#ninety-seventh

[comicwaren]

From G.O.D.S. #008, “The Fourth Axis”

Art by Valerio Schiti, Fer Sifuentes-Sujo and Marte Gracia

Written by Jonathan Hickman

[daydreamycrustacean]

So many people followed me for that iwtv fanart I did and I feel bad bc the only thing that I want to draw in the foreseeable future is doctor who fanart but only of the parts of it that are no longer relevant to whatever is going on with the show currently

[nekoprankster218]

me pulling for kafka as soon as the banner drops: okay but I hope if I do lose 50/50 it's at least Bailu

*gets Bailu*

fuck I shouldn't have said that

[elvis-official]

Hi my name is Elvis Las Vegas Jailhouse Hounddog Presley and I have short ebony black hair (that's how I got my name) and soft brown eyes like lovely soil and a lot of people tell me I look like Austin Butler (AN: if u don't know who she is get da hell out of here!). I'm not related to Gerard Way but I wish I was because he's a major fucking hottie. I'm a musician but my tassles are straight and golf. I have pale white skin. I'm also a wizard, and I go to a magic school called The King's School of Impersonation in Vegas where I'm in the seventh year (I'm ninety). I'm a rocker (in case you couldn't tell) and I wear mostly gold. I love Las Vegas and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a white jacket with gold tastles around it and slutty shiny boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Vegas. It was sunny and not raining so there was a lot of sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.

[dkpsyhog]

Not this one though

Nothing more unsettling than writing code that just works first try. I forgot to consider how negative inputs should be handled in these methods and they're just... working??? They're giving the correct results for negative inputs???

[maculategiraffe]

speaking of good relationship communication I have been mulling something over and I think I've got a good formulation for it. I am going to call it "presenting a united front to the inner children"

I think there is a well intentioned but ultimately nonconstructive human desire to try to persuade someone else to be self-indulgent as a gesture of affection. like the "oh come on, treat yourself, you deserve it" phenomenon. and sometimes it can be a good thing to be self-indulgent and sometimes it can be an act of love to encourage the other person to indulge behaviors they normally don't!

BUT especially if you struggle with your health (mental and/or physical) you also know the importance of keeping to the routines you know are helpful and resisting the urge to do things you know you're going to pay for tomorrow. or like for a more extreme example, if you struggle with addiction, obviously it's not an act of love for your partner to be like "oh come on, just one won't hurt 😁"

so when my boyfriend tries to encourage me to do something that I do genuinely WANT to do but also genuinely know I will regret later, I am going to start saying "I need you to present a united front with me to my inner child. I already told her we're not calling in sick today and I don't need you playing the Fun Parent and undermining my authority" and he will be like "ooh, sorry. yeah, you have to go to work, sorry."

and the same with him obviously, like if he comes to me going "look at this beautiful hardcover third edition of my twenty-seventh favorite book that normally costs six thousand dollars but is on sale for only fifty nine ninety nine ninety nine" I can be like "okay do you need me to indulge your inner child for a minute here? or do you need me to shut him down right away"

I like this! let's see how it goes!

[yuesya]

“They finally found her?”

This is not the first Pillar meeting that was held in recent times, but it is certainly an unusual one, because these meetings are generally never called on such short notice. Pillars have many responsibilities, and are often traveling all over Japan, after all. And yet, Kocho Shinobu can understand the haste in this case; the search for the strange demon slayer whom Rengoku had spoken of had finally borne fruit, and Oyakata-sama wished to meet her.

The strange demon slayer who’d killed Upper Moon Three in combat during nighttime.

All demon slayers know that there are two ways to kill a demon. Decapitation, or sunlight. Yet according to Rengoku’s report, the girl had not gone for either option. Beneath the cold moonlight, she’d sliced Upper Moon Three into pieces with a sword that was not forged of sun-blessed nichirin steel.

How had she done it?

“One of the Tsuchinoto-ranked demon slayers found our mysterious demon slayer,” Shinobu tells her fellow Pillar. “From what I’ve heard, apparently she wasn’t even aware that we were looking for her.”

It was strange that this girl had, according to the Tsuchinoto’s report, never heard of their organization before. Hadn’t even known what ‘demon’ referred to, until the Tsuchinoto had brought up her feat of killing Upper Moon Three. To which the girl had responded with a simple, ‘So that’s what they’re called.’

It’s not unheard of for humans to encounter and kill demons prior to learning about the existence of the Demon Slayers and receiving proper training and support. Shinazugawa Sanemi, the Wind Pillar, had deliberately gone around hunting demons on his own before eventually being recruited… and he had been in a terrible state at the time. If he’d continued as he was, he’d likely only have succeeded in driving himself into an early grave.

If this girl had managed to kill Upper Moon Three, then it meant that she’d been trained –if not specifically in slaying demons, then at least in the art of combat. And yet, Rengoku had said that she hadn’t used any Breathing Style.

Considering that no one had any idea of who she was, or where she’d come from… was it possible that she shared a similar background to Uzui Tengen? Shinobu knows that the man came from a shinobi village hidden away from the world, where children had been trained from birth in the ninja arts.

… But musing endlessly on the various possibilities will get her nowhere. It’s best to see the girl in person first, then make any judgments after.

…

Shinobu’s first impression of her is pretty.

The girl that walks through the set of sliding doors is petite, with delicate features that are almost doll-like. Long white hair, deep blue eyes.

But she’s not pretty in the way that one would say of the loveliness of flowers, or a sun-bright smile. Rather, the girl’s beauty is one that Shinobu associates with the fragrance of wisteria poison, or the sharpness of an open blade.

Dangerous.

Shinobu takes one look at the girl and immediately recognizes that her instincts ring out in warning. But what–?

“Thank you for accepting my request for a meeting,” Oyakata-sama says softly, a gentle smile on his lips. “I am Ubuyashiki Kagaya, ninety-seventh leader of the Demon Slayer Corps.”

“… Gojo Shiki,” the girl names herself, impassive and expressionless.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Oyakata-sama remains amiable. “I understand that you were the one to save Kyojuro. Thank you for–”

Oyakata-sama suddenly breaks off in the middle of his words, harsh coughs wracking his body. Shinobu abandons decorum, scrambling to reach his side; she’s a doctor–

“… It’s alright, Shinobu,” Oyakata-sama shakes his head at her. Blood trickles down from the edge of his mouth, and Shinobu can feel something in her chest twist horribly at the sight.

“No, Oyakata-sama,” Shinobu shakes her head. “Your sickness, it’s getting worse. You need rest, Oyakata-sama–”

“Not while there are still other matters to attend to,” Oyakata-sama rebukes gently, and Shinobu falls silent, biting her lip. “I am touched and grateful for your concern, but I am not yet invalid –and there remains much to be done.”

… Oyakata-sama is not one to shirk his duties, but he can’t go on like this. His body–!

“Is this why you sought me out? Because your curse is killing you?”

Shinobu stiffens, and whirls around.

“What do you mean?” she demands.

“Your oyakata-sama isn’t sick,” the white-haired girl shrugs carelessly, “He’s cursed.”

[senselessviolets]

“stay soft”

Roman Roy x Fem. Reader

Rating E (Smut)

Word Count: 3.3k

AO3 Link

WARNINGS:

Mommy kink, smut, some plot, this man has MOMMY ISSUES™️, gentle femdom, titplay, breast sucking, so much dirty talk, Roman gets called “baby” a lot, no PIV, no uses of Y/N

Author's Notes:

The people have spoken—y’all want Roman being fucking babied in bed so that’s what the fuck I did and I have zero regrets. Totally gave up in the end but school’s been incredibly draining for me so I’m proud of myself for even getting THIS out.

[Gif creds: I forget. if it’s yours, lemme know!!]

Summary:

You are an equally wealthy childhood friend of the Roys and Roman in particular. After years of little to no contact with him, he and you decide to finally act on the mutual attraction you both share in the most ‘Roman way’ you can think of. 

“Okay, but like if we…fuckin’...if we fuckin’ do this, I will want…some things. But I’m not g’na fuckin’ beg or anything…call you mommy, ‘goo goo ga ga’…none of that shit. I will want you…to be there…and I will want you to ‘not be there’...if you catch my drift. I-I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ word or a single moan. I don’t want—I just don’t want it, okay. And this might sound bad—even though I’ve definitely said worse—but you would be just a-a means for me,” a voicemail blears in your ear as you are made aware of the four calls you missed in your slumber, “‘Kay? I dunno. Think it over. It’s not fuckin’ life or death. Until it is. And I kill you. And hide the body and burn the evidence…kidding! ‘Kay, love you, kidding, ‘kay, bye!”

