#nobody allowed to print unless I say so

[cheasewedge]

Cheesie has prints…… if you’ve got coin

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Hello rumor tracking anon 👋🏻 I'm really sad with the horrible way almost all of the western media ganged up and bashing Princess Catherine for something so insignificant just because she refused to divulge her medical records information with the nobodies. She and the babies are subjects horrible memes now. What do you think KP should do in future to ensure they put these rogue press in their places and never bow down to their ridiculous demands of more access into the Waleses' private lives?

Part of it is that their hands are tied because of William's position as Prince of Wales and future king. They're public officials whose lives are subsidized by taxpayer monies, which means they have to allow the people access to parts of their lives. For much of modern history, the people have used the fourth estate as their representatives to the royals (and vice versa), but at some point the press appointed themselves as judge, jury, and executioner of the royal family, which caused most of them to go on enormous power trips and develop astounding cases of entitlement.

Anyway, KP being a quasi-public office means they:

Can't try to censor the press, control what they print, or regulate what the internet/social media says about them. Harry already tried and it's going to be worse if William tries.

Can't not talk to the press. Certainly, William and Kate individually and personally can not talk to the press and just let the KP office speak for them every/any time - but they do this already for the most part.

Can't not include journalists or the rota in their events. They're public officials. Their work has to be covered by the public, no matter how rogue or cooperative their representatives (the press) are.

But there's a loophole. There are a couple loopholes, actually:

KP can either work with the press or without the press - i.e. go directly to the people themselves.

KP can draw separate mutually-exclusive boundaries around private lives/children and their work.

KP can move farther away from the media hub of London.

Work with or without the media

Reform the rota. The main issue here is how? Term limits on the royal beat? Expanding the rota and diversifying the publications represented? Blocking where, when, and how the rota accompanies them (like Anne is able to)? That's something KP/William would need to negotiate with the rota, and based on what Scobie said in Endgame, the rota is not interested in changing anything unless they can personally benefit to the exclusion of everyone else.

Cut the press out of their dealings. This means communicating directly to the people via their social media accounts, which means more transparency. They've started this by controlling who and when photographs of their children are shared, now let's take it a step or two further and start using your social media or an official KP website to more broadly communicate and promote their work and engagements. The press can and will continue to cover them, but by reducing their exclusivity, KP can control the narrative a little better. What does this look like?

KP publishing their press releases, statements, announcements, and photographs exclusively to social media or a website.

Not giving the rota access to their friends for the big articles.

Commissioning and making documentaries of their work. A lot of what they already do is perfect for documentaries and longer content forms. I mean, Earthshot is primed for a documentary series to follow up on their winners or other finalists, show some of the decision-making, etc. When they travel, make a documentary about the trip. Or even produce documentaries/programs about their charities and patronages - they don't have to be in it!

Start using their YouTube channel and create more longer-form content instead of these 40-second Instagram reels. Where are they going? Who are they meeting? Why are they going to these places? What do these charities do? Show us everything that the rota or the press would ordinarily report on, and in doing so they'd take power away from the media.

Become more selective of who gets their personal photographs. Say no. Authorize it only for rota publications. Give the exclusive to one publication at at time. Make everyone use only what was posted.

Reform the KP staff. Especially the communications team. Bring in a lawyer or two. Hire some real communications/PR experts. Get a real social media manager to manage and organize your content. Prioritize communications as equally as the charity work instead of leaving it an afterthought. Develop and implement standards/policies for press engagement like:

KP Comms will accept press inquiries Monday through Friday 9am - 5pm. Press inquiries/requests submitted outside these hours will be addressed within working hours only.

All press inquiries/requests must be answered. Even if it's "no comment," every inquiry/request gets a response so that when a publication does become impatient and writes "KP has not responded," we pull them on the carpet for not giving us a chance to respond.

No comments or answers on questions concerning private matters (e.g. Kate's health) and our minor/still-in-school children.

(I've no idea if this is feasible or not. The bottom line is KP needs to introduce clear standards for working with and handling the press so the fourth estate can't use "they didn't respond to our request for comment" as a weapon anymore.)

Work more. Rumors and conspiracy theories exist when there's an absence of information. When there's no information or there's very little information, we make things up to explain what we see or don't see. The only way to address that is to give more information. And for KP, that means William and Kate both need to work more. They need to be seen more.

We know they're working. We see the results, but it's not enough anymore. They need to be showing progress towards those results. Show us the meetings you're having. Show us the visits you're making. Show us why this work and these accomplishments are important. Show us the meaning and the impact. Show us the bang your taxpayer's pound sterling.

If they want to keep their engagement numbers low because family first, that's fine - but it needs to be compensated elsewhere, and that is not happening currently (excluding the ongoing health crises). Yes, they prefer quality over quantity but what good is quality when you can't see it?

And that's where their content channels and social media can be helpful. (Just to make it full circle.) If they satisfy the people, the press and the media has no choice but to fall in line because the people - their consumers - aren't going to buy their products when they criticize the people they support and like. We see this happen all the time.

Boundaries

So then the next piece of it is their private lives, especially the children. For me, it seems like KP is under the impression that people are only interested in them for their private lives and the children.

I don't think that's true. I think because they're not very transparent about a lot of their work, whether it's the official royal stuff or the Royal Foundation or their personal charity work, people/the fourth estate default to wanting information about their private lives and the children. Maybe this is foolhardy of me, but I truly believe if William and Kate worked more and showed us their work more, most people would feel very satisfied by it and be very happy with the little we get about the children.

So we don't actually need to see the children, and KP doesn't need to include the children in their content. And frankly, KP shouldn't be including the kids in their content until they're old enough and responsible enough to consent to it - so the cadence they've struck with providing access to the children is perfect (family photos 4 times a year, individual photos for birthdays and special milestones, and 3-5 family work events/engagements a year).

On that note, I think KP underestimates how interested the normal general public would be in content produced about or for their work. I mean, people liked Kate and people liked William long before there were children in the picture, and people will continue liking them long after the children are grown and have flown the nest cottage. So why not go back to that very basic element: the main attractions at KP are William and Kate themselves.

Kate narrating a documentary about bee-keeping and honeymaking? Earthshot giving us a 6 episode documentary series about their winners narrated by Cate Blanchett or a 2-hour special about Cape Town and South Africa (and every Earthshot city) by David Attenborough or a local expert? A 30-minute travel program about Cornwall by the Duchy of Cornwall? 3-minute YouTube videos about their charities and patronages produced by the people who work there or who benefit from services posted ahead of their visits? William narrating a documentary about his homeless initiative in Cornwall? A summer exhibition in KP's display hall of Kate's dresses or a Kate-curated show of the Royal Collection or loans from her patronages?

My god, everyone would go ballistic. No one would even care that the kids weren't included.

Physical Distance / Move Away

Then finally, the third option for KP would be to move further away from the nucleus/media hub that is London. It does seem like the farther one lives from London, the easier time it takes to keep the press and media out of their personal lives. We see it with Anne (in Gloucestershire), Edward and Sophie (in Bagshot), and we saw it with the then-Cambridges when they lived at Anmer Hall 2014 - 2017 and during the pandemic. We also saw it with Charles, also in Gloucestershire at Highgrove House (albeit less successfully because he courted the press there at times).

The precedence is there for William and Kate to move their family farther out. Norfolk is out of the question because Rose is there so it would likely cause more media intrusion, so they'd have to find another place, one on enough acreage to ensure security and privacy and good schools. But they just moved the kids to a new school two years ago and would they want to uproot them again? Or so soon? Probably not.

So the only thing KP can really do to block, or further regulate, demands for access to their private lives is work. Simply put, William and Kate need to do more of it, more frequently, more openly, and more transparently. Give something for people to talk about so there's no time, space, or air for rumors, conspiracy theories, shame, or criticism. But unfortunately, that's not their priority. Their priority is family - which is totally and completely 100% fine - but KP is unwilling to see that boundaries around private lives doesn't mean boundaries around work. Or maybe they can't see how boundaries around the home and boundaries around work can be completely distinct and separate because how traumatic the media intrusion has been for much of their lives.

Anyway. Queen for a day, that's what I'd do. I'd sit William, Kate, and KP down and say "listen, something's gotta give. You want more privacy, you need to pay for it. You can pay for it with your work (do more of it), your kids (put them out in public more), your words (talk more), your distance (live farther from London and commute daily), or your sanity and health (do nothing and let the press run roughshod all over you). What's it going to be?"

And the thing is, it's not a unique question. Everyone everywhere has had to deal with this: what's my priority and how am I going to pay for it? KP has just skated for a very long time on do-nothing-and-hope-for-the-best and as we've all seen in the last 8 weeks, that plan doesn't work anymore.

Re-reading this before I post, I'm pretty sure I lost the plot somewhere in here. Sorry, readers!

[jor-elthatendswell]

It's a well worn topic at this point but the imminent release of The Marvels has me thinking about how militaristic the Marvel Cinematic Universe is, with Monica Rambeau aka Photon, a habour patrol member in the comics, reimagined as a captain in the US Air Force.

She follows Hawkeye, who was changed from an argumentative former circus performer with a heart of gold (a character so staunchly against lethal force he once revoked his own wife's Avengers membership because she sort of, maybe, subconsciously allowed a villain to fall to his death) into a hard-nosed black ops assassin.

Sam Wilson/ Falcon made his celluloid debut as an army man with twin submachine guns attached to his wrists. It’s a far cry from his print counterpart’s introduction as a social worker by day who uses his skill at falconry to protect his neighbourhood.

If we allow the argument that modern cinema goers are accustomed to a sprinkling of realism to make their superheroes palatable (and it’s a strange argument really- why should realism be a desirable quality in summer blockbuster escapism?) then what actually constitutes “realism”.

Sure, a man who learnt uncanny skill with a bow and arrow growing up with a travelling show couldn’t possibly hold his own alongside Hulk or Thor in the real world (and, yes, there isn’t a Hulk or Thor in the real world; as I say, this is a strange argument), but if he learned those exact same skills in some kind of military context then that somehow passes the bar for realism? The sinister upshot is that these children’s heroes become more warlike just as, globally, they reach more children than ever before.

Increasing the realism of superhero stories only serves to make them problematic. DC Comics' Batman, who is the frequently subjected to “realistic” treatments, is the prime example. If, in real life, a billionaire tooled himself up with the best weapons and body armour money can buy and began dispensing violent “justice” with no accountability, then of course that wouldn’t be a good thing. If they wore a costume with pointy ears and started calling themselves “Batman” then of course we would question their sanity. But Batman isn’t real; it’s a story. Nobody thinks The Muppet Show advocates animal cruelty. Quite the opposite, if anything. ("Not unless they're watching it", as Waldolf once heckled) Yet if a filmmaker decides they’re going to make a “grounded and realistic” remake where Fozzy is played by a real live bear wearing a pork pie hat and spotty necktie, then that's a whole other story. Suspend your disbelief and superheroes are less like the police or army and more akin to volunteers and activists, doing what they can with what they have to improve the lives of those around them. Their actions take the form of crime fighting only because that’s what makes for exciting colourful adventure stories for children.

In the MCU, even Marvel’s poster boy, Spider-Man (another champion of non-lethal solutions, known for his compassion even to his enemies and who possesses an enduring appeal to young children) is given a literal sheen of the military-industrial complex in the form of “Stark Tech” armour, replete with military grade strike drones. Tony Stark even thought to equip his 15 year old protégé-cum-child soldier with an “Instant Kill Mode”. In a moment played for laughs in Spider-Man: Homecoming, Spider-Man rejects his on-board AI's attempt to activate this feature but seems untroubled that such an option exists and, indeed, come Avengers: Infinity War, he voluntarily deploys it. It’s not clear if Spidey actually does kill any of his alien adversaries, but it seems reasonable to assume that one doesn’t say “Activate Instant Kill Mode” without the intention of ending lives. Fans are expected to smile or applaud as Spider-Man says these words, recognising the call-back to Homecoming, rather than find it a gross misrepresentation of Marvel’s most beloved character or an alarming depiction of a children’s favourite.

The MCU Avengers as a whole are a US government “initiative “. The reluctant superheroes need to be cajoled into putting their differences aside for the greater good by army top brass Nick Fury. In a tweak from the source material, the ‘H' in Fury's organisation, SHIELD, stands for ‘Homeland’, making SHIELD as explicitly American venture as opposed to it being ostensibly intergovernmental in the comics.

There is a comic book precedent for this military take on Earth's Mightiest Heroes in the form of The Ultimates, a 2002 series by the British team of writer Mark Millar and artist Bryan Hitch. The Ultimates ,however, was satire. Millar was an unreformed lefty of the old school – someone who has boasted of voting Brexit for left-wing reasons, someone who once appeared on Russia Today as a guest of George Galloway. The Ultimates took swings at the gung ho jingoism of post 9/11 America. Captain America's “Surrender!!?? You think this letter on my head stands for France?“ is not supposed to be a badass one-liner, but rather a parody of the kind of things US media outlets were saying as Jacques Chirac proved less keen than Tony Blair to follow George Bush in bringing gunboat diplomacy to the Middle East. As Millar commentated at the time:

“The Ultimates is completely different because it's a character-driven piece and (something only a few people have noticed) my attempt as a left-wing writer to tell stories about an essentially right-wing concept and cast. It's very much the Anti-Authority, if you will. Captain America and so on are fully-paid members of the US military machine and this means a very different book and approach from a gang of slightly arrogrant, left-wing, superhuman utopians like The Authority ".

