#just regular run of the mill opinions over here

[bananonbinary]

ok we can all agree that dress codes unfairly targeting young girls for “dressing provocatively” is sexist and sexualizing and fucked up, but i think we also need to acknowledge that the clothing MARKETED to young girls is also super sexualized and fucked up and while that isn’t the girls’ fault and a dress code isnt the answer, we as a society also need to stop telling girls to wear super revealing clothing in the first place and making their only options for casual clothes waaay more sexualized than boys’.

[neonthewrite]

Washed Up Winchesters 8 (Final)

The mystery is solved and the case closed! It seems the Winchesters didn't quite expect things to go this way, but when there's a giant involved, all kinds of things go differently!

Cowritten with @nightmares06, the writer behind the @brothersapart multiverse!

( 1 ) ( 2 ) ( 3 ) ( 4 ) ( 5 ) ( 6 ) ( 7 ) -8-

Story Tag

Read Time ~10 minutes

~~~~~

Chase pushed himself up and shook his head. He was more used to being swept up in a giant hand, but toppling over a few times had winded him. He frowned over the edge of the hand, then over at Sam. “What?”

Jacob’s other hand lifted to be level with them. Minnie was clinging to his thumb and scanning the flock of sheep warily. They were all still milling around, keeping a tight group, several of them aiming disdainful baaas up in the air. Dean’s defiant stand over their heads certainly had not gone unnoticed. Minnie had never seen sheep act like that, certainly not in the shadow of a giant. “Sam?”

"Th-the sheep!" Sam gestured in the direction of the hostile flock. "We're chasing skinwalkers, not werewolves! They can be any type of animal, so long as it's what the pack started out as!"

The confusion on Dean's face cleared. "So you're saying this flock is the people we've been chasing the whole time?"

Sam nodded at the silver knife in Dean's hand. "One way to find out for sure."

Jacob frowned pensively. Even after hearing about how dangerous the skinwalkers were, he could hardly imagine the flock of fluffy sheep before him causing much trouble. Mostly they milled around among each other, all keeping tabs on Dean with his glimmering knife. It was weird that they didn't even want to run from Jacob, but he hadn't made any moves against them.

Even Chase and Minnie had been mostly spared. Chase had only fallen over because he kept trying to pull Dean up.

Jacob decided to throw in his two cents. "I mean, they're… they're not really doing anything," he pointed out.

"Except yelling at us," Chase agreed, waving a hand at a ram that bleated insistently up at him.

"Wait," Minnie chimed in, her brow pinching with confusion. "Do they understand what we're saying when they're in their whatever-form?"

Sam circled a hand through the air aimlessly, trying to gather his thoughts and what he knew of their current enemies. "Skinwalkers aren't like werewolves, who give in to their more... animalistic side when they transform. They maintain their regular consciousness and memory. The main danger is that they can transfer their ability with a bite, increasing the size of their pack... or flock." Sam gave the flock of sheep a strange look. He'd never encountered supernatural creatures in the guise of herbivores like the sheep. This case was shaping up to be unique in more ways than one.

"That means," Sam continued, "they know just who we are, and anything we said while we were here. Which is why they were so quick to lunge at me and Dean. They already found us once on the ship, when they were in their human forms. We couldn't stay under cover, and ended up tossed overboard."

Minnie frowned critically over the side of Jacob’s hand, even as the giant lifted everyone slightly higher. If those sheep really were skinwalkers, and at this point they certainly weren’t acting like normal sheep, they’d just let the group wander among them. She’d patted their heads and tried to click at them like she did with her lambs back home and everything. The feeling that wormed into her gut was something like betrayal.

“So these guys might be the reason I found you floundering out in the waves,” Jacob echoed, a disapproving frown on his face.

“Well what do they--” Chase began, asking Sam first before looking over the side of the hand at the nearest sheep bleating up at them. “What do you want in Lilliput then?!”

For a long moment, it appeared as though Chase's demand would go unanswered. The sheep milled restlessly around, giving Jacob's feet a wide berth as they bleated.

Then, the ram that had given Dean a runaround when he was on the ground stepped out into an opening that formed in the flock. It cocked its head, fixing one eye on the hand that held Chase, Minnie, Sam and Dean. Its expression was impossible to read as it looked them over, one by one.

There was a shift, and then the ram's horns appeared to melt away. Several cracks could be heard as its back shifted to an upright position, and the hooves split into four fingers and a thumb.

After less than ten seconds from when the shift started, the ram stood there as a regal and distinguished looking man, dressed in a simple white shirt and dark pants. He frowned at the people in Jacob's hand, then up at the giant himself.

"As I recall," the man said, "you were the ones to smuggle onto our ship when we had done nothing to you in turn, stinking of silver and gunpowder."

Seeing the transformation had been more than enough to leave Jacob, Minnie, and even Chase speechless for a hesitant moment. Jacob’s mouth opened slightly, as amazed as he’d been the first time he met Chase. He had never really thought about tiny people existing anywhere before. He definitely hadn’t imagined them having the ability to turn into tiny sheep. “Uh. Wh… what,” he muttered.

“I mean. I guess that’s technically true,” Chase finally admitted, sending an uncomfortable sideways glance at Sam and Dean. He frowned down at the apparent leader of a flock of sheep skinwalkers. “So … are skinwalkers usually dangerous, or not? ‘Cause I feel like that would clear up a lot, knowing what you actually plan to do in Lilliput, right?”

The man’s lip curled in disgust. “Oh, please,” he said disparagingly. “Unlike our more… wolf-ish cousins, we have no interest in anyone’s hearts.”

Next to him, a second sheep transformed back. This one was shorter, and he had very mousy features in comparison to the ram’s dignified look. “But we like Romaine hearts,” he stuttered out insistently. “Right? Right?!”

“Please, Jerimiah,” the ram said. “This situation is delicate enough without your help.” He turned to look up at the Lilliputians and Blefuscians held in the giant’s hand. “Haven’t you ever heard ‘The grass is greener on the other side?’ We are here in search of better pastures. Nothing more.”

Chase’s mouth opened in a delighted grin over the bad pun. Before he could try to chime in with his own, Minnie slapped his arm with the back of her hand. In her opinion, she had enough to deal with without her brother adding to the pile. She’d thought this was a poor lost flock of sheep. Not an intentional group of … magic shapeshifting squatters. “So are Sam and Dean the only ones you hurt, or …?”

Jacob heaved a slow sigh. Minnie had a point. If they had left behind more than just Sam and Dean, it would be dangerous having the shapeshifters around Lilliput too. “Yeah, I mean. I’m pretty sure I can outrun you guys, but what’s to stop you from sneaking along later and trying something again? Are Chase and Minnie here in danger because they know your secret?”

The ram’s mouth twisted in annoyance. “All we want is green fields and calm waters,” he explained. “Any Blefuscans that we ran into, we ran off, nothing more. These… hunters that followed us were the most persistent, and I couldn’t risk the safety of my flock. Throwing them off the ship was only done as a last resort.”

Looking over the rest of the flock, and a brief glance at the twitchy Jerimiah, the ram shook his head in doubt. “Perhaps it was merely a pipe dream to find a place free of warmongering, but we had to try.”

“So…” Sam tentatively leaned forward. “Your main plan is to get as far from civilization, and stay there?”

“Sammy…” Dean started, but was ignored.

The ram nodded. “It seemed like a more likely situation to find in Lilliput compared to Blefuscu. Such an idyllic land…” He turned to Chase and Minnie. “No one here is at risk from my flock, I give you my word. Even if we get sent back to Blefuscu.” The last statement was said with a sideways glance at Dean.

The guy seemed genuine enough. Having lived in Lilliput for a bit, Jacob knew the locals to be fussy but harmless. They would likely be too caught up in their own drama to notice an extra flock of sheep up past the hills, especially since no one really wandered this far anyway. He decided that he believed the stern little guy.

It wasn't really up to him, though. He lowered his hands a bit, not enough to put his passengers at risk but at least to bring them more level with the ram. "Whatcha think, Chase? Minnie?"

"It's weird," Chase said, practically bursting for an opening to speak up. "Sheep-people .... sheepshifters!"

Minnie smacked his arm. "How is that helping?" she scolded, before addressing the ram again. "I don't think anyone uses these pastures so you won't get anyone upset. But will you even be safe out here? From wolves and things, I mean?"

The ram looked down his nose at her. “Wolves have been our problem since the start,” he said with a sharp look sent in Dean’s direction. “We haven’t been able to shake them yet.”

Sam stepped between Dean and the ram with an arm to separate them, before thoughtless words could be thrown. “If we leave you be, does this mean you’ll leave the Lilliputians alone?” he asked, trying to keep the focus. “We’re only here to deal with threats.”

The ram sighed. “We won’t bother a soul, you have my word. So long as we have our pastures.”

Sam put his arm down. “I think our job’s done then,” he said. “They’ll just need a safe place to call home now.”

“This works,” Chase agreed, gesturing at the current pasture. Aside from Jacob looming over the field with several people standing on his hands, it was a simple, idyllic view. The area was lush, if a bit wild, and unbothered by Lilliput or Blefuscu. “We even have Jacob here to come check on you sometimes if you need anything.”

Jacob rolled his eyes at being volunteered so easily. It was his lot in life anymore, to have Chase suggest him for any task that needed doing. “I have a pretty easy time getting over here,” he agreed anyway. “If you need supplies.”

Minnie glanced over at Sam and Dean. Sam seemed mollified, though Dean looked as ready for a fight as ever. Looking back at the sheep, she gave them an exaggerated shrug. “Looks like everyone’s okay, so … it all worked out? This time?”

The ram gave Minnie a stiff half-bow, looking uncomfortable with the unfamiliar gesture. “We will hold up our end of the bargain,” he promised.

With a quick shift, the man again turned into a ram. Large, curving horns came out of his forehead first before he fell forward onto a new set of hooves. By the time he hit the ground, he could have blended in with any herd of sheep and proceeded to walk amongst the others. Jerimiah followed suit next. Then, a slowly stirring wave expanded throughout the herd until they were all heading in the same ambling direction.

Sam sighed, blowing out his bangs. “Case closed.”

“Weirdest case ever,” Dean complained. “Almost as weird as running into the actual giant in the lands.” He sent Jacob a side-eye. “Maybe next time we’re in Lilliput, we can enlist some extra help again?” Despite his usual gruff tone of voice, the interest in having a giant helper shone right through.

Chase drew himself up proudly, though he still stood notably shorter than either brother. “We’re totally ready to kick some ass, anytime we’re needed.”

Minnie rolled her eyes. “Preeeetty sure they were asking for Jacob,” she pointed out, nudging Chase with an elbow.

“Hey! I helped!”

Jacob smirked. He’d gotten somewhat used to the surly attitude from Dean. It seemed the little folk over in Blefuscu could be just as excitable as the Lilliputians he’d come to know. Chase and Minnie’s antics were practically a given. “I’m basically a glorified taxi,” he warned. “But I’ll be here.”

[jq37]

The Case File – Mice and Murder Ep 1

The Case of the The Pernicious Party  

Hello, hello, hello! It’s been a hot second but your resident D20 recapper is back to tackle the newest season: Mice and Murder! Y’all had to know I wasn’t gonna sit out the murder mystery, are you kidding me???

I might be playing around with the format a bit in the coming weeks to make sure I have the best possible system for keeping track of possible clues, suspects, and theories as we untangle whatever web Brennan weaves for us this season so don’t be surprised if things change a little. 

Anyway, without further ado, onto our mystery!

Summary

In case you missed it, this season takes place in an alternate, Zootopia/Wind in the Willows-esque universe where all the characters are animals but history seems to have happened in more or less the same way--for example there was still a King Charles but he was a King Charles Spaniel (cute Brennan). Our story specifically takes place in the English village of Tufting Meadows.  

We start with Katie’s character--Gangie Green (Weasel/Thief Rogue) in the graveyard of the Anglican Chapel (Our Lady of Prayerful Paws). Gangie, we learn, is an orphan who was kicked out of the orphanage at some point for thievery. Obviously, he’s not reformed of the habit because he is here to do some graverobbing. On a nat 20 (that Katie hilariously doesn’t notice even though her total is like a 29) Gangie can see through the window of the rectory that there is a weeping window inside--Catherine McCabbage who is being (dubiously) tended to by Raph’s character, Vicar Ian Prescott (Owl/Bard, College of Eloquence). 

Ian comes from a line of men of the cloth but he’s not exactly the best speaker despite his subclass. He’s doing his best though! The widow’s husband (Conor McCabbage) died at the local mill in what has been declared an accident but she suspects foul play. She’s been hearing his voice on the wind and wants Ian’s professional opinion on whether this could be a sign from God or if her husband might be speaking to her from beyond the grave or something like that. Ian gives a very muddled and not very comforting answer but seems pretty sure that something sketchy did in fact happen. Then, he sees a crack of lightning outside which illuminates the graveyard where he gets a glimpse of Gangie. 

He goes to check it out (and Gangie fully has an elderly goat he’s dug up slung over his shoulder) but “gravedigger” is his legit job so Ian decides to assume whatever’s going on is legit and not ask too many questions. He goes back to the widow (who, before she leaves, says that maybe sometimes people need to work on God’s behalf) while Gangie takes the body Loam Hall (a massive manor, built into a hill).

We cut to the next day and our next two characters! 

At 22B Hamsted Street in a pretty well appointed home are Ally and Grant’s characters. First up, we have Lars Vandenchomp (Huge ass Doberman/Battlemaster Fighter) who is so tough looking but also so Swedish sounding--it’s A Lot (so, incredibly on brand for Ally). Lars is security for Grant’s character Sylvester Cross (Fox/Inquisitive Rogue) who is a kinda (to use Grant’s word) “foppish” Sherlock Holmes type. He was hired by Squire William Thornwall Brockhollow to figure out what happened with Conor McCabbage (and clear him of negligence in running the mill) but he couldn’t find any evidence of any funny business, making this the only case he’s never cracked. He’s not as young or popular as he once was so this is, understandably, bumming him out. He’s even more bummed out when he realizes that William has invited him to his 60th birthday party that’s happening that night (as kind of a prop to show that he did his part in trying to solve the mystery) and Lars has already RSVP’d yes. He grudgingly agrees to go as it’s one of those asks that’s really more of a veiled demand but decides to pull the money he was paid from the bank first so he can return it and really stick it to the guy.

Finally, we cut to our last set of PCs who are on their way to Tufting Meadows via a very luxurious train. Inside are Sam and Rekha’s characters! Sam is Buckster $ Boyd (Peccary which is like a small boar/Mastermind Rouge) a Texan Oil Tycoon who acts exactly how you’d expect a Texan Oil Pig to act. Yes, you pronounce the dollar sign as “dollar sign” (even though as we find out later his middle name is Cassius so it’s like Cash which I think is super cool). With him is Rekha’s character, Daisy D'umpstaire (Raccoon/Assassin (???) Rogue another American (from South Carolina) though it seems she’s My Fair Lady’d herself into an upper class socialite (her last name was previously Dumpster). They’re traveling with their accountant, an Armadillo named Armond who seems kinda skittish and concerned about their travel expenses but Buck tells him that to make money you gotta spend money and they’re gonna make a *ton* of money on this trip. They’re also so so mean to him for absolutely no reason. 

When the train stops, they’re greeted by Templeton Padhop (a frog, natch) who is the chauffeur of Loan Hall, sent to fetch them. A wheel on his car is broken so he joins in on the Armond abuse immediately and has Armond roll into an Armadillo ball and replace it. Poor guy. When they show up they're greeted by a footman--a pug in a bowler hat named Milo Snout.

Meanwhile, Lars and Sly (Oh, Sly fox, I see what you did there Grant) are similarly greeted by another footman--a lizard named Basil Baskins. On a 23 perception check, Lars sees that Jeremy “Jez” Brockhollow is inside (the son of William who is a badger btw) and also clocks Gangie (who they know as a career criminal who disappeared like a year ago). Gangie doesn’t notice Lars though. 

Ian, who is also invited, shows up at about the same time as Sly but very quickly, the conversation is taken over by Lucretia “Lucy” Brockhollow, William’s older, eccentric sister who immediately gets into it with Lars about astrology and the occult (she thinks bad stuff is happening because of a curse let loose when Sly’s old rival--a rabbit named Fletcher Cottonbottom who is the son of his former employer--opened an Egyptian tomb). They’re thick as thieves right away because Ally is a nonsense magnet. And not like a regular magnet, one of those big electromagnets. 

Daisy and Buck spot William’s kids--the aforementioned Jez and his older sister Constance--along with their husbands Dr. Corbin Magpie (Constance’s and obv a magpie and a doctor) and Osmond Sheffield (Jez’s who is a Ram and a lawyer). Daisy is too stuck in her conversation with a truly unhinged squirrel (Lady Eugenia Bristlebrush who clearly does not know she’s in a murder mystery because she just keeps talking about how much she hates and wants to kill everyone) to hear what’s going on but she indicates the conversation to Buck who is able to eavesdrop and hear that they’re lamenting that Catherine--the widow--RSVP’d no which is gonna look really bad, like they didn’t invite her (bad PR). 

Buck, introducing himself as a business partner of William, eases into a conversation with the husbands which their respective spouses also join into and we learn that Buck's dad was British and a friend of Willian’s. Buck bonds with Jez (who is a bit of a dilettante) really quickly since Buck is ready to go drinks-wise immediately (and there’s a stellar pun about the “American [Drinking] Constitution''). Through the window, Buck notices Gangie outside getting his attention. 

At the same time, Ian is going from party guest to party guest, giving out the penances he forgot to earlier at church (as one does). We see him talking to the Lord and Lady Bramble (a cow and hedgehog, respectively) and while she wants to pray her way out of situations without doing any legwork, he wants to buy his way out and gives Ian 250 pounds. A frustrating but financially lucrative conversation.  

Buck goes outside to talk to Gangie who has a list of names of the bodies he’s been collecting. We’re not told what Buck is doing but it seems that this list is extremely valuable to him in some way. Gangie (who Buck keeps calling Gangly, to his annoyance) pays him handsomely (like, with a 50% tip) for the list (and Gangie gives him the real list, despite Brennan saying he didn’t have to). We also learn that Gangie has allegedly been getting the orders from someone in Loa Hall and they flow from William himself.

Matilda Molesly (a mole and the head maid) invites Gangie to come in from the rain--she’s the only person who’s been consistently nice to him and he agrees to come in for tea and scones. 

Everyone is ushered together by the butler (because of course there’s a butler--he’s quite literally a fancy rat named Thomas Gilfoyle) and William gives a speech where he wishes Conor well and kinda highlights that he did hire Sly to solve the case in a “Hey, I did my bit don’t blame me” kind of way. He also makes a 150k pound donation to the church (and Ian thought 250 was good) and tells his daughter not to read the praise he got for it from the cardinal when she mentions it (I wonder if that was choreographed). Sly interrupts the speech to “magnanimously” give his money back, to William’s annoyance. Buck notices that Lawrence Longfoot (a nouveau rich, rabbit photographer) takes a pic of the scene but with Sly in the foreground and William in the background. 

Then, a few things happen at once (in a very cinematic way):

As the camera flashes, Mrs. Molesly drops her tray, eyes hurt by the light. Lady Calliope Fawnbrooke (Deer, Matron of the Arts) helps her up.

In the moment of dark, after the flash goes away, the butler disappears. 

Buck thinks he sees a shape through the window, out in the rain. 

A cheer goes up for Sly for returning the money but all Sly can focus on is one figure he recognizes in the back of the room. Daisy, who is downing her drink and not cheering for him. He downs his as well, and looks at her until she breaks the stare and leaves the room. 

And this episode doesn’t end with a dead body like I thought, but with a flashback to a younger Sylvester, 12 years ago when he first met Daisy.

PC INTERPERSONAL DRAMA Y’ALL!!! Get HYPED! 

Case Notes

Here is a compilation of all the characters (PCs and NPCs introduced in this episode). 

Sly mentions that Ignatius Cottonbottom faked his own death as a part of some scheme which seems like a backstory point that might come back later--we now know that there exists a way to convincingly fake your own death in this world. 

Sly walks with a walking stick because of some “mysterious accident” but we’re jumping into a flashback next week so it looks like we might find out about it pretty soon. 

Sly also mentions he used to be the personal physician to the elder Cottonbottom so those are skills he has. I wonder if that’ll be useful to this healer-less party. I wonder if cleric was even an option in this world which seems to be low to no magic. It would explain by Ian is a bad and not a cleric. 

Lars has a military background which I wanted to mention in case it becomes relevant later. 

And Dr. Magpie grew up poor and still acts it a bit even though he married a very rich woman. Brennan uses the very good line, “He forces his body into the shape of an apology”

This might be a really deep cut reference but did anyone else here was the old Britcom “Keeping Up Appearances”? Cause I was getting serious Bouquet/Bucket energy from Daisy. 

This is an all College Humor season and it shows. The energy of 6 (7 if you count Brennan) top notch comedians sparking off of each other, trying to one up each other is off the charts. Some of the best bits this episode:

“When God closes every door but one, you go through the door that is open.” followed by “I’m an owl by the way.”

“Time is money, here’s both” from Buck re his inscribed gold pocket watch--everyone at the table loved that so much and they’re right. 

Armond going from being a third to a fourth wheel. 

And the names--I already shouted out a ton on the main recap but also a rat butler (like Rhett Butler) and naming the mouse Cat(therine). Can’t forget Gangie Green/gangrene from Katie. Also points to Ally for the data stealing Eel Musk which broke Brennan a little. 

I know we just went through this with Crown of Candy but what are these animals eating? Like, in Zootopia there were only mammals so we can assume the carnivores are eating like birds and fish but there are sentient birds here. I know this isn’t important. I’m not trying to do a CinemaSins gotcha. I just wonder, you know?

Y’all were waiting for all the lights to go out during that speech and then come back on and there’d be a body too, right?

If Brennan makes the bad guy a chicken or a duck or something so he can make a “fowl play” joke, he is cordially invited to catch these hands. 

I have been waiting for Raph and Katie to do D20 forever. Their specific brand of nonsense on Rank Room was always amazing. 

I love love love that Grant and Rekha are the PCs that have ~a past~ because they are so funny together. If you haven’t seen their episode of Game Changers, you absolutely must (it’s also a murder mystery actually!). 

[mrsjadecurtiss]

Another ask, if you have the inclination: I've just been rereading Reek III with all that entails, and Theon thinks about 'the son is just the shadow of the father' re Roose and Ramsay. Do you believe that Roose can actually be as bad or worse than Ramsay at this point? He's got to be worse than average and his morals very lacking, but it's hard to imagine us being made to abhor him more than Ramsay in the remaining books. Is it just Theon's terrified paranoia, or do you think it can pay off somehow? 🤔 Or am I misinterpreting that line do you think?

Do you believe that Roose can actually be as bad or worse than Ramsay at this point? He's got to be worse than average and his morals very lacking [...].

This is a trap, he is playing with you, the son is just the shadow of the father. Lord Ramsay played with his hopes all the time. - Reek III, aDwD

This is no man to jape with. You had only to look at Bolton to know that he had more cruelty in his pinky toe than all the Freys combined. - Reek III, aDwD

I believe quotes like these refer to the effect of the cruelty they enact, rather than the specific crimes.

Ramsay is vile and cruel, enacting heinous violence upon people like a slasher movie villain. We do not have any evidence that Roose personally inflicts the same degree of crass violence upon people, as even in his presumably candid retelling of the miller's wife story, while a horrifying and inexcusable crime, he does not reach the extreme level of violence Ramsay inflicts upon smallfolk on the regular with his hunts and torturings.

"Roose Bolton's cold and cunning, aye, but a man can deal with Roose. We've all known worse. But this bastard son of his … they say he's mad and cruel, a monster." - Davos III, aDwD

The point, i believe, is not who produces the worst feats of violence, but rather another facette of grrms criticism of feudalism:

Would Ramsay even have a chance to do these heinous crimes if his father, who knows about everything, had an ounce of morality in him?

[Roose:] "All you have I gave you. You would do well to remember that, bastard." - Reek III, aDwD

Everything Ramsay has, his high position, the freedom to do all the crimes he wants, the protection from law that would have otherwise sent him to the wall in no time, he has because of his father's selfishness. Roose could have stopped these crimes from happening, he could have given Ramsay the appropriate punishment, instead he keeps Ramsay around because he feels like it...

Roose is at the top of his society, answering to barely anyone except his overlord and his king; so much power is at his fingertips, and yet he uses it for selfish reasons, commits crimes, allows crimes to happen in full knowledge, and everything is handled as it benefits him instead of abiding to morality or law. Every crime Ramsay does is Roose' responsibility as feudal lord and thus his crime.

"When soldiers lack discipline, the fault lies with their lord commander," his father said. - Tyrion VIII, aGoT

Roose is called the leech lord, and indeed he is a leech upon society, bleeding his people dry to his own benefit while not lifting a finger himself. While he is not a literal vampire, obviously parts of his character are a play on vampire myths, and the aristocratic bloodsucking vampire is frequently used as a metaphor for critique of the ruling class (i hear Fever Dream by grrm plays with this, though i have not read it). He might not commit a Texas Chainsaw Massacre in person, but that doesn't make him any less morally bankrupt and despicable, and he still has the same blood on his hands.

There is a tendency where Roose tries to lighten his crimes in conversation - here are three examples showing different facettes:

"The arrogance of it! They do not expect the north to believe their lies, not truly, but they think we must pretend to believe or die. Roose Bolton lies about his part in the Red Wedding, and his bastard lies about the fall of Winterfell." - Davos IV, aDwD

[Roose:] "Tell me, my lord … if the kinslayer is accursed, what is a father to do when one son slays another?" - Reek III, aDwD

[Roose:] "The maesters will tell you that King Jaehaerys abolished the lord's right to the first night to appease his shrewish queen, but where the old gods rule, old customs linger. The Umbers keep the first night too, deny it as they may. Certain of the mountain clans as well, and on Skagos … well, only heart trees ever see half of what they do on Skagos." - Reek III, aDwD

1. Denial of involvement - Roose frequently either escapes blame completely (for example for Duskendale), puts blame on someone else (like blaming Ramsay's bastard blood for Winterfell), or lies about his crimes to evade blame.

2. Selectively invoking law - using the kinslaying law, he pretends his hands are tied when it comes to Ramsay, even though he could for example also send him to the wall as punishment. He frequently breaks laws as he pleases and also took part in breaking sacred contracts such as guest right (red wedding), so him invoking law in this instance is likely a tool to absolve himself of blame during the conversation.

3. Comparing himself to others to lessen his own acts, after failing to escape blame - by bringing the Umbers etc into the conversation, he tries to make himself look less bad; "look, everyone's doing it, and the skagosi are probably even worse than me!"

As opposed to Ramsay, he is aware of how the severity of the crimes he is doing would be received by others. He likes to present himself as a rational and civilized man, and thus has an interest to downplay his criminal actions, even if he does not see anything wrong with them as he did them for his own benefit.

"No tales were ever told of me. Do you think I would be sitting here if it were otherwise?" - Reek III, aDwD

"That annoyed me, so I gave her the mill and had the brother's tongue cut out, to make certain he did not go running to Winterfell with tales that might disturb Lord Rickard." - Reek III, aDwD

As the Mormonts were bannermen to the Starks, [Jorah's] crime had dishonored the north. Ned had made the long journey west to Bear Island, only to find when he arrived that Jorah had taken ship beyond the reach of Ice and the king's justice. - Eddard II, aGoT

The foolish Ramsay tries to pride himself in his crimes; Roose however knows of the importance of optics. He is aware that he frequently breaks the law, and tries his best to keep his reputation intact as to not attract unwanted attention; especially with an overlord like Ned Stark, who would not handwave any crime and would make sure justice is served.

From what we can observe, in my opinion the difference between Roose and Ramsay is that Roose doesn't see anything wrong with comitting violence as long as the result is of a benefit for him, while Ramsay additionally also commits violence because he merely finds enjoyment in inflicting it, violence for violence's sake. This is why Roose is able to control himself and always gives Ramsay the advice to be restrained, but Ramsay is unable and unwilling to do so and his acts are much more extreme. Roose is likely starting to realize this difference by aDwD.

Is it just Theon's terrified paranoia [...]?

I do also believe Theon's statement is fueled by paranoia, if you look at the entire context:

"I mean you no harm, you know. I owe you much and more." - "You do?" Some part of him was screaming, This is a trap, he is playing with you, the son is just the shadow of the father. Lord Ramsay played with his hopes all the time. "What … what do you owe me, m'lord?" - "The north. The Starks were done and doomed the night that you took Winterfell." He waved a pale hand, dismissive. "All this is only squabbling over spoils." - Reek III, aDwD

Roose is not necessarily tricking Theon here since it appears to be a correct statement; And he does have an interest to be on friendly terms with Theon (offering him fresh clothes for example) because he wants to make use of his position as heir to the iron islands, a goal he expressed as early as a Storm of Swords.

"Flaying Theon will not bring my brothers back," Robb said. "I want his head, not his skin." - "He is Balon Greyjoy's only living son," Lord Bolton said softly, as if they had forgotten, "and now rightful King of the Iron Islands. A captive king has great value as a hostage." - Catelyn VI, aCoK

