#i specifically filtered out jobs that had those needs!

[sigilmint]

job offer rescinded. it took three conversations for the lies to start! this is why I've been avoiding retail even as a last resort. it's nothing but bullshit.

[cardentist]

"yes trans mascs experience transphobia, but there's no such thing as trans mascs experiencing bigotry Specifically Related to them being men/from being related to men"

my mom, after some time sorting her feelings and sifting through trans resources, was accepting of my being a trans person. it took work, but it happened. she sought out trans media from trans people, she took initiative to inform other family members and put herself between me and them.

and she completely refused to even start the process of Maybe getting me on testosterone for 10 years, until I aged out of being covered by her health insurance and couldn't afford to do it myself.

Specifically And Entirely because she was terrified that testosterone was going to make me an angry, violent person. that it was going to, in her own word, "give me roid rage."

for years she made vague pantomimes about eventually seeing about transitioning, but That reasoning would still come up no matter how I tried to explain it to her otherwise.

I am not a particularly violent person, if maybe stubborn. but that didn't matter. what Mattered is that my mother had a preconceived notion of what testosterone does, what Masculinity Does, and that notion was an inherently negative, scary one.

and Because Of That I was denied access to resources That I Need for Years. something that has carried over into the rest of my adult life.

and I see sentiments like hers online, even and sometimes Especially in trans spaces, all the time.

this vision of men as inherently violent, of masculinity as inherently dangerous, and the onus placed in the laps of Trans Men (and often, on Trans Boys) to diminish and shrink themselves to Prove that they're non-threatening enough to be tolerated.

and it bares pointing out that this Isn't just something that affects trans men. trans Women are just as affected by this association with maleness as an inherently corrupting factor. and so to are butch women and nonbinary people presented as violent and scary.

likewise, I see Similar sentiments pushed at butches and trans mascs that it's their job to Protect other people within the queer community, that image of violence and anger filtered through a softer light designating their Use. you're Allowed to be a Scary Masculine Creature as long as you dedicate yourself to protecting the weaker frailer other (which is, you know. Sexist And Weird).

but it's like. people don't Want to think about different kinds of trans and gnc people having overlapping experiences, so instead people like to decide which Kind of people are allowed to have this experience and cut other sorts of people out of those conversations.

it's not about what a particular person's gender or presentation Is, it's how that person Is Perceived and the way that they're treated Because Of that perception. sometimes this transphobia that fears masculinity looks like a perception of scary men trying to pretend to be women, sometimes it looks like a perception of women Becoming scary men, and everything that lies in between (with combinations therein).

finding a term that is used to describe this is Useful not just for giving trans mascs a way to talk about their experiences without encroaching on other conversations about transness. but Also in giving us words to describe a specific phenomenon that Can affect All trans people (and gnc people, and genderqueer people, etc), but that is difficult for us to recognize as a shared experience because people seem to think that sharing experiences is either impossible or a bad thing.

[soupinaboot]

Fuck it. Every Steve Harrington headcannon I have because I've been rotating that boy in my head like a pig on a stick Part 2 this is a little more in depth than the first one but only by a smug

- Epileptic, either since he was young or developed it over time due to all those concussions he keeps getting

- Favorite fruit is blackberries I have no reason

- Kinda sad but he never really had friends, yeah he hung out with Tommy and Carol but that was about it. Like after the fall out with them he was by himself, alone. I feel like if he was as popular as we think he is, he would have at least one other friend right?

- Does not have a filter at all. That one scene where he just casually says, "Oh yeah my parents are out of town because my mom doesn't trust him to not cheat on her any who!" and I feel like he just kinda does that

- Star Trek fan but he just does not comprehend that it's supposed to be nerdy (this is not my own I saw someone else headcannon this please tell me if you find them I can not)

- Absolutely sucked at ELA, could be cause of dyslexia or not whatever you want buttercup

- But on the topic of dyslexia, this headcannon is one of the main reasons why I love math nerd Stevie so much. Like, ELA test and History test are mostly long paragraphs that he needs more time to read through and his teachers don't care enough to give him extra time like he needs. But math tests tend to have a small paragraph that he can read faster or just focus on the numbers and finish on time, so he just got really good at math so he would have at least one class he passed

- Survives off of coffee, lord knows he needs it

- My most random headcannon is that since his parents were never really around or cared much for his safety, he used to hang out outside a lot and explore the wildlife around, got really into nature and animals, bought nature books etc. But his dad told him nature and animals were girly and forced him to stop even though he really loved it

- If he does ever go to college (which he doesn't have to, though if Robin went he would probably go with her), he would either get in education major and become a math teacher or some form of environmental degree

- His love language is quality time

- Among the three of them, Steve and Carol were the closest. Yes, Steve and Tommy met first, and yes they tend to call each other their best friends, but in actuality Carol and Steve were best friends. They have mean girl energy.

- He used to also play hockey when he was younger but stopped playing due to scheduling and shit. But he really liked it cause whenever he would practice there were these older figure skaters who would teach him figure skating (he kinda liked it more than hockey but he never told anyone)

- Speaking of scheduling, he is always tired due to his packed schedule. Since he was young, his dad forced him into a lot of sports and didn't really give him a break. Add that to his piano lessons, his jobs, studying that his dad forced him to do, friends, etc... he is just perpetually tired. And it fucked up his sleep schedule developing into insomnia as he got older

- Most of his and Eddie's dates are just them taking naps

- Once he meets Corroded Coffin they all become best friends. Like best fucking friends

- Specifically Steve and Jeff

[hannieehaee]

so about the dk thing... hold my beer, luna! I have some things for you:

- him being the biggest advocate for princess treatment™ 24/7, but becoming mean one specific night out of stress (due to work or anything you want), the outcome can be angsty or smutty >> this one can be a little tricky, because I swear I never saw seokmin mad...

- seokmin with an extremely shy s/o who makes him endeared every time, especially if she struggles when asking for any type of ffection

- dk in his mingyu era... also known as the scenario where seokmin gets constantly teased by his s/o about everything he does (which I can see happening, since he's such a sweet soul), but there's a turn 🤨☝️: dk gets his bite back by domming the f out of her 🫶

this is the result of being extremely dk obsessed.

I don't know if any of these were able to spark anything in your pretty brain, but I love anything you write anyway so...

kisses ♡

18+ / mdi

content: mean!seokmin, sub-ish reader, afab reader, smut, established relationship, angst, fluff, penetrative sex, etc.

wc: 2813

a/n: thank u for the suggestions anonie i loved them 🫡 i decided to do the first one hehe (mostly bc i live for princess treatment in fics but thats a subject for another day) hope u enjoy, fellow dk obsessed individual <3

masterlist

if there was an award for best boyfriend, seokmin would easily get first place.

he was always known to be the sweetest, most caring boy around. he had even gotten teased in front of millions over the extremely long texts he had a tendency to send to showcase how deeply he cared for the people in his life. seokmin just happened to be an overly affectionate guy, but who could blame him when he had so much love to give?

however, no one had truly scratched the surface of his affections. no one, but you. you bore the brunt of the most passionate and emotional aspects of his love. there was no one in this world seokmin knew how to love better than you. it was almost as if being your boyfriend had been the one task he had been sent to do on this earth. and he did it damn well.

to sum it up, you were his everything. seokmin had always craved romantic love; to have someone who he could give all his affections to without any type of filter or judgement. you happily received his love and gave yours right back, making you one of the most envied couples around due to the love that very clearly radiated out of the two of you.

every single one of your days was met by endless affection from your boyfriend, affections which he adored to give to you. you never had to ask for anything from seokmin. he just always knew the perfect ways in which to take care of you, always insisting on tending to your every need. however, everyone has off days. even seokmin.

the day had started like any other. you'd gone to sleep in each other's arms, waking up equally as tangled up as the previous night. seokmin woke up first, quickly getting ready before kissing you goodbye with the promise of coming back in time to have a dinner with you. the prospect always made him giddy. his whole life he'd always wanted a domestic routine to share with the love of his life day by day and now it was his reality.

like always, he departed home with a smile on his face, knowing he was about to arrive to his dream job that he shared with his best friends only to go back home at the end of the day and fall into your arms all over again. life was good; far too good to seokmin.

it seemed like those were the last few good moments seokmin was meant to have that day, as absolutely everything went wrong after that.

it first began with him embarrassingly tripping on his way out of the car that had driven him to the company, cutting up one of his favorite designer tops (one that had been a limited edition by the way!!). only a few people had seen, so the fall on its own hadnt been too embarrassing. however, as he fell he also happened to drop and smash his phone screen. upon trying to turn his phone back on, he failed, now being stuck with a useless phone for the rest of the day (or even all the way until he had a chance to get it fixed).

the shitty day did not end there. it was just starting.

the next awful predicament occurred just as he walked into the practice room. he hadnt known it until stepping foot inside, but he had just walked into a fight. a few of the members had been fighting about some stupid and unimportant thing, which made at least half of them far too irritable for their own good. on days in which members were irritated at each other, their coordination had a tendency to lack, which only caused more irritation. members snapped at each other throughout the day, making the hours of practice almost unbearable for seokmin. on top of that, he had developed a huge headache just an hour into leaving home. he was also nursing an old ankle injury he had neglected to get treated, which was now acting up due to his fall earlier that day.

his ankle injury led to a few performance team members snapping at him due to his lack in performance. he knew in his heart of hearts that it was just a stressful day for them all (and that his own attitude had been snappy thus far), but he couldnt bring himself to reason this, making him snap right back at his members. even upon going out to eat with his manager he bumped into some rude fans who had been a bit careless with his personal space, except this time he coupdnt react since he knew itd become a scandal.

halfway through his day seokmin realized how rude and unlike himself he had been acting. usually he'd be the mediator in any arguments among members, but today he had even joined in and worsened the situation. he also never really minded if fans were a little overexcited upon meeting him, simply chalking it up to the shock they felt at seeing him. except this time he found himself feeling annoyed? at it. this was very unlike him, but his mood simply continued to worsen throughout the day.

by the time he was heading back home, the final nail was hammered into the coffin. the van that usually drove him back and forth had broken down, causing seokmin, his driver and manager to have to stop on the side of a busy street to check on the issue. seokmin, of course, had to stay inside the van and not make his presence known, knowing he'd easily be recognized in the busy street. this was a fact that irritated him too for some reason.

by the end of it, it had taken over an hour to get the problem fixed, and he had no access to his phone to contact you and let you know that he'd be arriving home way later than usual.

that was the moment in which you entered his mind again. the thought of you instantly made him sigh in relief, knowing that soon enough he'd get to fall asleep in your arms and wake up to a better day.

it was 10:47 when he finally arrived back to your shared home, two hours after the usual time in which he'd reunite with you every day. upon walking in he was met with something he had not wanted to deal with after such an stressful day. you were there to greet him as per usual, but did not seem too happy to see him.

you opened your mouth before he could say anything.

