#maybe when i get in and actually see all the work emails and figure out the lay of the land i can work something out with my boss to delay

[inkskinned]

it's just that there's a few more steps you have to take that other people don't have to take, but they don't see the steps, so they think you should be able to hop from moment to moment, a chickadee.

it isn't getting out of bed. it is the weight, the hook in your chest, the anchor. you have to move the anchor first. you have to silence your alarm, but your phone is in your hand, which means now you have to put the phone down, which is too-hard. you get stuck in there for a while, the white screen, mindlessly scrolling. you don't even like this activity, have tried a few other options but - here you are, and time is passing.

you've googled iron deficiency causes depression and if i drink enough water does it help with mental illness and anxiety but no caffiene within the last two weeks, like how you googled am i gay quiz at 17.

it isn't just calling the doctor back, it's the anxiety, it's these little moths in your lung cavities, furious and fluttering. you need to figure out how to capture your fingers from between their nervous bodies. you are an adult, you can say the words yes hi, i'm calling because i need - but you need to practice first. maybe write it down because what if you misspeak, wouldn't that be embarrassing. write it down, but you need to find a pen first. well, actually, your desk is kind of messy. you should get a new pen. you should get a new organizational system. you should try journaling.

your grades in school were always strange. the way teachers would say things like it feels like you're not trying. you could touch stars in the stuff you cared about. well, sometimes. god be willing. homework average zero. oops! your english teacher's wrinkled brow: i know you know this stuff. what the fuck are you doing?

it isn't the showering, it's the mirror before the shower and the soft horrible pull of your naked physique. you have to avoid eye contact completely or else it'll be 93 minutes later and you'll have picked at your skin until every little pore is bleeding. you have to stand up but standing is tiring and also you should have remembered to buy more soap but you never remember anything. maybe get out of the shower and while it's still running and you're still dripping wet, use your phone to take a note. make a note to get your groceries. let the shower run while you stand half-in half-out and get lost in your phone for a moment. come back out when the water runs cold and now you have to sprint to get ready.

your grandmother's frown. you're just being lazy. protestant work ethics in a house that isn't even protestant. she says she just learned different but she means learned better, doesn't she.

it's not that you can't send the email, it's that your hands have been hurting lately and the desk really is messy and also why the fuck would you even care about this thing? doesn't everyone else feel like they're drowning? hi brendon thanks so much for sending! will review and get back to you shortly. but now you're on the internet, close the tab with tumblr on it. go on, close it. feel the little soft vapor of boredom come up and over your eyeteeth and make everything overwhelming and itchy.

literally all you have to do is put on shoes to go outside. you're literally already dressed, that's the hard part of this whole thing. literally just put the shoes on. just... do it! do it! this shit is easy!

it's literally that easy. just stop taking all those stupid invisible steps. stop following your strange made-up rules. times like this, even you're positive you're faking. you just don't want to bother with the cleaning and the cooking and the being-an-adult.

but then - shouldn't you be able to put these stupid shoes on? nobody's even looking. go on kid. life is out there! just take the leap!

get moving.

[kedreeva]

Okay so, I don't think I've spoken of the saga here yet but! Gather round. I shall tell you a long story about the bird I just acquired and why she is VERY IMPORTANT.

At the beginning of last fall, I started looking into quail genetics a little more, because I got tired of not being able to sex my Celadon quail by their feathers. Originally I thought I could kill 2 birds (ok maybe more) with 1 stone and order nice jumbo wild type (which MANY places advertised as wild type jumbo) hatching eggs, and this would help me put some size on the Celadons (jumbo) while also making them feather sexable (wild type). Perfect!

But then I come to find out that pretty much all jumbo lines are jumbo BROWNS, as in they all have the sex linked brown (SLB) gene. So, I was a little confused and a LOT annoyed because I wanted to work specifically with the wild type color/pattern. No mutations just straight, plain wild type.

And EVERYWHERE I looked - major production hatcheries, private breeders through websites, Facebook groups, local swaps, craigslist, e v e r y w h e r e -

People ONLY had SLB.

This spring I came across a video showing about the differences between SLB and wild type and I figured if the person who made it can tell, maybe she will have some. So I looked her up (not in a stalker way, her farm name was stamped on the video and took me to the website), and what luck! She was in Michigan! Upper Michigan, so still a hike, but not California, y'know?

So I shot her an email and explained that I was looking for WT and that her site said she bred them and that people could do local pickup. She responded yeah she's totally got a bunch! And I said great, I'm also in Michigan, albeit far away, but I don't mind driving 7+ hours each way, because I really need actual, trusted WT for sure birds for my celadon project, can I come pick them up?

Cue the most frankly bizarre email chain in my short life. As soon as I mentioned that I was going to drive, or perhaps that I had a genetics plan in place, she got super sketchy and started saying how she hadn't really paid as close attention to SLB vs. WT, that it mattered less than she thought it would when she started, that I shouldn't focus on that either, and also that "fawn celadon is practically unheard of" in the hobby and "you should focus on a clean Tibetan because it's hard to find without roux in it) implying that I should concentrate on those things instead. And concluded by telling me if I really want WT, to contact this other person (why happens to be someone I can't stand). It all sounded VERY much like she didn't have wild type males, after all, and had thought I didn't know the difference so it wouldn't actually matter. But, it does. It actually matters a lot to me.

So I messaged back to say, well, I don't want to do any of those things, I specifically want to work with this set of genetics and you said you have them so I shouldn't have to go to anyone else??

And then she went radio silent for a week. I kind of figured I'd called a bluff, and that she was one of dozens of people I'd contacted who'd said they had WT only to find out they had SLB. I get that it's difficult to see the difference, but this particular person was the president of the American Coturnix Breeders Association or whatever (found out it's actually just a club formed by her and her friends a year ago, so not as impressive as it sounds, considering they don't actually DO anything- no putting on shows, no newsletters, no certifications, no public breeder directory, no finished SOP, nada), so I kind of expected she should know what she's talking about, if anyone does.

Eventually, after a week, she responded that she had been judging at a county fair, but she had a few heterozygous males (WT het roux, which is fine) and she could set a hatch for me for more if I wanted to come at the end of the month, but she's in WI now, not MI. I said sure, since where she was in WI was actually closer than where she'd been in the UP, and we arranged date/time.

The day of, my neighbor friend, Jude, comes with me for company/keeping me awake through the 15 hours driving round trip. It's a pleasant enough drive. We arrived at a cutesy little house on the edge of town that looks like anyone's house in a neighborhood, with a spacious lawn. The person meets us and takes me around the side of the house to a 6x6x1.5 or so chicken tractor, where she's got some male coturnix. She pulls the available males for me to look through and... fam, they ALL looked SLB, to me.

Now, she swore to me up and down that they couldn't be anything except WT het for roux, because of the way she is breeding them. But I've put these birds next to my SLB males and if I didn't have my males banded, I would not ever have told the difference between them. I still picked up 4 of them, because I will give it a go- worst case, I can produce plain Roux hens/plain Roux males for use in breeding later, best case they do actually produce WT hens and they just LOOK SLB and I have to figure out what the differences are. I don't want to leave without seeing her hens, which she has told me are all WT (which is why the males HAVE to be het for it), and she takes me back. Now the hens, the hens are easy to see the difference. White bellies first of all, but the chest feathers are also wildly different! The shafts are white, the dot around the shaft is dark, ringed in red, ringed in white. On an SLB, the shafts aren't white, it's just a black dot surrounded in a red feather, and the belly is all red/buff/cream, not white.

This is what an SLB hen looks like:

So I take a nice long look to memorize the color, and thank her for showing me and meeting, and we head back home.

I do fecals when I get home because all of the males are VERY thin, no meat on them at all, and since she said she'd been feeding Purina (garbage for fowl feeds), I figured that was why, but no- HUGE coccidia loads in all of them. So I treated them and got them on a better feed. They immediately began putting on meat, and they're find now.

The rest of this summer, I have spent going to local bird swaps and inspecting all of the quail I could find, hoping to find one (1) actual wild-type phenotype bird. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, I have pawed through them all, being super obnoxious to the owners I'm sure, holding and inspecting males. I found ONE suspected WT male (and this is a HUGE "suspected," he could very well be SLB with low red expression). I compared him when I got home and I'm doubting myself still, so I don't know if I will ever actually pair him with the SLB hens or if I'll just wait til I have a roux set.

Regardless, it's been a dry season for getting what I want. It's been a dry YEAR. Yesterday was another swap and more hundreds of quail and me pawing through all of them.

Until.

My eyes landed upon.... her.

If you've only lived in an area that has american crows and not ravens, you find yourself wondering if crows are ravens. You see a big crow and you think wow! maybe that is a raven! It could be a crow, but it's seems bigger so maybe it's a raven. But, if you take a trip to a place with ravens, and you see one for the first time, you realize that there is no question, when you see a raven. When you see a raven in person, there's no question and not only is there no question, you wonder how you could ever have thought a crow was a raven. It's laughable, while looking at the raven.

That's how finding this bird felt. I'd been picking up every SLB hen and going maybe this is actually WT? It could be SLB but maybe it's WT? But the second I laid eyes on her in the middle of a pack of SLB with some mixed colors, I knew I was looking at WT hen, and I can't imagine how I ever thought maybe an SLB hen was WT.

Here's a better photo of her chest and belly (she's beat UP from her previous home, the back of her head and most of her rump are plucked clean from males). You can see the white shafts and the white belly.

And some other pics of her, showing the grey-brown on her side and back- VERY different than the SLB hens

I can't express how stoked I am about this bird. This is the first time after a LOT of effort and time, that I have felt confident I am holding the bird I want.

She's also the indicator that I have a LOT of work ahead of me.

My end goal is to have birds that look like her, weigh 12-14oz, and lay large, blue eggs. I have birds that lay large, blue eggs, I have birds that weigh 12-14oz live weigh, and now I have at least 1 bird that looks like her, which means I can make more that look like her. The first step is cleaning the color mutations out of the celadon line without losing the celadon eggs. This is going to be a bit of a nightmare, BUT, I have a friend helping me out with getting a few celadons that are either WT or SLB (I'm guessing SLB all things considered) to start the work with. I will work over the winter to get a few more actual WT birds here, and to start crossing out the celadons with the SLB jumbos to clean out the other feather color mutations. Once I'm down to just SLB and celadon for mutations, I can clean the SLB out with the WT and roux lines.

This project will likely take me a good 2 years, maybe 3, to complete and then test breed to ensure I haven't lost the celadon gene and I don't have any hidden recessives lingering about. But just having the fucking materials to do it all on hand now is a huge step forward from where I was when I decided to start the project.

[steviewashere]

I want to write something sort of meta, hear me out on it. Sorry, if this hits too close to home. The idea came to me and I needed to get it out of my system. And...would you look at that, another half-written fic.

Steve ends up getting really into Star Wars after Dustin shows him to it. Like, so much that he gets himself involved with conventions, cosplay, collecting anything and everything he can. He's involved in a fandom space. Learns the world of fan fiction. And let's say that maybe, during his time figuring out where he wants to go with life, he picks up writing fanfic as a hobby.