This was uncharted territory for you both. 

You and Roman and the other Roy children were longtime family friends. Like Stewy Hosseni or a lesser example Ray Kennedy. What that meant was your incredibly loaded dad gave Logan Roy an ungodly sum of money in the nineties and had managed to stay on his good side ever since. At their status, that’s what qualified as ‘friendship’. Everything was a transaction at the end of the day. Like you suspected Logan and Caroline had bought their way into their kids’ hearts, to even be in the same room as these titans—to breathe the same air—you had to beg, steal, or borrow. Fortunately, you hailed from less-than-humble beginnings; your father being an incredibly successful venture capitalist-turned-philanthropist and your mother the heiress of a billion-dollar publishing company. 

But it was all just details. 

You were eternally grateful to be an only child, imagining an existence where you and your progeny were destined to forever claw at each other's throats—all for whatever scraps your parents were generous enough to leave you.

Unfortunate. ‘Pitiful’ felt more accurate. Every hollow soiree and vapid function served as a reminder. These were not your people. And they never would be. And yet—

“Heya! Well, you look less miserable than usual. Lemme guess, you finally ditched Loser What’s-His-Face and have taken up my longstanding advice of giving lesbianism a try,”

“Hi, Roman. No, I’ve actually been reminiscing about our younger years together. Remember the time you threw up in your mouth before presenting me my corsage the night of the winter formal? Seventh grade? Ring a bell?”

“That was because it only dawned upon me then that I would be getting Cody Keener’s sloppy seconds,” he answers, “I just couldn’t cope with that, I’m sorry,”

You slug him in the arm and he reacts overdramatically, as if someone stuck him with the pointy end of a knife. Onlookers included none other than Frank Vernon, Hugo Baker, and a close friend of your mom’s, Michelle Anne. This time, you and Roman had crossed paths at your father’s 70th birthday party. It was held at your parents’ penthouse on the Upper East Side and attracted a decent crowd. Faces you’d sworn you met pass you by as strangers come up to you, recounting memories of you who were only this tall. It was always a discombobulating experience but you continued to frolic and mingle nonetheless. 

In truth, this little ‘reunion’ was nothing but a facade. 

You and Roman had been talking for weeks now after years of no contact with one another. Brief texts turned into prolonged phone calls which by the end of the night became one-sided, pathetic voicemails expressing some sort of yearning for the other. It was becoming all-consuming and quite frankly, exhausting. And now it had finally come to blows. 

There was a plan, there were contingencies (of course, there were) but above all—there was transparency. And that was something you could hold onto. Oh, the many men who lied their way into your bed. And then here comes Roman, who’d made it abundantly clear he’d rather inhale glass than have you worm your way into his. So this scheme would not transpire at his place or yours. 

It would be occurring in a Central Park Suite at The Carlyle—just a quick jaunt from your parents’ place. He deigned to be a gentleman and handled the reservations as well as your transportation because you had to already be there. You were going to be lying on the bed, in some satiny sleepwear. No lingerie, no hosiery—nothing that could be construed as ‘sexy’. You were to look mundane, average, and bored. 

Roman would enter and you would be still and let him do as he pleased. While you’d had this endeavor nailed to a T, you’d be lying if you said the prospect of him going off-script—doing things rougher, harder, doors off the hinges, letting his darker impulses get the better of him—didn’t make your knees buckle a bit. 

So once the candles had been blown, the birthday wishes made, and goodbyes were said—you were to slide into his black Range Rover SV while his secondary chauffeur Crispin brought you to your destination. In your duffel was your change of clothes and a few other goodies. It had crossed your mind—once, twice how exceedingly easy it would be to bail right about now. Crispin could drop you off on the side of the road like some floozy and then your personal chauffeur could pick you up and drive you back to your cozy brownstone for a mundane evening spent by yourself—alone. That was the part that struck a pang in your stomach. That was the truly unbearable part. That, and the heat between your thighs which was starting to become really inconvenient. 

…

Now was not the time to get cold feet. 

You had already slid your sequin cocktail dress off and exchanged it for your satin sleepwear. Like the pretty kept thing he’d instructed you to be, you lay flat across the plush hotel mattress, awaiting his arrival, legs swinging to and fro like an eager teenage girl.

Maybe he’d be the one to pussy out.

At least then you’d have yet another thing to hold over his head for the foreseeable future. In your phone’s front-facing camera, you inspected the makeup you’d done earlier that evening for the party and it still seemed sufficient. Your lips seemed a bit drab. You roll off the bed and I sift through the contents of your bag, searching for the mauve lip color you’d brought along. Dabbing it onto the purse of your mouth while gazing into the mirror of the room’s modest vanity—you begin to lose track. 

This isn’t it and you know it. 

You know it. 

So fucking do something about it. 

Examining the time on the wall clock, you decide to hastily shake off your striped satin pj set and tear through your duffel for the sheer lace slip and matching long gloves. Not liking the unkemptness of your long hair at this particular moment, you palm your bag for one of the chignon French hairpins that had sunk their way to the bottom—a go-to for you since your younger years. The best you can muster is a half-up, loose, more-than-messy low bun because suddenly, a knock on the door can be heard. Your heart leaps into your throat and you shove your duffel bag into the armoire in a hurried panic. The click of the hotel room’s keycard lock comes next and you spring to the door as to be the one to open it. You and Roman meet each other’s gaze through the crack of the half-open door, you two beam down at your hands, enclosed over both sides of the handle. He is very noticeably startled, not expecting you to answer the door.

“C-Come on in,” you stutter, gesturing into the hotel suite with a gloved hand. 

Roman’s mouth goes dry. It is not all that often the family jester is able to be truly caught off-guard. This absolutely was one of those times. He shuffles into the room with tepid steps and doesn’t turn around to face you until he hears the door click shut. With a blank, nonchalant expression—he shrugs, prompting you to provide some sort of explanation. Of which, you do not possess. 

“What?” you say. 

“What’s…all of that about?”

“Yeah, sorry…wasn’t really feeling the pajamas tonight. I opted for something I felt was a little more fitting. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,”

He definitely fucking does mind actually. But any frustration at being caught unawares expresses itself in the form of big beautiful hazel eyes beaming at you with fear and uncertainty. His lips are parted, unable to form the words he can’t even begin to think of at this particular moment.

“So…,”

“...so…?”

“So…lay down,” you finally say.

Roman is able to briefly channel the smarmy assholeishness he usually hones with a sarcastic scoff and smirk. He shakes his head to himself before his gaze finds the floor. 

“...I’m sorry, maybe you just didn’t hear me right the first time,” you say, crossing over until you are eye-to-eye with him and your competing breaths can be felt, “...or maybe I should’ve been a bit more specific.”

You lean in until your lips brush the outer shell of his right ear and he stops breathing. 

“Roman. Lay the fuck down on that bed. Now.”

He quickly scrambles onto the bed, resting on his back while slightly sitting up. There is a tentative eagerness in his demeanor as if the last hints of resistance in his muscles had yet to dissipate.

“Good. Now can you unbutton your shirt by yourself or do you need my help?”

“...I-I-I need your help,” he mindlessly babbles, “P-Please. Please, can you help me?”

You click your tongue at his wanton request, attempting to maintain your composure. It was after the first ‘please’ that you knew you were going to willingly give everything in you to this man right then and there. 

The safeguards? Fuck the safeguards. 

The time for self-preservation was about five or so minutes ago before his knuckles had rapped gently on the heavy wooden door. Without breaking eye contact, you straddle him effortlessly, both knees on either side of his hips. You aren’t certain because all the blood had flooded to your ears and you were unable to hear much over the thumping of your own heartbeat but you swear you hear a quiet ‘oh god’ slip out of him. Your fingers find the buttons on his grey button-down and your wrists noticeably begin to shake as they undo them.

For fuck’s sake.

Up until this point, you had conjured the impression that you were the one in control here and that there was nothing he could say or do otherwise. But now the true vulnerability of the situation had begun to set in. The playing field had been leveled. 

His fingers enrapture yours and he steadies your grasp as you both work to unbutton his shirt. Roman swallows, anxiously. You get more than half of the way there before he gives up and presses his face firmly to yours. 

It’s a declarative kiss. 

