to keep it? I ought to admonish you for not paying more attention to Brantis, given how hard he tries, but I find I do not have the heart. The expression you captured here, is this truly how I look? Rest assured that I am blushing profusely, though I made the mistake of opening your offering for the first time while in the same room as my brother. Fergus seems to have taken it upon himself to stuff a year’s worth of insufferable brotherly affection into a few short weeks, though in hindsight I should not have told him your note included a sketch. He also says if we want to keep these messages secret, you ought to do better containing your grin in the exchanges. I told him to boil his head.

~

I am glad you like the sketch. It’s yours. I might never do you justice, but maybe in the future we’re to have together, I might practice? You looked tired when I saw you today (yesterday, by the time you read this), and you cannot tell me Wintersend isn’t preying on your mind. I know you too well. I cannot tell you how to feel, but please remember that I love you. So much.

As the holiday approached, Rosslyn’s sombre mood grew more pronounced, and she withdrew into herself. In the palace, the time was marked for celebration, and the festival spirit was upheld by an army of harried servants made busy decorating and preparing guest rooms for the visiting nobles – but it had also been a year since the sack of Highever, since Fergus and Rosslyn had marched away to war and returned to find a ruin. Alistair did what he could to bolster her spirits, but short of slipping his night guard and breaking into the Cousland estate like a common thief, there was little remedy for the nightmares she refused to admit were plaguing her again.

On the morning of the feast he spent an extra hour in the lists, trying to beat out his nerves on practice dummies. The usual meetings had been put on hold for the day, which meant he wouldn’t see her until she arrived with the rest of the guests just before sundown. It would be their first public appearance as a couple, the only one before the wedding, and that meant extra fuss in his attire lest the assembled nobility find him lacking either as a prince or as a prospective husband. Besides, he wanted his betrothed to be impressed.

While he bathed, Marten lay out the same rust-red doublet he had worn for Summerday, with the addition of the mantle made for the voyage to the Storm Islands, and the bracers Rosslyn herself had given him to meet her grandfather. He traced his fingers over the embossed leather as his valet fussed with his collar, remembering. He had almost kissed her after she helped him put them on the first time. Looking back, at what came later, he was glad he hadn’t but he wondered if she knew. Even during the darkest part of his time in Orzammar, he had worn the gift, too stubborn and too hopeful to give them up, and now he couldn’t stop smiling, and the day when he would become her husband rose barely a week away on the horizon, a lighthouse guiding all his thoughts to safe harbour.

“You’re all set, Your Highness,” Marten pronounced, bushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulders.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Alistair fiddled with a sleeve.

“You know her better than me, milord,” the valet pointed out. “I wouldn’t dare presume her taste in outfits.”  

“Right.”

Marten licked his lips. “No one’s in doubt that she loves you, but if you stand up here all night worrying – well, that’ll hardly do you any good, now will it? I’ve done the best I can for you.”

“And you have my eternal gratitude for it,” he replied.

With one last glance in the long mirror, and a deep breath to steady himself, Alistair nodded and left the room. When he reached the door to the king’s chambers further along the corridor, it was a maid who answered his knock, and she told him both Cailan and Anora were still indisposed. Then she shut the door again with a decisive click, before he could say anything else. He shifted on the balls of his feet. The light outside the window was fading from the brightness of late afternoon, which meant a good number of the guests should have arrived. He didn’t want to lurk in the hallway, awkward and bumbling and gossip-fodder for any servants who happened to catch a glance of him in all his worried finery, but he also didn’t want to make a nuisance of himself in the hall – Isolde had always sneered that he got under people’s feet, and however much he tried to block it out, the contemptuous echo of her in his mind remained persistent.

But Rosslyn would arrive soon, if she wasn’t already waiting for him. He could make small talk pretending to oversee the final preparations for the feast until she arrived, and then, he reasoned to himself as he walked, he could talk to her. He could spend the whole night talking to her, and nobody would be able to stop him. Maybe he could sneak her away, to some shady corner where he could hold her hand, and run his fingers through her hair, and kiss her. His thoughts wandered far enough in imagining it that his foot slipped on the first step of the landing and he only saved himself from tumbling all the way to the bottom of the stairs by snatching his hand out for the banister.

“Ow,” he grumbled, massaging his shoulder. “I really hope nobody saw that.”

Allers, the royal guard stationed in an alcove a little way away, made no response to his suspicious glare.

“Alistair?”

His face heated. It was Rosslyn. She stood at the base of the stairs with one hand on the banister and the other lifting the hem of her gown to keep it out of the way of her feet, frozen in the act of rushing up to meet him.

“Huh?”

She was in deep blue damask, the folds of the sleeves and the low, broad dip of the neckline richly embroidered, the fabric outlining the curve of her waist. Her hair fell in a thick black curtain down her back, braided and pinned with the aurum laurel wreath she had worn in the Storm Islands – and around her neck, bare on her pale skin for all to see, his amulet hanging at the end of a delicate silverite chain.

“You fell,” she said.

“I –” He swallowed. “Only for you, dear lady.”

She rolled her eyes, but waited as he skipped down the stairs to meet her, and smiled when he caught her hand to press his lips to the knuckles. Close to, the elegance of her dress didn’t quite hide the slump of her shoulders, nor the brittle fatigue that tightened the corners of her mouth.

“You’re early,” he murmured, still holding her fingers.

She shrugged. “There wasn’t much left to do at the estate, and I wanted to see you.”

“I’ve wanted to see you, too.” He leaned forward. “And I’ve wanted…”

Before he could finish the thought, she reached up and pressed a halting finger against his lips. “I had to drag Fergus with me.”

Fergus. Of course. He followed the tilt of Rosslyn’s head to where her brother stood not even that far away, with one eyebrow raised and his arms folded across his chest, the very picture of a concerned guardian who had just caught someone nefarious swooping down on his charge. Alistair, preoccupied with other things, had completely failed to notice him.

“Ah – um. Your Lordship! You’re looking well.”

“Your Highness,” Fergus answered mildly. “Please, do carry on with my sister. It’s not like our grandmother is in the next room, wondering where we’ve snuck off to.”

“You could go and stall her if you like,” Rosslyn suggested, and when her brother only returned her a flat look, she frowned. “Please, Ferg? I did it for you – for weeks.”

“Only because I bribed you,” he retorted, but his face softened. “Fine, I’m going. But don’t do anything too outrageous.”

“I think that means you’re not allowed to spirit me away to somewhere nobody can find us,” she huffed as he ducked through the door, already looping her arms around Alistair’s neck.

His hands found her waist. “Damn, that’s my plan foiled, then. Please tell me I can kiss you, at least?”

“You may,” she giggled.

“Good.”

His heart thundered more than it should for such a simple brush of lips, but before he could sink too far into the feeling, he pulled away so he could see her expression. Her eyes were still closed, her head turned into his palm like a flower angling its petals towards the sun.

“How are you?” he asked.

A sigh, and her eyes fluttered open to focus on his chin. “It… hasn’t been a good day. I’ve tried to keep myself busy, but it hasn’t really worked. It’s been a whole year, and yet all I’ve been able to think is that they should be here. That it’s –”

“Not your fault,” he interrupted firmly. “I wish I could have been with you – I mean, not that I don’t every day, but today especially, I wish I could’ve been there to make it easier.”

“I had your notes,” she reminded him with a weak smile. “That kept the worst of it at bay.”

He grinned. “Did it now? In that case, I’ll feel a little better giving you this.” With the flourish of a showman, he reached into the end of his sleeve and pulled out a folded square of paper. “For later,” he explained. “When you don’t have an audience. There’s words in it that I hope are reassuring, but also – since you liked the last sketch so much, I thought as a distraction…”

Their fingers brushed as she took the note from him. The blush rising in her cheeks chased away the wan tone of her skin, and for a moment Alistair allowed his mind to linger over all the other scandalous ways he might prompt such a reaction.

She smirked at him. “If it needs to be so private, I had best keep it safe.”

Before he could ask her what she meant, she folded it once more and with nimble fingers slipped it down the front of her dress. Alistair stared. She smoothed her hands over the silk to make sure nothing poked out where it shouldn’t, unconcerned. It was a perfunctory gesture, businesslike, and yet far too thorough to be innocent.

“Are you alright?” she asked sweetly, once she was finally satisfied that everything lay in its proper place.

He managed a strangled sort of noise. “Nothing a long soak in Lake Calenhad wouldn’t cure.” When he caught her expression, falling from a smirk into true concern, he shook his head and pulled her closer, until they were standing hip to hip. “I’ll manage. And don’t think I won’t get you back for that little performance.”

“You started it.”

“You like tormenting me.”

She laughed at that, and darted a quick kiss against his mouth that he was too slow to return. “Shouldn’t you be going to greet your guests?” she asked. “Where is the king?”

“Applying the finishing touches, I think.” He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on Cailan or his moods, not with Rosslyn in his arms. “We should be safe from disgrace, in any case. One is only late if one arrives after royalty, after all.”

“You are royalty, my love,” she murmured, smiling wider as he waggled his eyebrows.

“And soon you will be, too.” The reminder stole his breath. “Uh… shall we?”

The eyes of every guest turned to look at them as he appeared in the doorway with Rosslyn on his arm, but for once, he didn’t mind the attention, or the wave of movement that swept through the room as people bowed to him in greeting. Her grandparents stood in one corner with Fergus, given their own deference as foreign dignitaries, and while the back of his neck heated under their knowing gaze, there were enough distractions elsewhere to keep him from too much embarrassment.

He even managed to avoid glancing lower than Rosslyn’s collarbones. Mostly.

“Aye, and don’t they make a handsome couple?” Bann Ferrenly preened once he caught them into his orbit. “I predicted this, you know. I said to my dear Raina, ‘We can’t have these two in such close quarters without them falling for each other. Mark my words,’ I said, ‘There’s much to admire in him, and he would be a fool not to see the quality of such a lady!’”

“Of course,” Bann Aldubard agreed stiffly. “Who could have predicted otherwise?”

At the other side of their circle, Arlessa Élodie of South Reach laid a delicate hand on Rosslyn’s arm. “I, for one, am glad that this war has not been all tragedy – we must move forward, must we not?”

When Cailan and Anora eventually joined the gathering, even Bann Ferrenly was almost out of anecdotes, so it was a relief to follow the line of torches the servants had lit in the darkened gardens, to where a troupe of mummers had set up a stage in front of an open-fronted pavilion furnished with a long table that was already groaning with food. As the nobility were directed to their seats, the troupe master welcomed them and announced a performance of Dane and the Werewolves. At first, Alistair kept his eye on his brother and the carafe of wine placed by his elbow, but though Cailan looked tired, he was dressed in fresh clothes and his hair had been brushed and braided, and he was minding Anora’s voice in his ear.

Rosslyn slipped her hand into his. In the distraction offered by the players she had nudged her chair close enough to his to press against him to the knee. They could do little more under so many watchful eyes, but with every moment counting time down to the wedding, still so many days away, it was enough.

“To us?” she suggested when the servers had filled their goblets and everyone else was preoccupied with the strut of the warpainted hero onto the stage.

He touched his cup to hers and leaned across with a kiss. “To spending our lives together,” he agreed.

--

It was only the following morning that he spotted the note she must have slipped inside his tunic. He picked it off the middle of his bedroom floor with his head still ringing from his hangover, his thoughts whirling about the one he had given her, whether she had opened it yet, what she thought of it, if the ink had smudged against her breasts after spending so many hours pressed to her skin. Perhaps going beyond words into illustrations was a step too far, and even now she was marching through Denerim’s streets to out him as a lecher and declare there wouldn’t be a marriage after all. If it were so, at least he’d have one last message from her to remember her by.

Today I cannot help but think about the past, but the weight sits less heavy on my shoulders knowing my future lies with you. We have fought through so much, together and apart, and it is strange to think how I ever managed without you. What if we had never met, or if our paths had crossed in some other way? Would I still miss waking up without you? Would you miss me?

His worry vanished. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed the paper to his lips, wishing it could be her instead, that he could put his arms around her and drive out all her doubt.

He was at his desk and finishing his reply before he had even changed out of his smallclothes.

I would miss you. I do miss you. There is an empty space in the bed and the pillows don’t smell like you. You make me better, and make me want to be better. If someone could knock me out so I can wake up on the morning of our wedding without having to endure the torture of not being able to hold you, I would be very grateful.

~

My love, if you lie unconscious, who will distract me with such delightful correspondence? Who will smile at me as you do? And what if whoever it is hits you too hard on the head and kills you? No, it cannot be risked. You must continue to suffer, as I assure you I do as well, but only for a little while longer.

~

For you, perhaps I might make it three days, and believe me, I am counting every moment until you become my wife. I cannot wait to be your husband. I love you.

~

Two days, my love. I can barely eat for nerves.

~

I haven’t slept – can’t until I have you in my arms again. I’ll see you tomorrow.

[nobodyfamousposts]

So I couldn’t help myself and wrote a continuation for your Felix July First Kiss story. Hope you enjoy.

~~~

One moment, Marinette had shoved Felix out of the way, shouting for him to run just before she was hit. The next moment, there were hands on either side of her face, and there was Felix who was shockingly close.

“Felix?”

For a moment, they stared at each other, and Marinette’s mind stuttered and reeled as it took in the hands on her face, the way he was so close that they were only a few inches from brushing their noses together or…and then the moment was gone and Felix pulled away as if he had been burnt.

“We need to get out of here,” he said, and his voice was cold and curt in a familiar way. Marinette couldn’t miss how uncomfortable he looked if she tried, and so she didn’t ask questions, just stood from her seat (when had she ended up seated?) and attempted to take a step forward, only to immediately step on her dress and nearly topple forward, barely managing to regain her balance.

This…this was not the dress she had made. It was…well she guessed it looked good, but she had made her dress accounting for the fact that she was clumsier than a blind mouse, especially when Adrien was around, and so it had been a few inches off the ground. This…this was completely floor length, and also heavy, covered pearls and silver and Marinette kind of hated it now that she was in her right mind.

“…Felix, how did you get up here?”

“Stairs.”

“How many stairs?”

“…”

Felix bit his lip (and that was a nervous tic she hadn’t noticed from him before), and he didn’t need to say anything for Marinette to get an idea of what kind of an escape this was going to be.

She was going to die before she ever reached the bottom of the stairs, because this dress was going to murder her.

Also, she wasn’t alone to transform, and that wasn’t good.

What had even happened? She had clearly been under the effects of the stupid akuma, but how had…

Oh…

Nope! Not thinking about it. She was not thinking about it, because she was Ladybug and she had to plan and no she was not going to think about the fact that Felix had almost certainly kissed her.

Plans. That was something she was good at.

“Okay, so this dress is complete dead weight, and my chances of getting down the stairs without falling to my death and dragging you down with me are minimal,” Marinette noted aloud, forcing her brain to focus on the relevant details and not that Felix had kissed her. “The dress is magical, so the chances of me being able to remove it or cut it through ordinary means are slim. This tower is-” She checked out the window. “-approximately fifteen stories up, guessing by the windows. No chance of being able to climb down in this dress anyway. Currently, the akuma won’t be after me, since as far as he knows I’m still under his control, but you’re a target because he hasn’t gotten to you yet.”

Marinette took a deep breath. She knew what she was going to have to convince Felix to do. Like it or not, the only way she could safely escape this tower was as Ladybug, but she couldn’t transform in front of him. But considering Felix had climbed fifteen stories of stairs on foot and kissed her (don’t think about it don’t think about it) to help her out, she wasn’t sure he’d listen to her perfectly reasonable argument here.

She needed to appeal to his logical side.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath, before turning to face Felix again. “You’re going to need to get out of here alone.”

“I’m not going to-” he began, but Marinette held up a hand.

“The akuma hasn’t gotten to you yet, but the longer you stay here the more likely he is to try and control you. And if you stay here or if I try to follow you, then he might try and control me again and we’ll both be screwed. As much as it kills me, the best thing I can do is sit here and not draw attention to the fact that we aren’t being controlled.” She let out a disgusted groan. “And besides, this dress was not designed with mobility in mind, and I don’t think you’ll want to see the ensuing rampage if I end up face to face with the akuma.”

Felix looked annoyed, but Marinette knew him well enough to know he would listen to her. She had made a perfectly reasonable point and, even if it annoyed him to have to leave her here, he would realize it was necessary.

Honestly, she owed him a lot just for the fact that he came up here at all.

…Nope, not thinking about it right now.

“Fine,” Felix ground out, clearly not happy. “You have a point.”

She nodded. “Thanks for the rescue, Felix. I do prefer having control over my own body. Now run.”

Felix went through the tower door, sparing a glance back at her before turning and running, the door shutting behind him.

Tikki flew out from hiding as Felix’s footsteps grew quieter, and Marinette waited until she couldn’t hear them before saying, “Tikki, spots on.”

