#it's like the nose-goes method of duty assignment

[lizasweetling]

Wow, they really don't want to talk to her! Makes me that much more interested in what was important enough to get them here in the first place

[plush-rabbit]

The Brothers + Diavolo Making You Flustered

Request: Hi!hi! The aphrodisiac writing was absolutely *chefs kiss*. I have this habit of when I get embarrassed/flustered I immediately bury my face into the surface in front of me. Like if I’m sitting on the floor I’ll lean over and bury my face on the carpet, sitting at a table I’ll lean over and plant my face on the surface etc. How do you think the brothers (+diavolo if that’s okay) would react to seeing MC do that for the first time when they make them flustered? You’re so talented by the way! ily!

Word Count: 1K each

A/N: I hope you like this!! It was a bit difficult since i didn't want to make everything the same, but yeah!!

-

Lucifer:

His sleeves are rolled up, flour coating the tips of his fingers and dusting across his apron, and the smell of garlic and onion fills the room. It smells lovely, it smells like a home. You stand beside Lucifer, watching as the water boils, bubbles fizzling out and steam rising. A box of noodles is held in your hands, your eyes peering over to where the bread is held in his hands. Your tongue peeks between your lips- it’s a soft pink, tinged with blue from candy and for a moment, he forgets himself, wanting to taste the candy that rests on your tongue, wishing that he were your lips to feel the gentle caress of your tongue.

“Remind me what we’re making again?” You ask, sniffing at the pot, only to scrunch your nose at the scent. “And why it’s us making it?”

“A Devildom dish,” he responds, giving a side glance. “It’s similar enough to a human cousine, so you needn’t worry about it being anything unsavory.” He turns to you, his smile almost teasing. “And we’re making it because it’s our turn on cooking duty.”

“If you wanted to spend time with me, you could always ask.” While your words are true, he tries to hold his composure, not wanting to reveal that you had hit the nail on its head. “You don’t have to assign us both to cooking duty. It’s pretty sneaky for you, dear Lucifer.” Your hand pats at his back and he promptly turns away from you

Walking away from you, he starts the timer on the oven, the preheat button lights up as the oven begins to glow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I drew our names on a complete random.” He turns to you, his smile making you unable to see what he’s really thinking. “Do you not wish to spend time with me?” he asks cooly, walking towards you. Despite the flour on his hands that dusts over his face, and the apron wrapped around him, he still holds an aura of confidence and authority that makes you break away from his gaze first.

“You’re absolutely awful,” you mutter, giving him a grin to let him know that it was a playful insult.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he coos, his grin wicked and cool at the same time. “I must not be totally awful if you still wish to spend time with me.” You groan, shaking your head with a smile on your lips and he turns to hide his more giddy smile, smiling calmly when the oven beeps. The preheat session is done. He opens the oven, a wave of hot air making him knit his brows together for a moment. “There’s no need to be ashamed of being so fond of me. I am Pride, it’s only natural that you would gravitate towards me.” He grabs the rack of bread, carefully slipping it inside the oven and closing the door.

“Well you’re a lot more than Pride to me.” His eyes widen and he turns to you, his body facing towards the oven with his head half-turned. “You’re Lucifer. You’re someone close to me and well, I actually am glad that we got to spend time together. I would love to hear you admit that you simply wanted to spend time with me, but-” you shrug- “you’ve got that stubborn pride that I can’t help but adore.” You turn to him, a cheeky smile on your face that matches the light in your eyes.

It’s silent between the two of you. It’s comforting, one that is welcomed and isn’t making either of you awkward. He watches as you carefully stir the pot, your index skimming under the words of the cookbook. Your brows furrow as you carefully read over the direction, careful to not add the wrong ingredient or wrong measurement. You’re methodical, carefully going about everything, and in the kitchen with Lucifer, he can’t help but smile at you, his smile soft and eyes crinkled as he watches you carefully.

“I know I haven’t told you this enough- or perhaps before-” silverware clinks together as he reaches over from a baking brush, his eyes never leaving yours- “but I’m actually quite proud of you.” He tears his gaze away from you, his smile widening and his chest puffing. “You have this knack about you that makes it so easy for others to fall for you, that I have to admit that even I have fallen victim to you.” The baguettes are painted over with a mixture of garlic and spices, his words never stopping or falling to hesitation as he speaks. “You’re-” he sighs, not knowing how to put what he wants to say into words- “I’ve been Lucifer for such a long time, living and holding power, but I must say, when I’m around you, I feel more me than I ever had in my entire existence.” He turns his body to you, his hands open and knuckles brushing over your cheek, a thin line of white left against your face. “I’m glad that I’ve gotten to meet you.”

His eyes widen, his words finally registering to his ears. He looks up, eyes meeting the stone wall before he turns to you, his mouth agape and hands still holding a baguette, and the baking brush. The garlic and onion sizzle on the stove, the yellow glow of the kitchen and the buzzing sounds of the outside do everything to fill the room, not a single ounce of silence is graced to either of you.

“You can’t just say stuff like that!” You say in a hurried tone, your face hot enough that you can feel sweat start to bead. “It’s- It’s-” you can’t find the proper words, it isn’t embarrassing but it isn’t something that you hear everyday- “Ah!” You decided, burying your face further into the table, your hands cushioning the blow.

His hand claps over your back, slowly rubbing between your shoulder blades in an attempt to soothe you over. “I would have thought you would have enjoyed hearing the truth,” he teases lightly. “Was I wrong about that assumption?” he presses, his elbow nudging against your shoulder where you still lay with your head rested in your hands.

You peer upwards, your face slowly revealed to show a flushed color that makes his chest puff with pride, his smile . “You wanna know why I know that you wanted to spend time with me?” Lucifer raises his brows in confusion. “I hadn’t written down my name yet.” His smile twitches away for a moment. “You called it before I could even write my name down.” You smile at him, your smile gentle. “I still have the paper in my pocket. You really like me, huh Lucifer?”

Mammon:

Textbooks are left open, pencils and pens sprawled over the coffee table as you and Mammon rest on the couch. He talks vividly, and as he’s excited to tell you stories of his past, his mouth works faster, skipping over details and returning to them moments later. Your hands are wrapped tight around his bicep, your face hidden as you try to stifle your laughter. He can feel your hands tighten, the way that you cling to him and even try to push yourself closer to him. “So that was when I decided to just grab all the things I could carry and just book it!” Mammon exclaims, clapping his hands together and extending his right arm forward. “You should’ve seen how angry those witches were, but hell, they deserved it for thinking they could pull one over on me.” He turns to you, his grin wicked, slowly widening as he leans back cautiously to not let you move away from him. “Fuckers should’ve known to not touch my stuff.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head and leaning onto him. His smile twitches for a second, softening into a gentler smile, watching as you turn your face into his arm, trying to stifle your laughter. It’s loud, infectious and it’s something that reminds him of a spring day that he once spent in the Human Realm. He isn’t sure how to explain it- something about it that screams life and youth, something that sounds so unapologetically like you, that it makes him breathless. When you start to pull away, he lets his grin widen, eager to look at you again.

He’s so close to you, your hand within arm’s reach that if he really wanted to, he could just take it in his. His mouth goes dry, his tongue too invasive in his own mouth and he watches as you adjust your hair, his eyes fixated on how your hair slips through your fingers. There are words stuck in his throat, but no matter what he thinks of to say, he isn’t sure what he should say. He’s at a loss, wondering what would be the perfect way to bring back the mood, to continue the conversation without it being forced, but in all honesty, he’s fine, just sitting here with you. He’s more than fine with just staring at you.

“Hey, Mammon?” He jolts at his name being said, a shock running through his spine. He nods his head, swallowing what little saliva is in his mouth. “I really like hearing your stories, you know?” You smile softly at the book in your hands. He watches you with unblinking eyes, wondering what it is that you’re getting at. “I really just like listening to your voice. I know you were stuck with me at first-” internally he flinches, he doesn’t like to reminisce when you were first put under his charge- “but I’m glad that it was you.” He is left breathless, his muscles tense as you look at him, a smile stretching past your lips and gracing your lips. You look at him for a moment, your eyes darting to where his hand is clenched tightly and you nod to yourself, turning your attention back to the book.

You’re facing away from him, your fingertips tracing over the edge of a page as you try to focus on the words but he can tell from the pout on your lips that you aren’t registering anything from the book. What should he say? What can he say? He knows he has to say something. He knows that he should match your energy or at least attempt to but he can’t. There are so many things he wants to tell you, and they all seem so disorganized. You’re pretty. You’re nice to him and you always let him sneak into your bedroom late at night. You rely on him and as much as you need him, he needs you more. You have such a soft touch that it leaves him tingling all over as if some ghost were the one responsible for it. He lets out a slow breath, his lips parted slightly as he breathes out. “You know,” he says quietly, his fingers twitching and moving to clutch at the end of your shirt, “you got a real nice laugh. It’s nice to spend time with you, ya know?” Once he’s started talking, he’s unable to quiet himself, unable to register the things that he’s saying to you. “I like hanging out with other demons and all, but there’s something about you that I like more. It’s like with you-” his hand waves in the air, eyes glancing around your room- “I get to just feel safe. I get to relax and know that I can count on you. And I want you to know that no matter what, I’ll always be on your side. Forever and ever.” Mammon turns his head, his smile stretched wide and hand going to cover yours. “You turned me into a sap, ya know?’”

The moment is tender as he smiles down at you, only to slowly realize the weight of his words as you stop in your movements, your fingers letting the page fall back to the others, words lost upon themselves as your shoulders rise. His eyes widen and his lips thin. Heat creeps upwards from his chest and scorches its way to mar his features, his face turning into a darker shade as he flushes. His mouth goes dry, unable to produce any type of saliva as he sits beside you. Slowly, his mouth parts, and he’s unable to find the words to deny what he just said, but before he can, you curl in on yourself, burying your way into your hands, your hands spread and fingers parting to cover as much of your face as it can.

“I-” he coughs loudly into the rook of his elbow. You can tell that he wants to resort to his usual denial of feelings but he stops himself before he can even reach the middle of his sentence. “Listen, just because you-” you can feel his eyes on you- “will ya look up at me? I’m not gonna tear your head off or anything, I just don’t want you getting a bigger head than you already have.” You slowly turn to him, watching as he tries to avoid your gaze. “Let’s just go get a bite to eat. We can’t study on empty stomachs or whatever.” He rises quickly, his hand held out to you as he keeps his attention out on the door. “Come on, I’ll pay for ya and everything.”

Your lips thin and you look at his hand. You inhale a sharp breath of air, slowly letting it go. His face is still flushed, a deep color that burns against his skin. “Like a date?” You ask, hoping to see more of his reactions. He stiffens at your question, his brows furrowing to meet each other. He stammers out a response, clearly flustered. You lay your hand on his and he immediately quiets down. You smile at yourself, your heart skipping a beat as you realize that it was you who brought him to such a state. Slowly, his hand curls with yours and he gives a brief nod of his head.

Leviathan:

Leviathan sits alone in his room, a blanket pooled around his lower half, his eyes have begun to burn, tinged with red from lack of sleep as bright colors flash across his pale face. An empty bowl save for kernels that rest at the bottom of the bowl, his fingertips tinged with red and he can feel his mouth heavy with acid and past snacks.

His hands tap against his controller, his fingers already reaching toward a button before he can even register what he should press. His mind is on autopilot, reaching and stiffening when an enemy nears and even so, his character is still killed. He lets out a frustrated groan, careful to throw his controller towards his pillows and not the walls- he can’t risk losing yet another controller; least of all having to patch a hole- or in his case, covering it with a poster. His hands are thrown into the air, fingers outstretched before they are curled into a fist. He arches his back forward, the heels of his hands cushioning his eyes. He tears up slightly, wincing at the sudden realization of burning pain that lingers in his eyes. Slowly, he pulls away just in time to hear his door creak open.

“Password,” he says with a lack of conviction, turning slightly to watch as you enter with a bag in your hand. He raises his brows, his arm stretching outward as he blindly searches for his controller. “What do you have there?” He jerks his chin, returning his attention to the game in front of him.

The light clicks on- something bright that fills the room in a soft blue that stretches around him. He winces at the sudden light, the controller dropped onto his lap as he rubs his eyes vigorously. If it weren’t obvious enough that he kept himself secluded in his room, it was obvious from the way that he rubbed at his eyes, and had to blink multiple times before he could finally look at you without shielding his eyes. You end him a wicked smile that slowly grows until you reveal your teeth, the bag in your hand held slightly tighter. In response, he sticks his tongue out at you, his cheeks tinted with a pale shade of pink.

“I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to defeat the boss,” you say, walking towards the bathtub where he sits. You sit in front of the porcelain, your gaze fixated on a television system that he has set up for a more immersive gameplay experience. When you are met with a lack of response, you turn your head to see him with narrowed eyes. “What? No witty remark?” Once more, you’re met with silence. “Levi?”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “I- Fuck, you know?” This time, he’s met with silence. “First, I can’t get the concert tickets, then I can’t even get the new figure and now, I can’t even defeat this stupid game.” His cheeks fill with air, and he slowly lets the breath go past his lips. “And the concert was going to have passes to meet them behind the stage and the figure was signed and-” his character dies once more and the controller is tossed pitifully onto the pillow. He leans over the tub, his arms crossed under his chin, and his eyes on you. “My luck isn’t usually so bad, you know?”

You pat the floor beside you, your hand meeting the cold tile. “Come on, sit beside me,” you comment, shuffling over a few inches to give him even more space. With a huff, he rises out of the tub, small bits of crumbs falling onto the porcelain. He sits beside you, his arm brushing against yours but neither of you make an effort to move.

“I’m sitting, now what?” He asks, the television blurry as it replays his death with the words “Game Over” in bold letters.

“Well, Levi-” you hand him the bag, with fingers pinched over the handles- “since you’re having such rotten luck, why don’t you open the bag?”

He gives you a narrowed stare, slowly retrieving the bag from you and pulling out the pastel colored tissue paper. At the bottom of the bag sits a box, the words of a favorite anime of his stamped beside with the usual font. His heart skips a beat, as he slowly clasps his hand around the box, his fingers pushing against the plastic and he gaps, reality crashing onto him like a wave.

“It’s-” he doesn’t even finish saying the sentence, your nod is an answer to everything. “The figure that I wanted- I- How?” He asks, looking at the box, so worried that if he were to take his eyes away, the box would vanish.

“Ah, ah-” you wag your finger in the air- “that is a story for another time, my dear Leviathan.” You sound so smug and a smile is already evident in your words.

He bounces in his seat, his legs shaking rapidly, knees softly knocking against each other as he lets his excitement show. His hands flap eagerly, his smile wide and eyes closed. A sharp breath is sucked between his teeth, as he stares at you with bright eyes. You’re startled, your shoulders raising a few centimeters into the air with wide eyes as you stare at him. A nervous smile stretches across your face with him so close to you and looking at you with such eager eyes. If you were to be honest with yourself, you’re a bit flustered with how he looks at you. Your heart races and it beats against your chest, rattling at your ribs and echoing against your body. You nod rapidly, gulping what little moisture you have in your mouth when he grabs your hands tightly in him.

He shouts your name, enthusiasm laced into his word, his hands pulling yours close to his chest. “Ah! You’re the absolute best!” His smile is so wide that it’s almost comical, leaving you smiling both in response to and because of him. “I’m so glad that you’re here! Of course, you’d be my Henry!” He drops your hands and pulls you in for a hug, squeezing tightly around you, his head nuzzled into the curve of your neck. “I don’t know what I would do without you, but I’m just glad that you’re the one that’s with me!” He pulls away, his hands now holding onto your biceps. Deep breaths exhale through him, his chest rising and dipping rhythmically. He calls your name and it’s sweet like honey on his tongue. “You really are the best. I mean,” his tone becomes softer, his smile less eager and more true, “you do so much for me. I couldn't ever imagine my life without you. You mean so much to me.”

“Levi,” you mumble, and when his hands fall from you and return to hold the box, you pull the bag towards your face, hiding away from him. Your neck grows hot, scorching your skin and making you breathless. “I’m glad that you like it,” you manage to squeak out, the bag further pressed towards you.

A few seconds pass until he finally realizes why you’ve pulled the bag to your face. Leviathan stiffens, clearing his throat and turning away, his hand covering his lower half of the face. The figurine sits beside him with a delicate smile plastered on their face. With the air so light and heavy, he reached into the tub, eager to pull out the controller. With a meek cough, he fumbles with the controller, passing it over to you, with his eyes still glued on the figurine. “Would you like a turn? Maybe you’re better than me.” He can feel his chest tighten when his fingertips brush against yours and the hundredth time, the game tune plays in the room.

Satan:

Satan’s eyes narrow unconsciously as he reads over the same page for the tenth time. No matter what, he is unable to focus on the words, the letters and lines meshing into one that nothing fully registers past the first word of the page. If he were to be honest with himself, nothing has registered since the last few pages that he’s read. With a huff, he closes the book, a small gust of air blowing at the hair that rests over his forehead. The book rests on the table beside him, nudging against the lamp that makes the room flicker for a brief moment.

The room is filled with sound, the hum of the air conditioner unit, the distant sounds of footsteps and talk across the house, the demonic animals that roam around outside. He’s sure that if he were to focus, he’d even hear the scratching of a pen. Scratch that- he can now that he thought about it. All the sounds make his skin crawl, uncomfortable and itchy and as he drags his nails across his arm, he’s only offered a second of relief before the feeling returns. He leans against the chair, his neck arched over the back of it, as he lets his eyes flutter to a close, the bright light of the library barely shining through his closed eyelids. It’s not like to be so distracted- especially when it comes to a favorite pastime of his. And yet, his mind is distracted, wandering to images of you where you were talking to others that weren’t him. He isn’t the jealous type- at least, not when he compares himself to his brother, but it seems that you brought out something different for him.

His leg twitches and there’s a burning sensation on his arm that he chooses to ignore. It only intensifies when he hears footsteps approaching. The sensation spreads and becomes sharper, insatiable as it burrows itself in the demon. There is a presence standing beside him and he already knows that it’s you. He can tell by the steps, by the breathing, by your scent. He frowns at the thought. He doesn’t know if it’s romantic or not to know such small details about you.

Something clicks- your knee, perhaps- and your hand rests above his slender one, cupping and still, there are gaps where his skin is unfortunate enough to not to be touched by you. “Satan?” You call out to him in a quiet voice- not quite a whisper but not your usual volume either. “Are you asleep?”

“Is it you wondering or someone else?” He responds, slowly opening his eyes and turning his head, meeting the top of yours. “Is there something that you need?” He makes no effort to move, stuck in his position as he is content just sitting on a chair with your hand over his.

“It’s me,” you answer him, turning your head to meet his eyes. His lips slowly turn into a smile with his eyes slowly growing heavy. “You don’t normally sleep in the library without cause. You okay?” Your hand slips from his and his eyes widen his hand closing into a fist, already missing your touch. But, he is soon reconnected with your hand as it rests on his forehead. You soon look down at him with pursed lips. “I- uh, I can’t tell if you have a fever or not.”

He smiles at you and sits up straight, holding in a moan when his back is already sore, feeling the muscles whine as they had already grown taut. “No- No I just, I have quite a few things on my mind, is all.” He gingerly goes to grab your hand in his, uncaring that your eyes are on him and that the door is open for anyone to walk in and see Wrath so tender. “I’m sorry that I worried you.”

Your hand in his is turned, pulled slightly away but not enough to be taken away from his grasp. You walk from the side of the chair to stand in front of him, and when you meet his eyes, you nod down, gesturing to his lap. He smiles softly, nodding his head and leaning back, humming under his breath when you situate yourself on his lap, your head resting on his shoulder.

“You’re oddly touchy today,” he comments, his hand curved on your lap as the one he held is moved to behind his neck, your fingertips barely touching his collarbone. “Did I do something to deserve this?”

You give a half-hearted hum, and in the corner of his eye, he can tell that you have closed your eyes. “Think of it as a way to make you feel better.” You give him a play tap and he nods, his eyes staring straight ahead, lost against the colorful spines of the books. “So what does have you so worked up?”

Is now his chance? Is he now able to tell you the full extent of his feelings? He has you sitting on his lap, comforting him in a way that few people would ever dare to. There's feelings there, bubbling and forming on both ends and he knows that it’s both ends. It’s you that is on his mind. Filtering in when you shouldn’t, invading every space of his that he has until he’s completely overwhelmed. It’s a strong feeling, something that rivals his own wrath and for the first time, he welcomes it- he doesn’t put up a fight against it. He wants to feel whatever it is that you make him feel. He wants the intensity of it until he’s exhausted, until the wrath that has been boiling inside of him ever since he can remember, can finally evaporate, can finally be extinguished.

You call his name once more and he looks at you, his smile tight and eyes closed for a moment. “How do I tell you that I care for you in a way that says exactly what I’m trying to say without scaring you off?” His eyes close and his hand turns over on your thigh, palm open and empty. “How do I tell you that you’re the thing on my mind? That it’s you that is reducing me into a mess at the simple thought of you.” He turns his head enough, shrugging his shoulder to make sure that you’re looking back at him, your chest still and the hand that you had relaxed, is slowly crawling over to his open one. “The thought of you warps into this- this jealous demon that isn’t exactly something I’m fond of. I you to myself and yet, that I want you to myself and that the thought of you with anyone else, makes me more of wrath than I have ever been.” Your hand closes above his and he nods slowly, clasping his hand over yours. “It’s you, and it’ll always be you.”

With a jolt, his words finally register to him. He turns to face you, but you’re buried into his shoulder, your hand holding tightly onto his, as if he were your lifeline and the one over his shoulder is grasping at his sweater, bunching the knit fabric into a mess. Your heart beats over the sound of the room, the hum of the electricity erased, the steps and chatter muffled under you. He smiles softly, a slow chuckle taking over, until he’s laughing widely, his chest shaking and vibrating under you with every laugh. You moan his name and he can only say the first letters of an apology before his laughter takes over.

“Really, really- I’m not laughing at you,” he says through an attempt at laughter. “I just forgot how different you are. How you always seem to change depending on your mood.” He feels a harsh pat against him, your head shaking as you press further into him. “Please, never change,” he says with a laugh at the end, his head turning, his lips meeting against the side of yours in a quick press.

Asmodeus:

He’s flawless. He has to be. Or, maybe he’s just naturally like that. You are not the best when it comes to reading Asmodeus- too enthralled by him that you can’t seemingly tell when he’s told a joke or not that pertains to his beauty. Very little of it matters to you- you may appreciate that he is quite gorgeous, but you’ve also gotten to know the demon that embodies Lust.

Perhaps it’s because he knows who he is, that he is Lust, that he has to appear the best at all times. He can never make a mistake or it’ll be all that’s talked about- he knows as well as anyone else how easily a reputation can be damaged. However, when he looks at you, he doesn’t have to worry about that. He still wants to look his best for you, but he knows that if he were to slip, you wouldn’t see him any differently than how others see him.

You sleep beside him, nestled under his covers, the blanket pulled a little bit past your lips. Your hair is askew, small strands that stick up or curl around your face. Slowly, he takes a slender finger and softens the hair back to you, smiling when you try to lean into his touch. Your eyes flutter open, and you turn before he can see you, yawning and stretching your arms upwards, the cover crumpling above you. You lie still for a few more seconds and he sits upwards, daring to peek at your face. As if already knowing that he was going to watch you, you run a hand through your hair in an attempt to make yourself look more refined, to fix your appearance before him. You rub your eyes with a knuckle, turning to him and opening your mouth only to have a yawn cut through.

“Did you have a good nap?” Asmodeus asks, watching as you stretch your limbs, your muscles pulled taut as you let out a whine of satisfaction. You nod in response to him. “I’m glad. You know, I do have to tell you that you were right. I try not to ruin my sleep schedule but that nap felt simply divine. I think I feel more rested than I usually do.”

