#let me tell you about how to look at the ball band on yarn to find the dye lot and recommended hook size

[obstinatecondolement]

The visibly queer and GNC art students who come into the shop where I work to buy craft supplies are sometimes the only thing getting me through the constant deluge of little old ladies who have extremely strong opinions about the colours of ribbon that are acceptable for baby boys' Christening robes. Thank you for your service, darlings. I will always give you the student discount, even if you didn't ask if we have one.

[gingerlee-holds]

The Puppet Master, Part 2

The long, long awaited sequel! This one is brutal heehee so if you prefer gentle twords, read my other fics for that! But a very very flustered cutie has been waiting for this for a loooong time, and who am I to deny her what she needs heehee!! I hope you enjoy!!

Written for @featherfoxx, thank you to @devious-bliss for the inspiration!

Word Count: 2,953 Reading Time: About 12 minutes Warnings: hand restraints, feet twords, hard tickling, implied mind magic

Before we begin, keep in mind that this is a reader self-insert! Now, without further ado, let me tell you how exactly you were tworded to fucking bits heehee

All that night, you blushed and squirmed through tickly dreams. You awoke at multiple points throughout the early morning hours, curled up in a ball, blushing and sweating from a ruthless puppet master playing with your subconscious. No matter what you did to distract yourself, it seemed like that pesky little magician snuck back in to ensure you hadn’t forgotten how ticklish and vulnerable you were. Squirming around and holding your favorite stuffed animal over your bright red face, it felt like this had been intentional; that sneaky puppeteer had delicately wrapped your mind in her yarn, and ever since you had visited her, you felt that yarn occasionally pulled on, filling your head with flustering, tickly thoughts. You, of course, had no way of proving this - as it was most likely your imagination making it worse for yourself - but the idea that the ginger in the purple suit had somehow fiddled with your brain was enough to fill you with a playful determination.

After the third wake-up, still kind of feeling the fuzzy ears of a fox puppet around your collarbone, you were resolved. ‘That’s it! She’s not getting away with this!’ you thought to yourself. ‘I refuse to be her plaything!’ And having made up your mind to acquire retribution, you spent the rest of the night hatching a bold plan: you would catch her by surprise and give that pesky magician a taste of her own medicine!

After a night fraught with ghostly pokes and phantom scribbles, dawn came at last, and you arose with a fire in your soul, burning for vengeance. Quickly throwing on a band t-shirt and some jorts, you grabbed a makeup brush, a spool of your bright red yarn, a few fuzzy feathers, and - grinning evilly - a brand new electric toothbrush, setting it all into a backpack along with a few water bottles. You put on some sandals and set off toward the park. You were ready.

The carnival had just opened when you arrived, which, in a way, was much more amusing than you had anticipated. A yawning attendant gave you a bag of crackerjack for free, chuckling and saying he “can’t be bothered finding the receipt printer.” You almost burst out laughing when you saw someone in clown makeup scrolling through their phone while dressed in street clothes. The carnival in the morning reminded you of a college student - wild and carefree, partying with reckless abandon into the night, only to be rudely awakened the following morning to set it all up again. It’s no coincidence that the circus visiting your town was primarily staffed by college-aged folks.

Nevertheless, you soon found the tent you were looking for. The purple and green tent looked just as cozy as it had the night before, but the sign in front differed. It read: “The Puppet Master Returns Tonight @ 6! You won’t want to miss it!” Instead of being pulled invitingly open, the tent flaps were shut tight, except for a tiny bit at the bottom where the flaps had pulled apart slightly. ‘Perfect!’ you thought.

Crawling inside, you were surprised at how little the mood in the tent had changed. The lighting inside was cozy, as it had been last night, even though the sun was out. The sounds of birdsong outside faded, too, and if you didn’t know any better, you could even say that you had entered some kind of pocket dimension. No doubt some more of that magician’s trickery. Everything looked as it had: the plush floor, the stage, the curtains… but where was the Puppet Master?

Only one of the curtains was closed, but the other was still open, showing the stage. All of the puppets had been put away in a toy chest, and beside it, your target slept, snuggled to a pillow. The Puppet Master looked different; where she had been chubby before, now she was somewhat skinnier. Her hair was longer and messier, but that was most likely the fault of her sleep. Instead of her suit, she wore a pair of fuzzy pajamas and socks and a cartoonish nightcap drooped over her head. A snorer, too, you observed as you approached. The pillow was less to support her and more to give her something to hold onto, and she cuddled it close. She almost looked too cute to tickle, but you knew your mission. 

‘It’s too easy,’ you said to yourself, holding onto the straps of your backpack and beginning to approach the stage confidently. You made it about halfway before shenanigans struck. 

The plush, comfy floor you walked on seemed to provide less and less support as you went on, each step sinking you deeper into the softness beneath. Once you were halfway, you had sunk into the plushness up to your waist, and, grumbling, you pulled yourself forward. Instead of a mattress, this plushness reminded you of a foam pit, and after a few more steps, you were completely stuck. The surrounding plush floor held you snugly up to your chest, and much to your dismay, it had now become too difficult to pull yourself out. Moreover, you quickly discovered that you couldn’t pull back either: you were stuck in the comfy, foamlike, plush floor, conformed to your body shape entirely. 

“The hell is this!” you muttered out loud by mistake. Unfortunately for you, the Puppet Master softly snorted as she awoke, yawning and rubbing her eyes. She reached over, picked up a pair of round glasses, scratched her head, and stood up to see her intruder. 

The sight of you, frustrated with the floor and confused at your predicament, sent her into hysterics. “Heeheeheeheehee! Ohohooh, dehehearrr!!” she laughed, hugging herself around her belly. “I-ihihihit seeeheeheems- heehehehehee!! - thahat sohomeone was a lihittle eager to return~!!”

Growling in humiliation, you hung your head to hide your face. The element of surprise had been entirely lost!

The sleepy girl before you padded over softly on her fuzzy socks, hopping off the stage and onto the plush floor, which didn’t sink under her as it did for you. Giggling helplessly at your condition, she laid down in front of you on her stomach, swinging her feet in the air behind her as she booped your nose. “Hey there again, cutie pie! Missed me that much~?” 

You said nothing, doing your best to retain your dignity.

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about me, huh~?” You suddenly looked up at her. She smiled as if she had known what your night had been like for you. Giggling at your shocked face, she continued, “Oh, you’re too precious. Don’t worry, hun! It’s only natural!” She reached over and ruffled your hair. “Anyone who needs this place finds it! That way, I can play with only the people I know will enjoy it as much as I do!” The Puppet Master suddenly tugged the air in front of your forehead, and all at once, your mind rushed with tickly thoughts and teases, all the memories of yesterday pushing forward and coloring your cheeks a bright red. It was her all along!

As you racked your mind trying to make sense of this information, you were interrupted by a sudden stream of bubbly giggles emerging from your throat. The Puppet Master’s head-scratching reached your neck, and her nails gently traced around and around. She smiled fondly, her whole expression painted with affection at your adorable glee.

“Now, let’s see whatcha brought! I’m super curious!” She crawled around behind you and sat, happily picking up your backpack.

“No, no! Don’t look in there!” you hastily said, but she had already unzipped it and was looking through its items. 

“Oh! New yarn, looks like! And… feathers? Is that a makeup brush…? Hmm…” She went silent for a bit, and you jumped when you suddenly heard her voice right in your ear: “Trying to get revenge, huh~?” she purred. “How absolutely adorable you humans are, thinking you can outsmart me~!”

Well, that cleared a lot up. She wasn’t human! That’s how she had all that power! What was she??

“Hey!” Her snapping her fingers in each ear brought your attention back. “Got a question for ya!” Pulling your bag of tools behind her, she crawled back to where you could see her. “Have you ever heard of Cat’s Cradle?”

Tilting your head a bit in confusion, you nodded. “Yeah, it’s that kids game with the string.” 

“Y’ever played?”

“Few times, while ago.”

She clapped her hands happily. “Perfect!” she exclaimed. The magician pulled out your red yarn from the bag but, to your shock, pulled out an identical spool of pink yarn after it. She unspooled a long string of each and cut it with a simple tug. “Okay, here’s yours!” she said, handing you your red yarn while she held the pink one. “Watch me. Try to follow along.”

Seeing as you didn’t have anything else to do, you sighed and tried your best to follow along as she skillfully began creating the Cat’s Cradle. She giggled a tiny bit when she finished, setting her yarn down to help you out by tugging the yarn here and moving your fingers there. In the end, you held a rather complex and beautifully made string figure between your fingers!

“Bravo! Oh, you’re remarkable at this!” She clapped again, making you smile sheepishly. However, it didn’t take you long before you realized you couldn’t untangle your hands from the yarn. Harder and harder you tugged, but your fingers were very well tied, your hands bound by the pretty Cradle. “Oop, here, let me help you with that…” she muttered, taking one of the ends of your yarn and giving it a gentle tug, and all at once, your hands clapped together, bound tight. “There! Now c’mon, cutie, let’s getcha out of my floor.”

Blushing at the realization that the game had been a ruse, you let yourself get tugged out from the floor by your yarned-up hands, feeling the ground become more and more firm underneath you. “T-that was a nasty trick!” you whined.

“Oh, you should have seen it coming a mile away. I’m a Puppet Master! Nimble fingers come with the job~,” she teased as she wiggled her fingers against your cheeks, making you sputter. Gently, her soft hands guided you to the floor so you were lying down on your back before she effortlessly grabbed your bound hands and moved them above your head, saying, as if it were an afterthought, “These can’t move now.” It shouldn’t have surprised you, but you were a bit bewildered by the fact that she was correct: you couldn’t pull your hands down as much as you tried. 

She suddenly gasped as she got an idea. “I know another game we can play! It’s called, how long can my ticklish little puppet stay silent while I tickle them!”

“T-that sounds like a terrible game!” you spat, and she patted your head in response.

“I don’t know… you did intrude on me while I was sleeping, so I think that deserves a little punishment~! Then again, maybe it’ll be a reward since I know you’ll enjoy it so, so much~!”

Before you could voice any more criticisms, you yelped in surprise when she pulled out all your tools and set them before you. 

“Hm… I can’t hold all of these at once… I know! I’ll need help!” She whistled, and the toy chest sprung open, a group of five puppets rushing through the air to her. “Here, Wolf, you can hold the makeup brush, and I’m trusting you two to hold these!” she said, handing the two extra-fluffy feathers to Lion and Cat. She removed the electric toothbrush as if she were holding a precious relic. “This one’s mine~!”

You didn’t even have time to say, “Wait-!” before it started~!

The two puppets with no tools, Snake and Owl, dove in first. Owl, all covered in fuzzy feathers, nuzzled into your neck, chin, and ears, hooting and cooing at you. “Whooooo’s a ticklish puppet! Whooooo’s a cutie patootie! Who? Who?” she asked, snuggling her soft felt beak into your ear. All by herself, Owl was sending you into squeaky, blushy laughter, but don’t worry, it would get a lot worse! <3

Snake, meanwhile, had slithered his sneaky way under your shirt, nudging your shorts down a bit to reveal your hips. “Sssssssscore~!!!” he victoriously said as he wound his way around and around like a belt, his surprisingly tickly underbelly making you jump and buck around. Besides the occasional hiss as his felt tongue flickered across your lower tummy, he stayed silent as he pulled wave after wave of laughs out from your lungs.

The Puppet Master sat, smiling and watching you being slowly picked apart so adorably by her cute little puppets. She was content to wait until you began getting used to the current tickles before ramping them up. After all, she had until six before her next show, so she was content to make you pay for your impudent intrusion!

Wolf’s patience wore out first, and after a lengthy squeal on your part when Snake dipped his head into your belly button, he growled and dove in, armed and ready with the makeup brush. The Puppet Master chuckled and pulled your shirt up to your ribs for him. Quickly swatting the reptilian puppet out of the way with the brush, he dipped it into your giggle button and swirling it around and around your tummy. He looked up and grinned happily at the results: deep belly laughter erupted from Mt. You, bouncing about the tent like a rubber ball, much to the amusement of the Puppet Master, who began giggling with you. To celebrate, Wolf started to nibble around your ribs while continuing to paint with the makeup brush. 

Lion and Cat, wielding their feathers like knights holding their swords, looked up at the puppeteer pleadingly, happily cheering when she nodded as their sign of permission. The two puppets flew down and began happily humming a circus tune as they started going to town on your sides. Cat, soft and sweet, hummed innocently as she wiggled the fuzzy feather up and down your right side, up and down, mercilessly rhythmic. Lion, by contrast, was anything but sweet as she giggled cruelly, turning the feather around to the pointy tip and, using it like a quill pen, began writing and scribbling over your left side. It was brutal! You thrashed away from the mean scribbles and pokes, only to be met by gentle feather strokes and wiggles! You were already shrieking through your laughter, yelping with glee, and unable to beg for mercy anymore. At around the twenty-minute mark, the Puppet Master herself made her move. 

You had absolutely no way to pay attention to what she was doing, so no alarm bells went off when she began crawling down to your feet and pulling off your sandals, but you could only go bug-eyed and squeal when you heard the unmistakable sound of the electric toothbrush turning on. Your thrashing increased a bit, but the other puppets made sure you were far too weak to put up any significant resistance. The Puppet Master smiled at you with pitiless satisfaction and adoring affection as she used the toothbrush under your toes on your right foot, scribbling across your left sole with her nails. That was the final straw for you. Tears rolled down your cheeks in rivers as you lay limply, unable to do anything but sit there and take your tickles like a good puppet. Your laughter had gone silent a while ago. Yet, this time, the puppets were out for metaphorical blood as they wrecked your spots creatively, curiously, and mercilessly. 

The second you began coughing, though, everything stopped. All the puppets dropped to the floor, inanimate once more, and the Puppet Master sprang up to get some water from your bag. She put the bottle to your lips, and you gulped it down eagerly, smiling at the relief it gave. She brought your hands back down again, and suddenly, you found that the strings fell apart, sloughing off your hands and allowing you to free yourself from the tangle with ease. Curling up into a ball, you finished your water, and the Puppet Master finished her water shortly after. 

“You feeling okay, cutie~?” 

“Y-yyeheheesss! G-gohohoshh…” 

“Didn’t think I’d go that far, didja~? I’m just a sweet, innocent girl, huh~? Not when you wake me up before I’ve finished my sleep!”

“S-sohohohorryy!!”

“Oh, don’t worry! This was such a pleasant wake-up ~!” With that, she quickly scooped you up in her arms, carrying you across the room and onto the stage, laying you down beside her. “Now, I think we could both use the sleep, right~? You must not have slept well, I’m guessing~!”

You nodded, all the sleepiness hitting you like a freight train as you yawned and got comfy on the floor. 

“Figures~!” She yawned, too, and wiggled over to you. “Besides, it’ll be nice to have something other than a pillow to spoon.”

The two of you were out like an identical pair of lights, you being snuggled by the petite magician. No dreams bothered you in your sleep as you floated in the void sea of the subconscious mind. What would await you when you awoke was no concern of yours because, for now, you were comfy, exhausted, and being snuggled by an adorably sweet… whatever she is. You’ll figure that out later. For all your life afterward, you would never recall a more peaceful slumber than on the floor of that tent, cradled like a cat by an adoring and tickle-hungry Puppet Master!

The end ~!

Read the previous entry in The Puppet Master!

[writings-of-a-daphodil]

A Gift

Luke x ghost!reader

Summary: It's your birthday and you wish you could spend it with your family. Luke and the band try to cheer you up (super fluffy).

Requested?: Nope

Fandom: Julie and the Phantoms

A/n: This kinda came out of nowhere and once I had the idea I got carried away. I hope y'all like it!!

For you birthdays were a big thing when you were alive. You and your family would always go on a camping trip and have the time of your lives together. It wasn’t just limited to your family either, it was open to your friends too. It was your favorite tradition.

When you had met Luke, you had been looking forward to inviting him and the band, but then the fateful night at the Orpheum had happened. You and the rest of the band had died that night, now it was twenty-twenty and you were ghosts.

It had been great meeting Julie and forming a band with her, but as your birthday rolled around you were feeling immensely sad. Like Luke you had visited their family and you had seen them preparing to go on the camping trip in your honor. While it made you happy to see them keeping up the tradition, it also felt like a stab to the heart that you couldn’t be there with them.

In the days leading up to your birthday you had grown quiet and more reserved, struggling to find the energy to be happy. You couldn’t visit your family anymore, it just made you cry, but knowing that they were camping and you couldn’t be there also made you cry. It was a lose-lose.

So you had spent most of your time at the beach, watching the ocean and letting it calm you. There was something so relaxing about the way the waves moved and the push and pull of the tide. It was also nice to have privacy, just the crashing waves to keep you company.

It was inevitable that the band would notice your mood and absence of course, and notice they did.

You were at the beach, watching the ocean like normal. It was admittedly a beautiful day for your birthday. The sun was just breaking through the marine layer, creating bright orange patterns on the clouds.

Luke poofed in beside you, startling you out of your sad thoughts. The two of you had been dating since you got the band together and he was always there to comfort you.

“Hey,” he said, wrapping an arm around you. You sniffed in return.

“You didn’t think I would forget what today is, did you?” He asked, giving a small smile.

“No,” you answered, smiling a little bit.

“Good,” he stood up in front of you and grabbed your hands. “You are amazing and you are so great and understanding when it comes to me missing my parents, now it’s my turn to help you with your grief.”

You didn’t have time to respond before you felt the cold sand disappear from beneath you. The world shifted to new surroundings, ones that you definitely did not recognize.

“Luke?” You asked, letting go of his hand. You weren’t exactly in the mood for any surprises at the moment.

Luke moved back to standing in front of you. “Trust me on this, okay?”

He took your hand again and led you down a path. You looked around, trying to find anything that would clue you into where you were.

You slowly began to recognize your surroundings and you stopped walking. “What’s wrong?” Luke asked, stopping with you once he realized you weren’t moving.

“Luke, I-I’ve already visited, seeing them just makes me even sadder.”

“That isn’t why we’re here, Y/n/n. I’ve got a completely unrelated surprise for you.”

You hesitantly began to walk and Luke gave you an encouraging smile. “You are going to have a great day today. I promise.”

You gave him a weak and slightly nervous smile as you followed him. You walked over a hill and what you saw made you smile for real.

Julie and her family were setting up a campsite while the rest of the band and Flynn helped. After the whole Caleb fiasco Julie had let her family in on the ghostly little secret.

“Happy Birthday!” Luke exclaimed, gesturing excitedly at everyone.

“Happy Birthday, Y/n!” Everyone called, though Flynn, Carlos, Victoria, and Ray were a little late since they didn’t see your arrival.

You smiled at your found family. “Guys, this is so sweet.”

“Oh, this isn’t everything,” Reggie said excitedly. “Wait till you see what else we have planned.”