~~~

The battle was ridiculous.

Marinette had dealt with ridiculous and annoying battles before, but her patience was thin going into the battle, and Chat Noir had taken her arrival as an immediate sign that he should jump in the way of the next attack, ending up one of the akuma’s minions seconds after she had figured out a plan that involved him. So she had to immediately reconsider her plans and devise another plan while a mind-controlled Chat Noir was attacking her, giving off a rotating set of stock lines like NPCs did in a video game.

Was that what she had been like? Well, considering the dress, she probably hadn’t been doing much attacking, but if it was all otherwise the same then she wasn’t amused.

She technically should blame the akuma, but they were the victim in this case and so screw that, she was blaming Hawk Moth.

Once she had incapacitated Chat Noir (who didn’t stop saying those lines even when he wasn’t moving anymore, and that was disturbing), it was getting to the akuma, summoning Lucky Charm, creating a plan within seconds, getting the object and breaking it, purifying akuma, and done.

Yeah, if Hawk Moth made another go at the miraculous today after that freaking dress, Marinette was going to hunt him down and kill him, with her bare hands, in civilian form.

She didn’t wait to fistbump Chat Noir, didn’t wait for anyone to approach her. It was back into the hotel as soon as possible, detransforming, sighing with relief because her costume was her’s again, and then heading for the elevator down.

Felix was outside the building, and Marinette was no longer in a situation where she couldn’t think about the fact that Felix kissed her and she obviously didn’t remember it and she hoped it wasn’t his first kiss because her first kiss had been with Chat Noir in rage mode and kissing people controlled by akuma wasn’t exactly fun and-

She tripped out the door, because even with a dress specifically designed with her clumsiness in mind, Marinette was still Marinette, and she always tripped more when her brain got too overwhelmed to focus on her feet.

Fortunately, she didn’t hit the ground.

Unfortunately, that was because Adrien caught her, and wow, that was just what she needed, wasn’t it? While having a crisis about a boy kissing her, she absolutely needed to have the boy she was not so secretly in love with to be there too.

Geez, Felix’s salt might be rubbing off on her a bit.

“You okay?” Adrien asked, and Marinette decided that no, she wasn’t going to deal with him right now because her brain was already fried.

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine,” she insisted, removing herself from Adrien’s arms. “You go check on the director, make sure he’s okay. I’ve got to do something.”

And, in a delightful twist of something going right for her today, Adrien nodded with a determined expression and ran off.

Felix was looking at her from the side of the building, and Marinette steeled herself, lifting her skirts and moving over to him for this conversation. This was some dramatic, regency drama garbage that she had a feeling Felix was just as uninterested in as she was.

“I assume you’re okay,” he noted as she stopped beside him, his voice almost emotionless, and she gave a sharp nod.

“Yeah.” She took a deep breath and ripped off the Band-Aid. “Thanks, by the way. I know…I know you don’t like touching people much or anything like that, so I’m sorry you were forced to do that to help me out.” He had probably saved Paris in the process, though she wouldn’t tell him that.

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, and Marinette was about to apologize for bringing it up when he spoke.

“It wasn’t right, to leave you like that,” he said simply, and yet there was a weight behind those words that Marinette didn’t really get. She wondered, for a moment, how bad she must have been for him to feel desperate enough to kiss her when he didn’t even feel comfortable holding someone’s hand usually. She’d have to ask Tikki later.

For now, she simply smiled at him. “Well, either way, I owe you one.”

He made eye contact with her for the briefest of moments before turning his head away, focusing his gaze on something down the street. “Considering you were only in that situation because of me, I think we’re even.”

“If you’re sure.” She was definitely getting him salted caramel cookies from the bakery anyway, because she could. “I should probably get back to the play then, see what work needs to be done to fix Lila’s sabotage. See you later?”

He nodded silently, and she smiled again, a little bit brighter as she did.

“Later Felix.”

He nodded to her, and when she eventually turned back to him to wave, he gave a tentative wave back.

Thinking about the situation, she wasn’t really sure how she left. She knew she liked Adrien, but…but maybe…

No, not right now. Kissing her had been uncomfortable for Felix already. He didn’t need her mixed up feelings on top of that.

Needless to say though, by the time she was done with the play, she was not in the mood to be a princess anymore.

___________________________________

Spectacular work by Ace and a lovely continuation of the original First Kiss prompt! Thank you!

[thedeviljudges]

lucky number seven

Steve switches on the television, watches as the black fades from sparks of gray and multi-colored lights into a crystal clear image of Wheel of Fortune. There’s a ding and some shouting, and as he steps away from the medium, someone clears their throat and mumbles, “Can you turn that up, dear?”

He obliges, gives Rosie a smile and replies, “If we turn it up any louder, people will think we’re in a rave.”

She laughs softly, a little roughly from the scratch in her throat. “Wouldn’t that be something.”

“Is this good?” Steve asks after clicking the button, the rising number on the screen set to a level he knows he personally wouldn’t be comfortable with. It’s not about him here, though. He takes care of them the best he knows how, and sometimes that means exhaustion and over stimulation from the differences in how he functions in his life versus the people he takes care of.

“Better,” comes the reply, and with that, Steve leaves, knows Rosie won’t go anywhere any time soon. There’s a lineup on the television. It’s always on at the same time every day, and it’s the reprieve he needs to catch up on all his other rounds.

Heading straight for the reception desk, Steve rounds the corner, tapping his fingers against the surface of the wood. The folders he needs are tucked away under the desk, alphabetized and ready to find. There’s usually a chart on the computer, the one the receptionist is using, and Steve would normally bug her for information about who’s next on his list, but he knows this one. Like the back of his hand, Steve unfortunately pulls the file of his least favorite resident.

“If you frown any harder, your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Steve blinks, turns toward the voice and finds Robin at the end of it. Her fingernail clacks against the mouse her hand is resting over, eyebrows raised like her point is important.

“I’m not frowning.”

She huffs a laugh and shrugs, turning back to what Steve guesses is college homework. Relief, in some sense, finds his way throughout his muscles. Then again, Steve hardly made it through his first round, and the thought of Robin going further in education is both daunting and excessive if not admirable. “Lies, Harrington.”

In return, Steve tsks but doesn’t argue. So maybe he’d been frowning, but it’s only because he’s on his next rounds. An unlikely presence in a home like this, where visitors come and go freely, where most of the residents are happy as they can be in a world that moves too fast for them now.

He doesn’t want to go, would rather avoid the next room altogether, but with a sigh, he closes the folder, places it back where it belongs and heads toward the bay. The medicine sits stacked in rows, locked behind a thick door in case anyone tries anything funny. He measures what he needs, pops the top off of a few bottles and grabs two cups for his journey.

The walls of the nursing home are pale yellow. Steve’s visited a few in his lifetime before working here, and he thinks they always choose the most mundane colors. They’re always dated, and he can’t tell if it’s a sign of the times or purposefully done to accommodate a sense of familiarity within the residents. Steve thinks that routine is much more conducive, but he’s not a painter, and his decision comes last in these matters.

Instead, he gets to decide whether he wants to enter room 104. It’s cracked halfway open, the television glaringly loud. It’s not that he hates the mister inside, but he gives Steve a run for his money when he’s having a bad day.

Most days are bad days.

Squaring his shoulders, Steve gently raps his knuckles against the wood frame of the door, pushing it open to find his patient sitting up in bed. The clothes he wears are from the night and not usually what Steve expects from him at this time of day. It’s nearing nine, knows there’s something to be said about starting the day off early, that previous sentiment racketing his brain from a redundant lecture.

“Good morning, Mr. Hargrove,” Steve says.

The man grunts in reply, but that’s all he gives Steve to work with. Eyes stare far away from the door to the blue light emanating from the tiny screen hanging from the wall. Voices echo in the space they have, somewhat small and refined because most of the folks living here have very little possessions, and if they had more, they weren’t always allowed to bring them in. Glass trinkets are dangerous and useless stuff after they pass is thrown into the trash. Most bring in books and pictures encapsulated in plastic frames, a reminder that they belong somewhere than just a home for the old.

But this room is bare to its core. The man inside no exception.

“I’ve your medicine for you,” he says gently, feet shuffling across the tile. Slippers sit next to the bed, ready for use, that Steve carefully maneuvers around. There’s not a lot of places to walk around like the shoes imply, and Steve often feels guilty they don’t have a better outdoor situation. The halls are only so long, and supervision is often required for other patients, but the sun would be nice sometimes.

Sometimes.

Steve sets the cups down on the nightstand and waits. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that patience goes a long way with Mr. Hargrove, unfortunately. The inconvenience trifles with the limited time on his hands, always cutting it close with the next visit on his list.

“Don’t want none of that.”

Dwelling within his lungs is the urge to release all the air, let them deflate while oxygen runs across his teeth. The day doesn’t have to be difficult, but there’s always a caveat.

“I know Mr. Hargrove,” Steve says alongside sympathy. “But you know you have to. They’ll help you feel better.”

It’s a wry look he receives, dark pupils staring at him from the corner of older eyes. The crow’s feet are jagged lines that run from the corners of the eyelid back toward the thinning line of hair, what little is left.

The silence balloons between them, only the television playing against the stillness. Steve hears the remnants of Rosie’s show ringing in his ears, played on repeat from all the times he’s turned the television on just in time for a contestant to spit an answer.

He’s sure neither of them know how long they stand there, Steve not forcing his hand quite yet. There’s protocols and the like for individuals who make a rough go of it, but Steve often feels a little too nice to take those measures if he can do his best to coax everyone to follow directions.

After enough time has passed, and just when Steve is about to throw in the rag and try other bargaining tools, Mr. Hargrove’s fingers twitch, shoulders slumping as he angles himself properly. “Hand me the damn cups.”

Steve obliges, not saying a word least that propel the man’s decision to cooperate in another direction. With a watchful gaze, Steve makes sure that Mr. Hargrove swallows his pills, hands him the water when he’s got them in his mouth and breathes as evenly as he can in order to avoid further suspicion of his relief.

When he’s done with them both, he hands the cups back to Steve with another grunt, an aborted noise of dissatisfaction escaping past his lips.

“I’ll be back later for lunch,” Steve says gently against the noise of cheering. Blinking away from a stony face, it’s the first time he sees the television for what it is. A bunch of cars on a track racing in circles and counting down laps. “Call if you need anything.”

The cups give way in his hands, crumbling under the pressure of a curled fist. Steve doesn’t wait for a reply, and truth be told, he knows better than to. His shoes squeak as he walks across the tile and through the door, discarding the cups in the trash near the front desk. The file cabinet is already halfway open by the time he makes his way around the counter, Robin rolling back to position and paying him no mind.

Deep down, Steve’s okay. The draft from a room filled with contempt is stifling, but at least it’s another day for the books. At the very least, he can take that and run with it.

++

“Some motherfucker always has the nerve to take my damn parking spot.”

Robin’s ponytail swings in a fluttery mess of golden-brown, and Steve finds the map of freckles highlighted across her face from the hues of light cascading through the open blinds as she tilts her head.

“If you’d learn to be on time, dingus, then maybe you wouldn’t have a problem.”

“I’d argue that you’re doing it on purpose, but I know that’s not it. It’s not your car.” Steve removes the jacket from his shoulders, shaking the left sleeve until it slowly crawls down his arm. It’s an annoying thing he finds with the uniforms they have to wear; they cling to everything, and he finds that he gets stuck in clothes more often than he’s able to take them all off.

The jacket goes on the coat rack, Steve dropping into the second chair behind the desk. It’s early in the morning, and the crew on the overnight shift hasn’t yet left. Steve hears them shuffling about, gathering things that need to be cleaned and dumping the overnight trash into the bins.

“Hey, did you ever find out-”

“Fuck you, old man.”

Robin’s eyes meet Steve’s, going wide as her mouth slowly closes, silencing the question on her tongue. There’s more muffled comments that Steve can’t quite make out, but it drifts down the hall. It’s an argument if he’s ever heard one, and the hairs on his arm raise from the exaggerated scenarios running through his head.

They have protocol for unruly patients, but the most they’ve ever been instructed to do with possible visitors is call the police. Steve scans the reception area and finds no phone readily available. “Rock, paper, scissors?” he asks with a shoulder shrug.

Robin gives him a look, sighing. Her body isn’t rigid likes Steve, and he guesses that maybe she’s not been on the other end of a yelling match. That isn’t to say Steve enjoys them much, but his father has a way with words.

As he’s thinking, Robin brushes past him, startling him. Reaching out, he gentle grasps her wrist. “Let me handle it.”

Pointedly, she takes a look at his temple, the little scar left over from when he got into it with Tommy in senior year. Robin had been witness to it, played nurse and made him sit through the pain of the alcohol she’d used to wipe up the blood and clean the cut.

