#it's like scrabbling around for crumbs sometimes

[panevanbuckley]

hate when a ship is the most popular in the fandom on ao3 but then has near to no content on this hellsite

[sapphire-dreamsky]

Family Game Night Is Fun, So They Said...

Starring: Gojo Satoru | Reader | Your Son

Pairing: Gojo Satoru / Reader

Family game night. A night which was supposed to be filled with laughter, playful jabs at each other, light competitiveness. In (Y/n)'s family, that's what usually happens in Family Game Night. These nights were never supposed to be filled with glares from two twin pairs of blue eyes. It was as if each of the two children in the family were trying to annihilate the other with their eyes. You sigh in annoyance, head pushed back against the wall you were leaning in. Between your husband and your son, you were wondering which one was supposed to be the child and which one was supposed to be the adult. In hindsight, you should have known better. Satoru was a child at heart. He is competitive to a fault. He has an immeasurable ego which stands taller than him, and...he apparently hates losing, even to his own child. He could have feigned hurt, but his son, his exact replica (sometimes you wondered if he had any ounce of resemblance to you. With each passing day, your hope that he takes after some of your traits were diminishing as quickly as the snacks in the pantry), had to throw the score at his face. For good measure, he even snuck out his tongue at his father. Satoru looked insulted. So insulted that he turned towards you, pointing an accusing finger at your smirking son, and complained. Yes, complained. "(Y/N)!!!!! You saw him didn't you?! He cheated!!!" That man-child literally went and accused his own son, his exact carbon copy, of cheating. How ironic coming from the man who sneaked a peak at your scrabble words when you were trying to figure out what best strategy to employ in the maze of words. Irked, you told him to stop being a baby. You swore, Satoru looked even more insulted. Then ensured the staring contest. Unblinking, they each were trying to outdo the other as if their life depended on who would come out as the winner.

Your child was sporting a cocky smirk while cooly staring at a pair of similar eyes while your dear husband was indignantly growling. In the earliest stage of your relationship with the kinky bastard, everyone swore that when parenthood would hit, Satoru would mature. Ah! Who were you kidding? Did they see the same man you saw? That seems to be an impossible feat. The only time Satoru would behave was in front of your parents, but that was partly due to your threat on your first year anniversary. "If you make one dirty joke in front of my parents, Satoru, I swear you can forget all the snacks that I bought for you. You know, the ones in the limited edition." That threat seemed effective as he stopped messing around, putting on a serious face, and swore by scout's honour ("Were you even a scout, Satoru?").

With a sigh, you began walking towards the sacred pantry. With a twist, you opened up the lock, easily guessing the code pin to the lock (It was your wedding anniversary. How romantic of you, Satoru.) You coughed lightly, effectively grabbing the attention of the two children. Both of their eyes widened as they saw you stand next to their sacred land, a threatening smile on your face which sent chills down their bones. Their insides trembled as they saw you grab one of the limited edition of their snacks, one which was so rare and sought after that they had to scout ten different grocery stores, stand in a fifty person queue just to get their precious snack. Ridiculous. But like father, like son. That saying ran way too deep with these two.

"(Y/n), love of my life, please, place the snack back gently into the pantry. You don't know how hard it was to find this limited edition, our life depends on it."

"Oh, I know, Satoru. I know. And don't worry, as soon as you both apologise to each other for being brats, I will place it back without crushing the content of this precious bag."

Both father and son gulped at the angered look on your face. They look at each other for a good thirty seconds, with you humming in the background, reminding them of the threat against their precious snack. Their ego be damned, was the apparent mutual agreement as both apologise to each other, before facing you immediately after, eyeing your movements like hawks as you place the snack back in its original place.

"Good. Now, enough games for tonight. (S/n), clean up and head straight to bed. Satoru, clean up that table. I don't want to see a crumb on that table, you hear me?"

"Yes, Ma'am!"

Was the only answer they gave as you grab the games and head to the living room to put them back to where they belong. As soon as you were out of sight, Satoru and (S/n) began to glare at each other again. Their hushed whispers reached your ears as you sigh. 'There was nothing that could be done I guess. Children will be children.'

[iceeckos12]

and he sees dawn before the rest of the world

or: a fucked up little au of 200. intended to be unsettling so just be warned warnings for: unreality (i think that’s the appropriate term? please lmk if not), implied self harm, fucked up relationship dynamics; lmk if i should tag anything else

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face, as though he could stop the barrage of sound just by covering his eyes. His alarm was unsympathetic to his whinging, continuing to scream its daily mourning dirge, grieving the end of another period of blessed rest. “Fine, fine! I’m getting up, christ…”

He reached clumsily for the phone on his bedside table, only for his fingers to scrabble uselessly around the ghost of its presence. He was momentarily so stymied by the absence that it took him longer than it should’ve to remember that he’d moved it to his desk, to prevent him from giving into the temptation to hit the snooze button just one more time.

Letting out another slew of curses, Martin shuffled onto his other side and reached for

A jaw-cracking yawn near split Martin’s face in two as he hunched over the gleaming tea kettle, steam beginning to pour from the spout. He shuffled his feet, eyes meandering sightlessly over the cow-shaped mug drying on the counter, the cluster of crumbs that he must’ve missed when cleaning up after dinner last night.

He hated mornings. Maybe it was the preemptive dread he felt at the thought of going to work; maybe it was because he hated having to be upright this early in the morning. Either way, he felt strangely disconnected from his morning routine, each motion carried out with habitual, distant efficiency as his thoughts raced along like a hamster on a wheel just below the surface.

It...was a bit silly for him to be worried about work, though. The stuff he was doing was interesting, and he had the loveliest coworkers a guy could ask for. They’d even offered to teach him a thing or two about artifact restoration once they learned the truth about his CV.

He drew himself up to his full height and rolled his shoulders back, clouded sigh mingling with the fog from the boiling water. Things were going well. Hell, he was actually going to get top surgery sometime in the next year or so, which was amazing considering his teenage self would’ve laughed at the very idea of being out.

There was no reason to dread going to work.

Martin carefully poured the water into the mug, letting the tea steep before adding a splash of milk and sugar. When he picked the mug up, the heat from the tea had bled into the ceramic, so warm as to be uncomfortable against the delicate skin of his palms. He didn’t let go, just kept on gripping the mug, like trying to contain the last gasp of a dying star.

Martin stared around his kitchen. The waterstains on the inside of the cow mug slowly evaporating into the still air; the crumbs that had sat there for who knows how long. The empty, blank face of his fridge.

Martin lifted the mug, and steam collected on his glasses as his breath wafted over the surface of the tea. He drew away, waiting for the lenses to clear, before leaning in for another sip.

His reflection stared back at him, a monochrome facsimile of his face rimmed in white smoke, and he recoiled, the mug slipping from

Working nine to five, what a way to make a living…

Martin stared out the window, his hand pillowed in the palm of his hand as Dolly Parton crooned in his ears. Split second by split second, he let his eyes catch on a point in the darkened surroundings, only letting his vision blur into incoherence when that fixed point whipped out of sight. It was a game he sometimes played when he got bored of reading or playing cards on his phone.

The old woman across from him let out a quiet grunt and shuffled, drawing his attention back inside the train. She was a gnarled old thing, bowed by the gravity of grief and time and life, though Martin couldn’t say for certain whether it was one well-lived.

Barely getting by, it’s all taking and no giving...

That was the thing about people watching: Martin was never quite sure if it was disrespectful to make assumptions about a person’s life based on a passing glimpse. He could never be sure if the person with the grumpy expression had a foul attitude, or if they were just a kind person on the tail-end of a truly awful day.

The old woman was knitting though, and Martin generally found it safe to assume that knitters were nice people.

For a moment he thought about taking out his headphones and striking up a conversation; the pattern looked devilishly complicated, and as a beginning knitter, he always appreciated tips. There was an unfinished set of fingerless green gloves in the back of his closet; it was easy for hands to get cold in the Archives, and the color suited

“Alright, Martin?”

Martin startled, his pen clattering to the floor. He looked up to find Sasha perched on the edge of his desk, grinning like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. Or, he thought she was. His eyes kept skittering from one corner of her face to the other, like a smooth stone skipping across a lake.

“Uh…” Frowning slightly, he let his gaze travel over the shelves of books, the humming lights, his cluttered workstation. He removed his glasses so he could rub at his aching eyes, and let out a deep sigh. Probably just the stress. “Yeah—yeah! Sorry, I’ve been distracted all morning.”

Martin got the impression of Sasha’s grin being tempered with genuine concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything okay?”

“I think so. Just...work, and my mum…” he gave an expansive you know sort of gesture at life in general. “Thank god the weekend’s coming. Anyway, is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to come get drinks with Mel and Tim and I after work, but…” She cut him a meaningful glance, the bottomless holes where her eyes should be boring bright spotlights into the back of his skull. “We’d understand if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“Is Georgie coming?”

Sasha shrugged. “Probably. Mel didn’t say so, but they’ve been all over each other since they started dating.”

Martin laughed. “True.” Tried to gauge how he was feeling, whether or not he was up to a night of socializing. You should go, a strangely posh little voice murmured in the back of his head, and he found himself saying, “Actually yeah, I would like to come. I could use a night out.”

Sasha clapped him on the shoulder, and the impact rattled through him like a gong being struck. The echoes of it vibrated all the way down to his toes. “Excellent.”

Martin hesitated, and then, not entirely sure of what he was asking, “What about J

“Thanks for waiting with us,” Georgie said, smiling beatifically up at him. Passed out on her shoulder, Melanie let out a drunken snuffle and curled over, like she was thinking of climbing through the spaces of Georgie’s ribcage and sleeping in her chest cavity forever.

“Not a problem,” Martin replied, scratching the back of his neck.

To be honest, waiting with her was as much for his benefit as theirs. At first, he’d thought it was just stress; now, he was very sure that something was wrong. It wasn’t anything specific, or even bad; more like there was a sepia camera filter tinting the world dusty and nostalgic.

After his third drink, he’d looked into Tim’s laughing face and thought he might burst into tears. And he still didn’t know what Sasha was supposed to look like.

But he didn’t want to worry her, so he just bit his lip and rocked back and forth on his heels, even though the motion made his head spin that much worse.

(Maybe he needed to take a couple of days off. Have a lie-in. But that would—that would delay his work. The Institute’s work. Delays were bad; he felt strongly enough about that to carve it directly into his skin so that he’d never forget. He could roll down his sleeve and take a peek at it whenever his motivation slipped, like checking a watch for the time.)

For lack of anything else to say, he nodded toward Melanie. “She’s really out, huh?”

“She’s always been a lightweight.” Her tone was wry, but her eyes were soft and fond as she brushed Melanie’s bangs back from her face. “Never gets hungover though, the lucky bastard.”

“The nerve!” Martin said, affecting offense, which sent them right into another giggling fit.

Once he got his breath back, Martin mentioned offhand, “You know, considering how similar they are, I’m surprised that her and J̷̧̱̜͕͕̤͉̣̺̺̝͖̠̹̜͙̣͉̩̺̤̟͉͓̞̹̗́̆̂̋͆̊̎́͂̑͋̌͊͘̚͠ͅo̶̧̨͕̖͔̬̖̝̪͚̻̟̠̜̣̰̅n̶̥̉́̎͑̀͂͆̿̾͛̾̔̐͌́̅̂͂̒̆̐́͊̄̾̍̅̅͝

“Stop it!” Martin screamed, grabbing the mug from the counter and throwing it across the room. It shattered against the wall, scattering shards of ceramic across the floor. “I know

“What you’re doing,” Martin gripped the bathroom counter, ignoring the persistent ringing of his alarm, staring deeply into his reflection, “Stop it, stop it, nononon̴̡̡͚̮̠͙̻͔͎͈̜̓̈́̈́͜͜ͅǫ̸̯̠̱̖̲͙͍͎͒̇̑͒ṅ̶̨̩̳̩̝̹̳͎͈̬̦͆́̈́́͐̏̈́̕͝͝o̸̡̻̱̗̥̮̙̳̞͗̄͋̈́̀͝n̸̢̛̟͙̘̱̩͕̦̫̤̮͆͑̊͋́̂̽͜o̶̘̱̗̘̘͑̿͜ņ̶̥̞̠͕͓̠͔͚̮͈̬͕̀͗̄̓͑͑͛̕ͅő̸̮̫̓͌̾̌͋́̂̏̒̃̃̄̚n̵̗̫͕̺̻͔̭͖̉͒͗̀̈́̃̅o̴͓͉͉͗͋̎̕—”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it’s okay—”

“No!” Martin shrieked, shoving Jon’s hands away, skittering backward across the broken and cracked stones of the Panopticon. Through the arched windows, the sky was a poisonous green and black, and multitudes of eyes orbited the room, watched his every movement with sickening fascination. “Just—stop.”

Luminous gaze weary and resigned, Jon did as he was bid, dropping back onto his heels.

Rubbing sweat and grime and tears from his face, breathing harshly through his mouth, Martin took a moment to remember where he was, why he was here. It always took a moment for everything to come back.

As though unable to keep silent any longer, Jon asked, “So what was it this time?”

“Don’t,” Martin hissed, dragging his hands through his greasy hair.

Though his expression went mulishly annoyed, Jon raised his hands placatingly, a silent, alright, you win. It was a familiar gesture, one that he’d done so many times while they were living in Scotland, while they were traveling the devastated landscape of the apocalypse. It made Martin ache for when things were simpler, when his heart didn’t just feel like one big bruise.

He gently set the thought aside, and turned a more assessing eye on the Panopticon. Normally the changes were insignificant, but something thick and red and black had started to coil around the windows, weaving in and out of the floor, cracking the stonework. Martin traced the strange things with his eyes, frowning—

“Christ, Jon,” he whispered in horrified realization. “Are...are those corpse roots?”

Jon bobbed his head. “They’ve long since overtaken the rest of London. It’s just us, now.”

Martin sucked in a long, frustrated breath through his teeth. There was no point trying to talk any sense into Jon, not after so long, and force would only result in immediately getting kicked back into that horrible dream world.

“And the others?”

Jon shrugged, tracing the cracks in the earth with his fingers. “Still alive, and living happily in the dream I made for them.” He didn’t say, unlike you, but the implication was so loud he might as well have screamed it.

“Shut up,” Martin muttered, pushing to his feet and limping to one of the windows.

Corpse roots, as far as the eye could see. They covered the city of London in a blanket of tangled black, so thick that it was impossible to see the buildings beneath.

“Was it worth it?” he asked, sagging against the side of the window, too tired to be angry.

When the silence persisted a second too long, Martin turned around to find Jon with his head tilted back, examining the corpse roots consuming what had once been the Beholding’s seat of power, expression distant and thoughtful. The eyes, ever-watching, never understanding, drifted closer, greedily drinking in the sight.

When Martin realized that Jon wasn’t planning on answering, he let out another sigh, ruffled his bangs away from his face, and said, “You’re never there.”

Jon’s gaze snapped to him with a laser-edged focus. “Sorry?”

“If you’re going to trap me in a dream,” Martin said, each syllable clipped and precise, “You could at least be there.”

Like it always did, Jon’s face crumpled, and he looked away. “...I don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, we’re well past that and you know it!” Martin shrieked, striking his fist against the stone. “You made your fucking decision to damn the world, to hell with whatever we thought, the least you could do is stop hiding behind your pointless guilt and act like this is what you actually want!”

It would’ve been better, if Jon had simply become drunk with power and was no longer listening to reason. The fact that he’d made this same decision every single day with clear, unclouded eyes and sound judgement—as Jon the human, rather than Jon the lynchpin of the apocalypse, pupil of the Eye—made Martin want to scream.

“I do want it!” Jon snapped back, then quieter, “I do.” He looked up at the corpse roots again, eyes going misty. “I just—I should witness every second of misery and pain that I’m causing. I don’t deserve to just...forget.”

Wind snapped and howled around them like a creature mad with rage, and Martin idly wondered what would happen to this world once Jon died. If it would all go back to the way it had been before, or if the shell of the apocalypse would remain until the end of time, a corpse husk of a reality warped beyond repair.

“You shouldn’t have to experience this alongside me though,” Jon continued, rallying. “So I would really appreciate it if you’d stop breaking your dreams.”

“Tough,” Martin snapped back, folding his arms obstinately over his chest.

“You could be happy!” Jon reiterated, stabbing his index finger into the palm of his hand. “You could just...live your life! Forget! There’s no point in being here.”

“It’s a deal, remember? Where you go, I go. Fuck you very much, but I don’t break my promises.”

Jon stared at him for one beat, then another—and then promptly burst out laughing, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Martin stared at him, utterly bewildered, as the laughing slowly began to dissolve into desperate, heaving sobs, as he began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around himself in a mockery of comfort.

“I miss you,” Jon gasped out, half-crazed. “So much. I miss you every day even though you’re right in front of me. But I can’t go to you, because I don’t deserve to, not when I’m the one who trapped you here. I’m everything that’s wrong with the world. I always have been.”

“Jon,” Martin sighed, low and tired.

Jon buried his face into his knees. “No, you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t forgive me just because you pity me, that’s not what I—I don’t—”

“Who said anything about forgiveness?” Martin shook his head. “Fine. You’re an asshole, and I hate you. But it’s like I said.” He gestured toward the Panopticon, the roots, the poisonous sky. “When has deserving ever mattered?”

Jon lifted his face from his knees, though his gaze stayed rooted to the floor. “...I suppose.”

“Right,” Martin agreed. “I’ve accepted that you’re not going to change your mind, but...at the very least, I don’t want to die alone. So can you please just…”

There was a long, weighted pause.

They’d had arguments like this what felt like hundreds of times before. Martin begging for Jon to change his mind, Jon refusing with that same resigned, determined expression on his face, before sending Martin back into his dreams.

Maybe it was because Martin wasn’t asking him to change his mind this time. Maybe it was because they were so close to the end of all things, and soon they’d be the last two people on earth. Maybe it was because Jon was tired, had been for so, so long, and he had won anyway, so there was no point in fighting any longer.

“Alright,” Jon whispered.

…

…

...

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face.

Somewhere in the far distance, the toilet flushed. A moment later, a pair of feet padded lightly into the room, hesitated at the edge of the bed, and then made their way over to the desk. The alarm abruptly went silent.

Martin uncovered his eyes and grinned up at Jon as he tentatively slid back between the covers, every movement careful and deliberate, like he was reading stage directions from a script.

“Look at Mr. Workaholic, having a lie-in,” Martin teased, pulling Jon into his arms and inhaling the scent of his coconut shampoo. “Must be the end of the world, or something.”

Jon stiffened for just a moment, before turning around and burying his face into Martin’s chest. “Or something.”

[yespolkadotkitty]

I really, really love I’ll Do My Best By You p1 & 2–there’s just something so lovely about the idea of having such a big strong grumpy man totally at your mercy! Would you be willing to consider writing a part 3 where the reader gets a happily ever after with her grumpy mercenary... or at least gets railed into oblivion by him? (Or maybe he’s learned to trust her enough that he can let his guard down with her and she gets to keep the upper hand in bed sometimes, even after he’s all healed up? Dealer’s choice) 💚thirstworldproblemss

I’ll Do My Best By You - pt 3

Sorry! This ran away with me a bit and is much less smutty and more angsty than you asked... I hope you love it anyway.....

Part I ~ Part II

Two evenings later, a knock sounded at your door. It was too late to be one of your few friends in the village come to chat. You knew who it was.

Pero lay next to you in bed, dozing, on his stomach, his arm heavy and comforting over your stomach. The man slept like the dead and you wondered idly how he hadn’t been killed on a sellsword mission, in his slumber.

You eased yourself out from under his arm. He mumbled something, his face momentarily creasing into its habitual scowl before softening again.

Because you apparently had no willpower, you dropped a kiss on his forehead. 

You loved him. You shouldn’t. It was stupid.

But your heart wanted what it wanted.

Pulling on your thick robe, you plodded to the door, yanking it open to see William. Your shoulders slumped.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said gravely. “Our Captain’s put the word out. There’s an opportunity.”

Opportunity. For death maybe, you thought, unspeakably sad, and angry. But you nodded. “He’s sleeping. Come back in the morning?”

William nodded, starting to turn, but then hesitated. “Thankyou. Truly. For all you’ve done.” He reached into his shoulder bag, ferretted out a little bag, jingled it. “For your services.”

“There’s no need.” The only thing you wanted, this man was going to take from you.

William took your hand, uncurled your fingers, pressed the money into your palm. “Please take it. You saved the life of my best friend.”

“You keep him safe,” you grated out. “You keep him safe.”

William gave you a silent, curt nod. And then he was gone, boots crunching on fallen leaves. You closed the door and leaned your forehead against it, stifling a sob.

“Querida?”

You swiped your free hand over your face, turned to see Pero standing a few feet away, a question sketched on his handsome visage. 

“Who was that?”

“William.”

“Oh Si.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. He wore only loose back trousers slung low on his hips, and the light from the guttering candles on various surfaces in the cottage bathed his tanned skin in amber and gold. His skin had healed very well. “He has come to fetch me for a job, no?”

“He has. He’ll be back tomorrow.” You turned back to the door.

“Cielo.”

You didn’t move, but heard Pero’s footfalls as he crossed the small space towards you. “Would you look at me?”

Slowly you turned around, back to the door, hating the way your eyes were so wet.

He lifted a hand and cupped your cheek, and you sighed at the feel of his palm, warm, a little rough. “You should be happy, no? You worked miracles on these old bones. I will be a burden to you no more.”

“Don’t say that,” you choked out. “Go back to bed.” You swiped at your eyes, angry at crying in front of him.

