#i need phoenix with like. salt and pepper hair

[eleccy]

a thought: krisnix growing old together.

[bruh-haikyuu]

REQUEST: Can I request Bokuto with a soft & short manager s/o and she always helps the team cheer bokuto up when hi is in emo mode and like a lot of fluff🥺👉👈

A/N: Tumblr is being a whore with their Keep Reading button, putting it on the ask and shit smh. So I apologize for the repost.

alate. | bokuto kōtarō

word count: 1776

warnings: none

(adj.) having wings; lifted up in flight

Official match protocols only allowed one manager on the court for each team. Fukurodani Academy’s Boys’ Volleyball team always had their lenient but reliable third year managers to get the job done. Third-years Yukie and Kaori had been your final salvation against the inevitable fate of having to care for the raucous boys alone. But today with some lucky fortune of theirs, they’d somehow coerced you into taking their place.

“...Will I experience any internal combustions by the end of the match?”

The three of you stood in a personal circle at the entrance to the gym. The three managers of Fukurodani, with your two seniors looming over you like two scheming birds of prey. They didn’t even have to ask why you were so worried; despite being a second-year, this was your first time to stand on the court with the team instead of panicking on your own on the sidelines. This time, you were in the game, up-close-and-personal.

“You’ll do fine~” Yukie grinned, raising her right hand in a lazy ‘OK’ gesture. “Besides, you’re a total expert when it comes to giving Bokuto a good knock in the head.”

If Bokuto’s vanity was a chronic disease, he’d need more than just a “good knock in the head” to be cured. But Yukie wasn’t wrong. Your praises, in comparison to the others’, had a quicker, more powerful effect on the ace. Though you weren’t sure if that skill of yours was more of a blessing than a curse...

“W-well, I’ll do my best,” you muttered, fiddling with the hem of your track jacket. Your seniors exchanged a look before smiling softly at you.

“Oh, and one more thing!” Kaori piped up as you lugged the bag full of empty bottles over your shoulder. “Can you act a bit bashful when you’re complimenting the captain?

“Why’s that, Kaori-san?”

“Bokuto thinks you look cute when you’re embarrassed.”

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

‘Cute’? What did that even mean? Did Bokuto always think people were ‘cute’ whenever they flash a single praise at him? Not that you remembered... What’s with that, you grumbled, angrily trying to get the concept into your skull.

Your eyes darted back to the court where—much to your distress—the other team just had to be painfully good at blocks. Now, you just hoped that the boys wouldn’t get too disgruntled.

The score was 12-15, with Torasaka Metropolitan High in the lead. Though Fukurodani had obtained their twelfth point with a lucky read on Torasaka’s setter dump, things were obstinately bleak for your team.

“I want to try it!” you heard Bokuto exclaim excitedly. From afar, you could already spot a few sullen scowls begin to form on his teammates’ faces. “Hey, ‘Kaashi, do you want to try that block with me?”

The setter sent you a pained expression enough for guilt to comically swallow you whole. Returning his attention to the ace who’s practically bouncing on his heels, Akaashi sighed. “Bokuto-san, let’s focus on our normal blocks first.”

A child! you thought incredulously as you watched the captain stick out his tongue at him. Though Bokuto was particularly a sight to behold when he’s in top form, just how confident could he be, trying something so risky in a middle of a tight match? Or was he just a complete and utter numbskull? You thought he was rather amazing for the juxtaposition... in a Bokuto fashion, of course.

As Washio prepared to serve, you watched the ace literally vibrate with eagerness of having such an “interesting enemy”. Whenever Bokuto got extremely fired up, it was your inevitable fate that you just couldn’t look away. The way his jersey hugged his hulking frame as he flexed his muscles in preparation to follow the path of the ball, it was nearly bewitching. If he had been like this his entire life, you were sure your heart wouldn’t take being with Bokuto for a mere second.

“It’s up!” Torasaka’s libero signaled, cleanly receiving Washio’s serve (much to the player’s frustration).

In your memory, Torasaka High wasn’t a much known threat until just recently. “Their new first years block like a fort,” you remembered what Coach Yamiji had said in the bus that morning. Despite far from being as crafty as Nohebi or as versatile as Nekoma, Tokyo teams were a force to be reckoned with.

What a terrifying sport, you thought to yourself for what seemed to be the fifth time this month.

“Left! Left!”

On the other side of the court, Sarukui, Bokuto and Akaashi scrambled to follow the ball’s trajectory. Though you were only a rookie in this entire volleyball thing, you were quick to notice that Bokuto’s footsteps were a bit smaller and slower than the first two...

Wait, is he planning to delay the timing of his block now?!

It was definitely a quick from the other side. It was evident, even to you. And when the two jumped to block the ball with their ace lagging behind, the ball had already streaked over him at a dangerous angle. Point Torasaka.

Landing on the pads of his feet, Akaashi’s expression shifted between “candidly annoyed” and “visibly concerned” as he watched the captain raise his head for his team to see.

“You’re kidding me...” Sarukui groaned under his breath. Behind him, the others followed promptly with their own reactions of disbelief.

His infamous salt-and-pepper hair deflating alongside his shoulders, Bokuto whined, loud enough for you to hear from the benches. “The hell... I thought I had that block mastered. Why’d they have to make it look so easy?”

Time-out! Akaashi turned to you and the coach a with pleading stare, hard enough for your supervising teacher to shoot upwards and signal the referee for their second break of the match.

Groaning, you stuffed your face in your hands, hoping that your senior managers in the audience were praying for your good health.

“What were you thinking?!” Coach Yamiji hissed, giving the sulking ace a well-deserved smack to the side of his head. Bokuto didn’t even flinch. “You could’ve—”

“Coach. Let me.”

Snapping his head in your direction, the old man grew pale when he heeded the dark aura that spewed from your body. Even the others, though they were only watching the entire event go down, was hyper-aware of the invisible, nightmarish fog that came with your frustration.

You’d always seemed so sweet and indulgent, never angry. Never. And yet Bokuto had finally gotten you to drop the tether that held your patience together.

Walking to Bokuto, you sent him a scowl so cold, he forgot how to blink. The rest of the team, the coach, your teacher and even Yukie and Kaori in the stands shivered from the sudden gust of frosty air that oozed from you. Some of the audience surprisingly turned their heads to watch the spectacle of the tiny Fukurodani manager who seemed like she was about to trample on their ace.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

“Bokuto, you—!”

You froze. No. If you scolded him now, that only make matters worse. Bokuto didn’t fare well when he was scolded by Kaori or Yukie either. Besides, you were his manager, not his mother. But what else were you going to do?

Bokuto thinks you look cute when you’re embarrassed.

Swallowing a nagging lump in your throat, you recalled the words of your seniors. Embarrassed? How do you do embarrassed? Was that even a thing you could pull off manually? Taking in a deep breath, you tightened your fist before loosening them in front of your body. Something was better than nothing.

“B-Bokuto-senpai...?”

“Senpai?!” the others snapped towards you, jaws on the floor. Even Bokuto was stunned.

Eyeing his interested gaze, you continued, fidgeting bashfully, “Bokuto-senpai’s such a slob... If you just listened to the others... you’d be a lot cooler...”

Komi tugged at the back of Konoha’s jersey, whispering in the blonde one’s ear, “She’s pulling out the ‘Cute Tsundere’ card!”

Stupefied, the wing spiker muttered, “Bokuto’s actually taking the bait... Scary. L/N-san’s scary.”

And take the bait he did. You didn’t even realize how red you were with the way he was looking at you—and the shade was fully unintentional, much to your chagrin. But Bokuto’s sullen mood was far gone, replaced with the brighter interest of infatuation.

“A lot cooler...?” Bokuto savored your words in his tongue, before whipping out both his hands to grab at your shoulders. “Y-You think I’m cool?!”

You didn’t even have to pretend to be shy anymore. The close contact of his skin, the scent of his sweat mingled with the musky aroma of his cologne and the pinkish tint on his cheeks. It was too much, and you soon wondered if Bokuto had always seemed this charming to you.

“Y-you airhead! Of course I do,” you mumbled, lowering your sight to the floor. “You’re already really good at volleyball, but you do things like forcing yourself to do a block you can’t do just because you want attention and... and now everyone has to bear that burden.”

“Please go on a date with me.”

You flinched in his grasps. This was escalating much faster than you’d hoped it would. Unable to register what he had said, you asked him to repeat himself.

“The cute Y/N-chan thinks I’m cool. That’s like a dream come true, right? So if I become cool again, won’t you go on a date with me?”

How unbelievable. One second he almost reminded you of the small boy that lived below your apartment, and the next he was like some sort of phantom thief, ready to whisk you away from the confines of your castle and steal your heart. You smiled earnestly; Bokuto Koutarou really was a man of many wonders.

Slipping yourself away from his grip, you raised an index finger between his eyes. “If you win... I’ll consider it.”

Like a phoenix rising from its ashes, the ace lit up once more. Revived, renewed, and heart set on taking you out. While dragging Akaashi back onto the court, Bokuto made it a point that he was looking at you all the way. You giggled. What an interesting person.

From the stands, your gaze traced the motto of Fukurodani’s Volleyball Club. Pour all your soul into each ball. Bokuto played with passion, with his emotions and whenever the time was right, with his logic too. For a while, volleyball seemed like the last thing you’d want to spend your life doing. But seeing the ace’s blushing grin to you when they’d scored the final match point... it might not be as bad as you thought it’d be.

[thiswasinevitableid]

For the meet-ugly prompts: #13, Indruck, SFW ? 👁️👁️

Here you go!

13: we make contact before trying to steal the last seat on the subway/bus/train and I end up in your lap and fuck you, I’m going to stay here because I’ve had a really long day and this seat was mine

The Phoenix Starport is a labyrinth, while technically made of chrome and touch-screens, is really made of lines.

Duck stands in line to show his ticket, to deposit his bags, to go through three separate security check-points and, when he gets to the section for the shuttle to take him to the Starliner, a fourth one because when your clients are high paying, you don’t want them getting blown to pieces.

He isn’t high-paying, he isn’t a seasoned space traveler, and he isn’t going to spend one second more on his feet than he has to. It’s been two solid hours of that just to get to this point. Unfortunately, every other passenger shares this sentiment. When the shuttle door opens a mass of lifeforms pile in, hunting for seats. Duck spots one, turns to sit, and finds it’s much fuzzier than it looked.

“Excuse me.” The creature whose laps he’s in reminds him of the pictures of Mothman scattered around his home state, “but this seat is taken.”

“Yeah, by me, because I saw it first.”

A click from inside the mothmans chest, “You are wrong. I saw it first, and did not foresee anyone being rude enough to use me in its place.”

Every other seat is filled, and it’s a fifteen minute ride to the Starliner. Duck crosses his arms, “you don’t wanna be a seat, you better get up.”

That earns him an annoyed chirr, “Not a chance.”

The shuttle ride is smooth, but his seat keeps prodding him with a clawed finger whenever he puts his weight on it. When they arrive, the two of them stand one after the other. The mothman shakes out his feathers, tosses a glare over his shoulder, and steps through the doors.

Unsurprisingly, the Sylvain Dream makes opulence seem subdued. There are rare flowers studding the fountain by the concierge desk, art from across the universe on the walls, and a sound dampening, shimmering carpet lining the hall to his room. He’s looking forward to some alone time; while all the suites at this level are technically two person, they’re so expensive that most travelers get their own rooms.

He keys open the door and comes face to chest with the same fucking alien from the shuttle.

“Ah. So we are in this timeline. Lovely.” The mothman says dryly, passing him to greet the bellhop who just finished scurrying up the stairs, “I see you have a message from minister Woodbridge. Kindly have someone reply and tell him that if it’s an emergency, they may contact me directly, but if the matter is anything else, they are to leave me in peace during my journey.”

“Yes, Seer Cold.”

“Thank you.” the seer drops a coin into his hand and brushes past Duck without another word.

Duck finally makes it past the entryway and gasps; when the people paying for his journey asked if he’d prefer forest, city, beach, or desert, he assumed it was some sort of vague theme. Instead, the carpet is lush, soft grass, there are flowers everywhere, and the furniture is all made to be woodsy and rustic. The bath and shower are like a mini water-fall and pool, his bed housed in a mock cabin.

“This is amazing.”

“If you are here purely for a leisure trip.” His suite-mate crosses both sets of arms, “some of us are being transported back to work.”

“Now look, this is a work trip for me too. You gotta admit this is pretty swank.”

“And an attempt to soften the blow.” Mothman mutters.

Duck rolls his eyes, decides this is not his problem to deal with, and goes to unpack for the month-long journey ahead.

-----------------------------------------------------

For the first two days he and Indrid--which is what the aloof, perpetually touchy Sylph likes to be called--do their best to ignore each other. They’re stuck on the same dining schedule, which means Duck accidentally insults the alien by giggling when he sees him lick his dessert up with an absurdly long tongue. He makes it up to the next night by saving the pineapple soda delivered in their lunch basket for the Sylph.

On day three, he’s reading by the holo-fire pit when a white badge with blue writing dangles before him.

“Would you like to accompany me to the spa?”

“Uh….”

“Since I foresee you asking no, we do not have to spend the entire time together.”

“I, uh, I was gonna say sure, but was wonderin’ why you offered it to me.”

“Oh.” His antenna flick in a new way, “I, ah, they gave me two. I have no one else to go with and it seemed silly to let it go to waste.”

“I gotta wear anything special?”

“Since humans require clothes in all but a few scenarios, I suggest wearing your robe.”

The spa is just as elaborate as the rest of the ship, with cushy chairs and complimentary booze. The secretary hands them each a menu of treatments bigger than any Duck’s held at a restaurant.

“Sugar scrub….talon wax….rock massage. Do they mean hot rocks?”

“No, that treatment helps those with scales shed.”

“Huh.” Duck pokes his tongue in his cheek, “wish they said which of these were safe for, uh, squishy human bodies.”

Indrid reaches out a claw, tapping several on the list, “This ful massage would be good; you’re muscular, it will be nice to have those muscles tended to.”

“Oh, uh, thanks. Have been workin out more, nice to have someone else notice.”

The Sylph smiles, “you may also like the hair luxury add-on; I’ve always thought humans with salt and pepper hair should show it off.”

Before Duck can ask how Indrid developed that opinion or learned that slang, they’re ushered off into separate rooms. He’s scrubbed and rubbed until his body surrenders the last of it’s stress, the oils they rub on his skin and into his hair smelling pleasantly of pine and cedar. His session ends with one of the staff leading him to a small room covered in deep green marble, where he can rinse and dry off in his own time.

Indrid is in the same room, reclining in a chair with a sun lamp on his wings. They’ve been groomed, the feather straighter and smoother than this morning. Duck takes his first real look at them, notices how the black is iridescent and that there are two bands of deep grey on the inside close to Indrid’s torso.

He’s really quite stunning.

“I feel” Indrid murmurs, “as if we got off to a bad start.”

“You think?” Duck aims for a genial tone.

Indrid cocks his head, “Yes. That is why I said it. I, ah, I ought to apologize for my temperament over the last few days. I am so very fond of earth, of humans, and I’d hoped to be able to work there indefinitely. But Sylvain is in crisis, and so they need me near. Never mind that we have the capability to transmit messages quickly between planets.”

“What’s the crisis?”

“Our plants are dying or failing to produce the resources we need. The belief is that-”

“-it’s a leftover contamination or mutation from the earth plants that crossed through the gate before it was destroyed.”

Indrid blinks, then grins, “it is novel to be the one having their sentences finished. Yes, Duck Newton; the gate has been gone for over two hundred years, but both our worlds will feel it’s effects for many more years.” His antenna perk up, “you’re the one they’re bringing on to consult.”

“Yep. That’s why they gave me such a sweet deal on the trip; they know it’s gonna be fuckin exhaustin work. Even with all the other perks they’re offerin, I know a lot of folks didn’t wanna apply.”

“Why did you feel differently?”

He pushes to the other side of the little pool so they can be closer, “I spent my whole life in the town I grew up in. I love what I do, I love helpin forests stay healthy and regrow and I...I dunno, how often do you get the chance to go to space and see forests on another planet?”