To avoid further conflict, and because there’s still deep voices resonated from down the hall, Steve pulls the puppy eyes that practically gets him anything he wants. Robin, normally immune, hesitates as she looks back. It’s cute, he thinks, that someone is actually worried for his safety. That’s still a thing he’s not use to, but he tugs at her wrist as he stands up, positions himself in front of her and smiles. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

He feels like those are famous last words. Not that he actually believes in harms way, but Steve has seen patients act out or have episodes that leave people with scratches and pretty bruises. It’s not their fault, he knows; old age is nothing that he can outrun, but a body in distress isn’t always the easiest to handle.

He leaves Robin there, notices her sit back down out of the corner of his eye, and he’s relieved for that. Usually she’s the type to follow, always has Steve’s back in whatever dumb shit he’s trying to do, but truth be told, he’s been hurt far more than she has, and well, Steve has always been a bit of a mother hen.

As he walks down the hall, the voices become clearer until there’s nothing left. Steve, as he’d been listening this morning to the scrape of employee shoes on the floor, finds that there’s a much deeper set of footsteps amidst the others. When he pauses, peering into every room as he walks in case something is off, a door at the end of the hall opens. It catches his attention immediately with the force of the swing.

Dread immediately fills his body.

There’s a pair of boots on the floor, accompanied by legs in jeans. Steve trails his gaze up, following the shape of a human body leaving Neil Hargrove’s room.

Neil never has guests.

He’s blond. That’s the first thing Steve takes notice of. Untamed curly hair. Thick brows. Pink lips. The list goes on really, and Steve bits the inside of his cheek to bring himself back into focus. Into the real meaning of why he’s standing in the middle of the hall like an idiot while he tries to figure out who the fuck this man is, and how he knows Neil of all people.

When Steve focuses again, the man with no name is leaning against the wall just outside the door, runs his hands through those curls. There’s a tick in his jaw, unreleased tension building in the way he holds himself—in the slope of his shoulders, in the way his fingers tap against his jeans like he’s itching for something to do.

A good amount of time passes, lost in thought, lost in a hallway with no indication of time sifting through the ether. Steve stands there, and the man stays there until they both gain composure, Steve only moving when his companion pushes himself away from the wall.

As soon as he turns, he spots Steve. It’s kinda hard to miss him when he’s in turquoise scrubs against a yellow backdrop of nursing home walls. There’s the initial pause that comes, the startling thought of being caught so intimately, and then the inevitable change of facial features into one of pure anger.

Steve might’ve fucked up on this one.

His throat works, thick with saliva and unable to churn out the words he needs to bring help to a situation that had deescalated but might shift in reverse any second. The furrow in the other man’s brow creases, eyes glassy but hard, akin to a stone caricature. It’s like a gunslinger’s battle just without the weapons, and Steve feels his pulse escalating until it drops, suddenly.

Like a balloon bursting, the man licks the front of his teeth, smiles in the most dangerous way and continues down the hall like nothing happened at all.

Steve catches a glimpse of him as he passes. Pretty blue eyes and a chain around his neck. The denim jacket smells like subtle cologne, and before he has a chance to ask, the sound of heavy boots are disappearing.

The decision to run after him or go check on Mr. Hargrove is difficult. It’s obligations on both ends of the spectrum, but at the end of the day, it’s Neil that lives here so Steve shakes his head to unstir his thoughts until he’s planted in front of an open door and a bare room with nothing but someone inside.

Neil is in his wheelchair today rather than his bed. Steve would take it has a good sign if it weren’t for the way he’s got his leg stretched out in front of him. There’s the thought that maybe his visitor had done something wrong, busted up the knee and left behind pain, but Neil gives him a look that shuts him up, reminiscent of blue eyes who’d argued to speak his mind.

“Get the fuck out,” he grumbles in reply, reaching for the remote. The television isn’t so loud this time, doesn’t bounce off the walls like he’s used to. Steve doesn’t listen, not until Neil flips through the channels and settles on his station of choice.

It’s always the cars. Always the stupid cars on the track. The numbers counting down and Steve unaware of the rules of the game.

He suspects that Neil is fine, would probably bitch at him if he wasn’t. So Steve says, “let me know if you need anything,” and is just about to step out when Neil huffs out laughter.

At first, it sounds like it’s aimed at him. Steve feels that tell-tale leak of shame in his chest for wanting to be helpful and productive, but the flicker of the tv screen changes his mind in an instant.

It’s not just cars anymore. It’s a list of drivers with their sponsors and their numbers, and Steve can’t miss it for the world. Couldn’t if he tried.

Number 61 has vivid blue eyes. Curly blond hair, and a self-deprecating smirk that rings all too familiar.

[the-foxes-fangs]

I Wish I Was the Moon: Mitsuhide’s Birthday Interlude

As requested by the lovely @vhaena​ (thank you for your patience

Warnings:  Fire hazards that should only be attempted in the company of a trained Sasuke

Read the longer fic for context here

                                 ━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━

Surprising him would require some kind of bait and switch, there was no way to distract him from any activity, including her own, but it was a challenge worth rising to, given the lengths he was prone to go to for her sake.

It was easy enough to think of an interesting gift, but sending out letters requesting assistance required enough subterfuge that she nearly felt guilty for conspiring under his nose, even though the conspiracy was entirely innocuous. She knew he made an effort, despite himself, to give her her privacy in both correspondence and conversations, and so her requests went out with fulfilled orders and a few convenient gifts.

The trickiest part was to meet Kyubei, the linchpin of the whole plan, without drawing Mitsuhide’s attention, but somehow they managed to pass each other in the halls and palm off notes like school children.

She had deliberately begun the process several months early to throw him off the scent and allow the castle to return to a normal state until as close to his birthday as was possible. But now that the clock was winding down and the event was the next day, she could feel his curious eyes on her, and the question in his smile at the sight of her practically slinking through the halls.

He had brought her her favorite sweets that night, and had an expression that could only be described as solicitous insofar as his face ever betrayed any anxiety at all.

Her reassuring smile didn’t seem to lift his spirits, as he undid her hair and sat her before him to comb it, a habit that soothed him whenever he was troubled, a kind of wordless intimacy that reminded him of the trust between them and the strength of their bond.

She felt him pause and lean forward to rest his chin upon her shoulder with a sigh.

“Are you… unhappy here?” He asked, very softly, the directness of the question betraying his anxiety.

“What? I couldn’t be happier.” She answered in a rush, feeling a strong pang of guilt at having given him the impression that her feelings had changed.

“You left a great many things behind to be with me, and I’m, well, me. It would be natural if you regretted it.” He said, so softly she had to strain to hear it.

“My handsome, sweet-hearted fox. I’ve never looked back– or is it forward? At any rate, I’ve never wanted to look in any direction but the one you’re in, and I never will.” She said, tilting her head to rest her cheek against his hair.

“I’m aware that you’re planning a completely unnecessary banquet for my birthday, but that’s no reason for you to look so harried, little mouse.”

His breath stirred the hair on her neck and sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine as she steeled herself to– not exactly lie– but evade. “Of course it’s necessary, who could be more important to celebrate than you?” She asked lightly as she reached up to run her fingers through his hair.

“How well you’ve learned all of my tricks.” He replied with a soft low laugh that set her heart beating faster. “I won’t make you talk, no matter how I’m tempted to, so long as you look me in the eye and promise me that if anything troubles you you won’t hold back.”

She turned to face him, arms around his neck, and looked into his haunting, piercing eyes. “If anything troubles me, I’ll always tell you.”

He studied her face intently and she forced herself not to flinch. It wasn’t as if planning his birthday troubled her, and as such it wasn’t technically a lie. She hoped he couldn’t see her finding loopholes to keep the slightest hint of guilt out of her expression. Besides, if he could read her mind, surprise be damned, he’d find only love there and a fierce desire to show him how well loved he truly was.

“Why, I like this side of you as much as all the rest, it seems.” He said at last, the ease back in his voice and smile.

A close, close call. She leaned toward him for a kiss, laughing as he pulled them both down into the bedding, laughter turning to a gasp at the feel of his cool fingers gliding down her throat, and the promise of his touch.

He was up before daybreak, the same as any other day, which she had been counting on as she hustled out of bed herself and said a silent prayer to the god of fickle fortune that Kyubei had succeed in taking him away on a local inspection of the ongoing rice harvest.

She peeked into his office, and smiled with satisfaction at the bit of rice straw that Kyubei had left as a signal, an otherwise unremarkable feature in the well used room. The others would be waiting in the castle town, having traveled on a tight schedule that brought them to the town just after he was gone, leaving no time for his spies to report their presence. The signal went out and one by one they filtered in, Masamune first, with a wild grin, eye alight with amusement as he put up his hand and whispered “you know we’re never going to actually surprise him, right?”

“Probably not, but it’s the effort that counts.” She answered, yelping as he enveloped her in a bear hug.

“Masamune, try to have some manners.” Hideyoshi interjected with a long-suffering sigh, as he reached out to pat her on the head.

“Yes, a commendable effort, though probably wasted.” Nobunaga added, gliding majestically through the doors.

“I don’t even see the point in trying.” Muttered Ieyasu, trailing beside him.

“Well, I think it’s wonderful that we’ve all managed to visit Lord Mitsuhide on his birthday.” Mitsunari said with a sunny smile.

“You, think? That will be the day.” Ieyasu shot back with a snort.

“I still would very much like a lock of your hair, Lord Ieyasu.” Sasuke said, appearing out of nowhere next to Ieyasu, who jerked back and glared at him.

“What? Why!? Also no! You’re as weird as she is, and that’s really saying something. Is everyone from the future this weird, or did they send you here because they couldn’t stand you?” Ieyasu said, bitterly.

She clapped her hands lightly to get their attention, and felt a rush of nostalgia for her days at Azuchi. “I’ve missed you all, even your incessant bickering. But time is short, so, did you bring it?”

“Of course.” Nobunaga said with a magnanimous gesture.

“I tested it, it’s as strong as you said it should be.” Ieyasu answered with a shake of his head.

“I can’t wait to see this.” Masamune said, rubbing his hands together with delight.

“I still think this sounds incredibly dangerous. I don’t like the idea at all.” Hideyoshi added fretfully.

“I compounded the ingredients you requested, they’re as pure as they can be and relatively safe.” Sasuke said as he patted her on the shoulder. “I have to say, this is a surprising idea.”

“Yes, well, I went through a phase of fascination with pirates after those you knows came out you know when.” She muttered to him.

“I’m quite curious to see how this will work myself.” Mitsunari said thoughtfully.

“Well anyhow, I’m off to the kitchen. I’d like to have tasted it before hand but,” Masamune shrugged expressively, “I’ll take the word of the barbarian traders.”  

“I tasted it and it was… interesting.” Hideyoshi said, the tips of his ears truning faintly red.

“Oh is that what you call tearfully professing your undying admiration and love for Lord Nobunaga?” Interesting?” Ieyasu asked with a roll of his eyes. “Just take care, Mitsuhide has a high tolerance but this barbarian drink is a strong as anything I’ve ever tested.” He added, watching the attendants roll the large barrel, looking somewhat the worse for its long journey, toward the banquet hall.

They went their separate ways for final preparations, and she finished dressing hurriedly and went to meet him at the gates. Kyubei nodded to her with a smile as she went to throw her arms around Mitsuhide, armor and all, and kiss him on the cheek.

“Happy Birthday.”

“Why you look almost as sparkling as a lit firecracker, little mouse, did something especially good happen while I was being dragged about like an obedient pet for your pleasure?” He asked with a wink.

“I suppose you’ll have to run along and change to find out.” She answered, winking back at him. “I’ll be waiting in the banquet hall.”

“Oh very well, I’ll arrange my face into an expression of surprise if it makes you happy.” He said over his shoulder as he sauntered away.

She went and joined the others, mouth watering at the sight and scent of the feast Masamune had prepared and nodded at Sasuke and Nobunaga where they stood ready.

They waited in silence, save for Ieyasu snorting again, until they heard the soft sound of the opening door, and, just as he walked in, set fire to the row of cups of gunpowder laced brandy in a dazzling show of leaping flame.

“Happy Birthday!” They all shouted together, and though she never could say for certain that he was truly surprised, he managed a fine imitation of it just the same, and the genuinely pleased expression on his face, though fleeting, was more than enough to justify the work.

She picked up two of the cups still alight, thick stone to keep it from heating too soon, and went to him, handing him one Sasuke and Nobunaga passed the rest around to his retainers and allies. “A toast to Mitsuhide, who keeps us all on our toes year after year, and is as fine a friend and lover as anyone could ever ask for!” She said, and clinked her cup to his as he raised his brow at her, a faint blush on his face.

She reached over and clapped her hand quickly over the flames first on his cup and then her own, and everyone in the room followed suit and tossed the liquor back, the gunpowder in it burning like the devil as it went down. He joined them and broke out into a surprised smile.

The rest of the room was in various paroxysms of coughing and choking at the high alcohol content and rough finish, even Nobunaga was clearing his throat discretely.

“I can taste that!” He exclaimed quietly, and gave her a look of admiration she could feel to her toes. “Well done, little mouse. Well done.” He murmured sweetly.

“As she hypothesized, you can’t so much taste things as feel the sensation if they’re extremely potent.” Sasuke said as they joined him, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looking quite the scientist, except for the flush of the liquor spreading across his face.

“I can’t believe–” Ieyasu said irritably, clearing his throat, “that we went to so much trouble to obtain something so utterly vile!”

“I could see how–” Mitsunari said, between bouts of coughing, “someone could get to like this.”

“Ha! Just try and fool me with that concoction!” Masamune cut in, laughing heartily as he served them all food.

Hideyoshi, who appeared to be more sensitive to alcohol than he seemed, was quite red, and glaring at them all. “Unbelievable! A fire! With gunpowder! Indoors! Well no wonder you refused to travel back to Azuchi for this– this– madness!” He sputtered.

“I found it a most impressive display.” Nobunaga said, with a smile. “Seeing our Mitsuhide surprised makes the journey well worth it.”

“Well, I have to give the barbarians credit, this is quite the drink.” Mitsuhide said, as he refilled his cup.

“The gunpowder was– is–will be? A popular addition amongst pirates waaaaay wayyy over on the other side of the world.” She said, already feeling the effects of the strong liquor. “But when I think of you I think of gunpowder and alcohol, which made think of pirates which made me think of this.”

“I don’t know whether to be completely pleased or a little insulted.” Mitsuhide replied with an amused smile. “I’ve never been one for sailing, you know.”

“I’ll just shut up and eat.” She said, feeling the heat across her face at his teasing, but quite pleased herself nonetheless.

He somehow managed to slip Masamune a bit of drink, and he promptly fell face first into the bosom of a maid who didn’t seem terribly put out by the development, as Hideyoshi, alternating between bouts of fuming and maudlin affection, saw to it that he was carried to his room.

“I just can’t believe that you would put Lord Nobunaga in danger of being burned!” Hideyoshi said, shaking his finger in her face and then reaching out to muss her hair, with a glitter of tears in his eyes. “I really do miss having you at Azuchi you know. I worry about you all the time, thinking ‘is Mitsuhide making sure she doesn’t work herself sick? Is Mitsuhide making sure she’s wearing a heavy enough coat?’ He’d better be!”