“Querida.”

“Don’t… don’t be nice to me. When you’re leaving tomorrow.”

His face fell, and he crowded into you, embracing you, gathering you to him. Helpless, you went to him, burying your face in the hollow of his throat, breathing him in, half-desperate. “The life of a sellsword is not one that lends itself to love, querida.”

Your gaze snapped to his. “You love me?”

His brow quirked. “What else do I call this ache in my chest when I think of leaving this village behind, hmmm? What else do I call this hunger only you can satisfy?”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t go….?” you asked tremulously.

Pero gently touched his forehead to yours. “And what would I do, hmmmm, hermosa? Assist you with bandaging the villagers who barely speak with you? Make myself useful around the town in some way? Sweep the floor for you?”

You laughed weakly. You couldn’t imagine him doing those things.

“If you go, you could die,” you whispered, breaking eye contact.

“Or perhaps I could bring you the spoils of my contracts, no? Beautiful things from faraway places.”

That he was thinking of a future with you in it made your heart clench. “I don’t need beautiful things.” You spread your hands over his bare chest; warm, scarred, the sparse hair coarse under your palms. You liked the roughness. “You’re all the beauty I need.”

He chuckled. “Such fine words that an old sellsword does not deserve.”

“Sometimes it’s not about deserving.” You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, leaned into him. “Sometimes it’s about not wanting to lose something you just found.”

Pero tugged you away from the door. “Come to bed, querida.”

And you let him lead you to the bed, let him lay you down on it. Open your arms for him and embrace him fiercely, feel his heart beating against yours.

When he slid inside you, the only feeling you could marry it to was one of coming home. Of perfectness. And after he fell asleep, one arm draped heavily over you, you gazed at his face until the candles guttered out, trying to burn his long dark lashes, stern brows, and full bottom lip into your memory, to remember when you were alone again.

*****

Pero was clearing away the crumbs from your breakfast of bread, honey and butter when William knocked again. You crossed to the door with a heavy heart, wishing that last night you’d shoved the bag of coin back in his annoyingly genial face.

You yanked the door open, and William stands there. He’s holding Pero’s looping back scabbard with the two swords slotted into the custom leather sheaths.

“Morning.”

He did at least have the grace to sound embarrassed.

“Morning.” Your mother brought you up with too many manners to be rude. “It’s time?”

“It’s time.”

Behind you, Pero stood. He’d dressed this morning, black tunic, black trousers, underwear, boots, leather armour. Last night you’d stitched the tears in his tunic as he sat by you, telling tales of his assignations with William. They had been friends for so many years. You could never ask him to choose you over his brother. They might not have been bound by blood, but you knew, sometimes the bonds of family you chose went deeper still.

“Give me a moment, William?” he asked, his dark gaze flicking over his friend.

William nodded stiffly, his face flushing for a second, and you wondered that he didn’t have a woman waiting for him, or at least someone he thought of as home.

It was a hard life, the life of a sellsword on the road.

The door banged shut behind him and you steeled yourself.

“Mi amor,” Pero murmured. He cupped his hands over your shoulders, leaned his forehead against yours. “I must go. But I will come back. If you will have me.”

You slid a hand up into his thick, dark hair. “How long?”

“I cannot say.” His voice hitched as he added, “I understand you may want to.. Take other lovers.”

You scoffed. “No. I don’t want other lovers. I will wait, but, not forever.”

He tugged you close, fitting you into his lines of his armoured body, and you exhaled shakily, holding him. “It feels wrong to let you go. I just found you,” you murmured into his chainmail.

“It is the only life I know, cielo.” He stepped back, tipped your chin up with one finger. “Perhaps one more taste of you, to carry with me on the long nights with only the Irishman for company?” There was mischief in his eyes, but you saw the sadness behind it and your heart clenched.

You nodded and he kissed you, softly at first, then deeper, and you opened for him, your tongue dancing with his, and then the energy turned hot and urgent, and you looped your arms around his neck.

��One more time, please,” you whispered, uncaring that William waited outside in the cold, and Pero scooped you up and walked you to the nearest wall. You scrabbled frantically at the ties to his breeches, freeing him, your greedy fingers stroking him, and he moaned into your mouth, one hand leaving your hip to gather your skirts, and in the next heartbeat he was inside you.

You buried your face in his neck as he started to move, and you expected him to set a punishing pace, but instead he moved slow and languid, whispering nonsense in a mix of English and Spanish, his voice low, raspy, and you came together, your eyes wet.

With the utmost gentleness he set you on your feet, kissed you fiercely, teeth scraping, and then swept out of the door.

You watched the wood vibrate in his wake; heard the canter of horses.

And then all was quiet.

*******

Two months passed. The season changed. You helped the villagers, as you always did. A few more of them had warmed to you, you had, after all saved the life of one of the mercenaries who’d dispatched bandits. That alone had elevated your status. A little.

You busied yourself prepping for the winter. A winter you hoped you wouldn’t be spending alone. You collected firewood; roasted meat and salted it, buried bundled nuts. Prepared poultices for fingers and toes that would be chafed by the coming cold.

And then, one not so special day, as the wind fluttered the leaves off the trees that lined the back of your land, the pound of horses’ hooves made you look up.

William and Pero rode towards you, the horses kicking up dust and mud in their galloping wake. Pero’s stubble was heavy, his hair longer than you’d ever seen it, tied back in a little tail, and a cloak billowed around his shoulders.

You dropped the branches you’d been tying together and ran, your skirts bunched up in your hands. Your boots skidded a little in the mud but you went as fast as you could, your heart thudding, skin hot.

Pero pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted so quickly you thought he might topple, and then he was running, too, and you leapt the final two feet and he caught you, and held you so tightly, and you pressed your face to his and it wasn’t clear whether your tears or his were hot on your cheeks.

“Mi amor,” he rasped.

You waited a dozen heartbeats before you pulled back to look at his dear face, smooth your palm along his thick stubble. “You came back.”

He scoffed. “I said I would, no? A Spaniard always keeps his word.”

“I’m not taking him out again,” William said mildly from horseback. “Like an old woman, he was. Pining. I-” and then a woman shouted his name from a distance and he too, leapt off his horse and went running.

You pressed your face into Pero’s neck and smiled. 

“I think I would like to stay here. With you, cielo,” Pero murmured into your hair. “If an old dog like me can learn new tricks. If there is room for me at your hearth.”

Your heart simply filled up with joy, as happiness unfurled inside your chest. You burrowed into his broad warmth. “That depends. How good are you at sweeping?”

Bonus:

Unbeta’d. Tagging some people from pt 2, and @alwaysbethewest because she likes finished stories :) @lilkermit14 @dornish-queen @mrsparknuts @thegreenkid @knittingqueen13 @heatherbel @f0rever15elf @thirstworldproblemss @fleurdemiel145 @strangelittlenobody @goblinqueen95 @dartheldur @voteforpedropascal @graveyardnails @pascalesque @marydjarin @theravenreads @roxypeanut @mourningbirds1 @kindablackenedsuperhero @holographic-carmen @starlight-starwrites @jaime1110 @gamingaquarius @the-dazzling-urbanite @keeper0fthestars @wildchild1964 @littlemissthistle @lackofhonor @cryptkeepersoul @alienprincesspoop @ripleyafterdark @tainted-gay-ghost @on-the-razor-crest @beccaplaying @thehiddenmystical @agirllovespancakes @88dragon06  @littleferal @buckstaposition @pedropascallion @songsformonkeys @mxndoscyarika @hiscyarika @mrschiltoncat @havenforafrazzledmind @badassbaker @mostly-megan @chews-erotically @mstgsmy @trashbin2 @randomness501  @libellule2001​

[manicmarsupial]

Tiny Arthur

Sorry for the crappy title. My brain did a dumb and couldn’t think of anything better.

I think both @tiny-james and I are equally responsible for the shenaniganary that made me write this. I’m not happy with the last sentence, but whatever. On with the story

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hosea Matthews has seen a lot of shit in his life, not to put too fine of a point on it. But this takes the cake. And he’s stone cold sober…this time.

His sharp eyes track what appears to be a miniature person dart across the floor of the grimy saloon. He keeps his eyes on it as it stays skirting along the walls.

When a group of people leave a table, the little person bolts under, grabbing crumbs from the floor and stashing them into a bag. Hosea leaves his untouched glass at the bar and puts on a drunkard act, making wobbling steps toward the table. With deft fingers, he fumbles through his pocket, spilling coins as he pays the bartender, ensuring some of the fallen change rolls under the table.

“Oh dear, I’m all thumbs, aren’t I?” he gives a drunken laugh as the bartender grunts in reply.

Hosea crouches down and grabs the coins he had dropped, making sure to scoop up the tiny being as well.

Using the well-practised dexterity of a lifelong pickpocket, he drops the coins into his pocket and keeps his new passenger securely within his hands.

He maintains the alcoholic fool act until he’s out of sight of the saloon, feeling tiny fists pummelling his palms the entire time.

Once he reaches a secluded area, he unfurls his hands, his own eyes meeting the frightened blue ones of a teenager no bigger than his thumb.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first, Hosea thought he was dreaming. It would have been convincing but for the slight weight in his hands. For once in his life, the eloquent silver-tongued con man is speechless.

“My word…” is all he manages to whisper after a long pause.

He moves his hands slightly closer to his face to get a better look at the tiny teenager, who unfortunately appears even more terrified by the slight movement.

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” Hosea attempts to calm the small person in his hands.

Based on the fact the poor teenager is taking panicked breaths, it’s not working. Gently tipping the tiny human into one hand, Hosea rummages through his satchel and pulls out a broken bar of chocolate. He snaps an even smaller piece off and offers it to the frightened person, who backs away shaking his head.

“Take it. You must be hungry,” Hosea holds his hand flat, the small piece of chocolate resting on his fingertips.

The tiny teenager shakes his head again, but his stomach betrays him with a grumble which Hosea actually hears. The teen pouts and takes the chocolate. Hosea gives a slight smile as a look of delight passes over the tiny features as the teen gorges the chocolate.

It doesn’t take much thought for Hosea to decide that he’s going to take care of this tiny, half starved street kid. All that remains is gaining his trust. He waits until the teen finishes the chocolate.

“I’m just going to put you in my pocket. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe,” without waiting for an answer, Hosea slips the miniature human into his shirt pocket, feeling the little hands scrabble for purchase on his palms.

Quickly righting himself after dropping into the pocket, he begins fighting, attempting to escape the confining material.

It nearly breaks Hosea’s heart how averse this teenager is to kindness yet makes him set in his determination to care for the young man. He calls for his horse, trying to ignore the tiny fists punching his ribs. Mounting up, he sets his horse to a gentle trot, trying not to jostle his tiny passenger too much.

Sometime during the trip, the fighting stopped, replaced by faint soft snoring. The tiny teen exhausted himself, Hosea restrains the urge to laugh lest the shake wakes up his passenger.

 After setting up camp in a secluded area, Hosea gently takes the tiny human out of his pocket. The teen grumbles, beginning to stir. Hosea softly brushes the teen’s dark blond hair with his finger, lulling the small person back to sleep. Using a glove and his neckerchief as a makeshift bed, he places the sleeping figure down before settling in for the night himself.

 Arthur sits bolt upright. The last thing he remembers is being captured and dropped into a human’s pocket. Part of him wished the human had outright killed him, get it done quickly. But why give him chocolate? Red flags go off in Arthur’s mind. Maybe giving him a false sense of security before torturing him. Humans aren’t as nice as all that.

That didn’t explain why the human gave him a glove and a scarf as a fairly comfortable bed. He whirls around at a soft noise, biting back a yelp upon seeing the human frighteningly close to him. Although the man is asleep, he still towers over Arthur. Choosing not to linger, Arthur wriggles out of the glove.

Only a few steps and he pauses in thought. He was at his most vulnerable. Not only asleep, but asleep in a human’s pocket. Yet here he was, unharmed and in comfort. Ever wary of humans, Arthur turns to leave.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a booming voice makes him jump and whirl around

The human is awake and sitting up.

“Why not?” Arthur demands with more bravery than he felt.

“You gonna hunt me down?”

“Me? Nah. I’d be more worried about coyotes,” the human sounds calm, almost friendly.

A chill goes through Arthur’s spine at the mention of those carnivores.

“I don’t much like coyotes…humans neither,” Arthur mumbles.

“Can’t say I blame you,” the human chuckles.

Arthur almost smiles. The human’s laugh seems so genuine.

“Ah, where are my manners?” the human exclaims.

“I’m Hosea Matthews. You got a name?”

“…Arthur”

“A good, strong name,” Hosea smiles.

Arthur stands still in confusion. This human, Hosea, is simply talking to him, making no attempt to harm him. Everything he’s heard about humans being cruel, soulless, Hosea is being anything but.

“You got family?” Hosea’s question interrupts Arthur’s thoughts.

Arthur shakes his head.

“Not anymore”

“I’m sorry,” Hosea replies softly.

“s’not your fault,” Arthur mutters.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“Humans caught ‘em. I never saw them again,” Arthur trembles as he holds back a sob.

He stares at the ground avoiding looking at Hosea.

As Hosea studies the tiny form of Arthur, he wants nothing more than to embrace and tell him he’ll be okay. As Arthur trembles, Hosea slowly places his hand behind the tiny teenager and gently strokes his back, hesitating as Arthur flinches.

“Hey, it’s alright. You’ll be okay, Arthur,” Hosea croons.

Arthur leans into Hosea’s hand, then buries his face into the older man’s palm, quietly sobbing. He doesn’t flinch as huge fingers wrap carefully around him.

“If you want, you can come with me.”

Arthur wipes his eyes and looks up.

“Is it safe?” he asks.

“Well, no. I have the law constantly after me.”

Arthur looks worried.

“But you’ll be safer from animals and being trod on,” Hosea digs through his satchel, taking out the chocolate bar, breaking off a piece.

“You’ll be better fed too,” he holds out the tidbit.

“Unless you’d rather keep having stale saloon leftovers.” Hosea smiles.

Arthur thinks about this. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s taken the food from Hosea, then clambers into the older man’s palm, munching the chocolate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s fair to say neither Hosea nor Arthur had planned their day to end up like this. It took a lot of negotiation for Hosea to think of a safe place for the much smaller Arthur that the teen was comfortable with. His pocket would’ve been too restrictive and riding on his hat would be too unsteady.

 Arthur wakes up due to the noise Hosea was making packing up the camp.

“Good sleep, Arthur?” he smiles.

Arthur responds with a noncommittal grunt.

“We’ve got a long day’s ride ahead of us,” Hosea stands up, lifting the camp accessories onto his horse.

Arthur’s voice catches in his throat as the human stands to his full height. He knew humans were big, but to be so close to such a towering figure made Arthur’s stomach churn, terrifying him slightly. Seeing the human so casually lift up a bundle hundreds of times heavier and larger than he was. He shudders at the thought of what the human could do to him with strength like that.

Arthur flinches as Hosea turns around to face him, heart pounding as the human’s ground-shaking footfalls approach. He trembles a little as Hosea’s huge form crouches down.

“Ready to go, Arthur?” Hosea holds out his hand next to Arthur.

He nods and climbs onto the hand before him.

“Careful now. Hold on,” Hosea warns.

Arthur wraps his arms around Hosea’s thumb, the wind rushing through his hair as the human stands up. Awe fills his face as he looks around.

“You okay there?” Hosea asks softly.

“Y…yeah. Everything looks so different from here,” Arthur mutters.

“Hmm, I suppose it does. I haven’t given it much thought,” Hosea muses.

He moves his hand near his neck where there is a slight gap by his scarf.

“Go on, hop in, Arthur.”

Arthur slides off the hand, landing on Hosea’s shoulder. It’s not a bad spot. He can easily hide and see what’s going on. The scarf provides a nice wall against the chill breeze, and the human’s body heat is creating a nice warm area wrapped by the scarf.

Arthur’s slightly startled when he’s practically squashed against Hosea’s neck by the older man’s hand. He yelps as he feels a wide swinging motion, then a steady clopping. The pressure of the hand releases.

“You alright there, Arthur?” the closeness to Hosea’s booming voice, Arthur gives a frightened squeak.

“Sorry. I didn’t want you to fall while I mounted up,” Hosea apologises.

“’s alright. I’ll be fine,” Arthur mutters, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Why do you have the law after you?” Arthur pipes up.

He won’t admit that he likes this spot. He can still talk to Hosea without shouting, being seated below the man’s ear.

“My friend and I steal valuables from people who can afford to lose them.”

“Then what?”

“We give it to people who need it.”

“Why would the law chase you for that?”

“It’s complicated. Rich people don’t like having their stuff stolen, much less being given to the poor. The people who are supposed to keep the law…well…they like money. Whoever has the most money, has the law on their side,” Hosea explains.

“Humans are confusing,” Arthur replies.

‘My dear boy, you just said a cotton-pickin’ mouthful,” Hosea chuckles, the shaking of his chest jostling Arthur.

 There hadn’t been much sound nor movement from the tiny person snuggled on Hosea’s shoulder. He was still there. Hosea could feel Arthur huddled under his scarf. Carefully turning his head, he sees the teen sound asleep, curled up under his shirt collar. He smiles and lightly brushes some stray locks away from Arthur’s eyes with his finger.

 Arthur stretches with a groan. It only slightly shocks him that he’s right next to a human. If he were honest with himself, he should be worried at how quickly he got used to it.

“Comfortable there?” Hosea asks with a smile.

“No,” Arthur lies, yawning.

“You think we should stop for some food?” Hosea asks.

“I suppose,” Arthur mutters.

“Hold on then,” Hosea dismounts when he feels Arthur grab the scarf.

He takes his hat off and holds his hand up to his shoulder. Arthur clambers onto Hosea’s palm, holding on as the human places him on top of the hat.

“You will be safe there while I set up the fire,” Hosea gives Arthur a friendly smile.

 Arthur had seen fire before, but never like this. Normally raging through a building, however in this case, slowly licking at some dry wood. The flickering was mesmerising and soothing.

“Arthur?” Hosea’s voice brings him back to reality.

“Hmm?”

‘I asked if you’ve ever tried rabbit.”

“Uh…no…”

“Now’s your chance.”

Arthur wouldn’t admit it to Hosea, but seeing the human rip apart the rabbit with his bare hands so easily honestly scared him, an uneasy feeling in his stomach as Hosea impales the chunk of meat with a knife. Continuing to remind Arthur of his insignificance alongside the towering human. He shudders despite the warmth of the fire. The sun has some bite to it, yet the chill seeps into his bones as he sits in Hosea’s looming shadow. Arthur quickly turns to face the fire, distracting himself from his terrifying thought processes,

 “That should do it,” Hosea sits up, testing the meat tenderness with his fingers.

He slices off a sliver and hands it to Arthur. The tiny teen cautiously takes it, warily sinking his teeth into it. Admittedly it tastes quite nice, if a little weird.

“So, what do you think?” Arthur hadn’t realised Hosea was watching for his reaction.

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Arthur mutters.

He can’t help but look up as the human takes a bite of the rabbit meat. The chunk bitten off, he notices, is almost four times his size. His blood feels like it turned to ice seeing Hosea’s jaw move, his teeth probably bigger than Arthur’s head, no doubt mashing the meat into a pulp. He shudders at how easily this human could eat him, a mere snack, barely enough to fill his stomach.

Arthur feels the blood run from his face as he watches the mush descend as a lump down Hosea’s throat, disappearing under his collar, on its way to the digestive system.

“Arthur, you okay? You’ve gone pale,” Hosea looks concerned.

“I’m fine,” Arthur mumbles.

“We shall see,” Hosea says, reaching a finger toward Arthur.

‘Whoa, what are you doing?” Arthur protests.

“Relax, dear boy. I’m just seeing if you have a temperature.”

Arthur pouts as Hosea presses the pad of his finger to Arthur’s forehead.

“A bit low, but nothing to be alarmed about. Don’t want you to get sick,” Hosea scoops up the teen, gently depositing him between his neck and scarf.

Arthur holds on to the plush material as the huge form of Hosea packs up the camp and mounts onto the horse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Now, my friend may be loud and scary looking, but he won’t hurt you,” Hosea explains.

“But what if he does?” Arthur hesitates.

Hosea turns to face the tiny figure of Arthur.

“You can stay with me if you feel safer that way,” Hosea suggests.

Arthur nods and snuggles against Hosea’s neck as he approaches a campsite. Dismounting and securing his horse to a hitching post, he puts his hand to his shoulder.

“Come on, Arthur,” he urges softly.

Reluctantly Arthur climbs onto the offered hand, holding on to Hosea’s thumb as the human walks to a tent in the middle of the campsite using one hand to shield Arthur.

 “Hey, Dutch,” Hosea calls to the man sitting under the tent.

Looking through the gaps between Hosea’s fingers, Arthur can see another man sitting down reading.

“Welcome back ‘Sea. Anything good?” the man looks up.

“Well, I may have found a new gang member,” Hosea replies.

“Really? You only went to scope out targets. Where are they, then?”

Heaving a sigh, Hose opens his hands to reveal Arthur to his friend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arthur thought he had mentally prepared himself enough to meet another human. He was wrong. This new man had an air of darkness surrounding him, whether due to his clothing choice, or the fact he was looking at Arthur like prey, just as a hawk or a snake studies a mouse. The smile Dutch suddenly makes doesn’t make Arthur feel any better. In fact, Arthur’s survival instincts kick in, and he goes to hide. The only place he can go is under Hosea’s shirt sleeve, causing a yelp from the older man as Arthur climbs up, stopping and hanging on for dear life near Hosea’s elbow.