“Once, if you are me.” Indrid closes his wings, clicks off the light, and offers Duck a hand, “and I am glad you will have the chance to do the same.”

-----------------------------------------------

“You know” Indrid passes Duck the plate of toast, “I am named for Sylph who was the second most recent seer after myself. He and I are the same kind of Sylph, and when my parents learned their mothling-to-be was the next seer, they decided I would be Indrid Cold.”

“Not gonna lie, people actin like your fate is set in stone from birth gives me the creeps.”

“Understandable. I would not admit this to the other ministers, but I am no longer content with reporting on the futures. I try to change fate when I can. In this way, I am also like the first Indrid Cold. He kept trying to intervene in disasters; that’s how he got seen when he should not have been.”

“Holy fuck, there really was a mothman!”

“Indeed. I also learned from his personal notes that he was so fond of humans, he ended up marrying one.”

“Damn” Duck passes him the sweetener for his tea, teases, “you share that habit too?”

Red eyes linger a moment too long on his body before Indrid grins, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

----------------------------------------------

“You sure you don’t wanna swim?” Duck treads water in the green lagoon of some distant moon. The cruise is docked for an activity day, Duck having selected to spend it snorkeling and Indrid deciding to spend it with Duck.

“The wings are not built for it. Though the water does look pleasant.” Indrid lazily sifts black sand through his claws.

“You could wade in. It stays pretty shallow there” he points to a sand bar.

“If I get in over my head, will you come to my aid?”

“You know it.”

Indrid wades in, chirping as the waves hit his knees. When Duck next glances at him, Indrid is glancing right back. He’s smiling, soft and secretive.

“I am glad you picked this spot. The view is spectacular.”

-----------------------------------------------

They’ve hit turbulence a handful of times, all of which pale in comparison to the jolt that sends him tumbling out of bed. There are stabilizer controls to lighten the gravity in the room so they won’t feel the bumps as badly. But when he wobbles over, he finds it’s already up to the lowest it can be without him floating.

He stumbles to the window, the curtains shut against the vast universe. Is turbulence this severe normal? If the gravity doohickey isn’t able to help, maybe that means they’ve never hit a storm this bad.

Opening the window is a terrible idea; there’s no cause of the turbulence to be seen, and now he’s in a dark room staring into the depths of space, it’s so big, he’s so small, they all are, the forces of nature still have it in them to crack this ship like an egg, killing them all.

“Would it help if I said there are no futures where this storm poses a threat to us?” Indrid whispers from behind him.

“Kinda.”

“Would it help to see something breathtaking?”

“Wh-”

Indrid taps the glass, drawing Ducks attention to two massive, starry shapes, “Celestial whales. At least that’s the human name for them.”

“Holy fuck.” They remind Duck of Whale Sharks, but impossibly bigger, skin coated in thousands of star-spots, “how can they do that? I mean, obviously they ain’t mammals, but fuckin nothin thrives in deep space.”

“No one is certain.” Indrid sighs, happily, “isn’t it wonderful to know there are such things in the universe?”

“Yeah. AHfuck” He hits the wall as the whole ship shudders, “fuck, sorry-”

“It’s alright. It can be alarming when you’re on your first trip through the cosmos. I, ah, I have something that may help, if you’re alright with me touching you some.”

“Fine by me.” Duck follows Indrid to the Sylph’s bed. The seer sits cross-legged with his back against the wall and instructs Duck to rest his head in his lap. The points of his claws begin rubbing his neck and the base of his skull, Indrid humming at a low, steady pitch until Duck’s eyes start to close.

The pressure points are helping, he can tell by his loosening spine. But what soothes him to sleep is the repetitive reminder of Indrid there with him in the dark.

When he wakes up the storm is gone. His body is still moving, rising and falling in time with Indrid’s breath as he sleeps. He pulled Duck atop him in the night, and at some point must have wrapped him in his wings, since once, is still half-flopped on Duck’s back.

Seized with affection, Duck kisses his shoulder. When this earns him a happy chirp, he does it again, then kisses a cheerful path up to Indrid’s cheek. Red eyes open, sleepy and full of tenderness, just in time for the Sylph to turn his head and kiss Duck properly.

“What a lovely thing to awaken to.”

“No kiddin” Duck kisses him again, “fuck, Indrid, this is the weirdest goddamn thing to ever happen to me and I’m thinkin it might also be the best.”

Indrid hugs him close, “We shall have ample time to find out, if you wish to do so.”

“Hell yeah. But we only got a few days before we hit Sylvain.”

“Yes” Indrid kisses his nose, “but I happen to foresee Woodbridge ignoring my request for peace and sending me a message saying I will be working closely with a certain, visiting forestry expert.”

[cdrmiller]

The Squad

Just a super quick bio of Marie’s squad (always in progress) 

 Marie's team is specifically built to be a Swiss army knife of the alliance. They are sent on missions to scope out and assess and are usually the first ones at a scene. If they can take care of the mission, great, if the task needs a "special" force, they call it in. 

 -------------- Harris: a tiny nerd of a girl but she could make a bomb out of chewing gum and rocks. Very sweet. You'd think why is the hell is she in the military, but then you see how excited she gets over explosions. She looks up to Marie in more than just a leader, as a woman as well. Single and young, Mexican, curses and says random things in Spanish, always wears her long dark hair in a braid. She is very interested in the Phoenix guys, she kind of looks at them in awe and would be starstruck to be in one’s presence. 

 ----------------- Thurman: classic big balls soldier, classic white American look. He thinks he is hot shit. He is good looking and is the best shot on her team (besides her, she says). He is an asshole sometimes, but he is very loyal. He once got shot several times getting Marie, who had already been shot in the leg, out of a firefight. He wouldn't think twice about it. He has a kid and is divorced. He would NOT like the Phoenix guys. He doesn’t believe in augmented stuff, he believes anything that isn’t natural needs to be thrown in the garbage can. 

-----------------Thompson:  Older black man with salt and pepper graying hair, but still in better shape than most guys half his age. This guy is so seasoned, anyone would want him on their team. Very gruff and blunt, he's like a 2nd dad to Marie. He's one of those people who just knows everything about anything. He doesn't show off, he just puts his head down and does his job and looks out for his squad. Marie goes to him for advice about lots of things, not just work related. His wife, the love of his life, died a while back and his daughter just had his first grandchild. He’d be indifferent to the Phoenix guys. If it means they help win the war so he can retire and go sit on a porch in a rocking chair back on Earth, he’s for it.

 -------------------- New kid I haven't named yet, they don’t know him really well yet. He's a newbie out of training and a replacement for someone in their squad they lost not too long ago, which they were/are really torn up about. Super skilled hacker, and is also their pilot, one of the best. 

 ------------------- Braun: The muscle. German. A gentle giant, he’s always laughing. He knows weapons. EVERY kind of weapon.

 ------------------- Sully: Sniper, he’s also very good at tracking and survival. He’s the kind of guy you could plop down in the middle of nowhere and he’d at least find a way to survive. Asian, lean and tall. It was his boyfriend that was the squad member that died. (Only the team knew about them since squad romantic relationships with your loved ones is frowned upon) He is currently on leave, forced upon him by Marie. 

---------------- (I’ve always wanted an alien race in her squad but I just can’t justify it, commander shepherd was one thing, marie’s normal little squad most likely isn’t going to have one LOL) but she does have alien race contacts/friends.`

[headaurormoody]

P I N N E D: P O S T // Click for Details

Is that ALASTOR MOODY stepping out into Diagon Alley? Ministry records tell us that they were born on 17 JANUARY and are a 40 year old, PURE BLOOD who works as a HEAD AUROR AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC. Some have said that they can be described as being RAW, INTELLIGENT & STRONG however, they also see themselves as being HARSH, STOIC & CYNICAL. Apparently, HE looks a lot like JOE MANGANIELLO, whoever that is, and if they had to pick a side in the war, they would choose to JOIN THE ORDER.

C H A R A C T E R: S T A T S

FULL NAME: Alastor Moody

NICKNAME(S): Moody, Auror Moody, Sourwolf, Grumpy Cate ( @ofamelias​ only )

DATE OF BIRTH: 17 January

NATIONALITY: Scottish

OCCUPATION: Ministry of Magic - Head Auror 

AFFILIATION: Co Founder of the OotP

RELIGION: Athiest

GENDER IDENTITY: He/Him

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pansexual

ETHNICITY: Caucasian

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single

C H A R A C T E R: D E T A I L S

POSITIVE TRAITS: Raw, Intelligent, Strong

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Harsh, Stoic, Cynical

PATRONUS: The phoenix - It is a difficult patronus to come by, and if you do happen to have it, it signifies a very strong heart. These people have been through a lot in their life, and have risen from the ashes of it and become driven, daring, and a bit stubborn. They will not let anything bring them down, because they’ve been there before and never want to go back to that place. They have fire-like emotions, and can therefore be a bit tense at times. They are natural therapists, wanting to help others get out of tough places to allow them to rise as well. The most common house for a phoenix patronus is Gryffindor.

BOGGART: Death: The Boggart would take the form of a grim reaper, representing death. He doesn’t exactly fear dying, but he fears leaving the world with unfinished business. He needs to see the demise of Voldemort before he’d be okay with moving on. When casting the Riddikulus charm, the reapers scythe would transform into a bunch of roses.

WAND TYPE: Length: 14″ Wood: Acacia. A very unusual wand wood, which I have found creates tricky wands that often refuse to produce magic for any but their owner, and also withhold their best effects from all but those most gifted. Core: Dragon Heartstring. As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental

C H A R A C T E R: A P P E A R A N C E

FACE CLAIM: Joe Manganiello

HEIGHT: 6′5

WEIGHT: 250lbs

HAIR COLOR: Black & White, Salt & Pepper

EYE COLOR: Brown

DOMINANT HAND: Right

SCARS: His body is covered in them from years of battle

TATTOOS: Alastor has a whole host of tattoos, ranging from large to small. He has a full sleeve tattoo down his left arm which finishes on his knuckles covering from shoulder to the entire top of his hand. The sleeve features most predominately an archangels wing with lettering around the wrist, and a depiction of Zeus, Ruler of the Gods. He has a large eagle carrying an olive branch across his rib cage, and many more little tattoos scattered across his body in various places.

PIERCINGS: N/A

C H A R A C T E R: B A C K G R O U N D

HOMETOWN: Leigth, Scotland

ACCENT: Scottish

CURRENT RESIDENCE: London, England

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

EDUCATION LEVEL: Hogwarts, Advanced Ministry Training

C H A R A C T E R: D O S S I E R 

Alastor didn’t earn the moniker of ‘one of the greatest Auror’s the industry has seen in a long time’ for no reason. He is dedicated to the cause, co-founding the Order with Dumbledore and leading the front to put an end to the Rebellion once and for all. The position is not without it’s dark side, the war is taking a toll on the Wizard and he often wonders if it’s all worth it. The only thing stopping him from throwing in the towel and walking away from it all is the next generation who look to he and Dumbledore for leadership. He dreams of a safe, fearless world…he just doesn’t believe they’ll make it.

[kittymsmithwritesstuff]

Commission: Surprises

A Valorant commission for @sr-023! Was fun to write. :3

If you’re interested in commissions you can find my prices here: (x)

Tags: fluff, humor, light angst, people cooking together. Platonic Viper/Jett getting to know each other a little bit more in the kitchen.

Word count: 2413

-----

“Oh my God, you cook?”

Viper without her mask gave way to several emotions Jett forgot she was capable of. Like amusement. “Yes. And I eat, too.”

“Wow! I never would have guessed. I thought you subsisted on like, diluted snake venom and children’s tears.”

Viper rolled her eyes, peeling a potato in one smooth movement, leaving a curl of peel to fall into a bowl. “It was Breach’s turn to cook. I don’t know about you, but snake venom is far more palatable than lutefisk.”

Jett couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. “You’re just secretly a sweetheart.”

Viper twirled the knife in her hand and pointed it at Jett, mouth a hard line. “Don’t push it.”

Jett shrugged it off smoothly, hoping she didn’t see the stutter of nerves in her shoulders. She looked over the kitchen island-thawed meat, potatoes, green beans that looked like they must have come from a garden, except there weren’t any gardens on the compound that she knew of so...beans-of-mysterious-origin. And all of it in huger quantities than needed to feed the compound. How very American.

And there was Viper in the middle of all of it. Peeling potato after potato in a silent kitchen, a bowl filling with impeccable ribbons. She wondered where she might have learned to peel a potato like that. Like, that totally wasn’t a master poisoner skill, right? It was like a housewife or a hobby cook that was…really into peeling potatoes. Given she was usually taken with annoying Viper, and Viper in turn was taken with threatening her life with any method that violated the Geneva Convention, the fact she hadn’t already kicked her out must have meant she was in an unusually gregarious mood.

And maybe Jett was in her own kind of mood from witnessing the phenomenon of the great mighty Viper being distinctly un-snakelike. She glanced at all the food again, rocking from heel to toe. “Can I help?”

“Yes.”

“Great! How?”

“By leaving until I’m done.”

Jett rolled her eyes, coming to the other side of the island, out of stabbing distance. “C’mon, please?”

Viper stopped mid peel, nicking the skin so it fell, unfinished. She looked at it like it had cut in front of her in line, but it was too public to make a scene. Her eyes flicked up to Jett, who spread her palms over her heart. “I’m good with knives!”

Viper looked from her to the meat, then back again. She sniffed. “You may cut the beef into steaks, if you insist. Inch and a half.”

She almost buzzed, throwing one of her knives up to hover beside her and quickly washing her hands. She wasn’t super into cooking usually, but it was kind of like getting to see the lions actually up and wandering around at the zoo instead of just sitting there and waiting for their next meal. Very aware of the eyes on her, she grabbed her knife from the air, adjusted the meat on the cutting board, and slowly started cutting down into it, trying to channel every lesson her dad ever gave her in the kitchen, all of which she’d ignored so she could go back to doing literally anything else.

Evidently, she wasn’t channeling them very well, as there was soon a knife clattering over the counter toward her. She jumped, half expected to get stabbed, but the knife rested a foot away. She looked up at Viper, who looked absolutely pained. “Use…use an actual knife.”

“This is a knife?”

“It’s a throwing knife. The blade is five inches at best. That is a chef’s knife.” She went back to the potatoes, though somehow Jett still felt her eyes on her. Maybe she had false eyespots like a moth and her real eyes were on her forehead. She palmed the handle, tilting the blade so it glinted in the stark kitchen light, then lined it up and finished cutting the steak-smooth, easy, like butter. She looked over at Viper.

“Good,” she said. She was still peeling potatoes. How many potatoes were there? “Set it on the plate. Use the seasoning there. Not too much.”

Jett snorted, setting the meat aside and using her meat-juice covered hand on the unlabled spice shaker. “Yeah okay, Mom.”

There was another nick, a potato peel falling half done. Jett could see her muscles tense-her whole body, in fact, went rigid, but as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and the knife was steadily scraping against the potato again. She could have imagined it. This was Viper after all, the same woman that once “accidentally” bumped her into a poison pit because Jett had been “annoying”.

And yet…

She shrugged, flipping and seasoning the other side of the steak, apparently to her cooking neighbors satisfaction, and then went ahead and cut the next steak, seasoning and flipping it, leaving bloody lines on the seasoning bottle until she realized just how unsanitary that probably was, and got the idea to clean it, then grab a paper towel and fold it over a few times, wrap the bottle and tape it. Viper raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve seen you do something so smart.”

Smart? She just called her smart? Sure, it was backhanded, but she’d never heard her call anybody smart. Especially not her. She threw on a British accent as she said, “don’t need anymore bloody spice shakers, huh?”

She hummed. But it could have been a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a British person sound like that.”

“Phoenix said if I ever try to do the accent in his presence again he’ll set me on fire.”

“As is his right.”

Jett snorted, returning to her cutting and seasoning. “You’re not…wrong.”

Viper finally finished her unholy pile of starch and set up two pots of water to boil the approximate 230,000 potatoes, give or take a half dozen. Jett finished her own job and set the steaks up on pans to broil, Viper taking over from there and telling her to “get the beans ready”. Considering she’d only ever eaten green beans straight from the can at 2am this was a bit of a difficult task. Difficult, unfamiliar tasks tended to make her nervous. But Jett wasn’t about to be shown up by some beans.