"Serve us in this, and when Stannis is defeated we will discuss how best to restore you to your father's seat," his lordship had said in that soft voice of his, a voice made for lies and whispers. Theon never believed a word of it. - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

Note that here Theon does not believe him either, any trust he has shattered by Ramsay as well as Roose' unlikable personality. Still it seems likely Roose was really somewhat trying to be nice with Theon, because as he tries to teach Ramsay there's value in it:

"Power tastes best when sweetened by courtesy. You had best learn that if you ever hope to rule." - Reek III, aDwD

Do you think it can pay off somehow?

This is speculation, but i believe Roose' story is likely headed in the opposite direction - A Storm of Swords featured his greatest villainous feat, the Red Wedding, a showcase of cruelty and treacherousness. I do not think it will be followed up by an act of even greater cruelty; instead i think he will finally reap what he has sown.

Roose Bolton said nothing at all. But Theon Greyjoy saw a look in his pale eyes that he had never seen before — an uneasiness, even a hint of fear.

That night the new stable collapsed beneath the weight of the snow that had buried it. - a Ghost in Winterfell, aDwD

I believe the line about the stable is meant as a metaphor for his regime collapsing, as it is put directly after the line where he realizes the situation is growing dire for him.

It all seemed so familiar, like a mummer show that he had seen before. Only the mummers had changed. Roose Bolton was playing the part that Theon had played the last time round, and the dead men were playing the parts of Aggar, Gynir Rednose, and Gelmarr the Grim. - a Ghost in Winterfell, aDwD

Roose is likely going to continue the parallel with Theon as his arc goes steadily downwards. He is a foil to Ned; where Ned died but his legacy lives on, Roose will likely live to see his legacy crumble.

There is of course a possibility that he, when cornered, starts expressing more cruelty as a last-ditch effort. We saw the stable used as a metaphor for his rule in Winterfell; but there is another interesting detail about the reconstruction of the burned Winterfell:

Serve well, Lord Bolton told them, and he would be merciful. Stone and timber were plentiful with the wolfswood so close at hand. Stout new gates had gone up first, to replace those that had been burned. Then the collapsed roof of the Great Hall had been cleared away and a new one raised hurriedly in its stead. When the work was done, Lord Bolton hanged the workers. True to his word, he showed them mercy and did not flay a one. - the Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

Aegon the Conqueror had commanded [the Red Keep] built. His son Maegor the Cruel had seen it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built, he vowed. - Catelyn IV, aGoT

This is a crack theory, but perhaps Roose has something up his sleeve when it comes to the newly constructed roof of the Great Hall (a location that features extremely prominently through all of Theon's aDwD Winterfell chapters). Maybe he could make it crash intentionally to bury his treacherous allies or something like that...

I doubt however that he will do Ramsay-style extreme violence, i can't really see a reason and it doesn't appear to be his style. He seems more about cunning than flashy displays.

As always these are not PoV characters, so as long as we don't have a view inside their heads we can never say anything with 100% certainty.

[improvidence318]

i said screw it so here it is

howdy howdy, this is the anon with the 20’s lingo sheet. i don’t have a tumblr (though i wish i do tbh) and realized that i don’t know how to work shit on tumblr, so i’m just sending in the sheet through a text post. i am highly aware of the amount of power i’m bestowing upon you and honestly couldn’t give a damn

A

ab-so-lute-ly: affirmative all wet: incorrect And how!: I strongly agree! ankle: to walk, i.e.. “Let’s ankle!” apple sauce: flattery, nonsense, i.e.. “Aw, applesauce!” Attaboy!: well done!; also, Attagirl!

B

baby: sweetheart. Also denotes something of high value or respect. baby grand: heavily built man baby vamp: an attractive or popular female, student. balled up: confused, messed up. baloney: Nonsense! Bank’s closed.: no kissing or making out ie. “Sorry, mac, bank’s closed.” bearcat: a hot-blooded or fiery girl beat it: scram, get lost. beat one’s gums: idle chatter bee’s knee’s: terrific; a fad expression. Dozens of “animal anatomy” variations existed: elephant’s eyebrows, gnat’s whistle, eel’s hips, etc. beef: a complaint or to complain. beeswax: business, i.e. “None of your beeswax.” Student. bell bottom: a sailor bent: drunk berries: (1) perfect (2) money big cheese: important person big six: a strong man; from auto advertising, for the new and powerful six cylinder engines. bimbo: a tough guy bird: general term for a man or woman, sometimes meaning “odd,” i.e. “What a funny old bird.” blotto (1930 at the latest): drunk, especially to an extreme bootleg: illeagal liquor breezer (1925): a convertable car bug-eyed Betty (1927): an unattractive girl, student. bull: (1) a policeman or law-enforcement official, including FBI. (2) nonesense (3) to chat idly, to exaggerate bump off: to kill bum’s rush, the: ejection by force from an establishment bunny (1925): a term of endearment applied to the lost, confused, etc. Often coupled with “poor little.” bus: any old or worn out car.

C

cake-eater: a lady’s man caper: a criminal act or robbery. cat’s meow: great, also “cat’s pajamas” and “cat’s whiskers” cash: a kiss Cash or check?: Do we kiss now or later? cast a kitten: to have a fit. Used in both humorous and serious situations. i.e. “Stop tickling me or I’ll cast a kitten!” Also, “have kittens.” cheaters: eye glasses check: Kiss me later. chewing gum: double-speak, or ambiguous talk. choice bit of calico: attractive female, student. chopper: a Thompson Sub-Machine Gun, due to the damage its heavy .45 caliber rounds did to the human body.  chunk of lead: an unnattractive female, student. clam: a dollar coffin varnish: bootleg liquor, often poisonous. copacetic: excellent crasher: a person who attends a party uninvited crush: infatuation cuddler: one who likes to make out

D

daddy: a young woman’s boyfriend or lover, especially if he’s rich. daddy-o: a term of address dame: a female. Did not gain widespread use until the 1930’s. dapper: a Flapper’s dad darb: a great person or thing. “That movie was darb.” dead soldier: an empty beer bottle. deb: a debutant. dewdropper: a young man who sleeps all day and doesn’t have a job. dogs: feet doll: an attractive woman. dolled up: dressed up don’t know from nothing: doesn’t have any information don’t take any wooden nickels: don’t do anything stupid. doublecross: to cheat, stab in the back. dough: money drugstore cowboy: A well-dressed man who loiters in public areas trying to pick up women. dry up: shut up, get lost ducky: very good dumb Dora: an absolute idiot, a dumbbell, especially a woman; flapper.

E

earful: enough egg: a person who lives the big life

F

face stretcher: an old woman trying to look young fella: fellow. As common in its day as “man,” “dude,” or “guy” is today. “That John sure is a swell fella.” fire extinguisher: a chaperone fish: (1) a college freshman (2) a first timer in prison flat tire: a bore flivver: a Model T; after 1928, also could mean any broken down car. floorflusher: an insatiable dancer flour lover: a girl with too much face powder fly boy: a glamorous term for an aviator For crying out loud!: same usage as today four-flusher: a person who feigns wealth while mooching off others.

G

gams (1930): legs gatecrasher: see “crasher” get-up (1930): an outfit. get a wiggle on: get a move on, get going get in a lather: get worked up, angry giggle water: booze gimp: cripple; one who walks with a limp.  Gangster Dion O’Bannion was called Gimpy due to his noticeable limp. gin mill: a seller of hard liquor; a cheap speakeasy glad rags: “going out on the town” clothes go chase yourself: get lost, scram. gold-digger (1925): a woman who pursues men for their money. goods, the: (1) the right material, or a person who has it (2) the facts, the truth, i.e. “Make sure the cops don’t get the goods on you.” goof: (1) a stupid or bumbling person, (2) a boyfriend, flapper. goofy: in love grummy: depressed grungy: envious

H

handcuff: engagement ring hard-boiled: tough, as in, a tough guy, ie: “he sure is hard-boiled!” hayburner: (1) a gas guzzling car (2) a horse one loses money on heavy sugar (1929): a lot of money heebie-jeebies (1926): “the shakes,” named after a hit song. heeler: a poor dancer high hat: a snob. hip to the jive: cool, trendy hit on all sixes: to perform 100 per cent; as “hitting on all six cylinders”; perhaps a more common variation in these days of four cylinder engines was “hit on all fours”.  See “big six”. hood (late 20s): hoodlum hooey:  nonsense. Very popular from 1925 to 1930, used somewhat thereafter. hop: a teen party or dance Hot dawg!: Great!; also: “Hot socks!"  Rarely spelled as shown outside of flapper circles until popularized by 1940s comic strips. hot sketch: a card or cut-up

I

"I have to go see a man about a dog.”: “I’ve got to leave now,” often meaning to go buy whiskey. icy mitt: rejection insured: engaged iron (1925): a motorcycle, among motorcycle enthusiasts iron one’s shoelaces: to go to the restroom ish kabibble (1925): a retort meaning “I should care."  Was the name of a musician in the Kay Kayser Orchestra of the 1930s.

J

jack: money Jake: great, ie. "Everything’s Jake.” Jalopy: a dumpy old car Jane: any female java: coffee jeepers creepers: a term of exclamation jitney: a car employed as a private bus. Fare was usually five-cents; also called a “nickel.” joe: coffee Joe Brooks: a perfectly dressed person; student. john: a toilet joint: establishment juice joint: a speakeasy

K

kale: money keen: appealing killjoy: a solemn person knock up: to make pregnant know one’s onions: to know one’s business or what one is talking about

L

lay off: cut the crap left holding the bag: (1) to be cheated out of one’s fair share (2) to be blamed for something let George do it: a work evading phrase level with me: be honest limey: a British soldier or citizen, from World War I line: a false story, as in “to feed one a line.” live wire: a lively person lollapalooza (1930): a humdinger lollygagger: (1) a young man who enjoys making out (2) an idle person

M

manacle: wedding ring mazuma: money milquetoast (1924): a very timid person; from the comic book character Casper mind your potatoes: mind your own business. mooch: to leave moonshine: homemade whiskey mop: a handkerchief munitions: face powder

N

neck: to kiss passionately necker: a girl who wraps her arms around her boyfriend’s neck. nifty: great, excellent noodle juice: tea Not so good!: I personally disapprove. “Now you’re on the trolley!”: Now you’ve got it, now you’re right.

O

off one’s nuts: crazy Oh yeah!: I doubt it! old boy: a male term of address, used in conversation with other males. Denoted acceptance in a social environment.  Also “old man” “old fruit.” “How’s everything old boy?” Oliver Twist: a skilled dancer on a toot: a drinking binge on the lam: fleeing from police on the level: legitimate, honest on the up and up: on the level orchid: an expensive item ossified: drunk owl: a person who’s out late

P

palooka: (1) a below-average or average boxer (2) a social outsider, from the comic strip character Joe Palooka, who came from humble ethnic roots panic: to produce a big reaction from one’s audience percolate: (1) to boil over (2) As of 1925, to run smoothly; “perk” pet: necking, only more; making out petting pantry: movie theater piffle: baloney piker: (1) a cheapskate (2) a coward pill: (1) a teacher (2) an unlikable person pinch: to arrest. Pinched: to be arrested. pinko: liberal pipe down: stop talking prom-trotter: a student who attends all school social functions pos-i-lute-ly: affirmative, also “pos-i-tive-ly” punch the bag: small talk putting on the ritz: after the Ritz Hotel in Paris (and its namesake Caesar Ritz); doing something in high style. Also “ritzy.”

Q

R

rag-a-muffin: a dirty or disheveled individual rain pitchforks: a downpour razz: to make fun of Real McCoy: a genuine item regular: normal, typical, average; “Regular fella.” Reuben: an unsophisticated country bumpkin. Also “rube” Rhatz!: How disappointing! rub: a student dance party rubes: money or dollars rummy: a drunken bum

S

sap: a fool, an idiot. Very common term in the 20s. says you: a reaction of disbelief scratch: money screaming meemies: the shakes screw: get lost, get out, etc. Occasionally, in pre 1930 talkies (such as The Broadway Melody) screw is used to tell a character to leave. One film features the line “Go on, go on – screw!"  screwy: crazy; "You’re screwy!” sheba: one’s girlfriend sheik: one’s boyfriend simolean: a dollar sinker: a doughnut sitting pretty: in a prime position skirt: an attractive female smarty: a cute flapper smudger: a close dancer sockdollager: an action having a great impact so’s your old man: a reply of irritation speakeasy: a bar selling illeagal liquor spill: to talk spoon: to neck, or at least talk of love static: (1) empty talk (2) conflicting opinion stilts: legs struggle: modern dance stuck on: in love, student. sugar daddy: older boyfriend who showers girlfriend with gifts swanky: (1) good (2) elegant swell: (1) good (2) a high class person

T

take someone for a ride: to take someone to a deserted location and murder them. tasty: appealing teenager: not a common term until 1930; before then, the term was “young adults.” tell it to Sweeney: tell it to someone who’ll believe it. tight: attractive Tin Pan Alley: the music industry in New York, located between 48th and 52nd Streets tomato: a “ripe” female torpedo: a hired thug or hitman

U

unreal: special upchuck: to vomit upstage: snobby

V

vamp: (1) a seducer of men, an aggressive flirt (2) to seduce voot: money

W

water-proof: a face that doesn’t require make-up wet blanket: see Killjoy wife: dorm roomate, student. What’s eating you?: What’s wrong? whoopee: wild fun Woof! Woof!: ridicule

X

Y

You slay me!: That’s funny!

Z

zozzled: drunk

  have fun.

[be-dazzled]

She’s In Your Court Ch. 18 Cut Scene (ft. Gajevy/Gale)

Writer’s Corner: I’m almost, almost finish with the latest chapter but I’d like to have Chapter 19 at least 50% accomplished before I put CH18 up. So, enjoy some scene I’d probably have to cut down from Chapter 18. & Remember that other ship I was hoping to make a cameo? hehe

---

Levy wobbled on her new strap sandals. She wasn’t used to wearing high heels but upon hearing that Gray’s birthday party would be in one of the most exclusive night bars in Magnolia, she had to up her style, lest she wanted to be pushed and stepped around like a speck of dust inside the club. She heard Valkyrie had a very exclusive target market – the rich and famous.

Befitting the famous celebrity athletes – the Fiore Knights.

Just thinking about the name made Levy’s heart flutter; plus the fact that her best-friend was actually dating the Team Captain. Granted, she was very, very mad at Juvia for keeping from her such an exciting news. Juvia made amends. Oh, and she knew exactly how to get Levy to like her again. Levy wasn’t going to embarrass her best friend with her usual baggy clothes. Nope, not Levy McGarden. She wore a flowy skirt – shorter than she’d usually wear like, by a lot. Her top was also a far cry from her assistant show-writer’s usual style – an off-shoulder top that exposed only one side. Cute and a bit provocative.

Too bad her risqué style didn’t work their magic.

Even with three inches added to her height, Levy wasn’t fooling anyone. The bouncers at the front asked her for an ID. She was aware that it was standard procedure for clubs to confirm age. Legit businesses did not want some run in with the cops. But if that happened to you every. Single. Time. Levy couldn’t help but feel like tall people were really out there to get her. Mean giant people.

Valkyrie was the current talk of the town; the most exclusive night club in whole Magnolia. It seem only yesterday when Valkyrie was just a run of the mill tarot-reading store which also sell all sorts of crystals. Levy distinctively remembered coming in and having read her card once or twice. The tarot reader said she’ll definitely become a very successful book writer. Levy scoffed. No wonder she was now standing in the middle of the rowdy night club. What a scam.

Levy thought of calling Juvia but decided against it once she entered the club. The loud music boomed through the club’s state-of-the-art sound system. If Juvia was already in the club, she wouldn’t hear the call and if she wasn’t yet, how could Levy even talk over that loud music? People couldn’t even hear her say ‘excuse me’ and just bump into her any chance they get.

“Being short is so annoying.”

That and the fact that people were overflowing in the club and finding Juvia in that crowd was like looking for a needle in a haystack. So, the best thing to do, she thought, was just send her a text and hope that she wasn’t too busy to notice it. Levy, walked up to the bar, where there was less people, and took the seat at the far end of the counter. She called out to the two bar tenders who, just like the rest of the people there, ignored her. Great, just great.

“Oi… they let kids in here now?”

The voice came from behind her, deep and resounding. And a little bit insulting. That was the last strand. Oh, Levy was ready to shove her three inches heel up his ass.

“Hey, Gajeel!” One of the bartenders, the spikey-haired one, nodded at his direction before excusing himself from the girl he’s been flirting with for who knows how long.

Wait, did he just say Gajeel?

The show-writer didn’t even have to spin around to confirm the man’s identity when Gajeel Redfox, Fiore Knights’ Center, leaned over the bar counter, raising two fingers at the bartender. Gajeel Redfox was obviously a regular because those two fingers didn’t even need any explanation.

“The usual, coming up!” The perky blonde returned to the array of liquor displayed on the case but not before he shot the tall man beside Levy a wink and gun-finger. Gajeel was definitely a regular. Figures. The silence between them was filled by the loud beat from Calvin Harris’ ‘This Is What You Came For’.

“So, kid. Er you lost or sometin’?”

Levy heaved in a long breath and mustered the courage to face the man who kept insulting her. All silly crush and adoration for the guy flew out the window. And she thought they were a fun bunch according to the Juvia. Totally, not.

“For your information, Mr. Gajeel, I’m not a ki–”  

“–Oi, Captain!” Gajeel quickly abandoned Levy the moment he saw familiar figures entering the club and making their way to the VIP area.

The show-writer’s narrowed eyes followed the direction of where Gajeel was waving at. The man he called ‘Captain’ was none other than Gray Fullbuster – the man of the hour. But what widened Levy’s russet eyes was the woman in Gray’s arms.

“Juvia!”

“Oh, Levy. Hi!”

The shorter woman jumped off her barstool, ran to the only face she knew in that place and threw her slender arms around Juvia. Like a kid finding her mother in the strange place. Didn’t really help her case but who cared. Tall people were mean people.

“Hey, Cap. You know the kid?” Gajeel walked up to the trio, his ordered drinks in both hands.

“She’s one of the writers in the show.” Gray leaned in to answer his team’s Center over the loud music. To Gajeel’s surprise.

“What?!” He pointed a hand at the lady whose back was at him, drink spilling as he did. “That’s a full grown adult?”

The questionable full grown adult released Juvia and spun to face the puzzled Center. Her hands were on her hips and her eyes were ready to choke him. “For your information, Mr. Gajeel,” the name rolled out her tongue as a snicker, “I am a working adult.”

The long haired Center didn’t work out a comeback. He just held her gaze – hers was deadly, his was amused. Gajeel pulled a corner of his mouth and let out a sound that Levy would call a mocking laugh. But if she was going to spell that noise out, it sounded like ‘gihee’.

Before Levy could react to it, however, Gray was already pulling the man away. He draped one arm around Gajeel’s shoulder, which made the taller, long-haired man in a pulled ponytail, huddle down Gray’s height. She didn’t hear what Gray said but Levy was sure he gave that rude and uncivilized man some warning.

To which Gray did, warning the taller man not to bully the girlfriend’s best-friend.

“Juvia,” Levy still had her back on Juvia, arms crossed against her chest and eyeing the two figures retreating into the safety of the rest of Fiore Knights, “didn’t you say they were a fun bunch?”

“Well, yeah.” Juvia answered, walking up by Levy’s side, maintaining her opinion on Fiore Knights.

“I don’t think I’m enjoying being made fun of.” Her narrowed eyes still trained at the Fiore Knights’ Center slipping into one of the booths. “I already have you for that.”

Juvia could only pull up a sheepish smile. There wasn’t anything else left to say or do after Levy just threw her that snide remark.

Oh, the shade.

[rammaukins]

Shara - The New Latexdoll

IMPORTANTE NOTE: Everything that appears here, in this story, only exists in my mind, anything that resembles reality is coincidence or fortuitous. . .  ( hopefully there will be many of these 🤩,  or not, who knows 😭  ) 

Damn! Where is the Zipper? - Movimento 1

( My gratitude to KunKlo , for his great job of correcting my English and expressions. )

Part 1

On an ordinary Friday afternoon, Shara, a clerk working as a secretary in an advertising company, was strolling around looking at the shop windows of the stores in the commercial district. Like every last Friday of the month, she had put on comfortable clothes that were easy to take off, so that she could easily give in to the temptation to try on a new dress or some other garment and maybe buy it. But what was typical of this day after getting her paycheck, was that today she was going to treat herself to a new pair of high heels.

She was addicted to heels, she had renovated her house to make a dressing room in which half of the space was just for her shoes. And she had her shoes sorted by day of the week, by heel height, by whether she wanted to be more or less comfortable. She had set aside a special place for her most expensive shoes and also her favourites for creating an impression. From that dressing room, without any friend or acquaintance of hers knowing, she had made a few videos for YouTube that she knew would appeal to lovers of heels and fetish fashion. Always avoiding showing her face or any detail that would make someone recognize her.

Today was one of those days when she hoped to be able to buy some shoes that were not run of the mill, that were extravagant, impossible looking, with which she would surely get more followers and thereby improve her earnings. And if she could also find some clothes to impress, so much the better. She even looked in costume shops for porcelain Venetian type masks, not minding if they were made of plastic. If she could further cajole her followers by letting herself be seen completely and still maintaining her anonymity, that would be great.

She wandered the streets of the shopping district, looking into the windows, hoping to see something that would catch her eye. Shara today was also hoping to find something nice to wear this weekend, to get really sexy and seduce again someone she already had in mind. For a moment while she was looking at a lingerie shop, she remembered how that person was running his hands over her skin. Those manly, strong hands, that knew so very well how to excite her body.

Shara walked down several streets, perusing all the shops for possible purchases. She had made a mental note of some of the clothes she had seen and which shops they were in. With the clothes she had some choices, but for now, she couldn't find what she had truly come for. After going into five shoe stores, she couldn't find a pair of shoes that were out of the ordinary. There were sandals of all kinds, shoes of all shapes, heels of all sizes. There were several models, that if you could combine them and create a single pair. . . she would have something worthy to use in her videos. But so, Shara was forced to keep looking, getting a little frustrated.

As she was about to return home, a shop caught her eye. She had never noticed that narrow alleyway in the cyberpunk clothing shopping district, where each shop was more outlandish than the last. If it weren't for the neon lights on the sign, “Your Sin”, she wouldn't have noticed that shop at all. It wasn't the first time she'd been in a sex shop, but it wasn't something she was in the habit of doing. At the moment she was entering, another client was coming out and he gave her a tremendous fright. He was the typical person who didn't care about the opinions of others, dressed in leather clothes, with his chest covered by a torn fishnet t-shirt and, for a man, made up too much, like. . . whatever urban movement he belonged to.

Shara stood watching the man leave, when the shop owner greeted her and invited her in. With some embarrassment she looked back and forth, in case there was another customer, but apart from the shop owner, there was no one else in the store. She took a deep breath and relaxed, and began to feel more comfortable knowing she was on her own. It wasn't her first time in a sex shop, but she didn't feel comfortable buying intimate things in person, preferring the internet. She always felt uncomfortable, when she felt someone's gaze upon her, thinking she knew what they were thinking about her when they bought something. For this reason, she never showed her face in the videos.

Now more relaxed, she began to look at the products on display, and the first thing that caught her eye, was a complicated corset, underbust, with a strap connecting to a collar that was the same shape as the corset. On the collar it said in dark gold letters "Sex Toy". Shara was impressed by the outfit upon closer inspection. Both the corset part and the necklace part had the same design, except for the detail that the neck corset had that characteristic witch's necklace design. Not very high, but high enough to cover the head from behind and limit the view from the sides. It looked like something out of a bad eighties epic-erotic fantasy witch movie, but with a careful and elegant design.

"With that you could charm any man right under your heels." - Shara suddenly heard behind her.

The young woman who was attending the shop, after seeing Shara, noticed right away that she was not a regular shopper in these types of establishments. So she had said that phrase to her, to get her mind focused on something that wasn't so embarrassing, and it seemed to work. Shara relaxed a little more and didn't look around herself so much. She noticed the amazing, shiny, pale pink latex Cheongsam dress with black lotus floral embroidery that the shopkeeper was wearing. She was also wearing a corset-like belt, much like the one Shara had been looking at, but without a collar. The whole outfit was very provocative, giving her a sensual and chic figure.

"Hi. I just wanted to introduce myself, honey. I am called Beky. I can see you're more of an online shopper, so I think I'll leave you a little bit to your own devices to familiarize yourself with the store." - said the shop owner, trying not to scare her.

"Look, down this aisle you'll find some cute outfits, toys are over there, leather clothes here and accessories and bondage items over there. High heels and stripper shoes are here and at the end of that aisle, you can find the most fetish like and the craziest shoes. Let me know when you find something that interests you." - Beky said, pointing down several aisles.

That last bit of information made Shara forget what she was currently looking at. She said thank you and went straight for the shoes. Her inner slutty self had always wanted a pair of stripper shoes to surprise a visitor. She already had more or less a picture in her mind of what she wanted. But when she reached the shoe rack she was overwhelmed by the sheer variety of rare shoes and boots on display. They were mostly available in black, white, red and transparent. The lowest heel was three inches and no platform. There were shoes with thin heels, wide heels, shaped figures, pony-boots and some that immediately caught her attention, the ballet-heels.

They were shaped like ballet shoes, but made of patent leather, on the instep there was a transparent sheet and two straps that crossed in "x" form , another one with a buckle that crossed the instep, and then a much wider strap on the ankle, whose closure had two small rings, to lock it with a small padlock.

"I love them." - she said to herself, marveling at the design and at the same time she was so excited to have found what she was looking for.

Shara had heard of them, and also, she had read comments coming from some of her fans. But until now she had had no interest, mostly because the ones she had seen as an example in a link, sent by one of her followers, was a rather horrendous design. But that pair was anything but hideous, she examined the shoe more closely and there was no doubt that whoever wore that pair of shoes would have to tiptoe like a ballet dancer. That shoe had caught her attention, they were perfect, with an elegant finish, just what she was looking for and she had to have them.

She picked them up and looked for the size of the shoe, and when she looked at the label, it wasn't her size. But then she saw something that further crushed her plan. To her big disappointment, right next to the size of the shoe, was the price of that shoe. It was totally out of her reach. With some annoyance she looked at the rest of the ballet-heels there. And she found some pink booties, vintage design. Shara took a closer look at the boot and the price seemed more reasonable than the shoe.

"It's not as pretty as the other one. . . but it will do." - She said to herself hoping it would have the effect she was looking for.

With the ballet-heels in hand she walked back to the checkout counter where the owner was taking a call. There was an open box next to her, while she was holding up a flesh-colored, see-through latex suit. As Shara waited for the girl to end the call, she couldn't help but overhear her talking about a "LatexDoll" model latex costume from something called "WomanDoll" that she had received. But only one had been delivered and she had ordered ten.

Shara visually examined the box the clerk had on the table. There were two things that caught her attention, right at the bottom of the box it said: "Designed to attract attention and not let anyone recognize you." Then Shara's gaze went to the top of the box, and that slogan captivated her: "Become your own Sex LatexDoll".

to be continued...

tumblr: Shara - The New Latexdoll (Part2) >>

DeviantArt: Shara - The New Latexdoll (part2) >>

Story by Rammaukin

Correction by KunKlo.

If you 😍  it, click on 💗, and we appreciate your comments 👍 , also the criticisms 🤬, although it may and is very likely that, we do not pay attention to them 🧘.

[emospritelet]

Since the KOL!babies are married when can they expect their own baby? Maybe Gold thinks Belle got the virus again when he hears she's at the hospital. - 41. “What did the doctor say?”

Prompt list here

Follow-up to Late Shift in the Kiss of Life verse

[AO3]

x

Seven a.m.

Stirling Gold stared into his coffee, his body feeling heavy and slow, weariness weighing down on him. The kitchen tiles were cold beneath his bare feet, and he shifted his toes a little, pressing them down hard before pulling them off.  Belle was cooking eggs, humming to herself as she did so, and he could smell the pleasant aroma of hot toast. He was almost too tired to feel hungry, but he knew he needed to eat. Several days of working twelve to fifteen hour shifts took their toll. He took a sip of his coffee, relishing the bitterness as it spread across his tongue. Seven hours until he had to be at the hospital again. Seven hours to rest, recuperate, and spend some quality time with his wife. His wife. He wasn’t sure he would ever get over the wonderful feeling that went through him every time he realised that they were married.

With the library closed until further notice and him working seven days a week to cope with the influx of patients, Belle was alone for much of the day. Or the night, depending on how his shift pattern fell. It wasn’t how he had expected the first year of their marriage to be, but there again he hadn’t expected a deadly disease to sweep across the nation. There was the faintest glimmer of hope that they might be over the worst of it; the number of new cases each day had stopped rising a few days ago, and Gold was keeping everything crossed that the falling numbers would continue. They had already had their hopes dashed more than once.

Belle stopped humming, the pan clattering on the stove as she dished up, and Gold took another sip of his coffee, setting down his cup and leaning back in his chair. She set a plate of buttered toast and scrambled eggs in front of him, bending to kiss his cheek before sliding into the seat adjacent to him with her own plate. She grinned at him, blue eyes shining, and he couldn’t help smiling back. She had been clear of the virus for a week, and was back to her old self.

