#no longer will the caffeine compel me into Posting

[toytulini]

thinking about that post about keeping a house clean organized w adhd with like dump zones and shit and i need to. do stuff to my room. hh

[squeamishdionysus]

Cuddles

pairing: Five x Reader

TW: none to note

summary: you go above and beyond trying to help Five get some sleep.

Notes: this is actually a one shot from my old Tumblr that i remastered after finding it deep, deep in my docs. I'd try to write new things for ATLA and TUA, but the problem is my Netflix got stolen and that's mainly how i get my inspo so i genuinely have no idea when I'll be able to post again lol.

Masterlist

Five had issues with sleeping: major issues with sleeping. He thought that at least some of them would clear up after the apocalypse was prevented, but that didn't seem to be the case.

His caffeine addiction certainly didn't help either.

Even though he very clearly aware of his problem, his siblings still made it their business to go out of their way to pester him about it every day.

Allison and Vanya tried to enforce strict dietary restraints on him to make sure he'd avoid anything that'd keep him up, but it never took Five very long to find loopholes in them.

Luther would ask him about his sleep schedule constantly and offered to take him to a mattress store to pick out a new bed every morning.

Diego made it his business to simply tease Five about it any chance he could, though it usually never went anywhere because Five would retort with an insult twice as efficient.

And then there was Klaus.

"You know, I know a dealer that specializes in selling sleep meds! I could hook you up in exchange for, like, twenty bucks."

None of them actually did something useful for him in his opinion, and he didn't think they ever would.

The only saving grace he had was you. You, despite being his partner, would never bring it up to him unless he did, and for that he was eternally grateful. It was nice that at least one person in his life wasn't constantly trying to be obnoxious.

Right now, you were in your room with Five, preparing everything for your first sleepover together. Five thought you guys were just going to watch movies and eat junk food. He couldn't have been more long.

You had blankets and pillows and all kinds of stuffed animals along with a body of what Five could only assume was some kind of sleeping remedy. You had also picked some crime documentaries to watch together, since those always seemed to put you both asleep whenever you'd watch them.

"honey, I love you, but I don't appreciate the babying," he commented with a sigh, sitting on the bed.

You chuckled, patting his head playfully.

"You've barely gotten any sleep in the past 6 months," you scolded. "Babying has unfortunately become a necessity."

You plopped down beside him and smiled. "Besides, I've already gone through a lot of trouble to make everything perfect for sleeping, so I don't want to hear any complaints about it!"

Five shook his head, smirking. "you know you don't have to do that."

"Actually, I do."

Five blinked and stared at you for a good moment. After about a minute, you waved a hand in front of his face.

"Falling asleep already?"

He shook his head and just smiled, letting out an intimate whisper.

"I love you, you know that right?"

Now it was your turn to stare, locking your eyes with him. A tense silence stretched on. Five was about to speak again when you silenced him with a quick peck to the lips.

"And I love you too."

"I know that."