It’s long-lasting and when the two of you eventually break it—you know there’s no going back. Those hands of his, wracked with nerves, find their way to your hips. He slowly drags the lacey fabric up so your upper thighs are exposed. Once you can feel the soft flesh of your hips exposed to the cold air, you grab his wrists and he freezes. 

“Ah-ah-ah, I don’t think I remember saying you could do that,”

“I-I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t—I’m sorry,”

“So many apologies, they just keep on coming,”

“I’m…,” he deeply exhales out of his nose. 

“You’re what? Wait, lemme guess,” you goad, “Sorry?”

He bobs his head up and down, face full of embarrassment.

“Hm…think I’m a little sick and tired of those ‘sorrys’, sweetie. You and that mouth of yours. Oh, that fuckin’ mouth of yours. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of headaches it’s caused me in what, the two decades I’ve known you? What are we gonna finally do about that mouth?”

Roman looks up to you, hanging onto your every last word. 

“I-I don’t know, j-just tell me what to do. I can make it up to you, I-I promise,”

You genuinely take a moment to mull it over, though the growing hardness pressing against your most intimate place admittedly was making it hard to think.

“...I think…we need to find another use for that mouth of yours—something to keep it busy, hm? How does that sound, my sweet baby?”

You swear his face goes pale as he assumes you mean your cunt. While the thought had crossed your mind (many, many times in fact), knowing Roman—you know that would be too much. And that you would lose him forever somewhere along the way and you didn’t even want to begin to think about that. 

You tilt your head, staring longingly at that poor little boyish face of his. Your clothed index finger traces its way slowly from the exposed flesh of his tummy, up to his ribs, across his collarbone, along his Adam’s apple, over his bearded chin— finally stopping at his pinkish bottom lip. You pull it down, making him pout for you. 

“Open for me,” you utter softly. 

Roman obeys, his tongue moving upwards in his mouth when he swallows. You continue to tease around his mouth torturously, the lace creating a delicious friction against his beard. The heat of his pants against your lone finger makes you stir inside. 

“Now, close your eyes—mouth still open,”

He noticeably resists before relenting, his eyes flutter closed. You drop one of the spaghetti straps of the slip off of your shoulder, exposing yourself. Your nipple pebbles in the cool air conditioning of the room. You awkwardly lean your torso inwards, inching your breast closer to his mouth. For a brief second, his eyes flick open, taking in the scene. Catching your drift instantly, he swallows as much of the soft flesh as his mouth will allow, moaning into it. The most obscene sucking sounds soon fill the room. Roman whimpers into your skin, letting his head fall limp against your chest. You wrap your arms around his neck, cradling his head. His brown fluff of hair is too tempting for your hands to not tangle themselves in. 

“There, you go…you’re so good. You’re so good for me, aren’t you? Yeah?” you sigh, tilting your head backward.

You swear you can feel your hips gyrating on their own. Roman’s fingers have ensnared themselves onto the flimsy fabric of your slip, gripping it so tight you think it might tear. Not that you’d give a shit if it did. 

“Y’know what I think? I think you act the way you do all the fucking time because you’re just waiting for someone to come and put you in your place, is that right? Yeah? You’re a brat ‘cause you want someone to do this to you? Hm?”

He releases your nipple and an almost pornographic line of spit drools from his mouth. Roman’s lips are plump and rosy, kiss-bruised and swollen. You find out just how warm they’ve become when his wet mouth comes to meet your own in a kiss so messy, you know you’ll touch yourself thinking about it later.

“I-Is this good? A-Am I being a good boy for you?”

“Mm-hm, you’re being a very good boy for me. My good boy. Mommy’s good boy, right?”

“Yes, fuck, yes—” he sobs, moving onto your other breast.

His voice is shrill and wrought with desperation. You only ever heard it get this high-pitched when he was making a mocking impression of you or some other woman. And now here he was, making these noises all on his own. The edge of his bottom teeth catches your nipple in just the right away. You squeal, jolting upwards in his lap and laughing at the surprise sensation. He soothes the sensitive skin with the flat of his tongue immediately after. 

“That’s it. There’s my boy, there’s my sweet baby boy,”

All of the sudden, his hands leave your slip and fly to the buckle of his belt. Roman undoes his zipper and shimmies down his slacks enough to pull his dick out. He jerks it quickly with his eyes wound tightly shut in an attempt to get himself completely hard. 

“M-Mommy, c-can I see ‘it’? P-Please, god!” Roman begs out.

Your current position leaves his cock hidden by the hem of your slip. All you can see is the silhouette of his fist in the fabric pumping up and down speedily—relentlessly. He could easily just lift the skirt himself and look at your bare pussy, just as he hungrily wants but he doesn’t. 

He waits. He waits for you to give him permission. 

“See what, sweet boy? Say it, use your words for me. You’re a big boy, you can do it. I know you can,” 

Your hands cup his face and you rest your forehead on his. The skin is taught and slick with sweat. A vein above his brow becomes visible as he strains into his own palm. 

“What do you want, Roman?” you reiterate, trying to regain his attention.

“Fff-fuck! Your p-pussy, I wanna see y-your pussy!”

“All together. Say it all together. Say ���Mommy, can I please see your pretty pussy?’” 

“Mommy, can I please see your pretty pussy?”

His eyes finally open and they aim downwards, expectantly. 

“Is that all you want, pretty boy?”

“N-N-yes!”

“Is that all you want?”

“No! No, I wanna cum, I-I wanna f-f-finish! W-Wanna finish on it,” he whines.

“All together, baby…”

“Mommy, can I please finish on your pretty pussy?! Please!”

It’s on the last syllable of his sentence that he erupts. Only as he’s cumming is he able to look at your cunt. You swiftly move the fabric up and his load catches the edge of it, the rest of it coating your exposed pussy. Roman falls backwards limp onto the pillow and you roll off of him and the bed and onto your jelly-like legs. The two of you don’t look at each other, occupying opposite sides of the room while you make yourselves decent. You shed your stained garment, using it to wipe your cunt clean. You fling it onto the hotel carpet and don’t think twice about it. 

“Mind if I…borrow that…for a bit?” a weak voice croaks from across the suite. 

You turn your head and smirk, still topless.

“All yours.”

Briefly, you catch a glimpse of Roman from behind, buttoning up his shirt. You pull up your dress, sweatier than before when you had taken it off. You expected there to be a palpable shift between the two of you, had everything gone according to plan. You figured the next RECNY ball that was just around the corner might be a bit awkward but it was nothing a few sarcastic quips and some alcohol couldn’t fix.

“My guy’s still waiting out front, so that’s my not-so-stealthy getaway. I can have Crispin pull around in twenty if I guess, I dunno, you wanted to shower the stank off of y…”

Roman’s words trail off as he becomes caught up in the sight of you; your cocktail dress zipped up halfway, your hair in an even messier updo than before, one heel on with the other remaining to be seen. It left him dumbfounded, feeling impulsive, like he could leave everything behind then and there and things might turn out alright. 

“Um…d’you maybe wanna just come with me…I dunno. Back at my place, I mean. And don’t make it into…it’s not a thing. Th-This is not a thing. But, yeah, we could order in whatever you, you could stay over, I-I got spare rooms–”

“Roman—”

“—it-its not like a big deal or anything, y’know? This isn’t, this wasn’t ‘a thing’. Fuckin’ labels and everything, I m—”

“Roman! That all sounds fine; I just would like to exit one of the nicest hotels in the damn city not looking like a two-bit whore, yeah? Come and zip me up,”

“I mean, if you ask me—I think it’s a rather fitting look,” he says, echoing your previous words.

“ROMAN!” 

“Alright, fuck, fine!”

End.

{ Feedback is welcome! }

Follow me on twt: @endlessviolets

<3

[louisaguy]

slow horses timeline stuff

because i'm procrastinating doing work.

disclaimer: this is all for show timeline & show canon. the books are their own thing and have a different timeline. this is show only.