“You look tired,” she said. “Didn’t you sleep?”

“I did,” he admitted. “But not enough.”

“Go back to bed,” she suggested, and her eyes gleamed. “Maybe I could join you.”

“I think we both know that neither of us would get any rest at all in that scenario,” he said sternly, and she giggled, scooping up eggs with her fork.

“Okay, suit yourself,” she said. “At least I get you all to myself for the morning.”

He grinned at her, and turned to his breakfast, eating a forkful of eggs and cutting off a piece of buttered toast to follow them. Belle poured herself some tea, and there was a moment of silence while they ate.

“I thought we might take a walk today,” she said. “It would do you good to get some fresh air. I don’t think you’ve done anything but work and sleep these past three weeks.”

“Well, there was that hour on Sunday when neither one of us was asleep...” he said, and she smirked, reaching for her cup.

“Ah yes, I remember,” she said. “I don’t think that counts as exercise, though. At least not in the fresh air.”

“We could do it in the back garden, if you insist.”

Belle giggled.

“I think the cold weather might have something to say about that.”

“Fair point,” he said. “Very well, a walk it is. Not too far, though. You’ve been complaining of tiredness a lot recently, and I don’t want you coming down with this thing again, okay?”

Belle rolled her eyes.

“I keep telling you, I’m fine!”

“And your sudden passion for mid-afternoon naps is a coincidence, is it?” he remarked. “Listen to your doctor and get some rest.”

“Maybe the doctor should take his own advice,” she said dryly.

Gold grinned, and turned back to his breakfast. His appetite seemed to be improving, and he cleared his plate, gulping the rest of his coffee down. His phone buzzed from its place on the table, the noise insistent, and he felt his heart sink as he reached for it. Belle watched him anxiously as he swiped at the screen.

“Jefferson,” he said, and Belle’s face fell.

“Hey,” said Jefferson, sounding as tired as he felt. “Look, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate…”

“You need me to come in early,” guessed Gold.

“I’m really sorry,” said Jefferson sincerely. “Whale almost collapsed on the ward, and he’s burning up - I sent him home.”

“He’s positive?” asked Gold, worried, and Jefferson sighed.

“No, it looks like just a regular cold, but he’s exhausted. He’ll probably be out for a few days at least. Which means we’re a doctor down. I can cover his patients as well as my own, but we’ll need you to handle the ones that aren’t virus-related. At least that means you don’t have to suit up in PPE to the extent I do.”

“I’ll be there by eight.”

“You’re a life-saver,” said Jefferson. “Which I guess isn’t hyperbole, huh?”

“See you soon.”

Gold hung up, putting his phone down on the table and sighing heavily. Belle was watching him, looking troubled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I - I really wanted to spend some time with you.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said immediately, putting a hand over his. “Really it is. I married a doctor. Nine to five was never gonna happen, and I knew that. You go and do what you do best, okay?”

He smiled broadly, and leaned in to kiss her.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

x

As always when he was working, Gold’s weariness had disappeared like smoke as soon as he stepped onto the ward in his scrubs. The hospital was never quiet, but in the midst of a pandemic it was hectic, and he had almost collided with a porter pushing a wheelchair. He did his round of the children’s ward first; there were thankfully very few children in there needing attention. He had half-expected Henry Swan-Mills to have come down with the virus; the boy was accident-prone and always in and out of hospital, but he had seen nothing of him since treating him for a broken collarbone three weeks ago. He suspected that the Mayor and Sheriff between them were pretty strict on enforcing the lockdown on their son.

Six hours into his shift he was beginning to flag, and went to the canteen for coffee and the lunch that Belle had put together for him while he was dressing. He smiled as he saw the little note she had placed on top of his sandwiches: I love you and I’m proud of you xxx. 

There had been a shift change, so when he got back out on the ward the personnel looked fresh-faced and ready to face the day. He was pleased to see them. Less pleasing was the fact that Zelena Mills was among them. 

He had thought that Zelena would have gotten over her weird obsession with him since he was now very happily married, but while she had certainly backed off a little, she still made inappropriate comments on a regular basis. He was able to ignore her for the most part, but with staffing levels dwindling by the day, it was likely that he was going to have to work with her more often. The virus had a lot to bloody answer for, in his opinion. 

She veered towards him as soon as he entered the room, and he took two steps back to maintain six feet between them. Zelena pouted, but there was a predatory gleam in her eyes which he had learned not to trust.

“Dr Gold,” she said, with a simper that made his teeth clench. “On your own today?”

“Dr Whale is ill,” he said dismissively, reaching for the nearest patient’s chart. “Dr Milliner is covering his patients as well as his own, and I’m covering everyone who isn’t infected with the virus. I’d appreciate any help you can give in that regard. Maintaining the necessary social distancing at all times, of course.”

Zelena’s pout grew sulky.

“It’s hard to flirt when we can’t go within six feet of each other,” she said, and Gold wanted to roll his eyes.

“A good thing we’re here to work, then,” he remarked, making a note on the patient’s chart. “Are you short of tasks to occupy yourself with? I’ll have a word with Nurse South, if so.”

Zelena scoffed.

“Hardly,” she said. “Dorothy left us in the lurch. Didn’t show up to her shift. Typical.”

Gold looked up.

“Dorothy didn’t show?” he said. “That’s not like her. Did anyone call her?”

“I did.” Glinda South had walked into the room, and was eyeing Zelena sternly. “Nurse Mills, you’re here to do your job, not distract Dr Gold. Go and change the beds in Arendelle Ward; we’re changing it from prenatal care to an overflow ward to deal with virus patients.”

Zelena huffed, stomping off, and Gold gave Glinda a grateful look.

“Is Dorothy okay?” he asked, and she sighed.

“Well, she has the virus,” she said gloomily. “She doesn’t feel too bad, so at least that’s something, but it means she’s self-isolating. We’re short on staff as it is.”

“I should call her,” he said. “I know how awful this thing can be. How are we for shift cover?”

“It’s tight,” she admitted. “We should just about be okay, though.”

“Good.”

Gold moved on to the next patient, checking the chart and nodding to himself. Some improvement. Good. 

He continued on his rounds, working his way through the wards, and managed almost an hour before Zelena caught up with him again. 

“Ah, Dr Gold,” she said, walking towards him with her hips swaying. “I have to say I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Yes, seeing the doctor in the hospital must indeed have been a shock to the senses,” he remarked, picking up a patient’s chart and scanning it. “Next you’ll be telling me you saw patients being treated.”

“Well, I don’t know about being treated,” she said airily. “But I did see Belle French.”

Calling Belle by her old name was a habit of hers, and usually it was only a minor annoyance, but Gold wasn’t in the mood. He opened his mouth to snap at her that Belle’s name was now Gold and that she was his wife, when something she had said made prickles of anxiety run over his skin.

“You saw Belle?” he said. “Here?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes glinting wickedly. “She went rushing past me, said she needed to see a doctor.”

Gold licked his lips.

“She was probably looking for me.”

“Didn’t look that way to me,” she said, looking at her fingernails. “Oh, is she sick? How tragic that would be...”

Gold tossed the chart aside and stormed out as fast as he could. She was making up beds in Arendelle Ward. That’s the ward we’re using as overflow for the virus patients. Oh God, please don’t let her be sick again! I should have fucking noticed when she said she was feeling tired all the time, I should have known!

He burst through the double doors, almost sending a nurse flying and throwing an apology over his shoulder. His leg was hurting, the pain of being on it for hours and walking too fast, but he didn’t care. He turned the corner at speed and almost collided with Belle, her eyes widening as she put out an arm to stop him.

“Stirling!” she said. “Slow down! Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” he gasped. “What - what are you doing here? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” she said assuredly. “Everything’s fine.”

“But - Zelena said you’d been rushed in, that you were seeing a doctor…” 

He flailed, trying to gather his thoughts into something coherent. Belle put a hand on his arm, smiling up at him, and at once her touch seemed to calm him, to ground him.

“Stirling,” she said gently. “Yes, I did need to see a doctor, but I’m fine, really. And you should learn not to take any notice of Zelena. She always pushes your buttons when you’re stressed.”

“Right.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling a little better. “Right. So you’re not sick?”

“I’m not sick,” she confirmed, and Gold felt anxiety drain out of him, leaving only relief and weariness in its wake.

“Good,” he said absently. “That’s good. What did the doctor say?”

Belle’s smile grew, and he wondered why he had only just noticed how radiant she looked. As though she was filled with light, with joy. With life.

“I’m pregnant,” she said. “We’re going to have a baby.”

Gold felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. He staggered back, hand gripping the handle of his cane to steady himself. She was beaming at him, and he could feel tears prick his eyes as his heart swelled with love for her. Belle stepped forward, hands sliding around his waist, and he reached up to cup her cheek, feeling his heart thumping hard in his chest.

“A baby?” he whispered. “We’re having a baby?”

“We are,” she said. “You’re going to be a father. How does that sound?”

Gold bent his head to kiss her, eager for the taste of her lips and the softness of her mouth. She melted into him with a tiny moan, and he pulled back gently, resting his forehead against hers as he breathed her in.

“It sounds wonderful,” he whispered. “It sounds perfect.”

[anticallouts]

Question. does your idea of being anti-callouts also include folks of different belief systems that would involve, say, a much narrower view of sexual morality, or are they fair game to be called out as homophobes and all that just because of their beliefs, even if they’ve never actually displayed any kind of discriminatory behavior? Or what about those who sided with or even remotely supported trump or are from MAGA groups? Are they outside the scope of your anti-callout mission too? Asking cuz imo it’s hypocritical to say you’re anti-callouts but then think its ok for these folks to be ostracized and bullied cuz “they need to be held accountable” for beliefs that you don’t agree with and more often than not, don’t fully understand what they believe or why. And I’m not talking about stuff they said decades ago, I’m talking about present day stuff.

First, I will direct you back to this post, specifically the ending paragraph:

One important thing to internalize is that ignorance doesn’t make you a bad person. This goes for judging your own actions as well as others’. It’s okay to constantly be learning and adapting your behavior based on new information. If you find out from discourse that you had been using hurtful language or promoting a hurtful idea, it doesn’t mean you were secretly a bad person all along. It just means you didn’t know. In an ideal world, we would all be patient and forgiving with people who weren’t acting in bad faith, but unfortunately this is Tumblr. Just try to do your best, and take breaks if you need them.

The key point here is ‘in bad faith’. This blog, and the general disagreement in fandom re: callout culture, usually stems from the idea that it is bad to hold people with taste in unpopular fictional ships to the same standard as unrepentant abusers, pedophiles, racists, and homophobes. The point is not that those categories of people aren’t in themselves problematic, just that shippers shouldn’t get tacked on to that list for liking anime boy 1 and anime boy 2, nor should ANYONE get tacked onto that list based on rumors or anon messages if there is actually no evidence of wrongdoing.

We can debate until the cows come home about what ‘counts’ as bigotry and the right way to deal with microaggressions, but for this post (and because you mentioned MAGA and homophobic Christianity) I’m going to assume you’re talking about standard, run-of-the-mill bigotry. The kind you can look at and easily understand exactly why it is hurtful.

Being against callout culture is not the same thing as being against all callouts, all the time, for any reason. (I did not name this blog, I inherited it. I am now considering a revised URL if that is the impression this one gives.)

I am never going to defend a homophobe. I am never going to defend a racist. If someone comes to me with a tweet from a homophobe’s twitter acct that says ‘God says all lesbians are abominations but I’m not homophobic tho it’s just what the Bible says’ I’m not going to assume they’re an infant who doesn’t understand logic or empathy or critical thinking. I’m gonna block them. If they’re famous, I’m gonna show my friends and my friends are also gonna block them and also possibly talk shit about them on Twitter because they’re bajillionares and it doesn’t matter.

(Except really I encourage people not to do this - not because it’s morally wrong, but because they can use their much larger platform to harass you if they feel like it. See John Boyega’s behavior towards the women who were hurt by his misogynistic language as an example.)

Now, on a smaller scale, if they’re just a regular old member of a fandom? If it turns out everyone blocks them because they won’t stop talking about how much they hate the gays and Jews and SJWs and the fandom is full of gays and Jews and SJWs who don’t want to listen to it, that’s not ostracization, that’s quality control. No one gets to complain that other people won’t listen to their opinions, and that’s not what this blog is advocating for.

I am extremely pro-block. I block people for ALL KINDS of things. I see a comment in the notes of a post I do not vibe with? Block. Don’t care if that user has never spoken to me in my life. I am the arbiter of my fandom experience, as is everyone else.

Furthermore, I want to address what seems to me to be the core of your complaint here:

“... even if they’ve never actually displayed any kind of discriminatory behavior?”

See, this is a bit logically inconsistent and it makes me wonder if this ask was not sent in good faith, but rather to try and catch me in a ‘gotcha, so much for the tolerant left’ type of way.

If someone is not displaying any kind of discriminatory behavior, then they fall under the ‘don’t make baseless callouts’ protection. There’s no evidence of any wrongdoing, no victim, no crime. Thinking gay people are horrible is, like, wrong, but as long as they keep that to themselves when engaging with others, fine. However, the fact that someone is being called out for open homophobia or racism means that... Hm... how do I put this... they kind of are displaying discriminatory behavior, my dude.

If they’re 12 years old and repeating what their racist dad said or homophobic pastor said, then yeah, don’t harass them. Don’t harass anyone, actually, but I am not Fandom God and I don’t control the whims or ways of the internet denizens so I can’t really do anything about that. Harassment doesn’t actually accomplish anything and is a waste of energy. Report them if they’re breaking the TOS and move on. (See my pro-block stance above for the acceptable alternative. Blocking! It’s like Herd Immunity, for fandoms.)

But everyone else in the fandom space has a right to warn each other ‘hey, there’s a 12 year old over there with no filter and they’re super racist, here’s their tweets.’

If they’re an adult and they’re doing that? As you said, present day stuff? It is completely fair game for their tweets or posts to be catalogued and shared as proof that they are a clear and present danger to other people in the fandom. Racists and homophobes have this nasty little habit of attempting to hurt people they hate, fandom needs ways to self-regulate and keep itself safe from actual harmful bigots.

There’s also a lot to be said about expecting vulnerable members of the community to do all the work educating people who are actively being malicious towards them in the hope that one comment will break through their willful ignorance and show them the light of human decency and teach them how to be good people and decent fans. If someone feels bad that other people don’t like them because of their homophobic beliefs, it’s not the fandom’s job to take them under wing and teach them why homophobia is wrong. None of us came out the womb knowing how to treat people; if the majority of us could figure it out by cultural osmosis, so can our racist homophobic strawman here. Either by being told directly, or by seeing that bigots are not welcome and making the single necessary logical leap that maybe it’s because homophobia/racism/etc hurts people and no one else likes being hurt.

So, to break it down:

Private racists: not posting anything racist, not harassing poc in the fandom, how would you ever know? Gross, but ultimately harmless. Can’t do anything about them, hopefully they see enough posts about why racism is bad to finally change their ways.

Past racists: said some dumb racist shit in the past, apologized, aren’t currently doing anything racist? Leave them alone. Be thankful. Hope that other people look to them as an example in learning and humility and growth.

Active racists: do not deserve your pity or protection. Learn to treat other people with respect or get off the internet. Shed no tears when they end up blocked by 90% of the fandom and anyone else with a brain. Their ignorance does not supersede everyone else’s right to feel safe and welcome in a community. Much like with private racists, I hope they learn (with a more direct lesson) that no one likes racists or wants to hang out with them and if they want friends they should learn to treat others as human beings.

[ketoanalystpro]

Would You Like to Know Exactly What to Eat to Lose Fat and Get Healthy Without Giving Up Your Favorite Foods or Starving Yourself?

If you're serious about achieving permanent fat loss and a complete health transformation while eating your favorite foods every meal…

I invite you to read this page.

Here’s The Deal:

In my opinion, the nutrition industry is hopelessly broken. Instead of helping people improve their health and overall physical appearance, the world is filled with myths, scams, and flat-out lies.

I mean, it’s obvious the current dietary guidelines don’t work. Just look at the stats. 71.6% of American adults aged 20 and above are overweight, of which more than half are obese![1]

Now, if you’re one of the millions of people who follow all the nutrition rules outlined by health and fitness “gurus” but still carry excess fat, it is not your fault!

The Truth Is:

No matter how genetically “doomed” you may think you are, and no matter how frustrated you may feel after trying and discarding many diets, you absolutely can have the lean and alluring body of your dreams.

You see, getting into fantastic shape isn't nearly as cruel as nutrition and fitness “gurus” want you to believe. In fact, if you avoid the four most common and catastrophic diet mistakes, shaping your dream figure is actually a simple process.

Do You Make These Four Common Diet Mistakes That Sabotage Your Health and Stall Fat Loss?

Mistake #1 ( Not being in a calorie deficit )

According to some “experts,” losing weight and keeping it off is all about controlling the types of food you eat.

They say particular foods are "fattening" because they pause fat burning and cause a hormonal environment that leads to weight gain... while other foods "balance" the system and stimulate fat loss.

While that’s partially true, it doesn't give you the full picture. The reason is that if you want to lower the number on your scale, the most important thing you must do is enter a caloric deficit.

It’s simple. If you consume more calories than you burn, you’ll gain weight. And if you consume fewer calories than you burn, you’ll lose weight. That’s a scientific fact.[2]

Looking for proof? Well, dozens of studies show the vitality of calorie balance.[3-19] One of these is a case study by Mark Haub, a professor of human nutrition at Kansas State University.[20]

He carried excess pounds and, knowing the importance of calorie balance, decided to do an experiment. For two months, he only ate foods like Twinkies, Oreos, Dorito, and protein shakes while maintaining a daily energy deficit of 800 calories.

The result? In just two months, he lost 27 pounds and reduced his body fat from 33.4% to 24.9%.

Now, I don't recommend you follow such a diet, but it illustrates my point. If you want to lose fat, you must be in a calorie deficit.

Mistake #2 ( Severe calorie restriction that gives you the metabolism of a 90-year-old lady )

If an energy deficit of 250 calories a day will get you lean, a 1,000-calorie deficit will give you the results four times as fast, right?

Wrong! Many people make this mistake, and I used to do it too before I knew any better.

The truth is, severe calorie deficits screw up your physiology. That's why almost all low-calorie dieters regain the lost pounds when they stop the program... plus, most often gain some more on top of that.

You see, your body doesn't know you're trying to get ripped for the beach. Instead, because you're starving yourself, it thinks you're stranded with no food.

As a result, your body’s metabolism will plummet to prevent you from losing weight. This means that as soon as you come off your diet, your body will store as much food as possible as fat to prepare itself for the next starvation.

That’s why it’s essential to eat according to a calorie target fine-tuned for your body, your situation, and your goals.

Mistake #3 ( Thinking all calories are created equal )

Thus far, we've looked at calories. And while calories are a crucial piece of the fat loss puzzle, they're in no way the only thing that matters. You see, when most people say they want to lose weight, they actually strive to improve their health and look better.

The thing is, if you want to accomplish such feats, you shouldn’t strive for weight loss. Instead, set your sights on fat loss. That's because losing weight doesn't necessarily improve health and appearance, but losing fat does.

Now, when it comes to fat loss, calories remain a crucial element. But what is just as crucial is your macro intake. In other words, your consumption of protein, carbs, and fat is vital. How you set up your macros has a profound effect on how your body will respond to the meals you eat.

For example, if you consume too many carbs, it’ll be near impossible to lose fat even if you maintain a calorie deficit. That’s because carbs spike insulin, a hormone that blunts fat loss in two main ways.

One of these is that elevated insulin levels block the release of fat from your fat cells.[21-23] And if your cells can't release fat, your body can never burn off the excess.

Second, elevated insulin levels cause the storage of energy found in your bloodstream to morph into body fat cells.[23-25] This means the energy won’t get burned off by tissues like muscle but instead snakes its way around to places like your hips and abs.

That’s why researchers call insulin the "fat storage hormone," and that’s why carb-rich diets make it nearly impossible to lose fat.

Insulin is but one example. Optimizing your macros is crucial for many more reasons, so in a minute I’ll show you how to set up your macros to triple fat loss.

The best part? The method I’ll show you in a minute from now is effortless to follow and never leaves you hungry. In fact, this eating style is so satiating and easy to follow that you would probably forget you were on a diet if you weren’t losing fat so fast.

Mistake #4 (Following an unrealistic, overly restrictive diet )

Willpower works like a battery – you only have so much of it until it runs out. That’s why very restrictive diets deplete your willpower, increase your cravings, and lead to binging – the exact opposite of what you want when trying to build your dream body.[26-27]

I've seen it countless times before... a guy or gal who is dedicated to losing weight and getting healthy. To kick things off, they start a diet that only allows food like tilapia, asparagus, and chicken. After all, that’s what the fitness magazines recommend.

While the results are great in the beginning and the dieter loyally brings Tupperware boxes packed with "healthy" meals wherever they go, their willpower eventually runs out and that diet gets tossed out the window.

Just keep in mind that dieting itself is already hard. Don't make it even harder for yourself by enforcing all kinds of unnecessary restrictions. Otherwise, you’ll likely take on a “screw it” mentally after a few weeks or even days, wake up in a sea of Twinkie wrappers and be back to square one.

The Solution to These Diet Blunders:

A Keto Meal Plan Customized to Your Body, Situation, Goals, and Taste Buds

If you want to take all the guesswork out of your diet and follow a guaranteed-to-work plan, then you'll love my brand-new custom keto meal plan service.

For the last few years, I’ve united leading nutritionists, personal trainers, and chefs to develop custom keto meal plans that are effective, convenient, cost-effective, and (most importantly) enjoyable.

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[margvrets]

✧ ━━ the courts of switzerland present MARGARET TUDOR of ENGLAND, the PRINCESS ROYAL of ENGLAND. the TWENTY-ONE year old had been GRACIOUS and AMIABLE before the break of war but have now become OPINIONATED and RETICENT. SHE is often remembered by their likeness to KATHRYN NEWTON and STANDING IN YOUR TIP TOES TO WATCH IMPORTANT MEETS NOT MADE FOR YOUR POSITION, THE FEELING OF FREEDOM WHEN RIDING A HORSE, HOLDING THE GAZE OF MANY WHEN DANCING IN A FEAST. the rumor mills of europe claim that her allegiance lies with ENGLAND and that she is for PEACE. 

heya folks ! my name is june, i’m 19 and on quarantine ! anyways, under the cut you’ll find the headcanons & plot points for baby margot, as well as some wanted connections that i’m anxious to fulfill ! if you guys want to plot, just hit the heart button here or hit me up on discord ( prezada não estou a venda#6594 ) and we’ll brainstorm the best plots ever. 

HEADCANONS

ONE. queen anne’s & prince patrick’s marriage had been strained even before margaret’s birth, but her rising seemed to make an amend in their relationship for a few hours. her birth was celebrated in the whole country — after two strong princes, having a princess to admire her beauty wouldn’t hurt, would it ? — but not as much as her brothers. the court was still traumatized about what happened to queen anne’s younger brother — and they hoped that little margaret wouldn’t become queen after more tragedies. after all, both mother & father — as all older brothers — were happy. for different reasons, such as political & loving ones, but happy.

TWO. inheriting her mother’s old title — princess royal — everyone expected margaret to follow in the queen’s steps. the queen herself aided margaret’s tutors to do so, but the young princess was too soft for her mother’s liking. she loved everyone, treated everyone as if they were friends & trusted them. margaret didn’t see any wickedness in courtiers approaches. nonetheless, margaret was her tutor’s pearl. she exceed in languages & knew how to deal with diplomatic conflicts with grace, as expected of queen anne’s only daughter. being young, she didn’t mind being compared to her mother — margaret wanted to be like her when she grew up. to be strong and smart as her, and to lead an import country such as england.

THREE. however, growing up, margaret’s convictions crumbled one by one. the first was the marriage of her parents; a thing she guaranteed to be perfect & loving, was strained & cold. she started to notice that her parents weren’t as close as many other noble marriages and she was heartbroken because of that. it was like her eyes were open to that; margaret observed that almost all courtiers marriage were loveless. the princess royal tried to remain hopeful of her own — talks about her beauty & marriage started to become a regular thing in meetings & balls. maybe, because of her looks, her future husband would be a little warmer than the rest. but when her mother brought suitors to her, margaret was terrified.

FOUR. the only thing that kept her out from freak out was horse riding. margaret felt invincible & free of her duties in the back of a horse, and owned many of them in the royal stables. they were her confidents & truly friends in that wolrd of madness she was born into. she started to train them for horse racing. what started as a hobby, soon became her favourite part of the day. margaret would learn & aid the coaches, and go to the races with them to see her horses winning every one of them. but the burning desire of being a true amazon burned inside her. being friends with the rider, he helped her to disguised herself as a man. margaret won many races untill being almost discovered by rival riders. she abandoned her “career”, but the rumours in the court started  nonetheless.

FIVE. the princess royal still spent most of her free time in horse training, but when the talks of war started, she was curious to know more. she knew her mother would never allow her to be in the war council, only james and her father. margaret understood her position was the younger child & a princess, but if she was going to be queen or the sovereign of a land one day, she needed to have experience in such horrible matters. being an adventurous child, margaret knew some good places to hide and to listen in some rooms. she did everything she could to not be discoreved & mold her opinions about the matters of war. margarted started to become more bold in family meetings and in talks with her mother’s courtiers, speaking her mind and what she thought was the right thing to do.

PLOT POINTS

ONE. margaret know her role as the only daughter of england — marry well and to a country that benefits her motherland. however, the prospect of marriage scares her more than everything. she knows too that this trip will bring more than peace ( or more war lmao ) to the two coalizations. margaret needs to overcome this childhood trauma — with someone that truly loves her as a partner, or comfronting her parents about what image they passed down to her, or with married friends, who are happy with their spouses. she needs to know that her familial reality isn’t the only prospect and know that even if the couple doesn’t love each other, they can still be happy in their marriage.

TWO. the rumors about the indentity of margaret’s horse rider being none than herself apread quickly over the english court, but they vanished as quickly. however, the desire to run once more in a race is consuming the princess royal, and she doesn’t know what do to. she knows that her mother have suspicious about her and limited her time in the stables and she doesn’t want to disappoint her by doing it again. she’s holding it to herself and needs someone to hear her thoughts — they doesn’t need to know about what margaret did, but she wants someone that will listen to her without judgments.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

PEN-PALS. they can be from any country ( allies or not ) and could’ve been in touch since their pre-teens. they are probably meeting for the first time, so margaret is like really nervous. 

CONFIDANTS. someone that margot can meet now in swiss lands and they click right away to the point where she feel she can tell them her whole life traumas & problems.

FALSE CONFIDANT. someone that passes the same vibe to margot as the above wc, but in really this person is just using her to their own benefit. 

HORSE LOVERS. someone that loves the company of horses as much as margaret does & they can be horse nerds together. 

CULTURAL EXCHANGES. people from different parts of the globe that margot find interesting & will try befriend them to know more about their culture. 

SUITORS. oh yes, the same ol’ cliche. so i have two diffrent ideas for the romantic wc: the first one is where both ( or just margaret ) of them doesn’t want to marry each other so they do everything they can to end the betrothal but in the end they fall in love with each other & cue the angst with margot denying her feelings & such cause of parents issues. the second one is that they were sort of childhood friends or pen-pals & their parents start to have talks about marrying them, and margarte just freaks out. 

[shireness-says]

Swan’s Seven (1/?)

Summary: After two years behind bars, Emma's out, and she's got a plan in mind. Now to put together the perfect team... Let's stage an art heist. (A CS Ocean’s 8 AU) 1.9K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3. 