Wildstorm Comics' The Authority, which both Millar and Hitch worked on (although not together), was a precursor to Ultimates, featuring a team of similarly “any means necessary” heroes, albeit with a left-wing bent. The Ultimates does have something of The Authority’s utopian streak; Nick Fury and Tony Stark genuinely want to make the world a better place for everyone. It’s very idealistic – what if the head of the military and the biggest tech billionaire actually had the people’s best interests at heart? – and arguably closer to true superhero ethos (basically “with great power there must also come great responsibility “) than those characters more pragmatic MCU equivalents.

Yet, as Millar's one time writing partner Grant Morrison (who actually ghost-wrote at least one issue of The Authority under Miller’s name) observed in Morrison’s major nonfiction work, Supergods, the likes of The Authority, The Ultimates and, by extension, the MCU represent a “capitulation” to the view “that it was really only force and violence that got things done and not patient diplomacy, and that only soldiers and very rich people had the world figured out”. If the MCU is realistic, then it’s a sad indictment of the real world where the heroes are the ones with the best tech, the best guns and no compunction about using them.

Regardless of intent, The Ultimates left a door at Marvel’s “House of Ideas” just enough ajar to allow a malign notion to creep in: “These soldier superheroes are pretty cool. What If they were like that all the time? Wouldn’t they be more popular then”?

Certainly the navy SEAL aesthetic Bryan Hitch brought to the costumes (replacing the colourful tights and capes with pouches, straps and body armour) was soon adopted by superhero tv and film productions even pre-MCU. In fact, Hawkeye's journey from carny to commando mirrors the changes in superhero attire. Most famously, Superman's appearance with the red “overpants” derives from that of circus strongmen, but seeing any photography of early to mid 20th century carnival and circus performers makes it clear the early superhero creators had them in mind when they first put pencil to paper.

In an interview (found in Marvel Spotlight: Captain America, published in 2009) Hitch related how he showed an initial Ultimates drawing of Captain America with a machine gun to Grant Morrison, which Morrison then “described as the most obscene Captain America image [they’d] ever seen”. (NB: Morrison has since adopted gender neutral pronouns). Perhaps Morrison said this with glee, in on the joke with their friends, but in the years since, Cap with a gun became a common sight, even in family-friendly movies (where it was divorced from the irony of The Ultimates).

By a 2015 interview, Morrison lamented the fact that “the Avengers work for the government, and it's been like that since Mark [Millar] did The Ultimates” and said they were “bored with the idea that the best superheroes can represent is some aggressive version of the military. [...] They're supposed to be champions of the oppressed, they help ordinary people, they make things better for people. They don't prop up our grotesque, doddering culture of war and aggression”.

That same year Morrison introduced a new comic book superteam in the pages of The Multiversity. Pointedly the text likens this group, named “Justice Incarnate”, to a “cosmic neighbourhood watch” rather than any formal military or law-enforcement institution.

Millar himself reunited with his Authority collaborator Frank Quitely to create the comic Jupiter’s Legacy, which comes across in part as an apology for The Ultimates and all it begat. It concludes with the protagonists, Chloe Sampson and Eddie "Hutch" Hutchence taking up superhero mantles and promising not to make the moral compromises of their predecessors:

“No more bowing to authority and insitutions. No more deference to people in power”.

“There's a dignity in public service we mistook for old-fashioned, and a humility in having a secret identity, living among the people we protect.“

The Avengers, Marvel’s breakthrough billion dollar box office 2012 movie, by contrast, concludes with Iron Man dropping a nuclear bomb on the “Chitari”, an invading alien army and it seems likely this influenced Morrison’s comments on modern superhero stories.

In Supergods, Morrison

describes their childhood dread of nuclear weapons. The child of “ban the bomb” activists, the “gruesome hand-drawn images of how the world might look after a spirited thermonuclear missile exchange” which illustrated their parents anti-nuclear literature struck terror into the young Morrison. Therefore they seized upon superheroes as being an idea powerful enough to counteract – and overcome – the idea of the bomb.

“It’s not that I needed Superman to be “real,” I just needed him to be more real than the Idea of the Bomb that ravaged my dreams”.

Within the narrative of the movie, Iron Man takes the only option available to him to save New York. Destroying thousands of alien lives to save thousands of human ones. But The Avengers isn’t a documentary; the scriptwriters could have written a satisfying denouement which didn’t involve mass murder. They could at least have included some words of regret by the heroes over what it took to win, acknowledging that killing is not the ideal solution. Instead the Avengers trade banter and eat shawarma, collective conscious clear.

There is a moment in another Grant Morrison work, Final Crisis, which always brings the MCU to mind. In Final Crisis #3, drawn by JG Jones, (published in 2008, the same year the MCU began) “evil gods” from a higher plain of existence have been reincarnated on Earth. In order for the Justice League to counter this threat, a “draft for Superheroes” is implemented. Green Arrow (a Batman-a-like character who was subsequently reinvented to embody the countercultural sentiment of the late 1960s and has since served as the social conscious of the superhero set) responds to receiving his draft notice thusly:

“If anybody falls for this authoritarian, militaristic crap, it’ll prove I’m absolutely right about absolutely everything!... “

Cue the next page, where the drafted heroes have gathered en mass (including Green Arrow, impotently shaking his fist.)

Such an assemblage of characters in usually a triumphant moment in a summer "event" story, but here is framed as a sign that evil already has it’s hooks into reality. This world has fallen to the darkness and the superheroes who inhabit it are too morally compromised to realise it.

[granulesofsand]

Demon Eyes (littlie rebellion)

This is one of our littlies, caught between programs. I’m gonna annotate it so we can see how many run in the background for every alter.

I’ve never been away from home (only the trained ones call that house their home) like this, living separate from my family (heavy on first person pronouns, separates alters from the system) (meant ‘family’ as a positive). I feel guilty for enjoying it (not allowed to use verbs without the ‘I feel’ , got worse after DBT) (shame flashbacks, humiliation over moral guilt). It’s nothing like what I would do for my space, but it’s somehow still so perfect.

There are stars on the ceiling, glowing and arranged, probably constellations. I used to have this above my bed before we moved (younger than 7 we lived immersed in the group), just scattered on the side of the overhang.

My sheet is gone, replaced with a throw like fur. The top quilt is weighted. The pillow is the same texture as the one Nana (long dead matriarch) had, but it’s green and tube shaped.

There’s so much room. I guess my bedroom had more, but I was only allowed on the bed or in the closet (kept in a locked room with two closets, one for a person, trained not to leave the blanket unless she was being punished). There are chairs and a desk, and nobody yells at me if I pace around (she was told the toys reported on her, but people could probably hear her footsteps from downstairs). The stuffies here don’t tell on me.

I was scared of the glowing eyes (demon eyes, circles of light on the ceiling or pinpricks in dark openings) up in the corner, but it’s a projection from the charger on the desk. I wonder if that’s how they did it at home, too.

I’m not supposed to talk bad (loyalty don’t-tell training) about my parents. They own me, and I owe them (epsilon program, dog type) my life. Talking about them behind their backs is the same as talking bad. I keep checking around to see if the demon boy (her internal reporter, whose eyes she was told made the light) is around to inform them. I’ll be punished for thinking it (the boy might hear her thoughts, but his reporting helped their mind-reader shtick) anyway.

I’m going to do it. I don’t believe the men who say no one will tell. It’s gathering information, so I can investigate them like they’re doing to me. It’s not a lie (she thinks she’ll be interrogated, more when than if with her reporter), and I’m supposed to watch out for suspicious activity (it mimics the airport announcement, so maybe they had her fly to customers). It really is part of my job.

And she’s gone.

I did take out a bit that was too revealing, but it was mostly one big chunk. She won’t be in trouble with her demon, he’s been redirected, and the piece I cut was a good step if not for the internet. It’s a long effort, and it’ll help the other littlies to see the growing crowd of healing kids.

She took that effort herself, used to be a sneaky writer. Her stories were carved into pencils and scrawled in tiny print on sticky notes. Her name is the same as one of her stuffies, so we’ll nudge her to pick a new one. She’s got a gleam to her yet, and small sparks start wildfires.

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Fic Titles That Start With F Masterlist

Fascination Street (ao3) - loveliketheweather luke/calum E, 5k

Summary: It’s hard to tell why some nights feel like walking on a razor’s edge, restlessly waiting to fall to one side or the other, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it. And all night there has been the heavy feeling of eyes on him. While he feels like a hunter tonight, the constant weight of it makes him think that he might be the prey.

Fashion (ao3) - 3amstalker luke/calum T, 1k

Summary: Luke is a teen boy who likes pretty things and Calum likes him maybe a little too much…

Fast Car (ao3) - Migs michael/ashton, ot4 E, 17k

Summary: Michael and Ashton have been married for a year when their sex life got in a way of their life long relationship. When Calum leaves for Europe they need to find someone else to fill in his place in their bed

fate lines (ao3) - kaleidoscopeminds luke/calum E, 44k

Summary: Calum makes decisions based on things that happen, and his life is a result of his series of choices, not some higher power pulling the strings. But there’s always an anomaly to the rule. To be discounted if looking at a trend, but there for a reason.

Luke Hemmings is Calum’s anomaly.

Because one thing Calum does know for sure. He met Luke Hemmings for a reason. He’s just never been sure what that reason is.

Feels like Coming Home (ao3) - ismaki calum/ashton, michael/luke T, 56k

Summary: All Calum wants is to finish school and get away from his small town. He works hard to seem happy, to be respected and popular at school, to be diffrent, something more. To be someone. All Ashton wants is to get noticed by the boy with the easy smile but guarded eyes. All Michael wants is to escape, to take another hit, another drink, use another body. To feel something. And Luke? Luke just wants everyone to be happy.

Fensterln (ao3) - merlypops michael/calum E, 6k

Summary: ‘“I’m never going to leave you, Cal-Pal. Not in a million years.” Michael remembers pressing another kiss to Calum’s lips then and feeling him respond this time. “I love you too.”’

Michael and Calum share their first kiss in secret when they’re eleven… and things kind of escalate from there

Fine Print - @daydadahlias​ (cornflowerblue (daydadahlias)) luke/ashton M, 61k

Summary: If Michael says Ashton Irwin will be a good bodyguard then sure, Luke will put his money on Ashton being a good bodyguard. Besides, all Luke needs is a shadow. So what if he doesn’t like him?

Who ever cared about liking their shadow anyway?

or the one where Luke is a heartbroken solo artist who can’t sleep and Ashton is his less-than-enthusiastic bodyguard

First Time for Everything (ao3) - orphan_account luke/ashton N/R, 3k

Summary: The first time they decided to go all the way, Luke had felt his skin go red as Ashton had quickly pushed him inside of his own bedroom. They had just gotten back from their seventh date together, at a park near Luke’s house.

flowers in your hair (boys can’t be pretty) (ao3) - prettyluke (parting_ways) luke/ashton, michael/calum N/R, 71k

Summary: Ashton has been in love with the pretty boy next door since he was seven. Luke has called Ashton home since he was five. They grew up with the daisy field behind their houses, but nobody told them that they couldn’t love anywhere else.

Footprints in the Sand (ao3) - gonefornow luke/calum T, 1k

Summary: Calum and Luke have a beach vacation.

For Lack of a Better Partner (ao3) - DaddyAshton luke/calum E, 2k

Summary: Calum hasn’t gotten laid in ages. Luke wants Calum but has absolutely no way to tell him. They compromise.

for real (ao3) - galacticsugar luke/calum E, 63k

Summary: There’s an order to things in LA. An established code of conduct between celebrity and mere mortal, wherein the mere mortal does not engage with the celebrity unless it is an approved event, like a red carpet or a meet & greet. It’s a symbiotic relationship that allows the celebrities to live their lives in relative peace and allows the mere mortals to look upon their beauty in the wild.

for the art of war (ao3) - cyberpunknct luke/ashton T, 43k

Summary: Luke wasn’t sure exactly when his life turned into a train wreck, but he knew that it probably coincided with the day he met Ashton.

for you are not beside but within me (ao3) - elysianhood luke/calum E, 11k

Summary: Calum pulled Luke up with his blonde locks by his right hand and wrapped his left tightly around his throat, restricting his airway, and leaned in close to the teary blue eyes, hissing threateningly, ‘You never – ever – speak to me like that ever again, you filthy slut. Ever. You don’t fucking tell me what to do. You’re just a fucktoy, remember? A dirty, fucking whore. That’s all you’ll ever be.’

or; Luke was a bad boy and Calum isn’t happy.

Four’s Company (ao3) - orphan_account michael/everyone E, 2k

Summary: Prompt: can you write a calum/michael/luke/ashton were michael is really really submissive and wears panties and likes being called princess/baby and calls calum luke and ashton daddy

Or the one where Luke finds out that Michael has a daddy kink.

Front Door Key to my Heart (ao3) - sheepytho luke/calum T, 3k

Summary: Touring countries together in an upcoming boyband can be difficult for these four boys from Australia, and opening up to each other about pressured feelings is the best way to relieve some of the growing stress.

Frozen Cores and Cake Pops (ao3) - 1loulu5 T, 1k

Summary: “The question your teacher assigned you is What if the Earth’s core cooled, right?”