"Do you now?"

~~~

That night, you found yourself with Five sitting in front of the TV in your room, watching one of the numerous true crime documentaries you had selected.

"the wife did it," Five said.

"How do you know?" you said smugly, looking up at him in disbelief.

"Well, not only is she the only one who hasn't had an interview, but the majority of murders on this show end with the spouse doing it. Actually, annually, about 700 marriages end in murder, so it's really no surprise."

"if we got married," you asked, turning to him and looking over at him with big, baby doll eyes. "-you wouldn't murder me, would you Five?"

"Statistically, 55% of spousal murders are committed by the wife, so really," he gave you a sly smile, "I'm the one who should be worried."

"If you keep up with the snarky remarks, you just may have to worry." You giggled, leaning on his shoulder. "Just answer the question!"

He rolled his playfully, sighing with fake exasperation.

"No, I would not murder you."

"I wouldn't murder you either."

Soon, the clock struck ten o'clock and you perked up.

"Alright, bed time. No more crime documentaries for us.

Five snapped from his sleepy daze staring at the television and looked over at you, confused.

"what?"

You grin, kissing his cheek.

"Time to go to bed, Five."

"I am 58 years old. I don't need a curfew."

"Your consciousness may be 58, but your body is still a teenager." You stood up. "You of all people should know that, since you monologue about it any chance you get."

He sent you a playful glare, rolling his eyes.

"Point is, you need to sleep, and this is one of the best ways to do it."

Five sighed, but crawled into bed with you following right behind him, no complaints leaving his lips. You leaned over the side of the bed and shut off the lights, snuggling up to your pillow and closing your eyes. Five tried to entertain the idea of going to sleep, closing his eyes a few times until it finally sunk into him that sleep was not going to be possible. And so, he just stared at the ceiling, waiting for you to fall asleep so he could sneak out and try and find something caffeinated. He could just say he went to sleep, it's not like you'd notice it.

However, the longer the two of you laid there, the less and less Five felt compelled to leave. You had gone out of your way to do this for him, and while his siblings had done many similar things before, going to equal, if not more strenuous lengths, this was different. He didn't just want to blow you off. So for your sake, and your sake alone (Five managed to convince himself), he stayed, trying his best to come close to sleep.

There seemed to be no hope for the idea, though. That was until you rolled over and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Five felt his body stiffen, his mind unsure of what to do. He wasn't exactly used to affectionate contact, yet, despite months of dating you.

Really, he wasn't used to any contact that wasn't violent.

However, he quickly relaxed, finding that he quite enjoyed the affection. You were warm. Like, a comforting warm. And your skin was soft and radiant, attracting his hands like a magnet as he wrapped his arms around you. Holding you resembled that of a nice spot under the sun on a spring day, and Five was loving every bit of it.

Your breathing was slow and gentle, and he could lightly feel your heartbeat against his chest. It was like a lullaby to him, slowly carrying him off to sleep like a mother's gentle song would an infant.

He held you closer, realizing that at this point, he was cuddling you and you were cuddling back. He had always heard how nice things like cuddling were, but had never cuddled anything besides Dolores, who was a bit uncomfortable if we're being honest. He had to say, he quite liked it.

For the first time in a while, Five's eyes got heavy and his body relaxed as he slowly lost himself to sleep.

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

Hundreds of academic studies have been dedicated to observing those who are cursed with a toxic reliance on alcohol or illegal substances. Yet, not many have considered to conflate infatuation with addiction, and so the question that remains is… can one become addicted to a person? To their smile? To their laugh…? Further, it is not uncommon for addicts to substitute one addiction with another to relieve anxiety or stress. Perhaps that was why had become obsessed with distractions. The form of the distraction held little significance to you. Whether it was spending ever spare second outside of the emptiness of your apartment or burning your emotions with the poison of the night.

Your craving to escape reality can easily be traced back to three months ago when your primary addiction was no longer within reach.

Since the beginning of your relationship it was no secret that you were infatuated with the younger twin and his affections. Hanamaki once humourlessly commented that you were oddly obsessed with him, but it was just love. Pure, unconditional love.

And when you were no longer able to drown in him – in the love he offered in return, it was only natural that you sought to fill the emptiness with something else, despite the cost.

Now, when Bokuto originally instructed you to wait at the café for him, you intended on abiding without complaint. Except with the buzz of the champagne slowly fading, you were compelled to sustain the haze enveloping your thoughts. Caffeine would not provide you the fix you required, nor would the bottle of water, clutched in your right hand.

With a palm resting against your cheek, you shifted your gaze to the window, seeking the remedy to the hollowness returning to you.

“Oh. I forgot about that.” The comment mumbled under your breath was referring to the establishment located in the building directly beside yours. It was a small pub that you had passed by on countless nights. Glimmering illuminations framed the storefront, naturally drawing your attention to it; and the neon sign plastered against the window could not have been any more inviting. Each second that passed increased your desire to leave the café, as the dazzling colours sung out to you, summoning you to them.

It was not that you desired to disobey your friend’s instructions – it was simply that you yearned to join the lights, as they were offering you something you could not refuse. Bokuto would message you once he left the apartment, anyway. The few minutes it would take for him to return to the ground level would provide you enough time to return to the café. It was a concrete plan, at least that was the lie you comforted yourself with.

**

As you entered the establishment, the illumination drawing you there had become quite blinding. To battle the sudden strain on your eyes, you squinted, scrunching up your features in the process. The overload of your senses only continued as the speaker located to your right, blasted an unfamiliar melody, welcoming you to a party you were not meant to attend. You considered retreating the few steps advanced into the pub, but then you caught a whiff of an unknown liquor and it persuaded you to stay.

Silently, you proceeded towards the bar, ignoring the quizzical expressions tossed in your direction. The designer clothes gifted to you from your employer did not suit the ambiance of the pub, and it did not help that you were blinking excessively. Your struggle to adjust to the light could have easily been misinterpreted as the side effects of consuming an illegal substance. But you could care less what some random individuals thought about you.

The bartender flashed you a hospitable smile once you took a seat on the barstool, she did not seem to harbour any incorrect assumptions. Instead, she seemed to catch onto the strain over your mascara coated eyelids, something you realized when she issued an apology.

“It’s really bright, I know. It’s like the freakin’ sun, am I right?” The apologetic laughter exhaled by the mixologist radiated an energy that reminded you of someone… Though you could not pinpoint who. “Anyway, honey. What can I get ya?” After placing a napkin in front of you, she removed a glass from the pyramid behind her. The way she curved her eyebrow communicated that she was expecting an interesting order, most likely because of your attire.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having.” Crossing your arms over the wooden counter, you leaned forward with a toothy grin prior to motioning towards the girl seated beside you. “Because it looks like it’ll kill me and I am here for it.” Accompanying your words was a little wink, one that brought the older woman to laugh once more.

“Oh, that’s funny. Because that drink is called poisoned by love. It’s our newest addition.” Your answer satisfied her and communicated volumes about your reason for visiting. She made a mental note to observe you closely for the night, vulnerability and alcohol were a deadly mix, after-all.

“Poisoned by love… Cute. I’ll have two.” The number was illustrated by a peace sign, one that landed upon your cheek with accidental force. Yet you played it off, forcing the smile to remain attached to your mouth.

The sloppiness of the action engaged the bartender’s internal alarms. There was no way in hell she would be serving you anything beyond the drink she was in the process of concocting.

“Let’s start with one honey. Whatever kick you’re losing; I assure you that one of these babies will bring it back.” A nod of affirmation was applied to her head as she presented the final product to you, before settling it onto the napkin. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to see how you’re doing.”

The impact of the mixture did not require five minutes to activate. Two minutes into consuming the drink, one of the patrons beside you informed you that it was not meant to be downed in one motion. That would have been useful advice if it were provided before you chugged the liquid, unaware of the consequences that would follow.

At three minutes you understood the warnings issued by the barkeep, as you were stripped of any grip on reality. Glancing down at your hands, you tilted your head curiously at the injured one, trying to remember how it occurred. When the bartender returned to check up on you, upon seeing your brows knitted in confusion, she recommended you close your eyes for the remaining two minutes. Poisoned by love was particularly potent for the first five minutes if consumed in one go.

The initial high of the alcohol dimmed substantially after the five-minute mark, and soon your memories were returned to you. Brushing your fingers against your forehead, a growl was caught in your throat.

“I can see you’re feeling better.” She quickly removed the empty glass from ahead of you, making no suggestion that she would replace it with a second one. “I think this is also when I tell you that we have a rule against drinkin’ and textin’.” Too preoccupied by the phone within your grasp, you paid little attention to her remarks. It was quite obvious that you were plotting something with your newfound courage.  

“You don’t.” Your attention was torn away from the bright screen for only a second, to squint at the woman in disbelief.

“Maybe not… but it’s not a good idea.” Caught in a lie, she raised her hands then blew out a sigh. But you did not acknowledge the gesture, with your gaze returning to the device instantly.

“On the contrary, I think it’s a phenomenal idea…”

Let’s do it again, shall we -  poisoned by love 

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A/N: I am upset rn, NO ONE LOOK AT ME. the fact my finger slipped and I posted half of this earlier - UGH. bad fucking luck. ANYWAY. >:( If there are mistakes in this, it is because I can’t concentrate enough to edit them. >:( 

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[deja-you]

angel wings + wedding rings

part four | angels in the early morning

m. de lafayette x reader

summary: both of you say things that you don’t really regret.

word count: 3.4k

masterlist | previous | next

When his eyes were shut, Lafayette could only feel guilt.

He felt guilty for everything. For convincing you to marry him when you were both so clearly drunk. Then for trapping you in this marriage even though he had nothing to offer you. For keeping the apartment so cold. And for making you stay up late worrying where he was. Now, he felt guilty for not telling you no when you asked for meaningless sex; he knew it wasn’t meaningless to him.

The kind of guilt that embedded itself into your soul and swallowed you from the inside out. An ocean of guilt that he was now drowning in, the icy water filling his lungs and preventing him from calling out for help. The guilt was a siren, a warning of impending doom, a disaster about to make landfall and destroy everything in its path. 

But then he opened his eyes and saw you. 

Staring right back at him, the corners of your lips turned up at the corners and bright eyes staring back into his. Lafayette’s heart began to beat again-- when had it stopped beating? Your smile was infectious, and he couldn’t stop a smile from forming on his face as well. He hoped you couldn’t see right through his smile, to the heart hammering in his chest. 

“You’re beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking,” he said after awhile, his eyes following the slope of your nose and traced your jawline. 

You laughed through your nose. “You don’t have to keep flirting with me, love. I already had sex with you. Three times.”

His grin widened and he slowly nodded in agreement. “Three times.”

“I have to say, I’ve heard the rumors, but I didn’t think they were true.” You let your head fall back onto the pillow, sighing softly and allowing for your eyes to close shut.

“What do the rumors say about me?” Lafayette asked curiously, propping himself up on his elbow. 

You opened one eye to see him grinning smugly at you, and you scoffed softly. “Oh, no. Your ego’s already big enough as it is.”

“I’m curious. Come on, mon ange, tell me.”

You only shook your head. “I’m sure you have girls tell you how good you are in bed all the time.” You paused, your eyes snapping open as a thought occurred to you. “Maybe you should be on the complimenting side of the post-sex conversation.”

“You want me to talk about how good you are in bed?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. Coming from you, it’s a big deal.” You shrugged, then pinned him with an expectant stare. 

Lafayette considered you for a moment, and found no words to be acceptable. It wasn’t that there was a lack of things he could compliment you on; that wasn’t the problem. There were so many things he wanted to say. Words filled with affection and love, but mostly truth. He knew he wouldn’t be able to tell you how much he adored you without letting it all slip out. 

Especially since you were so insistent last night that this was purely about the sex, no emotions involved. No strings attached, you had said. Lafayette hated himself for agreeing, but he knew he would agree again in a heartbeat. He would do anything if he got to be the one to draw those lyrical moans from your lips, if he was the one who got to make you feel that good.

“Well?” You raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

Lafayette reminded himself to breathe, and offered you an indifferent smile. “I guess you were alright.”

“Just alright?” You scoffed, sitting up in bed, and pulling the sheet to your chest. “We both know I was more than alright.”

He grinned, and wanted to tell you that yes, you were much better than alright, but Lafayette knew he wouldn’t stop himself there. He turned away from you, grabbing a pair of sweats and pulling them on. 

“I’m going to make breakfast, feel free to use my shower. The water pressure’s much better than the guest bathroom’s.” He stood up from the bed, giving you a nice view of his toned back, and the early morning light from the window outlined him in an almost heavenly way.

Your eyes followed his figure as he exited the room, and you sighed softly, letting your head fall back against the soft pillows. It was so easy to wake up next to him. In his bed. In his house. It was just easy. 

After taking a moment to stretch, you forced yourself to climb out of bed and pad into his bathroom. You started the shower, and once the water got hot, you got in and let the water wash you clean. You had time to really think now. To think about this whole arrangement. To think about last night. To think about how much you wanted to feel his lips on yours again. To think about how much nicer his shower was than the guest bathroom’s was. 

You figured you had taken long enough in the shower at this point. California experienced frequent droughts, it wouldn’t be environmentally conscious to stay in the shower any longer. You shut off the water, and wrapped yourself in one of the fluffy white towels Lafayette kept in his bathroom. Had he really been hoarding the quality towels and soaps in his bathroom? You made a mental note to reprimand him about it later. 

Barefoot and concealed only in a towel, you walked out into the kitchen where the fragrant smell of coffee wafted through the air. Lafayette heard you enter the room, and he turned to face you. You could’ve sworn the relaxed smile he wore grew ever so subtlety when he saw you. Or maybe you had just hoped it had. 

“Made you coffee. To your exact specifications.” He slid the hot mug over to you.

Your heart began to beat a little faster at the thought of caffeine and potentially at the thought that of Lafayette memorizing how you like your coffee. “What did I ever do to deserve such an amazing husband like you, sweetheart?”

He snorted softly. “You got drunk in Vegas.”

“I suppose drunken mistakes have their benefits.” You took a sip of the coffee and let it warm you from the inside out. 

“Careful, mon ange, you keep calling me a mistake and you might hurt my feelings.” His tone was teasing, but he was careful to look away from your gaze and turn back to the breakfast he was working on. 

“Now I could ask more questions about your upcoming film, but I think we need to discuss the elephant in the room. Your secret marriage to Victoria Secret’s angel, Y/n L/n.”

The conversation you were currently having with Alex and John paused at the mention of your name on the TV screen. 

Lafayette was on Ben Franklin’s talk show, and John had convinced you and Alex to come over to catch up and watch the interview. John and Alex were dying to ask you about your marriage, since they really hadn’t been told much more than what was printed in the tabloids, but Ben had beaten them to the question in his interview. 

You watched Lafayette put on a practiced smile. A smile viewers would just assume was a result of the mention of his wife, but you knew Lafayette better than that. He was mentally preparing the rehearsed story the two of you had crafted together. 

“Well, Ben, what do you want to know about Y/n and I?” Lafayette asked.

The eccentric host’s eyes lit up and he leaned forward on his desk. “Everything. For starters, when did you two start dating? And how could you keep this secret from dear old me?”

Lafayette chuckled. “We met through our mutual friend, Hercules Mulligan, and... and I was just awestruck from the moment I met her. I had the biggest crush on her, and one day I finally got the guts to ask her out.”

You pursed your lips as you watched the interview. Was it at all possible that Lafayette had liked you? You couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what would’ve happened if he had asked you out, but then you reminded yourself that he was a professional actor. He didn’t mean any of it. It was just a cover. And that didn’t bother you.

“Somehow I convinced a literal angel to go out with me, and for some reason she’s stuck around. What’s it been? A month and a half? We had a small ceremony, neither of us wanted anything big.” Lafayette laced his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. “I still can’t believe that she’s my reality.”

The audience and Ben aww’d at his statement, and the irony of his statement tugged at your heart. This fake marriage was fucked up, you both knew it, and you found yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“Y/n must be one special girl to make the Gilbert de Lafayette settle down. You have quite the reputation y’know,” Ben said suggestively. 

“That’s all in the past. Y/n’s my present and my future.” Lafayette looked away from Ben for a moment, his eyes lingering on the ring on his finger. “This last month and a half being married to her has been the best month and a half of my life. I just... I love her.”

Another round of awws from the audience, and this time Alex and John joined the audience, glancing at you for a reaction. You gave them what you hoped looked like a contented smile, but inside you were a twisted knot of shock and anxiety. 

Lafayette had just said he loved you on national television. There was really no going back now; surprisingly, that’s not what you were focused on. He had said it with such sincerity that even you were convinced he meant it. You forced the warm, overflowing sensation back into your gut and reminded yourself it was all an act. A very compelling act that manipulated your emotions with ease, but an act nonetheless. 

Ben and Lafayette thankfully moved onto another topic, and John turned down the volume on the TV. Alex and John turned to face you, ready to begin their own investigation. 

“You have to know, we’re both very upset that we weren’t invited to the wedding,” Alex began. “We’re supposed to be friends, Y/n!”

“It was pretty spontaneous.” Understatement of the year. “We really didn’t invite anyone. Not even family.”

“You didn’t even tell us. I read about your wedding in a magazine. We didn’t even know you were dating,” John said. 

You shrugged. “You heard Lafayette. We kept it quiet, but had been dating for awhile.”

“If we’re being honest,” Alex said, “I think I knew you two were dating.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It was pretty obvious in the way you guys would stare at each other all the time.”

“We didn’t... We didn’t stare at each other all the time.”

John nodded in agreement. “No, no. Alex’s right. It was right in front of us the whole time. You guys always spent so much time together. I should’ve suspected something was going on.”

“I always knew you liked him, Y/n,” Alex said, “but you’re really in love with him? You never thought to tell us?”

“We’re married. Of course I love him.” And God, did you wish you were lying. 

“I brought you lunch.”

You examined the box in Lafayette’s hand, smiling a little when you recognized the logo from your favorite restaurant. You grabbed his arm and pulled him out of earshot from the group of models who were watching the two of you and whispering to each other.

“Y’know you don’t have to bring me lunch, we’re not really married,” you said quietly when you were sure no one could hear you. 

Lafayette only shrugged and thrusted the box of food into your hands. “I know. Just think of it as a way for me to say thank you.”

“I think you’ve thanked me enough. I’ve got a new Rolls-Royce, don’t I?” You grinned. 

“She’s all yours, mon ange.”

You were smiling up at Lafayette, and he responded with a dazzling smile of his own. To any onlookers, it was a sweet moment between two newlyweds in the Honeymoon stage. And it sure felt like it. You remembered where you were and quickly looked away from him.

“I wish I could eat lunch with you, but I have to get back to work,” you said. 

He nodded. “Of course. Tuesdays are busy for you. But Wednesday is your day off. Get lunch with me tomorrow.”

Sure, you’d had plenty of breakfasts and dinners with him, and a few lunches just for public appearances, but this felt different. It was the soft way he asked; the slight shaking of his voice that told you he was nervous. The way his eyes were a wider, more hopeful and tender. 

“Lunch? Tomorrow?” You asked slowly. 

Lafayette swallowed thickly. “Yes. Lunch tomorrow.”

You paused. “Like a date?”

“Like a date.”

Maybe all the planets had aligned perfectly in outer space just to make sure you made a decision you promised yourself months earlier that you wouldn’t. A decision you knew was stupid and could end poorly. But between the tugging in your gut and the nervous smile on Lafayette’s face, any coherent thought was drowned out in a pink haze. 

“Okay. Let’s go on a date,” you said.

Any doubt about whether you had made a bad decision flew out the window when you saw Lafayette’s shoulders relax and his smile take over his face. That smile could light up the darkest room. He bounced excitedly back and forth on his feet. 

“Great! I’ll make reservations.” He took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

You couldn’t help but laugh a little at his excitement, shaking your head a little. “We’re married and we’ve already slept together, but this is what gets you excited?”

“Maybe it’s because I just really like lunch,” he said. Maybe it’s just because this is actually real, he thought. 

“You’re ridiculous. I really need to get back to work now before Hercules comes and yells at you for distracting me,” you told him. 

He nodded and leaned forward to kiss you on the cheek. “Have a good day, mon ange.”

The first date was perfect.

It wasn’t anything special. Lafayette took you to a quiet restaurant just outside of L.A. He didn’t buy flowers or have anything spectacular planned, it was just a casual lunch. You ordered your food, talked about your day, ate, paid the bill, and left. That was it. And it was perfect. 

The problem was that once you said yes to a date once, you couldn’t say no. And in Lafayette’s opinion, the second date was more significant. 

Lafayette tried to calm himself when he asked you again. When he was around you, he couldn’t help but feel panicked. Not panicked in the scared or terrified kind of ways, but panicked in the way he didn’t know how to stop or slow down. He was a car going full speed down the highway with no breaks and no intentions to stop. 

But you weren’t the same. He knew you had to bend your morals and ideals to even say yes to a first date. He would slow down for you. Or, at the very least, he would hide his panic. 

“Do you want to go out?”

Out like a date? you’d wanted to ask. Or maybe just out like ‘you’ve been in my apartment for too long and I’m afraid there’s going to be a permanent you shaped indent in my couch.’ You glanced up at him, first noticing the easy smirk he wore. Then you saw the slight panic in his eyes and you nodded to yourself. Yes, he means like a date. 

“Yes.” You would’ve thought that one little word was a drug the way Lafayette’s face lit up at the mere sound of it. 

If Lafayette was still trying to contain his panic, he wasn’t doing a very good job at it. He took your hand in his and grabbed the keys to his car with the other. In a second you were situated in the passenger seat of his car and Lafayette was pulling out into the road. 

“Where are we going?” You asked him while he helped you connect to the car’s sound system.

“I... I hadn’t thought of that yet,” he admitted, and you laughed. “Where do you want to go?”

“Don’t ask me, this was your idea. I don’t want to make a decision.”

“Okay, okay. Then we’ll just drive until we find somewhere we want to stop.”

The word ‘we’ felt so natural on his tongue. Like it was his mother language. You were his wife, his partner. Even if you just saw it as a temporary thing, and even if Lafayette knew it could only be a temporary thing, every now and then he liked to pretend that this was all real. 

Neither you nor Lafayette would remember every detail from that night. The two of you were intoxicated, not by alcohol or any other form of inebriation, but by something stronger and more languid. Memories came back in poetic proses, broken glass on the sidewalk that looked like glittering stars, camera flashes that documented a fake marriage and real smiles, and desperate displays of affection that only delayed catastrophe. 

You don’t think anything Lafayette ‘plans’ to do that night is intentional. In fact, you don’t know if anything he’s done in his entire life has been intentional. Sometimes that worries you, but right now you can’t help but love the spontaneous man that pulls you out onto the Santa Monica beach. 

It’s already getting dark, and you’re certain that if you take your shoes off now to meander around the beach, you’ll never find them again. And you like these shoes. But Lafayette insists you run around barefoot with him. You mutter something about “I don’t know why I do these things for you.” You know the answer. You’re careful to make sure that because I love you doesn’t slip out. 

“Lafayette, I swear if I lose these shoes, I’m getting a divorce,” you say as your bare feet sink into the cool sand. 

He scoffs. “Well I wouldn’t want your shoes to be ruined by ocean water.”

“Why would they be...” your eyes meet his, then move to the waves lapping at the beach, then back to Lafayette. “No.”

“Yes.” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

You’re not given the opportunity to say no again, because his hands snake behind your knees and the next thing you know, you’re thrown over his shoulder and he’s racing toward the water. You yell a few times for him to stop, but it’s drowned out by your own laughter. 

Lafayette is waist deep in the water, your feet, calves, and knees sink into the water, but you grab fist fulls of his shirt in a feeble attempt to keep the rest of your body warm and dry. Your actions are made in vain, because he takes a deep breath then pulls the both of you under the waves. He lets go of you after you’ve been completely submerged and you quickly resurface. 

“I’m going to kill you,” you say as you gasp for air. 

He laughs, and it’s so warm and full you forgive his previous transgressions for just a moment. “You might want to take out a larger life insurance policy before you do that.”

Lafayette wades over to you, his hands falling to your waist. They fit there perfectly, like your body was made for his hands to hold. He pulls you into his warmth. 

“I don’t know what possessed you to drag me into this freezing water at night,” you groan, burying your face in his chest.

You can feel the soft vibrations of his laughter. “We’ve got warm, fluffy towels at home.”