“If anything I imagine Mitsuhide is keeping entirely too close an eye on our former chatelaine. I’ll bet it’s like being in prison, but she’s goofy enough to enjoy that.” Ieyasu said, a faint slur betraying the affection in his words. He had been as approving as he ever was when she’d told him that a strong dose of pepper was the traditional garnish for the beverage.  

“Oh what a beautiful understanding of love you have, Lord Ieyasu. Truly, you never fail to astonish me with your insight.” Mitsunari said, apparently the only one of them drinking in careful moderation.

“I’ll insight you!” Ieyasu replied, staggering forward only to be caught by a grinning Nobunaga.

“One can imagine Mitsuhide as a pirate easily enough. He’d be a terror with a ship full of cannons.” Nobunaga said with a nod to her.

“Yes, that’s entirely too many large guns in too small an area for him to do anything but raise hell with with.” Sasuke said, a fleeting look of horror in eyes. “No. No it’s best not to think about these things.”

“Why squirrel, you should appreciate that I’ve turned my talents to peaceful ends.” Mitsuhide replied, throwing an affectionate arms over Sasuke’s shoulders.

“I’ll squirrel you!” Sasuke said in imitation of Ieyasu, whom he had been stalking all evening.

“I’m sure you will.” Mitsuhide responded with a soothing pat on the shoulders.  

They laughed and drank the night away, and even he seemed a little tipsy as they staggered to their room, holding each other up.

She flung the door to the balcony open to let in the cold autumn breeze and sat shoulder to shoulder with him watching the moon peek out from between the clouds. “So, how much of that did you find out in advance?”

“Oh I gathered that you were bringing our friends here, but other than that– nice work. I don’t pay much attention to food or drink, so you chose a fine angle of attack.” He answered warmly, with a soft laugh. “I’m glad you’re on my side.”

“I’m just sorry that I made you worry that I was unhappy.” She answered, resting her cheek against the warm silk of his kimono, her head still swimming a little.

“I suppose I’ll always worry that you’re unhappy. But I trust you, even when it appears that you’re plotting something.”

“Plotting to make you happy can surely be forgiven, since you do it all the time.” She replied.

“I have no argument to that. You once told me I always smell of gunpowder and I thought you meant I always smell of death, back then.” He said, looking like a sculpture limned in moonlight in profile.

“No! It’s a scent that I love because it’s part of your scent. Besides, now you know that I thought it was a very romantic thing, even before we met. The freedom of thought and will to defy the times and go against the grain of society, what could be more attractive than that?” She asked, smiling up at him.

“Remind me to keep you away from Motonari.” He answered with an amused laugh as he turned to look at her.

“I know exactly where I want to be and with whom, never you fear.” She said.

“Thank you, my dear, for a most memorable birthday.” He said, leaning to kiss her forehead.

“Well, your birthday isn’t over yet, and neither are my plots fulfilled. Come to bed.” She said, as the wind lifted the hair from his brow and revealed the love light in his eyes when he looked down at her.

[slaughterjaw]

Innocent or Guilty?

Asked someone to marry you? — “Innocent. I do not care for relationships to such a degree.”

Kissed one of your friends? — “Guilty. When I was a stupid little sixty-three year old still in Silvermoon as a dare.”

Danced on a table in a bar / tavern? — “Innocent, though I do enjoy watching the buffoonery which happens in the Iron Company bar. Dwarves performing that dance where they alternate kicking their legs out is my favorite.”

Ever told a lie? — “Guilty. Everyone has at the very least dipped their toes in deception once in their lifetime.”

Had feelings for someone you can’t have? — “Innocent. I do not waste time playing cat and mouse when my energy is better applied elsewhere.”

Ever kissed someone of the same sex? — “Does it count if the other instigated? If so, guilty.”

Kissed a picture? — “Innocent. As sentimental as photographs are, I do not think dwelling on those lost to such a degree is wise.”

Slept until 5pm? — “Guilty. One often could not tell what time it was within Silvermoon. The blasted eternal Spring made sure of that.”

Worked at a fast food chain / restaurant? — “Innocent. I have never wanted for this sort of work, though I applaud those which have the patience to do it on a regular basis.”

Stolen something? — ”Guilty. I often pick interesting armaments or trinkets from the corpses of those I dispatch. They certainly do not need it.”

Been fired from a job? — “Does ‘My leader deceived us all, showed her true colors, and I relinquished my rank’ count? If so, guilty.”

Done something you regret? — “Everyone has done something which they would gladly change if the chance to wind the hands of time back presented itself. Guilty.”

Laughed until something you were drinking came out of your nose? — “Guilty. I can attest that bored mercenaries often make stupid fools of themselves for entertainment, myself included when I am in comfortable company.”

Caught a snowflake on your tongue? — “Innocent. Though I may do this when the chance presents itself in the future.”

Sat on a roof top? — “Guilty. During my adolescence, I often skipped across the Silvermoon rooftops and spires for fun. I always did feel confined in that city.”

Kissed someone you shouldn’t have? — “Innocent. I do not treat these types of gestures lightly. Though, to be fair, no one has gained my attention.”

Sang in the shower? — “Innocent. I never felt the need to.”

Been pushed into a body of water with all your clothes on? — “Many have tried. Yet I still remain innocent.”

Shaved your head? — “Innocent. Though I am sure shorter hair is much more practical in my profession, I feel an odd connection with what I already have.”

Made a boyfriend / girlfriend cry? — “Innocent. I have never had a significant other.”

Shot a gun? — “Aye. Knowing how to shoot a rifle, take it apart, and clean it is part of Deathguard training.”

Still loved someone you shouldn’t? — “Innocent. I do not love lightly. With what I do, romantic affection is very rare.”

Have / had a tattoo? — “Innocent. Though I do appreciate good art on others. They are like a walking painting.”

Liked someone, but will never tell who? — “Innocent. There is nothing to be gained hiding like a coward and keeping hushed secrets like a child. If there is one who ignites your soul, let them know.”

Been too honest? — “Guilty. Sometimes the truth hurts, but living with a painful truth is better than deluding one’s self in a comfortable lie.”

Ruined a surprise? — “Innocent. Secrets entrusted to me are secrets I will take to my grave.”

Been told that you’re beautiful by someone who totally meant what they said? — “Innocent. People do not call a black-armored fortress of a forsaken beautiful.”

Stalked someone? — “Innocent. Infatuation to such a degree is harmful and leads to escalating behavior, not to mention a waste of time.”

Thoughts about murder? — “Murder keeps me in business. Guilty.”

How about mass murder? — The soldier actually laughs. “Oh. I am likely guilty many times over. I have risen to what I am today on the bodies of enemies.”

Cheated on someone? —  “This is a vile breach of trust and despicable. Innocent.”

Gotten so angry that you cried? — “Guilty, I suppose. Pain and wounds sustained in battle shed tears. But now? I am fortunate my tear ducts no longer operate and I cannot feel pain.”

Tried to stay away from someone for their own good? — “Guilty. I found a terrified Human child in Pyrewood. She could not have been older than six. The Deathguard slaughtered her parents prior, and the group did not wish to leave witnesses. That night was the first time I drew my blade on fellow Deathguard. There is no glory in the slaughtering those defenseless. I do not possess the ability to raise a child in a stable environment, but the child is now in a loving foster family in a far off land. Those deathguard slain have been marked off as simple casualties at the hands of the Worgen.”

Thoughts about suicide? — “Guilty. I often pondered the thought as I sought purpose in my youth. I sought death during my early days in the Farstriders. Coming to terms with what I am, one who enjoys fighting for fighting’s sake, has erased the desire. I live for myself and allies. There is no force controlling my destiny but my own will.”

Had a girlfriend / boyfriend? — “Innocent. Drunken fools often approach and attempt to try, and they stumble in the opposite direction when I remove my helmet or when I drive my metal fist into their mouth and break a few teeth. Romance is a fickle creature, and I have yet to meet one who can hold my interest.”

Gotten totally drunk during a holiday? — “Brewfest every year, and it is perhaps my favorite holiday. The apothecaries outdid themselves when they concocted a potion which restored my ability to taste and grow intoxicated.”

Tagged By: @preyontheweak​, @ms-winford​

Tagging: Anyone else who wishes to do this! I believe I’m late to the party, and most of you have already been tagged once.

[scriptlgbt]

Where is mod nat? An explanation. 

(Death mention.) (Not of nat, don’t worry about that.)

If unable to proceed, the gist is that some Tough Stuff has been happening in my life lately and I’m hiatus-ing while I move and deal with some grief.

I want to first apologize for not being able to let folks know sooner that I had intended to go on a brief hiatus. Usually, when I’ve done that kind of thing in the past I’ve still had the capacity to check in every now and again and keep the queue flowing or at least explain. But better late than never.

So, I have been evicted from my home, along with 3 other roommates (all of us trans, 3 of us homelessness survivors, 2 abuse escapees). This is through no fault of our own - our landlord just wants to renovate so extensively that they need people to be not living here during that. It honestly has been a long time coming - there has been a mouse problem here for some time, a bug problem, an unfixed broken window, mildew and some mold, and an array of other issues.

Fortunately, two of us have a place to live. Unfortunately, two of us don’t. Myself and my partner (and my bunny, Snicklefritz) are moving in with a friend and doing so over the course of this month. The other two are in flux, which is actually the reverse of how the situation started out. If you have the money to spare and want to support the lot of us in some way, or want to signal boost, here is a link to the GoFundMe as started by one of my roommates.

That alone has been stressful.

But recently, an old friend of mine (Rabbi Emet Tauber, ZTz"L) passed away due to complications related to Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome* (something my partner also has - tho not with the gastroparesis aforementioned friend had). Within a week of that, I received an email from my (very distant) father letting me know that my Oma (who survived a concentration camp, who had survived being a homeless teenager in a park in Berlin) has also died. This all hit me very hard. 

That all said, I want to be clear that answering your questions here means a lot to me. It provides a kind of gratification that I cannot get in a lot of other aspects of my activism. I am constantly researching and learning so much because of this blog. And I definitely will return with more answers, and slowly get back into the habit of answering what I can. 

With the current timeline of things, my guess is that I’ll be back more solidly halfway through May, maybe. There’s quite a few partially answered things I’ve got in drafts that I’m eager to wrap up, and I recently got myself a book called Histories of the Transgender Child by Julian Gill-Peterson which appears to cover a lot of history (including medical stuff and intersex stuff) that goes overlooked - things you folks ask about. (One of these days I’m going to give a masterlist of books I recommend for researching these topics, I promise!)

Thank you all for your patience. I hope all good things come your way and inspiration be constantly finding you. May all of your pain alleviate. Check in with your old friends for me and see how they are doing.

- mod nat

*(If you don’t know about EDS, learning the basics makes a huge difference. It is far, far too common for so few people to be informed about it, and the average amount of time between symptom onset and diagnosis is extremely damaging for the health of so many people. No one deserves to feel so alone in it.)

[thenovelartist]

Who’s my Enemy

AU August - Day 4 - Enemy AU

He was her greatest enemy. But what could be expected from someone of his status? She loved fashion, but the industry was full of arrogant, self-absorbed, cut-throat, downright petty people.

Such as one Adrien Agreste.

Ever since the day he put gum on her seat some eight years ago, the day he came to class as Chloe’s best friend, they were enemies. And he’d grown into this… this… Ugh!

IMBICILE!

“Someone’s on a rampage,” someone purred behind her.

She spun on her heel, grinning at the sight of her white clad partner. “Nothing that I can’t handle, kitty.”

He hummed. “I know, but Miss Fortune usually likes keeping a spotless reputation. And I’m more than happy to do a bit of dirty work.”

She made a show of pouting. “But I hate that it means you’ll soil your suit.” She scratched under his chin, a smile curling on his lips as he leaned into it. “White shows everything.”

“Cat’s bathe themselves for a reason, missy,” he said, his voice distorted by a literal purr. “And we all know it’s the ones that look pure that you have to watch out for.”

She hummed her agreement as she moved from his chin to his ear.

“What are we hitting to—YES, right there!”

“Hear?” she said, putting pressure on the cat ear.

“Yes,” he purred out, melting into his touch.

“You didn’t cat-ch my pun.”

“It’s because puns are a terrible form of humor.”

“You broke them out today.”

“Because you love them and you’re the only person I live to please.”

She grinned, letting her hand fall from his head to knock his bell, getting a tickling ring from it.

He proudly lifted his chin as if to show off the silver bell.

She giggled, ringing it a few more times. “I know the purr-fect spot.”

“Lead the way, missy.”

…

He loved when she tore apart a Gabriel store. When she slashed his own face, the one that littered the ads all over the store, with a vengeance, not so much. But destroying the thing his father worked so hard to build.

It brought a twisted sense of satisfaction.

A crook hooked around his neck, choking him for a moment, forcing him to spin and crash to his knees.

Oh, but the backlash was so, so painful.

A black gloved hand grabbed his chin and lifted it high to face purple eyes.

“You really think your little stunt tonight would go unpunished?”

“I have to keep her trust somehow.”

The man hummed then yanked Chat’s jaw towards the ground. Before he could recover form that, the crook of his cane came down on his head hard enough to make a knot that would linger for the next couple days.

“She’s wrapped around your finger,” the man said. “She’s playing right out of your hands. I want her earrings, and I want them now.”

“Patience,” Chat Blanc pleaded.

“No, you see, I’ve been patient long enough.” The cane crashed into his chest, knocking him out on his back so black hands could grab the silver bell at his suit and yank it tight. “You forget who put this bell on you,” Hawkmoth warned.

“I’ll get you the earrings,” Chat said.

“And the broach she stole from me.”

“That will take longer,” he panted.

“You listen to me, boy,” Hawkmoth growled. He used his cane to snatch Chat’s hand from the ground, grabbing it tight and pinching a pressure point. Chat cried out but couldn’t rip his hand free. “You know why you have this ring?”

He nodded. “You worked really hard to get it for me.”

“Precisely. And do you know why I have to be transformed when you go out?”

“To give me more power.”

“Precisely,” he said, forcing Chat’s fist open and grabbing the ring. “And do you know what’s going to happen if you use your power to destroy my store again?”

The ring was slowly being pulled from his finger, his transformation partially fading back into his failure self. “Yes. Yes. I know. I know. Please.”

His father replaced the ring, allowing Chat Blanc to remain. “I want the location of the broach within the next few days. Am I clear?”

His heart was pounding. “Yes, father.”

…

She entered her room, and the first thing that she noticed were the feathers. Three of them. Her calling card.

“So, you trashed a store,” La Paon said in her monotone voice. “Very nice. But Chat’s going to start noticing you don’t touch the DC line.”

“He’s too busy wrecking the store anyway.”

La Paon hummed dismissively. “Nevertheless, no matter how many stores you trash, I’ll still be short a broach and a ring.”

“I’m not any closer.”

“I know.”

Miss Fortune cringed.