You smile at him, turning over to rest your head on his chest. His hand immediately comes to curve over the back of your head. “I like sleeping with you. You have such a soft bed and you always give such nice hugs.” He laughs in response, his hand lowering to hold near your shoulder. “It’s true. Devildom is still-” you take a brief pause- “different. And somehow, when I’m with you, all my worries are just-” you blow out a gentle puff of air- “gone.”

“I’m here for whenever you need me. All you have to do is just call,” he comments, his hand running past the sleeve of your shirt, his index and middle fingers touching against your warm skin. “I think it’s almost time for dinner. Would you like to accompany me? I’d be more than happy to take you to that little restaurant we found the other day.”

The edge of your sleeve is toyed with, pinched between the fingers and released. His hand returns to where it lay only to be disturbed when you rise, causing his hand to rest beside him. You give him a blinding smile that makes his heart flutter as he looks at you. “I’d be more than happy to, but I would like to get ready before we go out.” He raises a brow at you, tilting his head to encourage you to continue. “I want to look my best for you.” You lean forward and he smiles, fully ready for a kiss, only to have you pull away and kiss his shoulder. He frowns, his lips pushing towards a pout as he looks at you.

“Not even a kiss?” He asks, a tease of playfulness loosely attached to his words. “I have to say that I’m hurt.” He watches as you move, curling your legs underneath you as you watch him with a hint of smile on your face. “After all that I do for you, and yet, you have the gall to deny me a simple kiss?” he lets out a huff, not trying to hide the smile that graces his features and you. “You should be ashamed of yourself. There are demons who would kiss my steps to even look at me.”

“Asmo,” you call to him and he quiets, looking at you with expectant eyes. Despite him being the demon who can be considered one of the strongest- and is- you’re still the one who holds all the power in the relationship. He nods, encouraging you to continue. “Why do you want to go out with me?”

He can’t help the smile that forms, that twists the already playful one into something more bitter. It’s a question that he asked himself the first time he realized his feelings towards you. He could have it all and you’re just a human with minimal magical abilities. He’s met countless lifeforms who were and are beautiful, their beauty forever imprinted and never seeming to age. But, he still chooses you. And he’s content with that. He’s more than happy that he’s with you.

His thumb traces over your bottom lip, his eyes focused on your cupid’s bow. “You know, there are times when I look at you and I wonder if you see yourself the way that I see you.” He knows what to say, it all comes so natural to him when he compliments you. “Your scars and blemishes, the stretch marks around your tummy and how they pale and wrap around you. The little moles that you have are kissed along your sides and cheeks.” His thumb moves down and now his hand holds yours. “I have to be perfect- I have to be loved and admired, but then I see you and I think to myself how as long as I’m loved by you, that’s enough. You really have changed me in a way I never saw myself. Beauty means everything to me- or at least it did. But now I have you, and I have to admit, that I prefer you over anything else in the world.” He leans forward and lets his lips press against the corners of yours. “I want to go out with you, because to me, you’re the best that there will ever be.”

It all happens in a flash, seeing your face darken, feeling the hand slowly shake and then your face is hidden by the covers. He can hear you whine his name, and when his hand touches between your shoulder blades, his nimble fingers reaching above the collar of your shirt and touching your neck, he can feel how hot it is. He laughs as his arms reach around you and pull you close to him, giggling and accepting your odd human behavior.

Beelzebub:

Detention is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock, but other than that it’s silent. The room is occupied by a total of three people- you, Beelzebub, and the unfortunate professor that is stuck to watch over the two of you who scrolls through their D.D.D. while music plays loudly every now and then. You suspect they are on an app similar to one from the Human Realm, complete with word play and aesthetic from Devildom.

You turn over to Beelzebub, quirking your brows when you see him scribbling over a paper with a pen. You peer over, sitting straighter to get a closer look only to find him mindlessly doodling, similar drawings cover the paper in blue ink. As if feeling your stare, he turns to you with slightly wide eyes before relaxing them, sending you a smile and raising his paper, to show you his work. You return the smile, pleased at his cute antics and his boyish smile. You send him a thumbs up, before the professor coughs, catching the attention from the two of you.

They stand up, their tail curling around their leg and with a yawn, they expose their teeth. Their phone is stuffed into their pocket as they slowly walk to the front of the desk. “I’ll be back. I expect the two of you to still be here. You both have an hour left.” With that, they walk to the door, the heels of their shoes clicking, the door creaking before it finally closes leaving you and Beelzebub alone in a room.

Immediately, you turn to Beelzebub, your chair squeaking as you shift it hastily. “Beel,” you say excitedly, patting your hands on your thighs. He answers with a hum, tilting his head to the side to show that he is listening to you. “You have power over the professors, don't you?” You see the corner of his lip twitch upwards. “I mean you're the Avatar of Gluttony, can’t you just get us both out of here?”

The pen is set down and he leans back on his chair, his legs sliding underneath the desk until they are stretched to their full length. He turns to you, his smile lazy and eyes half-lidded. “I don’t feel like getting in trouble anymore than I already have.” His smile is crooked, teeth barely glimpsing from behind his lips.

“But we’re already in trouble,” you try to argue, pushing forward. “Please?” You lean forward, holding onto his bicep, with a pout on your lips. “If I use the pact powers, I’ll probably be the only one in trouble.”

He snickers, crossing his arms and lowering his head to side his smile. “We have an hour.” He looks up at you, a hand coming to cover yours. “Just sit and wait, okay? I’ll treat you out later.” You stick your tongue out at him and he laughs, pulling away from your touch and turning his own chair to face you, his hand resting over the desk, pulling on the tip of the pen until it is pulled underneath his hand. “What makes you want to go home so early anyways?”

“Why don’t you wanna go home?” You shoot back, your arm bent above the desk, with your chin resting on the palm of your hand. He shrugs in response, his attention back to the paper as he starts to bounce the pen between his index finger and thumb. “What are you drawing, anyways?” it doesn’t go unnoticed that he stiffens at your question, his lips pulling into a thin line as his leg starts to bounce. “It’s the same image, right? Like the same character that you’re drawing?” You lean closer, watching as he bounces the pen faster in his hand.

“It’s- It’s for art class,” he responds, clearing his throat. His hands grab at the paper and for a moment you think he’s about to crumble the paper, but instead he slips it between a notebook, careful to not let an edge slip out before it’s stuffed into his bag. “We have to draw-” he hesitates, squirming under your attention- “a thing.”

“I thought sports took care of your electives?” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, turning his attention to the board smeared with chalky remains. “Oh? Are you lying to me?” Your hand flutters to your heart, your voice faux hurt as your slump over in your seat. “Beelzebub, I’m actually hurt. Here I thought we were close and yet-”

“I’m drawing you,” he says, effectively making you stop in your theatrics. You turn to him, your mouth parted. “I wanted to draw you and give it to you as a gift but I can’t get your smile right.”

“Well that didn’t take much probing,” you mutter, scooting your chair closer to him, the toe of your shoe nudging against his backpack.

“I don’t like lying to you,” he states, his body becoming still and eyes returning to where you sit so close to him. Close enough where he can smell your cream. “I just didn’t want you to find out.”

There’s silence between the both of you, your lips pursed as you nod. “My smile?” He nods. “It should be simple, shouldn’t it?” Just a curve and some smaller curves for the lips and boom, you’re done.” You grab his backpack, holding it in your hands, the opening pointed towards him.

“No,” he says with a frown, pulling the same notebook out and slipping out the paper. Upon closer inspection, the images of what appears to be you are roughly scribbled. They aren’t the best but the thought of him drawing something for you and being nervous about you finding out makes the drawing much sweeter. “You have a nice smile. It’s like- like,” you look up at him to see his brows furrowed. “I don’t know how to explain it. Your smile is nice. It’s a lot more than nice. When you smile at me, it’s just nice. I like seeing you happy. You smiling at me makes me feel special and I don’t want to half-ass some drawing of you. I want to make it special because you’re special to me. Your smile makes me feel warm, like I’m being hugged and everytime you smile, it always reaches your eyes and when your eyes crinkle, it’s like you’re just looking at me and that makes me feel so-” he takes a deep sigh and releases it slowly- “so safe.” His words come to a soft close, his face a warm shade of red. He lets out a nervous chuckle. “That sounds dumb, doesn’t it?” When he looks at you, you’ve curled into a ball in your seat, your face buried into his backpack. He calls your name frantically, his hands on your shoulders, only to pull away when you let out a high-pitched whine. “Did I offend you?” His name is muffled between the fabric. “Yeah?”

“You’re really sweet,” you moan pitifully, clutching the bag tighter, hoping that it effectively hides your burning face. “I think I’ll actually die from what you just said.” Your heart beats in your chest, the sweet confession echoing in your ears and when you smile, you can only hide it, not wanting him to see the wide grin that is now plastered across your face. “I’ll take any drawing that you give me.” You hold your hand out, ready to receive the unfinished work, not yet lifting your head.

His hand covers your outstretched one. “Maybe if I can see your smile right now, I’d be able to get it right,” he teases slightly. Your only response is shaking your head, giggling through the fabric as you feebly try to shake his hand away. He laughs widely, holding your hand tighter as he urges for you to look upward at him.

Belphegor:

The room is quiet, no footsteps that echo from above, no noise that travels from the stairs into the room that was once Belphegor’s prison. Beside him, you lay curled on your side, resting against him, your hand playing with a drawstring of his hoodie, playing with the frayed ends at your fingertips.

“I thought being around you would make me sleepy,” you murmur, an ill-placed yawn ruining the validity of your statement.

Even where he lays, he knows that you’re pouting, with your brows knitted together. “It seems that I am already making you quite tired. You only lasted how long?” He’d make a show of checking his nonexistent watch, but he rather not, already too comfortable in his current position to risk moving. You blow a raspberry in response and he lets out a giggle, his hand that is placed underneath you is bent to hold a strand of your hair in between his fingers. “Come on, be nice now. I can also make you unbelievably tired but unable to sleep.”

“You’re so cruel Belphegor,” you say in a whisper, your hand finally still from playing with his drawstring. “You’d take away my sleep for a simple noise? How juvenile,” you tease, nuzzling further into his side, humming when his fingers part through your hair and scratch lightly at your scalp. “Here I am, whisked away from my homework to come and nap beside you. And what do I get in return? Teasing.” The last word slowly drifted off into a simple breath of air that was tickled against his side.

It really hadn’t taken you so long to fall under his own sleeping spell. A part of him is a bit bitter, wanting to spend more time with you where the both of you were conscious and could actually talk, while the other part of him, is simply glad that you’re resting beside him, that you’ve taken time out of your day to lay next to him.

“It’s not like you don’t deserve it,” he says through a smile, twisting your hair around his index. “I mean, out of all the reactions I can get, yours is possibly the best of them.”

“Thank you,” you say, sounding a bit more like a question. “You know, I’m glad that you invited me up here. I haven't been getting the best sleep as of late.”

“You can always come to me,” he’s quick to say, eager so evident in his voice that he’s drowning in it. He wants to be near you, he wants to be with you.

“I don't want to bother you,” you confess with a faint voice.

“You could never bother me.” It’s the truth. He’d crawl to you if it meant even a fraction of your attention would be given to him. He’d do what he could just to hear your voice. You’d never be a bother to him. You’d be his saving grace. It’s silent for a moment, one where he can hear the house come alive under him and feel your breath with even more vigor than before, feeling each and every pause, every gust of air a kiss against his skin that makes him yearn for more. He calls your name, and it’s thick on his tongue- foreign and light, and yet it sounds like he’s said it countless times before, as if he knew the name by heart. You hum in response and he takes a deep breath.

His finger twirls around a small piece of your hair, letting the hair curl around his finger before he releases it, only to do the same thing once more. “I’m always surprised that you let me get so close,” he says in a quiet voice, careful to not ruin the moment but a part of him knows that it might have been ruined already when it alludes to him. He can feel your eyes on him, watching him carefully as your lips part. “I know that I’m not exactly a knight in shining armor or anything and uh-” he lets the strad of your hair go, watching it bounce in freedom- “I just want you to know that I appreciate that you even let me touch you. I really like you, you know? I think you’re a much better person than I’ll ever be.” His lips stretch into a bittersweet smile that soon falls into a frown, twisting his features into something more somber. You say his name and it makes his breath hitch, a hiccup in his throat as his name fills the momentary silence. “I mean it. I think that’s why I- why you mean so much to me. I could never be like you. I can only admire you from afar and want you for myself.” He lets out a breathless puff of air that has humor etched into it. “I just wanted you to know that you mean a lot more to me than I’ll ever be able to put into words.”

With every continuation of his words, you felt your body respond to him. Your stomach twists with butterflies causing a storm inside of you, your chest tight and the sweet relief of air has escaped your lungs, and you’re hot, heat flush against your face and creeping from your chest and upward. You wonder if he could hear every change in your breathing, in your heart that beats, in just you.

He looks at you through half closed eyes and for once, you don’t think that it’s sleep that’s causing his soft smile and tender eyes. You stiffen, your muscles going rigid under his stare. The pillow is cool under your face as you stay hidden from him, gripping at the edges and turning away from his gaze, unable to keep as tight face as a smile creeps across your face.

He laughs as you lower your head, hiding your face from his after the tender words that were shared. “Come on, was it that easy to make you flustered?” He teases, the bed dipping as he moves. His hand tugs on the pillow that is held tightly in your grasp. “Oh come on, just look up,” he whines, weakly tugging at the pillow. “Seriously, you’re so dramatic and for no reason. It shouldn’t be news to you that I like you.” His smile is clear in his voice, light and full of kittenish behavior. “If you don’t pay attention to me, I’m going to continue, you know.” His grin widens when you finally peek at him, and he can’t help but laugh.

Diavolo:

There is chatter in the room, accompanied by the heels of shoes that click against the tiled floor. The room is lit in an orange glow that makes the atmosphere of the room seem almost dream-like. You tug wine glass, pulling it closer to you, careful to not let a drop spill over and stain the pristine white tablecloth. You glance around the room, watching people chat amongst themselves, their own eyes glued to their partners.

You look at the prince before you who takes a sip from his glass, his tongue peeking to wipe at the taste on his lips. “Diavolo?” The glass is set down and he looks at you with slightly widened eyes. “When I said I wanted to go out for dinner, I was fine with just some Akudonalds or ya know-” you glance once more around the room, your gaze focused on the silverware set carefully in front of you- “anything.

“This is anything,” he says, his smile cool and hands resting above the table. “We hardly go out and when we do, the others tend to accompany us. While I enjoy their company, I’d also like to just enjoy yours. So I thought, since this is a rare occasion, we’d make the best of it.” He leans close to you, and you know that there is no malice or hidden intention with him. He is honest, able to tell you what he wants without finding it necessary to hide himself. “If you are uncomfortable with such a restaurant, we can always go somewhere else, next time.”

“It’s not that, it’s just-” you clear your throat, leaning against the table, lowering your voice- “I’ve never been to such a high-end place. I don’t want you to overspend because of me. I’m fine just going somewhere low-key.”

He laughs, shaking his head and his fingers drum against the table. I’m a prince. There’s no such thing as overspending and even if there were, I don’t mind it if it’s you that I’m doting on.” You nod slowly, your fingers running at the edge of the fork handle. “Really, there is no need to worry. I’m just happy that you agreed to join me on this outing.”

You do your best to not shake your legs, mindful of the wine beside you. “‘M glad I was able to join you as well. I- I like spending time with you.” You smile sweetly at him, a hint of nerves tracing against your smile. “I just have to admit that I was taken aback when you invited me out. I know you mentioned how it’s always us with the others, but I don’t know-” you fingers find themselves tracing around the base of the glass- “I guess I always figured you liked me because I was able to get you out of work since you know, I am part of your work. I never would have assumed that you actually wanted to spend time with me.”

For a moment, it’s silent, a brief moment that couldn't even be considered silent, just a short pause but it's enough for him. “May I admit something to you?” Diavolo asks, his hands fiddling with the napkin beside himself. You nod, leaning forward, urging him to continue. “I was always fascinated with humans. I loved humans- they were these beings who had free will and they all lived different lives but in the end they shared the same fate.” He chuckles softly and his hand goes to the stem of the wine glass. “It’s the same for demons, of course. Any life can be taken and for the most part, they have free will, but I think I love humans. Or at least I thought I did.” He looks up at you, his smile faltering for a moment as he struggles to keep it up. “But I think rather than love, I hold admiration for their humanity. For their tenacity, and kindness; their love and warmth that they have with each other. And when I look at you-” his hand leaves the glass and is left open towards you- “I’m reminded of how beautiful humans can be.” His smile turns bitter for a moment, falling and he makes no attempt to keep up the facade. “I’m reminded just how fragile they are. I need you to know that I admire humanity, but I think I love you. I love how you do your best to help those around you, how you adapt to your environment, and just how easily you can make others fall for you.” He lets out a short laugh through his nose. “If I have to be honest, I think I’m also jealous of you. I wish I were the only one who could have the opportunity to fall for you.” His hand is still held out towards you, vacant without yours.

Throughout his monologue your body has been on fire, pooling in your stomach and against your back. You stare at his empty hand, trying to will yourself to hold it but the most that you can do is lay your head on the table, silverware clicking together and a dull thud heard. You want to let out a whine but you’re sure you’ve already called attention to yourself and- oh dear. What will people think of when they see Lord Diavolo with a human who has planted their face against a table. Your thoughts race, clouding your mind as the silence in the room is deafening, echoing in your ears as you rest with your face down.

“Is this a human custom?” Diavolo asks, his voice full of genuine wonderment. “Should I also be doing it?”

“Dia,” you mumble, your body slowly squeezing against itself in order to make yourself smaller. “You can’t confess so nonchalant,” you say in a hushed whisper, wanting to let out any type of noise that is slowly building up inside of you. “It’s- It’s too much for me,” you whine, slowly raising your head to peer at him.

“Well, I am a prince- a demon one at that. I suppose you can say that there are different customs for us as well.” His smile is jovial, and he reaches across the table, his hand open and this time you take it. Unable to look him in the eye, you resort to watching as his hand slowly threads to intertwine himself with you. “I must say, if that’s the response I were to get, I might as well continue it. I rather liked whatever it was that you did.” He’s so honest, looking at you with a wide grin that shows his pointed teeth and you can’t help but bury your face once more, grinning when you hear him let out a small laugh, his hand closing around yours.

[kopikokun]

Snack Run with a Snack༄ j.jh

↳ On your usual movie night with the members, they assign you sudden snack collecting duty. You’re a little peeved, but at least Jaehyun offers to tag along. Unfortunately for you, things really aren’t going in your favour tonight.

pairing: idol!jaehyun x camera operator!reader (feat. johnny, jungwoo & doyoung)

genre: fluff, comedy, co-workers to lovers

warning(s): expletives

word count: 3526 words

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ 𝗽���𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: crush (souly had) ✧ mango love (shawn wasabi, satica) ✧ make you feel pretty (lovelytheband)

Request 39: Jaehyun x Staff!Reader during movie night where she’s an extrovert and is close to all of the members.

← BACK TO NAVI.

— 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝.

Your fortnightly movie nights are always something you anticipate eagerly, no matter how frequent or repetitive they may be. It’s always nice being able to take a breather from the grievous monotony of your daily schedule to just kick back and—essentially—do nothing. You know the rest of the members cherish these ephemeral moments too, because despite all odds, they’ll valiantly try to show up and join you, or at the very least make an appearance. Once, Ten had even barged in, still with his extensions intact.

    To be fair, you’re not any better. When you heard that Jaehyun was participating the other day, you had dropped all other priorities just to come over. Safe to say, your roommate was not pleased seeing the state of the abandoned living room.

    Your vision sweeps the perimeter of the room. Usually, it’s packed to full capacity, but there are only four others here besides you today.

    “The glasses.” Doyoung purses his lips, planting his stare on a startled Jungwoo. “Where are the glasses? I thought I told you to get them?”

    Jungwoo smacks a hand to his mouth, the sound of skin against skin so loud that you wince on his behalf. “It totally slipped my mind. Honest to God. I got sidetracked.” He clasps your—an innocent bystander’s—shoulder with such force that you physically jolt forward. Jungwoo flashes you his signature million dollar smile.“Hey, could you be a dear and help me out? I still haven’t decided what movie we should watch tonight.”

    “Yeah, sure.” You grimace, already turning on your heel, mumbling, “You didn’t have to hit me.”

    “Thanks!” he calls after you. “And sorry!”

    His voice cuts through the hurried chattering between Jaehyun and Johnny which comes into earshot as you step into the kitchen. Their mouths move at the speed of bullet trains and Jaehyun’s hands flutter around his pensive face frantically. Maybe it’s the rose-tinted lenses, but the sight endears you. The slightest of chuckles escapes your lips at his delirium.

    Their bodies seize, their zealous conversation slipping into a steady silence.

    “What’s wrong?” you smirk. “Were you guys talking about me?”

    “No,” Jaehyun snaps, so quickly that it almost prickles. “Why would we be talking about you?”

    “Ouch,” you pout, masquerading the sting with a frivolous cadence . “How mean.”

    “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “What are you doing here? I thought you were, uh, clearing the table?” There’s a nervous edge to Jaehyun’s voice which insinuates that he knows something you don’t.

    “I was, but then Jungwoo asked me to get the glasses in his stead since he’s too busy fussing over which movie we should watch.”

    Johnny laughs. “I should go help him out then, or he’ll be stuck on the selection page for ages.” He pats Jaehyun’s back as he leaves. “Don’t make a fool of yourself.”

    You toss an inquisitive glance at Jaehyun. He turns away, cheeks blooming with colour.

    Admittedly, you’re more than intrigued by what Jaehyun had been so ardently conversing about. A small part of you whispers the possibility of it being you, and your heart soars. Now you’re the one getting sidetracked. Of course, you are. This is one of the rare moments you and Jaehyun have shared alone. Although you see him almost daily, there’s always someone closeby; a fellow staff or member of the group. And while you’d consider yourself someone who thrives in social situations, there’s nothing more you desire than a few seconds in solitude with the charming man.

   You swing the plywood cupboard door open, extinguishing your idle delusions, the handle cool in your grasp. Three shelves greet your vision; each stuffed full with either miscellaneous tableware or seldom used kitchen utensils. You spot the mug you gave Mark for his birthday collecting dust in the corner and scoff bitterly. And he said it’s his ‘favourite mug’.

    Your face screws in bewilderment. Usually, the glasses are graciously arranged on the bottom shelf; easily accessible for the people who are less gifted in the height department (namely you). Strangely, today they are at the very top, shoved deep inside, so far in that you’d think that it had been done with malicious intent. If they were in the middle, perhaps you could’ve reached them with a little extra effort, but given their current position, even on your tiptoes you wouldn’t even come close. The tips of your fingers barely graze the bottom portion of the glass. You huff.

    “Do you need help?”

    Your head swivels to see a clearly humoured Jaehyun, his eyebrow arched.

   “Yeah, someone’s kept the glasses on the top shelf,” you grumble, tenaciously continuing to reach for them despite knowing that you and your height—or rather, lack of it—have been bested. “Must’ve been Johnny. The tall-ass.”

    “You’re probably right. It wouldn’t be his first time either.” You groan in exertion. “Hold on, let me help.”

    “Thanks, Jae—”

    Your eyes widen and your stature stiffens. Just the smell of his aftershave is enough to knock you out.