FORMAT: dates we know // how we know it

the show:

s1- likely february 2016 // february: struan's line "it's february!" when louisa suggests christmas drinks. 2016: estimate based off of time of s2

s2- 2016 // min's plaque reads 2016

s3- 2017 // between s2 and s4. also, spider flosses. ergo 2017.

s4- early january 2018 // early january: right after christmas (roddy's mishap with the christmas party, christmas decorations still up). 2018: catherine's calendar in her flat is on january 2018.

backstory things:

bad sam gets isobel from les arbres- "early nineties" // via giti's dialogue. i will circle back to this

charles partner's death- 1996 // partner's plaque has 1996 as death date at the end of s2

rose's (river's grandmother's) death- 2010 // her gravestone in s4

stansted- july/summer 2015 // 8 months pre s1

timeline errors / things that bother me:

river's age- so, you have two options here. option one, via dialogue: we take giti's "bad sam only went to france once in the early nineties" as truth. therefore sam gets a pregnant isobel out of les arbres in the early nineties (let's say 1990/1991, but you can place it anywhere in the early nineties you like). then river is born a few months later (judging by the fact that isobel was already starting to show when sam picked her up). so river's birth date: 1991? or some other point in the early nineties.

option two, via props: river says his mother left him postcards for his "seventh, eighth, and ninth birthdays". one of said cards has the date 1994 written on it (can be seen in the scene where he's looking at them in the shoebox). if we assume that's the one for his seventh birthday, that puts him being born around 1987.

the difference between these doesn't matter that much (it's the difference of him being 27 in s4 vs 31 in s4), except for how it shifts river's relation to other events-- e.g., option one says he'll be left with david and rose around 1997 (or maybe a few years later if you put his birth date in 1992/93, since "early nineties" is vague), AFTER partner's death. vs theory two puts him being left with his grandparents in 1993, solidly before partner is killed. i do think it's interesting to consider whether david already had a cute little blonde boy doting on him at home when he was planning charles' assassination or not. so depending on which river-age theory you choose to follow, river's relation to other backstory events may change (or you could always just do the old "river's age is nebulous and he is however old i need him to be for this specific fic i'm writing" thing lol).

it also means he was sososo young in s1 if you follow theory #1. him being born in 1991 would mean he would be like 23/24 when stansted happened 🥺🥺🥺 BABYYYY. an actual INFANT. (theory 2 would have him at 27/28 during stansted).

characters headstones say they're too young to make sense- partner and rose- partner's plaque says his birth date is 1948... and so if he died in 1996... he would have been 48 years old when he died................. i'm sorry but this man is NOT under fifty. the actor they cast to play him in the flashbacks is like 75 lmfao. i think this is just an error-- him being 48 when he died would make him more of a contemporary with lamb (who would have been in his 40s at partner's death) rather than with david (and considering lamb kinda came up under partner's wing-- at least from the books, but that's the vibe i get from the show too-- i think partner should be at least a decade or so older than lamb). it would also make him like 20 years younger than david (who'd be in his 60s when partner died). i just don't think it makes sense. i would bump his birth date back to 1938 or maybe even 1928, to make him more of a contemporary with david (who was born sometime in the 30s, since louisa says he's 80-something in s4(2018)).

as for rose, her headstone in s4 says 1953-2010. that 1953 date is suspect to me. we know david is 80-something in s4. let's take him to be the youngest possible to give ourselves the greatest margin of error. then he'd be born in 1938. now let's follow theory 1 of river's age (again providing the kindest possible interpretation to rose's age), making him born around 1991. assuming isobel was around 20 when she had river, this means she would be born in ~1971. which would make rose... 18. when she had isobel. which would be fine, except that in 1971 david would be... 33. hmmmmmm.

and remember this is the kindest POSSIBLE interpretation, assuming david is the youngest possible (just barely 80 in s4) and that river is also the youngest possible (born 1991). if you interpret either or both of them as older than that, then isobel's birth shifts earlier and/or david's age shits older, making david and rose's age gap at her birth even more suspect. for example taking river's birth date in 1987 (a la theory 2) would make rose only 14 when isobel would have to be born (assuming isobel was 20ish when she had river). i mean, it's POSSIBLE this was an intentional implication that rose and david had a skeevy age gap? but i doubt it. considering they were trying to claim that the 75 year old james faulkner was playing a 48 year old charles partner in the flashback, and river's age is already an ambiguous mess, i'm more inclined to say that this was just a mistake. i would just bump rose's birth date to be 1943 instead-- still younger than david (who was born sometime in the 30s), but not, uh. illegally so.

fwiw, i think a lot of these timeline errors come from the confusing detail that while the show is AIRING in the early 2020s, its SET in the late 2010s. so like, river's birth date for example, i think they wanted him to be 31ish in s4, and someone correctly subtracted that from 2018 for the postcards (2018-31 = 1987, so river's 7th birthday would be 1987+7=1994). meanwhile, for the dialogue, someone else accidentally subtracted it from modern day instead (2024-31= 1993, so sam fetching pregnant-isobel from les arbres would be just before that in "the early nineties"). partner's age error i also think comes from subtracting from the modern day when s2 was airing (2022-74=1948) without accounting for the fact that the 75 year old man we're seeing as him is meant to be that old in 1996, not in the modern day (because he's only seen in flashbacks).

and also a lot of this comes from the fact that these are all "flashes-on-screen-for-one-second" props and brief lines of dialogue, and they didn't expect someone to care enough to come along and try to do the math.

but too bad! i'm here! i want to do the math!

my personal interpretation of character ages:

some based on textual evidence, others just estimating based on actors' ages. in general, take what you like and ignore what doesn't work. the timelines are already fuzzy enough that you can fudge it in any direction you like haha, just use whatever works best for your current fic/project. but here are my takes:

river- born 1987/1991 (both interpretations are equally valid imo). makes him either 29-31 or 25-27 for the run of the show.

louisa- mid 30s likely? mostly going by rosalind eleazar's age.

catherine- late 50s/early 60s (going by saskia reeves' age, and also would make her late 30s/early 40s when partner died, which sounds right [& is consistent with the book, though that doesn't count for much imo since the book and show are such divergent things timeline-wise])

lamb- early-mid 60s (gary oldman's age, and him being a contemporary of catherine seems right)

roddy- early/mid 30s?

shirley- early 30s, marcus- late 30s (an inversion of their actors' ages, but necessary because marcus says in the show he's 5 years older than shirley)

min- mid 40s

(i do love that no matter how you slice it, river is def the baby of the slough house family haha. that feels right. oh EXCEPT maybe sid!!)

sid- probably young like river, late 20s/early 30s.

david- 80ish. i'd put him at 81-83 throughout the run of the show (birth date 1935ish), but you could go younger and say 79-81 or something like that. importantly of a different and older cohort than lamb/catherine/sam etc.

partner- fuck it i'm going against the plaque let's say he's born 1928, would put him at age 68 when he died in 1996. more consistent with the actor's age, and puts him solidly as a contemporary of david, NOT of lamb. plus the way catherine talks about him like a sweet old man it makes more sense for there to be more of an age gap between her and partner. so say he was 68 when he died in 1996, meanwhile david was 61, lamb would be mid 40s and catherine would be ~40. that seems right to me.

if david was born in 1935 i'll put rose at 1943. would make her late 20s when isobel is born, late 40s when river is born, 67 at her death (and river would be 19/23 at her death btw depending on which river age theory you subscribe to, in case that's helpful for angst/backstory reasons)

idk everyone else can just be the age of their actors i guess, but if you're writing stuff in the past remember to subtract correctly from the late 2010s not the early 2020s!! or i mean don't. it doesn't really matter. none of this actually matters lol

anyway. whew. that was a lot. sorry i just spat a million words about pointless timeline shenanigans all over you. i do this for fun.

(pspspspsps slow horses creative team let me proofread your timeline math i'll do it for free this is fun for me pspspspsps)

[femalecelebrityoftheday]

Thursday's female celebrity of the day is Kiernan Shipka. Female celebrities are what I like and there's none I like to see more than Kiernan Shipka. She makes things better. This is the ninety seventh time she's been FCOTD.

[comicwaren]

“I have done something... wrong. Which in this line of work is not unusual, but this time... it is something I cannot live with.” -- Aiko Maki

Cover art for G.O.D.S. #006

Art by Mateus Manhanini

[mikaelsonwife4life]

Harry Potter and Batman Crossover Headcannon

Imagine a Harry Potter raised by Bruce Wayne, who idolizes his brothers, sisters, and family friends.

First year, Ron and Hermione think he's a pretty normal bloke.

Except for the ability to get detentions at least four times a week.

Flipping from staircase to staircase is not an acceptable hobby, Mr. Potter.

In the beginning, Harry and Hermione clashed A LOT. They were both scarily intelligent but Harry didn't even try, which irritated Hermione to no end.

Harry's desk is littered with card games and boxes of puzzles. Not that it isn't neat- he's a neat freak- there's just a lot of them.

Harry sucks at art but has dozens of paintings spread across his part of the dorm.

Harry is obsessed with History- magic and muggle- doesn't matter.