Or, Luke’s new tutor helps him with his science homework.

Fucking Jerks (ao3) - orphan_account ot4 E, 37k

Summary: “Okay, who cums first loses, and owes a blowjob to the winner. Correct?” Calum raises his brows: “A blowjob now, huh?” “Well, a dish fit for a king,” Michael replies.

Or: Ashton bids a Jerketition and who is Michael to refuse…? (Includes the winner+loser spin off)

Fucking You Like I Should (ao3) - ComplexityIsTheOnlyWayToHaveSimplicity michael/calum, luke/ashton E, 3k

Summary: Calum’s feeling a little naughty but with Michael stuck in a meeting what’s the poor baby to do? If he has a little fun Michael can’t be mad at that. Calum won’t complain when Michael join’s the fun either.

FutureSex/LoveSounds (ao3) - Migs luke/calum, michael/luke, calum/ashton E, 47k

Summary: Luke is Med student/camboy with a crush on the Footie captain with a secret.

OR: Cake have a lot of hot sex for money whilst trying to pursue romantic relationships with other boys.

[that-wildwolf]

Fluffuary day 24: Wearing/Stealing Each Other's Clothes

For obvious reasons I don't think they could literally wear each other's clothes, but I did my best. If you don't like AO3, the fic's here under the cut.

»»————-　♡　————-««

"What the hell are you wearing?"

That was the first thing Garrus heard upon walking into the room in his brand new N7-print tunic. Shepard was staring at him with her mouth opened and her eyes wide. Her surprise turned into offence surprisingly quickly, and her brows pulled together, causing wrinkles of irritation to form on her forehead.

"I found it at a gift shop on Illium," Garrus explained, doing his best to ignore her hateful stare. "They had all sorts of Commander Shepard merch, you know. I think I lucked out, there weren't many left in my size. You know you have a lot of turian fans."

"Take that off," she growled. Her nostrils were flared out in anger. "You don't get to wear those colours. Nobody gets to wear those colours, not unless you graduated from that damn program. I did. I get to wear the merch. But you didn't."

Garrus blinked.

"Yeah, maybe that's how it was at some point, but these days? Those colours are associated with you. People want to be like you. Support you." He flicked his mandibles into a wide smile. "And you know I'm your number one fan."

"Remind me to say that next time we run into Verner."

She rolled her eyes at him as her anger slowly turned into irritation. Garrus narrowed his eyes, taking notice immediately, and decided that he could probably allow himself to go a bit further.

"I liked that Archangel hoodie."

Shepard smiled hesitantly.

During those six months she'd spent grounded on Earth, she'd amassed a rather sizeable collection of Archangel merchandise. It had been silly of her, maybe, to try and feel his presence with buying things that vaguely reminded her of him, but it had been a lonely time for her. Besides, she'd always imagined he'd be amused by it. Things hadn't gone down the way she'd imagined, of course.

The only thing of that collection that had survived onto the Normandy was her blue hoodie, which she proudly wore whenever she was off duty. Garrus loved it when she wore his colours — she supposed that was part of why he'd been so enthusiastic about his new purchase. He probably thought she would feel the same way about it.

He didn't understand it, of course. [REDACTED BECAUSE THIS GOT LIKE 700% TOO ANGSTY FOR FLUFFUARY]. So he had no way to understand. Shepard kind of envied him, actually.

She slowly let out her breath. Garrus was still looking at her with a more or less hopeful expression and she still didn't like seeing him in that outfit. It felt wrong. But he was so enthusiastic about it... Damn it, she hated it when he was cute.

"Garrus," she said slowly. She was hoping not to be too aggressive this time. "Please take that off." She put all her effort into sounding as calm and rational as she could. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but you've... miscalculated. Terribly." She crossed her arms. "It's making me feel uncomfortable." Fuck, that sounded too dry and unemotional, but she didn't know how else to make her feelings clear to him.

"Oh. I, ah..." He flared his mandibles, his nose twitching at incredible speeds. "Crap, I— I'm sorry."

So he had caught on to the thickly veiled despair she'd been trying to hide in her voice. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised; even if it hadn't been for the difference between their species, there was something she'd always thought was curious about Garrus and right now that thing was being utilised to its fullest efficiency. Because the thing was, for someone who could sometimes appear so awkward and stumble over his words, Garrus Vakarian had a gift. He was incredible at reading even the smallest non-verbal cues. It was part of the reason Shepard never even bothered lying to him, and part of what made him such a great asset, because he rarely hesitated to call her out on it. She had no idea if it was something he'd been born with, a skill he'd honed during his time at C-Sec or — the option she least wanted to consider — it was just her he was so good at reading. Whichever it was, the fact remained that Garrus always managed to understand her feelings without her needing to verbalise them. A slight tremble in her voice, so small even she did not notice it, could be enough for him. Shepard wouldn't be lying if she said she didn't utilise that skill of his, because she did. It was why she'd been keeping him close all this time, why she'd asked him to act as her right-hand-man, which inevitably was why they'd gotten as close as they had and why they'd fallen in love.

"I thought you were just teasing me," Garrus said quickly. "I had no idea you're really— I mean... I'm sorry."

Shepard smiled, although it was a bitter smile. He was probably one of the few people in the galaxy who treated her seriously, with all her — even superficially silly — trauma, and didn't ask unnecessary questions. He'd already realized that his wearing that outfit was actually difficult for her and had already made his decision to stop.

Which, if you were Garrus Vakarian, apparently meant 'strip right then and there'.

Shepard blinked, staring at him with in equal amounts surprise and fondness.

"What are you doing?" She put a hand over her mouth, momentarily unable to fight a smile when he got his fringe stuck in the shirt in an attempt to take it off as quickly as possible.

"Just..." Garrus growled, tugging at the sleeves that were still over his hands. "Trying to... Damn it."

Shepard wasn't fighting her smile anymore.

"Need a hand with that?" She rested a hand on her hip, watching him struggle with it and only make it worse by his sudden and frantic movements. All her doubts and insecurities were gone in a moment when she saw how desperately he tried not to make her feel uncomfortable. Even at the expense of his dignity.

"No, I'm..." He let out another very undignified sound, at this point completely tangled inside the fabric. "I'm fine."

Shepard raised an eyebrow, even though he had no way to see it.

"Sure you are."

[jawllines]

Sorry to be annoying but I asked awhile ago and I think tumblr ate my ask but did you ever do tattoo Harry blurb? I love them and I miss them:( I’ve looked through your tags and there isn’t any on there if you have posted one

I CAN POST ONE I WROTE A WHILE AGO RIGHT NOW :D I DONT THINK I POSTED HERE BUT LET ME KNOW HERE YOU GO PET 

i.

“Baby -- baby, c’mon!”

It was rare that Harry ever woke Y/N with more than kisses and cuddles. Maybe an abrupt shoulder shake if the both of them slept through their alarms (and, considering that they are the only ones with the key to open up their own respective stores, they never typically arrived late facing happy employees -- or in Y/N’s case, employee -- Niall, in particular, was always more of a grump in that situation than Riktor even), but even that still managed to be tender, and soft. He always treated her so delicately, as if she were made up of porcelain in the morning and it was imperative to speak in a low, soothing voice with careful touches or she might shatter. And she really didn’t think it was because she was an absolute terror to wake up -- Y/N did quite well, even as early as 5 AM she was still in somewhat of a pleasant mood, certainly nothing to be fearful of -- she thinks he’s just gentle in the morning. He’s gentle all the time, but for some reason or another, he’s extra soft with her then.

They had both had a bit of a busy day, so by the time that they made it back to Y/N’s flat (Harry said he liked it there best because it smelled like her, and -- well, he softens her up and calls her Darling when he wants them to go over there, so it’s hard to say no), both of them were ready for bed. Neither of them could barely keep their eyes open as they scarfed down the burgers they’d picked up on the way home, and once they’d finished and brushed their teeth, they toppled into each other on the mattress. Y/N would reckon they both fell asleep before their heads had even hit the pillow -- she doesn’t even remember crawling beneath the blankets.

Apparently she had though, because now as her brain tunes in with the world around her and she realizes that the distorted voice that had begun to prod her dreams was actually a grumpy, dry throat Harry, she’s cuddling herself closer in the covers. This only makes him grumble at her more, “You’re such a blanket hog,” he whines and Y/N finally blinks her eyes open, being greeted with Harry’s disgruntled, pouted face illuminated by the sunlight beginning to slip through the blinds, “I’ve been trying to unravel it for like ten minutes, but you’re all wrapped up! I’m cold.”

Y/N smiles sleepily at him, not understanding the gravity of the situation entirely as she begins to un-burrito herself from the covers, “G’morning, beautiful,” she murmurs as she does so, finally disentangling from the blankets and while she was a little less warm, Harry was quick to wiggle in beneath them, “Sorry.”

“Don’ be sweet when m’tryin’ to be angry with you,” she puckers her lips at him dramatically, and though he sighs, he leans in and presses their mouths together softly, “Your kisses aren’t g’na sweeten me up, m’still grumpy, blanket hog.”

She can only hum as she cuddles closer to him, “Sorry,” she repeated, this time adding, “Like to swaddle myself like a lil’ baby. Reckon you weren’t holdin’ me well enough last night.”

An offended gasp leaves through his lips soundly, enough that it startles her, but his arms worm around her waist and draw her closer to his body, “Brat,” he grumbled, dipping his nose into her throat, “I held you so well and you just wiggled right out of my arms and took all the covers with you.”

“Like a worm -- I wiggled out like a worm or somethin’,” she tried to sit up but his arms tightened around her, “This worm has to pee though and she’ll soak the bed if she isn’t allowed.”

His arm loosens around her, “This worm sounds like she’s a sleepy sort of delusional that requires about two hours more of rest.”

Y/N stumbles toward the bathroom in her room, “Noooooooo,” she whines, frowning at nobody, not bothering to swing the door shut before she plops on the cold toilet seat to relieve herself, “We’re supposed to go get hot chocolate, no more sleep.”

“Baby, it’s 6 AM and I’ve been up the last 30 minutes freezing my bits off!” He calls back to her and she giggles some, her eyes trying to accommodate to the bright white lights of the bathroom, “Sleep just a bit more and we’ll get the hot chocolate when we wake up next.”

She waits until she flushes and washes her hands to respond to him, and though she knows that she is definitely going to crawl back in bed and fall asleep, she stands at the foot of it with her hands in fists at her hips. He had let his eyes flutter closed by then but she thinks he could feel her eyeballing him, so he looks up past the mountain of blankets now covering him so she could only see his eyes and his nose, “What’re you doing?”

“You’re telling me, you don’t wanna go at 6 AM, three hours before the kiosk even opens to get hot chocolate with me? You must really hate me, don’t you?”

He huffs a sharp breath through his nose which is how he usually laughs in the morning, when he can’t muster up the strength to have a proper giggle, “Absolutely loathe you, baby doll, but could you please come back to bed so I can loathe you in the warmth?”

It takes little persuading -- as she said, she knew she was just going to crawl right back in beside him -- and instead of relying too heavily on the blankets to provide her warmth (like wrapping up half of it around her so she was cocooned entirely. . .this is what she normally does, and she would say that’s probably why Harry almost never has any of the covers in the morning), she relies on him. Picks up his arm so that she can fit herself underneath it and lies her cheek on his chest, “Your pits better not be smelly.”

“I make no promises.”

.                             .                         .

“I love your hair.”

“Stop it, Sweetheart, I’m g’na start blushing.”

They had slept for four more hours rather than the two Harry had originally suggested, but that always happens with them. Y/N would say that they are just too content cuddled up with one another that they milk it for all it’s worth. If one of them wakes up before the other, then they just settle their head back down and close their eyes again. Unless they had somewhere to be, of course, but Harry had a free Saturday (no clients schedule, even though Saturday’s could often be some of his heaviest days) and he’d elected to spend it with her -- whether they were awake or asleep didn’t much mater, they just liked to be near each other.

When they finally did wake up, they lazily got dressed into about thirty layers so they wouldn’t freeze outside. The weather had grown frigid quite quickly this November, and neither of them stood the cold very well, but there was a park lined with little pop-up kiosks with hot chocolate, sweets, little holiday goodies, and an obscene amount of knitted blankets (it was a clever marketing tactic, Y/N thought -- everyone is more willing to spend money on a blanket when they’re freezing cold - she and Harry had certainly fallen for it today). Y/N bought them shoe warmers to keep their toes at least not numb, and Harry lets her borrow a pair of his gloves because she keeps forgetting to buy some of her own. They both have hats fitted over their heads too, and since Harry’s let his hair grow out, his curls stick out from beneath the pumpkin orange print and Y/N can’t stop staring at it. She’s always loved his hair, she told him as much one of the first nights they’d sat on her bookstore’s floor and talked about just a bit of everything. Back when she barely realized she had a crush on him. . . .when she didn’t know that in just a little time, she would be over the moon.

And she’ll never forget that people used to make him feel like shit about his hair, so she maybe overcompensates by telling him every time she has thought about loving it. Which means today, in the span of a short three hours they’d been awake, Y/N had complimented his hair about twenty different times. If she was running her fingers through it, fixing his beanie, or just staring at him, she let him know just how much she adored his curls.