    Jaehyun’s chest presses against your back firmly. His hot breath tickles your neck; the fine hairs stand on end. His right arm, hugged in the most breathtaking way by a black sweatshirt, reaches forward while his left is planted on the counter in front of you, caging you in. You’ve done your fair share of ogling at Jaehyun’s more than ravishing physique before, but only from afar. At this proximity however, you can individually trace every vein on his forearm. They’re like roots branching across the ample muscle. God, you’re making it very apparent that you’re staring.

    While probably not the most proficient, you don’t dispute this method of reaching for glasses. You’re sure Jaehyun knows there are better ways to do this too.

    Stunned, you all but stare in what you can only describe as awe at Jaehyun’s side-profile. Sharp lines accentuated by peculiarly delicate features, you can’t help but imagine how it would feel like running your fingers over the curves of his cheekbones, the arch of his nose and the dip of his cupid’s bow.

    Jaehyun’s gaze latches onto yours, his arm still hanging above your head. You swallow dryly before licking your lips. Jaehyun’s jaw clenches, the movement guiding his eyes to them. The counter is digging into your hip.

    “I got the glasses,” he breathes, your vicinity means you can practically taste the mint on his tongue.

    “Thanks,” you mumble.

    Neither of you move farther or closer to each other.

    Jaehyun places the glasses beside you. “I should probably go set up the projector now.”

    “Yeah, you should.” No, don’t.

    He nods curtly, prods the inside his cheek with his tongue and shuffles out of the kitchen. You lean on the counter, recomposing yourself. Your heart pounds in your ribcage. Jaehyun’s lingering aftershave muddles any chance of a coherent thought.

    What was that?

    Sure, over the past week or two, you and Jaehyun have made your ever augmenting attraction to one another remarkably tangible, but neither of you had acted upon it. Until now.

    Dazed, you almost forget to do what you had initially come in here for. You have to literally turn a 180 to retrieve the five glasses which sit innocuously on the countertop; they lay witness to your sins.

    “So, how’d it go?”

    “Did you do it?”

    “Well, technically no, but—”

    The four men are huddled together in the middle of the living room, each with equally suspicious expressions carved into their faces. Jaehyun’s back is turned to you as he’s hunched over, almost like he’s sharing some petty gossip.

    You set the glasses down on the communal dining table, shift your weight on one leg and perch your hands on your hips like a disgruntled teacher waiting for her class to fall silent. Doyoung is first to sense your presence, nudging Johnny and jutting his chin towards you.

    You can’t suppress the snort that courses through you when—simultaneously—all four of them disperse. It looks almost rehearsed.

    “Why are you guys acting so weird today?”

   Johnny sputters, Jungwoo chokes on presumably his own spit, Doyoung makes a sound which resembles more of a wheeze than a cough, and Jaehyun’s body goes completely rigid.

    “We’re not acting weird,” scoffs Johnny.

    You’re unconvinced. Just the way the whole room was immediately shrouded in a thick cloud of tension at your question was very telling.

    “Yes, you ar—”

    “Alright then,” Jaehyun clasps both of his hands together like a middle-aged man in the midst of a conference, “the movie! Jungwoo, what did you pick this week?”

    Jungwoo hammers a fist to his heaving chest. “I picked Jojo Rabbit.”

    “Oh, Minji noona watched it the other day. She told me it was so good she cried,” Johnny says. “And she rarely—if ever—cries over movies, or anything, really.”

    “Why didn’t she and the others come over today? They’re always here for movie night.” By the others, you’re referring to the rest of the staff who are usually present. Being more or less the same age, the members naturally gravitated towards the rest of you; your closeness in years meant that you could easily relate to one another. You’d consider yourself a decently convivial person as well, which was probably another fundamental factor.

    Once again, a restless fog congests the room. You seem to have struck another nerve.

    Jungwoo tightens his grip on the remote. “They were… busy.”

    His spontaneous lie is deplorable at best, but you let it slide.

    You assume they think your conjectures have diffused because they seem to share a relieved glance; Jaehyun casts an appreciative smile to the bunch. He clears his throat. You don’t miss the mental exchange between him and Johnny, who grins wittingly.

    “How about the snacks?”

    All eyes are on you.

    Your eyebrows cinch. “What?”

    “The snacks,” Jungwoo reiterates. “You’re on snack duty.”

    The way he says it makes it sound like you were aware of this. “No, I’m not.”

    “Yeah, we told you in the groupchat,” Doyoung says. Jungwoo seems to be restraining a smile.

    “No, you in fact, did not.” Scorned by this blatant accusation, you begin fishing your phone from your front pocket to show the others that none of you had come to that agreement.

    Jaehyun’s hand coils around your wrist, halting your movements. “I’ll come.”

    “I’m sorry?”

    “I’ll come along with you to get the snacks,” his grip loosens, “if you want me to.”

    “Oh.” Your arm falls limp to your side. You study Jaehyun’s earnest gaze. “Sure.”

    It’s painfully palpable that the rest of the group were expecting this; their lips curling with a smirk of gaiety.

    “Great, I’ll go grab some cash.”

You really should have thought twice about letting Jaehyun tag along.

    “You should’ve stayed at home.”

    “I wanted to come.”

    You’re reasonably terrified, both for you and Jaehyun’s sake. Getting recognised out in public is an all too plausible scenario, and you really do not have the resolve or strength to fend off a horde of fans right now.

    “Relax, it’s like 11pm. Nobody’s going to be just walking out here. At least, not anybody sober.”

    While he makes a valid point, you’re still skittish. “Alright, but keep your head down.”

    “How will I see where I’m going?”

    Collecting your wits, you reach for his hand to tug him forward. “I’ll lead the way.”

    Though Jaehyun is more than capable of staying grounded in his spot, you drag him along with relative ease, like a lifeless rag doll.

    “I… was just kidding.”

    Not looking back, you say, “Does that mean you want me to let go of your hand?”

    Brazenly, Jaehyun intertwines his fingers with yours, strengthening his palm’s embrace. A jolt of exaltation zips up your spine.

    “No, don’t.”

    The remainder of the brisk walk to the convenience store is spent in exhilarating quietude, one that conveys a hundred messages. Not once does Jaehyun’s hold of your hand weaken.

    The intimacy of the store welcomes you wholeheartedly. From its single constantly flickering bulb, that one cooler door with the rickety handle, and to the out-of-order slushie machine, you could peruse this store with your eyes closed. Being NCT’s camera operator first and designated snack buyer second, you’ve been in here more times than anyone should ever have to be in a lifetime.

    It’s not the most popular store on the block. Their selection is limited, their interior outdated, but in your humble opinion, they are leagues ahead of any other store out there. Plus, it’s usually vacant, meaning minor risk of being spotted. Other than you, Jaehyun and the single weary employee, there’s only one other person in here, a tattered hood draped over their head. While they’re sketchy in a certain sense, you’re confident that they don’t pose a threat to you or Jaehyun’s safety.

    “I’ll go get the crisps and you get the chocolates,” you declare, standing on your tiptoes.

    “Chocolates? We’re getting chocolates? We already have some in the fridge.”

    “Okay, then I’m getting chocolates.”

Another reason you love this place to bits is because of its prices. Everything is outrageously cheap. The first time you had visited, wet behind the ears, soul bursting with vigour yet pockets embarrassingly empty, you almost cried. You had one of the best dinners of your early adult life in this very store. Sure, it was just a truckload of processed, packaged food, but here’s the thing: it was a truckload. And when you’re as financially stable as a thumbtack balancing on the tip of its point, a truckload of food is a blessing bestowed by the Gods.

    So, safe to say, you and Jaehyun definitely got your money’s worth.

    In fact, in the time the two of you expended scouring the aisles for tid-bits, a forlorn cloud had consumed the sky. It had started raining. Lightly at first, but the drizzle had swiftly transitioned into a furious storm.

    Thunder claps in the distance, the sound so tumultuous it shakes the tiles of the store floor, the vibrations so intense they reach the tip of your head.

    “Do you have enough money for an umbrella?” you ask.

    “Even with an umbrella, I think it’d be too dangerous for us to go out there,” Jaehyun says, and as if to illustrate his point, another bolt of lightning strikes the Earth. The convenience store trembles. “And no, I don’t have enough money for an umbrella.” From the tone of Jaehyun’s voice, his delight is hidden by the pretense that he too is upset by this development.

    “Then I guess we’ll have to call one of the guys to pick us up.”

    Jaehyun’s expression immediately turns sour. “I mean, yeah… I guess we could.”

    Under normal circumstances, you would have been pouncing at the opportunity to spend some quality one-on-one time with Jaehyun, alas, three other undoubtedly starving men are waiting for your return.

    A long, dull white counter, meant for customers to sit and eat at faces the heavy gloom outside. Droplets of rain cling to the glass like fluorescent crystals embedded to cave caverns, before slipping down in a wavering trickle, racing each other to the bottom. You take a seat on one of the plastic stools and Jaehyun takes the one beside you, dropping the bag of snacks to the floor.

    “Hello?” Johnny’s sonorous voice greets through your speakers.

    Jaehyun stares at you, anguished. To his right, the hooded stranger from earlier slips into the third stool, leaning forward and shelving their chin on a palm. They stare outside the window.

    “Hey, Johnny. We got the snacks, but Jaehyun and I have a separate problem.”

    “I know. It’s pouring.”

    “Exactly,” you nod. Jaehyun looks like he’s about to crumble into a heap of anxiety. “Can you pick us up? We don’t have enough cash to hail a taxi.”

    There’s a commotion on the other side of the line; hushed discussion and rustling of fabric. You can’t pick up a lot, only the words, “Yeah.” and “So, that’s what we’ll say?”

    “Sorry,” Johnny finally says, after much delay. “I can’t.”

    “What do you mean you can’t?”

    Beside you, Jaehyun visibly perks.

    “Car’s being repaired,” he replies languidly. “Mark popped a tyre while learning to drive the other day.”

    You groan. “You’re joking.”

    “Dead serious.”

    “God, the car just had to be out today of all days.”

    “Sorry, it can’t be helped,” Johnny sighs, a twinge of mischief to his voice. “The matter’s out of my hands.”

    “It’s fine. We’ll just… wait it out or something.”

    “We’ll try and see if any of the others can swing by and pick you guys up, so just stay put for now.”

    “Alright thanks, Johnny. Sorry about tonight.”

    “Nah, it’s fine,” he says. “Have fun with Jae.”

    The call ends with a click before you can probe Johnny further.

    “No go?” Jaehyun chirps.

    You shake your head. “No, though you don’t seem bummed out about it.”

    “Yeah,” he shrugs. “It’s not often I can spend some time alone with you anyway. In a way, I’m glad.” You bite the flesh of your cheek, face turning hot. Jaehyun turns in his seat, reaching down for the plastic bag. “And, we have snacks to—”

    His eyebrows furrow.

    “Jae?” His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “The snacks?”

    “They’re… gone.”

    “What?”

    “I put them right here beside me, but they’re gone! I swear I—”

    The bell above the door chimes as the mysterious figure—the one who had been sat beside Jaehyun mere seconds ago—dashes out, with, lo and behold, a very familiar plastic bag dangling in their grasp.

    You point a finger towards them. “They stole our snacks!”

    Jaehyun’s head whips around to gawk at the culprit who has already made their way out of the store, head-first into Mother Nature’s wrath. He leaps out of his seat, hell-bent on chasing the person down, practically foaming at the mouth. “Motherfucker—”

    This time, you’re the one who grips his wrist. “Jaehyun, wait. It’s not worth it.”

    “They just stole all of our snacks! Am I supposed to just watch them get away with them?” he seethes. If not for his genuinely fuming expression, you would’ve laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

    “They already had a head-start, Jae. I doubt you’ll be able to chase them down. And what if someone sees you? How are we supposed to explain why Jung Jaehyun of NCT was sprinting in the rain after a stranger with a bag of snacks?”

    His shoulders sag. “But… our snacks… and your chocolate! What about your chocolate?”

    “It’s fine. I didn’t even get the version I liked. They were all out of the original ones.”

    Jaehyun slumps back into his seat, defeated. “Should we call the police?”

    You snicker. “And tell them our snacks got stolen? They’d laugh in our faces.”

    “I hate that you’re right. I wish they’d treat snack theft with the same severity of other crimes,” he jests, despite still being obviously disheartened. “Hope whoever that was gets struck by lightning and fucking sizzles out there.” He cards a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

    “It wasn’t your fault, Jae. I mean, who the hell steals snacks anyway?”

    “No, not that. Well, I am sorry about that but what I meant was... I screwed this up.”

    “Screwed what up?”

    “You know how everyone was acting really strangely today?”

    “You guys weren’t being very secretive about it.”

    He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, well, it was because they were helping me get us alone.”

    Jaehyun’s confession is like the final piece of a puzzle; the final thread to connect all the dots together. “So that explains why everyone collectively decided to not show up today, and why the glasses were on the top shelf, and why you guys said I was on snack duty when I clearly wasn’t! And I bet the car isn’t even busted too!”

    He nods, a wry smile etched onto his lips. “The glasses weren’t actually a part of the plan, but in the end, they were in my favour, so I’m not pissed about it.” You flush as the memory floods you. “They did all of that, and yet I still blew it.”

    “Who said you blew it?” you say. Jaehyun lifts his head to look at you. “We’re alone right now, aren’t we?”

    He swipes his tongue over his teeth. “Well, yeah, I suppose we are.”

    “So, just tell me you like me already.”

    Jaehyun jerks back in his seat. “You knew?”

    “Of course I knew,” you grin, “because, I like you too.”

    His face breaks out into the widest smile possible; one that stretches his lips so much that it must ache. “You do?”

    “Yes, I do,” you giggle. “Even though you got our snacks stolen.”

    By the time you two make it back to the dorm, clothes dripping rainwater onto the carpet, lips swollen from stolen kisses, and smiles teeming with euphoria, the rest of the street is already dark. Johnny, Jungwoo and Doyoung greet you with knowing smiles and playful comments.

    “Look, I’m super happy for you guys and stuff but,” Jungwoo gestures to your empty hands, “where the hell are the snacks?”

[archadianskies]

Whumptober Day 5

Rescue  → part of the A/9 SWATverse

Whumptober Masterlist | 05/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings × Anti-Android Sentiments (Detroit: Become Human) × Anti-Android Language (Detroit: Become Human) × Verbal Abuse × Power Imbalance × Established Relationship × Team as Family × Good Parent Hank Anderson × Imprisonment

The thing is, the thing he figures out, is that no one’s supposed to know he exists. There’s no record of him anywhere, not a single line buried in fineprint, not even a whisper, not even the rumour of a whisper. The FBI’s downfall- Perkins’ downfall, is his pride, his failure to resist the urge to show off. 

It’s not even a mission, it’s not a special occasion, it’s just meant to be an ice-breaker, a dumb team-bonding thing which always, inevitably, turns into a pissing contest. Not exactly how David pictures spending an ideal weekend off-duty but letting off some steam by letting his team loose in the woods with paintball guns isn’t entirely undesirable. 

He just wishes it weren’t in tandem with Perkins’ SWAT unit because he loathes Richard Perkins, and his SWAT unit loathes Perkins’ SWAT unit. It’s never just fun and games with Perkins. It’s never any fun with Perkins, ever, actually. 

And so there they were, deep in the woods and he’d sent Caleb off with three of the team and he was leading three others, with the other four to the far left. He’d come around from behind a tree and Caleb shot him square in the chest. Instant kill. He’d been so surprised, so caught off guard, so betrayed that he couldn’t react. Only it wasn’t Caleb at all, because Caleb was on the other side of the grounds as confirmed by three of their unit. It was another RK900. The FBI’s RK900, a secret RK900 who didn’t exist on paper. SWAT Unit 32 lost that round and oh how Perkins gloated but all he could think about was that RK900.

It’s 3am and he doesn’t even have to say a single word to the android curled up in bed beside him. They dress in dark clothes, they sneak out of the hotel and head for the vans parked by the paintball grounds. Caleb deactivates the car alarms and hacks into the electronic locks to open each van until they find him. The other RK900. The one that shouldn’t exist.

“Hello.” Caleb greets quietly, and the other android’s LED spins red in alarm. “I’m Caleb.”

“Caleb RK900 Anderson, part of SWAT Unit 32 under Captain David Allen’s command.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Caleb nods. “What’s your name?”

“I have not been assigned a name.”

“How long have you been active?” David asks. The RK900 turns his steely gaze on him, and though they’re the same colour as Caleb’s eyes, his seem so devoid of warmth, of life.

“Eight months, two weeks and one day, sir.” 

“That’s-” Caleb frowns, brows creasing. “We were activated on the same day. But you don’t have a name?”

“Special Agent Perkins stated that one does not need to assign names to pieces of equipment.” The RK900 recites and David scoffs. 

“Pieces of fucking equipment, he says.” 

“You are not a piece of equipment.” Caleb climbs into the van, grabbing his wrist. “You are Alive. You know that, right? We are not machines, we are Alive. We are living, sentient beings. Legally.”

“The passing of the Sentient Life Act on the first of December 2038. Yes I am aware.” He nods, pulling his arm out of his grasp. “However I have been extensively modified for the FBI’s exclusive use and thus I possess no autonomy.”

“Can you do it?” David asks his partner. “The- the fancy freedom thing? The Markus thing?”

“I can try.” Caleb bites his bottom lip, retracting the skin from his hand. “I’ve never had to deviate an android before. I was never...not a deviant.”

“I cannot deviate.” The RK900 says sternly. “I am equipment belonging to the FBI and I must report any attempt to tamper with me.”

“Give me one attempt,” Caleb says lightly, “and then report us afterward.” He grasps his wrist again, the skin automatically retracting from the other RK900 as he opens a connection between them. David watches his face intently, watches the android frown, his LED still a strong neon red glowing in the dimly lit van. A myriad of emotions flit through his face; wonder, curiosity, confusion, fear. When Caleb draws his hand back, he looks at him with open sorrow.

“It’s always been like that for you? From the very beginning?”

“Yeah.” Caleb confirms quietly. The other android seems to curl inward, rubbing his arms as if to soothe himself. 

“Why did your team love you so readily, so easily, when mine lock me up in the armoury after every mission, along with the rest of their guns?”  

“Because mine never saw me as a piece of equipment.” Caleb reaches for his hands. “Mine saw me as one of their own.”

“One of their own.” He echoes, eyes glassy. “I wish I could be so beloved.”

“You can.” David shrugs. “You will be.”

“Captain, I don’t understand-”

“You’re coming with us.” David says simply. “We’re not letting them take you back. This is the equipment van isn’t it? We’re all heading back to the city tomorrow and it looks like everything’s already loaded. They won’t even check for you, will they?”

“No, sir. They won’t.” There’s such grief in his eyes, and David knows it’s because he would’ve seen Caleb’s life, all eight months, two weeks and one day, full of friendship and family, camaraderie and love. Everything Perkins would’ve denied him.  

“Then you’re coming with us.” David repeats, and the RK900 looks at him like he’s offered him the world on a platter, and he supposes that’s true.

 *~*~*

It’s not the most elegant rescue mission they’ve ever undertaken. It’s by far the funniest, though; stealing something from Team Prickins, from right under their noses and feigning innocence the entire time. Technically, they’ve stolen a piece of equipment from the FBI. Technically, the piece of equipment doesn’t exist, so they haven’t stolen anything, actually. Caleb gives him some of his clothes so he can change out of that godawful uniform and belatedly David realises the RK900 is showing signs of trauma, now that he knows what trauma is. Now that he has a basis for comparison.

“I’m-” Caleb takes a deep breath he doesn’t need, and squares his shoulders. “I’m going to call my dad and my brother.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and goes out onto the balcony, closing the door behind him.

 He doesn’t call them, not right away. Caleb sits down heavily, resting his forehead on the cool railing and closing his eyes. Reaching for the compiled file, he picks apart the deluge of memories the other RK900 had shown him; the memories his brother had shown him, Caleb corrects himself, because the android in the room with his partner is his brother, surely. His twin, even, since they were both created, both activated, both deployed at the same time. It’s certainly what Connor would think, anyway. It’s what their father would say. 

He opens eyes that are not his own and he’s in a supplies van being activated for the first time with no memory of his testing phase. Richard Perkins stands in front of him, arms crossed as he looks him over. A CyberLife representative stands at his side, and they are flanked by security.

“And no one knows it exists?”

Yes sir.” The rep confirms with a nod. “This RK900 does not exist on any records and belongs to the FBI exclusively. It has been modified to connect only to the FBI mainframe and cannot connect to any other wi-fi source. It has no knowledge of the outside world, and the RK800 base program has been removed almost completely to allow a higher percentage of Myrmidon programming.”

“Good.” Perkins nods. “Anything I need to know about upkeep?”

“Entirely self-sufficient. Charging bay will be installed in the Armoury. Supplies will be added to the regular supplies the FBI publicly receives for its auxiliary units so nothing will seem amiss.”

“Good.” Perkins says again, giving him one last appraising look before he turns around and steps out of the van, everyone trailing out behind him. The last guard closes the door and leaves him inside.

 *

“This is an eight million dollar weapon.” Perkins says in the next memory, and he opens his eyes to find himself looking out at a sea of FBI agents. “Do you understand? A weapon. It belongs to the FBI SWAT unit, and we take it with us when heavy weapons are required. No one plays it with it. No one tests it. It stays in the Armoury when we don’t need it. Understood?”

It’s been two days and he doesn’t have a name.

 *

“Alright, and Spiteri I need you to take five guys and go ‘round through here.” They’re poring over a blueprint hologram on the table, mapping out the next mission. His first mission.

“Sir, it would be faster if-” He barely gets the words out before Perkins turns on him, eyes bulging with rage as he grabs the front of his uniform.

“Did I fucking ask? Play back the memory where I fucking asked for your opinion, hm?” He gives him a rough shake before shoving him away. He closes his mouth immediately and steps back, standing at attention and keeping his eyes downcast.

“God I fucking hate androids.”

Four days, and no name.

* 

The mission is a success and everyone is happy even though they’re grimy and sweaty and a little bloody. They cheer and pat each other on the back and even Perkins manages some semblance of a pleased smirk. 

“Alright alright, chuck the weapons in a pile by the door and hit the showers. I want reports by midnight!” He orders and there’s a chorus of groans in reply. Perkins turns to him. “Cleaned, locked, and logged. Understood?”

“Yes sir.” He says quietly, stepping into the Armoury. Perkins closes the door behind him, and it locks with a mechanical click. Bending, he picks up the first gun and methodically, mechanically, goes through the motions of stripping it, cleaning it, reassembling it and then returning it to its proper place. He logs it, then picks up the next gun. It is soothing, he thinks, almost rhythmic in a way as he repeats the actions, over and over until the last gun is locked and logged. 

Looking down at himself, he realises belatedly that a bullet wound has gone through and through his side and he’s been bleeding steadily the entire time. No matter. Opening one of the crates, he retrieves a repair kit and sits himself down on one of the benches. He must be in perfect working order, and he must look clean and ready for the next mission.

Maybe if he does well, they will give him a name.

* 

It has been two months, and he knows they will not give him a name because they do not see a team member, they see a piece of equipment. He is a weapon, much like the guns he cleans for them. A gun has a make and model, and so does he. Nothing more. 

 *

There’s sound from one of the vents one Spring morning. It’s faint, undetectable to humans but he is not a human. There must be a nest somewhere high up on this side of the building and he counts one, two, three hatchlings, their incessant high pitched chirps carrying down to him as they cry for food. He listens to them, notes the change in pitch of their cries as they grow older and bigger day by day. They help pass the time between missions when he is locked up like a piece of equipment, no more than another gun to the team. He wonders what it’s like to look up and see the expanse of blue sky whenever one pleases. 

 *

It’s too dangerous, there’s too many gunmen shooting down at them and there’s not enough cover. He darts out, feeling the bullets cut through his torso as he dives forward and grabs their fallen agent. Dragging him takes considerable effort, straining his damaged chassis and burning through his depleting thirium levels but it’s do this or lose them. 