So she confidently put the burner on high, grabbed a handful and dropped them in the water once it was boiling, thus splashing water over burners, herself, countertop and floor, sending up a grand sizzling equitable to the sounds of demon laughter bubbling up from hell. She yipped, jumping away, in doing so smashing into Viper, who almost slipped on the water, caught herself on the counter and flicked the gas off.

The look she gave Jett could have boiled the ocean.

“Get out.” She said. Low, dangerous, like the buzz of a rattlesnake’s tail.

Jett scurried backward, tapping her hip to count how many of her knives she still had on her as her calf knocked against a chair at one of the circular dining tables in the room. She sat in it, not entirely sure as to why. Probably because Viper hadn’t straight up killed her, and she had the self-preservation instincts of that rat from Ratatouille.

She watched from her seat, how she moved around the kitchen as if on a breeze, smoothly following the curve of the wind, twirling between the meat and the potatoes, setting up the beans by gently placing them into the pot (which, in hindsight, was definitely common sense that Jett…apparently didn’t possess). The beautiful potato skins were tossed in one large bowl and covered with water, then a timer was set. It felt like watching an artist, spawning a question in her head.

Viper saw her staring and glowered. “Why are you still here?”

Her feet fidgeted, and she clasped her fingers together to avoid tugging at her hair, like her Mom had taught her. Better to look pensive than apprehensive. “Were you a chef?”

Viper stared, glower softening to a neutral expression tilting towards surprise. She glanced back towards the kitchen, slowly crossing her arms under her chest. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well, cooking is like, a form of chemistry, right?” She pulled the only fact she’d ever retained from Home Ec out of her ass, hoping and praying it worked, cause otherwise she was probably going to be banished from the room…and maybe dinner. Man, she really hoped she wasn’t banned from dinner.

Thankfully, the wind blew in some luck. “I was a double major at University of Washington. Culinary Arts and Chemistry.”

She let herself smile, just a bit. “So, you’re good with knives, too.”

“You could say so.” She was eyeing her, and instead of sitting in the chair across from her, she leaned against the nearby wall. “Did you have any training with your knives?”

Jett was surprised she’d bothered to ask. “I taught myself. Since I was a kid.” She leaned back and swung her hand casually, swirling a knife into the air to illustrate her point. “My mom wanted me to go to college but, like, I can control wind with my mind, so that sounded kind of lame.”

Viper cocked her head to the side. “So, your powers, it’s all mental manipulation?”

Jett shrugged slightly. “I mean, mostly. I also gotta like, move my hands and legs and stuff. But I mostly just think about it. Or don’t-like it’s natural now, like walking or breathing.”

“Fascinating,” she said with a thoughtful tone, returning to the food. Somewhat hesitant, Jett joined her, at a respectful distance. She stabbed the potatoes, and apparently that meant something because she drained them immediately after, chucked in some butter and started sprinkling some salt and pepper and beating the living shit out of them with a hand mixer. She noticed Jett standing and nodded toward the sink. “Make yourself useful and drain the potato skins. Toss them in the bowl with olive oil and the spice mix and put them on a pan in the oven.”

She blinked, then shrugged and slipped around her. Now that she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to get speared through, or find her way into another poison pit, she decided she…sort of liked working with Viper in the kitchen. She was rude but she also was sort of…normal? As normal as she was capable of being? She did as directed, coating the skins until they looked unhealthy and chuckling as she threw in the spices. “Y’know, I probably should have asked if this was poisoned before I put it on.”

Viper huffed, turning off the mixer with a click. “Please, not everything I do involves poison. I wasn’t born with, with tubocurarine dripping from my fingertips, hell I wasn’t like this, I was made into it.”

She tossed everything in the oven. Jett paused, gripping her arms, trying to seem casual. She’d heard a few throwaway comments before, they all had, but right now she thought, perhaps, if she phrased it right, she could ask certain questions without sounding (and being) a total dick. “What’s tubocurarine?”

“A neurotoxin, first used for poison arrows and later to keep muscles relaxed during surgery. It would paralyze you for a couple hours, basically.”

“Oh, interesting.” She bit her lip, digging her nails into her skin. “Hey, you don’t have to say anything but, can I, can I ask who?”

Viper paused, turning slowly to look down her nose at her. She was, again, reminded of the other woman’s venomous namesake. “Excuse me?”

“Who, uh…made you, uh,” in fear of phrasing it wrong, Jett gestured vaguely at Viper, who narrowed her eyes.

The air was heavy, but it wasn’t boiling like with the beans. It wasn’t even rumbling. It was contemplative, quiet, even a little sad. Like a waveless ocean. “I don’t know.” She said finally.

Jett blinked. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know.” She shrugged smoothly, though she was visibly tense. Like when I called her mom¸ Jett thought, a stone sinking in her stomach. “My family, my friends, myself-it all was taken from me. And I don’t have faces or names to put it to.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Shit.”

Viper let out a very uncharacteristic snort, pulling the steaks and potato skins from the oven. “That’s about the best way to describe it. Perhaps in some ways it’s my fault, I didn’t fight it as much as I should have…” she stopped, staring at the steaks and then shaking her head, taking a deep breath. “Though if I ever do find out who, they’ll wish they’d killed me. Anyway,” she gave Jett a sidelong glance. “Now you. Venice.”

A bolt of anxiety speared through her being and she gripped the strap of her tank top reflexively. “I-I didn’t do it.”

“A floating city and a wind radiant found at its base? Please.”

She pursed her lips. “I. Didn’t. Do. It.”

She turned slightly, furrowing her brow, eyes darting over her face as she began to move the steaks to a plate. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.” She looked at her feet. “I was there when it started cracking, and I used my powers to jump off and landed on some chunk that hadn’t come up with the rest of the island. Some guy got me on his phone camera. Nobody believed me when I said I had nothing to do with it. And if I’m being honest with myself, they probably never will.” She sighed and forced herself to look up, braced for the pity, or the accusation-you’re bad at lying, she’d say, like so many others.

But in place of either, there was a slight, slight smile. “Guess we have more in common than I thought, Jett.”

---

Everyone was very thankful to not have to try and find the politest way to refuse Breach’s lye-soaked cod. Jett saying she helped also reassured everyone that the food didn’t contain Viper’s latest experiment. At least, that was until Viper was noticeably not eating, glancing around the tables, sipping only her water as the members of Valorant gradually stopped chewing, some digging into their potatoes, Breach eyeing his steak suspiciously. Jett glanced around and suddenly choked, falling off her chair.

Phoenix screamed, scrambling backward over his chair, the others quickly beginning to scoot away until Jett sat up again, grinning.

“Gotcha,” Viper said, smiling over her glass.

[fiery-assassin-arc]

꧁༒☬𝓒𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓮 –𝓘𝓻𝓲𝓼’𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥☬༒꧂

He remains still, not wanting to attack. Hands behind his back. Gentle smile. I am still holding the fire poker in my hands, aimed at him. Part of me wants to attack, but he knows I wouldn’t. I was blinded by rage that day.

 He knows I’m haunted by what he did.

 I wonder if he had time to reflect.

 “Put that down, Phoenix.”

“Why are you in my home?” I accuse, taking a step closer, placing it by his chest. “How are you in my home?”

 “I’m the Grandmaster of lock-picking as well as the Lin Kuei.” He explains, raises his eyebrow ever slightly. I should have known. “As for the why,” He looks at the fire poker, me, then at the improv weapon again. “I would like to talk it over with you, if you’re willing to listen to me.”

 I chew the inside of my cheek. Contemplating my options. I could listen to him, or get him out of the house. I never did listen to him that day. Even at the pyre, I stood far away from the others as they mourned. I was angry, but how I had to force his hand to have Frost be buried along with the others… I don’t know if I can forgive him. But I’ve also grown so much with him, he’s helped me slowly overcome my fear of the dark (managed, not completely eradicated).

 I put the fire poker on the rack, and gesture him to the kitchen. “Hungry? I’m sure you’ve had a long journey.” At his shrug of indifference, I make my way to the kitchen, checking to see if he follows.

 Just because I’m angry at him, doesn’t mean I no longer respect him.

 He sits on the bar stool, looking uncomfortable as I grab ingredients for colcannon. Potatoes, kale, butter, heavy cream. His cold is familiar I clear my throat, hoping it could ease the tension here. “How are things?”

 “The temple has slowly come back to normal. Some new recruits have joined.” He tells me, looks at how I cut the potatoes. Even, use the knife to peel the skin carefully. “Some of the other members miss you, Phoenix. I have missed you.”

 The knife slams down on the cutting board, remembering the name I gave myself.  It was the rebirth from the ashes. But now I am ash, nothing to spark me. “I don’t know if I can come back stronger like last time.” I say to him. I continue cooking. Boiling the potatoes.

 “I have watched you go from a little, barely sparking ember on wood to a forest fire. Destructive, powerful, confident. You have grown in the past five years. Whatever ails you, you will overcome.” There’s pride in his voice, a gentle smile that I haven’t seen in a while.

 “Yeah, but now I’m back to where I started.” I argue, before chopping up the kale. “You never did answer my question on why you’re here.”

 “I know you have taken a leave of absence. Because you are upset with me.” Sub-Zero sighs, and his hands slap his thighs. “On that day, I thought I could possibly disengage her thoughts, put her in temporary rest. But Raiden decided that it was best to eliminate her entirely. And I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him in time, or didn’t say anything to prevent it.”

 I look over at him. His ocean eyes show an amount of regret. I never did look at him that day. All I say was someone who indirectly took something most important from me.

 “You both had such a powerful bond, the same Hanzo and I once had. When she challenged me, I made the choice of exile because I would not, could not kill her; deep down I cared for her like one would a daughter to a father. Same with you.” He sighs, and I pass him the bowl of potatoes, and the masher. He chuckles. “What’s this?”

 “Mashing potatoes is better than hurting yourself. Trust me. Do it.” I offer, leaning on the kitchen counter.  

 “That won’t be left unchecked.” Sub-Zero says, and proceeds to mash the vegetable, continues. “I was angry with her when I found she had allied herself with Sektor. I did not hold her back, she simply needed more guidance, even though she was Chief. And I remember how you were hurt by my choices, yet you remained loyal. Why?”

 Why. That’s what it all boils down to, does it? Everyone has a why, but do I? I sigh, crack my knuckles. “I did what I thought was right that day. I argued with her earlier that it was foolish to do so, but she didn’t push me to join her.” I look into the bowl of potatoes—looks good enough. But he’s still mashing them in a clockwise motion. “I trusted your judgment, in the end. And I believed, maybe, maybe she’d come back to us.” To me.

 “I remember you told me Frost didn’t cyberize you. She set you free.”  

 “She did. But we fought before that. I don’t know what provoked her, but I noticed her movements…” Sub-Zero pushes the bowl to me, and I prepare the rest of the dish. Adding butter, cream. “It was if she held some sort of restraint. Not completely, but enough to overpower, and get a chance to escape. It was before you and Master Hasashi arrived.” I add salt and pepper. “I think then, she still protected me.” Toss in the kale. Get some bowls for us.

 “At least there were still parts of her that were human. Her love for you never left her even when she changed.” He reaches a hand over, hesitant. I slowly take it, embrace the chill. “I hope what I said is enough for closure.”

 I feel a lump in my throat, unable to melt with the heat, and I feel tears burn my eyes. Second time today. It’s nice to hear how he really felt that day.

 “It’s a start, but it doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you right away. I may need time.”  

 “That is something I will accept, Phoe—Iris.” He sends me a crooked smile. It’s a comfort to me.  “And know, you will always have a home at the temple.”

 “And you have a place to stay at the palace,” I offer. “But why do I sense there’s something else…”

 Sub-Zero presses his lips into a thin line. “What you said earlier. About cooking is better than hurting yourself. The way you held the fire poker, I notice a look in your eyes: fear.” When I eat as a distraction, he goes on. “Something happened to you, did it?”

 I swallow, my food suddenly bland in my mouth. “Grandmaster . . .”

 Sub-Zero takes a deep breath, gently pats my shoulder. “I won’t make you tell me, but when you get the chance, you know I’ll be lending an ear.”

 I nod. “I appreciate it. You should eat your colcannon, it’s going to get cold.”

 “I’m sorry—my what?”

 “Colcannon. It’s potatoes with a green vegetable in it. It’s really good.” I gesture to his bowl.  “Try some.”

 “I guess I will indulge.”  Sub-Zero takes a spoonful of the dish, his mouth twisting into a frown. “It’s . . . good.”

 “Do you not like the food or my cooking?”

 “Erm..”

 “You’re a shit liar, Grandmaster Sub-Zero.” At that, we both chuckle softly, the fireplace our music as we try to reform a bond like a lost father and daughter.

 This is something. Not like therapy. Or maybe it is. Because a slight weight is off of my chest.

  Bend the knee. Lift the leg, Stretch. Repeat until it does something.  My pointe shoes are almost ruined, the dirt under the padding and blood seeping at the toe. But it shows dedication, it shows my determination.

 I landed the role of the Black Swan, and I’m doing my best to make my moveset more . . . seductive. I would have once gone for the White Swan, but shockingly enough I landed a role that was new to me. I’ll take it.

 I walk to the center of the room, and start the dance, Christian screeching words of encouragement with Wren watching. I made one of my rooms a makeshift ballet studio. “Thanks buddy.” I say softly.

 “How does it feel being the Black Swan instead one of the little swans?”

 “It feels great.” I say, doing a pirouette. “It was fun being the cute swan, but now, being kind of like the bad guy, I’m enjoying it.”

 Wren smiles, and lightly coughs into her hand. That’s the second time today.  And earlier this morning at brunch. “Let’s hope you won’t become like that ballerina in that movie. Don’t overwork yourself, and don’t stress.” Wren reassures me, shaking off an invisible feeling.

 “Do you want some tea? You’re acting like you have a cold.” I stop my practice, and lean against the bar. “Please don’t tell me you caught a cold.”

 She scoffs. “What are you worried about? You don’t get sick.”

 “Not often. But it’s annoying when the symptoms pop up. I’ll get chills instead of fevers.” I shudder, before redirecting our conversation back. “But you’ve been warm. Your temperature is higher.”

 “Maybe I am catching a cold.” I take a step back in fear. She scratches her head. “Or the flu. I’ve been a little nauseated.”

 “Have you? For how long?”

 “A few days.” Wren sighs. “I’m pretty sure it’s nothing. Now, you’ve made me your ballet coach. So I say we keep going. Come on, show me . . . something alluring.”

 I laugh,  turn the music back on. I arch my back, my hand floating above my head, spinning on my toes. I make my movements fluid, but sharp. As I look at  Wren, I notice how she almost looked a little tired than usual.

 Ever since the marriage between her and my brother, Wren has been like a big sister to me, making me laugh and giving me advice, especially when it came to dating. Being myself. But how can I, now? When I no longer know myself?

  I spin in a flurry, going at least five times. Stopping once and going once again. Looking at the mirrors. Then I see her.

 Someone who died years ago.

 The vibrant red hair. The ember eyes, red from angry tears. A bruise under her eye. Blood on her lip. The dress she’s wearing is black. Darkened by obvious stains.

 It’s a younger version of me.

I trip my spin and fall on the ground, pain radiating up my leg. My breathing is fast. My heart hurts. What the—why am I seeing a young version of me?

 Christian screeches in worry and flies over to me. His head touches my cheek. “I’m okay, boy.” I tell him. Wren looks at me with concern, helping me up. “No, really I’m fine. Let’s keep going, yeah?”

 “…Are you sure? That was a nasty fall.”

 “I’m sure. And turn up the music louder.” I say, and practice on the other side of the room. Making sure not to look at any mirrors.

[shnuggletea]

The Kissin Booth is now open! I’ll be taking orders for kisses starting today. For my Cynophiles, Stargazers, and Bibliophiles on Patreon (Don’t freak out Subscribers, I changed the names of the tiers)! Order forms go live NOW! They close December 15th so become a Patreon and get your order in soon! 

If you want me to do an ask for free drabbles of your kiss, reblog, like, or leave a note to show me the interest in something like that. If the numbers reflect a decent show then I’ll do that as well. If you want a nice long 1,000k + fic around your kiss, you’ll have to subscribe by December 15th! 