For the first time in a while, you forgot your grief and excitement replaced it. “I can’t wait.”

~~~~

After a few incredibly fun activities, you made it back to your campsite. The sun was still up and you had a while before everyone would eat dinner.

Still hyped up you had a lot of energy and you didn’t know if you could just sit around and chat or play cards. Thankfully Carlos suggested a game of Ultimate frisbee and once the words were out of his mouth, Reggie was chanting it to. You were definitely up for a game and from there, teams were formed.

It was you, Julie, and Alex versus Luke, Reggie, Flynn, and Carlos. You may or may not have specifically engineered it to have Alex on your team, him being the tallest gave an advantage.

You took on Luke. He smirked at you as Alex threw the frisbee to Julie and Flynn intercepted. You rolled your eyes and saw Flynn get ready to throw the frisbee at Carlos. Julie was trying to guard her and Alex was on Reggie, so in a split second you ran over to Carlos. You knew you were faster than Luke so you’d be able to get to Carlos and catch the frisbee first and fortunately you were right.

You intercepted and Luke tried to guard you, giving you a pouty face when Alex caught your throw. You smirked at him, running past Alex to the area near your goal. You had barely stopped running when Alex tossed the frisbee back to you. Luke was almost to you and Julie was open. You threw it to her and smiled as she caught it, scoring a point.

“We’ll get it next time,” Luke called running off towards his team's end of the field.

“Sure!” You called back, a bright smile on your face. However, Luke was right, his team scored the next two times and your team scored the last time before dinner, leaving you at a tie.

You all made your way back to the campsite and you ghosts sat down while the ‘lifers’ got their food.

“It was interesting seeing the frisbee get caught in midair.” Ray chuckled as he took his seat, almost sitting in Reggie before Julie warned him.

“Yes, I’m glad you were having fun,” Victoria said, patting Julie. You smiled at the gesture, trying not to feel sad about your own aunts.

Dinner was full of fun chatting and Julie translating for you and the guys. After dinner the guys got their instruments out and began to sing ‘happy birthday’ to you. You sang along so everyone could see you and it turned into an impromptu concert.

As the sun disappeared and the stars came out, you and your found family sang, enjoying the moment. You would definitely treasure these memories for years to come.

After you finished singing Luke came over to you. “Just close your eyes for a second,” he said, grinning at you like an excited puppy. You did what he asked, though rather reluctantly.

“Guys, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“We wanted to,” Alex said.

You heard a lot of shuffling right in front of you and eventually Luke spoke. “Okay, open your eyes.”

In front of you was a small pile of gifts. “Guys-“

Luke cut you off before you could protest any further, “Stop, you deserve all of this and more. And don’t say you feel bad for not doing more for our birthdays, I know how long it takes you to knit those scarves.”

“Fine,” you smiled. “Which one first?”

“Ooo! Open mine!” Reggie begged, pointing at a cleanly wrapped box.” You unwrapped it, careful to make sure none of the trash went anywhere, and gasped at what you were holding. It was an incredibly detailed and beautiful sketch of a horse.

“Reggie, did you draw this?”

He nodded. “And it’s got the first country song we wrote together on it.”

You beamed at him. “We’ll get that country album some day,” you vowed, gently nudging Luke when he rolled his eyes.

“Mine next,” Alex requested, pointing to an even more elaborately wrapped box. You opened it to see Alex had decorated your old guitar strap, painting it with your favorite colors. You had been meaning to do that since you got it and you were grateful he had taken the initiative.

“I love it.”

“Good, I’m not that artistic so I didn’t know what to get you and then I remembered that you had been meaning to decorate your guitar strap since you got it, so I did it,” Alex rambled.

You laughed. “How very thoughtful of you.”

You turned your attention back to the rest of the stack, but Luke was already ready. “Here’s mine.”

“You took the small package from him and opened it. Inside was a little box and in that there was a necklace. The pendant was an old guitar pick branded with the sunset curve logo and with it was a little card in Luke’s messy handwriting: A memento of the band we started all those years ago.

“I think I’m gonna cry.” You put your hand to your mouth and Luke took the necklace from the box, putting it on you.

“I love you so much,” Luke whispered to you.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, kissing his cheek.

After admiring the necklace for a little while longer, you went to open the rest of the pile. Julie got you a gift card so you could shop together(you still only had your clothes from the nineties). Ray gave you a framed photograph of you guys at the garage party singing Edge of Great and Carlos got you a ball of yarn. Even Victoria even got you a little candle that you absolutely adored and Flynn got you a bracelet that matched one that she and Julie were wearing.

“Guys, these are all so great, I can’t thank you enough! You better bet I’ll be stepping it up for your guys’ birthdays.”

“Looking forward to it,” Carlos said, after Julie repeated what you said. He turned to his left and smiled at you and you laughed, you were sitting more to his right.

“Tell him that I can’t wait,” you requested and Julie obliged.

While she did that you got up and hugged everyone you could. “Guys, this could not have been a better day.”

“It’s not over yet. We have one last gift for you!” Reggie said excitedly and you smiled brightly, tears of joy forming in your eyes.

“You guys didn’t have to,” you protested, blushing at the kindness they had been showing you. “You’ve already done so much for me.”

“Yes we did.” Julie sat down next to you and Luke sat on the other side, with an arm around you while Reggie and Alex leaned in behind you. You tilted your head as Julie turned on her phone and went to her camera roll.

You were about to ask what was going on when she played a video. Julie and the guys appeared on screen and you saw that they were standing outside the garage.

“Happy Birthday, Y/n!” They all yelled and you smiled, expecting them to do a little birthday recording of a song for you, but instead of getting their instruments Luke spoke.

“We noticed how sad you were about your parents and we had this idea...” with that the screen shifted.

You were only more confused when you recognized the inside of your parents house. It was easy to tell that the camera was filming from just inside your old kitchen. You watched curiously as Julie and your parents stepped into the frame.

“If you could say one thing to her, what would you say?” Julie asked and you realized she was talking about you.

Your mom sniffed, tears in her eyes. “I’d let her know how much I love her and how proud we are of her. I just wish we could tell her that. She was so talented, I just wish she could have lived her dream.”

Tears welled in your eyes at what your mom said, but they started falling when your dad spoke. “I’d wish her a happy birthday and tell her that I wish she could come camping with us. We kept up our tradition and I just wish she could know how much she meant-means to us. We missed out on so much with her and though we can’t get it back I hope she knows that we love her with all of our hearts.”

The video faded into a slideshow of some pictures of you, and in the background Now or Never was playing.

A good majority of the old pictures were taken during your camping trips and it was interesting to see how you had grown. When you were twelve, guitars began to appear in the pictures and there were quite a few ones of you playing around a campfire. Everyone was laughing in those, and it made you smile to remember when they were taken.

After the pictures of your family, they faded to pictures of you with the guys. There was even one of your first gig, you recalled that your mom had taken it. Your parents had been so excited for you. You had always felt so lucky to have such supportive parents.

From there, there were the newest pictures, ones of you with Julie and even some from your current camping trip that she must have added at the last minute.

After the last picture faded away you immediately grabbed all of your friends into a group hug. You couldn’t believe they had done this for you. You felt so unbelievably honored and touched.

You sniffed. “Guys, how did you do this?”

“Well, Alex, Reggie, and I got most of the pictures, we used some cameras to sneak them,” Luke explained.

“Yeah, it was not easy. I can’t count the number of times your parents almost saw the floating cameras,” Reggie said and you laughed.

You turned to Julie. “It means the world to me that you got my parents to say that. How?”

“I told them that I was trying to get to know the old band that had once practiced in my garage and from there they told me everything.” You hugged the girl tightly.

“I can’t begin to explain how much this means to me.” You opened your mouth to explain more, but nothing came out. “Just...this is...wow, guys. I-I just, thank you? I don’t know, thank you doesn’t sound like enough.”

“You don’t have to explain, Y/n, we’re just glad you liked it,” Alex said.

“After this, I’m gonna make sure you guys have great birthdays too.” Some more tears fell. “I just, wow.”

“So you liked it?” Luke asked and you beamed at him.

“I loved it.”

****

Tada, I hope y'all enjoyed this! Once I started writing it bloomed into this and I'm happy with what it came out to be. It's also been a while since I played frisbee, so sorry if the rules are wrong. Anyways, I loved writing this and I hope y'all have a fantastically safe and wonderful day/night!

Also if you want me to do more gender neutral fics just let me know, I only do she/her because that's what I’m most comfortable with, but please let me know if you want they/them on more stuff. I want to make this blog inclusive.

P.S. I am open to requests, but I won't get to them until after Halloween :) Please check my blog for the pinned post before requesting.

P.P.S. if you want to be on my taglist for all things Julie and the Phantoms, feel free to ask. I hope it works and please message me if it doesn’t.

[lovelylogans]

the little things

oh i love the little things you say and i love the little things you do let's stay forever together this way my love, i'm so in love with you

—matt monro, "i love the little things"

part of the wyliwf verse.

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: sick mentions, food mentions, that’s about it this one’s pretty fluffy (but please let me know if i’ve missed anything!)

pairings: moxiety

words: 2,913

notes: hey, everyone. the world's kind of a Lot right now, and i figured people would probably need some fluff. i'm working on (a couple) longer pieces in this verse, including a few fluffy ones in the midst of the slightly more plot-heavy ones i was originally planning to put out next. this one was a little informal one that i could get out relatively quickly. stay safe, stay healthy (mentally and physically) and i hope that this helps brighten your day, even just a little.

virgil always gets so fussy whenever patton's sick.

even if patton's just sniffling because of allergies, for goodness' sake, virgil will ask if he's taken his allergy medicine and then, he's found it if he forgets it at home, he stashes some extra in the diner just for him, just so patton won't be sneezy when he goes off to work.

but if patton, god forbid, catches as much as a cold, then it means he's in for the mother-henning of a century. 

virgil clucks after him, asking about his symptoms, is he too warm or too cold, patton knows they could probably manage without him at the inn for the day if he needs to take a day to rest, he should take a day to rest, let virgil feel his forehead just to triple-check that he doesn't have a fever, ooh he feels a little warm maybe he should make a doctor's appointment, just to be sure that it isn't anything worse than a cold, and he could get some antibiotics if it's the flu—

even as patton groans and complains about virgil being a fusspot, really, he'll be fine, he, well. he always feels a little warm in the chest that has nothing to do with his cold or the flu.

it's just nice to be taken care of, sometimes.

⁂

patton has this really deep appreciation for food. 

he leans in and inhales the scent of his hot cocoa/coffee, even if he's acting like a sleep-deprived zombie otherwise. he makes happy humming noises whenever he tries the first bite of something. there's always this bright smile on his face whenever he tries something that virgil makes for him, especially for him, that doesn't seem to go away even if he's got his mouth closed and he's chewing. he almost always scrapes the plate with his fork, to make sure he's gotten every last morsel.

patton loves food. anyone can tell that patton loves food.

he'll never admit it, but virgil always gets this fluttery feeling in his stomach whenever he sees how much patton loves his food.

⁂

most of the time, virgil's a pretty clean-shaven fella. but sometimes, virgil lets the stubble grow out.

when he's anxious or overworked or busy, sometimes, it means that he doesn't want to spend time shaving and so just gets all five o'clock shadowy. but sometimes, it's just that he doesn't want to shave, when he's feeling a bit lazy or running late. sometimes in the winter, he lets it grow out, just because it's cold, and he tells patton that he can fool himself into believing that it's helping his face feel warmer; plus, it's what his dad does, a lot of the time, so he grew up seeing him do that and then just starting doing it himself.

when he's particularly stubbly, virgil ends up running his hand across his jaw or his cheek a lot more often than he would if he was clean-shaven. patton thinks it's about the texture, but he's never really asked. 

it looks kind of unfairly good on him? actually, no question mark, no kind of. it looks unfairly good on him.

it helps add to the whole "grr-gruff-diner-guy" thing he's got going on, with his flannels, and it just makes him look a little... rougher around the edges. 

turns out patton likes rougher around the edges.

⁂

patton always means it when he says please or you're welcome or thank you. especially thank you.

a lot of people just keep to manners because it's polite, not because they particularly mean it. and it's not like that's a bad thing—virgil is the same way, most of the time, because it's absent-minded. it's habit. he does mean it some of the time, most of the time, even, just...

it's not like the way patton is.

you can tell whenever he says "oh, excuse me!" to a person that it's real. you can tell he really, actually means it when he tells people that if they need anything, to give him a call or a text to let him know and he'll help any way he can, it's not just a nice gesture. when he thanks people, he... he means it. he really wants them to know that he's grateful, because he is grateful.

patton's genuine like that. patton's thoughtlessly good like that.

⁂

people probably wouldn't predict it at the sight of him—tall, dark-haired, scowly, sometimes-stubbly—but virgil is really great with kids.

kids of all ages, really, from babies to teenagers about to head off to college. patton wonders sometimes, how much of that is borne from practice with logan, which is a whole other huge part of why patton loves him, so he's going to get back on track here. (honestly, it probably has a lot to do with logan, and a lot to do with virgil's various nieces and nephews and cousins.)

virgil always gets this smile on his face when someone offers to hold a baby, and he holds them so carefully, always moving to support their head first and making sure that they're as secure as possible and that he's holding them textbook-perfect, surveying them to make sure they don't make any expressions of discomfort or if they start crying before he moves to start carefully rocking them, or bouncing them, this disbelieving, self-satisfied grin breaking over his face if he manages to make a baby laugh.

with toddlers, and with little kids, if he's capable of doing it, he'll always crouch down to their level, so they can look him in the eyes (or look down at him, depending on how tall the kid is) and listens to everything they have to say, asking questions that they'll be able to answer, even if he knows the answer. 

he's got a stash of kid-friendly band-aids, just in case a kid skins their knee in the town square outside before they come into the diner, and kid menus that they can color over or just plain coloring sheets if they're sick of the diner menus, and those cheap waxy four-packs of crayons. 

he's pretty decent with teenagers, too, or as good as anyone could be with a teenager—that part is probably born from him being a sulky teenager himself. he seems to know when to let kids rant, or when to let them be, or if they'll participate with gentle teasing, either of themselves or at himself.

virgil's just... really great with kids. so patton can't really help it, the way he stares at virgil with this silly smile on his face as virgil makes an overdramatically surprised face to the latest fun fact that one of his regulars' kids is telling him.

⁂

patton would tell you that he is not a great knitter, in good humor, all sheepish grin and ducked head and hand rubbing across the back of his neck.

well, not as terrible as he used to be; virgil still has the purple yarn that is still a bit tangled together that was once his first-ever homemade gift from patton, for his twenty-third birthday. at least the stuff he makes now is relatively decent at holding its shape, as long as it isn't anything too complicated. he has scarves and baby booties and hats and bags down.

but when he does try to make things that are complicated? he's absolutely hopeless. sweaters turn out lopsided. stockinette stitching is the closest virgil's ever heard to him cussing something out. socks? not a chance. 

but patton seems to survey them and then, always, always, he tries again, needles clacking away as he stares at the project in concentration, brow furrowing, his curls flopping into his eyes as he hunches himself over it. and then if it turns out slightly better, he'll get all excited, showing virgil the latest project even with its missed stitches and loops and endings, and if it doesn't turn out great, he'll sigh, and maybe get a little frustrated, but he'll unloop it and move to reuse the yarn for his next project.

he's that way about everything, really. if he doesn't succeed, he'll try, try again. 

it's just that with the knitting, virgil gets to see patton with a blanket thrown over his lap, a ball of yarn to the side, and him all focused, biting his lip and counting under his breath, even though he'll inevitably get distracted by something. it's cute. it's a cute hobby.

it fits him, since he's such a cute guy.

⁂

there's this thing virgil does when he's been on his feet for a long time, which is basically every day, since he works in a diner.

stretch his arms up over his head, then down his back. turn his head from side to side, then stretch his neck. plant his hands on his hips, leaning far to one side, then the other. stand on one leg and let the other bend at the knee, his foot close to touching his butt, then the other. if the diner isn't busy, he'll even bend to touch his toes and stretch to touch the sky.

the thing is, he almost never does his little stretching routine if he thinks anyone is watching. he'll go all red and mutter and disappear into the kitchen if anyone catches him at it. so patton always has to watch out of the corner of his eyes as virgil lets out this sigh when a stretch is particularly satisfying, or if some bone of his pops, as he does his little mini-calisthenics session.

only virgil, really, would keep that kind of practical thing secret in fears of seeming silly.

⁂

patton cries when he watches movies. not even just the sad scenes; the happy endings for some movies, too. when he watched homeward bound during a movie night with virgil and logan, when logan was about five, he was practically sobbing when shadow ran back into frame, leaving logan to confusedly pat his dad on the arm as he said "this movie is ill-o-gi-cal, daddy, you know that, right, animals don't talk," and virgil to offer his shoulder for patton to basically wipe his face off on it. well, he'd offered a hug, really, but patton had done that and also wiped his face off on virgil's hoodie.

so now virgil makes sure that there are tissues in his hoodie pocket, if they're watching a movie in theaters, or in the living room, if they're watching something at home.

⁂

virgil squints, near-suspicious, at measuring cups every time he's measuring out ingredients, to make sure that he really really has it right, even if he's been making the same food every day since he was allowed near a stove. like an i'm watching you kind of look.

⁂

patton's curls practically have their own moods. in comparison with virgil's hair, which have the three states of "unruly," "combed," and "actually styled," it feels like patton's hair has a thousand separate categories.

there's "generally unruly," which is patton's usual day-to-day look; he's clearly at least finger-combed through his hair, but it's still at least a little bit messy.

there's "i have styled my hair," which usually happens when he either has to go to his parents' house for friday night dinner or some other event in that world (chilton, charity dinners, the like) where he's made an attempt with gel, which has the bright side of taming the frizz but the dark side of taking away a lot of the lovable chaos that is patton's curls.

there's "bedhead," which is just one side of his hair flattened to his head, the rest of it frizzy and generally discombobulated.

there's a stage behind "generally unruly" and "bedhead," which virgil hasn't named, but it's when patton ruffles a hand through his hair to look at least a little bit more presentable, but really only succeeds in un-flattening his hair and making it look equally as frizzy and discombobulated as the rest of his hair. it usually makes an appearance on lazy days and in the early morning.

there's "i made an attempt with a comb or product," which usually happens on days where patton had meetings or had to go to the bank or something equally important, where the curls at least seem like they've been put into some kind of order, for the most part, with a few rebellious ones ruining the general effect.

there's "chaotically unruly," on days when patton has given up on organizing his hair for whatever reason, which meant his curls were just amok and nutty and tended to serve as a shortcut to see how frazzled patton was.

patton's curls get glimpses of reddish-auburn when he spends a lot of time in the sun in the springs or summers. it's really only easily visible when his hair catches the light. it fades away as the weather cools and the days grow longer, and virgil's almost surprised by their reappearance every year.

patton's curls grow out quick, and he isn't always the best at making sure to go get it cut, but patton looks good with his hair longer or shorter or any which way. the curls are good. the curls are great.

⁂

virgil is funny.

like, really funny. which most people wouldn't expect, because, again, he's so broody sometimes, but he is! 

he has these sly remarks that are muttered out of the corner of his mouth, usually about someone in town, which is usually about taylor, that makes patton stifle his giggles into his hand so he doesn't disrupt town meetings.

then there's his outright sarcasm, which can be in turn gentle teasing or biting commentary, which are usually more public but patton still wants to muffle his laughter by his hands, because virgil usually looked all fittingly derisive whenever he was sarcastic, and if he heard patton laughing then he'd probably crack a smile.

he even puns. he even puns specifically for patton. even if puns, a lot of the time, if it was anyone but patton telling them, makes him roll his eyes and groan. just because patton likes dumb dad jokes.

⁂

patton's an absolute gentleman.

he offers his arm for virgil to take when they're walking somewhere, almost always, either in the form of his forearm or in the form of holding hands. 

he opens doors for virgil. he pulls out chairs and helps virgil sit.

he walks between virgil and the curb, which he'd asked about just kind of mildly, since he'd never made a point of doing it back when they were just friends, and patton had rambled out some kind of explanation born the old days, like mud would splash onto him from some passing carriage or something.

he has meticulous table manners, whenever they go out to a restaurant that isn't his restaurant.

he almost always tries to pay for the check on dates, until virgil had talked him into taking turns with it, because it was getting a bit ridiculous.

if virgil's been particularly joking about patton's rich-person background, he'll start going even more overboard with it, standing when virgil enters a room and not sitting until virgil sits, taking virgil's hand and kissing his knuckles and everything. he does all of it with a teasing glint in his eyes, of course, but there's something particularly sincere and sweet in his eyes too that it makes virgil blush.

and, of course, since patton is a gentleman, he doesn't even comment on it. he just leans up to kiss virgil's cheek.

it's probably a holdover from his various etiquette lessons and the way he grew up, but virgil finds it charming regardless, tries to copy it when he can because it makes him feel nice and special when they're out on dates, so he figures it'll make patton feel nice and special when they're out on dates. even if virgil's pretty clumsy with it, patton always appreciates the gesture.

⁂

virgil has these really teeny-tiny freckles. they're basically unnoticeable unless patton's practically nose-to-nose with them. it had surprised patton, at first; virgil's so pale, he has such a creamy complexion that it seems like he shouldn't have freckles, but there they are. tiny, just-slightly-darker spots dotting his forearms, his shoulders, his cheeks. virgil had seemed surprised that patton had noticed them, then, off-handedly, mentioned that they were probably leftovers from sunburn over the years. he was pretty prone to that, being so pale.

but since patton had found them, he found himself seeking them out more and more often; there, on his shoulder blade, and here, on his knee. they're so small. like little markings on a treasure map, the treasure they led to being, of course, virgil himself.

⁂

there are lots of little things that they love about each other. things that may seem small, or near-unnoticeable, or things that are just little habits or actions or movements that seem like they shouldn't serve to make them feel as fond as they do.

but they do see it. and they do love those things, big or little. and there are plenty of big things: the way patton really, whole-heartedly loves roman like he's his own, the way virgil really, whole-heartedly loves logan like he's his own, patton's kindness and strength, virgil's heart of gold and deep-seated care for others. 