"seokmin, what the hell? i called you twelve times. i even asked the members to call you and no response? what was so important that you ignored me all day?", you seemed very frustrated as you said it, clearly oblivious to the terrible day he'd just had.

"baby– "

"you said you'd be here for dinner by 8! what was so important you couldnt even give me a heads up? we rarely ever get to have dinner together. i spent hours cooking and getting ready and you just ditch me, and for what?", you continued to ramble, giving him no space to answer.

now, any other day seokmin wouldve maybe assumed that your outburst mightve been due to you having a bad day of your own. but today he was just too angry. there was no space in his mind for him to rationalize your lack of sympathy to him in this moment. despite knowing there was no way for you to know that his day had sucked, he also reasoned that you were not even giving him a chance to explain himself. this fact on its own finally did him in. you were going to be unreasonable? fine, then he was going to be mean. all frustrations from the day suddenly came together and manifested into the angry words that were about to leave his mouth.

"and– "

"god, can you please shut up?", he suddenly interrupted you with a tone so icy he even surprised himself, but he kept going regardless, "ive had such a horrible day, i dont appreciate coming home to your nagging. do you even care that maybe i had a reason for being late? i dont have to be here at eight on the dot every single night. nor do i have to keep you updated all day. god, please just leave me alone for today. i cant deal with you on top of everything else."

upon finishing his rambles, seokmin was out of breath. he hadnt said much, but the venom behind his words was enough to render him speechless. the moment the words left his mouth he felt the utmost regret. your face had gone from shocked to dejected to simply sad as he spoke. his went from frustrated to angry to regretful. the two of you stared at each other for a few seconds before seokmin tried to go and rectify himself.

"fuck, baby ... im so sorry, i dont know where that came from. i– i didnt mean any of that. i had a horrible day and– "

"is that it? it seemed like something you'd already thought about", it was now your turn to be angry, it seemed.

"no, baby, i swear! i was just trying to ... trying to be mean. i was trying to hurt your feelings. im so sorry. everything went wrong today and i was just so angry all day. i couldnt even call you because i broke my phone. see!", he pulled his phone out to show you, taking the opportunity to get closer to you, "i know its no justification, but i did not mean a single word i said. i love our nightly routine. i love coming home to you every day more than anything. please dont doubt that. i shouldntve taken out my anger on you. it will never happen again. please, please forgive me?", his endless ramble finally came to an end, puppy eyes staring into yours as he hoped you saw the sincerity in them.

halfway through his speech he had managed to make you give into him and let him hold you as he spoke. this simple act made him glad.

"minnie ... im sorry you had a bad day. but you should never speak to me like that. i love you, but i wont tolerate that. if something bothers you, you have to tell me, not blow up on me like– "

"no! nothing about you ever bothers me! i adore absolutely everything about our relationship and our routine. im so sorry. i shouldve told you when i came home that my day had put me in a mood instead of snapping at you like that."

you chuckled, "i cant really blame you. i threw accusations at you the moment you walked in. im sorry. can we call it even?"

"yes, angel. of course. im sorry i spoiled the dinner. wish i couldve seen how pretty you dressed up for me," he pouted at you.

"it's okay, minnie. there's always tomorrow. are you still feeling angry? did your ramble help you at least?", he winced at the mention of the disrespectful words he had just spoken mere minutes ago, but you seemed already unaffected by them.

to be quite honest, seokmin still felt peeved off at his day. from his fall, to his phone, to his members being mean and unreasonable, to then having his car fail and keep him from you, to then finally getting home and picking a fight with you, it was safe to say he was still dissatisfied. he needed something to relieve his stress, but he didnt want to put that onto you again.

"honestly? i still feel frustrated. it was just such a shitty day, i ... i dont know," he sighed, "i kinda feel like breaking something."

"how about me?", you sounded so genuine as you asked.

"huh?"

"yeah. you could use me to destress. right, minnie?", there wasnt even any lust behind your words. he could tell that it was simply you trying to help out your stressed boyfriend.

"d– do you mean be mean to you?"

you nodded, leaning closer to him as you smiled.

"yes, minnie. would that help? taking your frustrations out on me?"

he groaned with no response, choosing instead to pull you into a greedy and wanton kiss.

his hands were immediately rough as they desperately kneaded at every curve in your body, so harsh in their movements he was already sure he'd leave a bruise or two in his wake.

suddenly he pulled away to inquire at you.

"wait, baby. are you sure? i don't want to hurt you."

"you won't. you never would. do your worst, seokmin," and with that, you pulled him back to you to continue kissing.

surprisingly enough, the simple kissing on its own had begun to alleviate his mood a bit. being able to feel your whines as he fondled your body as he saw fit was already making him forget about his shitty day.

it didnt take long for him to drag you to your shared room and throw you on the bed, immediately going to rip your skimpy pajamas off so that he could have a full view of the body he was about to ram into the bed.

"oh, angel. you're so fucking beautiful ... gonna be so fucking mean to you, angel, im sorry," except he wasnt sorry. and both his tone of voice and devilish grin let you know of that fact.

you lay limp for him to take action, something which made him groan internally, knowing you were putting yourself fully at his disposition. he took advantage of this, choosing to undress himself and finally begin to hover over you.

immediately he flipped you around roughly, forcing you onto your elbow and knees as you gasped at the sudden movement. he fondled you some more and made it so you'd arch your back for him as much as physically possible.

he had no need to prepare neither you nor himself, as he was hard the moment you asked him to use you, and you were practically dripping at his rough attitude.

"baby, gonna fuck you now, yeah? let me know if it's too much."

you gave him the green light, leading him to immediately ramming into you with no further warning.

"f– fuck!"

"oh, fuck. feel so fucking good, beautiful. gonna fuck you so good ... gonna atone for every shitty thing that happened today ...", with that he began slamming into you with no mercy, drinking in every single scream you let out. he knew his neighbors might mind, but he didnt care for that right now. all he wanted was for you to crumble under him.

"you're such a good toy for me, angel. my pretty girl, letting me use her– fuck! ... however i see fit."

"m– minnie!"

"i know, beautiful, i know. such a pretty toy ..."

his movements only became harsher as he grew closer and closer to his end. he knew yours was coming too, based on the heightened pitch of your moans and the way you tried to push yourself back on him despite the sheer strength of his thrusts. it was impossible for him not to fall in love with how good you were for him. it was also impossible for him to be actually mean to you, choosing instead to praise you as your orgasm came to be.

"c– cum for me, beautiful. let me fill up your pretty cunt ..."

"yes, minnie! yours, all yours ..."

he didnt need more than that to fill you up, ramming against you one last time as he winced at the loud sound of his hips slamming against your ass. he swore he almost lost consciousness at the inexplicable pleasure he felt from cumming so deep inside you, hearing you slump over due to lack of energy.

your orgasms subsided together, leading seokmin to do quick work of your clean up and settling with you in the still half-messy bed, rushing to hold you in his arms, which was what he'd wanted since leaving home that morning.

"feel better?", you broke the silence.

"yeah, thanks angel," he grinned at you, giving you a quick peck.

"you weren't even mean to me!", you whined.

"it was hard, okay? i love you!"

"yeah, whatever ..."

"say it back!"

"ill think about it."

"baby!", this time he unglued your bodies, hovering over you as he tried to give you his, "you dont be mean!"

you giggled at him, giving in upon his sudden attack of kisses all over your face, "fine! i love you!"

he finally stopped, opting to cuddle into your side once more, "that's what i thought."

a/n: sorry the smut was too short idk how to write seokmin as mean 💔

[osamucide]

⊹ YOU CAN BE THE BOSS

ACT I: HE HAD A CIGARETTE WITH HIS NUMBER ON IT.

wc: 3.1k

cw: alternate universe, pm boss!dazai, pm+gn!afab!reader, alcohol, cigarettes, implied/referenced drug use, canon-typical violence and referenced violence, implied/referenced ilicit activities including but not limited to prostitution, extortion, drug dealing, and fraud, kind of exposition heavy+not proofread sorry, more specific chapter warnings to come with each

reid: after losing almost all of it, chapter one is here! i hope you enjoy - im excited for whats to come. do let me know where you see this going, and if you'd liked tagged <3

⊹ SCENE I: He gave it over to me, “Do you want it?”

You consider it with an interest masked well-enough by years of practiced stoicism. If there’s one thing the mafia has taught you, it’s to never give anything up easily—not your money, not your body, not your time, not your interest. But the end of the filter touts a brand you've never heard of before, and the man who holds it in your direction, hands deceivingly delicate, is almost too well-known to you.

You are already smoking a cigarette of your own (albeit a brand likely far cheaper and less foreign), but then you spot the writing. A phone number.

Your eyes flick up to his. Dark. Dark as the night you stand in on the rooftop. The lights from the LED floor below, twitching with color, paint him deep red for a moment.

You bow only slightly, as smoothly as you can—that was the first thing you probably should've done, would’ve done if you weren’t a few cocktails deep, but the smirk already on his face—one you knew for a fact you’ve never seen through his own rehearsed mask throughout all the years you’ve worked for him—just cracks deeper.

"Boss," you address him, shuffling your drink into the same hand as your lit smoke before reaching to take the unlit invitation. "Need me to run it?" The number, you mean. Regardless of what implications are initially prompted by a phone number, you settle it on taking it as he needs it traced immediately, and you need to settle on something before you start stuttering at where the nuances of this seconds-long interaction have taken your silly little brain so far. You were mostly on the ground, giving up time and other things when and where you needed in order to get what you wanted—what you needed, and more importantly what the Port Mafia needed, but you'd skulked around intelligence enough to know standard prodecure, and right now you have, at the very least, your personal device and your work phone on you. You were nearby. He had a job for you. For someone. For anyone. That's all.