@underwater0phelia @lavendertwilight89 @mamabearcat @nartista @nopenname22 @echobows @superpixie42 @smmahamazing @redflamesofpassion @jme-chan @cstorm86 @cicleydark-light @ruddcatha @lavaffair @kirrtash @sistasecbhere @inusgirl @obsessandfangirl @britonell @lordofthechips @mcornilliac @faolenwolf @classyhumanathletepalace @keichanz @phoenix-before-the-flame @artisticloveexpressitsall @lamuertadehambre @noyourenotreal @mitty-san @thenoammonster @little-deeluna @royaltrashpanda @sailorbabydoll92 @storyweaver2017 @malditamigs @adorabubblesblog @lilms-obsessed @petri808 @anniehcresta @fan-dumpp @itzatakahashi @utakuprincess @theschultinator @all-too-ale @little-inukag-obsessed @theseagullqueen @queenofthesquirps @inusgirl @jolinaaa00 @knowall7k @neutronstarchild @fawn-eyed-girl @eringobroke @sapphirestarxx @clearwillow @dangerouspompadour @tingaliciousky @master-ray5 @sailorsilverladybug @astraearose93 @egosolivagant @fandomartlover @sidsinning @sailorlolo​ @kagometaishostory @orientaldancegirl222

Look below to see what choices you get and image what your kiss could look like!

OTPs

Usagi x Mamoru

Makoto x Neph

Ami x Zoisite

Rei x Jad

Mina x Kun

Inukag

Sango x Miroku

Inu Parents

Tomo x Natomi

Edwin

Hak x Yona

Nalu

An ‘in the life’ kiss from one of my fics (make sure to include the name of the fic and the OTP within it you want for the kiss).

Types of Kisses:

Goodbye kisses: Lingering and hard for longer times apart. Ones that curve A’s body against B’s and cause hands to play against backs. Or short pecks, maybe not even completely on the mouth for short trips to the grocery store.

Hello kisses: After long periods apart, these can include A picking up B and spinning them around. Fingers pressing into cheeks, palms cupping necks, and breathless laughs when they finally come up for air.

Breathless kisses: A series of short pecks because they need the closeness but they also need air, so. Sometimes smiles come in between, or sometimes it’s just breath, gasping for the sole purpose of being able to kiss again.

Heated kisses: Breath huffing into mouths, angrily or passionately. Hands grabbing at clothing and pulling each other closer.

First kisses: Hesitant and nervous. Lips hover inches from each other for a few seconds before they just barely brush. It’s just a soft press, but it ignites their entire bodies. Pinkies link afterwards, still wanting to be close, and each looks down, smiling softly.

After sex kisses: Lazy, slow presses. Limbs pressed together, chests heaving. Soft murmurs about what to do for dinner later, fingers trailing down backs, tracing lazy patterns. B rolling onto their back and A trailing their lips down their neck, kissing their shoulder, their chest, anywhere they can think of, memorizing B.

Morning kisses: Barely awake kisses that usually end up on jaws or cheeks because A is too tired to land it properly. B makes a sleepy sound and rolls into A, nuzzling their face into their neck, ankles hooking together, while A drapes their arms around B and they fall back asleep for a while.

Post-break up kisses: Soft and slow. Hands on each other’s arms in a way that neither can tell if the other is pushing away or pulling closer. The kiss ends with their foreheads pressed together, neither wanting it to be true that this is happening.

Christmas kisses: More smile than actual kiss. A holds mistletoe above their heads while B rolls their eyes, but pulls A down by the collar of their ugly Christmas sweater for a heated kiss. A takes B by the waist and walks forward until they are around the corner, away from the prying eyes and hoots of the rest of their friends and family.

Comforting kisses: B walks into find A sitting on the bed, shoulders shaking, cheeks wet. A looks up, face looking stricken for a moment. B is shocked, and quietly says A’s name. At this, A breaks, face crumpling, and only barely has time to reach both hands out for B before B is there, kneeling at A’s feet. B takes A’s hands first, kissing their knuckles and palms. Then B reaches up to hold A’s face, pressing soft kisses around their cheeks, their lips, murmuring “it’s okay” and “you’re alright” and “I’m here” in between.

“I thought I lost you” kisses: The breath is knocked out of both of them with the force that they collide with. Hands grip the back of t-shirts and palms are pressed up and under shirts, holding them close, feeling the warmth of their skin. Palms are pressed to cheeks, thumbs swiping away tears until their mouths collide messily, the world seeming to disappear around them.

“We can’t do this” kisses: Fists clenched, hands shoved into pockets. Brows low or brought together, jaws clenched. A feeling like a magnetic pull between them. Their foreheads pressed together, their lips brush, just barely, until B pulls away with a shaking exhale, forehead dropping into A’s neck.

“Come to bed” kisses: A has their hands on B’s neck, murmuring the phrase softly. A’s hands slide down B’s arms to their hands, lacing their fingers together and slowly starting to pull B towards their bedroom. A continues to pepper B with kisses all the while, trailing them down their jaw and neck.

“You look beautiful” kisses: Just a soft press of lips to the temple, resting them there for a moment, then smiling down and telling them as much.

“I’ll be right back” kisses: A puts their hands on B’s shoulders from behind them, where they are sat on the couch. He leans down and around, while B turns his head a little, accepting the quick peck.

“I missed you” kisses: Long and relentless, holding their body close, arms wrapped completely around their waist. A burying their head in B’s neck and pressing kisses there too.

Angry kisses: Hard, gripping. Fists in clothes, shoving each other against walls. Fingers digging into hips. But the kisses always melt away from that. They turn into brushes of lips between shaking breaths, until they’re out of energy and are left just standing there, holding each other, fingers carding through hair.

Sad kisses: Almost not a kiss at all. Just holding onto each other tightly, A’s lips pressed to B’s temple, whispering soft words, desperately trying to provide whatever comfort they can.

In the dark kisses: The movie plays in the background, but A and B are hardly paying attention from the back row. They kiss soundlessly, long and soft, fingers locked. A’s arm is thrown behind B’s seat, wrist bent to curl their fingers into B’s hair.

Dying kisses: A holds B in their arms, panicked, crying. Murmurs of “no, no, no.” Salt on their lips from tears. Voice cracking. Holding on tightly to their shirt, their shoulder, their hand, roughly pulling them against their body, anything to try and keep them tethered to this earth. Kissing them as they die (“no. No, stay awake—“), Kissing them once more even with the life has left their body (No. God, come back. Please, come back. Please, look at me, I’m right here”).

Ways to Kiss:

breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths

moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed

kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s

throwing their arms around the other person, holding them close while they kiss

hands on the other person’s back, fingertips pressing under their top, drawing gentle circles against that small strip of bare skin that make them break the kiss with a gasp

lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up

routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing

being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward 

one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other 

staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more

a hoarse whisper “kiss me”

following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck

starting with a kiss meant to be gentle, ending up in passion

a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss

when one person’s face is scrunched up, and the other one kisses their lips/nose/forehead 

height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes 

kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap 

kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing 

top of head kisses 

Places Where People Kiss:

In the rain.

In a vehicle.

In the street.

On the sidewalk.

In the shower.

In the kitchen.

In the snow.

Under the stars.

In the moonlight.

By the river.

In the water.

In the bedroom.

In a bar.

At a party.

At the other’s place.

By a campfire.

Reasons to kiss:

Life or Death

Love

Celebration

Longing

Missing the other

Relief

Lust

Need

No reason at all

Admiration

Power

First Kiss

Confessing feelings

A bet

Sad or hurt feelings

First date

Remember to reblog, like, and/or leave a note if you want me to do an ask for drabble kisses for February!!

[alice-lover-in-wonderland]

Chapter One

“You’re going to be late,” my mom’s yelling from downstairs.

“I know! I know,” I shout back as I tear apart my room looking for my other shoe. Really Lili? The first day of college and you’re already a disorganized mess, I think to myself as I pick up the clothes on my bedroom floor and toss them behind me. I look at the clock on my nightstand. 7:30 A.M. Class starts at 9:15 A.M. which gives me and Joy enough time to stop at the coffee shop on the way. If I can ever find my other shoe, that is.

I go look on the floor of my closet but it’s not there. I get down and look under my bed but it’s not there either. Finally admitting defeat, I stand up. I decide to put on my ugly green flats that don’t go with my outfit at all. They actually don’t go with any outfit at all but my grandma bought them for me and who am I to tell a seventy-two old woman that they are the most hideous shoes ever made? I’m just not that kind of person.

I grab my bag off the chair next to the door to my room and check my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on it. My, once brown but recently bleached blonde, hair is all over my face. And the makeup, that I just took over an hour to do, is completely messed up. I don’t have time to fix it so I grab a wipe and take it all off. Then, I quickly run a brush through my hair and put on some lip gloss before walking out of my bedroom.

As I walk downstairs, I can smell coffee and pancakes indicating that my mom made breakfast. I walk into the kitchen and find Joy, my best friend since diapers, sitting at the table. She’s sitting across from my mom with her signature cup of coffee. She has kind of a caffeine addiction.

“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” my mom says standing, taking her plate to the sink.

“Hey,” I say sheepishly, “I’m sorry it took so long. I was looking everywhere for my favorite shoes.”

“Oh, you mean the light pink ones with the straps?” Joy asks taking a sip of her coffee.

“Yes, I can only find the left one. The right one just vanished from my room. I looked everywhere for it.”

“Did you look in the living room,” my mom asks pouring me a glass of orange juice.

“Thank you,” I take a drink of it. “No, why would I look in the living room? I take my shoes off in my room usually.”

“Lila was wearing them a few days ago,” Joy says. “She told me you knew and were fine with it. She had that big date with Mason and wanted to look ‘taller than a midget for once.’ Her words, not mine.”

“Well, I didn’t know anything about that. She didn’t tell me anything. Ugh! Why does she do this?” I shout walking into the living room. I walk to our couch and sure enough, there’s my right shoe right next to the fireplace. I throw my ugly flats into the box of shoes next to it and walk to my room to get the other shoe before putting them on. 

When I get back downstairs, I give my mom her a hug and tell her goodbye before I walk out the front door. Joy is already waiting in the car for me. I open the car door and get in. She’s dancing and singing along to some pop song that’s playing through the car speakers from her phone. I immediately start singing along with her.

She pulls out of my driveway and turns down the street, heading for the school. I think it’s so awesome that she and I got into the same college. She’s studying to be a pharmacy technician though whereas I’m studying to be a writer. So our majors are going to be different and we probably won’t have any classes together, but we can still see each other after school and possibly in between classes. We can be away from each other. It’s not as if we’re inseparable.

Joy turns the music down. “So, do you want to stop at that cute little coffee shop you enjoy so much?” she asks me.

It’s 8:05 A.M. so we have just about an hour before classes start. “We do have some time before class. Why not?” I respond back.

“Yes! More coffee for me!” She turns the music back up and starts singing again. 

I smile at her and shake my head. I really do love our friendship. I always have. We have known each other for years. We’ve been friends since forever it feels like.

We met when we were four, in daycare. My parents both worked mornings so there was no one to watch me, and since it’s against the law to leave a toddler at home, I ended up there. They would get me up at the crack of dawn and drive me to this dingy little shack, that should have probably been condemned looking at it from the outside. But on the inside, it was bright and colorful. The walls were plastered with pictures and drawings that the older kids had made and the floor was carpeted in the pattern of a rainbow puzzle. Even the ceiling was colorful, splattered with paint-covered handprints to look as if someone was fingerpainting on it. 

There were toys scattered all over the floor, but everything had a place. The teddy bears were all in the same area, the legos weren’t all over the floor and the coloring station had its own spot next to the wall full of animal drawings. The building blocks were all stacked up neatly, just waiting for some kid to come knock them down. They even had a place where the big kids could make friendship bracelets. It was a kid’s dream palace.

My mom and dad walked up to the desk where an old man was sitting. He had salt and pepper hair that was starting to recede from the front of his head. He wore these small glasses that I don’t think he actually needed to see with. He had kind, aged eyes that were a sparkling gray color. And even though he was old, he looked as if he could still run a marathon, or chase down a bratty child, if he needs to.

“Hello there, what can I help you with,” he said to my parents smiling.

“We would like to enroll our daughter, Lilian, here. We both work during the day and we don’t have a babysitter,” said my mom.

He looked over the desk counter where I was standing. “Why hello, Lilian. How old are you, dear?”

I cowered behind my dad’s legs. I always was a shy child. My dad put his hand on my shoulder and I moved closer to him.

“She’s a little shy,” said my dad petting my head, “She doesn’t know many people. We just moved here. She’s four.”

“Oh, well that’s perfectly fine. There’s nothing wrong with being a little shy,” the old man said. “Now, why don’t we let her go play while we get her all set up here? What do you say, Lilian? Would you like to go play with the toys while I talk to mom and dad?”

I looked up at my parents and waited for their approval. They nodded and I ran to the stuffed animals. I’d been eyeing this bright purple bear ever since I saw it when we first walked in. Purple was my favorite color at the time but things have changed since I was four. I grabbed the bear and started to pretend it was my baby. That’s when I met Joy.

She was sitting on the floor playing with a Barbie doll. But she wasn’t playing like a normal kid. She was pretending that her doll was in space and the queen of the martians. I was fascinated with her from that point on. I walked over to her and picked up my own doll. I was afraid she would tell me to go away, but she didn’t. She added me to her adventure instantly.

My parents came over and told me that they were going to be heading to work. They asked me who my new friend was and I realized that I never asked her name. 

“Joy,” my new friend said smiling at my parents, “My name is Joy. I’m four and I’m the Queen of the Martians!” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Joy.” my mom said.

“A queen? I didn’t know we were in the presence of royalty!” my dad said laughing.

“I’m not a real queen,” Joy whispered in my dad’s ear, “It’s all pretend.” She turned to me then, “You’re dad’s really strange.” 

“I know he is, but you gotta love him,” I said back to her. “I’m Lilian.”

“Lilian? That sounds like an old librarian name.”

I blush, “It’s my grandma’s name, but I don’t think she was a librarian.”

“Can I call you Lili?”

“Sure. I like that.”

“Okay,” she turned to my parents, “Can Lili and I go color?”

When my parents said of course,  she took my hand and pulled me towards the coloring station. Then the rest was history. We were best friends from that point on.

“Did you hear anything I said,” Joy asks me pulling me from my flashback.

“What? No...Sorry! I was thinking about how we met,” I say apologetically.

She sighs, “I said, ‘I can’t wait for this weekend. Jay has planned this super-secret special evening and he won’t tell me anything about it.’ Do you know what he’s planning?” 

“Oh, yeah. I helped him plan it. He asked me for advice and I gave it to him.”

“Lili, how could you keep this from me? I thought we were besties!” she folds her arms across her chest and pouts.

“Oh stop you. You are my bestie. Which is why I’m not ruining this surprise for you. Trust me, you’re going to thank me for not saying anything once you see it.”

“Fine, I suppose you’re right. Oh look, here comes a waiter finally!” 

“You are so overdramatic sometimes. This is a busy place.”

I look around the coffee shop, it’s actually a quaint little place. The coffee bar is crowded with hipsters and soccer moms probably late for a PTA meeting. The walls are painted a pale blue color that compliments the light hardwood floor. The square tables all have marble tops and the chairs are the comfiest things I have ever sat on. The back wall is lined with a bookshelf that is stuffed with different kinds of books. 

That’s where Joy and I are sitting when I see him for the first time. I don’t know his name. I just know that he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. He has jet black hair that is just long enough to cover his ears, which are pierced with small black studs. His build is average and he’s quite tall. He’s wearing a waiter uniform so that means that he must work here and he’s walking over to our table.

“Hi, I’m Phoenix, are you ready to order,” he asks Joy as I try to calm my pounding heart.

“Um, yes, I would like a frozen hazelnut coffee with whipped cream and a danish,” she tells him.

“Alright,” he turns to me and I feel my face flush, “And for you?”

“Um, I-I-I,” I stutter trying to make words come out.

He looks at Joy, confused. “Is she okay?” 