They make it back, and the fallen agent is yanked from his arms so first aid can be applied. Red warnings cascade down his HUD one, the largest one glaring in large letters his thirium pump regulator has sustained damage. His hand comes away blue after pressing it just below his sternum, and his already depleting thirium levels are plummeting drastically. He sways on his feet before his knees buckle and he hits the ground.

“Ah fuck. Get it in the van!” Perkins curses, looking down at him like one might a stain on the heel of their favourite shoe.

When he wakes he’s back in the Armoury, repaired and whole. There’s a stack of guns and gear piled by the door. He knows what to do. The birds are singing today. At least he has music while he works.

 *

“Not technically a mission, but I fucking hate Allen and his merry band of misfits.” Perkins spits as he trails him down the hall. “They’ve got the other one. The official one of you. CyberLife’s pretend olive branch to the DPD. I hear he’s fucking it too. Figures. Everyone in the precinct suddenly loves androids now the detective bot claims it has feelings.” 

They enter the carpark and there are two vans- one for the humans, and one for the equipment. He already knows which one to climb into. 

When the door opens he’s somewhere far outside the city. He’s never left the city before, and the expanse of green is startling. 

“Listen up. No one knows you exist, and it stays that way.” Perkins points sternly. “You’re here because I want Allen’s team to eat shit and lose every single round and think it’s the fault of their own android.”

There is another, just like him, here today. He wants to meet him. He wants to know what it’s like to be touched with desire because it seems his superior is intimate with him. Does he have a name? Yes, surely he has a name. Will he give him one? Could he ask that of him?

 Captain David Clark Allen is forty-four years old and has been at the helm of Unit 32 for fifteen years now. That is the official information. He has olive green eyes. That is what he personally discovers when he ambushes him from behind a tree. The man hesitates, brow furrowing in confusion before he makes to move past him. He pulls the trigger and the paintball splatters right over his chest where his heart lies. Those green eyes widen in shock. Mission accomplished. He heads deeper into the woods.

 *

Caleb sees himself, sees his own memories looped as he shows the RK900 his life from the moment he awoke in the CyberLife lab with Hank and Connor looking at him with soft encouraging smiles, to his first meeting with Unit 32, to the feeling of warm human skin beneath his fingers as he traces the serrated scar over David’s ribs, to the feeling of hands in his chest as David straddles him and cups his shattered heart in his hands. David’s mouth on his, David’s broad chest rising and falling with each breath as he feels the muscles move beneath his palm, David’s soft gaze in the morning, sharing the same pillow almost nose to nose. 

The feel of coarse dog fur and a wet dog nose pushing insistently at his hand, nagging for pets. The tight embrace of his father, the friendly arm around his shoulder of his brother. The teasing, the ribbing, the hair tousles from the team. He drowns in love while his RK900 twin yearns for it; a deluge versus a desert. But no longer.

* 

“Caleb?” Hank answers his call, amusement in his voice. “What, you need to rant to your old man about how much of a prick Perkins is in person?”

“Dad.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to break, and all of a sudden Hank’s tone loses its mirth.

“Are you alright? What happened? Is David with you?”

“Dad.” He tries again. “Can you put me on speaker?” “Yeah, yeah o’ course.” There’s a brief pause as Hank sits down and fumbles with the setting. “Okay go ahead.”

“I have a twin brother.” Silence. “He was given to the FBI, to Perkins’ unit and he’s been- they’ve just- they locked him up in the Armoury like a gun and he’s as old as I am and he doesn’t even have a name and David and I have smuggled him into our room and I’m bringing him home tomorrow okay?!” It all comes out in a rush and there’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Dad?”

“Good thing you were plannin’ on movin’ out with David.” Hank chuckles softly. “Because your brother’s going to need a room.”

  *~*~*

“Captain Allen, if there is anywhere you would like to station me so I am out of your way-” 

“You are not in my way.” He keeps his tone soft and reassuring, knowing the RK900 sees him as an authority figure, and the only authority figure he has ever answered to is Perkins and Perkins is a fucking unfeeling ice monster whose own colleagues hate him. “Sit with me, please?” He doesn’t feel forty-four, he feels about a quarter of that and tucked at his ma’s side as she explains how sometimes there are children in her class who’ve been through things no children should have to experience and sometimes they just need someone willing to sit with them and help in a softer, kinder way rather than urging them through verbal encouragement alone. 

His weekend bag is in reach and he fishes out a couple of fliers that had come with the paperwork for the event. “I’ll teach you a neat trick my ma taught me, to keep my hands busy.”

“Yes, captain.” The RK900 nods attentively as he accepts one of the fliers. 

“First, we need to square off the paper like so-” it’s a wonder he still remembers, but it’s mainly muscle memory anyway. They’re about halfway into making an origami unicorn when he attempts some conversation. “You may not have been assigned a name, but you can choose one. Caleb chose his.”

“I know, sir.” A flash of panic, the fear of reprimand. “I meant that Caleb showed me. I meant no disrespect, Captain Allen.”

“It’s alright. I know what you meant.” He wonders what cruelty Perkins wrought, to make an RK900 flinch like that. “You can go through databases and pick one out. You can play around with your model number and use that as a base. It’s your choice entirely.”

“I have never had to choose, sir.” He says it as if he is confessing to a great crime. 

“You’ve never been allowed to choose.” David corrects. “Feds didn’t think much of assigning their fancy killing machine a name or the ability to choose one for himself.”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation.” The RK900 says slowly. “Federal. Frederick, perhaps?”

“Fred from the Feds.” David grins, and Frederick attempts to mimic the gesture. It’s clumsy and awkward and entirely endearing. 

“Freddie, maybe?” He suggests shyly, hopefully, and David nods in approval. 

“Frederick ‘Freddie’ Anderson.” 

“Anderson?” He blinks.

“Oh you’ll be an Anderson.” David laughs. “Hank hasn’t met you yet, but when he does, you’ll be an Anderson for sure.”

[vixxscifiwritings]

gentle descent to seabed

Summary -  The rising tide interrupts them, water reaching up to their toes before receding. If Hongbin was more poetic, he would say the waves are hesitant to interrupt the new romance that has bloomed overnight.

Warnings - cheesy romance

Tag List - @tomatoholmes @merlionmen @seraphistols  @k-craze-97 @blossomtearsleo

Series

-

"I don't think I ever expected to run into you here" Wonshik says over the music. It's dulled down compared to the dance music on earlier in the night but still loud enough to stifle conversation. The crowd on the dance has whittled down to couples slow dancing or kissing.

"I don't normally come here" Hongbin admits. This pub is out of his way and he barely has enough time or strength left after working both his jobs to wander far.

"Hakyeon hyung has some family issues going on so I'm free from housekeeping duty for now" Hongbin tells him by way of an explanation.

"Yeah I noticed he cancelled his classes for the next week. Didn't show up to lab either" Wonshik recalls. "I hope everything is okay."

Hongbin nods in agreement. The explanation is probably a lie and an excuse to spend time with the stranger that has effectively moved in. It's funny because Hongbin was sure Hakyeon hyung didn't believe in love or romance and all of a sudden he's head over heels for this stranger.

Speculation aside, it isn't his place to gossip about his personal life with Wonshik who is simply Hakyeon's student. So he lets the topic slide and focuses on his food.

Honestly, Wonshik's presence is unplanned. The postgrad student happened to find Hongbin who originally came here alone to grab dinner and a few drinks. Hongbin invited him to join him, given how crowded the pub was and how some company was better than none.

It may also have to do with his slight attraction to said student.

Hongbin met Wonshik last year when he came home from the institute with Hakyeon, carrying some of assignments Hakyeon had to work on grading. Wonshik had his long hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore t-shirt on jeans but had looked incredibly attractive to Hongbin.

Hongbin knew he wore his heart on his sleeve so he hadn't acted on his crush. But the universe had other plans clearly as Hongbin kept running into Wonshik. Now that he knew the man, it felt like Wonshik was everywhere. It was a small town but it wasn't that small Hongbin swore.

And so he had resigned himself to living with his feelings and waiting for then to fade away.

When he looks to Wonshik sitting on the opposite side of the booth and how his dark brown hair reflected the neon disco lights he thinks, fading away could wait one more day.

They talk about the news and the happenings around the small town. Wonshik tells him about the new research at the institute. He has a way of explaining complex topics that helps Hongbin understand his research so it becomes infinitely more interesting than listening to Hakyeon talk about the same.

Wonshik's nose scrunches and Hongbin smiles involuntarily at how cute it looks. How cheesy, he mentally berates himself. But a little self indulgence is fine as long as Wonshik doesn't know.

Wonshik is blissfully unaware, talking about how Finding Dory and royal blue tangs and how they are endangered species that should really be protected better and not commercially exploited. Hongbin admires his passion for his field of research.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Wonshik asks, once the number of empty drink glasses is more than the table can hold and their combined tab might render them broke if they go on. They've crossed their alcohol limit three drinks ago and the pub offers nothing appealing to diver them any longer.

Hongbin agrees. The idea of not having to scream over the amplifiers is very appealing to his throat. (And under the street lights, he can probably admire Wonshik better.)

It's quiet outside the pub when Hongbin follows Wonshik out. The silence ahead is deafening and the music fades the further they walk. The hum of the crowd is replaced by a silence typical of urban nightscapes. The quiet is only disturbed by sounds of the engine of a passing car or the buzzing of air conditioners and generators outside residential buildings.

The neon lights of signs outside all day convenience stores is brighter than the flickering street lights but Wonshik isn't worried. He navigates it with a practiced ease that tells Hongbin he has walked this route multiple times.

They pick up more drinks from one of the convenience stores on the way. The buzz of alcohol has Wonshik in high spirits and he hums along to the song that was playing in the club before they left. He even break dances to make Hongbin laugh and Hongbin giggles because Wonshik is so cute. His long skinny legs make it funnier for some reason but Hongbin cannot comprehend why.

The cashier couldn't care less. She occasionally glances to make sure they aren't shoplifting but goes back to texting almost immediately. Once the boys leave, they resume walking to the seashore. The cold soda is sobering and conversation flows smoothly between the two.

As soon as they near the beach, Hongbin feels the wind get stronger and warmer. The sound of the waves hitting the rocks and the light from the lighthouse hit him together. It's an amusing sound gradient. From electric synth to city silence to water against rocks.

Wonshik guides him through the narrow alleyways that warp around the houses and the lighthouse and open to the beach. They kick off their shoes and Hongbin shivers a little when the sea breeze hits him.

"Are you cold?" Wonshik asks. Hongbin shakes his head but Wonshik didn't wait for a response to shrug his jacket off and put it around Hongbin. The closeness makes Hongbin blush and he is viscerally aware of Wonshik's body but isn't prepared for it being brought into the forefront of conscious thought suddenly.

"Won't you be cold then?" Hongbin asks, when Wonshik moved away and he pulls his jacket close. It's very warm and soothing. It triggers relaxation and exhaustion both at the same time in him.

"I'm used to it" Wonshik shrugs.

"Do you sneak out often then?" Hongbin asks. He remembers his college days and how he would often wander off to his friend's room to play games instead of studying. Wonshik's method is to sneak out onto the beach clearly and said man's guilty smile confirms his suspicions.

"I like walking around the beach at night. It's quiet and peaceful. Let's you think" Wonshik explains.

They dispose of the bottles by the recycling bins and kicks off their shoes and socks to feel the sand beneath their toes. The sand is wet and smooth since the tide receded barely an hour earlier. More of the beach is visible than Hongbin has ever seen in the early mornings when the high tide returns.

"Do you always have a lot on your mind?"

"Not really. But something about the beach makes a person philosophical."

Hongbin hums in agreement and they walk in silence till they find a spot to sit down on. They've been walking forever and his feet are grateful for the break. It's quite a long walk, Hongbin realizes belatedly. It didn't feel like it in Wonshik's company.

Wonshik sits down next to Hongbin. Their hands are very close and Hongbin's hand inches closer to Wonshik's. Their fingers don't touch but they could and Hongbin lets unsaid possibilities linger between them. It's as infinite as the grains of sand that like in between. Innocent and infinite, each just within reach should he gather the courage he needs.

Wonshik is more silent now. Their surroundings have rendered him sober and he looks more peaceful now. His serene smile calms Hongbin down too (though the nervous arrhythmia of his heart never really leaves). He looks out towards the sea and Hongbin looks to him.

"Do you know why I chose to study marine life?" Wonshik asks, his gaze not moving from the sea.

Hongbin shakes his head. Wonshik accurately takes the silence for a no.

"My grandmother was born in Japan. She moved to South Korea to be with my grandfather. She would tell me stories that her grandparents told her" he narrates, laying down so that his head lay on Hongbin's lap.

Hongbin hums in response. The nerves in his thigh are frayed, tingling on contact. The thin denim of his skinny jeans does nothing to prevent the warmth of Wonshik's cheeks seeping in.

"She belonged to a family of fishermen and women. She talked about different types of fish and different tides and different ways of catching them. She told me many myths of the sea" he continues.

"What kind of myths?"

"Of dragons that ruled the waters. Of a lost continent that lay submerged just off the edge of the island and in the middle of the vast east ocean. It had been lost many years ago and the people turned to sea creatures."

"That sounds a lot like the story of Atlantis."

"The folktale says that the people of Mu used so much black magic that the gods got angry and submerged their land. The good people they took pity on were given a chance to start over on Atlantis."

"That didn't end very well did it?"

"Not really. Humans never learn."

"I thought that when I grew up, I would be an adventurer. I would travel the seas and see all the wonderful things for myself."

"Did you see many wonderful things?" Hongbin asks curiously.

"Nothing that compares to you" Wonshik replies honestly. He traces random doodles on Hongbin's thighs and kisses the area closest to his lips. Hongbin can feel the silhouette of his lips and his toes curl in response to the physical action.

Hongbin's cheeks are red and this is the influence of alcohol he will swear later. Or probably the euphoria that comes from having your attraction reciprocated. Hongbin leans down and kisses Wonshik and his brain scrambles to find which of the two excuses to blame for that burst of courage. Wonshik hesitates at first but kisses him back and his brain throws itself out of the window at a breakneck speed.

Wonshik sits up and takes Hongbin's face and kisses it properly. His lips are as soft as the hands running through his hair and Hongbin melts, pliant under his affections. It's the effect of the sea air and the salty soda they've been drinking that Wonshik tastes salty and lemony. Hongbin thinks it's a wonderful departure from the sweet lips stereotype.

Wonshik takes his jacket off from Hongbin's shoulder and pulls the neatly tucked white T-shirt underneath out of his jeans. His hands roam under it as he deepens the kiss and Hongbin moans every time Wonshik's fingers brush against his nipples.

He pushes Wonshik's plaid over shirt off and unbuttons the shirt underneath. He kisses down the center of his neck to as low as he can go on his chest. Wonshik throws his head back and groans. When Hongbin pulls away, Wonshik chases. He kisses him on the neck and squeezes his waist. Both locations have heightened sensitivity and Hongbin whimpers when his body demands release of all the tension building up.

"My apartment isn't far away from here" Wonshik proposes. He leaves butterfly kisses all over Hongbin who doesn't really need incentive to agree.

"I don't know. The atmosphere is kind of romantic here" Hongbin teases. Wonshik laughs and Hongbin grins too. Kissing under the stars with the sounds of waves in the background is not all that bad. Not bad at all really.

Wonshik gets up first and pulls Hongbin up as well. Hongbin stumbles and Wonshik secures him by putting his arms around his waist. Hongbin's eyes twinkle when Wonshik uses the proximity to kiss him again.

"I've wanted to do that for a very long time" Wonshik confesses, resting his forehead on Hongbin's. Their height difference is negligible so their noses and lips align perfectly, Hongbin notices.

"And was it worth the wait?" Hongbin whispers. Wonshik can probably feels his lips move with how close they are.

Wonshik grins before lifting Hongbin up slightly and kissing him. Hongbin yelps before kissing him back. What cheesy nonsense is this? He didn't think anyone would ever sweep him off his feet literally. The force and speed with which Hongbin falls deeper for Wonshik could put dangerous whirlpools to shame.

Kissing Wonshik is like drowning but discovering you can still breathe on the other side. A heady rush of harsh bubbles foaming against your skin which then gives way to the still deep waters where everything else is obscured except the way the gentle descent to the seabed feels.

They kiss for a long time once Wonshik sets him down. The rising tide interrupts them, water reaching up to their toes before receding. If Hongbin was more poetic, he would say the waves are hesitant to interrupt the new romance that has bloomed overnight. But he isn't a poetic man. (He'll learn that Wonshik's romanticism makes up for it later).

Hongbin pulls Wonshik along to further inwards, walking back to the city roads but still holding hands so they don't let the other go. The sun starts to rise along with the morning tide. They've spent the entire night outside but they don't care.

The waters are coloured gold and red and Wonshik's brown eyes have flecks of golden in them. Hongbin's black hair actually has brown highlights which are visible in the sunlight. It's only the beginning of them exploring each other.

[slverjohn]

So, uh, no idea if you're still taking prompts but if you are, silverflinthamilton as Double-00s/Q, with Silver as Q? (Aka I'm reading one of your Bond/Q fics but ot3 is better)

yyyyEEEEESSSSSSS

*****

Flint is fairly certain he’s being flirted with.

It’s not that he minds, necessarily: flirting is practically a requirement of the gig, right under maiming and killing and blowing up terrorists.

But Flint’s never actually met the new Quartermaster. He doesn’t know how he feels about flirting with the low, tinny voice in his ear, nice as it may sound.

“Come now, Double-oh Five. You’ll have to give her a bit of a smile. Those cheekbones can’t do the heavy lifting all the time.”

Definitely flirting.

Flint lifts his whiskey to his lips, mumbling against the rim. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Ah yes, forgive me. I’m just the tech man, typing on his keyboard from his safe little bunker. What would I know about seducing a bored housewife?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. No wonder Thomas said he’d like the new Q.

Flint had gotten the impression that his husband liked him an awful lot, too, before he’d left. Thomas, a smirk on his handsome face, had called their recently promoted Quartermaster “a little shit.”

“We can compare seduction techniques later,” he mutters, before raising his glass in a toast to the lonely woman across the room. He does smile, but not because Q told him to. Really.

“There you go. Now, when she approaches you - and in that suit? She will approach you - be sure to comment on her beauty mark. She’s dotted it on with eyeliner. Probably idolizes Monroe or some such bullshit,” Q tsks. He sounds awfully young, Flint thinks absently. “Americans.”

“Why should I comment on it?”

“Because she’s gone out of her way to put it there. She wants to be Marilyn? You give her that.”

Flint comments on it, when she makes her way over to his seat at the bar. She blushes and twitters and - well, those are some instincts Q’s got.

Thirty minutes and two cocktails later, Flint’s in her private suite and Q has resumed whispering advice into his ear.

“Her husband is cruel to her, neglectful. Demeans her, calls her fat or old or other untrue things.”

“Where the fuck did you get that idea?” Flint hisses, glancing back at the loo, where she’d left to powder her nose. “It’s not in the file.”

“Trust me. Just - I know you Double-Ohs are all suave and cool, but perhaps this time go for something more heartfelt. More sweetheart than womanizer.”

So Flint switches tactics, subtly as he can, and of course it works. He doesn’t doubt that his usual stoic-and-stern method would have worked, but it’s a Quartermaster’s job to make things as smooth as possible for his agents.

Things go to shit, as they always seem to do when it comes to Flint. He forgets all about his Quartermaster, until he’s ten goons in and up against some behemoth of a mobster.

“He’s got an old knee injury; look at his stance. Go for his instep then dislocate.”

Flint follows the order without question, and the giant goes down in three hits. Q lets out a celebratory whoop. For Q’s sake, Flint hopes he’s alone in the lab, and that none of his subordinates witnessed that (admittedly cute) lapse in professionalism.

“You know, Q, you should try field work sometime,” Flint pants, leaning against the wall of the alley he’s found himself in. “You’ve got great instincts. Double-oh instincts, even.”

There’s a pregnant silence on the other end. “Wow. I’d heard you were an ass, but - that’s a low blow, Flint. Even for you.”

Flint frowns, confused. It’s against protocols to use names on the comms during an active mission. “Pardon?”

There’s some kind of commotion on the other end, and then Q’s back, his voice more clinical and detached than it’s been the entire operation. “Well, Double-Oh Five, that about wraps up our assignment, don’t you think? The green Audi ten yards down is electric. Muldoon here will get in, then direct you to the rendezvous point.”

“Wait, Q - ”

“If you’ll forgive me, Double-oh Five, it’s two in the morning here in London, and I’ve been on duty fifteen hours. For us, the mission begins long before you walk into your latest party. Debrief at seven a.m., Monday morning.”

He’s gone, and Muldoon’s familiar voice replaces him. Flint spends the entire drive to the airport, and the entire flight following it, wondering what it is he’s done wrong.

When he crawls into bed that night (morning), he buries his face into Thomas’s neck, simply breathing him in. Even the short, two day missions are unbearable, sometimes. “No more overseas ops for at least two months, Thomas. Europe or I quit.”

The head of MI6 blinks his eyes open blearily, then pouts. “But then I’d have to send Billy to America, and he’s an idiot.”

“Not my problem, love,” Flint says, giving Thomas a quick peck then snuggling back down under the duvet.

“How did you like our new Quartermaster?”

It’s Flint’s turn to pout. “I think he hates me, actually.”

Thomas props himself up on his elbows. “What did you do this time?”

He snaps his head up from his pillow, indignant. “Nothing! I just said he should give field work a try. He’s got good instincts for it.”

Thomas furrows his brows. Sleepy and confused is usually one of Flint’s favorite looks on his husband, but right now he’s too annoyed to appreciate it. “Didn’t you read his file?”

The stern look Thomas gives Flint tells him he already knows the answer.

“He was a Double-Oh, until about seven months ago. Stationed in the Moscow. His cover was blown, and he was tortured. Lost about half his left leg. I told him, with physical therapy and the right prosthetic, he could probably be back in the field in a few years, but he refused. Said a ‘one legged creature’ draws too much attention. Bunch of horseshit, of course, but he’s working through quite a bit of trauma, I’d imagine. Besides, he’s a great quartermaster, and - why are you looking at me like that?”

“John Silver? Our new quartermaster is John Silver? Double-oh Nine?”

For the longest time, 009 was the only other double-oh agent Flint hadn’t met. Everyone had heard about the op that went sour, about the madman who’d hacked away at his leg. 009 hadn’t given up his teammates, but at great cost to himself.

“He probably thought you were mocking him.” Thomas says. He gives Flint one more Look, then flops onto his back. “He’s cute, you know. Great hair, pretty eyes…”

Flint knows where this is going. Still, what kind of husband would he be if he didn’t indulge Thomas? “So…”

“So, you’ll head to Q Branch on Monday, debrief, apologize for not doing your homework, and then join me in Operation Fuck-The-Quartermaster.”

****

[air-in-words]

ALL RIGHT. HERE WE GO. DISNEY PRINCESS HOGWARTS HOUSING LET’S FUCKIN’ GOOOOOO

I DON'T GIVE A FUCK. BEEN ON A HOGWARTS HOUSE KICK. LET'S DO IT. IN ORDER. ALL OF THEM. WITH ACTUAL GOOD REASONING.

MY HOUSING METHOD IS AS FOLLOWS

The Houses are separated using two different axes. The first is Aggressive vs Passive. This axis dictates whether a House is primarily an active participant in life who doesn't want to "settle for less" or more likely to just go with the flow and take the hand dealt to them, Hakuna Matata style. The Aggressive Houses are Gryffindor and Slytherin. The Passive Houses are Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.