He's one of the few students that actually pass Binns' class.

That summer, Harry flies Ron and Hermione to America and they meet his family.

Hermione immediately understands why Harry acts like he's fucking insane. His entire family is. From Alfred the butler to Bruce the father to every single one of the revolving siblings.

They binge-watch Quentin Tarantino movies that summer, Duke popping in more often than not.

Harry kept disappearing at night and coming back with bruises.

Once he came back with a broken arm (he got benched afterwards) and tried to tell Hermione it wasn't broken. She almost believed him.

That was the oddest summer of Ron and Hermione's life.

During their second year, they think he's legitimately insane.

Not for the talking-to-snakes thing.

No, he wants to adopt the crazy murder snake and have it live at home with the dogs, cow, and cat.

Harry is delighted to meet Collin Creevey.

He gushes about their cameras.

Hermione thinks it's as cute as it was creepy. Some of the pictures Harry had, she hadn't even known he'd taken. Hell, she barely ever saw the camera.

During the summer, Harry once again flies his friends to America before flying them half-way across the country to visit the circus.

He disappears.

Then shows up as a performer with his brother.

Hermione's in shock that her best friend occasionally moon-lights as a circus performer.

Dick isn't as shocked, saying that all of them have at some point.

Hermione doesn't see silent Cassandra or giant Jason ever swinging across but if Dick says so, it must be true.

Third year, Harry is angry. He brings a knife set to school and when Sirius sneaks into the room, he gets them thrown at him.

Sirius spent far too long stitching up the wound.

Sirius nearly got shot after dragging Ron to the Shrieking Shack.

Harry got lectured for bringing guns onto school grounds. He can't regret it because it was thanks to shooting Pettigrew in the leg, Sirius was free.

Jason got lectured for allowing Harry to bring a gun.

Hermione and Ron learned that Harry was a great cook that summer. Alfred and Bruce left the manor for about a week and Harry cooked most of the meals.

Ron learned how particular Harry was about the kitchen being cleaned.

He also got a crash course in manners from several of the Wayne's.

Fourth year starts normally. Then the tournament was announced and Harry was a contestant.

Hermione knows Harry's been studying like crazy but doesn't realize how much until she walks down to the common room at two am on a Thursday and finds Harry pouring over a book with a cup of coffee in his hand.

He hadn't slept in ninety-six hours and was on his twenty-seventh cup of coffee that day.

Harry doesn't show up to dance practice. Ever.

Parvati's honestly a bit scared to dance with Harry after watching Neville, who has shown up to every practice.

But Harry's a wonderful dancer, better than anyone else. Parvati has a wonderful night, trading on and off with her sister who was not having a wonderful night.

Harry plays the piano for them that summer.

Hermione asks if there's anything he can't do. Harry shrugs.

Fifth year, Hermione learns what Harry's real anger looks like. It's not explosive like she thought it would be.

It's quiet. It makes your skin crawl when brilliant emerald eyes land on you.

When he speaks, it's cold. Clinical. Terrifying.

Hermione hates angering Harry.

Ron's already learned this lesson. Back during fourth year.

During that fight on the Quidditch Pitch, Harry doesn't attack Malfoy. He goes silent and stares at the other teenager for a moment before he cuts into him. Malfoy breaks down crying after fifteen seconds of Harry's verbal assault.

One day, Harry's just had a bad day and just sits next to his friends. Except, he's completely silent and doesn't say a word.

The Slytherins hear Ron's scream in their common room from the Gryffindor tower.

Hermione visits Harry's library for the first time that summer. She's shocked to see all the Jane Austen novels. She knew he was smart but wasn't aware of what he liked to read.

During their sixth year, they discover that Harry's one hell of a liar.

And a good actor, which kind of go hand-in-hand.

They found that Harry developed a smoking habit.

Hermione and Ron did their best to curb it.

That summer, they found out the Wayne family secret.

They were kidnapped and saved by Robin, who looked suspiciously like their best friend.

During their seventh year, while they're on the run, Harry ends up hacking into the security footage of them doing something illegal and deleting it.

Hermione shouldn't be surprised but she is.

Ron's questioning when it will end.

That crime was theft. Particularly, tire theft. Hermione was not amused.

After Ron left, Hermione was unbelievably upset.

Harry had three sisters but each of them were different.

He sighed and demanded for Hermione to sit before sliding behind her and braiding her hair.

Harry often played music while Ron was gone to hide the silence.

Often, it was the Clash.

After being held at Malfoy Manor, Harry stitches them up himself. Bill and Fleur tried to help but backed down when they saw how wild Harry looked.

After Harry died, he ran away and hunkered down in a safe-house.

Jason found him.

"Your friends are worried," Jason said softly, leaning against the door frame.

"I can't be him, anymore."

"Who?"

"Harry Potter. He died."

"Then don't be. Craft yourself a new identity. Harry Wayne, Harry Grayson, Harry Todd, Harry Drake, Harry Brown, Harry Gordon. I'm sure any of the family would let you use their name."

"I can't be Robin, either. I can't be who I used to. And it's like everyone expects me to."

"You don't have to live up to their expectations, Harry. You'll be happier if you just say fuck 'em."

"Bruce won't have a Robin anymore."

"Give him a few years, he'll adopt a new one."

Harry retired as Robin and adopted a new alias as Azrael.

[quasi-normalcy]

🔥 Star Trek

About the entire franchise?

Alright: I think that it always needs to walk a tightrope between depicting a better future and laundering propagandistic military/colonial narratives. I think that, of the series, TNG and DS9 walked this line best, the former by ensuring that it always (almost always) stayed on the right side of the line, the latter by calling attention to the line and problematizing it whenever it crossed it. Picard season 1 was actually very, very good at recognizing this line and illustrating what happens when your society crosses from the one side to the other side. One of the many reasons why I dislike Picard season 3 is that it seemed blissfully unaware of the line's existence. But for my money, the series with the absolute worst track record of recognising that this line exists and staying on the right side of it (and this is where the scaldingly hot take comes in)...is Voyager.

Seriously, though. We have a ship in the middle of nowhere. It's a Starfleet vessel nominally, but everyone in Starfleet thinks that it's dead, and a third of the crew are rebels who don't want to be there in the first place. And yet, for some reason...it continues to operate under strict military discipline at all times. The ship is basically a military dictatorship under Janeway, absolute, unquestionable, and (as far as anyone knows) for the rest of all of their lives. When one of the Maquis guys in the first season questions why this should be so, Chakotay slugs him. Everyone wears uniforms at all times; we barely see civilian outfits, even on the Maquis, after the first episode. There's another episode where Tom commits insubordination and they keep him in solitary confinement (a form of torture, btw) for a month. There's an episode in the seventh season where Seven of Nine imagines becoming fully human and the way that she embraces her newfound individuality...is by wearing a uniform. So...when you're little better than an automaton, you get to wear whatever you want, but when you're a fully realised person, you join the navy? Oooookay. Everyone is locked permanently into their jobs. Like we all laugh at poor Harry Kim and his "forever an ensign" problem, but just consider what it's like for the poor guy. He doesn't know if he's ever getting home. Every day, he gets up and he goes to the bridge and he presses buttons and takes shit from everyone else...and that's it. That's his life. As far as he's aware, when he's ninety years old, he'll still be up there with one pip on his collar, taking orders and pushing buttons with veined and palsied hands. That's his life; he is his job; they're all their positions in the military hierarchy and that's all that they will ever be...and they're happy about it. There are no labour disruptions, no: "Hey, maybe Chakotay could try pushing buttons for a few days and I could try dispensing New Age wisdom." When Neelix asks to cross-train with Security, he's politely rebuffed. But they're happy about it. Nobody seems to have a serious problem with this. The text of the series is about the value of human individuality versus the "mindless drones" of the Borg Collective, but the subtext is about the value and satisfaction that comes with absolute submission to a power structure. I mean, I like the series nonetheless, it has lots of good episodes, but...honestly?

[lewki]

ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-SIXTH PODIUM AND THE SEVENTH IN SINGAPORE

SINGAPORE 2023; 📸: Lilian Suwanrumpha / Clive Rose

[minimumwage-employee]

meow

all i see is owl katana owl katana owl katana owl katana oh wow dragon katana cool OWL KATANA

and dont get me wrong it fits and its very cute but,,,, it gets a bit repetitive after the ninety seventh time

so i thought,,,, what about tiger,,, and then this happened

some more doodles of the kitty

[terrortwinunicorn]

Our First Boy-Girl Party: Part One

Damian's POV

After a delicious dinner of chicken cacciatore made by Y/N, we-Demi, Matt, Y/N, and I-are sitting in the living room. It is another Storytime Tuesday, and Demi has already asked for the story of Angelo's fourteenth birthday party.