“She is just, really nervous,” I shoot her a glare, “It’s our first day of college and she is worried.” 

I mouth, ‘Thank you’, to her.

“Ah,” he turns back to me, “Well, there’s no reason to be nervous. I’m sure everything will work out fine. Unless it doesn’t. Anyway, can I get your order now?” 

“She’ll have the same thing I am,” Joy says saving me from further embarrassment. 

“Okay, two frozen hazelnut coffees with whipped cream and two danishes. I’ll be right back with your order.” He turns and walks towards the coffee bar.

Not realizing that I was holding my breath, I start breathing again. “Thank you so much! I have no idea what just happened. It was like, I couldn’t think straight.” I tell Joy.

“Girl, I’ve only seen you act that way maybe two times before,” she gasps in excitement, “Ooo, do you like him?” 

“What? No! I don’t even know him! How can I like someone I don’t even know?”

“Well, maybe you should get to know him,” she smiles slyly.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. You are not going to tell him. Nope. Not happening Joy,” I shake my head vigorously at her.

“Oh, come on! You can totally just get his number. What’s the harm in making a new friend?”

“I don’t know him well enough to be his friend. I don’t even know his name.”

“Sure you do, he said it. ‘Hi, my name is Phoneix, are you ready to order?’” she says mocking him, “He literally just said that.” 

Crap! He did just say that. Phoenix. That’s a pretty interesting name. Maybe I could get his number.

NO! Stop thinking that! You don’t even know him! What if he’s some psychotic maniac? You could end up on the First 48.

“Joy, I’m not asking for his number. I don’t know him. What if he’s some maniac and I end up on the First 48? How could I be your bestie if I’m dead?”

“What was it you were saying? Something about me being overdramatic?”

I roll my eyes at her, “I’m not doing it. It’s not happening. Now, let’s just get our order and then go to school and pretend this never happened.”

“Ugh, you are so not fun sometimes. I’m your best friend. I’m supposed to push you into situations that make you uncomfortable. Get you out of your safe space and ready for the real world.”

“Yes, but getting the number of some man that works in the coffee shop? Is that really getting me ready for the real world?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Phoenix bringing our coffees and danishes. “Shush. He’s coming back. Don’t say anything, please?”

She makes a zipping like gesture over her mouth. He walks up to our table and places the drinks in front of us. Then, he hands us our danishes.

“Anything else I can get you lovely women,” he asks Joy. He’s probably afraid I will freak out again if he talks to me, and I just might.

“No, I don’t think so,” Joy says looking from me to him, “but, would you like to sit here with us for a second? I’m trying to prove a point to my friend here.” She smiles at me cunningly. What is she up to now?

He looks over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “Sure, I was just about to go on my break anyway,” he pulls up a chair next to me and I get a whiff of his cologne. And it smells good. “So what is this point you are trying to make,” he waits for a name.

“Joy,” she kindly gives, she points to me, “and this is Lili.”

“Nice to meet you, Joy and Lili. So what exactly is this point?” He looks from Joy to me and his eyes linger a bit. I force myself not to stare at him.

“I was just telling Lili here, that it’s not that hard to get someone’s number,” I feel my face turn red and I glare at her.

“And I-I was j-just telling Joy, that it’s not h-hard, just awkward asking f-for someone’s number.” I manage to say, only stuttering occasionally. 

He turns to face me and I almost melt. “Yeah, that is true. It can be extremely awkward trying to get someone’s phone number. But, it’s really not all that hard.” 

“So, if it’s not hard, why don’t we all exchange numbers? That way it shouldn’t be awkward. We can all just put our numbers in our phones and text each other our names. So we all can get to know one another.” Joy says smiling at me.

“I’m sure, Phoenix was it? I’m sure he doesn’t want to do-” I get cut off by Phoenix.

“Actually, yeah, that sounds awesome! I never had anyone ask me to do this before. Yeah, let’s do it!”

“Great. I’ll give you my phone and you can give him yours, Lili,” Joy looks at Phoenix as she hands him her phone. “We already have each other’s numbers since we’re best friends,” she laughs.

“Right, of course,” Phoenix hands her phone back after inputting his number. He holds his hand out waiting for mine.

“Joy, shouldn’t you put your number in Phoenix’s phone?” I say, stalling.

“I will right after I get back from the bathroom. You go ahead and put your number in his first, okay Lil?” Joy gets up and walks to the restroom leaving me alone with Phoenix.

“Here you go,” he says handing me his phone. 

I reach into my bag and grab mine. I give it to him and our hands graze each other. His hands are very warm and big. They kind of remind me of my dad’s hands. Comforting.

I open Phoenix’s phone and admire his wallpaper. It’s abstract and colorful. “I like your wallpaper,” I say to him. 

“Hey, thanks. I like colors and shapes,” he chuckles innocently.

“That’s adorable,” I laugh, “Let me just finish putting my number in then.” I hand him back his phone. “I’m really sorry about Joy. She’s always doing the most.”

“Hey, it’s no big deal. I think it’s actually kind of cool that she is so out there.”

“I like how you just met her, and you already know that she’s ‘out there’,” I smile and shake my head.

“Yeah, I’m really good at reading people’s energies. It’s a blessing and a curse. I can tell when something is off, even if I don’t know what that something is. So I will go crazy worrying about something but I don’t even know why I’m worrying. I just know that I should be worrying.”

“That sounds awful. How do you cope with that? Worrying constantly though, I get that. I feel like I’m always on edge. Even when there is nothing wrong.”

“Damn, you got anxiety? I used to but I learned how to be zen and got over it mostly.”

“I would love to learn how to be zen. I haven’t been zen a day in my life.”

“Now that sounds awful. Don’t you ever relax?” He moves closer to me and I start to shake.

“Sometimes? Maybe? No, I don’t think I know how,” I laugh nervously.

“Well, maybe I can help you relax sometime,” he smiles and looks at me with those dark brown eyes and I blush. 

Before I can answer, Joy sits back down. “I’m back! What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” Phoenix says standing, “But it is time for me to go back to work.”

I look at the time on my phone and it’s 8:45 A.M. “We need to get going too. It’s almost time for class.” I keep staring at Phoenix, not wanting to take my eyes off of him.

“It was wonderful, talking to you Lili and Joy,” as he starts to walk away he turns back around, “I can’t wait to get to know you better.” He looks right at me when he says it. He turns and walks back to the bar.  I can’t help but smile and bite my lip.

“Okay, seriously, what did I miss?” Joy asks confused.

“Nothing,” I say grabbing my bag and linking her arm in mine, “You just pulled me out of my comfort zone and I don’t think I am going back in.” I turn her to face me. “Thank you. For everything you do for me. I think I’m going to enjoy talking to Phoenix.” I smile brightly.

“Ooo, I knew it! You do like him! See? A bestie can just tell. I want all of the screenshots from your conversation,” she says giddily.

“Fine, fine. But for now, we need to get to class. Or we’re going to be late and I don’t want to be late on the first day.” I shove her towards the door but before I walk out, I turn around to see Phoenix watching me and I smile at him. 

Yep, definitely out of my comfort zone.

[marvelsbestsuperheroine]

IronWidow Request - Fire

Words: 2,311

Rating: Teen

Prompt: Hey I just saw your ironwidow request and I LOVED IT so if you wouldn’t mind making another one with the prompt “You come to my room and wake me up at 4am, to cuddle?” it would be awesomeeee ️️

A/N. Thanks to @natashastarkotp​ for the prompt :) It’s perhaps not as light a tone as I was aiming for but I hope you enjoy it anyway. 

Fire. It licks. It burns. It devours. Red as Natasha’s lips. Orange as Pepper’s hair. Yellow as Maya’s nails, the night she kissed him. Kissed by fire, all of them in different ways. Maya was dead. Pepper was burned. And Natasha...

She was screaming. The same sound that tore open her throat tore apart Tony’s ears. It reverberated off every wall, the flames amplifying it. Her words were gibberish but he knew what she was saying.

You, Tony. You did this. This is your fault. You did this.

The Mandarin rose from the ashes of her corpse like a phoenix. His robes glowed, engulfed in flames that didn’t seem to touch him. His green hood covered the top of his face, the shadow covering the rest. Whoever was in there, it was not Trevor Slattery.

Tony was dying. It was sweltering where they were. He had no clue where that was; the flames were too high. He felt like he was drowning in a hot tub with a twist: the water was his own sweat. Another twist: he could smell charred flesh.

“TONY!”

Air. He needed air like fire needed oxygen. No. No, wait. Not like that. Not like that at all. Horrible simile. Horrible. Tony sat there, on the edge of his bed, gasping for breath, contemplating similes with his eyes squeezed shut. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, down the nape of his neck, across the hairs of his arms. He scraped it away with calloused hands and dirty fingernails, trying not to drown in the salt of it.

He stood way too soon, the world swaying like a boat and stop thinking about drowning. He went down hard, shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. Carpet. His room was carpeted. Right. Groaning, he rolled over and pushed himself up, up. He no longer felt like he was on a pirate ship or being burned at the stake. Both good things. Not the things themselves but the feeling of not being either of those things. That was good.

Whatever.

Tony lunged for the glass of water and raised it to his lips. Shaky hands spilled drops all over his toes. They seemed to sizzle like they were drops of grease dripped onto a pan. He downed the whole thing in seconds, thunking it back down on the dresser, next to the photo of Pepper she’d submitted as her headshot all those years ago, back when he asked all of his female employees to submit photos of themselves when they applied.

God, he’d been such an ass then.

He walked past the picture frame and towards the door, for once not the bathroom door or the closet one. The bedroom door slid open for him automatically and he stumbled through, his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. The hallway was colder, the floor made of polished hardwood that never creaked. It cooled his bare feet as he padded from floorboard to floorboard, passing door after door.

Avengers Tower was massive but most of the floors consisted of work areas for his Manhattan-based employees. Only the top ten levels were dedicated to the Avengers. Each member had their own floor and there were only six of them. After “the Hydra debacle”, Rogers and Romanoff had needed a place to lay low. They were both fugitives, running from the law. Tony, fresh off the experience that was “the Mandarin incident” had graciously offered them a place to stay - with him.

Malibu house destroyed, girlfriend moved out, Tony had had nowhere else to go. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He was rich beyond Bill Gates’ wildest dreams. Tony could’ve gone anywhere.

But he came here.

In the end, everyone did.

Thor lived primarily on Asgard but after reuniting with Jane during “the Greenwich affair”, he came and went to and from Earth and Asgard as he pleased. While it was true that he spent most of his time with Jane in Europe or travelling around, whenever he visited or accompanied the Avengers on missions he would always retire to the Tower. Tony felt absurdly proud of that fact.

Bruce also had nowhere to go, was also running from the law just like Rogers. Well, not just like Rogers. Bruce was running for an entirely a different reason - a big, green reason. Although, now that Tony thought about it, Bruce - like Tony - could go anywhere too; not because he had endless money but because he had none. He could go anywhere, be anyone, earn new money, make a new life. But they both knew that he couldn’t run forever. Eventually, his past would catch up to him or General Ross. Or the Hulk might decide one day that he didn’t want to be kept dormant for the rest of his life.

No, it was best here, in the Tower - safest.

Tony liked to fool himself sometimes that Bruce stayed for Tony’s company.

Barton was the only one who stayed as far from the Tower as possible. Besides Romanoff, Barton was the most mysterious Avenger, always keeping to himself and taking secret phone calls and never staying the night unless he would pass out in the pilot’s seat otherwise. He had a room but it was bare, filled with things Tony had put there. Pepper had been the one who was good at home decor, not him. With her stupid art collections and centrepieces and whatever.

At present, there were four other Avengers in the Tower. Thor was here because they’d recently discovered Loki’s sceptre was in the clutches of Hydra. They were set to go on a mission to Germany in the morning to retrieve it. Clint had said that he would meet them at the Tower bright and early.

At present, there were four other Avengers in the Tower. Yet Tony felt alone.

He found himself at her door, not quite remembering the elevator ride and the walk down the hallway to get here. There was a sign that read “Enter at own risk” that Clint had left there because he thought it was funny. It hung at eye-level next to the door. Tony never asked Natasha why she kept it there.

The door opened for him with a whoosh and he stepped inside, toes curling in the carpet. He still felt overly hot from his dream but at least he didn’t feel like the world was burning around him anymore.

Well, not as much, anyway.

She was curled on her side, occupying the top left corner of the bed, hair as red as blood splayed out on the silk pillows she kept. It was dark still but he liked to think he had fairly good night vision. He loved looking at her in the dark. It wasn’t some twisted insult; it was because she let her guard down more when she thought that people were less likely to see her face.

But Tony saw.

In her sleep, Natasha was peaceful. Breathing softly, deeply, eyelashes fluttering. Tony gently slid under the covers next to her, trying hard not to shift the mattress too much and risk waking her.

He needn’t have bothered.

She rolled over, awake as if she hadn’t been in deep sleep just moments ago. The only sign that she had been at all was her eyes squinting as they adjusted.

“Sorry,” he whispered, not really sure why he was whispering when there was no one else to hear them.

“Don’t be,” she said and shifted, the blankets rustling. She pulled one knee under her and slid the other over his midsection. Her cold hands relieved some of the heat from his face, his jaw, his neck. Even her feet were cold, her toenails softly scratching at his calves.

He groaned, wondering how his hands were already sliding up her spine beneath her flimsy camisole. “Tash,” he breathed. She was sucking on his neck, rocking her hips back and forth. “Nat.”

It wasn’t until she noticed that her efforts weren’t getting their usual physical reaction that she paused to look at him, their noses a hair’s breadth apart. She looked like a cyclops this close up. He secretly loved going cross-eyed like this. It was the silliest face she’d ever made - unintentionally or not - and he treasured moments like those.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice was rough and dry and she swallowed to moisten it. He reached over to her side of the bed and grabbed the water bottle from the nightstand. She accepted it gratefully, pushing off of him to sit up. The covers fell around her like a halo. “What’s wrong?” She asked again, screwing the cap shut and replacing the bottle.

“I just...” He shrugged, staring at her duvet that looked so much like fluffy clouds.

She waited patiently, not quite staring but not avoiding him entirely either. He loved her for that, though neither of them had ever said the “L” word aloud. This “relationship” they had, if it could even be called that, was still new. It had started with a fight. Before this, there was that.

That could only be described as active animosity. Tony and Natasha hadn’t liked each other. The whole “Natalie” thing had broken any trust between them and it had never really been built back up. Sure, they fought side by side against aliens and Hydra goons and bad guys but trust in the field was different from trust in a friend. Tony had friends. He knew what friendship was supposed to feel like. Whatever he had with Natasha was not it. Even Steve had a better relationship with Tony than Natasha did and Steve and Tony bickered and fought regularly.

They barely acknowledged each other’s presence, truth be told. Nat and Steve were besties and Nat and Clint were also besties. Tony and Bruce were science bros and Tony and Steve bros of another kind. Nat and Tony shared a team but not each other.

Until Yinsen came up.

Yinsen was a very sore subject for Tony and when Romanoff had spoken of him with such blatant disregard and - dare he say - disrespect, Tony wasn’t having it. There were other factors too, as was the way the world worked. She had just come back from a failed mission with a long list of casualties. He had just gotten off the phone with Pepper to sign over his company to her and basically finalize their breakup.

In short, between Stark and Romanoff there had been yelling and flailing and the breaking of things in the room. Then they were kissing, shoving, pulling, teeth gnashing and hair tugging and stumbling into chairs, walls, doors. She was all nails and teeth and lips. He was an iron grip and tongue and deep, throaty moans.

Like mature adults, they’d said nothing afterward. Only collected their clothes and the broken pieces of the decor they’d shattered and went their separate ways.

But it was hard to avoid someone who lived in the same building as you, as large as that building may be. They ran into each other often but never mentioned it.

The next time it happened, Natasha sought him out. She found him in his workshop, greasy and oily and sweaty, dressed in a muscle shirt and ratty jeans. Despite the dangerous tools in his hands and the safety goggles stuck to his forehead, she attacked him. Grabbed his face and yanked it to hers, shoving them both toward the work table. He ended up taking her right there, knocking everything else aside, scattering papers, and turning on drills to mask their obscene noises.