It encourages him to get an English degree. Encourages him to lean more into that hobby, but then expanding upon it to write original short stories and small novels that go published. But he holds strong to Star Wars and fandom and finding his spot cemented in it. He's been a fan for...nearly forty years at this point (set in 2024, ugh I know).

And maybe he dabbles in online spaces here and there. He ignores the insufferable adults in the Star Wars fandom (the "um, actually..." guys, btw). Indulges the effort of typing out his handwritten fan fiction, ones he used to bring and pass around at conventions, ones he'd let Eddie read with a shy look in his eyes. And he posts them online, has a Tumblr account, maybe does a few short things on Twitter, definitely is on AO3 (albeit newer, having never attempted online fan work before).

But then...then he gets his first little bit of hate. Vicious, gross comments on his work. Sometimes in private messages. Even publicly, once, on Twitter. It irks him. He holds strong, he does. But then it gets worse and worse and somehow, worse. Younger people claiming he's too old, others claiming that he can't write for certain characters because they're out of his age range, that he can't ship certain people, he can't say that a character would do this or that, that Star Wars is media for a younger audience (despite being somebody who saw it "back in the day"). But that he...That he's not supposed to be there.

And that last little comment sticks with him for a long time. It makes his effort and his attention and his love for writing fanworks falter. He stops. Thinks about the characters he loves, of Leia and Han or even Luke and Han or Lando and Han (listen he loves writing Han). But then he wonders if it's even worth it, to indulge this interest anymore. Yeah, maybe he's older than the source material. Sure, maybe he was introduced to it a little later than most, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love it. Yet, his attention towards Star Wars completely falls away.

He stops watching it. His DVDs going dusty and unused. Starts putting away all his action figures, because what if he posts a photo one day and somebody sees them and claims that that's not for him and—

Then, he goes completely offline from fandom. Even if he still gets the emails from users who actually enjoy his stuff, ignoring them completely. Focuses on using the internet for work. For his novels, for the little stories he actually gets paid to write. But his work just isn't the same. The passion, despite being an original story and original source material, is completely dwindled.

His hobby has been stripped from him. His interest has been knocked straight out of his hands. And he just...moves on.

Even if it hurts to go down into the basement of he and Eddie's home, eyes catching on the see-through bins of original action figures, Lego sets, comic books. Even if it makes something strangle in his chest when he opens up the browser on his phone and it immediately opens to a new ship he'd been getting into: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker—because he finally picked up The Mandalorian, because he was finally talked into watching it when he had the free time.

And then it all bursts over when Eddie finally approaches him about it, when they're enjoying a night-in, sitting around lazily on their sofa.

"There's a convention coming into town," he comments, "supposedly, Hayden Christensen is going to be there. We should go, try and meet him."

Steve just grunts in response.

"Oh-kay...or we could just stay home and watch the movie?" Eddie suggests. "Been a while since I've seen Darth on screen, telling Luke about"—

"I don't want to," Steve cuts in quietly, "isn't really my thing anymore."

Silence then follows. For a beat. Then two. A third.

"Not your thing?" Eddie asks him incredulously. "Not too long ago you were raving all about that new show that's coming out! That you saw they were doing lightsaber whips and you were excited to see how they worked! What do you mean it's 'not your thing'?"

Steve shrugs. "Grew out of it or whatever. Got more important things to focus on now." He sniffs, trying to keep himself held together, grumpy and firm in his decision.

Eddie's stare drills into the side of his face. Scalding, just like that lava was in Revenge of The Sith. "Baby," he speaks softly, "did something happen? You haven't even...you don't read your beautiful little stories to me anymore. In fact, now that I think about it, I haven't even seen your lightsabers around here. What's goin' on?"

He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. A ratty plain white t-shirt that he wears now when he's lounging around the house. It used to be one with the Millennium Falcon on it, but that's tucked down far in his dresser. Not for him anymore.

"Steve," Eddie presses, "did something happen?"

His stare stays down at his lap, still fiddling with his shirt. Fingers flexing unfamiliarly in the strings, unlike the loose ones on his Star Wars shirts. "I just"—Steve heaves a deep sigh—"it's time I grow up. It's...not for me anymore. Too old for it now, I guess."

"You guess or you know? Because nobody's too old for anything. Unless, y'know, you're like eighty-nine and in terrible health and trying to hike Everest, then..."

Despite everything, Steve finds himself chuckling. A giddy little sound here and gone in a breath. He shrugs again, albeit smaller this time. Crumbling within himself. Quietly, honestly, he admits, "People were being mean to me about it online. About my writing. That I'm doing it wrong, that I—that I'm too old for it. That I don't belong because of my age." He finally brings himself to look at Eddie, blearily because his eyes are aching and wet. "I got to thinking and I...maybe I've just been too caught up in my own bliss to realize that those people are right. They're right and I shouldn't be into kids stuff anymore."

Eddie makes a soft, sad cooing noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, baby," he breathes. "Baby, those people don't know a single damn thing about your love. But...but I do. I know that you've seen every single Star Wars movie more times than I've probably eaten in my entire life. And what about all those Halloween costumes over the years? I didn't dress up like Leia for nothing, Mr. Solo."

Steve scoffs wetly. Goes to protest, but—

"And...and that handshake! The one with Dustin? You guys have had that for nearly forty fucking years! So, why bother indulging any of these...these hardasses on the internet? Did they sit next to you on the sofa as you fucking curled yourself like a shrimp and wrote every little intricate detail of a kiss between Luke and Han? Have they read your work while you blushed all shy, while you tucked your hair behind your ear and asked for the most earnest of feedback, to make sure you spelt things correctly or put a comma in the right place? These people, did they get to see you blossom and grow like a fucking bushel of roses over your hobby?

"Because I know I did. And even though you were nervous about your words on the paper, you still came to me. You still wrote and wrote and wrote until I had to bully you into breaks, just so you wouldn't ruin your poor wrists. If they had even an ounce of the passion that you do, they could write their own stories. They can make their own endings and make the characters the way they imagine them.

"They choose, instead, to—what—make fun of you because you have a space to express yourself? Because you found passion and turned it into something so beautiful, even I—a dungeon master, someone supposed to be amazing at storytelling—can't put into words? You found a way to do that, Steve. And you do that with kindness. You do it for free, mind you. If their only passion sits within sending you vitriol over people who aren't even remotely close to real, then they're the ones who don't belong.

"If I've learned anything, fandom is a space to share and bounce off each other's words. It's community and it's belonging and it's sharing what you love because you just love it. Fandom isn't bullying. Bullying is just bullying, Steve.

"And everything you've ever done in your life, in regards to fandom and outside of it, is so much better than hate. You may be a nerd or...or a little bit overzealous or whatever, but at least you aren't hateful. I think being hateful, that's worse—don't you think?"

Steve can only stare in response, fast tears down his cheeks, hands shaking in his shirt. Mind reeling. Because, yes, Eddie's right. And he maybe should've talked about it initially, but the hurt festered and festered and tangled and grew until he was nothing but an unhealed scab. And Eddie, he's the antiseptic to his uncovered cuts—the ones deep on his heart, where all his love is—even for things considered mundane, like movies, like TV shows.

"Steve," Eddie carefully murmurs, wrapping Steve's hands with his own, "you don't have to do something right to love it. You don't have to be a certain way to be happy. If Star Wars made you happy, then why give it up?"

He sniffles and chokes back on a sob. Because, again—damnit—Eddie's right. "I miss it," he admits quietly, "all I've done is miss it."

Eddie gives him a small smile. Something achingly soft that reaches deep within Steve. "Then open your arms and welcome it back, baby," he whispers, "even if you can't be online anymore, do it for yourself."

"I...I want to try it again, I'm just...scared. What if people hate it all over again? What if they're just nasty to me and shut me down and push me to the side and"—

"But what if they love it? What if your readers have missed you just as much?"

"You think?" he meekly asks.

Eddie's eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "I know, actually. Your emails keep coming in on the computer's desktop because I keep forgetting to log you out. And, baby, you would not believe how many people have been eager for updates, for your return." His thumbs work into the backs of Steve's hands, warm and sure. "And, if it helps, maybe I can moderate your comments before you look at 'em? I'll read them to myself and if they're mean, I'll delete them."

Steve blows out a breathy little chuckle. "You'll just get mad at them," he gently teases. "But that doesn't sound too bad. Maybe I should try again. Not yet, though. I'm not ready."

"That's okay," Eddie assures, "take things slow. Maybe we start with watching the movies again? Getting your lightsabers back on display?"

"Can we go to the convention, too?"

"We can do whatever you want, Stevie."

For the first time in a long while, Steve finds himself smiling. "I love you," he whispers.

"I know."

[melbatron5000]

The Big Damn Kiss

Buckle up, my fellow Good Omens Ineffable Mystery Puzzlers, Crackpotters, and Assorted Brainrotters, because I learned something HUGE yesterday.

This will be a bit of a long post, because I want to show you exactly how I got where I am. I want you to understand. I want to put all the naysayers to bed (ha! But I'm still gonna try), and settle this once and for all.

I know (almost) exactly what Crowley gave to Aziraphale during the kiss.

DO NOT TAKE ANY OF MY THEORIES TO NEIL! PLEASE!

Okay? Okay. Thanks. Shall we begin?

Ahem.

Firstly, whether you believe me or not, I am 100% certain that Crowley did, indeed, give something to Aziraphale in his mouth during The Kiss. I've covered that in the link previous. Okay? Okay.

I did not know what it was. I've now heard theories that it was a bullet (nope), a ball bearing (nope), hellfire (nope), and no one, NO ONE has suggested what I see. (If you have, hello! Talk to me!)

Here's our first foreshadowing Clue:

And here's our next foreshadowing Clue:

And the next:

And our last Clue:

With me so far? Well, that first GIF is a bit off, I couldn't find one of Crowley actually spitting out the flies. But he does. When Beelzebub first drags him to Hell, he actually goes "Pleaugh!" and spits out four or five flies. Edit: Found it!

Moving right along, we come to Crowley in Heaven with Muriel, looking at the trial. We learn two important things here:

One, Gabriel doesn't have a desk.

Two, Muriel does. Where they keep the records. And it's a bit lonely. Every few hundred years, someone comes and asks for something. Muriel can't access the sensitive ones, you have to be pretty high up. A throne, dominion, or higher. Like, maybe Supreme Archangel?

So if Gabriel doesn't have a desk, whose desk is he at when he's getting ready to leave Heaven? Of course I can't find a damn picture of Gabriel at the desk, but it's Muriel's. Where they keep the RECORDS.

Gabriel puts his memory into the fly, then gets on the elevator to go to Earth.

Now, when Gabriel opens the fly with his memories inside, we find out that it's a container. Bigger on the inside. You can put thing(S) in it. The bit we see of him remembering is shot in two parts, one where he's flying down a red tunnel, one where he's flying down a blue. If you slow this scene down and watch, you can see that he is NOT looking at just his own memories. There is more going on here, more that he was not present for. @embracing-the-ineffable put up a great meta about that here. Go look!

Now I figured Gabriel must have taken something else. Something important. Something useful. Something he meant to give to Aziraphale, except he forgot.