The second axis is Society Accepting vs Society Rejecting. This axis dictates whether a House sees itself as a member of society and acknowledges it's rules (even if it doesn't always follow them), or sees itself as an outlier to society, thinking that the rules need not exist at all (whether they agree with them or not.) TO BE CLEAR: REJECTING DOES NOT MEAN YOU ARE A LONELY SOCIOPATH AND ACCEPTING DOES NOT MEAN YOU ARE A MINDLESS YES MAN. The Society Accepting Houses are Hufflepuff and Slytherin. The Society Rejecting Houses are Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.

So, you find out on which side of each axis you land on. Most important, though, is to remember that your House comes from the WHY behind your actions, not the actions themselves. So, along with their full axis orientations, here is the main WHY behind each House:

Gryffindor: To spread their specific core values through their actions. (Aggressive Society Rejecting)

Hufflepuff: To be useful to humanity in every situation. (Passive Society Accepting)

Ravenclaw: To do what they want, when they want, as much as they want to. (Passive Society Rejecting)

Slytherin: To realize their dreams and become the greatest version of themselves they can. (Aggressive Society Accepting)

So, without further ado, here is my Housing, below the cut.

Snow White - Hufflepuff

This one will likely go undisputed. First off, is Snow White Aggressive in her story, or Passive? Well, Snow White is one of the queens of taking what she’s given and making it work. She dreams at her wishing well for her Prince, but she’s found a way to make her current life as a scullery maid bearable. She pretty much rolls with the punches from beginning to end. Evil Queen makes her a scullery maid, she’s gonna make it work. Huntsman tells her to run, she’s gonna make it work. Winds up living with a bunch of dwarves, she’s gonna make it work. This narrows her down to either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw.

Second, is Snow White Society Accepting or Society Rejecting? Does she see herself as a valuable member of humanity as a whole, connected to everyone, or is she an island, separate and different from those around her? I’d easily say she’s Accepting. She believes in helping and doing her share and wants to be seen as useful. This would make her a Hufflepuff.

So, is Snow White’s WHY “to be useful to humanity in every situation?” I’d definitely say so. She’s very determined to do her part and to never be a burden. She is hardworking, often seen with her nose to the grindstone, and sees no job as being beneath her. It’s a job and every job needs to get done. Hufflepuffs often see the world as a giant machine, made up of millions of cogs. The only way the machine can work is if every cog is working at tip top form. So, Snow White is always at tip top form, always humble, never extravagant or over the top. She’s practical and sensible and gets the job done.

Cinderella - Hufflepuff

Very similar story to Snow. The basic moral of both of their fairy tales is “if you are hardworking and patient, good things will come your way.” So, first, is Cindy Passive or Aggressive? I’d argue Passive. Yes, she does eventually escape the clutches of Lady Tremaine, but that is only after she had an out handed to her. For all the time before then, she had been content with dreaming of her escape. More important to her was sticking it to her family by keeping her composure under her dire circumstances. She would remain passive and stoic, fighting their cruelty by never letting them see how it affected her. Her defense was becoming a rock; immovable, unbreakable, and ultimately Passive. This makes her either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw.

Second, is she Society Accepting or Society Rejecting? I’d definitely say Accepting. She sees the caste system within her household as something to be worked through and endured, rather than rejecting it altogether and being rebellious. She doesn’t think she is someone who SHOULD be invited to the ball, although she still wants to attend. And even when she gets a chance to go, she worries about societal concerns; she can’t go unless she has a dress, some shoes, a coach, etc, not because she is selfish (quite the contrary), but because these are the things people who attend balls have. This would officially make her a Hufflepuff.

As a Hufflepuff, is Cinderella’s WHY “to be useful to humanity in every situation?” Absolutely. Cinderella is just as hardworking and humble as Snow White, if not a bit less trusting. Cinderella never does anything halfway, even if she doesn’t like the person who gave her the task. The task needs to be done, regardless of who assigns it to whom. Being a productive and useful human being matters most to her, to rebel and not complete these tasks she perceives as important would be much worse than her own suffering. It takes her Fairy Godmother reminding her that gaining her own happiness is the most important task to complete for her to begin wanting to change her situation.

Aurora - Ravenclaw

Our first different princess! So, to go back through my process, is Aurora Passive or Aggressive? Ultimately, passive. She shows much more outward discomfort in than both Snow White and Cinderella when things don’t go her way, but she still tends to just go with the flow. Although she cried on her bed about not getting to see Phillip, she accepts what has been given to her and goes with her fairy guardians. She was very content with just living in her cottage with her guardians in the middle of the woods. No need for anything beyond that. It’s the hand she was dealt, and she is content. So, she’s either a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw, like the others.

Now, here comes the surprise. Is Aurora Society Accepting or Society Rejecting? I honestly believe that Aurora rejects society and its norms. A Society Accepting type, after learning they were actually a princess, would feel sad that they couldn’t be with the boy they just met that day, but would take on this new task handed to them with grace and gusto. A Society Accepting would have been shocked, maybe scared, and then determined to become a good princess. Their new boyfriend would have entered their mind as another obligation, most likely as an afterthought, but they ultimately would have seen this new task as more important. Duty over desire. Not Aurora. Aurora is horrified to hear of her status as a princess. She mopes over it to no end. Why? Because, she had a dream about wanting a boyfriend, got a boyfriend, and now “society” and it’s “norms” are telling her she can’t have it!! What?? Who cares if she’s a princess and has “responsibilities.” She just wants to keep on living in her cabin with her forest-boyfriend. She only accepts becoming a princess after she realizes she gets to keep her guy. There isn’t very much to work with character wise with Aurora, but of the little she did, I just couldn’t find an example of her wanting to participate as a productive member of society. She just wanted to dance around with her forest friends. This would mean she must be a Ravenclaw.

Now, as a Ravenclaw, is Aurora’s WHY “to do what she wants, when she wants, as much as she wants to?” I would say YES. Since she is the first Ravenclaw, I’ll go a little deeper. Ravenclaws, due to being Passive and Society Rejecting, are usually best described as.... odd. They are usually found off in their own world, doing things in their own way, at their own speed. They feel no yearn to connect with society as a whole and would rather be doing their own thing. There are lots of things about Aurora that would seem “odd.” Her reaction to finding out she’s a princess is definitely entirely unique to her. Ravenclaws will very often leave the people around them confused with their reactions to things that society (or in the case of Gryffindors, morals) would deem as important, often shrugging them off or finding them outright abhorrent. Meanwhile, they laud some of the strangest achievements, like finding your Literal Dream Boyfriend, as more important. 

Ariel - Slytherin

Yep. I know. Waiting for the debates. But, anyway, let’s start from the beginning. FIrst off, is Ariel Passive or Agressive? She is our very first Disney Princess I’d describe as Aggressive. She never accepts the hand that’s dealt to her if she doesn’t like it. She fights and she negotiates and she’s always looking for a way out of her situation. She is everything except Passive. No one would disagree to that.

Now, for the debate. Is Ariel Society Accepting or Society Rejecting? Now, most of you are probably thinking, “What are you, nuts? Of COURSE she’s Society Rejecting! She turns her back on the merfolk without a second thought! She sees herself as an outcast, an outsider! She’s textbook Society Rejecting!” But, I think I need to be a bit more clear about what I mean by “society.” “Society”, as defined in this axis, is not a place, it’s an idea. I guess what I actually mean by society is “connection.” Ariel is simply rejecting one connection for another, one that she finds more fulfilling. Hufflepuffs and Slytherins yearn for connection, for belonging, for validation. They need other people. They need “society”, as an idea. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws do not NEED connection. They may like it, it can be nice to have, but it isn’t required. If anything, the more Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs can differentiate themselves from everyone else they’ve ever met, the better. They want to be seen as different, unique, apart, unlike anyone else. Hufflepuffs and Slytherins want to belong. They want to be seen as exceptional, better, the best, even, but the only way to be that is to be able to be compared to someone else. So, yes, Ariel rejects merfolk society and scoffs at their rules, but she is OBSESSED with fitting into human society and following every one of their customs to a tee. Therefore, keeping all this in mind, Ariel is most likely a Slytherin.

Knowing that many of you still think she is a Gryffindor, let’s compare the WHYs of each House. Is Ariel’s WHY “to spread her specific core values through her actions?” Gryffindors are often the people you find lecturing those around them. Gryffindors are just brimming with advice, and they believe that everyone should just reject any rules that any society would place upon you and, instead, live the way they do. Exactly the way they do. And, here’s how you can do that (whether you want to hear me explain it or not!) Just look at the moralizing Gryffindors from the actual books to compare. Even Fred and George lecture, it not being enough for just them to be goofballs. They think EVERYONE shouldn’t take life seriously, just like they do. Ariel is not a lecturer. She has no grand message to share. Sure, she has morals, everyone does, but she doesn’t try to force anyone else to think the way she does. She doesn’t go around trying to convince anyone else that humans aren’t barbarians unless they start trying to stop her from bettering herself. They can think however they want, they just can’t stop her from thinking the way she wants.

Now, let’s compare. Is Ariel’s WHY “to realize her dreams and become the greatest version of herself she can?” Absolutely! That’s her entire existence. She wants to be where the people are. She wants to not only be human, but to be the BEST human. She wants to learn everything they know and more. She longs to follow their rules and customs, to belong with them. She sees becoming human as the best possible version of herself. This is the difference between the two Society Accepting Houses. Hufflepuffs, being Passive, accept the society they are given. They are realists and pragmatists, wanting to follow and practical, respectable life. Humility is their middle name. But, Slytherins, being Aggressive, don’t always accept the society that’s been handed to them. They want the best they can get and they will do whatever it takes to get that. If the Slytherin does accept the society they are born into, they will quickly try to become the best they can be within that society. They don’t just want to be useful, like Hufflepuffs. They want to be exceptional. Ariel wants to be exceptional. She wants to better herself. She wants to belong. And she does whatever it takes to make those dreams a reality.

Belle - Ravenclaw

After that last controversial one, let’s get a conforming House in here! So, let’s start. Is Belle Passive or Aggressive? I’d say that Belle is a great example to show that “Passive” does not mean “pushover.” Anyone can stand up for themselves and their own personal morals. Belle does this constantly. She stands against diversity and holds her head high where others might bow down. This sort of behavior is not House specific. But, Belle still shows that tell-tale Passive behavior. Although she may dream about getting out of this “provincial life” she seems more content to just accept where she is and make it work. She shows no signs of true rebellion. She can’t escape in real life, so she escapes through her books. This is enough for her. Then, when the Beast makes her his prisoner, rather than trying to escape, she makes it work. She makes friends with the servants, and takes pleasure in defying him so long as he’s rude to her, but otherwise, she makes it work.This would make Belle either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw.

Now, is Belle Society Accepting or Society Rejecting? I’d say Rejecting. Although she dislikes people being cruel to her, using words like “odd”, she seems to take some pride in being different from them. Although she longs for friendship and belonging, what she really wants is to find people who will let her be who she wants to be. She enjoys things that are different, like her, and wants to exist alongside them. Yes, some Society Rejectors can exhibit this ironic behavior. They align themselves with other people who are “odd” or “different” and seemingly form a new society. But, what’s important to remember is that there’s a difference between seeking “belonging” and seeking “acceptance.” Society Rejectors want to be accepted, meaning that they are left to behave how they want and get to keep their friends. Society Acceptors want to belong, meaning they strive to become good enough that they may be part. So, Belle must be a Ravenclaw.

Now, as a Ravenclaw, is Belle’s WHY “to do what she wants, when she wants, as much as she wants to?” I would say so! She wants adventure, she wants to read her books, she wants to be different, she wants to exist as an individual alongside other individuals. I think she falls in love with Prince Adam BECAUSE he’s so unique. He’s different. The more she recognizes him as an outcast, the more she likes him. The more she sees how unique the castle is, the more she likes it. Therefore, she exhibits some strange Ravenclaw reactions: She chooses to stay in her captor’s castle, even forming a loving relationship with him, all of her own volition. This is definitely a unique response to everything that happened to her. I considered Gryffindor briefly, but I think the live action movie may have an example of a Gryffindor Belle. She tries to escape. She is more of a lecturer. She actively teaches the Beast to be a better person, rather than bonding with him exactly as he is in the animated version. Live Action Belle tries to teach other girls in the village to be inventive and educated, Animated Belle is not going to force anyone to read with her. If they don’t want to of their own accord, she’s not interested.

Jasmine - Gryffindor

I don’t think this one will be disputed. So, firstly, is Jasmine Passive or Aggressive? I think we’d all say Aggressive. She is a doer, a changer, she is willing to rebel if she feels like she’s not getting treated the way she should. She sics a tiger on a suitor. I really don’t think I need to give any examples beyond that. So, that makes Jasmine either a Gryffindor or a Slytherin.

So, is Jasmine Society Accepting or Society Rejecting? I’d pretty clearly say Rejecting. She doesn’t just dislike royal society, she just flat out hates the idea of anyone telling her what to do. She enjoys standing out and being different, being “not the average princess.” In her speech to Aladdin, she mentions feeling trapped by society’s rules and regulations. She wants to be an individual, to be free. So, that would make Jasmine a Gryffindor.

Our first Gryffindor Princess! So, as a Gryffindor, is Jasmine’s WHY “to spread her specific core values through her actions?” I’d give that a big yes. She is the first lecturing Disney Princess. She lectures her father on her beliefs after siccing Rajah on her suitor. She will only marry for love. She not only seeks to free herself from society’s norms, but others as well. She frees her pet birds from their cage, she steals an apple for an orphan, and she tries to free Aladdin, although societal rules say that he should be punished for the crimes he actually committed. She makes speeches and tries to push her beliefs onto others, while trying to live by example. 

I’ve decided I’m going to do a part two!

For some of the upcoming princesses, I think I’m going to have to meditate a bit harder. As the storytelling gets more complex and less old school fairy tale, the princesses get more complex. And, since it’s getting late, I’m going to think on it a bit longer and finish this another day. Expect a part two! Thanks for reading this short novella!

[houseofswords]

Eric Nye

Theme song / Moodboard Divinity: Balaur (knowledge, memory, identity, names, protection, ritual magic)

BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Eric David Nye Gender: Male Age: 46 Birthday: 20th November

Myers-Briggs: ENFJ Zodiac: Scorpio Tarot card: The Magician

Nationality: Canadian Birthplace: Vancouver, British Columbia

Sexuality: Bisexual (closeted) Relationship status: Lonely

Occupation: Manager (previously: theatre actor)

 

APPEARANCE

Height: 6’2” Weight: 155lbs

Hair: Auburn, straight and wiry. Kept short and parted. Eye colour: Honey brown

Physical characteristics: Tall, lanky, often described as a scarecrow, with awkward limbs and big hands and feet. His face is long and and sports a prominent hooked nose. He is very handsome, though he doesn’t think so himself. Other traits: Some scars on his arms and legs, most notably some gruesome surgical scars on his left leg. Tattoos: None

Clothes: He likes to dress well and wears neat, ironed shirts, black dress pants and shoes and a waistcoat out of the house. When home, he rolls up the sleeves and may wear a sweater vest in the cold.

 

TRAITS

Personality: Calm and quiet, he’s slow to anger and lets most things roll off him with a shrug. A caring person at heart, if cautious and ‘by the books’, he’ll always leap to take charge and look after others first. He’s sensible and has a good head on his shoulders—sometimes he feels like he’s the only one. Regrets and past mistakes weigh heavily on him and he can become distant and bitter, and, in the end, he’ll always do what has to be done.

Motives: Eric wants to atone for past mistakes but doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s too afraid of what people will think of him to admit the things he’s tone, preventing him from being able to apologise and move on. He does his best to hide the horrors of the theatre and keep people safe, but knows that in doing so he’s just allowing it to become a self-fulfilling cycle and feels trapped as a result.

Values: Eric is a just and righteous man, but makes the mistake of assigning numbers and values to his morals. It’s better for one person to die than five, and better to commit a small evil for a greater good. He believes that curiosity is humanity’s greatest vice and goes to great lengths to discourage it in those around him—those who play with fire will just get burnt.

Fears: Deathly afraid of spiders, no matter how small. He’s terrified of the thought of dying alone, with no one to care about him or even remember his name, and spends more time worrying about what others think of him than his cool exterior would imply.

Weaknesses: If he does lose his cool, Eric grows flustered and often blurts out things he doesn’t mean, coming to add them to his pile of regrets later. He has difficulty admitting when he’s wrong and dislikes it when his authority is challenged.

Quirks: He habitually straightens his clothes or runs a hand through his hair when nervous or agitated—’ruffling his feathers’ as some call it. He smiles with his eyes more than his mouth. At times he can become distant, gazing far away at memories that still weigh heavily on his shoulders. He often feels compelled to write down what he sees on a day to day basis and keeps a diary as a result.

 

STRENGTHS AND SKILLS

Skills: Trained first aider who remains calm under fire. Excellent management skills, both with time and people. People look up to him as a leader and a role model, even if they don’t particularly like him or his methods. He’s very good at masking his true feelings under a smile. He has a green thumb and is good with words, whether he’s speaking or writing.

Hobbies: Gardening, growing roses, writing, rearranging the decorations in his house, reading, watching period dramas on TV.

Powers: — Eidetic memory, able to recall past events with striking accuracy. He can remember any face he sees and any name he’s told, whether he wants to or not, even recognising people that he met as children many, many years ago. — Power over names and identity, able to strip a person of their name and being and assign a new one. He can erase memories or force someone to relive them. — Limited reality warping. He can place blessings and protective wards by writing down possible harm and burning it, ensuring that it does not come to pass. He can also cancel curses and other harmful magic by simply writing it out of reality. — Though it isn’t his specific domain, he has some power over fire due to its importance in ritual magic. He can strike with a burning touch, light fires with his fingertips and conceal himself with smoke.

  OTHER FACTS

Favourite music: Whitesnake, Led Zeppelin, Queen, Elton John. He also enjoys relaxing to soft jazz. Favourite films: Pride and Prejudice, Les Misérables, Titanic, Elizabeth: The Golden Age, Schindler’s List Favourite food: Chocolate, coffee, tea, pistachios, croissants Favourite animal: As much as people tease him for his resemblance to them, he’s very fond of owls. He also likes cats and has a ginger tom called Puck. Favourite colour: Robin’s egg blue. Also likes scarlet and tends to be associated with it more. Likes: Flowers, historical dramas, the smell of old books, the sounds typewriters make, when people actually listen to him and don’t get themselves into trouble Dislikes: Being interrupted or talked over, people who dog-ear the pages of books, tea, pineapples, SPIDERS

Misc. info: Eric did three years in med school, but ended up dropping out to pursue dreams of being an actor instead. His left knee was broken at some point in the past and now he walks with a heavy limp.

 

ALTERNATE VERSES

Superhuman: Eric is Ghostwriter, one of only a few superhumans gifted with sorcery. An ill-fated clash with the rogue agent Cage leaves him unfit for duty and resigned to pushing pencils for the rest of his career, and he finds himself trying to fill the void in his life by taking the mysterious ‘Angel’ under his wing. Victorian Gothic: Professor Eric Nye is somewhat of a celebrity in the world of academia, famed for his pharmaceuticals and remedies. What his colleagues don’t know is that he leads the double life of an adventurer, disappearing overseas on perilous quests from which he might not return. Dead in the Water: The infamous pirate Eric Nye is afflicted with a terrible curse: he can’t go on land without burning everything he touches. He’s pursued by a bounty hunter who won’t rest until he’s dead. Swords and Sorcery: Eric ran from his duties as a healer in the king’s army to lead a quiet life as an alchemist in a small, remote town. He thought that would be the end of fighting and bloodshed for him, until destiny came knocking. Gotta Catch Em All: Every region has its Pokemon Professor. Professor Nye is busy studying the effects of humans on Pokemon and their habitat when poachers threaten to destroy all of his research, potentially damaging the region’s fragile ecosystem forever. Blood and Wine: People think of street shootouts and gang warfare when talking of the Prohibition, but someone has to be the brains behind the operation. That’s Eric’s job. He handles the numbers, Mike handles the bullets. Behind the Lines: In war, not everyone is a soldier. Eric is a spy planted deep within the German information network. Or, he was. Circumstances necessitated a hasty escape, and he’s forced to join a ragtag group of soldiers making their way to Switzerland for his own protection. Apocalypse Now: A wandering book collector dedicated to preserving the last of the old world’s knowledge, Eric will trade books and other documents for food and medicine.

[kuriquinn]

Underneath the Underneath [1/?]

Summary: As observant as he is, it take Kakashi years before he realises he's in an actual, adult relationship.

Disclaimer: This story utilizes characters, situations and premises that are copyright Masashi Kishimoto, Shueisha, Shonen Jump and Viz Media. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelizations, comics or short stories is intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All fiction, plot and Original Characters with the exception of those introduced in the books, manga, video games, novelizations and anime, are the sole creation of KuriQuinn and using them without permission is considered rude, in bad-taste and will reflect seriously on your credibility as a writer. You will be forced to juggle geese until you drop dead should you be found plagiarizing.

Warning: Spoilers for pretty much everything up to Chapter 699.

Canon-Compliance: As close to canon as fanfiction can possibly be. With a few personal additions :P Takes place during Part I, Part II and the Blank Period.

Fanon-Compliance: Takes place several years before An Inch of Gold and Unplanned.

AN: OC alert! There is an OC in this story! Ohmygosh! Okay, so I have had a lot of interest in my OC, Manako, over the past little while, and I got a few requests here, on AO3 and on tumblr to start showing her relationship with Kakashi a little more. I had been meaning to wait until once I finished with all my SasuSaku headcanon stuff, but then I thought, why not write it now? Kakashi and Manako's relationship happens entirely off-screen so as not to interfere or impose on the canon, so I can write a few pieces every now and then for those of you who are curious. I hope you enjoy!

Author’s Note2: In case anyone was not aware of this (and I’ve mentioned it several times), Kakashi and Manako are about 9-10 years apart in age. They meet several years before the Naruto series begins and slowly build a friendship. Despite the fact that this is a universe with different age appropriate behaviours and expectations than our own (for crying out loud, they have twelve year old kids fight to the death and massacre their families), and that for the vast majority of human history age differences and relationships at younger ages have always exists, with or without consent, I have gone out of my way to ensure that nothing physical or intimate happens between the two until Manako is 18 years old (legal voting age in Japan, in many place in Japan, legal age of consent as per Tokyo’s Youth Protection Law). There has been an ongoing trend across many fandoms lately to demonize any relationship with a large age-gap or where one partner is a teenager on the cusp of being legal. Interestingly enough, these same people have no problem with a 17-year-old girl being stalked by a 100-year-old vampire just because he looks like a 17-year-old boy. Go figure.

In laymen’s terms, if you’re one of those holier-than-thou, morality-police, purity-wank douchenozzles that think authors should censor their work to protect your delicate sensibilities from being exposed to stuff that happens in real life…kindly step out of my section of the sandbox and go play elsewhere.

This is the politest I get about it.

“Ah! Kakashi, my venerable rival!” Maito Gai declares with his usual pomp, pointing one finger straight in front of him, while his other hand remains hidden behind his back. “Today is the day when we settle our longstanding, noble contest!”

Kakashi raises his single visible eyebrow at the digit two inches from his nose. “Is that so?”

“Yes! You see, as I was enjoying my balanced and revitalising morning repast, I heard a foreigner mention a competition from their land! The honourable and youthful pursuit of juggling geese!”

From behind his back, Gai produces a tiny gosling that blinks up at Kakashi and honks in puzzlement.

Kakashi returns that blink. Behind him, he hears Kurenai and Asuma stifle chuckles.

“That’s a goose,” he says eventually.

“Well-spotted, you keen-eyed animal, you!”