“I hate to tell you this, Button, but your cheeks are already red as apples,” she shifted the paper cup of hot chocolate from her hand closest to him to the other, so she could reach up and tuck them behind his ear, that had reddened from the cold, “The air has you more bashful than I ever could.”

“Not true,” he murmurs, lowering his voice as he knocks closer to her ear, “I always blush when you go down on me.”

“God,” Y/N shakes her head, “You’re too much, d’ya know that?”

He laughs, nudging her with the cold tip of his nose, “You want the peppermint bark? We’re coming up on the seller.”

“Of course, I want peppermint bark,” she reaches for her wallet, “I’m stocking us up for the next hundred years or so.”

Harry slows for a moment, sliding his gloved hand into her own and squeezing, “Hey,” he begins, his voice soft, somewhat reflective and it brings her attention to him at her side, “Y’know when -- you remember how you said you just get random flushes of love for me and s’a whole lot and you just don’t know what to do with it?”

Y/N nods, “Yeah, like every waking minute practically. Why?”

He smiles shyly, “I’m having one of those moments.”

“For the peppermint bark?” She teases, but his brows furrow and he swats her shoulder playfully, “Hey!”

“I’m trying to be sweet on you, and you’re still going on about this bloody chocolate,” he rubs the arm that he swats, even though Y/N has so many layers on plus the blanket that she bought wrapped around her, that he made no real contact with her body.

Y/N pulls him in for a hug, narrowly avoiding a child running past them as she does so, “Oh, you know m’only kidding. I love you too, Bug, more than words can describe and ten times more than the chocolate I reckon. . .well, unless it’s made really well this year.”

“I’ll leave you here, blanket hog.”

[daringdraconicdeity]

In light of recent events, especially in relation to the harassment many of my friends are currently facing, I want to say my piece on how I feel about the oftentimes abysmal treatment of artists even within their own communities.

This is about to get a bit wordy, so I’m going to put this under read more.

The first and foremost thing I want to say is nobody is ever EVER obligated to do art for you, or to listen to what you have to say in regards to their art. Art is freedom of expression. Art is not something that you can control just because you don’t like the content. Art is not something that can be put in a box, and whether you think that is a good thing or not does not matter because you are not the one creating the content. If you want art that is a specific way? Either make it yourself, or commission an artist that is willing to take on the task and be KIND and RESPECTFUL while doing so. Maybe, MAYBE if someone is nice enough they will do a request for you or you can do an art trade- but they are not obligated to follow a step by step pattern dictated by you unless you are paying them. End of story.

If you don’t like an artist’s work, keep that shit to yourself unless there is a legitimate problem caused by said art. Unnecessary comments and criticism that were not asked for can hurt a lot. If you want to give constructive criticism ask the artist first, and if they say no, respect their wishes and leave it alone. It’s not rude to have an opinion, but it is incredibly rude to tell people that their art is bad. It’s ok to ask an artist to spoiler or hide their work with a warning if the content is graphic and they have not done so already. It is ok to ask an artist to follow guidelines of a public space and make sure they adhere to them. Artists have a very unique responsibility to uphold to make sure their art does not cause any unnecessary harm or issues as well. But what is not okay is shaming an artist for doing a specific type of art, especially if it is protected or tagged correctly. For example, if someone draws gore art, ON A SERVER THAT ALLOWS IT, with proper tagging, warnings and all, do NOT throw a hissy fit because they chose to enjoy and create this kind of art! I’ve had enough of people trying to judge others or be downright nasty because of personal preferences when nobody is harmed by them! And this is not an issue that is specific to one group or concept either, people will attack others for enjoying something for absolutely no reason other than they don’t like it! Everyone has their own preferences, tastes, and wants and if you cannot respect that you are not ready to be in a public space dedicated to art.

If you do not get what you wanted from an artist, there is always a reason. Artists are people first and foremost. We are not machines that can magically print out an image that exactly matches what is in your brain. Half of the time we cannot make what we see in our own brains to our satisfaction, and we are the ones making the thing. Art is hard, art is time consuming, and it’s so, so much work no matter how experienced you are or what it is you are making. There is a REASON that there are tons of entire careers based on art in its many forms alone. If your request doesn’t get fulfilled? It’s usually not a personal vendetta or an intentional choice, the artist is likely busy. If you make a request and they do get around to fulfilling it, do NOT say “that’s not what I had in mind” or “that’s not what I wanted” or anything of the sort in response. You did not pay them. They have no obligation. Be grateful you received anything at all. If you decide to harass an artist for ANY reason at all, you are not in the right. You are making their life harder for no reason other than your own pettiness. You shouldn’t be harassing anyone, period, no matter who they are or what you want from them.

I have many, many more words to say on this topic and I am very tired and frustrated but I’m going to save that for another day because this is long enough and I have lost my patience. To everyone reading this, this is not directed at any specific person or meant to accuse those of you who are not guilty of any of these things. Most of you have been wonderful and I love you for being respectful and patient. I simply needed to speak my piece.

To anyone who decides to read this, I hope you have a wonderful day. Go out and be kind. Never forget that there is a person on the other side of the screen who deserves just as much love and respect as you do.

- Pidgeon

[teamsarawatshusband]

Day 8 - My Favorite Couple

There is no other choice than Wangxian from CQL for this one. Not sorry at all. 🥰 The hard part is explaining and picking the right pictures.

I feel like this image shows their personalities nicely. Wei Wuxian is the kind of person who will adjust to whatever obstacle he faces, just like he’ll flop down onto any surface and lounge around on it. He’s super adaptable and clever and he thinks outside the box all of the time. Lan Wangi, on the other hand, is much more rigid, very focused on posture and sticking to the rules that he was taught. He’s also very smart, but it’s difficult for him to break with set structures.

They are kind of like polar opposites in a way, but they’re also a perfect match for each other, because they compliment each other in ways that nobody else could. They are equally strong and talented. And, deep down, they both share the same world view and strive for the same goals.

This is the moment when Wangji realizes that they share the same values (cause Wuxian is a thinking-out-loud type of person who whispers his wish for world peace while standing next to the guy). It’s also the moment Wangji falls in love and accepts that Wuxian is not only a hot piece of nagging ass.

They kinda get married by accident.

I mean, not officially, but if you check the fine print, Wuxian is not allowed to touch Wangji’s headband unless he’s his spouse, so when Wangji puts it on him... it’s a done deal, even if Chinese media censorship doesn’t allow for it to be said.

It takes quite a long time for Wuxian to catch on to it being love, because he’s kinda busy saving the world and being the scapegoat for the cultivation world and feeling just generally unworthy of all good things. So we get love confessions after love confessions from Wangji, with Wuxian just staring at him cluelessly. It’s kinda cute to watch, but super painful from Wangji’s perspective.

Deep down he does love him too though. Actually, very early on in the story, Wuxian is the first one to say that Wangji is his only true match. And he’s also the first to admit that he considers Wangji his Zhiji. So he is aware of their connection and how much they mean to each other. For a long time, he just doesn’t have the time to actually go deeper into that thought process and realize what it means in regards to his feelings.

The nice thing is, until Wuxian gets there, Wangji keeps saving him again and again and again. In so many ways.

And, ultimately... they end up happy and together (maybe not on Chinese TV, but definitely between the lines and officially in the novel and, anyways, 100% in our hearts).

[jungwon-crush]

(2) home - enhypen

(listening to the song while reading the chapter is recommended~)

in a long straight path, there lined eight houses, every two faced each other. this was what i considered my  neighborhood.

the houses looked completely worn out. there were still leftover hopscotch marks in the grubby street that separated the houses, and several cracks lined the outer front walls of the homes.

i hastily ran out of one of those houses, and onto the narrow roadway. i was in a bit of a hurry -  i decided to wash myself before going to sunghoon's place because the field made me feel sticky, which means i took an extra amount of time to get ready.

as i left my terrace, i heard gates clambering to my right side.

"oh, you're late too." niki pointed out as i approached him.

"didn't know you were going to eat at sunghoon's as well."

"sunoo ran out of food," niki crankily replied, "and everyone else is having dinner there anyway, so why not? it's free carbonara, might as well take the chance because sunghoon never shares anything unless his mom forces him to."

i gasped, "the others are there too-"

"hell yeah! goo goo ga ga hoon waaaah go cry about it! we're all going to drain your food supply tonight!" niki said as he childishly hopped up and down.

"niki, please don't be too happy. there will be three people slaughtering us tonight." i shivered at the thought while we both started to walk towards sunghoon's house at the end of the pavement.

jake, heeseung, and jungwon hate waiting for people in order to eat. they're literally a foodie trio, they get grumpy when they can't have their meals right away. they also tend to blame their hysteria on the people they're waiting for. the word blame is an understatement, heeseung takes food a bit too seriously for a twenty year old.

usually, they just go ahead if they get impatient.

however, sunghoon's flight-attendant mom is supposedly back home tonight. our parents have created this sort of rule that we have to eat all-together. this rule stems from when seven year old me threw a tantrum when i found out that the boys ate fried chicken without me, so we've been kind of following it for most of our lives because the elders get upset if one of us has a temper.

niki added, "actually, four people will have ideas that involve murdering us tonight. well honestly- only three for me. four for you."

i stopped in my tracks, "what the hell are you on about?"

"jay doesn't like when others take his stuff and wear it without his permission.."

clothes. niki was referring to my clothing. i looked down just to realize that i was wearing an oversized t-shirt that had 'park 02' printed on it. it was jay's custom tee from high school.

was i in such a rush that i didn't even register that i put on jay's shirt that i had secretly stolen?

"niki- you dumbass! why would you tell me this now? we just reached sunghoon's!" i yelled at the lanky being while i harshly slapped his abdomen.

"oh so i'm the dumbass? that's what you get for being an idiot, i can't believe you're a senior!" he yelled back at me.

i rolled my eyes and hit him one more time in the gut before taking position behind him as we slipped into the entrance of sunghoon's humble abode.

"using me as a shield won't do you any help." niki sneered while he opened the front door.

i wretchedly threw my head back and followed niki's back into the wood-paneled parlor. a chatter of voices could already be heard.

we moved past a set of stairs, and eventually winded up where the dining room was.

six people, who were previously facing each other and conversing, turned towards the direction niki and were coming from. they were seated at an old-fashion table with eight cushioned chairs. four individuals were settled on the side of the table that could see the room's entrance, while two people had their back facing niki and i as we arrived.

i scanned the room and surprisingly, nobody wore an irked look.

"byeol! looking good!" a puppy-like boy grinned. at that, i made my way towards him and teasingly pulled at his dark hair. jungwon, who sat beside him, elbowed his arm and mumbled something that sounded similar to "jake, focus on your food".

sunoo gleefully waved his hands then patted the seats beside him, gesturing for niki and i to sit there. the two of us shuffled and took our seats.

i found myself directly next to sunoo, with niki at the left end of the table facing heeseung.

i wrapped my arms around sunoo, he returned my actions and drew nearer to me which made our cheeks squish against each other. i creaked, "sunoo, my only source of sunshine! how are you? it's been a while."

"it has been way too long! i have been suffering lately- because of this moron called sunghoon! for the past hour he has been talking about how he received five confessions today even though it's only the second week of him attending college. my ears are so close to falling off!" sunoo wailed dramatically.

i hugged him tighter and jokingly sniffled, "i'm so sorry, sunoo... i can't imagine what you've been going through."

while i was comforting the poor boy, a hoarse voice sarcastically rang out, "i apologize for sharing my experience of being a really attractive, warm-hearted, and extremely smart person."

i let go of the hug and looked at the being past sunoo, "you don't need to ask for forgiveness. i think we all know that you don't have any three of those qualities, so what's the point in saying sorry?"

sunghoon just scowled as a response.

heeseung snickered at our exchange before his expression became serious, "start eating, byeol. the vegetables are gonna get cold."

i titled my head in confusion. wait what? i internally thought, did he just say vegetables?

i peered at the middle of the table, where an empty bowl with remaining white sauce stood alongside a plate filled with greens.

"you guys ate without-"

"yeah, byeol. you and niki were an hour late.. what did you expect-"

i cut jungwon off, "you were the one who told me there was gonna be carbonara! and now there's none? you could have made sure that heeseung and jake wouldn't hog it all for themselves!"

jungwon bit his lower lip guiltily, "i tried... but you know how they are."

niki shook his head as he grabbed the salad, "disappointed, but not surprised."

he put some vegetables onto my plate, then took the leftovers for himself. i began to bitterly munch it while making weird faces.

"i swear they're no older than six." jay whined. "also, byeol, is that not my shirt you're wearing?" he continued.

"now now jay, it is not the time to get mad at byeol. she 's already irritated, so she'll bite back even more." heeseung advised as if he was talking about an animal.

jay annoyingly pointed at me, "you're not getting away with this type of stuff next time."

i glanced at heeseung and gave him a quick thankful look. he gave a small smile back.

"considering you guys went ahead, is your mom not here, hoon?" niki probed.

"she's out running errands, won't be back until 10." sunghoon answered.

from there, the usual night-time conversation started. we discussed about the coffee shop heeseung was running, lutton high rumours, and how jake was unexpectedly doing well with girls in college too?

"did you know that i got invited to 3 dinner dates today? hoon's not the only one attracting ladies in the university of lutton." jake smirked.

"you should have went to one then." sunoo and i retorted at the same time. we playfully nudged each other.