I also figured he must have left whatever it was in the fly when he took his memories out. Crowley must have realized while watching the trial footage that Gabriel also grabbed something else. I don't know when Crowley grabs the fly, but he does. And that is what he gives to Aziraphale in the kiss. Why? Well.

I had no idea what Gabriel took until I started working on the chiastic structure of season 2. I'm not done with that analysis yet, but let me show you one thing that I have found so far:

(The numbers are just to try and help me navigate the story and its events without time stamps)

My note #357 of what happens isn't quite right, but when I saw the only two times Aziraphale says "I forgive you" are towards the beginning of Season 2 and towards the end, I realized I had something.

Rephrase line 357: Crowley's kiss is forgiven IN EXCHANGE FOR RECORDS.

(Not that I think Crowley's kiss needs to be forgiven. It's just what Aziraphale says, and had to say at that moment, because the Metatron was listening in.)

What does Heaven in Good Omens remind us of most of all?

A big corporate entity. And what do powerful people do when they get fired from a big corporate entity? They download all their emails while they're cleaning out their desks. Damning emails. Emails that can be used to black mail or even destroy big corporate entities. Or, ya know, maybe they swipe some sensitive RECORDS?

Oh yes.

Records that Gabriel meant to give to Aziraphale, but he forgot. Records that Crowley realized Gabriel had put in the fly. The fly that Crowley grabbed once Gabriel had his memory out. The fly that he gave to Aziraphale when he kissed him. The fly that no longer held Gabriel's memory, but did still contain those damning records.

Here's Aziraphale reading the records:

Here's Aziraphale being horrified and outraged by what he's reading:

And here's Aziraphale realizing he has got some GOOD DIRT on Heaven. Maybe enough to bring them down:

That's it folks. I have no idea what the records actually say, and maybe we're not meant to know until season 3, but whatever it is, it's GOOD.

That's my story, and by God Herself, I'm sticking to it.

[kafka-ish]

I think if Art wasn’t as serious about tennis he’d be such a coworker. Maybe it’d be in between summers at Stanford and it’s your first week there. He’s scheduled to train you, show you the ropes but when you first walk in he thinks you’re just another customer, a really pretty customer that’s got him changing up the script. Hey! How’s it going? What can I do for you? Find everything alright? He’s already thinking of ways he can slip you his number, maybe he’ll write it on your receipt. And he’s typing in his ID to give you his discount, anything until you say, “Actually, I work here.”

Art stops typing. Looks up, completely dumbstruck because you’re too pretty to be selling yourself out for some minimum wage corporation, to be doing any sort of labor. You need to be taken care of; any reason you should step foot in here would be to pick out a new tennis racket for a match you have. But you’re here. You work here. So he cancels out the order and says something about how he’ll get you a t-shirt, stay there.

He’ll take you to the back where the employee bathrooms are. You watch his fingers when he punches the numbers. “It’s like a six,” he says, and you think about that every time you use the code to get in. He waits for you outside the door while you’re changing, wishing he could get a glimpse, wishing he could be on the other side. He gets hard just thinking about it. He thinks about the kind of bra you’re wearing, if you’re wearing one, what you look like underneath the fabric. And he thinks you look so cute in that work-issued uniform even if the collar of your shirt isn’t folded over correctly - it only gives him the urge to reach over and fix it. Sorry, he says when he retracts his hand and sees the look you give him. He doesn’t mean it, not entirely, by the way a smile starts working its way on his face.

Art would give you a tour before you get started. He wants to show you around and he loves that he gets to be the first one to make an impression. Fucking revels in it. But he’s also weighted with the worry of making a good impression so some of his delivery is awkward: this is the stockroom it’s where we get stuff to… stock / we separate brands in sections so if someone asks where adidas is you can point to the three lines back there / managements making us ask everyone if they wanna round up their change but you don’t have to. I just ask anyone who’s paying cash. Or if they’re cute. The system makes you put their email in. He flushes a little because he doesn’t know why he says that last part.

I think Art would be so patient when he’s training you. He would take his time to over-explain everything and he doesn’t realize he comes off sounding like a douche. Telling you what all the buttons mean and asking if you want to come with him when he’s about to stock something just so you can see where it is for next time, obviously. But it’s just an excuse to talk to you!! He doesn’t know how and he figures since you both work there it’s an easy in and you think it’s so adorable that because it’s a slow day he’s pretending to be your first customer, gathering random items, having you scan them, and reminding you to ask if he wants to round up his change for charity.

“Not today”

“Okay, your total will be—”

“Hold on. You don’t want my email?”

“Well, you said no so…”

“No. Convince me. Really try and convince me.”He wants to know what lengths you’d go for him if this is how you’d happen to meet. So you say, okay it’s for this charity you guys are having.

“Say it’s for homeless animals. They eat that shit up,” Art lets you in on this piece of information like the manipulator he is.

“Is that what you do?”

And Art would make sure to stay near you just in case you need something, always bags the customers’ items so you can focus on the transaction. He loves the way you say his name, how timid you are when you whisper Art when you need help. He imagines that’s how you say it when he’s eating you out.

[disneyprincemuke]

build me up * ls2

two hit men, one target: each other. the problem? you're soulmates.

pairings: logan sargeant x fem!reader

trope: soulmates destined to kill each other

wc: 1.2k

(f1 masterlist) | (falling in reverse)

logan’s not a murderer per se. well, he kinda is. but with a purpose; he’s not just going around killing people for no reason.

there’s always a reason.

but when he’d been assigned to take down an assassin of some sort, he almost hesitated. because it was you and well, the bias is very simply explainable: you’re very beautiful.

he’s a hitman — not a robot. he can still find people attractive.

he’d been contracted to take out the person sneaking up on the big people he’s working for. naturally, they’d want you taken out.

he’s followed you around for a couple of hours now, trying to find a perfect time to lunge at you and make it quick. there wouldn’t be much to admire seeing when the world is still very much monochrome in his eyes.

he wondered, watching you devour your dinner just an hour ago, if there was somebody that would mourn your death. not in a psychopathic manner, just in a sense that he’s also all alone.

ever since he’d taken the genius career path to be a hitman of some sorts, it’d been easier to be by himself. nobody to look after, and nobody in danger from the things he’s gotten himself into.

his want to eventually meet his soulmate and see the world in colour would have to wait. it might even need to be scratched off from his list completely.

when he comes home to an empty apartment, nobody in it but his dog happily wagging its tail up at him, he gets the urge to drop everything to pursue the life he wanted. a nice home somewhere discreet with his soulmate and maybe kids.

his picture perfect future gets the best of him sometimes. he’s got his letter of resignation collecting dust in the bottom of his email drafts but whenever he comes close to hitting send, there’s hesitation.

because what if he doesn’t actually ever find his soulmate? does that mean that he would have to go about life in black and white all by himself?

so logan doesn’t ever send the email out. he will just have to eventually find the time to deal with the inevitable loneliness looming over him.

it’s not an easy lifestyle: trying to be a hitman for a big corporation and desire for normalcy.

logan follows behind you, slowly and quite a distance, into an alleyway. he keeps a hand against the cold material of the gun stowed away underneath his jacket — for comfort — and to finish you off fast.

your sigh echoes in the empty alleyway as your footsteps come to a slow halt. you kick the ground slightly and drop your head, starting to dig for something in your bag.

and that’s his cue.

but just as he launches to get you, he finds himself frozen when he hears a click. there’s a barrel of a gun pointed right at him with your back still turned to him.

instinctively, he draws his gun out, pointed right back at you. and he finds himself in a situation.

“do you think i’m stupid?” you mutter with sarcasm. “i know when i’m being followed.”

you whirl around and logan almost drops to his knees. he finds the boring black and white motif that he once thought he would never get rid of, slowly fading away. he can decipher the warm glow of the orange lights in the alleyway and the colour of your skin and the colour of your hair.

you don’t mask your shock very well. you flinch and your hand falters when the bright green of logan’s eyes greet you when you turned and locked eyes with him.

your gaze softens as you try to figure out what’s happening. only then it hits you that this man who has a gun pointed right at you is your soulmate.

you steady your arm immediately and tighten your grip on the gun. “i noticed you the minute i stepped out of the restaurant,” you say lowly, “why are you following me?”

logan lifts both of his hands in surrender, his gun pointed into the air. “are you just going to ignore what happened?”

the colour of your eyes mesmerises logan. to hell with his task, there’s a more pressing matter: he can see colours.

colours that seemed like a mere myth, growing up with parents who would describe it to him all the time with the biggest smiles. he wonders now if his eyes are as beautiful as his mother would tell him when he was growing up.

if he cared to ask you, you would say they’re the best thing to be greeted with. but that’s not important.

just like every other kid, growing up, he always thought what it would be like to meet his soulmate and watch the world transition to something he’s only ever heard his friends talk about growing up.

it wasn’t until the reality of losing a soulmate struck him when he was 19, when he lost his mother. and eventually watched his father grieve, and then lost him too.

and friends of friends bear stories of losing their soulmates, describing it as the most devastating feeling. he decided at 20 that he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of that pain.

so logan distracted himself training at some shooting range down the street. some burly man liked what he saw and recruited him.

and now here he is.

“i’m not fucking around with you.” you keep your guard up walking towards him and logan doesn’t move another inch. “i know you’re not here to mug me, so what gives?”

logan’s eyes trail down to the gun barrel now pressed against his chest. he lifts his eyes with a small smile. “would it help if i said i think you’re pretty?”

you dig the barrel into his chest. logan stumbles a step back. “i will kill you without thinking twice.”

“okay!” logan whines. “i was… i’m being paid to kill you.” he watches the annoyance on your face grow. “but please, acknowledge what just happened.”

you look up at him, trying to figure out if he’d just make an attempt for your life either way. you snap your head at the item still in his hand and he follows your stare. “i’ll unarm it,” he offers. “please, let’s just talk.”

“one wrong move, i’ll shoot you in the leg,” you threaten, gesturing your head towards the ground.

you weren’t shy of falling victim to great love stories of meeting your soulmate. you watched your best friend and her soulmate tear each other to the brink of insanity trying to make it work, evidently throwing in your face how it’s all just an illusion, and gave up on it.

the story of how you landed a job as an assassin is a long story, deriving from your childhood and your parents’ businesses growing up. all there is to know is that you’ve been here almost your entire life, courtesy of your parents.

given the brutality of all of your lines of businesses, you often think about how they managed to make their marriage work.

seeing colour has always been emphasised in yout society. it’s a magical moment, you’ve heard people say. but nobody ever tells you what to do when you’re meant to kill the other.

and you’re curious… you’re thinking, what now?

frankly, logan is thinking the same thing.

gen taglist: @33-81 @darleneslane @nikfigueiredo @happy-nico @localwhoore @namgification

series taglist: @vicurious28 @c-losur3 @lozzamez3 @haikyuu-carat @bicchaan @ @cinnamongirlontv

[scientia-rex]

Long ask. I didn't see that you had answered anything similar.