‘I take it you didn’t expect that?” Dutch’s laugh thunders in Arthur’s ears.

“I didn’t expect him to be that scared of you, Dutch,” Hosea’s voice rumbles beside Arthur.

“You want to try saying ‘hello’ to Dutch again. You don’t have to go that close to him,” Hosea whispers.

Dutch smacks his friend’s arm.

 It doesn’t take long for Arthur to poke his head out from under Hosea’s sleeve, then crawling onto the human’s palm, clutching the shirt material like a security blanket.

“Arthur, this is Dutch. Dutch, Arthur,” Hosea introduces, gesturing with his free hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, young man. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Dutch greets formally.

Arthur nods in acknowledgement, slightly tightening his grip on Hosea’s cuff. He can’t help but suspect that Dutch is a conniving sort.

[c-is-for-circinate]

On Good Omens, queerbaiting, and heteronormative bullshit

Theory: Good Omens the miniseries and the way it treats relationships feels maybe a little weird and hits some of the same mental buttons as queerbaiting not because Aziraphale and Crowley are insufficiently gay, but because the entire rest of the show is.  In this essay I will actually write this essay, because no, really, I think it’s A Thing and I might even be able to prove it.

There’s a lot of nuance to both sides of the whole queerbaiting/not-queerbaiting argument, and I don’t want to neglect any of it, but I think my big takeaways have been as follows:

On the ‘this is uncomfortable and queerbaity’ side:

Good Omens the miniseries ramps up the emotional relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale to be the heart of the entire show.  Both demon and angel are coded as gay in a number of different ways, both individually and in terms of how their relationship is portrayed as a romance.  And yet despite being the core of the show, they never make any of it explicitly romantic.  There’s not a kiss, there’s not an ‘I love you’.  The entire relationship is built from implications rather than explicit statements.

Years and decades and centuries of storytelling have given us gay relationships that we have to look for.  That we have to find in implications rather than explicit statements.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so that content creators could keep mainstream/straight fans happy while also luring queer fans with crumbs and promises.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so content creators could slip hidden gay messages past censors.  Sometimes stories were written that way for plausible deniability, so content creators could stay literally, physically safe.  But either way, it’s exhausting.  It’s been so long.  We want to see ourselves on screen.  We want somebody to admit out loud to what we’re seeing.  We’re tired.

Also, when things get heated: the opposing side are apologists and boot-lickers, ready to bend over backwards to defend their Precious Author Faves in hopes of receiving whatever crumbs they can get.  (Please note: this is an ad hominem argument with like ten different logical fallacies in it, and also it’s just mean.  We will be assuming that all parties in this discussion are attempting to act in good faith with a healthy dose of frustration, and largely ignoring this point.)

On the ‘no, this is Good Representation, really’ side:

Aziraphale and Crowley are in a queer relationship--it’s just not a gay one.  They are two genderfluid beings who mostly present as male out of preference or convenience, surrounded by additional similar genderfluid beings who may present as male, or female, or both, or neither.  Their relationship is both romantic and asexual.

The fact that those ‘explicit milestones’ of kissing, sex, etc are absent from the show is in fact part of the point.  Not only does it make sense for the characters themselves, but it means so much to see a relationship that is obviously romantic, that is the center of an entire story, where the key turning point is about something other than sex or marriage.  A relationship can be super important, can be important enough to build an entire life around, without sex, without kissing, without wedding rings.  It’s so good to see one that is.

Also, when things get heated: the opposing side are aphobes and probably transphobes, whiny babies who don’t really care about representation, they just want their kind of representation.  (Please see above note about ad hominem attacks and logical fallacies.

There are a few points that everyone can agree on.  Crowley and Aziraphale follow the plotline of a romance, and their relationship is the core of this show.  They do not kiss, or have sex, or explicitly fall into any behavior that conventionally says, ‘yes, this human couple is dating’.  Other characters in the show mistake-them-for-dating, but those characters are always uninformed about the real complex nature of this relationship.

One side says: it all comes so close to being a thing we so rarely get to see, to reflecting ourselves on screen.  Why promise and not deliver?  Why come so close and then shy away?  Aziraphale and Crowley, with all they are to each other (with Aziraphale’s shop in Soho and his time in a discrete gentleman’s club, with their so-religious families that will disown them or worse for this relationship, with everything they are an have been) are a metaphor for gayness that refuses to commit past the point of metaphor and just admit it already, and it hurts.

The other side says: it has exactly hit the nail on the head of being a different thing we so rarely get to see, to reflecting a different portion of ourselves onscreen.  It just so happens that the thing it’s reflecting is by nature a little confusing and undefined, is close to the kind of queerness you’re expecting without getting there.  Crowley and Aziraphale (who’ve been alive for six thousand years, who have seen so many different ways humans love each other and swear to each other, who are not bound by our conventions or definitions and maybe show us that we don’t have to be either) are a metaphor for nothing.  They parallel a lot of familiar narratives of a lot of kinds of queerness, without trying to be anything but what they are.

Two sides, everybody so starved for representation that they’ll grab for it and name-call and scrabble desperately when they almost get it.  One relationship.  One divided fandom.

.

Look, it is obvious by this point that this is a case of everybody fighting over our one specific instance of representation because there isn’t enough to go around, right?  If gay relationships were more common throughout fiction, it wouldn’t be so important that Aziraphale and Crowley were among them.  If ace relationships and alternative relationship dynamics were portrayed as frequently or given as much weight as sexual ones, it wouldn’t be so important.

And it’s not just about what’s important, it’s about what’s noticed.  If there were gay relationships--or if there were ace relationships, or other kinds of queer relationships!--all over fiction, then being explicit would matter so much less.  It is important, in this world, that queer relationships in fiction announce what they are out loud, because in this world they are so often brushed over or ignored.  They have to clear a much higher bar than conventional straight, sexual relationships.  If there were more representation in the world, everybody would be primed to notice Aziraphale and Crowley as a romance.  We wouldn’t need it spelled out--one, because we’d already know, and two, because it wouldn’t be such a big deal if somebody else didn’t.

Of course, there’s more representation these days than there used to be--little dribs and drabs of it all over.  There’s just enough out there that somebody can say, ‘look, we’ve seen basic gay romances, let us have this thing here, let us have this nuance’.  And meanwhile half the audience (who may be gay, or bi, or ace, or transgender or genderqueer themselves in all sorts of ways) is gaping, because...okay, maybe gay romance exists in some places, in corners, but there’s still so little of it.

We’re all living on crumbs.  It’s hard to appreciate nuance when you’re just a few steps past starving.  It’s hard to appreciate the grace of ambiguous and open endings when you’ve seen them twisted against you again and again, and you just want something that’s yours.

.

Here’s another thing, an important thing.  Humans are used to seeing patterns and we’re used to seeing stories.  It can be very hard to tell whether a storyteller is trying to give us something new and strange told well, or something more familiar told badly--especially if we’re used to seeing the familiar thing told badly.

And: if the audience cannot tell whether an author is portraying Thing A well or Thing B badly, at a certain point it doesn’t really matter which it is.

And: sometimes the only way to tell if a story is trying to show you Thing A and succeeding or Thing B and failing, is to look around the story to see if you can spot Thing B done right, anywhere else.

In other words: How do you make a difference between an audience that is collectively sure that Crowley and Aziraphale are some specific, slightly-hard-to-define but very definitely queer thing (and sometimes being hard to define is an intrinsic part of queerness), versus an audience divided amongst themselves over whether or not they’re just a bad, cowardly approximation of ‘gay’?

You put actual, explicit gay somewhere else in the story.

And that’s where we run into problems.

.

The problem with Good Omens the miniseries and how it does queer representation, how it does Crowley and Aziraphale and their romance, is the same problem that Good Omens the miniseries has across the board.  The problem is that half the writing team is gone, and so is half the story.

In the miniseries, Aziraphale and Crowley are, hands down, the main characters.  This is their story, and everyone else around them--Anathema and Newt, the Four Horsemen, Heaven and Hell, the Them, and even Adam himself--are just bit players.  I don’t fault Neil Gaiman for that, exactly.  I’m sure he did his best, and his best meant he poured the heart and soul of the story into these two characters and the relationship they share.  He gave them as much richness and depth as he possibly could.  (That’s part of why we all love them enough to fight over them.)  But the fact is, the rest of the story around them suffered.

Adam and the Them, Anathema and Newt, even Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell--humans, all of them, and very much the people who actually stop the apocalypse.  Considering the way Anathema kick-started Adam along his path towards Armageddon, they’re even the people who started the apocalypse.  Very, very fundamentally, Good Omens is a story about how humans don’t need heaven or hell--not to be evil, not to be good, and not to keep being human.  Except that the miniseries wrote the humans off to the side, and that cracked things a little.  In some places, it cracked things a lot.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the miniseries.  I love Crowley and Aziraphale at the heart of it, and the richness and depth of their relationship.  I love the story about how an angel and a demon are so very very human, even though they think they aren’t.

But it’s a story that only works with enough of a contrast.  We can only appreciate Aziraphale and Crowley as an angel and a demon who’ve become very-nearly human if we know what the differences are in the first place.  We can only appreciate their similarities if we see enough humans acting the same way: with want, with fear, with desire, with pettiness, with love.

The difficulty with the miniseries is that we see a great deal of Crowley and Aziraphale being full of very, very human emotions and reactions.  We see their worry and desperation and how much they care about each other.  Nothing we see from any other character in the whole show comes close.

Anathema lives a life in service to (a prophecy, not a Host, but is it so different?) a thing she doesn’t quite understand and nobody can explain to her, that she just has to trust--but we see Aziraphale deal with Gabriel and Heaven again and again, and we see so little of Anathema’s fear and doubt.  Newt is fired from (a nothing job, not God’s endless love) a world he vaguely understands but isn’t good enough for, and finds himself in a strange, confusing place where he’s probably smarter than his boss and everything smells a bit weird and it might technically be his job to hurt people except maybe he doesn’t want to--and we get none of it, compared to what we see of Crowley, six thousand years post-Fall.

Adam is human and not-human, full of powers that can bend the world around him to his whim, that can make things how he thinks they should be.  He decides not to, because of love and selfishness, because he’d rather be human.  He makes the exact same decision Aziraphale and Crowley make.  We just get so much less of the weight of it.

The thing about telling the story this way is that it turns Crowley and Aziraphale into the only real people in the whole show, with everyone around them in silhouette and abstract.  It stops being a story about how this angel and this demon are, effectively, exactly the same as everyone else--oh sure they’ve got some differences, powers and abilities and age and shape-shifting (and mutable gender, and vague non-existent sexualities), but hell, people in general are full of differences in all of those things anyway.  

All of a sudden, the differences between baseline human and celestial being start to feel weird and cheap.  If Aziraphale and Crowley are the only real people in the story, and they’re not reacting in the way most people would react--it’s not just because they’re individuals, with specific individual wants and needs and reactions.  It’s either a statement or a weird error.  If the only real people in the story aren’t people, everything starts to fall just a little bit apart.

.

And so we come back around to sexuality once again.

A deeply, deeply unfortunate side effect of the Good Omens miniseries fleshing out Heaven and Hell and neglecting the humans is that all of the queer content--all of the nonbinary characters, our one shining non-heterosexual relationship, all of it--went to characters who were not human.  It makes so much sense, on one hand.  That’s where all the new depth came from, so of course that’s where all the new queerness went.  And why should non-human characters subscribe to human definitions of gender and sexuality?  Of course they wouldn’t.

Because, right: the idea that sexuality is in and of itself a primarily human thing, which most non-humans lack but some experiment with for fun (and that is Word of God and that is explicit in the text of the show and the book)--that idea’s not actually inherently bad.  The idea that sexuality is a requirement of humanity, that it comes part and parcel with love and ‘becoming more human’ (which is, after all, the best thing you can do according to show or book)--that idea is in fact bad.  But if all of your desire for sex goes to your humans AND all your queerness goes to your non-humans...that gets real unfortunate, real real fast.

The problem is, just like the show neglected to give the full depth of human characterization and emotion to its actually human characters, it failed to give them the full depth of human sexuality and gender, too.

The humans in Good Omens are painfully heterosexual.  It’s not simply that the Newt/Anathema and Tracy/Shadwell relationships are straight--it’s that they fall into place as though straight is the only choice.  Both relationships are so very much a picture of no other options.  Anathema and Newt are facing the end of the world, about to probably die, and also have been prophecied to get together under these circumstances for centuries.  Shadwell and Madame Tracy are both very deeply alone, and getting older, and if they want to be anything but alone their only choice appears to be each other.  These four people appear to default their way into traditional m/f relationships, whether it’s falling into (under) bed or moving to the country to retire together.  They hit all of those ‘explicit markers’ we were talking about before, and they don’t do it with emotional build-up.  They don’t do it with any real exploration of the individuals involved or why they’re making these choices.  There’s barely any acknowledgement that these are choices.

The thing is, gay humans do exist in the world of Good Omens!  We spend time is Soho, and we hear about a very specific extremely gay gentleman’s club, and we know it’s there, somewhere, hidden.  We just never get to see it.  Crowley and Aziraphale (who are our only touchstone to those queer areas, which the other human characters never seem to encounter) are the Only Queers In The World.  And it sucks, and I think it happened completely by accident.

I suspect that the lack of human queerness was literally just a side-effect of the lack of human anything--Crowley and Aziraphale are in fact the only queers in the world specifically because they’re the only people in the world.  None of the already-existing human characters were given enough additional development to add much of anything, including any new gay.  The human world of Tadfield and the Witchfinder Army wasn’t given enough development to make it worth creating any new characters, let alone queer ones.

It just means that, all of the sudden, straightness gets accidentally equated with every single non-child human we spend more than two lines with, and queerness becomes exclusively the province of demons and angels.  That’s really bad.  It’s one of those unfortunate accidents that happens sometimes, because the world ain’t perfect, but it’s pretty not great.  And that’s where our problems come from.

In particular that’s where this current debate comes from, because if sexuality = human and human = straight, and nonhuman = asexuality and queerness = nonhuman, then we’ve accidentally said some pretty damning things about humanity and equated all queerness with lack of sexual desire all at the same time.  And it’s subtle, and it’s easy to miss, because it’s all about a lack of queer humans that’s all mixed in with the lack of humans at all, but it feels off.  So we go looking for reasons and we go looking for scapegoats.  It’s so easy to fixate on and blame the only queer relationship (the only developed, real relationship) we get at all, writ huge and impossible-to-miss all over our screen, rather than all the invisible ones we don’t.

.

Here’s what I take away from all of this: Crowley and Aziraphale are, in every real sense, the most important characters in the Good Omens miniseries, and their relationship is without doubt the most important relationship.  It’s a well-developed, believable relationship.  It’s neither a straight relationship, nor an explicitly sexual gay relationship.  It is a different thing all its own, a thing that does not easily fit conventional human labels, that may or may not include sex at some point but certainly does not require it to be devastatingly important.

And I like that.  I, me, personally, who would rather find a reason to feel heartened than a reason to feel angry, am really glad to see something so extremely not-straight at the emotional center of a story I care about.  That’s me.

In the absence of anything that is an explicitly sexual gay relationship, this nebulous complicated thing at the core of this story looks an awful lot as though it’s trying to be gay and not getting there all the way.  And that sucks.  And for a lot of people, that hits some very specific buttons that have been made tender over many years of stories that try to be gay and refuse to go there all the way.  The flaw, though, is in the contrast and the context around the relationship--not in the relationship itself.

Stories are hard.  Telling stories, and making sure that they get heard on the other end the way we want them to, is hard.  Figuring out why certain things resonate the way they do, why some people feel connected while others feel alienated when we’re just trying to make our point, is sometimes the hardest thing of all.

I don’t blame Neil Gaiman for not magically figuring out that this would happen with the story he was trying to tell, partially because I haven’t seen anybody else in this great big argument of ours notice it either.  He tried to tell a story that was similar to but distinct from a story a lot of people wanted, and he didn’t make it clear enough.  I still really like the story we got.  I like all the slightly-different fanfic versions, too.  I like liking things.  That’s me.

If you’re still mad, if you’re still hurt: legit.  That’s valid.  But I don’t think arguing over this one specific relationship, what it Should Be and Shouldn’t Be, is helpful.  

Basically: I don’t want to sit around getting angry at each other over why Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t get the same traditional markers of Happily Ever After as Newt and Anathema, as Tracy and Shadwell.  I want to know why those couples didn’t have to (didn’t get to) EARN their happily-ever-afters with all the feeling and wanting and fearing and deciding that Aziraphale and Crowley did.

[theasteriae-arc]

five times kissed ( selectively accepting! ) / @diabolicaltendencies​ said:

❝ Five times kissed. ❞ ( for BASH & SAM )

[ also feat. august, @epiitaphs​’ sebastian, and @gunmetalgrey​’s severin ]

i.

Two sets of blue eyes fixed, unblinking, on one another. Two pairs of lungs working overtime. Sebastian can feel his pulse beating in his ears, hear the rush of blood. His ear drums ( aptly named ) are pounding. He drops his gaze to Sam’s lips, which are compressed into a tight line. His nostrils are pinched, he’s trying so hard to stay in control, but with that one flicker of Bash’s eyes, something breaks. The invisible string, growing tauter by the second as it tries to hold them apart, snaps, and they lunge for one another at the same time. Mouths ( teeth, tongues ) clash, and hands, fingers, nails scrabble against cheeks. Sam grunts as his shoulder collides with the corner of a shelf, but he only kicks the spilled packets of gauze aside as he presses forward, backs Bash up against the door, and seizes hold of his wrists.

“By your sides.”

This has been a long time coming, weeks of flirting ( sideways glances, smiles that didn’t extend past the corners of the lips ) that could only have culminated in one thing after Bash dragged him into this supplies cupboard in the middle of his shift. Sam’s not complaining, but if Sebastian thinks making the first move gives him the upper hand, he’s sadly mistaken. The other’s chest is heaving, his desperation evident in the way his hands keep leaping back to Sam’s waistband. He draws back minutely, not letting their lips touch until Bash’s palms are flat against the wood again. Then he rewards him with a trail of light, biting kisses down the side of his neck. They have both waited long enough.

ii.

Stolen: one kiss. Sometimes, if they are lucky, they can snatch fifteen minutes to themselves ( thirty is a miracle ), but today, no sooner has Bash shut the door behind him than his radio crackles with an incoming call. “Bash, this is Seb. We’ve got a shout. Get your arse back here. Now. Copy? Over.” He sighs and looks at Sam, sprawled out on the bed, before unhooking the radio from his belt and responding, “Copy. Over.” But though his cousin’s voice sounded urgent over the airwaves, he can’t resist ( before he goes ) planting one knee on the mattress and leaning forward to touch his mouth to Sam’s. He’s barely there when they’re interrupted again by a beep from Sam’s pager. The doctor puts a firm hand on Sebastian’s chest and pushes him back.

“Multiple GSWs incoming,” he reads. Sev needs him in the pit. Bash is probably going to be on the scene. That gives him pause. “Are you going to be all right?”

Bash doesn’t talk about it, and Sam doesn’t like to ask, but the scar on his back tells its own story. He’s been under fire before, and if the gunman hasn’t yet been apprehended … Even if he has, how will Sebastian react to the sight of the bodies?

“Fine.” His voice is level, and he doesn’t look concerned as clambers off the bed and straightens the front of his jacket. “Just a part of the job, isn’t it? I’ll come and find you later, if things aren’t too mad.” But what Sam doesn’t see is Bash pausing just outside the on-call room, trying to get a handle on the breaths he’d been holding so that he wouldn’t know how much shouts like this still got to him.

iii.

For someone who works in, or at least alongside, one, Sebastian’s dislike of hospitals might seem ironic, if you don’t know the whole story behind it. He’d spent months lying in a bed just like this one, surrounded by machines that bleeped and buzzed when he managed to detach the monitor from his finger, and patronising nurses who told him, recovery takes time, when they restrained his wrists and ankles to keep him from toppling himself off the mattress again or messing with his drips. Months when he hadn’t been able to feed himself, clothe himself, go to the toilet. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t stand. For a long time, he couldn’t even sit up. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling more helpless than he had ever felt before.

Years later, the feeling still pervades, but this time, he’s not the patient. He’s sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair beside a bed in the ICU, waiting to see if Sam will wake up. He was unconscious when August brought him in, his brother’s broad frame sagging not only with the weight of the doctor but under the burden of his own injuries too. He’d been patched up in A&E, put back together with glue and gauze and tape, while Sam, bleeding from two bullet holes in his stomach, had been wheeled straight up to an operating theatre.

That had been three days ago. The surgeons are trying to stay positive—his vitals are good, brain activity remains constant, his heartbeat’s strong, he’s stable, Sebastian—but his eyelashes haven’t so much as fluttered. There’s a machine breathing for him, and besides, Bash can see them beyond the glass, heads with scrub caps on bent close together, voices lowered to a whisper. They’re not confident, and he’s not leaving.

He opens his mouth to tell Sev as much when he drops in to check on Sam’s progress a little while later, but Sev just checks the monitor, checks the charts hooked over the foot of the bed, and almost as an afterthought, chucks a cheese and tomato sandwich, a bottle of water, and a packet of crisps from the canteen into Bash’s lap. “I don’t want to see you in the bed next door because you’ve not been taking care of yourself,” he says.

Bash tears open the plastic wrapper and shoves half the sandwich into his mouth at once, washing it down with several gulps of water. This is the first thing he’s had to eat in he doesn’t know how long. Severin sighs and pulls up a chair. “Slow down, if you don’t want to make yourself sick. And- No offence, but after you’ve finished that, you’ve got to at least shower. You stink.” He relents a little by adding, “You can use the showers off the attending’s locker room,” but he’s not going to back down entirely. “I’ve got some charts to finish off, but I can do those here. He won’t be on his own, Bash.”