Kakashi counts to three in his head, and then points out in as reasonable a voice as he can manage, “Isn’t juggling geese a little cruel?”

“Nonsense! Our Konoha poultry is the hardiest of the land!”

That’s not what I…what even…?

There are so many logical, well-thought out arguments against this, and yet Kakashi knows from experience none of them will suffice. And so, he pounces on Gai’s ridiculousness in the hopes he can dissuade him for once.

“If the purpose is to juggle geese, shouldn’t there be more than one?”

Gai’s elated expressions holds for several seconds longer, and then his shoulders slump and he glares into the distance.

“Damn you, Kakashi, with your cool logic!”

Well, that was a narrowly avoided spot of—

“Fear not! I will return with a gaggle of goslings for us to test our juggling acumen!”

And he speeds off, leaving Kakashi holding the goose.

“Well…” Asuma begins.

“That’s certainly an interesting way to begin the morning,” Kurenai adds.

Gai hurries back, snatches the confused bird, and disappears again. Kurenai shakes her head. “Is it just me or does he get more high-spirited every day?”

“It’s not just you,” Asuma assures her. “The man could tire out the gods…”

Kakashi sighs and glances at the sky; the sun isn’t even at its zenith yet.

This is not how his routine is supposed to go.

Not that he ever consciously planned to have something as mundane as a routine. As a general rule, shinobi avoid having those, being that they are trained to expect the unexpected. However, over the years since he moved up the ranks in Konoha, a certain procedure has emerged nonetheless.

Every morning he rises before dawn and visits the cemetery, standing before the Memorial Stone to pay respect to his fallen comrades. Depending on his mood he may simply spare them a few words, or perhaps he’ll spend an hour or two in silent remembrance of Obito, Rin and Minato-sensei. Afterward, he heads to Hokage Tower to see if there’s anything Lord Third intends him to do.

It’s been almost a year since the Hokage removed him from active duty with ANBU, as well as mandatory therapy and instruction to readapt his teaching methods for genin. Eventually he will be assigned his first genin squad, but for now he’s simply on the village duty roster. Still, the missions Lord Third assigns him are always for the best of the village.

In any case, he has a lot more recreational time than he ever did before. Privately he thinks the old man is hoping he’ll use these newfound free periods to socialise more, but at this point in his life, Kakashi isn’t keen on seeking out friendship. As a child he didn’t like the idea of mingling with other people, and as an adult he is even more socially hesitant.

It’s not exactly easy to make friends when every person you’ve ever cared about died and everyone else holds you responsible for it.

Still, in spite of his reluctance, he has forged some connections within the village.

First and foremost, there’s Gai, whose presence in his life was insisted upon by their respective fathers. By now, the taijutsu master is so much of a habit for Kakashi that he’s not quite sure what he’d do without him. No day is complete without one of Gai’s ridiculous competitions, though Kakashi tries to avoid them until the evening for simple conservation of energy. 

In the past few years, he’s also found himself in the company of Asuma more and more often. Kakashi is pretty sure the man has been ordered by his father to keep an eye on him, which would be annoying if Asuma were less interesting. The Hokage’s son is well-learned and well-travelled, and his stories fill the silences that would otherwise be awkward.

Then there’s Kurenai, who goes wherever Asuma does these days, and Yugao. She’s the only one of his former ANBU squad that he speaks to with anything resembling regularity, if only because she’s been going on fewer mission since she and Hayate started spending more time together. Tenzō, when he isn’t off on missions, will invite Kakashi for a drink or a meal (and then they both spend the evening trying to nonchalantly trick the other into paying for it).

He tries not to think of Itachi Uchiha at all.

“Are you actually going to juggle geese?” Kurenai asks, her mouth quirking upwards at Kakashi.

Asuma chuckles again. “That sounds like it would be messy…”

“Maybe I’ll be assigned a mission and be able to avoid him,” Kakashi groans.

“I don’t know – it looks like he’s coming back,” Kurenai points out, staring out into the distance.

Kakashi doesn’t need to be told twice.

Without really looking, he dives through the door of the nearest shop, just in time to avoid Gai’s triumphant return – now balancing half a dozen geese in his arms.

Peeking through the corner of the nearby window, he watches as Gai—upon realising Kakashi is nowhere to be found—begins to demonstrate exactly how one juggles geese to a bemused Kurenai and Asuma.

Kakashi sighs and slumps down, pressing his head against the wall. It’s going to be a while before he can slip away. Maybe there’s a back entrance somewhere—

“Unless you’re looking for a way to blow shit up, you shouldn’t be here,” a bored voice says from somewhere behind him. “My boss doesn’t like loitering.”

Kakashi looks up, noticing in the process that his chosen hide-out is one of the many surplus and supply stores in the village. The smell of ink, paper and gunpowder fill the air, and when he takes notices of the walls he sees row upon row of specialty parchment—the kind for explosive tags. He glances across the sales floor, for the first time taking note of the girl reading a book behind the check-out counter. She’s familiar to him, although in the second-hand kind of way that everyone in a small village is familiar, so it only takes a moment to place her.

Twins are rare in such a small village, and Manako Inuzuka is identical to her sister Hana. Brunette and dark eyed, with a solid-looking medium frame and a languid, unselfconscious bearing he doesn’t see in a lot of girls her age. She lacks the distinctive Inuzuka facial markings, which is odd considering she’s the child of the leader, but somehow she manages to look just as fierce.

Kakashi occasionally has business with Hana—sometimes his ninja hounds require urgent medical care, and she’s set to take over the village’s veterinary practice—but he has never spoken to Manako beyond a few random, forgettable encounters. He doesn’t expect this one to be any different.

Except, then his attention falls on the book she’s reading.

The book which happens to be the next installment of his favourite series.

The one he has been desperately waiting on for the last six months.

“That’s the latest Icha Icha novel,” he says.

“It is.”

“It’s not even supposed to be out for another month.”

“And yet, here it is,” Manako replies, turning a page.

“How did you get your hands on this?”

“I know a guy.”

He begins to approach the counter. “Can I know a guy?”

“That depends—are you into bondage?”

Kakashi does a bit of a double-take at this, opening his mouth and then closing it again as he studies her. She and Hana were in Itachi’s year, which means she can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old.

She has to be messing with him.

Even so, he’s not entirely sure what to say to that.  At his silence, she finally looks up, considering him with a critical eye.

“Oh. You’re him,” she says, and Kakashi waits for the usual qualifier—he knows the things people whisper about him: cold-blooded, friend-killer, traitor’s son. But then she adds, “You’re Pakkun’s pet.”

“Pet?” he echoes, surprised and disbelieving.

“Sorry. That’s how the dogs talk,” she says, though she doesn’t sound or look very sorry, turning her attention back to her book in a clear dismissal. “I mean to say you’re his human.”

He’s not sure that’s much better and gets the sense that she’s mocking him.

“Your sister is a lot more polite than you,” he says, which sounds immature and over-simplistic, but he’s still a bit caught off balance and doesn’t know what else to say.

She doesn’t seem ruffled by the comparison at all.

“So I’m told.”

Again, her words drip with dismissal, and Kakashi is inclined to take the hint. He turns back toward the shop entrance.

Except –

He turns around. “Out of curiosity—”

“No.”

He frowns. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“You’re not getting my book.”

“I’d pay you for it.”

“But then it would not longer be my book,” she says, and then glances up, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I’m possessive and materialistic like that.”

Kakashi resists the urge to pout, but only because he is a grown-ass man and a jōnin and feared by half the shinobi world.

“Surely there’s some arrangement we can come to?” he suggests, trying to sound smooth and casual and not like a slavering fanboy.

“You’re that desperate for cheesy romance and long drawn-out sex?” she raises an eyebrow at him, and he feels his cheeks warm beneath his mask because does she have to be that blunt about it?!

“Well what’s your excuse for reading it?”

“I have two X-chromosomes,” she retorts, and then crosses her arms. “And didn’t you hear? Long. Drawn-out. Sex.”

His cheeks flooding with even more colour.

“Should you really be reading that sort of thing?” he asks, a little tightly. “It’s not exactly…”

“Oh, but if it was a teenaged boy it would be alright?” she counters. “Talk about double standards…”

“I never said—”

“I have just as much right to read it as you,” she shoots back. “And if you think about it, it’s kind of creepier when it’s an old guy like you doing it.”

“…Old?”  Kakashi demands, voice cracking a little in astonishment.

“Well, with that hair of yours,” she shrugs. “Easy mistake to make.” He stares at her in reply, and she smirks. “See? It’s not nice to generalize about someone’s age.”

Kakashi decide right then that it’s time to leave.

Juggling geese is suddenly a much less challenging prospect than any more absurdist conversation with this…person. He doesn’t even ask about the back entrance, and is almost on the point of opening the door again when—

“I guess I could make you a deal.”

Kakashi pauses, the sudden image of himself reading his beloved, long-book at the end of a tiring day. It’s been so long…

“I’m listening,” Kakashi says, turning back.

“I need someone to field-test my specialty explosive tags,” she tells him. “But Old Man Third won’t let me hire a genin squad. Something about legal issues or child protection or whatever.” She makes a dismissive hand gesture. “None of the chūnin are allowed to, either, ever since the last time some moron didn’t read the labels and blew off a testicle.” Kakashi’s cheeks rapidly lose all earlier warmth. “And most jōnin are pretentious pricks that think their missions are more important than functioning equipment, so...”

Kakashi’s eye twitches. “Noted.”

“But I’ve heard you’re moderately intelligent, and apparently, you’re fast too, so here’s what I want—you come by every so often and try out my specialty tags, then come give me feedback, and I’ll hook you up with this book.” Kakashi is about to say that seems like an awful lot of work for one book, and then she adds, “And any others that my contact sets me up with.”

“You’re making literature seem a lot more clandestine than it is,” he accuses.

“Not all of us are elite ninjas. Some of us have to make our fun where we can,” she replies. “Are you in or out?”

Kakashi turns the offer over in his head.

The whole thing sounds an awful lot like responsibility, or even worse, accountability, and unless the well-being of the village is at stake, he tends to avoid both.

However, on the other hand, he’s heard from others that Manako’s incendiary devices are top quality, and that she doesn’t limit her work to simple explosives. Which could prove useful in situations where he doesn’t feel like expending effort.

And he really wants to read the book.

It’s telling that the only considerations he have pertain to his own laziness and guilty reading pleasures.

“Alright, it’s a deal,” he says.

“Good,” she agrees, nodding in a businesslike fashion. “But you’re still waiting until after I finish reading it.”

Which causes Kakashi’s shoulders to slump because how did he not see that coming. He can predict the moves of enemy ninja before they even consider making them, and this girl outmaneuvered him with a single sentence.

She smirks at him, black eyes dancing. “Of course, if I didn’t have to cut my break short lugging boxes around and doing actual work, I could probably finish this in the next hour…”

He shoots her an unimpressed look.

“Do you actually think I’m that desperate?”

“I think you just promised to carry out potentially dangerous field testing that could possible get you blown up just to get a chance to read the book. Damn straight I think you’re desperate,” she declares, black eyes dancing. “So either you’re really bored with your life, or really weird.”

She looks him over again, and he gets the sense that this time she is actually studying him, because her eyes linger on his mask.

“Weird,” she concludes, and nods to herself. “Which is good. We’ll be friends.” She then closes the book, holding the place with one finger and pokes another in his face. “But no sex, okay? I don’t want to deal with sad puppy-dog eyes when I break your heart.”

He can’t help his jaw dropping at either implication.

“Now get to work. There are crates of blank scrolls in the back that need to be stocked up here,” she says, going back to her reading. “And if you don’t do a good job, I’m calling out spoilers.”

Which is how Kakashi Hatake, elite jōnin of the Hidden Leaf, finds himself stocking shelves for the next two hours, wondering what exactly he has gotten himself into.

つづく

I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Comments and constructive criticism are much appreciated, and very motivating—and if you enjoy my writing, check out my original stories as they are posted on patreon!

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[kyberled]

🛠 gimme some of these side charas :0

Send “🛠” and I will reveal some OCs, NPCs, or side characters I have || Accepting

Otto, Maverick, Razz, Surefire, Beskar, and Steppes are a group of clone troopers who serve in the 212th Attack Battalion. They’re no definite clique, but they do find themselves working together more often than not. And, of course, I don’t mean that they work as a unit, since that goes without saying; I mean that they’re often assigned to certain missions together, and they just assume it’s because they can get things done to a satisfactory degree. As far as actual ‘groups’ go, Razz and Surefire are best friends, Steppes keeps Beskar’s temper and abrasive attitude from getting him into trouble, and Maverick and Otto are sort of the odd ones out in that they aren’t really best friends with anyone in the group. They just go along with it - Or, in Maverick’s case, sprint ahead whooping and hollering on ahead to take the proverbial bull by the horns. Otto’s more likely to hang back and make a sarcastic comment (Same with Beskar, unless Bes has decided to fight someone about it).

Otto, or CT-5588, has short hair in a crew cut, a bit of stubble, and often has his fingernails painted in the 212th’s signature gold. He also has a few sabaac cards tattooed onto the inside of his left wrist. His armour has gold-painted shoulders with the Aurebesh number eight painted in white on each; the underside of his bracers are painted gold, as are the tops of his boots, and the rims of his helmet and visor. He’s a younger soldier, but not naive; war’s taken that privilege away from him. He’s quiet, unless spoken to first, with a wry, blunt way of speaking and a straightforward and sarcastic sense of humour. He likes to think of himself as a man of simple tastes and simple pleasures. He likes his caf black, his bedding dry, and his Seppies dead. He doesn’t like thinking about the bigger things; he says it’s not his job. He’d rather leave that to the Jedi and the Senators. On his off-time, Otto can be found cleaning his weapons and his gear, playing sabaac, arm wrestling, or drinking with his brothers, napping, or working out. Braig finds his simple, to-the-point outlook and method of speaking to be refreshing, and appreciates his down-to-earth views; Otto, himself, thinks Braig’s ‘optimistic naivete’, as he calls it, a nice change of pace from the gritty and upsetting nature of war. Because of this, the two view each other as friends, and can often be found chatting idly when the 212th sets up camp on missions, or when Braig visits the barracks. (Sidenote: Otto’s best friend, Macho, was killed during the Second Battle of Geonosis.)

Maverick, also known as ‘Mavvy’, was assigned the number CT-5653 upon his ‘birth’. His hair is a bit longer than regulation, scruffy, and slicked back on all sides. He sports a small goatee, has a silver stud earring in his right ear, and a large target tattooed onto his chest. He’s known for being a ruthless fighter, an ace pilot, and the cause of most the trouble his unit finds itself in. He loves stirring things up with his brothers, pulling pranks, teasing, and generally making a nuisance of himself with all the vim and vigour you could imagine. He’s fond of pulling off stunts in the air, complete with victory barrel-rolls when he makes his way out of a dog-fight, or when the boys in gold have taken victory, Because of this, he’s a fan of Anakin Skywalker’s work, and as such is thrilled when the 501st teams up with the 212th. On at least one occasion, when told to deliver a report, he announced that ‘there’s a singing telegram for you, sir’. Once, Braig decided to indulge him, and told him to go ahead; After Maverick recovered from the brief shock of actually being allowed, to his credit, he did start singing; His report was delivered in a short, jaunty tune that had to be rapidly altered to have a lot less cursing when he noticed Cody staring him down from across the field. In his off-time, Maverick can be found vying for a chance in the flight simulator, fussing over his fighter, dissolving different candies into his drinks at 79′s to ‘make them taste better’, listening to music, pulling pranks, or trying on eyeliner. He’s not sure if he wants to make it part of his permanent look. Though he doesn’t speak to Braig much, as Braig has a distinct loathing for flying and was rarely a part of the flight group, Maverick does appreciate the fact that Braig lets him get away with his mischief. As long as it doesn’t cause any serious harm, and it’s not during a mission, Braig’s not one to intervene on their fun. So, Maverick thinks positively of their pint-sized commander.

Razz, who will to his dying day deny the fact/rumour that he got his name from the phrase ‘razzle dazzle’, carries the number CT-5759 next to the lighter he always keeps on his person. Nobody really knows how he got it, but he will never tell anyone that it took a lot of time picking credits off the street, bringing bottles and cans to the recycling droids, etc, etc, until he’d saved enough to get his precious luxury. Razz is, by his own admission and his brothers’, a pyromaniac who’s channelled his love of fire into becoming a demolitions expert. He was fascinated by fireworks when he was younger, which was, in part, the instigation of the chain of events that culminated in him receiving his name. He keeps his lighter around to help relax when things get too much, to help keep himself centred, and to quiet his thoughts when he gets too noisy. It’s come in handy a few times, and he’s not hurting anyone, so, even if they’re not sure if he’s supposed to have it, his brothers aren’t gonna take it away from him (Maverick might try, but that’s less ‘You shouldn’t have this’ and more ‘I want to have this and potentially cause trouble with it’). He has the sides of his hair shaved down, but the top’s grown out and tied back into a ponytail. He also has freckles along his nose and cheeks, faint burn scars along his fingertips, and he’ll sometimes steal Maverick’s eye liner as payback for trying to steal his lighter. But, that’s usually only when they’re on leave and heading to 79′s. Razz is a pretty relaxed guy, though he’s more into the bigger picture and the nitty-gritty sort of thing. He likes hearing about what’s going on, getting a feel of what people are doing, and he can be a socialite with his brothers and their Jedi (he’s not a fan of talking with people outside those ranks; Civvies are rarely good conversation, and same goes for politicians). Outside of fire, he finds a bit of comfort in flimsi-folding, drinking, boloball, sketching, yoga, and sparring. You can often find him at the shooting ranges, though, while he does put in his fair share of training time in, he’s often there just because Surefire is there. Nobody’s surprised. As for his relationship with Braig, Razz is pretty fond of the little guy. He taught Braig how to make paper flowers, and is absolutely fascinated by lightsabers. He’ll take every excuse he can to ask about ‘em.

Surefire got his name in a pretty ordinary way - he’s good with a blaster. Before that, he was known as CT-5754, and he was one of Razz’s batch brothers. He’s got his main position in the unit as a sniper, though he’ll also gladly take up positions on walkers or with a sturdy weapon closer to the front lines, if need be. Surefire’s got the regular crew-cut that’s standard for troopers, a scar slashing through his left eyebrow, and a small, neatly-groomed moustache. He’s also got his name tattooed across his knuckles in Aurebesh; ‘Sure’ on one hand, ‘fire’ on the others. He’s almost always got some kind of firearm on his person, either cleaning it, fiddling with it, practising with it, or just admiring it. He likes guns. He’s a sarcastic kind of guy, known for making quips over closed commlink channels when he can get away with it, or to whoever happens to be standing next to him (usually Razz). He likes to think of himself as a realist, embracing a situation whether it’s awful or fantastic (and making sure to comment on his views all the while). Like a lot of his brothers, he also has a dark sense of humour, and, with him being one of the more vocal soldiers, is not above cracking jokes in the face of certain death. In spite of his quirks and quips, Surefire is a fiercely loyal soldier, proud of his duty and protective of his brothers. He has no qualms with putting himself on the line if it means the rest of them get out safe. Surefire’s hobbies include practising at the shooting range, reading holomags, chatting with his brothers, hogging the treadmill, rock climbing, boloball, and hanging out with Razz. Surefire’s another one who’s grown fond of little Braig. Their friendship began when Surefire suggested that the Force must make the Jedi into great marksmen, and implied that he wanted to have a target-practise contest. Surefire was utterly horrified when Braig informed him that, as a matter of fact, he’d never fired a blaster in his life, and he promptly dragged the Padawan Commander off to at least figure out how to use a rifle. Since then, there have been a few times when ‘Fire’s taken Braig out to a range to do some shooting, and to shoot the breeze. While he does think Braig’s got a ways to go when it comes to marksmanship, Surefire very much enjoys their conversations.

Beskar, known on official datawork as CT-5579, is the sort of person who seems to be perpetually in a bad mood. Tough and unyielding as the iron he’s named for, Beskar doesn’t mince words, has minimal control of his temper, and seems to be one of those clones who actually enjoys being sent out to fight the droid armies. Sure, he doesn’t like when his brothers get hurt, and he doesn’t like a lot of the collateral and fallout and stress associated with warfare, but he does find something very satisfying about taking out a klanker, no matter the method (though he does prefer being up close and personal). Beskar’s head is shaved bald, and he has a short yet scruffy beard and near-constant dark circles under his eyes, and a smattering of scars over his body. While he has tally marks painted on his armour, he also has them tattooed on his shoulders, back, chest, arms, and hands, and even a few tiny ones under his right ear - clumps of tallies to mark his kill-count wherever he felt like having that bunch at the time. Beskar’s preferred method of killing time include lifting weights, hogging the punching bag, push-ups, arm wrestling his brothers, spending time at the shooting range, listening to the radio, and drinking alone. He’s not a fan of the crowded atmosphere of 79′s. He’s also known to be fond of gambling, though accusing him of cheating is considered asking for a beating. (He doesn’t cheat, he just has one hell of a poker face). He also probably has the best grasp of profanity of the entire group, aside from possibly Maverick. Beskar doesn’t talk to Braig much; he doesn’t really talk to anyone, outside of necessity, with Steppes being the one exception. Beskar finds running after the 212th’s notoriously extra Jedi to be exasperating and headache-inducing. He’d protect Obi-Wan and Braig with his life, just like the rest of them, he just wonders why the kriff they keep asking for danger, or to get captured, or who knows what else. He does appreciate the fact that they treat him and his brothers like people, though. They’re a bit less frustrating than the Kaminoans. 

Steppes, or CT-5581, has cemented himself as a pacifist among his brothers, doing his best to make sure that any infighting is nipped at the bud and quelled peacefully - Or, as peacefully as is possible for them. As far as he’s concerned, they have enough violence in their lives already. He has the typical crew-cut, is clean-shaven, and has a few small scars on his lower lip. On the right side of his jaw, he has three small stars tattooed in white ink. He’s one of the only boys patient enough to handle Beskar, and one of the only brothers Bes will actually get along with. Seeing as some people think Steppes’ pacifism is a weakness, especially when they were cadets, having a snarly, hyper-aggressive best friend definitely kept Steppes from being teased, tormented, and picked on nearly as much as he would’ve, otherwise. Now that they’re older, Steppes’ empathetic tendencies have made him a common choice for a would-be ‘therapist’ amongst his brothers, and have contributed to his well-known leadership abilities, which resulted in his promotion to ‘Lieutenant’. He’s absolutely the ‘mom friend’ of the group, and, though he can come off as overbearing, some boys appreciate the concern. In his off-time, Steppes enjoys reading, going for walks/jogs, checking in on and chatting with his brothers, making sure his gear is in order, games of holochess, and fixing up the speeders he and his brothers ride into battle. While he does also enjoy drinking, he’d rather sit around with a few brews and a few brothers in the comfort of their own bunks; 79′s is good in small doses, but he appreciates the peaceful quiet of home. Being the soft heart that he is, Steppes has found a kindred spirit in Braig. It’s reassuring to him to know that even Jedi can be soft. Makes him feel a bit better about himself. They’re good friends, and Steppes fusses over the kid when he gets the chance. 

[glare-gryphon]

I Have No Self-Control.docx

Here’s the full chapter of that WIP I posted last night. It made me feel much better to write it. Sith/Jedi ABO AU

Do Not Go Gently

~2500 Words

Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker

Additional Tags: Jedi!Alpha!Obi-Wan, Sith!Omega!Anakin, Alternative Universe, Omegaverse

Summary:

Anakin Skywalker is only six months into his Jedi training when he goes missing on a mission, bringing his Master’s life crashing down. Unable to recover from the loss, Alpha Obi-Wan Kenobi grieves his Padawan’s loss, unaware that his life would once again be turned on end with the arrival of an Omega Sith Lord to the Temple ten years later.