~~~~~

A/N: Thanks for joining me for another MC! It’s going to be a fun one. Turns out, I hate posting schedules when I’m the one being scheduled, so these will be up when they’re up. Hang in there.

Thanks to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan. Love ya bunches, babe.

Tagging: @optomisticgirl, @spartanguard, @profdanglaisstuff, @captainsjedi, @thisonesatellite, @thejollyroger-writer, @let-it-raines, @teamhook, @kmomof4, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes, @winterbaby89. Shoot me a message if you want to be added/taken off the list.

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

It feels odd, changing back into regular clothes after two years in a prison jumpsuit. Not bad, obviously - orange was never really Emma’s color anyways —  just… odd. The black leather dress still fits like a glove, she’s pleased to note, and her arms are looking better than ever. That little tidbit is almost enough to keep Emma from slipping her treasured red leather jacket over the top —  almost. A girl’s got to have her armor and a signature piece, after all. 

“You gonna behave yourself, Ms. Swan?” the guard posted at the release desk asks as she hands over the last of the possessions Emma was arrested with - a pitifully small handbag. Emma resolves to burn it as soon as possible —  less for the bad memories, more because it barely holds two cards and a hundred dollars cash. 

Not that she’s been blessed with such a generous sum. “Don’t I always, Marcie,” she chuckles darkly. “Besides, how much trouble can I get into with $32.17?”

$3.17 of it is in change. She’ll be lucky if she can get a cab to a train station with that kind of money.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Marcie grumbles. She looks like she’s suppressing a smile, though; she always was one of the guards Emma got along with. “Get out of here, and don’t let me see you next year.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The sunlight feels different, too, as Emma walks out the front doors and down the path to the parking lot. It’s not that she hasn’t been outside in two years; even in New York, they get time in the prison yard, so that’s obviously not the case. But knowing that she can enjoy the sunlight in longer than one-hour spurts is a different thing altogether, and wholly intoxicating.

She’s so busy soaking in the sunshine and her new-found freedom that it takes Emma a moment to notice the figure waiting where the fence gives way to cars and asphalt: lean, dark haired, dressed to kill. Regina.

“Hot date?” the other woman drawls, not even bothering to look up from where a perfectly manicured thumbnail navigates her phone. Emma wouldn’t expect anything less from her partner in crime. Emma and Regina met six years ago while both attempting to con the same mark, and had been criminally inseparable ever since (and she’s still particularly proud of the fake charity cons they used to run on wealthy, pervy men, happy to toss a few thousand dollars their way without checking their credentials too closely in hopes of getting into Regina’s pants). In all that time, Emma’s never seen her look anything but immaculately put together in perfectly tailored garments, expertly paired with that air of casual boredom she’s perfected. Beneath the cold exterior, Emma knows, lies a terrifying loyalty, however. It’s probably not a coincidence that that fucker Neal Cassidy wound up arrested mere months after setting up Emma to take the fall for his crimes, still landing her an accessory conviction after his stupid watches were found in her trunk despite the police’s inability to put her at scene of the crime —  and indeed, surveillance video proved she hadn’t been the one breaking into cases. But Emma went to prison, and Regina… well, Emma wouldn’t be surprised if Regina got a little payback, even if she’d never admit to it. 

“I don’t know, depends on who’s at the insurance convention you’re attending,” Emma shoots back. The perfectly matched trousers, blazer, and vest certainly suggest business more than a casual afternoon; an uninformed bystander would certainly be forgiven for thinking Regina was Emma’s lawyer instead of a fellow conwoman.

Despite the teasing introductions, Emma still doesn’t hesitate to wrap her friend into a tight hug. “Missed you, Reg,” she whispers.

“Me too,” is the barely audible response, before Regina pulls back to briskly brush at her precisely creased pants. “That’s enough of that. I thought prison wasn’t supposed to make you go soft, E, control yourself. I’ll still give you a lift into the city, if you want.”

“I’m counting on a lot more than that,” Emma comments as they climb into the black Volvo — nice, but not flashy, hovering just below the radar. Just the way they both like it. Emma idly wonders who stole it. “I’m gonna need a place to crash.”

Regina shoots her a sideways glance, full of skepticism. Regina Mills doesn’t do confusion. “Not running off to see brother dearest and whatever disgusting fairy tale he’s living in backwoods Maine?”

“Not yet.”

Regina hums in sudden understanding. “Ah. You’ve got a job in mind.”

“And I don’t want him involved,” Emma finishes. 

“What’s the job?”

“I’ll tell you when we get back to your place,” Emma promises. “You’ll like it, though, it’ll be a fun one. And besides, it’s a favor for an old friend.”

Most of the rest of the 90 minute drive into the city passes in silence —  not that Emma minds. It gives her a chance to run over the plan in her head again before she has to tell Regina. Still, they’re pulling up in front of the warehouse space that always manages to look just this side of abandoned. Regina had the business savvy at some point to buy up the building with some of the money she’d accumulated over the years, and last Emma heard, it was a thriving nightclub. Poison Apple. Terrible name, in Emma’s opinion, but she’s not the one running the place. 

The inside is the same as always, full of exposed metal beams and carefully cultivated rust. Emma knows that at night, when this place is packed with revelers, the lights (what few of them exist) illuminate in bronze and gold shades, really encouraging the steampunk fairytale feeling in here. The unusual wishing well on one side of the room helps with that too, as does the apple tree growing under the grimy window panels that make up the slant of the roof. Emma finds those touches just as ridiculous as the name, but you can’t deny that there’s a theme going. And anyways, they can make good money pulling change out of the wishing well after the end of the weekend. 

The apartment upstairs is much the same, minus the ridiculous fairytale decor. It’s been shined up, however, in a way that the club hasn’t been. Regina’s taste has always tended towards the luxurious and ornate, in a way that should be anachronistic against the metal and brick, but isn’t. The scrolled and gilded furniture is more comfortable than the minimalistic metal and leather Emma would have expected of an industrial space anyways, so Emma doesn’t have much space to pass any judgement.

“There’s a spare bedroom upstairs,” Regina says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter. Dark wood, white granite. Nice. “Make yourself at home.”

“What, with all my baggage?” Emma snorts.

“Fine, don’t then,” Regina snipes back, opening the fridge to toss Emma a beer. “Don’t come whining to me later about how I’m not being hospitable or some shit.”

“I’ve got a drink, what else do I need?” Emma collapses onto the couch. It feels good to finally toe her heels off, even if she can’t kick them across the room with a polished wood coffee table in the way that definitely cost more than the $32.17 in her wallet. God, what was the Emma of two years ago thinking with these torture devices?

Oh. Yeah. Horribly in love, planning to maybe use the heels to coax her date into a wild night of sex. That’d explain it. 

“Oh, well, now that you’re here, what about that explanation? You said you had a plan in mind for some job?” Regina, of course, has somehow managed to conjure up a glass of wine for herself. Beer is for the peasants or something.

“The job of the century,” Emma promises.

“Yes, that’s great. The details?” Nothing is more entertaining than an impatient, pissed off Regina. It’s probably a miracle they haven’t killed each other yet. 

Emma savors the moment for one more sip of her beer before finally spilling. “Zelena West. You know her?”

“Personally? No,” Regina snorts. “But Zelena West, pharmaceutical titan and socialite? Yes, Emma, I know of her. You’re the one who’s been in prison, not me.”

Emma ignores the jab. “You’re aware about her art collecting, then? The gallery she runs for the public?”

“Again, I haven’t been living under a rock, E.”

“And you know about the upcoming collaboration between the West Collection and the  Big Apple Ballet? Big exhibit in BAB’s gallery about the intersection of dance and art?”

“Yes…” Regina trails off as the details finally sink in. “You’re planning an art heist.”

“Bingo.”

“A classic, certainly. Seems a bit of a risk, though, especially since you’re fresh out of prison. Why would you want to go after such a big fish right away?”

“Like I said, it’s a favor for an old friend.” She takes another swig of her beer. “It’ll be fun, besides. And it’ll work.”

“Yes, well, that’s left to be seen,” Regina grumbles. “Tell me everything, start to finish. Every motive, every step, every player, or so help me god, Emma, I won’t lift a finger to help you with this. I don’t intend to be caught attempting a fool’s gambit.”

So she does. Emma’s had a lot of time to think through this, and has run it in her head countless times. She knows every inch of this plan inside and out —  and by the time she’s done speaking, Regina does too. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this… but I think it might work.” The wine has long since been consumed in the course of their conversation, but Regina sounds like she needs another glass after being conned into that admittance. “You’ll need a crew though. This isn’t something we can pull off on our own, I can tell you that now.”

“Oh, I know that,” Emma readily agrees. She’d been prepared for this. “We’re definitely going to need a xerox, a code wrangler, and a can opener. Maybe a fairy fingers, for good measure.”

“Never know when you’re going to need a good fairy,” Regina agrees. “You’re going to need a good garage sale, too.”

“For sure. Someone who’s already tapped into that world.”

“So five, plus you and I… you really think we can pull this off with seven players?”

“I really do.”

“I’ll put out feelers tomorrow, start collecting resumes.” Regina stands, carefully straightening out her pants. “It’s good to have you back in the game, Emma. I was worried that once you got out, you’d run off to live some boring Rockwell life with your brother.”

“Not me. Once a con, always a con,” Emma toasts before finishing off her beer. 

And that’s the truth of it, really —  this is in her blood. The one thing Emma Swan is better at than anything is conning people out of their money. It brought her a family, and a purpose, and a challenge to face every morning. She’s not sure she can imagine any other kind of life, or that she’d want to. Day after day crammed into a cubicle just isn’t for her. 

“Let’s go stage an art heist,” it’s easy to declare, easier than riding a bike, almost easier than breathing.

Emma Swan is back in the game.

[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

god it WILL NOT stop bothering me until i talk about it. the way we got here. it’s not just about the book anymore, not at all, and it’s certainly never been about “shipping”, at this point it’s how helpless the tactics of the guy make me feel.

step one: refer to people who have read previous venom books and noticed the trend throughout the nineties to portray eddie and the symbiote as a man and an agender alien in an ambiguously or not-so-ambiguously romantic relationship, which was picked up on and completely unambiguously canonised in the very last run, consistently refer to these people as “shippers”, lovingly condescend to them, do not ever treat “the ship” as existing beyond their imagination

[I LOVE THAT YOU GUYS EXIST]

result: make people forget that this is a complete misrepresentation and he has received no criticism whatsoever for “not making a ship canon” because that is not what he did, he decanonised it and then denied doing so and painted everyone it ever meant something to as essentially deluded - and, considering that that’s all they are, he’s being awfully kind and accommodating, isn’t he?

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes!

step two: actively seek out these no-good shippers on tumblr! tell them that you’re watching them! read their detailed posts in which they express their grievances about your comic book to their friends and misrepresent their points on your twitter so your bajillion followers can affirm that Those People are categorically wrong about everything!

[EDDIE IS CODEPENDENT]

people are mad at him because he said eddie was codependent! not because he’s reframing the extremely rare story of a troubled queer relationship that was ultimately still a redemptive force in these characters’ lives as an unhealthy compulsion that corrupts, hm, what a fresh and unfamiliar take, no reason why this would strike a nerve - and, recently, of course, as something inherently abusive, every bit of hope and change for the better vile and fake.

literally just start vaguing about people’s personal tumblr blogs on your professional twitter account with the little, little blue checkmark and everything, use that to make passive-aggressive references to people’s posts! why not!

[LOVE EACH OTHER]

people talk about how they like a symbiote and its host getting along (and they did, that very night, talk quite a lot about ngozi)? that is so dumb and lame.

[EVERYTHING IS AWESOME]

people get sick of edgy shock factor writing that throws one dark theme after another at them without treating any of them with the consideration they deserve? people expect some moments of levity in a venom book?

they’re asking for stories with no conflict where nothing bad ever happens! but it’s okay, he knows better, he knows you just don’t know what you want! it’s not like endless sadness is just as likely to be dreadfully boring or unintentionally hilarious as endless happiness!

result: o w n e d god he sure is shutting down every point no one has ever made

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes!

step three: literally get so mad at people on tumblr talking about your comic that you not only boil their opinions down to THE SHIIIIP but literally say that their opinions don’t matter because they literally would never say it “to your face” literally because it’s “easy to be brave on tumblr”

literally

say these words

[IT’S EASY TO BE BRAVE ON TUMBLR]

call people chicken shits for NOT talking to you directly! and then! BLOCK everybody who talks to you directly! or quote retweet them so your followers can descend like vultures! actually acknowledge that it takes bravery to interact with you if you’re in the Tumblr Demographic, you know, one of Those People, and frame yourself as in the right for it???

am i losing my mind???

[SIX PEOPLE ON TUMBLR]

get so mad at people on tumblr talking about your comic that you not only claim they’re the only people ever to talk badly of it but imply that you’re one step away from namedropping the specific perpetrators. that’s not ominous at all!

it’s an age-old question: how many times does one of marvel’s top writers with legions of fans have to imply his antagonistic awareness of your specific existence before you’re on a first name basis? and also paranoid?

result: stir shit. be a shit stirrer. faint when your shit stirring does in fact stir shit. you can’t go “you would never” and be surprised when people do, you... can’t...

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes!

step four: whip out your ally card... to whip the people you’re supposed to be allied to with it. try to use your knowledge of queer issues to shut down actual queer people.