Bash swallows, but instead of arguing, he nods at Severin. He is grateful for this little bit of direction. With Sam unresponsive, he’s felt so untethered, on the verge of a spiral, ever since the news came in. He finishes his meal in silence, then stands, brushing crumbs off the front of his shirt. It feels a little awkward with his cousin, and Sam’s boss, watching, this was supposed to be a secret, but he can’t leave without saying goodbye, and sorry, in case this is the last time.

He strokes Sam’s hair back, out of his eyes, and brushes his lips over his forehead. “Won’t be long, love. You just hang in there, yeah?” And leaves the room without a backward glance, because he knows, if he looks at Sam again, he will never be able to go.

iv.

“Sit still.” The command in Sam’s voice helps, but it doesn’t stop the string of curses that leave Bash’s mouth when he probes at the purple flesh around his ribs. Pacifist his arse. Severin had kicked him hard enough to break his ribs, and then jammed his knee into the same spot not long later. Standing had not been an option after they’d stumbled into the flat, Sam supporting most of his weight before he’d collapsed into the nearest seat, but he can’t help but fidget and wince as his boyfriend pokes and prods at him with all the impersonality of a doctor. “Bash …” There’s a quiet warning in Sam’s tone and Sebastian does his best not to squirm anymore as he finishes up his exam.

He’s rewarded, when it’s over, with a soft kiss. Sam tilts his chin up with two fingers and strokes his cheek as their lips meet. “You did good. Very good. Now, let’s take a look at your hands.” His knuckles are in almost as poor a state as the other Sebastian’s face, and smeared with blood. Some of it is his and some of it is not.

“We got called out to a car accident today,” he says, as if that explains it all. Sam closes the minuscule gap between them and kisses him again. “Shush,” he says against his lips. “Shush. The why can wait till later. I just want to get you cleaned up first, okay?”

v.

Sebastian has always loved being by the sea—salty air, bracing wind, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. These days, holidays to the east coast also involve buckets and spades and surfboards stacked up by the door, a heap of sand-covered towels, and two boys with bright eyes and cheeks falling asleep straight after dinner. Bash carries them up to bed, tucks the covers in around them, and creeps back down to the living room, where Finding Nemo is still playing on the television.

There’s a beer waiting for him on the coffee table. He hasn’t got that far when the dog comes up, wagging her tail and nosing her way into his palm in search of treats. He laughs softly and strokes her behind the ears. “I know you’ve been fed, girl. Go on.” He picks up the bottle and takes a sip, then wanders through to the kitchen, where Sam is washing up the last of their dinner things. Sebastian sets his beer down on the nearest surface and winds his arms around Sam’s waist from behind, blond hair tickling his nose and lips as he kisses the nape of his neck.

It’s a shame that they have to go home to London tomorrow, but Bash feels comforted knowing that this house will be here for them next summer, and all the summers after that. It will get plenty of use, he is sure.

[acefrogmonarch]

Headcanons pt.4

Middle school and early high school

I know American class but also Japanese class schedules. I don’t know if I want either or a hybrid.

Based off this post (If i can find it)

Naruto-band

Shikamaru has a knack for playing the drums, but he's never serious about it. He plays the drums because the systematic rhythm helps him think of strategies for shoji.

Has been asked multiple times to join the jazz band in Spring. He refuses everytime because it cuts his time in shoji, but once he gets his own cubie in the band hall he sets up his shoji board and plays it when he has free time.

Hinata has played the violin but hates the way her fingers hurt after being forced to play for long hours.

So she seeks asylum in the band hall, and has secretly taken lessons how to play the saxophone. It's her favorite of all the wind instruments.

She has been asked to join the spring jazz band, despite not being an actual member. She easily took the first chair when they were evaluating their skills.

Choji has been following a senior that's been teaching him the guitar, he's in the brass section playing the tuba. Has been asked to replace the senior when he gets older and wants to.

Naruto is in the brass section with Kiba but only Kiba is the trumpet player. Naruto is a trombone player and tells dad jokes. He didn’t fit the mold of a trumpet player but he still loves it regardless.

But his energy is definitely on par, if not greater than the rest. He will always cheer up everyone around him and is a part of the cheerleading squad.

Hates that there aren't anyone other guys. He just wants to flip off someone's shoulders. Damnit! 

He's flipped off Sasuke's and Shikamaru's shoulders before. In Sasuke's case, it was during elementary/primary. They were on the playground and this was Naruto’s second ever attempt to land a backflip. They couldn’t do it because the teacher caught them when a group started forming and they started betting their snacks from lunch to see if Naruto failed or not.

They continued their promise after school and Naruto broke his arm, but he did do it right after. He ate like a King the next day. It was great for him.

The first time Naruto did it was completely by accident and because he was so excited that he got a trampoline.

He’s never taken gymnasium classes before and has not seen a backflip before. But he somehow did it. It still shocks his parent’s to this day. Sasuke and him are neighbors and he came over to see what Naruto was so happy about.

Sasuke came just in time to see him do it. It was the greatest moment of his life because then Naruto tried to do it again and fell flat on his face. 

In shikamaru’s case it was during middle school and they were next to the pool. They were at Sasuke’s house for the day because he had a cool deck and pool.

Naruto wanted to jump off his shoulders into the pool. Shikamaru agreed because he didn’t think Naruto could actually do it. He realized his mistake when Naruto beamed in total confidence and Sasuke moved away from the pair.

Naruto didn’t do his back flip because Shikamaru moved the second Naruto decided to jump, without warning.

Needless to say, Shikamaru didn’t support his legs enough and Naruto accidently kicked him in the chin. Naruto ended up on the pool, back first, and Shikamaru fell on his ass.

Naruto swims up to the edge of the pool and looks at Sasuke, trying so hard not to laugh.

Naruto: Did I do it?!

Sasuke, trying to reclaim his composer: No, not at all.

Shikamaru, on the ground rubbing his chin: How did you even hit me!?

Naruto: Again!

Shikamaru: No!

Sasuke, running inside to get a camera or phone to record it: Yes!

Naruto is sometimes very confused as to why he is going to a house, when he has an apartment and his milk is about to expire! Also, his stash of untouched ramen!

Kushina: Naruto, sweetie. Where are you going?

Naruto: My apartment!

Minato: Naruto, we have a house.

Naruto: What’s that? Is it edible?

Kushina: Sometimes. During winter.

Naruto: Why winter?

Kushina: There are houses made of cookies.

Naruto: Really?!

Kushina, nodding along: Yup!

Anyway after High school they sometimes played together. Naruto had to buy a new entire trumpet because he rented from the school. Hinata bought her saxophone and has kept it under maintenance.

Shikamaru’s parents bought him his drum set and he learned how to play on his own. Choji does keep up with his guitar lessons but he did save up alot to get his electric guitar and a bass.

Card games

Hinata, Sasuke, and Shikamaru cannot play competitive and strategic card/board games. Scrabble, poker, 21, War, Bullshit is off the list. A Lot of decks, mostly up to 3 at a time and they are very distinguished between all of them.

Sakura refuses to play but does rude commentary to any group she is overseeing. Usually magic, because of Sasuke.

Choji doesn’t play anything but he does place bets on who would win with his snacks.

Magic the gathering.

Sasuke, Itachi played. Black Commander Deck

Sai, again his older brother. Green and Black Commander Deck.

Tenten; She found it and didn’t want something that Lee and Neji enjoy. Standard White and Blue Deck.

Yu-gi-oh.

Hinata; only because Neji played. Silent Magician Deck

Neji; because Lee played. He didn’t want to seem stupid. Hero elemental deck

Lee, he just likes the anime. But does have Yusei’s deck

Ino, she likes the pictures on Toon town and they let her do whatever but to some extent.

Both. 

Kiba; Rarely, Magic first. Green and Red Commander. Gear deck

Naruto; Rarely, yugioh first Odd-eyes deck and Black and White Standard Deck.

Kiba, dissing on Yugioh.

Naruto: Shut up, your mother buys you mega blocks instead of legos.

Hinata and Sasuke are both petty about each other’s card games. They each have respective sleeves and taunt each other, constantly.

Neji and Lee look at Tenten on the magic side and hate that she betrayed them. She’s just glad that they don't harp on her in her card game.

Pokemon.

Shikamaru, because no one knows how to fucking play.

Shino only collects the cards.

Shino showing Shikamaru his deck.

Hinata: Oh, are you playing?

Shino: You can play it?

Shikamaru has tried to teach Shino. Shino doesn’t sleeve his cards and when they take damage, he puts some non wet, non greasy food on his card.

Once the pokemon dies, Shino eats the snack. There are crumbs everywhere and Shikamaru’s pet peeve is being messy. Shikamaru appreciates Hinata’s and Sasuke’s sleeves.

Shows

Ino loves Reality TV and other things. But hates the Kardasians. Loves Rupaul drag race.

Sai is often encouraged by Ino to watch anime around her and he also finds anime that she thinks he hasn’t seen.

Sai has brought up Keeping up with the Kardasians and it was a mistake, he thought she would like it.

Ino: The Kardaisians are garbage and Kyle Jenner is a fake as hoe!

Sakura, from another room, hearing Ino rant: Did someone bring up the Kardasians?

Sai: Yeah.

Ino: Never do that again dear.

Sai: Got it sweetheart.

Ino has never actually called any other of her partners by a pet name but she does with Sai and they act like a married couple sometimes. They never talked about it. I mean they have shared stuff about each other that no one else knows. Coming out to each other, learning together because they both feel safe and comfortable with each other. Trust each other a lot.

Elementary bus crew.

Morning

Konoha 12 except Hinata

Naruto was so used to being independent that he has left his house on his own for school. It has freaked his parents more than once but they just watch over him as he goes to school.

Naruto always spots a red haired kid on the opposite of his bus stop with two older people that he holds their hands. Naruto always waves at him and waits until the day he waves back.

Gaara is very affected by his past life, like he was carving the kanji for love when his mom walked in because Temari tried to stop it but couldn’t take the blade away from him. She got slashed on her arm as a result.

Karura walks in and gasps softly.

Karura: Gaara sweetie.

Gaara: Mama, you're alive?

Karura: Of course. Please put the knife down.

Gaara: Knife?

Gaara completes carving in perfect kanji and stops once he completes it. Then the pain registrator for him

Choji is allergic to mustard, he found out in elementary and by accident. Shikamaru went to the teacher and Hinata stayed with Choji because he was rubbing his face and making his hives worse.

Afternoon

Rest of the Konoha 12 except (Hinata Neji and Shikamaru) No Sai yet.

Middle school. Bus Crew

Morning

Konoha 12 except Hinata, Ino, and Sakura

Afternoon

Konoha 12 Except Hinata, Tenten, Neji and Sasuke

High school bus crew.

Morning

Hinata was too scared to do it on her own in elementary, she tried in middle school and failed, but she succeeded in high school. She has to wake up an extra hour and walk to her stop but she doesn’t after freshman year. She got used to it

Afternoon

Everyone unless they have clubs, even then there is an after after school bus.

Hinata and Neji are on the richer side of town and everyone in middle school often joked about how they are on the west side while everyone else is on the east side.

They all meet on sports day. The other schools were pitted against each other east versus west.

Sakura, Sasuke, and Naruto were in a group together and were mocking Neji from a distance.

Naruto: Ew, is that a West sider?!

Sakura: Is that a boy or girl?

Naruto: It doesn’t matter! It’s a west sider!

Hinata from behind them, joins in.

Hinata: Ew a west sider.

Naruto, turning around: You got that r-

Hinata a carbon copy of the guy they were mocking.

Naruto: AH!!! They got us from behind!

Hinata blushes: Naruto-kun 

Naruto: Oh, it’s just you Hinata.

They don’t know each other at this point, Sasuke and Sakura look bamboozled at their interaction.

Hinata is going to therapy for this because her parents are worried and she just wants a break from the whole past life stuff.

Hinata sighs to herself: Not again

Hinata walks off towards where Neji is and leaves Naruto in her wake.

Naruto’s motto: We are here to cause some ruckus, then DIP!!!

[spiltcandycoatedpunkblood]

favorite dad mac and tiny kids scenarios you have, hand them over

oH I WILL; I love my tiny bros and their dad!! there's just so many to count

- Palmer attempts to give his dad an impromptu haircut and shave whilst he's passed out on the couch; Mac wakes up just in time to see this start happening and is immediately horrified, especially since Palmer is holding a goddamn big pair of scissors

- Mac getting annoyed at how his kids learnt to swear

- Mac feeling absolutely terrible if one or both of them gets hurt, especially if he does it by accident (e.g. one of them running into a door that he's just opened)

- the idea that Mac goes absolutely batshit and into papa wolf mode at the person or thing responsible for hurting them (you do not want to see him like that)

- Mac being concerned about them not eating properly, because as long as they're fine, he's happy, so when they aren't, it really bothers him

- Mac finding stashes of crackers over the outpost due to Nauls just taking them and putting them away in different places

- Mac sleeping on the sofa and the two are just curled up in and around him and the others find them like that

- Mac and Windows carrying the two to their beds when they've fallen asleep in like, the rec room

- Mac having to stop his kids from going anywhere near his alcohol, but at one point they do and they just spit it back out

- Nauls and Palmer setting off the fire alarm making breakfast for their dads

- Mac is constantly stressed and tired about worrying about them, and his crew are concerned and get him to rest whilst they look after them

- when he comes back they've made him a drawing and a card (Palmer calls him a basard in it affectionately - that's the you)

- Mac, Windows, Palmer and Nauls playing Scrabble or Monopoly together (Palmer tries to spell swear words in Scrabble and Nauls either tries to eat the money or hide it under his shirt in Monopoly)

- Mac carrying little Nauls on his hip because he is considerably strong and the little guy is just eating crackers and getting crumbs everywhere; Mac is as usual yelling for Palmer

- Mac dressing the two kids up in warm parkas when they go in the snow and head up to his shack

- Mac letting them play on the chess master and pretending not to be annoyed when they actually manage to win

- Mac giving them piggyback and head and shoulder rides; Palmer has a particular habit of almost strangling him during piggybacks and Nauls likes to play with his hair sitting on his shoulders or put his hands over his eyes

- Mac willing to get himself badly hurt if it means his kids stay safe; they worry about him and sometimes he wakes up in the med room and they're waiting outside

- Palmer and Nauls imitating their dad and the Thing, completely with shades, hat and badass lines (they love him so much jsiskdjskjdiso)

Jddkwlskdkoe I lovE THEM SO MUCH I couldn't decide, protect this precious family for the rest of time

[mattyrambles]

08:53

A slow continuous pain - stabbing and prickling up his arm, is what wakes Matty up. Slowly - eyes heavy, thoughts clouded and jumbled. The only thing that rings loud and clear is the numbness of his arm. 

It takes him a few minutes, sleep infused sounds. Threadbare blue curtains - doing little to hold back, shield the morning light from the room, his room. Posters he hasn’t seen in months, morning sun rippling - over Pamela Anderson, casting shadows over My Bloody Valentine. He blinks, a yawn.

A twin sized bed - faded bed sheets that smell like home, like school days and homework, like spending evenings messing around with guitars and video games instead of doing said homework, and sneaking out with stolen alcohol from the kitchen stash, like trying and failing to roll a spliff for the first time, like cramming the night before exams. 

There’s another poster of Pamela Anderson on the ceiling directly above his used to be bed, along with scattered pictures and polaroids of his mum, dad and brother, and Pip, and Penelope, and George, and everyone else in between. Faded from sunlight. 

His arm throbs - Penelope. Curled up beside him, warm between the sheets. All pouted lips and messy hair, and right on top of his right arm. Explaining - the pain, numbness. The closeness of bodies should be uncomfortable, but he finds it comforting. She’s almost spent almost as much of her adolescence in this bed as he did. 

He watches - for a bit, fingers tracing features, pushing back stray strands of hair from her eyes, face. Wondering - what she’s thinking about, dreaming about when she lets out small sounds, when her features shift and shape. Morning light - spreading higher on the walls, brighter. Complacent. 

It’s when his arm feels like it’s been detached from his body, that he slowly shimmies it from under her, biting his lip, trying not to wake her. Successfully - she rolls back into a cocoon of bedsheets, he picks his t-shirt from yesterday up off the floor. 

Downstairs, kitchen - he finds his mum making coffee. She visibly jumps when she sees him, coffee nearly spilling. “Christ, Matthew!” 

She had grown used to him not being here, so understandably she wasn’t expecting to find him lurking around before nine on a Sunday morning. Admittedly, if it hadn’t been for the fact it was Louis’ birthday yesterday, he probably would still be in bed and violently hungover - the shared flat with George, or Penelope’s house. He doesn’t remember the last Sunday he was awake before midday with a clear head, he doesn’t even remember the last time he shared morning coffee with her. Something that makes him slightly uncomfortable, realising how detached he’s been.  

“Louis not up yet?” he asks, noting how quiet it still was. Sitting at the counter - she slides him over a cup of coffee. She laughs quietly at that, he misses her laugh. 

“I think you and Penelope tired him out.” 

He had turned nine, Matty had gotten him the latest Fifa game - he prayed he hadn’t gotten it already for Christmas, and then felt equally shitty and guilty for not knowing what his little brother had gotten for Christmas, or even the fact he couldn’t even remember what he had gotten him for Christmas. Luck was on his side though, Louis hadn’t already had the game, and according to his mum was in a perpetual state of sulkiness over it. So Matty was once again hoisted onto the pedestal of big brothers, it made him feel a bit sick. What made him feel worse was how tightly Louis hugged him when he had walked through the front door, like he was actually worthy of it. Like he seen him every weekend and not once, twice a month, if he was lucky. Matty had never been a role model older brother. 

“He absolutely adores Penelope, bless him.” 

He catches the end, or middle, or start, he’s not to sure, of his mum’s sentence and scoffs. The way she said it was tinged with her own adoration, spilling over her name. 

“Everybody does, don’t they?”

It comes out sounding more bitter than he had intended. Not missing his mother’s questioning glance. He avoids her eyes, instead his gaze lands on the fridge behind her - pictures stuck with magnets. Family pictures, and the dog, and of course Penelope. He doesn’t need to question that, she’s always been considered part of the family. 

“I didn’t think she’d come yesterday,” his eyes flicker back, his mum. Nonchalant, buttering a piece of toast. He knew that she knew something was off between them, that they had split sometime last year. Penelope was absent from his scattered visitations home. He failed to tell that it was because she had fucked one of his best friends. Ross. Knowing - she’s fishing for information now. Were they back together? Matty didn’t even know himself, where they ever together in the first place? He blinks at the piece of toast sat in front of him.

“She always comes to Louis’ birthdays.” 

Louis’ eyes had light up even more when Penelope had closely followed Matty through the front door. There were squeals of delight, and what Matty suspects was a tighter hug than he had gotten, and proclamations of how much he had missed her. Of course, he had asked why she didn’t come around with Matty anymore, and he didn’t really ever know what to say. How do you tell a nine year old that the girl you’re kind of in love with and who’s kind of your girlfriend, fucked one of your best friends? You can’t, he couldn’t. 

She had bought him a board game. Scrabble. On the way over, the van, he only half joked that it looked like something she had found in the £1 bin at the shops, she - of course, denied that. Saying that at least she got him something kind of educational, not a video game. Matty argued that his present was educational, that his little brother was brutal at football so maybe it could teach him a thing or two. ‘Matty he’s nine; was the reply he received, and an obligatory eye roll. Typical. 

Louis hadn’t shown any favoritism between the presents, giving both equal attention. The afternoon consisted of Fifa tournaments, and Matty throwing a fit when Penelope beat him best out of 3, insisting a rematch, because that was ‘fucking bollocks’. Enticing obligatory scoldings from his mum, and obligatory gazes of admiration from his younger brother. 

The evening was spent over pizza and Scrabble. Even after Louis had gone to bed, Matty and Penelope had continued, the words gradually becoming more vulgar, which sounded immature giggles. Something his mum had reinforced, calling them ‘a pair of immature children’, before bidding them goodnight. 

Toast crumbs - sprinkle across the counter, marble. He remembers the time when he and George hadn’t gotten up early enough to clean up after a house party, his mum arriving home, livid at both of them. Penelope and Ross had escaped through Matty’s bedroom window, avoiding his mum’s wrath and keeping their place in her good books. The counter where him and Penelope shared their second kiss, second make out session. One that had gotten quite heated, quite fast - until George ambled in looking for another drink, or spliff, Matty can’t remember the details, only that he had quickly backtracked back out to the hallway, insisting he had seen nothing, but killing the mood all the same. 

“You two would have cute kids, nonetheless.”

Is what he zones back in on, caught between nearly choking on the toast, and an eye roll, scoff. Obligatory. 

Denise was back at the fridge, thumbing over a picture - a fond expression. She slides the pictures over to him - not that she needed to, they’d been stuck on the fridge for just about as long as he can remember, and like the posters in his bedroom - were slightly faded from constant sunlight. It’s them, Matty and Penelope when they were kids, Spain. The first one is posed - all smiles, obligatory. The second one, coaxes a smile from him. A candid, obvious from the look on her face that she’s arguing with him about something - and she must only be 9 or 10, Louis’ age now, but that vexed expression is something that never changed, classic Penelope. A Scrabble board - the corner of the picture. 

“Don’t get any ideas though - I’m too young to be a Nan just yet.” 