Your heart flutters a little bit at the mention of home. “I do love your towels.”

“They’re your towels. I got them for you,” he admits. 

“You did?”

Lafayette rests his head on top of yours. “Got new pillows, too. And a new coffee maker.”

“Just for me?” 

“Mmhmm,” he hums softly. “I’d do anything for you.”

You sigh out the name of some deity, maybe it’s his name, and you just stop thinking. “I love you. I’m so in love with you.”

He pulls away to stare at you with wide eyes.

“What?”

taglist: (lmk if you want to be added ! )

@nyxie75 @elizard-hamilton @einfachniemand @fans-of-the-damned @riiyy @garlicbreadnotchewable @ohsoverykeri-blog @notebookgirl30 @irrational-bitch-syndrome @3leni @boomfm23 @summerofsnowflakes  @sillyteecup @braidedchallah  @i-know-i-can @checkurwindow @pretty-and-pink-284 @astralaffairs @thecoffeehouse204 @farihafangirls @hamilton-and-hockey @marvel-love-posts @id-do-it-for-free-babe @moosoobi @officiallykuute @ramp-it-up @laic2299 @phoenixswhytock @abbylouamanda @obsessedalpaca @luckyfriesss

[caffeineandcurses]

Stash’s Chai Spice Black Tea

Welcome, to my first venture into content-writing on this blog - journal? Post? 

I don’t really know what the kids are saying, and I don’t know that I ever really did, so let’s stick to blog, it’s nice and informal. I normally make a bit of fun about recipe blogs that start with a long rant of back-history, but it seems misinformed to not TRY to relate a bit of myself to what I’m writing, for the question of ‘why this’. For the well-intended record, let’s also start with ‘who am I’ - hello! My name is Kay. I’m a 23-year veteran of the internet (my twitter account is old enough to have a twitter account!), and a 33-year veteran of living, with a variety of hobbies and interests in the creative and the fictional. 

I got interested in the rituals of coffee around four to five years ago, but fell out of habit with it in 2019 due to digestive health issues. I was in the middle of a lot, then, and started to research and self-diagnose myself reading up on the symptoms and behavior of those with ADHD, under the purview of habits I noticed, and the relationship to my post-caffeinated self’s improvement. I still consumed a lot of energy drinks, sodas and teas to get my caffeine content, but it wouldn’t be until just this year, this month, March 2021, that I would get my answers.

I DO have the inattentive-type of attention-deficit hyperactive disorder. That is why, most likely, I am somebody who definitely benefits from a healthy relationship with caffeine. Someday, I may even be someone who benefits from a healthy relationship with a psychiatrist and/or therapist, and is on a proper medication for it, but, for now, caffeine is my go-to drug.

And let’s be honest: caffeine is a drug! And I’m NOT a doctor. Take use of it seriously. This isn’t my place to glorify abuse of over-the-counter substances. Just to talk about the habits I uptake, and share how I enjoy it, to maybe help others, and how I make it a fun habit for me, to stay attentive to what I’m doing and enjoy my experiences of reality.

I hope that wasn’t too much to get through - and if you skipped ahead to the next bit because you just wanted to know it and nothing about me? I don’t blame you. 

Today’s drink!

Stash’s Chai Spice Black Tea

With black teas, by the way, you normally have 47mg of caffeine per tea bag. Thank you, Google - please don’t laugh at my search histories.

An aside - what we’re really talking about with “chai” is “masala”. “Chai” just means tea! 

My preparation:

Two teabags

Temperature-safe mug

Two big spoonfuls of sugar

A splash of milk

Steeped for just under 5 minutes.

Most black teas say “3-5” minutes, and I enjoy a strong-tasting tea, so that’s my personal process. There’s a particular flavor of tannins on most black teas that I think the spiced flavor cuts, even if I have steadily added less and less sugar into how I drink it. 

I am not INCREDIBLY indulgent with my regular tea buys. I just have a stovetop kettle, and mostly use bagged teas for convenience, because too much to clean up after and sometimes I lose track of it if I just want my fix, which is honestly, a shame on ME. One day when I have a lot of disposable income, I would love to try one of the traditional masala chai recipes out there for the thrill. 

As it stands, on my CURRENT budget; I buy a lot of Bigelow brand teas, usually, but after not being able to find a flavor that REALLY appealed to me in its brand a while back, I bought a few of Stash’s, and I think they actually have the most appealing FLAVORED teas I had. Tea is the least jittery caffeine intake I indulge in that I still feel. Another bonus of the clean flavor, both on Stash and on the spice of the tea itself, is that it doesn’t feel like it leaves as bitter an after-taste that most plain black tea has.

Which is not to say that I don’t enjoy a good black tea without flavor - there’s something pleasantly floral about it once you adapt to it that’s “delightfully complex”, as it were. My other masala tea comparisons do mostly come from Bigelow, specifically, their Vanilla Chai. Memories of that one are from before I grew unhinged, steeping for longer, throwing in extra tea bags, so on and so forth, but I remember its flavor being less bold. Stash’s Chai Spice DEFINITELY feels like it has a more robust flavor, with cinnamon being the strongest note I am able to pick out.

About halfway through the drink is when I see myself start to bring my work into focus, and once it’s finished, I’m usually set on being able to hit finer details of whatever I was working on. 

The most strong hold of tea, or coffee, and its ritual, is also the concept of its power to make you sit, and finish it. If I have nothing pinning me to my workspace, I’m more likely to wander. But, PARTICULARLY with a fresh hot cup on my desk that I want to enjoy before it cools, I feel alert, compelled to focus with my leaf water.

A special note - when I first started drinking tea and talking about it when I was younger, a rando on the internet felt it necessary to inform me that I wasn’t drinking it right. Logically, I know now that person probably has a really unpleasant personality and younger-me shouldn’t have been so upset, but I want to state for anyone else who’s trying to enjoy a fun new beverage: all that matters is if it makes YOU happy. 

And if what you’re doing doesn’t harm anyone? Go ahead; try something weird. Maybe next time, I’ll dabble more into the weirder, cursed side of my snack interests, and we can encourage each other.

This will definitely not be my last time talking about tea, much less Stash, though there are a lot of other fun tea sources I’d love to talk about, and maybe, you’ll enjoy reading about. 

[bnhascribbles]

Love at First Sight

Shinso x Reader

Coffee Shop AU, Fluff, First Meetings; For the lovely kazooli‘s competition.  It’s based on their “Love at First Sight” scenario!  Now, I may be a dumb-dumb and be late, but either way, I’m posting this because WHY NOT. 

Words: 1.5K

Warnings: None

Shinso isn’t an idealistic sort of person.  He knows he doesn’t love you–won’t entertain the thought–even when time seems to stop the second you walk through that door.  “Love” wasn’t something that just happened.  Not in a minute, not at a glance, and certainly not with a complete stranger.

Even so, he’s utterly fascinated by you, unable to pry his eyes away as you settle into a booth in the corner.

It hadn’t been your smile that’d done it, soft and just-barely-there as you stretched the edge of your hoodie over the bottom of your face, like the gesture was a secret meant for you alone.  It hadn’t been the way you’d clumsily tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and exposed silver studs, twisted in the wrong direction, but unmistakably cat-shaped.  It hadn’t even been the way the steady thrum of your fingers against the countertop had matched the pace of his heart exactly–the fact that when they stalled, he could feel his breathing halting, getting caught in his chest, waiting for the moment those nails would resume their concert upon the wood.

No, it’d been more than all of that.  It was just...you.  The things he could see along with something else that lingered just beneath his skin.  Something silent, but present nonetheless.  Something he couldn’t possibly put into words–couldn’t understand–but could experience.  Like gravity.  He can’t even begin to explain the reasons why it existed, how it worked the way it did.  Still, it’s tug was undeniable.

Even though Shinso knows better, some part of him still wants to believe it’s possible–that there’s a single person in the world made for him, and they’re lounging about in the coffee shop he works at.

Work.  He’s supposed to be doing that.  Right.  

Shinso forces his eyes back down to his register screen, and for a while, he manages to ignore you.  He wipes at a wet spot on the granite and pretends you aren’t just a couple feet away, convinces himself that you’ve wandered out or disappeared into thin air or, maybe, you hadn’t even been there to begin with.  Maybe he’d imagined you.  That possibility makes it much easier for him to focus.  It works right up to the moment you walk over to his counter. When that happens, he glances up for just a second and knows all hope is lost.  

“Hey.”  This is the very first time Shinso has ever heard your voice.  Still, he’s certain he’d be able to pick it out in a crowd if given the opportunity.  No other sound has ever made his skin buzz like this before.

But the fact doesn’t change: It’s still not love that he feels.  Attraction maybe, but definitely not love.

“Hey.”  Shinso chimes back, thinking for much longer than he should about how to phrase that one word.  Despite his best efforts, it sounds wrong to him.  Not smooth like yours had been.  It’s too blunt (even though it was only a one-word response).  Too nervous (not that he had any reason to be nervous).  Too–

“This is where I order right?”

He’d spaced out.  Dammit.  That wasn’t something he usually did.

“Yeah, it is.”  He’s still doing it–overthinking everything.  Shinso inhales deeply, channeling hours of customer service training videos, willing himself to forget about everything that isn’t the espresso machine or service with a smile.  “What can I get you?”

“Hm.”  You place your palms flat on the counter, leaning in to get a better look at the menu board.  Your eyes flit between the messy scrawl there and the register.  “Tell me: What does the master recommend?”

A lesser man might have choked.  Shinso just stops breathing.

“...Or is that title on your apron just for show?”

The title.  The title, for god’s sake.  Gaudy golden letters embroidered just below the pocket of his apron, proudly proclaiming “COFFEE MASTER” like it wasn’t something every employee had to wear as part of their uniform.  He makes a mental note to smother the lettering in coffee grounds the very next opportunity he’s granted.

“You can’t go wrong with a latte.”

Your lips purse and your gaze narrows playfully.  “Mm, not the most adventurous choice, is it,” your eyes drift down to his name tag,  “Shinso Hitoshi?”

Shinso usually hated when people did that–deliberately sought out and used his name while he was working–but, not surprisingly, you seem to be an exception.  He swears it sounds like you’re singing when you do it.

“Classic is classic.  ‘Adventurous’ is great until you end up with something undrinkable.”

“Oh come on.  Undrinkable?  Sure you’re not just being a coffee snob?”

Shinso raises an eyebrow.  This whole situation might have been new to him, but coffee was something he knew.  “Ever had a raw, deconstructed espresso?”

“Nope, but it sure sounds interesting.”

He scoffs.  “I thought so too at first. But trust me, chewing on espresso beans at 6 AM isn’t as fun as it sounds.”

You snort, covering your mouth to muffle some of the giggles.  When you recover enough to speak again, you do it through your fingers.  “You got your caffeine fix and a snack.  Sounds like a good time to me.”

“Yeah?”  Shinso smiles, draping an arm over the screen of his register.  “Well if that’s what you want, I’ve got some really tasty beans in the back.  I can whip one up for you real quick.  Takes less than 10 seconds to make, and let me tell you, the crunch is something else.”

 You hum for a moment, tapping your finger against the countertop.  “As enticing as your offer sounds, I think I’ve already figured out what I want.”  You don’t say anything as you reach into your bag and pull out your wallet, even though the sly look plastered across your face makes him think you have a lot of things to say.

“I’ll take a latte.”

Shinso raises an eyebrow, trying to seem incredulous, but smiling still.  “What, don’t feel like being ‘adventurous’ anymore?”

Your jaw hangs to the side, but the subtle twist of your lips betrays the playfulness behind the gesture.  As it turns out, both of you are terrible fakers.

“Oh hush.  I may not work here, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to sass the customers.”

It was true, of course.  Still, if it means getting another snarky response from you, seeing those bright eyes light up with every quip, he’s more than willing to break a few rules.

Shinso grabs a cup and scribbles the order number across it with a sharpie.  “Of course, because the customer is always right.”  He makes sure his words are dripping with sarcasm.

“Absolutely.  Glad you’re not too prideful to admit it”  You tease right back at him, and the confidence in the way you tilt your chin upward and beam (adorable) has him chuckling.

“Wanna tell me your name, oh valued customer?  Or am I just drawing a smiley face on the cup?”  

Shinso could have very well poured your coffee, handed you the cup, and been done with it.  He didn’t need a name to do his job, not when you were already standing right there and it was a slow day like this.  He wanted it though, wanted to hear the way you said it, watch the way your lips twisted as it formed each syllable.  More than that, he wanted to say it himself–to see if repeating it back to you would break his trance, cool the heat searing his insides.

Something mischievous flickers in your eyes.  You make a show of scratching at your chin, smirking like you hold all the power in the world at that one moment.  And you do, as far as he’s concerned.  

“I kinda wanna see you draw a smiley face on it,” you pause, shifting your weight between both feet,  “Or a heart.  Whatever scribbles you feel compelled to leave for me.”

He stands there for what feels like hours, considering his next move.  You’d been flirting with him–that wasn’t even an opinion, it was cold-hard fact.  The question was, how was he supposed to respond without making a complete fool of himself?  He could barely think, what with the buzzing in his ears, the tightness in his chest–

“How about my phone number?”  Shinso doesn’t remember thinking the words, only the feeling of them sprinting up his throat–quick and jumbled and abrupt.

You stare up at him as if to see if the question isn’t some joke–another piece of banter thrown around for the sake of earning a laugh.  Your gaze falls to Shinso’s fingers, trembling as they clutch the sharpie in his fist, and your expression suddenly softens.

“I think I’d like that.”  You inhale.  “A lot, actually.”

“Awesome.”  He mutters, almost unconsciously.  The nervousness bundled into that one word is enough to make him wish he could sink into the floor.  Still, he doesn’t do that.  Partly because it isn’t possible, and partly because he still has something he needs from you.  “Afraid I still need your name though.”  Before he can blink, your smirk is back, as playful as ever.  

“Need?  Or want?”

“Want.”  There’s no hesitation in the word, breathed out like the prayer of a dying man–one with nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

You snicker when you finally say it, and he knows he’s been right all along–that it doesn’t take a minute to fall in love.

It takes five.

[hope-for-olicity]

Fabulous Olicity Fanfic Friday - February 7th, 2020

Happy Friday! So this is my attempt to both thank awesome fanfic writers for their amazing work and offer my recommendations to anyone who is interested. Here are the fantastic fanfic stories I read this week! They are posted in the order I read them. This and all previous Fabulous Olicity Fanfic posts can be found on my blog. Please reblog and share these awesome writers’ works!

Bloodstained Leather multi-chapter WIP by @mindramblingsfics​ - Felicity finds Oliver shot and feels compelled to help him. In helping him, she ends up being involved with Bratva. As things intensify, Felicity knows that she should not only run the other way, she should stay away from Oliver...but she doesn't seem to be able to or want to. ~~~~~~~~ Felicity swallowed thickly as Oliver's eyes peered down at her. She took his hand in hers linking their fingers together. "Oliver, I found you bleeding outside of Big Belly Burger and ever since that moment, my life has not been the same. And I don't think it ever will be." https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296337/chapters/27952350

Santa's Daughter multi-chapter WIP by @christinabeggs​ - Felicity is Santa’s daughter and she wants to take over the family business. But before she can do that, her father says she must turn the person with the angriest heart and turn him into a believer of magic, love and Christmas. Oliver Queen has become tired, angry, and joyless after spending 5 years earning his MBA and then trying to save his family’s legacy by becoming a ruthless businessman after his father passed away. Can Felicity bring some Christmas cheer into Oliver's life? https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808006/chapters/52039879

We Fall Apart by @originalhybridloverfics​ - Season 2 AU Oliver returns from the Lian Yu after the Undertaking with more regrets than he left and all he can focus on is how much Felicity has changed. She was different than he remembered, there was something harder about her and she was angry all the time. What could have happened to her while he was gone to encourage such a change in her? https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455562

in the morning (you're not holding on to me) multi-chapter WIP by @felicityollies​ - Oliver and Felicity have been friends with benefits for a long time, but Oliver is starting to want more. https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945414

It's in the Air multi-chapter WIP by @emmilynestill​ - December 23, 2016. It’s Mayor Queen’s first holiday party and love is in the air. No, wait, that’s tension in the air. Bitterness. Regret. Painful longing for one’s former love. Awkward interactions with current significant others. A little humiliation mixed in. Yup, this was one great party. Then the gas came. Maybe love was in the air Afterall. Just my usual lock Oliver and Felicity in a room with a mind-altering substance with a dash of holiday magic thrown in. And, by magic, I mean Sex Pollen. And maybe a little Truth Serum to stir things up. https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552481

Helplessly Wrecked multi-chapter WIP by @cruzrogue​ - A very smart, passionate, woman. Worked to get her dual masters from MIT, it may have taken longer being a mother of triplets but at least she has her mother’s support. Oliver Queen still has a yacht incident and was marooned for shorter time frame on a real deserted island. He never flunked out of his Ivy League schooling and is a very sought-after bachelor. His relationships never last more than half a year and is known to throw himself into his work. His motto ‘work hard play harder’. https://archiveofourown.org/works/19194103/chapters/45628978

Time for a Story multi-chapter WIP by @smkkbert​ - This fic shows Olicity and their life as a (married) couple with family. Although Olicity (and their kids) are the protagonists, other characters of Arrow and Flash make appearances. YOU NEED THIS STORY IN YOUR LIFE. https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912157/chapters/8757172

Sorry I Took So Long by Sadfangirl - My take on the last scene of 8x10, and beyond https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522018

Paper Planes by TheUsualSuspect - Felicity has a toothache and doesn’t want to go to the Dentist. Eventually, she gives in when Oliver offers to go with her. Essentially, Felicity gets high on happy gas and starts talking about Oliver to Oliver. Alternate Title: Caring Is Just Another Way to LOVE. https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537483

religion's in your lips (the altar is my hips) by @felicityollies​ - Oliver is afraid to touch Felicity as the Spectre, but she convinces him to give it a try. https://archiveofourown.org/works/22549756

Pieces of Always multi-chapter WIP by @so-caffeinated​ and @dust2dust34​ - Life continues after Forever is Composed of Nows. Ongoing non-linear collection of family moments for the Queens. http://archiveofourown.org/works/8220479/chapters/18840356

We Ended as Lovers multi-chapter WIP by @smkkbert​ - Three years ago, Felicity’s life was perfect. She was offered a job at two great companies. Her boyfriend just started his own fashion label, and they picked a perfect apartment to live in together. The more heartbroken she was when Oliver got cold feet and it all ended. Now, Felicity is coming back to Starling City, well aware that she is destined to run into her ex-boyfriend there. While old feelings revive quickly, the pain still goes deep. Besides, for some reason Oliver seems to be angry with her. https://archiveofourown.org/works/22034827/chapters/52587292

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles by @it-was-a-red-heeler​ - A Goodbye Olicity Exchange gift -  fluffy Meet-cute!  https://olicitysecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/190641332235/planes-trains-and-automobiles

One Day by @tangled23works​ - A Goodbye Olicity Exchange gift - Set in Season 2, a little after Oliver makes that stupid mistake in Russia. https://olicitysecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/190640340415/one-day

Some Clarity by @captainsammyangel​ - A Goodbye Olicity Exchange gift - Set in Season 2  https://olicitysecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/190639776982/goodbye-olicity-gift-exchange

Work-Life Balance by @laxit21​ - A Goodbye Olicity Exchange gift - a workplace friends-to-lovers AU, with some mutual pining thrown in. https://olicitysecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/190642454205/work-life-balance

None Shall Twain Them by @emeraldoliverqueen​ - A Goodbye Olicity Exchange gift - This is a WWI Olicity AU (aka Shale was watching waaaaay too much Anne of Green Gables so any fans will probably recognize this scene) https://olicitysecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/190650100020/none-shall-twain-them

Uncanny Valley (Bratva AU) by @effie214 - A Goodbye Olicity Exchange gift - In aesthetics, the uncanny valley is the relationship between the degree of an object’s resemblance to a human being and the emotional response to such an object. https://olicitysecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/190652395791/uncanny-valley-pg-1972-words-bratva-au

// @emmaamelia95 // @mel-loves-all // @oliverfel4 // @green-arrows-of-karamel // @coal000 // @miriam1779 // @memcjo// @captainolicitysbedroom // @tdgal1 // @spaztronautwriter // @lalawo1// @quiveringbunny // @wrongshipper // @thebookjumper// @vaelisamaza // @myhauntedblacksoul // @lovelycssefan // @laurabelle2930 // @laxit21 // - let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged! 

[bookandcranny]

Stone Heart Gambit

Part 1 - Chapter 1

Soso likes her town, but she’s starting to think she’s never going to find a single interesting thing about it. There’s a supermarket, a park, a few family-owned shops and eateries that haven’t yet succumbed to the pressure put on them by the encroaching chain franchises. Pretty standard small-town fair, not unlike the one she grew up in.

Therein lies the problem. She’d been so excited to leave home for the first time all those semesters ago that she hadn’t considered that change doesn’t always equal improvement, and putting a hundred miles of distance between her and her old problems didn’t guarantee her a perfect new life. She doesn’t particularly miss living with her parents, rather she finds herself feeling homesick for a place she doesn’t think she’s found yet. There’s a restlessness in her-- her mom claims she gets it from her dad, and vice versa. It’s plagued her in small ways all her life, in the way she finds new friendships but struggles to make them last, in the way she throws herself into new passions only to grow bored of them within weeks, in the way college had seemed so thrilling and full of promise when she was a bright-eyed freshman and now here she is, on indefinite academic leave, struggling to remember what it was she saw in the place that was worth a lifetime of student loans.

She only has so long to figure it out too. She wants to finish her degree, she does, but art requires inspiration and there’s only so much to photograph in a town whose main export is cow shit and stale gossip. If she changes her major again at this point her advisor is for real going to mount her head on a pike outside the bursar’s office, so she has to at least try.

It doesn’t help that she’s pretty much limited to the immediate vicinity surrounding her housing co-op until she either manages to get herself a car or the bus drivers union wins their latest standoff with city hall. Cars cost money though, which means getting a real fulltime job, which she expects will spell the end for any lingering chance of her going back to school anyway. The snake devours its tail, and Soso commutes by bike.

Soso’s handy; she’s confident she can fix anything given enough time, the right tools, and a couple reliable video tutorials. That, among other odd jobs, is her main preoccupation right now. It’s something, but she can’t picture herself changing tires and cleaning out gutters for elderly neighbors to support her Chinese takeout dependency forever. At the rate she’s going, her best customers are going to start dying off before she graduates.

On that morbid note, Soso decides she needs to get out of the house. She slings her bag over her back just in case she manages to run into something photo-worthy and grabs her bike. It’s a brisk autumn afternoon and the fresh air is just what she needs.

On the way out she runs into one of her housemates, Carmen the highly caffeinated, returning from campus looking frazzled. Soso isn’t particularly close with any of her housemates, frequently as they tend to come and go, but that doesn’t stop her from offering her sympathies.

“Any luck with the research?”

Carmen groans. “My paper is doomed. Remind me why I thought ‘modern impact of classical mythology’ was a good choice for my level 300 history course?”

“Uh, beats me.” In reality she thinks it sounds like a fun subject, but it doesn’t feel her place to say so given that while Carmen’s been slaving away at the school library, she’s spent the better of her day half-watching questionable documentaries on alien conspiracies.

“Ensfield is full of weird old superstitions and legends,” she goes on frustratedly. “The old bridge makes it on one of those ‘top 10 spooky locations’ lists like once a month. Complain about a cough to the wrong person and suddenly you get people telling you you’re hexed and you need to walk in a circle counter-clockwise under the new moon to get rid of it.”

She’s pretty sure that’s not a thing, but nods anyway, waiting for the point she hopes is coming.

“You’d think the library in a town like this would have better sources on mythology. But no, all I get is a shrug and the same three books everyone else in the class is using. If I want to bump up my GPA, I need something you can’t just find on Wikipedia.”

Another one of their housemates crawls out from the shrubbery by the porch. “Maybe you should try that other library.”

“Jesus!” Carmen jumps. “What are you doing down there?”

Phoebe brushes dirt off her knees. “I saw a black cat go into the gap.” She points at a thin crack in the woodwork. “Halloween is coming. Any cats, especially black ones, you see wandering around need to be brought to the shelter pronto. People do terrible things to them if they see them wandering around this time of year.”

Soso squints. “Looks too small to fit a cat.”

“I saw what I saw. Anyway, there’s supposed to be an old town library way past the woods, thataway.” She points. “Guy who works there is really weird I heard but almost no one goes there anymore so you’d have first pick.”

Carmen looks thoughtful. “I think I’ve heard of it. I kind of thought it was just something people made up.”

“Nah, it’s real. My brother’s fraternity brings freshman there to haze them. They tell them to go up and throw eggs at the place and then ditch ‘em in the woods.”

Soso blinks. “Why?”

She shrugs. “It’s just a thing they do. It sucks and it’s totally immature but no one ever accused those guys of being creative.”

“Whatever,” Carmen says. “I’m done with books for today. I’m gonna go inside and enjoy some nice brain-rotting TV.”

“Good call, honestly. If you get caught hanging around that place too much they’ll probably start egging us next.”

Carmen heads inside and Phoebe goes back to making little coaxing noises at the gap in the porch. Soso frowns to herself. Sometimes she feels like people in this town purposely go out of their way to ruin anything that could be the slightest bit different. It’s probably just a normal library that happened to be in a weird spot, run by a typical cranky old librarian. Even if it is nothing it probably has more to offer than spending the rest of her day throwing french-fries to birds and squirrels in the Burger Beast parking lot.

“Hey Phoebe,” she says. “Where did you say that library was?”

 --

 The trip is longer than she had anticipated. Her legs are strong but the sun’s getting low enough that she worries she’ll be riding home in the dark. A generous part of it she blames on Phoebe’s vague directions, scribbled into a patchwork paper map of hear-say more than anything else. Despite this she continues. She’s snapped a few pictures of the foliage in its brilliant reds and golds, so if all else is a bust at least she won’t have completely wasted her time. Worst case scenario, she returns home with a little extra muscle on her calves from all the pedaling.