When he closes his eyes, Obi-Wan can still picture everything as clearly as if it only happened yesterday. He can hear the murmurs of the crowd as they pass, going about on their day to day business, and the gurgle of the fountain. He can smell its wetness on a warm summer day, mingled and mixed with the almost milky scent of youth that lingers around his young charge. He can feel Anakin's weight on his back, his arms around Obi-Wan's neck as they weave their way through the busy streets. He'd wanted to be high—as high as Obi-Wan could get him, anyways—in order to better take in the sights of a new and exciting culture.

They'd only been partnered together six months. Six months spent within the confines of the Temple's walls, only daring stray as far as the gardens and the yards while Anakin adjusted to the new rigors of Jedi life.  The transition hadn't been easy for either of them, but they were slowly taking steps in the right direction. Considering Anakin’s history as a slave, Obi-Wan considered any progress at all great leaps. There was trust to be established—loyalty to be earned. Nothing comes free to a slave, and Obi-Wan knew that in those first few weeks, Anakin was waiting for the day the bill came due. It had taken a great deal of effort to convince him otherwise; to prove that nothing he could say or do would make Obi-Wan turn him away. He had made a promise to his Master to raise the boy, and raise him he would.

When they were called to the Council Chamber for their first assignment off-world, Obi-Wan had protested mightily. There was progress being made, yes, but they weren't ready for the stressors that the rest of the galaxy can bring. The Training Bond between them was there, was strong for its age due to the events of Naboo and their unusual circumstances, but not strong enough for Obi-Wan's comfort. If he'd gotten his way, they would have waited. If he'd gotten his way, they would have remained in the safety of the Temple until that delicate tie between them had hardened into a durasteel chain.

The thing about the Jedi Council, however, is that they very rarely care for the opinions of young Knights, Sith-Killers or not. Once they have made a decision, there is very little that can move them from their position. So Obi-Wan's protests had fallen on deaf ears, and he and his very young Padawan had been packed away on the first available transport to a supposedly unimportant world in a supposedly unimportant system to play mediator between two opposing factions in a supposedly unimportant civil war.

They stop at the edge of the fountain, Obi-Wan allowing Anakin to slide from his back and swirl hesitant, but curious fingers in its flow. He still marvels at the amount of water that the rest of the galaxy holds, from the showers in the Temple to decorative fountains like these. It's always a pleasure to watch him, something curling warm and contented in his chest as a delighted smile blooms across the boy's face. Still, despite the serenity of the moment, the gentle glow of life that seems to emanate from Anakin at every given moment, there is something putting Obi-Wan’s teeth on edge. He feels it in the Force—oppressive as a wet blanket. It feels too much those moments on Tatooine and Naboo before the emergence of the Sith for Obi-Wan’s comfort.

"Anakin?" Obi-Wan asks. "Do you think you can remember where this fountain is?"

Anakin nods in the affirmative, scooping a palm full of water and watching it trickle down his hand and back into the fountain’s basin.

Obi-Wan echoes it with a nod of his own. "While this is supposed to be a strictly diplomatic mission, sometimes things happen in the field that we aren't expecting—"

"—Like Master Jinn and the Sith?" Anakin asks, terribly clever.

Obi-Wan feels his heart clench at the mention of his lost Master. "Yes, Anakin, like the Sith. So if something were to happen, if we were to get separated at any point during this mission, I would like you to come back to this fountain and wait for me. Do you understand? No matter what happens, I will come back for you. I will find you."

"Yes, Master," the boy replies, meeting Obi-Wan's eyes, his tone taking on the same hard edge as his Master's. Sometimes it's easy to forget that Anakin is far more experienced in the ways of the world than his peers. At least, in things like this—in survival. His round, innocent face and baggy Jedi robes (years of malnourishment still to be corrected) are a misleading mask for the trouble and experience earned in his short years. "I'll be here."

"Good," Obi-Wan breathes, reaching out to tussle the boy's Padawan cut. "Good," he repeats, when Anakin returns his attention to the fountain. There is something in the air that he can't seem to shake—an unease that raises the hair on the back of his neck.

The chronometer on his wrist mount flashes, informing him that the time of their meeting with the factions is approaching, and Obi-Wan is forced to pull Anakin away from the object of his fascination. They stroll side by side down the busy streets, Anakin's small hand in his, as the Padawan asks questions about the culture and the architecture and the various alien species that are still new to him. Obi-Wan does his best to answer, and for a moment almost forgets the stifling pressure in the air.

Until the first explosion goes off, leveling houses along the left side of the street. Rubble comes crashing down, sending the foot traffic scattering in a cacophony of shrieks and screams. Only a moment after the first, barely enough time for Obi-Wan to regain his bearings, a second explosion rips through the block on the other side of the street.

It seems one faction of the government has taken peaceful negotiations off the table.

Jostled by falling debris and the fleeing crowd, Anakin's hand is yanked from Obi-Wan's hold. He fumbles for it, calls out to the boy, but it's no use. He's already been pulled with the flow of civilians well beyond Obi-Wan's reach.

From the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan catches movement along the rooftops nearest the blast: the bombers. Suddenly, he is faced with an agonizing choice.

Jedi vows compel him to go after the bombers. It is his duty to protect the people of this city from further harm at their hands, and if he goes now, he can catch them. Maybe even be able to salvage these negotiations by convincing the rest of their faction to write them off as extremists and bring peace to this planet. On the other hand, instinct ingrained into his very genetic code is pushing, urging, screaming for him to abandon the bombers for now and seek out his wayward Padawan. The air is thick with fear and blood and Obi-Wan almost cedes. But a Jedi is above instinct, and he has Anakin's word to wait for him.

He makes a decision.

Despite his speed in giving chase, the bombers manage to lose him in the chaos of the crowd. Dust from debris and the acrid tang of blood and fear coat his nose and mouth, making more primitive methods of tracking them impossible. With no other options, he is forced to abandon the chase.

While there is a bitter disappointment that comes with not catching his quarry, Obi-Wan is a little relieved. To apprehend them would have meant dealing with the local authorities, delaying his return to where his wayward pupil awaits. Darkness still hangs uncomfortably in the air, curled around his chest and squeezing, and he is eager to have Anakin back within arm's reach.

Striding through the damaged streets towards their meeting place, Obi-Wan takes in the ruin. It seems odd to him that the factions would request a Judi negotiator only to level several blocks with explosives mere hours before peace talks began. What's more, the bombers didn't seem to belong to species that regularly made their homes in this area. Perhaps one of the factions had hired a small crew of Bounty Hunters to do their dirty work? But where would they have gotten the credits for such an exploit? According to the briefing packet Obi-Wan received, the only reason peace was on the table was because the economy had begun to struggle in the wake of the governmental upset, making it difficult for either faction to raise the funds they need to continue to fight...

It is a curious dilemma, which is struck from his mind when he enters the small square containing his and Anakin's meeting place. The fountain had not fared well in the attack, a large piece of rubble sent flying by the force of the explosions having made its residence upon it. The great spire that one stood in the fountain's center has fallen, its basin cracked and crumbling. Water pours from from it, spilling out onto the cobblestone streets and trickling away in a slow, steady stream. More importantly, however--Most importantly--Anakin is nowhere to be seen.

Obi-Wan does not allow himself to panic. Not at first, anyways. He circles the structure, making sure he hasn't missed the boy among the rubble, and deems him absent once again. Perhaps, Obi-Wan thinks, he is only lost. Perhaps he had overlooked the landmark, what with all the damage it took in the blasts. Anakin is a resourceful child, and quite stubborn once he sets himself to a task. If he is lost, he will find a way here eventually. He will not rest until he does so. With that in mind, Obi-Wan settles on the ground, leaning back against a dry, undamaged section of the basin. Best to wait. Anakin will come.

Yet as an hour passes, then two, then three, there has been no sign of his boy. Even though a Jedi is taught to fear, Obi-Wan can feel its beginnings bubbling up in his chest. Anakin is a resourceful child, yes, but still a child. Still a child on a strange planet so very far from his home; still a child in the middle of an active war zone.

Obi-Wan should never have left him alone.

The thought has him on his feet, pacing the borders of the square. There are several small streets leading off it, and Obi-Wan finds himself hesitating as he passes each one. He wants to walk down them, to search for the boy, but he'd promised to be here. What if Anakin returned and found no Obi-Wan waiting for him? But what if Anakin was out there, lost and alone or trapped and scared by the destruction that has been brought upon the town? He can't seem to make up his mind on the matter, leaving him pacing the square until several more hours have past and exhaustion forces him to still.

Retaking his position against the fountain, Obi-Wan considers going back to his ship. Night is beginning to fall; it wouldn't do to leave himself exposed to the elements. But he couldn't condemn his student to a night in the cold, either. If Anakin returns during the night, he wants to be able to ferry the boy to shelter as soon as possible. Obi-Wan can't leave, he can't, so he prepares himself for the long night ahead.

But Anakin does not come in the night, nor does he arrive the following morning. By the afternoon, Obi-Wan has given up on waiting, convinced that something must be holding up his pupil's return. He wander through the streets, stopping civilians to ask if they've seen a boy—about this high, blond hair, wearing Jedi attire—anywhere in their repair efforts. They all tell him no. He wants to scream.

From the Force, he feels nothing. The Training Bond he shares with Anakin was not strong enough to handle such extended separation. It feels like something had pulled the string until it snapped, its frayed edges floating aimlessly in the currents of the Force. Obi-Wan had told the Council that they weren't ready. They needed more time to grow, to connect. They needed to be able to use that Bond the way it was meant--to be able to sense the other partner. If they'd had a proper Bond, he would have found Anakin by now.

He'd told the Council they weren't ready.

The second day of his search yields nothing, not the third, nor the fourth. The comm link on his wrist chimes incessantly, but he pays it no attention. He doesn't care to speak with the Council at the moment, he tells himself every time he silences the chirping device; he will call them back later. Except that he never does, and four days turns to two weeks and Anakin still hasn't been located.

Obi-Wan can't remember the last time he really slept, the last real meal he ate. Before they left the Temple, he supposes. With Anakin. His time is split between actively searching for the boy and aiding in the clean-up effort if only out of some sick hope that they'll find Anakin's body amongst the rubble. It would not be the ending he hoped for, but it would be closure. Better to know for certain than this endless uncertainty. The people of the town pay him no heed; they have their own problems to handle.

By the end of the third week, a new ship arrives at the spaceport. Obi-Wan hears of it through the conversations of the citizens passing his position at the newly-repaired fountain, but does not bother to investigate. These days, he rarely leaves his vigil. Children come and go, occasionally bringing him treats and asking after a story. Obi-Wan obliges, if only to pass the time until Anakin arrives.

The Council's emissaries find him there, curled against the cool stone. Sunken-eyed and shaggy, still in the soiled robes he'd been wearing that first day. They'd taken one look at him and known.

When Obi-Wan closes his eyes, it feels just like yesterday. But it wasn't. Years now stretch between the day he lost his young pupil and this moment, curled beneath the blankets of Anakin's cot. The boy's scent has long since faded from the fabric, replaced by his own Alpha musk, but Obi-Wan imagines he can still smell it when he buries his face into the mattress. His wayward apprentice.

Outside the room, in the sitting area of the apartment the Council had never convinced him to move out of, his comm link chimes.

[poop4u]

Karma, The Bio Detection in Training

#Poop4U

The post Karma, The Bio Detection in Training by Wendy Newell appeared first on Dogster. Copying over entire articles infringes on copyright laws. You may not be aware of it, but all of these articles were assigned, contracted and paid for, so they aren't considered public domain. However, we appreciate that you like the article and would love it if you continued sharing just the first paragraph of an article, then linking out to the rest of the piece on Dogster.com.

Here in the United States, we don’t currently utilize Bio Detection Dogs (BDD), which are pups trained in medical detection, including cancer. As of right now, U.S. insurance companies won’t pay for BDD testing. There is also an issue with getting positive samples to train the dogs on. Then there are the questions around the science. Testing for BDD-type cancer screening requires you to accept the unknown of the specific dog’s personality. Scientists don’t like unknowns that can alter conclusions in their experiments. Dr. Klaus Hackner of Austria, did his own study in 2016 and had misgivings, telling Scientific American that the BDD screening did not reflect the reality of mass cancer screenings in the real world. Asking a dog to sniff a high number of samples with relatively few “hits” made Dr. Hackner believe that a handler would not be able to successfully provide enough positive feedback to the dog for him to stay engaged. Don’t forget for double-blind studies and in the real world the handler doesn’t even know which samples are positive to be able to give the dog feedback at the correct times; whereas other detection dogs, like those in search and rescue, do many “blank” searches where there is no actual find and are still successful.

Getting ready

One of the huge positives is that BDD cancer screeners seem to identify cancer much sooner than current methods. The sooner life-ending cancers can be identified, the higher the likelihood that treatment will be successful.

Certified Bio Detection dog trainer and canine behaviorist Dierdra (Didi) McElroy is getting the detection dogs under her tutelage ready to be able to start “sniffing out cancer” as soon as it is an accepted process in the United States. Didi is certified in dog behavior, service dogs, therapy dogs, police K-9s, scent and cancer detection. She also graduated from Texas A&M with a degree in Biomedical Science, which is extremely helpful when she is talking to doctors about the process of BDD.

Almost any breed that likes to do a good job and likes to please can be a candidate, even short-legged affectionate love bugs like Bulldogs. Didi’s star student is a 4-year-old black Lab named Karma, owned by Sandee Wall. According to her human mom, Karma has been training with Didi at California Canine, a comprehensive training and behavior modification company founded by Didi, for the majority of her life.

To become a cancer-sniffing dog, the dog must be able to do scent detection and do it well. Karma has mastered this task and works with a scent rack. The scent rack looks like a long metal container with several holes that Karma can stick her nose into to smell what’s inside. Since a dog’s sense of smell is so keen, Karma probably knows where the positive sample is before even getting to the rack, but she wants to make sure the human watching her knows she is doing her job. Karma will check each individual hole before alerting that she has found her target.

Didi’s goal is to train her dogs, including Karma, to sniff out prostate cancer in urine samples. It can make someone uneasy having a detection dog sniff them up and down with the energy a dog has while working. Using a sample, like urine, makes it an easier process for all involved. Karma is such a well-trained detection dog it would only take a pup like her approximately 6 weeks of training with urine samples donated by men with prostate cancer to be ready when she is called to duty.

Star pupil

Karma’s talents don’t stop at detection work. She’s also an award-winning tricks and dock diving dog, she works hard on honing her detection work, she’s personal protection (schutzhund) trained, and she is a licensed therapy dog spending time at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Stockton, California.

With so many jobs it can sometimes be confusing which one she is supposed to be preparing for. To help Karma get into the mind frame of helping with her therapy work, she dons her “uniform.” Her uniform is several different costumes that help elevate the mood of her patients. A black Lab dressed up as an angel, skeleton, butterfly or even a banana sundae is sure to put a smile on anyone’s face.

Karma likes helping people, according to her mom. It’s why Sandee would love for Karma to be able to become a cancer-sniffing dog. Karma likes all her jobs but the one she has yet to do, sniffing out cancer, would be her most important and impactful one.

A Q&A with SANDEE WALL:

Working dogs are just like us

Q: What is your dog’s diet?

A: Karma’s diet consists of twice-a-day feeding. She eats Diamond Lamb & Rice with a tablespoon of salmon oil by GNC.

Q: Does your dog get any human food?

A: If she is actively training a new behavior, we frequently use turkey hot dogs as her reward. Other than that Karma prefers toy rewards over food rewards. If she has had an exceptional day, such as winning first place at a Disc Dog competition, we will get her a Starbucks Puppuccino.

Q: What type of gear does your dog use?

A: Part of Karma’s training is her “gear.” Dogs are very much situational learners. Every dog owner knows this when they grab a leash. The dog instantly knows that piece of equipment means they get to go for a walk. Karma wears a “service dog” type vest when doing cancer detection work. She wears an agitation harness when she is doing drug detection or personal protection work. She also wears goggles, shoes and up to four collars when working at drug detection and personal protection. The only part of her body that isn’t taken with equipment seems to be the top of her head. So, for therapy work we put a headband on her. We hot glue all kinds of themed objects to it for human amusement, but the feeling of something across the top of her head lets her know that she is working as a therapy dog. She should be calm, friendly, accept touch from anyone and NO SEARCHING them.

Q: Are there certain health issues that your dog’s job causes her to have and how do you address those?

A: We are aware that her various jobs all come with potential health hazards. We mitigate them in a variety of ways. Therapy dog is a tough one because we work at an acute care hospital. Some zoonotic diseases could transfer so we have to give a full groom 24 hours before entering the hospital. Since she does rounds once a week this is a lot of bathing and not necessarily great for her skin and fur. Hence, the salmon oil on her meal to help replenish the oils in her skin.

We don’t use tick/flea medications because we’ve found it has adverse side effects, so we choose to do full body checks after high-risk areas instead.

Q: Do you groom your dog yourself or take her to someone to be groomed?

A: Her professional groomer does an excellent job at selecting less harsh shampoos and using conditioners that meet hospital standards. We bathe her ourselves most of the time but she goes to see Kristi, her groomer, once a month. Our bathing protocols call for more than a quick bath and air dry. Then we use sanitary wipes when the dog leaves the hospital to keep them from tracking anything home to our family.

Thumbnail: Photography Courtesy Dierdra McElroy

About the author

Wendy Newell is a former VP of Sales turned dog sitter, which keeps her busy being a dog chauffeur, picking up poop and sacrificing her bed. Wendy and her dog, Riggins, take their always-changing pack of pups on adventures throughout the Los Angeles area. Learn more about them on Facebook @The Active Pack and on Instagram @wnewell.

Read more about dog breeds on Dogster.com:

8 Facts About the Italian Greyhound

Meet the Mighty Mastiff

8 Great Facts About the Newfoundland Dog

The post Karma, The Bio Detection in Training by Wendy Newell appeared first on Dogster. Copying over entire articles infringes on copyright laws. You may not be aware of it, but all of these articles were assigned, contracted and paid for, so they aren't considered public domain. However, we appreciate that you like the article and would love it if you continued sharing just the first paragraph of an article, then linking out to the rest of the piece on Dogster.com.

Poop4U Blog via www.Poop4U.com Wendy Newell, Khareem Sudlow

[mrmichaelchadler]

Matt Fagerholm's Top Ten Films of 2018

For dutiful film critics preparing to mark their ballots, the final months of the year are nothing less than a cinematic avalanche. Studios do everything in their power to entice us into viewing their most prized work prior to our voting deadlines and “best of” lists. There’s no way any single person can watch and fully digest every single movie that comes out in a given year, but boy do the most devoted cinephiles give it their all, consuming multiple pictures after work hours or early in the morning. 

You can’t merely enjoy movies to pull off such a feat, you must be obsessed with them and believe deeply in their importance. It’s not just a job or a hobby, it is one of the great purposes of my life to champion an art form that possesses the power of strengthening our connection with one another. In such divided and toxic times, the humanizing beam of a film projector is more vital and revitalizing than ever. And in many recent cases cited below, it reminded me of why I fell in love with visual storytelling in the first place.

10. “Mary Poppins Returns”

In an era where Disney appears hellbent on churning out pointless yet highly profitable shot-for-shot remakes of their animated classics, the very notion of producing a sequel to the studio’s all-time greatest picture sounds like a surefire recipe for disaster. Yet what “Chicago” director Rob Marshall has achieved here will stand as a definitive example of how to honor a masterpiece. There is no attempt made to equal or improve upon Robert Stevenson’s 1964 marvel—after all, how does one top perfection? Yet with a running time clocking in just nine minutes shy of its predecessor, this buoyantly old school musical captures the innocence, whimsy and wonderment of “Mary Poppins” while offering its own spirited take on the material. 

Emily Blunt is well-aware that she does not possess the indelible screen persona, let alone the pipes, of Julie Andrews, yet her balance of warmth and sardonic wit is impeccable for the title role, as is Lin-Manuel Miranda’s vibrance and Cockney-by-way-of-Neptune accent in the Bert-like role of lamplighter Jack. A team of veteran animators were brought out of retirement to create the film’s glorious hand-drawn sequence, while the “Hairspray” duo of Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman penned nine original songs echoing the Sherman Brothers’ signature vaudevillian style. Worth the price of admission alone is the ever-ageless Dick Van Dyke, playing the son of the banker he brilliantly brought to life incognito in the first film. Marshall clearly drew upon his childhood memories of seeing “Mary Poppins” on the big screen, and this labor of love is sure to delight fans and newcomers alike. It certainly brought out the child in me. 

9. “Life and Nothing More” 

Winner of Film Independent’s John Cassavetes Award during last year’s Spirit Awards ceremony, Antonio Méndez Esparza’s arresting film aims to capture nothing more than the relentless flow of “life itself.” The director used his script merely as a blueprint, enabling each scene to be formed organically in the moment, while guided by the experiences of his nonprofessional actors (who share the first names of their characters). Spirit Award nominee Regina Williams delivers one of the year’s best performances as a waitress struggling to provide for her troubled son (Andrew Bleechington), and baby daughter in Leon Country, Florida. I’ve watched Esparza’s film twice now, and its greatness reveals itself even more upon second viewing, upending the biases we may have developed about certain characters. 

The first time around, I tended to view events from Andrew’s perspective because that was how they were framed by the camera. His refusal to trust his mother’s boyfriend (Robert Williams) is understandable, since his own dad’s incarceration has given him little reason to trust father figures, though his methods of ousting him from the house are no different from that of the white family who attempt to kick the boy out of their affluent park, even as he poses no threat to them. All of the film’s major conflicts arise from a stubborn reluctance of its characters to communicate with one another. The poignant final shot suggests that our estrangement can be mended the moment we choose to lock eyes and listen to each other, allowing our voices to rise above the deafening cries of our presumptions. 

8. “The Tale”

When Lady Gaga appeared on Stephen Colbert’s late night show this past October, she delivered a stirring defense of Christine Blasey Ford, the psychologist who charged Brett Kavanaugh of sexual assault prior to his confirmation as a Supreme Court justice. “If someone is assaulted or experiences trauma, there is scientific proof that the brain changes,” noted Gaga. “It takes the trauma and puts it in a box, files it away and shuts it so that we can survive the pain.” It may take years for that box to be reopened, as evidenced by multiple survivors of the abuse administered by Olympics doctor Larry Nassar. Taped testimonials delivered by these women and girls during his trial, and subsequently uploaded on YouTube, were humbling in their bravery. The same can be said of this blistering narrative memoir from documentarian Jennifer Fox, who revisits an episode from her youth that she had kept buried for decades. 

While interviewing rape victims for her latest project, Jennifer (Laura Dern) is triggered into remembering the intimate relationship she developed with the running coach (Jason Ritter) and instructor (Elizabeth Debicki) at a horse-riding camp when she was only a little girl (played with heartbreaking innocence by Isabelle Nélisse, sister of “Monsieur Lazhar” star Sophie Nélisse). Rather than accompany Dern’s scenes with routine flashbacks, Fox finds ingenious ways of having the heroine enter her own past, interrogating the occupants of her memories as if they were the subjects of her latest documentary. Dern’s late “Rambling Rose” co-star John Heard gave one of his final performances as the older version of Ritter, who is publicly shamed in a sequence that registers as a rallying cry of the #MeToo movement.