"well, i was going to! until i heard that byeol was joining us for dinner tonight, she hasn't eaten with us for the past week!" jake countered.

jungwon's eyes flickered to mine while i told half of the truth, "sorry, i've been tired from school recently."

niki's eyes went wide, "oh right! you're still in the photography club? i heard hwang intak's the president this year!"

"who's hwang intak?" sunghoon strangely asked. he was rarely curious about others apart from us.

jungwon and jake's ears perked up at the question as well.

"lutton high's new it boy, also known as your replacement. except he's like ten times more friendly than you." sunoo taunted.

"yeah, right." sunghoon scoffed.

jay began to clap his hands and wheeze, "i thought the girls there would be heartbroken when sunghoon graduated. they move on quickly!"

"he's actually really nice though," i insisted, "during our club meetings, he always allows me to do homework before taking pictures. he even offers to help sometimes even though he's in a different section. i wonder why."

jungwon interrupted, "he's probably one of those overly kind people."

i shrugged, " i guess? i'm the only senior in the club apart from him, so he probably understands how i feel overwhelmed with assignments and stuff-"

"or," niki interjected, "he's into byeol!"

jungwon flashed a glare at niki.

niki responded with a face that said, "what?"

heeseung pondered out loud, "that may be true, i did something similar with the girl i liked when i was part of the student council."

sunoo's mouth was agape, "ahhhhhh! that explains why he comes into our class and studies with byeol sometimes during our free periods! it all makes sense!"

"who in their right mind would actually be interested in the lunatic?" sunghoon remarked.

"you've got to admit that she occasionally looks cute."

sunghoon's ears tinged red, "jake..." he paused, "n-no i don't think that she's-"

"i'm just saying!" jake hollered as he pushed back his hair.

"can everyone shut up for a second? you guys are being overdramatic. school just started last week- how can he like me in a span of  fourteen days?" i exhaustedly let out, ignoring jake's comment.

"you never know how someone truly feels byeol, you never know.." niki uttered.

i slapped his knee aggressively, "what do you know about love, niki?"

"trust me, i know more than you." he replied, his eyes fixed on something   behind me.

i let out a final huff of annoyance. i always question how i managed to survive eighteen years with these brats.

"shoot, it's already 9:30! i'm gonna go to bed, i have early morning classes tomorrow. and so do you jake." jay got out of his seat and waved his hand at us as he left the room.

"tsch, i guess i'll get going too." jake said as he started bidding goodbyes. when he got to me, he pinched my cheeks hardly and ran out of the room with a cheeky smile before i could chase after him.

i rubbed the area where he pinched, whispering exaggerated cries of how much it hurt.

"i think it's time we all go, it's getting late. you guys still have school tomorrow, and i have to open up the café." heeseung stood up and clapped everyones shoulders.

"don't stay for too long!" he finally said as he exited.

niki ridiculed, "yes, father heeseung!"

"hey, is anyone going to watch the game tomorrow?" sunoo inquired. there was only five of us remaining. "i don't want to go alone."

"i have to go, the photography club needs to take pictures of the game." i nodded

sunoo put his two hands into a prayer position, "oh, thank the lord!"

"i'm coming too, a few of my classmates are players." niki said as he was beginning to leave, "jungwon and sunghoon, you guys should come along too, since you two are so curious about photography club president intak."

after saying that, the younger boy immediately took his leave. he didn't wait for any comments, he just yelled, "see you, tomorrow!" before he slammed the doorway.

sunghoon pointed out, "i think he left straight away because jungwon had a knife ready in his hand."

"no doubt about it, hoon." i said as i looked at an annoyed jungwon who was gripping his utensil in a very uncivil way.

"i'll come, unlike those biophysics majors, i don't have any classes tomorrow."

sunoo hooted, "good! that's good, hoon! how about you, wonnie?"

jungwon sighed, "fine. now we're done here. i'll walk you home, byeol."

sunghoon chimed, "walk her home? she lives down the street..."

jungwon pretended that he didn't hear sunghoon and moved over to me. he tried pulling me out of my place while i held onto sunoo's arm, "i'll go home only if sunoo's sleeping over! my dad's at the city again!"

"i'll stay at your house tonight, byeol! don't worry."

i let jungwon pull me up, while sunoo followed suit.

"your dad's not here again?"

"i just said that, hoon." i put my arms around sunoo and jungwon and started leading us out of the house.

"just know you can come over anytime- like always!" he called out in an uneasy tone from the dining area.

"noted!" i yelled back before sunoo closed the door behind us.

"my legs are tired, can someone carry me?" i immaturely begged.

"really? they're worn out from sitting down for two hours?" jungwon declared.

"let the girl be! you can piggyback on wonnie, byeol." sunoo beamed while ushering me to get on jungwon's back.

regardless of his displeasure, jungwon crouched down.

i jumped onto the rear part of his figure and wrapped my arms around his neck. he jumped a little as he made his posture straight again, "i actually need to stop babying you."

"i'm pretty sure you said that yesterday too." sunoo chuckled as we plodded back to my house.

taglist: @wonwobbles

a/n: this chapter is pretty long compared to the first one, so im a little proud of it! i wanted to show how byeol banters with the others and how their characters react to certain stuff to show their personality!!! heheheheh

[queen-of-my-goofball-army]

"One of my favorite brands of goofball is the intelligent goofball that can run academic laps around everyone else around them. They're able to use their brains but also info dump and are just the absolute sweetest beans to ever exist." (Me)

Now you might ask me, Dot are you really allowed to do two Rob Paulsen characters right after each other? To which I reply, yes because it's *my* opinion and I was obsessed with this show when I was in middle school and early high school. I also still carry a lot of affection for this version of my favorite turtle other than that little fact that he's voiced by the legend himself.

This one also has a bit of a story to it as to why I love him so much. When I was 12 I was just starting to get into the idea of karate. It went hand in hand with my newfound love of anime. When I was doing karate I learned how to use a bo-staff. I always felt like this combination of Rafiki from Lion King and Donatello. At the time I also had a gap between my teeth. I mentioned this to Rob Paulsen during my first talk with him that I had a gap there before I got it covered up with an implant. For years I learned heavily on my love of Donatello because of this problem that I had. I had never seen another character quite like him that had the same tooth issue that I did. Now tooth gaps in cartoons are everywhere but when I was a kid, I had Spongebob and that was it.

Whew, now with the slight backstory out of the way let's talk about Donnie because I have quite a bit to say about 2012 Donnie. This is my favorite version of the character in all honesty. I have enjoyed other versions like Rise of TMNT but nobody did him quite as good as they did with the 2012 show. The only "flaw" I think that most people found was his love of April which I actually didn't mind so much. I thought that it was cute and it suited his character!

Part of the reason that I love him is voice acting related but not *entirely* I think that Rob was the best at the info dumping Donnie. When he just gets so excited about the technology that he's seeing that he has to try and explain it so that his brother's can at least see where he's coming from only to hear the long suffering sigh of those listening that's how I feel about my info dumping. It's constantly like this I'm going to go off on this tangent now and I usually can't stop unless somebody stops me themselves. Rob's voice suited him just perfectly being that pitch perfect blend of nerdy mixed with actual badassary to back it up. Whenever I go back and rewatch the show, even though he couldn't voice him the entire time, I still loved what he was able to do with the character. He was able to bring so much charm, lovability, and nerdiness to his portrayal of the intellectual turtle.

I also think that this is the best that I've ever seen from him as a character. I used to adore when it was a Donatello centric episode especially when it was just him and Mikey. B Team was easily my favorite part of the show and the interactions that I loved the most (I also think it's because that Donnie did the least amount of Mikey slapping). The writing was the perfect blend with his irritation and frustration instead of just making it seem like he just randomly blows up it's this build. This is my levels of irritation. When I get really irritated it's this constant build.

His ability to be intelligent with this perfect mixture of sarcasm and genuine will to help those around him. The idea of him being sarcastic was at it's peak here. I feel like Rise went a bit too heavy on the sarcasm that he didn't seem like he was at his most lovable a lot of the time. Not that I didn't enjoy what Rise of TMNT did with the character but that was one of the rare occurrences where I had a different favorite turtle.

Ever since I was 12 this character has been there for me. I loved him then and I still love him to this day. Every time I look at my Donatello print that Rob Paulsen signed for me I get this wave of nostalgia and childhood flashbacks coming home from a bad day and having a snack while this show was on. It always made me feel better and part of me will always be grateful for Donatello 2012 for that.

[nam-nam-joon]

follow me

Pairing: lucas/wong yukhei x reader

Genre: meet cute; rich kids AU

Wordcount: 10.6k

Warnings: lots of swearing; yukhei punches someone

Summary: one word is all it takes, and the opaque glass dome surrounding him cracks, and then there's you peeking in through the opening.

notes: i started this in february '19, when i was in san fran, and very much walking through the fashion district and marvelling at the sketches in the boutique windows of dior, and watching the actual rich people around there. and i've loved @stormae​ 's rich kid AUs for so long, i wanted to try and write my own :)

The first time he sees you, he doesn’t know it’s you yet.

And he also doesn’t see you, not really.

That is, his mind registers a person crouching off to the side as he steps up to the crossing, one hand in his pant’s pocket, the fingers of the others lazily curled around the thin velvet strings of a small bag, carrying a bottle of the expensive scent his mother always leaves a hint of wherever she goes.

That she forgot at home before this trip, and sent him to fetch for her, because of course they didn’t take Doyoung with them for this weekend trip to the fundraiser in the city by the bay.

And in lieu of their usual boy-for-everything, the next best thing is of course their own son.

He doesn’t mind.

It gives him an excuse to saunter around the streets of the high society neighbourhood their hotel is located in, somewhere among the sparkling city lights of downtown.

A breath escapes him.

It is a city like any other. The only difference with this one are the light buildings and summer etched into every corner and crevice, even though the temperatures aren’t quite there at this time of the year.

Running his mother's errand gives him an excuse to breathe in the air that smells of big city, of a million different foods, like gasoline and a bit of freedom, too.

When he walks the streets like this he can be nobody. Just another face in the crowd - a very expensively dressed crowd, but nonetheless. Here he doesn’t have a name, doesn’t have watchful eyes on him scrutinizing his every move, like his father likes to do. Noone there to clutch at his arm and whisper harsh words to him, in a tongue foreign to most of those surrounding them, behind the back of those who take selfies with their new purchases safely tucked into bags that boast the name of brands. His mother’s words are unforgiving about anyone falling outside her perception of no less than perfection, of people like his father and his colleagues, and ultimately, him and his friends.

Because, really, they’re the next generation of perfect people, carefully raised and curated by the last generation of perfect people.

But then there’s movement from the end of his field of vision and you step into it from the right, hand brushing back a few stray hairs that escaped into places they're not meant to be in and the first thing he sees is the way the headlights of passing cars momentarily create a glowing circle around your head, the way the traffic lights tint your face into a multitude of colours, and his eyes, usually so fleeting and only ever interested in the horizon, can’t let go.

They slip down your body with a practiced ease that has been second nature longer than he can think.

He doesn’t know anything about you other than you look absolutely ethereal bathed in the unassuming shine of artificial light.

But then his gaze runs down the length of your body and he comes up empty handed. Not one piece of clothing that you’re wearing bears the label of a designer he’s familiar with.

The washed out pants are rolled up over the worn out converse, there’s the hint of a flannel peeking out beneath your open jacket that seems just light enough to not cause sweat on this early spring's evening. The model of your phone is that from four years ago, but that’s all he can recognize.

Although it tells him enough.

And yet…

Another vespa zips by and in its headlight something at your belly blinks up. A small flutter spreads through his stomach as he takes in the knobs and levers, the metal and beaten black plastic. The long lens with its round cover and your left hand protectively curled around the whole creation, cradling it so close that he can’t think other than to immediately assume it’s just a part of you.

“Hey.” He says, before his brain can stop his mouth. It comes out low and even, a smirk playing around his lips.

The light switches to green, after what feels like an eternity, and you begin to walk before turning your head in his direction.

But instead of the million little things he is so used to hearing in return to one of his “Hey”'s - you don’t say anything. You just look at him and smile, you look into his eyes and smile. And then your gaze leaves him, without a second look, without scanning him. Without seeing him.

It has the smirk threat to slip for a second.

“So, uh, I noticed your camera. You really like photography, huh? Is it a hobby of yours?”

You stop at the next corner and turn into the direction of the setting sun flooding the street that gently slopes down in front of you, lift the camera and keep quiet for a moment. His gaze is fixed on the way your fingers turn a ring close to where the lens meets the rest of the camera, making adjustments, before your body seems to freeze for the fraction of a second that it takes until the camera clicks and you lower it.

Your eyes meet his again and he notes how your right hand automatically turns a little lever, a ticking noise emitting from the case in your hands for the duration of the movement.

“Yeah, you could say that. But I mostly just like to take pics of pretty things, or things I like. It’s not really- Not like I earn money with it or so.”

He nods. “Been here before? In the city, I mean." Then he adds. "I’m Lucas, by the way.”

He waits, one step ahead of you, until you put the cover back over the lens and slowly catch up to him.

“_______. And nah, First time for me. You?”

“Me neither. You like it?”

“It’s alright.” The grin on your face screams that your passive tone is a lie, and his lips curl into a grin until you crack and join in. “Yeah, I love it. Been here for a week now and am still finding new favourite spots every day. What about you? Here for a vacation?”