[I DON’T THINK IT’S APPROPRIATE TO ASSUME GENDER]

either that, or straight-up make a “did you just assume my gender” joke. i can’t find the original tweet anymore, so it’s possible it was that and he deleted it because it was too blatant, lol.

result: MAYBE YOU GUYS WERE THE PROBLEMATIC ONES ALL ALONG

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes!

step five: remember that interview where he outright stated that he just wants to, just to be the definite venom run? just to put the biggest dent in canon he can? just to break everybody’s toys and emerge victorious as the one person with the valid take on venom?

yeah, those things become more noticeable in the actual book, over time, and acceptance of that is, uh, not universal? not everybody’s up for him spending several issues in a row on e s t a b l i s h i n g  d o m i n a n c e by having eddie sit around as other characters tell him that a ton of stuff other writers from michelinie to thompson to costa to kaminski to slott to jenkins have done actually sucked and was wrong and fake and never happened? through retcons that make no sense, like, factually don’t fit?

people don’t like you walking back character and relationship development to further your end goal of recasting the symbiote as the personification of addiction and abuse instead of itself a survivor of extreme abuse who has been constantly denied personhood in a way that is frighteningly resonant and who has been going through a genuine redemption arc for years now?

people don’t like you acting like eddie never had a reason for being who he is before and you had to make one up? one that doesn’t fit the character at all, which you didn’t realise because you apparently thought the character had no characterisation before you came along?

you can imagine how these things might spark nerd rage?

and you can probably imagine who this nerd rage was blamed on, yeah?

these criticisms inherently require knowledge of venom canon, because they’re largely about disrespect for it, these criticisms are not related to shipping of any kind - but of course the only thing people could possibly be mad about is the "ship", the only ones making a fuss are those “shippers”, those casuals, Those People who only care about One Thing and don’t understand the real gritty reality of the, god you get it i’m making fun

[I KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT]

you’re the only one, don. it’s true.

and i know, i know for a fact, that he’s been aware of criticism from other groups all along, that he was, for example, witness to this livestream that spends like a solid hour a month mercilessly dragging him through the dirt, and you know what the extent of his response was?

thanks for checking the book out.

that’s it. that’s all. this guy hasn’t gotten any less loud about criticising him, either. wishing for his book’s cancellation and retconning. but nothing more. he gets to keep to himself. he is #valid.

people have been taking the piss out of him on youtube, on reddit. only tumblr ever earned his ire. only tumblr gets namedropped at convention panels.

and now, now more than ever? you better believe your regular run-of-the-mill nerds, straight, male, utterly uninterested in the icky stuff, everything, are mad. almost everyone who’s truly tits deep in venom lore is mad.

and so he’s said he’s received threats. and i’m sure he has. i’ve received threats. you’ve received threats. it’s never okay. it sure as shit never helps to send them.

he’s gotten a lot of fucking inappropriate personal vitriol! lots of it actually “ship”-related! i’m categorically against contacting the guy for any reason!

but who is to blame? who do people accept as being to blame? who do news outlets report on as being to blame? when, i presume, not every single one of them actually went “i’m doing this specifically because i’m a (thunder clap) shipper”? when large-scale retcons are literally always met with nerd rage? when a shipper-less fandom probably still would’ve had threats?

[THIS IS INSANE]

[IT’S THE SHIPPERS]

result: if all criticism = “shippers”, and “shippers” = harassment, then everyone who has no actual idea of what’s going on but who doesn’t like “shippers” is automatically on his side and nobody who isn’t a “shipper” wants to risk the association by criticising him.

get this stuff out to his followers, to news outlets, to people completely uninvolved and contextless, and watch the bile run over everywhere because lots of people are ready to accept this narrative in comic book spaces.

have people in the replies and comments eagerly discussing how this is more proof that c+o+m+i+c+s+gate was right and they’re the only reasonable ones. how disgusting and crazy "shippers” are. how donny should keep doing his best to trigger the gays. there’s no pushback against these ideas.

and i’m so fucking stuck between wanting to defend the man, wring my hands and apologise on behalf of the other These People, because i don’t see anything justifiable in their actions, and in being... just... just so frustrated... with everything... with throwing everyone out to the dogs... and claiming that he doesn’t mean to... when he has this whole history of belittling "shippers” specifically... of making sure their public image is that of people who just don’t know what they’re talking about and are in no way worth empathising with... of only drawing attention to the aggressive ones and blocking the reasonable ones

when he literally only stands to benefit from doing all this. 

this is massive amounts of free positive pr.

this makes him essentially immune to criticism of any kind.

evaluation: a reason to harass him? no! really kind of manipulative? yes! 

i forgot! somewhere along the line, he did do something very good and disavowed association with co/mics/ga/te!

[C0M1C5G8]

why the fuck am i censoring? tumblr search stopped working decades ago.

anyway, it should come as no particular surprise why these people assumed he would side with them. not that any high profile writer who values his standing would, really. are there any? maybe there are, i’m not up to date on this drama.

i just think it’s funny - genuinely not his fault, but hilarious - that this was apparently enough to inspire a “boycott”? and it was a fart in the wind?

which is the least surprising thing ever because there is actually nothing whatsoever to hold these people’s ire to be found in venom? excluding aliens, there has been one real and present character who isn’t a white guy in 11 issues? it is actively less queer than it was before? donny has never caved to the essjaywoo pressure in any way, shape or form? what were they... thinking? it’s almost like these people are dumb?

all they've done is ensure that, without it actually doing anything, venom gets the commendation for being A Comic The Gators Don't Like?

anyway.

what do we do moving forward? i don’t know. nothing. not harassing anyone. keep being salty on tumblr. do not engage him. i think i’m more about stalling the chain reaction he’s caused than the man himself. if you’re not a “shipper”, of course, keep posting your criticism, maybe stand up for “shippers” who are being dogpiled over genuine criticism, don’t let people say This Is All Proof Of How You Can’t Have Queer Content Because Queers Are Crazy.

and be nice to mike costa.

[robron-til-the-end-of-time]

Just a random question so please feel free to ignore. But how does the filming work. I've heard filming blocks mentioned but how do they work? Like last night's episode the aaron/liv/Vic stuff in the mill set and the kim/al/jai stuff in the outdoor activities set would they all have been filmed at the same time or far apart?

I’ve heard it around here, but I don’t know, so what I’m going to say is based off other peoples posts/logic/knowledge. Also using a 6 episode week, because I’ve got no clue where the stupid seventh episode a week comes into it.

Over two weeks there will be three blocks of four episodes. Usually (I might be wrong) one director gets those same four episodes in a block. Each block is being filmed concurrently and takes two weeks to film. HOWEVER (and this is where I don’t get it) a lot of characters have been in every episode over three weeks, from when I gathered the stats including Aaron, Robert, Moira, Cain, Chas and Charity. 

So I’d GUESS the block stuff is more from a production pov, directors/ camera guys/ script editors, and less to do with actor availability. Because the actor availability makes no sense to me, because it’s a regular thing that a character will be in more than 4 episodes running.

Your question seems to be more about the sets though. I do know that the Mill set is NOT in the village, so anyone there, they’ve made a POINT to have those characters there. I imagine it’s a hell of a lot of juggling, because I’m also fairly sure Home Farm isn’t in the village either (which is why in my opinion it feels so isolated, because it takes a quick car journey to get different actors there.)

I don’t know if any of that helps and I could well be wrong.

[carmenlire]

Higher than the Big Trees Ch. 47

read chapter one

read on ao3

Grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, Alec holds one out for Magnus while taking a deep drink from his own glass. There are over a hundred people in the restaurant that had been booked out for his album release party.

It’s early June and the sun is shining brightly outside, no matter that evening’s growing later. It’s warm and Alec pulls a little at the collar of his shirt, desperately trying to calm the fuck down. Tonight’s nothing new. He should be happy, ecstatic, over the moon at the finish line that’s bearing down on him.

His album comes out tomorrow. A year of his life, captured in nineteen songs, released onto the public in just a few short hours. Just the thought has him taking a desperate swig of his drink, has him irrationally thankful for the open bar tonight.

He looks over to see Magnus taking an absent sip from his own flute as he studies the scene around him. It’s nothing extravagant. For his seventh album, the label had reserved one of the most popular restaurants in Brooklyn for his launch party. It’s casual with a dozen waiters making the rounds in the small space, hefting trays of appetizers, with the bar running along the back wall.

His family are milling about and he sees a few friends interspersed with other people from the industry. Lydia’s mingling somewhere with her fiance and he can just make out Jia Penhallow, the president and CEO of Institute Records, talking to Helen and Aline in the corner.

He and Magnus are to one side, just taking everything in, and Alec startles when Magnus slides an arm around his waist, squeezing just a little.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, darling?”

Looking up, Alec smiles as he makes out a few lines from I Like Me Better audible over the din of the crowd. His album’s been on repeat the entirety of the party and he tries not to think about it too much.

He’s been unsuccessful since they stepped foot in the restaurant an hour ago.

Still, he smiles at his boyfriend and kisses the side of his head, nose wrinkling a little as Magnus’s hair crunches under the sheer amount of product in it.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, babe,” Alec tries to deflect and Magnus levels him with an unimpressed look.

“You’ve been tense since we left home. It’s like trying to cuddle up to a stick right now.”

Shrugging, trying to get rid of some of that tension, Alec scowls. “Is it hot in here or--”

“It’s just you, Alexander.” His voice softens a little as he adds, “Talk to me, Alec.”

Alec sighs, turning to look around at everyone. This is far from his first time at this sort of thing-- with a sardonic bite of amusement, he knows that it’s the seventh-- but it’s like a vise is gripping his throat. Eyes scanning the room, Alec takes his boyfriend’s hand and starts toward an empty doorway.

They’re stopped a few times by someone wrapping a hand around his elbow, by another calling out his name. Alec, of course, flashes his trademark grin and knows that no one sees the way it strains at the corners except Magnus.

There’s small talk and rounds of congratulations and when one of the record label execs speculates that projections have placed Feel Something on track to sell over a million copies in its first week, Alec’s grin grows a little weaker though he laughs along with everyone else and gives a sheepish shrug, merely offering, “Let’s hope so, Imogen,” in a light voice that doesn’t betray the sheer intensity of nerves that are digging their little hooks into his back.

Finally, they make it into the darkened corridor. A waitress passes them, hardly sparing them a glance, and Alec all but collapses against the wall, sighing out a ragged breath.

A moment later, his chin is being tilted up by a hand he’d know anywhere and he loses himself in Magnus’s eyes. He sees the warm concern in them and it settles something in him, those eyes that have come to mean home and safety and a world of comfort.

He watches as Magnus quirks a brow and then his eyes are falling shut as he focuses on his breathing-- deep, slow breaths to help relax his shoulders. The party is only a few feet away but it’s like he and Magnus are in their own little world right now.

Pulling him closer with hands at his hips, Alec’s eyes are still closed as he leans down, nosing along the column of Magnus’s throat where his scent is the warmest. Magnus, for his part, lets him have a few moments. He raises his hands until dexterous fingers can slide through his hair. A thumb sweeps along the nape of his neck and that helps ground Alec, too.

Like this, it’s like no one else exists and Alec can shut everyone else out. Like this, it’s the easiest thing in the world to pull back after he regains his equilibrium and meet his boyfriend’s gaze.

He clears his throat. “I’m a little nervous tonight.”

Humming thoughtfully, Magnus smiles a little and it reaches his eyes, sets them shining in the low light of the hallway. “Yes,” he humours Alec. “I’d picked up on that.”

“It’s just--” Alec breaks off with a frustrated sigh and his eyes fall to the front of Magnus’s shirt, a navy and gold button down with military accents. He trails a hand over the gold chain pattern and frowns. “This album means a lot to me. And it’s-- it’s different to anything I’ve released before. This isn’t playboy Alec Lightwood singing about one night stands on tour. This is Alec, singing about being in love for the first time. There’s a world of difference between this era and my last.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Alec raises his eyes to meet Magnus’s. “What if they don’t like it?”

While the single Feel Something had been on Billboard’s charts for weeks, Alec still can’t quite cut the doubt that’s been creeping up on him the past month or so. Once he’d gotten the album back, mastered and packaged-- a finished product-- he’d started rethinking everything.

The past year has been tumultuous. Meeting Magnus had been the catalyst for so much and Alec had eventually thrown himself into production for his album, working like a dervish as he recorded and met with producers and artists and had regular check-ins with the label.

Perhaps surprisingly, they supported him one hundred percent. While his new style was a bit softer, there was an undercurrent of energy that he realizes now had been missing for awhile.

He felt renewed, energized. His music reflected that.

But it doesn’t mean that he’s not worried that fans will abandon this new style, the aching sentiment in his new material. Fuck but it’s nerve-wracking, airing his deepest feelings and thoughts and wishes for the world to hear and judge.

He’s startled out of his thoughts as Magnus leans in. He kisses him and it’s soft, gentle, and soothes Alec more than he thinks a simple kiss probably should.

When Magnus pulls back, his face is serious. “And what if they love it?”

Alec starts to scoff but Magnus holds up a finger to stop him. He’s struck by the gesture, the easy grace that imbues every movement Magnus makes and he smiles a little, entranced.

“Let me finish, darling. What if your fans-- who love you and support you-- see how happy this new music makes you and love it just as much as you do? What if this seems like a natural progression of your style and they love it just as much-- more-- than your older stuff? Have you stopped to think about that?”

Opening his mouth to reply, Alec abruptly closes it. He sees Magnus’s mouth twitch in bemusement and frowns.

“And if I’m right? If they think it’s too-- what? Sappy? Boring? Different? And forget about the fans for a minute. What about the critics? The press? What if they say I’ve gone soft, that I took a chance and it backfired stupendously? I could be staring down at the implosion of my career, Magnus. This could be the end.”

Magnus shrugs, leaning close, pressing Alec against the wall. “Forgetting for a moment that you have the tendency to be just the tiniest bit dramatic, so what? For sake of argument, what if all of that comes true? What if your fans hate it and the magazines declare this album to be a goddamn catastrophe of heretofore unseen proportions? Will that make you hate the album? Will it turn your own opinion on the record?”

Alec takes a deep breath as he digests Magnus’s words. He knows the answer and it’s a little terrifying that he doesn’t even have to think about it. “No,” he replies hoarsely, voice sure. “I made this record after suffering the worst writer’s block of my career. I wrote that album for you, because of you. I’ll never regret writing those songs or letting the world know just how much you mean to me. I can’t, not when it’s become a love letter to you.”

Magnus grins softly at the words, ducking his head to hide his reaction. Alec doesn’t want that, though and he reaches out, lifting Magnus’s chin with a finger.

“I love you, you know that?” His voice is a whisper between them and his heart feels so full that it’s a wonder it doesn’t burst out of his chest, it aches so much.

“I do,” Magnus says, laughing a little as he nips a quick kiss to Alec’s hand. “And I hope you know that love is returned in spades, Alexander.”

Alec answers on a breath. “I do,” he echoes before sighing. “I love when you call me that,” he confides, voice low as he lets his head fall against the wall, tilting it to the side as Magnus starts kissing along his throat.

“What,” Magnus laughs, nibbling down the column of his throat. “Alexander?”

“Yeah,” Alec gasps. “No one else calls me that except you. It drives me crazy.”

“Well in that case--”

Whatever Magnus was going to say is cut off as Alec turns and kisses the words right from his lips. Whatever worries and anxieties have been plaguing him disappear when they’re like this, close enough to touch, to block everything else out.

He hears the breaking of a glass that comes from the kitchen down the hall and the raucous crowd in the restaurant. This is an in-between space, though, a moment stolen from everything else.

Losing himself in Magnus, it’s not a heat that burns. It simmers, low in his gut, and distantly, Alec knows he’d be content right here for an eternity, kissing Magnus, feeling the shift of muscle under his hands, the dig of fingers into his own hips.

Breath leaves him in a thready moan as Magnus rests a hand along his neck, on his jaw to change the angle, to deepen the kiss. His mind grows hazy and God, he loves this, wants nothing more than to sink into this feeling forever--

“Yo, cut it out, bro! They need you up front.”

Breaking the kiss, Alec’s eyes fly open. Magnus’s labored breathing is harsh in his ear and he knows he’s not faring any better.

All of a sudden, it’s like coming up from water, from almost drowning. Noise fills his ears and seems louder, more grating than it was before. He meets Jace’s eyes and scowls.

“Fuck off, Jace.”

Chortling, Jace just raises his brows along with his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Don’t shoot the messenger. It’s time for you to give a speech, Mr. Bigshot.”

Alec doesn’t let up on his glare and Jace just snorts and points a finger in his direction. “That’s what you get for all those times you’ve walked in on me and Clary. Trust me, I’d bleach my eyes if I could bro.”

Turning to leave, Jace looks over his shoulder and even from here, Alec can see the glee in his eyes as he points to his own neck. “Might want to cover that mark up, though.”

Laughing to himself, he leaves without another backwards glance and Alec groans as he falls against the wall. Magnus is a steady present in front of him and when he looks up, he sees his boyfriend wince.

“I may have gotten a little carried away,” Magnus admits as he eyes Alec’s neck. “Oops.”

Rolling his eyes, Alec straightens as he runs his hands down Magnus’s arms until he can lace their fingers together. “Really, babe?”

“You’re just too damned irresistible, Alexander.”

Growling a little, Alec leans close for a searing kiss before pulling back a bare second later. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

Shrugging, Magnus grins coyly. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.”

Alec huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Whatever you say.”

Squeezing his hands a little, Alec takes a deep breath before releasing his grip. They take a few seconds to straighten up their appearance as best they can and Alec gives a little mental shrug and an internal fuck it to whatever the hell Magnus had done to his neck.

The next couple of hours go by quickly. Alec doesn’t know how, but he feels remarkably steady as he gives a little speech, thanking everyone for coming tonight to support him and his music. He gives special thanks to the label, to the producers and other crew and technicians that helped make this album.

He performs a couple of songs on a little stage that’s been set-up. Slinging his guitar over his shoulder, Alec sings a handful of songs from Feel Something and it eases something else in him.

The crowd sings along to the choruses after the first time or two and he doesn’t see anyone walk out so maybe he’ll avert complete disaster after all.

Taking Magnus’s hand, they make the rounds. He introduces his boyfriend to Jia and they spend a few minutes talking to Lydia and Catarina and Ragnor and Simon. Raphael is a silent sentry beside him but Alec sees the way he leans into Simon’s touch when he throws an arm over his shoulder and grins a little into his drink.

The night is just starting to wrap up, the waitstaff starting to dwindle, people starting to leave, when Alec announces that he’s going to the bar to get a refill. He and Magnus have been talking to Jace, Izzy, and their dates for the last little bit as everyone retreated to their friends and he wants one last drink before it’s time to leave.

“I’ll go with you,” Isabelle says easily and pulls away from Maia with a quick kiss and a warm smile.

Making their way toward the bar, Alec leans against it as he waits to be served. Isabelle mirrors his stance, resting her elbows on the dark wood, shoulders touching.

“So,” she starts and Alec looks over at his sister to see her looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“So,” he echoes with a raised brow, nudging her shoulder with his own.

He’s treated to exasperated laughter and then Izzy’s shaking her head, clearly impatient and self-deprecating.

He watches as she takes a deep breath before turning to look at him, trepidation clear in her eyes along with certainty.

“I have something to tell you.”

Alec doesn’t say anything, merely turns until he’s facing her, making sure she knows that he’s given her his undivided attention.

“I’ve decided to stay in New York.”

Frowning a little, Alec’s confused for a few seconds before Isabelle clarifies, “For good.”

“For good,” he repeats before his eyes widen. “You’re quitting modeling?”

Isabelle shrugs and picks at a nonexistent chip in the bar’s wood. “I’m actually going back to school in the fall?”

She looks up and doesn’t give Alec a chance to respond as she continues in a rush, “I’m not getting any younger and I’ve managed to save quite a bit of money over the years. Modelling always was just something I sort of fell into and while I’ve enjoyed it a lot, I think it’s time for a change now. You know that I’ve always wanted to go into medicine and I was thinking that--”

“Now’s the perfect time,” Alec says with a grin rapidly spreading across his face.

He pulls her into a hug. “That’s great, Iz! I’m so happy for you.”

Pulling back, Isabelle looks up at him. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” he replies. “You always were a science nerd,” he teases and he gets to watch as she snorts and pokes him with a sharp nail.

“And you were a literature nerd, you big dork.”

The bartender comes over at that moment and they order their drinks-- Alec getting Magnus a refill too-- and as they wait for them to be made, the silence is comfortable.

“What made you decide to stop now?”

Isabelle shrugs but he catches the look she throws behind her and the look her girlfriend returns in spades. When Izzy looks over at him a few seconds later, there’s a warmth to her happiness that he’s getting used to seeing lately.

“I’m happy here. I’m tired of spending so much time away from home.” Away from Maia. She doesn’t say it but it’s clear in the way she smiles, the way her hand trails over the bracelet that was a birthday present from the woman in question.

“You’ve applied somewhere?”

“I’ve been accepted to NYU,” Isabelle confirms. “I know I’m older than most freshman but my plan always was college eventually. I’m excited for this next chapter, hermano. Really excited.”

Nodding his thanks to the bartender who drops off their drinks, Alec raises his glass towards his sister with a mile-wide smile. “I’m excited for you, Iz, and really, really proud of you. Happiness looks good on you.”

Iz raises her own drink up to meet his in a toast and then she’s surprising him by setting her drink down and stepping close. She wraps her arms around him, holding tight, and rests her head against his chest in a move that’s achingly familiar from when they were teenagers, so much younger and unsure about their future.

Kissing the top of her head, Alec holds her just as tight and they spend a moment or two just like that, frozen in time.

Eventually, Isabelle steps back and laughs a little. They both ignore the way she raises gentle hands up to wipe under her eyes.

“Maia has an early shift tomorrow, so we need to be heading home. I’ll see you tomorrow night, right?”

“Right,” he confirms and then Isabelle is sending him one last smile before downing the rest of her drink and making her way over to Maia.

Everyone else leaves shortly after and then it’s just Alec and the waitstaff.

Magnus joins him, reaching over for his martini, downing it in a few efficient swallows. He looks over at Alec, running a hand through his hair before asking, “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Alec laughs before wrapping an arm over Magnus’s shoulders and hauling him close for a quiet kiss against his temple.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Let’s go home.”

Less than an hour later, Alec turns his key in the lock and they enter the loft. The city’s visible through the french doors and it makes something ache in his chest.

Magnus heads towards their bedroom to change but Alec doesn’t follow him. No, instead he wanders over to the piano. It’d been a bitch to move from his penthouse and he’d had a dozen heart attacks as he’d overseen the movers try to wrestle the thing through the door but any home of Alec’s couldn’t be complete without his Steinway.

One hand lifts the cover of the keys while the other undoes a few buttons on the shirt he’d worn tonight. Settling onto the piano bench, Alec plays a few keys aimlessly before finally picking out a tune.

It’s a slow song that hadn’t made it onto this record but Alec thinks it’s already a strong contender for his next. He barely has lyrics, humming scarce words under his breath and finally his shoulders relax as he loses himself in the music, the slow melody, the chords he already knows by heart.

And now I need you to feel the vibe I need you to see the point I need you to feel alive I need you to fill the void

Eyes closed, Alec still doesn’t startle as arms wrap around his shoulders. His hands don’t stop finding their meandering way around the keys as Magnus leans close.

Shivering as he feels his breath against his ear, Alec smiles a little as Magnus says, “Come to bed, darling.”

He’s shaking his head before Magnus is finished. “I can’t, babe.”

Making room for Magnus on the bench, Alec slides over and looks up at his boyfriend. The sight eases his heart. Magnus has taken his makeup off, changed into a pair of pajama pants that hang low on his hips with a matching robe thrown on. His hair is flat, eyes betraying the late hour.

Turning back to the piano, Alec looks down at rows and rows of black and white. His fingers rest against the keys but he doesn’t press any, content for a moment to soak in the silence between them before breaking the spell that seems to have fallen over the living room.

“It’s the night before my album drops. I always stay up-- sometimes until dawn-- to read first reactions.”

“Refreshing your Twitter feed every millisecond,” Magnus breaks in, smiling a little.

Looking over at him, Alec shrugs. “Each record is a piece of me thrown into the world. I can’t ever sleep without knowing what everyone thinks. For better or worse, I’m an artist. An entertainer. I need to see what public consensus is before I can rest.”

Magnus doesn’t say anything for a moment. His expression is thoughtful as he straightens, resting his hands on some keys next to Alec. “Teach me to play, then.”

“What?”

“If we’re not sleeping tonight, we might as well be productive.” With a quick glance at the clock, Magnus continues, “We have a couple of hours until midnight. So. I do believe a promise to teach me to play Yankee Doodle one day. What do you say?”

Alec just stares at his boyfriend a minute before he laughs and it’s a little breathless. All of it’s overlaid with relief, though, and he’s so goddamned grateful that he’s found someone who recognizes his little ticks but indulges him anyway.

The light in the living room is low, a single lamp lit near the couch. Moonlight fills the rest of the living room as Alec teaches Magnus a song or two. Magnus, for all his achievements, is decidedly not musical in the slightest though he gives it his best effort.

They’re laughing as Magnus finally manages to pick his way through Mary had a Little Lamb, slow but competent enough given the amount of practice he’s just had.