"No, no," he speaks in a cadence like a fairy jumping from one cloud to another as he taps his own smoke out of the pack. He feels his pockets and looks to you. "My personal phone number. Light?”

Oh, you almost verbalize it, but you're tucking the information in your shirt pocket so quickly and absentmindedly at the following command (if you could even call it a command—it's more a request, but anything he might ask of you, especially directly, certainly holds the weight of a command) before scrambling for your lighter. Any assignment you might be sent on would regularly be passed from him to one of the executives to a subexecutive to your division leader to you, never skipping those middlemen. You hardly ever met with the man who employed you throughout your years at the Port—you could count on less than one hand the times you had—so you look to him, confused, as you open a flame for him, but he just leans forward, dark eyes lit and melted brown for a single second as he cups a lithe hand around the end of the cigarette and puffs, puffs, silently. He almost looks like a kid. Not a god. Just a twenty-something in some club lights. But he is, indeed, more than that, you know. The first bit of smoke flies toward your face. You feel the need to step back, but he does first.

That relaxed, cryptic half-smile returns as he nods his thanks.

You bow again, so shallowly it feels like a crime—even, or maybe especially, among the company you're in—before you can flinch at the realization of where you are, what you're doing, who exactly is in front of you.

You drink often, sure, but clubbing is a luxury, and clubbing in one of Yokohama's most exclusive rooftop lounges is even more rare to come by, but the Port had recently made consequential strides in swaying a legislation to expand on both the individual and business rights of ability users, and the boss—the very man in front of you, who used successes like this as an excuse to get fucked up just as much as anyone else in the organization—is now putting his subexecs as well as his political allies and prospects up in hotels, buying them hundred-thousand yen bottles of wine, hooking everyone up with the best drugs for the low, showing his fucking face and painting himself as best businessman he can possibly be and if you're honest, the subtlety so coy it's almost theatrical and that sick little smile he wears would’ve worked on you if you weren’t so lost. He's notoriously cunning, always had been, even when he was young. His displays of grandeur, penchant for the dramatic—you certainly wouldn’t be alone in saying it only makes him more terrifying.

You're going to chalk it up in your liquor-fuzzed brain to just that—the fuzz of the liquor. But he doesn't seem especially intoxicated, nor has he done anything especially attention-stealing, and yet, here you are, lips parted for words as you watch a ring of smoke curl around him. You feel stupid for thinking he’s ever looked in your direction before this moment. Maybe he doesn't even realize you're one of his employees.

But no, all of what he does, and this you know about him, even if you're unsure what he knows about you, none of it is without motive. So you wonder what his aim is here.

“Pardon me, sir,” you continue, slowly, mindful that your tongue might be a little loose. Not like you socialized with many people on occasions such as this, let alone your boss. The boss. “But for what?”

He looks briefly as if he doesn't hear you. With his face turned to the sky and the filter on his lips, you do your best not to stare. The lights are not doing his sharp features any disservice.

“To call me.”

You wind yourself tight so you don't reel. He says it so casually; he examines the smoke between his fingers like it's an expensive piece of jewelry. A tremble threatens you. You're glad he's still turned to the stars. A pull off your cigarette, a sip of your drink. An inaudible sigh of amazement. Confusion.

The world becomes red from below again as his eyes slide back to yours.

“You’ll call me,” his voice softens in a way that catches you off-guard more than anything else he’s done thus far, “right?”

You try to recount everything you’ve done over the past few years. Surely this isn’t a ploy, right? Your loyalty to the Port is virtually unwavering. If you’d done anything wrong, you weren’t aware of it. In fact, you pride yourself on how many fingers you still have compared to how many you've seen cut off at the first knuckle. Still, he was famed in his youth for his capability to torture without mercy. You’ve seen plenty, but even you hate to imagine some of the things you've heard.

Your pounding pulse registers in your consciousness; you've pinched the filter of your cigarette so long that it’s gone out. What can you say? Or rather, what can’t you say? You must look exceptionally thoughtful in the lifetime-long space of the half-second it actually takes you to respond because, really, whether you want to or not, whether it dragged anxiety up your throat, you would do it anyway. How are you supposed to say no to the man in front of you, the leader of the Port Mafia, or worse—lie and not follow through? That itself might warrant some sort of accusation. Some sort of trouble you don't want. If you knew for a fact it was that, truthfully, you would've thrown yourself at his feet like a dog and began apologizing immediately.

But no, this would be roundabout, even for him. He's extravagant, but he's mechanical, too. A grandiose machine. He could shoot you between your eyes right now and maintain his balance, his image, whatever he wants. If he wanted you dead, you suppose you wouldn’t be standing against the rooftop railing with the sweat of your drink dripping through your fingers. So you answer, dutifully.

“Yes, sir.”

And in your good training you even raise the corners of your lips to mirror his. A defensive move away from a man you should probably feel safer with than you do. Your boss. The boss.

Defensive. For what?

Cryptic. He smiles again, vacant and chilling. You can only hope you hold enough of an air to match.

And he disappears back into the pulsing nightlife as wordlessly as he’d emerged from it. Only after he's gone do you let yourself look aghast. Your lips, slightly parted. Your smoke, tamped. The ice in your drink watering it down. Your eyes unfocused. You feel suddenly more drunk, and you didn’t know if it's for better or for worse.

It isn't really complicated—the reason you're with the mafia. You're resilient and hardworking and you're too aware that traditional routes of employment are decreasingly offering security to honest people with drive anymore and all the more, honestly, you’ve been slipping through the cracks for as long as you can remember. Although you have scars to show for it and a list of dirty laundry to do each week, the Port has yet to steer you wrong. Your integrity is celebrated. You justify a whole hell of a lot of what you do by telling yourself it isn’t all bad—the legislation that would come to pass soon, for example, largely thanks to the influence of the leaders of your faction, would benefit more gifteds around Yokohama—throughout Japan, even—than just those in the mafia. You understand yourself as a common person doing what you need to get by, and really, who wasn't? Your work gets done with the interest of the unfortunate majority you've always been a part of in mind, more than any stuffy office job could ever claim to be.

And your boss, for as horrifying of a man as he's known to be, runs an operation that's put more money in your pocket in the last few years than working your way up the ladder of some miserable corporate office would in a lifetime. You're comfortable. Safe, by your own standards. Happy, even, after your few and fair promotions within your division over the years.

Happy as you can be, anyway. And maybe that’s what this is: another promotion, if it wasn't an invitation to get your ass beat on your personal time. Everything about either of those seems more likely than an opportunity to get anywhere near him on equal ground or whatever lit up in your brain at first before you shoved it down, turned it off like the good soldier you are. Your stomach twists either way. You imagine your name after the title division leader.

So you’ll call him. But right now, you down the rest of your drink and seek out the bar—the open bar which he had paid for for the entire night—sure to tumble yourself into overserved territory with one more.

"Same thing." You waggle your empty glass at the bartender as one of your divisionmates stumbles to your side, drink of her own empty in her hand.

Her name is Iyomi, and you've had enough amicable interactions with her to consider her a friend. Maybe that's stupid in the mafia; it certainly goes against your original philosophy—from some years ago when you were younger and maybe even more jaded than you were now—which was that you were here to fly solo, get your work done, stay quiet, and find time to repair the parts of yourself you had so long sought the stability in order to do. But you're older now—still jaded, undoubtedly, but you've lost that certain determination that's only available to the youth; anymore, you feel a hopelessness about you that grows like a tumor, and it makes things difficult to take seriously. You're dying, and so is everyone, and that's why you will let yourself get so wasted tonight. Your bartender slides your glass back to you, and Iyomi latches onto your arm.

"Is that—was—were you just talking to the boss?" She slurs loudly and incredulously, and you hush her, hush her, laugh because you can't help it, hush her again. She moves on soon enough; she's swaying, flagging down the bartender, complaining that she hasn't been able to find her friend and her drinks have not been strong enough all evening, but even in the state you're in, you consider motioning for someone to fill her glass with water instead of whatever neon blue concoction she's been downing.

When you shuffle back to your post on the railing to light another cigarette (not the one with the number on it, pointedly), Iyomi follows you like a loyal dog. It's a bit endearing, how you're seasoned enough in your work that newer recruits tend to look up to you—people like Iyomi soften your stony heart a bit, so you let her start up again.

"That's—I don't think I've ever even spoken to him, like, ever—like, what was he—bleh!" She waves your smoke away from her face as it stings her eyes and puts a few inches between you; granted, she was falling all over you. You can't help your smile.

"It was nothing. Tell you the truth, I think he's as drunk as the rest of us," you said. You remind yourself to relax a little to avoid incrimination on behalf of your shaking hands. You could probably play it off as the nicotine, but Iyomi's too plastered to notice anyway.

"So strange!" she giggles, adopting your pose—elbows rested on the rail, feet crossed at the ankle. "Anyway, I saw Akane dancing with one of Nakahara's subexecs, and I wasn't gonna say anything but I think they left together and I..."

She continues to chatter in the sweet voice of hers, and you scan the rooftop for any sign of the boss. He's disappeared. It was about the time of the night (or morning, rather) when people were doubling over sick, passing out in their VIP seating, damning themselves to a tomorrow of work with a thrumming hangover. You decide you'll help yourself to a few more drinks, maybe dance with Iyomi, and then go home. The cigarette in your suit jacket pocket is heavy like a gun.

⊹ SCENE II: . . . I knew it was wrong, but I palmed it.

If you're honest—which you are often, as previously established (your correspondence with Iyomi last night aside)—you can't remember getting back to your apartment.

You remember very well talking to the boss. You remember agreeing to call him. You remember smoking cigarette after cigarette until you finally did leave, but the leaving itself is blurry—you think you'd walked most if not all the way back if your sore calf muscles were anything to go by, but you end up fishing a crumpled train ticket out of your jacket pocket the next morning with the cigarette.

The cigarette. You let it roll side to side in your palm before it settles.

The writing is less than neat, but impressive enough for obivously being done on the tubing after it was rolled. Treasurer is what the filter reads, beneath an elegant printed seal. Unknown brand of pen ink disregarded, you briefly wonder about the monetary value of the thing in your hand. He's daunting to you—the boss and all his wealth and influence, even in the privacy of your home.

After tucking it neatly between two books on the decorative table near your slider, you shake the feeling and go about your day.