The tone of her voice - teasing, and suddenly Matty feels claustrophobic, trapped. Pushing the pictures away, in favor of the half empty packet of cigarettes, coffee in the other hand as he makes his way to the nearest escape with a huffed, ‘Mum, please,’ and an of course, obligatory eye roll. He refrains from telling her that that’s the least of her worry’s. Whatever his relationship was with Penelope, it was less built on sex these days. Last night - they only made out for a bit, but it was different. It was the closest he had felt to her in weeks, months. It felt like how it used to feel, how they used to feel. Maybe things were getting better. Maybe. 

“Okay moody,” still an entertained, light tone. And he’s glad she seems happy this morning but that doesn’t help his own notions of blurry affections and hazed feelings. “They’ll kill you, you know.” Tacked on, a more serious sound. His cigarettes. 

He smiles at that, a nihilistic kind of laugh - “Not soon enough.”

“Matthew!” 

It’s the same shrill sound she scolded him with when he was a kid, and a tea towel is chucked at his head for effect. He manages to properly laugh, ducking out the backdoor. 

Morning dew - permeates the air, along with the insolent chirping of birds. It’s spring, everything seems to be alive again. Blue skies, smoke curls through the air - he’s sat on the patio bench, his third smoke. He can hear voices back in the house - Penelope. He never has any escape, relief from her. Even in his family home, evidence of her. Integrated into every facet of his life. He’d written songs about her on this bench, he’s written his first ever song about her in his childhood bedroom. His first song ever. Penelope. 

Her voice, closer - the back door opening, laughs. No tea towel treatment for her. He looks away, taking a mouthful of cold coffee only to spit it back into the mug. 

“Swap you.”

A cup of hot coffee - extended to him, and a crooked smirk, and bright indigo that he loves and hates all at the same time. Her hair looks a bit shit now though, one flaw that he could pick out. She was growing it out - and it was some form of mottle blonde and dark brown. A flaw that wasn’t even really a flaw - she could still pull it off, make it look cool. 

“For?” 

She sits herself down on his lap, handing him the coffee while helping herself to his now nearly empty packet of Marlboro’s, something he protests. “Oi!”

She shushes him, “Told your mum I quit.” 

Muffled, cigarette hanging from her lips. He scoffs - she’s wearing one of his long forgotten t-shirts, Mortal Combat, and plaid pajama pants. “Why would you lie about that? Seems stupid.” 

Once again, it comes out more bitter than he had intended, and she doesn’t let it go as easily as his mum did. Fingers - ruffling through his hair. “She said you were right moody this morning, wasn’t wrong.” 

Another eye roll - obligatory. “Having a nice gossip about me, were you?” 

Smoke clouding - he takes a sip of the better coffee. His hands are cold, cool morning air - she’s warm against him. 

“Only about how this has to go,” fingers - trailing down to his jaw, unshaved. He had been trying - and admittedly failing, to grow a beard. It was patchy, and made his basically non existent jaw line reduce further, but of stubbornness rather than admitting she was right, he kept it. 

“Why? Makes me look proper rock star, innit.” 

“Yeah, proper serial killer more like. Feels weird too.” Disproving, and he smirks at that. 

“Never complain about how it feels between your thighs, darlin’.” 

“Matthew!”  

Scowling, her eyes darting over to the back door a few feet away - and it’s the exact same expression as the one in the photograph, faded from sunlight. Now - sun glints off darkened indigo, when he laughs. 

“What? Fucking hell, relax - not like mum can hear us, and I’m sure she’s figured out that we don’t just sit around playing bloody Scrabble all day, she knows that we fu-”

He’s swiftly cut off when her elbow - jabs into his ribs, spilling coffee. Obligatory. 

“Ow! Fucking Christ, Penelope!”

“Then stop being such an arsehole, Matthew.” She hisses, taking a final drag of the smoke before dropping it in the little left of the coffee, gone cold now as well, pushing herself from his lap.

“C’mon, I told G we’d meet him for lunch.” 

He watches her walk back to the house, shaking his head - but he follows all the same, it’s grown colder now, and clouds had begun to invade clear skies. She made him feel everything, and nothing at the same time. He wonders if that will ever change.

[teresatellstales]

Morning Snow

Inspired by several true stories, none of which happened all together.

When I had gone to bed, a winter storm was in full swing. The wind rushed, rattling windows, while heavy snow dropped to the ground. It was still very early, nearing 6am, when our Old Man Pup decided he needed to venture out to do his morning business. Being a senior pup and a 92lb mix of Australian Shepherd and Woolly Mammoth, his joints aren’t what they used to be and he requires assistance with our home’s many stairs. I heard him scrabbling to get up and decided I would guide him down, allowing my husband to stay-toasty warm under the covers.

I should have known something was wrong before I opened the bedroom door. A chilly slice of air attacked my ankles before I could turn the knob, and I was greeted by the bitter cold that would have been expected if I were opening a door to the outside rather than one leading to a hallway. Our Old Man Pup fluffed the air with his nose and pulled back in obvious confusion.

When we got to the landing, the smaller of our spry cats dashed up to greet us with an excited mew and hurried back down. The Old Man Pup settled on the floor and glanced at me as if to say, “I’ll wait right here while you go check it out.” In the span of a few steps, my mind danced with possibilities, its favorite being a branch came down through a window. By the time I reached the ground floor, meaning only a few seconds later, I was convinced I’d encounter shattered glass. What’s more, I imagined the troublemaker sibling of the excited cat balancing on the branch and in desperate danger of encountering a sharp shard. I’d have to wrangle both cats, sweep glass, pull a heavy limb back to the outside, and staple a tarp over the damaged window. All in the bitter cold while being shoeless. All while our senior pup held in whatever he wanted to let out in the yard.

The reality of the situation was quite different.

A door had blown open.

Let me explain a little about the doors in our house. None of them latch without extra attention. They look closed, but they are always teetering on the edge of open. The deadbolts turn just enough to appear in place, when they are really resting in an indentation rather than the proper slot to engage the lock. When the house is closed up for the night, it’s customary to tug on all the swinging doors to check for stability, curse at the ones that open, and repeat the dance until the damn thing is solidly locked. This early morning, I was taught that sometimes even that sequence of steps aren’t enough to ensure we are locked up tight for the night.

It was the mudroom’s door that had opened, one of the few without the added feature of a storm door. The wind had blown a good two to three inches of snow into the room. The smaller cat sat at the threshold connecting the mudroom to the interior of the house, her tail curled around her paws and her yellow eyes watching the snow show. Her brother stood on a nearby cabinet, body and tail stretched into a runners stance with one paw raised and curled in anticipation of the race to the begin. The Old Man Pup woofed a light reminder that he was waiting patiently and that his bladder wasn’t as reliable as it used to be.

If you’ve ever seen snow blown into your home, you know that it’s deeper by the door and slowly peters out further in. My eyes focused on the thicker of the layer until the cat on the cabinet dropped lower into his crouch. I tracked his sight into the mudroom. That was when I first spied the paw prints in the shallow end of the snow. They were traveling inward and not shaped correctly to be of the feline variety. Beyond the blanket of snow lay holiday packages of cookies and bread that were set to be mailed when the morning was a little older. Two boxes were torn open and a gaze of raccoons were enjoying the holiday treats meant for human consumption. The four had liberated a loaf of sourdough, a pan of cinnamon rolls, and too many cookies to count. I blinked at the furry family feasting on their holiday banquet while warm(er) and cozy in the corner of their new den. The presence of the cats were not enough to deter them, and the scene was too foreign for either feline to formulate a plan of defense. The smaller cat looked up at me as if to say, “we’re outnumbered.”

From the doorway, I couldn’t reach my boots, but my fingers could just graze the handle of an umbrella. I reached lower to grasp the canopy. No sooner did my fingers close around the fabric, the entire umbrella fell open. While I intended to open it to scare the animals, I wanted to be in control of the surprise. The four critters stopped chewing long enough to take notice of me and the cats, but they agreed with our smaller cat’s assessment: despite me towering over them and the possible weapon in my hand, there were still more of them.

The Old Man Pup woofed again, this time with some urgency. The raccoons silently conferred, reassessing their options. It seemed that two cats and an armed giant in the doorway were fine, but the woofing of a mysterious fourth threat was deemed too much. They stuffed as much of my kitchen labor into their mouths and waddled one by one in a straight line to the door.

The final and smallest of the raccoons stopped half way and came up on its hind legs, looking back at the treats. A raccoon that had already left stuck its head back in to urge the last one on, finally turning and leaving in disgust that its friend wasn’t listening. The interloper spun around and grabbed the remnants of the sourdough loaf. It made a break for it on its hind legs, slipping and sliding over the slick tile, and at one point running in place like a cartoon, never letting go of the bread. I pulled the umbrella closed, flipped the tip to face me, and used the hook of the handle to guide the cartoon wannabe out.

Both cats crept into the mudroom and stretched their necks to sniff where our holiday house guests had been. Still curious, as cats are, they tiptoed toward the open door, only to recoil in horror as their paws touched the snow. “Some help you are,” I said to them. They only returned a wide-eyed look in my direction and sauntered off to warmer parts of the house.

Still barefoot, it was my turn to tiptoe around the frosty fluff. After securing my feet in cold boots, I grabbed the shovel and scraped snow off the tile and out the door. The raccoons didn’t get very far. They stood in a valley of snowdrifts, watching me put the outside back where it belonged. The little one was still on its hind legs, clutching the bread and nibbling on its edge. I turned to look at the destroyed boxes and cookie crumbs, then back at my visitors. I gathered the remaining treats back into an open box and set it outside. “Happy holidays,” I said and shut the door.

I returned to the staircase to help the Old Man Pup down, but he wasn’t on the landing. I climbed back up and found the bedroom door ajar. I stuck my head in and squinted. He was back on his bed, curled up, his chest rising and falling with the deep, even breaths of sleep. I wondered for a moment if the Old Man Pup had heard the raccoons and only got up to investigate.

Though I was now fully awake, I slipped back into bed. My husband stirred and turned, draping an arm over me and mumbling some kind of thanks for taking care of the dog. I wanted to put my half frozen toes on his nice, warm legs, but decided that would ruin the story I’d surely tell to disbelieving folks for years to come.

[j-esbian]

night terrors and sweet dreams - chp. 4

chp. 3

on ao3

Nino’s favorite spot in the library was on the second level, along the front wall, in the corner farthest from the door. There was a little nook, where the walls extended past the last of shelves, without leaving enough space for another set, and in that corner, someone had wedged a table and two chairs. The table was chronically wobbly and cramped, and the only space for the chairs was facing the wall; it didn't appeal to many, so he never had to fight for his seat.

The hidden treasure, though, was the three power outlets under the table. Elsewhere in the library, students had to fight and sweat over a chance to charge their phones. It made Nino feel like a king.

Adrien often had Chinese lessons during study hall, but when he was there, he co-opted the other chair and made the corner seem a little less lonely.

When Nino showed up, both seats were already full; Alya and Adrien were hunched over something, heads huddled together. Nino bounded over to them and, placing a casual elbow on each of their shoulders, asked, “What's up?”

“Watching porn,” Alya said without missing a beat.

Adrien sputtered. “What? Alya! No--This is the library!”

She snickered, elbowing Adrien playfully in the ribs. “Chill out, dude.” She turned to Nino. “Watching old videos of Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

“Oh. Lame. Why?”

“D’Argentcourt’s getting on my ass again,” Adrien groaned. “Apparently my form is ‘abysmal’ and I would ‘do well to observe a true master of fencing technique, like Chat Noir.” He sighed heavily and added under his breath, “Which is completely ridiculous, but whatever.”

“Oh, yeah, Adrien? Why is that ridiculous?” Alya asked. “Maybe because you’re Chat Noir and you can’t learn from yourself?”

Adrien stared blankly at her, and Nino giggled. “Al, come on, let it go.”

“I will not!”

“I meant because he doesn't even have a sword,” Adrien retorted.

She grinned. “I find it a little suspicious that you refuse to give me an actual answer. And, you know, not for nothing, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you and Chat Noir in the same room before.”

“You’re right,” Nino said, glaring pointedly at Adrien. “I haven’t, either.”

Adrien sank down in his chair; the tips of his ears turned red.

“Anyway,” Alya continued, oblivious. “I wanted to put together a video for the blog; kind of a ‘best hits’ thing, you know? And this totally counts as helping him study.”

“Alright,” Nino said. “I mean, it's better than what I had planned.” He spun his phone around between two fingers. “But dudes, we have a new trailer.”

“What?!” Alya screeched. She yanked her phone away from Adrien and typed “sparrow feather fall trailer” in the address bar.

“Two and a half minutes,” Adrien whispered reverentially.  “This is a good day.”

“ Ahem.” A nasally voice from behind startled them. “You three are being disruptive.”

They whipped around to see Mr. Fournier glaring at them. Alya quickly set her phone facedown on the table.

“We were just studying,” she began.

But the librarian wasn't fooled. “Turn your phone over.”

Busted . As soon as he saw YouTube on the screen, he held out his hand. Alya opened her mouth to protest, but saw Adrien and Nino eyeing her warily, and decided against it. She placed her phone reluctantly in his outstretched hand, and he tucked it in his breast pocket.

“You can have it back after study hall is over,” he said. The effect was ruined somewhat by the fact that Alya’s phone barely fit into his pocket, and kept seeming in danger of toppling out.

Alya and Nino covered their faces, trying to hide their quiet laughter  as surreptitiously as possible. Adrien managed to school his face into something resembling shame. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Mr. Fournier nodded sternly. “Quiet,” he reminded them, before slinking away.

As soon as he was out of sight, Alya and Adrien rounded on Nino.

“ No spoilers,” Adrien warned.

“Of course not,” Nino said. “It’s just, Melody and Mercury showed up for a few seconds. And we have an official release date.”

The others’ faces lit up. “Shiiiiit,” they breathed in unison.

“January 19th,” Nino added smugly.

Alya’s face fell. “Aw, man. Seriously?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s my parents’ anniversary.” She scowled. “I’m probably going to have to babysit. I won’t be able to go!”

Adrien shrugged. “That sucks. Guess it’s just going to be me and Nino.”

“Hell yeah, you and me.” Nino pumped his fist. “We can make a bro’s night out of it. Maybe you can convince your dad to let me spend the night, and we’ll go out for waffles in the morning--”

“Or,” Alya interrupted, “we could literally go the next day.”

“Hmm.” Adrien tapped his chin. “We could do that, except…” He pulled out his phone and quickly typed something in. “Oh, look at that, tickets are already on sale! And it looks like I’ve already bought two tickets. Sorry.”

Alya tried to scowl at him, but it slipped into an easygoing grin. “Assholes.”

Nino looked offended and laid a hand innocently across his chest. “Sometimes, Alya, a man just wants to go on a date with his best friend.”

It should have been a completely innocuous joke, but Adrien heard a high-pitched whining sound and realized, after a few seconds, that it was emanating from him . It petered out, slowly, after he noticed it, and his face flamed.

Alya smirked at him. “Dude, are you leaking?”

Nino snorted. “Yeah, the real Adrien couldn’t make it to school today, so I brought an inflatable one.” He patted Adrien randomly, on the head and chest and shoulder, and pushed his glasses up. “Hmm. I don’t see a rip anywhere…”

“No, Nino, what are you--” Adrien shrugged him off and smoothed down his shirt, avoiding their eyes.

“You feeling okay, Adrien?” Alya asked.

“Yeah, totally!” he replied. His phone buzzed, and he jumped, knocking it off the table. As he bent down, Alya and Nino traded glances.

“Oh, crap,” Adrien said, checking his phone as he straightened back up. He started to gather his things. “My tutor just texted me and said she’s here. 我得走了!”

“Sure, dude…” Nino said slowly.

“Uhh...sorry, I gotta go.” Adrien laughed uneasily. “Okay, see you guys later, bye!” He stumbled off, bag dangling precariously close to his tripping feet, and rushed out the door.

“When’s the last time he slept?” Alya asked.

Nino lowered himself into the newly vacated seat. “A couple days, maybe?”

“What does he even do that keeps him up that late?”

“Dunno. Dude’s busy.” Nino shrugged and started unpacking his bag. Alya put a hand on his arm and stopped him.

“Fournier didn’t take away your phone…” she began, batting her eyelashes.

Nino twisted his head around to check that the coast was clear, and pulled up the trailer.

Adrien was feeling restless, and when that was the case, he usually decided to hop out and stretch his legs. Unfortunately, there was a swarm of people below his window; his father was throwing a launch party for his new line, and Adrien was stuck.

He could probably have joined them if he wanted. But he really, really didn't want.

He wandered downstairs and found himself in the kitchen, suddenly overcome with the desire to bake something. He rifled around in the cabinets, trying to find a cookbook.

“Hey, Plagg?” he asked. “What’s something that’s easy to make.”

“Hmm...“ Plagg landed on the kitchen counter and sat down. “Fondue! It’s super easy. All you have to do is melt some cheese, and then you can stick things in it! Like your face.”

Adrien paused in his search to glare at the kwami.

“What am I, Siri?” Plagg asked, kicking his legs against the counter’s edge. Adrien scowled.

His hands scrabbled along the top shelf, out of his sight, but he felt his fingers brush against the spine of a book, and he grabbed it victoriously. “What’s this?” he asked, pulling it forward.

He didn’t realize how awkwardly angled the book was above his head, until it tipped forward off the shelf, headed straight for his face.

“Woah!”

Adrien stumbled backwards, but the corner still snagged his cheek on the way down. He managed to catch it with his chest, and wrapped his arms around it to hold it there. Panting, he threw the book down on the counter to flip it open and found, to his disappointment, that the title was in English. He vaguely recognized the cover as something his mother would pull out every time they had American visitors over for dinner.

“Come on, seriously?” he groaned. “Hey, Plagg, can you fly up there and point me to a cookbook that I can read ?”

Plagg laid down and flopped onto his belly. “I could.”

“ Will you?”

“Nope.”

Adrien sighed. “You’re the worst sometimes.”

“I’m extremely lazy,” Plagg corrected. “You know, in some cultures, that’s admired. It’s the mark of a king.”

“Actually, you’re the worst all the time,” Adrien continued.

Plagg grinned up at him. “Come on, kid, practice those language skills!”

“Whatever.” Adrien started flipping through the book, looking at the pictures, and stopped near the end. “This looks good. And there’s not that many ingredients, so it’s probably easy. Come on, Plagg, we’re making brownies.” He squinted down at the page. “What’s a table-spoon?”

“I think it’s those big spoons you use to serve stuff,” Plagg said.

Adrien dug around in the drawers until he found a big metal spoon. “Done.”

“And you need a teaspoon, too,” Plagg added. “I think those are just the normal-sized ones.”

“And a cup,” Adrien said. He grabbed a glass from the dishwasher. “All right, let’s get started.”

Half an hour later, Adrien came down to take the brownies out of the oven.

“It smells like vanilla in here,” Plagg whined.

Adrien took a deep breath and grinned. “Mhm. Isn’t it great?”

But when he opened the oven, he was confronted with a cloud of black smoke, and the smell of something horribly, disgustingly burnt . He dropped the pan on the counter and coughed. It was nearly empty, except for some charred crumbs in the corners.

Plagg covered his nose. “What did you do ?”

Adrien shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know! I followed the directions!” He hung his head. “I thought I did, at least.”

“Aren’t you friends with the baker girl?” Plagg asked.

“You’re right!” Adrien reached for his phone. “Marinette will be able to help.”

He dialed her number, and it rang and rang and rang.

“ Hi, you’ve reached Marinette! Leave a message!”

Frustrated, he hung up. At the same time, a notification popped up on his phone:

Alya Césaire is streaming live! Don’t miss it!

“Oh, yeah,” Adrien said. “Alya has her interview with Ladybug. Everyone’s probably watching that right now.”

He dropped the pan in the sink and ran some water in it, before bolting back upstairs to log onto his computer. He pulled up the Ladyblog on his central monitor and turned his volume up.

“So, Ladybug,” Alya was asking. “What exactly is your relationship with Chat Noir? I know we’re all wondering, especially after--”

Ladybug interrupted her. “I think I’ve made myself pretty clear about this already, Alya.” She laughed nervously. “Like I told Nadja Chamack, and you, and that guy Vincent something-or-other, and literally everyone else that’s ever asked--Chat is just a friend. He’s my partner, and my best friend, but we’re not dating.”

“No, of course!” Alya replied hastily. “I meant, like, do you keep in touch in your civilian lives? Or is it strictly work between you two?”

“Oh.” Ladybug’s cheeks flushed beneath her mask. “No, it’s just a work relationship. Nobody knows my secret identity, and, well, I can’t speak for Chat, but I hope it’s the same for him.”

Adrien rolled his eyes. She was always going on about that, it seemed.

Alya asked another question, but Adrien was already bored; this wasn’t anything new, really. It just felt like an excuse for Alya to hang out with Ladybug, and he didn’t see why she needed to stream that to the rest of the world. He muted his computer.

“Hey, I was listening to that!” Plagg protested.

Adrien stared at him flatly. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s really nice white noise to fall asleep to,” Plagg said. “Besides, I thought you just had to listen to like, everything Ladybug ever says.”

Adrien scoffed. “I’m just not interested this time.”

Plagg looked at him skeptically; if he had eyebrows, one would have been raised at Adrien.

Adrien rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to play Overwatch. Leave me alone.”

“Whatever,” Plagg said, adding under his breath, “ fake fan .”

[clans-of-the-sea]

Delicious Katsudon Chicken

by Princess Panda Pie

Stewart let out a cry as he was chased around the house once more. He didn’t understand! Fur was on end, and he glanced towards the group of People that were going after his brothers and sisters. He panicked as he saw his mother and his siblings - hardly a moon old - get scooped up one by one and put in Metal Dens. He let out a screech as he ran towards them.