As he listens to Magnus snort a little, inelegant but charming all the same, Alec tries to imprint this moment into his mind. It’s one of dozens that he’s trying to remember. There have been so many firsts over the past year and he never saw any of them coming.

He wants to make sure he doesn't miss a moment.

Looking over at his boyfriend, his heart ache, chest shuddering under the onslaught of emotion. It’s the night before his career changes once more. There’s always another era, another mountain to climb that seems infinitely more challenging than the last. This time around, he has Magnus.

They have each other.

Seeing the slightest bruising under Magnus’s eyes, Alec’s lips quirk up a little before he’s standing and reaching for his boyfriend. Interlacing their hands, he guides them to the bedroom and urges Magnus to lay down.

Alec lays down next to Magnus, intending to stay put just long enough for his clearly exhausted boyfriend to fall asleep. There’s no way he’ll be able to sleep when his album is due to drop in less than an hour. He needs to be on the forefront of reaction, wants to engage with his fans who will no doubt be tweeting at 12:01am with their brutally honest, endearingly intense opinions.

Magnus is a long line of warmth along his side and when he hums a little, clearly almost asleep, and rests his head on Alec’s chest, Alec closes his eyes at the feeling.

Five minutes, he gives himself and relaxes deeper into their sheets.

When he wakes up in the morning, bright sunshine spilling across his face, it’s to an empty bed.

He hears Magnus padding around the kitchen and smells coffee strong enough to kill a man. Throwing the sheets off, he rubs a hand over his face while the other reaches for the phone he’d left charging on his nightstand. His movements are a little jerky, adrenaline rushing through him.

There’s a Google Alert pending on his notification bar and when Alec clicks on it, the breath leaves his body for one dizzying moment.

Feel Something, Alec Lightwood’s seventh studio album, became available at midnight EST. It’s reached number one in 89 countries. Last updated one hour ago.

Closing his eyes, Alec grips his phone in a tight fist and lets his head fall. He feels like a puppet whose strings have been cut, relief dizzying as pride surges in his chest.

Fuck. He’d done it.

Hearing a noise, Alec’s eyes fly open as he turns his head to see Magnus leaning against the door jamb looking adorable rumpled, sporting a mile-wide grin.

“Looks like you haven’t tumbled down from your pedestal since you fell asleep.”

“No,” Alec rasps and he can feel the tears welling as he smiles, as his laughter echoes in their bedroom. “Number one album, babe. I’ve got the number one album in the whole fucking world right now.”

Pushing away from the doorway, Magnus ambles over to his side of the bed. Straddling his hips, he settles against Alec.

Alec’s hands automatically go to his waist, securing him, while Magnus cups his face. Leaning down, he kisses Alec’s forehead before pulling back to meet his eyes.

“You did it, Alexander, and I’m so proud of you.”

Surging up, Alec kisses him and it’s a desperate thing, full of joy and bone-jarring relief. Full of so much love that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

When he twists, pushing Magnus onto his back in their bed, Magnus laughter rings out. They pull each other closer, lose themselves in the heat of the moment.

Days later, Alec gets the call that his album has exceeded all expectations, selling a record-breaking 2.6 million records in its debut week.

The first person he tells is Magnus.

[le-lex]

I love you in the morning when the blood runs to your cheeks

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Pairing: Keith/Lance Words: 15k

“Hey, do you want a croissant? Or a cookie? They’re really good! My ma makes them all. What are you into? Take anything, seriously, whatever you want!” Bakery Guy keeps waving him over at a faster pace the closer Keith gets and as Keith approaches the table he backs off from where he was hunched like a dragon over a pile of leftover pastries.

“Uh…” Keith has no idea what the fuck is going on right now and he knows that his eyebrows are furrowed in a way that always makes Shiro laugh, but he can’t help it. What is happening.

Bakery Guy shoots a ray of pure sunlight out of his face directly into Keith’s eyes with his smile and tries again, “We don’t always sell everything pastry and bread wise, so I try to hook up the other vendors with some treats before we take everything to the women’s shelter downtown. Do you want anything?”

*

In which Keith and Lance fall in love over a farmers market season the same way they do everything else: a little bit backward and a whole lot stupid.

AO3: (x)

Keith has to keep actively reminding himself to stop clenching his teeth so hard by opening his mouth and moving his jaw from side to side like an actual idiot. Each time he does it, he casts a quick glance to the booths on either side of him to make sure their occupants aren’t witnessing his stressed out dumbassery in real time. What the fuck is he doing here, truly.

He’s currently sitting in his stupid, slightly rickety camping chair a cool hour after initially getting to the market and unpacking all of his things. He’d been awake for hours before he psyched himself up enough to actually drive to the market and he’d sat in his gently rumbling truck for ten minutes in the parking lot before he crow barred himself out of the cab into the fresh morning air to set up his market table and tools.

Hunching a little in his work jacket to brace himself against the early morning breeze, he looks down at his set up and has to physically prevent himself from sighing melodramatically. The table cloth he’s using to cover his folding table is an old red plaid one of his dad’s that Shiro always brutally makes fun of whenever he sees it. His toolbox is propped up and open with everything he needs handy and his two grinders are set up at an appropriately reachable distance from his shitty, unbalanced chair.

Just to be clear, he’s nervous as fuck. And he doesn’t really want to be here.

It’s his first day at this farmers market, his first day at a farmers market in general truly and he has essentially…zero idea what to expect. Obviously, he’s been at a farmers market before in his life, he doesn’t live under a fucking rock, but he’s never had his own booth at one and he thinks it may just be easier to climb back into his truck and fuck off into the sunrise and abandon this idea in its final hour.

But as he’s thinking this and as his hands are twitching to toss all of his utensils into his toolbox and haul ass out of here, he catches Shiro’s smile and wave from across the circular rotunda type structure the market is housed in and resolves himself to a morning of what is likely to be socially motivated torture. He’s not able to make a timely and quick escape if Shiro has already seen him, unfortunately.

Keith begrudgingly waves back to him and watches as Shiro hefts a pallet of cucumbers out of the farm truck he’s currently unpacking.

Shiro is dressed like every middle-aged white mother’s wet dream, wearing a flannel rolled up past his elbows over a t-shirt with his aunt’s farm’s logo on it and dark jeans tucked into his scuffed-up work boots. He’s such a beautiful, buff motherfucker that it makes Keith’s eyes roll into the back of his head, because honestly, who even looks like that. Who looks like that and works at a farmers market and hauls vegetables out of the bed of a truck with such a look of tranquility and contentment that it makes all the waiting regulars sigh a little watching him. Shiro, that’s fucking who, he supposes.

He catches the eye of Shiro’s tiny little aunt standing behind her table and setting up literal pyramids of vegetables and gives her a small smile as she waves across to him.

Shiro helps his elderly aunt out with her vegetable farm during the on season because he just truly is that good of a person. Thinking about it makes Keith a little ill.

Ignoring the sweatiness of his palms, he leans back in his chair and glances up at the sign that’s swinging lazily in the breeze where it’s attached to the front of his tent. It makes him laugh a little every time he sees it, even though it’s nicely made. That’s what patronage at the town UPS Store will get you. A quality sign with your bullshit name on it. It mostly makes him laugh because the name he decided on for his market booth is “Keith’s Knife Hut” solely because it causes Shiro to make a face that’s split between disbelief and actual pain every time he looks at it. Motivation, y’all.

Despite the growing dread over being present in this current situation, the knowledge that Shiro is going to be in his line of sight for most of the day and that he’ll likely wander over later is comforting enough.

The market hasn’t officially opened yet which Keith is grateful as fuck for, but early regulars mill about and later arrivals to the market are efficiently setting up their booths just in time for the sunrise.

He has his pricing spiel all planned out in his head and he turns it around and around in his mind as he sits there. He’s said it enough times to his commercial clients that he isn’t particularly worried, but this is a whole different setting than the back of a restaurant kitchen where he usually works and that’s enough to make him stumble over his words. Five dollars per knife, seven dollars for anything else. Including multitools, yard tools, and lawn mower blades.

Forcibly unclenching his teeth yet again, he chants his prices in his head and triumphantly thinks that even if he can’t always connect to the customers he has, he can sharpen anything. Let’s go, middle upper-class patrons of this bougie farmers market, give me your bladed tools to sharpen.

With a glance to his phone showing that it’s officially seven am and a final straighten of his sandpaper loops, he shoots a pleading request to whatever deity may be out there for today to go well and thinks, here goes nothing.

*

Three hours later and Keith is able to actually sit back in his chair and finally glance around the rest of the market.

It’s been…a day, surely. And it hadn’t gone as bad as Keith had been expecting, which is generally the way things play out. Being at the market was surprisingly fun and after the first few clipped conversations with inquiring customers where he had no idea what the tempo of the interactions was supposed to be, he was able to fluently and efficiently roll out his pricing bullshit for the next, like, fifteen people who stopped at his booth to chat.

Granted, he didn’t really sharpen anything aside from a few pocket knives and a multitool here and there, but mostly because people don’t carry around full sets of kitchen knives on them without a valid reason. A valid reason being…well, getting your kitchen knives sharpened.

He’d given his business card out to a lot of interested people and he figures that that’ll be enough to get him some real business when he’s back the following Tuesday. Just the thought has him feeling a little bit cheerful.

Truthfully, he really likes doing this in a way he doesn’t like doing a lot of things. Working with his hands and fixing something and making it more efficient and useful in a very tangible way. It feels purposeful, gives him a very clear outcome with just a little bit of action.

Plus, it’s not like sharpening knives is hard, if he’s going to be totally honest. Anyone could do it with the right equipment and knowledge, but, he supposes, that most people don’t really want to.

With his extensive background in tools and knives, he was able to cultivate a pretty solid customer base in the form of restaurants and specialty food stores when he first started, and he keeps up with a lot of those regulars on a pretty consistent basis. He can, however grudgingly, admit that Shiro was definitely right in the farmers market being a good side gig on the weekends and a few days during the week.

It’s not like he’s going to tell Shiro that. A thanks for the connection to the market manager for the booth space might be in order, though.

Keith struggles a little bit when shrugging out of his jacket and knocks a few of his own tools off his table before he’s able to really look around.

The way the market is set up is kind of odd, in his own humble architectural opinion. Which means absolutely fuck all nothing, but still. It’s a giant concentric circle with a lot of open space in the middle where the plant people congregate and sell giant potted flowers. All of the booths are set up inside the circular roofing at the outer edge of the biggest circle, so you can enter the market and walk all the way around in one direction until you end up right back where you started. He guesses it’s a pretty good business model, a trap that doesn’t really feel like one when you’re looking at artisanal cheeses and bird houses made out of refurbished cabinets or whatever the hell people sell here.

His booth is right next to the entrance, so he’s one of the first stalls that market patrons see upon arrival. Beside him to the left is another vegetable stand with a kindly middle-aged woman who runs it and across the way from him is a weird sounding combination goat cheese and mushroom stall that he doesn’t really understand at first inspection.

There’s a bakery next to that, and a honey and bee paraphernalia stall down the way a little bit the opposite way.

He could, potentially, make attempts to talk to these people, but also, he could literally do anything aside from that. For a bit this morning, he made polite small talk with the other vegetable woman before he began to feel like he was betraying Auntie Shirogane’s farm by fraternizing with the enemy. She was nice though, and she gave him a bag of snap peas that he has absolutely no idea what to do with, so he supposes that they can be market friends.

That was a big component of the market that Shiro had ranted on and on about when he was convincing Keith to “join the market family.” That right there was enough to make Keith think that it sounded a bit like a cult, but Shiro had adamantly championed that the younger market workers were “good friends” who “looked out for each other” and “gave each other a lot of free shit.”

When Keith had pointed out that he doesn’t really have a lot of free shit to give aside from free knife sharpenings and what millennial is going to want that, Shiro had cheerily told him to piss off and to submit his application for a market booth as soon as possible.

Which Keith did. Thus, explaining why he’s here.

But whatever.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a lidded coffee cup being briskly set on his plaid tablecloth and sends a pair of pliers toppling to the floor with his full body flinch.

“What in the ever-loving fuck,” Keith hisses up at a very amused looking Shiro as he dips under his folding table for the rogue pliers.

“I brought you coffee. Stop swearing in this wholesome, family environment.”

“You literally told me when I got here that I had to try “the dope ass baklava” from that stall next to yours, so I don’t have to take orders from the likes of you.” He takes the coffee though, he’s not a dumbass.

Shiro’s eyes crinkle up in a smile that Keith knows is his I’m Proud of Keith for Doing Something That Really Wasn’t That Hard Smile, which only serves to make him grumble under his breath and adamantly avoid Shiro’s gaze.

“So, how’s it going so far?”

Keith actively evades his meaningful eye contact by staring at the bakery stall across from him and a little to the right, where two tall, vaguely attractive people flutter around behind the table and slide pastries and bread into little plastic bags. “It’s going. I’ve talked to a lot of people who seemed interested and wanted to know if I’d be here on Tuesday.”

One of the tall, fluttery people behind the bakery table is flapping his hands around as he talks to the customer he’s serving, his grin split wide across his face and so bright that it actually makes Keith squint a little.

“That’s awesome. I’m really glad to hear it. Auntie was worried about you earlier, she said you were scowling and that it mars your handsome face.”

Shiro is…definitely still talking, but all Keith can focus on is the frenetic movement of the bakery boy’s long fingered hands. He’s talking so fast that Keith can’t even make out any of the words from his spot about twenty feet away. He smiles wide again as the customer leaves, and Keith quite literally feels like he’s staring into the sun. What the fuck.

He cuts a quick glance back at Shiro, who is now involved in a conversation with the Other Vegetable Woman and makes a noncommittal noise that he knows Shiro will deem as an appropriate response simply from long term Keith exposure.

Keith picks up his pretentious farmers market coffee to take an experimental sip and his gaze slides back over to the butterfly-handed boy, who chooses that exact split second to raise his own face up to meet Keith’s eyes.

It takes a few seconds for Keith’s heart to restart after being caught staring across the market at this deadass stranger who is now looking back at him, and when it does, it’s basically a lost cause anyway.

Bakery boy meets his eyes and smiles that stupid solar powered smile back at Keith, lifting up his hand to waggle his stupid long fingers at him in a quick, little wave.

Keith forcibly resists the urge to look around to see if that wave is for him and clenches his teeth to stop from audibly groaning in socially fueled distress, he lifts up his coffee cup in an odd kind of salute before resolutely looking absolutely anywhere but the bakery stall.

Shiro is still talking about vegetable shelf life or something dumb like that when Keith returns to both Earth and the conversation they’re having. It’s like the sound of the market immediately floods back into his awareness and he has to ball up one of his hands against his thigh to reign himself back in.

What in the fuck.

For the next hour, Keith looks only straight ahead at inquiring customers, down at his table, or to the left of the circle.

*

This avoidance tactic only works for so long. Keith makes eye contact with the tall bakery boy across from his stall three more times before the afternoon comes to a lazy close. His heart essentially stops each time, usually because said bakery boy is looking back whenever Keith glances over at him.

He’s able to catch glimpses of the boy across the way a few times without making any reciprocal eye contact. He’s tall and lithe in a way that is annoying to Keith simply due to his own more compact build. What can Keith say, he’s got a low center of gravity.

Details of said boy, or more likely said man, are not able to be gleaned from his position at his own booth, but Keith can tell that he’s fairly good looking even from far away. Tall and dark skinned and in a constant state of motion. He’s also wearing fucking overalls. Not coveralls like Shiro sometimes wears out in the fields when it gets cold in the later part of the season, but actual jean overalls over a bright yellow tie-dye shirt with what Keith assumes is his bakery’s logo.

It’s all he’s able to take note of when he’s constantly glancing there and back under absolute duress.

The last time it happened, Keith had to physically clamp his own mouth shut to prevent any untoward exclamations because Tall Bakery Man smiled so widely at him that his eyes were practically closed. It was most enchanting thing Keith had ever seen. It can absolutely not happen again or it will put Keith straight into his grave.

At around one o’clock, Keith starts to pack up all of his shit. He sharpened around six pocket knives and a few multitools and has given out about thirty of his Keith’s Knife Hut business cards. He feels good. Satisfied in a way that he usually doesn’t after social interaction.

He figures that because he’s talking about something he’s more or less dedicated his life to is why it’s easier to talk to strangers about it. Hyper focusing is something that tends to happen to him and he’s got a lot of material in terms of talking about and around kitchen knives and gardening tools. It’s comfortable and comforting all at once, which is a very novel feeling after being exposed to upwards of hundreds of people for six hours.

Just as he’s finished taking the sandpaper loops off his grinders, he glances up to possibly catch Shiro’s eye to wave goodbye to him when he spots Bakery Boy behind his own table. He’s relatively still and not actually doing anything aside from smiling but it makes Keith’s breath stop. How the hell did this happen? Why is Keith acting this way in the face of one singular person looking at him a few times throughout the day? The guy is wearing overalls, for fuck’s sake.

From across the way, the bakery worker smiles even bigger and gives him another jaunty finger wiggle. Only this time, he gives Keith a thumbs up with one hand and winks at the same time. It’s charming in an annoyingly effortless way and it forces a truly pained noise through Keith’s teeth and has him aggressively tossing the few tools he has left into his toolbox. He has got to get the fuck out of here.

He packs up his table and tool box and grinders as quick as possible without spilling all of his shit all over the cement floor of the market. His truck rumbles to life after a few rushed attempts to jam his keys into the ignition, mostly because he’s still flustered as fuck.

Trying to take a step back from the experience and the staccato beating of his own heart, he carefully considers how his first attempt at being a farmers market vendor went. It was a good first day, in all honesty. He’s happy to be here. He may even like it here.

But Keith isn’t going to think about this interaction with the Tall Bakery Man ever again. He’s going to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind this shit. He’s all good.

It’s fine.

*

He thinks about almost nothing but that five second interaction all weekend. It’s not fine.

*

It continues on in this way for the next few weeks. Keith’s business kicks up now that people know that he’s at the market and he finds himself sharpening upwards of 25-30 kitchen knives a day along with his usual pocket knives. He also sometimes gets scissors, a few handheld axes, and once a comically large pair of hedge shears.

Honestly, Keith would be lying if he said it wasn’t fun. It’s a good, friendly atmosphere and being out in the open air for most of the day a few times a week is probably good for him. He’s met the market manager, Coran, a few times now and quietly chats with the Vegetable Lady next to him most days. She’s still hooking him up with peas.

Coran is fascinating because he rules the market with an iron fist and a slightly unhinged sense of responsibility. His bright orange t-shirt says “Market Master” on the back and he spends a lot of his time chasing after dog owners who bring their pets under the covered portion of the market despite the copious signage stating otherwise.

It’s nice, even if he has to see Coran’s white ass thighs at seven am three days a week because the motherfucker refuses to wear anything aside from jean cutoffs and ridiculous white dad tennis shoes.

Shiro floats by most days and brings him coffee and makes small talk about the TV shows they’re both watching and Keith makes a few tentative attempts to talk to one of the goat cheese mushroom women about their stall and their goats, which don’t go totally horrible.

He likes it here, he supposes, at this slightly pretentious outdoor farmers market. Plus, he’s making a good chunk of cash on top of his commercial clients, so he’s absolutely not complaining.

Okay, well…actually, he’s complaining a little bit. Mostly just about the Bakery Boy and the weird eye contact impasse that they’ve cultivated from across the aisleway of their part of the market.

Tall Bakery Man has not let up in terms of his cheeky little waves and plentiful amounts of winking and Keith is pretty sure it’s made his blood pressure rise to dangerous levels.

He’s worried that it’s going to make him pass out one of these days.

But, it’s fine. It’s totally cool. It feels like camaraderie without speaking and that’s one of Keith’s sweet spots. They just smile and wave at each other a lot. Sometimes, when they both first get to the market to set up, the Bakery Man will send him a thumbs up as a sort of little check in and Keith will return it without hesitation.

It’s noncommittal and sweet and it makes Keith want to bang his head against the brick pillar his stall is next to until he falls unconscious amidst the market patrons because he’s a little attached to it now. To the interactions and to the knowledge that Tall Bakery Man will probably already be looking at him if Keith looks over that way throughout the day.

He wears those overalls a lot, Bakery Guy does. Keith doesn’t really see him out behind the tables that his bread and pastries are on, but he’s caught him walking to other vendors’ stalls and lingering at the mushroom goat cheese combo stall a few times.

When he does that, Keith looks resolutely at his feet as he weaves between patrons and tables and absolutely nowhere else, to appear like the exact opposite of the kind of weird creeper that he might be. The shoes Bakery Guy wears are usually some dumb kitschy patterned plimsoll shoes with no socks, his overalls cuffed up past his ankles. Last week they had little sunbathers on them, this week they’re covered in little Dachshunds and hot dogs. It makes Keith want to scream.

He feels like some fucking Victorian woman in ye olden times, in love with this boy’s ankles and getting light headed over it like it’s some big scandal. He’s legitimately stupid.

But yeah, it’s going well.

*

To say that the rest of the market noticed the Knife Guy on his first day would be an understatement.

They absolutely noticed. They all talked about it incessantly after Coran had mentioned a new vendor would be there the Thursday of the week previous.

Shiro had offhandedly mentioned that he was a friend of his and that he was a little quiet, but that they would all like him. Hunk and Lance had made meaningful eye contact and left it at that. Shiro liked everyone, so that didn’t mean shit. They weren’t going to accept a weird interloper into their fold without appropriate information.

But now, oh but now. Knife Guy is leaned back in a folding chair with one leg crossed and one heavy boot resting on his knee, looking for all the world like he doesn’t give a damn about anything.

Lance silently berates himself for being totally into that as he unloads his pastries from the van and heaves them into a tall stack just behind their stall.

Allura has already started setting up their tables and getting their cash register and display stands ready. He catches her eye and smiles at her a little as he heads back for yet another round of unloading. Even though they’re both morning people, they’ve been awake for a few hours already and aren’t fully into speaking territory yet.

Coran and Shiro both failed to mention that the new guy sharpens knives. Because that is some pertinent info. Who the hell sharpens knives at a farmers market?

As Lance thinks it around in circles, he guesses it makes some kind of sense. He’s just never seen it before and he’s worked at markets in the surrounding area for years. Someone who actually knows what they’re doing and has the tools to make your shit sharp, sure. It’s still weird though.

Plus, the dude looks intense. Long dark hair and heavy eyebrows combined with knives and all that plaid? He’s cultivating a very specific look. And now okay, Lance didn’t say it was a bad look, but it’s a look nonetheless. It’s going to scare the shit out of all the old women.

It takes a bit of time for he and Allura to get all of their shit set up, but they manage to before the market opens which in itself is a win for them. They always have bullshit old people regulars who show up at like 6:55 and demand their favorite loaves of bread before the market has even really opened. Lance rants on and on about entitlement and appreciating market hours to both Allura and his ma frequently, but they just roll their eyes and tell him to help the elderly out.

Whatever. It’s fine. He’s fine. He goes about his market day.

He just can’t stop glancing over at the Knife Guy.

From where their stall is situated, he can’t really see the sign that hangs from Knife Guy’s tent to tell what his stall is called. Even if he pitches over to one side like a dumbass, the brick pillar that his tent is pressed up against blocks it.

He’s cute, though. Real cute. And now that Lance has been watching him for a hot minute, he can see that Knife Guy looks a little bit nervous. He’s staring straight off into space and keeps rubbing his thumb against his pointer finger in a kind of repetitious, comforting sort of way.

Lance should probably go over and say hi, right? It’s been a few hours since they all got here. That’s what normal people would do. Miss Kelly from the vegetable stand next to Knife Guy’s has already talked to him a little earlier. It’s probably weird and hard to start at a market a few weeks into the season and not know anyone aside from fucken Shiro.

And speak of the devil. Lance glances up from putting raspberry danishes into a pleasing arrangement after they sold about half of them earlier to see Shiro slinking across the middle of the market where the plant people are to cut across the aisle way and sidle right up to Knife Guy’s table.

He smacks a coffee cup down against the cheesy plaid tablecloth and Knife Guy, on god, literally flails all of his limbs. Shit falls on the ground and he glares up at Shiro, and Lance…has the good sense to feel a little winded by that glare. It’s not even aimed at him. This dude is good looking, what the fuck.

Lance is still shuffling pastries and cookies around to appeal the most to market patrons, that shit is his life blood and what he’s best at, when he looks back up to see Shiro and Knife Guy chatting a little. He takes a break from organizing raisin croissants and just watches the easy way they both interact with each other.

They’re definitely friends. Of course Shiro would have good looking friends. They’re both wearing plaid too, must be some sort of good-looking dude wavelength they’re both on. Lance only looks good in very certain colors of plaid and he likes wearing his overalls to avoid dressing himself at four am in the dark and getting to the market looking like an actual dumbass. Plus, yellow tie-dye is kind of hard to accessorize. He’ll stick with his denim and zip up hoodies, thank you very much.

He keeps watching them and notices the specific moment where Knife Guy zones out again and then they’re making eye contact. It takes a little bit for Knife Guy to even realize they’re looking at one another and by then Lance is already waving at him a little bit and smiling what he can totally feel is a huge, dorky smile.