It's less than notable. You run into colleagues who were shitfaced just six hours ago. Some are very obviously still hopped up on something. You flash your teeth and play nice with everyone, just as always, despite the slight headache thumping at the inside of your skull. You're usually never achy after a night of indulging—it had to be all those damn cigarettes you smoked.

You do your little to-do's. You go represent your division at a meeting in a bar with your branch's subexec, and you're surprised to see the executive your division falls under there—her name is Koyou, and she's a stunning woman with scarlet hair and a voice that's always set you slightly on edge. She never says much, and this meeting is no different; she nods, she hums, she drinks a glass of wine and speaks a total of seven words before you're dismissed. You follow up with your division leader on the meeting—routine reporting, monthly headcount, housecleaning—as well as some paperwork about a small foreign syndicate your division had been assigned to sniff out. Everything's in order and nothing's come of the group. Not yet, anyway. Everyone's in good spirits in light of the recent private endorsement. Your overtime pay could increase soon enough, so it's enough to keep you regarding your associates with pleasantries throughout the day.

And you get home, unreasonably tired from scampering around the bars the rest of the evening. You had little to drink, only one at each, but you're warm enough and your headache's disappeared completely and you remember the cigarette on your little table.

The sliding door leads out to a balcony—a modest one, but it allows you to recline with a smoke, so it's all you'll ever need.

You're seated when you glare down the number again. Your pack is on the little table—the one outside, almost identical to the one just inside your door but more built for withstanding the elements—but you punch the number into your contacts and snatch up your lighter before you can wonder if the next day is too soon. Or, if any longer would lack punctuality and respect for the boss's time. Or what this is at all. What are you doing?

You almost feel stupid again as your thumb hovers over the "call" button. This is something you will have to face. This is something you will have to do. Isn't it?

You stick the filter of the Treasurer between your lips and flick your lighter. The 0 at the end of the number goes up in ash.

And it rings.

It rings a few times, and you don't expect anything other than that from here on out. In fact, through your first puff off this exquisite tobacco, you resign yourself to lowering all your expectations for this. You're nervous in one way, but you're dying in another. Maybe either your hands are holding the thing that'll do it. Whatever. You're tipsy enough. It's nighttime and no one can see you but God.

You're ashing the Treasurer into your tray as the line clicks and your name is spoken in a voice you can't mistake. One that, too, sets you on edge. But you play the part right now, for no one but yourself. Maybe for God.

"Boss," you respond, softly, dutifully. Your smoke dissipates on the quiet breeze.

"I'm glad you called."

[absentlyabbie]

don't be afraid of buying things that make your life easier. don't talk yourself out of it, beat yourself up for being "lazy", or shame yourself for not being able to do things the "right" way so you don't deserve to try it a different way.

if there's a thing out there that can make something faster, more bearable, less painful, more tolerable, anything like that at all, and you can afford it? you have the right, you deserve it, and you should do it.

i've stuck for the last several years with exclusively those detachable sprayer showerheads, because i need to be able to sit down in the bath and it makes the entire operation easier, so i'm less likely to risk a concussion or pass out or wobble and slip.

for the last few years, i've been using one with a little powerwash spray setting and i use it before and after every shower and it keeps my tub and shower cleaner so much longer, which is great because i hate cleaning the bath and can put it off for months, and scrubbing kills my shoulders.

sometimes, whether it's the executive dysfunction, or the depression, or knowing that i become entirely detached from the concept of time when in the shower, if i can't bring myself to get in the damn thing and do a full-blown shower, and i know i'd just be uncomfortable and not clean and still keep putting it off (because i can easily lose well over an hour once in there), i will kneel on my (cushy, quick-dry, memory foam) bathroom mat beside the tub and lean over it to wash my hair and face and maybe soap up to my shoulders. then later when it feels like a way more manageable and shorter task i can do a quick scrub and rinse.

i've bought cbd for when my joint pain makes sleeping otherwise impossible (even though it's expensive) and a work desk that has expandable legs to be a bed desk if i ever need to work sick (i'm lucky to be remote since my job change).

i've bought the screw-top, 40oz, insulated mugs and extra long plastic straws (do not @ me) and the pop-bottom giant cube ice trays all because every one of those helps ensure i drink more water every day (and so does the faucet-mounted water filter).

i buy specific individual snacks that require little to no prep so even when the execution of making a sandwich is Too Damn Much, i can still make myself do some calorie intake.

i talked myself into a cushioned mattress topper to relieve my spine and because it's way cheaper than a new mattress. i bought blackout curtains for our old apartment because the outdoor lights were insanely bright at all hours and made sleep even more elusive.

i've purchased slip on-only shoes or no-tie laces because i hate tying shoelace knots, my hands are less dexterous than ever (and hurt), and because i struggle with time management and it's one small thing to shave off just a little more time so i'm a little less late.

i didn't buy all of these things all at once, definitely. i am, sadly, made of meat and not money.

but i started budgeting, slowly, more and more of whatever amount of disposable income i had after bills towards "thing to make life suck less and not be so hard" and i can't regret it in the least.

i deserve not only small comforts and joys, but also less pain and difficulty, and ways to make challenging parts of life a little more within my reach with not quite as much effort.

so do you.

[lemotmo]

Interesting question and super interesting answer. Spot on regarding lots of people's feelings towards Lou.

Q. I want to first say thank you for taking the time to answer our questions, I know many of them have not been nice. I'm glad you've started answering more nice ones, it's good for everyone to see. You've said you liked Tommy a lot in the beginning, is it possible that your changing opinions about Tommy are actually a result of you not liking Lou? More than the show changing Tommy? Does that make sense? I am genuinely curious, please tell me this is not coming across as rude!

A. Good morning, anon. No, your question did not come across rude at all. In fact it's a good question and one I am happy to answer. Before I get into the answer about Tommy though, I will address the Lou part. I have made no secret about my dislike for LFJ. I personally find him gross. And I will fully own that, as a result, loving Tommy would be rather difficult for me. But in my real life it's my job to sell shit to people and make them think they love or need something they don't (PR) so I could make my brain get there if I really needed it to get there for the sake of the show. But fortunately for me I won't need to do that.

A couple of things happened with regards to Lou that prior to him the show had never had to deal with before. Forgive me, but my public relations nerd brain is about to take over. Lou is the first guest star the show ever had that publicly and rapidly promoted themselves as a characters' love interest. None of the others have ever done that before. But he didn't market himself to the audience at large. He targeted a very specific portion of fandom to promote himself to, engage with, and profit from. I'm going to take this opportunity to point out that the minute Tim/ABC told him he could no longer do the cameo videos, thus removing his profiting capabilities, he ended all forms of engagement completely. That tells you all you need to know. For this next part I'm going to use Megan West (Taylor Kelly) as my counterpoint. Taylor was popular with the general audience. The fandom hated Taylor (and Oliver wasn't a fan either, bless him), but the general audience liked her. It's why the show kept trying to make her work for multiple seasons. The GA liked her dynamic with Buck. The GA didn't 'turn' on Taylor until the show started her exit storyline and they weren't supposed to like her anymore. Same thing with Tommy. I think my opinion of Tommy changed exactly when the show wanted it to change. I followed the canon change. The general audience doesn't care about Tommy. Having a small, yet rabid, fan base is good for minimal short term traction, but the GA is what extends contracts. He didn't promote himself to the GA because he already knew the shelf life of his character. He knew the storyline that his character is a part of wasn't going to change. As a result he promoted himself to a particular sect of fandom to maximize his character's minimal self life. And it worked, for a little bit.

The show was not promoting him. He did a couple of interviews right after episode 4, but any actor playing that character would have been given those interviews. That had zero to do with Lou. And, unfortunately for him, and those of us who had to read them, the man's a terrible interview. He has no filter, no self editing capabilities, and zero PR training. It was a disaster. Even the people responsible for editing them into something resembling coherence struggled to make them work. They sent him on one joint interview with Oliver, an actual PR unicorn (he should teach a class), and the only thing Lou was allowed to say about the show was that Tommy and Buck were 'thriving' (interesting word choice given his one scene in the finale, btw). It also cannot be ignored that Oliver chose not to speak at all about the onscreen duo. The rest of Lou's time was spent talking about his dad, which is what the two people interviewing him clearly wanted to talk more about anyway. Oliver was who the show sent to talk about the show. They weren't promoting the ship. The interviewers would have been given very specific questions to ask if it had been about the duo. ABC didn't want Lou talking about the show. He had already proven he wasn't capable of doing so with any kind of tact. It also became apparent that he and Oliver are not comfortable with one another. Oliver tried very briefly to sell it a bit, but he didn't try very long or very hard. I know Lou's fandom thought it was perfect, but based on everything non Lou biased we saw, they were in the minority. And the show clearly didn't think it worked either because you never saw them again. The show has been doing PR since the finale. If they wanted to drum up Buck/Tommy they would have been using at least part of this time to do so, and they haven't. The release of the deleted clip was the opposite of bigging him up and the reaction from the general audience as well as his own fans proves that. The off-season PR has been entirely Ryan/Eddie centered. Which also was when Ryan's gender neutral musings also began, but I digress. The show had never encountered the game Lou played before and as a result they had no rules and regulations in place regarding guest star behavior. They have clearly established some rules now and Lou has been instructed to follow them. I'm also certain somewhere in there he was informed of his final episode count so he knows exactly when he's leaving. And while the cameo videos were great for him personally, in the short term, that rabid devotion was going to change quickly once it becomes apparent on screen that Tommy's arc is nearing its end. And I don't think he will be around longer than 3 or 4 episodes. I think his arc will conclude around the same time Gerard's arc concludes. I do not think the two will necessarily be connected but I do think they will come to a conclusion around the same time.

I'm so sorry anon but he drives my professional brain insane. And now as a result of his own hubris the show is now trying to clean up a mess he had no right to ever start.

I don't know what to write underneath these glorious posts anymore. Each and every single OP post just slay. This one isn't the exception.

Thank you OP for so eloquently putting into words what all of us have been trying to explain for weeks now.