Well, the real worst case scenario is probably more along the lines of her getting caught by an axe murderer and left to rot in the spooky woods, another ghost for the local repertoire. Even then, at least she won’t have to worry about the next family phone call if she’s dead.

Grim musings aside, she loops back and manages to find the correct path, a trampled dirt road half-hidden under the leaf litter, and at last make her way to the fabled “other library”. It’s one of those old brick buildings, surrounded by a low fence that struggles to hold its own against the climbing vines and insects nibbling at its posts. It’s early enough in the season that their collective buzz-chirp-hum still fills the air, though otherwise it is almost eerily quiet. It’s strangely peaceful, Soso thinks as she wades through wild patches of tall grass, as if she were returning to somewhere familiar.

The place is clearly abandoned, she decides, sunlight refracting off the firmly shuttered windows. It’s a cool discovery to be sure, but she ought to have known a mysterious library in the woods with an equally mysterious shut-in tending it was too much to expect from a town like Ensfield. That doesn’t stop her from exploring though. She likes it here, and she especially likes the gorgeous, ancient-looking gargoyle that sits in front of the steps leading up to the entrance, like one of those stone lions that stand guard outside of libraries of greater fame than this one.

The thing is magnificent, as well as truly hideous, its face twisted in a snarl so visceral and strikingly lifelike that it sends a genuine chill down her spine. The attention to detail, to carving out each individual wrinkle of flesh, is astounding. The stance the stone creature is frozen in comes off much more threatening than the regal intensity she might have expected, and it seems to her a counterintuitive choice of décor, but one the artist in her wholeheartedly approves of.

Propping her bike up against the stairs she crouches in the shadow of the gargoyle to get a better look. Organic shapes like vines encircle the beast, so lifelike that feels compelled to touch, as if they might fall away under her fingertips. Just as she reaches out however, the front doors of the library swing open and a stout, middle-aged man rushes out.

“Don’t- who- don’t touch that! It’s- it’s not-“ he stammers. “It’s an antique. Very breakable.”

The man is well-dressed, but his head of yellow hair is mussed to one side, like he’s just woken from a nap, enforced by the wrinkles he anxiously tries to smooth out of his vest. His eyes are a shocking shade of spring green.

“Sorry?” Soso offers, still recovering from the fright. She pulls her hand back guiltily and he seems to relax. How fragile could something made of stone be, she wonders, that he would work himself up into such a state over it. “Uh, is this the library?”

The man finishes straightening himself out before he responds. “That’s what you’re here for? Books?”

“What else?” she asks. His eyes remain narrow with scrutiny, so she adds, “Books on mythology. It’s for a school project. I heard… I am in the right place, right?”

There’s a copper plaque by the door that reads “North Ensfield Public Library”, but at this point she’d be as willing to accept that she wandered into a random person’s front yard, for how he looks at her. After another awkward pause, the man turns back towards the entrance and gestures for her to follow.

“Sorry about that. I don’t see many regular patrons anymore, not for a while now. Pardon the mess.” He speaks quickly, not leaving any room for interruption.

There isn’t much mess to pardon, not really. In fact, the shelves look well organized, if a bit dusty, and the space isn’t as cramped or cluttered as she had expected from the outside. A certain saying about books and covers comes to mind, but she doesn’t think her host would appreciate the joke. It’s no wonder he doesn’t see many people if he acts this way with everyone. Soso bumps into a table and nearly upsets what seems to be a pyramid assembled from various glasses, topped with an upside-down teapot.

“Do you live here?” she asks before she can curtail her curiosity.

“I’m a librarian,” he answers. “This is a library.”

“Right, but that doesn’t…” she fumbles.

“Do Canadians not live in Canada? Do Norwegians not live in Norway?”

“Vegetarians don’t live in vegetables,” she counters.

He considers that. “Well-played.”

Soso laughs despite herself and, to her surprise, things seem to go more smoothly after that. She continues speaking with the librarian and learns that his name is Surehouser, though if there’s a first name attached to that one, she doesn’t catch it. He’s certainly as eccentric as the rumors had led her to believe, but he seems harmless, and quite frankly more than a little lonesome. She doesn’t know how a person could be anything else, living like this.

He’s not friendly or unfriendly; his words have a measured quality to them, as if he’s afraid of saying too much. Soso gets the impression, as the sole carer for this seemingly ancient place, his occupation is more out of a sense of obligation than a passion for literature. He looks the part of the academic for sure, down to the silver that threads through his hair and the half-moon reading glasses folded in the front of his shirt, but his eyes track her as she browses like he doesn’t know what to do with someone who actually wants to check out a book.

“Do you have an idea of what you’re looking for?” he asks after she’s been at it for a while.

She doesn’t want to admit that not only is she not sure, since it’s not really her class she needs it for, but that whatever organizational system is in place here is totally incomprehensible to her. “Anything you have should be good.”

Which is how she ends up checking out way more than she meant to, sending up a tiny prayer that her comparatively tiny backpack can rise to the occasion. Surehouser gives her a look like he knows what’s going through her head as he leads her to the front desk. There’s no computer in sight, just a leatherbound book of names and dates and a thick rubber stamp.

“On my way out, would you mind if I took some pictures of that statue you have out front? For my project.” She adds that last part as an afterthought, then regrets it right away. She’s a notoriously terrible liar and the more she enforces the threads of this pointless story she’s weaving, the more awkward she feels.

He frowns and says, more to himself than to her, “I always thought that old thing was a bit gaudy myself. I’d have gotten rid of it ages ago if I could.”

Something about the way he says it strikes her as strange. Not knowing how to respond, she simply says, “I don’t know, I think it’s cool.”

He laughs. Or, she thinks that’s what it is. The sound is gentle but rusty at the edges. “I suppose you would. Feel free to do whatever you want, only do not touch it, and be careful.”

She walks down the stone steps, her haul unexpectedly light on her back, and pauses to look at the gargoyle once more. The light isn’t any good right now, but she’ll be back.

“See you later,” she tells it.

Sure enough, the next day she’s back. She hadn’t actually planned to be such a regular, but she’d been unable to keep the place from her mind, and it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. Carmen had looked about to cry when Soso showed her the books she’d picked out. The ones she didn’t need for her paper, Soso decided to flip through herself and had found herself more invested than she’d counted on. The book on obscure pagan deities she’d selected, though dense and confusing in places, was particularly interesting. Before she knew it, she was finished, and thus had the perfect excuse to go back.

“This guy kinda looks like you, don’t you think?” She holds the page open so that the gargoyle could “see” it. Despite arriving at noon on a Wednesday, the library seems to be truly closed today and no amount of knocking had managed to change its mind. Since she’d already come all this way, she figured she might as well find some other way to entertain herself before heading home.

“The horns are all wrong, but the general look is there. He could be, like, your second cousin,” she tells the statue.

The statue doesn’t respond, obviously, but Soso likes talking to it regardless. She adjusts her position so she can keep reading while keeping the book within its line of sight. When it’s time to leave, she turns to it and says,

“Keep an eye on that guy who runs the place for me. He’s weird, and should really keep more regular hours, but he’s nice, and I think being alone out here is making him a little…” She makes a spiraling motion with her finger. “Guess I’m not one to talk though. I’m chatting with a hunk of rock.”

She doesn’t stop though. Maybe it’s the boredom, maybe it’s something just fundamentally Soso, but whatever the reason, she keeps coming back. Partially for the library, yes, and for the company of the strange librarian that dwells within, but primarily to have a quiet place to vent her frustrations and speak her mind, where often the only one around to judge is one who’s incapable of talking back.

Surehouser is an acquired taste, and they don’t have much in common, but he never turns Soso away on the days when her visits magically coincide with the hours of operation. He always seems to have snacks on hand and is content to let the young woman ramble on about whatever latest subject has caught her interest, which as much as she could ask of anyone really. He still speaks frustratingly little of himself, but she believes she’ll get it out of him eventually.

She’s moved from taking pictures around the library to breaking out her old sketchbook, sitting on the steps and muttering to the empty air as she tries to map the contours of the stone body before her. She’s always been visually minded, for whatever good it does her.

“My mom keeps calling and asking if I want to come home for the holidays,” she complains, holding her knees to her chest. “And I know that’s months away but if I say yes that means having to see my family in person while they interrogate me about my future. I’m not even sure I have a future.”

She paces around for a minute to work out some pins and needles and brushes back her hair where it’s been falling in her face. Feeling playful, she imagines she can feel the gargoyle’s gaze watching her.

“Oh this? Yeah, I did get a haircut, thank you for noticing. Just a couple inches off the bottom but I think it’s nice.”

She tosses her head. Nestled among her dark hair, a tip of pointed ear pokes out and she worries idly at the cartilage like she used to do when she was younger.

“You noticed that too, huh. I was born with this itty bity point to my ears. They used to stick out when I was a kid. I was kinda self-conscious about it, actually. I dreaded whenever we had a course in school about fairytales because the kids in my class would call me an elf. I started making my mom do my hair so that they were hidden and just, never grew out of the habit I guess.”

The gargoyle is without comment. She smiles.

“I knew you’d understand, dude. Us freaks have to stick together.”

The following week is a flurry of last-minute Halloween preparations. Soso herself hadn’t been planning to dress up, not having anywhere to be other than planted firmly on the couch in front of a horror B-movie marathon, but the other girls insist they decorate, as there’d been whispers in their neighborhood of pranks planned on those deemed not festive enough. According to Carmen, who had become the resident expert on local tradition since she aced her last history test, the custom of shunning those who didn’t partake was almost as firmly rooted as the decorating itself. It stemmed from a belief from ye olden days that the festivities helped to fend off ghosts and goblins and the meddling of the fae on the day when the border between their worlds was the thinnest.

“Wait, do ghosts come from the same place as fae, or do they just, like, carpool here?”

She snorts. “It depends who you ask, but a lot of people around here believe that anything that’s magical or ‘otherworldly’ in origin is technically ‘fae’. Ensfield has a whole history of convoluted fae-based superstitions. Did you know some people still leave out bowls of fresh milk for house spirits?”

“House spirits?”

“Like, brownies.”

Soso nods. “I love having milk with brownies.”

Phoebe pipes up from the kitchen. “I had a girlfriend in high school who left out offerings when she was doing her SATs.”

“Did it help?” Carmen asks. “I’ll try anything.”

Soso is no skeptic, but she’s more inclined to believe that leaving food out overnight will attract more mice than faerie blessings. The sentiment is nice, but it’s hard for her to take comfort in fairytales without remembering her childhood teasing. How much worse could it have been if it had been more than just a joke, if her ears and her daydreaming demeanor were enough to get her labeled as an outsider for life, rather than just for the span of third grade.

“Are you doing anything special for Halloween, Soso?” Carmen asks.

“You mean like leaving out bowls of milk?”

She laughs. “No, like going to a party. You can come with me to Katy’s if you want. It’ll be lowkey.”

Carmen has been making more of an effort to get to know her since she got her those books for her paper, but while Soso appreciates the thought, being a plus-one at a stranger’s party where everyone knows each other from the classes she’s still not attending doesn’t sound like her idea of a good time.

“No thanks. Someone’s gotta stay and hand out candy to the trick or treaters, right?”

“Good point. Did you pick up candy?”

“Not yet, but I’ll do it.”

“Just don’t put it off until the night of.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

That is exactly what happened. October 31st finds Soso standing in line with a back of candy under each arm. Their neighborhood isn’t exactly kid-heavy, but better safe than TP’d she figures. She’s nearing the register when a pair of college-age boys stumble in, looking conspicuously red around the whites of their eyes. She sighs inwardly as they wander around, talking just a bit too loud for comfort, and does her best to ignore them even as they get in line behind her. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she notices that there is nothing in their baskets except a two-liter bottle of off-brand soda, a box of marshmallow snackcakes, and about four cartons of eggs, each.

It almost doesn’t click for her until she remembers what Phoebe said about the frat bros and their hazing. That paired with it being a night notorious for pranks by idiot teens is enough to get her nervous. After making her purchase she lingers outside the store for a moment and watches as the boys climb into a car and drive away in the direction of the woods.

It might still be a coincidence, they might be heading to some other destination that just so happens to be in that direction as well, but the image of some stupid stoners invading her sanctuary makes her hackles raise all the same. She starts pedaling after them, following just far enough behind so as not to be spotted in the swiftly fading light.

[antihero-writings]

Gods and Gravity—Chapter 1: Part 1: Autopilot—MCU/Gravity Falls Crossover (Full fic–LONG post incoming)

Fic Title: Gods and Gravity

Fic Synopsis: What's more fun than making Loki, Peter Parker, Wanda Maximoff, and Shuri interact within the MCU? Forcing them to live together at the Mystery Shack in Gravity Falls!

Chapter Title: Autopilot

Character Focus:  Loki, Peter Parker, Wanda

Notes: The following is a fic I spent pretty much the entirety of my 2018 summer working on writing, (and the next three months editing.) To this day (summer 2019) I am still trying to learn to write comedy, and this was one of my first attempts at comedy, as well as one of the longest fics I'd posted (on Ao3), and for those reasons alone it was a valuable learning experience for me. At the time I had a full plot for this planned out, and had every intention of making it into a long series. I still love this fic, I am proud of it, it makes me smile, I still have those ideas written down somewhere, and I hope to return to it someday.

However, the lack of comments I received on it, after six months of intense effort was very discouraging, and I lost momentum, and haven't worked on it since.

Knowing this, I couldn't keep my original note from Ao3, and I cannot make any promises that this fic will go anywhere. But, at the same time, I would still very very deeply appreciate your comments and encouragement, and would be much much more likely to continue this fic, even now, if I hear people are enjoying it. As I said, I love the idea, and would love to keep working on it, so please don't hesitate to let me know if you love it too!

Chapter 1, Part 1: 

Are you aware of where you are? Oh, I don’t mean to be rude. Welcome.

You must be looking for some sort of introduction. Humans are so particular about things like that. You cannot cast your voice into the dark and expect to understand the echo. You’re not a thing like me.

Afraid. Is that the word? You’re afraid of that which you do not know. In the end, it’s the only thing you’re ever really afraid of. You can only speak to those who are no longer strange. I can’t say I understand the feeling. Knowing is my job, is it not?

Of course, you wouldn’t. It’s not your occupation, after all. And the unknown, well…its not so strange as you may first think. Sometimes it speaks with your own face.

Me. That is the only name I need to know. I am, nevertheless, quite fond of human proclivity to naming things. I find it…what’s the word? Cute? That must be it. I have no need of such titles myself though. Make something up for me, will you? Your imagination is far more powerful than anything I could tell you. I am quite curious to see what’s in your mind.

You must want some introduction of your own. Would you like me to tell the others? Sing a song in your honor? No, I suppose that would be embarrassing. Quite affective in ancient society though, I must say. To be perfectly frank, I don’t think it’s a very good idea anyways. Not here. Not today. Not, yet, at least.

Mustn’t proclaim your existence to those who know not of it, right? Might scare them off. Might not. They are quite resilient after all. Still…

Be not afraid. That’s what they say, right? But would they be? Perhaps its too soon to tell. Perhaps it’s always to soon to tell. Are you? Afraid, that is. No? I suppose there isn’t anything to be afraid of. Fear makes everything more… complicated. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Others it’s not. This time I’m not quite sure which way it would fall.

I know you’re here for something. What is it?

Have you come for answers? Questions? Just a good story?

Come for that. The story. Or come for something else, and stay for it. It’s a good one, I’ll say. Not that a stranger’s opinion means much.

To Gravity Falls. I am well acquainted with such a place. Quite fond of it. It’s home to all manor of strangers though, so I’m not quite sure you’re ready. It’s full of, shall we say, imagination. You are looking for my Gravity Falls, are you not? The one with the gods and heroes. I am aware that there exist many tales about Gravity Falls, all sprung from one. Regrettably, I exist in only this one—and not the original. I know of the others though. And while I exist in the universe of the gods and heroes, there I am shut up in stones and eyes, and not-quite-men, and king’s instruments; I have no voice.

Set down your own worries a while. This is a fun story, I promise. Lose yourself in it.

You came here, for whatever reason. It matters no longer. You are here now. And maybe, just maybe, you could help me.

Free. It is such an elusive thing; freedom. Do you think this story will help you earn that freedom? I think it could help me earn mine. If freedom is a thing we must earn, of course, rather than it being given us, or ingrained in us from the start. And so could you. Help, that is. Could, being the key word here. The question is, will you?

  “Dude, how many cups of coffee have you had?”

Loki’s eyes darted from the mug in his hand, to the girl in front of him, Michelle, who clearly thought his overseeing of his employees’ task was invitation for conversation.

Loki sighed. Out of all the conditions one might be in when talking to teenagers, fatigue is not the most suitable. It would be important to make a mental note of this for the coming summer.

“If you must know, I am currently on my third.”

“Third of the week or…?”

“Of the day.” He leaned against the side of the archway between the living room and stairway.

Her face puckered like she’d eaten something sour.

“Then…why do you still look like that?”

He lowered the mug, tapping his fingers on the porcelain, trying to figure out the least insulting phrasing. “This may come as a shock to you, but honesty is not always the best policy.”

The other teen who currently worked for him, and who was carrying a particularly large box down from the attic, stopped to join the conversation. Ned glanced between them. “Yeah, who needs honesty, psh…What are you guys talking about?”

“Miss Jones has taken this opportunity to judge my daily caffeine intake. Which, quite frankly, I could live without.”

“I thought you said honesty wasn’t the best policy.”

He stuck his tongue out at her.

“Oh, yeah—Have you not seen him do that?” Ned asked. “He drinks like ten cups of coffee, it does nothing to him. You’d swear he’s like actually a god, or something.”

“While it’s enlightening that caffeine immunity is enough for you to come to that conclusion, I’ll have you know, it does work on me, it just takes a rather high quantity.”

“Dude, I’ve never seen you hyper.”

“Maybe he’s a robot.” Michelle offered.

“Or maybe you’ve just never seen me on my good days.” Loki fixed his eyes intently on Ned, and his gaze didn’t waver as he lifted the mug to take an uncomfortably long sip.

“Ohh crap that’s terrifying.” Ned whispered.

Loki swallowed and shrugged. Still-got-it.

“Can I have some of that?” Michelle leaned over the bannister from the stairs side, trying to get a whiff of the drink.

Loki tossed the mug to his other hand, and turned towards the living room so she could no longer get close. “No.”

“Why not?”

“The thought may be lost on you, but I’m not paying you to sit around and drink coffee. I may have to withdraw some of your pay for these last few moments.”

“Y-You wouldn’t do that.” Ned sweated nervously.

Loki lifted his head, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “Would you truly like to risk it?”

That was enough to encourage Ned to get back to work.

“What if I told you I’d be more productive if I had some caffeine my system?” Michelle was undaunted.

Loki tilted his head to the side. “I’d tell you I don’t make a habit of being charitable.”

“Aww, I bet you’re a big teddy bear on the inside,” she mocked him with a baby voice.

Loki rolled his eyes, turning fully away.

“Come on,” she hopped onto the ground floor, “You know denying it just makes us want to find all your little weaknesses, right?” She came up behind him.

“By all means, look away. I promise you you won’t find anything on me.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

She turned, about to go back to work, but paused to ask, “What’s your excuse?”

“Your meaning?”

“Why do you get to sit around drinking coffee?”

“Other than being the one with the authority? I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Images of rusting dials, twisted metal, broken, blinking lights, and calculations his brain was too tired to finish came to mind. What exactly had compelled him to spend the entirety of the night prior working on that infernal machine, when he had teenagers coming to live with him the next day, he couldn’t say.

Or, more likely, it was because three teenagers were coming to live with him.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I just didn’t want to have to call an intervention.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You know…an intervention?” she repeated.

It was apparent that he didn’t.

Her brows furrowed. “Where… someone calls all your friends and family together to make you admit there’s a problem?”

“Sounds revolting. It appears its rather rewarding not to have friends.” He took a last sip of coffee.

“Uhh…what about family?”

“That too.” He swallowed.

It seemed like she was about to argue, then she shrugged, and admitted to herself nah-that-sounds-about-right, and returned to her work.

Loki pointed after her, casting an illusion into one of the lower rooms.

“Hey, Ned! Come look at this giant spider I found!” Michelle called after a few minutes, a little too nonchalant for his enjoyment.

“What?!” Ned shrieked from the other room, “A spider?! Where?!”

The god of mischief frowned. That’s right; Michelle wasn’t exactly the kind of person to scare easily.

He twisted his wrist, making it appear to crawl away.

“Wait—nevermind—it ran away.”

“Phew! I mean—I wasn’t scared.”

Still, at least he got a few good screams out of someone. Besides, it was ample punishment for Ned’s incessant enthusiasm these past few weeks.

Mentions of “Peter’s going to love…” this, and “Oh man, Peter’s going to have so much fun…” that, had bombarded Loki throughout Ned’s first week back at work. When the god had learned it was Ned’s idea in the first place, firing him wasn’t looking like such a bad idea. That, or something a little more… substantial, that would really quiet his babble… But killing the mortal children was off the menu.

Another important reminder for the coming summer; if one of the young heroes went missing, it would raise more than a few unwanted questions. If Stark himself came down here, everything he worked for might be all over. But the amount he could learn was worth the risk. It would be fairly easy to avoid incident, and if something did come up, he would be able to deal with it (he had before, after all), as long as he could keep any killing urges in check, the summer shouldn’t be too eventful.

Michelle didn’t appear to feel all that strongly about the coming presence of the other mortal she knew, or, at least she had the presence of mind not to show her excitement with extreme chattiness, or mention of the oncoming storm, and carry out her assignments without bothering him.

At least, in general.

“I’m kinda surprised you agreed to this,” She insisted on pestering him, remarking a few trips later, carrying an old, crooked candelabra—(that he didn’t remember buying)—down from the attic. This was, of course, when Loki had settled into the chair in the living room with a book, attempting to find some peace and quiet. “I mean; you can barely stand being around us. And this is three more of us we’re talking about it.”

“Well, Stark’s large sum of payment did have its appeal at the time.”

“Hey paid you?”

“Yes,” Loki set his now empty coffee on the table beside the chair. “I am aware of how babysitting works.”

“Babysitting?”

“He may have prefaced it as a sort of summer camp.”

She snorted. “A summer camp that lasts the whole summer?”

He shrugged.

She stepped back down onto the bottom floor. “You really think a bit of cash is worth it?”

“Please. I’ve dealt with far worse.

“Oh really?”

“Now, for just one example.” He licked his finger to turn the page of his book.

Starks money. Sure, it had its appeal, but the more convincing issue at hand was the amount of information he could learn from them. It had been Stark himself who had called, which meant whoever he was sending on this particular excursion, despite their age, was close to him. The opportunity to learn a secret or two about those in the circle of heroes was rather high compensation, and at the time had seemed enough to justify a summer with a few teens (especially when putting said summer into the perspective of a god’s life). Now that their arrival was fast approaching, doubt had more than a few well-thought-out counterarguments.

“Alright.” She set down the candelabra. “How much you want to bet?”

“Pardon?”

“No seriously,” she tapped her chin, thinking, “Let’s say, the moment all three of them arrive, if you already want the summer to be over, you have to…” she smirked, “You have to show my artwork at the museum.”

“Sure, that seems fair. I’m the one suffering, and you get paid.”

She shrugged. “That’s how betting works. One person’s doubly miserable, the other’s doubly rich.” She rubbed her fingers together.

“Even if I was interested in this little farce—which, to be clear, I’m not—how would you be able to tell that I ‘want the summer to be over’?”

“You really think I won’t be able to tell?”

“Oh please.”

“Maybe you’ll just have to fess up.”

He laughed. “As if.”

“You think you’re ‘Mr. Mystery’ but maybe you’re not so mysterious as you think”

“Yeah, come back to that question in a while, sweetheart.” He paused. “And if I can, in fact, handle it, what am I to win?”

“Well, what do you want?”

“Dangerous words, girl.”

“Let’s see…How about, I have to work overtime whenever you ask?”

He weighed it. It was tempting. But it had to be something more humiliating than that…

“How about, if I win, you have to be the official mascot of the Mystery Shack. Whenever I ask you to put on a costume and dance out on the street, you must do so, no questions asked.” A maniacal smirk crossed his features.

“Ooh,” she sucked in a breath, stepping into the living room, “You’re right. That’s gonna be tough to beat. Too bad we’ll never get to see that.”

“Feel free to bow out if you’re afraid to lose.”

“Oh we’re way past that by now.”

“Very well. The wager is set.”

“Let’s shake on it.” She extended her hand.

He shook her hand once. “As the mortals say, you’re on, Miss Jones.”

“Uhh You’re on.”

As she turned to pick up the candelabra, Ned called nervously from the spare room on the first floor,

“Uhh…Mr Loki?”

“What is it now?”

“What do you want me to with these boxes that say ‘property of’ and then a crossed out name—that, I’m not gonna lie, I tried to read—‘do not touch’?”