It happened again and again, an unhealthy catharsis of passionate, aggressive fucking. When either of them needed to blow off steam they would seek the other out. It was a mutual agreement made with no words, sealed only with kisses and gasps and screams.

So when he sneaked into her bedroom tonight, she had expected nothing less. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence at this hour. They were both haunted by ghosts, both steeped in regrets like tea in a kettle that had no heat limit. The kettle just kept whistling, kept getting hotter and hotter and hotter.

But Tony didn’t want hot right now. Not after that fiery hell of a dream.

He licked his chapped lips. “Can we just... lie here?”

She blinked, her expression hard to read. He interpreted it as ‘surprise’ but really he was just guessing. The Black Widow was a mask, always. The truth is a matter of circumstance.

“Alright.” She lay back down next to him, several inches between their shoulders as they stared up at the ceiling. They never did this; never lingered. It was always quick and hard and then gone as if it had never happened. They didn’t cuddle or talk or sleep. Just sex.

So needless to say, this was a little awkward.

“I’m sorry,” he said, getting up. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

Nat sat up too and reached for his shoulder, anchoring him despite how gentle her touch was. “Tony.” She rarely used his first name, rarely said it with that tone, whatever tone it was. It was something like sympathy, maybe kindness. That’s what he wanted to believe. “Stay.”

He did.

They eventually ate up the distance between them. Somehow they ended up cuddling, with her head on his chest and his arms wrapped snugly around her. It was too quiet for sleep.

“You come to my room and wake me up at 4 am... to cuddle?” She said suddenly, something like a smile to her words.

Teasing. She’s teasing. Tony found himself smiling too. “Should I not?”

She nuzzled his ribs and squeezed him tighter. “No, you should. I... I like this.”

Tony and Natasha weren’t the touchy-feely types. But they were content to lie together and let their togetherness ward away the nightmares.

[galadrieljones]

A Funeral: Chapter 6

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Existential Angst, Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nature, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their little journey together, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. In their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of small trials, which bring them closer to one another as well as to the future, and to the unchecked plights of the natural world.

**Chapter-specific Content Warning: distant reference toward sexual violence

Masterpost | AO3

Thanks @bearly-tolerable for the banner!! ^_^

Chapter 6: A Couple Busted Umbrellas

The dream he’d had at the Winterson's B&B was not a good one. You know, there is this abandoned homestead in Scarlet Meadows? Not far from Rhodes, and outside that homestead there are two little crosses set up on either side of a big, pretty tree. It is familiar. Arthur stumbled upon it once while out hunting whitetail for camp, not too long ago, and in doing so, he remembered all the bad things that had ever happened to him. The little crosses and all of their lonely passion dredged up a layer of guilt from so deep inside that his vision went white and he nearly stumbled into his horse. The guilt was covered in barbed wire. It hurt a lot to swallow it back down again, but he did it anyway and then he went back to camp with a dead deer for Pierson, and it was twilight and Dutch sat, consumed in his own neurosis with his head in his hands. Nobody else really knew about Eliza except for Dutch, Hosea, John, and Abigail. Arthur went to his bed that night and he went right to sleep, very early.

Arthur didn’t dream of the two little crosses that first night with Mary Beth. He didn’t even dream of Eliza. He only dreamed of the polar bear—climbing again out of that polar bear skin and seeing the world burnt around him and wondering where it was everyone had gone to, everyone he ever cared for. It woke him up, and when he woke up, he sat up, and the barbed wire had unfurled and ensconced him in its horrible pain so deep he got to thinking it was happiness. What else could be so all-consuming without causing death? He rightly had not known before. But it wasn’t Mary this time—nagging him, this petty pain just below the surface. No. It was much too deep for that. He felt twenty-five again, in that moment, sleeping in a soft bed next to his pregnant girlfriend who he had made that way. How he loved her. Like he had never loved anything—no man or woman or child could come close to the desire he had to keep her safe. She was the love that came first, that preceded all. And when Mary Beth touched his shoulder that night, he was not awake yet. He was still in the dream, next to Eliza, in a farmhouse in Butte, Montana. Where the buffalo roam, he thought. And when he woke up he was crushed at all that had come to pass. He felt so old. But also, all at once, he was relieved. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact sensation. It was of the most conflicting he had ever felt in his life.

Now he and Mary Beth had started continuing their way north again, eventually headed toward O’Creigh’s Run. It was so pretty here. So damn pretty, thought Arthur, especially once you got up in the Grizzlies a little, and these orange flowers grew everywhere, poppies or something, Arthur wasn’t quite sure. Ram and Whitetail all over the place, hopping and stumbling and drinking from the ravines. Arthur knew now that, as they left Emerald Station, they would soon be leaving civilization as they knew it and entering into a kind of dark territory. They still had time. Ambarino was a good, clean place, still wild terrain populated mostly by animals, hunters, fishermen. But once they got further east, it was all ghosts and people that looked like ghosts, and fog and strangers in the windows of rotten shacks way high on the cliffs. At times he became bothered with anxiety and regret at having brought Mary Beth on this trip, as he thought intensely about the dangers that could await them in the northern stretches of New Hanover. But it was too late now, and he didn’t rightly know anything, and for all of his certainties, it was just as dangerous, her sleeping alone at Shady Belle in the southern swamps of Lemoyne, as it was her riding with him in the deadzone of all that lie north of Annesburg. He supposed he could have taken her to Strawberry. To West Elizabeth. Real good hunting out there. But it was further west than he was willing to go, and the closer he got to Blackwater the faster the true dangers began to appear.

He knew it would be fine. He would make it fine. And for now, it was Ambarino, still just mountain prettiness and fields of wild flowers, and he knew that she would like it up here. He just knew. It all sort of looked like her, felt like her—soft and good but with unexpected outcroppings and steep drops and you had to keep a watch on your footing lest you loose your step. Plunge off a cliff. As they rode north, away from the Winterson’s comfortable B&B she was quiet for a time and wistful, like she was caught in a dream. He did not disturb her. He had not meant to worry her that night before. He had bad dreams all the time—it was nothing new. Nothing to do with Mary Beth.

But the truth was, that memory was already stoked by now. It was a creeping heat. He could feel it. Other times he might try and dull it out of himself with whiskey, but not today. He needed to be sharp. He needed to be fully awake and aware because even if it was pretty country there were a lot of dangers in the Grizzlies and there was nothing that was going to prevent him from protecting the two of them, protecting her.

So there he rode, right on the sharp knife’s edge of his worst nightmares, and yet fully in the present on the trail to Ambarino. They rode at a trot mostly. Mary Beth was contemplative and sometimes, she would slow down to scribble something in that book of hers and then she’d put it away into her dress folds again. He would smoke and light her a cigarette, hand it across to her as they rode on their horses, and she would take it and smile and thank him for his chivalry. These little pieces of their time together would tug the strings inside his heart. His affection for her was growing and this, too, like everything else in his conflicted mind made him homesick, and worried. She was a little like Eliza. She was young and had long, wavy hair that curled in the humidity, and she was kind and dutiful. They both liked to read. But unlike Eliza, Mary Beth was sure of herself. She had all this confidence, and until now, he’d never really known it. He’d always sort of seen her as the wildflower in the camp. Prettier, softer than the other girls, but incredibly stoic. It was hard to see through her. He felt in, in some ways, transparent by her side.

Arthur Morgan was a callused man but he had never once closed his heart to love. He was an optimist. He wanted to believe things would be okay. It was not this part of him that made him so difficult to crack.

They made camp near a lagoon called Moonstone Pond. Arthur took Mary Beth fishing. She was not experienced with a fishing rod and desired a lot of guidance. He showed her how to hold it, how to cast, watched her closely. She regarded the water with a close eye. She was very eager to learn, got a single bite, but it was kind of a big feller and she couldn’t manage. She broke the line and stamped her foot with comical indignation.

"Dammit," she said. "I’m a terrible fisherwoman."

"Nah, you’re just fine," said Arthur. "You know how many lines I break daily? And I’ve been fishing for...years. You’ll get it. Want to try again?"

She looked at the fishing pole then handed it back to him. "I’m too hungry to try again," she said, smiling. "I’d like to watch you."

He had a toothpick between his teeth, took it out of his mouth, flicked it to the weeds. It was chilly up in these parts and she had put on her riding gloves. "I’ll do my best not to disappoint you."

"You couldn’t disappoint me, Arthur Morgan."

This amused him. He fixed up his hook with a nice bait worm, cast it into the water. They stood quietly for a while. Mary Beth dropped to a crouch to look at her reflection. She tapped its surface and made little ripples in the water. The sun was getting lower, like a hot burn on the horizon, just past the trees.

Arthur caught a nice, fat bluegill, then another. Mary Beth clapped. She was very excited by the catch. He cleaned and filleted both fish as Mary Beth ground up some salt and pepper in a little mill. Arthur set the fillets on the pan and she sprinkled on the seasoning. By now the sun was down and the nighttime animals had come out for their evening prize. They could hear raccoons chattering and other weird animal noises in the distance, but nothing close enough to fear. After frying up and eating the fish, they split a can of strawberries for dessert. Between them it was like a whole swelling song. A harmony of nothing and thinking and peace. The temperature fell a little further with the sun gone away, and now they could see their breath, so they put on their coats and huddled close to the fire and close to one another, leaning up against a big rock. Arthur sensed that something was on Mary Beth's mind. She seemed to watch the fire like she was begging it to breathe into life, a Phoenix.

“Mary Beth,” he said, after some time.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Everything okay? You seem a little...quiet.”

“I’m fine.” she said. She shifted toward him, held her hands over the fire. “I just been thinking. The country up here is big and it makes me feel things. That’s all.”

“I get that,” said Arthur. “I get that a lot.”

They warmed their hands to the flame. She leaned against him, casually, placed her head on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she said.

“I’m fine,” said Arthur. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she said. “Or—just, last night. You had a bad dream. Do you remember?” She was looking up at the dark night sky. The smoke from the fire went up and was mingling with the stars.

Arthur didn't say anything at first. "Nevermind," she said.

“It's all right," he said. He looked down at his gloved hands. "I do remember. Sort of. I remember the dream.”

“What was it?”

“I’ve had it a couple times now,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. He wore his hat with a judicious feather of Cardinal. “It’s like, I’m living inside this polar bear skin.”

“A polar bear?” said Mary Beth.

“Yeah. I’m about to die, but I climb out instead, and when I do, the world is gone. It’s burned. It wakes me like that every time.”

“That sounds awful,” said Mary Beth.

“It ain’t pleasant,” said Arthur, resituating against the rock. He pulled his knees up to study the elaborate threading of his leather boots. “And every time I wake up from the dream, I been seeing something different. Someone different.”

“Like who?” she said. "Like Eliza?"

He looked at her, curious. He nodded. "Like Eliza."

She perked up a little, her eyebrows very pursed in concern. “That is what you said to me. You thought I was her?”

“Yes, or no. It wasn't that simple.”

“Who is she, Arthur?”

Arthur was quiet about it. The barbed wire creeping. But he was aching, too. He didn’t see the good in holding it inside. Not here, all alone out here, just them two. He and Mary Beth, they saw the world in such a similar way. He had opened up to her before. He sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I talked about this,” he said, almost to no one, to nothing. Almost laughing at himself.

“I know you had a girl once, before Mary Gillis. Abigail...she might have mentioned, once. Don't blame her. It wasn't gossip. Is that Eliza?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Arthur.

Mary Beth just nodded. “I see. Is it bad? Is it bad, what happened?”

“She died,” said Arthur, surprising even himself. The words tasted, felt odd in his mouth. He picked up the empty can of strawberries. He studied the label. “We had a baby. A boy. He grew to about four years old, and then the two of them—they was killed by bandits, at home. For ten dollars. I wasn’t there. I suppose I dream about it, sometimes. I want you to know, I wasn’t calling you Eliza, Mary Beth. It wasn’t that. I was just…confused about where I was, after the dream and all. I’m sorry. These dreams—they can really take hold of you if you ain't prepared, which one never really can be.”

Mary Beth was staring now, right into him. He was staring at the fire, but he could feel her. She linked her arm inside of his with a great deal of intent. It was sort of like she already knew, or like she had divined it out of him, but of course that was foolish. He felt her little arm in his.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” she said. “Truly, I am. Thank you for trusting me with your story. For letting me help you carry it.”

“Of course,” he said, tossing the can into the darkness. “But there ain't nothing to be sorry for. I’m just shocked I found a way to say it out loud again.” It felt simple right now, but he knew. He knew nothing was so simple as just talking. He took a very deep breath.

Mary Beth smiled. He smiled down at her, in some sort of relief or embarrassment. She just put her head back on his shoulder for a little while and they waited beside one another, feeling the earth, hard and sore beneath their boots.

“You want some gin?” she said in a little while, out of nowhere. "Seems appropriate."

“Gin?”

“Mrs. Lizette Winterson gave me a novelty bottle before we left the B&B,” said Mary Beth. “You want some?”

Arthur smiled. “They sure liked you.”

“They liked you, too,” she said, and she hopped up. She patted him on his hat and then went to fetch the bottle off her horse nearby. “It’s a good bottle. It smells clean.”

“Clean is good,” said Arthur.

“You want some?”

“Sure. Just a little though.”

“A little is good,” said Mary Beth. She sat back down by his side and poured a couple slugs into their tin cups from dinner. She garnished the gin with little sprigs of mint, mostly for the looks, but it smelled nice. They touched their cups together.

“What are we toasting to?” said Arthur.

“I’m not sure,” said Mary Beth. "What's brought us here?"

“It was Sean, wasn't it?" said Arthur. "Old Sean MacGuire."

She got bright. “That’s right,” she said. And she held up her glass. “To Sean, and to all those who’ve gone from this life and on to the next.”

“To Sean,” said Arthur, solemn, but grateful. “He was a gotdam idiot, but I liked him.”

"Me, too."

They drank.

Arthur liked the gin—the mint made it feel very refreshing, like a cap on his sadness. Meanwhile, Mary Beth immediately shook out her head and laughed. “Yuck,” she said.

“Yuck?” said Arthur, admiring the gin in the bottom of his cup. “Tastes like Christmas trees if you ask me.”

“Well you are clearly more accustomed to the hard stuff, Arthur Morgan.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mary Beth Gaskill.”

They drank some more. Mary Beth sipped hers little by little and seemed to become tipsy in an instant. She was funny now, like she was trying to lighten the mood. To cheer him up as she was wont to do, and she spoke very fast about many things that interested her about their trip so far. The color of the mountains, the idiots on the bridge, the funny Frenchwoman, Lawrence and his little glasses, Arthur's bullet wound, the fight. Just as he had thought, she liked the orange flowers of the terrain very much. She liked the sky here, too. She said it was so clear, she thought to drink it. He thought it a beautiful image. Arthur listened to her talk, and he listened to the night world going off around them. It seemed safe. They were safe here, he thought. No trouble would befall them that night. He had decided. He sipped his gin.

“You know,” said Mary Beth, after a little while. She had finished her cup and poured a little more. Arthur stopped after one. He could sense she had warmed to him and she felt him responding. He was okay inside, sort of. She could tell.

“What is it?” he said.

“I used to have a really good daddy,” she went on, a little random, peering down into her drink. She nodded, stirred it a little with her finger. "He was a good man."

“Is that right?”

“He was a blacksmith,” she said. She took another sip. “And he was good to my mama and my brother and me. He was a literate man. We all could read, he saw to it. We had a homestead ranch in the cuts outside of Shawnee, Kansas.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” said Arthur.

“Oh yes,” said Mary Beth, smiling to herself. “Well, I did. Before he died, that is. He was about four years older than me.”

The way she'd said it was nonchalant. Arthur fixed on her. She was watery in her eyes now. Not drunk, but softened by the booze. He knew she wasn’t done with her story and sensed her unfolding. Like she was going to tell him now, her tragic past. Just as he had told her his. “Go on,” he said.

“My mama was a baker, and she sold her pies to the local market. I had a good childhood.”

“That sounds real good, Mary Beth. Real good."

“Yeah, it was,” she said.

He waited. She seemed like she wanted to set down her cup. It was not empty, but she seemed to be finished with it. He held out his hand, she gave it to him. He set it aside, staring right at her. But she was looking at her boots.