Remember, no hate in comments or reblogs. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of the anonymous OP’s posts, you can find all of their posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[natriae]

Chapter 1: Stahp callin' me Miya

next>

Masterlist

warnings: profanity & complaining

"No Miya you cannot for the love of god post that you wanna ride Sakusa's dick on tiktok,"

"why not i'd be funny,"

Funny enough, leaving the MSBY gymnasium was the hardest part about your job. It should be the easiest, but all the boys think you clocking out means now is the time to ask you questions. In particular a setter manages to do this everyday. You always catch him running out of the locker room door with wet hair and his gym bag hugged tightly to his chest as he chases after you. Half the time his questions don't even have to do with your job. Questions he should be asking the manager or coach.

Exiting the large building the two of you are met with the beautiful, natural landscape of osaka. The parking lot with huge trees shading your cars, and small lights in the ground not to ruin the scenery. They even managed to make sure the garden full of flowers in the front was managed daily. The landscape would be so relaxing if there wasn't a loud blonde haired setter talking your ear off.

You'd think he'd be trying to get with you with how determined he is to be by your side on your way out, but those thoughts leave as soon as he opens his mouth.

Questions fly out of: 'can ya check out this pimple on my ass' or 'would it ruin mah image if i posted a twerking video'. If anyone heard your conversions they'd think you two are just close friends, but you only met him a few months ago and never see him outside of your job.

Atsumu was just a carefree young man without a filter, and as much as you hated him annoying you on your way out, you were grateful. You were grateful that you had someone walk you to your car in the afternoon or at night even if he wasn't purposefully doing it.

Like right now, while he rants about what a good idea it would be to post his hot-takes on his teammates he subconsciously opens your car door for you, and waits for you to roll your window down before shutting it.

"I'm just sayin' I don't think there will be as much backlash as ya think," the thick accent rolls off his tongue as he ducks his large body down to be face to face with you.

"Okay, yeah when you're getting death threats from Sakusa's fan's I won't be there to help you."

At your retort he scrunches his stupidly cute face up and fires back, "yah, ya will. It's yer job," he finished by giving you his best matter of fact face and waited for you to respond. You think that's why he enjoys toying with you so much, because he knows you will fight his own fire with more fire, but you also hate when he's right--like right now.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath before continuing, "Please Miya just give me one weekend where I don't need to clean up your mess off the clock,"

"When have ya ever hadda do that,"

"Last weekend when you got in a fist fight at a bar," you snapped back.

"Hey! That guy was makin' a lady uncomfortable," he reasons.

"Yes, Miya it was sweet of you, but not for MSBY when headlines of 'MSBY Setter caught in Bar Brawl' hit the first page," Working with the boys as their publicist was hard to say the least. It's like babysitting, but without the money for dinner. Constantly making sure the boys don't fight, swear, or even post stupid tiktoks. You have to review their posts before they post it, and think of any possible way they could receive backlash for it, but the best part of it all was seeing the terrible photos of the boys-like the picture of Atsumu being punched in the face- or getting calls from their mom's because their son won't pick up.

"okay I promise…under one condition," dear god, "stahp callin' me Miya! I have a twin it's confusing!"

Exaggerating you stick you head out of the car window and glace around before ultimately turning back to the man and saying, "I've never met him so 'till I do it's Miya,"

At that you roll up your window as Atsumu gives you a look of disbelief. You signed a very specific contract. You cannot under any circumstances get close to the boys, so to save yourself from wanting more you will stick to their last names.

Taglist: OPEN!

@thisbicc @lovley212

[thedrarrylibrarian]

hello! bit of a specific request but would you know of any fics that feature draco & harry exchanging snarky letters (for whatever purpose- their jobs or teddy or anything really) that get progressively less snarky and more exasperatedly affectionate? fic doesn't have to be only featuring their letters, but like initially at least the exchanges between draco & harry are solely via post

Is there anything more romantic than taking the time to write a letter? Even if it is sent out of annoyance, you had to take time to find pen and paper, sit and write your thoughts, sign off and sign your name, then find postage and send it.

I hope you enjoy these epistolary (one of my favorite words) fics. And if you feel up to it, send a friend a letter for the joy of it.

Epistolary

Mislaid Owl Post by (801 words, rated G) by @thelionessroyal

A trainee owl keeps bringing letters to Hogwarts Potions Master Draco Malfoy instead of their intended recipients, leading to a rather annoyed Malfoy and amused Potter sending letters back and forth. Maybe they should thank the poor owl for his efforts...

Yours, Draco by @drarrytrash (3,505 words, not rated)

All that's left are 15 letters, and then those are gone too.

I Just Want You to Know by @crazybutgood and @sugareey-makes-stuff (3,949 words, rated T)

After a Potions accident leaves Harry and Draco without a verbal filter, they have no choice but to communicate with each other through letters. Forced to work together to catch up and complete their Potions project on time, secrets they have both been withholding eventually spill out along the way.

Famous Last Words by drarrymadhatter and @ladderofyears (6,298 words, rated M)

When unsigned love letters addressed to him begin spontaneously appearing around the castle, Draco is not amused. In an effort to make them stop - or at least to make them stop appearing in public places with permanent sticking charms - he writes back.

Handling Snakes by @potter-loves-malfoy (7,074 words, rated T)

Draco Malfoy is content with his life as a psychologist in the Muggle world. Sure, the tube is a nightmare, and it would be nice to use magic without worrying about being discreet, but it's good for the most part. When he starts treating a client for their fear of snakes, he realizes that his safe, comfortable, Muggle life won't be that way for long. It really doesn't help that he might have a slight aversion to snakes. There's no avoiding it now; he needs Harry Potter. Only for his snakes, of course.

To Auld Acquaintance by @cavendishbutterfly, @corvuscrowned, @sorrybutblog, @fictional (8,326 words, rated T)

After Draco returns from a stint in Paris, neither Harry nor Draco seem to know how to talk to each other. As usual, they make it literally everyone else's problem.

Featuring: texts, letters, emails, and further shenanigans.

Per my last letter (I hope you choke on it) by @fluxweeed and @lastontheboat (10,258 words, rated T)

Dear Mr Potter, The answer is, and will remain, a no.

Sincerely, Draco Malfoy Accounts Manager, Phoenix Press

How to Fool Your Friends (And Get a Boyfriend in the Process ) by @famoustruth and @orpheous87 (10,332 words, rated T)

Fed up with their friends trying to set them up, Harry and Draco decide to pretend to be a couple in public. They plan their every move through their letters, but what they didn't plan for were the very real feelings that make themselves known.

Yours Truly by @skeptiquewrites (14,848 words, rated M)

Every single one of Harry’s exes has gone on to marry the next person they date, and with the upcoming nuptials of numbers six and seven to each other, Harry’s feeling exhausted by it all. It doesn’t really matter if he lets people assume Draco Malfoy is his boyfriend for a moment of peace. In any case, Draco’s been away for five years and there’s no way he would find out, right?

There are many benefits to being a marine biologist by @tedahfromtayla (19,088 words, rated T)

There is something about Harry that constantly calls Draco back to Britain. No matter how far he tries to run, he can't outrun his stubborn heart, or the history of his family.

Bonne Foi, Draco Malfoy by @badwolfblues (19,399 words, rated E)

At twenty-five, Draco Malfoy has to return to England to do something about the Manor, and Harry Potter won’t leave him alone. His years-old crush on Potter is reignited over repairs, mermaid lemonades, and pocket owl messages.

Butterflies in Winter by Justlikewriting (19,725 words, rated M)

Of course Harry had known that Malfoy’d been sent to Azkaban, but, to be honest, since the trials Harry hadn’t really thought of the git at all anymore. A random visit to Slug and Jiggers was about to drastically change that, though.

And whose exactly were those letters that Harry found there?

Dear Stranger by @iero0 (22,751 words, rated T)

The one thing more pointless than falling in love with an anonymous wizard over a correspondence is falling in love with Harry Potter when you’re Draco Malfoy.

*Check out the Happy Hour rec of this fic by @ladderofyears

All Things Go by @sorrybutblog (32,826 words, rated E)

Draco’s back at Hogwarts by court order. Harry’s back for no particular reason at all. Some things change, some stay the same. Neither expects to spend eighth-year living in close quarters, playing rugby (poorly), staying up late, sneaking around, and finally figuring it all out.

The Art of Thank You Notes by fictionclaw (82,232 words, rated E)

A few years after the war, Harry receives a ministry notice that Draco Malfoy’s house arrest will soon be lifted and that the wand he has kept may be sent to the ministry. He doesn’t think much of it when he sends the wand directly to Malfoy Manor with a note.

But one letter swiftly follows another and Malfoy sneaks his way into Harry's every day life without either of them minding.

Or; Harry and Draco find reasons to write letters to each other and Black heirlooms and family histories are uncovered while they figure out why that is. Lunch dates, careful friendship, confusing feelings and Draco's art included.

Save the Date by @mallstars (122,954 words, rated E)

In the twelve years after the war, Harry attends sixteen weddings. As friends and acquaintances vow their lives to one another, he watches quietly from the sidelines. Step by step, Harry pieces himself back together, builds a life from the wreckage of his past and falls, slowly and thoroughly, for Draco Malfoy.

A story told in sixteen parts, of patient and transformative love, of queerness, of reaching out and holding on. Featuring plenty of pining, Gilderoy Lockhart getting married in a fever dream of glitter and product placement, and Rita Skeeter spitting a steady stream of venom at Harry and Draco's every move.

❤️ As always, if you find a fic you enjoy, please remember to leave the author a kudos or a comment! ❤️

[svsssfanonarchive]

I really appreciate your continued emphasis on people being free to enjoy canon and fanon as they want while providing accurate canon information! All the asks and PSAs you've shared on that recently reminded me of a fic where sj actually WAS innocent, even wrt abuse. They had to make an a/n how it was their spin deviant from canon so it'd be great if they could stop getting nasty messages pls. I just think we should all foster a nicer fandom environment, so I love what you're doing~!

Yeah, I personally might be a book-canon purist, but I can certainly recognize that not everyone feels the same way-- and at the end of the day, it is fiction, what people want to do with canon and fanon is up to them and really has little to do with them as a person. I hold authorial intent in really high regard, but no need to bully those who don't, and who want to rearrange things.

Of course, for something like you mention, I would advise using some kind of tag to indicate that it's off-script. Especially since SJ's abuse of LBH is an integral part of the story the novel is telling, changing things like that changes the entire tone of things.