If only, he thinks, as his eyes catch on the dark clouds opposing the radiant sunset.

“Family trip.” He says instead.

“Oh, awesome! I’d love to have my fam here now- it would be so nice to go sightseeing with them. Where have you been already?”

His eyes trail back to yours, slightly irritated at the energy you just revealed, and the passion behind your words when speaking of the people that created you.

“Just arrived today.” He says, and it’s only half a lie. But he doesn’t know how to explain that his parents aren’t the type to go sightseeing with their offspring; that the idea of his mother in her Manolo’s strutting over the local tourist hot spot bridge is… bizarre.

“Oh, okay.” You say, and he can sense the slight dent his answer gave your enthusiasm. “Well… where do you wanna go? What stuff are you here for to see?”

You add, after he keeps quiet for a moment while trying to come up with a smooth save.

“The… bridge.” He says, as it is the first thing falling into his head. A knowing smile has your eyes glinting, like you are somehow able to see through him.

It has an uncomfortable feeling spread inside him - the pretense he always dresses in to keep his parents - his friends, everyone around him - happy so much more important than some pretty person his mind couldn’t let go of after laying eyes on.

The subdued panic wells up in his chest. He briefly considers walking off, especially now that your head is tilted down and his feet are in your direct line of sight.

The black sock sneakers carry the little printed letters that spell ‘Balenciaga’ along the outer sides, their low rise only allowing a thin slip of skin to show around his ankles before the elastic band of his pants covers the rest of the leg that the sun touched with a tan again, now that he’s away from the snow of winter.

He almost holds his breath.

All of his friends are like him.

Young, good looking.

Wealthy.

You’re no less good-looking and yet as different to him as night is to day.

Your eyeliner is a bit messy towards the outer corners of your eyes, like you had wiped at it, forgetting it was there. There’s frizz making short hairs stand up over the rest of where it is kept together. He can see it’s been a while since you last plucked your eyebrows, but all of it contributes to an image that is so much more human than what he’s used to.

You’re not proper,  with skin smooth as if airbrushed like the girls his mother wants him to converse with at events, you have your camera to snap keepsakes of your travels, alone, in a city that is not your own.

You’re walking these streets without fear, and without caring that almost everyone else here is dressed in clothes that, a single item alone, probably costs more than all of yours combined.

There is something fierce inside you that he catches a glint of as a Tesla purrs by and your eyes flash over the car; the way your eyebrows quip upwards for a moment and your lips purse, and suddenly he feels awfully aware of what he’s wearing.

Of how confident you look, how comfortable, without a single brand name lining your side.

Your eyes meet his again, and this time, they stay longer. Flit around and take in all his features before you open your mouth and the spark of mischief beautifully adorns your expression.

“I know the perfect place to see the bridge. Wanna come?”

“Wh- Now?” His eyes fly to the smart watch on his wrist, the time ticking away, and the notification that his mother send him a message, asking about her perfume.

“Yeah. Now. Unless you got somewhere else to be?”

He has. He really has.

“Uh… can I meet you sometime later? Like… eleven, maybe?”

Is that disappointment on your face?

“Ah, I see. Sorry for going in like that, I thought… Nevermind. Hey, look, if you need to go, I won’t keep you.”

This expression he knows, although it’s strange to see on your soft, warm face that holds no trace of the practiced smiles and pleased looks that cover the features of him and his friends. You’re pulling back, distancing yourself.

He swallows down the panic that rises in the pit of his stomach against all the rules and mental restrictions he built over the course of miserable years of splendor and grandeur; the very same walls you crept around and instantly closer to his soul than anyone since his childhood nanny.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I really do want to go with you. It’s just- My parents- I have to bring this to them, and they’ll expect-”

He notices, notices the way your eyes catch on the little bag he holds up, and it’s a pinprick into his chest as he remembers the triple digits he paid for with his travel credit card.

But then your eyes touch his again, and they’re not hard, not unforgiving, not condescending. Just curious.

He gapes at you as you look up at him without a single wrinkle of displeasure on your face.

And in that moment he makes a decision.

“You know what, fuck my parents.” He steps around you and lifts a hand, a cab setting its blinker almost immediately to respond to his call. “I’ll bring this to them and then we can go to see the bridge.”

He pauses with the door held open, wondering why you’re still standing on the sidewalk, camera in hand.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I don’t really have money for taxis.”

He furrows his brows and puts one arm over the door. “It’s alright, I’ll pay. Don’t worry about it.”

When you slip into the seat next to him he tells the driver the address of his parent’s hotel and the car leaves the curb.

“Four Seasons, huh.” You say flatly.

“Yeah. My mother won’t stay at any other.”

It comes out matter of fact, and he has to look over to see the shadow of a grin around your lips before he realizes your sarcasm is such a subtle tease he didn’t pick up on it at first.

“Are you sure they won’t kick me out?”

He brushes past the portier opening the glass door for you, but as he turns around to look back at you he catches you mouthing a thank-you at the young man in the neatly pressed uniform.

“Of course they wouldn’t. Just- just wait here, okay? I’ll be back in a sec.”

You grin and shake your head.

“Hey Lucas!” You call out then, as he waits in front of the elevator. “Wear something plain, okay?”

“Where do you think you’re going.” Comes the voice from his father, stern and with the disapproval so expertly woven into it that he has long since stopped hearing it.

“Out.” He says flatly, picking up his leather jacket he left draped over one of the chairs on his mother’s side of the bed on his way out, back down to you after switching pants and shoes. The flask with perfume is safely clutched in his mother’s hand. It clinks against the marble vanity as she sets it down.

��Lucas! We have an event scheduled, you cannot be-”

“That’s not my name!” He interrupts the higher voice of his mother, his own voice suddenly spiking.

It’s the name _______ knows you by, an evil little voice whispers in his head that he shoves down.

“That’s not my name.” He repeats into the heavy silence after his outburst, more controlled. “Don’t pretend you care about me being there with you, I would just get in your way, as usual. Have fun getting drunk.”

The heavy oak door cuts off his parent’s voices, the nagging one of his mother and the scolding one of his father.

When he rips the clean, neat button down off of him it almost feels like he's shedding a layer that reeks of his parents. He dumps it in one of the artfully concealed trash bins and tugs the white tee shirt he's wearing underneath out of his pants.

He knows he’ll pay for this little act of rebellion, this act of defiance, but when he leans his head against the cool tiles in the elevator, he doesn’t find it in himself to care.

You greet him with crossed legs sitting on one of the decorative, uncomfortable couches in the lobby, the latest Vogue open on your lap.

“Finally. The receptionist was creeping their hand closer to the phone to call the cops on me by the minute.” You grumble, and it’s really not your fault, but he tips his head back and laughs.

He catches you as you eye the plain white shirt, the leather jacket over his arm. Your eyebrows rise as you take note of his shoes - the Balenciaga’s are gone, replaced with a pair of Adidas, so new they practically sparkle.

“What.” He ducks his head to meet your gaze, but you refuse to meet his as you exit the hotel.

“Just look at you. I can’t take you anywhere like this, people will think we’re super good targets to mug and then leave in a ditch. Here, put this on. And give me your jacket.”

He’s too baffled to refuse to take the flannel you just shrugged out of. It’s still warm when he takes it, and it smells more like the scent he only caught a trace of when you sat next to him. He draws a deep breath and hopes you won't notice.

It’s big, at least for you, but on him, it fits. Out of your backpack you conjure up a smaller, slouchier bag, littered with patches that carry unknown town’s names. A water bottle and a polaroid camera find their new home in it, before you stuff your own jacket into the bigger bag and hand it to him. He takes it, again, slinging his arms through the hoops and adjusting them so they fit him.

“C’mon, bend down a little, won’t ya? I’m not a giant like you.”

He complies against his better judgement, cautious eyes under worrying eyebrows keeping track of your facial features, watching out for any trace of malice that might appear as you come close.

It's all he can do to not flinch too heavily when you lift your arm.

Your hand ruffling through his hair, messing up the slicked-back look, catches him off-guard and he’s left to stare at your face in wonder after you lean back, satisfaction radiating from you.

“There, better. Now you’re just a backpacker like me, with fresh splurged-on shoes. Let’s go.”

He offers to take another cab, to wherever you want to go, but you simply shake your head.

“Half the fun is getting there.” You tell him and his burning calves as you climb what is possibly the steepest street he’s ever encountered.

He admires the way you push forward, always half a step in front of him. At the top you look back to where he’s briefly catching his breath, beckoning him forward with a smile.

His jacket looks good on you, he notices. The sleeves are so long that you can make paws out of them, and in the fresh, almost cold evening air, you do, which he thinks is adorable. In a good way.

It takes longer than he thought, from the bustling core of the fashion district across town. You lead him through the criss-crossing streets, point at stuff, and show him things he’d never notice otherwise.

It’s long since pitch black dark before he’s following you through a patch of trees, down a slight slope.

“You sure this is the way? I-”

“Yeah! It’s just one more corner, bridge should be there then, don’t you fret! I’d never lead you astray.”

Doubt sparks sharply in his thoughts, but he fights it down.

He doesn’t know you, not really, he reminds himself; even after a cab ride and a trek across the city spent talking, but it’s this or the fundraiser.

His breath stinging his sides or his mother's manicured fingers pinching him to keep him from slouching.

The refreshing air, heavy with moisture and the smell of trees, or the stuffy warmth that has him light headed without any alcohol - that is saturated with perfumes so thickly he could cut it into pieces.

He steps in a puddle and his adidas aren’t so white anymore, he’s pretty sure he walked himself a blister somewhere and the cold is beginning to seep in, after the hills of the city are behind you

“Lucas! You coming?”

The name is another setback, another pinprick, but he jogs up to where your voice comes from.

The sky behind the trees is oddly red, as if a great light is illuminating the clouds.

He’s only reached you when you already turn, and he wants to call out for you to stop, wait up, and then…

And then he sees the bridge.

The two towers rise high into the night’s sky, six streams of cars flow between them, one side white, one red lights.

It connects the curving street to the dark mountains across the water, where the trail of light vanishes between the sloping tops.

“It’s good, eh?” You smile up at him, suddenly back by his side. He nods and swallows, unable to look away.

The sight shouldn’t be special, he’s seen bridges like these lit up all over the world, so why is this one so breathtaking?

He hears the snap of the shutter, the clicking of the film being turned, once, twice.

He turns his head just in time to hear it click a third time, and he needs a moment before he realizes the last picture definitely has him in it.

“Hey! Did you take a picture of me?”

“So what if I did?” Your grin is shit-eating wide, and he feels himself give in.

“-That’s not allowed.” He says for a lack of anything better when it looks like you’re still waiting for an answer.

You laugh and turn to the front, admiring the sight again.

The countless headlights sparkle in your eyes, the red glow shining on your face.

He gets the urge to snap a picture as well, and in that moment understands you a little bit.

This close, shoulder to shoulder, the details of your face stand out differently.

He should say something, break the silence that’s stretching uncomfortably between you, but there’s nothing coming to his mind.

You turn your head and meet his eyes, and deep down he dreads the comments that will come, about him staring, about him not conversing, about him being rude.

But all you do is smile up at him like he’s the nicest thing you've seen all day, and inch a bit closer.

“It’s cold, no?” He breathes in, breaking eye-contact in favour of the dark water and the park spreading out around you.

“You want your jacket back?” You’re already lowering your backpack’s strings before his hand catches yours, pauses your movement.

“No, no it’s fine.”

“You sure? I can handle it, I’ve got my own jacket. You don’t have to be all tough, don’t wanna get you sick.”

“Trust me, I’m good.” His hand lowers, and he smiles.

“No it’s not!” You speak up, catching his palm in your own. “You’re all clammy! Here, take your jacket back and give me mine, c’mon.”

No matter how much he protests, you don’t take no for an answer, and fifteen minutes later he’s begrudgingly trotting along the beach on the other side of the street, back towards the city, wearing his own jacket.

Your connected hands gently swing between you.

Now and then you sigh, and then take a breath as if wanting to say something, but then you don’t and he’s left to wonder.

The moon breaks through the clouds now and then, bathing the wide walkway in silver-grey light, and then shrouds itself again.

“What’s on your mind?” He brings out, after another sigh of yours.

Your eyes meet his, your face open even though you’re biting on your lip and struggle with words.

But he meant what he said, doesn’t look away, even stops and tugs you to follow his example.

“I’m just,” You begin, looking off into the distance. “Every vacation comes to an end. Guess I’m both relieved and sad about it at once.”

“When do you go back?” He can’t believe he hasn’t asked until now.

“Next week.”

“That’s still some time.”

“I know. It’s what I keep telling myself, but… Time flies. One moment you’re arriving in a new city and the next you find yourself leaving. Life is so fast sometimes and it’d be nice to... Live slow. You know?”

Oh, he knows.

He’s never known anything slow.

The cars he and his friends drive are fast, whenever one of those friends takes an interest in a girl or a boy or anyone, really, they’re fast to proclaim their love and date and then fast to break up. The planes that are bringing him from city to city are fast, the way he only has to tap his plastic on the card reader and it rings up his purchase, fast.

But you’re slow.

You walk, everywhere, you tell him, and he listens. You talk slow, too, there’s a lot of breaks between your sentences, he learns, and occasionally you’ll pick up a topic to talk about that he thought you’d finished already and moved on from, just to add another perspective he hadn’t considered.