Loki rubbed his temples. “What are you talking—?” then he stopped, realizing what was in that room, “Oh for the love of—give them to me.”

“Scooch.”

Peter Parker glanced up from his phone to see Mr. Stark leaning in the doorway of the car. Quickly obeying the request, he grabbed his backpack and shifted closer to the window.

Tony slid into the seat on the other side of the car, motioning to their current chauffer (that wasn’t his official job, but Peter often found him performing it) to drive. As if he had received a top-secret message, Happy gave a curt nod, turned the key, and the engine growled, signifying the start of their trip to the airport.

Tony flipped off his sunglasses as if trying to impress a few hundred cameras.

“Let’s have a chat. Man to—boy.”

“What is, Mr. Stark?” Peter decided not to object to the category he was placed under.

“Don’t,” Tony emphasized, “screw the pooch.”

Peter blinked, expecting something more. He nodded, saying awkwardly, “Yeah.”

Iron Man didn’t seem convinced.

“Okay…?”

Tony raised an eyebrow.

“I promise.” Peter added.

“Don’t mess with me now. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, little man.”

“With all due respect, what do you think’s gonna happen, Mr. Stark? It’s not like I’m going out there to save the world—which don’t you forget, I have done on more than one occasion.”

“Don’t get cocky. You were never saving the world. Leave that to the professionals.”

“Agree to disagree. Anyway, it’s just a summer camp, and it’s out in the middle of nowhere. Frankly there isn’t much there for me to screw up!”

“‘Just a summer camp, out in the middle of nowhere?’ Funny,” Tony put a hand to his chin in mock thoughtfulness, “that’s not how I recall you describing it when you were begging me to find a way for you to go. I pulled a number of strings to get you this, kid.”

“I wasn’t begging!”

“Uh huh.”

“I-I just thought it would be fun, that’s all! And, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful!”

“Is that so?” he folded his arms over his chest.

“Come on, Mr. Stark. You get what I mean.”

“I do. But you’d be surprised. The middle of nowhere can be host to a whole gaggle of excitement;” he waved his fingers over him, “I once met a man there named Chad, who taught me the way of the goat. Pretty fun guy, Chad. Could do without the goat smell though.”

“Seriously?”

“Maybe. I had had my fair share of of Mexican ‘soda’s at the time, and may or may not have been slightly drunk. Okay, a lot drunk. Funnily enough I wasn’t actually in Mexico. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember much after that. Let’s hope you never find out. The point is,” he held up a finger, “you have a tendency for pooch-screwing, even in low-profile situations—no, especially in low-profile situations.” He poked him in the chest.

Peter turned his gaze out the window for a moment, watching the buildings fly by.

“I—I can keep a low profile,” he defended feebly, turning back to Mr. Stark.

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “The Christmas party.”

“Come on! I was admiring your suits (innocently, if I might add), you can understand that—”

“Aaand you broke one.”

“It was just one finger!”

“Happened to be a very important finger. A finger of sentimental value, if you will. In case you don’t remember, it’s the one that lets me do this:”

He flipped him off.

Peter rolled his eyes. “You fixed it like three seconds later.”

“You know,” Tony extended his fingers as if admiring a good manicure, “people say I got that finger from my great grandmother. It hurts Peter,” he put his hand over his heart, “it hurts,” he wiped away fake tears, “How could you disrespect Great Grammy Stark like that?”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “They don’t say that.”

“How do you know? You think you know my family better than I do?”

“I’m just saying that—”

“You’re letting me get off topic. The point is, you were, as you say, ‘innocently observing my suits’—completely understandable, they’re the most amazing feats of technology most people ever get to see—and all it took was one little slip of the hand, and suddenly I’ve lost a very important finger. What happens when it’s not something that I can fix that easily? What if that was someone’s real finger? What if that was your finger?”

“Fingers don’t just fall off!”

“Maybe not, but trust can.”

“Huh?”

As they reached a stoplight, Mr. Stark leaned forward.

“Hey, Happy,” Tony pointed, “Could you get something from the thing between the front seats for me?”

“What—you mean this?” Happy pointed to the compartment he had been resting his elbow on.

“Yeah, that is what I’m pointing to. Can you pass me the—”

Happy held up the first thing he found, which was a lint roller.

“Why would I need that? Are you trying to tell me something about my suit?” he looked down at the perfectly tailored suit. “It’s my favorite suit, Happy.”

“I wasn’t! I—!”

“Why do you even I have that in there?”

“I just always like—it pays to be prepared, that’s all.”

“Don’t make me a part of your weird obsessions. Just pass me the M&Ms.”

“You got it.” Happy threw the brown package back to him, and Mr. Stark caught it. When he examined the label and color however, he leaned forward again. “Happy, these are regular M&Ms. Does it look like I’m a regular M&Ms man? Do you think I’m some plebian off the street?”

“All you said was M&Ms! You didn’t specify!” he protested, throwing back the peanut ones a bit less kindly, and Tony fumbled them.

“From now on, when I ask for M&Ms, I mean the peanut kind, not this pathetic excuse for a snack.”

“I’ll keep that in the ol’ mind palace.”

“Don’t refer to your mind as a palace. At best it’s a very small cabin. A hut. A hovel, if you will.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your mind, then?”

“Oh, my mind’s a five start resort, baby. You should visit some time…Not that I want you there.”

“Your confidence means a lot to me too, boss.”

“I hope so.”

“C-” Peter cleared his throat, leaning forward, “Can I have some of those?”

“Maybe. If you listen.” Tony bit the package to open it, “M&Ms are for people who listen.” He said, spitting out any plastic he had accidentally gotten into his mouth. He poured a handful of chocolates into his palm. “In the mean time, stay in your lane,” he pushed him back into his seat, “keep your mitts off my M&Ms.”

“Okay,” Tony resumed, throwing a few candies into his mouth, “So maybe it was just a finger I could fix like that”—he snapped his fingers—“But what if it wasn’t? What if it was a priceless heirloom my grandmother gave me? What would you have done then?”

“Still said I was sorry…?” Peter lifted his shoulders, “I would have felt worse about it though,” he made sure to add.

It didn’t seem to help.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Mr. Stark! I don’t intend to screw up!”

“Most people don’t. You know, I’m glad you brought that up,” he continued crunching on the M&Ms, “because it’s kind of the point of this little pep talk.” He pointed to peter. “Hate to admit it, but you remind me of me. Except without the devilishly handsome good looks, of course.”

“Hey!”

“You’re cute, I’ll give you that. But you’re like an oatmeal raisin cookie; it’s no one’s first choice, you’re not chocolate chip,” he brought his hands up to frame his own face, “but, hey, someone will eat it—Grandma made them, after all.”

“I think I’m at least—”

“Anyway, stop distracting me! You’re like me; you’re a trouble magnet. You and Trouble have a whole,” he waved his fingers, “scandalous affair.” He shuddered on purpose. “I’d like to compliment you on it, but whole point of an affair is to keep it on the down-low. And this, sir,” he circled his finger in the air in to refer to him, “is not the down-low. The sphere you’re working in is when you want your affair in the media. So as your standing guardian, it’s my job to either help keep it out of the public eye, or stop the affair altogether.”

Peter blinked. “I think I understood like half of that.”

“Alright, not my best analogy, but you get the gist.”

Peter looked out the window again. They were on the freeway now, getting closer to the airport. He was starting to see that this wasn’t the kind of debate he could win; this was one of those conversations where he was supposed to sit back and listen. He wasn’t particularly fond of those. Still, he didn’t foresee much happening out in Gravity Falls, Oregon, despite one of his interests in going being to study anomalies.

He had been careful not to mention that.

“Can I ask you something?” he turned back to him.

“As long as I can respectfully decline to answer.” He threw the last handful of chocolates into his mouth.

“Did you have this conversation with Wanda?”

“Alright, that I will answer,” he crumpled up the now empty M&M bag, turning to him. He put his arm around Peter, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “No.” He pointed to Peter. “And you know why? Because Wanda already knows not to screw the pooch. Last time she screwed the pooch, she did the walk of shame for at least a month. She’s Mellow Yellow, and you’re…that weird Mexican soda Chad gave me that one time. You’re the one who needs to be taught that pooches,” he waved a finger, “are not for screwing.”

Peter sighed as Mr. Stark let him go, staring at his hands, seriousness setting into his tone,

“I promise, Mr. Stark, I really do promise. I’m not gonna screw up this time.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” Tony said after a pause.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re five years old, and I just told you you can’t have dessert.”

“Well, you kinda did.”

“Hey, leave my M&Ms out of this!” he hid the package ineptly behind him.

“Look, I just don’t think you’re giving me enough credit, Mr. Stark.”

“Oh I’m giving you plenty of credit. You know some of the things Happy’s told me about your little excursions?”

“Hey—”

“Let’s see, there’s the time you stole someone’s dog that was sitting outside a grocery store, because you thought it was being mistreated—it wasn’t. Or how about when you tried to bust a bunch of gang members, who turned out to be just the local goth kids hanging around?”

“Hey, those kids were shifty, anyone could have made that mistake!”

“Oh, and one of my personal favorites, the time you brought a guy in because you thought he was breaking into someone’s car. Turns out he had just forgotten his keys, and was late for a job interview. Which, because of you, he missed. I”—He pointed to himself— “had to give him a job in the end, which you don’t seem to realize, seems to be the cycle with your mistakes—I’m the one who pays the price.”

“Well, hey, you have to admit, he did get a better job because of me.”

“Don’t put a positive spin on this!”

“Look, I won’t screw up this time. Okay? Satisfied?” Peter’s frustration was reaching his tongue.

After a moment of silence, Mr. Stark cleared his throat.

“That’s good,” he said a bit more softly. “Better than good, it’s great. But, unfortunately, no, I’m not satisfied; there is one more teensy, little thing I’m gonna need from you.”

“What is it?” Peter said to the back of Happy’s chair.

“Where’s the suit?”

Peter sat up, his eyes widening. Then, realizing how telling that was, he crossed his arms and legs, clearing his throat, lowering his voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Stark, as I said, I’m gonna be out in the middle of nowhere, with my friends, as well as people who don’t know that I’m Spider-man, you really think I brought the suit?”

“Cut the crap, who do you think you’re talking to?”

The young superhero sighed, conceding. He glanced between the car windows as if the people in the cars next to them could see through the strongly-tinted glass, while they were going sixty miles per hour. Leaning forward, he gently unzipped the back of the backpack at his feet just enough to reveal a splash of red.

“Yeah…I’m gonna need that.”

“What?!” Peter blurted out, feeling his confidence plummet like the elevator in Washington, “But Mr. Stark—!”

“You better believe it, Spider-Boy.”

“I don’t understand!” Peter’s voice was becoming a whine, “I thought I earned it.”

He had been trying his best to sit back and listen, and already felt like he wasn’t getting his points in, and now Mr. Stark was going to take away the last thing that was important to him? Nope. Not happening.

“Hey now.” Happy had been glancing back to them in the mirror as he drove. Noticing the rise in tension, he cut in, “Am I gonna need to come back there and break up a fight between you kids?”

Tony quickly joined the joke, and grabbed the empty bag of M&Ms from behind him, flinging it at Peter and pointing. “He stole my candy.”

“Peter, did you steal his candy?” he said like an irked father.

“He told me I could have it!”

Happy looked between them in the mirror. “I don’t care what he said, it’s his candy, you’re gonna give it back.”

“What if I already ate it?”

“Spit it back out, Mister. I don’t want to have to—”

“Oookay, jokes over,” Tony cut back in. “I’ve thoroughly lost my appetite.”

Peter glanced back at his mentor, giving a small smile, but quickly dropped his gaze.

“You did earn it, Peter.” Tony’s voice was more gentle. “I’m not saying that you don’t deserve it, or that you can’t handle it. But you have to admit, when you have it, things tend to…escalate. I can’t trust that you’ll just use it for friendly-neighborhood-crime-fighting. Or that friendly-neighborhood-crime-fighting would be as harmless as you think it is. Besides, you sealed your own fate, Spiderling.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be out in the middle of nowhere, are you really gonna need it? What would you do if these random hillbillys found out your greatest secret?”

“I…don’t think they’re hillbillys. And it would be nice to have it!”

“Believe me, I know. I want to be able to let you have it. But I also know if I let you have it, the definition of an emergency situation will suddenly slip your mind,” he made a ‘poof’ motion with his hand, “And then I’m seeing you in some forest fire on the news, and that’s on you.”

Peter looked away. Everything was being turned against him, his words, his actions, even his suit.

“This is how things should go;” Tony continued, “a nice, relaxing summer fiesta in the Pacific Northwest with your friends. Away from saving the world, and all of us. Just for one summer you get to be a normal kid—hey, it’s more than I get. You deserve it—get some fresh air, maybe learn a life lesson or two out there. But absolutely no pooch-screwing, got it?”

“Bu—”

“This isn’t your neighborhood. Did you ever think about that?”

“It is for the summer!”

“Look, I’m gonna level with you here; you’re a good kid. Got good grades, a brain in your head, hell, maybe you could even surpass me with your technology one day—”

“Rea—?”

“Nah. Still, you’ve got a lot of things going for you. But let’s be honest, being normal isn’t exactly your strong suit.”

“I can be normal!”

Really? Tony’s eyes said.

“At some point you’ve gotta learn there’s more to life than being a hero—even the friendly neighborhood kind.”

Peter focused on a speck of dirt the floor, unsure how to respond. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew Mr. Stark had his points; he did have a tendency to screw up. Still, it didn’t mean he was going to screw up now. Why couldn’t Mr. Stark have a little more faith in him? Why couldn’t he recognize that his intentions were, in fact, honorable? More honorable, maybe, than his own. Hearing him say all this aloud, hearing that he would lose the suit over a couple of minor, past screw-ups, even if it was just for the summer, didn’t hurt any less. He wanted to be able to use the suit wherever he was, for emergencies, or otherwise. (And, you know, maybe a couple pranks and parties with Ned wouldn’t hurt). Why not help a few people while he was there? Why not make someone’s day, even if it wasn’t an emergency? Isn’t that what a friendly, neighborhood Spider-man was supposed to do?

Tony sighed. “I just don’t want to hear, from somewhere other than you, about how Spider-man got slashed by some lumberjack ghost—”

Peter screwed up his face in confusion.

“—Or something like that. You know, that’s an extreme, probably unlikely, example. I’m not going to be there to protect you, and this is the whole summer we’re talking about. I hope you can understand that.”

“I understand.” He murmured.

He understood, that didn’t mean he agreed, or was any less upset. He wasn’t a kid who needed constant protection. He thought Mr. Stark had learned that.

Reluctance in every motion, he leaned forward and gently tugged the suit out of his pack, as if he was telling his beloved pet, Sorry buddy, I have to leave you here, and shoved its crumpled form to his mentor’s chest.

Tony rolled up the suit up and placed it in beside him. Peter looked away, picking at a stray thread on his Star Wars shirt. He could feel Mr. Stark’s eyes on him, and knew his mentor could tell how upset he was, because Iron Man sighed, and spoke up.

“Alright, I’ll make ya a deal. If you absolutely need it, then you have my number. But I mean absolutely. I’ve seen your texts to Happy. I don’t want you calling because Spider-Man now has a mission to save the tree people.”

“Come on, who do you think you’re talking to?” Peter puffed out his chest.

Happy called from the front seat, “You once broke into some kid’s house because you wanted to play Santa, and texted me about it.”

“Come on, the poor kid wasn’t gonna get any presents!”

Happy rolled his eyes.

“Okay so…I won’t do that. I won’t disappoint you, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” Tony then cleared his throat. “Okay, good listening. Happy, give the kid some M&Ms.”

“Which kind?” Happy asked.

“Uh, the plebian kind.” Peter smirked.

Happy laughed, giving him a knowing nod, and threw Tony’s discarded M&Ms to him at the next stop.

Tony glanced between them, straight-faced. “You’re both dead to me.”

Spending three months in some town in Oregon, with people she didn’t know, or else barely knew, wasn’t exactly Wanda’s idea of fun. Nor was it her idea. Still, when Mr. Stark knocked on the door to her room, came in and explained the situation to her, she realized she was more partial to some peace and quiet, some fresh air, and a chance to make a few friends, than sitting in the stuffy, chrome Avengers headquarters. Watching guilt-inducing news, or else doing training, that, while helpful, she didn’t particularly need, or enjoy, wasn’t exactly the most pleasant way to spend her summer.

When her private chauffer dropped her off at an equally private jet, she couldn’t help but harbor some amount of resentment for Stark’s uncanny riches, spent on something that could be better used elsewhere.

Still, even if there was a little residual bitterness, she never doubted that the people she had found were the good ones. The way they treated her, like a friend and equal, the way they tried to comfort her when she has lost her brother, showed her she was in better company than she had ever been in. Even if the term ‘heroes’ was a little strong…Especially when used on her.

Even so, she was grateful to be heading to a small town in the Pacific Northwest, instead of a lavish, five-star resort, or, on the other end of the spectrum, a lab for testing. Some time to herself, a few months of comparative stillness, would be much appreciated. The thought of the fresh evergreen air, rather than the big-city smog, the sleepy town, instead of the sleepless crowd, and some company her age, had its allure.

The jet was plush, and cool—the air-conditioning, forming condensation at the vents by the windows, puffing in her face, provided a nice relief from the sweaty, summer air outside. Cream-colored chairs, with full reclining capabilities lined each side of the plane, and there was plenty of foot room. Plasma screen TV’s stared down at her from each of the corners.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to complain about the level of comfort.

She settled into a seat by a window. Afternoon sunlight blared in through the glass, draping the interior in gold. It felt strange to be sitting alone in an airplane, especially knowing there would be no flight attendants, or even a pilot. This was one of Stark’s state-of-the-art, fully automated, aircrafts. His AI system would be with them the entire time, to provide any services, and answer any questions. He thought it would be easier than hiring a full staff for their trip, and mentioned that it might be nice not to have an adult supervisor, and they should probably grateful that he trusted them not to need supervision.

With that in her mind, she sat and waited for them to arrive, watching the people working on the planes, and the other planes taking off.

As they arrived, Wanda heard the billionaire giving his begrudging protégé a few last minute nuggets of advice. When he turned to her, however, all he said was “Wanda…keep doin’ what you’re doin’” push Peter forward and add, pointing to him, “Keep this guy in line. Don’t let him screw the pooch, alright?”

She didn’t really know what that meant, but it seemed like it was the time to agree.

“See?” Mr. Stark turned to Peter and held out his hand to reference Wanda, “This is what I’m talking about.”

This was apparently not the treatment Peter had been getting, since he interjected, “Oh come on!”

“Friday, is there any alcohol on this plane?” Tony asked.

“There are several kinds of alcoholic beverages on this aircraft, sir.”

“Ah, should have known, it’s my plane, after all.” He clicked his tongue and winked.

He headed towards the back of the plane, and soon his hands were full of bottles of every kind of alcohol one could imagine. Wanda wouldn’t mind having some of that available, and Peter offered to help carry them out, but Mr. Stark made it clear they were not to touch them. His only excuse was, “Hey, I know what the kids do. I’ll just take these off your hands. It’s better for everyone this way.”

Before exiting he remarked lamely, “Well, you kids have fun,” shrugging.

“Of course,” he popped his head back in, “you can only have so much fun while I’m not there, right?”

“Of course Mr. Stark. It’ll be so lame without you.”

“That’s my boy.”

Peter finished putting away his luggage, and as the Friday signified the plane was getting ready to take off, he walked up to Wanda and smiled amicably.

“May I sit here?”

She shrugged. “Sit wherever you like.”

“Oh, well, then, that’s what I’d like—yeah…” He seemed to realize how awkward he sounded, and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, throwing his backpack onto the chair next to his own. “My name’s Peter, by the way,” he said as he sat down, holding out his hand for her to shake.

A small, somewhat forced, smile creased her lips. She leaned forward, shaking his hand, replying, “Wanda.”

“Yeah, I know your name.” He paused. “I mean—!”

She leaned forward, the smile becoming more genuine. “It’s okay. Mr. Stark told me yours too.”

Despite knowing each other’s names, it quickly became apparent that they really only knew each other by reputation—which wasn’t necessarily bad, but they had never truly met or talked to each other, (in Germany there wasn’t really much time for heart-to-heart)—the amount of silence between them was evidence to that.

“So… how about that autopilot, huh?” Peter pointed his thumb at the cockpit behind him.

She tilted her head to the side for a second glance, without comment.

“Pretty cool.” Peter grinned sheepishly, trying and failing not to let his love for technology be too obvious.

She had heard about that too; Mr. Stark had been happy to give her background information—how he had made his own web shooters (is that what they were called?) and how he stopped a plane when some guy in a wing suit was trying to steal Stark’s precious stuff in the move.

“Well, it is Stark Industries.” She pointed out.

“Still, I never thought I’d be in a plane without a pilot. Now I’ve been on two!” he held up two fingers as if he needed to demonstrate.

“Pretty scary if you think about it.”

“Well, like you said, this is Mr. Stark we’re talking about, I’m sure we’re safe.”

Friday assured them as much, that she would be with them the entire time, and it wasn’t long before she told them to fasten their seatbelts for take off.

They both stared out the window as the plane sprinted down the runway, bolting into the air; a slingshot made of pavement and metal, firing at the sky.

She hadn’t been on many planes, but she always liked this part: when the city fell away, bit by bit, the towns becoming paper and toys. The part when she understood just how far away she was from the ground.

“So… this whole summer camp thing was your idea?” Wanda asked once they were in the air.

“Well,” he ran his hand through his hair, “technically it was my friend Ned’s idea. He actually works at the place we’ll be staying at. He thought it would be fun if I came to hang out with him over the summer. And we figured it would probably make more sense for me to stay over at the place where he works for like a summer-camp-situation. He didn’t really go into detail about why I couldn’t stay at his house…something about his family, I think. And we thought it would make even more sense if I wasn’t the only one coming. Sorry…you kinda got roped into this didn’t you?”

Wanda shrugged. “It’s alright. If it weren’t for you I’d be sitting on my ass all summer.” She gave him a smile. “So who’s this friend of yours?”

“Ned? Oh he’s great. He’s kinda like my second in command. Helps me with all the technical stuff, you know? When he found out I was Spider-man he—” he cut himself off, his eyes widening, “wait, you knew that right?!”

She nodded.

“Oh, phew. And you can’t tell anyone while we’re there! Well, I mean, Ned knows. Oh, wait, you probably already knew that, because you—Nevermind.”

“Aye aye captain.” She gave a little salute. “It sound’s like Ned’s a good friend.”

“He is, yeah. I also have another friend who I just found out works there too, her name is Michelle—well, MJ is what we call her. Not sure if she’ll let you call her that though…She’s really cool too.”

“Do you know this person we’ll be staying with? Mr. Stark didn’t tell me much.”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve never actually met him myself. Ned says he’s kind of weird. I mean, the place we’ll be staying at is called ‘The Mystery Shack,’ so that should tell us something. But he said he’s also like one of the coolest people he’s ever worked for…Though, come to think of it, I think he’s the only person he’s worked for.”

“And you’re not nervous about staying with a complete stranger?”

“Well, Ned and MJ know him. And nothing bad has happened to either of them while working there—as far as I know—so I trust that.”

“But your friends weren’t living with him.”

“Well, yeah, but they still spend like ninety percent of their time there. He said the guy’s hosted summer camps before too—though I think that was years ago. If he wasn’t trustworthy, I’d think at the very least there would be a bad review or two online.”

She still wasn’t convinced.

“Ned would know, I’m sure.” Peter crossed his arms, jutting his chin out. “I’ve got a good feeling.”

Wanda bit her lip, looking away. She didn’t. Having played lab rat to Hydra scientists, she had her fair share of reason to be cautious.

“What about you?” he asked after a pause.

She returned her gaze back to Peter. “What…about me?”

“Do you have any friends you invited? Oh! Do you know this other girl who’s coming? I think her name was Shuri? I’ve never met her. Mr. Stark said she found out what we were doing, and wanted to come for some reason. I think she’s from Wakanda?”

She shook her head. “To be honest, I haven’t had many friends since…” she looked up out of the corner of her eye, giving a small, sad smile, “ever, actually. Most of the time it was just me and my brother, and now…” she tapped her fingers on the armrest, “it’s just me.”

She hadn’t meant for it to sound so sad.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Well, hey,” Peter tried to brighten the situation, “you’ve got one friend now—you’ve got me!”

“Yeah…I guess I do.” She gave a small smile.

“Definitely. I got your back, Sister.” He cringed. “Ew, that didn’t work did it?”

She laughed. His confidence and kindness were refreshing. She had been around heroes for so long, and she never doubted their strength, or passion, but he was… a kid. A little awkward and nerdy, but a lot more compassionate, a lot more genuine. Compared to the other Avengers, he was pretty young, maybe a little naïve but more…heroic, for lack of a better word. He actually reminded her of Pietro in some ways.

After that, things became more relaxed. They each told their funny stories about the other Avengers, and theorized about ridiculous things like which of the Avengers wore the most hair product (Tony was their best guess for that one), and who wore the tightest costume (Peter himself won that one). They drank concoctions Peter made out of the non-alcoholic beverages available (only one of which didn’t taste terrible), and ate more than their fair share of crackers, and other food available, which ranged from ‘generally okay.’ to, well, airplane food.

Peter was more than ready to introduce Wanda to the Star Wars universe (he had been in shock for a few full minutes when she asked about the reference on his shirt) but, much to his dismay, a few minutes after starting up, the TV flickered to black, and they couldn’t revive it. The others wouldn’t even turn on. With Peter’s Star Wars hopes thoroughly dashed, they spent the last hour in quiet company. She pulled out a book she had brought, and started reading. He didn’t seem like he was all that tired, but before she knew it, she looked up from the page to see he had fallen asleep.

A light breeze shifted through the city, lifting leaves, playing with Peter’s hair. His feet, clad in the bright red of his suit, kicked back and forth lightly in the open sky between sectors B and C, his mask lying limp on the brick edge beside him as he took the last bite of his churro.

The height would have been enough to send anyone’s heart pounding, but for Peter, to be up here, above the world, was freedom, and gravity; feeling the air open before him, the city below him but just close enough, knowing he would always come back down…

“Loki doesn’t usually associate with your type,” mused a voice he didn’t recognize. “What are you doing here?”