La Paon sauntered towards Marinette with a walk that would make any model jealous. “I don’t care how you get that information,” she purred out. “I don’t care if you pounce that poor cat and give him the only thing he wants from you.”

She almost said ‘That’s a lie,’ but she bit her lip before she could challenge her boss.

But La Paon was preceptive. “Men,” she began, “always have an endgame when it comes to toying with women. I wouldn’t expect you at your age to realize it, but let me make it clear for you.” Roughly, she lifted Miss fortune’s chin so as to lock eyes with her. “Men seek sex. They’ll play the cat and mouse game if they know they can win. And he’s showing the classic signs of it.” She left go of Miss Fortune’s chin and started circling her. “The flirting, constantly. The way he fawns over you, lets you lead, making you believe you’re in charge. It’s all so that you fall into his hands. Mark my words. Your cat, as you so affectionately call him, wants your body. It’s not because you have a sparking personality or anything.”

Miss Fortune’s gaze fell to the ground.

“So that being said, now that you know what he wants, you have all the power in the world to use it against him. I want that ring, I want that broach, and you can get them for me. Am I clear?”

She swallowed.

La Paon cooed, a smirk curling up on her lips. “The truth can be so bitter, can’t it?”

Miss fortune lifted her gaze to La Paon’s.

“I am still waiting for an answer. Will you get me those two things?”

Miss Fortune nodded. “Yes.”

“Good,” she purred. “Because next time, I’ll have to enlist some consequences. And neither of us would want that, would we?”

She shook her head.

“Then I’ll come back for a progress check. I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you a week. Am I clear?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Good. Gabriel wouldn’t want to lose the designer of the DC line, would he?”

Miss Fortune’s gaze hit the ground as her master literally flew out the window.

…

Adrien had just about had it with Marinette. No matter that she was his father’s favorite designer, she was the rudest, most judgmental person he’d ever met in his life.

No wonder his father favored her. She was just like him.

She picked him with a pin for the fifth time today, and he knew it wasn’t accidental.

But it was the sixth one that made him snap.

He flicked his hand out, smacking her nose in the process. “Are you always this clumsy?” he snapped.

She glared up at him. “If you just stood still—”

“I stood still?”

Her nose scrunched up at him in a sneer. “Yes. You’re the model, right.”

“And you’re the professional designer.” He scoffed. “What am I saying? You’re just the rude, arrogant wreck that my dad picked to manipulate. You’re pretty; you’ll sell. Like you have an ounce of talent when I can see my dad’s flare is all over the line that ‘you’ supposedly sell.”

Her brow furrowed deeper. He smirked. “Oh? Hit a sore spot? Truth stings, doesn’t it? You’ll never be as good as my father. You’re just his puppet.”

In a flash, pain engulfed his left cheek. He stumbled off his perch, collapsing to the ground while his brain caught up with the fact she’d just slugged him.

“Stop it.” She said, her voice warbling with tears. “You know nothing about me.”

She left before he could force his stunned mind to even formulate an answer to that.

…

His father wasn’t up for transforming tonight. So he was out on the rooftop, his suit blacker than the night. It was odd, so very odd. He felt different. Not quite powerful. No quite liberated. Rebellious. That was the best term for it. Rebellious.

His ever-sharp hearing picked up the familiar pat of his partner landing on the roof behind him. He didn’t want to turn around. He was weak and vulnerable and shamed. But at the same time maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to see her face when she learned what he really looked like without the butterfly spell on him. Maybe—

“Kitty?”

He turned around, only for his jaw to drop. She was different. Her suit was now bright red and filled with large black spots instead of her normal black speckled with little blue dots. “Missy?”

Slowly, hesitantly, with a fear he’d never seen in her before, she came up and sat down beside him, only to curl her knees up to her chin and hug them close.

“Something’s wrong,” he observed quietly.

“You too,” she pointed out.

They stayed in silence for a while longer.

“Does it have to do with the bruise on your cheek?”

Chat turned to see his little miss looking at him from the corner of her eye. He sagged forward. “Maybe a bit. There’s… there’s a girl that I don’t really get along with at my job, but… she’s never hit me. It was kinda…”

“A slap to the face?”

He looked over to see just the hint of a smile picking at her lips. “Yeah,” he huffed, slightly amused. “You could say that. But what brings you out here, out of suit?”

She paused for the longest time that he almost thought she wasn’t going to answer. “I need help.”

Her confession was so quiet, so airy, he almost missed it. Instead, his stomach tightened and every nerve stood on end as he scooted closer. “What’s wrong?”

She took a shaky breath, and Chat immediate pulled her close because if she started crying, he wasn’t going to be able to stop them, and her tears hurt. “La Paon hates me.”

“Who?”

“The woman who give me stronger power in return for taking your miraculous.”

He blinked. “W…what?”

She sniffed and the tears poured down before she stopped them. “I don’t want to!” she cried, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t want to. You’re the only person who actually says nice things to me. You never hurt me. I can always trust you and I know you don’t just want to sleep with me like La Paon says… right?”

His chest constricted. “NO!” he said, taking her cheeks in his hands. “Why would you even think that?”

“Because… because she’s right so often. A-a-and she said that… that you just want to use me because that’s all I’m good for and—”

“You listen here, Missy,” he said, stopping her rant. “Any guy who just wants you for your body is a terrible human being. I’d never use you like that. Ever. You have my word.”

She whipped the tears from her eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” he assured.

“Even though I don’t have any personality?”

“Who the hell told you that?” he demanded.

Her silence spoke volumes.

He sighed, then reached over to grab her hand. “You’re a good friend to talk to. To me, that counts for a lot.”

She rubbed her eyes, then hesitantly reached out to touch his bruised cheek. He let his eyes drift shut and leaned into her touch as her fingers slowly drifted down his neck and tapped his bell. It made a different sound now. Instead of a jingle, it let out a light sound, one barely noticeable, like an actual cat’s bell.

“You’ve changed, too.”

“I’m out here without my father’s power.”

Her brow furrowed. “Y… your father?”

“He has a miraculous gem, too,” Chat explained. “He uses it to enhance my power.”

Her fingers then rose to his chin, forcing it up to the sky. He submitted to her touch easily, allowing her to guide his head backwards though he hadn’t the slightest clue why.

Until she pulled his collar away from his neck and ran her fingers across the bruise that was forming.

“He has this cane,” Chat explained, his voice hoarse. “He got mad that I didn’t grab your earrings during our last outing.”

She removed her hands from him, allowing his head to fall back into a normal position. When he met her eyes, they were glassy and fear stood behind them. Still, she swallowed, and suddenly, her transformation vanished in a flash of pink light.

Leaving the girl he hated more than anything in the world in her wake.

“Hi,” she said, her voice weak and her bottom lip quivering nervously. “My name’s Marinette. And I need help.”

He stared at her until tears formed in her eyes again. He barely registered that she had pulled her hand away and was shying away from him. “I know you’d hate me. I’m sorry. I’ll just—”

He grabbed her hand and forced her back down to his side. “Don’t leave me,” he begged. “Please, because…” With a sigh, he dropped his transformation, revealing himself to her. “Because my name’s Adrien. And I need help, too.”

She stared blankly at him, likely feeling the same way he did. Shock, horror, embarrassment.

After a while, she swallowed. “This is…”

“Odd?”

She nodded.

A pause slipped between them, during which Adrien realized she had yet to pull her hand away.

“I still don’t like you,” she said. “But I need my partner.”

“And I need you,” he agreed. “No one else knows what I’m going through.”

“Can we work this out?”

He squeezed her hand, and the strength that passed between them was almost palpable. “Yeah. I think we can.”

[spacemilkies]

"Don't go in today. Stay in bed with me" nsfw for Jacob please?

So much dirty love for big daddy Jacob. I see you all. i may edit this a tad BUT i hope this was what you sort of had in mind-ish

It was still too early, always too early.

Jacob had once warned you soon after his bed became a routine comfort that he was an early riser.  His military background immediately factored in as a plausible reason, the anthems of trumpets and blow horns famed in movies coming to mind. Fortunately, those sounds never interrupted your sleep. It seemed as if pure obedience rang louder than any alarm amongst Jacob’s troops.

In truth, most mornings you never realized he was gone until light of a new day became too bright to ignore. It was an equal testament to your lack of functionality that prematurely and Jacob’s practice to leave you undisturbed. His strategy was nearly infallible except for on days like these when your body had yet to adjust to winter’s cool embrace. Or at least, that was your most appealing narrative.

Before the sun tips over the horizon, your eyes were already fluttering in recognition to his impending departure. He’s not completely immune to the changing seasons either, the shift of temperature noticeable in his slower movements and aching scars. There are times that he catches himself muttering odds and ends, small reminders or complaints barely shadowed by a night’s sleep. Sometimes they’re directed at you when he realizes you’ve roused.

The window of opportunity is slim and laboriously dependent on the schedule he has planned out for the day, not that much can intervene without high tier prudence. Still you dare to try your luck.

Jacob gruffs your name before your hand can descend on his hip but it doesn’t deter the movement. He’s ready for the cold touch of your fingers, restraining a flinch in favor of a necessary tense to retain his own warmth. Somehow he’s managed to leave the bed once already, his legs clothed in the camouflage hardy material. But he’s still shirtless, a momentary lapse in judgement positioned to work in your favor.

For a few moments while he fumbles around, you find temporary solace in tracing nonsensical blueprints along the blotched patterns. The bated stillness is filled with anticipation, a cycling distraction of ‘cat and mouse’.

“It’s early,” he reminds, as if reality is lost to you. But you only hum in agreement as your fingers curl into a more purposeful grip. Any other morning, you would have simply contemplated the urge to attempt this, placing bets on the promise of success.

“It is,” you harmonize before rolling onto your side you open your arms to welcome what mass of him can fit between. “Don’t go in today. Stay in bed with me.”

It echoes like a maxim, a beaten strategy limping on its last leg but not without hope. Before he can voice a protest, explorative fingertips delve into the harden lines of practiced dedication trailing as high as they could before a commanding grip halted their stride.

“Not today.” His regime is not easily dissuaded and quickly approaching completing as his gaze dart up to locate his shirt. Your mind quickly recalculates to explore a new angle.

“Not today.” you mimic childishly. Awaiting his snort, you carefully work your fingers free and reverse your path of persuasion. “Just the morning then.”

He uses both hands this time to bring yours to submission just above the hem of his pants, your fingertips dancing precariously against the edges. Actions aside, you were sure if angles would allow it, you would witness a hint of a grin pulling at his lips. While insubordination gritted at his resolve, a bit of a challenge here and there was enough to rouse interest.

“C’mon,” Huffing in vexation, you careful curl your knees under your weight to approach a better vantage point. “They’re big boys and girls, they can handle a few hours on their own. Make it a training exercise.”

“For you or them?”

His rebuttal temporally stuns you not expecting him to repurpose one of your points so readily. He’s still now, all of his attention bated in expectancy of your response. Brow pinching, you conveniently disregard the pricked of warning in favor of advancing your plot optimistically. The laughter that leaves you is still cracked from rousing, “Me? What do I need practice on?”

Jacob delivers swift conclusion. “Tact.”

Comprehension is once more delayed as confusion wrinkles your nose. Whatever diversion he’s melded together is too dense to spark curiosity yet you know he won’t unravel the puzzle without effort.  A lack in declicay would borderline imply that you deficient in the amount discretion that you’ve built up in your time together. Shaking your head, you clear accusation. “That doesn’t seem like ..”

“Are you the judge of your own progress?”

The drop in his tone ignities a shiver that can’t soly condemn the crisp dawn. Once more he’d construct the walls of command around you without your consciousness leaving you to scramble for preface. In being with Jacob you’d learned to notice the mines that came embedded with his speech. Your position at his side awarded you with a debatable softer version than the fortress overseer that the peggies exalted as their herald, but it was still undeniably coined as the ‘Jacob method’. Actions still were strung along with punishments, though never severe enough to warrant fear.

You were assured that Jacob loved you, adored you if you resemble a model citizen, but that still didn’t keep you from chasing praise by earning rewards. Because even with you, he sought out undettered compliance.

The shifts is subtle almost untraceable like fading mist but it’s no longer above your awareness. Whatever modicum of control you had over the scene slowly transitions to a hands of a new conviction as your lips part in response to his arched brow.

“No.”

The arch curves higher, parroting back. “No?”

Licking your lips, you find yourself complying dormantly . “No, sir.”

Jacob never truly steps off the power stage but now, kneeling before him as he resumes his full height it’s a heavy reminder. Even with the bed given you a near meter of leverage the stage never changed.

His hum of content strums a chord of familiar satisfaction within you. Your snarky comments rarely manage to challenge his authority, as they typically are at the most, an accretion of frustration and irritation. Jacob runs a tight fort, literally, but he doesn’t expect you to be a real soldier. He can comprehend how musty smell of men and violence can sink its claws into you and he does his best to lessen their hold when it warrants his intervention. By no means does he intend to shelter you but he’d rather you be able to fathom what goes on around you than to outright fear it out of ignorance.

Even now he seems to be contemplating your entire scheme up to this point, unraveling the signs and triggers. “Have I been neglectful?”

It catches you in familiar stalemate momentarily stuck in the juxtapose of denying the accusation and pleading a fragile case. In seeking a archetypical in your usual schedule would be right to assume that something is lacking from the typical order of events. But making note of it and calling him out on it are separate conclusion to gauntlet to make.

His throat vibrates again as he reaches out to stroke the softness of your hair. “I’ve noticed.” Of course he had, very little escapes his radar. But the real ancient gripping thing is how he sits on information, letting it fester with or without their knowledge until the anticipation of his eventual resolution consumes them.

The grip curls to the knuckle making resistance futile as it drags you in, the curve of your nose bumping unceremoniously with with weakly pronounced curve of his trousers.

Jacob extends his request straightforward as he nimbly works the buttons with one hand and inauguration his cock to the crisp morning air. You’re late to register the absent seize at your nape until it traces the line of your jaw. It’s the first of many nonverbal commands you’ve found yourself conditioned to follow without guidance. Part of you yearns for winter’s cold grasp to line itself with your palm as it folds around his length the reaction you’re looking for is absent.

Jacob’s timbre is ardent and steady with a potential note of bemusement,”Is this not what you wanted?” You will never understand the man’s practice of posing questions embedded so obviously with answers. He conditions firmly, but never assumes the form of a trickster. It’s almost as if he wants you to succeed and you can still feel the ache in your heart from all the times you’ve fell short of that expectation.

The purse of your lips is interrupted by the protrusion for your tongue as it chases the bead of precum that collects at the crown. There is no preamble to your attention this time, the tension between you already managing to burn out any patience for playtime. You take him fully with the pure intention of fostering preparation, the act quickly becoming a foundation of unbroken suction and turid strokes.