How do I do activism? Yes, I could Google it, but I would rather learn from a stranger with claimed yet unverifiable experience on Tumblr than from a stranger with claimed yet unverifiable experience anywhere else, and I'm here and so are you and we can talk and have a [para]social interaction. I won't bore you with a condensed autobiography, but I have a lot of experience fixing mistakes, not unlike being a physician, but far less noble, what David Graber would call a "duct-taper". It's partly what led me to socialism. I fixed mistakes but could not fix the root causes and, when I investigated those causes, I ran into structure. I couldn't explain the human behavior I witnessed as human nature, because it wasn't my nature and, as far as I know, I'm human, so the only explanation I could come up with was that the structure of the company I worked for created the problems I was trying to solve, and I had no power to change that structure, and no desire to join the psychopaths failing up the corporate ladder. I expanded my thinking outward and saw the problem inherent in capitalism and all the associated -isms and -archies, all the while trying to figure out what I could do that could possibly change any of it. I dove into progressive politics, read theory, consumed all the lefty content I could find, and thought, and keep running into the same problems. But even if the root causes cannot be addressed, the effects still need to be, because the effects are people, hence activism.

How do I talk to congresspeople? I email them about issues, but am frankly afraid to call them. Shall I get voice mail, or does a person pick up? If the latter, I'm assuming it will be a secretary. I don't want to be mean to a person answering phones. I've been one of those people getting yelled at or threatened because of events I did not cause and could not possibly prevent or change and, maybe I'm oversensitive or have PTSD or just a hyperactive amygdala, but I cannot overstate the damage those negative experiences cause. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, the lives that can be saved or improved outweigh a few people's hurt feelings or possible psychological trauma, but I would prefer not to turn this into a trolley problem if at all possible. Maybe it's a stupid question. Maybe I'm overthinking it. I can be charming and I have no lack of empathy; I can politely disagree. Shall I have to argue with anyone? Or is it a thank-you-for-your-participation-I-will-tell-the-congressperson-have-a-nice-day situation?

How do I get a job doing good things for people? This is somewhat pressing as I quit my corporate job five years ago, to have what turned out to be a midlife crisis, and have been living off savings (that are running out) ever since. I want to help and don't want to be ashamed of what I do for a living. I've always been able to do anything I've ever tried to do, but I'm 45 with little formal education or qualifications, and am thinking it's maybe too late to go back to school. Most of the non-profits I see seem like little more than scams. And perhaps the most serious complication: I'm a loner, more out of habit than inclination. I'll spare you the background, but I have no connections and no idea how to make them, and I don't believe I have any particular skills so valuable that should confer an immediate advantage or demand for my labor, but then again I don't know what is in demand.

It's OK if you can't answer some of these things. I simply have no one to talk to about them who can give any actual advice and figured you might. Thanks.

How to do activism: The first thing you need to know is your axe to grind. It was easy for me. I've been out since I was 13, nobody ever believes a girl is bisexual, it's always "you want attention" or "you're secretly a lesbian." That was in 1997. I went through hell and I'm bitter about it. So when I realized I liked medicine, I realized I could turn my life into an extended revenge arc by moving home and telling everybody it's OK to be gay. Two birds, one stone. I work with a woman who didn't get her axe to grind until about three years ago. She realized she was fed up with people abandoning dogs. She's one of the most active volunteers at the local shelter now. She's saved a lot of dogs' lives. She didn't start out knowing anything about it, but she told the shelter she wanted to volunteer, and they've helped her grow through the rest of it. My husband works with the local food bank, because his mom's neighbor (who is a family friend and sweetheart) wrangled him in to serving on the board, so now in addition to board meetings once a month he goes in sometimes to do things like help his mom's friend unload trucks. Sometimes the cause picks you, sometimes you pick the cause, sometimes you are the cause. And no matter what the cause is, someone else is already working on it. Someone else already cares deeply and if you show up ready to be hands on and help out, with humility because you know that you don't know everything, they will help you learn how to be effective. I started out in medicine by volunteering at the emergency room near where I lived. I pushed a linen cart around and restocked gowns in rooms, and when I couldn't fit any more washcloths into drawers I cleaned doorknobs. One of the nurses once told me she really appreciated that I cleaned all the doorknobs, because it wasn't getting regularly done. I am in medicine now because of many, many people I asked for help and who helped me because they wanted to contribute to justice and equity in medicine, whether for queers or rural people or women. This is, and has always been, a combined effort. Alone we beg, together we bargain.

Calling elected representatives: Oh god I know, me too, calling strangers is the LITERAL WORST. I'm 40 and I'd rather pepper-spray myself than argue with a human on the phone. Wait until after hours and you'll get a voicemail. I like to leave voicemails that start with "My name is Dr. Rex, I'm a constituent of yours, and I VOTE, and I'm calling about ____." That's honestly about all it takes--when I was hanging out with the lobbyist she told me they keep lists with tick-marks for how many calls, emails, etc., they get on a topic. Calls count for more. The more effort you have to put in, the more engaged they know you are. So call, but if people scare you (and the people who pick up are almost always nice, if you do get a person, and they will 99/100 times say "thank you for your call, we will pass your concerns along to so-and-so"), call at night.

Going back to school is probably unnecessary. Spin your past experience aggressively and start applying to nonprofits. (You "took time off from the working world in order to sharpen your focus on what matters most to you," which will be whatever this particular group does.) It's OK if you pick a bad one to start with; most of them are shit-shows, and lots of them still accomplish good things. Nonprofits are a bloodbath when it comes to actually being an employee--they know that part of the compensation is the sense of living ethically and they will use your altruism against you--so keep your resume updated and be prepared to bail if grant funding doesn't come through, but most areas have food banks and pet shelters and human shelters and jails and medical clinics and hospitals (for every doctor who works at the local hospital there are at least 10 support staff by the numbers, and they are utterly critical and always under-staffed). Sometimes if you start by volunteering somewhere, once they realize you're dependable, you can get a job there. I am zero percent kidding about working for a hospital, clinic, or jail, by the way. Those are places I know well, and there are always civilian jobs available. You want to make a patient's day better? Be the front desk, front line staff who use the right pronouns and cheer them up.

I think it's completely reasonable to have procedural questions about how all of this works, and I am grateful to you for giving me a chance to talk about it a bit. Please feel free to ask any follow-up questions. And for reference, when I was just starting out in research at a time when the market for research-trained people frankly sucked, I applied well over 300 times and got well over 300 rejections (I was counting) before I ended up with a job that I loved (even though it was hellishly stressful and I made just barely more than minimum wage for working well over my alleged, salaried "hours") and felt like I was making a positive difference for the world with. And from there, I kept making changes as I realized what I wanted and needed. Just keep doing it. You don't have to feel good about every step, you don't have to know what you're doing, just keep putting one foot in front of the other as you try to figure out what will make you happy. Because nothing else is a good proxy for happiness, and happiness, for a whole lot of humans, means finding something meaningful to do in life. Helping others. Be okay with changing, be okay with sacrificing who you are right now for the sake of who you can become. You've survived four decades on this bizarre and cruel planet, and you have inherent, intrinsic worth as a human being. You deserve your own kindness.

[youcouldmakealife]

KS Fill: Gabe/Stephen; not on the list

For the prompt: I would say Gabe and Stephen’s wedding because I want that more than anything in the world, but I suspect that’s coming without my prompt? But if it’s not… 

It would come either way, probably, but this started the ball rolling.

More Gabe and Stephen, more lists. No actual wedding, but we get pretty damn adjacent.

Gabe knew the list would backfire the moment Stephen started making it. He even told Stephen as much, but Stephen just shrugged a shoulder and kept working on it. He got into it as it grew too, enjoying it so much that Gabe told himself he was probably worrying about nothing.

And maybe the list wouldn’t have been a problem if the only person he’d told about it was Gabe. Probably would have been fine even if knowledge of it extended to the Marksons and Petersens, which happened sooner rather than later.

But telling Gabe’s teammates — that was a mistake.

“A what list?” Jared asks when Stephen first mentions it.

“An anti-wedding list,” Stephen says.

Bryce sits up. “You guys aren’t getting married?”

From this angle, Gabe can’t see how withering the look Stephen gives Bryce is, but the kick Jared aims at his ankle is probably related.

“Obviously we’re getting married,” Stephen says, like he wasn’t panicking for a good few days after they got engaged, and only the potential wrath of Miriam Markson kept him from fleeing on the next flight out of Vancouver. “It’s a list of shit we don’t want at our wedding.”

“Um,” Bryce says.

“You know,” Stephen says. “The wedding traditions we’re vetoing.”

“We is such a strong word,” Gabe says.

“Unanimous approval or none at all, Gabriel,” Stephen says. "A veto only needs one."

He's right. And Gabe guesses he would know, consdiering he's the one vetoing everything.

“So wait, what exactly are you vetoing?” Jared says.

“Nobody’s wearing white,” Stephen says, starting to tick items off on his fingers. “I mean, white dress shirts are fine, obviously, but nobody’s a virgin here, we’re not doing any all in white shit. No flower girls or ring bearers. No little groom cake toppers. Fuck knows there aren’t going to be any garters involved. I don’t remember the rest off the top of my head, but I have it all written down."

“I like the little grooms,” Bryce says, sounding hurt. Gabe hasn’t seen any pictures from Bryce and Jared’s wedding, since it was very much on the down-low — and he truly wishes he could see how those two managed to put together a wedding on the sly when they couldn't even sit across from each other without Gabe figuring out they were married — but he bets there were little grooms on top of their cake. He also bets Bryce still has those little dudes hanging around somewhere.

“Can I see the list?” Jared asks. “I’m kind of curious how many our wedding had.”

“Sure,” Stephen says, with a hand wave. “I’ll email it to you when I’m finished. Have a few more items to add first.”

“Cool,” Jared says.

After Bryce and Jared leave, Gabe mentions it might not be a good idea to send Jared the list, but Stephen just scoffs.

“What’s he going to do?” Stephen says. “Wear white to my wedding? Put little grooms on his piece of cake? He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s not going to anything that actually fucks with the day, he’s not Dmitry.”

“Our wedding,” Gabe says.

“Oh come on, you already know what’s mine is yours,” Stephen says.

“You stabbed me with a chopstick over the last soup dumpling last night,” Gabe says.

“Stop saying I stabbed you,” Stephen says. “I didn’t even break the skin.”

“It hurt,” Gabe says, and Stephen takes his hand, planting an officious kiss on the back of it.

“Better?” Stephen asks.

“It was the other hand,” Gabe says, smiling when Stephen sighs dramatically before kissing it too.

“You’re really going to give Math that list?” Gabe says. “Blind trust isn’t usually your thing.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll lead to something hideous,” Stephen says. “But think of it this way: your idiot teammates are going to do something, so I may as well give them some parameters.”

“Huh,” Gabe says. “Good point.”

“I’m not exactly new to this, you know,” Stephen says.

“No, I know,” Gabe says.

At least whatever it is that’s coming, it won’t come out of the blue.

~

Gabe did not foresee this. Sure, when he gave Stevie and Dima and Bullet bachelor party planning rights he anticipated some variety of disaster, but he underestimated them, he thinks. Or overestimated them. There was some mis-estimation occurring.

He looks around. What initially looked like chaos seems oddly recognisable. Almost familiar.