If a fic where the characters are intentionally OOC gets popular, then people will inevitably start going to that fic's portrayal and mixing that up with canon details (this is, probably, why there is so much apologism and denial of SJ's canonical abuse of LBH in this fandom, though it certainly wouldn't be the specific fic you're referencing alone and is probably a combination of many different factors). I personally don't like portrayals like this, but if a writer is changing it for their story, then who am I to judge or harrass them over it? The only issue comes when it spills over into the wider fandom perception, and you have people swearing left and right that SJ had nothing to do with the fake manual (he did) or didn't actually mean to abuse LBH or want him dead (he also did, and this can't just be contriubted to unreliable narrator since it comes from his own perspective in the extras). So I think an a/n at the beginning is a good idea in situations like these. If writers don't want to spoil things, just simply tag that the character is OOC compared to canon-- no need to go into specifics, and readers will know going in that the portrayal isn't meant to be a take on canon or aligning with it.

No one knows how popular their fic will become, after all, and if it gets into the wider fandom space without proper context, things like "Shen Jiu was just treating LBH normally for the time period, he wasn't abusive, LBH was just a self-obsessed person trying to demonize him" become mainstream, widely held beliefs.

Of course, this is what my blog is for, hopefully rerouting some of those ideas, pointing back to the sources where the divergence happened, so that people can see that while they may enjoy this canon-divergent depiction, that they shouldn't bring it into canon-based analysis. I think sourcing fanon is very important for this reason-- better than just saying "you're wrong" is being able to say "this is where the idea came from."

At the end of the day, a deliberately off-script, ooc portrayal should be tagged as such and AO3 provides those tags for a reason. There's nothing inherently wrong with writing characters OOC to change a story. People can write what they want! It's the writer's job to make relevant information known, and the reader's job to filter it out and just not read things they don't like. I'm so particular that I put down probably 80 percent of fics I read before I even get through the first few chapters. That's just me though! I'm a canon snob! Other people have no issues and that's fine.

As long as things aren't skewing into abuse apologism in regards to the canon-universe, there's literally no reason I can't just ignore things I don't like, and there's no reason other people can't do the same with things they don't like.

Anyway, don't harrass artists and writers in the fandom. If you feel it absolutely necessary to leave a comment in regards to an OOC character portrayal, don't be mean about it, just say something like "<Character Name> seems to be a bit OOC here, is this intentional?" but even then, it's really not necessary to come into someone else's space like that. Make your own posts, write your own fics.

There is no reason to assume malice when there are other explanations. This is hard with topics like abuse apologism, but people also need to remember that this is fiction. SJ was abusive in canon, but he's still not a real person, and if someone wants to write a version of him where he's not abusive, then that portrayal can easily be treated as a version from an alternate universe where things were different. This is not the same as saying a person in real life isn't abusive, because in this case, it's not apologism-- it's literally a different universe where the rules of the original canon don't apply. In fictional and fandom spaces, it's a lot easier and better off to just give people the benefit of the doubt.

As long as you're not claiming that his canon behavior wasn't abusive (since that's about behaviors now, and not just a fictional story), it literally doesn't matter what people write in fanfic.

Authors, tag your fics with everything you'd like your readers to be aware of, because when a reader opens up a fic they're probably expecting the characters to follow canon unless stated otherwise.

Readers, read the portrayals and stories you like. Don't read the ones you don't. If something isn't tagged correctly, and you find out you don't like it after reading, just close the fic and stop reading.

No one should ever be harassing anyone else over fandom for any reason.

[see-arcane]

I came across your Jonathan in Hellsing posts and read and reread them enough times to burn them into my brain. The ideas you come up with are fantastic! But I was wondering if you had any thoughts on a Jonathan vs Anderson dynamic? Not necessarily physically fighting (though they definitely could) but like, in regards to their morals, relationship with god, and interactions with Dracucard.

(Ps. Obsessed w your Dracula sequel book and I hope it gets made into a movie that remains true to the characterizations you write and reshapes how the collective public views the characters forever!)

Thank you, this will sustain my gremlin of a writer ego for days

Jonathan and Anderson would have an interesting dynamic. Naturally they have to wind up in opposition if Jonathan's nominally on Team Hellsing. Anderson is fighting using holy magic and sci-fi/Christ sorcery-based regeneration and strength: Cool! He's using all of that to slay monsters: Cool! He has no filter when it comes to what he deems a 'monster,' no matter their actual innocence or level of humanity: Not Cool. In fact, it likely triggers a very specific flavor of ire Jonathan had to swallow back after seeing a certain Wafer burn.

(God is love. But that love is conditional. A truth that holds across the multiverse, apparently.)

((Cue the ringing of steel against steel. Because they've got to get into some kukri versus bayonet action.))

Actual confrontation has to happen when Jonathan either witnesses some arbitrary zealot-edged murder or he jumps to defend Seras or others from his pouncing. Anderson probably lumps Jonathan in with Alucard and Seras' situation at first--up until he learns that the only scar on Alucard's person, the fresh red line over his brow, came from Jonathan.

"Stole some sacred blade for him to play with, did you?"

"Oh no." A grin from Alucard, delighted to tattle. "A shovel spade. Just to prove a point. I do believe he might put us both out of the job before long. He doesn't need any specific toys to play this game. It's all him, Anderson. God picked a favorite whether he likes Him or not."

(And it wasn't you. He may put me down before you ever get the chance. Ha.)

((Notably he never defines what 'god' he refers to, but this framing twists the knife in Anderson better as well as making Jonathan a bit twitchy. It's complicated.))

Anderson takes this. Weirdly. He doesn't have quite the same 'Only I can do X! Only you can do Y!' fixation that Alucard seems to have about someone special~ doing the deed of killing him/being his equal et cetera. His whole deal is an obsessive need to Slay the Monsters. So he looks at Jonathan, sadly Protestant (probably? still? again, complicated), but obviously roiling with reflexive Hate for Alucard, possessing the ability to actually put the overpowered fucker down, and not doing it. Why?

"What is it they have on you, lad? Who has your leash to keep you from doing what comes natural, eh?"

Another clang.

"He's on a leash," said like lead. "He's being put to work for," bitter, bitter, bitter, "a greater good. And the sins I hate him for are long dead."

Sins slightly askew from those he recalls in his history. Van Helsing--no, Hellsing--would not let them slay Dracula back then. Enslaved him instead. Made a thrall of the one who wanted thralls. It is...somewhat uneasy to think of. Enslavement is a position far worse than destruction; it's the same way the Count meant to prey on them. He doesn't like it.

He hates Dracula. He is nauseous in Alucard's presence. But still. He does not like this. Yet where else is there for a time and universe-displaced Victorian cryptid to go?

"That power was given for a reason. Use it, lad. Put it to work against the foul things it was made for. Iscariot's got room for your like if you only repent and turn that knife the right way."

"My life was saved more than once by faith and by the faithful as you know them," Jonathan admits with a bow. "God is love," under his breath.

"That He is--,"

Slice.

Blood spills. The wounds do not heal, the bayonet cannot be gathered up in either shaking hand.

(This Power wounds monsters.)

"No. My god is Love. I have seen your God's love in action. I have been shielded by it and seen it betray the most virtuous soul in Creation. I cannot put my faith in anything so fickle. Especially not in you, who would murder a girl for her sharp teeth or strangers who dare to point out you have acted against a mutual peace. Go home and pray the pain away, Father. Now, or you will not leave with all your pieces."

Anderson exits. Alucard is going to combust out of sheer glee. Iscariot is put on alert alongside Millennium, both groups getting cagey about the concept of new unprecedented competition. Iscariot doesn't like Hellsing having another anti-supernatural ace up their sleeve and the Major and company hate the thought that someone else might have a chance at putting Alucard down (if the bat bastard allows it; he's waiting for Jonathan to juice up as a weightier cryptid for a proper throwdown).

In the meantime, Anderson ponders his cut arms, slowly healing as an ordinary man's would. He shoves Jonathan back on the same shelf as Alucard. Another monster in need of slaying--a blasphemous one of a different make. Some pagan divinity must be at his shoulder. No other. No other.

His arms ache.

[abibliophobiaa]

right where you left me

chapter three coming 11/13, read on for preview…

——

The Hideout is bustling with customers. Endless rows of children constructing and decorating gingerbread houses at one table, while parents and family members alike mill about at the other tables, conversations about the upcoming holidays filtering through your ears as you pass by, handing off drinks and food.

Steve’s not here yet. A fact you notice as you watch the table of your friends grow, the group bent low together, beaming at what the other is saying, caught up in their company as day turns into night.

You’re finishing up handing off water to a table of teenagers when you notice Abi waving you over, a weary look in her eyes. It’s when your gaze travels southward you notice the shaggy blonde curls that you couldn’t forget even if you tried. Nor the pristine suit and tailored pants, the too expensive watch, that tie cinched around his neck. Green eyes drift your way from the bar, arms crossing over a toned chest. Chiseled cheekbones give way to blonde stubble, a messier look than you’re used to on Clark’s conventionally attractive features.

His eyes narrow at your appearance. To him, you’re wearing no more than a pair of jeans you bought off of a clearance rack, and a black sweater with a hole in one sleeve after you’d gotten it caught on Steve’s truck handle. He’s seen you in designer gowns, shoes, decked to the nines with jewelry, looking like the ever dutiful daughter. And now — now his eyes roam your form with distaste, the curl of his lip making your stomach drop.

“I can ask him to leave,” Abi murmurs low against your ear as you slip behind the bar to join her, “just say the word, and he’s gone. Eddie wouldn’t mind if I toss him out. He’s kind of an asshole anyway. Asked me if I had a specific bottle of wine, and scoffed when I said we didn’t. I almost told him he could shove the credit card he slapped against the bar up his ass.”

“Sounds about right,” you grumble, giving her hand a little squeeze. “I’ll be okay. And if not, and you catch me ready to throw a glass and lose my job —”

“I’ll turn the other way and pretend I didn’t see it.”

Offering her a smile, you slip back out and round the bar, grabbing Clark’s sleeve and tugging him to a smaller table positioned away from everyone else. From here, you can see Steve when he arrives and escape if need be. Huffing, you cross your arms over your chest and tilt your head up, staring into that blank stare.

“So this is where you ran off to,” he tuts, snickering, “it’s…charming.”

“It’s where I grew up,” you tell him flatly, “it’s home.”