"So, you want to hear about the first boy-girl party that Y/N and I attended, huh?" I ask Demi.

She nods. "Yes. But I want to hear about you two practicing too," she smirks.

Y/N laughs lightly. "So we start on Saturday, June twenty-ninth, nineteen ninety-six-the day after I arrived in the Bronx. We knew Ange was having his fourteenth birthday party on July twenty-seventh, nineteen ninety-six, as his birthday is July twenty-second. But since Bruno worked Monday to Friday, it was best that Angelo's birthday was held that Saturday after. Obviously, Luis and I were only thirteen at the time of the party since Angelo is the oldest of the three of us," she began.

"Yes. I actually rode with Bruno to pick up Y/N at the airport," I say.

"Ooooh, start with that. Start with that!" says Demi excitedly.

"Okay. Friday, June twenty-eighth, was a nice day, or it could have been raining; I don't remember, but I do remember riding along with Mr. Ottomano to LaGuardia Airport. I was, as I always was, excited to see Y/N again. We had spent the last three summers becoming best friends, and this year was no different. Now we talked almost nightly after we finished our homework during the school year. Anyway," I sigh before....

🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷

Friday, June 28, 1996.....

"Take it easy, Luis," said Mr. Ottomano.

"But, Mr. Ottomano, I'm excited to see Y/N!" I exclaimed excitedly.

Mr. Ottomano chuckled as he glanced into the rearview mirror at me. "Do you have a crush, Luis?" he asked.

🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷

Demi snorts with laughter. "My God, Bruno had you clocked," she says.

"At thirteen, I obviously did have a massive crush on Y/N, but I obviously wasn't going to admit it either," I say.

Y/N giggles lightly beside me as she looks up at me. "You should have seen me on the plane. Since I was an unaccompanied minor, I had a handler who sat with me. I was literally vibrating, or so she said. She asked what had me that way, and I told her my best friend did. I told her all about you during the hour and a half plane ride. She asked me if I had a crush on you," she boops my nose. "Obviously, I denied it. I said you were just my best friend and that I had missed you because we hadn't seen each other in nearly a year."

"So even the handler knew," smirks Demi.

"Yes," says Y/N, "but back to the story."

🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷

"What?!" I asked. "No. No, sir. Y/N is my best friend, and well, it's been almost a whole year since we have seen each other. Sure, we talk every day, but no, I don't have a crush," I shook my head.

Mr. Ottomano chuckled as his eyes went back to the road. "Okay, Luis. If you say so," he said as he pulled into a parking lot at LaGuardia, as he had to go into the airport to get Y/N since she was an unaccompanied minor and he had to basically sign for her.

As we walked into the airport, I looked around as I followed Mr. Ottomano until we came to a gate and I saw Y/N.

"LUIS!" she squeaked.

"Y/N!" I said as she ran to me and hugged me. I hugged her back as Mr. Ottomano signed some paperwork.

"Okay, kids. Come on, we're meeting everyone else at dinner, including your Pops, Luis," he said.

"Where are we going to dinner, Bruno?" Y/N asked as we held hands while we followed Mr. Ottomano.

"You'll see," he said. "I think you're gonna enjoy it."

"Oh, come on, Bruno. Please," begged Y/N as she let go of my hand and skipped up to Mr. Ottomano, hugging his arm. "Pwease?" She gave him puppy dog eyes, and had it been me, I would have buckled the moment she hit me with the added pout.

"No, the puppy dog eyes and pout aren't going to work on me, kiddo. You're just gonna have to wait," he smiled at her.

"Fine," she pouted as she took my hand again, and I felt my heart thud against my chest.

"Look at it this way Y/N it will be Italian or Puerto Rican," I said with a small shrug.

"That's true," she said.

🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷

"How did you figure that out?" asks Demi.

"When Pops and I went out with the Ottomanos, we normally always went to either Bella Notte or Casita," I explain.

"I loved both restaurants; shame they closed during the pandemic," says Y/N. "The baby definitely would have loved to try the fettuccine alfredo with mmm grilled chicken and spinach," I chuckle as Y/N licks her lips.

"Well, yes, that was your favorite dish from Bella Notte. But what about Casita?" I asked.

"Monfongo, arroz con pollo, tortilla de pollo y queso, tortillas de plátano, umm," she taps her chin. "Ahora el bebé y yo estamos hambrientos, papi. ¿Nos puedes traer un bocadillo?" (Now the baby and I are hungry, Daddy. Can you bring us a snack?)

I chuckle and press a kiss to her forehead. "Si Mami quiere un tentempié, tendrá que bajarse de Papi," I say. (If Mommy wants a snack, she'll have to get off Daddy.)

"Sí, Papi," she says as she sits up.

"Would anyone else like a snack?" I ask.

"No, just get the mami-to-be her snack," smiles Demi.

I quickly got up and pulled a small snack together. We always have fruit in the fridge and some cottage cheese, so I quickly made her a fruit plate and put some cottage cheese on it.

"Here you go, mi amor. A snack for you and the baby," I said, bringing the plate in.

"No pickles?!" she pouts.

I chuckle. "You want pickles with a fruit plate?!" She nods. "Okay, okay," I say. "Let Papi get that for you." I kiss the top of her head before going back to the kitchen to get her some baby pickles. Coming back into the living room with the plate, I say, "Baby pickles added."

"Gracias, Papi," she grins, taking the plate and beginning to eat as if she were condemned.

"Honey, take it easy; we aren't going to take it from you," I say. "I also don't want you to choke either."

"The baby is hungry!" she says between bites.

I chuckle lightly. "Amor, the baby is the size of a peach," I smile.

"And?" she says. Even Demi gives me a look as if to say "And" too.

"Okay. The baby is hungry," I hold up my hands in defeat.

"Pendejo, that was smart of you," Demi says.

"Very. Remember, a happy wife equals a happy life," says Matt. He gets a dirty look from both Y/N and Demi. "And I'm going to shut up now."

"Good, because Luis is going to continue the story," says Demi. "Y/N, pay no attention to these two," she gestures to Matt and me. "Boys are dumb and have no idea what it means to be a girl."

"Oh, I know. Especially a pregnant one," she says, eating a strawberry.

"Fair. Where was I?" I ask.

"You two were with Bruno, heading to dinner with the Ottomanos and Luis's Pops," says Demi, refreshing my memory.

"Ah yes," I say.

🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷

Mr. Ottomano unlocked his van doors and opened the sliding door for Y/N.

"Thank you, Bruno," she said with a smile as she climbed into the van. "Come on, Luis," she said as I climbed into the van and sat beside her. She quickly pecked my cheek.

Mr. Ottomano climbed into the driver's seat as I pulled the sliding door closed, desperately trying to hide the blush making my cheeks warm.

"Everyone buckled?" asked Mr. Ottomano.

"Yes," Y/N and I said at the same time.

Mr. Ottomano drove back to the Bronx and pulled into Bella Notte. Y/N cheered, making Mr. Ottomano and me laugh.

"Told you that you would like it," chuckled Mr. Ottomano.

"I love Bella Notte, but I would've cheered if it was Casita too. Italian and Puerto Rican food are my favorites!" said Y/N as Mr. Ottomano parked beside Pops' car.

Mr. Ottomano shook his head as he got out "You two coming with me?" he asked sticking his head back into the van. We quickly got out of the van following him to the restaurant.

We walked into Bella Notte, and Mrs. Ottomano waved the three of us over.

"Hi, Claudine!" Y/N said cheerfully.

"Hi, Y/N. How was your flight?" she asked as Pops, Salvatore, and Angelo stood while Bruno held Y/N's chair.

"Meh. The same old, same old," Y/N said as I sat beside her. She grinned at me as I grinned back, but I couldn't help but notice the adults exchanging looks. Mrs. Ottomano smirked lightly as she continued to look at the menu.

"Y/N, whatever you want to order, it's on me," said Pops.

"Really, Señor Martínez?" she asked.

"Yes. My treat for your report card. I talked to your parents since you're spending a few days at my house," she nodded, as she was spending the following weekend at my Pops' house, as the Ottomanos were heading to a family reunion on Mrs. Ottomanos' side. "And your parents told me about you making the merit roll."