“Mama!” He let out a screech, freezing up as he felt one of the People grab him by the scruff and stuff him into his own Metal Den as well. He wailed, cried out. He saw some cats run faster and out of the house, some made it outside and then quickly out of his sight. He wailed, tiny paws fighting at whatever he could get. He didn’t want in here, he wanted out with the boxes and soft sheets and beds and that weird funny sounding stuff everywhere - some of it was delicious! … Not all of it, and sometimes he walked in dirt and sand, but they had always been happy here!

The small eight month old cat swiped out when he saw his sister cry and his mother look nervous. He suddenly grew happy they weren’t in the same crate - he had seen his mother eat his new kin before when she was really anxious like she was now…

He sighed as he and several of his siblings were tossed into a Road Beast, hearing one of his brothers next to him in his own Metal Den.

“Hey… Stewart, at least no one will ever get crushed again!”

He frowned. He liked climbing the mounds of stuff! He found some really cool stuff in there before….! His hind paw came and scratched his ear. “I miss mama….” He frowned, hearing a snort from a voice he recognized as one of his littermates.

“So long as I don’t have to have fleas anymore, I’m glad someone came and got us. It was stinky!”

“What about the kits?” He sighed, tail tip twitching. “I don’t understand. I want to see them again!”

“Who cares? They weren’t there nearly as long as we had to be….” Another voice, one of his fully grown sisters who was going to have her third litter of kits soon. She had lost her second as still born, and one of his nephews from her had ran away - the other had died during one of their no-food droughts.

Stewart sat in the Metal Den, half-asleep until they arrived in a new place. Fear scent, loud Dog Talk, he started pacing when he was put into a new Metal Den, claws clicking. He could hear his siblings around him. He could see the sunny sky around them, but couldn’t touch it!

Yes! That was what he wanted, out! He purred as he felt the warm strong legs around him. Yes. He missed cuddling… he missed his kin! He smiled and nuzzled. This People wasn’t too bad. A lot smaller then his Owner had been, but she smelled much nicer as well.

The tom didn’t mind his new Owner for awhile, happy to press close and hear her giggle when he did. He liked cuddels, he missed them far too much and too often.

He got excited when she set a new bowl of food next to his, and he saw a new Metal Den in the living room. Since arriving here, Stewart had seen a few different Metal Dens with new friends inside them. After awhile they would all leave, and he would stay. Now though, this Metal Den was …. well, bigger then him. He was a little jealous. He moved to peek in and welcome his new friend when -

Dog Talk! He hissed, swiping at the large thing. He ran, shaken even as his Owner tried to cuddle him. Begone!

For nearly a moon he had to deal with this, escaping for a few nights at a time with fur on end and creeping around until the Dog would try and snap at him, corner him, or knock him down. He waited by the door as his Owner opened the door for the Dog to make dirt. He bolted, slipping up the nearest tree and hiding up there. The dog tried to get to him several times, but Steward shivered and would go further up until the dog went inside and he would travel around the city a bit..

It wasn’t until one time he waited a bit too long after the Dog was gone and his Owner tried to reach him did he make his own attempt to jump down. His Owner must have thought he was in danger, moving to try and grab him but only knocking him from his fall to his paws and into the branch below him.

A cry escaped the tom; he could feel blood! How though! He hadn’t gotten into a fight, why did he hurt so much?!

He let out another cry and he ran back up the tree, staying there until nightfall. He saw the Window was open, he could go inside soon… but only when he knew the Dog was asleep. He shivered at the sight of the red moon. His mama used to tell him scary stories about the red moon….

“Hey ugly!” He jumped, yowling as a large brutish tom came up onto his fence, staring right up at him. “What'cha doin up in there?”

“B-Meeb?” Was…. Was that his voice? The tom frowned, whimpering. It had hurt to talk…

“…. C'mon ‘ere with me huh? I know someone who can fix thaa there for ya.” The large male hoped back over the fence, leaving the small pet to scrabble after him.

Stewart had followed the tom - Murdoc, he learned - all the way through town. They made stops, with Murdoc refusing to keep showing him the way again until Stewart did him a favor - catch his food for him and such. It took several days to get to the docks, and each day Stewart whimpered as they made several stops to point out where certain loners he knew lived… all the pretty females.

Finally Murdoc led him out of the city to a really grassy spot near a stone trail. He wasn’t sure why they waited, but after nearly so long he was starving, a molly - all dark colors on top and white on bottom with the yellowest eyes he had ever seen - appeared on the rise. “Sthees v'ary prettea!”

“Yeah, shut it kid.” Murdoc shrugged. “Oi, Plant-Cat, we got a problem for ya!” He shouted to her as she ran up.

They argued for a bit until suddenly he was the center of attention. He and Murdoc must have left at some point because he woke in the scary toms den in a literal hole in the wall of a collapsed building in the city.

After that, well… why go home? He hadn’t wanted to live with the Dog that messed his face up, he hadn’t minded he had to return to Plant-Cat - who he later learned her name was Holly - every so often just so she’d check up on him…

He stayed with Murdoc. It wasn’t fun but when he did check his home it had more Dogs then last. Instead he and Murdoc enjoyed themselves… One more then the other. Stewart had to do most of the hunting; otherwise Murdoc ate most of it. He didn’t mind though, it was peaceful to hunt near their area where there were many rats.

He also started getting good with the mollies - Murdoc was a favorite for some reason he never understood but he could talk to one or two of them. It was all fun! Life was easier without People, who ever needed them?!

“Oi! Hey Face-Ache, this little rat was going through our stuff!” Stewart woke up to Murdoc hissing at another cat. He hurried out of the hole and watched as a small tiny form swiped its claws across Murdocs face and ran off with a piece of bird nearly half its size.

“….. Th'aoo wassa bigger rat then I ‘ver seen tha'rre Mur-do'c!”

“That wasn’t a real rat you idiot!” The blue tabby winced as the large black paw knocked the back of his head. “That was a bloody kit! You! Go find her and bring her back! There’s supposed to be honor among thieves!” He spat, thundering off somewhere to hopefully find that weird bird stuff that not-rat had stolen. A kit though? Hm… he wasn’t sure….

Stewart sighed and leaned close to sniffle at the crumbs of that crumbly coated chicken. He really had been looking forward to yesterdays Garbage Find. It was supposed to make for an easy breakfast….

But there was another scent under the bird; he bristled and realized he knew that scent! He bounded to his paws, close pressed to the ground, as he followed the scent. He looked around near Beast Paths, fur on end when Beasts passed.

He looked up when the scent got heavy, and saw up the side of the Large House, like seagulls on the cliffs he had visited once in awhile when seeing Holly, that there were dens there. He started following the Made-Path upwards to the small stepping space where the small kitten and the piece of stolen prey was.

“Ooohhey!” He did know that scent! That was his kit sister! Moons ago she had played with his tail a lot and tried to tackle him down - despite him being so much larger.

“Oohheey. Ioe 'noh yoou!” He purred, circling the small cat as she ate. Her green eyes narrowed and her white paw swatted out at him. He just barely dodged it. “'Ey!”

“What?” Her voice was awkward. Well, coming from him that wasn’t the right word for it he guessed, but it sounded stale. Stiff. Short. Like Holly when she was angry. She looked rather thin, and on edge.

“Donnacha reemmember meh? Ioe'ma St-Stewwaart!”

She seemed to detense a little, paw on top of the piece of chicken skin that was left crumbling beneath her tiny toes. “Eeeah, yoou 'member meh!”

She nodded. Once, and very curt. He looked up at the place she was sitting at. Her People’s Den. It had yellow stuff on the door, but he saw the window open. There was some cool looking stuff in there once he hopped up to the sill. Looked like their lights were weird - round like balls and looked like that stuff the Dog made dirt on after Bed Time. It also smelled funny, like his First Houses Basement. “Aye-wecahn go on insi'ee and geeshame waater?”

She seemed to stare at him, ear twitching. She was quiet for a long time, and he waited for her response. “….. What?”

“Aaan. Weeeee. Gooooooou. Eeeeeeein. Siiiiiiiiiide.” He tried to sound it out, knowing he couldn’t talk properly.

“….. No.” she shook her head. Twice, and slowly this time.

Stewart frowned, leaning into the window to see if these People were feeding his sister. They better be! Poor molly…! If only she had lived with him instead of mama! Hm… No, mama’s scent wasn’t here. Was she all alone?!

Wait.

He frowned, and realized that copper scent wasn’t the basement here. He turned back to his sister and jumped down next to her. “Ere… Eeereah, whysa doncha c'mon home weetha me t'night?”

She seemed to perk up.

“… Mama nevah gaveyah name yeet. Whacha call ya?”

She stared again, deciphering slowly before she eemed to hum to herself. “… .Katsu.” She poked the bird at her paw, the skin on her claw quickly ripping it as she slid it from undertoe to eat - preventing Stewart to even ask for some. She giggled, and licked her maw. “Hallo, Stewart!” She giggled again, jumping her big brother.

[ficdirectory]

Disuphere (An AU Fosters family fic) Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

NOW

Monday, November 3, 2014

Home: 3 years and 20 days

Jesus is wishing right about now.  Wishing it was any day but family therapy day.  Wishing they were having anything but pizza.  He’s getting better about that - being able to wish without ridiculous amounts of guilt - it used to be almost impossible.  The second he started struggling in right now, he’d beat himself up mentally.  (Like, how could he ever complain about being with family when it’s all he’d ever wanted for years?  How could he even think about complaining about the wrong food when he should be glad he gets food at all?)

As Dr. H. would say: “Jesus, that’s a pretty low bar.  You deserve more than the bare minimum.  And it’s okay to not be okay, even out here.  Even right now.”

So, yeah, he’ll say it: he’s not okay.  Between the bustling Monday night crowd at Cucina Enoteca and all the unpredictability, the car ride and the impending car ride, and all his family being irritable as hell from therapy, Jesus kinda feels like screaming.  When he thinks about it, Jesus tries to keep up the mantra from the car.  It helps some, but not enough.

He hates the feeling of being out in public.  Knows people recognize him.  When they do, he hasn’t gotten past the super strong impulse to punch them in the face because really?  His picture was everywhere around here.  The news in LA covered his disappearance whenever the anniversary came around and a lot in the beginning.  (Of course, he wasn’t allowed out at all in the beginning...but still.)  Why couldn’t the billions of well-meaning people approach him Then and ask, “Are you Jesus Foster?”

Maybe he could have nodded.

Maybe he could have gone home after two months, not four years.

Plus, he doesn’t know every single person in this place and that puts him on edge.  What are their intentions?  Is he safe here?  Is his family?  Jesus has a hard time trusting it, even knowing the reality that He’s dead and can’t actually do anything now.  Sometimes reality just doesn’t mean a lot.  Not when the past is so damn vivid.

Jesus doesn’t wear his headphones inside because he doesn’t wanna draw attention.  He doesn’t take the blanket in either.  He wishes he could.  But those things literally ask for people to approach him: Poor unstable kidnapped kid.  Let’s see how he’s doing…

They have to wait for a table.  As if this isn’t bad enough already.  Jesus’s granola bar is on the DL in his pocket.  Cookie Land is there, and in a second, Jesus is in it.  It feels better here.  Familiar.  He’s not thinking about how hungry he is, because damn it, he’s got unlimited access to chocolate chip cookies, wafer cookies, chocolate squares, all different colors and shapes of candy and caramel.  Jesus doesn’t like caramel, but in Cookie Land it tastes like maple syrup.

“Buddy?  Can you hold this for a sec?”

Jesus blinks.  Frankie.  Her blanket in his hands.  (Even she knows just what to do if he starts looking blank.  She’s watched Moms and Mariana help him cope enough.)

“Yeah, no problem,” he says, trying to keep his tone from showing how truly pissed he is.

It isn’t her fault that Frankie knows how to keep him present.  That he and Moms have talked about what he needs when he loses focus like this.  He doesn’t want to be walking around in public like a damn zombie, but he needs Cookie Land right now or he’s probably gonna go nuts from the hunger.

Finally, a hostess comes to seat them.

Callie’s on one side of Jesus, and Mom is on the other.  He tries to focus on following Mama and Brandon to the table.  But there is a low buzz of so many voices.  There are so many people Jesus doesn’t know.  But they maybe know him.  They’ve maybe been following him, and…

“Keep it together,” Callie says lowly.  “We’re almost there.”

It helps.

They get to the table - there are too many of them for a booth - and Jesus doesn’t like being that close to everybody - and they all sit.  Everyone but him.

Jesus doesn’t know where the blanket is.  He glances around, and breathes a sigh of relief.  Frankie’s wearing it over her shoulders the way Jesus sometimes wears his own.  Jesus squeezes the back of the empty chair.

Seriously.  Why does it have to be pizza?

“Jesus.”

He jumps.  Mom is whispering to him.  Where did she even come from?

“We are not doing this tonight.”  (She says it like he has a choice.  Like pizza doesn’t in and of itself mean privilege.  Like going out to eat doesn’t mean privilege.)  Jesus is shaky on the human stuff right now.  On what he deserves.  And if he’s honest, on being one hundred percent aware of where exactly he is.  He thinks he knows, but isn’t sure.

“Jesus, I am serious.  Sit down.”

He doesn’t.  

(“Jesus” paired with any direction automatically does not compute in his brain.  It can’t.  If it did, Level 3 fear would take over.  Fear that makes him think of the promise He made on that first day:

If you ever answer to that name again, I’ll bury you…)

Instead, he reaches down deep inside, to whatever crumbs of agency he remembers from therapy.  She’s embarrassed.  That’s what’s driving Mom right now.  And that is the very last thing he needs.

“Your energy,” he says so softly, she has to lean in to hear him.  “...is not helping me right now.”

“Heads up,” Brandon calls and it turns out, his reflexes still work.  He’s caught the piece of olive bread Brandon tossed his way.

Holding food in his hand - and more than that,  holding warm food - jolts him forward.  It unsticks his brain.  Mostly he and Brandon don’t interact, but every once in awhile, he comes through.

Jesus nods his thanks.

“B...really?  This is a nice restaurant…” Mom says, exasperated.

“What?” he asks, like he’s done nothing.  “I just wanted him to try the bread.”

The distraction is enough for Jesus to pull out a chair and sit without feeling humiliated.

“Okay, guys, what are we having?” Mama asks.  Everyone talks at once, putting in their two cents.  Jesus concentrates on making his piece of bread last.  He doesn’t offer an opinion, even when Mama checks with him specifically.

They order, and it makes Jesus feel marginally more secure.  He’s downed one glass of water, knowing he can have as much as he wants, and it’s free.  His bread is gone.  Damn.  He should really leave the rest for the fam to try.  It was really good.

“All right, everyone.  What do we say about the office?” Mama coaches.

Jesus, Mariana, Callie, Brandon and Jude all chorus back, sounding bored: “What happens there stays there…”

Frankie’s hand is in the air.  She’s wiggling all around like she has to pee, but really it’s just how she sits.  (Jesus thinks maybe moving around helps her keep her balance, but he could be wrong.)  “Ooh!” she’s saying, waving her hand around.  “Ooh!”

“Yes, Frankie?” Mama smiles indulgently.

“What happens in the office stays in the office!  None of you guys raised your hands so it doesn’t count.”  She crosses her arms.  She’s cute when she’s smug.

“Who remembers the homework assignment?” Mama quizzes.

“Jeez, Mama.  We’re not in school.  You can go easy on VP mode…” Jude complains.  He slathers butter on some bread and takes a bite.  (Dude.  Now Jesus really wants butter…)

“Anybody?” Mama keeps trying.

“Our homework was to honor each other’s feelings,” Mom puts in helpfully.  Then she leans toward him.  “I’m sorry my energy made it harder for you,” she says.  “I know you’ve had a tough day.”

Jesus forces a grin.  “I see what you did there,” he says.  “Getting a head start on the homework.  Nice, Mom.”

“I also said it because it’s true.  Because I care about you,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.  It’s the best he can do right now, without a more involved explanation.

While Jesus is waiting for the food to arrive, he presses his feet down into the floor.  Puts his hands flat on the table.  Keeps his head up.  He takes a slow deep breath.  Then another.  Then another.  He needs to stay here and stay grounded and present if he has a chance in hell at making it through his this meal.

He tries to tune into just one conversation.  Mama’s asking Callie what attracts her to photographing “domestic items.”

“I don’t really know,” Callie shrugs.  “I mean, they’re what’s around.  What I have access to.  But I also just kinda like taking pictures of stuff that’s synonymous with home and family.  Simple things.  Real moments, you know?”

Mama raises her eyebrows, impressed.  “I hadn’t really thought of it that way, love.  I’m sorry my reactions were dismissive.”

“Synonymous…dismissive...” Brandon’s musing.  “Those have got to be like a 60-point words on Words With Friends…”

“Word nerd,” Mariana teases good-naturedly.

“You mean Scrabble?” Mom asks Brandon, smiling.

“I mean Words With Friends,” Brandon insists, sarcasm edging his voice.  “It’s what the kids today are playing.  The internet, Mom.  Not board games.”

(Words With Friends is a Facebook game.  It makes Jesus think of Cookie Land.)

He takes another deep breath, and looks around the table.  Frankie catches his eye, looking up from the picture she is coloring.  Sees what he’s doing.  She smiles and breathes in deep.  Then breathes out super exaggerated, like the Big Bad Wolf blowing down a house, according to Frankie.)

Jesus finishes the breath and cracks up.  Only his little sis could get a laugh out of him on a night like this.

“Moms look!  We’re breathing big like woofs!”

“Wolves,” Mama corrects, laughing, too.

Frankie spreads her hands.  “That’s what I said.”  She’s annoyed.  She knows what she’s saying, she just can’t say it yet.  The fam knows what she’s saying, too.  So when they make a big deal that she’s said something wrong, it gets to Frankie.

“Hey, Buddy.  Can I color with you?” Jesus asks, hoping to distract them both.

“Show!” she says happily.  (Sure.  It’s his favorite of her words because it sounds like she’s being really proper and fancy.  It’s cute as hell.)

She passes the crayons and paper around to him.  He stares at the empty page, and then starts filling it with color.  It takes him a second to realize he’s drawing Cookie Land.  What his favorite level looks like before he starts.

He vaguely hears Jude and Mariana talking about the school play at Anchor Beach.  Jesus won’t be able to go to that.  The costumes.  The dark.  All the unexpected stuff.  Callie is working Brandon for details about his senior project.  He says he has it handled.  He’s gotten approval.  He’s doing a thing.  She’ll know when everyone knows.

“Why?” he challenges.  “What’s yours?  Pears: A Pictorial Retrospective?”

“Shut up,” she laughs.  “I’m doing a thing,” she echoes cryptically.  “You’ll know when everyone knows.”

“Look at my senior project, guys!” Frankie screeches, not wanting to be left out.  “Mama proved it and it’s totally handled.”  She holds out her drawing of scribbles.  Jesus can just make out eight circles, with two sticks a piece coming out of the bottom.

“Is that us?” Jesus asks, before refocusing on his drawing of Cookie Land.

“Yes!  You get a car, and you get a car!”  (If Frankie’s quoting Oprah giving away cars she is way too wound up.)

“Frankie, my kind, smart, calm daughter.  Can you write your name for me?” Mom prompts.

“Easy-peasy,” Frankie says, and flips her paper over.  Because writing takes concentration, it forces Frankie to quiet down and focus on what she’s doing.  (Good call, Mom.)

“What are you drawing, love?” Mama asks.

He shrugs.  “Just a game.”

“Looks very elaborate,” she compliments.

“Very delicious,” he corrects and focuses on drawing the countless shapes.

When the pizza comes, Jesus almost doesn’t notice.

[ecotone99]

[HM] Vakum, God of Kli Ning

He screamed and he screamed, and he wouldn’t stop.

The angry beast in the closet – Vakum, destroyer of dust, rearranger of furniture and perforator of eardrums – had roused himself from his long slumber, and he was mightily displeased. His tone rose to a high whine, then shifted to a muffled squeal. Oh no, he’d devoured one of the plastic bags, his nemesis. He did hate getting tangled with those.

At the first sign of his displeasure, I took myself to my usual hiding place, the far corner of the bedroom, and concealed myself there. This always worked – if I got out of the way, the appeasement ritual, of Kli Ning, would go more smoothly.

I couldn’t perform the ritual myself. That was a human thing, a sacred dance done on two feet, approximately every seventh day in the afternoon. Objects would be dragged around the room to appease the creature named Vakum, who was then ushered into the empty floor spaces to eat from them. These floors were festooned with debris that he so liked to devour into his ravenous, flat mouth. He’d be wheeled to his dinner like the Lord of the house he was, and he’d eat and eat until his belly was full.

Or so I assumed. I’d never witnessed more than ten seconds of this performance they called Kli Ning, because it was so horrifying. I knew, when the humans raised their voices and shouted, “Company’s coming!” at each other, or, “Your mother’s arriving at five?! or, “You didn’t tell me your friend was stopping over! For God’s sake, you need to tell me these things! It’s a disaster in here!” The ritual would be especially panicked and even more fervent than usual.

But the humans were not at home, and so Vakum was not appeased. He shrieked away in his closet and no one came to release him. I cowered in the far corner of the bedroom for twenty minutes, digging my claws into the bedspread to ease my fears, yowling intermittently, hoping that if he heard my cries, Vakum would be merciful towards me. I fluffed my fur into a fearsome spiky arrangement I used to warn off enemies. I arched my back and raised my tail. But Vakum could not see me, and so this was not useful – and, after all, what could I do against this angry beast, who was so much more powerful than I was?