but the little things matter too.

they're finding a lot of new things to fall in love with, day after day.

[vgckwb]

P5R: Rebel Girl (A FeMC Story/P5R Rework) Chapter 16: Waterloo

It was morning. Several students were gathered around the bulletin board. It was plastered end to end with copies of the calling card. Sumire was walking by and she saw the crowd. Normally, she’d be adverse to large gatherings, but something about this drew her in. “Um, excuse me” she said, making her way to the bulletin board.

She began to read. “Suguru Kamoshida, the bastard sinner of lust. You push your sick and twisted desires on the children you are supposed to teach. When you’re not working them to their breaking point, you treat the female students as your own personal escort service. It’s gotten so bad that there are people out there that wish to see you wallow in agony as they send you up in flames. We cannot stand idly by and wait for that to happen. Henceforth, we shall steal your desires and make you confess your sins with your own mouth. From, The Phantom Thieves of Heart." She looked next to the calling card itself to spy a crudely drawn portrait of a thief in a top hat.

The students around were in shock. “Steal desires?”

“So, those rumors about Kamoshida are true?”

“Who are these Phantom Thieves?”

“What’s this ‘flames’ comment mean?”

Ren, Ann, Ryuji, and Morgana were watching from a distance. “This calling card is turning out great!” Morgana chimed.

“For real!” Ryuji said. “But, uh, what’s with that drawing?”

“Oh, I thought it needed something,” Ann said.

“OK, but doesn’t it look….” Ryuji began.

Ann was confused. “What?”

“Well, uh, how do I put this?” Ryuji said.

“It’s certainly eye-catching,” Ren said.

“Totally!” Ann said.

“...I think she missed your sarcasm,” Morgana said.

“WHAT?!” Ann said

“Yeah, it just doesn’t look good,” Ryuji said.

“Oh, like YOU could do any better” Ann huffed.

Kamoshida came walking through the halls and saw the crowd. “Hm?” He looked at the bulletin board. Once he was through reading it, his face went pale. “WHO DID THIS?” he screamed. “WAS IT YOU?! OR MAYBE YOU?!” The students cowered and ran. Sumire hid behind a wall and continued to watch Kamoshida as he approached Ren and her group. “Was it you?”

Ren put her arms behind her head. “I didn’t do it.”

Ryuji brushed his finger under his nose. “Me neither.”

Kamoshida glared at them. He looked at Ann. “What?” she said.

Kamoshida huffed. “I don’t care! I’m expelling you all! Laugh it up while you still have the chance!”

A sudden flash, and the thieves noticed their world turn black. They saw King Kamoshida standing there. “Heh. Come and take it. See if you can!”

They flashed back to reality. Kamoshida walked off. Sumire slinked away and to her classroom. Shiho walked up. “Huh?” she said. She looked at the board and read the calling card. “Hm. Heh” she muttered as she read it.

Another flash back to that all black scenery. Shiho was now in her Napoleon outfit. “You want a revolution? Well then, here it comes!”

They went back to reality once again. Shiho walked off. “Well, it seems to have worked,” Morgana said.

“Great! Now all we have to do is steal the treasure” Ryuji said, punching his palm.

“No turning back!” Ann cheered

Ren smirked. “Let’s do this.”

After school, the thieves met up. “Remember, we’ve only got one shot at this” Morgana reminded them.

“Yeah” Ryuji said.

“My heart is pounding” Ann said.

“Well, there’s no going back now” Ren reminded them.

“You’re right,” Ann said. “Let’s make this bastard pay.”

“And make sure Shiho doesn't become like him,” Ryuji said.

“Well put” Morgana said. “Let’s go!” The thieves transported to the other world. Once there, they found themselves in the village. “OK, I don’t think anyone has noticed us yet.”

“Revolutionaries!” The thieves heard Shiho shout. They peered around a house to see Shiho addressing the members of the village. “I know we had planned to take Kamoshida on May second, but something has happened. A band of thieves are trying to steal away our chance to get revenge on Kamoshida. So we must storm the castle now! Who’s with me?!” The crowd cheered.

“We’ve gotta move!” Morgana said.

“Yeah, I can tell things are going to get hectic” Ann said. The thieves headed towards the bridge to the castle.

Once at the castle, Ryuji remarked “Kamoshida’s also going to be on high alert.”

“Right. But all we have to focus on is the treasure” Ren. “Once we do that, everything should be alright, right Mona?”

Morgana nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s go!” Ren said They walked in and hid. “I don’t think we’ve been noticed yet.”

“But there are guards all around here” Ann noted.”

“Yeah, but there’s a shortcut through that painting, right?” Ryuji said. “We just gotta book it through there, and then it’s a hop, skip, and a jump from the treasure.”

Ren nodded. “On the count of three. One...two...THREE!” The thieves started running through the main hall. The guards were confused. One by one the thieves passed through the portrait.

Just as Morgana passed through meeting up with the rest of them, they heard the hall door open one again. “Alright soldiers!” Shiho instructed. “CHARGE!” Voices erupted in yells. The revolutionaries clashed with the castle guards. They heard more people pouring in to the castle.

“We have to keep moving!” Morgana said.

“Right,” Ren said. They went on the move to the upper echelons of the castle. They managed to sneak by guards. They also heard the sounds of Shiho’s forces moving through the castle.

Pretty soon, they made it to the throne room. “Huh? It’s Open?” Ryuji said, surprised.

“And Kamoshida is nowhere to be found,” Ann said.

“Well, it makes sense,” Morgana said. “The revolutionaries aren’t after Kamoshida’s treasure, just Kamoshida himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in a secluded location being guarded by the highest ranking guards.”

“But we’ve explored a lot of the castle,” Ren said. “It’s hard to believe that there’s a place that’s more secluded.”

“Well, whatever” Ryuji said. “All we need to do is grab the treasure and get out of here. Then this madness will end.”

“Skull has a point,” Morgana said. “Let’s just go!” The thieves nodded. They walked through the throne room and back into the treasure room.

They saw a regular-sized crown. “Woah! So that’s the treasure” Ryuji said.

“Mm-hm” Morgana said, nodding. “That’s it.”

Ren looked at Morgana. “Um, Mona, you seem to be shaking. Are you alright?”

There was a sparkle in Morgana's eye. “Tre-treasure.” He jumped up on it and started playing with it like a yarn-ball. “MEOW!”

“Uh, is the cat OK?” Ryuji asked.

“Yeah, this is kind of weird,” Ann added.

“Meeeeeeow” Morgan said, continuing to play.

Ren grabbed Morgana. “Mona?” she said, looking at him

Morgana got embarrassed. “Ahem. Uh, sorry.  Guess I’m just attracted to human desire.”

Ren sighed. “Skull, just grab the treasure.”

“Yeah” Ryuji said. He grabbed the crown.

“LOOK, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS EITHER!” Morgana yelled, defending himself.

“I guess it’s because he was created for the purpose of finding such things” Ann said. “If I’m remembering everything right.”

“Thank you Lady Aaaa- Panther” Morgana said. “I know you’d understand.

“Believe me, I’m at the epicenter of all of this,” Ren said. “I get it.”

“Thank you as well, Joker” Morgana said.

“Doesn’t make it any less weird” Ren said.

“Yeah, it-HEY!” Morgana said.

“We can debate the weirdness later!” Ann said. “Right now, we have to focus on getting out of here!” The thieves nodded. Ren put Morgana down and they headed back to the throne room. Once they entered, they saw Shiho standing over Kamoshida with a sword at his throat. “SHIHO!” Ann yelled.

Shiho and Kamoshida looked at them. Shiho laughed. “This bastard was waiting to ambush you and take his treasure back. Good thing I happened to notice a certain spinning portrait.”

“Drat!” Morgana said.

“Now I can finish this monster once and for all!” Shiho raised her blade to kill Kamoshida.

Ann struggled to comprehend the sight before her. “CARMEN!” she called. She blasted Shiho off of Kamoshida.

Ryuji raced to grab Kamoshida and put him between them and Shiho. ”Thanks,” Kamoshida said.

Ryuji kicked him in the face, knocking him out. “Shut up.”

Shiho got back up. “So, you’ll still defend this man? This man who does everything for himself and his ego. This man who breaks his students. He is truly the lowest of the low, and yet you still defend him?”

“We aren’t defending his actions” Ann yelled.

“Yeah, Kamoshda’s a real piece of shit!” Ryuji added. “We all know this!”

“We’re going to make him pay!” Morgana yelled.

“We just don't want you to sink to his level,” Ren told her.

“Heh” Shiho said. “You’re putting a lot of effort to protect someone who wouldn’t care if you died. You know how he thinks of you, right?” She waved her hand. Three books appeared. They opened to reveal Ann in a bikini with cat ears and a tail, Ren in prison garb with tears in it, and a Ryuji who looks sort of like a monkey completely broken down with no legs.”

“Uh, what’s going on?” Ryuji asked.

Morgana was shocked. “Oh no! She’s starting to take over more!”

“That’s not good,” Ren said.

Morgana shook his head. “If we want Kamoshida to confess, the palace still has to be his! All we have to do is keep Kamoshida alive and leave with the treasure. That way, she can’t fully control it.”

Ren readied herself. “Well then, I guess that's what we’re doing.”

“You STILL want to keep him alive?!” Shiho said in shock. “Even after knowing what he thinks of you?! How he sees you?! How he wants to destroy you completely?!”

“Hm” Ann chuckled. “You think I care what a scumbag like Kamoshida thinks? Well, you’re wrong! You wanna know what I care about?! I care about my best friend! And right now, she’s about to make a huge mistake! I’m here to stop her!”

Shiho glared at the thieves. “Very well.” She drew her sword. “I’ll just have to take you on myself.”

“Woah! Is she really going to fight us?” Ryuji asked.

“We have no other choice” Ann said. “It’s the only way to get through to Shiho!”

“Well, if you’re OK with it, then so am I” Ren said.

“Yah! The Phantom Thieves never back down!” Mornaga said. They all began to face off against Shiho. After a few rounds, Morgana remarked “Woah, she’s good.”

The castle started to break down. “Woah! What’s going on?” Ryuji asked.

“She’s taking more control of the palace!” Morgana said.

“She can’t gain full control so long as Kamoshida’s still alive, right?” Ren asked.

“Right!” Morgana said.

“I suggest we stay the course!” Ren said.

“Come in” said Kamoshida’s voice.

“Huh?” Ren said.

You wanted to see me?” Shiho asked.

“Where's this coming from?” Ryuji asked.

“Ah, Suzui-chan, great timing” Kamoshida’s voice said. “You’re friends with Takamaki-chan, right? Do you happen to know her number?”

Ann was horrified. “Don’t tell me!”

The Shiho in front of them nodded. “Yes. This is a real interaction I’ve had with Kamoshida.”

The conversation continued with Shiho’s voice. “Why do you need to know that?”

Kmaoshida laughed. “Because she’s smoking hot, and I’d like me some of that.”

“Grrrr” hissed Ann.

Shiho’s voice grew concerned. “Why would I give it to you now, after you just admitted to that?”

“Heh” said Kamoshida. “Because my word is law. If you don’t, you’re off the volleyball team!”

“You. You can’t do that!” Shiho exclaimed.

“Oh, but I can,” Kamoshida continued. “This school eats out of the palm of my hand. They wouldn’t believe you if you told them about this conversation.” Shiho could be heard starting to cry. ”Oh, don’t be like that,” Kamoshida said. “Tell you what. You’re pretty cute as well. If you don’t want to give me Takamaki’s number, you could just take her place. Tell you what? I’m feeling generous. I’ll give you a week for you to give me your answer. Takamaki. You. Or volleyball. The choice is yours.”

The voices stopped. Shadow Shiho spoke. “You still want to defend him? You still want to show him mercy?”

Ann was seething. Ren spoke up. “This doesn’t change anything!” she said. Ann was shocked. Ren looked at Ann and nodded.

Ann nodded back. She looked at Shiho. “Right. We KNOW Kamoshida is a piece of shit. That’s WHY we’re doing this in the first place. We’re going to make him confess his crimes with his own mouth. Then everyone will know how truly awful he is.”

“A lofty ideal,” Shiho said. “But I still want him dead!” They continued to fight.

After a few more rounds, the voices came back. “I can't,” Shiho said. “I can’t give up my best friend for volleyball. I just can’t. But… I don't want to go with him either.” The thieves listened intently. “This is an impossible choice! However… No. That’s crazy! But so is this…” She sighed. “I have time. If I can’t think of anything else… I’ll do it! I’ll jump!” As the voice stopped, the thieves were shocked.

“Shiho…” Ann said.

“NOW will you change your mind?” Shiho asked. “He doesn’t DESERVE the kindness you’re giving him!”

“No way!” Ryuji shouted. “It doesn’t have to be your life or his! We’re living proof of that!”

There was chatter.

“What was that?” Ann asked.

“Heh” Shiho said. “Those are my fellow revolutionaries. They want Kamoshida dead just as much. You can’t stop all of us.”

Ren gathered her team. “As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. One of us needs to hide Kamoshida while the rest of us keep her distracted.”

“Who should it be?” Morgana asked.

Ren looked at Morgana and smiled. “Why don’t you do it?” she told him.

“Me?” Morgana said.

Ren nodded. “She knows the rest of us. You’re the odd one out here.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Morgana said.

“You can do it Mona!” Ann said.

Morgana smiled. “Well, if Panther thinks I can do it, then I shall.” Morgan went to gather Kamoshida.

Ren nodded. “ARSENE!” she called out. She attacked Shiho. Morgana was hiding Kamoshida, while the remaining three continued to fight.

After a few more rounds, the revolutionaries stormed the throne room. “HA!” Shiho called. “You’re too late! GET KAMOSHIDA!”

The revolutionaries searched the room. “Uh...Kamoshida isn’t here.”

Shiho was confused. “What?!” She looked behind the three thieves. “Where’d he go?!”

“Like we’d tell you!” Morgana said. He came out and performed a sneak attack on Shiho and then joined the rest of the group.

Shiho growled. “Spread out and find Kamoshida! They couldn’t have taken him too far!” The revolutionaries spread out in search of Kamoshida. “I’ll take care of these stubborn thieves.”

“Heh. We may be stubborn” Morgana said. “But we also know we’re right!” Shiho scowled. The fight continued on for a little while longer.

After trading some blows, Shiho fell to her knees. “No,” she said in agony. She started to cry. She covered her face with her hands.

The thieves were struck with a confusion hard to describe. This was the person threatening death at all costs not a moment ago. But they also knew she was just as much a victim as anyone else. “I’ve got this,” Ann said. She approached Shiho. “Hey...Shiho…”

Shiho looked up, tears covering her face. “I’m sorry!” She hugged Ann. Ann gently hugged her back. “Everywhere I looked was filled with darkness. I didn’t want to give you to someone like him. I didn’t want to give myself. I didn’t want to lose volleyball. I’m sorry. I’m just a selfish person.” She continued to cry.

Ann started to tremble a little as well. “Shiho. What happened, it wasn’t your fault. I should have done something sooner as well. But the real person to blame is Kamoshida. He’s nothing short of a monster.”

“But...but...I betrayed you,” Shiho said.

“You did no such thing” Ann said. “You just did the only thing you thought you could do. I don’t blame you for any of this.”

“So...So you’ll forgive me?” Shiho asked.

Ann smiled. “Of course I’ll forgive you!” Ann started to cry as well. “What are best friends for?!”

“Heh heh” Shiho said. She stopped crying, as did Ann. The two girls let go of each other.

Shiho smiled. “Thanks Ann. I feel like I needed this.”

“Yeah,” Ann said. “I feel that too.”

“I’ll see you back on the other side,” Shiho said as she faded.

The rest of the thieves awkwardly approached Ann. “So, is that it?” Ryuji asked.

“Not quite,” Morgana said. “We gotta get Kamoshida’s shadow to do the same.”

“So, where did you hide him?” Ren asked. Morgana knocked on a column and Kamoshida fell from the large bush at the top of it.

Kamoshida looked up to see the thieves pointing their long-ranged weapons at him. “Yo, we’re taking this,” Ryuji said, showing off the crown.

“You better go and confess your sins!” Ann demanded.

Kamoshida looked scared. “OK! I WILL!”

Ren pushed her gun against Kamoshida. “Promise?”

“I PROMISE!” Kamoshida said in a panic. “I...I don’t want to live in that darkness again…”

“Darkness?” Ann asked

“Probably a residual for the take over” Morgana explained.

Kamoshida’s shadow disappeared. “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s get out of here” Ryuji said. The castle started to shake. “What’s going on?!”

“We have to hurry!” Mogana said. “Now that we have the treasure and Kamoshida’s has returned to him, the palace is collapsing!”

“WHY’D YOU WAIT UNTIL NOW TO TELL US THIS WOULD HAPPEN?!” Ryuji asked.

“No time!” Ren reminded them. “Let’s move!” The Phantom Thieves quickly ran through the castle and the village, escaping the implosion.

Once they escaped, they found themselves in an ally in front of the school. “Location Deleted” the app said.

“Man, that was a close one,” Ryuji said.

“Yeah” said Ann.

“Which brings me back to my original question,” Ryuji remarked. “WHY THE EFF DID YOU NOT TELL US THIS BEFORE YOU STUPID CAT?!”

“Not so loud!” Ann said. “People might hear us.”

“I...I thought it was obvious,” Morgana said.

“How would that be obvious?!” Ryuji said.

“I mean, it IS a world created from the subconscious” Ren remarked. “Nothing really surprises me when it comes to this.”

“Yeah Ryuji. You should be more prepared!” Morgana chided.

“Don’t take his side!” Ryuji said.

“Yeah, you should have told us Morgana,” Ann said.

“...I’m sorry Lady Ann,” Morgana said.

“Well, we all escaped,” Ryuji said. “I guess that’s gotta count for something.”

“Yeah!” Ann said. “Now let’s see that treasure!”

“Huh? Oh yeah” Ryuji said. He lifted his hand to see not a crown, but a medal. “What? Where’s the crown?!”

“Hmm, If I had to guess, this is the actual treasure” Ren said. “It’s the thing that caused him to be the way that he is.”

“Bingo!” Morgana said.

“I thought bingo was a dog thing” Ren remarked.

“I-eh-uh” Morgana stuttered. “Nevermind. The point is, the treasure takes on a different form in the Metaverse than it does here.”

“Oh, I see,” Ryuji said. “I think. Basically, he thought of this medal as a crown. It’s what made him a king.”

“Precisely” Morgana said. “I guess even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”

“I’ll stop your clock!” Ryuji threatened.

“What does that even mean?” Ann asked.

“So, now what happens?” Ren asked. They all looked at her. “We have the medal, we’ve stopped Shiho from going through with her plan, and we’ve gotten Kamoshida to promise to confess. Now what?”

“We wait,” Morgana said.

“Seriously?” Ryuji said.

“Hey! This isn’t an exact science” Morgana said. “We just have to wait until Kamoshida confesses.”

The three teens stood silently for a bit. Ren chimed in “As much as I hate to admit it, there’s nothing else we can do for the time being.”

“Well, I know what I’m doing,” Ann said. “I’m going to go check on Shiho. Make sure she’s alright.”

Ren smiled. “I like that. I should do so too when I get the chance.”

“Yeah, same here” Ryuji said. “It feels like forever since I’ve hung out with her.”

“Yeah, it’ll be just like old times!” Ann said, a smile appearing on her face.

“So, what do we do with this?” Ryuji said, holding out the medal.”

“I guess I’ll take it for now,” Ren said. “We can figure it out later.”

“Fair enough,” Ryuji said, handing it over. “Well, I gotta get going. My mom’s expecting me for dinner tonight. Oh, and Ann.” Ann looked at him. “Give my best to Shiho. Seeya!” He ran off.

Ann blushed slightly. “I will.” Morgana pouted a little. Ren kicked him gently, but enough to make him stop.

“I should get going too. I don’t want Sojiro to worry about me” Ren said.

“Yeah,” Ann said. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Ren said. She crouched down. “Alright kitty, get in the bag.” Morgana looked at her weird, but didn’t say anything as he hopped in the bag. She got back up and started to walk to the station.

Ann got out her phone and dialed Shiho’s number. “Hey Shiho. Is now a good time to talk?”

[lefaystrent]

Potatoes

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: Moxiety

Summary: Virgil has worries for days, but there's only one thing that truly scares him.

Notes: No potatoes were harmed in the making of this story.

AO3 Link

“You’re not even scared of spiders?”

“No, not really.”

“Is there anything that does scare you?”

“I mean, sure.”

“What do you find scarier than anything else then?”

“. . . Patton,” Virgil answered.

The others laughed. Virgil wasn’t laughing. He let them have their fun.

He took a sip of his drink and let his gaze wander across the room where more friends had gathered in the kitchen. Glimpses of the ball of sunshine in question caught his eye. Glasses pushed up in curly hair, eyelids closed and smears of yellow cake frosting highlighting his cheek. Unabashed giggles spilling past smiling lips.

Patton would laugh all the more if he’d heard Virgil’s confession.

He would push Virgil’s shoulder, playful and gentle, and Virgil would let him. Virgil would let him brush it aside as long as it meant he kept smiling. As long as it meant Patton glowed happily, spread that warmth to Virgil, and remained none the wiser of how much power he truly held.

Spiders weren’t scary. People who did terrible things weren’t scary.

People who were kind, they were scary.

Not just polite, but compassionate with complete sincerity. A giving hand that you never had to reach out for. Minds that spared no second-thought to do a good deed and souls that burned all the brighter for it.

These people, they couldn’t be bought, bribed, or reasoned with. That’s not what they were after. Taking didn’t suit them, as human as they were—Oh, but humans, selfish by nature, bound by desire. They were human too. No matter how different their desires, they must still want something.

Virgil just didn’t know what.

The party continued, voices ebbing and flowing, music an ever-present buffer to fill out the gaps. Noises grew too loud, conversation too demanding.

Virgil slipped away to the back porch. There were no stars or clouds to get lost in, but neither were there people. Just him, a lawn chair, his drink, and the refreshing chill in the air. It was too cold, the wooden slab of his seat freezing beneath him.

He breathed in the sharp air, let it fill his lungs, holding for longer than he needed but shorter than he wanted. 

His thoughts evened out. The taut elastic band around his heart loosened.

He sighed and took a sip. If he cared to, he could sit out here all night. Not part of the party, yet not having gone entirely. Just hovering on the edge.

Virgil relaxed, head tilted back and face skyward. He blinked lazily for a long time before another face appeared over his to block the view.

“I found you,” he spoke softly, teasingly. Pleased with himself and pleased all the more because it was Virgil who he found.

Patton.

“Hm, don’t tell anyone,” Virgil said. It’d be a bother right now if the others were to come out and bring all the clamor with them. But Patton was different. Patton was okay.

Patton chuckled deep from his chest, arms crossed over the top of Virgil’s seat, and he wondered if he imagined feeling the vibrations from the lovely sound. A melody, both grounding and groundbreaking, settling in the depths of Virgil’s stomach and bringing back that now familiar warmth.

“My lips are sealed,” Patton promised, going so far as to mime zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. He glanced up around them to take in the tarp-covered pool, surrounding flowerbeds, and the line of trees in the distance. “Seen any fireflies?”

“No. Might be too cold for them.”

“It is pretty chilly out here,” Patton agreed. He looked back down at Virgil, eyes roving over his body in a way that Virgil consciously had to tell himself to not squirm or overthink. “How long have you been out here?”

He shrugged, allowing himself to bring his drink up to his mouth to have something to hide behind. “I don’t know. A while. Haven’t been paying attention.”

Patton’s fingers were suddenly pressed against his cheek, the knuckles resting like fire against icy skin.

“You’re cold,” Patton murmured, the worried inflection of his words tangling in Virgil’s belly in the most complicated ball of yarn, trapping the butterflies there and ensuring that they were there to stay.

And just like that the heat against his cheek was gone. Patton didn’t think twice about untying the cardigan he wore around his neck. He shook it out and draped it over Virgil like a blanket.

“Where’d your hoodie run off to?” Patton asked conversationally, as if he hadn’t just did things to Virgil that he could never understand. “You usually always wear it.”

“Left it in the car,” Virgil answered absently, caught up in staring at the man above him “Didn’t think I’d need it.”

“Lucky I’m here then.” Patton grinned. He returned to his position behind Virgil’s chair, arms once again crossed on the back rest so close that Virgil could feel where his hair tickled them. There were other chairs Patton could sit in. He didn’t need to stand by him like this. He didn’t need to be this close.

Virgil didn’t tell him these things.

“Why are you so nice to me?” Virgil asked. Questioned. Begged to know.

The corners of Patton’s eyes crinkled, fondness clear as day. “It’s easy.”

No, it wasn’t. Virgil knew himself. He knew himself, and he knew people, and he knew how quickly anger could scald. How hate could overrun. How simple it could be, to just not give a damn. To make someone hurt for no reason other than because you can.

People like Patton were scary. Because they could offer the shirts from their backs and call it easy. They could smile at you like it didn’t cost them. Like they didn’t know the rest of the world didn’t work like that.

Like they genuinely wanted you to be warm and safe and happy. Sharing their time, laughter, cardigans, and fond gazes because they really cared, not because they wanted your heart.

But Virgil would give his anyways.

And that scared him. Because people like Patton, they moved you. They made you forget how dim and bleak life had been before them.

And yet, in the pit of his stomach and the forefront of his mind, Virgil knew without a doubt, how much worse life could be after Patton. After Virgil had experienced this warmth and was left shattered when none was left.

Had Virgil been smarter, he would have run away the first moment he laid eyes on him.

But Patton was here now, and his cardigan still lay over him, cozy and wonderful. Virgil might not know exactly what Patton hoped to gain, but as he said, he knew himself. He knew himself to be human, and he couldn’t help but be selfish.