“Home is in the city,” he says, leaning up onto his elbows, hand coming to curl over your own. Your eyes narrow at the contact, at the feeling of his finger cradling the back of your palm. “Come home. Stop this, please? Your family misses you, your friends miss you — believe it or not, I miss you.”

You bark out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Darling…” The hand around yours tightens, and you know he’s trying to narrow your window of escape, to ensure you stay rooted in place. “We had fun together, didn’t we?”

“At events, sure.”

He was kind enough. Was willing to laugh with you, to joke and tease, to talk. But there was nothing of any sort of romantic nature beneath the surface. Your marriage was intended for monetary purposes and those alone.

“You hardly even gave us a chance.”

“Clark, we were in an arrangement,” you remind him. “A mutually beneficial agreement for both of us.”

“Which has since fallen through.”

“And I am sorry about that —”

“Then come home,” he says again, eyes intent on your face. “Come. Home.”

“This is my home,” you whisper, catching the sight of Steve walking by in the window. His eyes immediately narrow at the sight of Clark across from you.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Clark lets out a bitter laugh as Steve appears in the doorway, approaching your table cautiously. “This is the guy you ran out on me with. Him? You’re choosing him. What can he offer you that I cannot?”

——

i don’t know, what can steve offer that clark can’t? you’ll find out monday. hehe 😉

[incognita-soul]

hey, i saw in your bio that you work on tall ships and i was wondering if u had any advice.

i’ve been on 2 tall ship sailing trips before (+some dinghy sailing) and got my competent crew recently so i’m pretty inexperienced. on those sailing trips i’ve met young adults who were working on the boats as volunteers. i’d like to be able to volunteer on tall ships one day.

do you have any advice for the best way to gain experience and learn stuff? (if possible on a budget). i’m taking a gap year next year and i’d really like to take the chance to go sailing and get better at it. (i’m in the uk if that’s relevant.)

absolutely no pressure to answer and i’m sorry this is so vague and clueless! anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this. your blog is cool :))

Heya! Thank you, and I'd be happy to give you my two cents! All of my boat experience has been in the US so take my advice with a transatlantic grain of salt, but here goes!

Firstly, two trips and some dinghy sailing and a competent crew cert is actually quite a bit in comparison to your average person starting out in the world of boats, so don't worry about feeling too inexperienced! You're already on a good track. I've been working on tall ships in some capacity for over 10 years and I still don't have any specific certifications (I've got a lot of experience and sea time, I just haven't had time to take any of my courses and exams for actual licensing).

Facebook is (unfortunately) still the best place to network, especially for international opportunities. There are a variety of groups that you can join. I'm personally in Schooner Bums, Tall Ship Opportunities, Women Who Sail, Crew Finder, and a few other private groups specific to the organizations I've worked for. A lot of organizations will post to these groups with job opportunities with specific requirements, so it's fairly easy to get the info you need. I'm sure there are a few groups specific to sailing in the UK. In the US, we have Tall Ships America, which is an organization that provides networking, training, and job opportunities for mostly US based sailors and boats. I'm not sure if the UK has an equivalent organization, but I do recommend even though you are UK based you should peruse their website, especially the Billet Bank, which is where job links are posted:

You're in the UK, so there are a shit ton of boats there but as far as I know most of them are museum boats that don't do a lot of sailing. I will say from personal experience that museum boats with a good volunteer maintenance program are great places to start for establishing a strong set of foundational skills (knots, understanding and maintenance of the rig, carpentry, etc.). You might not get much actual sea time with a museum boat, but you will learn the things that will make you a better sailor. I got into tall ships by working as a historical interpreter and then as part of the sailing/maintenance crew here:

https://www.jyfmuseums.org/visit/jamestown-settlement/living-history/ships#ad-image-0

Most tall ship organizations are based around education, both for the public and for the crew, so it's easy to find a boat with some sort of introductory training program relatively near wherever you live. These range from expensive pay-to-play working vacation type experiences, to paying a fee to participate in a structured comprehensive training curriculum after which you can become long-term crew, to volunteering weekends sanding and oiling blocks in exchange for the opportunity to sail.

Since you said you are taking a gap year, my advice is look for a short-term comprehensive live-aboard program that gets your foot in the door for staying on as regular crew, potentially even paid crew. Idk any specific ones in the UK, but here's the one that the last boat I worked on offers as an example of what i mean:

If you've got time before your gap year starts, try to find something local, like volunteering for a mueseum like I mentioned earlier, so that you get used to the vocabulary and foundational knowledge of boats. That way you can really get the most out of a more immersive program later on and you won't feel too much like an oversaturated sponge trying desperately to sop up more information even though your brain is leaking out of your ears.

I'm not sure if you're wanting to do tall ships longer term or just something one-off for the gap year, but if you're in it for the long haul just be prepared that it's a lot of hard work for not much financial return. I don't mean to discourage you, it's just good to know that upfront. On Lady Washington we have a saying that "we work on an 18th century boat for 18th century wages."

Unfortunately the tall ship industry is kind of hard budget wise. Most training programs cost quite a bit of money, most jobs are either volunteer or don't pay very well (industry standard deckhand pay in the US is about $1000/month), and most higher level positions require various levels of certifications (for which course and exam fees can run pretty high). You can do it on a budget, especially since most long term positions are live aboard so you don't have to pay for rent or groceries, but if you want to make a career out or it, it takes a lot of years of working for less money than you're worth before you start earning real money back.

Despite all that, working on tall ships is still an incredible and fulfilling experience that I recommend to anyone with a love of the sea and learning practical skills!

Sorry I couldn't give you more specific information, as I have yet to work on any UK boats. Good luck, and please tell me when you find a program that works for you!

[callmearcturus]

writer questions meme: 8, 13, 20 if you please

13. What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?

It wasn't explicitly writing advice, but I can tell you where I learned what my specific style would be. There was a fic in the Dresden Files fandom called "Cross" by LightGetsIn. LGI was a tremendous writer and a very kind mentory-friend who I attended my first fan convention with. Extremely accomplished adult who I looked up to when I was barely an adult.

"Cross" is a story about the limitations of perspective. It was the first story that really drove home the idea that Character A would not have the same knowledge and understanding of the world as Character B.

In "Cross", the POV character is John Marcone, a non-magical mafia boss who is deeply entrenched in the magical world. He has a lot of factual knowledge of how magic works, but he's an Italian-American Catholic. So when he's pulled into doing magical rites to bring another character back to life, he specifically doesn't pick up on the more pagan symbology of what he's doing, but filters it through a Guilty Catholic filter. Hence the name of the fic, "Cross."

And that story, which isn't even my favorite LGI story, probably taught me the most about how to write Close Perspective Third Person, which is my default style. When I'm writing in a characters POV, I rigorously limit what the POV character knows and picks up on. I will plant clues and information that the audience will understand, but the connections a character makes, the reference pools they pull from, their morality and ethics, all of those inform that POV, and what you and I know does not.

That is probably the most important lesson I've ever had in creating my own writing method.

20. Describe your perfect writing conditions.

8 hours of sleep, small breakfast snack like a croissant, decaf beverage, one dextroamphetamine, and no one fucking talk to me for about 2 - 4 hours. I will write 4,000 words.

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Lets put this under a cut, and I'll give you some DVD commentary. This is from chapter 2 of you'll need a new name to survive this. It's the point where Benji realizes Ethan is stalking him and does that trick to lose him in the bookshop, then sits outside waiting for him.

Only five minutes later, the door opened, and Bell took one step out before freezing, his eyes falling on Benji.

Got you, Benji thought with a sharp little smile. "You didn't even buy a book? Bit rude."

One of the goals of the early chapters of PT AU was establishing Benji's character as boldly as possible because we were essentially telling a story that canon does not. This is YEARS before MI3, where Benji gets two gd scenes.

To me, the tightrope walk was that I wanted Benji to have a reasonable grip on authority, to be shiny and new and out of his depth but still empowered because of his accomplishments. He has managed to land a good job working for the US government, he successfully emigrated before he was 30 years old, he has an apartment and a cat, he's new to everything in the spy world but he also has a steel spine that frankly he's fucking earned.

Which is a long-winded way of saying that Benji is a bitch and I love him so much.

Bell's face was blank, but Benji could almost feel how fast his brain was moving, weighing his options. Eventually, he settled on huffing out a little chuckle and stepping closer to Benji. "Hi."

Meanwhile, Ethan. MI1-era Ethan is very very smart but very very traumatised. His skillset is rooted in controlling people and predicting them. So Benji, a fucking civilian, catching him off-guard like this is like waving a red flag at a bull. Or dangling a steak over a lion enclosure. Benji doesn't know it yet but he's setting himself up to be a tasty treat for Ethan Hunt circa the late 90s.

"Are you going to kill me or something?" Benji asked. "Is that your spook job, are you a hitman?"

The flash of expression on Bell's face was offended. (This makes me laugh every time. Ethan Hunt is not a killer unless he absolutely must be and he will go out of his way to avoid it. Being an assassin is gross and he doesn't want to be perceived at all bc he's a spy but if he MUST be perceived jfc don't assume he's a HITMAN) "What, no. I just…" Grimacing, he looked away, eyes scanning the other pedestrians around them. "Okay, I'm screwing this up, I can admit that. Can we talk somewhere private?"

Benji didn't even have to think about it. "We can talk somewhere public."

Benji is never going to be an IMF agent but his instincts are wildly correct. And that knowledge comes from a different place! He was a gay punk rock vagabond who dropped out of law school, he knows how to keep out of trouble. He is probably the guy who told his other punk friends "if you are arrested do not say a goddamn thing, just ask for your public defender, don't joke, don't be a smartarse, keep your mouth shut."

The smile that took over Bell's face was lovely, transforming his whole face from storm clouds to something more seasonal. "That's honestly a very smart answer, doc. C'mon, there's a bakery nearby. I'll buy you a coffee. Least I can do."

It really was, so Benji nodded and followed him.

They didn't speak until Bell opened the glass door to another shop and held it open for Benji.

"Wrong hand," Benji said, noticing the small wince Bell let out.

"Inside, doc."

If it isn't obvious, all of the observational skills Benji has canonically have been funneled into his preternatural observation of patients.

Basically, if Benji as a character has a specific set of SPECIAL stats, all of those are the same, he just has different tagged skills in this universe.

Canon Benji is probably.... Guns, Science, and Repair. PT Benji has Medicine, Barter, Speech.