Jacob bends at the waist, his hand leaving your face to form a more promising pact with the echoing thrum of your heartbeat between your thighs. They part without instruction or permission, a seemingly ideal gestured that goes without contempt. He’s efficient about his reproach to work you open and loose, the aging hours still to young for you to balance an additional task to assist. At some point his touch reseeds momentarily, only to return wetter and more compelling to his tastes.

“Do I have to remind you to assume position?“

You don’t realize that he’s deemed his efforts adequate, too caught up in the practice matching the slick slide of his fingers with the rhythm of your glides.  The task feels unfinished, an unusual staple.There is a modicum of dissatisfaction festers in the face of incompletion, threatening to bleed into the scene but the throbbing twinge in building between your thighs blurs the comprehension needed to balance the consequences. Twisting obediently, you presents your back to him.

Sheets wrinkle in protest as your palms aggravate the accumulating ripples more. The arch of your back is slow as you curl languidly, a soft display of defiance that earns you an instant reciprocation of punishment as his hand cracks against the roundness of your backside.

“You never did answer me. Do you see me as being neglectful?”

You choke on silence, hesitance, however, only awards you with an expectant sanction as his hand cups your ass harshly once more. Impatience has you answering before he can even propose it as a question. “No, sir.” Swallowing. “Please, sir.”

The weight of his palm maps out the line of your spine before anchoring firmly at your nap as he guides your face between your clenched hands. “That sounds like a false statement. ” His other hands nudges your thrumming core repeatedly as he strokes himself to full hardness, though you suspect the action is more out of spite than necessity. “But I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

This time it seems as though he doesn’t expect a response, instead surprising you, by taking you fully in one push rather than drawing out the act. His preparations are always helpful, but never seem to be enough as he habitually finds new boundaries to push as you ache from newly discovered limitations. Perpetually too hot, never too wet,  tight enough for a snug fit and absolutely breathless and trembling in heat of the intensity of his ministrations.

The flexing grip at the back of your neck reminds you to express your gratitude and a grateful rolls past your lips.Even seated and filled to the hilt he still manages to hold something back, leaving just enough space between yourself and the prize to maintain your compliance. Your hips ache with the need to twist and buck but a simmering prerequisite for obedience culls the desire.

“Please..”

“ I will do what needs to be done.”

The hand coiled tighter, it’s functions shifting from restraint to balance as his hips draw back. Whimpers are the only cognitive sound you can comprehend over the rhythmic pattern of flesh on flesh contact as he initiates contact between you and firmness of your mattress. The game built between you two fades into a stalemate as the new focus concurs with a mutual chase towards pleasurable gratification.

Each thrust is slow in deliberate, a nonvocal mantra of past spoken commandments embedded in your soul. Your shoulders draw high in tension and your muscles grieve from the forceful omission, as he fucks the tremble out of you. Brief insight prickles at the drag of his hand around the curve of your hip but you can’t seem to fight through the fog of desire. You only notice that it restricts your motion to lift your hips higher in search of a new angle, but he’s determined to satisfy you by his own merits. The drive from his next slides buries itself deep enough where you swear you can taste the salacious undertone.

And the thought of it triggers a ripples of convulsions as you spasm under his determined thrusts. He hasn’t spoken above the articulation of hearty grunts and groans but the adjust in precision signals that he’s blinded by the end of the tunnel as well.

With practiced precautions, you roll to a safe distance just before he collapses into depression of your absent body. Along with silence pregnant with hearty pants, he welcomes you to curl back against his side, the top of your neck not forgotten as he smooths away the memory of his grip.

Eventually you stockpile enough oxygen for speech to offer an ‘I love you’, and blissfully ignore how much it sounds like an apology as he ascends from the bed.

“I know you do.”

[ahumanintraining]

sign out (ch. 3 of “follow up”)   a shallura modern era hospital au ft. dr. allura and patient shiro  [link to ao3]

— notes: and yes here is the allura pov chapter that you all have been waiting so patiently for. (and yes, happy shallura day! i say this two days late but we all know that every day is shallura day anyway)

chapter three: sign out

Allura almost squeals.

But fortunately, she’s able to hold it all in until she’s absolutely certain that the phone call ended.

Then she thrusts her face into a pillow and makes the strangest sound she’s come out of her mouth since she matched into residency.  

Today had been a complete series of emotional chess, starting from the moment she walked in to see him, not at all expecting the patient with the uncomplicated right distal radius fracture in bed 24 was going to be an ultra-cute man with the shyest smile and the most curious streak of white hair over his forehead.

She was caught so off guard she almost couldn’t even appropriately perform the final physical exam to discharge him. His gaze was so intense and he had such an entrapping calm demeanor that made her forget about the hustle and the bustle of the emergency department behind the curtain. If talking to him to recap his injury history wasn’t already making her trip over her words, she absolutely stuttered as she told him the physical exam findings, close enough to smell the light cologne wafting from his skin and see the light stubble over his jaw — honestly thank god none of the nurses or technicians were also present in the room because without doubt they would have dragged her about it in the break room if they had witnessed her.

If she wasn’t wrong in reading him, she took a chance on his fast heartbeat, his jagged breath, and the light blush over his cheeks and gave him all the hints that she was absolutely interested in seeing him again outside of the hospital context.

It was a huge risk — she worried that maybe he was just embarrassed about the whole situation or about his entire story falling off the monkey bars, which actually wasn’t all that ridiculous when it came to the emergency room. Not to mention, when she gave him her number, she was technically still overseeing his health care so it was a little weird in the doctor-patient relationship.

But it was fine, right? Technically she just gave him her business card, which she has done to patients she wanted to follow up even beyond the emergency room because of the complexity of their case.

This would just be another someone she wanted to follow up with. Well, maybe not for the same reasons, but…

She groans, pressing her face into the pillow again, remembering how she circled her cell number and even winked at him — so stupidly embarrassing!

How could she have just put herself out there like that so obviously? What if she just read all the signs wrong and completely misinterpreted?

Of course, now that he had actually called her back, she supposes she made the right decision after all.

She — Allura Altea, three years an attending at Olkarian General with her ass still deep in government federal student debt — had a date.

Or something. He did mention he wanted to “at least return the thanks.”

She doesn’t know. It’s unclear.

Regardless, she was going to get to see him again. She giggles to herself again, uncharacteristically giddy with excitement. She throws aside her pillow and reaches again for her agenda book, looking at the Thursday column. She raises her pen point just below her 6 PM shift, twirling her pen a few times to consider what to write.

“8 pm – DATE!!!!!” is too embarrassing even for her to look at — and then what would happen if she opened her book and one of her other colleagues happened to see the colorful all-caps? She’d never hear the end of it.

“8 pm – Date” doesn’t look right either. And moreover, what if it wasn’t even a date? What if he was just trying to be polite? Although… he did ask for dinner, not lunch. Or at least, he did at first…

She shakes her head to herself. Focus, she tells herself.

Maybe “8 pm – Takashi” would be most appropriate. She writes it in but then frowns when re-reading it.

This makes him seem like a consult call or some kind of referral. Maybe she can doodle in something to make it look more friendly…

Before she knows it, she scribbles a small heart next to him — and immediately regrets it. She scratches it out, but then finds that she ends up just coloring in the heart, making now a very clear and very solid heart next to his name.

“Oh my god, what am I? A high schooler? I’m 33 going on 14.” she moans out loud, flopping back onto her hardwood floor, casting her agenda book to the side.

Hearing her distress, her cat mewls, jumping down from the windowsill and climbing on top of her.

“I know. I must be so annoying to deal with right now, huh, Blue?” she mumbles, lifting her cat off her stomach and rolling onto her side to curl around her.

Allura lays there for a long time, replaying the last hour in her head, regretting lots of things she said. What was she thinking?

Oh, yeah, pull rehearsed statements out like ‘I appreciate you taking the time to call me’ or ‘I really like to hear how my patients are doing.’ For sure, yeah, that’ll really tell him that she’s interested in him as more than just a patient.

And then telling him that Thursday evening would work perfectly because she didn’t have anywhere to be the next day? What was she trying to say?

“I’m such an idiot,” she tells Blue.

But Blue is tired of cuddling and of hearing her shit, gingerly stepping out of Allura’s reach. Allura frowns, watching Blue take residence in a solitary corner, before subsequently doing the splits and starting to lick its hindlegs clean. Allura sighs. Her eyes trail back to her phone, strewn a few feet away, and she crawls over to it, scrolling hesitantly over the last message in her voicemail and looking at his familiar set of unfamiliar numbers.

Is it too optimistic for her to save his number into her phone? Probably. Allura knows better than anyone that romance does not work out the way it does for princesses in fairy tales, no matter how sure a princess thinks she’s found her paladin.

She bites her lip, and then pokes her screen to play his voicemail again, pressing her phone close to her ear. She smiles, hearing the croak in his voice as he starts talking.

Um… it’s Takashi Shirogane. I was your patient the other day. I guess I was just giving you a follow up call. Thanks for everything. Hear from you soon.

Such a short message. Barely a full ten seconds. It’s not nearly long enough. She plays it again, listening again for that beginning rumble of his voice when he first opens his mouth.

Takashi Shirogane.

She repeats his name to herself softly. She loves the light r of his last name, and how he says it in a gentle flutter. She hopes that she pronounced his name in exactly the same way during their last call, but she knows better than anyone else that her language skills are actually horrid and for as much as her dear father really tried to get her fluent in Spanish and French, she had no chance with the small amount of patience she had and the little tenacity she had to study anything but medicine.

She catches herself with a stupid smile over her face again, and she shakes herself out of lovesickness.

This is ridiculous. She hasn’t felt this way in such a long time.

She checks the time. It’s close to the time she needed to get herself into bed, so she showers, brushes her teeth, and crawls into bed after downing a few extra gulps of water to hit her daily hydration goal.

But it’s pointless. She doesn’t sleep at all, lying in bed well past her bedtime, dreaming of cute smiles and soft hellos.

The next couple of days is so mundane that when Thursday approaches, she almost completely forgets about the “8 pm – Takashi” line in her agenda until she opens her book in front of Dr. Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, aka the chief of emergency medicine, and sees the crime-implicating solid heart.

Her eyes freeze on seeing the reminder, and she instinctively presses the pages against her chest.

“So, we’ll have our monthly department meeting on the twenty-third next month instead of the twenty-fifth as usual. Are you on shift that day?” Coran asks, scrolling through his phone, not seeming to notice her flushing and sudden protectiveness of her agenda book.

Cautiously, she flips a few pages forward, seeing a night shift on said date. “I should be off my 7 to 7 by then,” she says. “Meeting still at 7 am?”

“Yeah,” he affirms. “Lots of quality statistics to discuss, so try not to be late.”

“You implying I have some improvements to make?” she teases.

He looks up at her, twirling his ginger moustache and chuckling. “Even if you are one of our exceptional physicians, you know I just need to enforce the same expectations for our entire team.” He nods his chin at her unused computer, monitor black from inactivity. “As long as you’re still picking up patients.”

Ah. Funny he should say that.

“Alright, alright,” she says, swiveling her chair around and shaking the mouse.

“Aside from all of this, anything new going on in your life these days?” he asks, tucking his phone into his white coat pocket and leaning over the counter. “Haven’t been able to properly talk to you ever since the new residents joined us over the summer.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, shrugging. “But honestly nothing too much has been going on.” She clicks on the EMR to assign herself to the 53-year old male with chest pain in room 18 and turns to the stack of EKGs next to her, searching for the matching EKG to her patient.

“Really? No new potential suitors?” Coran asks. “I feel like you were complaining plenty about that in the last conversation I had with you. Something about someone moving into your apartment building?”

She rolls her eyes. “The Lotor guy is still bothering me,” she tells him. “But at least because he likes me I can ask him favors. He takes care of Blue for me when I’m out too late.” She finds the matching EKG and interprets it quickly, writing in left ventricular hypertrophy. “But you know it’s funny you ask me that now because I actually have a date tonight.”

Coran raises both his eyebrows. “See that is exciting,” he declares. “Who’s this date of yours?”

As much as Allura wants to tell Coran, she doesn’t want to mention that her date may just also happen to have been a patient in the emergency room just a couple days ago… and also just happen to have a patient chart with her signature on it.

“Uh… well just someone that I met at random,” she lies, of course, realizing she executed the confabulation terribly.

Coran gives her a look that tells her he knows her bullshit. “At random, huh?” he replies, not prying. “Well, I suppose you’ll tell me at some point.”

She just smiles and shrugs, then choosing that moment to stand and get to her patient in room 18. “Maybe at some point,” she promises him.

“I’m sure I’ll hear about it if it ends up turning out horrible.”

“Probably,” she agrees, waving him a short goodbye as she steps past him.

But for some reason, she has the most undoubtable feeling tonight’s date won’t turn out horrible at all.

She doesn’t get home until 7:45 pm.

Well, so far tonight’s date is going pretty horribly, she thinks to herself, rushing to get her keys into the keyhole to unlock her door.

Once in her apartment, she hurls herself in, dropping the day’s handbag on the floor and pulling off her shoes as she walks in. She reaches up to pull off her hair tie, shaking her hair out as she makes her way to her closet, already half-undressed.

She did absolutely everything she could in order to optimize getting back home once the clock hit the end of her shift at 7 pm — even going so far as to beg Sendak to cover the last few codes she technically should have been doing so that she could instead rapidly finish closing her charts because she had no option to just close them on her next shift because the next time she’d be in the hospital would going to be more than 24 hours later and Coran would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t sign her notes within the mandatory time frame and she would definitely be roasted at the next department meeting.

Needless to say, she is frazzled.

She holds her head between her hands, frowning as she looks in the mirror. She looks at the clock on the wall. Damn. She is not going to have time to look nice. Damn. She doesn’t even have the time to take a shower. And damn it, of course this would happen to her on that one night she has a date with someone she thinks she might actually like?

Well, a maybe-date date. Because what if all this time he really is just taking her for dinner out of the goodness of his heart? After all, he did call her to update her about his arm and to thank her… and he didn’t actually bring up the idea of dinner until after she carried the conversation…

She calms herself down. It’s fine, it’s fine, she tells herself. It’s going to be all —

Wait, check your phone, she reminds herself. Because what if he is already outside waiting —

She taps her phone screen and sees no notification.

She can’t help but frown. Maybe she is really is getting too excited and hopeful about this maybe-date date. If he liked her, he definitely would be a little early right? Or texted her earlier today to check in?

Or maybe he forgot about their dinner?

Damn, maybe she should have texted him earlier today. But no, she didn’t want to overstep and over-text him either.

She groans one more time and ceases her internal dialogue, telling herself to just focus on her outfit for tonight. It doesn’t matter how much time she has; every single second she has left before this maybe-date date of hers is valuable to get her act together.

She flips her phone to the ring setting and hitches up the volume to max so that there is absolutely no way that she would miss a call, walking back to her closet.

She makes another frustrated sound as she sifts through her outfits. All throughout her emergency training, she was able to get away with wearing scrubs, which was great for her at the when she didn’t have the time to figure out what to wear on the sleep-deprived mornings before a shift but right now, as she looks through her severe lack of nice dating-material clothing, she is regretting her options.