It’s sort of wedding themed, which makes sense, considering the occasion, but everything’s slightly off, and not just because they’re in a venue more suited to clubbing than matrimony.

His eyes land on the big cake at the centre of everything. It looks more like the kind Gabe saw at Cup celebrations than a wedding one, decorated to look like a rink, with two little figures at centre ice. He’s too far to see the details, but he’s pretty sure they’re hockey figurines rather than grooms, and someone has decided to use the manipulable joints for, well, evil probably isn’t the right word, but maybe immaturity — Gabe’s pretty sure one of them is straddling the other. He guesses he should just be grateful no mounting is taking place, considering Dima’s probably the responsible party.

There are so many elements, and they don’t seem to fit together at all — elegant baskets of flowers that look almost painstakingly put together, surrounded by a scatter of rainbow confetti that feels like it's moonlighting from a completely different event. Some kind of crooner — Bublé? — playing, also from a completely different event. None of it seems to fit Gabe's picture of a bachelor party planned and attended by hockey players, even if the wives and girlfriends present also got involved in the planning.

It’s the guests themselves that help Gabe put it together. There was clearly a dress code, one that only Gabe and Stephen weren’t informed about, everyone all in white, neon bright under the black light. Like an item of a list come to life. Like one of many items of a list come to life.

He can see Stephen put it together a mere moment after he does, his eyes narrowing, mouth going flat. Playing at unimpressed for the — many — eyes currently on them, avidly waiting for a reaction.

“I’m going to fucking kill Jared,” Stephen says, and Gabe decides not to tell him just how proud he sounds.

“I wonder which one of the Canucks is wearing the garter,” Gabe says, and grins when Stephen forgets his audience and his composure for a moment, throwing his head back with a laugh.

[slut4msby]

don't fuck your co-workers. kuroo tetsurō x fem!reader

+ tags & warnings; heavily suggestive, implied smut, use of the word "slut" like once & reader deffo sleeps around

+ a/n; listen to the title guys, don't fuck ur co-workers pls its not good and this does include dating, it's BAD (been there done that). also this is my longest one-shot yet (wc; 1544) AND first none inarizaki one-shot I AM A CHANGED WOMAN

Don’t fuck your co-workers.

That is the one unspoken rule of the workplace, right? It ruins the dynamic and adds unneeded tension to an already dreaded environment. But what if having sex with your coworkers is the only way to make it to the top. You were smart, you knew that. But more than your brains you had the looks. And even more dangerous, you knew how to use them. Use them to your advantage. Low of you? Maybe. Did it work? Yes. 

You can’t help but let out a sigh at the emails sitting in front of you. Who knew having a job meant you would actually have to do work. Maybe becoming a sugar baby would have been the easier option. As the music plays throughout your headphones, trying to find some motivation to respond to the endless company emails that sit in front of you. Maybe you should just walk out now and marry rich. 

“L/N-san? Are you good?” Your coworker says as he walks past your desk.

Your head darts up, looking at the handsome figure in front of you. Kuroo Tetsurō. One of the men in the building you have yet to sleep with. Kuroo was seen as higher than you in the business, so maybe getting in bed with him would give you a better chance at being the business woman you had dreamt of. 

“Earth to L/N?” Kuroo says again, this time waving his hand to get your attention.

Crap. You had zoned out. You nod your head in response. Kuroo peered down at you with confusion. “Actually, Kuroo-san, can you give me a hand responding to this email? I am unsure what they are asking…” you manage to spit out.

“Oh sure, L/N.” He walks next to you, leaning down looking at your monitor. It was an email from a random sports team. Even Kuroo could agree this email was confusing. As he read the words on the screen, you turned to look at him. He looked hot whilst concentrating. Actually, he had always been hot. But one step at a time, right? 

“Oh I see what they are asking now.” Kuroo then goes on to explain the email and how he would respond. You couldn’t help but look at him through your eyelashes. Maybe you were having too much fun sleeping around in the office. Call it what you want, but it gave you some fun and it was efficient. Almost all of the men fell under your control, all of them but Kuroo Tetsurō.

 You could tell Kuroo was paying attention to what you were doing, and he couldn’t deny his attraction to you. Ever since you were hired. Starting off as the pretty secretary all the men would flirt with on their way in. Leaving you coffee and treats each morning. All of the men but Kuroo, who tried to show zero interest in you. Keeping your relationship strictly professional. It wasn’t because he did want anything to do with you. He wanted everything to do with you. However when you had first walked in the building Kuroo was seeing someone, a lady who would often pop in. She was beautiful, sweet and funny. Everyone loved her. However, you started seeing her less. And eventually not at all. Of course this was strange, you happened to ask Kuroo one morning when he walked in when he casually mentioned their breakup. It was sad, but also gave you an opening. You know you should listen to girl code or whatever, but he was too good to miss out on. Maybe your morals weren’t there, but fuck morals. 

“Ah! I get it now, thanks Kuroo-san.” You say shyly, maybe he liked the more innocent approach? “I’ll finish it off now.” You smile.

“No worries, L/N san.” He responded, “If you need anything else I’ll be in my office.”

Good to know.

You looked at him once again, with an innocent look in your eyes. This worked on everyone else in the building. Why not him? The day continued as you answered emails, all your coworkers leaving the building as the sun went down.

“Bye Y/N!” Your coworker Rin said as he walked past. Now it was just you and Kuroo. After your encounter today you were determined to get something out of him. At this point it didn’t mater if fucking Kuroo lead to a promotion or not. It was more like your personal mission, the only thing to satisfy you. Was it a sexual fantasy? Essentially. I mean Kuroo was toned, he had dark hair and dark eyes. Kuroo exerted a mysterious and intriguing vibe. But on top of that Kuroo was funny, smart, cunning, and powerful. He wasn’t head of the JVA but he was high enough where if you convinced him to put in a good word your business woman fantasy would become more than true. 

You got up from your desk, adjusting your skirt and fiddling with the buttons of your shirt. Each step brings you closer to Kuroo as you knock on the door to his office. “Kuroo-san? Are you still here?” You ask softly, as you slowly open the door you see Kuroo sitting in his seat. His laptop closed. 

“Oh hey L/N-san did you need something? I was just getting ready to go home.” Kuroo replies, staring at you. Staring at you. If he didn’t know any better he would have eaten you alive. Your hair now slightly dishevelled, your blouse slightly unbuttoned leaving your lacy bra and cleavage on display, your skirt hugging your hips perfectly, and the thigh high boots making your legs look ever so sexy. Kuroo swears you didn’t look like this last time he saw you. He had heard rumours of your escapades, seeing you know he didn’t blame the men you toyed with. If he could, he would take you right here right now.

“Oh, I just kinda felt scared and lonely by myself. Pathetic to admit I know…” You admit with a very vulnerable tone. It wasn’t a lie, you were lonely and a little scared. You slowly start walking over to Kuroo’s desk, he slowly gets up and walks towards you closing the gap. “Kuroo-san? Why do you keep calling me L/N-san? You refer to everyone else by their first name? Everyone else refers to me by my first name…”

Kuroo knew the reason. It was so he formed no unneeded attachment to you. He already felt attached. For why? He will never know, since the day he met you even being in a relationship he wanted you. Maybe that was part of the reason Kuroo had broken up with his partner, but who knows? Anyone would be naive to deny the sexual tension between you and Kuroo. Maybe it was finally his time to strike? 

“Well why do you call me Kuroo-san, y/n.” He says his hand now on your face, tilting your head up to look up at him. God he looked good. “You call everyone else their first name.”

“I-I don’t know Ku-Tetsurō.” You can’t help but stutter. You were usually the dominant one but something about him made you weak. He had full control over you right now, and you enjoyed it. You know if someone walked in it would be over. You had fucked multiple co-workers before, never in the office. You weren't sure if Kuroo wanted you like that, right here and right now.

“You know, Y/N I have never been the biggest fan of my name… Yet it sounds so pretty when you say it, princess.” He says moving his face closer to yours. God that nickname made you have butterflies, made you want to give him everything right now. 

“Tetsu-” Kuroo cuts you off.

“But I am not going to act dumb with you right now, sweetheart. I know what you have been up to. I know about Rin, Haru, Emori, Yuto, etcetera. About you being the office slut.” He says into your ear softly. “Don’t think I am like one of them Y/N.”

You weakly nod.

“And you know this is wrong?” Kuroo asks.

Another nod comes out as you look up at him with doe-like eyes.

“So, why do you continue?” Kuroo questions.

“I wanted none of them, none of them satisfied me, Tetsurō.” You weakly admit.

“And you think I can do that?” Kuroo responds.

“I know you can, Tetsurō.” 

Kuroo began kissing up your neck, your arms wrapped around his. He slowly lifted you up, your legs wrapped around his waist. The kiss now moving to your lips, desperate. You both knew how long you wanted this, since the day you sat down as a secretary. It was even better than he could imagine, your lips soft and tender. You tasted like the watermelon lip balm he would watch you apply. Wishing it was him touching these lips instead.

It was wrong, oh so wrong.

“Tetsu- I need more than this.” You whine, pulling away for some air.

“I know, princess. Why don’t you pack up and we can go home, hm?” 

An offer you couldn’t refuse.

Lets just say, you got that promotion and so much more.

©slut4msby

[purgaytorysupremacy]

update: he emailed being self-flagellating and then went on a rant about being conflict-adverse during class when we were talking about virtue theory as an example of a virtue he wishes he could cultivate and I had to just be like never-fucking-mind, man.

I know people say “just let people misunderstand you” and “be yourself! don’t care about what people think about you!” but have they actually sat in a room with people who can’t stand you and aren’t shy about it and how that makes you feel like an infinitesimally small dust mote on the wind???

[cheemscakecat]

A slight opportunity missed.

So, there’s not a whole lot that I’d change about Hank and Connor’s storyline in Detroit Become Human, but that being said.

The story takes place in 2038, and Hank is a Millennial.

Millennials don’t have that Gen Z knowledge of new technology, but they do have a pretty decent understanding of it and some have healthy skepticism. They aren’t like Boomers, who struggle to adjust to using new tech and fall for more scams. Like AI generated photos and scam emails.

There are Millennial parents that buy IPads for their literal infants and let them get brain rotted, but Hank doesn’t strike me as the type to do that.

I think there’s a missed opportunity to make Lieutenant Anderson the type of Millennial who doesn’t blindly trust new products in tech. He’s like the sensible Millennial who thinks linking your house up to an Alexa to control the lights, appliances, and doors, is dystopian. Literally does not see a point in doing all that.

Bro probably took one look at the Metaverse trailer, knew it was gonna be dog water, and laughed at its failure. Hank probably used to mess with phone scammers like this Officer:

Another change I talked about previously is having Conner be in use before the first deviant case, helping with unrelated cases. That way it feels like the Police have a reason to trust Conner enough to include him in the Cyberlife related cases. It’s highly suspicious for them to insert a police Android during an investigation that could make or break their company.

I would write Hank as still having reservations about using Connor, since he’s skeptical of Cyberlife’s intentions. He thinks Cyberlife is using this walking, talking recording device to mine information from the Police department [Which is true].