She blushed lightly. "They really told you that? I guess it's a big deal, especially with my learning disabilities," she said.

"I told you you were smarter than you gave yourself credit for," I said, putting my hand over hers and squeezing it.

"Thanks, Luis. And thank you for helping me with math last summer," she said.

"You're welcome," I winked, making Y/N blush deeply, while Angelo and Bianca giggled as they looked at their menus.

Y/N gulped before grabbing the menu and quickly opening it. I knew she was desperately trying to hide the reddening of her cheeks, as was I, as I quickly grabbed my menu, opening it and hiding it from the table.

I heard the adults snickering, and Salvatore's chuckle filled the air.

"Okay. Okay. Enough now," said Claudine. "Leave the kids alone."

Y/N glanced over at me quickly before looking back at her menu.

"Señor Martínez, is it alright if I get the fettuccine alfredo with chicken and spinach? It also comes with a salad, garlic knots, and a slice of cheesecake for dessert, but it's almost twenty-five dollars?" she said.

"It's okay, Y/N. I did say you could order anything you wanted. Go ahead and order it," he said, offering her a reassuring smile.

She nodded. "Okay. Thank you, sir," she said, closing the menu as the waitress came over to our table.

"May I start you off with a drink?" she asked as she looked at us. "Salvatore Ottomano?"

Salvatore smiled. "Justine Westbrook?" he asked.

The waitress smiled. "Yes. How have you been?" she asked.

"Good, you?" said Justine.

"Good. How has college been?" asked Salvatore.

"Doing well. NYU is a tough school," said Justine.

"The police academy is tough too," said Salvatore.

"Nice. So, what would you all like to drink?" Justine asked.

"Red wine," said Claudine.

"Water with lemon," Y/N and I said together.

After Justine took our drink orders, she left to get them.

🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷🇵🇷

"Baby, let's skip the dinner, okay? And to us finding out that Ange's birthday was a boy-girl party," said Y/N as she snuggled into my side after finishing her snack.

"I was going to. Besides, dinner was uneventful," I said.

"You did sleep over that night," Y/N revealed. "But in Angelo's bedroom, not mine. I always had the guest room. Sally had his own bedroom, Bianca had hers, Angelo had his, and Bruno and Claudine had the primary bedroom. Of course, I had the guest room upstairs. There was also a sleeper sofa in Bruno's study downstairs, so if my parents came for a visit, I would be there, and they had the guest room."

"So at breakfast that next morning," I began.

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We are all sitting around the kitchen table having breakfast. Mrs. Ottomano had made scrambled eggs with chopped ham and cheese, bacon, sausage, and toast-a favorite meal of Y/N's.

"Angelo, do you have the guest list for your party done? I have to get the invitations out by today," said Claudine.

"It's on your desk, Ma. And yes, I made sure it was an equal amount of boys and girls," he said.

"Boys and girls?" asked Y/N. "It's, it's, it's not just family?"

"Ma and Pops are going to be upstairs, cuz. We will be in the basement. It's a boy-girl party," Angelo informed us.

"Oh, so you invite the usual suspects?" I asked.

"Yup," said Angelo, taking a drink of orange juice.

"Oh," I said as I leaned over to Y/N. "Don't worry. Stick by me," I told her.

She nodded. "Thanks, Luis," she said, drinking her juice.

"Oh, and Ma, have you got the DJ?" he asked.

"DJ?!" Y/N and I said.

"Yeah. There's going to be dancing," said Angelo.

"Oh," we said.

Y/N and I looked at each other before looking at Angelo. "What makes you want dancing?" she asked.

"Yeah. It seems more like a me thing," teased Bianca. She's fourteen months younger than Y/N.

"It does," giggled Y/N.

"Well, Ginger Fitzpatrick suggested it," said Angelo, blushing lightly.

"Wait, Ginger Fitzpatrick? Isn't that your best friend? The one who came to Coney Island with us?" asked Y/N.

"That would be the one. Angie has a massive crush on her," said Salvatore.

"I do NOT!" said Angelo incredulously, causing the entire table to snicker. "I wouldn't snicker, Martínez! I know that," I stopped snickering.

"You know what?" Y/N asked, confused.

"He knows nothing," I said, looking at Angelo.

"Sure. I know nothing," said Angelo, eating.

Y/N was confused but shrugged lightly before continuing to eat. I shot Angelo a look that would have killed him had looks killed.

"Kids, once you're done with breakfast, please rinse and put the dishes into the dishwasher," said Claudine. "I'm going to address the invitations, and then, Angelo, you and I will deliver them."

"We can split them. I'll take Bianca, and we can deliver half," said Salvatore. "And Y/N and Luis can join if they want."

"Can I stay here?" asked Y/N. "I would rather sit outside and soak up some sun."

"Yeah. I can't go either," I said. I mean, I could, but I wanted to stay with Y/N. That was if Mrs. Ottomano said yes because Mr. Ottomano had to work, which was rare on Saturdays, but he was finishing up a project. He was an architect.

"Okay. Y/N, if you need anything or feel unsafe, you go directly to the Martinez's. Got me?" said Mrs. Ottomano.

"Loud and clear, Claudine. Thank you," she said, "and thank you for the delicious breakfast."

"You're welcome," Mrs. Ottomano smiled.

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A while later......

Y/N and I sat on my front porch. Pops didn't want Y/N and me being alone over at the Ottomanos, so he had us come sit on the front porch with him.

"So, dancing," said Y/N as she looked at me.

"Yeah. Dancing," I said. "That's something new, huh?"

"I mean, I attended classmates' birthday parties when I was a kid, you know, elementary school, when you invited everyone to your birthday party," she said. "But never a boy-girl party where, you know, chaperones are upstairs."

"Yeah, me either," I laughed nervously. "So, um, do you want to maybe, uh, practice with me?" I asked, but I didn't look at her.

"Umm. Okay," she said quietly.

"Really?" I asked, shocked, my head snapping to look at her.

She turned her head and nodded. "Yeah, and maybe you could save a dance for me at the party," she said so quietly that I barely heard her.

"Of course," I said, equally as quietly.

"Great!" she said, a huge smile on her face. "Especially since I will probably only know you, Angie, and Bianca. I didn't really get to know Ginger that well last year when we went to Coney Island."

I'll probably only want to dance with you anyway, I thought to myself.

"Kids, would you like a drink?" asked Pops.

"Do you have lemonade, Señor Martínez?" asked Y/N.

"I do. Would you like that?" asked Pops.

Y/N nodded. "Yes, please," she said.

"Luis?" asked Pops.

"The same," I said.

Pops disappeared into the house, and I grabbed the small transistor radio from the wicker table beside its matching chair. I turned it on, and it crackled to life. I turned the knob, trying to find a station that was playing music.

"What are you doing?" asked Y/N as she watched me tinker with the small radio.

"Trying to find some music so we can practice dancing," I said, my tongue between my teeth.

Y/N giggles lightly as she puts her hands on mine, sending my pulse racing. "Let me try before you bite the tip of your tongue off," she said softly. I looked at her, and she smiled, making my heart momentarily stop beating. If this is just a crush, I don't know if I want to fall in love, I thought.

She took the transistor radio, and it crackled more as she turned a knob. We jumped as music came blaring out of the small speaker.

"I think we found a station," I said, laughing, as I may have let out a bit of a girly scream when the music came on.

"I think so too," she laughed, setting the radio onto the wicker table.

"Brought a snack too," said Pops as he brought out a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, glasses, and what we soon found out were pretzels and dip.

"Thank you, sir," said Y/N as Pops set the tray onto the wicker coffee table.

"You're welcome," he said. "Oh, you got the radio working."

"Y/N did," I said, beaming at her.

"Even if I did scare us both," she said as we sat on the loveseat to have some lemonade and a small snack.

"I didn't expect it to be so loud," I said as I took a drink of lemonade.

"Me either," said Y/N.

"Was it too quiet?" asked Pops.

"No. Luis and I want to practice dancing because Angie is having a boy-girl party, and, well, there's dancing," Y/N explained.

"Mi hijo. You know how to dance," he said.

"Yeah, I know salsa dancing, not slow dancing. I, I, I don't want to dance on Y/N's feet."

Y/N smiled softly. "If you did, I would understand," she said.

"Thanks," I smiled at her.

"Besides, it might be me who steps on your feet," she said, nudging me with her shoulder.

"It's okay. You weigh practically nothing," I teased.

She smacked my arm. "¡Tirón!" she laughed.