Peter looked around, startled, quickly grabbing his mask, ready to put it back on at a moment’s notice. Weren’t his Spidey-Senses supposed to warn him about things like this?

No one was there.

“Okay. That was…weird.”

“Is your presence here an accident?” the voice returned. “No…That much is clear. So why here? Why would a young hero such as yourself come here of his own accord? Shouldn’t you be in a place more like… the one before you?”

Peter quickly spun back to face the gap between the buildings, and breathed out, folding his arms, suddenly feeling much colder up here.

Calm down Peter, he thought, there must be a perfectly logical explanation as to why you’re hearing voices.

“Not so. Not in the way you’re thinking.” Peter thought he heard it laugh. “Why do humans always think hearing voices is enough to grant them insanity?”

“Because it uh…kinda is. This really isn’t funny, you know. You’re kinda freaking me out, to be honest…Nameless Voice.”

“What would you prefer to call me? I’m not nameless. I just have many. I really could care less what I am called, if only it makes you comfortable.”

“Uhh…let’s stick with ‘Nameless Voice’ for now. You know,” He tried to laugh it off. “I don’t want to get attached to you and all.”

Who—or what—was this voice? Where was it coming from? And how? Why? Why now? He glanced around for some sort of curtain to look behind. to show him there was a man in the workings.

His eyes lighted upon a spider, black, with a strange blue mark on its back. It had made its home between the shifting leaves of one of the garden plants sunning on the roof. Its web glinted in the sunlight. Peter scooched closer to it.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Spider? Sorry to bother you, but uh…weird question, are you talking to me?”

“He speaks as if he knows the insanity has reached him. I like you, Peter.”

Peter gasped at the sound of his name, losing his balance, but caught himself on the side of the wall, standing sideways nearby someone’s window, looking down at the street below. He swallowed.

“That could have been bad.” He murmured, before grabbing the edge of the roof and pulling himself back up.

“Seems that way.” The spider had heard him. “But not necessarily. All too many worlds are built on seeming.”

“Are you actually implying that do you want me to fall to my death? That’s not very nice, Mr. Spider.”

“I was unclear, my apologies; You would not die if you fell.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure that I would!” He walked up to the creature, forgetting the mask entirely by now.

“Know now that anything can happen in a dream. A dream is not so bound by things like life and death, rather sleeping and waking.”

Thanks Socrates. He facepalmed. Of course it was a dream.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“‘What am I doing here?’ I think I should be asking you that, Mr. Spider! I mean, if this is my dream and all.”

“Will you answer me first?”

Peter looked around the skyline. “To be clear, are you asking me what I’m doing here in my dream?”

“Dig a little deeper.”

“But you just—!” he sighed. “I’m…you know.”

“Up up and away, so far from the ground. Will you ever come down?”

Peter blinked. “Uhh…Well, yeah…” he sighed, “I’m, you know, fighting bad guys.” He shrugged, then made a kicking motion in the air, “Kicking crime in the butt!”

“The hero.” The spider laughed. “I knew that. But it’s not what you’re doing here.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Truth is more elusive, isn’t it? My apologies, I should more clear in my inquiry.” The spider lifted up one of its forward facing legs in a sweeping motion.

In a blink the world shifted. Peter felt its fabric and foundation shaking, an inkling of his Spidey-Senses creeping in as it settled into the new scene. It was still sunset, and he was still sitting on the roof of a building, but now, instead of a sprawling city, the sunlight was sifting through the leaves of an army of trees, clustered together, even closer than the skyscrapers from before, blocking his view of the sky beyond. The building was made of wood and glass, instead of concrete and dust.

“Mr. Spider?”

He cast his gaze around, and found the spider behind him, its web larger now, covering a triangular, red-tinted window behind him.

Peter pulled his legs from the roof edge, as if suddenly afraid of the ground, and looked around at the forest he didn’t recognize.

“What is this place?”

“That brings us back to my question. I will make my meaning plain; Why are you here in Gravity Falls?”

“Oh that!” Peter sighed, relieved. “That’s easy; I came to see my friend Ned!” He looked around, excitement sparking in his eyes, instead of confusion. “So is this the Mystery Shack?”

“Taunts will get you nowhere. That is too simple of an answer.”

“What?” Peter laughed. “I’m not taunting you! It’s kinda the truth! I don’t know what to tell ya.”

“Him…” The creature seemed to be in an entirely different line of thought now. Its voice became muffled, the edges of the dream growing blurry. “This is still about him. All, always about him. Though you may be a player...he is the one I must...”

“Who? You’re not making any sense. Wait… do you mean Ned? Or…?”

The spider gave no answer; it was in another conversation now, maybe even another place, and Peter wasn’t entirely sure he was a part of it anymore, or that he was the crazy one.

Peter felt his Spidey-Senses pulling him from the dream, along with someone shaking him.

“Peter! …Peter! Peter!”

Peter blinked open his eyes to see Wanda’s face, her steel eyes wide with worry.

“Peter…Something…” her voice was low and taut, her breath shaky, she kept glancing between him and the cockpit, pushing her hair nervously behind her ear, “something’s wrong with the plane.”

Peter sat up, shaking his head as if it would untangle the spider’s webs from his mind. “W-What? What are you talking about?”

“I-I don’t know—Everything just started shaking and—”

It wasn’t a joke; he could feel it—the tremor he had felt when the scene changed in the dream must have been this, here; the whole plane shaking. The luggage rattled as it shifted in its compartments, their leftover snacks and drinks spilled onto the floor. His stomach rose and fell, tipped and turned, as the plane dropped, and tried to right itself in the air. The last time he had been on a plane, every tremor had startled him, and Happy had always assured him it was just turbulence. Now he might have tried to denounce this as harsher-than-normal turbulence, and guessed Wanda probably did at first too, but the worry in Wanda’s eyes, along with the hair on his arms standing on end, and the dream he had had before, told him this was not normal. He felt a knot tying itself in his stomach.

“Come on!”

He grabbed her hand and stumbled with her to the front of the plane, trying and failing to ignore the shaking floor, and the amount of times they knocked against chairs, (and each other), in their pursuit.

They held on as best they could to anything solid as the shaking grew worse. The cockpit was quite tiny, two chairs crunched into the area. The view of the world below, trees and fields playing peekaboo behind the clouds, getting closer, took up most of the area—which, while helpful to the (here, nonexistent) pilot, only served to make their fall seem all the more eminent.

This was the kind of circumstance that could make him understand why people feared gravity.

The rest of the area was comprised of levers, buttons, blinking lights of many colors, and screens, splattered around the walls, floors, what you might call the plane’s dashboard, and ceilings. Without a manual they could never know which would create what reaction, or how to navigate the skies’ invisible paths.

When they tried the radio, no voice came through. Not even dead static.

They scanned the blinking lights, dials, screens, buttons, (and tried to avoid the window view), glancing at each other periodically, as if expecting one of them to suddenly shout, Ah! Yes! I know how this works!

“Hey, Friday,” Peter called, “c-can you tell us what’s going on?”

No response.

“Friday?” he felt his voice trembling too, and all he could think was I don’t have the suit, I don’t have the suit, I don’t have the suit, please answer, please be there, “You there?”

Nothing.

The tremors grew worse. The knot pulled itself tighter, making him feel sick with fear.

How? How could she not be there? Mr. Stark probably hadn’t expected this of his own technology, but he would have always made sure Friday was there. She even assured them she would be. Besides that, he would have made sure that any and every safety precaution was followed…right?

Okay, that didn’t exactly sound like Mr. Stark.

Still, how could this even happen? What exactly were they dealing with? Could ordinary turbulence, some accident, a malfunction, wipe out Friday?

“We could really use your help right now!” worry was creeping into the edges of his voice.

AFK.

Or, something in the back of his mind asked, what if we’re dealing with a villain? What if this is what Mr. Spider meant by ‘Up up and away, when will you ever come down?’

But he pushed the idea back down. Maybe. Hopefully not. But it didn’t matter. Not right now.

“What do you think we should do?” he could tell Wanda was trying not to let her worry reach her voice too.

“Um…Okay, let’s…uh—” Peter ran his hand through his hair, trying to keep his voice from devolving into whimpers.

There were a number of situations in which his heightened senses were much more of a hindrance than a help—(okay, that was an understatement)—and this was one of them. It was difficult to think at all when every rattle of luggage and metal sounded like snakes in his ears, warning him they were about to strike. Luckily (or unluckily) no alarms were blaring, but his Spidey-Senses were more than happy to provide the constant bark of Danger! Danger! in his ears. The outside sunlight glared at him, paired with the tiny blinking lights, each one a question he couldn’t answer, making the environment less than conducive to heavy duty thought. Each tremor grabbed him and shook him, like Flash on a bad day, causing him to lose calm and mental capacity second by second.

He wanted to fight back more than anything, but he had nothing at all to fight with, he didn’t understand the rules of the game, nor could he anticipate the enemy’s moves. There were so many levers, buttons—too many to count, to decipher, to learn—and no manual, no AI to talk to, nor a person on the radio to guide them. No help, no hope.

But he couldn’t break down, couldn’t sit back in a quiet moment and think this through, couldn’t process, or even wonder. He had to think, had to solve this, to come up with a solution—have to keep us alive. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, be useless without his suit. He refused to be. He promised himself history wasn’t repeating. He wouldn’t let it be. He was more than his suit—he had proven that much already. He knew he could still be a hero without it.

“Let’s try this lever,” he pointed to the big, gleaming, silver one in front of them. “it looks important!”

So much for that.

Wanda gave him a really? look. The same one Mr. Stark gave him before, when he said he could be normal.

“Do you have a better idea?!”

He lost his balance on the next tremor, and felt the console dig into his chest when he fell.

The lever was within reach. He glanced at Wanda for approval—who gave a little nod—and tried it.

It wouldn’t budge.

Okay…other direction?

Like an obnoxious child, it refused to leave the toy store.

“Let me try!” Wanda called.

He fell back into the pilot’s chair in an attempt to give her space.

She put her hands together, red pouring out from them, mist enveloping the lever. She pulled her fingers back as if her hand was tied to it.

The mist dissipated without the lever so much as shivering.

Nu uh.

She dropped her hands to the side, her eyes wide and fearful when at they met his.

“Has…Has that ever happened before?”

“Not really.” She gave a wavering smile, and pushed her hair back behind her ear.

“Okay…n-new plan.” He blew out a breath, trying to keep calm.

Except, he didn’t have any idea what that new plan could be. Really they needed a new plane. Maybe a new mentor.

Or, you know, a certain suit.

“You see a manual anywhere?” Peter asked.

They had already looked everywhere, but they tried again, looking for a secret panel or compartment that might hold it, knowing full well it would probably be easily accessible if it was here.

“Well it is an auto pilot, I doubt it would need to read the instructions,” Wanda pointed out.

Yeah, at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised of Mr. Stark threw it out.

He whistled out a breath. They had to do something, something, not nothing, not sitting here—not useless without the suit, not useless, I’m not just some weak little kid.

He then frantically proceeded to turn, touch, and pull every dial, button, and lever he possibly could. Many wouldn’t move, those that would did nothing to help their situation, or else broke off entirely like as if they were glass.

“Okay.” He ran his hands over his face, his breath weighing heavier on his chest every second. “OkayOkayOkay. Calm down, Peter, you got this.”

“Wait…didn’t you stop a plane before? How did you do it then?”

That struck something inside him. It crashed, Wanda. Didn’t he tell you that? I only know how to screw up. Everything I do ends up in flames. Please don’t throw that in my face, not now. He could no longer contain the stress piling up inside him, it now spilled onto his tongue, “Mr. Stark took away my suit, okay?!” he snapped, “I mean, I-I can still do stuff without it! Just—!” he tried to quiet the brew of fear and anger, “Stopping planes is going to be hard one, okay?!”

“Why would he—?” she breathed, then bit her lip, cutting off her words.

“He thought I would be reckless with it!” he answered her half-baked question. “Can you please be quiet for just one second, I need to think!”

She obliged.

“What if…What if, uh…” his voice shook.

How could he? How could he think when he just knew this would end the same way all his other missions did? How could he think at all when he felt like somehow this just had to be all his fault?

He tried to focus his energy on something other rather than himself:

Despite the fact that he didn’t have his suit, Wanda’s power was readily available. She could still do something… but what? What would be enough to stop a soon-to-be-crashing plane, when neither of them had any experience, idea what any of these buttons did, or even a manual to read? Superpowers didn’t quite match inexperience, and misinformation. Well, at least right now they didn’t—and this might be the only ‘now’ that mattered.

“What if you, uh, used your power to—”

What?

He snapped his fingers, pointing at her, finally getting an idea, “Can you use your powers on the entire plane?”

“I…can try.”

It was a crazy idea, but crazy ideas are how superheroes get by, right?

Using the walls, chairs, and Peter, to keep her balance, she walked out into a more open, middle area of the plane. Peter kept his distance, as she shut her eyes, and held her hands out to the side, red energy flowing from her, diving into the floor, inch by inch enveloping the plane in a red sheen, creating puppet strings to tie it to the sky.

“Yes! Yes!” Peter encouraged.

She cried out in pain, the weight of the machine falling upon her, but she kept going.

Just as as the forcefield was almost finished covering the contraption, and he felt it start to rise back up, the strings broke, and the girl collapsed onto the floor.

Peter ran to catch her.

He was afraid this might happen.

“I’m sorry—” she began.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” he brushed the hair out of her face, “We’ll find something else.”

But even as he said it, the creaks and groans of the plane straining to stay afloat grew in intensity. His stomach flipped, the knot caught in his throat, fear gripped at his heart.

What could they do? She couldn’t keep the plane from falling, they didn’t know how to fly it, or have anything to communicate that they were, in fact, falling, and he didn’t have his suit…What choice did they have but to fall?

No. He couldn’t think like that. There had to be something. He couldn’t give up hope.

Maybe it just had to be even crazier. Maybe they wouldn’t fall after all, maybe there was something, some way they hadn’t thought of yet. They were awfully close to their destination, maybe they would come to the right place after all, and they would land safely. They had to. This couldn’t be it.

Maybe. Or maybe they would fall.

He couldn’t think with the creaking grating on his ears, and his blood drumming his own death march beneath the skin.

Shaking, creaking, rattling—keep breathing.

But that breath was snatched away; the plane finally gave out in its efforts to stay above the waves, and it took a different direction.

A wrong direction. A down direction. A falling direction.

And for one brief second, the thought crossed paths with his mind: we might die.

But the thought flitted out of his brain as quickly as it entered, or, more accurately, it was stifled when The Scarlet Witch grabbed his shirt, pulling him further down, shouting, “Hold on to me!”

He did, and as he wrapped his arms around her, the crimson mist came over them both, a merciful curtain separating them and disaster. It seemed so thin—like you could brush your hand through it and it would tear—but somehow it kept calamity at bay.

He understood now; she had been hoping to keep them afloat, or else save more, or ideally all, of the plane, (and, after what had happened in Lagos, she was probably afraid her power would be more of a hindrance than a help), but this had always been her last resort.

The crashing came in muffled blips to their scarlet cage. He put his finger on Wanda’s chin so she would turn to look at him. She did so, fear lining her irises. He put his hands over her ears, resting his forehead gently on hers.

She didn’t need the sound of more tragedy in her life.

They both shut their eyes tight. They didn’t want to see. To admit that they had failed.

Though he kept her safer from the noise, he had to listen. He tried and failed to block out the sounds; the curling metal, and bending trees, so close. Even if he had covered his own ears he doubted his super-hearing would have allowed him to block it out.

They could still breathe. And that breathing was amplified by the field, the same single, bated, fearful, forced-calm kind of breath.

If only their thin bubble of safety popped…what would happen? How quickly would they die? Seconds? Minutes? Or would it be hours, and even now, they still had a chance of never being found? Never finding their way out of the wreckage, or back home?

The metal twisted, the engines failed and and fell, flaming to the forest floor. The dirt flared up, and the trees, like spears, jutted into the sides of the machine. Those trees who dared challenge man’s invention had their points dulled, scratched, and split by the presence of the unnatural. The forest buckled, but in the same token, technology became putty in the hands of nature. Everything fell apart, and in the end, it all was left in a fiery heap of scraps in the midst of a forest.

But the two of them were safe.

Loki sighed low, wiping the sweat of his brow, stepping through the curtain, changing his clothes from the all-back suit to something more casual in a flash of gold. Last tour of the day.

Yet, of course, with a movie-like flair, the real mess was just beginning. He was going to savor every second before the pests arrived. Maybe finally settle down with that book, drink some tea to calm down, reset his system before he had to deal with—

“Hey, catch!”

Loki caught the snow globe Michelle threw at him.

“Noice. This guy,” she pointed her thumb at the person before her, at the front counter, “wants to know if the sticker on this means it’s 30% off.”

Loki barely glanced the sticker before leaning on the desk and saying through the side of his mouth. “What do you think?”

“I’m sorry sir,” Michelle responded, “I’m afraid I can’t give you a discount. But may I interest you in a free jar of one-hundred-percent, one-of-a-kind Gravity Falls dirt?”

She pulled a perfectly worthless jar of dirt out from behind beneath the counter, like it was on the secret menu, and held it up.

He accepted it from her and held it up to the light, as if admiring it, or trying to discern its authenticity.

“Nice.” Loki whispered back.

Only a few stragglers from his last tour were left in the gift shop, and they would be gone soon.

A few moments passed before Ned joined them, lowering his phone, something akin to worry creasing his features.

“Something wrong, Mr. Leeds?”

“Peter isn’t picking up.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, and Michelle lifted her gaze.

“Your meaning?” Loki asked, barely concerned.

“They should have been here half an hour ago.”

“Their flight was probably just delayed, dude.” Michelle offered calmly.

“You’re right. I’m probably worried about nothing.” Ned tried to shrug it off.

Though, clearly, as time continued on—the last customers of the day exited the shop, closing time came and passed—worry was not absent from his thoughts. Loki gave them a few last minute tasks to prepare for their friends’ arrival, though they had finished most of it earlier that morning. Later he found him pacing in the quiet gift shop, periodically checking his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed his friend’s call—as if he his constant vigilance warranted any possibility of that.

It appeared Loki might have to abandon his moment of silence.

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Miss Jones,” he found her watching TV in the living room, snacking from a bag of chips. “Your friend is looking rather…pathetic.”

She smirked, not looking up at him. “Yeah, he always looks like that.”

He crossed his arms.

She looked up to see he was being serious. “Come on, he’s just worried about Peter.”

“See to him, will you?”

Michelle lifted her hand. “Why don’t you do it?”

He started tapping his foot on the ground. “Because I have some rather important reading to do.”

“Really? How important? Are we talkin’ The History of Farting, or War and Peace?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. This summer was not going to be an easy one.

“Just do as I ask.”

She shrugged, grabbing her chips and roaming over to her friend.

It seemed his reading plans were destined to fail, however, as he was interrupted yet again by the ringing of the the Mystery Shack phone. He groaned, leaning over the yellow armchair to pick it up.

“Hello, Mystery Shack?” he sat on the arm of the chair, “Mr. Mystery speaking.”

The person on the other end snorted. “Mr. Mystery, nice one.”

“I’ll have you know—!”

He cut himself off, eyes wide, realizing he recognized that voice.

“Darcy?” he tried to sound unaffected.

“The one and only. You wouldn’t happen to have ordered two marginally distressed teenagers, would you?”

He sat on the arm of the recliner. “Don’t tell me something happened during shipping.”

“Kind of, yeah. Let’s just say autopilot, plus Gravity Falls weirdness, equals …not a good time.” There was a pause. “They’re fine—Not that you asked.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re in the farmhouse…You know, the one with the with the mailbox that looks like an alien cow? We’re sitting here drinking tea. I promise they’re eating healthy—hey put down that cookie! Can you come pick them up? Or do I need to entertain them for an extended period of time? I do have an Ipod here, and some old newspapers, but don’t think that’s nearly enough to keep them occupied.” He heard her cracking her knuckles. “But I think I can manage.”

“While that would be quite enjoyable to see, it won’t be necessary.”

He walked into the atrium to grab his keys, forgetting the phone was a landline…which, when he reached the end of the cord, ended up pulling him to the ground. He stood back up with dignity, tossing his hair out of his face, (he was glad Ned and Michelle hadn’t seen him, and that he wouldn’t have to use a certain memory gun on his employees), and finished,

“I’m coming.”

“Mr. Mystery to the rescue, huh?”

He tried not to smirk. “The one and only.”

“Oh, and to be clear, what’s really going to be fun to see, is you trying to entertain them, not me.”

He glared at the phone before hanging up.

When he got off the phone and walked into the gift shop, he found the other two teens staring at him expectedly from across the room.

Loki cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“It appears your friend Mr. Stark made the mistake of trusting your friends lives to his autopilot.”

Ned had been snacking on Michelle’s chips—(he had a tendency to do that when he was nervous)—and as his mouth dropped open in shock, the chip he was holding fluttering sadly to the ground.

“And…as often happens with the machinations of mortals”—(he tried not to smirk at his turn of phrase, then felt something in him stir)—“something…”

He didn’t intend it, expect it, or want it, but at the mention of technology, and of malfunction, for a brief moment—

“Uhh…what about family?”

“That too.”

—he didn’t see the two of them before him, their worried faces.

Instead, a bright blue glow saturated the world, a low hum filled his ears, he felt a burning sensation on his shoulder, and heard a single voice, a voice he hadn’t heard in years, shouting his name, and a command, that he had then failed to follow:

“LOKI!! DO SOMETHING!!”

He shut his eyes tight, and swallowed the memory, trying to focus on the situation before him.

This was not that; these two were not him. They were mortals, who could never understand, and though the scene still haunted him more often than he would like, it was not happening now.

“Something went wrong.”

[supergirlimaginesfic-blog]

Dating Lena Luthor (a crush on you would include)

Request: Can you please do a lena luthor having a crush on you would include 

a/n: I mean listen I’m fully aware having a crush on you implies not dating just yet, but I have a very inconsequential title system I feel compelled to stick with now sooo, just disregard that little oopsie LOL

these are always super fun to do!! tbh I’m in a little bit of a funk right now so these types of posts help me get my imagination going again. Thank you so much for reading y’all! And thanks for your patience if you’ve been waiting for a request to be filled... I am definitely a person who loses track of time lol. I’m so happy I have a hobby I can kinda speak for now though, and that’s all thanks to you folks! Have an awesome day everybody!! :D

- - - - -

much to your surprise (or perhaps not at all, if you were really to think about it properly), Lena is a very tenacious person and as such, there are some things that get her attention and she just has to chase it

you’ve come to realize that so it’s turned out, you are in fact one of those things that have piqued her attention, and you’ve been a happy mixture of flattered, confused, and bashful

Lena, in her not so subtle interest in you, still refuses to say anything specific regarding her feelings, and instead you find your answers in the things she does and in the roundabout way of sneaky compliments she gives you and her well-timed flirting

it didn’t take much for you to figure out she liked you, but it also took quite a lot to convince you that you weren’t just projecting your wishes into some unfounded fantasy - most of the Superfriends (even Winn, especially Winn) could see through both of your behaviours, and they’re all both parts exasperated and absolutely amused by your song and dance of total avoidance

but really, who could blame you that you didn’t quite believe your luck that Lena Luthor, the absolutely brilliant, wonderful, incredible woman you have the honour of knowing would possibly reciprocate your feelings? It was a marvel, indeed - you won’t question a miracle when you recognize one

Lena having a crush on you involves a lot of games, and the biggest one particularly is waiting to see which one of you breaks and admits your feelings first - it’s more fun than it is exhausting, and you suppose Lena thinks the same way, if the way she smiles at you meaningfully sometimes like she has a secret is any indication

there are a multitude of changes both major and trivial that you’ve started to take notice of the more time you spent around Lena. For one, you’ve become a more familiar face in the office and Jess, her secretary, smiles at you more often in your slightly embarrassing frequency of dropping by unannounced

you realize it’s just slightly unnerving that Jess is friendly enough to you that you now have a casual rapport with her enough to have playful small talk

you know that when you see Jess smirk whenever she hears the tell-tale opening of the elevator indicating your arrival that she’s in a particularly talkative mood, and you have to brace yourself for whatever trouble she’ll cause this time

“you know you don’t have to check in every single time you get here. Ms. Luthor’s given you total clearance, but I’m flattered you think to grace me with that remarkable face of yours” “well, it’d be a bit rude of me to just walk past wouldn’t it? Besides, who else is going to feed your caffeine addiction, neither of you know how to take care of yourselves” “look at you, charming and well-mannered - Ms. Luthor definitely knows how to pick them”

you know almost for a certain fact that you blush more whenever Jess makes remarks like that than when Lena outright flirts with you, but you suspect it must be because you’re just that transparent and you should probably really tone down your puppy-like eagerness when it comes to seeing Lena

you also have the ever increasing suspicion that Jess and Lena are on some mission to make you blush as much as possible - in all honesty, there is more proof of the affirmative than not and you’re positive they have schemed to embarrass you in good nature to some capacity

Lena’s become more comfortable with her terms of endearment, and you’ve nearly forgotten your own name and have begun to think your name is “darling”, or “sweetheart”, or some variation of it

you will never admit that you respond to it with unfailing attention