7. “Custody”

There was no horror film in 2018 that tested my nerves quite like this Hitchcockian nightmare from Xavier Legrand, an incredibly gifted first-time feature director from France. Billed as a domestic drama, I was prepared for something more akin to Asghar Farhadi’s “A Separation,” as a divorced couple, Antoine (Denis Ménochet) and Miriam (Léa Drucker), battle in court over the custody of their young son, Julien (Thomas Gioria, in one of the most astonishing debut performances I’ve ever seen). At first, my sympathies leaned toward the father, whose foiled bids to connect with Julien are relatable—until his face hardens and he begins to show his true colors. Ménochet slyly straddles the line between frustrated sad sack and frightening monster, causing us to feel as perpetually on edge as Julien, never certain of his next move. 

In every tremulous motion and agonized glance, Gioria conveys the volatile atmosphere of white-knuckled fear his father maintained at home. Merely being in Antoine’s presence is enough to give Julien PTSD, and when he attempts to make a run for it, he quickly realizes there is only so far he can go. In a superb instance of juxtaposition, Legrand cuts from Julien’s older sister (Mathilde Auneveux) belting out “Proud Mary” at a birthday party to the violence that threatens to erupt between Antoine and Miriam in the parking lot. Then we arrive at a climatic sequence on par with the finale of Hitchcock’s “Rear Window,” as Legrand’s Oscar-worthy sound designers create a harrowing sense of impending doom with the subtlest of repetitions. Only at the final fade out will you allow yourself to take a breath. 

6. “Leave No Trace” 

A list of the year’s greatest achievements in acting wouldn’t be complete without Thomasin Harcourt McKenzie’s extraordinary lead performance in Debra Granik’s quietly shattering drama. Having already won over New Zealand audiences with her endearing web series, “Lucy Lewis Can’t Lose,” here McKenzie goes toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose with the sublime Ben Foster, and proves to be every bit his equal. Foster’s character of Will has the same first name as the role that the actor played in Oren Moverman’s equally great war-themed film, “The Messenger,” about an injured soldier assigned to inform families that their enlisted loved one has passed. The man Foster embodied in that film was named after one of the soldiers he met during his research, so it’s only appropriate that the Will he portrays in Granik’s film is also a veteran haunted by ghosts from the past. 

The picture is deeply effective in part because none of Will’s demons are ever spelled out in an expositional monologue. So much can be gleaned simply through his behavior, such as how he winces at the sound of propeller. Choosing to raise his daughter, Tom (McKenzie), in the wilderness of Portland, Will has carved out a manageable life for himself. The strength of the bond between him and Tom endures until the modern world comes crashing upon them, forcing the pair to reevaluate what direction they want to take in life, and whether it will be the same one. McKenzie never overplays a single note of her character’s journey, remaining strong for her dad even while fighting back tears. It’s the restraint of her work that left me with a lump in my throat.

5. “Muppet Guys Talking” 

For lifelong Muppet fans, Frank Oz’s euphoric documentary has been the gift that keeps on giving. It premiered exclusively online this past March, enabling the legendary Muppeteer-turned-director to connect directly with viewers, while providing those who sign up for a membership with enough deleted scenes to fill a separate feature. Taken altogether, this footage paints an invaluable portrait of Jim Henson’s genius, in terms of both his visionary creations and his knack for being “a harvester of people.” Oz (Miss Piggy, Grover, Fozzie Bear) joins four of his fellow “Muppet guys”—Dave Goelz (The Great Gonzo), Fran Brill (Prairie Dawn), Bill Barretta (Pepé the King Prawn) and the late Jerry Nelson (Count von Count)—for a lively chat about the process of puppeteering and the painstaking effort that must be expended in order to achieve the most fleeting yet crucial nuance. It’s fascinating to watch the performers break down the origins of their iconic characters, and how they were inspired by aspects of their own lives. 

Yet what makes the film truly great is the way in which Oz and his wife, executive producer Victoria Labalme, resurrect the humanistic spirit of Henson, enabling his worldview to reach beyond the barriers of show business and prove utterly universal in its relevance. Acknowledging that the Muppets’ signature style is less than polished, Oz keeps the picture loose and alive, refusing to conceal the cameramen scrambling to capture their subjects’ unscripted banter. The performers and audiences that Henson brought together through his artistry are his everlasting symphony, and this onscreen quintet is enduring proof of that. And if you like 1981’s “The Great Muppet Caper” now, just wait till you get a load of the behind-the-scenes stories. It’s one of the most mind-boggling feats in cinema.

4. “First Reformed”

With this richly disquieting film—his finest since 1985’s “Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters”—Paul Schrader proves himself to be a master of “slow cinema,” and like the tortoise, he has outpaced every impatient hare in his path. Moviegoers unfamiliar with this term may assume that it promises little more than a dull slog, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, this genre’s contemplative nature proves to be far more transfixing than films so breathless to entertain that they forget to earn our investment. The austere filmmakers that Schrader pays homage to throughout the picture—notably Robert Bresson and Carl Dreyer—are interested in withholding certain elements, refusing to utilize techniques that viewers have come to expect, such as a quick editing pace or varied coverage like over-the-shoulder shots.

Alexander Dynan lenses the film in the same compressed aspect radio as Paweł Pawlikowski’s “Ida”—1.37:1—limiting the camera movement almost entirely to scenes that jump from the temporal plane to the cosmic realm, escaping the bonds of reality. Whereas Schrader’s “Taxi Driver” followed a disillusioned veteran whose plans to wreak havoc on a world he believes to be diseased are foiled by the plight of a 12-year-old prostitute, “First Reformed” is about a disillusioned military chaplain-turned-pastor whose plans to wreak havoc on a world he believes to be diseased are disrupted by the plight of a pregnant woman named Mary. Ethan Hawke delivers the performance of his career as Toller, a clergyman with self-righteous convictions fueled primarily by his personal demons. Like Dietrich Brüggemann’s “Stations of the Cross” (a 2014 German masterwork that Schrader and I both revere), this movie is a rebuke to the fallacy that self-destruction is tantamount to spiritual transcendence.

3. “Roma”

No director makes my jaw drop quite like Alfonso Cuarón. His latest movie left me so stunned that I remained pinned to my seat throughout the entirety of the credits, which end with the Buddhist chant, “Shantih Shantih Shantih.” This invocation of peace—in body, speech and mind—was memorably repeated in Cuarón’s “Children of Men,” a 2006 thriller that horrifyingly foreshadowed the current refugee crisis. That film contained two extended sequences of continuous movement—one set in a car under siege, the other on war-torn streets—that are among the most spellbinding triumphs of cinematography, choreography and effects in the history of cinema. Cuarón’s new film culminates with a bravura set piece on par with those others, yet that’s only one aspect of its greatness. 

Like “Children of Men” and “First Reformed,” this deeply personal tour de force assesses the challenge of bringing new life into a chaotic world. It is also a black-and-white valentine to the Mexico of Cuarón’s childhood and the maid who nurtured him, embodied by Cleo (newcomer Yalitza Aparicio). As she finds her own life paralleling that of the middle-class woman she works for, Cleo begins to feel increasingly conflicted about her own future, as well as that of her unborn baby. Having learned a wealth of techniques from his regular DP, three-time Oscar-winner Emmanuel Lubezki, Cuarón takes charge of the camerawork this time around, and his eye for composition (albeit less restless) is every bit as audacious. A pair of visual motifs involving water and airplanes resurface in endlessly provocative ways, while two prolonged scenes—viewed from static angles—blur the action in the background, marrying two moments of inevitable heartache. I have rarely heard an audience react so audibly to the art of mise-en-scène as when I saw this film with a sold-out crowd during the opening night of its theatrical run in Chicago. If you see only one movie on the big screen this holiday season, make it this one.

2. “Minding the Gap”

In the monumental 52-year legacy of Chicago’s production company Kartemquin Films, none of its documentaries have impacted me on as personal a level as this astonishing debut feature from Bing Liu. While filming his longtime friends Keire and Zack as they took part in their cherished hobby of performing bruising stunts on their skateboards, Liu began to see a potential film materialize as he held the camera on their faces. “This place eats away at you,” says Keire of their hometown, Rockford, Illinois. He relishes the fleeting sense of control he sustains while skating, until he wipes out. Sure, the hobby may hurt him on occasion, but so did his dad, and he still loves the old man, though it’s telling that Keire finds catharsis in stomping on his boards until they splinter. 

The fact that all three men are victims of domestic abuse is alarming but also quite commonplace in a town where nearly half the population is paid below the minimum wage, and where the residue of violence clings to the interior of houses that were meant to comfort and protect. “I saw myself in your story,” Liu explains to Keire, who likens the experience of making the movie to “free therapy.” As the filmmaker struggles to come to terms with the wounds inflicted by his own upbringing, he starts to see echoes of his abuser in the increasingly unsettling behavior of Zack. When Liu films his mother and simultaneously confronts her about the abandonment he felt as a kid, he keeps a separate camera fixed on his face, drawing attention to his own inability to break free from the pain of his past. Assisted by co-editor Joshua Altman, Liu weaves these stories together, forming a seamless tapestry of anguish and catharsis that culminates in an extended montage so deftly executed, it left me in awe.

1. “Eighth Grade”

As a bullied student in eighth grade, what I desired more than anything was to become a director of films that would make kids like me feel less alone. Now, with his first foray into filmmaking, Bo Burnham has made the movie I’ve spent nearly two decades hoping would one day exist. The film’s heroine, Kayla, is a lonesome soul bereft of an extracurricular outlet. Though her graduation from junior high is only one week away, every second in that soul-crushing environment feels like an eternity. So she turns to the world that didn’t exist when I was her age, the one that beckons to her from the cool glow of her laptop and phone. Burnham, who first garnered a global audience via his comedic YouTube videos, honors his protagonist by refusing to play her feelings for laughs. As portrayed by 15-year-old Elsie Fisher, Kayla emerges as one of the most compelling and vividly realized movie characters I’ve ever encountered. My heart broke every time the camera lingered on her face—untouched by an artificial Hollywood sheen—as she struggled to contain her embarrassment behind an expression of optimism. 

The screenplay by Burnham doesn’t have an ounce of condescension, and the laughter that it generates—which is plentiful—arises out of recognition rather than ridicule. These are the years where attentive parenting is utterly essential, and Kayla is fortunate enough to have a father, Mark (Josh Hamilton), who may exasperate her with his persistent prying, but has a limitless reservoir of empathy and understanding. When Mark’s words finally register for Kayla during a lovely sequence set around a campfire, they affirm her sense of belonging in the world. As he tells his daughter, “You make me brave,” I couldn’t help agreeing with him. There is nothing braver than a middle schooler who dares to be human. What makes “Eighth Grade” the best film of 2018 is the way it makes Kayla’s anxiety resonate on a level that transcends all age, race, gender, nationality and culture. With petulant bullies elected to our highest offices, and technology breeding an addiction to constant approval, it goes without saying that our world has currently succumbed to an eighth grade mentality. You no longer have to be 13 in order to feel trapped in junior high. 

from All Content https://ift.tt/2BbIrWp

[lybrate00-blog]

Plastic/Cosmetic Surgery

Plastic surgery is a surgical strength including the revamping, proliferation, or change of the human body. It can be divided into two classes. The first is reconstructive surgery which joins craniofacial surgery, hand surgery, microsurgery, and the treatment of devours. The other is therapeutic or classy surgery.

Restorative surgery

Restorative surgery is an optional or elective surgery that is performed on common parts of the body with the principle inspiration driving improving a man’s appearance and also removing signs of developing. In 2014, around 16 million helpful frameworks were performed in the United States alone. The amount of remedial techniques performed in the United States has generally increased since the start of the century. 92% of helpful procedures were performed on women in 2014, up from 88% of each 2001.Nearly 12 million remedial strategies were performed in 2007, with the five most normal surgeries being chest growth, liposuction, chest diminishing, eyelid surgery and abdominoplasty. The American Society for Esthetic Plastic Surgery looks bits of knowledge for 34 unmistakable remedial systems. Nineteen of the procedure are surgical, for instance, rhinoplasty or facelift. The nonsurgical systems consolidate Botox and laser hair removal.

While reconstructive surgery intends to duplicate a bit of the body or upgrade its working, therapeutic surgery goes for improving its quality. Both of these methodology are used all through the world.

Best Hospital :

Fortis La Femme — Greater Kailash

It is a unique facility, is inspired by the core belief that a woman is a very special person with special needs. Medical care at the hospital spans but is not limited to Obstetrics (Painless Labour), Gynaecology, Neonatology (Level III NICU), Anaesthesia, General & Laparoscopic Surgery, Cosmetic Surgeries and Genetic & Foetal Medicine. The hospital facilitates care for the entire stages of woman’s lifespan—birth, adolescence, motherhood, menopause and beyond. Our patient-sensitive services are provided in a world-class facility with a discreetly elegant ambience laden with value-added conveniences. Impressed with the dedication to quality care services, the hospital was chosen as the Winner of Child magazine’s ‘Most Popular Awards’ 2013 under the category of ‘Most Popular Maternity Hospitals’. The hospital commenced operations in August 2004, and since then, has performed more than 11,000 Deliveries and over 7,500 gynaecological procedures. Fortis La Femme — Greater Kailash has air lifted sick babies to the Level III Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU); treated more than 4,500 in the unit, and successfully saved lives of critically ill babies from 25 weeks gestation and birth weight of less than 600 grams. In the year 2010, the hospital got NABH accreditation, and was successfully re-accredited in 2013. Currently the hospital has 38 beds with latest medical amenities. Our core specialties include: • High Risk Pregnancy Care • Advanced New-born Care (NICU) • Minimal Access General & Gynaecological Surgeries • Fertility Clinic & IVF • Aesthetic & Cosmetic Surgery We also offer support clinical services like: • Genetic & Foetal Medicine • Breast Clinic • Pain Clinic • Dental Clinic • Nutrition &Dietetics Clinic • General Medicine • ENT • Ophthalmology • Endocrinology • Advanced Diagnostics (Ultrasound, Mammography & Bone Densitometry)

Derivation

In the articulation “plastic surgery,” the descriptor plastic derives etching or conceivably reshaping, which is gotten from the Greek, plastikē (tekhnē), “the art of showing” of flexible substance.

This centrality in English is seen as in front of timetable as 1598.

The surgical importance of “plastic” first appeared in 1839, going before the front line “building material created utilizing oil” feeling of plastic (founded by Leo Baekeland in 1909) by 70 years.

Plates vi and vii of the Edwin Smith Papyrus at the Rare Book Room, New York Academy of Medicine.Treatments for the plastic repair of a mellowed nose are first determined up the Edwin Smith Papyrus, a translation of an Ancient Egyptian helpful substance, a standout amongst the most prepared known surgical treatises, dated to the Old Kingdom from 3000 to 2500 BC. Reconstructive surgery procedures were being finished in India by 800 BC. Sushruta was a specialist who made basic duties regarding the field of plastic and waterfall surgery in 6th century BC. The helpful works of both Sushruta and Charak, at first in Sanskrit, were changed over into the Arabic tongue in the midst of the Abbasid Caliphate in 750 AD. The Arabic translations progressed into Europe by methods for go-betweens. In Italy, the Branca gathering of Sicily and Gaspare Tagliacozzi (Bologna) got settled with the frameworks of Sushruta. Statue of Sushrut, the Father of Plastic Surgery, at Haridwar English specialists went to India to see rhinoplasties being performed by Indian systems.

Verifiable foundation

In the articulation “plastic surgery,” the clear word plastic induces etching and furthermore reshaping, which is gotten from the Greek, “the art of illustrating” of malleable substance. This significance in English is seen as appropriate on time as 1598. The surgical importance of “plastic” first appeared in 1839, going before the bleeding edge “building material created utilizing oil” feeling of plastic (sired by Leo Baekeland in 1909) by 70 years.

Headway of present day frameworks

Walter Yeo, a sailor hurt at the Battle of Jutland, is acknowledged to have become plastic surgery in 1917. The photograph shows him already (left) and after (right) getting an overlap surgery performed by Gillies

The father of present day plastic surgery is all things considered to have been Sir Harold Gillies. A New Zealand otolaryngologist working in London, he made countless frameworks of present day facial surgery in tending to officers encountering misshaping facial injuries in the midst of the First World War.

In the midst of World War I he filled in as a therapeutic minder with the Royal Army Medical Corps. In the wake of working with the renowned French oral and maxillofacial expert Hippolyte Morestin on skin go along with, he impacted the equipped power’s focal master, Arbuthnot-Lane, to develop facial harm ward at the Cambridge Military Hospital, Aldershot, later climbed to another specialist’s office for facial repairs at Sidcup in 1917. There Gillies and his accomplices made various methods of plastic surgery; more than 11,000 exercises were performed on more than 5,000 men (generally officers with facial injuries, generally from release wounds). After the war, Gillies developed a private practice with Rainsford Mowlem, including various prevalent patients, and took off comprehensively to propel his impelled strategies around the globe.

In 1930, Gillies’ cousin, Archibald McIndoe, joined the preparation and wound up concentrated on plastic surgery. Right when World War II broke out, plastic surgery course of action was, as it were, detached between the assorted organizations of the military, and Gillies and his gathering were part up. Gillies himself was sent to Rooksdown House close Basingstoke, which transformed into the preeminent furnished power plastic surgery unit; Tommy Kilner (who had worked with Gillies in the midst of the First World War, and who now has a surgical instrument named after him, the kilner cheek retractor), went to Queen Mary’s Hospital, Roehampton, and Mowlem to St Albans. McIndoe, master to the RAF, moved to the starting late remade Queen Victoria Hospital in East Grinstead, Sussex, and built up a Center for Plastic and Jaw Surgery. There, he treated significant devour, and honest to goodness facial bending, for instance, loss of eyelids, common of those caused to aircrew by expending fuel.

McIndoe is much of the time apparent for not simply developing new techniques for treating genuinely devoured faces and hands yet furthermore to perceive the essentialness of the rebuilding of the misfortunes and particularly of social reintegration yet again into standard life. He disposed of the “recuperating attires” and let the patients use their organization formal attire. With the help of two buddies, Neville and Elaine Blond, he furthermore induced nearby individuals to help the patients and welcome them to their homes. McIndoe kept implying them as “his young fellows” and the staff called him “The Boss” or “The Maestro.”

His other crucial work included change of the walking stalk skin join, and the disclosure that immersion in saline propelled retouching and upgrading survival rates for losses with wide duplicates — this was a lucky revelation drawn from view of differential recovering rates in pilots who had plunged shorewards and in the sea. His radical, exploratory meds provoked the course of action of the Guinea Pig Club at Queen Victoria Hospital, Sussex. Among the better known people from his “club” were Richard Hillary, Bill Foxley and Jimmy Edwards.

Sub-strengths

Plastic surgery is an extensive field, and may be subdivided further. In the United States, plastic pros are board ensured by American Board of Plastic Surgery. Subdisciplines of plastic surgery may include:

Sharp surgery

Sharp surgery is a principal part of plastic surgery and joins facial and body classy surgery. Plastic experts use remedial surgical measures in all reconstructive surgical frameworks and furthermore detached assignments to improve outward presentation.

Devour surgery

Devour surgery generally occurs in two phases. Extraordinary expend surgery is the treatment immediately after a devour. Reconstructive expend surgery occurs after the devour wounds have recovered.

Craniofacial surgery

Craniofacial surgery is disconnected into pediatric and grown-up craniofacial surgery. Pediatric craniofacial surgery generally turns around the treatment of characteristic inconsistencies of the craniofacial skeleton and fragile tissues, for instance, inborn crevice and feeling of taste, craniosynostosis, and pediatric splits. Grown-up craniofacial surgery can foresee the most part with breaks and discretionary surgeries, (for instance, orbital revamping) close by orthognathic surgery. Craniofacial surgery is a basic bit of all plastic surgery getting ready projects, moreover planning and subspecialisation is gained by methods for a craniofacial association. Craniofacial surgery is in like manner practiced by Maxillo-Facial experts.

Hand surgery

Hand surgery is stressed over extraordinary injuries and unlimited infirmities of the hand and wrist, review of inborn distortions of the uttermost focuses, and periphery nerve issues, (for instance, brachial plexus wounds or carpal section issue). Hand surgery is a fundamental bit of planning in plastic surgery, and also microsurgery, which is critical to replant a removed uttermost point. The hand surgery field is in like manner penetrated by orthopedic authorities and general masters. Scar tissue advancement after surgery can be dubious on the delicate hand, causing loss of expertise and digit work if adequately outrageous. There have been occurrences of surgery to women’s hands in order to cure obvious deformities to influence the perfect wedding to band photo.

[dustinrust-blog1]

6 Ways to Positively Influence Officer Behavior

Every law enforcement organization in the world has that “slug” or “lazy cop” that no longer goes above and beyond. Maybe above and beyond is even too much of an expectation. You know, the officer that occasionally causes you to wonder if you need to put a mirror under his/her nose to make sure they are still breathing. Unfortunately, the vast majority of officers that fall into this category are a product of their environment. An environment created by or allowed to be by their leadership.

These officers have been allowed to be in this useless state for so long because no one has ever held them accountable on a consistent basis for their actions, or lack thereof. Naturally, most cops want to do great work, but when allowed to become complacent or unmotivated, they become a blight on the whole department.

In the book EntreLeadership by Dave Ramsey he writes, “If you as a leader allow people to halfway do their jobs and don’t demand excellence as a prerequisite to keeping their job, you will create a culture of mediocrity.”

The bad news is that you cannot change people. Only they can decide to change themselves through their actions, attitude, and effort. So, the question becomes what can you change? The answer is the environment.

By making consistent, incremental positive changes in the environment, you can alter the behaviors of your officers. Here are 6 things you can start doing tomorrow to change your squad’s environment and create lasting on-the-job behavioral changes.

Recognize and reward the positive actions and attitudes of your officers. When you see something great, recognize it immediately and find a way to reward it. Other officers will see that success and then begin to duplicate that behavior. A hand written note, a shout-out in briefing, buying them a coffee, getting them into a training they wanted, or speaking positively about them to upper staff are easy ways to reward positive behaviors.

Have your officers submit weekly or monthly goals to you and find ways to assist them in reaching those goals. Ask your officers for specific and measurable goals related to current issues in their beats. For example, spending more time in a neighborhood hit hard by property crimes, working extra traffic enforcement on a stretch of road that has had a lot of collisions, meeting business owners in their beat, etc. Use these goals as a springboard for consistent interaction and evaluation. If you let them leave briefing just to drive circles until a call comes out, then you are doing them, yourself, the department, and the community a disservice.

Discover each of your officers’ policing passion. Turn them into the “go to” expert on your squad by sending them to passion-specific trainings and giving them temporary duty assignments with related specialty units. This will develop their strength in that area and set them up for future success as they test for those specialty units or promote.

Establish clear squad expectations that correlate with your department’s mission. You know what a “rock star” officer looks like. Share that vision with your squad regularly – what constitutes success should not be a guessing game. Need a suggestion for setting squad expectations? See the Culture in Just 4 Words blog.

Conduct frequent evaluation conversations that do not merely glance back at the past, but are primarily future-focused. Most, if not all, police departments require annual evaluations, but do not let that be the only feedback your officers receive. It does little to no good to bring up negatives from 11 months ago; especially if there is no longer an issue. Discuss issues immediately by defining the problem, reinforcing your expectations, and setting specific changes you want to see from this point forward. If your officers are exhibiting positive behaviors, refer back to #1 on this list.

Get officer buy-in by giving them a voice to make suggestions for improvement. Create a method where officers can submit suggestions for their squad, beat, district, or the department as a whole. This gives you a great way to handle and issues brought up in conversation or during briefing. Just advise them to send you an email with a suggested solution for the perceived problem. Then, as the sergeant or first-line supervisor, you present those suggestions to the appropriate department parties. One extremely important piece to this concept is to always remember to give credit where credit is due.

What ideas do you have for changing officer behavior by modifying their environment?