You know that scene where Connor scans Anderson’s desk to figure out his interests and break the ice? That would literally just make Hank feel like he’s right about the data mining. I’d have him sit down, not stoked about the android but resigned to deal with it, then get progressively more frustrated by Connor’s attempts to act friendly.

Then Hank stomps to the chief’s office and starts refusing to work with the android. Only to be told he has no choice. Lieutenant Anderson disliking Connor, not just because of what happened to Cole, but because he’s smart enough to think Cyberlife is using him as spyware, would be an interesting factor in their relationship.

I think the turning point where you can actually befriend Hank would be when you show up at his house and sober him up. Because a regular machine would probably just stand in one spot and call an ambulance. But Connor very stubbornly moves Anderson to his bathroom and starts briefing him on the mission once he’s sober.

One would assume this android is programmed to wait for an ambulance and confirmation that Hank’s okay, then request a different human cop to help with the investigation that night. But Connor’s actions are much more human and “illogical” than that.

He’s impatient and stubborn, two traits that Cyberlife androids aren’t programmed with. Maybe the Traci Models, but 9 times out of 10, impatient and stubborn androids are bad for business. Any adult should know that, Hank included.

The meaner interrogation could have been written off as Cyberlife programming a bunch of dialogue into Connor based on cases and movie scenes. That was at work, and for all Anderson knows, Connor was always programmed to be able to intimidate criminals. But it’s a lot harder to write off an Android dragging you to the bathtub and refusing to take no for an answer about investigating that night.

That’s human. Illogical, stubborn, overstepping his bounds… and human. Leaving the car at the murder scene, despite being commanded to stay, could have been written off as Connor’s spyware programming too. Not attitude or impatience. But in retrospect, it would make sense as part of his personality too.

[traveler-at-heart]

Shopping

Summary: Natasha hates shopping, but an incident might change her mind.

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Who knew saving the world was so much work.

Specifically, paperwork. 

Thor, unfamiliar with Earth’s customs and the bureaucracy of any organization, always had trouble filing his reports. You volunteered to spare him of endless hours sitting in front of a computer and to save Steve the frustration of trying to figure what the god meant when he wrote things like “the screams of our victims can be heard from Hell”

Only, you had been at it for almost three hours now. You stretch, feeling your back muscles strained.

Time for a snack break. 

Which you were doing, eating cereal and browsing through some emails. There’s a sale at your favorite store. Maybe, if you find the right outfit, you’ll agree to that blind date Tony’s been nagging you about. 

The day seems to be getting better, until Sam rushes past you, mumbling.

“Run, hide, anything”

“What?” you say, mouth full of cereal. He’s already gone. Five seconds later, Natasha storms in. “Oh, hey, Nat”

She glares and you gulp down the rest of your food. Against your better judgment, you smile again and ask her if she wants to go shopping. You can’t stop talking, she makes you that nervous. 

“I hate shopping”

You already know it and she tells you for good measure, before rolling her eyes and leaving the kitchen.

Right.

“Bucky, she’s alive,” Sam whispers as you walk back to your room. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She was pissed. Had an argument with Tony” Bucky barely opens his door.

“They always do” 

“Romanoff looked ready to kill him”

“She always does. And why are you hiding behind the door?” you look at Bucky.

“He ate all of Romanoff’s angry cookies” Sam replies.

“Terrible timing”

“Yeah” Bucky sighs, peaking around to see if Natasha is coming to kick his ass. Frankly, you wouldn’t stop her.

“Well, if you’re done gossiping, I have a shower to take”

“Where you going?”

“Shopping” you immediately shut down Sam’s curious tone. These boys are so nosy.

“Can I come?”

“Absolutely not. You always flirt with the girls and I can never get them to help me out”

“Oh, come on”

“Knock it off or I’m telling Nat you ate those cookies”

“No!” he sprints down to his room, while Bucky shuts the door so fast, you swear the wood cracks.

Ugh, it’s like living with teenagers. Thankfully, you have a plan. As you suspect, Natasha is going around the kitchen cabinets, mumbling something about “killing Barnes”

“Hey” you don’t expect her to respond or turn around, so you just place the package on the counter. “I know those man babies eat everything on sight, so I always have some saved in my room. Your favorites” 

Natasha stops her movements, but still won’t turn around. 

“Thanks” she finally says as you walk back to your room.

You wish it was enough to make her feel better. You also wish she trusted you enough to vent about what it is she’s so upset about. 

But with Natasha, there’s always been a wall. You don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, because you find her so attractive, endearing and even cute. 

If you get close, then you’re sure it’s going to evolve from slight crush to full time pining.

That can’t happen.

These thoughts take up most of your shower time and as you get ready to leave, you only turn around once to check your hair.

There’s a surprise waiting for you at the garage. Someone sitting on the driver’s seat of your car.

Natasha looks up and smirks.

“I don’t let anyone else drive”

“Mind you, I’m more worried about how you broke into my car without the alarm blaring” you tsk as she takes the keys from your hand.

She shrugs her shoulders and to your surprise, guesses which mall you’re heading to.

“I notice things too”

“You’re talking about those cookies?”

“I guess”

“Well, you’re always welcome to get them from my room. Secret cabinet behind the mirror”

“Nice”

You chuckle and she actually looks like her mood is improving.

And you… you are approaching the pining stage at an alarming rate.

--

“So, what are you looking for?” she asks when you finally get to your favorite clothing store. Natasha looks completely out of place between the lighting and the bland pop music playing in the background.

When she turns around, she finds you putting some lingerie sets over your clothed body, evaluating the shape and color.

She’s thankful you’re too focused on your own reflection to catch her blushing madly. Now is not the best time to picture you wearing one of those sets.

“Oh, maybe something to go on a date” you reply, choosing the black lingerie.

That answer is enough to put her in a bad mood again. 

After a few minutes looking around, you sense that she’s starting to get impatient. Natasha shrugs her shoulders at every dress you show her. You might as well be holding a hot dog suit to get her approval.

“Alright, I’m going to the dressing room. Hold this” you give her your purse, to guarantee she won’t flee the minute you close the door.

“Don’t be long” she mumbles when you’ve barely taken your top off. Without thinking much about it, you peak through the door and smile mischievously.

“Relax. If you’re a good girl I’ll get you something nice”

The redhead blushes furiously as you close the door again. You think it’s pointless to show her the dress, thinking she’ll just shrug and make a non committal hum. 

You’re on dress number three and think it’s the best one yet. 

“Shit” your smile is quickly replaced by a frown when you realize the zipper on the back is stuck. “Nat” you call frantically for her.

“What?”

“I’m stuck”

“What…?”

“Come here” you jump out of the dressing room and pull her inside, shutting the door behind you. “The zipper. Can you pull it down?”

“Y-yes”

“Ok, go” you move your wavy hair out of the way, expecting it to be over with one swift motion.

But Natasha’s touch is surprisingly soft and delicate. You feel her breath close to your neck. Fuck.

“Fuck” Natasha says and you snap back.

“What is it?”

“It’s really stuck” she sits on the little chair at the corner of the room and pulls you along. As she keeps trying to undo the zipper, your body gives in, sitting almost on her lap, your back to her front.

“Almost… there” she grunts, pulling so hard that you end up actually sitting on her lap, squealing at the force of her movements. “Sorry, sorry, I got you”

“I thought I was gonna die” you sigh, not moving away from arms that are circling your waist.

“Trained spy is scared of a little fabric?”

“Jerk” you stand up, but the dress is halfway down, limiting your movements. It falls completely to the ground, you stumble and turn, landing once again on Natasha’s lap, this time face to face.

Or rather… Breasts to face. She has her entire face on your lingerie clad breasts.

“Jesus, Nat, I’m sooo sorry…” your apology dies down when you feel strong arms pulling you closer. You look down and find emerald eyes, pupils dilated with lust and lips parted, waiting for permission to move forward.

There’s not much else to think about, so you place your hands on either side of her face and kiss her, desperate and fast. Natasha moans against your mouth, moving down to your neck and sucking until she leaves a mark. Her expert fingers are trying to unclasp your bra when...

“Everything ok in there?” a store clerk asks. You break apart, feeling frustrated and very much turned on.

“Yeah, I’m almost done here!” you shout, a little too out of breath.

“I think your friend left. She really hates shopping, huh?”

“Oh, I think I’ve managed to change her mind” you wink at Natasha before putting your clothes back on.

--

“Stop” Natasha says as you head back to the Compound, one hand on the wheel and the other hovering above your leg.

“I’m not…!”

“You’re staring”

“You’re a really good kisser”

The redhead blushes and you think you’re in love.

No turning back now.

“So… when’s your date?”

“I don’t know, when are you free?”

“But I thought...”

“Tony was insisting on setting me up. That was before I knew my not-so-secret crush wanted to have her way with me in a dressing room” 

For the first time ever, Natasha is speechless and you laugh.

“So how about tomorrow?” she finally asks as she parks your car.

“That works for me” you walk side by side and then smile. “See? Aren’t you glad you went shopping with me today? You got to pick the clothes you’ll rip off of me” 

Natasha stops walking, and she’s actually considering just taking you up to her room right now.

“Tomorrow” you promise, smiling as you peck her lips.

--

“Hey”

“Yes, Sam?” you still have a silly smile, walking back to your room.

“I just saw Natasha and she smiled at me. Do you think she’s ok?”

“Yes, Sam” you roll your eyes, but he keeps staring. “What?”

“What’s that thing on your neck?”

Fuck. You slap your hand over the hickey and rush to your room.

“None of your business”

“As long as you keep her happy!”

“Shut up, Wilson”

[valentoru]

|| Limitless ||

[CHAPTER 3]

SYNOPSIS: Gojo Satoru, a big time artist, who’s known for leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake wherever he goes. And you, the lead guitarist of an upcoming band, who’s absolutely certain that no one will ever love you. Through an accident in which you happened to kiss Gojo in a frantic state, you both decide, via convenience alone—and zero regard for both of your managers—to pull a fake dating stunt what could go wrong? Any press is good press…right?

PREVIOUS : MASTERLIST : NEXT

Freakanomics. One of the biggest upcoming bands recently. An industry that housed many millions of people all fighting for a chance on the “pedestal”. No pressure. You had no idea of the exact number of people but the amount of drama and discourse you’d seen on Twitter in the last twelve hours alone was enough to help you hazard a guess; far too many. Therefore, you reasoned that the chances of your running into Gojo Satoru ever again was slim. You would never have the insane misfortune of talking to him again. Especially considering that after your three years in the industry, you’d only run into him once and that had been The Night (though it had only been a handful of days since you had rather thoughtless kissed Gojo Satoru every time you though back to last Friday night you would call it The Night and it would stay that way the rest of your life), you would never cross paths with him again. In fact you were fairly sure that Gojo Satoru not only had no idea who you were and had no intention of learning—and probably had already forgotten about what had happened.

Unless, of course, you were incredibly wrong and Gojo ended up filing that complaint against you. In which case you would be seeing him again, in court, when you pleaded guilty.