“When I was about twelve," she continued, dreamy at first, but then solemn, sniffling from the cold, "my parents was out, on the town one night. They went to a show or something. They was in love. They went on dates. My brother was home with me. We was playing a card game, Spades I think. He let me stay up late. My parents was robbed that night, on the ride home, my daddy killed by bandits after his pocket book, and his coach. They took the dress off my mama’s back and she nearly died as well from the cold. Violated, of course. Probably somewhere dark, outside. Only I didn’t realize then. I was...naive. I was twelve. When we found her, my brother covered my eyes and he put his jacket over my mama’s shoulders and we helped her home. I never saw my daddy’s body. I didn’t get to see much of anything, but I do remember my mama was just in her slip. She soon got...very ill, after that. Local doctor said she caught Typhoid Fever. Nobody knew where. The event and my daddy’s death put her at the end of her life, and she was depressed, on top of the illness. I do remember her, her drinking. All day. She wasted away. Mumbling and such, picking at her bed clothes like she thought they was infested with bugs. The fever made her say and do odd things. I’ll never forget. She died a month later.”

Arthur sighed. He took her gloved hand in his. It was very small. “I’m sorry, Mary Beth. That sounds very hard.”

She smiled, low. It was her way. To smile. To always try and smile. “Thanks, Arthur. Anyway me and my brother was taken away from each other after that. Me and Bobby. That was his name. They stuck me in a home for orphans in Shawnee, but he was old enough and he found work at the mine.”

“Coal mining?” said Arthur.

“Yeah. Coal. But he had a...accident. That’s what they told me. About a year later. A bad fall. Broke his spine. That's how he died. All the money he made, he kept squirreled away and he would bring me a billfold every Saturday. I had been saving. I used most of it to bury him proper. We had a church funeral and I was the only one who came, save for the pastor. They let me out of the orphanage for it and that is the night I slipped their eye. I went to Kansas City with fifteen dollars to my name. I met a madame who was good and she found me before it was too late. Said I was too young and too pretty for whoring but she liked my disposition and taught me to pick pockets instead. To be…persuasive. I ain’t never whored, Arthur. I ain’t never been that kind of girl, no matter how bad it got. I swear.”

She seemed nervous as she said it, like she was apologizing, or meaning to prove something to him. Arthur was just listening, but when she got to this part, he became almost alarmed—not by what she’d said, but how she’d said it. He straightened up. He felt something snag inside him. Some hard protective nature coming into focus. He didn’t want her thinking like this, feeling these things about herself. “I would never judge you for that, Mary Beth. Not ever. Do you hear?"

“Arthur—“

“I said, do you hear?"

She was fixed in his eyes, blue as winter. She believed him. He could see it. “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” said Arthur. He slouched back a little. There was a cold rock for him to lean against. He opened up his chest and put his arm around her shoulders. He kissed the top of her lavender head, held her fiercely out of some pure instinct. He was deep inside that moment and not coming up for nothing. He was reminding her of something, something real between them, and about him, who he was. What little he truly understood about himself, this was it. He wasn't going on and letting her think her worth to him somehow depended on her past hardships. They sat like that for a little while.

Meanwhile, Mary Beth felt protected and guilty and happy and uncertain and very warm in his embrace. She was tipsy, but she was not far gone, and she’d never been held like this—not by him, not by a man she cared about, so safe and familiar. The way he smelled was indescribable. It was just Arthur. Like plants and skin and warm mint on his neckerchief. Sweat and smoke and bonfires. She placed her face into the scruff on his neck and just breathed. It made her feel all better. It calmed her senses, her nerves, her sadness and her anxieties. He was allowing her to do this. He had one of his big gloved hands in her hair. He took a deep breath and she could feel his wide chest rising and then falling against her in an exhale. Then, she closed her eyes for a moment, and he began to speak in his deep voice.

“I remember that day I met you,” he said. She could hear the smiling in his voice. She opened her eyes. “We brought you back to our camp in Leawood. You had about a hundred stories and you had a…very expensive hunting knife holstered on you, if I recall correctly, one of the likes I’d never seen. What was it, five years ago?”

“About,” said Mary Beth, smiling. “I stole that knife off a brigadier. Or, that's what he said he was. I’m not sure what a brigadier would be doing in Kansas. Even still. It wasn’t hard.”

“Well, you’ve got talent.”

“I was little more than a kid I suppose,” she said. “When you found me.” She shrugged.

“You wasn’t no kid,” said Arthur, like an affirmation. He looked down at her, very serious. “You was surviving. It’s all we’ve ever done, souls like us, Mary Beth. Growing up fast, living hard, because we have to.”

His wisdom crushed into her, face first. She was so grateful. “I reckon we are just a couple of busted umbrellas, you and me,” she said. “Been through one too many storms in this lifetime.”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “But you have taught me that there’s always some good in the world, somewhere. Despite it all. And we’ll get through it. It’s gonna be okay, Mary Beth.”

He squeezed her tight. She smiled to herself. Something between them cracked wide open. Arthur watched the fire. She put her head back onto his shoulder. She examined the sky. It was so big. So big, she could barely understand. “It sure is pretty here,” said Mary Beth, wistful. They seemed to float.

“It sure is,” said Arthur.

[kookspierogis]

A World After War- Fairy Tail and Harry Potter crossover- chapter 4

It’s been a month since I have arrived in this world, and over this period of time I have moved from the chambers of Hogwarts to the dark but intriguing house of Black, or as Dumbledore told me, number twelve Grimmauld place.  I share this house with none other than the man who owns it, Sirius Black. Sirius is a very interesting man and we he told me his story I shared mine with him. We have become sorts of confidants, someone we can trust.

The house on the other hand, or to put frankly the portrait of Sirius’ mother completely and utterly detests me. She screeches at me to leave whenever I pass her portrait, and she always mutters about something to do with blood, but I can never make out what exactly she’s saying.

Sirius had told me something special was happening today, but I have no idea what. ‘The seventh of July, again huh. The dragons, mother, Tenrou, the Grand Magic games and now today… I’m sort of scared.’ I walk to the kitchen and grab out numerous ingredients from the cupboard. Eggs, salt pepper, cheese and some meat.

“Omelette time!” I cheer. Sirius strolls in from the other room into the kitchen.

“‘Morning Lucy, omelette again I see.” Sirius sighs.

“Good Morning Sirius, sleep well?”

“Not particularly, mother was muttering nasty things that even I could hear.” I nod friskily. Sirius’ mother had been muttering things overnight, probably to the vile house elf here, Kreacher. House elves are normally very friendly but Kreacher, as he puts it serves the portrait. He mutters things to me that would make most cry. A knock on the front door disturbs my thoughts.

“Sirius, watch the omelette, I’ll get the door.” I scuttle past the kitchen and into the front hallway. I open the front door to reveal a pretty woman with small facial features and bright lilac hair.

“Hi there, you must be the traveler Dumbledore told me about. Is Sirius home? I need to speak to him.” ‘Mr Dumbledore told her about me? She must be that special thing today then!’

“Ah, yeah, Sirius is in the kitchen.” I step out of the way for the woman to pass.

“Thanks, I’m Nymphadora, but everyone calls me Tonks.”

“I’m Lucy, pleasure to meet you.” I smile at Tonks. I lead the way to the kitchen. I signal to Sirius who doesn’t realize that the omelette is burning. I sigh.

“Sirius, you do know that the omelette is burning right?” His eyes widen.

“Merlin's beard!” His attention is suddenly moved to Tonks. “’Morning Tonks.”

“Good morning Sirius, I’m here for the trip across town.” Sirius nods and glimpses at me.

“Ah, yes, that trip. Do you have the funds though?” Tonks smirks knowingly.

“Dumbledore gave me the funds.” I narrow my eyes slightly before asking.

“I’m sorry, but I am terribly confused.” Sirius and Tonks chuckle before answering in unison.

“Lucy, you’re going to Diagon Alley.” I blink in confusion.

“Diagon Alley?”

“My dear cousin Tonks is taking you to buy supplies for Hogwarts, Lucy.” He looks at Tonks mockingly.

“Indeed I am so Lucy, get changed and we’ll get going.”

A few minutes later we left the safety of 12 Grimmauld place and into the streets of London. After about half an hours walk through London we reach a very old looking pub with a painted sign. ‘The leaky cauldron, what sort of name is that?!’

“Hello there Tonks!” A man in dark green robes calls out.

“Off to Diagon Alley are we?” another calls.

“I sure am! Have some errands for the ministry to do.” Tonks leads me through the leaky cauldron to the back of the building. I’m looking at a blank brick wall.

“Tonks it’s just a wall.” Tonks smiles smugly at me and shakes her head,

“This isn’t just a wall, Lucy.” Tonks taps the wall with her wand, three up two across. The wall opens to reveal an alleyway full of light and happiness.

“Welcome, Lucy, To Diagon Alley!” My eyes widen at the sight. ‘I love magic here!’

We travel through the crowds of wizards, witches and their children preparing for the school year. Tonks drags me through the many shops and stores before stopping outside a peculiar store.

“Okay Lucy, See that old shop over there?” Tonks points to an old shop across the alley. I nod. Tonks hands me a pouch full of coins. It’s actually quite heavy.

“Go there to get your wand. I will go and get you an animal. Go on, go!” The old shop looks homey, the type of shop that would lure any person in. Wizard or not I can’t help but walk towards it as Tonks prompts me to. I open the door and the floorboards creak slightly, on the door is written: “Olivanders, fine makers of wands since 382 B.C” in gold lettering. A faint bell rings as I step through the door and the smell of wood polish and cherry blossoms wavers over me as I make my way to the counter. An old man suddenly appears behind the counter.

“Ah, I was expecting a new customers soon. That must be you, Miss Heartfillia.” He oddly enough reminds of Master Makarov, with his wild white hair and eccentric but wise personality that just radiates off of this odd man.

“Come, come, step closer, and give me your wand hand.”

“Wand hand?” I question him with my eyebrows raised skeptically.

“Your dominant hand.” I let out a sound of recognition before handing him my right hand, which is now bare. I could vaguely see the faint outline from my previous guild mark. I glance at my right shoulder which bears a red Fairy Tail guild mark in honor of Natsu.

Mr Olivander examines my hand, moving it up and down and looking at the lines on my palm. He drops my hand moves through the back shelves, returning with a black box in hand. Opening it, he hand the wand to me.

“Holly, eleven inches, inflexible, Unicorn hair core.  Go on, give it a wave.” I wave the wand and nothings happens. Olivander promptly snatches the wand out of my hand and places another one into my hand.

“Willow, ten and three quarter inches, phoenix feather core, whippy.” I wave the wand and boxes tumble off the shelves behind Mr Olivander.

“Goodness me no!” The wand is quickly retrieved from my hands. Curiosity bubbles within me and I can’t help but ask.

“Mr Olivander, how do you know which wand to give to the wizard?”  Mr Olivander stops what he is doing and turns to face me, putting his face close to me.

“My dear girl, it is not I who chooses which wand is right for you, the wand does. Wands need to sense loyalty and trust, give you the right amount of power. Remember this, for it is important for all wizards, Miss Heartfillia. The wand chooses the wizard. Never forget that.”

‘The wand chooses the wizard. An odd but understandable concept. I won’t forget it!’

Mr Olivander disappears behind the array of shelves again and reappears. He hands me another wand and I feel a rush pass through me. It’s not good or bad, it’s a feeling of recognition, as if you’re the wand an equal.

“Cherry Blossom, Dragon Heartstring, eleven inches, whippy.” I wave the wand and I feel the rush again. Smiling Mr Olivander places the wand back in its box and hands it to me.

“Be careful with that wand Lucy.”

“I will Mr Olivander.” I open the pouch Tonks gave me earlier. “How much do I owe you?”

“That will be 12 Galleons please Miss Heartfillia.” I pick out twelve golden coins from the pouch and place them on the counter.

“Thanks again Mr Olivander.” I smile as I exit. Tonks is waiting outside for me with something blue in her arms. I dash over to her and look to see a blue cat?

“Um, Tonks, is that-“

“Yes Lucy, it’s a blue cat. The poor thing ate enchanted blueberries. Do you like him?” His fur is the exact same color as Happy’s and I can’t help but smile.

“I love him, and I know exactly what to call him.”

“What are you gonna name him?”

“Happy, his name is Happy.”

“Why Happy?”

“Because he reminds of someone from home”

“If you say so, now let’s go, we still have to get some other supplies you know.”

[therandomramblingsofamanda]

Chapter One

In a dingy strip mall, on a dingy street, there was a dingy man sitting at an old, rickety wooden desk. The wall behind him was filled floor to ceiling with filing cabinets. The man was bent over a circa 2002 laptop. His dirty blonde hair was tinted with gray. It was reminiscent of a long island iced tea rimmed with salt and pepper, and his general appearance was about as appealing to the palate. A greying goatee did little to hide the lines of middle age, and lifted shoes made him seem almost normal-height. Light blue eyes completed his overall washed-out appearance, and his office reflected his equally washed-out life. Or death. Because Justin Farraway had been dead for about ten years now.

            A bell rang, signaling the arrival of someone in the miniscule office. Black high-heeled sandals kicked up a layer of the perpetual dust on the indoor/outdoor carpet.

           “You’re late.” Farraway said, without looking up.      

           “I got stuck in construction.” The dark-haired beauty replied.

           “For fuck’s sake, Roma, that’s the third time this week. Leave earlier or take a different route,” he replied. “You can be replaced.”

           “Yes, I can see how people would be chomping at the bit for this glamorous job.” Roma took a seat at the desk near the door, long purple nails impatiently clacking against the keyboard of her ancient PC. “This thing gets turned on slower than my ex.”

           “If I had known you were part of the deal, I would have thought twice before selling my soul.” Farraway grumbled under his breath. In spite of his words, his eyes gave her an appreciative once-over. Smooth dark skin. Pencil skirt. Lavender blouse. If it weren’t for her yellow, reptilian eyes, she would look almost entirely human. Except demons had a sort of air about them. An aura of beauty that wasn’t quite…mortal. It was equal parts sexy and unsettling. Such was the appeal of evil.

           The sound of Phoenix traffic above them rushed like a river. Phoenix, Hell was positioned just below and slightly to the south of Phoenix, AZ. It could sometimes be difficult to tell where one ended and the other began, except Phoenix Hell had a slightly more temperate climate, and slightly less vicious politicians.

The bell sounded again, and Jackson stood before them in the doorway, striking a pose as if just arriving on the red carpet. His platinum blond hair feathered to frame his stormy grey eyes. Although he seemed nearly ghostly translucent due to his alabaster skin and pencil-sketch features, he was one of the few living humans Farraway actually knew in Hell.

           Jackson’s fashion sense could only be described as that of a refugee from a glam rock concert, with copious glitter and satin. His vinyl knee-high boots laced up his spider-thin legs. A chain smoker, his southern accent was always muddled by the cigarette between his lips. The only thing that really seemed out of place was the worn, dusty cowboy hat placed upon his unnaturally bleached hair.

           He looked like Ziggy Stardust and the Marlboro man had a love child.

           “You called, boss?” he asked between puffs on his Virginia Slim.

           “Yeah, over an hour ago,” Farraway replied. “Where have you been?”

           “There’s been a rather high demand for us tweeners as of late.” Jackson took another drag.

           “Must you smoke in the office?” Roma curled up her nose.

           Jackson motioned to the smoldering brimstone through the window, which was pumping massive amounts of smoke into the air. “Seriously?” But he sighed and put out the cigarette as she continued to stare at him disdainfully.

           A “tweener,” or go-between, was a living human being who has already sold his soul. His job was really that of a glorified gofer, who would run between Hell and topside to fetch things from the human world for those working in Hell. Contrary to popular belief, possession of human beings was uncommon. It was far easier to simply employ a human being to do the day-to-day errands of an office that requires regular trips topside.

           “I need some paperwork from the diocese,” Farraway handed a manila pouch to Jackson. “It’s Sunday’s sermon and materials at the Basilica.”

           “St. Mary’s?”

           “Are there any other basilicas in Phoenix?” Farraway asked dryly. “Anyway, we really need to nail this one. The Helios contract is right on top of us, and we are going to nab it this year.”