"¿Tirón?" I asked. "Puede que sea un capullo, pero soy tu capullo. Lo he sido desde que tenía diez años. Y siempre lo seré, incluso cuando seamos viejos, ¡como de cuarenta!" (I may be a jerk, but I'm your jerk. I've been since I was ten. And I always will be, even when we're old, like forty!)

Pops smirked lightly as he watched us.

"Let's see what you kids got," said Pops as "She's Like The Wind" by Patrick Swayze featuring Wendy Fraser crackled out of the small radio on the side table.

""You mean dance here?!" Y/N and I asked together.

"Oh no," I said, shaking my head.

"Luis is right. I'm not dancing on the porch!" said Y/N.

"Then how do you two expect to dance at the party in front of others? It's only me," said Pops.

"And everyone else on their front stoop!" I said. "Pops, it's a Saturday afternoon!"

"Okay. Then we go inside, and you show me in the living room. I can help, you know. I may be old," he said, as he was forty at the time, "but I do know how to dance, and I can put on my records."

"I mean," Y/N began, "I mean it's not a bad idea," she shrugged lightly, looking at me.

I sighed. "As long as no one sees us dancing until the party," I said.

Pops stood, grabbing the transistor radio and putting it on the tray before picking it up.

"You two bring in the dishes, and I will set up the living room," Pops said, disappearing into the house.

I turned to look at Y/N. "Okay, I'm sorry in advance if I murder your feet," I said.

"It's okay, and I'm sorry if I murder your feet too," she said.

I laughed as we headed into the house. I looked into the living room, and Pops had pushed the coffee table to the sofa and rolled up the rug, leaving a huge dance space for Y/N and me. He was at his stereo, fiddling with the radio knobs. Oldies music came flooding out of the speakers.

Y/N was softly singing along to the song.

"You know this song?!" I asked as we went into the kitchen.

"Uh huh. It's 'Til I Kissed You' by the Everly Brothers," she said, and without missing a beat, she went back to singing the song.

We put the dishes into the dishwasher before we went into the living room.

Pops stood by the stereo, smiling.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, "at least I think."

Pops chuckled as he turned to his stereo, shutting off the radio and dropping the needle onto the record, and out came...

"Elvis?! Blue Hawaii?!" gasped Y/N.

Pops smiled softly. "Very good. How did you know that?" he asked.

"My mom has this record, and she plays it a lot," she said.

I tapped Y/N on the shoulder, and when she looked at me, I offered her my hand.

She smiled softly and placed her hand into mine. I took her into my arms. I nervously put my other hand on the small of her back as she tentatively placed her hand on my bicep. We stood there, not really sure what to do.

"Move," Pops said gently. We moved awkwardly in one spot. Pops sighed slightly. "You can turn," he explained gently. I nodded and spun so fast that Y/N and I tumbled to the hardwood floor.

"Ouch," said Y/N.

"Oops," I said, standing up quickly and helping Y/N to her feet. "Sorry," I said apologetically.

"It's okay," she said.

Pops came over to make sure the two of us were uninjured.

"Y/N, put your arms around Luis's neck. Luis, put your hands on Y/N's waist," Pops explained. "And I'll change the music-maybe something a little bit more your era."

Y/N and I stood awkwardly as Pops went to the record/stereo player, shutting off Elvis's "Blue Hawaii" and putting on the radio.

Pops played with the radio station, finally finding a station that played '80s and early '90s music. "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You" by Michael Bolton began.

"What do we do?" asked Y/N.

"Sway, I guess?" I said, shrugging.

We began swaying. Y/N stepped forward, closer to me, and put her head on my shoulder. I was about four inches taller than she was, and her head was at the perfect height for laying on my shoulder. I instinctively wrapped my arms securely around her waist. We slowly moved in a circle, letting the music just move us.

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"That song is so sad. How did you two not cry?" asks Demi.

Y/N sniffles lightly before her tears begin. "I, I, I, I never pictured my life without Luis. But, but," I put a finger to her lips.

"And you never will, mi amor," I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead before lifting her chin and pressing a kiss to her lips. "Ahora, mi amor, por favor, seca esos hermosos ojos verdes. Papi siempre estará contigo. Por siempre y para siempre." (Now, my love, please dry those beautiful green eyes. Daddy will always be with you. Forever and ever)

I wrap my arms around Y/N as her tears and sobs slow down. I kiss the top of her head.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to make you cry," says Demi.

"Demi, my hormones are all over the place. I cried yesterday because Oreo ate his last treat from a bag. We have two more treat bags, but I still cried because one bag was empty," Y/N says. "Just bear with me. One of you could sneeze and say 'ouch,' and I could cry. I just don't know what can trigger my tears right now."

"As that song played, I was in heaven. I honestly didn't care that the song was a breakup song," I say.

"It's the song Zack and Kelly danced to when she fell for Jeff and Zack and Kelly broke up!" Y/N bursts into tears. "How didn't I remember that?!!!"

I sigh. "Because, honeybee, I didn't either, and I watched Saved By The Bell too," I soothe as I rub her back. "Now come on, take it easy before you give yourself the hiccups. Breathe with me," I help Y/N with a breathing exercise her therapist taught her. "There we go," I smile as she calms down. "The next song that played was our song, 'Dreaming of You' by Selena Quintanilla. Little did either one of us know it would play a significant role in our lives and become our wedding song. But," Y/N smiles at me, and I press a kiss to her lips, "it did."

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"You two are doing nicely," said Pops from his armchair as "Dreaming of You" began. Selena was one of my favorite singers. Y/N looked at me.

"Should we continue dancing?" she asked.

I nodded. "This is one of my favorite songs," I admitted, "and I would love to dance with you."

She laid her head back on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms around her waist, holding her close, and we began swaying.

All of a sudden, it seemed as if everything around us melted away, and it was only the two of us in the entire world. I looked down at her and sighed softly. This felt right. I didn't know what falling in love was, but if this was what it was like, it was awesome.

Y/N lifted her head and looked at me. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Your heart is beating a million miles a minute."

I laughed lightly. "Just a bit nervous, Squish. I've never been this close to anyone like this, both physically and emotionally," I said. "You're my best friend, Squish. I, uh," I fought to figure out what to say.

She smiled at me. "No te preocupes, Pookie," she said, pressing a kiss to my cheek as "Material Girl" by Madonna began. Y/N giggled as she started singing, and we began dancing around the living room.

Pops chuckled from his armchair as he watched us laughing and dancing around the living room.

"You two feel better about slow dancing now?" he asked, "as it seems you two have no troubles with fast songs."

"Probably still practice until we know we won't step on each other's toes," I said as "Heaven Is a Place on Earth" by Belinda Carlisle filled the house while Y/N giggled and sang along.

"Probably a good idea since the first song we barely moved and the second song was us swaying and slightly moving," Y/N said as "How Will I Know" by Whitney Houston began. Y/N started bouncing around and singing before grabbing my hands and had me bouncing around too. Before too long, she had me singing along too.

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"And we didn't realize that Pops was recording us. He had slipped from his chair and got the camcorder," Y/N laughs. "I literally still have the video of it that he gave my parents of our impromptu concert."

"I actually have it on DVD. Pops converted most of the home movies to DVD a couple of years ago," I laugh. Demi's eyes flash with glee. "One second," I say. I get up and find the DVD. Pops had made labels. This one was Summer 1996 - Luis and Y/N singing and dancing. "Okay, so who wants to watch?"

Y/N smiles and raises her hand. So does Demi, and Matt smiles before raising his hand. I laugh, raising my hand.

"The story will be continued next Storytime Tuesday," I say, popping the DVD into the player. "For now, I present the 80s concert by Y/N and yours truly." I start the DVD.

The DVD begins as Y/N sings "If I Could Turn Back Time" by Cher. I quickly sit beside Y/N as she snuggles into me, placing a hand on my stomach.

"I forgot how fun that was," Y/N giggles lightly.

"Me too," I say.

"Look how young you two were," says Demi. "And look how the two of you look at each other!"

I tilt my head slightly; it is true we both look at each other slightly starry-eyed. Me more so as Y/N sings "9 to 5" by Dolly Parton, her giggle filling me with a warm feeling.

Y/N smiles up at me as I lean in and kiss her lips. I caress her cheek with the side of my thumb.

"I think we got a bit sidetracked," I whisper to Y/N.

"Me too," she whispers lightly. "But that's okay."

We did get a bit sidetracked with this, but we would pick up next Tuesday at the Adams'.

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