You ultimately figured you shouldn’t waste any time fretting over it and focus on more pressing issues like; you needed to start pitching ideas for Yuta. Or like how Yuta was literally your PR manager, despite your past and current situation with Maki. Or the note that Megumi had left on the fridge door that morning telling you he had noticed a cockroach scurry under the fridge again, despite all the traps you lay out. Or the most crucial one; the band had so much attention and it was becoming daunting. It was making you nervous and you were really starting to feel the pressure. You were bound to crack at any moment. On top of that you were low on money again and your didn’t have the heart to ask your friends for any, you all were struggling. Your band was big but not massive, and the share you were all getting wasn’t amazing, they were probably in the same situation as you.

You opened your laptop with half a mind to search “Organs you can live without” and then follow that up with “how much can you sell them for?” But you had gotten side tracked by the 20 emails you had accumulated in the time it had taken you to make a coffee and sit back down. They were almost exclusively reminders of subscriptions. Nigerian uncles with a money mine. And a few newsletters you signed up for a few years ago. You quickly marked them down eager to get on to a couple lyrics Yuta had asked you to work on them you noticed one email. One email that was actually a reply. A reply from—holy shit. Holy shit.

You clicked the mouse pad so hard you almost broke your finger.

Sgetomanagment@gmail.com

Y/N L/N,

The idea looks amazing. I should be at your studio next Monday, it would be great if we could meet.

Regards, SG.

Your heart skipped a beat. Then it began galloping. Then it slowed down again you could feel all your blood plusating in your ears and eyelids. Surely, that wasn’t healthy, but yes. Yes! You had potential business. Only potentially, so maybe, definitely maybe. He said great. That had to be a great sign then, right?

You frowned and scrolled down to reread what you had sent to him several weeks earlier.

Well if Suguru Geto, probably the most sought after male artist you could think of at the moment and he was currently the lead artist and organiser in a current cancer campaign event that was being held, came to your studio and gave you 10 minutes of his time, you were positive you could convince him.

Well…maybe.

You were better at actually doing campaigns than pitching for them. Communication was probably your biggest weakness. Okay, absolutely your biggest weakness. But you had the opportunity to show how important this cause was to you. You could practically jump for joy. This was something you’d always been passionate about.

You sighed and packed up your stuff and head for the studio. You needed to record some music and if you didn’t get out of public soon you would end up screaming.

When you got to the studio you made a beeline for the communal kitchen.

You stood at the coffee machine working out the rhythm for the song you were working out for the group, you also tried to figure out how you were going to tell Yuta, after all you had done this as a surprise for him. Your brain was practically full of fuzzy thoughtless thoughts, your whole body on autopilot. You span around only to be met with a scowl.

You startled, almost dropping your coffee.

“Fu—Jesus!” You clutched your chest and took. A deep breath. “Maki! Your can’t scare me like that—you shouldn’t even be in here!”

“Y/N.”

That definitely wasn’t unnerving. Maki never used your full name. Not unless she was reprimanding you for biting your nails or damaging your hair.

“Hey! How was your—”

“fiday night.”

Fuck. “—weekend.”

“Gojo.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I saw you two. Together.”

“Oh, really?” Your surprise sounded painfully playacted. Maybe you should’ve taken theatre in high school instead of band.

“Yeah, at the party.”

“Oh, cool! I didn’t see you or I would’ve said hi.”

She frowned at you. “N/N. I saw you. I saw you with Gojo. You know that I saw you, and I know that you know I saw you because you’ve been avoiding you.”

“I have not.” You feigned bewilderment but your efforts were once again in vain.

Maki gave you one of her formidable “get real” looks. It was probably the one she used when she argued with people in high school. She wasn’t exactly fond of her sister, Mai, either. She knew how to argue, how to manipulate. That was a fact. She was fearsome and indomitable, one of the things you loved about her—but not right now.

“You haven’t answered any of my messages. For the past two days. We usually text like every hour.”

She was right, you did. You switch your cup to your left hand for no reason other than buying time. “I’ve been…busy?”

“Busy?” Makis eyebrows shot up. “Busy kissing gojo?”

“Oh. Oh, that. That was just…uhm.”

She nodded as if to encourage you to finish the sentence. When it became apparent to Maki that you wouldn’t, she finished it for you.

“No offence N/N, but that was the most bizarre kiss ever.”

Stay calm. Stay calm. She doesn’t know. She can’t know. “I doubt that,” you retorted weakly. “take that upside down spiderman kiss! That was bizarre. More bizarre than—”

“N/N you said you were on a date that night. You’re not dating Gojo are you?”

It really could have been so easy to confess the truth. Since the very start of your friendship you and maki had done more moronic things, together and separately; the time you panicked and kissed Gojo Satoru would become one of them. One you would laugh about during “girls night” over some form of alcohol.

Or not. There was a chance that if you admitted to lying now, Maki would never trust you again. Or she would never go out with Yuta. And as much as the thought of your best friend dating your ex made your whole body physically repulse and shrivel up inside, the thought of your best friend being anything but happy made you shrivel up more.

The situation was depressingly simple; you were alone in the world. You had been for a long time, ever since high school. You trained yourself to not make a big deal of it. You were sure many people were alone and found themself having to write down made-up names and phone numbers on their emergency contact forms. During college music had been your only way of coping and you were perfectly ready to spend the rest of your life making music for yourself and have your own baselines as your faithful companion till you ran into an old acquaintance from when you were younger—Maki.

In a way it had been love at first sight. You entered the dorm room, she was the only person there, and also the only woman you’d come across in the little time you’d been at the college.

When you were in the communal area and all the other people were around you were only males and predominantly white ones, you began to regret picking music production as your study.

That was until the blue-ish haired girl with a pretty face and glasses plopped next to you and muttered, “so much for inclusivity, am I right?” That was the exact moment everything changed for you.

You two could have just been allies, as the only non-males potentially in your entire year. You could have found solace together when some bitching was needed and ignored each other otherwise. You had lots of friends like that—all of them actually, circumstantial acquaintances who you thought fondly of but not very often. Maki though, had been very different from the start. Maybe because you found out you both enjoyed spending your Saturday nights eating junk food and falling asleep to rom-coms. Or maybe it was that she had insisted on dragging you to every debate group and wowed everyone with her bullseye comments. Maybe it was her opening up to you and explaining how hard she had worked to be here. The way sometimes her family hadn’t even supported her, truly they didn’t believe she could make it as far as she has. Or when one of her professors for music making asked her if she was in the wrong class and truly, was confused. The fact that people still didn’t trust that, despite the evidence through grades, she was more then capable of being here. They thought she was less than that, much much less.

You, who’s path had been a struggle but no where near as much of a struggle, was befuddled. Then enraged. Then in absolute awe of the perseverance and ability to harness her doubt and turn it into fierceness.

And for some unimaginable reason, Maki seemed to like you just as much. And when your budget hadn’t quite made it to the end of the month, Maki had shared her instant noodles with you. When your computer had crashed without backups, Maki stayed stayed up all night helping you recreate the baseline that was apart of an assignment due the next morning. When you had no where to go over the holidays, Maki would bring you home with her to her closed off estate on the outskirts of Japan and let her family ply you with delicious food. And when you had felt like you weren’t good enough to be in a band and produce for the world, Maki had talked you out of it.

The day you had met Maki’s rolling eyes, a life-changing friendship was born. Slowly, you’d began to include Megumi and become a trio, but Maki…Maki was your person. Family. You hadn’t really thought it was even possible for someone to like you.

Maki never asked for anything herself and in the few years you’d known her, she’d never shown interest in dating anyone—until Yuta. Pretending that you had been on a date with Gojo was the least you could do to ensure her happiness.

So you bucked up, smiled and tried to keep your tone reasonably even when you asked, “what do you mean?”

“I mean that we talk every day and you never mentioned Gojo. My best friend is supposedly seeing the superstar singer Gojo Satoru and somehow I’ve never heard of it. You know his reputation, right? Is this some kind of joke? Do you have a brain tumour? Do I have a brain tumour?”

This was what happened when you lied. You have to tell more lies to cover the original lie, it was like a domino effect, each lie got worse and worse and less and less convincing than the previous. There was no way you were could fool Maki. The was no way you could fool anyone. Maki was going to get mad, then Yuta would get mad, and Megumi too. And then you would find yourself utterly alone. The heart break would make you flunk out of everything, you would lose your visa and your only source of income and move back to Canada where it always snowed and people ate moose and—

“Hey.”

The voice was deep but squeaky. It came from behind you and you didn’t even have to turn to know it was Gojo. The fuck was he doing here? Just like you didn’t need to turn to know the warm weight steadying you, a firm but barely there pressure applied to the centre of your lower back, was Gojo’s hand.

About two inches above your ass.

Holy crap.

TAGLIST(23/50): @bbmsxlene @lunavelha @satoryaa @tranzumaki @k-kkiana @luvkvni @lysaray @kalulakunundrum @arysbruv @r4veeen @stillnotherapy @catobsessedlady @colortheoryrocks @minzxec @dazqa @packsvlog @luvvmae @simplysm1le @mintfyi @lavender-hvze @fushism @angstmuncher @fackeraccount

AN:

Chat. This😈😈

© valentoru all rights reserved- do not publish my work on other platforms, plagiarise or translate.

[pascalcampion]

Under the Boardwalk.

I was at Lightbox a few weeks ago and I bumped into a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. ( hey Francis! We need to do lunch) He was laughing because he said that he had just seen a trailer for this thing I did some work on years ago. It took me a minute to realize he was talking about Under the Boardwalk. Movies do take a while to get done.

Anytime I see a movie in a theater that doesn’t come from Pixar, Disney, Illumination or Dreamworks, I clap my hands in my mind. It is SO hard to get to the finish line. Each movie that you see is the result of a series of small miracles.

I did a couple months of work on it. I was think it was in preproduction at the time. It was called Jersey Crabs at the time and there were only three people on it. At least, I only met three.

There was Chris Zibach, Ericka Stewart and David Soren.

I had just come off of two rather long and hard productions and I was a bit burned out about Art direction, production design or just… design in general.

When I first got an email about this, I wasn’t sure. But I went over to Paramount to meet with all three of them.

And you know what? They were fantastic.

Ericka was the producer and she had this no nonsense approach. Tell me your price, I’ll tell you if we can do it, if not we’ll figure something out. Boom. Done. She cut to the chase and any time I had a question she would reply within the hour. Her feedback was always short and precise, and she was always encouraging. After I was gone, she emailed me a couple of times to follow up on this or that. She didn’t leave any loose ends AND, something that is absolutely remarkable in this industry, she would reply to emails. She didn’t simply reply when she needed something, but when I would ask her if I could send recommendations, or if there were any other projects going on, she would send me an email back. I think the longest it took her to reply was TWO days, which is incredible.

Chris Zibach. It wasn’t immediately clear what Chris’s role on this was. I knew he was an artist. I had met him a few years prior while visiting a friend at Dreamworks TV I think. He was quieter than Ericka. Not sure if he was shy or I was simply too aloof for him to talk to me. For whatever reason, when I saw him, I thought of Tim Burton. Maybe the genius in him? Not sure. Later, I learned he was the production designer. I was surprised because that is something I typically learn on the first meeting. I was also unsure of his role because I hadn’t seen any of his work before and he didn’t act like any of the production designers I had met before. He wasn’t bombastic or sure of himself. He wasn’t trying to win me over with his talent or past battlefield experiences. He was humble. Yes, I think that’s probably the right word. Humble. But at the time, I couldn’t figure out if it was humility or something else.