Alex nearly passed out from laughing so much when Kara and Maggie were discussing home remedies during one game night and you answered in distraction when one of them mentioned “honey”

you drowned yourself in whatever drink of choice was closest to you and Lena eyed you with that dangerous look of hers that was all parts mischief, teasing, and some deeply attractive want that you didn’t want to name just yet

you spend a good portion of your time dragging Lena out of her office and also bringing the food to her - you’ve been vocally adamant about not leaving her office until you watch her consume something, and Lena, you realize, has become more susceptible to taking her sweet time just for you to stick around longer... and you entertain that

for all of her talk about distractions and not being able to afford any missteps or mistakes, the soft smile she gives you whenever she sees you, outside of work or not, is more than enough to make your heart flutter with happiness

hanging out with Lena, surprisingly, is a lot of spontaneous, unplanned excursions that you both are more than happy to indulge

you’re pleased that you both share an equal appreciation of the godly gift that is coffee, and as such, you often find yourselves in some hole-in-the-wall cafe and bookshop, sitting side by side pressed against each other on the floor of the astronomy section or in the humour section

a lot of your time together consists of stupid jokes and also riveting discussions of the human condition and of life

you have far too much fun exasperating Lena, but you know secretly it’s because of the fond smile she gives you despite rolling her eyes and groaning at your lame jokes

“hey Lena, where do dogs go when their tails fall off?” “I don’t know, (Y/N), where do they go?” “the retail store”

“Lena, how is imitation very much like a plateau?” “I’ve no clue, but I suppose you’re going to tell me aren’t you-” “they’re both the highest form of flattery”

Lena Luthor inspires a childlike wonder in you, something you’d thought you lost as you got older - you spend a lot of time convincing her to do vaguely reckless things like climbing fire escapes or sneaking onto roofs

somehow, you’ve managed to get her to spontaneously break out into song and dance with you in public, and you wonder just how it is you’ve coerced Lena into making a total fool of herself with you

she entertains your inclinations; perhaps it’s because you’re an enabler, perhaps it’s because she enjoys it, perhaps it’s because you let her do things she’s mostly tentative to do, or maybe it’s in solidarity and to not abandon you in your silliness - regardless of what it is, Lena always joins you in your antics

you don’t say it, neither of you have, but there’s a mutual understanding of comfort and vulnerability you know is shared and you know you can be safe in

Lena is playful with you, often stealing your hats when you’re out and she puts them on herself, or taking your sweaters when you’re just at home and she wants something comfy to wear - you never deny her the little things... she looks much better in your clothes anyway

as good as she looks in your band shirts and oversized hoodies, she looks just as magnificent in her dresses and gowns that she wears whenever she takes you to one of her events

quite long ago, you’ve stopped calling it dragging you to these galas and instead just took it for what it was: more time to be around Lena

for as much as you think she looks great in literally anything and for how irresistible she finds you and has explicitly mentioned of your usual, casual street look, she is adorably speechless whenever you show up to accompany her in your formal attire - you’re as equally blown away every time you see her, and you think she looks like magic

at some point you’ve stopped wondering about the platonic-or-not nature of her holding onto your arm and introducing you to everyone she encounters at these events, and instead have opted to consider how natural it feels when she’s pressed up against you like this

most of these nights involve a lot of socialization and champagne, and you know that Lena is never intoxicated to the point of forgetfulness at these events, but still, when the evening is done and you spend the night at either of your places, there’s always a softer vulnerability and a palpable disregard of inhibition that neither of you call out but know very well is a tension that pulls you together

you’ve lost track of specifically when, but you find yourself entangled in her when you fall asleep, sometimes on her couch, sometimes in her bed and you wake up and try to respect boundaries, but she just brings you closer anyway whenever you try and who are you to deny her sleepy, mumbling wishes?

for your own sake, you try to ignore the happy sigh she makes whenever she rouses from sleep and nuzzles closer to you, but it’s more effort to deny the inevitably of falling for her when she just makes it so easy to feel relaxed and unreserved

you’ve always figured that Lena Luthor was trouble, and you never realized the extent of that truth until you started writing again and she made a damn poet out of you

the woman makes you soft; she always has, and you’ve stopped fighting that reality and instead opted to perpetuate it

she half-heartedly chastises you whenever you sneak a picture of her on your phone or on one of your cameras, but she always smiles bashfully whenever you show her and you can both see, clear as day, the evidence definitive and candid, how happy she is

there’s far too many close-calls in the form of emotional freefall - that is, if you’d kept a tally of who was close to kissing the other first, you’d be at a loss of knowing who was more culpable (you’re becoming impatient, and this once, you think to concede this particular battle)

it’s a fair fight; Lena’s had to catch herself more than once whenever you leave her office and she, distractedly, almost kisses you. You almost kiss her one night in the middle of your dancing in the kitchen foolishness and you forget for a moment she’s not actually yours to kiss - you think you saw in her eyes something that wordlessly said the contrary, and you almost believe it was worth finally crossing the line for

your friends are tired of your shit, frankly, and they’ve convinced you perhaps that Lena is too. Alex never fails to lament that it’s absolutely rich if you don’t think you’re already dating, to which Lucy also helpfully supplies, don’t make any moves just yet I’ve got stakes in a bet that says Lena will make the first move, and even Kara’s got a piece to say, which is of course worlds more comforting than Alex, Lucy, and Maggie’s bickering when she tells you that Lena is happier with you, and I think she’s more than fine with whatever pace you’re willing to take

you are never one to keep a woman waiting, however, and you think it’s time to steel up and get your shit together

you’ve planned an exceedingly romantic evening, the works for someone who deserves that and so much more - dinner in a quiet restaurant, candlelight and flowers, all thanks to some connections your friends have pulled together

Lena shows up then and you’re floored by how radiant she looks always. She’s become the person in your life who has to remind you to breathe, and simultaneously gives you reason to live and to experience, and you’re finally set in your belief that she deserves to hear your truth

you finally admit to her and say out loud everything you’ve kept quiet and hidden all this time, and though you’re relieved, you’re also wide-eyed and admittedly petrified when Lena says nothing and is equally as wide-eyed as you are

“please don’t get me wrong when I say I’m shocked, this is just a little bit of a turn for me and I’m frankly a bit embarrassed-” “no, Lena, don’t apologize- I don’t ever want to pressure you into something you’re not willing to partake in and I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable-” “(Y/N), it’s not that... not at all. It’s just- I’d kind of already presumed we were dating...” “what? But- how long? Really?” “I suppose I’m partially to blame for not explicitly addressing our circumstance either-” “are you saying I could have kissed you all this time?” “well, I am most certainly not opposed to the suggestion, I merely thought you just weren’t ready-”

if you were asked to retell the story, you wouldn’t mention how close you were to knocking into the table in your haste to finally kiss Lena, and frankly though you feel a little bit robbed by your own hesitations, you finally feel a long-desired sensation of profound relief, a weight of uncertainty lifted from your chest

even still, it hadn’t felt official - at least, not until you and Lena walked into L-Corp one morning holding hands and Jess, hardly looking away from her computer screen, merely muttered something that sounded suspiciously like oh my god, finally, and you nearly tripped on your own foot at her off-handed observation

[angeltriestoblog]

I’ve been thinking and writing and thinking about writing

This time last year, I spent my free time cooped up in my university’s study hall. There, I would drink from smuggled cups of vending machine coffee, in the hopes of converting my lethargy into caffeine, and the caffeine into words. My dream publication at the time had opened up internship applications, and though they set no deadline, I pressured myself to finish all the requirements as fast as I could. Every impulse decision I had was always coupled with this need to execute at the soonest possible time, like my brain knew if I took a second longer, my common sense would kick in and pull the brakes. I guess my failure to think everything through reflected in my cover letter template (lazy), resume (unremarkable), sample works (in retrospect, bland and uninspiring), and the absence of an acceptance letter in my inbox.

I have lost respect for said publication since then, though not because I harbored bitterness in my heart: their failure to compensate hardworking interns as well as the steep decline in the quality of their content should be enough reason. (Looks like I dodged a bullet back there.) Though it can’t be denied that at the time, I was heartbroken. The feeling lingered with me longer than I cared to admit. Despite getting featured on a national broadsheet and accepted into my school’s student paper less than a month later, I still couldn’t bring myself to be fully confident in my skill set because of that one specific, indirect rejection.

Which is why, being where I am now and having achieved as much as I have in a span of five short months feels like the highest form of vindication. Quarantine boredom compelled me to submit an article pitch to the then newly-launched Underdog, an online platform dedicated to the digital native’s latest preoccupation. It was a piece about the boybands I loved and lost (read: the dissolution of One Direction, and every other group I adored with the same degree of intensity), one I was actually planning to post on the blog. But in a span of a few weeks, my idea was accepted, refined, revised, and turned into a full-fledged essay that landed me my first ever paycheck.  

I was still on some euphoric high, emboldened beyond belief, when I chose to take it a notch higher and apply as a staff writer for one of my all-time favorite magazines. During the summer before college, I was paralyzed by a legitimate existential crisis that left me aimless and afraid. I turned to the Internet for solace, and in my search for a voice of reason, I found Lithium Magazine, and their collection of articles which viewed life in the authentic, critical, occasionally self-deprecating way only Gen Z teens know how. I was aware being turned down by them would easily mean a one-way ticket to retirement for me; thank God my inner critic was taking a power nap or else it would have talked me out of it for sure. The day after I submitted my accomplished application form and a far more impressive portfolio of sample articles (by my standards, at least), I woke up to an acceptance letter and just knew life was not going to be the same.

The past four months I’ve spent as a contributor for Lithium have been some of my most fulfilling as a writer. I am constantly being pushed to the limits of my imagination and creativity when it comes to the content I produce. I can’t find it in me to half-ass pitches or beat around the bush in paragraphs: I owe it to the effortlessly talented people I work with, and the impressive body of work they have managed to accumulate over the years. My first pieces for the month of July were about the effectivity of online therapy in a Filipino context, and the irony of being a low-maintenance friend during a time when the need for human connection is higher than ever. This was followed by my personal essay in defense of basic girls: my favorite one so far, and probably my boss’ too, considering that it’s an Editor’s Pick for the month of August. Though I am infinitely proud of them, as they are my first forays into the international publishing world, I know I can (and thus am determined to) do better.

Since then, I’ve churned out articles on an almost-daily basis for an array of online and print zines. I scout for inspiration in the morning and once struck by lightning, I type away until roosters start to crow once again. Most days, I only took a time out for the daily two-hour movie. It seemed like I was working a part-time job instead of nurturing a hobby. But it never felt like a chore to me. I simply love what I do and I feel like the fact that it shows is the reason why sites are kind enough to publish my work. 

You can view my portfolio if you want to see everything I’ve put out so far but here are five of my most recommended, in case you’re too lazy for that!

The story of my coming-of-age based on the usernames I had on social media platforms, for Uniquely Aligned;

An expose on all-girls Catholic high schools in the Philippines and their inaction towards sexual harassment cases, for Ashamed Magazine;

A part-review of Patron Saints of Nothing by Randy Ribay, part-rant on the evident lack in Western media that accurately portrays Filipino life, for Reclamation Magazine;

A piece on why talking about mental health should never be a one-way street, for Gen Rise Media;

A love letter to one of my favorite movies of all time, and its flawed eponymous protagonist, for Mid-Heaven Magazine

On a rather tangential note, I also started expanding my network on LinkedIn, though I wasn’t exactly sure what I was hoping to get out of this exercise. I simply enjoyed the process of generating new variations of the same job descriptions. One day, I was sent an email by Riya, the Executive Director of The Young Writers Initiative, a nonprofit that provides resources for aspiring authors to improve their craft and advance their career. They wanted to recruit me to be a mentor for freelancing for their upcoming summer internship program. I had just woken up then and had to rub the sleep from my eyes to read it properly. Apparently, I was recommended by a connection (hi, Srilekha!) who took my sample works as an obvious display of my credibility in the field. Given that this sounded like an exciting opportunity, I immediately agreed. Everything happened at a pretty fast pace after that, as I got swept up in the process of selecting a mentee and figuring out what I could possibly teach them. I guess I didn’t find the time to process what exactly was going on, and what it meant for me as a writer.

It didn’t take long for the impostor syndrome to hit. And quite hard, if I may add. I was due for an interview with Madison, one of my fellow TYWI mentors and I had scanned the questions she sent me. Though I clearly knew what advice I would give to aspiring freelance writers, or had a routine in mind that allowed me to balance all my existing priorities, my hands felt like they were loaded with cement. I could barely type on the document before me. I must have had a staring contest with my taunting cursor for an hour.

I mean, maybe I couldn’t say anything because I didn’t have the right to say them. After all, whatever I knew, I borrowed from someone else - perhaps an actual authority in the field. Wasn’t I just some girl who got lucky during the quarantine? While the current state of the world forced everyone into stagnancy, I coped best with the help of the written word. Had everyone else been under the same circumstances, I wouldn’t be in my current situation. Needless to say, when the actual feature came out, I spiraled. 

I wish I could claim that I only had to do x and y for the storm cloud above my head to go away. But as controversial as it sounds, I maintain that no writer fully gets rid of impostor syndrome. In fact, let me widen the scope of my statement: no creative can do it. I have never known anybody with both an inclination toward the arts and a strong sense of confidence. It’s like our limitless imagination only raises the already impossibly high standards we hold ourselves against. We never really think highly of ourselves to begin with, so when we meet a goal, achieve something we’ve only ever dreamt of, we bring ourselves down. We invalidate our hard work and dismiss it as an act of charity by the karmic forces of the universe.

Thankfully, I have an amazing support system: my immediate family members and closest friends, always ready to offer reassurance when it’s scarce (hold on, I got these intense Economics war flashbacks GOD). I seriously don’t know where I’d be without them. Actually, I do know. Probably wallowing in pools of self-deprecation. I think I would’ve ended up chickening out of new opportunities on the sole basis of my self-imposed inexperience. My loved ones were the quickest to remind me that I was only a beginner in freelancing but I had been writing since I learned how to grip a pen in my hand. I have prepared for this all my life and I was finally reaping the fruits of my labor. Who was I to shy away from the blessings that were so generously being lavished upon me?

In fact, just a few hours ago, I bagged two very exciting contributor roles for organizations that I admire very deeply. I have several pitches in the pipeline as of now, which I absolutely cannot wait to bring to life and share with you guys. As far-fetched as this sounds, this is only the beginning for me. I am so grateful to everyone who has believed in me, read my work (or even a mere paragraph of it because I know how underappreciated the written word can be these days), and left encouraging comments. 

WIshing you nothing but love and light always, always, always,

Angel

[regrettablewritings]

Dios Meme-o! (Rafael Barba Mini-Series, Pt. 3)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Rafael’s poisons of choice (coffee and scotch) could be divided up between day and night respectively. The coffee was for obvious reasons: To keep him awake and alert, to keep him going even when his work day was driving him to the brink of insanity (as it did all too often). The use of the scotch was also typically obvious: To drown out the stresses of the day, its trials hardly ever actually being over in the grand scheme of things. A cool down of sorts to balance out the caffeinated upper.

This evening, however? Rafael wasn’t sure exactly what the scotch was trying to boot off: the stress of the workday, or the revelation that he now appeared to have a small following? He decided the answer to be both as he took another sip of his drink. He wanted to believe that it was more so the former option but there was just something about the latter that made it stand so firmly in his mind.

Probably had something to do with the fact that even after the messages sent to him about his occupation and . . . tum (Rafael fought off the desire to shudder at the word), Carisi and Rollins continued to send him two more posts of a similar vein.

Where were they even specifically even getting all these? Rafael wondered. His eyes landed on his laptop.

Words and pictures travel fast, Rollins’ voice echoed. But just how fast was what Rafael wondered.

Against his better judgement, he committed a dangerous act born of morbid curiosity, enhanced by the slow but certain influx of bourbon into his system: He typed his own name into Google.

The first few results were what he expected: References to his past cases, articles on his most recent feats of interest, a handful of articles on his words at the most recent press conference.  

. . . Then there was what came after.

Rafael had heard about Tumblr, but not much if he had to be honest. Sites like Twitter or Facebook or other niche sites tended to be more of what he faced on a regular basis. But a site specifically platformed for blogging surprisingly did not cross his path as often as one might think. It therefore posed within him a sense of worry that the first time he would approach Tumblr would be because his name had become a tag on the site.

He was right to worry.

The deep blue background was offset by an assault on the eyes: text posts here, pictures there, gif sets of his past quotes to cameras before or after a court case, but mostly of him during his speech at the press conference.

His eyes weren’t sure where to look first, where to escape from first but no matter where he went, he’d always end up somewhere just as bizarre.

Some posts were weird –

“God those hands – like fricken’ face-huggers! I want them to smother me!!!” Without thinking, Rafael looked at his hands. He never really noted them as being big, per se. And despite the copious amounts of likes and reblogs featured in the notes section, and that nobody could even see them as they were now in real life, he couldn’t help but want to hide them.

At least three more Tum™ posts in either text or picture form with quadruple the notes and responses. In that moment, he began to strongly consider dieting and nearly opened up a new tab to research for that specific consideration.

“Lookit them veins in his hand. I wanna suck a hickey on them. Just slurp ‘em up like noodles.” . . . What?

Some were surprisingly nice, if not composed in a more bombastic way than what he felt was necessary or was used to –

“Oh, look at his tie!! I love that pattern!!” He had to admit, he himself was quite fond that the pink paisley tie they spoke of.

“Holy crap, you guys, he has green eyes! GREEN FREAKING EYES!!!” A little excited over something he’d considered uninteresting, but Rafael couldn’t stop the faint flutter of pride bubbling within him.

“His hair looks so smooth. He needs to be allowed to grow his hair out, he’d have beautiful long hair!” That made his lips purse. His hair hadn’t been long since high school, and even then it barely reached his shoulders. Frankly, his hair tended to get a little fluffy the longer it grew anyway.

“Handsome, dresses nicely, works hard, is a feminist – guys, I think I’m in love.” Yet another huge jump over something he didn’t consider to be too big of a deal. (But at least this person appeared to have decent standards.)

“Ok but it should be illegal to work a suit like that.” The self-importance fluttered a bit harder, both for the suggestion that he not only looked good, but for the fact that the ensembles he prided himself on were actually appreciated by complete strangers.

“Steal his look”, complete with clothes and accessories very similar to his own but for a fraction of the cost (how economic of them).

– Before dipping right back into weirdness . . .

“D.A. stands for ‘Dat Azz’” proclaimed Foodlemynoodle, who was ever so kind as to include a photo taken by the press of Rafael’s retreating form with a second picture edited to focus specifically on his ass.

“Barba looks like the type of guy who’s a stern lawyer in the streets but a spicy papi in the sheets <3.” There was so much wrong with that suggestion that Rafael didn’t know where to start.

“don’t you just wanna use his tie to tug him down and make out w/him?” The multiple notes responded all agreed. This worried Rafael, as tugging on someone’s tie could be very uncomfortable.

“I’d rather snap those suspenders tbqh,” came the response. Rafael grimaced, the memory of pain from previous accidental snappings becoming vivid for a brief moment.

“i want dat sloppy papi dick™,” announced one user, adding a gif of Spongebob Squarepants fervently licking a picture of Rafael that had been photoshopped into the original image.

It went on like this, growing increasingly more awkward and disconcerting by the scroll. It was only out of curiosity that Rafael kept going. That sick, masochistic curiosity and intrigue that compels someone to watch a train wreck or a distressingly bad YouTube video that gives you secondhand embarrassment. He’d just moved beyond what felt like the twentieth post about his “splendid tummy” when he’d come upon a post that wasn’t quite like the others in terms of text. It wasn’t crude or even necessarily complimentary per se but –

           “Get you a man who looks at you the way ADA Barba looks at his coffee ❤ lol jk   nobody’ll look like you like that just get ADA Barba.”

Included was the image of him at a coffee shop, receiving a cup of his favorite day drink, a rare smile gracing his features. Well. That was unnerving. Sure, he went to get coffee at an embarrassing and even likely unhealthy rate but for someone to have taken a picture of him at all while doing so was just . . . wrong.

One person called Ballr00mbombshell responded with, “Stale cinnamon roll, too jaded by this world.” This made Rafael’s brows pressed downward. Cinnamon roll? What did cinnamon rolls have to do with anything? As if his subconscious had directed him there, his sights landed on the tag section of the post:

#He was buying a cinnamon roll too!!, #such a cinnamon roll, #he probably needs something sweet if his job is dealing with such awful situations, #eat and drink on my sweet cinnamon roll son.

Okay, he thought as he moved his laptop further down his lap. Maybe I was better off not knowing . . . Wait. Cinnamon rolls. While never one to fully discriminate against foods, cinnamon rolls weren’t a thing Rafael normally got. Wait! He recognized that outfit! It was . . . It was the same damn one from the press conference! A trembling hand reached for his replenished glass of scotch and directed it to his lips, taking as hefty of a gulp as he possibly could without warranting a coughing fit.

Did he have a stalker? Already? Granted, after all his years in his field, he shouldn’t be so surprised by how fast fanaticism can rise and to what lengths. Should he tell Liv? She was so pissed the last time he avoided telling her about a threatening presence in his life . . .

As the burning liquid trickled down his throat, Rafael nearly paused it in its tracks. He realized one more thing: The angle of the photo. It was taken at the back of the shop, by the window judging by the looks of it. From the corner, he could just make out a barrel containing chips.

The girl with the Hello Kitty watercolor phone case!

An agitated grunt rumbled from Rafael’s chest and out of his mouth as the revelation became clear. He knew he wasn’t imagining things! Never before had the soft suggestion of watercolor and the innocent cuteness of a beloved children’s character worked together to produce such malcontent.

As tempting as it was to continue, the minor brush with the idea of being stalked mingled terribly with the alcohol in his disgruntled system. Rafael called it a night and tried to sleep decently.

The heavy presence of rounded stomachs and hand veins in his dreams made this out to be a difficult task.

[petalpetal]

since its been a year that I made this post and I recently got into BNHA I decided to edit and update and maybe replace these superheroes I came up with. I might make character designs for them if anyone wants me too. like I won’t do all of all together but if you ask for a specific one I will.

Lie Detector: Anyone they touch will be compelled to tell only the truth for the next 30 minutes. Must wait an hour before using this power on the same person

Swarm: can communicate with insects and have them do their bidding.

Caffeine Boost: Their salvia from them can themselves or anyone a boost of energy that makes slightly above average such as extreme speed, extreme strength, and super fast healing abilities. But this only last for 3 hours and afterwards the person who had the caffeine boost is extremely tired and has to sleep for like 18 hours

Flower Power: Can conjure flowers out of thin air. Whats special about these flowers is that their pollen can have certain affects (think like those pokemon moves) Depending on the color of the flower the effect is different. For example if the flower is blue it will produce a sleeping pollen, purple will produce a pollen that makes sick to your stomach, yellow will paralyze you. Up 12 different flowers can be created all with different effects. But here is the catch the user can’t really choose what exact flower is created. They can also create either one flower at a time or batches of flowers but batches only appear as the same color (so you couldn’t like create purple and blue flowers you could choose one or the other.) Also once a flower is used it can’t be used again. The user can only create 15 every hour and a half.

Pancake: can flatten themselves out like a pancake  (like not stretch themselves but make themselves super flat like they were made out of paper)

Angel Hair: When hair is cut it turns into this taffy like substance but don’t worry the hair grows instantly back as soon as its cut. It is also edible and contains a lot nutrients and super healing powers. 

Walkie-Talkie: hand acts a walkie-talkie and communicate with others peoples phones.

Topsy Turvy: Creates an invisible 50 yard radius and everyone caught with in the radius their powers now have the opposite affect for example if u where super strong you are now super weak

Scrapbook: can download someone’s memories from the past 5 months by a single touch

Summoner: can summon objects within a 100 yard radius to them.

Fool’s Gold: Can turn random objects golden up to 24 hours. the smaller the object the longer the effect lasts. 

Touch Me Not: Has a magnetic alike ability that allows them to repel anyone who is not the same blood type as them away from them