Virgil carefully sat his drink on the ground beside him. Then he reached up to tug at Patton’s wrist pointedly, beseechingly. Patton’s eyes widened momentarily, catching on to what Virgil silently asked for. He wasn’t the type to initiate affection. Patton knew that, and he wasn’t letting this moment go to waste either. 

Arms came down to circle around Virgil. Arms laying solid and real across his chest. Arms caging him, protecting him.

Arms that were frightfully warm.

General Tag List:  @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm @whats-going-on-kiddos @randomsandersides @gamerfreddie @unring-this-bell @that-royal-ravenclaw @analogicallythinking @lilygold23 @punsterterry @naw2702 @levy-the-b00kw0rm @iolanomsgranola @tacohippy56900 @camariechris @accio-hufflepuff-power1 @just-another-rainbowblog

[crayonwriting]

Irreplaceable You: 10

Summary: Unexpectedly diagnosed with a terminal disease, you embark on a mission to find a new love for your fiancé and childhood best friend, Bucky Barnes.

Disclaimer: This story is a rewrite of the movie of the same title on Netflix. Directed by Stephanie Laing and written by  Bess Wohl. Go check it out!

—

You were out for a walk around the city; just enjoying the sight of the buildings, the grey skies and the busy people. You had your headphones on, blasting an upbeat tune which added a little skip to your step.

You passed by a jewellery shop and glanced at the window. There, sitting on one of the displays, was a twenty karat, silver, diamond ring; the beautiful rock sat in the middle and as fine, smaller ones surrounding it, resembling a flower. 

Your heart warmed at the sight of the beautiful piece. You bit your lip, debating in your thoughts. You played with the rubber band engagement ring on your own finger and, almost instantly, you knew what you had to do.

…

You sat on the kitchen table with the diamond ring sitting in front of you. You looked up at Bucky who had his hands running through his hair.

“It cost how much?” He asked for the third time already.

“I think it's pretty.”

“Well,” Bucky pointed at the ring, “It's a metal ring with a shiny rock on top.” He stared straight at you.

“Women like them.” You defended.

“We needed that money for our future…for your treatments.” There was a slight raise to Bucky’s voice. He ran a hand down his face, sighing. “I’m taking it back.” He reached out and grabbed the ring. You caught his hand across the table and snatched the ring back.

“You can't! I have the receipt.” You looked up at him as innocently as possible.

“I'm never giving it to anybody.” He shook his head.

“You don't know that.”

“Yes, I do.” It was obvious that he was furious and you thought of ways on how to lighten the mood.

“You could one day need a ring, and then you'll have this one,” you gestured to the ring with both of your hands, “And you'll be grateful, and then—“

“When I do, do you really think I'd propose with a ring you picked out?” His voice boomed around the quiet apartment. “Come on, Y/N!” He raised his arms up in disbelief. You opened your mouth to say something but no words came out. 

“‘Oh hey, new person, here you go. This ring was personally selected by my dead ex.’” Buck gulped down. He put a hand to his waist and stared you down. “I’m sure she’ll love hearing that.” You sat there, stunned. A moment of silence passed before you spoke up.

“You're probably right.” You looked down at your hands. You felt guilty and mad all of a sudden. The idea sounded good in your head but—he should be thanking you, to be honest—but only now do you realise that Bucky did have a point. You heard him sigh. Now, with a much calmer voice, he said,

“I only meant,” he held the ring in his hand, “This was our entire rainy day fund. We—“

“Buck.” You cut him off. You slung your bag on your shoulder and stood up. “You’ve made your point. I get it.” You rushed inside the bedroom and slammed the door shut. Bucky groaned, walked to the living room and dropped himself on the sofa, letting out a long and helpless sigh.

—

A few days later, you find yourself back at the greenhouse with Tony. You both had binoculars on, pointed towards the sky.

“You can't stay mad at him forever.” Tony said.

“He started it.” You countered. “He freaked out over something that wasn't even that big of a deal.”

“If it's no big deal, get over it.”

“I am over it. I don't see why I have to be the one to fix something that wasn't even my fault.” You put down the binoculars and looked at Tony. “What are we even looking at?”

“For a hawk.” He stated, plainly. You looked through your binoculars again, searching the vast New York sky for a hawk.

“Mind telling me how this is fun?” You asked sarcastically.

“It's not, it's an obsession.” He put down his binoculars and turned to you. “Speaking of obsession, just apologise and move on.” He turned to sit down on a nearby bench; you followed suit.

“How can I, Tony?” You sounded a little bit desperate. “You know, it's like they say, when you get sick, you really see what the people around you are made of.” You sighed as you leaned back on the bench. “What if Sam and I aren't right for each other after all?”

“Me and Pepper had a fight once; lasted two years.” He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. “Two thousand one to two thousand two.”

“Over what?”

“A couch. Ugly, purple couch.” Tony stared off into the distance as he recalled the memory. “She wanted it. I didn’t.” He shrugged. “We put it in the living room, and I was angry for two years.”

“And then you got rid of it?” You tried to guess the outcome of the story.

“No.” Tony shook his head. “I got over myself.” You scoffed, not believing what he said.

“Are you implying I need to get over myself?” You sneered.

“I'm saying it out loud.” He raised his eyebrow at you, smug as hell. He looked at you, serious. “Flat out. You've loved and been loved. You're one of the lucky ones.” He counted it off of his fingers, “Now you're gonna die.That's it.” 

“Why are you being like this?” You shook your head. “I thought you were my friend. I don't even give a shit about knitting.”

“Crochet.” He corrected.

“Whatever!” You blurted out, frustrated. “The-The only reason I even went back to Yarn Freaks Anonymous all those times was to see you.”

“You shouldn't have done that.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He repeated. “Why make friends with somebody who's terminal?” He turned and faced you. No one made a move until Tony cracked a smile. “But I'm glad you did.”

Your felt your face break into a smile. You laughed, slightly pushing his arm in a friendly way.

—

Bucky downed his drink in one swift gulp. He gently placed the empty glass on top of the bar countertop. He sighed as the liquid burned his throat.

“She won't talk to me. She’s-she's mad all the time. It's like she's been replaced by a lunatic.” He ranted. Beside him, Sam listened thoughtfully.

“You know, the more and more that you talk, the more you sound like a crazy person. You know that?” Sam looked at his best friend.

“Give me another one.” Bucky told the bartender. He looked to his other side where two girls sat. He turned his body to face them slightly, muttering a soft ‘hi’ to one of them.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Sam sat up straighter on the bar stool.

“Let me buy you a drink.” Bucky smiled dopily at the girls.

“Bucky. Hey dude, c’mon. Stop.” Sam reached over and pulled Bucky to face him. He caught the attention of the girls. “Hey, just ignore him. He's adorable, but he’s-he's not available.”

“I'm very available.”

“What are you doing, man?” Sam whispered, frustratingly. He couldn’t believe the scene in front of him right now.

“This is what she wants.” Bucky slapped his hand on the countertop.

“No,” Sam shook his head furiously. “This is what she thinks that she wants, man. She's not thinking clearly. You said it yourself that she's acting like a lunatic.” Bucky scoffed at Sam’s words.

“Since when are you the poster child for fidelity?”

Sam chuckled, sarcasm lacing the sound. He punched Bucky multiple times in the arm in a playful manner.

“Aw, that's... that's real nice, man.” Sam fake coughed. “Yeah, I play the field. I fuck around more than I should. But guess what?” Bucky arched his eyebrow. “I would give it all up for one moment of what you and Y/N have.”

Bucky took a moment before he answered, “What we had, you mean.” He pursed his lips at Sam. “What do you know anyways?” He turned his attention back to the girls, starting up another conversation.

Sam sighed deeply, exhausted and—honestly—disappointed. He got up from his seat and reached into his pocket.

"You know what, let me... Um…" He placed a few bills on the counter and talked over Bucky to the girls. "Hey, this is... These drinks are on me. And, um…" he clapped a firm hand on Bucky's shoulder. Sam stared him down, giving his shoulder a hard squeeze and his chest a hard pat. "Enjoy this. Yeah." He turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Have a great, great, great night." Sam shrugged in his jacket, giving Bucky a two-fingered salute before exiting the bar.

"Sam!" Bucky called, but Sam was already gone. He sighed to himself and gestured to the bartender for another round. 

"Keep 'em coming."

...

Bucky knocked on the glass door, seeing the familiar redhead inside. When she turned to him, he gave her a small wave. She waved back—Bucky took it as an invitation to go inside.

"Hey!"

"Hey. Hi." Nat greeted, fixing one of her paintings before giving Bucky her full attention.

"I just, uh…" Bucky shrugged. He pushed his glasses further up his nose. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, trying to think of what to say—what he wanted to say. Nat patiently waited for him as she felt a little awkward tension between them.

"I just…y'know...uhm…" Bucky struggled.

"Yeah." Nat answered. Bucky snapped his gaze to hers. Nat smiled sadly and nodded, keeping eye contact with him. "Yeah. Okay." Bucky felt a small rush of relief as he walked closer to her. 

—

It was a little past two in the morning when Bucky has arrived at your door. He put the keys in, unlocking the door. He was only able to open a sliver of it for you had put the chain on. 

"Y/N?" He knocked. "Y/N, are you there?"

You took a glimpse of the door from your position in the living room. Bucky kept knocking and calling your name.

"Go away!" You shouted. You wrap yourself deeper into the thick blanket you had brought in from the bedroom. You lay your head down on the small hill of pillows you've piled on the couch. "I just want to be on my own, okay?"

"I don't care what you want." He mumbled. "I'm done with whatever you want."

"What?" You sat up. Your strained to listen to him from across the room. 

"You want me to be okay after you're gone? Well, news flash! I'm not gonna be okay, no matter how much you try to push me away. You can't…" his voice cracked a little, "You can't  make me okay without you."

You sighed, considering his words. With a defeated groan, you stood up and walked over to where he was. You opened the door,—ready to apologise and bring him into your arms—when you noticed his slightly disheveled appearance. 

"What happened to you?" You asked, quietly. He gulped and avoided your eyes. 

"Well, I was... I was out with Sam." He glanced at you sideways.

"I just talked to him." You eyed him suspiciously. "He said he left you hours ago."

Bucky nodded, pursing his lips. He looked down at his feet. You were starting to feel impatient when he suddenly spoke, "I was at Nat's." You scrunch your eyebrows together. 

"The bad artist." Your, still, silent response was tearing Bucky apart. "She has cats." He finally had the guts to look you in the eye. He gulped visibly and clenched his fists inside his jacket pockets. 

You squinted your eyes at him. You tried your best to absorb all the information given to you. You noticed how he shifted nervously from one foot to the other and how he kept averting his gaze from your stare, every now and then. When he looked at you again, you knew. 

"Y-Y/N…"

"It's none of my business." You retreated.

Bucky just sighed, "Of course it's your business."

"No... No, no, it's good. It's actually a good thing you're moving on." You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ease the slight tinge in your chest. This was what you wanted in the first place, right?

"No, you don't mean that."

"That's what I've been trying to get you to do." You skimmed your trembling fingers over your lip. 

"Y/N. It was nothing—"

"—You're a little ahead of schedule, but—"

"Look at me. Look at me." Bucky reached over and held your arma. You immediately flinched away from him, raising your hands in defense.

"Don't fucking touch me!" You blurted out. Bucky took a step back.

"Come on. Just...Y/N, let me in. I'm—"

You slammed the door in his face. He heard the lock click. Bucky slapped the door in frustration before sighing deeply. He leaned his forehead against the door, immediately regretting his stupid decisions.

—

You slouched at the all too familiar chair in front of Dr. Kessler. He had papers on his desk again, along with your ultrasound.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N."

You knew this was coming. From the moment you saw the sad smile on his face when you entered the room, you already knew what he was going to say. Nothing ever comes good after a doctor apologises to you.

"We're just not seeing the results we would like to see. It's time for you to start focusing on what your priorities might be, find some things you might like to do and...who you want to be spending time with."

You stared outside the window, fiddling with your fingers. You were now officially—officially—dying. You bit your fingers nervously, tinkering with the rubber band on your ring finger. 

"Y/N, is... is your husband here with you today?" Dr. Kessler asked. You exhaled deeply, still staring out the window.

"No." You shook your head slowly. "No...and anyway, he's, uh…," You looked at Dr. Kessler. "not my husband."

—

You gently placed the framed picture inside the box you were packing. You shuffled through some papers on your desk, checking which ines you needed.

Clint was sulking on his chair, looking at you with puppy dog eyes and a pout. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table as he watched you pack your stuff. 

"I can't believe you're actually leaving." He mumbled.

You smiled tightly, shrugging your shoulders. "It's time, Clint."

He knitted his eyebrows in a frown at how  nonchalant you were being. You avoided his gaze because you knew if you looked at him, it will just make you cry.

Clint was your second best friend—next to Bucky—and he has been there for you all these years. You also had protected him from making bad—stupid—decisions you know he'll regret: dick tattoos, nipple piercings, cocaine and shaving his head. You treated each other like brother and sister and you were both grateful for it.

"Well," he stood up, "It's your loss of this isn't the last face you're gonna see," he gestured to himself, " Before you die on all of us."

You smiled softly and continued to pack. Clint now helped you, handing you your books and files. After a few minutes, you were finally done. You exhaled loudly. You rubbed your hands together and wiped them down your jeans.

You turned to Clint, "I'm gonna miss you, Clint."

"Don't do that." He held you at arms-length. His lips quivered but he fought hard to hold back his tears. You bit your lip, pulling him into a hug. 

"You're such a baby." You squeezed him tight. He engulfed you in big, bear hug. He buried his head on your shoulder. 

"I'll drop by your apartment when I can." He whispered. He gave you a tight squeeze, making you groan; you giggled when you both pull away. You adjusted your beanie and straightened your clothes.

"Are you really bald now under that hat?"

—

You stepped cautiously inside the big room, avoiding bumping into nurses and other patients. You looked through each cubicle, looking for a certain face. 

"Oh, hey!" Scott called you over from across the room. "I got you a milkshake. I put it by your chair." You took a step forward, but Scott stopped you. "Just give me a minute to set up Joe here." He pointed to the old man sitting beside him.

"Actually," you gulped, "I'm just checking out of the treatment suite." You blinked hard, your tears already clouding your vision. Scott stared at you, serious, which made you look away. "I really enjoyed my stay, but, um…," you shake your head. 

With tears on the brink of falling, you looked up at him and said, "I don't think I'll be back."

Scott gulped. He slowly nodded his head in understanding. He offered you a soft smile.

"Well, take care, all right?"

You nodded with a tight-lipped smile. You turned around and started walking away.

"Hey," he called. You turned back to look at him. "Remember us on Yelp." You chuckled lightly, making a lone tear fall from the corner of your eye.

"I will." And then you left. Scott looked at your retreating form with a sad and longing look on his face. Sure, he has said goodbye to a lot patients in his career but he has never had a patient—no, friend—like you.

—

feedback?

irreplaceable you tags: @blueskiesbleakeyes / @justanothergirlwithdemons / @butteryoptimisticpeanut / @likes-to-smell-books / @hennessy0274-blog / @void-imaginations / @imaginingadifferentlife / @icedwolf-01

permanent tags: @awkwardfangirl2014

[queenbirbs]

waiting game | Ethan Ramsey x MC

AN - Literally couldn’t get this oneshot out of my head last night, so therefore I spent most of my last day off before Easter Hell Week writing it out. Because of course, why not? WC 3701 There’s a special place in hell for Harper Emery.  

It’s the fourth time the phrase has entered his head, but it hasn’t lost the fire behind it. He’s the leader of one of the country’s best diagnostics teams, he’s done a few tours with Doctors Without Borders. Last year, he even went back home for Christmas dinner with a family who would honestly rather receive more postcards from Mozambique in lieu of seeing him in person.  

And yet, this is possibly the most stressful thing Ethan’s ever dealt with. Wading through feces and garbage in a rural country would be more preferable at this point.  

The event room around him is gilded to the tee. Every table is draped in the finest cloth, the silverware sparkling in the light of the chandeliers, the plates filled with the highest quality catering. Extravagant centerpieces explode from the center of the tables, white orchids and white hydrangeas and white lilies spilling out from crystal vases. Some type of curly branch winds up toward the ceiling, breaking up the overwhelming glare of white.  

In the beginning, he tried to position himself just so, hoping the floral arrangement would hide him. Sitting down only served to make him an easy target, though, where any of the sharks could circle his table and feast upon him at will.

Glancing down at the scotch in his hand, he wonders how many more metaphors he can make before he has to cut himself off.

His current strategy is to keep moving, keeping himself between them with large, immovable objects. He learned his lesson with George Kadinskee, who shoved a table and chairs out of the way to get to him. It’s like being in a furniture store or a car dealership, watching the sales people discreetly chase after him.  

It’s all rather pathetic (and childish) of him, but he didn’t become a doctor to get hounded by insurance reps. And yet, here he was at a Banner Health function on a Friday evening, dressed in one of his finest suits, waiting for the earth to swallow him up.

He really just wants to go home to his dog and a documentary.  

“Doctor Ramsey!” a voice calls from behind him.  

Allotting himself a wince and a sip of his drink in preparation, he sucks in a breath and straightens his spine. It’s a good thing, too, because when he turns around he needs to cling to all the composure he can.

“Rookie,” he greets, taking another sip to wet his dry mouth, “what are you doing here?”

Sloane raises an eyebrow at his tone, but doesn’t comment on it.    

“Doctor Emery invited me. She said that the hospital could use some... younger representation.”

It’s his turn to shoot her a look.  

“Are you calling me old?”

“I think the polite term is ‘experienced’ now,” she responds with that low, pretty laugh of hers.  

He doesn’t choke on his drink, but it’s a damn near thing. “I’m sorry I’m late, though,” she continues, saving him from responding, “I had to get cleaned up and get all…” she trails off, waving a hand over her ensemble. “And my post-op was having some complications. I wanted to stick around until he got settled.”

Clinging to the life-raft of shop talk she’s handed him, he asks her about the patient, relieved when he catches the glint in her eyes, that bright flicker of discussing something she loves. Hospital talk saves him from making the inevitable ‘you look nice’ comment, which would be a paltry choice of words. She looks absolutely gorgeous, wearing a royal purple gown with a deep vee neckline. The material looks soft to the touch, the rich color complementing the russet shade of her hair. She normally wears it up, but it’s nice to see it down. His eyes follow the soft curls to the waist of her dress, where a section of thin lace does little to cover her pale skin, before the rest of the skirt continues down.  

“You should go get us another round.” At her stilted tone, he glances at the half-finished glasses they both hold.

“Why?” he drags the word out, blaming the alcohol for how playful it sounds.  

“Because there’s a middle-aged man that’s been eyeing you across the room for the past two minutes.”

He’s definitely blaming the next sentence out of his mouth on the alcohol.

“Are you sure he isn’t eyeing you?”    

Something akin to delight crosses her face, before she breaks into a chuckle and shakes her head.

“Oh, no, trust me. He’s definitely been admiring your backside this entire time, not mine.”

Ethan pointedly keeps his eyes up, because he’s a grown adult, and shouldn’t be tempted with the idea of admiring hers. (He’s done so before, but only from the comfort of the nurses’ station, and only when she’s distracted enough not to catch him. He is a grown adult, after all.) 

“Does he look like he plays golf instead of attending mandatory meetings?”

“Oh, yeah,” she nods, her gaze narrowing just beyond his left shoulder. “And his idea of a good time is yelling at wait staff.”

He chuckles at the matter-of-fact tone.

“You can tell that from across the room?”

“I waited tables in the Upper East Side in college. A sizable chunk of my debt is from buying new white button-downs when people like him threw food at me. I can read people like him a mile away.” Her eyes widen when she adds in a rush, “And he’s headed this way. Here!”

He takes the glass she all but shoves at him, steps around her, and tucks himself into the crowd hovering around the bar. Chancing a glance back, he sees her intercept George with an enthusiastic handshake. He watches as she lets herself be pulled out to sea into the awaiting sharks.

+

The bar takes longer than anticipated, but Ethan manages to secure two fresh drinks (and seven new business cards, which he will promptly throw in the recycling bin when he gets home). Fifteen minutes is a long time in the world of work functions, though, and he has lost sight of Sloane by the time he makes it back to the dining area. Across the ballroom, a live band has replaced the jazz playlist, and couples are moving across the dance floor.

Scanning the crowd, he finally spots a flash of purple, then a curtain of red flickering between bodies. She’s dancing with Anthony Fenton, Banner’s HR assistant and owner of three Teslas, which Ethan only knows because Anthony told him four times within their twenty-minute conversation earlier.

The song that’s playing crescendos, then eases down, the couples slowing as it peters out to a calmer song. Anthony’s hand moves from her waist to the small of her back, gathering her close to sway with her. Sloane settles a hand onto his chest, pushing back to make some space between their bodies.

It’s funny, because Ethan doesn’t see the venue change the lighting, but everything goes red for a moment.

He moves closer to the dance floor, trying not to feel like a chaperone at a school dance. Sloane is an adult, and a smart one at that, and is capable of making her own decisions. So, if she wants to dance with annoying assistants, or flirt with visiting paramedics or the other diagnostic interns, then she’s perfectly free to do so.

It doesn’t matter to him at all. (It does.)

He’s glad he’s watching them, though, because he gets to see the moment Sloane notices him. It’s been a few months since she started at Edenbrook, but it still gives him that same little thrill, that bite of pleasure, when she comes across him in the hallway, or in the cafeteria, or at Donahue’s, and he gets to watch her face light up.

“S.O.S.!” she mouths, begging for a save.

After she rescued him from George, he can’t just leave her to fend for herself, right?

Setting the drinks down on a nearby table, Ethan moves through the dancers with ease and sidles up to tap Sloane on the shoulder.

“May I have this dance, Doctor McTavish?”

She unwraps herself from Anthony and takes his offered hand within the span of one beat. Ethan thinks he mutters a dismissal to Anthony, but isn’t entirely sure about it.

Because he clearly didn’t think this part through. Enjoying Sloane from a permitted distance was one thing, but having her in his arms is a whole different ball game. He wonders if she can feel his heightened pulse where her hand grips his. (She can’t -- her fingers aren’t on his pulse point, but the curve of her lips says otherwise.)

They move in tandem with the crowd, more swaying than actual dancing. The music is just low enough for murmured conversation, which Sloane starts up with a suggestion of turning his people-watching skills on the dancers around them.

He points out the divorcees, the slackers, the ones that should be promoted and the ones that should be demoted. They bicker about an older couple near the very edge (she thinks they’re married, he thinks they’re just business partners). The current song slows and the two men in question share a gentle kiss, the shorter nuzzling the taller’s chest.

He runs out of observations soon after, too caught up in his private thoughts about the woman in his arms to spin any more yarn.  

“Wouldn’t you normally bring a date to a function like this?” she asks, honest curiosity in her voice.

He deploys his best weapon: deflection.

“Couldn’t I ask the same of you?”

She hums, tipping her head to the side as if in agreement. The action sends a cascade of curls to lay against her neck, that floral perfume of hers hitting him again.

“To be fair, I did ask someone, but he works fourth shift tonight and couldn’t make it.”

His brain doesn’t know how to handle that information; he gets a wave of disappointment that she tried to bring a date, then gets another wave of admonishment at himself for wanting her all to himself.

“You wouldn’t want to put anyone through this schmooze-fest, anyway,” he reasons.

“You’re right,” she says. “In the twenty minutes you were hiding at the bar, I was offered to go on three company cruises and seven golf trips. And I’m pretty sure one of those was a combination of the two.”

Ethan makes a face at the idea of a golf-cruise combo.

“I was not hiding. They only have two bartenders working for a full venue.”

“Your mouth is moving, but all I’m hearing are excuses, Ramsey,” she chides with a grin.