Vacuum was relentless in his wails. Gods, he must be angry. But why?

I began to understand the reason. My humans had not appeared in about seven days, which I had not minded, but apparently, Vakum had decided that he minded greatly. They’d left me food, and water, and had someone check in on me a few times, but I didn’t like her, so I hid from her.

Seven days, I mused. The humans had performed Kli Ning before they left. So that was it, then: he was angered because he had not been fed according to schedule. If the humans did not perform Kli Ning, one of them usually started shouting about it before they brought out Vakum and gave him a quick turn around the apartment. Then the shouting human would say to the other human, "I'm sorry! I just get stressed out when it's dirty in here!" And the other human would say, "I know. Come here and give me a kiss."

The important thing, the thing that seemed to cause stress upon both of them, was that they had not fed Vakum in a timely manner. I had previously thought Vakum was something like a more powerful cat, who didn't even need to move on his own, but who had somehow enslaved the humans to do his bidding and roll him around the house so he didn't need to exert himself whatsoever. If I hadn't enjoyed running, jumping, and playing so much, I might have attempted to do the same, to simply yowl at the humans until they did what I wanted without lifting a paw to help myself.

But now I understood. Vakum was no animal, but truly a god: he was more powerful, even, than an indoor cat. He needed a sacrifice of crumbs, and dust, and to know that the furniture had been moved around the floors. He would be especially hungry after his long imprisonment, and if I wanted to stop him from killing us all in his anger, Vakum’s wrath must be appeased.

I knew what I had to do. I was not human, but I could move things around – off windowsills, at least. I’d been practicing my vertical jumping for years, and now it was time to put it to use. I streaked into the living room, my fur in a riot of fear, and leapt as high as I could towards the ledge. I couldn’t usually make it up here, as the radiator was too slippery for my paws to gain purchase, but desperate times call for heroic measures. I landed on the radiator, and then, scrabbling frantically, managed to wedge all four paws against it surface. I leapt to the windowsill, knocking into one of the large green leafy things in my way. It fell to the floor with a smash.

There were so many of these tall green growing things on this ledge – why did the humans prize them? They did nothing, and the humans wouldn’t even let me chew on them, which at least would have made them useful to somebody. So they might as well be sacrificed to the angry god before he killed us all in his fury. I batted down another of the green things, which shuddered, then bobbled against the windowsill and finally tipped over, scattering black earth all over the soft rug below.

Good: the floor was covered in debris. Vakum would be pleased about that. For good measure, I sacrificed the third green thing to the floor as well, feeling a sense of relief as its container smashed into fragments and the greenery blended with the dirt in which it had been planted. One never could be too generous when appeasing an angry god.

It was very important, I knew, to move heavy objects around the room for Vakum. I could not move chairs or other furniture. But, perhaps Vakum would be so hungry, the humans would have to feed him on the tabletop as well as the floor. And I could cover the table with food for him.

There was a clear glassy thing on the table which always sat there. Sometimes the humans put sprigs of dying greenery into this thing – another sort of offering which was replaced every so often, given to other invisible god in propitiant ritual. Unfortunately, the glassy thing was empty now, meaning there were no additional objects to scatter over the tabletop. I brushed my side against its surface, knocking it over. As it rolled along the table, I whacked it with my tail for good measure. It smashed to the floor with a piercing crack.

Excellent – there were many shards of glass for him to eat, now. I hoped Vakum liked glass. Best to find more things to offer, though, because he was still shrieking away in his closet like a beast cruelly chained. I couldn’t stand it another minute.

Ah, yes, there should be dust – Vakum needed dust. That was something I knew he liked to eat. In utter desperation, I ran to the thing the humans called “get away from there!” and dug my claws into its thick fabric. I shredded it wildly. Its fibers flew from my paws and hovered in the air before gently falling to the ground in a satisfying pile.

There – I’d made dust, and a lot of it. What more could I do? But no, Vakum was still howling, his guts belching, his voice hoarse. Oh no. Oh no. Was the roof going to fall on my head? I ran to the far corner of the bedroom, and in my desperation, I peed there.

I didn’t know if he’d like that or not. I can’t even pretend it was something I decided to do consciously. I’d just about lost my mind with fear.

And then, in answer to my fervent prayers, there was a scraping sound at the front door. Two voices, voices I knew well, were talking to each other, yelling above Vakum’s roar.

“What is that sound?”

“Is that the Vacuum? Why on earth is the vacuum running right now?”

“Did the cat somehow –“

The front door creaked open. I tore, wildly, towards its freedom.

“Hey, Petey!” greeted the human as I streaked past him. “What’s going on, buddy?”

I don’t know what those words were supposed to indicate, except that the humans were untroubled by the promise that Vakum was going to imminently destroy everything around him. I hissed and yowled and ran into the shrubbery.

“Petey! Come back here!”

And then, from inside the apartment, came an even more highly-pitched scream than the one Vakum was making.

“PETEY!!” shrieked the human. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

\*\*\*

It was all right, in the end. Just as I’d thought, the humans released Vakum and treated him to an absolute feast, like none he’d ever eaten before. He roared around the rooms of the house for an entire hour, belching in his satisfaction. I hid in the bedroom as the humans yelled many things at each other about what I’d done to save us all.

“The vacuum must’ve scared the cat, when it turned on in the closet somehow, and he went crazy.”

“Well, no kidding, he did. He turned into a little tornado. He must have been totally freaked out. How many plants did he knock over?”

“All three of ‘em. Darn it, now I’ll have to repot them. Most of the stems of my violet are broken and he trashed my peace lily. I hope they’ll live. And he broke my nice vase, and he – oh no. Oh, come look what he did to the couch…

“Oh my God.”

“Petey.”

“Petey.”

I heard my own name and licked my paws in satisfaction. They must be thanking me that I’d saved them from their god’s wrath; that I’d prepared such a great feast for him, to spare them the trouble of scattering their own crumbs on the ground and festooning the floor with dust when they arrived home. They would have been tired, and would have only prepared a meager meal for him, instead of this lavish spread I'd arranged.

“He hasn’t done anything crazy in the bedroom, has he?”

“Doubt it. He usually just hides there quietly.”

“Should I go check him, or –“

“Nah, leave him alone until we’re done. He should be fine there.”

I sniffed at the spot where I’d peed. I wondered if they’d take Vakum there to eat that, too.

I couldn’t wait for all the head-pats I’d get in reward. I wondered if they’d open their special cans of nice food for me. It seemed only justified, after all my efforts.

submitted by /u/eros_bittersweet [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2UEcv6f

[happycakestories]

old mx fic dump pt. 6

more aus from a certain period 

rich heir ot4 au - cowritten with @deardystopia :)

“Fuck,” Jooheon whines, digging the heel of his foot into the bare arch of Changkyun’s back. “Come on - hurry up, already.”

“God, you’re needy-” Changkyun mutters with a choked moan, scrabbling to keep Jooheon’s wriggling body pressed against his.

“You love it,” Jooheon gasps as he arches up against the younger man, connecting their bodies together in one searing line of sweat and skin. His brain is melting, pooling directly out of his ears, but in the best ways possible.

Changkyun bites off a swear against the plushness of Jooheon’s glistening bottom lip, closing his eyes as he slowly melts into the soft heat that shifts beneath him, surrounding him like the steam from a hot, winter’s day bath. There’s a slow simmer coiling in the base of his gut, pulsing with every dragging thrust into the other’s tight warmth, and Changkyun isn't sure if he can hold out for much longer.

But well, judging from his frantic writhing, that’s exactly what Jooheon is aiming for.

Changkyun pushes in, sloppy and loose, swallowing down the sweet cry that trembles against his gasping mouth in response as the oncoming waves of release begin to unravel within him when-

“...I’ll take one more step to you, I’ll only look at you, even if I lose my everything, I won’t regret it…”

They both pause, Changkyun shuddering on the very edge of his string-tight control, Jooheon clenching and unclenching hazily around his length as the ballad-y ringtone of a certain familiar someone blaring through the speakers of his facedown phone finally registers through the haze in his mind. In a moment, Changkyun goes from practically melting in a sleeve of tight heat to suddenly tumbling back onto his bare ass, cock bobbing upright and undisturbed against the flat plane of his stomach.

There’s the bruising impact of a careless kick pulsing along his bony shoulder, and he sits up gloomily, pressing a velveteen pillow over his painfully hard crotch. The older boy pays his sulky demeanor no mind, casually resting on propped elbows as he stretches across the maroon sheets for his buzzing phone. Changkyun swallows impulsively, eyes glued to the shining slickness between Jooheon’s rosy, perky cheeks. Liquid heat shoots up his stomach again, and he presses the pillow even tighter over his weeping length, nevermind the fact that the 14k won embroidery over fine velvet will presumably be ruined beyond salvation by tomorrow morning.

“Yeah..hyung...yes! I’m staying over at Changkyunnie’s place...no, no we’re fine...okay, okay! Don’t worry...I have it set up already…”

Jooheon’s murmured (and sometimes whined) words blur into a background of soft noise, and Changkyun decides to focus on the pout of swollen lips as they meld smoothly into various syllables instead. The sloping arch of the elder’s back curves into the supple flesh of his backside, with only a slight indentation before a tight ass meets an equally impressive set of thighs, quickly blending into strong calves and pointed feet that kick nonchalantly back and forth through the air. If Changkyun looks hard enough he’s sure Jooheon would be twirling a plastic telephone cord around a pointed finger, strawberry-flavored bubblegum blown up with a pop! between glossy, pink lips as he rolls his eyes in the exaggerated manner all teenage girls in 70’s chick flicks do.

“Alright, see you tomorrow!” Changkyun swears there’s an audible click of phone in receiver as well.

Finally, Jooheon is turning back to him, still spread so easily over Changkyun’s 800 thread-count Egyptian sheets, the maroon of the fabric seeping into the flushed heat of his bare body. Brown eyes glimmer, slim and amused when the younger’s only response is to hunch over his aching crotch and glare.

Suddenly, the smooth line of his body is coiling and arching, the sheets slipping into decadent ridges as Jooheon crawls towards Changkyun on all fours, ass high in the air like a playful cat. There’s the same teasing smile pulling across his dimpled cheeks, and the younger boy defensively places his hands against the Gucci pillow.

“Come on Changkyunnie,” Jooheon coos, batting aside Changkyun’s interlaced fingers like a thread of loose yarn before settling the cool imprint of his mouth in a searing kiss against the boy’s inner thigh. He huffs out a wet breath, laughing with a hint of sharp teeth over the shivering flesh there and grins, flashing his signature dimples up at the younger boy’s sulky frown.

“Let me make it up to you.”

The pillow is forgotten for the rest of the night.

-

It’s almost 9 a.m. as Changkyun opens his eyes slowly, his body hyper-conscious of the fact that soon, breakfast will be delivered by the housemaid like it is every morning. The sound of some peaceful, slow breathing and the disgustingly sweet honey-scented perfume that lingers in the air, makes him remember the unforgettable night he had.

Jooheon is for sure not a morning person, Changkyun knows it, but looking at him feels like being awake inside a vivid dream. His erotic figure is enhanced by the draped maroon sheets, covering him like a second skin until his broad pale shoulders are the only strips of skin emerging out from them. Arms coiled under the Gucci pillow, Jooheon rests upon on it with his left cheek facing Changkyun’s side of the bed, a smile lingering, innocent and serene upon those sinful heart-shaped lips, curved with a hint of a dimple. Changkyun can’t stop looking at him, the young model’s gaze going from the outline of the other’s butt cheeks to the nape of his neck, connecting to the curled locks of white hair.

His black roots showing through look absolutely adorable and it definitely doesn’t stop Changkyun from stroking and interlocking his fingers between them, feeling the softness of Jooheon’s hair.

“Hyung? Are you awake?” Of course he isn’t, but a man can dream.

“Hyung?” Changkyun tries again, now caressing his cheek.

No signs of life, but with a knock and then a respectful greeting, the housemaid leaves a tray full of delicacies on the luxurious bed, near the model's’ feet. She goes the same way she entered, leaving them alone once again.

“Jooheon hyung, wake up!” Changkyun stamps a hard kiss on the other’s head “There’s breakfast...?”

It seems he said the right words because a pair of shimmering eyes meet his, looking quite lost for a moment. That disorientation melts away a few moments later as the smell of fresh Gaeran toasts, pastries, and an extremely hot americano completely take over.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, isn’t it? Changkyun considers it with a hint of smugness as Jooheon gets up with a smile and stretches an arm over to steal a piece of chocolate cake. His mouth is smeared with it, crumbs carelessly falling onto the sheets.

“Who called you last night, and why was it so important for you to answer?” The younger model has to ask out of the curiosity, harbored and eating him up from the inside ever since yesterday. Jooheon blinks, mouth full - was that a hint of jealousy?

“It was Kihyun hyung - you know I have to answer at all times when it’s him.” Jooheon mumbles with his mouth full, more crumbs dropping from sticky lips.

“Your tutor?” Something finally clicks in Changkyun’s early morning mind “…When will your father stop controlling you?”

Jooheon pouts at the blunt remark, immediately retorting, “When will you start modeling like a pro?”

“When will you start modeling on an actual schedule?” Changkyun snaps back, entirely dry wit, which quickly earns him a small slap on the back of his head.

The older model sighs and pouts adorably, crossing his arms against his chest and looks at the the younger boy like he wants to slap all over again.

He doesn’t really want to talk about his work, or this situation - Changkyun knows it.

For sure though, he’s always highly requested at the agency for his, lightly put, “unique” features –  at least that’s what the photographers say all the time - or, most likely, because that exact model agency is owned by his father. So he’s never short of work when casting calls come out, but everything is just so incredibly complicated and boring, he absolutely hates having to explain his own messed up thoughts.

“I just want to do what I want.” … Well maybe it wasn’t that complicated to explain. “Working full time is boring and I need some moments, maybe many many moments, to relax between shoots, do all the shit I like and everything. I basically have no freedom, and I have to stay there all day… And honestly, I don’t understand how you do that to yourself.”

Well, maybe because I need to work to maintain my life – Changkyun wants to say, but he bites his tongue knowing how touchy Jooheon gets about literally anything that involves himself.

“I don’t know either hyung,” he mumbles as his final answer, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated motion. He then sits up to reach for a Gaeran toast, preferring savory things in the mornings to start the day.

Jooheon doesn’t notice the eye roll, distracted immediately after his answer by food again, now attempting to shove a Vanilla Long John into his mouth, fragrant cream filling bursting onto his tongue with each small bite.

“I think… last night wasn’t enough for you to be forgiven” Changkyun’s smile shimmers while he crawls over to the older model, toast tossed back on the tray, shortening the distance between them as he imagines dipping his fingers into the drowning chocolate pools of the older boy’s eyes.

“Mh…?” Jooheon raises one eyebrow, looking at him, perplexed.

A hand comes to wipe off some cream from the right corner of his cherubic lips, and Changkyun nonchalantly licks his own fingers clean, holding Jooheon’s sharp gaze. His gesture says more than any words could.

Jooheon doesn’t look impressed at all though.

Awkward silence starts. The vanilla Long John still held in mid-air as the younger model’s heart beats faster and faster, flickering back and forth between fear and expectations.

Jooheon smiles, but it’s not the smile Changkyun was waiting for. It’s tilted and overly sweet, mocking him.

The asshole’s mocking him? Is this because last night he couldn’t hold himself much longer after the phone call…?

“I guess I’ll be forgiven another time, then.” He snorts and finishes his vanilla pastry in one bite, getting up from the bed stark naked and heads to the bathroom with his clothes in one hand and his phone in the other.

Changkyun sighs, appetite lost and his crotch aching with the same phantom pain from last night. Nothing will be the same anymore, the night before was such a lie.

The bathroom door suddenly opens, and his expectations perk up again, thinking that maybe Jooheon just wanted to joke around with his ‘situation’ and was just being a bit of an asshole in general.

“Ah, you’re coming tonight at the club, aren’t you?” Jooheon asks casually.

“Yes…?” Changkyun’s heart skips a beat.

“Ok! Just asked cause the hyungs were asking in the group chat. Check it sometime, okay?”

The bathroom door closes.

Everything is a lie.

-

CLUB SCENE

-

“Where’s Jooheon?” Kihyun asks with a serious gaze, eyebrows furrowing even more than the usual, stopping a maid in the corridor coming down from the opposite side of the hall.

“The young master is currently sleeping sir. He asked to not be disturbed,” she replies with an apologetic look, nodding slightly. Both of them knew that Jooheon didn’t ask to not be disturbed, he shouldn’t really be sleeping at this hour of the day with his daily schedule, but at this point, nobody ever tried anymore to wake him up after various “incidents.” A person was even bitten on their hand, but luckily they survived and only a few stitches were needed. In the mornings he tended to be quite irritable, no joke. Especially after massive hangovers from clubbing all night with his model friends and coming home at impossible times in the dead of the night.

“I see.” The young master’s tutor sighs and pushes his glasses on the ridge of his nose with the help of a pointed index finger, eyebrows still furrowed “You can carry on with your tasks, I’ll wake him up myself.”  

Here it is now, one of the thoughts that usually never leaves his mind and comes and goes whenever things like these happens. And they happen maybe too many times during a full week. He’s definitely not getting paid enough for this.

Kihyun dismiss the maid with a simple hand gesture, she bows respectfully to him before leaving through one of the adjacent hallways as he march straight into Jooheon’s room.

The model’s room is the last one down the corridor and one of the biggest on the floor, consisting of a big main room with his bed and various amenities, an entire room designated as closet (that would turn anyone pale from how many clothes, accessories, and shoes he has) and a small “studio,” where in reality everybody knows he just uses it to watch porn on an expensive Apple computer.

The tutor’s pocket watch points to 12.30 pm. It was LATE. Terribly and unfashionably LATE.

Clam down Kihyun, calm down. He repeats the mantra a few times in a whisper to himself to keep a cool head and enters the beast’s lair.

Everything was like he expected it to be. The room is in complete darkness, all the curtains closed and shut completely as to not let even a small crack of noon sunlight illuminate the mussed bed. A deep and relaxed snore breaks the silence periodically, signaling that the beast is indeed there.

Before calling him by his name, knowing that he wouldn’t even obtain a response, Kihyun takes out his tablet clenched under his left arm and takes a few flash photos where the bed would be. Then, he goes straight to the windows and with a simple push of a button situated near them, the curtains rise up automatically.

Suddenly the room is filled with hot and bright light and the pained vampire screeches.

“Jooheon, it’s not my job to wake you up and force you to go to work. You’re almost 23 years old, you disgrace.”

As Kihyun moves closer to the bed, the tablet still in his hands to catch every moment of the encounter, Jooheon whines and covers himself completely, hiding under the pastel blue blankets to not have sunlight in his face.

“Hyung, my head hurts and I’m tired, let me sleep in peace please,” can be heard from a muffled voice.

Kihyun ruthlessly shoots more photos of the blanketed lump as he speaks “You had a photoshoot at 11:00, almost two hours have passed! The agency called me, asking me what happened and why you weren’t there with them! At the end they decided to reschedule it for tomorrow. But don’t you have any idea of how much time and money you made your father lose with this behavior?”

“No,” the same muffled voice answers from under the blankets “He has a lot of money and I don’t think he’ll go bankrupt from this.”

“It’s true, he won’t go bankrupt for a missed photoshoot, but he will lose his credibility with his associates and his workers. Any other model would have been fired in your position. You’re still here because your father is the owner of the agency. Didn’t you tell me that you wanted to try and prove yourself to the others to show that you’re not there just thanks to him?”

That morning Kihyun didn’t want to spare any words or prep the pill sweetly for Jooheon. He wanted to make him feel guilty… And it was without a doubt working, that was the only way to make him understand his responsabilities.

The blankets become a mess and settle after a while with Jooheon sitting cross-legged on the bed, only his white-haired head peeking out from them, but he still holds them around him as a temporary hood. His expression was that of a kicked puppy and nobody could resist it, except Kihyun that became immune after knowing him for years.

“Hyung…yesterday it was really a strenuous night and I didn’t hear the alarm clock, ok? It’s not my fault.” He sighs, lowering his head, but looking up at Kihyun’s eyes as if he were one of those little puppies behind a shop window, trying to break his stone-cold heart “Also my watch was set for another time as I forgot to change it after I stepped down from yesterday’s flight.”

The tutor looks at him as if he were inside an episode of The Office. He was immune at that point to Jooheon’s pleading gazes.

“It is your fault, why would it be due to an alarm clock? An inanimate object? Also I won’t comment about your watch… You have to be responsible at your age, but since you’re acting like a child, I’ll treat you like one.”

“What- What do you mean hyung?” Jooheon frowns and pouts, not understanding what Kihyun had in mind, but seeing him taking more photos with that damn tablet, and afterwards, writing something on it, it didn’t made him think of anything good.

Kihyun doesn’t answer, still tapping his fingers on the screen, not even looking at him for a second and using a dramatic pause after the bomb he just dropped to let stew Jooheon for a while as he deserved it.

“Hyung…?”

Only after a few minutes does the tutor raise his gaze from the tablet screen to meet the model’s, scrutinizing him from head to the toes peeking out from under the blankets.

“Tonight you won’t go out.”

“But-“ Jooheon’s protest dies fast, dominated by Kihyun’s angry voice, ready to scold him some more.

“Tonight you won’t got to the club, you’ll stay here at home and you will go to bed early. Tomorrow morning I want to see you at the agency doing your photoshoot professionally, and I don’t want to hear any complaints.” He purses his lips rearranging his glasses on top of his nose, steaming a bit. “I will give instructions to the servants to not let you out.”