She doesn’t even know exactly where he’ll be taking her. Should she wear something more formal or something more casual? But this is okay. She’s been in this situation at least one hundred times before — there’s a few dresses that can pass for most events aside from an underground rave late at night or a Board of Trustees meeting, but she’s pretty sure that he’s not taking her on any of those extremes.

Her hands stop at a white dress with a floral print — kimono v-neck, mid-arm sleeve, about knee-length — and she looks it over with pursed lips, her eyes tracing one of the pink flowers and its surrounding dark green stem and leaves along the waist.

Her favorite dress. She doesn’t wear it often because she’s afraid of getting it dirty and because otherwise she’d be wearing it all too often.

It was the last gift her father gave her, and the first thing she thinks of when remembering him.

Her thumb rolls over the silky material as she muses for a moment, and then slips it off the hanger, lying the dress over her bed before she pulls it over her head, flipping her hair out from under the collar as she looks at herself in the mirror.

She frowns. The dress fits her well, of course, but her hair is a tangled mess. She sighs and rolls it back up into some kind of a loose bun. It looks almost purposefully messy, some of shorter strands of her hair peeking out from behind her ears, but it also looks like she just got out of a twelve-hour work shift and like didn’t care about this date when she actually really did want to impress him and set herself up in the best way possible for this to be an amazing night.

Maybe at least some light makeup? She rushes over to her makeup bag, pawing through it before a loud ring emerges from her phone.

Her eyes dart to it, her heart rate suddenly jolting. Another ring emerges — a long one that she knows means that someone is calling her and who could it be but him… She rushes over, looking over the caller ID and seeing the familiar set of numbers.

She swallows. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

Her heart flutters again. “Hi!” she says, almost too excitedly, but then clears her throat, mollifying her enthusiasm. “Um, hey,” she tries again, stupidly. She briefly pauses, and then unable to figure out what else to say, adds, “What’s up?”

Silently, she hits her forehead with the palm of her hand. What’s up? Was that the only thing she could think of to say? What was she thinking?

“I just want to apologize for calling you so last minute about this,” he starts.

“Oh, no, I mean, I was just getting ready myself. No rush,” she blurts. She’s not sure why she says all this when she could have just said ‘oh, no, that’s okay’ but then again, so far, she doesn’t have a great history of saying exactly what she wants when he talks to her.

“Oh,” he says, pausing in a way that makes her regret what she said. “Well, I was going to apologize about tonight. I, um… well, I’ve had a bit of a change in plans.”

He says this, and her heart sinks.

[link to chapter 4!]

notes: oh no would could have possibly happened???

(also if you think that I’m going to get away with this modern AU without putting in as many Voltron references as possible, you are very very wrong. call me out on all the lame ones :P)

[warriorsredux]

Chapter One

“It’s a nice night, isn’t it?”

Fireheart chewed thoughtlessly on the tail of a mouse, eyes slowly drifting upwards. The sky was perfectly clear - every star, even the usually faint ones, shone out in the black-blue sea overhead. The moon was nearly full and, if Fireheart focused, the dim splotches across its surface made the shape of a rabbit. A wind in the trees somewhere behind him made the young leaves shiver and whisper a scattered rhythm.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “It is. Warmer than I remember it being last year, though.”

“That just means the prey wakes up faster,” Greystripe said. He had what Fireheart thought was a thrush in between his paws, bloody feathers sticking to his face. “I mean, that’s what my mom told me.”

“When’d she tell you that?” Raventhroat looked over at the much more burly tabby. “I never heard her say anything about prey.”

“It was a little after you became an apprentice,” Greystripe said, snorting at a down feather balanced perfectly on his nose. “I asked her about the weather, I think, and she told me a warmer spring is a good thing. It did get warm real fast, though, didn’t it?”

Raventhroat hummed in acknowledgment and started on his own mouse.

At any other time, Fireheart would have been fine with the silence that followed; gaps between conversations with his friends were usually comfortable. But ever since the end of winter last month, any quiet moment was awkward and allowed for dark thoughts to pass through his mind uninvited. He knew he wasn’t the only one feeling like this, given how quick the rest of his Clanmates were to keep a topic going and how often their eyes would dart around nervously if they ran out of things to say.

It was all the old deputy’s fault, really. The most respected tom of ThunderClan had been found out as a traitor and murderer, and it was like something had snapped in half in the heart of the Clan. No one wanted to be alone anymore for extended periods of time, or talk to the deputy’s family, or go near the border where they’d left his body, even though it had long since disappeared. Despite their desperation to forget him, his ghost was behind every flickering thought and memory.

Fireheart knew better now than to say any of this aloud. To even hint at the old deputy resulted in punishment, as he had found out a few days afterward. Bluestar had been light on him, at least, but he’d earned a cold shoulder from some of his less forgiving Clanmates for two days.

Perhaps if they’d learned more about what exactly was going through that cat’s head, they might’ve had some closure, Fireheart thought as he ate. The deputy had barely admitted anything, leaving the Clan with all kinds of questions and theories that they weren’t even allowed to discuss. No one knew when the rogues he’d called upon to help him would come back, or if there was someone else helping him, or-

As if on cue, Fireheart’s ears flicked at a growl across camp. Raventhroat only looked with his eyes, but Greystripe and Fireheart turned their heads to watch Darkstripe stalk away from the nursery, tail lashing and fur straight up on his back. Frostfur was standing just outside the hole between the tree roots, glaring at the backside of the sleek warrior.

“I told you,” she said, “you can come back when she’s awake. Until then-”

“Whatever,” Darkstripe snapped through his teeth. He pushed past Whitecloud, who had the misfortune of standing in his path, and stormed out of camp.

Fireheart shared a look with his friends. No one else had even bothered to look Darkstripe’s way. They were already used to his tantrums.

He had changed since the last month, too. He’d never been exactly pleasant, but now he was sullen and angry, only sparing kindness towards Goldenflower, who’d been the deputy’s mate, and her kits. Goldenflower had almost holy patience, but even she was getting worn down by his constant attempts to visit and inability to read when he wasn’t invited into her space.

Darkstripe’s tail whisked through the entrance. Almost immediately after, Speckletail entered camp, looking behind her with some annoyance.

“He just tried to bother Goldenflower,” Frostfur said.

“I’ll have to put him on border patrol.” Speckletail sighed. “Have any of you seen Bluestar?”

“She’s in her den,” Raventhroat said. “I think she said she’s coming in for a Clan meeting soon.”

“Thank you.” Speckletail stopped where she was for just a moment, looking lost in thought, before shaking her head and trotting over to Frostfur. The two began conversing in voices too low to be properly overheard.

Fireheart watched her for a moment. No one had expected Bluestar to announce her as the new deputy, though it seemed obvious in retrospect. Speckletail hadn’t hesitated in earning her title - she was putting more work into her authority than even her leader, even if it had taken her a few days to adjust to her new responsibilities. Her son, Dustpelt, was still walking around with his head high and boasting to the other Clans whenever he had the opportunity.

There was a heartbeat between these thoughts and Bluestar emerging from the bushes outside. She looked worn out, as she had lately, and she barely acknowledged Whitecloud’s greeting with a flick of her ear. She jumped on top of the meeting stump and sat down heavily. Those in camp quickly surrounded the stump, looking up at their leader with keen eyes. Fireheart and his friends dropped their prey and stood at the back of the group, waiting.

But Bluestar didn’t say anything for a long moment. She slowly looked around, eyes narrowed. When she did speak, it was to Speckletail, who was seated beside her on the ground. “Where is everyone?”

“There’s a patrol out right now,” Speckletail said. “And Darkstripe just left.”

“Mm.” Bluestar didn’t look pleased, but she turned back to her Clan. “Fine. I was just going to say that the Gathering is tomorrow, and if you want to go, speak to me during the day.” She paused, looking like she’d forgotten something. “And...I know we have a good deal of free time with how fortunate our hunting has been, so we should pay more attention to outside the territory, in case we see more- any rogues. I will be doubling patrols by the houses for now. You may volunteer, if you’d like.” She stood up. “That is all. Report this to your Clanmates when they come back.”

The crowd moved back a little to give Bluestar space to jump down. No one said anything to her as she walked back out of camp.

Fireheart resisted a sigh. Bluestar had changed since then, too. She was growing more terse, less eloquent. It was clear that she was reigning in her temper whenever someone approached her with bad news or an easily answerable question. As such, the Clan had started to leave her to her own devices, speaking to her only when she required their attention. Darkstripe was avoiding her entirely. Only a few cats would talk to her with confidence - that being her nephew, Whitecloud, her deputy, Speckletail, and her old apprentice, Fireheart himself - and even then, those moments were few and far between.

The Clan dispersed, returning to where they had been before, and conversation bubbled up again. Fireheart led his friends back to their spot, where their half-eaten prey sat waiting.

“The Gathering sounds like it’ll be fun,” Raventhroat said awkwardly, when the silence had gone on for too long. “Do either of you want to go?”

“I’d like to,” Fireheart said. “It’s been a while.”

“We can ask Bluestar for all three of us to go,” Greystripe said through a mouthful of meat.

“Good idea.” Raventhroat nodded with transparently feigned enthusiasm, and again to an uncomfortable air, “Good idea, yeah.”

Fireheart said nothing. He just ate and tried to enjoy the warmth of the night and the beauty of the sky. He knew with complete certainty that his friends were trying to come up with another conversation topic, and though he would be grateful for that, he couldn’t help wishing for their friendly silences to come back again.

[justeonelemoncoffee]

part of gifted!steven au 

(not really)

“so basically steven is a snow white.”

“steven is what?” the words, it makes andrew look up from laptop. so engrossed in the work, he didn’t noticed someone walks in. the office has been uncharacteristically quite since most of them had to go out to work. taking advantage of it, andrew enjoyed the rare moment, taking off headphone even. until it isn’t. 

a host member of the try guys, keith smirk at bewildered look on his face. before he know it, the others show up too.

“basically i’m not.” and steven. who followed them as camera crew in the early morning. it was take more time than andrew expected. steven was holding a paper cup, he comes to andrew straight, put the coffee down front of him. it was still warm. almost involuntarily, he raises the cup to his lips and murmured thank you, steven smile down at him. then sit against desk which is andrew’s as if he belong to there. he did that often, maybe too often. not that andrew minded though.

“you are. you’re the princess. you should be watch out apples. someone might poison you.” zack, the other try guys member stepped into the scene.

“yeah, since you’re filming worth it…” eugene who’s standing next to zack, agrees too. he takes out his cellphone and showed something to others. ned laughed out loud as keith cackles at the same time. apparently, it seems they all had fun at wildlife rescue center. andrew wonders what happened during the filming. he notices all of them looked tired. it probably was long shoot. helping animals aren’t easy work. especially if they are wildlife. among them, steven looks drawn, a little pale even. andrew is beginning to worry him.

“very funny. and why is a princess by the way?” apparently, steven dosen’t seem  to have fun as much as the others.

“because it’s away more fun than just call you a prince.” zach says, wearing shit-eating grin on his face. steven groaned, cross his arm and obviously pouts now. he retorted something back to them. although he didn’t seem to really upset with them, apart from camera, annoyed steven isn’t something you can see everyday. andrew couldn’t help but staring the view.

“call me princess again, i’m going to…”

“…sleep and wait for prince charming.” zack interrupts him, just for completes the sentence by himself. steven huffs, he shakes his head and stare them flatly like he’s a parent who can’t deal with the immature acts of his children. which is absurd and also hilarious, because he’s steven lim. most childish adult andrew ever met. and he works in buzzfeed.

“i hate you all. except andrew. because andrew is nice unlike you guys.”

steven says and nods solemnly. andrew can’t help allows to himself admit it’s a cute sight.

“you mean, because andrew is ‘the one’?”

“you know what? i’m done here.”

steven raises himself upright from andrew’s desk, glares at them. then without a word, he walks out through office door dramatically. considering his overeacting, almost playful expression, he isn’t really upset. andrew relaxes. he can’t remember when it started exactly, but steven’s well being is important to him somehow. before steven stumped off, muttering something under his breath. something like ‘troll guys.’ well, andrew thinks they deserve it.

when steven is out of sight, andrew turned back, raise his eyebrows to them. “snow white, huh?”

“i thought it better than ‘living catnip’ because it was called already.” keith shrugs, of course, there’s no sigh of dependance. actually it doesn’t need to be. to be honest, it happens all the time, ‘teasing steven’ to put it bluntly. although they never intended to mean to him or hurt him (if someone did, the freak is gonna be buried alive under the buzzed HQ. andrew would be the first one who grabs a shovel and starts digging ground. probably adam too, he’ll be the second.) people doing that just to see his reaction. includes andrew himself. in his defense, it wasn’t their fault. his reaction is too fun and adorable when being teased. steven knows that too. people tease him because they fond of him. even though doesn’t get the reason. in other worlds, as long as there’s no harm, steven didn’t mind the teases.

(okay, maybe he sulked once or twice) this time is no different. but andrew knows better than that. something bothers steven. and it bothers him.

maybe not for everybody, but it’s obvious to his eyes. andrew wonders if even steven realize his own feeling. for a remarkably smart person, also preternaturally keen to other’s emotion, steven doesn’t have a clue about himself. sometimes it looks like, he simply forgot that he has a feeling too. to him, it’s a very interesting process to watch. sympathy too. at least he’s an open book, so andrew can take care of him. it isn’t necessary job though. andrew knows that, he doesn’t need to watch over steven, or babysit him. no. no matter how many time steven acts like a child, he’s a respectable adult and he can do things properly when he has to.

it just, it feels wrong, to seeing steven is being hurt. he hates it. don’t even want to think about it. andrew just wants to make sure that troubles keep out of his way, make sure something won’t let hurt him. keep him safe. that’s what friends do. right? standing by side watching over each others back. although to andrew that’s not enough. steven no need to know about that. so he just waited until steven left the office.

“why steven became disney princess, suddenly? did something happened in there?” adrew asks, the try guys look each others, grin spreads on their faces. like they recalled good old memory. and what is that? it’s been only few hours. before andrew lost his patience, zach smirks at him and open his mouse finally. “something happened indeed. we almost dropped out the filming because steven has new stalkers.”

“he had what.” andrew knows his voice rises, but he don’t care about that. not now.

“relax, nothing serious, i mean, just animals.” ned adds quickly, holding his hands as if trying to calm him down like andrew is about two seconds from turn to some dangerous creature while zack just waves him off.

“yeah, animals like bunny and furries or some kind of deers. isn’t it typical? it is, you know, one of essential conditions for being princess.” he says in sarcastic tone. but andrew can sense affection in there.