The tempo of the song they’re dancing to swells. Neither say anything, but both seem to know exactly what to do. He drops his hand from her waist and twirls her out, her dress floating out into the open space with her, before she comes back into his arms, holding tight to his hand.

There’s a callous on her right ring finger, resting just below the nail, from the way she holds her pen at work. The perfume he detected before drifts up to him, stronger now that her body has heated up. He spots the flush that blooms across her chest and neck, a result of the swing music the band has started up.  

He does not consider what it would be like to lay his lips there at the base of her throat and have a taste of her, to see if that pretty flush of hers would follow the trail of his lips.

“Let’s get some air,” he suggests, once the song is over and Sloane is panting from exertion and he is not thinking about other ways she could become breathless in his presence.

More dancers have joined the floor since they did, making their path out difficult. Ethan puts a hand on the small of her back, keeping her close to his side as they maneuver their way out of the crowd. Her skin is pleasantly warm under his fingers and covered in a light sheen of sweat from their activities and the close quarters of the dance floor.

She heads for the open balcony across the way and he follows, a moth drawn to her flame.

+

Outside, the city stretches out before them. To the south, Back Bay is a faint glow, leading the eye to continue left, where downtown shines bright. Cars are small dots of light underneath them, moving right and left, heading in and out of the city. Just on the edge of the balcony, Longfellow Bridge casts out into the darkness of the river. Despite the heat of the day, the cool night air rushes up to meet them.

Ethan catches Sloane rubbing her arms to keep herself warm and gives her his suit jacket to combat the cold. She tries to protest, but he silences her with another look, and helps her slip into it.

“My dad used to be the handyman for the local hospital where I grew up,” she tells him as she moves to stand at the edge. “During Christmas, they’d put these trees on top of the roofs, and he’d take me and my brother up there every year. It was only five stories high, but to us, it might as well have been the Empire State Building.”

“That sounds nice.”

She tears her gaze from the view over to him. He resists the urge to straighten his shoulders, suddenly feeling as if he’s been appraised.

“It was.” She seems to shift, as if deciding something unknown, and smirks up at him. “And then, you know, I was sixteen and wanted to impress a girl, so I stole my dad’s keys and took her up there with some hot cocoa and Bailey’s and one thing led to another…” she tips her head to the side again, laughing when he clears his throat.

“Well,” he starts, then realizes he has nothing to say to that (at least nothing that won’t seem like he’s offering to perform a reenactment out on this very public balcony with her), so he tries again. “Well.”

Nope, he’s got nothing.

Sloane takes pity on him and reaches out, patting him on his arm that rests next to hers on the railing.

“I’m glad I came,” she says, her face turned towards the open air. “I had a good time.”

“Despite Anthony and his two Teslas?” he can’t help but tease.

“Don’t forget his third one, though, back at his house in the Hampton’s.”

“Ah, of course. How could I have forgotten.” Finishing his scotch, he charges ahead: “I’m glad you came, too.”

He’s very glad he limited his alcohol intake, because when Sloane turns to smile at him, he can’t help but note that her eyes rival the sparkle of the city. And if he’d been drunk, he might’ve actually told her that. 

Instead, he offers his arm. “I think we’ve made a sufficient appearance. We should be able to escape from captivity now.”

Sloane sets her empty glass on a nearby table and links her arm through hers.

“If I’d had another three of these, I’d make a tiger noise right now.”

“Well, thank god for that.”

They make it to the elevator and down to the front lobby of the hotel without any incident. They, of course, have an argument at the curb about her borrowing his jacket for her trip home, since she forgot to bring a coat in her rush to get to the function.

“Here, at least let me get you a Lyft,” he offers as he hands off his ticket to the valet.

“Oh, no, that’s too much. It’s a nice night, despite the wind.” She slips free of his jacket, handing it back to him. “It’s only a few minutes from here to the T.”

“How far do you live from here?”

She glances back to the street, as if checking for something, before she answers, “I’m all the way across town, over near Fan Pier Park.”

He goes over her route home, recalling that the closest station to her is back on this side of the channel. Which means she’ll have to walk at least ten minutes to get home after her stop, all alone on a Friday night. “Don’t worry,” she continues, as if that’ll stop him, “I do it every night. We’re not that far from the hospital right now, and I make that walk at all hours of the evening.”

You’re usually with your roommates, he wants to point out.

She’s already angling her body towards the street, readying to make her journey home. “I’ll be okay, Ethan.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“You live in the heart of downtown. You could throw a rock and hit City Hall.”

“It’s… on my way.”

He gets another eyebrow raise for that lie.

“It’s not even remotely on your way. You’d have to backtrack.”

“Barely over a mile. That’s not the end of the world.”

“Doctor Ramsey--” she tries, but the valet interrupts their argument, waving over to where another woman has brought his car around.

“Come on, McTavish.” He doesn’t glance back to see if she’s following -- he can see well enough in the lobby’s tall windows as she huffs out a sigh and trails after him.

+

“It’s nice here,” she comments as they wait at a stoplight somewhere along Congress Street.

He’d opted for the side streets, instead of taking a chance with the highway and its propensity for wrecks inside the tunnel. It certainly has nothing to do with the route taking longer the way he’s chosen, thus an increase in time of being in Sloane’s presence.

“In my heated seats? Of course it is. Beats the hard, plastic ones on the T any day.”

“I meant here as in the city, Boston. It’s a nice change of pace from the… constant-ness of New York City.”

“Constant-ness is not a word.”

“It is a word when I’ve gotten off a fifteen-hour shift, then had to walk around in these heels all night, and then was bullied into a car.”

“I did not bully you--”

“Okay, you didn’t bully me. How about: arrogantly demanded?”

He hums, as if in consideration.

“I’ll concede to arrogantly demanded.”

That sparks another chuckle from her, grinning over at him from his passenger seat.

“But yes, I lived in New York City. Therefore, I get to say what it was or was not.”

“It’s rather constant here, too,” he points out. A chorus of honks back up his statement as two cars blow through a red, blocking the intersection when the traffic ahead stops.

“New York was such a high turnover city to me. I had seventeen different roommates when I was living off-campus my third year of med school. People would come from all over the world to chase their dreams. By three weeks in, they came to the realization that it was going to be a lot harder than TV made it out to be. Why would they bother trying to live in one of the world’s most expensive cities being a temp or a waitress, when they could be back in Minneapolis or Nashville or Rochester doing the same thing.”

“That’s… rather depressing.”

She shrugs at his summation.

“It’s just how it was. And why I love living here in comparison. Here, everyone seems a lot more… rooted. I mean, barring unforeseen circumstances, I’ll be here for three years for residency. It’s nice to have that, to have friends who are in the same boat as me.”

His mind unwillingly travels three years ahead, when Sloane inevitably goes off to Johns Hopkins or Vanderbilt or Seattle Grace, and he never sees her again. “People come here to stay here,” she continues, unaware of his sobering thoughts. “I like it.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, not trusting himself to ask if she can see herself staying here permanently. If she can see a place for herself on his team, because if she keeps at it like she has been, he can easily see her joining him.

He doesn’t want to hear her plans if her answer to that is no.

Instead, he flips on the radio. He taps along to the bass drums as she hums in time with the string instruments and he reminds himself that he cannot fall in love with her (not that it does any good).

+

“Nice place,” he says, and means it. The apartment building faces to the north, with a spectacular view of the harbor to the west. A doorman waves at Sloane as she starts to climb out.

“Thanks!”

“It might be rude of me to ask, but when I was in residency, I lived out of a shoebox. How did you all manage to secure a place like this?”

She glances over to the bay, biting at her lip, before meeting his curious gaze.

“We might have ganged up on the landlord and convinced him that our competition were communists.”

“Wow.”

“Well, ganged up is a strong term. But...yeah. First time I’ve ever been thankful I paid attention in that American History class in undergrad.”

“I have to admit, I’m impressed.”

“Oh, Doctor Ramsey,” she says with a shake of her head, that familiar smile making its appearance, “if you’re impressed by that, you should see what else I’m capable of.” With that, she grabs her purse from the floorboard, thanking him again for the ride, before rushing up to the double doors.

Ethan stays, wanting to make sure she gets inside safely, and watches her chat with the doorman for a moment. He can tell when she notices him still at the curb, and flicks a hand up at her when she waves to him. He waits a moment longer, watching her turn and head deeper into the lobby, until she disappears into a waiting elevator.

“I can’t wait to find out, Rookie.”

[sholiofic]

Jack gets amnesia post-s2, maybe an AU version of Song Remains The Same, but take it however you want. Peggy/Daniel + Jack as friendship or full OT3. I just rewatched s1 and imagining s1 Jack waking up to find Peggy and Daniel all emotional over him would be... somewhere between weird and a recipe for lots of ansgty defensive lashing out.

Jack felt like he was struggling through gray molasses, fighting his way toward the light. When he finally managed to open his eyes, everything hurt, including breathing.

For a single panicked instant he thought he was back in the war, he’d taken a hit – but no, the memories came down on him in a cold wave that helped clear some of the cobwebs from his brain. The Navy Cross. The lies. The job at the SSR.

Had he been hurt in the line of duty, then? Everything was strangely hazy. He couldn’t even remember exactly what day it was. Or what month. Just his luck to get shot – or something – after working under Dooley for … a month? Two months?

He blinked blearily at a block of sunshine on the white wall. Definitely in a hospital. Slowly the sound of a rhythmic clicking, that he couldn’t quite place, penetrated his haze. It was coming from beside him – mechanical equipment, he thought at first, but it started and stopped unevenly, and then there was a quiet murmur of, “Oh, bollocks.”

It took him two tries to turn his head to the side; his own weakness astounded and annoyed him. And what he saw then was … the SSR’s glorified secretary?

What the heck.

He just stared at her for a minute, halfway convinced that this was a dream, especially since Marge Carter had her head bent over a snarl of pastel-colored yarn and her face screwed up in a look of frustration.

“How does Rose make it look so easy?” she muttered, trying to untangle the yarn and only snarling it further. 

Well, this was flattering, Jack thought. Maybe Dooley sent her over to keep him company during his convalescence from whatever the hell happened to him.

He cleared his throat.

Carter jerked and looked up, and then an astonishing look came over the face that he’d only ever seen in a handful of expressions, mostly various shades of annoyance and frosty ice queen. Now, out of nowhere, she looked soft, and she looked warm, and she was looking at him like that.

“Jack,” she said, and her voice was warm too. “You’re back with us. How are you feeling?”

Jack stared at her. Definitely a dream, he thought. Or … was this that thing he’d heard about, where nurses during the war fell for their patients? Women were charmed by injured men, he’d heard (though if Carter was that type, you’d think she would’ve fallen hook, line, and sinker for department sad-sack Sousa, and that was never gonna happen).

“Can I bring you anything?” Carter asked. As she spoke, she was busy stuffing things back into the handbag in her lap. Was that a pistol? It got a ball of yarn stuffed on top of it before Jack could get a good look. “A drink of water, perhaps?”

So that was what was going on. Carter went doe-eyed for wounded birds. He was almost disappointed; it should have been flattering to have her getting all dewy at him, but instead he thought that he’d liked her better frosty.

But Jack was nothing if not a smooth operator, and anyway, having a cute dame waiting on him wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him. He managed to put on the best approximation he could of his usual flirty grin, despite the steel bands around his chest – never let them see you falter. “Water’d be grand, if you don’t mind, sweetheart.”

Carter stopped in the act of trying to cram yarn and needles into her bulging handbag, and gave him a quick, sharp look. “What did you just call me?”

… and as soon as the wounded bird picked itself up and managed to get itself back into the air, the kitten-claws came out. Women were so predictable, really. “Did I forget to say please?” he tried, with a half-hearted bat of his eyes, but he had a feeling it came out more pathetic than intended. Every word he managed to get out seemed to take a too-big bite out of what little energy he had. He felt like absolute shit, his chest hurt like something was clawing it from the inside, and he didn’t have the strength to play the flirting game just to get a damn drink of water. He got so goddamn tired of the games sometimes, tired of himself when he played them, just … tired.

Maybe he really had been on death’s door, if he was having thoughts like this. If there was one thing he hated, it was being honest with himself.

“Oh, Jack,” Carter said, and she let out a laugh that was more of a weird little huff, half laugh and half sigh. He genuinely couldn’t tell if he’d upset her or not, but she abandoned her bulging handbag with yarn trailing out of it, and vanished beyond his field of vision, returning a moment later with a tin cup.

Well, if he’d put her in a snit, at least it wasn’t enough of a snit not to get some nursing out of it. Surprisingly decent nursing. She cupped her hand under his head and held the cup to his lips. True, she spilled a little water down his neck as he sipped, but honestly he hadn’t thought Marge had a nurturing bone in her body. Apparently he’d managed to look miserable enough to bring out a little of the woman in her after all.

When she took the cup away, he managed a grin. “You’re a pretty decent little nurse, you know that, Carter?”

“And you’re worrying me exceedingly,” she said, absently moving the knitting out of her chair so she could sit down. “What do you remember?”

“Hoping you’d tell me that.” He raised an arm, painfully weak, to touch his aching chest, and found thick layers of bandages.

Carter took in a quick breath; it sounded almost pained. “Do you remember any of what happened to you, Jack?”

“Not … exactly,” he admitted, but there was only one plausible conclusion to jump to, from those bandages. “I was shot?” Yes. Yes, that felt right.

“Yes,” Carter said, breaking into a grin. “They said …” She took another breath. “They said there could be some memory loss, some possibility of –” There was the briefest hesitation. “– brain damage. Your heart stopped, Jack.”

“Hell,” he muttered, poking at the bandages. No wonder Dooley thought he warranted a pretty dame fetching and carrying at his bedside. Carter wasn’t even looking at him, staring at the wall and blinking rapidly; just the thought of blood had undone her, apparently. For his part, Jack thought he must be the unluckiest sap in the whole SSR, survived the war without a scratch just to come home and get perforated. “Tell me they caught the guy,” he said.

“They … that is to say, we,” Carter said, looking back at him with a little more steel, and there were those kitten-claws coming out again. “We were hoping you could give us more to go on. We’ve no leads, Jack, and the trail’s growing cold. You don’t remember anything at all?”

Oddly, there was something, or at least there seemed to be, coming out of the gray haze of his thoughts – the flash of a muzzle of a gun. But now that she’d been talking to him and muddling him up, he couldn’t tell if it was real or not. “Wish I could help a pretty lady out,” he said, flashing a smile he didn’t really feel. “But it’s all kind of a blank.”

“Jack,” she said, and there the smile again, almost teasing, though with something uncertain underneath it that seemed to surprise him; it didn’t fit. “You’ve been acting quite odd since you woke up. I do hope being shot hasn’t caused you to fall hopelessly in love with me. Daniel would have to have words with you.”

“Daniel?” For a minute all he could think of was a CO he’d had during the war by that name. Major Daniel Franks. Hell of a bastard too.

Her smile, already tentative around the edges, dropped away completely. “Jack, please tell me you remember Daniel.” She sounded really anxious.

Who the hell was she talking about? Oh, wait a minute. Daniel was Sousa’s first name. Jack tried to think if there were any other Daniels at the SSR, but he couldn’t think of any, and his chest hurt and he was exhausted and he just wanted to not be having this confusing conversation with a woman who couldn’t seem to keep a thought in her head for more than a minute at a time.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “‘Course I remember.” Smiling as he said it, but he’d almost gone on automatic at this point. He just wanted this conversation to be over; he could feel his hands shaking and sweat breaking out on his forehead just from the effort of keeping himself focused on the conversation. Screw waking up to a pretty dame at his bedside; she wasn’t fulfilling her brow-mopping duties at all. Instead she was being weird and prickly, running hot and cold for no apparent reason. Typical dame.

Carter put a hand on his shoulder, but just then, the door opened and – speak of the devil, and also, what the hell – in crutched Sousa. He was moving carefully, carrying a tray with two cups on it, one trailing a teabag.

“Okay, Peg, for starters, records at the hotel are an absolute mess,” he began. “I swear they haven’t got a – What, hey, hello there!”

And he broke out in a beaming grin, while Jack eyed him suspiciously. Why the hell was Sousa playing office coffee boy in his hospital room?

“Daniel,” Carter said gratefully, and oh good, he’d guessed right about the Daniel part. She rose quickly and took the tray. “Thank you. Jack’s awake.”

“Yeah, I got that. How long?” Daniel crutched over, still beaming while Jack continued to give him a nervous look and wonder why the hell Sousa of all people should care if he lived or died.

“Just now,” Peggy said. She set the tray on a table in the corner. “We’ve been having a most interesting conversation, with little enlightenment, however. He doesn’t remember much.”

“Seriously, Peggy, you’re grilling the poor guy the minute he wakes up?” Sousa settled a hand on Jack’s shoulder, and Jack just kept staring while Sousa beamed at him. Dealing with Carter’s wounded-bird womanliness had been a little weird, but he’d had no fucking clue that the same thing happened to guys and frankly he did not like it one bit.

“I was not ‘grilling,’ I was –”

“Interrogating?”

“– having a friendly conversation.”

And now he felt like he’d fallen into an Abbott and Costello routine. Where had all of this patter, this easy banter between the two of them come from? Carter’s eyes sparkled; Sousa was grinning, and he still had his hand on Jack’s shoulder, well beyond the casual pat that should have gone along with visiting an injured coworker in the hospital. This was more like brothers-in-arms, like someone in his unit might have done – and that was a thought that made him try to shove Sousa off.

A ripping pain tore through his chest and his vision whited out for a moment.

He came back to himself with Sousa still gripping his shoulder and Carter crouched on the other side, both of them looking scared to death. Now he just felt like he’d fallen through some kind of a – of a –

– black hole in reality –

… where the hell had that thought come from?

“Jack,” Sousa said with a nervous laugh, “please don’t do that.”

He was too scared and in too much pain to cover anymore, and that was a sign, beyond anything else, of how desperate things were. “Why in the hell are you doing this?” he snapped at them both.

“What?” Sousa said, looking baffled.

Carter’s grip tightened on his other arm. “Jack,” she said, her voice steady and somehow magnetic. “Slow breaths. Stay calm. What’s the year, Jack?”

“1945,” Jack said, staring at her, mesmerized. Distantly he heard Sousa curse softly.

“Very well,” Peggy said, speaking as if to herself, and then her smile firmed and she assumed a more businesslike demeanor. “Very well. Welcome back, Jack. As you no doubt inferred, you’ve been shot, and you’re in Los Angeles.”

“Okay,” Jack said very faintly, staring at her.

“And also,” Peggy added, “it’s 1947.”

[isakwon]

Coffee Bean Part 2

 Part 1

Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader

Genre: Fluff with some angst

Original Gif: BlondeJongin

Summary:  It is said that the string of Fate can never be tangled, make annoying knots, or ever break. But can it be untied from one person at the end?

A/N: I know this is pretty late, this was supposed to be posted at 9 p.m. and since I went into work early, “tonight” ended up being tomorrow (today). It’s nearly 1 a.m. now, I’m listening to “The Women of Hamilton” while eating mac and cheese, ready to post this drabble. Honestly nothing satisfies me more than right now…besides sleep for my brain of course. Anyway! Please enjoy!

“Cada latido prometio, que ibas estar siempre con migo.” -Alejandro Fernandez

________

   That morning Jongin spends his time in the kitchen preparing breakfast by himself. He woke up early enough to make a traditional Korean brunch, confident from the start however midway into action he wakes Yixing up in need of his assistance. Much to his surprise, Jongin had ingredients were cluttered all atop of the counter.

  As he cleans, Yixing utters complaints through his teeth. Once the kitchen mostly cleaned up, the other gentleman greet one another the main room all in their boxers and T-shirts.

“Y/N isn’t here.” Minseok leans against the doorway sipping on a glass of juice. Sehun perks his head and ears. “But she just got here yesterday, and it’s eight a.m.”

 “I know, I just passed by the room she was sleeping in to say good morning but it was empty.”

   Y/N used to pull all nighters back in the day. Whenever the boys dropped by her condo they always find her in the same positions. Seated on her couch with a coffee and script in hand or outside admiring the sunset with just coffee.

 She loved sleep but never liked getting up before the peak of sunrise. In result for any typical night owl, her body always sprawled on her bed tangled in sheets,  wetting the pillow with fresh drool.

Kyungsoo unlocks his phone to contact her.

 She despised the sun for shining on her face through the curtains.

“She went to go see Chanyeol.” Everyone looks at Sehun whose serving food on plates. “That’s it, I bet that’s why Y/N left early. That’s the only reason.” His actions grow furiously on the rice, the clatter of bowls filling up the house. “She would rather find him than have breakfast with us after years of being overseas.”

  “Sehun, will you relax? Y/N wouldn’t be desperate enough to fly all the way here and search the whole country for one guy.”

  “Actually she did.” The boys give Baekhyun their attention hearing the bang of his mug on the table locked within strong fingers. waiting for sitting in his chair scratching the back of his ear. “She left very early while we were asleep.”

He purses his lips.

“But you were still awake to hear her leave?” Kyunsoo asks.  “No, I wasn’t awake either.” Baekhyun reminds himself of the night before, the minute before Y/N lays on the bed he held her shoulder and Y/N grabbing his fingers without turning around. ‘I had no idea’

_____

 “But you’re not mine.”

You sat at the same coffee table you and Chanyeol used to sit together. He wore a white sweater and a black hat, his ears pointed out. He gives you a smile showing a bit of his darn eye bags. The coffee cup in your hand was already half full of mocha, his didn’t move it stayed in front of you.  Chanyeol’s eyes linger the side of your face, noticing the glow flashing off your cheekbones.

  “Besides if I ever told you would it have made you panic and run?”

 Chanyeol huffs a smirk “From you Y/N, not this time.”  He lips make the shape of an upside down crescent that automatically brings a shy smile on you, your cheeks burn at the top of their bones.  “If I were to run, I wouldn’t be here asking you to say it then now would I?”

   Your hand caress atop his large hands envelope around yours. This was a huge step..

   “Can I start with the beginning? Like when I first saw you?”

  His thumb grazes yours again. “Yeah?…”

   You bit your nails, played with your hair, checked the time, and drank your coffee to calm your heart beating erratically in your chest.

  “Miss, are you waiting for someone?” You turn your head alertly to a male barista.

“Oh, actually…” You quickly scan the cafe. “I was, but I guess they forgot. Please excuse me.” You grab everything, still holding the cup. “Thank you very much uh, Lu.”

 With that you drink the last gulp of the now cold and disgustingly heavy mocha and leave the cafe with a heavy pound on your chest. You check the time again on your phone, 11:59.

  You had been there since seven in the morning, watching the street live in front of you-not much different from New York except the language of course.

 How in the world would your reunion with Chanyeol turn out? Would he even recognize you? Would you even recognize him the same? Would it be important to him?

Does he still really ‘love’ you as told last night? Would you still feel anything? If so, how is it possible?

He was your inspiration for poems. You used to dream about seeing his smile again. His sweet smile and the bags that naturally form under his eyes when he smiled. You always knew Chanyeol was adorable for a grown man, but during one of your conversations his eye bags leveled up his cuteness. You swore it made you tear up.

“Ah Chan!” You comb your hair back running your fingers through. You try clenching your jaw to avoid it, yet a pool of tears form in your eyes.