The ocean is slow, too, with the waves rolling on the sandy beach and barely grazing the stone steps you sat down on to watch the water.

“Can I lean into your side for a while? I’m not feeling so well.” You say quietly, barely above the wind and the waves.

He turns his head, takes in how your eyes are a bit distant, staring out over the rippling surface.

Instead of answering he puts his arm around your shoulders, shuffles closer until the length of his thigh touches yours and he can tug you into the side of his body.

Both your arms snake around his waist, under his jacket, and because it is right there and not doing it seems weird, he leans his cheek on the top of your head.

This is fast, too, he muses, cuddling the same day you met; but his sore feet and the hours of walking around and talking make it seem like he's known you for longer.

He can’t remember any of his friends ever having talked so much with him.

The bar in the basement of the hostel is loud, filled to the brim with people, there’s music pumping between the walls and he doesn’t know anyone but you.

You vanish to put away your bags and even though this is a place he should feel more comfortable in, he doesn’t.

Maybe it’s because it’s not so dark that he can still see everyone, and everyone can still see him, and everyone is dressed much like you, if not a little more shabby and run-down.

He’s stood by the bar, waiting for two small colas, because they don’t sell the champagne he usually goes for.

“That’ll be nine bucks mate.”

He waits for the clerk to put the card reader out for him, and when the guy doesn’t, he feels the annoyance bubbling up.

“Card?” He says, irritated.

“Sorry buddy, cash only.”

“What?!”

“‘scuse me says so up front.” The guy shrugs, hands inching closer to take the cheap plastic cups away.

“I got it!”

He turns and you’re back, with hair fresh up and shockingly clothed with just a single t-shirt. Gone are the layers and layers from before, and it's like you're a different person.

You put a note with a ten on it down on the counter, politely say thank you upon receiving your change and then turn, handing one cup to him.

He feels strange, still riled up because of the embarrassment and because you were the one to save him, and because you seem to not find fault in that, just smile and take a sip.

“I’m Yukhei.” He blurts out.

Your eyebrows twitch closer together. “I’m ________.” You repeat.

“No, I mean… That’s my name.” He shifts, uncomfortable.

“And Lucas?”

“That’s… That’s my western name. The one my parent’s call me by. But… Yukhei is my real name.” He takes a sip as well, almost cringing at the sugary taste.

“Do you prefer Lucas or Yukhei?” You take another sip, and your eyes are so soft again.

“-Yukhei.” He answers, looking into them.

“Come on guys, make some room for Yukhei and me alright?”

He preens, unseen by anyone but himself, under the way you call his name, and he takes another sip, almost used to the taste by now.

Under a lot of shuffling and grumbling the present people free up a tiny space on the bench and you motion for him to sit down.

As soon as his butt hits the worn out wood, he finds you in his lap, using him as a seat for yourself.

The hand not busy holding his drink comes up to your hip by instinct, he looks up at you out of wide eyes, lips twitching but finding no words for the bold move.

He's had people grinding down on him in clubs everywhere, this shouldn't feel different. It does. This is so much more intimate.

“Everything alright? If I get too heavy I can get off?” You turn and are a lot closer to him than he thought, noses almost touching.

“Huh? Uh, no, I’m good, don’t- Don’t worry. Is this okay for you?”

You nod, half listening to a conversation happening at the table again.

Over the course of the next hour you go and refill your own and his cups, with fanta this time, which he likes a bit better. Every time you come back to him he looks up at you and expects you to demand a seat for your own now, but every time you shuffle back into his lap. The hand on your hip slowly extends each time until you take his fingers and drag them over until his arm is lying around your belly.

His chin is on your shoulder whenever you’re there, but he mostly listens and doesn’t contribute to the chats much.

To his surprise his trips to Tokyo, Monaco or Dubai sound a lot less glamorous, exciting and adventurous compared to what some of the people here, not even much older, can talk about.

One backpacked his whole way down the Rocky Mountains, across a whole continent; another hasn’t been home in two years and is looking to get another visa somewhere else already.

One has just arrived from their plane coming in from the other coast, and another travelled all of the north and is now looking for something a little more southern.

He learns that you’ve been to quite a few places yourself, listen intently as you recall memorable moments and rant about impossible people you’ve come across.

He squeezes once after a loud round of laughter has mostly died down, and even though you’re currently talking to a girl diagonally across from you, your own hand comes up to cover his and squeeze back, and he doesn’t think twice about it but knows you heard him, told him to hang in there.

Once you’ve both said your words you turn to him, curiosity on your face. The way you’re sat, twisted, is a little unstable and so you put a hand on his shoulder, to keep steady.

“Hm?”

“Where’s the bathroom here?”

“Ha? Oh, it’s through that door, on the left side, you just have to follow- Do you want me to show you?”

He feels silly, already mentally beating himself up about not being man’s enough to just go, but already you’ve stood up, linked your hands and are pulling him along.

“You okay? You’ve been so quiet?”

He feels like his ears are half deaf, now, in the silent hallway after the door to the bar shuts.

“Just… tired.” He avoids your question, but not entirely, either.

“Shit, you arrived today, I forgot… Hey if you wanna get out of here just tell me.”

He nods and mirrors your smile before pushing open the door to the washroom.

You’re still there when he comes out again, leaned against the wall, tapping on your phone.

“All done.” He announces, bouncing his hands by his hips, and you smile at the cute voice he puts on.

"Wanna go back inside? Or have enough yet."

He rubs a hand over his neck and looks to the side.

"I think I can stomach another cola. Or fanta. How much do I owe you?"

You shake your head and wave a hand.

"I’ll send you a bill, pretty boy. Come now, don’t think you get a lot of chances at getting out of your ivory tower to mingle among the common folk, eh."

He wants to open his mouth and disagree, and then he doesn't

You squeeze his hand and part with him before you get back to the table, motioning in the direction of the bar and likely referring to the last drink he mentioned, and he nods and goes to sit back down.

You join him soon after, leaning forward a bit to squeeze between the table and his legs, and over your shoulder he catches the leer of one of the guys that’s been eyeing you a little too much all evening.

But you don’t seem to notice and so he clenches his hand into a fist and presses it against the wood.

Soon after, one of the girls from the right side of the table puts her drink down and gestures towards him.

“What about you, where are you from? You staying in the hostel as well?”

He answers, as best as he can, and he’s had a lifetime of dodging and carefully evading clear answers and if the others are aware of him shifting the topic of conversation around and asking for more travel stories of them, they don’t say anything.

You wiggle out if his lap and whisper you’ll use the restroom really quick and that he better not dare to run off, and then your reassuring weight is gone and he’s alone at the table but it feels safer than sitting at one of the round tables of a gala, with crystalline flutes of bubbling liquid and stiff jackets all around.

The door to the hallway closes behind you and the guy from before turns to the person next to him, an ugly grin spread on his face, and says something low on his breath. Following a sudden impulse he gets up to head to the reception of the hostel upstairs and doesn’t really hear the spoken words, and part of him doesn’t want to, and another part strains his ears to pick it up nonetheless.

When he comes back the same girl who’d asked before directs another friendly question at him and his attention momentarily slips.

But not for long.

His eyes find the door when you push it open again, and in the same moment he hears the two guys clearly.

“..._______ such a slut.”

At once the anger is back and his fingers flex.

“What?” He says, and it’s louder than anything else he’s said this evening. The others at the table pause in their chat, and he feels eyes on him. “What did you just say?”

The guy glances around and then leans back, fake confidence mixing with real one.

“I said what I said. Cute ass, too.”

“Apologize!”

The guy pulls a face. “Why should I? She isn’t here and it’s not like she didn't have it coming-”

He’s on his feet before he can blink and then there’s a sharp pain on his knuckles and the guy is curling forward, pressing a hand to his mouth and cursing.

Right afterwards the guy rises to his feet, and to his satisfaction Yukhei notes that he’s a couple inches taller than the asshole, a little broader too, even though the other guy looks like he packs more muscle.

“You wanna fuckin’ go?” The guy hisses, red seeping between his teeth and eyes glinting.

“Apologize and we won’t have to.” He growls, hand still clenched.

"Yukhei!"

He hears you exclaim into the awful silence that suddenly fills the dingy space, but the adrenaline is rushing in his veins, his blood loud in his ears.

"Stop it!"

"Do you know what he called you? How he’s talking about you behind your back?"

The fury about someone reducing you to a glimpse, a fraction of who you really are, just based on your shirt slipping a little too low-

As if he isn’t just as bad.

Giving you a once-over upon first seeing you, running a mental checklist of brands you were sporting, how compatible your styles were.

He knows how shallow him and his friends, but especially his mother and father are. And maybe that's why his anger is boiling over now, roiling in his stomach. Because he knows he's no better, because in just a couple of hours spent with you he's lived so much more than in the months preceding this trip alone.

But there's your hand on his elbow, the warm skin of your palm as your fingers weave between his, and even though the asshole is still dabbing at his busted lip, sneering so ugly, he lets you. Lets you tug him away, out between the people staring from their seats, into the weird hallway and up the flight of stairs.

"You really don't care that guy called you that? For no reason, at all?"

He doesn't mean to sound this accusing, this hurt that you rejected his offer to stand up for you. At the top of the stairs you turn back, fingers twitching in their hold on his hand. He looks down into your face when he comes to a rest next to you, rubs his thumb over the back of your hand once.

"Of course I care." You blink, and he worries his eyebrows because he doesn't understand. "I don't like being labelled like that, by assholes like him. But it happens all the time. And even if I would've spoken up about it, which I would have, by the way, that- speaking up should have been enough. I'm not going to fucking deck a guy just because he can't handle me showing as much skin as I want. Worse things have happened."

"But-"

"I appreciate it, you standing up for me. But you don’t have to, I can handle it alone.”

The words of protest are heavy on his tongue but he swallows them down.

“I think we need some fresh air.”

He hears you mumble.

The clouds that move across the expanse of darkness above are the colour of rust. 

He’s quiet again, but for a different reason than before.

Now and then he sneaks glances at you, wondering when it would be a good time to open his mouth again.

You lead him, again, around corners and across streets until he’s lost his way for sure and could only find his way back by taking a cab.

Then again, he was sort of lost as soon as you brought him out of the fashion district already, so this isn’t that much of a change.

“Hey, you hungry?” You ask suddenly, stopping in front of a fast food restaurant. “I’m hungry. Let’s go in.”

He doesn’t object.

The cup of ice cream he got with your enthusiastic approval is nice and cool against his bruised knuckles.

Through half a pack of crispy golden fries already he sees you pause, with your gaze locked on his hand.

“It’s not-”

He starts, after you swallow and he practically hears you complain already.

“It doesn’t hurt, don’t worry. I’m sorry- I- I’m not sorry about hitting the guy. He deserved it. I’m sorry he said that about you.”

You close your mouth and take a sip of the drink. Just one shared cup, without a lid or straw, because you said there is enough plastic in the oceans already.

You look away from him, put the cup down and reach for his hand.

He wants to object and pull it away but you glare at him and he doesn’t want to upset you further and so he lets you examine it.

There’s a soft, barely there touch to his raw knuckles and his eyes are darting back in time to see you put the most careful of kisses first to where the skin is sensitive, and then to the back of his hand.

He feels himself calm down. It’s like his entire being is solely focused in this moment in your touch. For just a moment nothing else matters.

You lean back and sigh, not letting go of his hand.

“What am I gonna do with you, hm.”

He hopes it’s a question you don’t intend him to answer, because there are no words coming to his mind.

He holds the door open for you as you exit the 24 hour restaurant. The air here in the city is a little less crisp than out at the bridge, but it’s still fresher than inside. His legs ache, and the soles of his feet burn, reminding him of the amount of walking he’s done trailing after you today and then there’s the flight from the morning and he’s very suddenly very tired.

So much so he stumbles and bumps your shoulder, even.

“Hey, Yukhei? You okay?”

And you look at him again, with your eyes so soft, and his hand clenches around the bandana you got out from who knows where and wrapped around his knuckles as a makeshift bandage.

“Just tired.” He whispers, head filled with the image of your face lit up by the restaurant’s neon signs beside you two and the glow of the streetlights to the other side.

“Maybe that’s a sign to head to bed then.” You grin at him, but despite your words, there’s no flirtatious meaning behind them, no other intention than innocent honesty.

“Would you like to come back to my hotel?” He blurts out, hand curling around your bandana over his palm, feeling the tightness of it and the small pain as it stretches over his skin.

There’s doubt on your face.

“The four seasons? With your parents? I don’t know…”

“We could get a room at another hotel. Without my parents. Just… us.”

And he doesn’t mean anything else than what he just said either and instead he’s silently hoping, wishing, you won’t leave him. Not yet. Not like this.

You smile.

“Are you paying?”

“Of course.”

The smile widens into a grin.

“You’re cute when you make puppy-eyes. Okay fine, I’ll bite. Where are we going?”

“To catch a cab.” He huffs. “My feet are killing me.”

“New shoes,” You whistle and pat his arm affectionately. “Yeah, I’m praying for your feet man.”

The big black expensive wooden door clicks close behind him almost without sound.

He doesn’t care.

It’s not the Four Seasons, it’s the next best thing, but the room he left his card for at the front desk is bigger than the dingy bar at the hostel alone, and his chest warms at the sight of awe on your face.