           “Speaking of nailing things right on top of us, last night -- ”

           “Aaaaaand don’t finish that sentence, Jackson.” Farraway cut Jackson off. “I just ate breakfast.”

           “Yeah, why do you still do that?” Roma asked. “It’s weird.”

           “It just feels right, okay?” Farraway replied. It was difficult for him to explain how, even though he was dead, he still had this odd sensation of hunger. Like feelings from a phantom limb. Plus, the psychological comfort of a bagel and cream cheese can’t be under-stated.

           “Speaking of stuff that feels right—“

           “You! Up top.” Farraway pointed to Jackson, then to the ceiling. “And you!” He redirected his finger to Roma, “Get me everything you can on the new Helios director. Knowledge is power.”

           Roma snorted. “You’re like one of those posters they put up in crappy elementary schools.”

           “Get!”

           And with an eye roll and a sarcastic salute, both of Farraway’s workers grudgingly did as they were told.

[jessicakehoe]

Keanu Reeves Stars in Saint Laurent’s Fall 2019 Campaign

This is not a drill. Keanu Reeves, we repeat, Keanu Reeves is the new face of Saint Laurent’s Fall 2019 campaign.

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KEANU REEVES – FALL WINTER 19 #YSL24 by ANTHONY VACCARELLO PHOTOGRAPHED by @davidsimsofficial #YSL #SaintLaurent #YvesSaintLaurent @anthonyvaccarello

A post shared by SAINT LAURENT (@ysl) on Apr 30, 2019 at 3:00am PDT

Shot by photographer David Sims, the 54-year-old actor sports scraggly hair with a thatched salt and pepper beard, face cast downwards in eye-shielding sunglasses. In another shot posted to creative director Anthony Vaccarello’s Instagram, the star sizzles in front of the camera in a tailored leather bomber jacket.

Reeves fits in well with Saint Laurent’s long history of casting stars with particularly badass reputations to star in the brand’s melancholic ad campaigns. (Travis Scott, Zoe Kravitz and Joni Mitchell are just a few of the boldface names who have previously starred in Saint Laurent campaigns.) Always shot in black and white with subjects photographed wearing prominent hangover-hiding sunglasses, Saint Laurent ads are always moody, brooding and severe.

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#SaintLaurent Fall Winter 19 #KeanuReeves @davidsimsofficial

A post shared by Anthony Vaccarello (@anthonyvaccarello) on Apr 30, 2019 at 1:27am PDT

Come to think of it, Keanu might the perfect celebrity to represent the Saint Laurent brand. He’s unquestionably moody (see the Sad Keanu meme, the entire John Wick franchise), he’s rock and roll (remember Dogstar?), and a sense of unbearable tragedy has impugned his entire life (his best friend River Phoenix died of an overdose in 1993; girlfriend Jennifer Syme died in a car crash in 2001, the list goes on).

Here’s hoping that Keanu makes the full transition from actor to fashion icon, just like Jeff Goldblum before him, who has become universally recognized for his ability to look dashing in even the most ridiculous Prada flame shirts.

Given how excited basically the whole internet is about this, we welcome Keanu into our ranks with open arms.

Keanu Reeves sparks much joy.

— Sarah El-taki (@eltacky) April 30, 2019

Keanu Reeves for Saint Laurent – Something I didn’t know I needed until it happened pic.twitter.com/VVdP1rRTGS

— Austin Oliver (@AustinOIiver) April 30, 2019

Keanu Reeves for Saint Laurent pic.twitter.com/ajnwxIZLqo

— Sofa Coca-Cola (@carlixann) April 30, 2019

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Keanu Reeves Stars in Saint Laurent’s Fall 2019 Campaign published first on https://borboletabags.tumblr.com/

[musiccosmosru]

A24 + Sony Pictures + 20th Century Fox

While the star of Eighth Grade—the heartwarming, cringe-inducing new film about the titular middle-school gauntlet—is undoubtedly Kayla Day (Elsie Fisher), there’s one other person ELLE.com moviegoers were discussing after our respective viewings: Kayla’s dad, Mark Day.

13 Reasons Why‘s Josh Hamilton makes Mark one of the most endearing movie dads ever, particularly when he delivers a monologue about Kayla’s amazingness that’s as casual as it is heartfelt. As Slate points out, along with his chillcore good looks, this makes him one hot dad.

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This isn’t the only dadtastic monologue that’s provided emotional ballast to a coming-of-age movie recently. It immediately reminded us of Michael Stuhlbarg’s heart-and-movie-stopping advice in Call Me By Your Name and Josh Duhamel’s Zaddy mea culpa in Love, Simon. Ultimately, all of these hot dads’ monologues can co-exist—the more supportive, kind, willing-to-change papas there are out there, the better—but staffers found themselves disagreeing on which one is the most affecting. Read our arguments below, and decide for yourself.

Eighth Grade‘s Hot Dad Mark Is the Hottest Dork

A24

In Eighth Grade, Josh Hamilton plays Mark Day, the single, dorky, try-hard dad who is clearly attempting to navigate his own way through his daughter’s teenage years. Oh, and he’s super hot. First off, Hamilton is just an objectively good-looking guy. Second, Mark’s attempts to connect with Kayla are mind-numbingly adorable. He throws a green bean at her at the dining room table to try to get her attention. He makes a note in his phone about how much she hates bananas so he won’t forget and accidentally piss her off. He consoles her when she’s crying in her room after a traumatizing night with an older boy.

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But the true shining moment for Mark, the few minutes of the film where I could audibly hear the entire audience sniffling, comes at the end, when Kayla asks her dad if having her as a daughter makes him sad. It’s then that Mark launches into the ultimate monologue about how cool and kind and special he thinks she is and how he wishes she could just see herself as he does. It’s natural and sweet, and so clearly shows his unconditional love. Mark doesn’t need to be suave or intellectual or flowery—he just has to show his daughter how much he loves her, which he does so naturally. The scene ends in the sweetest daughter-throws-herself-at-her-father-in-a-hug moment, making this the Best Dad Monologue. —Madison Feller

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Love Simon‘s Hot Dad Jack Just Grew So Much, You Guys

20th Century Fox

“How long have you known?” Josh Duhamel’s Jack, a Carhartt-wearing, DILF-tastic former quarterback, asks after his son Simon comes out of the closet in 2018’s teen rom-com Love, Simon. Jack, already known as a blubbery mess underneath a salt-and-pepper snack exterior, stumbles his way through a tear-stained speech that is both an apology for past, unthinking anti-gay microaggressions and a commitment of love for his son; it’s a thing of natural beauty. It’s like Yosemite. You know, like with the water that comes from the Earth and you’re like, “Wow, so real yet so magnificent.” It’s like that.

Jack and Simon’s even more perfect mother, played by a miraculous Jennifer Garner, are idealized portraits of a hip, Gen-X couple—all banter and great teeth—which makes their genial struggle to find the right way to embrace Simon’s new understanding of himself all the more affecting. Certain other movie parents in this competition have an almost magical understanding of life, love, loss, and the inner workings of the teenage mind. Jack boasts no such skill; he may be a perfect dude but he’s thrown for a loop after discovering his blind spots when it comes to his own son. His monologue is simple and healing, generous to both characters and to the viewer. And Duhamel’s open-hearted performance is pitch perfect. It’s not the showiest speech in this list, and Jack’s not the wisest dad in this race, but his love is real, and his struggle to figure out how to communicate it feels so true to life. —R. Eric Thomas

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No 2018 Movie Dad Can Top Elio’s Dad

Sony Pictures

What makes Mr. Perlman, father of Elio, the enduring hot movie dad? Is it the way his chest hair escapes his merino polo? Yes. Is it the way he quietly commands his Northern Italian villa, unfazed by the intrusion of 6′ a million Armie Hammer? Also yes!

But, mostly, Mr. Perlman reigns as king of dads for his much-discussed monologue, which came in like a blast of A.C. just as the sultriness of Call Me By Your Name started to make me literally drowsy. I liked watching the movie, but when your two leads are so horny they forget how to speak, exposition suffers. I started to lose the thread.

Then Mr. Perlman sat down on the couch, lit a cigarette and firmly (but kindly!) recapped everything I’d just seen and everything I was supposed to have inferred. He casually but directly referred to his own sexual fluidity—basically inviting me to think about his sexual history—then promptly reminded me of my mortality. Hot.

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Don’t feel bad if you’ve slept on Mr. Perlman actor Michael Stuhlbarg. The man looks like Joaquin Phoenix, yet Hollywood insists on hiding him behind goofy period beards. But now you know. —Kat Stoeffel

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[bigbrotherfanfic94-blog]

The Unexpected: A Big Brother Fic - Chapter 1

Chapter One: The First Boot

DAY ONE

The door opens on the house for the first time for this new set of Houseguests, and the first four cast members allowed to enter flood into the hallway. “Oh my god, it’s really happening!” yells one of them. “We’re really on Big Brother!” It’s the same each year: the flurry of excitement as the new Houseguests scramble into the home, into the walls that will enclose them for the next ninety-nine days. And then, the urgency. The realization that they must find a bed, claim their spot in the house. Of course, this isn’t quite as important as earlier seasons, when slower, less lucky Houseguests might wind up sleeping on a cot or in a sleeping bag at first, but still. Picking the right spot could be important. No time seems to have passed for these first four Houseguests before the next four enter, and then the next four, and then the final four. This is a relief, for those who know the show: All sixteen Houseguests are here, and none seem to be returning Houseguests who have played the game before. A relief, yes. But still, they know the show’s motto: Expect the Unexpected. If all sixteen are here now, there is a twist to come. They gather in the living room. Though some have exchanged names with each other, they will go around the circle and introduce themselves one by one. Someone pops one of the two bottles of champagne production has provided for the occasion, and begins to pour the liquid into flutes. “I’ll start,” says one woman, a blonde, older than most of the cast.  She wears a slim-fitting champagne-colored dress and seems particularly bubbly, with red cheeks that betray her excitement. “My name is Leslie, I’m 43 years old, I’m from Chicago, and I’m a dietician!”

Whether because they think it will help their games or because they actually believe it, some of the Houseguests comment that she does not look her age.

They continue. “I’m Toby, I’m 24 years old, I’m from Missouri, and I teach kindergarten and work at a coffee shop on the weekends.” This comes from a wiry white man with deep black hair and light stubble on his chin. A man whose salt-and-pepper hair errs more towards the salt says, “I’m Zack, I’m a novelist, and I’m from Manhattan.”

A large girl with a lovely red dress covered by a grey cardigan says, “I’m Mary, I’m 24 years old, I’m from Orlando, and I’m a bartender.”

“I’m Retta, I’m 35, I’m from Kansas City, and I work in sales.” This from a tall, stick-thin black woman in a sparkly teal dress with silver heels.

“I guess I’ll go next,” a soft voice says. “I’m Rodney, I’m 46 years old, I’m a pastor, and I’m from Sacramento.” He is soft spoken, but he does not look like a pastor. He wears a clean white t-shirt with jeans and a black leather jacket. Looks of concern are cast around the circle, though nobody says a word. Can we trust him? many think. This is Big Brother, of course. He could be lying. More than one Houseguest thinks, he looks like he just stumbled off the set of a Grease remake, not out of a church. Who is he really?

“I’ll go next,” says an Indian girl in a white dress with banana designs printed on it that recall Andy Warhol. “I’m Maureen, I’m from Los Angeles, but my family moved to the states from India when I was five. I’m 22, and by the looks of it I might be the youngest one here?” At this everyone looks around to see if anyone corrects her. They don’t. “Cool, so yeah. I work at a clothing store in a mall, so if you don’t vote me out I can hook you up with my employee discount!”

Next is a blonde girl: Alice, 26, works on her family’s farm in Nebraska, recently engaged to her high school sweetheart.

Mia, 29, is a Chinese woman whose purple dress is complimented by her white heels. Mia is a freelance writer.

Patrick is 27 years old. “I’m the first transgender man to play Big Brother,” he says. “I’m from Queens. And I do vlogs on Youtube.”

Caleb is 34, a chef from Omaha. He has curly red hair and a short, scruffy beard.

Tyler is 29, and he works in construction in Phoenix, Arizona. He is thin, but very muscular, with curly brown hair.

Jonathan is 36, and he’s a stay-at-home dad from Cleveland.

Georgia is a 23-year-old black girl with her curly hair pulled back into a ponytail. “I’m from San Diego, and I work in a bike shop. If you ever need a bicycle repair, I’m your gal.”

Kristen lives in Denver. She’s 28, and she trains dogs.

“Guess I’m last to go,” says a young man with spiky brown hair straight out of the early 2000s. “I’m Aaron, I’m 25 years old, and I’m a car salesman.”

There is little time for chat before the TV screen on the wall opposite the couches lights up. Julie Chen’s face fills the screen. As always, she looks incredible. This is not in spite of the bizarre outfit Wardrobe has thrown at her; somehow, she looks incredible because of it. She smiles down upon the Houseguests.

“Hello, Houseguests,” she says. “And welcome to season 20 of Big Brother.”

The Houseguests cheer.

“You’ve all started to get to know each other I see, and everyone seems friendly...but that won’t last long. In fact, it’s about to end right now.”

There is groaning from around the living room as the Houseguests wonder what is about to happen.

“Houseguests, you’ve just moved into the Big Brother house, but don’t get too comfortable just yet,” Julie says. “We all know how important first impressions can be, but maybe you weren’t prepared for how important your first impression would be tonight. That’s right, in just a moment, one of you will be evicted from the Big Brother house, based solely on the first impression you made on your fellow housemates.”

Everyone shifts a little, anxious. Some rub their sweaty palms on their knees.

“Here’s how it’s going to work.You’ll all look over the Memory Wall to review the names of your fellow Houseguests and make a decision. Then, one by one, you will enter the Diary Room and cast your vote to evict from all of the Houseguests. Here’s the kicker: whoever has the most votes to evict will be the first evicted Houseguest. But whoever has the second most votes to evict will earn safety for the week. If there is a tie, Houseguests will vote between the two highest vote earners to decide who is evicted. Does everyone understand?”

The Houseguests, nervous, nod their assent. Some know that this has become somewhat of a trend in recent seasons, evicting someone on the first night. Whether or not they think it is necessarily fair, they know that it is the game that they signed up for.

For some, the break is far too short, and when Julie returns to the screen they are still frantic as they stare at the Memory Wall. For others, the vote was decided the moment Julie explained the rules.

One by one, they are called into the Diary Room. Though they know that for America, this is entertaining, for them it is just nerve-wracking. Nobody wants to be the first boot; how embarrassing would it be to make it even less time in the house than Cameron had just last season?

Julie is relentless as she refuses to give their nerves a rest.

“Houseguests, the results are in, and I will now tell you the top 3 vote-getters. They are, in no particular order...Leslie...Aaron...and Rodney.”

The three nod, solemn. They know that their odds aren’t good.

“And with three votes to evict, Leslie...:”

Leslie looks up at the screen, worried. To her fellow Houseguests, she looks like she might cry.

“You are the third highest vote-getter, which means you are safe from this eviction.”

Leslie lets out her held breath and allows her tense shoulders to relax.

“That means it’s down to Aaron and Rodney. One of you will be going home tonight, and the other will earn safety for the week. And with four votes to evict...Aaron...congratulations, you are safe, that means Rodney, I’m sorry, with five votes to evict, you are the first evicted Houseguest of Big Brother 20.”

Rodney nods and stands, turning to hug the other Houseguests despite only having met them tonight. Aaron’s eyes dart around the group. He is thankful that he is safe, but he is filled with dread, thinking of where those votes came from.

And he is not the only one thinking of votes. Patrick has immediately felt a connection with Mia, as they are close with age and entered the house at the same time. As Rodney is exiting the house, Patrick pulls Mia aside. “That leaves four rogue votes. I voted out Rodney, and I’m guessing you did too?” Mia nods. “Then we need to figure out who those other four votes to evict were for. I want to keep my finger on the pulse in this house.”

Julie returns to the screen.

“Houseguests,” she says. “I know that was an exciting turn of events, but the night’s not over yet. That’s right. The first Head of Household competition of the season is next.”