“How many memories of us are going to run through my mind? That’s all we’ve become…memories.” You swallow the suffering pain in your throat.

 “Now you probably forgot giving me your word. Most likely in love with your wife… and you probably forgot about me.”    

 ______

 He stood in the sunlight dressed in his dark violet polo shirt tucked in slim around his waist.  “No, no, no my father-in-law wants the array of breakfast pastries outside the door once he settles our meeting not before it begins.”  

He trots in the hallway gluing his ear to his phone.  “Also he says leave the cream cheese off the chive omelets and replace them with the mini crab cakes. Please do not mess this up. Thank you.”

  His father-in-law was perfectionist needing whatever he wants to meet his high standards.

  Chanyeol inserts his hands in his pockets looking around the campus out the window. Even with this two hour meeting scheduled, he would still be able to stop by that cafe ordering an Iced Americano and any bread he wanted. He doubt time would allow him to sit next to the windows to just relax and think.

  He sees the body of his father-in-law and his daughter standing at the other end of the room and he greets them, bowing his head smiling. Chanyeol was used to being without the ring most of the time he absent mindedly let his father in law spy on his hands laying them on the table.

  “Yeol, you still haven’t found your ring?”

    Chanyeol whips his eyes to his bare fingers letting his mouth hang open.

The answer escapes his lips in a stutter.

“I did sir yesterday. I placed it on table next to my side before going bed it’s still at home on my bedside table.”

“A married couple should always wear their bands on their hands. It’s a requirement not an option.” He can only make a few glances at the man in front of him, feeling the fiery eye contact brazing against him. Chanyeol lays his hands on his legs, balling his fingers in his palms.  

“Yes sir.”

“You know how much my daughter means to us. As man and wife she’d like to match everything with you starting off with rings. You’re a charming man Mr.Park.”

  Chanyeol nods, pursing his lips together. “Thank you sir.”

   The space between them is thick, Chanyeol’s hands grip the edge of his seat, shudders race under his skin

“Ladies offering their hearts to you doesn’t surprise me, unless you were married.”

He perks his head up, “I am Sir to Somil.”

    The man pushes his a mug towards his son in law.

 “Somil tells me you two haven’t had any sort of connection. Did you two have another fight?” He leans his chin against his fingers. “Is there someone secret on either side?”

  The contact burns enough scorching the pain twice as much in Chanyeol’s chest. His eyes widen at realization of the last question, “No sir, no one at all.”

  He nods. “We expect nothing but the best for my soft cloud’s marriage survive with a husband like you.” Chanyeol sharply inhales, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

“And Somil shall have it Sir.”

Those were the exact words he had given to his wife and her family the day he signed the license.

  “A smart lad since the start.Drink some water, you look like your getting your nerves up.”  

____

Later that night…

 Chanyeol looks through multiple drawers. His fingers had been without that ring for forever, it was barely ever seen. He lost his wedding band somewhere around the house months into his marriage once he removed it.

   That string he made years back never left its place, no one ever asked about it. The string with the two beads and the brightest red he saw when he pulled it out the rainbow of other yarn.

  His string he keeps around the strap of his book bag.

   The color remained as brand new in the lighting in his house it looked brand new on his finger like the very first time she tied it on him. While tying hers on her finger, he remembers the shy grin on her face as her cheeks burned, with the way her teeth sank in her bottom lip.

  Looking through the letters his shoe box, Chanyeol whips out his phone that ringed from his blazer’s pocket. His screen flashes a box on his wallpaper.

7:51 Text Message: 

Chan…

He punches the keyboard under the text bubble.

 7:51 p.m. Text Message: 

What’s up Lay?

[toddlazarski]

Last Suppers Vol. 3

Shepherd Express

“I see that the world is upside down,

seems that my pockets were filled up with gold.”

— Tom Waits

My grandmother never allowed pizza delivery. Pizza—yes, most definitely, frequently, likely for a medically inadvisable percentage of grandma-house meals, but only if you took her keys, locked the door behind you, drove the Malibu—tape deck stacked with “Electric Ladyland,” for just such necessary excursions—across town and schlepped the steaming box back yourself, again locking the door behind you. I’m not sure if it was an abject fear of delivery personnel, something nefarious laying in an unknown driver lurking, even if said lurking was only out of pepperoni remittance and tip hope. Maybe it was the tip itself, an avoidance of sorts. Or it could have been the disclosing of her address. Maybe she was in trouble with the law. Maybe all, or a combination, or something else, all rolled together into one of those nebulous anxiety yarn balls one comes to know and generally acknowledge and accept when hungry and negotiating with a late-80’s grandmother. So I’d never really ask, would shrug with mild annoyance, take the keys, and let her pay with a crisp twenty-dollar-bill, because in hindsight, I’m not nearly as thoughtful as I’d like to believe. 

Similarly, this is probably how I don’t know much, anything really, about the Great Depression. Grandma was born in 1925, which, according to Wikipedia, means she spent much of her childhood in said epoch of forlorn-toned black-and-white photos of destitute pea pickers in California. She would have been a good source, I suppose, for all the wonder I’ve put on, of late, the d-word, in both proper noun form and the more loose, casual way it’s been thrown about. “I think he’s depressed” has become a standard line. Friends talking about other friends, co-workers talking about spouses, somebody talking about me, maybe. But over the past eight weeks I’ve heard it at least a handful of times, accepted it, took it with brow-furrowed, middling resiliency, as if it were part of a bad but expected forecast. As if, yes, “might have to shovel tomorrow.” Or like a thing meant for small-talk chewing and grumbling, as in, “I’m not sure about that first round pick.” When Kai Ryssdal comes floating in on the kitchen radio I switch the channel before the capital form of the word comes up. I usually have to hurry.    

I should have asked her, I suppose, in hindsight, it being one of those many things we all only now realize we should have always asked, said, paid attention to, thought about, considered. Before the world turned sideways, began coughing, lost sense of taste and smell, and we all woke up with our furniture seemingly turned to face the wall. Before she died. It might have been especially helpful since of late I’ve found the same pizza delivery paranoia creeping in. Though of all the faults I blame on genetics, this is hardly one—it can’t be Adult Onset Delivery Dread, it came far too fast. And I still don’t understand it fully: do I fear the boxes, or the bringer? Or do I fear the bringer's perception of me, sitting in my ivory tower, looking down on the help, or not looking at all, just expecting them to, yes, drop the sustenance on my luxuriant, sanitary doorstep? And then be gone, faceless servant. Or is it maybe that I don’t want to infect them? Did he or she think of that? Should I go out and tell them? Or maybe just put up a sign on the closed door: It’s Not You, It’s Me. Should I try at some levity, one of these days, maybe attempt a recreation of the “keep the change you filthy animal” scene from “Home Alone”? But, of course, nobody takes cash anymore, so it wouldn’t work.   

Whatever the approach, the newfound anxiety has been robbing a righteous, innocent joy of late. The sweet echo of a doorbell, startling, even as you sit with perked ear and open Ring app, leaning a bit with anticipation. It might be right now, this second, or in 35 minutes. Or, what if they never show? You make the call and are transported to Dr. Seuss’ Waiting Place. Patience and perspective needing to be fought for amidst the mad sea of slack-jawed seekers. A 90’s Civic with bad brakes and problematic bumper stickers, a goateed driver with questionable politics often the only thing to bring you back to the moment, offering deliverance, unveiling the places you will go, the tastes you will have, the boom bands you will hear and the balloon-high heights you will see. “Should you turn left or right, or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?” At this point of rescue, like no other in life, it matters only that you know how to find your way to the door, can manage not to trip carrying a box back to the coffee table. 

Whether or not grandma was right, or had a reason, or had an outstanding warrant, and whether or not we’ll all get over our cardboard fear and food conveyance dread and Clorox addiction and the balance of common sense versus Medium articles versus FDA guidelines versus something somebody in the office Slack channel said, it still has to be done. And at the very least she was right, like all grandmas seem right, about the most important thing being the bringing of comfort. Or the going and getting of comfort. So, my car or there’s, these are the best current bets for said pizza procuring solace. 

5. Ned’s

Through the years, through my decade-and-a-half of Milwaukee life, through an adulthood of being judge and jury and general jerk about pizza, I’ve never really cared much for Ned’s, or the “Milwaukee-style” pie it so well seems to epitomize. I’ve always found the crust too thin, crackly, unfilling, the special’s seem over-topped, the entire thing often feels a bit under-cooked, the cheese a tad too slidey, the sauce slightly over sweet. Quarantine week two though was weekend-ed with my wife and her friends sharing Ned’s, collectively, each with their own pie, over a happy hour Zoom meeting. It was such an innovative act of community, togetherness, pizzaing, that I was softened toward epiphany. And then later, as I greedily, guiltily, drunkenly mawed microwaved leftover squares after she had gone to bed, I finally disabused myself of all lofty notions as if I were a Dickens character. Ned’s is old-school, since ‘69, simple comfort of hometown iconicism. The pizza itself too has an undeniable tang, a distinct crumbly soul, a sausage-y quotidian satisfaction level akin to a High Life bottle and the Brewers on a daytime bar corner TV. At a time the Brewers are good. Most importantly: it is the pizza of my wife’s youth. There are few things tastier than nostalgia, and nothing more comforting. And so Ned’s always has a place in the heart, in our home, in our refrigerator, especially when she orders too much and goes to bed too early.   

4. Rosati’s

The five years I spent in suburban Chicago, coming of age and hitting my pizza peak, happened to coincide with adolescence and the accompanying boundless, obscene appetites. A standard chicken or egg scenario. This is maybe why I keep coming to defend Rosati’s, our locally-owned franchise location’s sometime inconsistency, and why I keep going back, here, and to all Chicago-bred ilk. There is the personal sway of the one that got away, the one that taught me to be a man, of the person you’d go out of town to a 10-year-reunion just to get a glimpse of and awkward drink with. But there is also no objective argument to the fact Rosati’s aspires to, and often achieves, the ideal of Chicago tavern-style: rolled dough, thin, square cut wedges of well-cooked crunch, trademarked by a cornmeal dust bottom and oregano and fennel-y finish. The cheese often looks like the color of approaching-autumn, the crust like it was two minutes from being burnt. Equally crispy and chewy, the toppings are half-buried under a winter blanket of mozz like endless hidden prizes. But maybe it’s just personal. And really a takeout here is akin to reliving high school’s zenith. If I really want to go down that Springsteen route, like the part in the song where he sees his ol’ baseball playing bud, and they go back in and have a few drinks, I get a pie and an Italian beef. Glory Days.    

3. Transfer

Of the 30 or so times I’ve eaten at Transfer, I’d say 29 of them I’ve eschewed all normal pies, disregarded all pasta or apps, ignored the menu or anything the waiter was saying or what anyone else at the table might want, really, in tunnel-vision favor of the simply named, boldly furnished Garlic Lovers. It is a special of aromatic, crushed bulb bombardment, almost stunt-like in essence, that somehow holds together. Sturdy enough to steer with one hand, the pleasantly dusty and charred bottom still has a doughy, Southern Italian-leaning chewiness. The decadent top is garlic sauce svelty, with pepperoni and sausage and cheese chunkily clattering together, as delightful black air bubbles adorn the edges, indicating artisanal-ness, craft pizza lineage, a really hot oven. But you don’t need to read too deep, or too far past the pizza’s name—overall this is an oily, pungent affront to subtlety and fresh breath. But garlic, they say—-and what are we but the collection of what they’s we believe?—is a natural antimicrobial agent. And we’re all six feet apart anyways. Actually, after four slices, I’m wondering if Fauci and the lot of health-advising acronyms are really right: is six enough?  

2. Tenuta’s

A recent takeout phone call to Tenuta’s, where I ordered my usual—Diavola, no pineapple—was met with this:

“You can’t do that, the pineapple makes the diavola.” 

“Oh. I, uh, disagree.”

“You know what, let’s not do this right now.”

Tenuta’s is that kind of place. The shaded Clement Ave brick corner spot of pasta and pizza and cozy classiness and classy coziness is the type of place Tony might take a goomah one night and Carmela the next. Tenuta’s To Go continues the tradition from a Howard Avenue counter-only outpost, more conducive to our house-car-back-to-bottle-of-sanitizer cycle of now. But from either there is a standard gamut of specials and absurd glut of crust offerings: thin, virgin, deep, stuffed, some house pies come in triangles, some in imperfect squares. It’s like one of those Strengths Finder personality tests of endless combinations new employers make you take to find out precisely which type of pot-stirrer you will become. I always default to a pepperoni and giardiniera and cream cheese thin, a square-cut beaut, indicating the recessive gassy guy-from-Chicago trait. Balanced, zesty, spicy, creamy, it is everything I hope for on the precious, too few pizza nights of existence. But there are similar satisfaction points up and down the board: the basil-y freshness of a margherita, an olive oil sauce holding ham and pepperoni and garlic on the house special, a mis-order even found me enjoying the pleasant carb overload of a “virgin” crust, redolent of pan pizza or something from Detroit. You’d think they might specialize, defer somehow to the simpler ways of the old country. It’s almost too much, like life—the options, the anxieties, the distractions, the food narcotics necessary for real world-dimming, dulling. But you settle in, eventually, you know your order, come to know yourself and the shape of your DIY haircut-framed mug in the mirror, the spirit within said order. And, soon, with time and gut-work, then you know the voice on the other end of the line, and, even in quarantine, the gravy of a Sunday gathering can be part and parcel and pepperoni with a little good natured jabbing, some convivial ball-busting that hides, that hints at, care and love.    

1. Fixture

Even if you believe, rightly, that there are no guilty pleasures in life, there can still often be times of feeling like you are cheating a bit, calorically. Like, say, when enjoying Taco Bell sober, or scarfing Totino’s pizza rolls well into your 30’s, or driving through a Wendy’s and eating in your car, by yourself, removed from any identifiable meal time, just doing it because dammit and because you can. Sometimes you might know that notion, back behind the base lizard brain, of just feeling bad about existing as a stereotypical fat American. Ordering cream cheese—so rich, so creamy—atop a well made pizza feels this way, and yet, the “Great Lakes Distillery”—extra sauce, pepperoni, cream cheese wedges—keeps calling me back. Or at least keeps picking up when I call. 

And there they are: creamy black-speckled corpuscles of gooey cheese comfort, squishing softly, almost a bit curdy, marshmallow-y, stretching, existing in that perfect cheese nirvana state of half-melt. They are model contrasts to the salty oven char on the liberal toss of near-burnt pepperoni. Beneath a vibrant, herbaceous marinara mixes with well-ratioed mozz, the kind of top where you can’t fully tell if the sauce or cheese were put on first, as they gel together, taking turns, like pass-first teammates that make deep championship runs, that reign supreme on a top-five pizza list. The crust seemingly has an application of anti-flop finish, good hold that is toothy and strong without getting in the way. So it’s a bit Chicago, afterall, and also a bit that they just seem to use higher quality ingredients than so many old school joints, the places phoning it in, doing it the way it’s always been done, forgetting what we all too prominently remember now: that tomorrow is no guarantee. But they are also big on the homemade hot honey siding offer, a move straight out of Greenpoint, or whatever is the new Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Honey should have no place on pizza. Or so I think, for ⅞’s of every first piece. But, actually, wait another bite—sure it does. Let’s all not think about it right now. It is honey, it has creeping zing finish, and that different flavor profile quality that makes life and another endless day of dread, a day no different than yesterday, worth it. So, for now, anyways, let’s dip our crusts bits endlessly until we’re beyond stuffed. 

When they throw open the French takeout windows, even despite the masks, despite the fact my paranoia makes me insist on paying ahead of time over the phone to limit contact, despite the fact that this makes me need to call back and get their Venmo so I can send more money to fix my non-existent tip, Fixture’s pickup window really has been a lifeline of sorts since mid-March. Whether it’s the pizza or the wings or the chicken parm sandwich, it’s a satisfying reminder that there is some delicious humanity still pulsing on quiet 2nd Street. On all of our graveyard-quiet streets. And next week, maybe, for sure, pizza delivery, like normal, can return to our house. “Be brave,” all the books I read to my daughter seem to teach, implicitly or otherwise, they echo back at me in the sound of my own voice. And one day we will. Or else, we won’t. And maybe, years from now, when she’s old enough to grown-up talk and have thoughts and observations and real life queries, when she’s old enough for these loathsome days to be the old days, she’ll ask why we always have to go pick up the pizza. And I’ll just gaze distantly out the window like grandma might have, had I wondered, or like a character in a Tom Waits or John Prine song. Or, better, she won’t ask, will just chalk it up to the personality scars of an old, damaged man, and then we’ll be able to focus only on the pizza.

[chroniclesofawkwardness]

Concentrate on Her Boobs (Ignore the Snake)

After I discovered Kristina had lied, I fell into a creative abyss that lasted for months. I couldn’t write. I didn’t want to. All I wanted was to self-isolate and dream of ways to punish myself for my stupidity. Kristina had told me one hell of a tall tale, but I couldn’t silence the voice in my head that told me I was partially to blame for what happened or break free from the clutches of guilt that restrained me, making it impossible to move beyond the catfish experience and handle the emotions that swelled up within me because of it.

The walls of the abyss bore scars from my bad habits. I saw both ancient and unfinished hieroglyphics of my porn addiction -- picture Cleopatra and Mark Antony going at it in the world’s first sex tape, recorded around 43 BC -- and streaks of hand chalk left behind from thousands of hours of mental gymnastics -- time spent rehearsing rather than facing my problems. 

I felt the slaps in the face from Zs. that came after I hadn’t run the vacuum or cleaned our apartment exactly the way she wanted. I knew I was in trouble, but I couldn’t run to the cops with a battered fiancée story and expect them to believe me. I toughed it out with Zs. much longer than I should have. “If this is love,” I thought, “I’ll just hard pass on the real thing, and focus on getting hard in front of the laptop. There, I can find men and women doing to each other anything I want to see. It won’t cost me a dime of either monetary or emotional investment. The best part is, they won’t yell at me or shut me out.” 

I remembered the conversation I had with a stranger in 2005, on a plane from Oklahoma City to St. Louis. At the time, I was despondent over losing my best friend. There was no way the stranger could have known it, but our conversation saved my life. When I got back to my small studio apartment in Ohio, I looked at myself in the mirror and held a knife to my throat for several minutes; I seriously considered ending it all with one slashing motion. 

I couldn’t do it.

Why? 

I thought about my mom, my grandpa, and the stranger who cared. 

Further down, I saw some words of the notes from the girlfriend I had in seventh grade scrawled on the walls. I saw Sasha’s hand passing Maria’s messages to me at the end of each of those three strange days. 

Despite having been largely scratched out and drawn over through the years, I could read bits and pieces of Maria’s note from the first day. She said we should go to the movies and not to worry because her mom would be able to drive us. I heard the voices of my football-player classmates whispering, encouraging me to sit next to Maria in her junior-high cheerleader outfit at lunch.

I didn’t have the balls to make a move. I decided to deal with the tension of the unknown by busting a nut (a favorite pastime) as soon as I had a moment alone. I should have leaned into the experience and absorbed it rather than opting for a momentary sexual release. 

And on the third day, they became friends.

I should have thought of my first real breakup as an opportunity to become a better, more attractive man. Unfortunately, I took the easy road -- a road I’d travel almost every day for the next twenty-five years. Instead of honestly dealing with what I was feeling and why I wrapped myself in the cocoon of my CD collection and the isolation of my room. 

I felt my hands shaking on the day of my First Holy Communion, as I held the challis containing what only minutes earlier had been cheap wine or grape juice. Through transubstantiation, they said, it wasn’t Welch’s I was drinking; it was the precious, soul-saving blood of Christ. The story in that book of basic instructions before leaving earth would have had me believe that Jesus died for my sins even though we’d never met. 

If my tremors and stage fright (somebody in my family had a camcorder) were any indications, I wasn’t all-in. More than likely, I just wanted it to be over.

And on the third day, he hesitated.  

I thought Kristina was going to fix all this and more. It was a task as tall as the tale she told me to get me hooked. Despite my initial and lingering reservations, I was prepared to act in real life as though what she’d told me exclusively online was the truth. Unwittingly, through social media, I’d given her the tools to craft a 50 Shades of Dave story, a yarn of Literotica I couldn’t resist because she’d spun it specifically for me. My ego loved it. It was like having my life read back to me with erotic episodes I’d desired for as long as I could ejaculate spliced in. I may have lived the bare bones of the story, but (one speech bubble at a time) Kristina and I added the sexual tension that made it fly off my mental shelves.  

Our interaction was as white-hot as it was brief. After it was over, what kept me falling further and further into the abyss was not so much wondering why Kristina did what she did, as it was defining and accepting the part I played in my own unraveling, long after Kristina had moved on to her next target. I’m almost positive the buzzing noises I heard coming from her phone during some of our conversations were not the sounds of siblings concerned for their sister but of the cat(fish)woman tearing her hooks into the virtual flesh of other would-be lovers.

Eve may have pointed her man toward the forbidden fruit of the tree of knowledge at the serpent’s urging, but Adam still took a bite of the apple. Yes, God conveniently forgot to warn Adam about the temptation of Eve, but Adam did nothing to stop it. He just stood there. When he realized he was naked after taking a bite of the apple, he didn’t own up to it, he ran off. 

Such is the power of a woman’s love over a man, whether she truly feels it or not. if a man is willing to act as if his woman is the only woman in the world (even if she was at the time), she wins. At that point, she should run off too. I’m not saying women are evil, only that Adam failed the world’s first shit test. Eve, intentionally or not, conquered her man. I’d guess that all she wanted was to conquer someone who could not be so easily conquered. Kristina conquered me. Like Adam, I didn’t stand up to temptation. Instead, I looked for validation in her. Like Adam, I didn’t find it. When the jig was up, Adam hid in the bushes, I hid within myself. 

I didn’t send her any money (she never asked), so I didn’t suffer an embarrassing financial loss. What played in my head on repeat (like my childhood copies of Nirvana’s Unplugged in New York and Soundgarden’s Superunknown that I loved to lose myself in) were questions like: “How could I have been so blind?” I didn’t want to tell my family or friends that I’d not only lusted after a woman I’d never seen but also fallen almost entirely under her spell from half a world away.  

I didn’t want to own up the fact that I felt like both a victim and a participant in a blatantly obvious love scam, a type of fraud I’d once been dedicated to preventing, a type of fraud I swore would never happen to me. The easiest thing to do was fall back on old habits (watching porn, waiting for something, anything, to happen on screen or off) and let good ones (working out frequently and cooking a lot of my own meals) go. That’s what I almost did. 

I wanted nothing more than to avoid responsibility and revert back to a shy, awkward teenager who had a ton of potential but was squandering it away one ejaculation at a time. I wanted nothing more than to be a thirty-eight-year-old Peter Pan. I felt I already had the part about eschewing the challenge a relationship with a real, good-quality woman (like Peter Pan does with Wendy) down pat. Kristina had been my Tinkerbell.  

If I’d followed my originally scheduled timeline, I would have quit my job almost exactly three weeks to the day before I started working from home during the COVID-19 pandemic, a time that has challenged family and economic structures alike. 