Glow:  can glow in the dark but only if they were out in the light for a good bit

Kiss and Tell: A single kiss from them and they can control you up to 24 hours

Goodnight: one bite from them can knock you out up to 5 hours

Sparkle: Can turn their body into a highly reflective surface causing any light shown on them to be blinding.

Sniffle: has super sonic sneezes

Coral: can transport their mind to any fish a control it

Lucid Dreamer: when asleep their spirit can leave their body and act like a ghost but if their physical body is harmed in any way during this they are instantly pulled back into their body.

Shooting Star: Can pluck out a strand of hair and turn it into an arrow. Hit by one of their arrows and you start to hallucinate your dream world the hallucination last up to an hour. Its  

[erectiledysfunc]

mens sexual health uk

Contents

Documentary confronts anxieties

Accolade include mary parker (women’

Prime minister tony abbott

Penis growth pills interesting

Man hood keeping

Wellbeing network men'

Men and women now find themselves back on the dating scene. They are sexually active in a different time and environment, where there are more STIs around. It.

In the UK, the four most common sexually transmitted infections and diseases are chlamydia, genital warts (caused by the human papillomavirus), gonorrhoea and .

In the UK, the age of consent to any form of sexual activity is 16 for both men and women, whether they are heterosexual, homosexual or bisexual(1,2,3). Sexual.

Channel Four’s bold new documentary confronts anxieties about the male member. We go behind the scenes – and meet Ajamu, the.

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[treehugginglibrarian]

The Crossroads of Race and Sexuality

A Public and Political Example of Blatant Social Hypocrisy

Recently, Pete Buttigieg, democratic candidate for President and mayor of South Bend, Indiana, found himself the butt of an uncomfortable Washington Post headline that seemed to imply that he equated the queer struggle with the black struggle, and thus thought his being gay would help him relate to black voters. As often happens with newspaper headlines, the truth was buried in the article and the headline was an argument-inducing form of clickbait designed to frustrate the masses on Facebook and Twitter. In truth, the mayor didn’t equate the two at all. What he said, during a debate, was “While I do not have the experience of ever having been discriminated against because of the color of my skin, I do have the experience of sometimes feeling like a stranger in my own country, turning on the news and seeing my own rights come up for debate, and seeing my rights expanded by a coalition of people like me and people not at all like me.”

Kamala Harris was the first to take issue with this, arguing that it was a naive viewpoint. As a queer woman, I could equally argue that Harris’ assessment that, essentially, queer people don’t experience discrimination is, in itself, incredibly naive. If white people, no matter their other stripes, are required to stay silent on the matter of racial discrimination, I think it’s only fair that straight people be held to the same standard. Al Sharpton argued that Pete had some growing to do on the topic, which I find incredibly amusing since I don’t remember any of the gays laying claim to the notion that Barack Obama had growing to do when he was running in 2008. This despite the fact that he was, at the time, openly against gay marriage. There is an incredible double standard where white, male, politicians are concerned. We want them to be “woke” and to be understanding, while simultaneously wanting them to be willing to admit that they don’t understand. Which becomes a problem when, in fact, they actually do understand. 

As a queer woman I understand the desire to look at a white man and roll my eyes when he says he “gets it.” I really do. Male privilege has insulated him from basically every major disadvantage that accompanies being a woman. White privilege has insulated him, as it has me, from the impact that being born black in America can have on a person. The problem is that privilege does not stop at race and sex. There are dozens of ways, big and small, that one can be privileged in this country, and until we get serious about acknowledging them we’re going to continue to be pretty easily divided by people bent on using our differences against us. 

When asked to clarify his remarks during the debate, remarks that really don’t need any clarification at all if you’re capable of objectively reading the English language, Buttigieg did. Stating “It was people like me and people not like me who came together — starting before I was born and through my lifetime — who have made it possible for things like my marriage to exist, or honestly for somebody like me to even be taken seriously as a candidate for president. Having seen that, having seen how that alliance can make an impact, makes me reflect on how I can turn around and make myself useful, not only to the LGBT community but to people whose life experiences are very different.” 

It is difficult to see a person who has been historically viewed as the oppressor, a white man, and be asked to think of him in terms of the oppressed. The reality, however, is that the disenfranchisement of queer people (primarily legal, at this point) does not cease simply because the disenfranchised was born white or male. One’s maleness generally guarantees a person will not be judged as harshly as they would if they were a woman. Their gender will not be something they will have to overcome. Likewise, one’s whiteness ensures that racial inequity will not be the reason they face hardships in life. Neither of these traits are guarantees of an inherently easy life, and they’re certainly not guarantees that other forms of disenfranchisement or oppression will simply cease. 

To argue that a white man is incapable of feeling disenfranchised for reasons unrelated to his sex or race is to argue that sex or race are the only two metrics by which disenfranchisement can be measured. If that’s the case, I think we need to at least be consistent. We can no longer have conversations about how queer women of color have it harder than men of color, because queerness is apparently not a relevant form of disenfranchisement. Their lives are simply harder because they’re women. More to the point, queer people of color can no longer argue that their lives are harder than straight people of color, because somehow sex and race became the only two metrics by which discrimination or oppression are measured. To argue that a white man who is queer cannot have experienced oppression or a feeling of othering simply because he is white and male is to argue that queerness does not matter in this country. 

Except, the two are not comparable, as is shouted at white, queer, people every time we have the audacity to point out that, despite our pale skin, we do have experience in being othered. As this most recent debacle with Mayor Pete illustrates, it doesn’t matter how carefully you choose your words, if you attempt to empathize with a disenfranchised group of people on the basis that you belong to a different, but nonetheless, disenfranchised group, you will be told the comparison is high-handed and ineffectual. You will be told you do not know what you are talking about. You will be told that it is not the same, it is not comparable, you should be quiet. A judgement that, when passed in the absence of actual comparison, does little more than make it clear that the speaker actually thinks they are comparable and has simply deemed your oppression less worthy of discussion.    

Is it, though? Is Buttigieg’s status as a queer American less worthy of discussion? Is America at a point where queer issues no longer need to be discussed? Have we reached a level of equality at which it’s no longer accurate to make the assessment that we have experience being “othered” in this country? I’m not sure it’s safe to say these things. 

As recently as 2008, President Obama ran for office on a platform that treated LGBTQ individuals as people, but didn’t grant us full rights under the law. He was vocally against same-sex marriage, a position he has since “evolved” on, though the credit he gets for the passage of same-sex marriage in the Supreme Court is misplaced. That was Anthony Kennedy’s doing, not the President’s. He made limited to no mention of the lack of federal protections for queer individuals and, really, why would he? When he was elected, it was still illegal for queer individuals to serve openly in the U.S. military. We talk about gay rights in this country as though they are something that have been won and are now done, completely forgetting that it was only a decade ago that the military formally let us in. In the decade since then, the culture has changed but most of the laws surrounding our lives have not. 

While it is legal for queer individuals to get married, there are still no federal civil rights protections for individuals based on sexual orientation or gender presentation. This means it’s legal to discriminate against us in work, housing, federal assistance, and credit. We can be denied housing not because we are ineligible, but because we are gay. We can be fired not because we did something wrong, but because we are gay. The Equality Act, which passed the House earlier this year and will undoubtedly die in the Senate, would change this, even as many people claim the protections it would add are redundant because this type of discrimination is almost never reported. But then, of course it’s not. 

Fewer than half the States in this country have statewide legislation that protects people on the basis of sexual orientation or gender presentation. Within those States that lack it, certain cities have protections, but those protections will stop at city limits. If I work in a city that lacks protections, in a State that lacks protections, and I’m fired following unceasing abuse regarding my sexual orientation, it’s pretty obvious why I was let go. There’s also nothing I can do about it. To contest the firing would require I have the time and the money to mount not just a legal challenge, but a full scale battle to change the laws. The average person doesn’t have the resources necessary to do these things, which means the average firing resulting from someone’s sexual orientation is unlikely to be reported. Who would we report it to? The EEOC? They cannot, legally, do anything about it. 

Culturally, the LGBTQ population has made more progress than it has legally. Over 70% of the population is generally in favor of ensuring queer people have equal rights under the law, which is a massive improvement over where we stood just a decade ago. The biggest issue is that our primary detractors, conservative religious movements, tend to have a decent amount of backing in the political sphere, are Constitutionally protected, and often have support even amongst those who disagree with their treatment of queer people. This has made it so that, even as support for queer individuals climbs, the number of Religious Freedom Acts being enacted has climbed, as well. 

When we think about “religious freedom” and “gay people” we usually think about them in terms of wedding chapels, cake, and photographers, since that’s the scenario that has been cast. It’s a little more intense than just coffee shop owners who think the gays don’t need caffeine, though. Religious freedom referendums allow individuals to opt out of participation in basically anything they would otherwise be legally compelled to do, if that compulsion is a violation of their sincerely held religious beliefs. So, yes, it grants people the right to avoid making us cake. But it also grants them the right to avoid giving us medical care or psychological help. This is a problem if you live in a small town where your options are limited, or if you find yourself in an emergency room being treated by a doctor or nurse who thinks that allowing your spouse to act like your spouse is a violation of their sincerely held beliefs. 

We are getting there. We are making progress. But we are not there yet. And, more often than not, the people standing in our way are doing so because they feel that allowing us to live our lives is somehow a hindrance to their ability to live their own lives. When white supremacists make the argument that business owners should be allowed to discriminate on the basis of skin tone, pretty much everyone who isn’t a white supremacist decries that notion as utter bullshit. When Christians make the argument that business owners should be allowed to discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation, the number of people who decry the notion is significantly less. After all, they do have a right to practice their faith however they’d like, don’t they? Are they really hurting anyone by refusing to make them a cake or serve them coffee? I don’t know. But I do know if anyone worth anything asked that question about people of color, they’d be the next thing on the internet that was cancelled. Bigotry on the basis of one’s faith is still remarkably acceptable in today’s America, and that bigotry is overwhelmingly pointed at the queer population.  

Even when you can manage to make it clear that the LGBTQ population is, in fact, disenfranchised, the idea that this marginalization may be something worth talking about is met with a scoff should it be mentioned in the same conversation as race based marginalization, as Buttigieg did on the debate stage. “Oliver Davis, a black council member in South Bend, Ind., where Buttigieg is mayor, said that African Americans, unlike gay people, don’t have the option of ‘coming out’ at their chosen moment — as did Buttigieg, who disclosed his sexual orientation after he had been elected mayor. ‘When you see me, you would know that I’m African American from day one,’ said Davis, who has endorsed former vice president Joe Biden. ‘When someone is gay or a lesbian, unless they tell or they are seen in certain situations, then no one is going to know that. They are able to build their résumés and build their career.’”

Putting aside the fact that Davis is endorsing someone from an even more privileged background than Buttigieg, the idea that queer people are somehow not oppressed or, at the very least, less oppressed, is a “hot take” so lacking in understanding of the queer experience it actually reads as homophobic. Anyone who thinks that homosexuality is something that can just be taken off and left at home has never, not in their life, had to comprehend how intrinsic their sexuality is to the way they live their lives. They also, quite clearly, think that gay people’s differences from them are a function only of who we want to have sex with, and that having sex is quite literally all we will do with those people. 

Trying to explain this is like beating my head upon a brick wall, however. So, let me illustrate what I mean, instead. 

Let’s pretend that instead of working where I do, I work somewhere that doesn’t offer protections based on sexual orientation, and my boss is pretty homophobic. Because of this, I make the decision not to be out at work. I would, sadly, not be in the minority of queer individuals since, even today, over half of all LGBTQ people are closeted to some degree at work. This decision comes with consequences beyond just pretending my spouse is a different person, though. My emergency contact is annotated as my “roommate” or my “best friend,” instead of my wife. Because my spouse’s sex would have to be noted on the paperwork, we make the decision not to put her on my health insurance. The thousands of dollars she’s racked up in dental bills? Those are now coming out of pocket. Since I cannot take sick time off work for the illnesses or surgeries of a roommate or friend, I now have to make up a masculine name for my spouse and hope that actual medical documentation isn’t needed. Alternatively, I can use my vacation time anytime my spouse needs me to take time off work for medical reasons. 

Socially, my work life would be uncomfortable and awkward. Try talking about your home, your weekend plans, your holidays, or your hobbies without mentioning your relationships and, thus, your sexual orientation. I suppose this is a little bit easier if you’re single but, even then, things get tricky. Single queers go out to bars and go on dates, things you can’t talk about at work if you work somewhere that it could get you fired. And before you say that we shouldn’t be talking about our personal lives anyway, I’d challenge you to try that first. For years on end. Despite knowing and seeing and being with the same coworkers every single day. The expectation that queer people hide at work is absurd, for the same reason it would be absurd to expect heterosexuals to hide their orientation at work. Unless you work in a cubicle where you never see another human, this isn’t a plausible solution to discrimination. 

The list of things that gets pretty complicated if you’re actively trying to ensure that no one ever finds out about your relationship, is pretty long actually. For starters, you’re probably not ever getting married. Even if you can get away with not telling your employer about a new marriage, if you’re already married there’s no real way you can hide it, since so many employers demand to do a background check before you start work. A marriage certificate will show up. This is the same reason that at least one of you won’t be able to lay legal claim to your children. But then, only one of you would be able to be listed as their parent or guardian at school, anyway. The part where you’re not married means that, should your spouse find themselves in medical trauma, you won’t be much help or have much say. And while a large ream of paperwork could, theoretically, ensure that you’re able to take care of each other if you need to, it’s also a verifiable paper trail that could disclose a relationship you’d rather keep secret. 

Your friends are going to be eternally confused about your personal lives, because you’ll either always be single and hanging out with your roommate or always be taken by a person who they’re not allowed to meet. This may seem like normal behavior with coworkers, but it’s going to start to get really weird really fast when it involves people who you’re close to. You and your significant other will always be spending holidays separately, with your respective families, or together but lying about it. Sure, you’ve taken the most lovely European trip over Christmas, but your family and friends all think you had to stay home by yourself because you have the flu.

In a world as interconnected as our’s is, the cost of “hiding” at work is no longer just a more guarded work life. It’s effectively a life in which you let no one in and tell no one anything. The fact that some people think that queer peoples’ “ability” to hide like this is privilege says a significant amount about the level of respect that person has for queer lives and queer relationships, and the level of understanding that person has regarding queer history. 

There was a time, not too terribly long ago, when hiding wasn’t just a privileged option queer individuals had, it was the expectation placed upon us. Homosexuality was a shameful thing that disgraced everyone around you, thus there was an expectation that it be hidden. This expectation is why AIDS ran rampant for years before it was acknowledged. This expectation is why it took until 1987 for the DSM to stop listing homosexuality as a form of mental illness. This expectation is why suicide rates in queer communities were then, and remain, higher than in their straight counterparts. This expectation is, still today, one of the primary reasons that LGBTQ teens have the highest rates of homelessness in the country. If I had to guess, I’d say this expectation that our gayness be hidden from the world is also why, in well over half the states in this country, conversion therapy is considered a perfectly acceptable thing to expose a child to.

The marginalization faced by queer individuals in this country is absolutely nothing like that faced by people of color. As I am only one of these things, I cannot tell you which is worse and, frankly, neither can straight people of color because they, too, are only one of these things. Attempts to discern which is “worse” really don’t solve either problem, though. They don’t eradicate race-based violence. They don’t pass the Equality Act, thus ensuring LGBTQ individuals actually have fair and equitable access to things like housing and job opportunities. They don’t convince people that the systemic racism faced by people of color in this country is not only real, but a real source of disenfranchisement that keeps black Americans from reaching their full potential, doing permanent damage to the entire American economy.They don’t convince people that my desire to live my life- to have medical access, buy a house, or get a cup of coffee- is not an inherent violation of someone else’s religious liberties, and thus should not be infringed upon on the basis of those religious liberties. 

Saying “I know how you feel” to someone who’s just lost a parent, if you’d recently lost a good friend, is inaccurate. You don’t know, unless you’ve also lost a parent at some point. Saying “I’m sorry. I know that losing someone important to you fucking sucks,” is a statement of empathy that is steeped in truth. A queer person saying, “I know that disinfranchisement sucks because I have been disinfranchised myself,” is not the same thing as a queer person saying, “I know how black people feel.” One of these things is true, one is absolutely not unless that queer person also happens to be black. Anyone, black or white, who honestly thinks queer people cannot have experienced bias because they can hide who they are, should be challenged to say exactly that to a queer person of color. I question the sincerity of someone willing to argue that queer people have is easy because we can “hide,” but only if the queer people they are accusing are white. To me, it seems like an obvious showing of their hand. They have placed a value upon queerness such that, as long as it is effecting a white person, it is not a challenge to be faced after all. They have done precisely what Buttigieg has not- assessed their own struggle as worse and, thus, more worth discussing. 

Hypocrisy is a terrible way to start a conversation, but an excellent way to end it.    

[michaelfallcon]

There’s A Decaf-Only Micro-Roaster Boom Happening Right Now

Are you a mod or a rocker? Eat lunch with the jocks or the burnouts? Team Edward or Team Jacob? Rest assured, one milieu in this modern era no longer demands that you choose socio-culturally defining sides: coffee. That is, whether you drink it with or without caffeine.

You see, in the last few years there has been a burgeoning of specialty coffee micro-roasteries that specialize in decaf. They use green beans decaffeinated by natural methods, and as much as their caff counterparts, prioritize flavor while maintaining the same high standards in sourcing and processing. Although the bigwigs in third wave include decafs in their collections (Intelligentsia offers a whopping four online), for this newest generation of roasteries, decaf is a starting point rather than an afterthought. The result is delicious, complex, and varied coffee that could well disarm the death-before-decaf set and lift the Lenten gloom of those who abstain for medical reasons. Some of these roasters were once regular regular coffee drinkers themselves, still are, and/or simply do not dichotomize the joy of a cup’s contents into caff and non-caff camps.

This capacity for coexistence is patently encapsulated in a tagline on the Talking Crow Coffee Roasters website: “He drinks regular—she needs decaf.” Those pronouns’ antecedents are Eric and Carol Blanchet, who established their Sultan, Washington-based roastery in late 2018. Their “predominately decaf” business, as Carol describes it, ideally carries three regular roasts alongside seven decafs. “We roast both so that we can compare our decaf with the regular to be sure we are spot-on with our roast profiles.

“We have a large family (eight children) and we home educate, which makes for crazy-busy days,” Carol explains via email. “A few months after our last child was born, I suffered with extreme adrenal fatigue, which required, among other things, that I give up caffeine. That was really hard because I love coffee and really depended on it to function throughout the day.”

In similar want of salubrious substitution, Kait Brown last year founded Savorista Coffee in Dayton, Ohio. “I first fell in love with coffee as a teenage barista for Boston Stoker,” she recalls. But as an adult, a stressful period compounded by work pressures and her father’s cancer compelled Brown to quit caffeine because it was exacerbating sleeplessness. Eventually, she went seeking drinkable decaf.

“In Colombia, at a blind cupping of decaf and caffeinated coffees, I tasted an incredible coffee. It was one of my two favorites on the table, the flavor notes were really complex and it had a lot of brightness,” she relays by email. “I was shocked to learn that this coffee was a decaf! I realized incredible decaf was possible.”

That Colombian was Savorista’s first coffee. Nowadays, Brown is launching a remarkably berry-toned Ethiopian decaf and “actively looking for more coffees to add to our portfolio, but this has been very challenging,” she says. “I’m not looking for coffee that is ‘good for a decaf.’ I’m looking for coffee that is incredible, full stop, and just happens to be a decaf.”

Some decaf roasteries were born to fulfill not the founders’ desires, but rather their loved ones. Peter Andrews began Sydney’s Playground Roasters in 2016, “when my special lady gone and got herself pregnant, again,” he writes. “It occurred to me that no one was really putting a strong focus on decaf for the coffee enthusiasts amongst us.”

People who connect most with his decaf blend, which is available in cafes around the city, comprise “the growing world of healthy-lifers, the sugar-free movement,” Andrews finds, and “typical cafe-loving mums who so want to have a great coffee, but feel like they just have to go without until they ween the little one.” Though decaf is something he himself has only “occasionally in the afternoon or evening,” he admires the loyalists—included among them are his wife, presently expecting their third child.

“When a customer orders decaf, they are genuinely ordering a coffee for flavor alone—no buzz attached! You could put a case forward that the decaf drinker is the true coffee purist, searching for flavor and flavor alone, while the rest of us are just addicts needing a hit!” he says.

What is more, not all decaf projects are a response to doctor’s orders or an antidote to the jitters.

“We were visiting family in Maine and giving coffee we had roasted as a gift,” Jamie Morganstern recollects of a winter holiday in 2017, when he and his partner, Sara Serino, conceptualized Dewired Coffee. “The days are short in Maine that time of year so we were drinking a lot of decaf, especially when the sun went down. Everyone loved this ritual!”

Today their Berkeley, California-based business offers, on average, three types of decaf. They themselves drink it regularly, but when Morganstern blames buns in the oven, he is not referring to pregnancy. “Sara is always a huge baker, so we’ve pretty much gotten accustomed to having a cup [of decaf] in the evening with a plate of cookies or a slice of pie,” Morganstern says via email.

Though their nights sound traditionally more momcore than millennial-chic, Morganstern is 33 and Serino is 32. They substantiate industry claims that decaf is having a renaissance and young people are its patrons.

“Decaf coffee is also shedding its stigma of being a drink that only the older generation enjoys,” Andrea Piccolo, a senior brand manager at leading specialty decaffeination plant Swiss Water, tells Sprudge. “With millennials leading decaf consumption, the demand is surely to continue its upward growth.”

Still, others attribute decaf’s slow evolution thus far to the specialty scene’s relative infancy.

“Most caffeine-troubled people are not so young and outside of the interest span of these young baristas and roasters,” theorizes Rob Berghmans, who 16 years ago revolutionized Antwerp’s coffee scene with his espresso bar and roastery, Caffènation. “Me myself, I am not addicted,” he says with a laugh.

Yet even Berghmans, ever upfront about the nature of the psychotropic he peddles—his company’s slogan is “One drug, one nation, one Caffènation”—says they have “always been roasting decaf” and are lately enjoying the popularity of their new Caldono.

Another playing-both-sides perspective comes courtesy long-time San Francisco Sprudge contributor Noah Sanders. In “Searching For The Dark Art Of Decaf,” Sanders reveals how during the early aughts he and fellow baristas sometimes punished “the very worst type of customers” by secretly serving them decaf.

Questioned in 2019 about his own relationship with the substance, he admits: “When I was a barista, I drank six cups of coffee a day until an acupuncturist told me it was undoubtedly the cause of the mildly crippling panic attacks I’d been experiencing. I drank some decaf after that.” These days, he notes: “I try—and fail—to give up caffeine every six months or so and decaf is the lifeline I then cling to, but then only paired with a large-ish amount of steamed milk.”

Now, disguise with dairy no more. At any time, sun up or sun down, you can have your coffee and drink it too. Thanks to these emergent micro-roasteries, contemporary decaf little resembles Grandpa’s Sanka (though what a cute corporate portmanteau that name turns out to be: from the French for sans caffeine). This is certainly NYMD (not your mother’s decaf). As specialty coffee grows up, the black-or-white big-gulp attitudes of yesterday are getting displaced by the nuanced fluidity of personal preference.

We say bring it on. Or more simply put, decaf gives us life.

Karina Hof is a Sprudge staff writer based in Amsterdam. Read more Karina Hof on Sprudge.

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