“But I have to meet with Changkyun… It’s important!” Jooheon pleads with a low whine.

“I’m not soft like your father is with you. This decision won’t be discussed any further.”

Without giving him any more time to whine about it, Kihyun turns around and exits the room,  maintaining a general aura of severity about himself.

Jooheon rubs a hand down his face, then wearily ruffling through his bed hair. He couldn’t easily get out from that situation. Kihyun was kind of an “adoptive mother” to him, he could enforce his authority in any way, while with his father, a pleading look was all that was needed to win him over with any stupid request. Even though, now he didn’t feel like confronting him on his tutor’s decision. His father was probably disappointed with the re-scheduled photoshoot… But one way or another he would have still gone out.

He promised it to Changkyun the night before… Maybe. He doesn’t remember clearly, but he is sure that they definitely talked about something important.

In the end he did fail to get out, not even by disguising himself dressed as a servant.

Also he discovered later on that he and Changkyun, the night before, half drunk and wasted, talked about perfume scented toilet paper. Like, why do they make vanilla or spring flowers scented toilet paper? You use it just for a task and the effort in making it scented is practically not needed??  

Kihyun that morning, or shall we say afternoon, wrote a complete report of what happened in the forenoon to Mr.Lee, attaching some of the photos he shoot of Jooheon.

Dear Mr. Lee,

I writing to you today for the weekly report about your son. I prefer to send it earlier than the end of the week, when we usually get in touch, because today certain problems came up.

This morning it came to my attention that the young master didn’t attend the photoshoot that was scheduled for today at 11:00 am . All the workers and photographers waited for him, but as he never showed up, there was a delay between other shoots causing the schedule of the entire agency a bigger delay.

As you may see, after many reprimands he lacks responsibility and I hope today we can set up an appointment to talk about it.

I already have in mind a solution to solve this situation and make him understand what is really important in life.

My considerations and proofs are attached. I look forward to speaking with you soon and will call later to set up the appointment.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Yoo Kihyun

Attachments: Report10/11.doc , Blankets_photo1.jpg , Jooheon_In_Blankets_photo2.jpg , Jooheon_In_Blankets_photo3.jpg , Jooheon_In_Blankets_Not_Sorry _photo4.jpg

dirty crime + police thriller au - also with @deardystopia

“All nearest units to warehouse 14, five meters off the bay, I repeat-”

Changkyun snaps out of his mental doze, blinking rapidly as he comes back to himself, parked, stationary in his speeding watchout spot next to a completely desolate street. A string of coordinates is blasting out of the receiver perched on his dashboard, and Changkyun scrambles to input the numbers with tense fingers into his gps.

A map pulls up a minute or so later, and Changkyun scooches forward to make sure of the route, heart in his throat as he realizes - among all the units, he’s the closest one to the location by far.

Well, whatever the emergency call is, he decides pulling on his seatbelt, setting his fingers in a clenched grip around the worn leather of the wheel as he pushes hard on the acceleration, it’ll be far more interesting than watching an empty road for speeding cars ever could.

-

Warehouse 14, Changkyun reads silently, the words echoing like a threat inside his mind. The ‘w’ of the first word is fading, dripping down the side of the grey building like the thick mucus of stale yogurt. The rest of the word isn’t faring too well either, the ‘14’ included. What must have been a clear, sharp outline has been weathered into an inscrutable grey by a combination of seagull excrement and the salty ocean breeze.

Changkyun shivers, the same breeze brushing through his open sleeves and out his popped collar, seemingly leading right into the slight crack in the propped open door of the building. If the sight of the creaking warehouse alone wasn’t ominous enough, then he would surely be on edge by now. Emergency calls don’t come often, and they rarely ever lead to completely abandoned docks stations with entrances opened ever-so-slightly.

Changkyun pulls a handgun out of his holster, cocking it at the ready in one hand as he edges towards the warehouse. At the door, he hesitates before thumbing off the safety with a heavy click and a burning intake of breath as he tries to prepare himself for whatever is inside. No matter what it could be, he considers grimly, pushing open the metal door with a grating scream of rusted metal, gun whipping straight into the air, something is definitely up.

The dim light of the warehouse flickers spottily, like something out of an old timey interrogation scene, and Changkyun has to squint through the dancing shadows, looking past the barrel of his gun to see if there’s anything truly there.

A wet cough sounds, followed by something Changkyun could only describe as a broken moan, and he immediately whips his gun over to the source of the sound, edging towards it with slow steps, one foot in front of the other as he peers into the dirty corner of the building. It must be fate’s cruel play because the buzzing of the spasming lightbulb finally settles into a steady spotlight for enough bare moments that Changkyun can finally identify exactly what the emergency call was made for: strung up, blindfolded and gagged from underneath an industrial hook.

His partner, Lee Jooheon.

The handgun loosens, slipping out of its cocked position as Changkyun’s hands shake, their owner in absolute shock as he takes in the scene before him.

And what a scene it is.

Jooheon’s hands are bound, twisted in mid-air as if he were prostrated in prayer, but there’s a distinct lack of religious purity from the black blindfold tied across his eyes and the rough gag forced into his mouth. A soft moan makes itself known again from swollen, shiny lips and Changkyun can’t help but continue to stare, looking over the rest of his partner’s bound figure. Jooheon is practically forced into a half-kneel, legs spread apart as his upper body is pulled taut from the looped knot on the industrial hook swinging overhead. His thighs tremble minutely from what must’ve been prolonged effort, holding his body up in a limbo that’s neither quite upright nor a relaxed sit. The warehouse light glances over the two men, lighting up the flashes of red on Jooheon’s tensed thighs, and Changkyun’s eyes widen just a fraction further as he looks over slashed slivers on pale soft flesh, the thin expanse of it marked up, if barely, by paper-thin knife cuts.

The bay wind howls with laughter outside as Jooheon shifts, attempting to press his legs together, and the warehouse’s spotty light calls Changkyun’s numbed attention to a distinctly dark shadow on his partner’s crotch - a wet spot, his mind whispers without a moment’s hesitation.

Slashed pants, unzipped fly, popped buttons and a bare collarbone - Changkyun’s shaking pupils rove over Jooheon’s hair in  complete disarray and the blotchy flush in his cheeks and - oh God-

“..lease,” comes desperate and muffled through the gag stuffed in Jooheon’s parched mouth, and Changkyun snaps out of his shock, quickly flicking the safety back on and shoving the handgun back into his shoulder holster as he removes the knife clipped to his belt. A questioning sound winds out from between Jooheon’s stretched lips, vulnerable and soft as he feels the rope binding his hands beginning to swing erratically, and his heart skips a beat, daring to hope for a rescue again.

Seconds later his bindings are snapping and his thighs automatically give out, so he forces his eyes shut under the blindfold, bracing himself face-first for immediate impact against the cold cement of the warehouse floor. However, the only impact that comes is the warm length of a human arm, wound securely around his chest in a steady hold as another hand, assumedly from the same mysterious savior, yanks off the stale strips of cloth pulled over his eyes and mouth.

“-kyunie, Changkyun-” Jooheon stumbles over his own swollen tongue in his attempt at exhausted gratitude as he looks into a pair of familiar hazel eyes, directed upon his own gaze with a shade of obvious worry and something else he can’t exactly read under the trembling shadows. None of that matters now, he decides, mouth working around broken sounds as he tries to utter his thanks to his partner’s tense stare. In the end, he settles for closing his aching eyes and throwing his arms around the younger man, knocking the both of them to the ground with a resounding oomph.

There’s a pause, Changkyun tensing under his shaking body in pure surprise before a hesitant touch is sliding over his back, slowly returning Jooheon’s erratic embrace in his own quiet, careful way. The older man sniffles, attempting to ignore the cold wetness smeared over his cut thighs, the throbbing ache around his bruised wrists, the ghosting of dry touches across his bared collarbones - choosing to bury his nose into the crook of Changkyun’s warm neck instead, into the familiar scent of hasty aftershave and sharp cinnamon as he tries to forget every terrible thing that was done to him - forced upon him - this stormy afternoon.

Creak - there’s the same sound of the warehouse door opening again, followed then by a series of firm footsteps, plodding steady, fast approaching, and they both look up, still locked in an unflattering embrace across the dusty warehouse floor, as a figure comes to tower before them.

Hoseok smiles, the tail end of his investigator’s coat just barely brushing against the ankles of his pressed slacks as he stops before the junior policemen sprawled together on the ground. Jooheon makes eye contact with his own distorted self in the tip of the older man’s glimmering dress shoes and immediately winces at the wide-eyed, teary reflection blinking back at him in the flickering yellow light.

Hoseok hooks his fingers into his pockets, tilting his crinkled, half-moon gaze sideways in regards to the strange scene before him. “So,” he chances to ask, a chuckle bubbling at the top of his throat, “what did I miss?”

dystopian mafia verse - or as i had so lovingly coined it  "A TENSE PLAY OF DECEPTION AND POWER" haha

District 11C’s street lamp flickers as Jooheon crosses through to 12D. It’s much less official than it sounds: a hop over scraggly wire fences and he’s in.

bruh i was kinda going towards B like

ck would be like relatively new to joining the mafia

so he wouldn't understand jooheon's position in things and keeps trying to find him or make him stay, which like disturbs the balance of things

but obviously jooheon has to try and maintain his position or else he's in trouble so eventually people start to notice that little bias he has for ck's group and shit starts to go down

and then they totally start hunting him down because then what he knows is now dangerous and he can't be trusted to be a neutral messenger for all sides

so obviously ck takes advantage of the situation

o like when changkyun keeps chasing him down for apparently no reason

lol what if he sends his own men like "a message for the messenger" and its like something like small trinkets like gov't banned books or an earring or smth

no that like has to be part of his original outfit

makes him reconizable

and like eventually when jooheon has nowhere else to turn changkyun lets him in w/ no question not demanding anything and it’s so soft and warm jooheon must be dreaming

until the day ck tells him he has to be marked with their x, "kinda like that cross you wear" he laughs adorably in the way that Jooheon has seen him smile about small kids or baby kittens, but his statement is nothing innocent

*his statement contains nothing innocent about it

"what" he whispers mouth dry in shock, and changkyun casually lays back against him as if they're just two school boys hiding a shared secret from dumb teachers

"it's nothing much, im just thinking..." and he pulls jooheon's still thin wrist across his eyes speculatively, "something here would be good" as he traces two curled lines across the shuddering pulse

" i wear mine with pride," he grins as he pulls down his shirt collar, Jooheon shaking minutely as changkyun touches his fingers to the tattoo

"it's not that bad is it?" as the other claps a hand over his mouth to hide his gasp. "other gangs do so much worse" he comments carelessly, "ours is just some ink on skin" pressing harder on jooheon's running pulse

dystopian mafia verse au!

A world run on corrupt politics, where the true power lays in scattered gangs that run certain areas.

You either work for the government and police or for the mafia if you want a secure spot in society, and of course those caught in between aren’t so lucky.

Jooheon’s one of those people, caught in the middle with no other place go. He’s a messenger of sorts, between gangs, between police, between anyone really that has something they want to pass on.

There’s nothing else he can do, but joining either one or the other would surely result in his death, so he continues on in this in between state. It’s worked out well enough for him over the years, enough to eat, enough to wear, enough to survive.

The same ratty combat boots and oversized striped black jacket are what he’s become known for, the mafia members cheerily sitting down with him for a cup of coffee and the police turning a blind eye when he needs to huddle a bit for warmth in their stations during the winter.

He’s forever on the move, never able to settle down in one place; otherwise how else could he ensure everyone gets their messages delivered?

Most of the parties on both sides know who he is and his general neutrality, so as long as he stays in this double sided position, his life will never truly be in danger.

Still he’s been proposed to before. A pretty pet on the arm of a mafia boss, or an inside informant for the government with a clean uniform and steady wage. He shudders at both options; he’d rather keep his ratty jacket and rootless homes than become either one of those things.

He’s satisfied with where he is, he thinks. The streets are cold at night, but someone’s always open to share, and today he guesses it’s the local mafia.

He’s recently delivered a message to them about an important arms deal, so they’re generous today, beckoning him in from inside a local club. The offer him an stripper’s room that’s not booked today and he takes it with no question. Better than the streets where anyone can get to him; he’ll take the stained cushions gladly over that. He passes out with his coat tucked around him and cheek pressed uncomfortably against the armrest.

Now, it’s no secret that everyone knows who he is: the messenger, the informant, but he’s got another kind of reputation too. Thick thighs, full cheeks, and pouty lips: people notice things after a while. It’s definitely not helped by those tight leather pants he insists on wearing all the time, the women coo, and the men banter about seeing what he’s hiding underneath that big coat of his.

To be honest, Jooheon hadn’t been able to afford anything else when he first started the job. The pants were cheap and uncomfortable, but they’re durable enough, and that’s all he needs. His coat, one of the few gifts he received in return for his work. He had shuddered helplessly in the cold, and had turned away to vy for a sleeping spot in a nearby police station, but one of the men he had just passed a message to tossed a brand new coat at him before he could leave.

��Without your delivery today,” he nods coldly, “we would have all died. So, thanks.” He turns without another word, face dimming into the darkened street, and Jooheon quickly wraps the coat around himself. It seems too good to be true: the coat is brand new and heavily lined, if only a bit oversized. The other man had been tall and lanky, like one of those grinning fashion models he sees stamped in color throughout distributed magazines, but his face was terribly grim, lips drawn into a frown.

He’s forever indebted, but it’s likely he’ll never be able to pay him back. Jooheon doesn’t bother to wonder about what happened to him.

OPTION B: ck is the son of a mafia boss and he befriends honey

WHAT IF IN THE AU HE KNOWS ITS STUPID BUT THERE'S A STILL PART OF HIM THAT TRIES TO HOLD ON TO THIS PURE BELIEF THAT A GOD ON HIGH CAN HEAR HIS PLEAS

AND SO HE WEARS THAT CROSS EARRING

AND WHAT IF EVERY FEW DAYS HE FINDS A RAMSACKLED CHURCH TO PRAY

its like spread by word that sometimes you can spot a hunched figure praying in the church, same black jacket and ratty boots, earring glinting in the light of the stained glass windows

f course that means jooheon doesn't get to do it very often so he treasures it when he can, thinking about his mother and father as he clasps his hands tightly in prayer

its like really emotional for him, and what if ck actually finds him there one day, deciding to fool around with whispered rumors

"so it's true" he murmurs in awe. jooheon still hasn't noticed him, head bowed in prayer but he jumps at the echo of steps behind him. his eyes are wet and changkyun slowly kneels down beside him, something he hasn't done in years. "do you really believe in this kind of stuff," he questions

Jooheon rubs his eyes and looks away. "It's the only thing I have left to hold onto."

changkyun sits down, dust settling into his clothes as he waits for the other to finish

when jooheon finally finishes with a whispered "amen" he dares to speak.

His voice is a little rough from staying silent for so long and it resonates deeply against the hallowed walls as he says, "does this make you happy, doing this with no one to hear you and no acknowledgement in return?” "yes," the other replies, no hesitation at all, "we all believe in something after all." Changkyun hums as he considers his options. "I think," he picks his words carefully, "you'll be safe to pray here anytime you like." the messenger whips his head around, earring flashing silver in the light. "what do you mean?" he questions desperately. "It means come here whenever you want. Don’t worry about being spotted either," Changkyun says as he stands and dusts off his pants. He walks away leaving jooheon kneeling confused on the floor, as he plans out how quickly he can acquire this piece of territory in order to attract a certain little blackbird back to him.

bruh i was kinda going towards B like

ck would be like relatively new to joining the mafia

so he wouldn't understand jooheon's position in things and keeps trying to find him or make him stay, which like disturbs the balance of things

but obviously jooheon has to try and maintain his position or else he's in trouble so eventually people start to notice that little bias he has for ck's group and shit starts to go down

and then they totally start hunting him down because then what he knows is now dangerous and he can't be trusted to be a neutral messenger for all sides

so obviously ck takes advantage of the situation

"A TENSE PLAY OF DECEPTION AND POWER" - The Times

since jooheon's always been on the run like he doesn't have lasting human contact

yes i write like an old wordy white guy

so like when changkyun keeps chasing him down for apparently no reason

lol what if he sends his own men like "a message for the messenger" and its like something like small trinkets like gov't banned books or an earring or smth

oh oh i just thought of somteh

what if like ck's gang is obviously mx and so they have those tattoos right

and like eventually when jooheon has nowhere else to turn changkyun lets him in w/ no question not demanding anything and its so soft and warm jooheon must be dreaming

until the day ck tells him he has to be marked with their x, "kinda like that cross you wear" he laughs adorably in the way that Jooheon has seen him smile about small kids or baby kittens, but his statement is nothing innocent

*his statement contains nothing innocent about it

"what" he whispers mouth dry in shock, and changkyun casually lays back against him as if they're just two school boys hiding a shared secret from their classmates

we'll say wrist cause more deep potential that way

im checking, the hoe has his on his chest

ck has it on the neck i know

" i wear mine with pride," he grins as he pulls down his shirt collar, Jooheon shaking minutely as changkyun touches his fingers to the emblazoned X

"it's not that bad is it?" as the other claps a hand over his mouth to hide his gasp. "other gangs do so much worse" he comments carelessly, "ours is just some ink on skin" pressing harder on jooheon's running pulse

so like: finally jooheon whispers out, "why - why would you put it on a place like this?" and Changkyun looks at him with hooded eyes, " isn't it obvious? my life for my work, for my members my family" he stresses fiercely

he laughs again in the same childish manner, but this time it seems too cold, too cruel, and jooheon starts to pull away

(can u believe it's so hard to find these blasted marks? in one scene kihyun has it behind his ear, in another he has it on the hand, the others are impossible to find)

changkyuns own thin fingers tighten again and he asks with amusement in his voice, "you know hoseok," at the other's silence he continues casually, "well he calls himself wonho," and he pauses to snort at the ironic meaning, "with the exhibitionist that he is, i can't believe you haven't noticed yet,"

(dude yeah like wtf i was looking for them too and some of them are so inconsistent)

"his tattoo?" Jooheon breathes out quietly, and changkyun skates a finger right under his protruding collarbones. "It's over his heart," the other boy states simply, "cheesy right?" and he giggles again

there: "it's basically over his heart, at this point," and he giggles childishly, "cheesy right?"

"you're obligated for only two little marks, think of it like a cross" he says eyes shifting to watch Jooheon's glinting earring

"that's it" he finishes monitoring the other's doubtful look

"of course, that doesn't mean you can't get any more of your own free will," he adds on subtely, finally releasing the other's wrist

"it's quite the form of art, don't you think, mixing ink into your own blood?" and he undoes his cuff to reveal a swirl of cherry blossoms creeping up his arm. "i think it suits the kind of business we do perfectly"

Jooheon stares transfixed. he can't take his eyes away from the way the petals dip into the curves of the boy's arm, how the branches snake perfectly across his veins, and the way the whole tattoo seems to ripple and shake, as if coming alive with the shifting of changkyun's muscles

"it's pretty, isn't it," he whispers as Jooheon drifts closer, pulled in like a moth to the light.

"shame we don't see anything that pretty anymore in this world," hooded gaze on the back of jooheon's pale neck. The other nods dazedly in agreement, because its true; flowers don't bloom here anymore, killed by the heavy industrial smoke and the constant press of machines

"well maybe that's not all true," changkyun hums more to himself than to the other boy. jooheon jerks up and out of his reverie, brows furrowed in silent question

the cherry branches suddenly press themselves against his cheek as Changkyun angles jooheon's face toward his own, "your lips have always reminded me of peony petals,"

"more delicate than any flower," he murmurs, eyes shifting over his stunned face, before hardening in determination. "I can't let you fade like they did"

fingers digging deeply into his skin, before he surges so closely Jooheon almost goes crosseyed at trying to keep eye contact

"let me keep you" he whispers, breath curling against his lips, "flowers die out there" the words themselves seeming to hurt him as he says them with a grimace,"it’s safer in the wolf's den than out in there in the wild" and his fingers curl softly as they run through his hair. "I can protect you here, if you stay with me."

jooheon jerks out of his grip trembling as he shrinks away from Changkyun. the other boy goes to follow him, cherry branches growing rapidly, but he stops, his dark expression fading into a sulky pout

"i'll give you some time to think about it," he sighs, standing up and rolling his cuff back down, the blossoms shrinking back into the dark sleeve

jooheon stays hunched away, too scared to look into changkyun's eyes, afraid of what he might see. "Just know," he feels the words brush disconcertingly close, as if right behind his ear, "there's nowhere else to go.

the air whooshes with his steps and the door clicks closed behind him, but jooheon stays frozen, the words still crawling across his skin

its only until he's sure the retreating footsteps are gone that he dares to move, dropping like a rock against the bed, pulling his jacket tightly around him

yeah like i was imagining jooheon resting in his room and ck coming to visit him, and he's like kinda a kid so jooheon didn't think anything of it when he flopped down next to him moaning about boring gang duties

also i was planning on jooheon to wake up from the strip club couch to a face looming above his and he like totally panics and drops to the floor

cause new gang in town and guess who just took over the area

and he's like "who are you? what group are you part of"

and jooheon's like "none" and ck's eyes sharpen as he steps over Jooheon, "don't tell me you're part of the police?"

suddenly a slim hand reaches from behind the boy and pulls him off of Jooheon.

It's him. the cold, pretty man from before who had thrown him the coat. "don't bother" he states simply to the other man, "he doesn't belong anywhere."

the shorter one squints in confusion and jooheon fumbles to get up, grabbing the coat while he does it.