After about a month, I slowly began to open up to those around me about what had happened. I still felt like a dumbass, but finally getting the experience off of my chest eased the pain of lovesickness. I began to write Words and Fishes by hand, in the college-ruled platypus notebook Matt had given me for Christmas. At the start, I wasn’t as consistent with writing as I’d told myself I would be. Reliving the whole experience with Kristina was the last thing I wanted to do, which was exactly why I needed to do it. Before I could truly move on, I needed to sink as deeply as possible into the wound she left (as well as any others I’d find along the way) then claw my way back to the surface of my reality.  

The demons you face down don’t stay down without a fight. 

As one page grew into two, two into three and so on, began to feel like a bigger fraudster than Kristina. I realized that despite my largely stoic exterior, I would close the curtains, open my laptop, and consume my favorite wounded-soul food at the slightest sign of adversity. I’d have conversations with myself, out loud, about my nonexistent relationship with my dad instead of truly setting myself free from his expectations. I’d curse myself for setting free my dying cat and letting her live out the last of her days unencumbered, as she was meant to. 

Why?

This was what I’d always done. 

I’d always let the stories of the abyss circulate in my mind without demanding anything in return. Maria didn’t break my heart at thirteen, Kristina didn’t almost shatter me at thirty-eight. Sure, they may have ripped off Band-Aids covering my wounds, but I lost both games before I could play long enough to skin my knee. 

Why?

I wasn’t living my life the way I was meant to and I knew it. The streaks of chalk on the walls from years of mental gymnastics didn’t get there by themselves. I used to spend hours in mental preparation for a war that would never come. I valued the mental reps I’d give myself so much because they made me feel like I’d accomplished something without demanding that I actually do anything. Maybe that’s why I was such a good storyteller. I knew the stories I told would live only in Neverland and only as long as I was telling them. Maybe I decided I didn’t have to face my reality as long as I could create another one, even if those weren’t the words I would have used to describe my storytelling as a kid. 

By early May, I was starting to feel like I’d put most of the experience behind me. I didn’t delete the conversation Kristina and I had from Google Hangouts because I thought I might want to look back at it during the process of writing Words and Fishes, but I’d finally stopped letting an every-waking-minute obsession with analysis permeate all my thoughts. That is until I got that email: a message that convinced me Kristina was back with a vengeance. Had she sold my email address on the black market? Were the seeds of my online stupidity finally beginning to bear fruit in the real world?  

The email said someone had used an Apple ID associated with my email address to log in to an iPhone 11 in Sydney, Australia. I had three immediate problems with this:

1.) I don’t have an Apple ID. 2.) I've never been to Australia. 3.) My email address didn't exactly match the one listed in the message, so why was I getting it?

Even though Kristina said she lived in Western Australia; even though I’d avoided a potential financial loss by not sending her any money, I’d also convinced myself that catfish didn’t let their prey go easily. For months, I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. After such emotional “bonding” Kristina probably considered me an easy mark. 

Around the same time, I started getting breaking news and other email alerts from The Mercury, a daily newspaper published in Hobart, Tasmania, Australia. Rather than unsubscribing or reporting spam straight away, I let my mental gymnast have more time on the mats. 

If Kristina really did sell my email address on the black market, what else did she sign me up for? What else will be waiting for me in my inbox?

During my darkest days after the fantasy I’d constructed with Kristina disintegrated, I went so far as to seriously entertain the idea that she may have been involved in human trafficking. Kristina may not have asked me for money, but she did ask me to come to Australia with her. Catfish do what they do for a reason, right? I began to believe that had I agreed to come with her, I could have easily been abducted at either the JFK or Perth airports by someone promising to take me to Kristina. It may read like a scene from a Hollywood movie, but so did almost everything else Kristina and I talked about. 

Eventually, cooler (bigger) heads prevailed. After some basic online searching, I decided the most likely explanation for the Australian emails I was receiving was a simple typo rather than a sinister plot. Since the format of the email address mentioned in those emails was so close to mine, I reasoned that whoever linked it to an Apple ID and subscribed to emails from The Mercury had remembered the email address they wanted  (mine) when they created their account instead of the one they actually got. 

If only the story ended there. 

Almost a month later, I got another scare in Words With Friends. One Sunday morning, a random opponent started a game with me. She didn’t have any all-time wins since she’d only started playing that same day according to her stats. What she did have was a very provocative profile picture, one that seemed too good to be true. I found it hilarious, and texted Ana (an opponent with whom I’ve struck up a friendship over years of playing), to tell her about my latest challenger, who claimed to be none other than Angela White.

Angela White seemed like a generic or stage name. Ana Googled the image and found that it matched one of Angela White, an Australian (of course) porn star.

Angela wore a black, skintight, one-piece bathing suit. The look on her face would have surely led straight to the type of temptation they warned me about in Catholic school. 

Across her shoulders was a massive African Rock Python, the kind of snake only an expert (or idiot) would handle. God may have been taking a break from watching humanity trash the planet to stand behind the camera for the temptation of Angela, which was as much an updated twist on the temptation of Eve as a symbol of both the excess and accessibility of such temptation in the modern age.  

The snake’s head was positioned in such a way that it could have easily deflated one of Angela’s gargantuan breasts (gifts from God or work of surgeon hands, with one strike).  

Ana saved me from another round of mental gymnastics by texting me something I’ll never forget as long as I live: “concentrate on her boobs, ignore the snake😂”. She later admitted that this was something she sent me without thinking. It was perfect. Following Ana’s advice, I concentrated on Angela’s boobs for one move before I reported whoever was really behind the profile as an impersonator, which ended the game. 

Just like Eve, I should have ignored the snake. Just like Adam, when presented with a beautiful woman, I didn’t. The image represented my struggle to reclaim my humanity and masculinity when presented with challenges of either God’s or my own creation.

I had no choice but to make a choice. I chose to rise to the occasion once and for all. 

[loreleywrites]

Command Zone: The Legends of Commander (2017 Edition) - Part 2

Commander (2017 Edition) taunts us from the near future. My tongue is sticking out and aching to taste the delicious flavor of four brand-new tribal decks. Each deck features three foil commanders of the deck’s tribe and color identity, though a few bonus legends are thrown in too.

Yesterday I took a look at the new commanders from the Dragon and Vampire decks. That means Wizards and Cats are on today’s docket. Without any further introductory delays, let’s get magical.

Not a Shapeshifter

Still have my fingers crossed for her being from Dominaria though.

OK, so my speculation that Inalla, Archmage Ritualist was a Blue/Black Shapeshifter was wrong. It was a good effort though, and I’ll take consolation in the fact that she does temporarily clone your other Wizards.

If you’ve never played with Minion Reflector or Mimic Vat, you are in for a ride. The best thing you can do with these kinds of effects is double up on your enters-the-battlefield triggers. Get double the tokens with Master of Waves. Copy a spell twice with Dualcaster Mage. Get two creatures back from the dead with Bloodline Necromancer, another new card that comes with the Wizard deck. You can even double up on sacrifice abilities when you have more mana available. Here, the name of the game is value. And since this is an eminence ability, Inalla doesn’t even have to be on the battlefield to give you that value.

Unfortunately, Wizards aren’t known for their combat prowess. Unless you’re casting Nameless One, you don’t be able to use Inalla’s ability to produce a significant amount of power out of nowhere. That is, unless you cast her. Once Inalla is on the battlefield, you can tap her and four other Wizards you control to just dome an opponent for 7 life. So that dorky little Sea Gate Oracle you copied now provides two of those Wizards. Synergy.

The Pretenders

He probably killed the other members of the band.

Mairsil, the Pretender was a major villain back in The Dark. He caged the wizard Ith in order to syphon his magical energy. After his demise, Mairsil’s spirit attempted to possess others for more power. Not a nice person. But true to the lore, Mairsil’s card lets him steal powers from others.

Before your brewing minds go haywire, I want to point out that “You may activate each of those abilities only once each turn,” is the last line of text on Marisil. You will not be building a Rube Goldberg machine that goes infinite with just a few combo pieces.

So, what can you do with Mairsil? Flexibility and options are paramount. Mairsil becomes a ferocious rattlesnake if you load him up with defensive abilities that imbue your opponents with threat-of-activation fears. Exile an Aetherling, however, and suddenly you have a frightening attacker that’s almost impossible for your opponents to deal with. Give him double strike with Jodah’s Avenger. Give him infect with Vector Asp. Boost his power while killing things with Drana, Kalastria Bloodchief. Even crazier, you can use Aetherling’s flickering power to exile more and more cards.

It’s also worth noting that Mairsil can exile artifacts and creatures from your graveyard, not just your hand. Maybe you don’t even want to use him as a build-your-own whatever, but just as a way to recycle the abilities of your dead creatures. Brewers often shoot for ridiculous when “good, solid value” can be fine on its own.

Kess and Tell

The ground has eyes, so it probably also has ears for her to talk to.

If I could sum up Kess, Dissident Mage’s strategy in a single phrase, it would be “instant and sorcery tribal.” She is a wizard that wants to do what wizards do best: sling spells. A 3/4 flier for four mana is decent stats on its own, but she also lets you cast a spell from your graveyard once during each of your turns.

That you’re limited to casting your bonus spell on your turn is important to building around Kess. Since you can’t cast your spell on an opponent’s turn, it means that reactive spells aren’t going to provide value for you. This is mostly counterspells, but it also means you can’t double up on instant-speed spot removal unless you use it on your turn.

To maximize Kess’s ability, you want to build a proactive deck with instants and sorceries. Sorceries are where to start, and ones that create tokens are “creatures” that Kess lets you cast a second time. There are a handful of sorceries that steal creatures that fit into this same category. Making token copies of creatures or reanimating them from the graveyard are also proactive, creature-based effects that go on sorceries.

Since this is Commander, there are going to be sorceries that simply have splashy effects. Epic Experiment fits right into a spells deck. When life totals are low, casting Banefire a second time can give you a victory. You know you want another round of Cruel Entertainment.

If you’re not interested in going all-in on instants and sorceries, Kess still makes for a great self-mill commander. In this kind of deck, her ability is more about extending your hand to your graveyard than doubling up on spells. Getting to cast spells you normally wouldn’t have an opportunity to cast is still value town.

Lend Me a Hand

Wait. You’re a murderbutt, Taigam, so nevermind.

The Wizard deck also includes Khans of Tarkir-era Taigam. This is the one that defected from the Jeskai and kept failing to assassinate Narset. We know, his tattoo and outfit are more Silumgar than Sultai. Sometimes art direction isn’t as tight as it could be. Either way, Taigam, Sidisi’s Hand brings back a food of memories about the machinations of the Sultai.

As expected of his clan, Taigam is all about dumping your own cards into your graveyard to use as a resource. And like Taigam, Ojutai Master (the other Taigam in the Dragon deck), this one feels perfect for the clan mechanics. There are two main parts here. First, Taigam replaces your regular draw with a “draw one of your top three and mill the rest.” This is incredible card advantage, helping you dig for the exact card you need each turn. It also fuels his second ability, which assassinates creatures in a mimic of the delve mechanic that the Sultai used.

Obviously, a Taigam deck wants cards that care about filling your graveyard. Wonder, Living Death, and Mortivore are just a sampling of cards to use. Delve cards themselves can use the graveyard as a mana resource. Flashback and unearth are mechanics that can give value to the cards you do end up milling away.

If you really want to be mean, play Taigam with Teferi’s Puzzle Box. Since you skip your draw step, you’ll never have to ship your hand to the bottom of your library. It will be frustrating for your opponents, which means you’ll probably become the main target, but it’s good for a laugh if you’re a griefer.

MEOWMEOWMEOWMEOW

MEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOW

While The Ur-Dragon is out in the Multiverse being the paragon of dragon-ness, Arahbo, Roar of the World is doing the same for cats. This kitty is all about aggression, helping your feline forces bat enemies around like little balls of yarn.

Like all the face cards in this product, Arahbo has an eminence ability that impacts the game from both the battlefield and the command zone. In this case, it grants a free Giant Growth to another one of your Cats every combat. This is terrifying, as it makes two-drops actually great attackers in Commander. Drop a Fleecemane Lion and you’re attacking for 6 damage on your third turn. Your opponents might not have even cast a creature yet.

Letting Arahbo out of the bag gets even crazier. You’ll still get to give another Cat a free +3/+3, but then you have to option to pump your attacking Cats further and give them trample. That free +3/+3 becomes +4/+4 and trample for 1GW at minimum. Once your early attacks have dealt some damage, trample helps push the final bits of damage through.

If you’re building around Arahbo, you’re building an aggressive tribal deck. Green and White are already the best colors for pumping up your forces. Gaea’s Anthem, Mirari’s Wake, and Collective Blessing maximize your attacking potential. Granting all your Cats vigilance is another great way to keep up the pressure in multiplayer games, as you now don’t have to worry about being attacked back.

You Have My Sword

And his hammer, but it’s not a legendary creature, so you won’t meet it today.

We’ve had a number of Equipment-matters commanders already, but Nazahn, Revered Bladesmith is the first one in Green. The best part about this is that it lets you play Behemoth Sledge, which is one of the most efficiently powerful Equipment cards in Magic.

As a smithy, it’s natural for Nazahn to made weapons for you by tutoring them up. You can get anything into your hand, but searching for Hammer of Nazahn plops it right onto the battlefield.

Aside – Hammer of Nazahn is a must-have in a Nazahn deck (any Equipment deck really). When Nazahn tutors it up, it’ll enter the battlefield attached to a creature you control (probably Nazahn). All your other Equipment will too, evading the equip costs once. Granting indestructible is also one of the best things a piece of Equipment can do.

Nazahn makes for a fine Voltron commander. Load him up with Equipment, which he brings with him, and off to the races!

But his second ability, which gets blockers out of the way, rewards you for spreading the equipped love around. This lets Equipment decks go a bit wider and not have to rely on suiting up one creature that might die and leave you with nothing. I love that Nazahn gives you this kind of flexibility.

Life Three of Nine

Mirri’s first card sucked. Her second card was from an alternate reality.

Mirri, Weatherlight Duelist fits into one of my favorite categories of commander. She has fairly unique abilities, but otherwise doesn’t tell you how to build around them. “Here’s a thing, figure out what to do with it.” In Mirri’s case, the “thing” is giving you a Dueling Grounds effect that makes it impossible to group block Mirri and impossible to swarm you with attackers. So what can you do with that?

First, this ability makes Mirri a fantastic Voltron commander. All she needs is trample and it becomes very difficult for your opponents to profitably block her. Load her up with Auras and Equipment and you’ll have a massive creature that is almost guaranteed to take out a blocker. You don’t have to worry too much about crackbacks, as your opponents will be limited in how they attack you. The key part is “attack you.” They can still attack with a bunch of creatures, but a tapped Mirri will force most of those creatures elsewhere. That’s excellent for you offensively (Your opponents die faster) and defensively (You’re harder to kill.)

Mirri also works well in a token deck looking to flood the battlefield with creatures. One of the problems of token decks is that tokens tend to be small. That means they’re difficult to profitably attack with and easy to attack into because they don’t block well as individual creatures. Mirri helps solve both these problems.

When Mirri attacks, each opponent can only block with a single creature. If you attack an opponent with Mirri and ten tokens, you know ten of your creatures will go unblocked. And once Mirri is tapped, it becomes much easier for a swarm of tokens to block one creature instead of a horde of creatures.

It’s Link Cat

Traveling hero that loves refreshments? Def Link.

We don’t know what plane Balan, Wandering Knight is from, but she fits an archetype that would belong on an Arthurian fantasy world. You know, like Hyrule. She carries oodles of Equipment. She is Link, and you can’t convince me otherwise.

Anyway, Balan is very much a Voltron Equipment commander. She tells you which cards to play and how to use them. Little flexibility, but the tradeoff is raw power.

Like any Equipment Voltron deck, the most important abilities to build around are hexproof and indestructible. You don’t want your commander dying easily. Assault Suit is great protection against sacrifice while helping the game end faster by letting everyone beat face with your armored commander. Since Balan gains double strike herself, that’s a powerful ability you don’t need to run any Equipment for.

Balan’s key power is the ability to attach all your Equipment to her for only 1W. This skirts all your equip costs, as a Voltron deck won’t be interested in attaching them to any other creatures. You can even wait until combat to attach them, using the threat of activation to entice your opponent into making less risky plays.

Lords of Magic and Mews

Together with Dragons and Vampires, Wizards and Cats round out the tribes featured in the four decks of Commander (2017 Edition). Wizards use their minds to enable sneaky strategies. Cats let the claws out for aggressive attacks. Each of these four tribes pushes into new space that’s sure to reinvigorate your existing decks and provide opportunities for all-new archetypes.

Rule your tribe when Commander (2017) releases on August 25, 2017.

[stetervault]

Any recommendations for a multiple chapter Good Peter fic?

There’s a Good Peter tag you could search up, and here are some of my faves:

know who i am by Aminias (SeeingRed)

What about the first time Stiles runs up to Peter, and Peter tries to take him back to his mom, and he’s like you can’t, my mama’s in the hospital, and daddy thinks I don’t know, but she’s gonna die “

or

At least Five times Peter and Stiles find each other + One time its mutual er something like that

or

Love.

With Mars Bars, Snickers and Skittles by FeelingsDusk

Peter wakes up one year and almost ten months after he managed to drag himself out of the burning Hale house to find the remaining members of his family tired, worn down, stressed and downright miserable.

The situation is unacceptable and he won’t stand for it.

Baby Stilinski-Hale by Triangulum

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Peter says. Stiles just shrugs. “Are you going to tell me why, or do I have to guess?” Stiles would love to glare at him and snark back like they always do, but her nerves are just too frayed and she doesn’t have it in her. Peter seems to sense this and frowns, his face morphing into one of concern. “Stiles..?”

He takes a few steps closer, slowly as if he’s trying not to startle her and that makes her want to let out a hysterical laugh, but she keeps it in. He sets his hand on her shoulder, the other going to the side of her neck. He frowns at the way her pulse is racing, as if he needs to physically confirm what his ears are already telling him. She lets him touch her, knowing without even needing to think about it that he won’t hurt her. She does let out a bitter little laugh at that. Well, physically he won’t.

“What is it?” he asks and the genuine concern in his voice almost breaks her. He leans down and stares into her eyes, their faces so close, and she sees his nostrils flare. “You smell…different.”

Well, that’s her cue.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispers.

Or

The one where Peter gets Stiles pregnant and is a big old softie about it.

Love is Thick by Green

Peter finds out his best friend is sick, and she has a surprise for him.

When It All Falls Apart by Peter Hale (RyloKen)

Stiles doesn’t know what to do.

He’s on the verge of losing everything in the divorce, on the verge of breaking down. He hates himself, hates what he is, what he’s not. He has no husband, no alpha, no mate. He’s about to lose his mind, and he has no hope.

His mother used to tell him; when you’ve hit rock bottom, the only way out is up. But what’s the point in trying to climb out of Hell, when the Devil’s waiting for you with an army of lawyers?

And with his heat just around the corner, Stiles doesn’t think he has anything left to give. He needs a miracle.

He just didn’t figure his miracle would wear Alexander Amosu and fight his battles with a smirk that could kick-start the apocalypse.

Ace In Your Face by SushiOwl

saintrenee asked: Steter, ace!stiles doing everything in his power to avoid Peter who had started courting him after the two of them being friends. Maybe involve something along the lines of “did you just jump out a window to avoid me?!”

Red String verse by gryvon

Peter had given up hope of ever finding his soulmate until the red string on his finger leads him to a four-year-old. He’s going to Hell. Or jail. Or both.

Living On A Wire by oriolevent

What the hell is Stiles supposed to do now that his band’s been broken up and Scott’s gone solo? Get tangled up with the Hales, of course.

Jabba the Mutt by sugarpanties

Stiles comes across a puppy. The pack doesn’t approve. Peter does, so when Stiles storms away, the werewolf isn’t left behind.

Strange Duet by BelleAmante, thiliart (thilia)

The past three years have been a series of shocking, or not so shocking, successes for 2018 Tony award winner and two time Grammy nominee, Stiles Stilinski. You don’t typically find classically trained opera singers singing alternative folk rock to crowds at Coachella. Nor do you find indie singer/songwriters winning best actor awards at the Tony’s for their Broadway debuts. Stilinski has made it his lifetime habit to defy and exceed all expectations.

-or-

A Steter fic loosely based on Phantom of the Opera

Just Let Me Be Your Ticket Home by pibroch (littleblackdog)

Look, it really wasn’t her fault that she missed him. Less than five months of frequent and enthusiastic sex had not given her nearly enough time to get sick of him yet.

Holidays with Steter by DiscontentedWinter

Peter and Stiles spend Halloween together.

They listen to their hearts. Those cheap, disgusting candy hearts.

Hey, whatever works.

Altruism by ladyoneill

Stiles is kidnapped by hunters out to punish human sympathizers. By the time the Pack finds him, he’s been forced into prostitution. Peter’s the only one who can get him back.

Tight Jeans, Leather Boots Make a Stiles Go Wee-Woo by Elpie (Horribibble)

Feeling lonely and alienated at a college across the country, Stiles decides to explore his ever-developing sexuality at the closest gay bar.

He just wasn’t expecting quite so many bikers. Or such good food. Or Peter Hale.

And here are some without the tag but I thought fit the category anyway:

On idiocy and stupidity by FeelingsDusk

As a rule, Stiles doesn’t go home unless he’s forced to and he spends all his time either studying or experimenting with anything and everything that catches his attention. He doesn’t care about making friends but he does have some people he’s in good terms with. He doesn’t want more, attempts to force the issue with him will be met with a sneaky and swift retaliation, as many can attest.

He may be an idiot like professor Callaway always tells him, but he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t need anyone.

And then ickle itsy bitsy Cora Hale enters Salem, gets sorted into the special tier and, wide eyed after one of his experiments blows up spectacularly, she points at him before telling professor Callaway, who was with her, I can choose anyone right? I want him to be my mentor.

Naughty Hookers (Swathed in Wool) by pprfaith

Stiles is happy with his store, his hobbies, his friends. Peter’s just trying to figure out how to raise his nieces and nephew without fucking them up too badly.

Paths cross.

Proposing To Strangers by moonstalker24

At the end of a strained relationship, crime novelist Stiles chooses to hide from the world inside a bar with far too many motorcycles outside it for comfort. Here he’ll meet the man of his dreams, eat food and propose marriage, all within the first five minutes.

Peter doesn’t know who this kid is, but he’s cute and looks like he could use a break. So he feeds him. He’s not expecting a marriage proposal, but with what comes after, he doesn’t really mind.

The Unexpected Marriage of Peter Hale by moonstalker24

This is the story of how Peter gets married without technically dating anyone.