Knife Guy…straight up turns pink. Blushes so bright that Lance can see it from across the way. It’s the cutest fucking thing. He can feel warmth curling in his stomach and he laughs a little as Knife Guy is startled into giving him a salute with his coffee cup.

It should look stupid. It doesn’t.

Knife Guy is now resolutely looking anywhere aside from Lance, which makes the warmth in his stomach rock back and forth like he’s on a boat out at sea. He keeps pushing his hands into his dark hair and messing it all up and it serves to makes Lance smile softly down at his pastries.

He should probably leave well enough alone and not embarrass the guy from across the aisle. He should probably go over there and actually speak to him. Introduce himself and Hunk and maybe Pidge and ask him what his name is, find out why in the hell he sharpens knives. How he knows Shiro and where he’s from and what he likes to do in his spare time. Maybe find out what his favorite pastry is.

He should probably do a lot of things.

And yet, he spends the rest of the day sweetly waving at Knife Guy and making his entire face turn red each time. Because this is who he is, not being able to leave well enough alone. He winks at him once right before he leaves and he’s pretty sure Knife Guy chokes as he lurches towards his weird pickup truck and tosses all of his supplies in.

Lance is absolutely not going to let this go.

*

It continues on in this way for the next few weeks. Lance mans his ma’s farmers market stall. He interacts with his regulars and gives them good deals because they’re nice to him. He chats with Hunk and Pidge and Coran. He makes Knife Guy blush.

They still haven’t spoken, but it’s become a thing. A capital T thing. Lance’s favorite kind of Thing.

It becomes a routine. A few times a day Lance will glance over to Knife Guy’s stall and smile at him, especially big if Knife Guy is already looking. He peppers these ten second interactions with a few thumbs ups, maybe a wink here or a finger guns there. Knife Guy never stops blushing. Lance might be a little bit in love with some random dude in a brown Carhartt jacket that he’s never spoken to.

It’s chill.

He and Hunk make a whole lot of jokes about the Murder Pickup Truck. Knife Guy drives a beat up cream and brown pickup that makes horrible noises when he starts it up and has a lot of weird shit in the back. Hunk is absolutely convinced that he’s a serial killer from the pickup alone, so the working with sharp bladed objects really doesn’t help.

It makes Lance laugh because he’s pretty sure Knife Guy is just a normal dude and once he and Hunk actually speak to him, it’ll be chill. But their jokes give him a hell of an excuse to look at Knife Guy a lot. Not that he wouldn’t anyway, but still.

Over the last few weeks, Lance has subtly watched Knife Guy get more comfortable at the market. Not a lot of people talk to him, usually just Shiro and Miss Kelly and occasionally Coran. But the difference in the way he holds himself in his folding chair a few weeks in compared to his first day is noticeable. It’s sweet, almost. He has a few regulars who bring him their knives and their tools and seems to be able to connect with them a lot more. Lance doesn’t even know him, but he’s proud of him anyway.

Lance had been watching covertly from behind a pyramid of their French bread when Knife Guy had made his first customer laugh. It was revelatory. Knife Guy had seemed surprised but then so, so pleased, smiling shyly from where he sat, and it had made that stirring warmth in Lance’s stomach spread out and fill his entire body.

He might be in trouble. He doesn’t really mind.

Talking to Knife Guy soon might be in the cards, though.

*

Hunk leans against the outside of the table that all of their bread is piled on and gestures vaguely towards the Knife Guy with the leftover half of his croissant, “I don’t know, man…I just think he’s weird. He puts off a vibe. A very specific vibe. Vibe with a capital V. And also, he may be an actual murderer? Who sharpens knives as a job?”

Reaching over the cash register to pick up fifty cents in change that the woman with the Can I Speak to the Manager Haircut didn’t deem appropriate enough to put in his hand instead of on the table, Lance considers this.

“Hm, okay, duly noted. But his hair is actually pretty nice?” With a cursory glance to be sure that Knife Guy’s head is ducked down focusing on whatever it is that he’s sharpening, Lance takes thorough note of his thick head of dark hair that he’s been appreciating three days every week for the last few weeks.

“It looks even better when it’s pulled back though, he’s done that a few times since he’s started.” Lance decides on after careful deliberation, turning his body back towards Hunk just in time to catch his mouth drop open.

“I- what, we were literally just talking about how he might be a serial killer? Not talking about how nice his hair looks! Do you care at all for our potential safety?”

“Hunk, please, you know I don’t want you to get mur-“ before Lance can even finish, Hunk is straightening up and frantically slapping Lance’s arm, motioning back toward Knife Guy’s stall.

“Look! He’s sharpening an axe right now! Is that not the perfect weapon for horror movie style decapitation?”

“Okay, valid, but it’s not his axe…I saw Mrs. Fitzsimmons drop it off at his stall when she got to the market.” Lance clearly had been keeping a very close eye on his neighbor across the way. So what? Sue him.

Hunk makes a noise of pure disbelief and finishes off his croissant before wandering back to his moms’ stall.

Even though Hunk isn’t looking his way anymore, Lance shrugs. Knife Guy is cute and gets very obviously worked up when Lance winks at him. Plus, he’s got a soft spot for guys in work jackets and plaid, what can he say?

*

It all comes to a head about a month after Keith first started at the market. Things have been going surprisingly well. He likes being at the market and likes the few friends he’s made. It’s something to look forward to every few days because it’s easy and chill and non-committal.

Shiro is very smug about it. Keith ignores the stupid faces he makes.

It’s a Thursday market day, so there weren’t as many people as there is on Saturdays, but Keith still did pretty well. He had a lot of bigger things to sharpen today, a few lawn mower blades and an actual deadass scythe that a tiny old woman brought him earlier.

It’s about one, so he’s packing up all of his stuff and looking forward to going home and melting into his couch and watching whatever show Adam and Shiro deem good enough to put on when they come over later.

As he’s tucking his finer grade sandpaper loop into his toolbox, he’s startled by what sounds like someone hissing. He whips around only to see Bakery Guy hunched over his front table and beckoning him over. He’s wearing an actually giant sun hat with his usual overall ensemble.

Keith wants to hate it. He, yet again, doesn’t.

“Psssst, Knife Guy, over here!” Bakery Guy makes pointed eye contact with him and waves him over in a flurry of hands.

Keith looks around to either side of him, but Vegetable Lady is gone and the soap booth on the other side of the entrance is just about packed up.

He glances back and makes eye contact with Bakery Guy, pointing at himself with what he knows is a stupid, bewildered look on his face.

Bakery Guy rolls his eyes with practically his whole body and points directly at him, “Uh, yes you, you’re the only knife guy around. Get over here.”

His voice is really nice, musical and fun. It wasn’t what Keith was expecting but absolutely should have been. This is the first time he’s heard it and absolutely the first time it’s been directed anywhere near him. He snaps his toolbox shut and edges around his table to make his way across the aisle.

“What’s…up?” Jesus Christ, is Keith an actual dumbass?

“Hey, do you want a croissant? Or a cookie? They’re really good! My ma makes them all. What are you into? Take anything, seriously, whatever you want!” Bakery Guy keeps waving him over at a faster pace the closer Keith gets and as Keith approaches the table he backs off from where he was hunched like a dragon over a pile of leftover pastries.

“Uh…” Keith has no idea what the fuck is going on right now and he knows that his eyebrows are furrowed in a way that always makes Shiro laugh, but he can’t help it. What is happening.

Bakery Guy shoots a ray of pure sunlight out of his face directly into Keith’s eyes with his smile and tries again, “We don’t always sell everything pastry and bread wise, so I try to hook up the other vendors with some treats before we take everything to the women’s shelter downtown. Do you want anything?”

Oh, okay. Yeah, Keith wants something. He’s been inadvertently staring at all of this stuff for the last month.

“Yes, please.” Has he never spoken to another human being in his entire life? Clearly not.

“Oh sweet, awesome. Cool cool cool. Take whatever! Do you like really sweet things? You don’t really seem like you do, but obviously that’s a totally unfounded assumption, so some of the less sweet stuff would be our pain au raisin, maybe a muffin, or a cream cheese danish!” Bakery Guy’s eyes are so fucking blue up close that Keith is pretty sure he’s going to close his own eyes tonight and see this color reflected on his eyelids when he goes to sleep.

“Um, a cream cheese danish…sounds good?”

Before he’s even finished, Bakery Guy is darting forward and closing Keith’s hands around an already plastic packaged danish. His hands are soft as fuck and Keith is going to drop dead.

“I’ll keep that in mind! I almost always try and go around before everybody leaves, but I don’t always get to it. Plus, you seem to leave pretty early and I’ve never been able to catch you before you’ve packed up.” The look Bakery Guy sends him makes his heart stop, because it’s sweet and a little flirty and an admission that he’s been watching Keith. Admitted like a secret that they both share.

His eyes scrunch up when he smiles, and Keith is composing sonnets in his head as he stares at this freckled son of bitch who’s wearing the biggest sun hat that Keith has literally ever seen. How is this his life?

“Well, thank you? I, uh, really appreciate a good danish. Also, what’s your name?” Keith has to struggle to get the words out of his mouth because he and this guy are still making really intense eye contact and his big ass hands are still curled around Keith’s, the danish sandwiched in the middle in a weird cradle.

Bakery Guy smiles even bigger and Keith literally has to shut his eyes in the face of that solar power.

“Oh shit, I totally forgot we’ve never been introduced! The name’s Lance! And you are?”

Does he have a name? Is he anything but an entity-less soul bouncing around in the ether? What the hell is going on here? Why are they still holding hands?

“Keith.” It’s literally the only thing he can say. At least he remembered his own name.

Lance is opening his mouth to start speaking again when someone reappears back beneath the tent of their stall.

“Are you done packing up yet?” comes from the other tall beautiful person that Keith has seen behind the table of the bakery stall. She’s tall and posh-sounding and also probably the third most good-looking person Keith has ever had the misfortune of standing next to, behind both Shiro and Lance.

She touches Lance on his shoulder lightly as she says it and in a way that suggests familiarity before she turns around to do something or other with the plastic wrapped brownies.

Lance and Keith both jump, and their hands immediately fall to their sides. Keith has to flex both of his hands to rid the sensation of Lance cradling them from his skin.

Great. Back on his Mr. Darcy bullshit. He has got to protest harder when Adam and Shiro binge watch period dramas.

Keith’s jams his hands into his pockets and Lance’s fall to rest on the assorted jumble of pastries.

“Almost done, ‘Lura.” He sends a little smile back her way and it’s so sweet and small that Keith can hear his own heartbeat echoing in his head.

Well, fuck. Maybe this incredibly good-looking tall person is dating the other incredibly good-looking tall person in front of him?

The thought almost strikes him dead. He knows next to nothing about Lance or this other ethereal person whose platinum hair seems to be reflecting the sunlight and fucking blinding him. What if they’re dating, oh god, or worse, what if they’re married? And Keith has been pining away uselessly from his Knife Hut for the last month over a married man?

Jesus H. Christ. They probably have kids. Beautiful brown children running around that are adorable and perfect in every way. They probably own the bakery together. Hell, and here Keith was mentally preparing to be a homewrecker.

Holy shit, death is the only option here. He may be getting ahead of himself, but the ball is already rolling and there’s no going back.

They’re all just kind of standing there looking at each other and the Kill Bill sirens are sounding in Keith’s head, but he doesn’t move to do anything.

Thankfully, Lance smiles his way again and snags another danish from his pile, handing it to Keith delicately.

“Here’s another for the road. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”

All Keith can do is nod like a fucking bobble head and return the little wave Lance gives him before he about faces. As he’s hopping into his truck, he glances in his rear-view mirror to see the two bakery workers packing up all their things and laughing together. Probably talking about something cute that their two-year-old did last night. Dear lord.

Yep, the only solution here is death.

*

Friday night, Lance is so keyed up to get to the market that he’s practically vibrating. He succeeded in actually speaking to Knife Guy on Thursday, who he now knows is named Keith. Which is cute. Kind of dweeby and not entirely fitting, but still cute.

He also now knows that Keith is a little socially awkward but not in an unbearable way. In a way that Lance knows how to navigate, usually by asking specific questions and kind of talking a lot like he does anyway.

So, moral of the story, he’s hype to get back to the market to maybe actually talk to Keith a little bit more rather than just making fucking googly eyes at each other from across the aisle like they’ve been doing for the last four weeks.

But when Saturday morning arrives, he’s forgotten that Allura took the day off and is dismayed to realize that he’ll be running the entire stall by himself.

Packaging everything, packing everything into the van, unpacking everything, and then dealing with the weird old dudes and condescending soccer moms all day. By himself. He’s sufficiently less hype by the time he actually gets to the market at quarter to six.

Keith is in his Knife Hut, which makes Lance laugh a little every time he thinks about it, already unpacked and set up for the day. He’s fucking around with something on his phone and rubbing a chunk of his long hair between his thumb and pointer finger.

Lance kind of desperately wants to run his fingers through that hair. But first, he has to get through the day. Then he has to actually talk to Keith again. Then they have to fall in love. There’s a process to these things, you see.

And with that, he begins the arduous exercise of unpacking the van. Usually it’s not that big of a struggle, they’ve got about fifteen plastic pallets with all of their product in with weird little handles that he’s able to stack behind their tables but it’s a lot more work without Allura here to toss things around with her stupid buff arms.

He’s going to be late setting up, which flusters him, because then all the fucking early ass old people will bitch about how he’s not set up, which will prevent him even farther from being set up. Endless cycle of not being set up until like an hour in when he’s all good.

The days that Allura’s gone are the worst, but his ma is right to give her them off. She deserves a break once in a while. She’s a great general manager and helps out a whole lot when she doesn’t even really have to, so Lance doesn’t begrudge her her days off.

He might die today though.

Hefting huge trays of bread and pastries out of the van is kind of a bitch and he’s hyper focused on doing it as fast as he can without hurting himself, which is why he’s truly startled when someone clears their throat behind him.

It’s Knife Guy. Er, Keith. And he’s standing there in his brown work jacket layered over a maroon and gold plaid flannel that really brings out the grey of his eyes. He looks kind of...off balance and Lance sort of wants to kiss his face a little.

“Do you, uh, need some help?” Lance has been pleasantly surprised when he hears the raspy quality to Keith’s voice all like, four times he’s heard Keith speak.

Lance casts a quick look toward the empty Knife Hut, but nobody is really around yet and it’s safe to assume that Keith had been watching him flap around frantically for the last thirty minutes.

“If you’re offering? Absolutely.”

He gives Keith a few pointers on the easiest way to maneuver the unwieldy bakery trays and they make quick work of stacking them all up behind the tables. When he tosses the table cloths to Keith, they make even quicker work spreading them over the tables, making beautifully uncomfortable eye contact, so Lance can start placing all of the stuff he has today out.

They work in silence for a while, Keith handing him things and Lance setting them all up in the specific way he likes. After he gets everything set up, he’ll have to put all the little labels and signs out, but he’s feeling way better now that everything is at least out of the van. Thank god for Keith.

“So, uh...where’s your wife?”

When Lance glances over at him to see if it was really, truly Lance he was speaking to, Keith won’t look at him. Just keeps making laser eyes at a loaf of wheat bread he’s fondling.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Keith shifts uncomfortably, and Lance tracks his movements.

“Your, uh, wife?”

“Who?”

“The lady from Thursday? The one that’s normally here with you. The white-haired good looking one?”

Lance can feel his eyes practically bug out of his head as Keith trails off quietly. He glances around the market to make sure he’s not like...being Punk’d or something. What in the fuck.

“You mean Allura? British accent? Built like an actual goddess? Able to handle the most passive aggressive of patrons with a sense of poise and rationality?” Lance cannot fucking believe this. He wants to laugh in disbelief, but doubts that would go over well with Keith.

The group chat is going to blow up when he relays this information.

When Keith finally chances a quick look up at him, he looks brutally uncomfortable. Red dusts the tops of his cheeks and ears and he’s twisting the wrapper of yet another loaf of bread around his fingers so tightly that it’s turning his fingertips purple.

Lance reaches out to grab the loaf from him and their fingers touch. He smiles at the jolt it sends through them both.

“She’s not my wife, dude. She’s a lesbian, first of all. And she’s the general manager of my mom’s bakery. I wouldn’t even be allowed to look at her if my mom thought I was trying to get with her.”

He can visibly see the distress disappear from Keith, the tight way he was holding his shoulders all but melts out of him and the only thing Lance can do is smile like a dumbass until they make eye contact again.

“Was that a Panic! at The Disco lyric?” is the only thing Keith says back to him, his mouth curving up into a crooked smile.

“Shut up. Let’s finish setting up so I can set you free to sharpen knives, you little weirdo.”

*

After that morning and the wildly uncomfortable clarification that followed, Keith comes over to the bakery stall to help set up most days. Even if Allura is there.

Lance is a just and fair motherfucker, so he makes Allura, Hunk, and Pidge promise to not bring up the wife thing until Keith is actually like, cool with them. As to not embarrass him and ruin Lance’s chances of kissing his stupid face, mostly.

He gets along well with Allura, which is nice because Lance doesn’t fuck with people who don’t get along with Allura. They talk about shit that Lance doesn’t really care about, like, old books and Downton Abbey and Jane Austen or whatever the fuck and they have pointless, winding arguments about the architecture of the market.

Keith is a little quiet, like Shiro had said, but still funny and easy to get along with. He makes a lot of small pointed comments that have Allura and Lance cracking up, especially when they’re about some of the patrons they have.

He spends fifteen minutes one day ranting about a woman who wanted her blender blades sharpened. Which, Keith maintains, would have been fine, if the blender blades actually detached from her shitty old ass blender. He’d had to explicitly detail why he couldn’t sharpen the blades in the blender if the blades were still in the blender to this woman for upwards of twenty minutes and he’d come over to the bakery stall after she’d left red in the face.

At the end of market days, Lance usually moseys on over with leftover pastries and bread for him, now that he knows that Keith has a secret spot in his heart for the energy bars that the bakery makes. The smiles he gives Lance are enough to make the entire day and all the bullshit that comes with it worth it.

It takes a little bit of persuasion on Lance’s end to get Hunk to agree to actually talk to Keith. He spends a lot of time at his moms’ stall but always seems to vanish whenever Keith shows up in the morning to help Lance and Allura unpack. Probably because he still thought Keith was going to mcmurder them all.

“Did you really think I was a serial killer?” Keith is pouting a little at Hunk, who looks horribly offended that Lance just threw him under the bus like that.

They cluster in little groups at one person’s stall depending on the time and the day and right now Lance and Hunk are loitering in front of Keith’s Knife Hut while Allura mans the bakery stall. There aren’t that many people here yet so nobody feels that bad about abandoning work to troll the other vendors’ stalls.

Hunk is weak in the face of Keith’s naturally occurring puppy dog eyes and is actively trying to backtrack, “No, dude, no, of course not. I didn’t really think that. I was just, well, ya know…concerned.”

“You don’t think that now though, right?”

Lance can’t help it when he taps the knife that Keith has just sharpened and set down beside one of his grinders, “You better not think that still, because if Keith knew that you convinced everyone he was a serial killer when he first started here, that could be a pretty good motivator for him to actually start killing.”

This causes Hunk to flap his arms a little bit and whine, “It was just the truck, alright? It gives off really intense murder vibes.”

Keith is starting to look actually affronted, pressing his hand to his chest like one of the Victorian women he and Allura always go on about. It makes Lance outwardly laugh, he can’t help it.

“What’s wrong with my truck? I love that truck.”

“Dude, are you fucking me? It’s weird and old and makes creepy noises and is not one, but two, horrible colors.”

“So what? I’ve had it forever and I love it. It’s not weird.”

“Whatever man, it’s weird.”

It’s fun, being friends with Keith, even if had taken a while. He drifts between them like a satellite, coming to talk with Lance and Allura and then down to Hunk’s moms’ stall to talk in depth about foraging for mushrooms, and over to Pidge’s parents’ stall to talk about bees and honey.

They tease him a lot, especially Hunk and Pidge, because he gets along really well with their moms. Shiro eventually gets wind of it and gives him mad shit for befriending all the older women at the market, including Miss Kelly and Auntie Shirogane. Apparently, it’s always been kind of a thing. Shiro’s mom loves Keith too.

For two market days, everyone makes wildly pointed jokes about Keith attracting cougars and being into older women until he loses his shit and practically shouts “I’m gay!” in the middle of yet another conversation about it, making a few of the market patrons stop and look at him.

He looks embarrassed for a few seconds after until he powers through and continues with, “So, no, I’m not a cougar hunter. Excuse me for getting along really well with older women. It’s more than I can say for the rest of you.”

And that’s that.

Except that it isn’t.

Because hearing that proclamation makes the warmth swirl around low in Lance’s stomach again and he’s reminded just how strongly he wants to kiss Keith’s stupid, red face.

*

Lance and Hunk hang out a decent amount when they aren’t at the market, perks of being best bros obviously, and occasionally Pidge will come out as well. A lot of the time they just hang out at one of the bars downtown but sometimes they go out and do fun things, like movies and apple orchards and seasonal shit like that.

They’ve been trying to get Shiro to come for literal seasons to no avail, but Keith may be their in.

It’s Hunk who actually verbally suggests they invite Keith to go out with them after the market the upcoming Saturday, but Lance has been thinking about it for, well, weeks.

Lance doesn’t even have to Hunk to get behind the bakery table and keep things running before he’s already doing it, he heads over towards Keith’s stall with a skip in his step.

Before he even gets there, he’s smiling like a dumbass bastard, because Keith is wearing the ridiculous magnifying headset type thing that he sometimes wears. It has a light in it to help him see better and it also serves as one of the best things Lance has ever seen in his dumb life.

“Good looks out here, Knife Guy.”

Keith starts and bats the magnifying headband up from his line of vision and is starting to blush before he even realizes that it’s Lance who’s giving him shit.

“Oh, get fucked.” His words sound dismissive but he’s setting the pocket knife he was working on aside and turning off his grinders, smirking up at Lance from the chair that he now knows is horribly off balance.

Keith lets him sit in it sometimes, while he quietly explains the intricacies of knife sharpening to Lance from over his shoulder. He lets Lance sharpen things occasionally, hand over handing him along so he doesn’t do anything stupid. Lance…truly doesn’t give a shit about knives, but he gives a shit about Keith and what Keith gives a shit about, so he shuts up and listens and presses close when he’s allowed.

“I’d sure like to get fucked, but only if you come with me.” He’s saying it before he really has a chance to think it through and then he’s just committing, leaning into it. Full speed ahead, boys.

It’s stupidly obvious that he and Keith have a bit of a thing going on. They don’t talk about it or confront it, but it’s very obviously there. He’s just waiting to see which one of them breaks first and makes the initial move.

He’s pretty sure the rest of them have bets on when it’ll happen but he doesn’t want to know any of proposals for fear of swaying a certain way. He wants this to happen naturally.

Keith is bright red and rolling his eyes so far back into his head that Lance is concerned that it hurts, but that’s all he does.

They watch each other for a few seconds before Keith uses the pocket knife to kind of make a “well, what do you want?” type of gesture at Lance. It’s kind of hot.

“Come out with us tonight.” It comes out softer than he intends, more of a request than the command he means for it to be and he leans up against the brick pillar to look down at Keith. It doesn’t feel like a power move, things feel perfectly balanced and Lance is caught in the intensity of Keith’s half lidded gaze.

“Where ya goin’?” The more comfortable Lance gets against the pillar, the farther down Keith slouches in his chair. His legs are spread wide and he looks comfortable and relaxed and just a little bit challenging and Lance wants to crawl in his fucking lap and cuddle up. This is absolute bullshit.

“Probably just Ryner’s. We usually go after the market and she lets us chill because we bring her free shit.” Please say yes, Lance is viciously wishing, chanting over and over in his head. Come hang out with us, you big idiot. Let me buy you a beer, let me see what you’re like when you aren’t at the market.

“Alright, I’ll be there.” Keith’s smiling up at him and Lance feels like his knees are going to give out and he’s going to collapse on the cement floor in a gooey, love struck pile.

It becomes a thing. Because of course it does.

They go every weekend. Lance buys Keith a whole lot of beers.

*

As the season progresses and the weather gets colder at the end of September, Lance starts to bitch more about his wardrobe.

It makes Keith laugh, mostly because of the overalls and the fact that Lance refuses to stop wearing them and also refuses to wear anything resembling socks. The big sun hat goes away for the season, unfortunately enough.

The plimsolls and the bare ankles stay, and Keith still can feel himself get pink when he thinks about how every part of Lance is nice. He’s a dumbass.

Their mornings stay dark and cold and Keith always brings as many layers as he can because he can’t sharpen knives if his fingers don’t work.

It’s six am one morning when Keith wanders over to the bakery stall after setting up all of his own stuff to see Lance shivering aggressively in only a zip up. He says nothing at first, but he takes note that Lance still seems cold after all of the manual labor of unpacking the van.