It became clear after the first few designs of his I’d seen and especially after I had done a sketch for a moment that I couldn’t quite picture. I wasn’t understanding what they were looking for and Chris did this thirty second sketch that was SO clear, SO readable and SO easy to work with, and I was. OH! Ok.. he’s the real deal.

I love Artists like him. I wish I had worked with him more actually.

And, David Soren, the director

That was such an interesting meeting.

You know how sometimes you are hesitating on a project and you meet the team and all of a sudden it all flips? That’s how it was for this. I didn’t know what this story was based on, I didn’t find crabs particularly interesting, and the story, as it was pitched, wasn’t what I gravitate toward.

But David, wow. He had this energy in the meeting, this confidence. He was good at talking but he could listen AND hear you. He could also answer questions. Any type of question regarding the art, the story, the schedule, the planning. I didn’t know much about him but I came away very impressed.

I gave it a shot and now, I feel I was lucky to have been asked because, even if I was only on this for a very short while, it was one of those candy like work experiences. All good, nothing bad. Short and sweet and really fun.

There was a moment when I was drawing this big long scene that was supposed to be in the middle of a battle and I stopped, look at it and laughed on the inside because I had just realized I was being paid to do this and THIS was SO much fun.

I don’t know what my job was, what I was supposed to bring to the project. I didn’t understand why they had me do these designs when Chris’s work was so different and so unique already, but all three did a good job at quieting those thoughts.

I was working from home and they were on the lot. If I remember correctly, they would send me emails to broadly tell me “ There is a flood there, there is a battle there, there is club, a hotel, etc etc” and I would just do some images on what I thought it could be.

They already had some character designs, and Chris had done a few images, so I wasn’t totally going from nothing.

Each time I would send a set of images, I would get an email back the same day or the next day from either Ericka or David telling me something nice. Never from Chris though. I always wondered why but now I am realizing it was because he was too busy getting the whole thing off the ground.

I would get notes sometimes but not very often. Chris would do little drawers or notes on my images and, again, they were always minimal except for that one set piece and always clear.

I don’t know what the movie is like. I was still working on this when I started with the Peanuts Special which would occupy my life for the next three and a half years.

But I do know that I remember this as a very fun, loving and carefree work experience, which have not come around very often in my career.

Thank you Ericka, Chris and David.

Boost this post to reach up to 429 more people daily if you spend $42.

You're commenting as Pascal Campion.

[opiopal]

so before I crash out for the next few weeks for finals for this semester and traveling, I’m gonna expand a bit more on my human!OM au since it seems like you guys actually kinda like it! Which I’m PUMPED about because I always get hyped when people actually like my ideas lol, also if you guys have any ideas absolutely feel free to share

so like I said in the OG post I do imagine it as like a highschool au, since that’s the aesthetic the game goes for with the school stuff and the characters themselves, yk? With all the events and school stuff and the idea of a student body, Since most of the brothers act like high schoolers anyways, I did also get a comment that it can work as a college au, which I totally agree with! And I suppose for this post let’s say that it is more of a college au then anything, for the sake of keeping adults as adults, as if making it a college au changes much anyways,

so with the brothers, like in my last post, I can imagine it was this big thing with their father kicking them out of the house for being defiant and blaming them for the death of their little sister, so poor Luci had to figure out what to do because clearly the seven of them couldn’t just live out on the streets, but thankfully he met Dia who immediately was like “I NEED to be boyfriends with this guy” so he went ahead and helped them all out, also because he is straight up just a good person like that, and the HOL is probably a property that Dia’s dad owned but never used, like a summer house but the location was way too buns to be a summer house. Also Dia is totally one of those rich people who live in those MASSIVE houses with like, 34 bathrooms and 67 bedrooms with a kitchen bigger then the average persons house and a dining room that would make Bruce Wayne jealous,

Mc is most likely a transfer student from out of the COUNTRY, they got into a good school and qualified for the transfer program without really realizing it, so all of a sudden they’re getting emails and calls about going across the world to this private school for a year. So they rush to make preparations and are able to just BARELY make it to the airport, Dia probably personally emailed them about how the flight will be paid for and any accommodations that will need to be made will be paid for. And even just the plane right over is crazy to Mc cause they’re probably in first class and all that junk, and when they land they see barbatos first, or he sees them first. He approaches and explains he’s there to take them to the school to be introduced to the student council which is exactly what happens via a car fancier then anything mc has ever seen.

I can imagine meeting everyone is decently the same, dia explains the program, which instead of it being a form of trying to make peace between realms it’s more or less just a program to encourage more people to attend RAD. All the brothers are met minus their titles, mams is still assigned to watch mc and show them around, and there’s still the mystery of where the youngest brother is… which instead of being held prisoner in his own home under the lie of being in the human realm, he’s probably just grounded and not allowed to leave his room lol. So him and Mc meeting takes a while, which is a lot more tame then what ACTUALLY happened but yeah. I saw someone repost and said that maybe lesson 16 is just belphie and mc physically fighting and that made me laugh so I’m making that a thing, literally it’s just like, mc accidentally opened the wrong door and he jumped them, so mc was just running around the HOL screaming while being chased, eventually they physically run into mammon and they both topple down the stairs together while belphie skids on his feet and watches them go down… and then mams probably scolds him for trying to go after mc after he recovers from the fall lmao, which then ofc mc gets properly introduced to him, then luci explains that they haven’t seen belphie at all because he’s being punished for disrespecting Dia,

Over all I do think this au is a LOT more domestic compared to the original OM lmao, probably with a lot more focus on the brothers trauma without magic constantly being used to make another problem for everyone. also in a way im sure mc fits in a lot better and a lot faster due to the fact that they are all infact human, and its easier to relate their interests with each other without the whole “you’re human you couldn’t understand how complex this is” from like levi and junk,(I know he technically never really said anything like that, but you can’t deny some simple things weren’t shared with mc due to them being human)

but luci probably ends up just unintentionally allowing mc to basically be apart of the family, and becomes pretty over protective of them. like originally, mc probably hung out with Solomon and thirteen and other people all the time and luci didn’t bat an eye, but then some kinship happened and all of a sudden he cares that they’re bad influences on mc. Maybe a few times mc argues then technically mams and levi are bad influences too, but luci argues that he can punish them for being bad and that he can’t do that to thirteen or solomon. Basically he constantly has “because I said so” moments with Mc, which would be frustrating, but fortunately it seems like Mc is the only person in this franchise that understands the concept of communication, so they’d definitely eventually sit down with him to talk.

but most of the time it’s just mc struggling through school and then having fun with the brothers once everyone gets used to each other,

Session two is just mc getting their citizenship so they can move there permanently lol,

[differenteagletragedy]

Hi, could I request a fic of mc and Cove (and Cliff if possible) reuniting after not seeing each other for 3 years while mc was studying abroad?

Here you go, thank you!!!

You were practically vibrating as you sat in your cramped airplane seat, your eyes glued to the window. Down below, you'd seen long stretches of green, the brown of the desert, the mountain peaks, but now, finally, you saw what you'd been waiting for.

The Pacific stretched out to the horizon, big and blue and endless. You'd seen an ocean hours ago, of course, as the plane passed over the Atlantic, but this was your ocean.

Which meant you were almost home to your ocean boy.

It had been three years since you'd been home -- three long, exciting, excruciating years. After your freshman year of college, you got the opportunity to study abroad in Europe, and you couldn't pass it up. The following summer you got an important internship, and the cycle continued until it was your senior year. You'd just graduated, and you were coming back to Sunset Bird.

In those years, your parents had visited you, but you'd been too busy to make a trip halfway across the planet. You'd kept in touch with Cove through letters and emails and occasional phone calls, and the rare video chat when you were able to find a good enough internet connection. He hadn't been able to come see you, so the last time you'd been together was when you were 19.

You were 22 now. So many things had changed, but you hoped with all you had that the special bond you had with Cove wasn't one of them.

You'd had a pretty major crush on him for as long as you could remember, maybe even since that first summer he moved to town. There was always some reason not to tell him -- you weren't sure if he felt the same way, you didn't want to risk your friendship and, most recently, you were going to be on another continent for a considerable amount of time.

But as your plane began landing and the reality that you'd be seeing him soon really started sinking in, you thought that maybe you might be ready now.

When it was time to get off the plane, you waited for the passengers ahead of you to make their way through the aisle and into the airport, checking your watch. This whole process would take a bit, then you'd have to make your way to the outside entrance for your moms to pick you up, then it was about a 30 minute drive home if traffic wasn't too bad.

You were still working out the math, trying to figure out how many minutes until you were with your best friend again, when you heard someone shout your name as you left the terminal.

And there he was -- a little taller, a little broader, and a lot more tattooed. But it was Cove.

You barely had time to process the surprise before he barreled into you, wrapping his arms tight around your waist and picking you up so you could be as close as possible. You dropped your bag and hugged him back just as fiercely, burying your face into his neck and smiling so hard it hurt.

It took him a bit to let you go, and even when he did it wasn't completely. After he set you back on the ground, he held onto your arms, stepping back just a bit to get a good look at you.

"Did you have a good trip?" he asked softly. There were tears in his eyes, but he wasn't bothering with trying to hide them.

"Yeah," you laughed, finding yourself getting a bit teary too. There was so much to say, so much to catch up on, and it felt surreal that you were actually together again.

While you were standing there looking at each other, you heard someone nearby clear his throat. You looked over and saw Cove's dad. That wide grin made yet another appearance, and you momentarily stepped away from Cove to hug Cliff.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said fondly, patting your back. "It's been too long."

"I was going to come get you myself but dad wanted to drive," Cove explained.

"Yep, thought you'd be a little too distracted to handle heavy machinery," Cliff laughed. Cove rolled his eyes, but there was no real malice there -- he was still beaming at you.

"Here, I'll get this," the older man said, leaning down to pick up the handle of your forgotten suitcase. "Now let's head home, what do you say?"

As the three of you made your way through the rest of the airport and out towards the parking lot, you and Cove stayed close together. Any worry you'd had about the reunion had evaporated as soon as he held you, but now it was clear -- things were the same as they'd always been. Hundreds of days and thousands of miles couldn't change what you had.

When you made it to Cliff's car, you climbed in the backseat, surprised when Cove hopped in beside you. You gave him a questioning look, but he just smiled and shrugged.

"I didn't want to be that far away," he said, glancing up at the front seat like it was another universe.

The two of you started catching up in ways you couldn't over all your letters, and while you thought you knew how much you'd missed him, it didn't really sink in until you had him again. Whether you decided to share your feelings or just stayed best friends, he was your person. There was no doubt about that.

Sometime after Cliff pulled out of the parking lot, Cove laid his hand down in the middle seat, his palm facing up. You met his eyes, then placed your hand in his. He laced your fingers together, giving you a squeeze, then went on talking about everything he wanted to do with you this summer.

You weren't back to Sunset Bird yet, but a warm, fluttering feeling in your stomach told you that you were home.