“You can bring your boyfriend with you,” Talia says.Peter stops giving Henry more bits of dried fruit to stare at his sister “Boyfriend?”“Of course!” Talia gestures at Stiles who looks around behind him with wide eyes. “I’m sure the whole family would be interested in meeting your young man.”

Stiles Stilinski’s Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Werewolf by moonstalker24

(As Observed By Scott McCall, Best Friend Extraordinaire)

Scott doesn’t like the werewolf that followed Stiles home from a folklore seminar. Neither does anybody else. Somehow, it’s Scott’s job to tell Stiles that.

Sanctuary by DiscontentedWinter

The Hale Wolf Sanctuary isn’t just for wolves.

It turns out it’s for Stilinskis as well.

Surprising, unplanned and wonderful by RebaK1tten

Stiles is an omega happy with his gender and looking to court the right alpha and be courted back. Three guesses who the right alpha is.

Monopoly by Triangulum

It’s Monopoly time,“ Scott says without looking up from Mass Effect.

"Monopoly time?” Derek asks.

“Safeway and all their sister stores like Albertsons are doing their Monopoly game,” Stiles says. He grabs his backpack and rifles through it before pulling out his Safeway Monopoly board with little Monopoly pieces stuck to it.

Isaac snorts from next to Scott.

“You’re not going to win anything,” he says.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Stiles says. “I already won a $50 gift card.”

“What, seriously?” Isaac asks.

“Stiles wins something every year,” Scott says, groaning as his character dies. “Last year he won a $5,000 college scholarship.”

“Fingers crossed for the vacation,” Stiles says.

Or

Peter woos Stiles with Monopoly pieces.

Life’s a Ball of Yarn by Triangulum

“He’s so cute!” Erica coos, reaching out to scratch the fluffy calico kitten in front of her.

The only problem is that kitten is Stiles and he doesn’t want Erica’s fingers anywhere near him. He hisses and when her hand keeps on coming, he sinks his teeth into it. Erica howls and shakes her hand, making Stiles fly off and skid across the loft floor.

“I think he might not want to be touched,” Peter drawls.

“He let you hold him,” Erica grumbles.

“I didn’t lunge at an animal the size of a potato with my nails out,” Peter points out, and YEAH.

Or

Another fic where Stiles gets turned into a kitten.

Hale Escorts by Triangulum

Peter usually doesn’t take clients, but Lydia doesn’t usually send people his way, either. But she’s asked this of him, to help her friend who’s never been able to come with a partner, never had a sexual experience that has ended in anything but discomfort, pain, and/or disappointment. And of course, the girl in the photo is exactly his type. He wants to devour her, make her scream and writhe and shake, show her how pleasurable sex can really be.

OR

The one where Peter Hale is a professional, high-end escort and owner of Hale Escorts, and all of Stiles’ past lovers have been seriously awful.

Stiles Stilinski: Wolf Whisperer (and Provider of Pop-Tarts) by ChuckleVoodoos

Stiles realizes that Peter might, in fact, be in need of a friend. And what better candidate than Stiles himself (accompanied, of course, by delicious pastry treats)?

All In A Spin by ShippersList

Stiles can’t really talk anymore but, with Peter, he realizes he doesn’t have to. Even if their spoken communication consists of one swear word and stuttered syllables, they understand each other. And that’s what counts.

If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out by mia6363

Commander Stilinski looked like he fell out of a propaganda video, his armor still smoking as he pulled off his helmet and handed it off to First Officer Argent. He had a few bruises down his neck but his smile was bright.

“Glad to see you safe and sound, Mr. Hale. I’d hate for Derek to lose a member of his family.”

“I told you,” Derek snapped at his superior, “he’s not worth this, Commander.”

Life Is What You Bake It by ladypigswagon

“You’re not broken Mr. Stilinski, nor are you a freak,” Deaton says, reaching into a drawer and searching for something, “You are simply asexual.”

“Asexual?” The word tastes heavy in Stiles mouth but it doesn’t feel wrong.

“Asexuality is not uncommon in society,” Deaton continues, finding what he was looking for. Unsurprisingly it’s a pamphlet. “There are lots of omegas, betas and alphas are asexual or a form of asexuality. There are many chat forums and websites that cater specifically to asexuality. Obviously you will not be required to go to play-mating classes anymore and if you so wish you can remain off the suppressants.”

Stiles clutches the pamphlet in his hands. Asexual. Not broken, just asexual. It’s a word that Stiles can definitely get used to.

Alpha Peter and the Ragtags by Triangulum

Derek has been one of Stiles’ best friends for years, almost as long as Scott. They’ve been friends through Stiles’ mom’s death, and through Derek’s ex trying to burn the Hales’ house down. So Stiles only feels slightly badly for ogling Derek’s hot uncle. He’s covered in tattoos and easily the most attractive man Stiles has ever seen.

“Hello, Stiles,” Peter says, his voice like silk.

“Peter?” Stiles stammers. “You’re back.”

“Astute as ever,” Peter says.

“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles says. Peter just laughs.

Or

The one where Peter is a tattoo artist and an alpha without a pack, and Stiles is college student and best friends with Derek. When Peter moves back from New York, there’s immediately something between them.

Whiskey is My Kind of Lullaby

Peter is a simple saloon owner on one of the outer planets between the Aaru Belt and the Olympus Galaxy. He’s done with trouble. Done with adventure. So fucking done with rustlers. That is, until a cute young outlaw named Stiles wanders into his bar. Peter has this problem where he can’t seem to resist charming narcissists (perhaps because they remind him of himself). And when said narcissists turn his life upside-down, the worst part is he’s not even that upset about it.

[eldritchwyrm]

what goes around comes around (a fic for the glorious 25th of may)

The first time Lu-Tze learned of the Glorious People’s Republic of Treacle Mine Road was long before Sam Vimes got caught in a thunderstorm and was swept thirty years into the past. In fact, when Lu-Tze was young and light on his feet and had only just moved to Ankh-Morpork for the first time, he took a wrong turn and stumbled upon a narrative temporal phenomenon the likes of which he had never seen in his life.

He was picking up some groceries for Mrs. Cosmopolite, who was graciously allowing him lodging, because was it not written that What Goes Around Comes Around? He was also lost.

He tried asking random passerby for directions, but his attempts were all rebuffed with variants on “up yours, mister” and the slurs that were generally leveled at anyone who looked too foreign for their own good. So instead of turning onto the Pitts as she should have, he missed the intersection and continued straight ahead.

It was the 25th of May. Spring was battling valiantly against the smog and grime of the city, and contrary to all expectation the few shrubs that had survived were putting out green shoots.

Lu-Tze hitched up the bag of groceries and thought the sacred wisdom: My Joints Aren’t What They Used To Be. He was a bit young for that one, he reflected, but was not all wisdom valuable?

He turned onto Treacle Mine Road.

It was noon. Bright and sunny. The street was loud and busy with carts and animals and people, as you’d expect on any weekday. And yet as he walked forward, the sun dimmed. The air cooled. The hustle of the streets became muffled, farther away.

The scent of lilac filled in the air.

The hairs on his arms tingled like a storm was approaching.

He took a good look around, really looked rather than focusing on the unimportant surface bits, like the buildings and the people—and nearly choked on his own tongue.

This—this was—it was a disruption in the space-time continuum so extreme that it was a wonder anyone in the immediate vicinity was still alive. This was a rift so profound that rationally speaking, he should be standing in the equivalent of a smoking crater where a chunk of functional reality used to be.

There were no words to describe the wrongness of this place. You could say that the passage of time in this location was like a length of yarn which had been bundled into a ball and left unattended in a room full of eager-eyed kittens. (It would be blatantly incorrect, but you could definitely say that.)

“Ye gods,” said Lu-Tze, because some words always worked.

He ditched the groceries and started running.

He burst through the door of Mrs. Cosmopolite’s boarding house with a crash. The hostess jumped in surprise and nearly hit him over the head with the plate she was drying, but restrained herself, because that wasn’t Done. Instead she shouted, “Young man, just what do you think you’re doing?”

“No time!”

If he’d stopped to think properly he would have realized how stupid a statement that was, but he was busy racing up the stairs and into his room. He grabbed his emergency supply pack from under the bed and dashed out again.

There were images in his head that didn’t make sense—darkness and rain and a silver cigar case, gleaming on the cobbles, and lilacs blooming in the night, over and over again.

When he returned to Treacle Mine Road he knelt down in the middle of the street, right in the middle of traffic, and the carts moved smoothly around him without a blink, despite their relocation occasionally involved a minor rewriting of the conventional laws of physics. He barely noticed. He found a bare patch of dirt and got to work. He would be hard-pressed to construct a sophisticated detection mandala on such short notice, but he would damn well make do...

The air crackled with energy as he finished the last curve on the mandala. He dusted his hands and waited.

It began to turn.

The patterns shifted, then stilled.

He frowned. “No,” he said. “That can’t be right.  Historical imperative? But this is so obviously a narrative disruption. An unfinished story.”

A rift in time that didn’t exist, memories of events that never happened... it had to be a result of an incomplete narrative unable to achieve a single resolution. Something, somewhen, had gone wrong, and a major role had gone unfulfilled, and now the phenomenon was scrabbling for a solution.

“Must be incorrectly set up,” he muttered to himself. “I mean, this thing is telling me there should be a major temporal incident any moment now—”

Unfortunately, the young Lu-Tze had not yet learned some valuable wisdom. For is it not written that You Are So Sharp You'll Cut Yourself?

There was a sound like an elastic band snapping, and the world turned sideways.

He stumbled upright once the universe had returned to something close to normal and scrambled to get his bearings. He was still in the present day, but another time was—how to describe it, how to describe it—layered on top, one moment falling over the other like snow. Fog and wind and darkness swirled in, obscuring the sky, wreathing around the figures in the courtyard before him.

The men were wearing Watch uniforms.

“Okay, lads,” said one of the men. He had an eyepatch and a battered breastplate, and a voice that echoed as if it was coming from very far away. Years ago, thought Lu-Tze. “What we’re going to do is keep the peace. That’s our job...”

If Lu-Tze concentrated, he could still feel the rush of wind from the passing street and hear the sound of the busy city. But here, in a much more real sense, he could see the watchmen shuffling anxiously as they listened to the sergeant-at-arms. He talked about duty and right and wrong, and then he drew a line in the sand, and then the men made their choice.

History struck a chord.

The world shifted.

A barricade climbed into the air, higher and higher, packed with furniture and upturned carts and spare wood, held up by desperate hope and bottomless fear, the rawest emotions of humanity. When sufficiently concentrate, those were capable of twisting time into knots so complex that only a master of the temporal would ever be able to undo them.

And why would they want to? So what if someone thought it was odd that time crawled by while they were under stress, or if it went by instantly during a fun afternoon? That was what made people human. 

That sound again, and the world changed again—

A battle was raging around him. Men in battered uniforms, not many, fighting for their lives, wearing the lilac...

...the man with the eyepatch leapt forward, sword a blur in his hands, hacking wildly...

...and across the street, untouched by the carnage, was a little old man in a robe. He was sweeping peacefully at a patch of dust, undisturbed by the blood and guts and destruction whirling around him. It was surreal.

The old man looked up and winked.

Time stood still.

(Well, it didn’t really stand still, but the true answer involved multivariable calculus and besides, it was a useful metaphor and at this moment in time Lu-Tze was not the type to spend valuable effort messing about with the sneaky kind of sums with letters in them.)

The old sweeper carefully plodded across the frozen tableau, ducking under an upraised sword and stepping around the body of a watchman who had not yet hit the ground.

Ah, so another monk was on the problem, then? The young time-traveler stood up straight and tried to act like this was an expected development.

“Hey, kid,” said the sweeper. “You look like you could use a cup of tea.”

* * *

Lu-Tze was convinced that this particular branch of the No Such Monastery did not exist in the present day, which made it quite worrying that it appeared to exist in both the past and the future.

He sipped his tea with yak butter and eyed the old sweeper suspiciously. He distrusted older authority figures on principle.

“So you spotted the incongruity, did you,” said the sweeper. “Historical imperative’s a tricky thing, isn’t it.”

“It’s not historical imperative. It’s narrative causality.”

The sweeper sighed. “You’ve got a lot to learn, kiddo. It’s both. The Glorious People’s Republic of Treacle Mine Road... it didn’t take long for the city to forget, but the story still leaves echoes. It wants to be remembered.”

The young man frowned. “I kept having memories of things that never happened. Deja vu without the original vu.”

“Sounds pretty standard. Lilacs, right? You smelled the lilacs? That’s the anchor. On the Glorious 25th of May, the lilacs are in bloom. They will always be in bloom, forever and ever, for as long as time exists, and whenever the survivors see it, they’ll be brought back here. Even poor sods like you with receptive enough minds will be saddled with this piece of history.”

“But this doesn’t mean anything to me. I don’t understand why a bunch of men would just get themselves killed like that just—just to be heroes.” Lu-Tze knew a dramatic last stand when he saw one.

“Yeah, see, that’s 'cos you’re seventeen and I’m old and wise,” said the sweeper. “Why do we fix time? Is it because we want to be heroic? Is it because we have to? No, we do it because we could just let time curl in on itself and extinguish all the complicated bits like sentient life, but we decide to make fixing this mess our job.”

“But—alright, fine, but there’s still a gigantic rift in reality and I’m standing in it. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“You heard me. There’s no reason to muck about with a story that’s looking to be told. This case is unusual, mostly ‘cause it’s a bit under-construction if you know what I mean, but yea, is it not written that There’s A First Time For Everything?”

The young time-traveler sat bolt upright. “You—you’re a follower of the Way? But none of the senior monks—it’s just a thing that I made up so—I mean—”

The sweeper shook his head sadly. “Hoo boy. I really am paying for how much of an idiot back then. I suppose What Goes Around Comes Around.”

The young history monk’s eyes widened, realization dawning. He opened his mouth to speak, but the old man interrupted him. “Now, this is slightly more complicated than a standard closed time loop, since you’re not here in any physical sense. So if I just...”

He slashed his hand through the air. The air began to sing with mounting tension, time itself groaning under the weight, and the world snapped back to the present.

The city streets bustled around him. Lu-Tze's mouth was slack with shock. Had that really been...?

He looked down at the mandala he had scrawled in the dirt. The wind had scrubbed it out.

Overhead, the lilacs were in bloom.

[beanjuice-duh]

Ray x Robert

a/n: Gift to @defussy who told me about their dadsona and dream dad. Its rushed, its gross but this is for you Taylor, <3  w/c:1995

“Are you sure you don’t wanna hang out on campus a bit more dad?” Amanda beamed up at her father. They had a long day of fun campus activities. Most of which were just Amanda stopping at every café near her campus for eats. Ray hung out at her dorms, said hi to her roommates and even got some keen gossip about Amanda’s first month away from home. Now the sun was setting and there was somewhere he needed to be. “It was nice having you here dad, sorry I couldn’t come home this weekend…”

“Wha-What no, hunny, I loved the 8 hour drive to see you.” He smiled (extremely) tiredly. “Plus, I don’t think you’ll be visiting home soon after the moose incident and your car.”

“It’s a shame moose don’t abide by the common traffic laws instilled by humans. One of few things we contributed to this world.”

“Well…the moose probably wouldn’t have hit your car if you weren’t speeding…and if cars…didn’t exist. I’d chalk this up to human error still.”

“Say what you will, Pops.” Amanda shrugged, “that moose was out to get me. Me surviving is nothing less than a miracle, final destination.”

Ray would have agreed until he saw that the only thing the moose did was dent her left wheel pretty bad that the metal was embedded into the tire. “I’m just glad you’re ok.” Just remembering that phone call that she had been in an ‘accident’ made his heart rate pick up. A small yawn escaped his lips against his will and his daughter gave him a small look. “What?”

“Dad, I’m serious, if you’re too tired to drive stay the night around here. Getting behind the wheel sleepy is practically as bad as having a moose hit you—“

“—hitting a moose”

“Whatever.”

Ray placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and gave her a small squeeze, “I promise I’ll be fine, I’ll take a break a few times on the road and if I really need to, I’ll pull over and spend the night in a sleazy motel where I’ll probably be more likely to be murdered in the middle of nowhere never to be seen or heard from again.”

Amanda gave him a small frown. “Not funny dad.”

“I’m being serious!”

“Father, if you die, you best have left me with a Will or something!”

“I leave you all my treasures my first born starting with my band shirts from high school”

They shared a deadpan expression until Amanda broke and made a face, “the 80s are so not coming back.” She would never want to inherit her father’s old, outdated shirts from his lame days in band.  Without any more jokes, the two stood in front of Ray’s old Chevy. Amanda wordlessly threw her arms around her father and gave him a small squeeze. “Love you dad, text me every time you stop ok?”

“I’ll be sure to update you every mile.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Ray smiled kissing the top of Amanda’s head. “See you next weekend, Manda Panda.” Ray held back the yawn until he was in the car. He waved at his daughter one more time, watching her reflection shrink in his rearview mirror was he pulled out of the college parking lot and began his 8 hour journey back to Maple Bay.

So, it became very apparent to Ray that Amanda was right. He was infact very tired from driving 8 hours to see his girl, be tugged around excitedly only to be driving back home for another 8 hours. Ray slowly started counting the seconds to a minute. He told himself if he could last a minute, then he can last another minute and continued this way until he forgot how to count all together. The roads were getting dark and with a glance to the dashboard he found himself looking at a car that was in need of some gas and at least three more hours of driving left.

He decided for his sake and the sake of his only heir to his fortuneless fortunes he would stop for the night. Ray called Amanda keeping his usual jokes of impending death to a minimum but made sure to bring up the moose one more time for the night. Once he got gas, got a room, and called his daughter one more time just for goodnights there was one more number left to check.

Ray shot a text to Val, who kept him posted about her father’s current situation.

‘Going strong, I’m planning on getting him a phone soon. He really appericates your letters even though and I quote, he rather have a hard one on the rocks. Lol, Val.’

Ray was happy. He was happy Robert was doing something to better himself but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss him. Only a few weeks after Amanda’s graduation party, Rob announced he was going away for a while. He was going to a Rehab center a few hours away but didn’t disclose where and for how long. He didn’t want anyone to be tempted to reach out to him incase…it was ugly. Mary and Ray took turns watching Rob’s house and his beloved terrier while his daughter kept tabs on him and his progress.

According to her he was really making some. That brought warmth to Ray but that didn’t replace the void. He found himself missing those wild nights of ghost hunting and stuttering out laughter. He missed the way Rob looked in his thinking spot, face illuminated by the city skyline. He missed the way Robert smelled like pine, ash and liquor all rolled together into a cologne that was pretty manageable on Ray’s senses.

It was for the best, Ray had to believe it was. Plus Rob’s absence meant hanging out with Mary became a way they both mourned the farewell of their drinking buddy. Mary wasn’t bad once Ray got to know her. Like Robert said once, she really was harmless.

“Ugh…” Ray turned up his nose a bit once he saw the condition of the motel room he was saying in. Now he wished he stayed the night closer to Amanda’s ritzy campus and not in some hot, humid, dusty room in the middle of god-knows-where Nevada. Too late for that now, Ray poked the bed and swore a blanket of dust uplifted and wafted through the air probably spreading decades of disease and unchanged sheets. “Th-the-there is no way I am sleeping in that.” He shook his head and went towards a complimentary chair beside the bed.

Thank God he was working out a little more with Craig. With a slightly more flexible and slimmer frame he managed to curl up in the chair until he was somewhat comfortable looking like a human ball of yarn…

…

…

“This isn’t working.” Ray spoke out loud. His mind was hazy and tired but his body couldn’t seem to relax long enough for that sleep to seep out of his brain and into the rest of him. Booze would probably help him sleep or anything that would force his body into a slumber. Now that he thought of booze the idea did not leave him. Finally slowly rose from the chair, making sure not to topple back down with exhaustion and opened the door to his room. He followed the dimly lit hallway in search of help or a mini bar nearby.

He walked down, passing a few rooms when a door on his right swung over so fast it nearly smacked him right in the face. “H-h-H-hey!” Ray exclaimed with mild annoyance. “Y-You could have hit me!”

“You could have watched where my door was going to open” a gruff voice grumbled with so much familiarity Ray was in near tears of joy. “Ray?”

“R-Robert?!” Ray didn’t think he’d be this happy to see that rough, bewildered expression again. “Wh-What are you doing here? I thought you-you were going to-to..wait you’re still going to-to rehab?”

Robert’s face took a while to compose itself; his hollowed, dark eyes didn’t look the same. There was a soft light flickering behind those blackened hues. He rubbed a large hand over his facial hair that seemed to be well maintained, then spoke “actually I mass murdered all of them and I’m on the run.”

…

That humor was well missed as well, as long as …it was actually humor. “Did you do it by poising their punch?” Ray included into the joke softly, he earned a small delightful laugh from Robert. His heart soared at the sight of his crinkling smile. “Seriously…what are you doing in a hotel?”

“Rehab is going well, they’re letting me have weekends to myself, test my limits with temptation.” Robert explained, “my rehab center is actually not to far from here…Val…didn’t happen to tell you where I was, did she?”

“Nono! Val kept her mouth shut. At least to me.” Mary could have probably gotten it out of her. “Amanda’s college I about 4 hours away from here, I stopped for the night.”

Robert leaned up against the doorframe, “picked a good spot, here its haunted.”

“Oo-ooh not this again.” Ray stammered a bit and shook his head, “I’m way too tired for Daniel McStrugis, Paranormal extraordinaire.” That was a lie, just looking at Rob. God he looked so good, he looked so healthy. At least…at least that’s what Ray thought. He could just be seeing what he wanted to see. What he hoped so maybe…Rob would be coming back soon… “Anyway…I was just going to…” wait, shit, Ray was on his way to find some ‘adult’ juice to sooth him to sleep.  Was he the temptation Robert was training to be able to face? Was he…bad? “take a walk…because I’m uh…not too tired.”

“Can’t sleep?” Robert tilted his head, his body language read ‘I don’t care’ but his voice said something softer. “I know the feeling…I’ve only just started sleeping six hour nights. Before it was impossible, the headaches, the cold sweats, shaking… I felt sick for weeks.” Rob must have seen Ray’s pained expression so he quickly changed his tune. “But its good now, found out I have a thing for Shirley Temples.”

Ray felt a giggle bubble out of him, as well as a yawn. “I hope you mean the fruity soda beverage and not the underage curly cue from that one infomercial.”

“I do like red heads.”

Ouch. His jokes still stung.

“It was…good seeing you Robert.” Ray signaled it was time he left. He wanted to stay, but Rob was in the middle of healing. Ray knew better he knew—

Robert shifted his weight off the door frame and had his arms down at his sides. He looked…vulnerable. “Come inside, lets…talk.”

“Rob I really shouldn’t, I gotta drive in the morning and you, you’ve got you-your thing an-and I…” his stuttering increased as his heart rate did. Rob’s offers to join him usually ended with random car rides or slick invitations to his bed. Both things Ray had also come to miss. “I-I should really not.”

Robert’s eyes looked down at his feet as the words slipped out his mouth almost effortlessly. “I’ve missed you a lot you know…kept all the letters Val forwarded to me.” He looked up and found Ray taking steps towards Robert. The pull was like a magnet, steady and constant. “Just…want to talk to you a bit…I don’t think I can wait 4 more months to see you now that you’re here.”

Ray knew he shouldn’t have. But the moment he walked into Robert’s door all the emotions flooded back. They spoke for hours until dawn. Then and only then did Ray find sleep, he found it while holding Rob’s rough hands. He found it after Rob used his beloved jacket as a blanket to keep him warm while he slept. Ray knew he shouldn’t have, but Robert Small was a very big distraction.