"Not a doctor," Benji said. "You know I'm not a doctor."

"What do you want to drink, doc?"

Ethan is being purposefully annoying and I could write a whole post about Ethan's soft power and the way he manipulates people, but that'd be another post. Short version: some people you seduce, some people you act like a wounded gazelle at, and some people you annoy.

Inside the bakery was loud. It was a strangely open floor plan. A long pastry case cordoned off the seating area for the customers. On the other side was just… the bakery. There were ovens and industrial mixers and rolling racks of cooling bread. In the corner, the espresso machine howled with noise as the milk frother worked.

It smelled divine, like living inside a baguette during a spring shower of dark roast coffee.

It also was a constant racket, which Benji mentioned to Bell as he sat down and slid a dark tea with vanilla syrup across to Benji.

"That's the point," Bell said, slouching back in his chair. "It's very difficult to eavesdrop in here."

Well, he wasn't wrong. Looking to another occupied table nearby, Benji briefly tried to pick out a word of what was being said by the woman seated closest to him. Nothing.

"Right, then," Benji said, attention back on Bell. "Why are you following me?"

"Why?" Bell seemed taken aback.

One of the many moments in the early chapters that establish that Ethan's perception of Normal is not anything approaching actual normal.

"Yes, why."

"Normal intelligence collection."

"On your physical therapist?" Benji asked with a barked laugh.

"Yeah." Bell leaned on his elbows, one hand cupping his own jaw and holding his head up as he made uncomfortably direct eye contact. "You really don't know who I am? Or why some of the appointments on your calendar come with no information?"

Pursing his lips, Benji shook his head.

Blowing out a whistle through his teeth, Bell grinned. "Sorry, that's just… it's new. I'm surprised Dr. Falsion didn't clue you in, but I guess she's not technically supposed to." Lifting his mug, he looked down into it. "People do shit they're not technically supposed to all the time in this town."

Ethan's major trauma at this point is being targeted by Kittridge and the Mole Hunt, and his trust in people to do their jobs is at a critical low that it'll never recover from.

"I don't even know your name," Benji sighed, sipping his own drink. It didn't taste at all like iocaine powder, so he was probably safe for the moment.

Bell rested his temple against the knuckles of his hand, his gaze so intense that Benji didn't know how to look away without making it patently obvious he was unsettled. Whatever Bell saw, it made his lips curve up slight. "Alright. Yeah. My name is Ethan. I work for an organization that shouldn't legally exist, so that's why you don't get anything on me. Even CIA jackboots manipulating local governments are realer than I am." He blinked once. "Also, I was an unprofessional shitheel last session, and I apologize."

Ethan apologizes here because Benji has earned his respect. And also by earning his respect, Ethan is also aware that Benji is not going to be so easy to maneuver around, so he fesses up that he was a prick, softly setting up a different tactic with Benji.

Benji felt his eyes going wider and wider with every sentence until it was a little hard to breathe. So his patient wasn't the American equivalent of an MI5 or MI6 so much as an MI8?

That did sort of start to explain what a pain in the ass he was.

"Shame," Benji managed after a moment of sitting fairly gobsmacked. "I was getting attached to 'Bell.' But I appreciate… all that. Thanks." He frowned. "Are you saying all this because you're actually sorry or are you sick of being stonewalled?"

Benji has a much more cynical mind than Ethan is the funny thing. Benji gets arguably more accurate reads on people than Ethan does. Or, Ethan gets accurate reads but he is continuously poisoned by the hope that people will be better than he expects. So FUNCTIONALLY, Ethan is an optimist and Benji is a realist.

Bell— Ethan— grinned. "That's a very good question. You actually have great instincts, doc. You did a surprisingly good job of shaking me when I was tailing you, especially for a civilian."

One of my favorite running gags is Benji being impossible to tail, so I'm glad we really drove it home the first time it happened. I love consistency in longfic.

"Again: thanks. Don't suppose you'll answer my other question?"

Ethan sipped his coffee, his smile visible around the edge of his cup.

"Right," Benji sighed. At least this felt like progress. And at least he probably wasn't going to be disappeared by a government assassin. That was a relief.

So this entire bit is Ethan reassessing Benji and pivoting his methods and tactics, setting up for a better way of handling Benji. And also being kind of charmed by him.

[clementinesmustyhat]

TWDG Headcanons: Jane

• Jane’s full name is Janette Lynn Farrell, she shortened her first name to Jane because it “rolls off the tongue better.” Her middle name is just nonexistent to her. 

• She was born on October 26th, 1979, meaning she’s a Scorpio (kind of fitting if you ask me). She’d be around 26 years old during the events of season two. 

• She’s from Pennsylvania, specifically Hazleton, Pennsylvania. (I was originally gonna make her from New Jersey, but it didn’t really make all that much sense cuz the path i planned for her and the overall timeline).

• She was a theatre student surprisingly enough, but she mainly worked in stage crew during plays they were putting on at her school. One time, she didn’t know how to work the audio by herself so it’d just be her standing by with the panels and filters (she mainly did stage work like set design and what not, so lighting is a second/substitute job when the student doing lighting wasn’t there, if that makes sense.)

• Was a horror movie girlie, she even had a Chucky and Tiffany doll in her room that’s now abandoned and collecting dust (don’t ask how she got those). Had a big fat crush on Billy Loomus when the first Scream movie came out. Once, she begged her theater teacher if they could do Carrie for a school play.. that backfired. 

• Jaime was her step-sister instead of her biological sister, so their relationship was a little weird. Jane was the one who had to raise her when their parents couldn’t or didn’t have time, even when Jane’s mental health wasn’t the best at the time. 

• Jane used to self harm (which is pretty prominent in my resent art of her). She began when she was 14 (around 1993), and stopped when she was 17 (in 1996) after she tried to commit which took a little work. She’s around 9 years clean during the events of season 2. 

• Was the epitome of a crazy cat lady, she had around 7 cats and even went into debt once trying out to buy a bunch of random shit for them. Her cat’s names were Melanie, Purrsephone, Meowlady, Toby, Kurt (named him after Kurt Cobain), Hayley, and Simba. (ignore the subtle Monster High reference)

I need more headcanons… pls

[mehoymalloy]

Soft fic prompt, 6, maybe Lis x Tilda? 🥺

Took a bit, but here we are; hope ya like it!

This is for the prompt 'coffee in bed' from this prompt list. Thanks to @mr-jaybird for betaing this!

~

Lis stood in an exceedingly clean, blindingly white kitchen, stainless steel appliances gleaming in the soft morning sunlight. She shifted back and forth on the balls of her bare feet, trying to fight off the insidious chill sinking into her skin from the tile floor—also white, naturally. She begrudgingly glared at the shiny, silver espresso machine in front of her for a long moment, tracing her gaze over its many buttons, screens, and meters. Then she cast one last tired, wistful look at the classic drip machine off to the side. It was the only black appliance Tilda had in her kitchen—just for Lis.

Tilda had warned Lis last night that her preferred coffee hadn't come in yet—'shipment delays, darling; it's bound to happen eventually when you only order from a very select lab in Canada'—and Lis was fine with that, she really was. She wasn't one of those snobbish types who insisted on buying only the highest quality coffee beans sourced from a small, three-hundred-year-old farm in some lesser-known country of the world's remaining-but-steadily-dwindling coffee belt. All Lis wanted was her ethical, affordable, sustainable coffee. And a lab in Canada (creatively called EAS Coffee Lab) provided just that. But then shipping delays happened, so now here Lis was—awake first, unfortunately—being a good girlfriend and making coffee Tilda's way.

She knew how to do this—she was an engineer, for God's sake, she knew how to work a machine. Simple steps: Fill up the water tank (filtered, of course), pre-heat the water, grab the bag of fancy, specialty-grade beans from the aforementioned three-hundred-year-old farm, weigh out exactly 18 grams, grind extra finely, pop the single wall (not the double wall, even though this was a double shot) basket into the portafilter, tap the filter on the counter, tamp down the grounds, lock it into the machine and...

Why Tilda insisted on using a semi-automatic machine rather than a fully automatic one, Lis would never understand. (That was a lie; even she could admit there was a certain appeal in the ritual of it all, as opposed to dumping the grounds in and pressing a button). She supposed she should be grateful that Tilda hadn't gotten it in her head to buy a fully manual one—Lis didn't think she could handle waking up and pumping a damn lever just for her morning stim.

She should probably also be grateful that Tilda had programmed one of the buttons specifically for when Lis needed to use the machine—no fuss about measuring out the perfect amount of water or reaching the correct temperature or ensuring the OPV never exceeded 8 bars of pressure (Tilda's preference).

As Lis waited for the machine to do its job, she grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge, pouring enough into the little metal cup for each of them. She even used the thermostat to ensure she got the right temperature rather than eyeballing it. The process wasn't complex by any means—it just seemed an unnecessary amount of work for a cup of coffee.

But as Lis padded back to the bedroom with two cups in tow to find Tilda bleary-eyed but sporting a surprised smile, Lis guessed it was worth it.

"You made coffee?" Tilda asked as she sat up. Silk sheets slid down her nude frame like water, pooling in her lap and exposing her skin to the warm sunlight slanting through the blinds.

"You think I could get through the day without it?" Lis shot her a wry smirk as she sat down her own cup on the nightstand.

Tilda gave her a lazy smirk as she lifted the sheets for Lis to scoot in. "I suppose not," she murmured, turning away to stifle a yawn into her shoulder.

Lis leaned in to place a quick peck on the opposite shoulder, gingerly passing Tilda her cup once she had turned back to face Lis.

Tilda's eyes glimmered with warmth rivaling the morning sunlight, and a sleep-soft smile played at her lips as she lifted the mug up to her face. Closing her eyes, she took a slow, deep breath, shoulders curling forward to settle around the cradled cup. Steam wafted upward, carrying the scent to Lis' nose as well—she could admit it smelled way better than her usual coffee. Turning to grab her own cup, she took a sip that singed her tongue, shooting Tilda a rueful smile when she saw the other woman raise a brow at her impatience.

Tilda rolled her eyes as she leaned over, briefly pressing her face into the skin of Lis's neck, offering a quick kiss. "Thank you for the coffee, love," she murmured, still not quite awake.

"You're welcome," Lis said softly, careful to blow before she took another sip.