“I hate this stupid state. Why don’t we live somewhere where it’s eternally warm?”

Hunk rolls his eyes at Lance saying the same thing he says every morning of the market at six am and snags an old-fashioned donut from the display.

“I can’t feel my fucking hands. Weather below 60 degrees is cancelled. Fall, whomst? I don’t know her.” As Lance continues loudly damning the weather, he sneaks up beside Keith and under his arm to snuggle into his body heat.

It’s not the first time they’ve touched this close, but it still feels like the first time. Keith can actively feel the heat rushing up his face as he lets Lance tuck his taller self up against him.

He’s about ready to offer Lance the work jacket off his back and just suffer through the chill in the air when his mind flashes a picture of yet another jacket tucked in the backseat of his pickup. He ducks out from Lance’s octopus limbs and throws a quick “I’ll be right back.” to Allura, Hunk, and Lance.

As he’s shuffling past his own stall, he can hear Hunk crow “Look what you did!” and Lance squawk in offense. He smiles and ignores it, jogging to the parking lot to rummage around in his truck.

By the time he’s back, Lance and Hunk appear to be trying to put each other in headlocks and barely notice when Keith sticks his arm out and taps Lance with the hand the jacket is in.

“Here. Wear this.”

Lance is big eyed and silent as he glances over at Keith and it makes him resolutely look the other way to prevent a full-bodied blush from taking over. He doesn’t have time for this.

He doesn’t glance back over at Lance and Hunk until Lance has pushed his arms into both sleeves of the leather jacket and tugged it on. It looks kind of dumb, because Lance’s limbs are a lot longer than Keith’s, but his hoodie is long enough to cover his wrists and it’s warmer than nothing.

It causes something warm to unfurl in his chest and he can’t help but smile at Lance’s slightly reddened cheeks. He wants to do shit like this always.

Allura is looking on with an absolutely unimpressed expression and she turns to Hunk with an elbow to his solar plexus.

“Hunk, I’m cold as well. Where is your convenient leather jacket that you can give to me for the day?”

“Damn Allura, I can’t control the weather. Get off me.”

They’re so clearly making fun of Keith, but he barely even feels it, he’s too busy watching Lance’s dumbstruck face.

He feels tingly and alive and he’s so glad that he works at this stupid farmers market and that these are his stupid friends. He pushes his shoulder up against Lance’s and they spend a few seconds suspended in each other’s smiles and it’s, on god, one of the dumbest things that’s ever happened to him and Keith loves it.

*

Weeks pass like this, the four or five or six of them, depending on Shiro’s level of bullshittery that day, fucking around on market days and giving Coran grey hair and exchanging their wares for promises of beer on the weekends.

Keith learns that he actually really likes Pidge and that she actually really likes bees. Her parents are apiarists who do weird, complicated scientific research with bees which resulted in a farmers market stand and copious amounts of different flavored honey.

He goes over to her house one afternoon after the market closes to see her parents’ colonies and it’s one of the coolest things he’s ever witnessed. It feels like some sort of weird fantasy movie where he’s able to talk to bees and they don’t sting him, because the honey bees as Pidge says, are docile and sweet and only sting as the last resort.

Hunk’s moms take him out to forage for mushrooms with their special Italian mushroom dogs and Keith gets dirty and grimy and laughs more in one afternoon than he has in ages. He comes home with a little brown paper sack of some of the best mushrooms he’s ever had.

The five of them spend slow and lazy autumn evenings tucked into a copse of trees on the Shirogane farm and it feels good. Good in a way that Keith didn’t even know he was missing before this.

They meet Allura’s new girlfriend, a soft-spoken blonde named Romelle, who turns around and gives Lance a run for his money in terms of drinking him under the table. They love her.

He’s so pleased with how this random choice in his life turned out. He really does owe Shiro a thank you.

He’ll get around to it.

One crisp afternoon in the beginning of October, Lance invites him, just him, over to the bakery for a cookie making demonstration from Lance’s very own mother.

She’s sweet and shorter than Keith but takes up a perfectly appropriate amount of space in every room and Keith might be a little bit in love with her too. He’s forced into a dorky apron with the bakery logo on it and it makes Lance laugh so hard that he sprays flour everywhere with the force of it and Keith feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

His ma, Lance explains to him after she heads to the front to work the register, started the bakery ten years ago on a whim. She didn’t know if it would work but it was something she had thought about for years and her culinary and baking background was sufficient enough to get it up off the ground.

“I love it here, and I love her, and I love that this is what she loves to do,” Lance is telling him as he frosts little cookies with a pastry bag with such concentration that it takes Keith’s breath away.

“Do you see yourself doing anything else?” Keith is hesitant to ask, but he’s also genuinely curious. His eyes keep catching on the flour that’s dusting over Lance’s freckles. He wants to reach out and brush it off, mostly for an excuse to feel Lance’s face, but he focuses back on poorly decorating his own cookie.

“I can see myself doing a lot of other things, but I’m not sure if I’d like anything as much as this, ya know?”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“Ma will get, I don’t know, probably fifteen more years out of the bakery if she chooses to, and I think after that she’ll pass it along to me. I hope so, at least. My other siblings have all either moved out of town or aren’t interested in the bakery.” Lance glances up at him as he says it, a sweet little smile on his lips.

“Plus, the market part is one of my favorite things in the entire world. I like being there and I like the vibe and Coran giving me shit. I more or less run that entire part of the bakery and it’s a responsibility that I didn’t even know I was going to like so much.”

Keith is diligently trying to pipe icing out in the way that Lance’s mom showed him earlier when Lance bumps his hip into Keith’s to get him out of the way. He takes over and Keith just lets him, watching his long-fingered hands.

“Like, having regulars is one of the coolest things to me. I know these people and I know what they like and I can have their orders ready before they even tell me what they want. It’s rewarding in a way a lot of other things aren’t, ya know?” Lance is so close to him now and looking at him while piping at the same time and the knowledge that he’s choosing to share this with Keith, here, in this space, makes him warm from the crown of his head down to his toes in his boots.

“Mm, I get that. It’s not quite the same for me, but I definitely understand the familial ties to a specific craft.” Keith doesn’t really say much more than that, doesn’t want to bring the mood down out of his own volition.

“Yeah?” And Lance stops what he’s doing entirely, focuses his huge luminescent anime eyes on Keith and he just crumbles. Whatever normally stops him from talking about this part of his life kind of gives way in the face of how interested and genuine Lance seems to be.

So, Keith talks.

“My dad, he, uh, passed a way a few years ago. Around five or so now? I was young when it happened, about eighteen. So, it wasn’t the worst thing that could have happen, I could have been younger, but it wasn’t easy either.” He searches about for something to do with his hands so he’s not just standing here monologuing to a boy he likes about his dead father.

Finally, he spots a dish rag and sets about cleaning the gleaming chrome countertops of Lance’s mother’s kitchen.

“I don’t know how the hell he even got started sharpening things, but he’d done it for as long as I’d been alive. He had all of the tools and stuff, everything I have now is actually his. And when he died, I just had a surplus of what felt like useless knowledge about knives and tools and shit. And basically all the paraphernalia.”

Lance is still watching him as he turns lazy circles around the island that they’re working at. It doesn’t feel heavy or like Lance is making him speak, he just keeps looking.

“I had dropped out of college about a year after he died because I’d lost essentially the only structure I’d ever had and just kind of floated for a bit. I realized, eventually and only because one of my dad’s old restaurant contacts called looking to set him up with a new client, that everyone my dad had been working for had nobody taking care of their stuff. So I figured, okay, might as well take up the mantle. Be the knife sharpener I wanted to see in the world.”

He looks up from sweeping flour into his hands to toss in the trash to see Lance smiling at him. It’s soft and sweet and makes Keith want to kiss it off him.

“I like it a lot, though. More than I ever thought I would. It’s nice being able to do something with my hands. And now I’m here. Well, not physically here, but like…at the market. So, I figure it was worth it.” Keith should be legally required not to speak anymore.

“Thanks for sharing that with me, Keith.”

Normally something like that feels weird and forced and clichéd, but yet again, Lance just seems truly genuine to the point where Keith can’t look at him anymore.

“Uh, yeah, of course. Thanks for making me feel like I could.”

*

The market feels comfortable to Keith in a way that he never thought that it would.

He knows most of the vendors, by sight if not by name. He’s, by law, allowed to give Coran mad shit about just about anything.

When his grinders make horrific squealing noises during a particularly tricky knife sharpening, all of the other vendors ignore it while the patrons all act like he’s murdering someone in real time. At first Keith adamantly apologized to anyone who was around when it happened, now he just lets it go.

Sometimes people hover behind him and watch him sharpen like they’ve never seen a dude with a knife before. At first it made him tense, made him feel like he was being judged. But he realized after a while that people are just interested in something that doesn’t get done often enough.

And kids love to watch. They’ll stand beside him for the entire time it takes their parents to make a round of the market. Sometimes he lets them sit next to him and watch, answers their poorly phrased questions and let’s them look at his tools. He loves that it makes Lance blush from across the aisle.

He talks more in the last few months than he’s talked in the last six years. Mostly explanations for what he’s doing and why. He gets to talk about something he’s really passionate about to people who are occasionally equally as passionate three days a week.

If he looks up, about three quarters of the time he’ll catch Lance’s eye and they’ll smile at each other in a way that Pidge says should precede the chorus of a boyband’s Top 40 single.

It’s around this time in late October that Keith realizes that the season is ending soon. The market won’t be open after the first weekend in November.

He, predictably, freaks the fuck out.

How is he going to see Lance? And Hunk and Allura and Pidge? The main reason he sees them so much now is work and the odds that they’ll want to hang out with him when they don’t see him three times a week is slim.

What in the hell is he going to do?

A full two days between Tuesday and Thursday are spent going balls to the wall crazy with anxiety, but Keith can’t help it. He doesn’t want to lose this new-found friend group and go back to only watching Downton Abbey with Shiro and Adam on the weekends. He may not survive.

He can feel how weird he’s being when he gets to the market on Saturday and Lance picks up on it almost immediately.

Keith is so freaked out that he dumps the entirety of his toolbox on the floor when Lance pops into existence next to his table about half an hour before the market opens.

“Keith, dude, are you alright?” Lance’s eyebrows are well up his forehead and it makes Keith’s face flush so red he feels fluorescent.

“What. Yep, totally fine. So good. Just great. Thank you for asking.”

“That was like, five different responses. What’s going on?” Before Keith can come up with another evasion, Lance is reaching out and lightly touching his shoulder and it stops Keith in his anxiety driven tracks.

He must see the look on Keith’s face because before he really registers what’s happening, Lance is tugging him up out of his folding chair and ushering him into the weird little overhang that the market bathrooms are in.

“Keith, did something happen? Do you need help with something?” Lance’s brows are furrowed and his mouth is turned down in a frown and Keith wants to kiss him so badly he can barely think straight.

Both of his big hands are pressed firmly to Keith’s shoulders, which shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. They’re so warm that it feels like palm prints of sun. One leaves his shoulder to nudge Keith’s chin up so Lance can meaningfully meet his eyes.

Before Lance can start up again, Keith is blurting, “Does the bakery have knives I can sharpen? Like, when the market season ends?”

He feels like an actual dumbass as soon as the words fall out of his mouth. It’s a fabulous summation of every thought he’s had over the last two days, purely distilled anxious worry.

Lance tilts his head to one side in a way that’s so reminiscent of a Golden Retriever that Keith has to stop breathing in order to not kiss him. They’re so close that all Keith would have to do is lean in just a little bit. But that’s an entirely different thing to panic and obsess over than what’s happening right now.

“I mean, yeah. I guess. Why does that matter right now, though?” Lance is so clearly trying to think through the connection of his weird knives question and why he seems so weird and anxious about the market ending.

“Are you guys still going to hang out with me when the market ends?”

In between this thought and the next, Lance is lunging forward and wrapping his arms around Keith so tight that he can barely breathe. He’s a couple inches taller than Keith, so his head fits perfectly in the crook of Lance’s neck. It’s so comforting that it has him reeling, especially when Lance’s hands rub up and down the expanse of his back.

“Dude, are you kidding me? You aren’t going anywhere.” It’s said into Keith’s hair, so it’s kind of muffled.

“We aren’t going anywhere either. You’re in our group chat. This is a solid and unbreakable market bond, Keith. We’re ride or die now.”

It settles something that was swirling inside Keith almost instantly, hearing it from Lance’s mouth.

Lance pulls back to look at him and reaches out to tuck a piece of Keith’s unruly hair back behind his ear. It makes his breath catch in a way that he’s almost immediately annoyed by.

“Seriously, don’t worry. We aren’t letting you go.” It’s so soft, the way Lance says it, that Keith has to surge back up onto his toes and hug him again. He lets Lance press him back into the brick wall and relishes the feeling of the soft hair at the back of Lance’s neck and the uneven press of their chests when they breathe.

Instead of acknowledging this comfort like a regular person, all Keith can think about is when he’s going to see Lance like this next.

“Do you, uh, want to come over later? Like…to my apartment?”

Lance pulls back and smiles bright, it’s teasing and stupid and Keith has to thunk his head back against the brick wall in the face of it.

“Aw Keith, you just want to get me alone, don't ya? Get me to your creepy murder house so you can kill me?”

Keith shoves past him with a reluctant smile and heads back to his stall, ignoring Lance’s shout of “See you later tonight so you can kill me in the privacy of your own home, bud!”

*

Lance, admittedly, is a little worried about what Keith’s apartment is going to look like. Mostly curious, but a little worried.

From what he knows about Keith, there’s a lot of plaid and leather and knives and not much else on the wardrobe front. Keith acts like nobody can see the literal knife sheath that he has strapped to his belt, but everybody knows it’s there.

He follows behind Keith’s rumbly truck after the market closes to a sweet little brick apartment building above a pharmacy on a not-so-busy street downtown.

Keith is out and heading towards the door before Lance even has a chance to park, so he’s frantically catching up as Keith unlocks the door, running into his back and looping his arms around his waist in a way he’s trying to convince himself is friendly but ultimately misses the mark just a bit.

He’s led up a few flights of stairs into a brightly lit and open living room and it’s safe to say he’s pleasantly surprised.

There’s a lot of exposed brick and a few big windows and a decent amount of slightly weird but homey touches. Keith has an entire row of plants lined up along the top of a jam-packed bookshelf, which Lance inherently knows is filled with a weird mix of sci-fi, romance, and Austen and the Bronte sisters.

Keith bumbles into the kitchen after dropping off his market supplies in a chair by his dining room table, mumbling something about tea and giving Lance free reign of his living room.

Another book shelf has a line of knick-knacks and tchotchkes, mostly small animal figurines and little bowls filled with miscellaneous items like mismatching buttons and single screws. On his coffee table rests a few good smelling candles and a red lighthouse miniature that flickers with warm light when Lance clicks the switch. It’s sweet and so unassumingly Keith that Lance almost can’t breathe around it.

He puts his hands on his hips and stands in the middle of the room, turning so he can get a good feel for it and also so he can catch all of the paintings and posters on the wall in one go.

There’s an artisanal lunar calendar that looks like it may have been made by one of the artists at the market on one wall and vintage Star Trek posters that make Lance smile.

“Is this a Pride and Prejudice movie poster?”

Keith pokes his head around the entryway of the kitchen and glowers at him.

“Fuck off, it’s the 2005 version and it holds a very special place in my heart. Don’t talk shit or Allura will know and kill you.”

Lance has to stifle a snicker and throws himself back on the couch, ghosting his fingers along a throw blanket that he can tell has been hand knit.

“Hey,” he calls out in the vague direction of the kitchen, “who made this blanket?”

With two mugs of tea in hand, Keith emerges from his kitchen and takes a seat next to Lance. He folds his legs beneath him and hands one mug off to Lance.

“Oh, my mom did? A long time ago. I think when she was pregnant with me.” Lance leans into him a little bit, because they’re alone and just because he can. The mug he has is a reproduction of a summery looking landscape from the National Gallery of Art. He wants to know everything about Keith ever.

A vaguely committal noise is all it takes for Keith to keep talking.

“She’s traveling abroad right now for a few months. Her and my dad were like, stupidly in love even though she didn’t always live with us and she spent a few years feeling like she had to be here for me until I convinced her that she just…needed to go somewhere else for a while. I think she’s in Germany right now?”

“That’s cool as hell.” Lance chances a light brush of his fingertips against the back of Keith’s hand and is unmeasurably pleased when Keith twists his palm around and twines their fingers together. He doesn’t even have to look at Keith to know that he’s flushed red as hell.

“Yeah. Uh, you wanna watch something? I have the old BBC Pride and Prejudice on Amazon Prime. I know your uncultured ass hasn’t seen it.”

“Probably because it’s fucking old, dude.”

Lance begrudgingly agrees simply because he knows that Keith will mouth along to the proposal scene. He’s rewarded pleasantly when Keith doesn’t let his hand go for the entirety of the first few episodes.

*

It’s a different night later in the week but Lance and Keith are in the same position on the same couch. This time, they get Indian take out and burrito themselves in blankets and drink probably just a little bit too much of the mulled wine they got at one of the stalls before they left the market.

The twilight settles over them like another blanket and no one bothers to turn on a light after the sun slips under the horizon.

They’re both leaned back against the couch, looking at each other and not really moving. It’s soft and comforting and sweet in a way Lance isn’t always sure he deserves.

The last day of the market is next week and he’s pleased to say that Keith only seems sad in the expected way, not the I’m Going to Lose All My Friends kind of way that he was earlier in the week. They already have plans to go to the Shirogane farm next weekend to pick and carve pumpkins and have Auntie Shirogane make them too much pie.

“My dad and I used to live in this apartment when I was younger.” They’re talking slow, sharing bittersweet things between them in the same way they keep passing the mulled wine bottle back and forth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We moved to a different house a few years before he died but he kept this apartment. I think because he knew I liked it so much.”

“It’s a good place. It feels like you.” Lance barely knows what that means, but he knows it’s true as soon as he says it.

“I forgot about it for a while but once I left school, I came back here. It feels like his, but in an echoey kind of way, where sometimes I see something that was so clearly belonged to him that I have to stop and breathe. But It feels like mine, too. So much of my shit is here, stuff that he wasn’t ever around to see but I’m pretty sure he’d like. It’s nice.” Keith’s voice is soft and quiet, like he’s just a few more minutes off from falling asleep.

The vulnerability of it makes Lance ache. He drags his fingers through Keith’s thick hair and leans over to press a quick kiss to the crown of his head.

“I’m glad you’re here to see it.” Keith says it quietly, but Lance still hears.

“I am too. Thanks for letting me be here with you.”

They sit there like that for a while and time passes strangely, thick and syrupy and good.

Lance is just about to drift off to sleep when Keith sits up slow and tangles their fingers together.

“Come to bed with me.”

He goes.

They fall asleep curled around each other like parentheses in Keith’s bed with his handmade quilts and in the morning, Lance wakes up to the sweetest blush on Keith’s face.

It feels like the best thing in a long time.

*

As expected, they’re too loud and stupid and rowdy at the Shirogane farm the next weekend. They’re not even drunk yet and Lance is atop Hunk’s shoulders and commanding him around the pumpkin patch like he’s a horse. He doesn't know why Hunk puts up with it.

It makes Keith roll his eyes but he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t love it. Adam and Shiro keep pointing out the ugliest pumpkins and loudly declaring “that’s you” like middle schoolers.

Auntie Shirogane is sitting on the back porch watching them all wild out and it feels right in a way that pulses out of Keith’s chest.

Romelle, Pidge, and Allura are taking the quest of finding the perfect pumpkin way too seriously and he’s pretty sure Pidge is incessantly chattering about the mathematical way to find the perfect pumpkin that doesn’t seem like it’s a real thing.

They carve pumpkins on the back porch and get the slimy innards everywhere and Auntie Shirogane serves them blisteringly hot apple and pumpkin pie. Hunk forces everyone to watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown even though Halloween was last week.

It’s good, it’s so good and Keith gets to sit on the couch sardined in between all of these people that he loves and just radiate with how good it feels.

During what Keith now knows from Lance is "golden hour," he feels a light tap on his shoulder and a hand thread through his. He glances to the side and predictably, it’s Lance, a grin cut across his face that’s so bright Keith has to shut his eyes a little bit. He wonders if it will always be like this. He’d like to think that it will.

“Come with me, I have to show you something,” Lance all but whispers to him, excited and tugging him up from the couch. Everybody is doing their own thing, so no one really notices when they slip out of the living room onto the back porch.

“Come on, pick up the pace, Lil Knifey, let’s go.”

“Do not under any circumstances call me that ever again.”

He drags Keith bodily up the hill that bumps against the back of the pumpkin patch. He’s drenched in gold and it makes his hair shine coppery and his eyes look almost see through when he glances back to make sure that Keith is still attached to him.

“What are we even up here for?” Keith finally asks when they crest the hill. There’s a little red barn on the top of the hill that he casts a glance at before Lance is pulling them behind it, facing the setting sun.

“Look,” is all Lance says as he sweeps his hand over the vegetable fields that the Shirogane house is nested between. There’s a thick forest that surrounds the far ends of the fields and the setting sun makes the fall colors of the trees look like flames.

It’s beautiful in a very quotidian way and Keith belatedly thinks that he loves it, thinks that he may love Lance too, for bringing him up here.

Lance turns towards him and his eyes are shining and he’s smiling just as bright as the fiery trees, “I just wanted you to see this. It’s my favorite part of fall and I wanted you to know.” Keith is so fucking stupid for him.

He can only nod and reach out to tangle their fingers together, tugging Lance closer to him by the arm.

With a slight shuffle, Lance disengages from Keith’s clinging and wraps his arm around Keith’s shoulders, bringing him close. He presses a light kiss to Keith’s temple and all Keith wants to do is seal his mouth to Lance’s.

They stand there while the sun begins to drop below the horizon until Lance gets restless. He abruptly pulls away from Keith and turns his whole body toward him.

“Okay, well, really quick, before we go back inside, I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do pretty much since I met you. If you’re not down for it, just let me know, that’s totally fine. Totally good. Cool cool cool.”

“Just, here we go.”

And he presses his fingers so delicately to the side of Keith’s jaw and kisses him so sweetly that Keith is pretty sure that this is a vivid day dream that he fucking made up.

But it’s absolutely not, because Lance pulls back and gets a good look at Keith’s face and smiles so brightly that Keith just has to…kiss it off of him. It’s what he deserves, after five months of looking at his dumb happy face all the fucking time.

Lance backs him up against the rough wood of the little red barn and Keith belated sends a little thanks to whatever deity hooked him the fuck up when Lance presses his entire body against Keith’s.

Soft little open-mouthed kisses are being dropped along the side of his neck and his jawline and the only thing Keith can see is the very edge of the sun finally dropping below the horizon and he makes a noise that he is absolutely going to be embarrassed about later.

Lance’s mouth is so fucking soft and his big warm palms feel like brands against Keith’s slightly chilled skin and this is absolutely the best thing to have ever happened.

Between kisses pressed all over his face, Lance breathes out, “I’m so gone over you,” and Keith is pretty sure that all of the light from that sunset and the fiery trees is welling up inside of him and threatening to spill over.

He loops an arm around Lance’s neck and pulls him down to whisper “Me fucking too,” against his lips.

Things go wildly downhill from there, or uphill depending on which way you look at it. In a truly stunning turn of events, Lance is the one to reluctantly suggest they go back inside because it’s well and truly dark now. Keith has to unwrap his legs from around Lance’s waist after he’d been hoisted up and pressed back into the barn again. He’s fairly sure he has bits of wood all over the back of his jacket and a pretty vivid hickey on the soft spot just below his ear, but the look on Lance’s face and the wild state of his curly brown hair leaves him mostly unconcerned.

There’s a pointed chill in the air when they finally amble inside. Keith is normally a bit apprehensive about the winter, but he has a good feeling that he’ll be very warm this season.

*

When they get back inside and pointedly ignore all of the jeers from their friends and the money changing hands, Auntie Shirogane corners him in the kitchen.

She’s a slight woman, tiny but intense. She’s been in Keith’s life just as long as Shiro has and he has a fierce love for her that he doesn’t think will ever go away.

But it’s tested pretty thoroughly when she looks at him and smirks, “Glad whatever that boy did stopped your scowling. Your face is too handsome, I don’t want you to get wrinkles.”

*

Keith lets Lance drive him home and lead him up into his own apartment. Lets him press Keith up against the doorjamb of his bedroom, because, apparently, they’ve both got a thing for that. Lets him spoon up behind him when they finally get into bed and lets him steal all the covers, but only for a little bit until he kicks Lance awake and they kiss gently in the two am darkness.

And when he wakes up the next morning to see Lance looking at him through sleepy eyes, he blushes and doesn’t even feel bad, because Lance descends on him and kisses all over his face like an idiot.

And it’s good. It’s so good.

Thank god for Keith’s Knife Hut. He’s got to tell Shiro that.

He’ll do it tomorrow, for sure.