“we tried to making friends with them. so we had to cleaning stalls and washing them, feeding food and helping them, something more to build to gain their trust.” eugene says while eating snack. must be hungry. he shoves a handful of chips into mouth. so zach has to tell instead of him. “they did. with only steven. and that wasn’t fair. he didn’t even help the cleaning!” he exclaimed, fake indignantly.

because he had to holding a camera. or boom mic. but andrew don’t say it out loud. hold it to himself. he don’t want to showing of his favoritism. no more than he’s shown it so far.

“if it wasn’t funcking adorable. i’d stop filming and came back to the office without him. we had to wait for hours.”

“maybe we should have to sing to them.” ned added, everyone laugh again.

even they say like that, it’s obvious they were enjoying the filming. finish his snack, eugene approached to him with camera. “let me show you, here.”

first one. the view starts from entrance of the center. then scene shifted to a forest, look like almost nature thing. andrew impressed. if he don’t see fences and some facilities across divided districts, he might believe it is. and there’s some animals too. camera zoom in on them. they’re scatters here and there on an area. some deers, rabbits. maybe it’s herbivorous zone. at first, the animals didn’t recognize someone watching them. it was a calm, peaceful scene. then suddenly the video footage was shaking a bit like the camera man was ambushed by something. angle down rapidly, almost falls to ground. fortunately the crew managed to catch the camera before hitting on ground. the angle back to normal with a sigh go relief, andrew knows the voice, at the same time his eyes catch sneakers and immediately notices who’s the sneakers’s owner. soon, the sneakers covered by mottled fluffy balls. andrew finds himself melts a bit at the scene. then he heard, ‘i knew it’ somewhat resignedly, steven mumbled in camera.

move on to next one, steven appears in middle of the footage, he sat down surrounded by small animals. a bunny on his lap, others perches on his legs.  steven was busy to petting them by turn. deeply concentrated on what he is doing, steven didn’t seem to notice camera at first. he occasionally nodded, lifted his head to only speak to someone who outside of the footage. probably center staff, andrew guesses. from the way steven’s hands moving over anlmals, it looks like he asking things about the animals around him. andrew don’t understand what they’re talked, but it rather affected steven considering his expression; sad, sympathy. worry, all emotions mixed on his face and it looks almost painful. but his touch for them is so gentle and tender. andrew tries not to feel jealous of. these grass eaters. don’t be stupid, illyckyj.  after steven did comfort them for a while, finally he tried to up. but a deer nudged him to sitting position again.

the try guys are right. it’s unfair. for he can’t see this in person.

“see? snow princess.” keith says. andrew don’t agree with that, he just says nothing. just stare at the camera. “it seems like, steven has them wrapped around his finger too, huh.” he don’t disagree either.

camera zoom in on, so he can see that steven speak something to her(or him. he don’t know.) with smiling fondly. when andrew thinks their face too close, as i on cue, they brush each others nose accidently. at moment steven looked dumbfound. then he burst out laugh. it sounds happy.

“you’re smiling.” ned says with teasing tone. like he knows that what’s going on there, inside of his head.

“no, i’m not.” andrew frowns instantly, realized that he’s not alone. but it’s too late.  even though it’s not exactly secret, still embarrassing to admit to them. even himself. he don’t used to this kind of thing. feeling. of course, he’s been experience of some relationships since teen, through casual to serious term in a way. he dated before, the last one is not too long ago. but it’s different. it’s feels different. andrew never been in here before. that’ why he can’t define his feeling for steven. because steven, for an open book, he’s still an enigma to andrew. and he even don’t know that he really wants to solve this or not. maybe both. what an irony. like steven himself. it’s frustrated him no end. maybe he’s just curious. or not. curiosity never make him fluttering like this.

“i know. this is my favorite too.” ned adds, ignoring his answer. then he smirks at andrew, like he knows what’s going on inside of his head. technically it’s not possible. andrew turns his eyes to other way.

“mine is this one.” thankfully eugene, stepped in appropriate timing. he picks cell phone up again, open video polder and touch the most recent one to play,

in this video. steven tried to sneak out from herbivores zone. he looked around in nervous, tiptoed over to the borderline of forests. but in the middle of escape, he was caught by a bunny, steven’s eyes widen. he stepped backward few steps but tripped over himself to avoid step on little ones, fell over on ground miserably. as if on cue. soon his almost entire body disappeared by the animals. steven yelled ‘i can’t move!’

this time, andrew huffs out little laugh.

the truth about andrew is, he’s always stuck in middle. and he hates it.

it’s mean not only literally but metaphorically too. well, he’s just born that way. the middle child of three brothers. perhaps it wouldn’t be so surprising if there was middle child crisis as expected. he was. no matter how he wants to deny about that.  he can feel that it’s still exist somewhere inside him. although not much, just tiny presence now. but it wasn’t from being neglected or left behind though.

his parents are most amazing person he could ever have. they love each other in all sincerity. they are really love him. love he and his brothers all fairly, there’s never a hint of favoritism. treat them with patience and understanding, always supported and encouraged them with open mind. in return, andrew love them wholeheartedly as his other brothers. andrew knows very well how lucky he is. people knows. he lived in small town. when he was younger, his friends often told him it made them feel jealous how perfect, wonderful family that he has. his family may not wealthy, but there was nothing real hardship either. they are humble but confident, on good term with neighbors. a loving and caring family. truly, his family are perfect. probably too perfect, too good for him.

so, it wasn’t really their fault that he had secret inferiority complex. and if they did, at least it’s not on purpose. more likely, it’s andrews problem.

 the brothers, although they worked well as a dream team, each performed better separately. they are each two years apart. alex, the oldest one, he’s such a perfection itself. the smartest in brothers, not only he’s fulfill his duty as eldest brother by taking care of his sibling, but also basically everyone around him. as an honer roll student, he always one step ahead of his peers. there’s nothing he can’t do. everything about his brother is perfect and elegant. perfect student, perfect friend, perfect veterinarian, perfect boyfriend, perfect brother and perfect son. he’s the proud one in family. someday even if his older brother throwing his hat in the ring, to running for president, andrew wouldn’t be surprise.

on the contrary max, the youngest, he’s a rascal and rebel. not to family or innocents, but against society, to irrational system, like convention and corruption things. the trouble maker in brothers. he’s bold, daring and brave. it’s not fake or immature thing. he’s a genuine one. some people might consider him a bad boy by his acts and wild looks but not really. seemingly he’s lone wolf. the truth is, he’s such a darling to everyone. it was impossible not to love this guy. he’s the charming one in family. as social butterfly by nature, the younger one loves party and people. his irresistible smile attracts people, especially to women since he born. ladies boy to ladies man now. also he’s a journalist too. he put his heart and soul into these works. andrew is sure that his baby brother gonna surprise the world.

as if that’s not enough, both of them belonged to the football team when in high school. the linebacker and the quarterback. and andrew? people might expected that he was in there too. maybe the center. but no. although he can play if he wants ( his brothers used to practice on the others. so yeah)  he was in drama club.

andrew is well, just andrew. it wasn’t mean that he was the ugly duckling. if anything, andrew had a good time in his own way. not exactly the popular one, but close to. he has a dry sense of humor that people thinks really funny. he looks cool, calm and collected but still friendly one. he had good grade, he has good friends, he was one of main players in dram club. he was good in many things. sometimes andrew thought that he just playing a role in real life. mostly original, but still mixing copy in a character. almost perfect as much as the older one. almost charming as much as younger one. but not enough to satisfied himself. he can’t impressed people like them. middle isn’t means center anyway.

like he said. his parents love them equally, never compared them to others. andrew compared himself to them. andrew knows he shouldn’t treat himself like that. but he couldn’t stop either.

sure, the family lives in harmony but that didn’t mean they are flawless. yes. he said the word perfect maybe too many times. ‘perfect’ as humanly possible. of course they have trouble too, they fight and sulk to each others as other people do that. over ridiculous things like toothpaste flavor to some serious issue. and apologize,  back to life as if nothing had ever happened. likewise, of course andrew knows they are just mortal as much as he is. but can’t help the noticing that they all way better than him. no one wouldn’t agree with him though. no one understand his feeling ether. that’s why he thought this is his problem.

when andrew was in college, he played several roles in several plays than high school. his professor told him he’s talented one. even though andrew couldn’t sure about that, but occasionally he found himself that how easily he into the roles. it was fun to become another person which he never gonna be in reality. it felt good. like drug, he was kind of addicted to it a bit. sometimes he felt that he’s breathing easier in roles than just himself. first time andrew realized that, he immediately felt guilty, like he betrayed his family. although he did his best to hide it. god. what’s wrong with him. he used to ask this to himself. but there was no answer. it’s like poverty midst plenty, surrounding people, somewhat he felt lonely. if it’s any consolation, at least his acting is good.

he might too busy to struggling with himself.(low key self-conscious, loneliness, self-induced pressure) andrew tends to catching up with things later. for example, his confused sexuality. actually it started at his sophomore year(his best guessing) didn’t nocticed until senior year. of college. he was a mess at that time. he’s in shock, not really ashamed of that but don’t know how to deal with. he already had enough shit.

or

“what do you mean, you have known this what, whole time?”

“i’m your mom andy, what do you expect from me? and stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like i ate your whole candy!”

“were you?”

or

“dad?”

“well, son. we couldn’t sure about that. just guess, you didn’t show any particular sign about that, but you know, we’re your parents. and you was in drama club anyway.”

“i hate this family.”

“no, you’re not.”

or

“so..you can have men and women both, huh? you hit the jackpot, bro!“

“you’re not helping.”

“if you want to join community, talk me anytime. i know some people who can help.”

“you just want to use me to date with them. you jerk.”

or

“if you want to meet someone, maybe i can introduce my friends or visitors.”

“thank you, but no thank you.”

“which do you prefer, cat person or dog person?”

“stop.”

huh.

he knows that his family not gonna judging him with that. it went well as expected. too well. jesus fucking christ, his parents have known before he realized. his brothers, they accepted it like he changed his hair color. so, no surprising. no shock. no bewilderment, no fussing. and andrew, he found himself a little disappointing about that. seriously what’s wrong with him, he asked himself again as many time did. it wasn’t make any sense. he got the best response as much as he could get, from people who he care most deeply about. and upset with that? what the hell.

but he couldn’t show it, as always.

after some wandering, andrew began to working for that company called buzzfeed. it was niki, his best friend suggestion. who already had been there. he met her senior year of college. they was in class for studying filmmaking (his major. theater was minor) they really clicked immediately. they have similar personalities and dispositions andrew is comfortable around her. he knows her, she knows him. niki understand him in that way no one did before. they talked about almost everything. also she realized his sexuality faster than him.

 it was surprisedly easy for him to adjusted to life in california. there’re so many people. so many food. and sun. the sunshine is so bright it got him almost blinding. floods into everywhere, you can’t hide nothing from that. for a quite while, he hadn’t notice that he changed mood. he’s been too busy to think about anything else but  adapt new life. it was refreshing. warming him up under the sun, he thought maybe it’s time to stop hiding. he should to living his own life. now he feels more independent, more freedom than before. it reminded him first college year, but better. he living on his money now. maybe that’w why. maybe for the first time in his life, he’s simply in the right place at the right time.

steven wasn’t.

“i think you’re the right person for this show.”

when steven approached him and said like that, it takes a moment for the words sink in. and andrew realized that steven is still there, sitting in next to him. so he has no a choice but turn his body steven’s way to facing him. if others did as steven did, he may get suspicious first.(fuck candid camera.) but he’s steven lim. it’s not like andrew knows him well. aside from his name, tall, thin asian, blond, awkward but smart guy. and that’s all. nothing above average except height. he’s no problem with that. what and don’t understand is, it seems everybody in buzzfeed loves steven a lot. without any special reason. nothing wrong with the love. but something in there, or something off in there. some people acts as if they’re possessed by whatever, how andrew can know what is it? just it feels little bit unnatural. but again, he really don’r know about steven lim. but andrew also knows that; he’s not kind of backstabbing person. as an actor, andrew is sure that steven is incapable of telling a lie. well, technically he can. just he’d be a terrible liar.

he can see steven tried to look casual, but obviously it’s not works when steven wiggling in his chair like a nervous child. moreover he fidgeting his hands constantly and he’s eyes, are looking everywhere in the office but him.

stop that. andrew feels an urge to snap at him, or hold his armchair to stop him

“are you sure? don’t get me wrong. but i never expect this.” not from you.

instead, he tries answered calmly. he’s already guilty of one thing to steven. don’t have a plan for make another sin. adam’s going to kill him. who talked to him about the show steven and him are planning. “why me? i mean, we barely know each other.” andrew asks, because it’s true.

steven nods, enthusiastically. “i’m sure. and you’re right. we don’t know each other. that’s why we need you. we compare food on food. but our difference, i think it gonna inject some life there.” steven nods again, not to andrew this time. like he wants to make sure at himself too. he knits his brows like he thinks hard something.   andrew realizes that he stopped the wiggling. so he is serious. “and i heard that you’re not picky.” steven adda, in seriousness. like it’s most important problem in there. and okay. andrew has to keep a straight face.

“and?” it’s come out softly more than he thinks he would be, almost encouragingly. it works.

“and i heard you love foods. i need someone who would be really, truly professional about this show. we gotta do a lot of things just for this. we don’t need expert. we need passion, sincerity and devotion to go on the this show. i am. but when i go too far, i need someone drag me down to ground.” he explains, sincerely, while steven talked to him, steven looking at him straight in his eyes. somehow andrew impresses.

“and you think of me?” amused too. it’s not like andrew isn’t tempt by that. andrew did filming with him once. steven’s good. the concept is appearing. and adam would be there too. it’s gonna be a good shot.

“yes. i’m sure that we’ll get along fine. i don’t know you well. but i know you’re good from my experience.”now he blushes. it’s pretty. and his desperate, hopeful expression says more than words. steven’s eyes are too dark andrew almost can’t find the iris. but it’s most transparent eyes that he ever seen. vulnerable even. andrew can see through his eyes.

“i’ll think about that.” andrew finds himself says like that. how can he say no to this?

“really? wow, thank you, wow. i know it’s not easy decision. but you won’t be disappointed when you join the team!” steven beams at him. then he jumps to his feet like he’s so excited that he can’t sit still. god, how old he is, twelve? and he don’t know where is it come from but, suddenly it feels like,

“it’ll be worth it.” steven says softly.

exactly.

then steven is gone. as suddenly as he appears. andrew’s mind lost for while; mulling over the suggestion. andrew don’t know well about steven, but he seems nice and passionate. also a bit perfectionist like andrew himself. he can feel that. and even he don’t know about steven. he knows adam. adam is caution man in every respect, he’s nice to everyone, but open his heart to others is whole another story. and andrew knows that adam really, really fond of steven. after all, they are very close. he can trust adam. but andrew knows he already made his mind before this consideration. then andrew realizes, he has never been apologize to steven. about last time incident.  maybe steven forgets it already, given that he acting around d him. but still, andrew should to apologize to him regardless of the show.  that was unfair to steven. next time he see steven, he’d to do. andrew remind himself.

and you know what? it turns out, steven is right.

.