“You have got to be kidding me.” He hears, and turns from the panorama window overlooking the city to see you resurfacing from the bathroom.

You’re holding on to the door frame and seem to be caught between anger and wonder.

“There's a bathtub the size of a fucking swimming pool in here. The fuck. And-” You lift a hand and he sees a bottle of lotion or shampoo in your grasp. “This shit costs sixty bucks! What the entire hell.”

He grins, and it’s one he settles into easily, one of the million-dollar-smiles that are his trademark.

“Like what you see?” He lifts an eyebrow.

You shake your head and put the bottle down, gingerly, as if it isn’t made of plastic and would probably survive a good toss across the room.

The mahogany floating cupboards you pull open reveal a set of bath robes and pyjamas so soft you push your face into the first shirt you pull out, turn to him and shake your head again.

“Wanna take a swim in the bath-pool?” He asks, because he feels the exhaustion with every move, settling deeper  into his bones.

You nod and follow him as he crosses the room.

The tub is big, he thinks, but not the biggest he’s seen or even been in. He turns the faucet on and even in here the windows reach from ceiling to floor, allowing glimpses of the streets far below.

You shoo him out to get in first.

The foam is so thick he has to search for your face upon coming back in.

He hears you giggling and then a portion of it moves and there’s your smiling face.

“Come in, it’s amazing.”

He’s reaching for the belt around his robe and you cover your eyes like a child. It feels weird, being allowed such privacy, when all the other girls he’s usually around would eat up any and all chances at seeing him.

He sinks into the foam, on the other end of the tub, because you only agreed to this if he kept his distance and there was no ‘accidental’ touching involved.

He can’t seem to bring himself to mind.

Every other girl he would have met somewhere, in a club or else, and they’d have at least rolled in the sheets once by now. But not you. It feels more thrilling than he could have expected.

“What are you thinking about?” Comes your voice and then a tiny mountain of bubbles gets parted and he’s able to see your face again after sinking into the water.

He shrugs, because that is his go-to answer.

“No thoughts, head empty?” There’s a quirk around your smile like he’s supposed to know what it means but he just nods.

“Tired.” He says, and only after it leaves him does he realize how often he’s said it.

“Are you, really?” You ask, and your voice is softer than before. “Putting what you feel into words is difficult.”

“Yeah, it is.” He agrees, and cups a handful of foam between his palms. “I don’t know. I don’t really need to say what I feel, if I shrug or say that I don’t know, it’s enough for people.”

His eyes glaze over.

“And right now? I mean, you’re tired, but what else is in you?”

“Huh?”

You gesticulate but you're a bit out of focus.

“I, for example, I’m tired too, but also happy because I got to show you the bridge, and I’m in awe at being here, in a hotel room bigger than a house, in a tub with a cute boy I met this afternoon. There’s more, but just, you know?”

He puts an effort into blinking and clearing his eyes, and turns your words over in his head.

“I feel… Tired from travelling, and from my parents wanting me to be like them and going to the fundraiser with them and be seen as their perfect son. I’m… Seeing the bridge was nice. No, not nice, it was… Amazing. It shouldn’t be but it was one of the nicest- most amazing things I’ve ever seen. I liked watching the ocean with you, I felt… Like I could pause and take a breath. This is nice, too. Sharing the tub but not… doing anything.”

He shuts his mouth and it’s strange how light his chest feels suddenly.

“Wow.” It slips out.

Across the foam, you smile at him.

You make him get out of the bath first, cover your eyes again and tell him to leave the room so you can come out, too, but then after you come out looking scrubbed clean and fluffy wrapped in your bathrobe, he goes back in to wash the gel out if his hair and the metaphorical dust of travelling off his skin.

You’re watching the skyline when he re-emerges, smelling like the expensive shampoo and lotion the hotel supplies.

The spaghetti top fits you nicely, he thinks as he approaches, and hugs you from behind.

You stiffen in his hold, just for a moment, and then you relax again, cover his hands with yours.

“It’s so pretty.” A yawn breaks the last word and he chuckles, even though he’s just as tired.

“I know.” He says, but his head is leaned against yours and his eyes are closed.

He wakes to white sheets and the soft golden hues of dawn.

For a moment he doesn't recognize who's in bed with him, hair sprawled over the pillow and half buried under the blanket.

Did he get drunk last night?

But when he reaches back in his memory there's no haze, no blurry images, everything is clear and he remembers everything.

It's you, there with him.

He lifts his head.

It's quiet in the spacious room.

Only the sunlight comes in, and it touches everything into a magical glow.

And among that you sleep soundly, curled around your hands fisted in the sheets, and he leans over to the bedside table, fishes his phone up from there and snaps a picture before he can lose the precious sight.

Then he puts the device away, lays back down and continues watching you, even though his eyes droop once more.

It seems like a dream, everything that went down yesterday, but he is once more reminded that it isn't when he reaches out to brush hair away from your face and sees the bruise on his knuckles, standing out against his skin.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears.

His chest is a bit tight, like his heart is too big for it, and he softly exhales in hopes it might soothe the ache.

He dozes off again, wondering if this is what love feels like.

A hand combing his hair rouses him from slumber, the pad of a finger rubbing his cheek.

He blinks his eyes open and squints at your radiant smile, almost as blinding as the sunlight from before.

"Hey," He rasps, and swallows and clears his throat.

"Hey." You answer, smile impossibly brightening. "Slept well?"

"Mhm, yeah? You?"

You laugh and lean your forehead against his shoulder.

"Yeah. This bed is like a tiny cloud. I feel so refreshed."

"That's good." He smiles and yawns and stretches.

Your fingers touch the smooth expanse of his stomach, revealed as the blanket slips away, and he cracks mid stretch and giggles.

"N-No- Mercy, mercy please! Please!"

The giggles turn into a laugh as you push up into a sitting position and he twists and turns and bats half-heartedly at your hands.

"No." He breathes, trapping your wrists in his palms and pushing himself up as well. "Don't. Bad… Bad human."

Your eyes sparkle again and it's the cutest thing he's seen.

"Okay, okay. I yield."

Satisfied, he lowers your hands.

"Wanna order breakfast?"

"What?" Your eyes widen. "Like, up to this room?"

"Yeah?"

"Isn't there like, a buffet downstairs or so?"

"Maybe? I don't know."

He shrugs, and it's the truth. He doesn't feel like he has to pretend he knows everything.

"Let's get washed up and go downstairs. I wanna have a look at all the rich people in their morning attire."

He purses his lips and is about to tell you there's nothing special about that, really, but his thought process gets cut short by your palm on his cheek and your lips pressing a soft smooch to the other.

He's left gaping while you hop off the bed and vanish in the bathroom, and only after the lock clicks into place does he feel his entire face burn, cheeks tingling with the ghost of your touch.

He brings his own hand to the spot your lips were in just moments prior and is absolutely powerless against the big, flustered grin spreading on his face.

He gets up and out of bed, stretching once more and feeling as good in his skin as he hasn't for a while now, and just unlocked his phone to check for messages when the lock clicks across the room and the door opens.

"We didn't order-"

The words die in his throat at the two figures waltzing in, not even bothering to close the door behind them.

"What did you think you were doing, young man?!"

His mother's words drip venom that could have left black burned holes in the plush carpet under her steps.

At once his shell is back, the hardened surface that had peeled back in your presence.

"Taking money out of your account, eating at a… At a fast food restaurant? Are you out of your mind?"

"You know I usually think you should be allowed your freedom but I'm agreeing with your mother here." His father helpfully supplies, hands behind his back from where he wandered over to the window.

"So what if I do with my money what I want? It's not like it matters to you?"

"That's enough. Get dressed, we're going back to our hotel. Gods help us none of the-"

"No." He says, and feels something welling up inside him.

His mother pauses, glaring at him.

"-Nobody saw you out, that would be such an unnecessary-"

"I said no."

His volume increases alongside his anger at being ignored and talked over.

"Lucas, pull yourself together. Why you would book another hotel room when you have one next to ours is useless spending, not to mention-"

A door opens behind him and he turns. His stomach hits the floor between his feet.

He forgot about you, hidden in the bathroom.

You're carefully closing the door behind you but pause when you realize all eyes are on you and the conversation stopped.

"Good morning." You dip your head slightly, eyes flicking from them to him.

"Lucas, what is that."

His mother asks, not turning her eyes away from you, and you're obviously left speechless at such blatant rudeness thrust in your face this early in the day so you keep quiet.

"This is my friend, mother."

His tone is freezing as he crosses the space separating you and takes a hold of your hand. "Not that it concerns you."

"Lucas," His father speaks up, hands outstretched in front of him. "You know we don't mind you socializing, but someone like that…?"

He obviously means the messy bun you put your hair in, the simple - cheap - outfit with the worn flannel around your hips.

Nobody of their standing would be caught dead like this.

He bristles under the comments, his chest filling with a prickling rage, but then you squeeze his hand and he looks down into your wide eyes and the half hidden panic in them.

"I'll go now. Thank you for everything, Yukhei."

You slip away from him and give his parents the widest berth you can manage before picking up your shoes and taking your jacket off its place by the door.

"No, wait-"

He hasn't asked you for your number yet, or Snapchat, or Instagram or anything; it feels like you're slipping through his fingers and he knows if he doesn't get you to stay, somehow, you'll be gone in a heartbeat and he'll never get you back.

Cinderella running as soon as the clock strikes midnight, but unlike her prince, he doesn't even have a shoe that would allow him to find you again.

"Lucas-" His mother warns him, but with a hate-filled look he's out the door, heart hammering away in his chest at the prospect of losing you.

Losing soft, warm, you, with your slow words and your camera and your view of the world that's so different from his.

He manages to wrench a hand between the doors of the elevator just before it closes and he's panting and high strum when the metal slides back and allows him in.

"Yukhei? What-"

He turns and sees his parents come out the door, and hurries to press the 'close doors' button even though neither of them would do as he did and sprint to catch them.

As soon as the cabin moves, he turns to you, hands feeling jittery and out of breath.

"Can I have your number? Or social media, or address or… anything? Anything I can reach you with?"

"Yukhei…" Your eyes are still wide as you look away from his face.

"Please." He swallows and tries to calm his erratic breathing. "Please, you're- You're the fucking best thing that's happened to me in months, months, okay, I don't- I don't want to lose you, I want to, I want for us to have breakfast together and do stupid tourist shit together and I just want more time with you, please…"

The doors open and reveal the first floor, and the presence of an elderly couple shuts him up momentarily.

They get on and upon seeing the button for the ground level lit up already settle against the opposite wall.

He catches your eyes again.

"Please."

He whispers.

"Boys like you aren't good for girls like me, Yukhei." You tell him, cupping one of your hands over his cheek, and with a sadness on your face that installs more fear in him than his parents showing up unannounced.

"What do you mean?" He asks, and wraps his own fingers around your wrist.

The doors open again and reveal the lobby, and everyone gets off.

"I mean…" You sigh and look around, at the brown suitcases with golden letter print, at the names flashing from every purse, shades or shoes. "I mean, boys like you... Don't spend much time or thought on girls like me. We don't mix and match. We're too different. Boys like you… Lose interest in girls like me once they get what they want."

He knows you're right and he hates it.

He wants to say something, anything, but his tongue weighs too heavy and you look like you know your words are true to the bone.

"And, your parents…" You lift your eyebrows and tilt your head, having said enough.

He feels powerless and he hates it, but unlike with his parents he can't act up, he can't step out of line, he can't risk a slap or punch in exchange for a brief moment of exhilarating freedom. Because you are freedom in the shape of a person already, and he is at a loss at what to do.

"Let me prove you wrong."

A plead. He knows your time together is running out and he knows he's grasping at straws but he's desperate.

"I appreciate that."

A beat of hope in his chest.

"But you don't have to, really. You have nothing to prove to me, Yukhei."

"Lucas!"

He freezes at the shout, the voice of his mother reaching out of the elevator.

"It was so nice getting to know you."

"No- No-!"

And you're slipping from his hands, are gone faster than he can gather his thoughts and defreeze his tongue and all that's left of you is one more kiss, quick and fleeting, pressed to his other cheek and then you're skipping to the exit, look back once you reach the door, with a smile on your face.

His mother's hand takes a hold of his elbow like a claw wrapping around prey, the rings on her fingers pressing into his skin, and her voice is talking but he doesn't hear.

He still feels your soft lips on his cheeks, the ghost of your fingers between his, and it's so little contact to what he's used to from the girl's he's usually around, and yet it feels like it meant so, so much more.

He closes his eyes and hangs his head and mentally shuts off to let the words spoken at him roll off his skin without allowing them in.

It's late and the sky is dark and he's locked in his room while his parents are out on the second evening of the event.

The screen of his phone lights up and he turns his head to check, not really interested in whatever is happening. His attention spikes when he reads the Snapchat notification that he's just been added as a friend.

Turning on his side he pulls up the new chat, and there are the little dots that indicate the other person is writing.

-Yukhei what the ruck!!!

-*f

A smile finds the corners of his lips, the first one since the more than harsh awakening this morning.

>found my gift? ;)

-what the fuck! i can't accept this??

>no take backs. get something nice and pretend like it's a souvenir from me

At least that way you could have something to remind you of him. If you want that.

-that's so much koney tho??? are u sure?

-*money ruck

-*FUCK

>don't worry about it. i owed you, you know. consider it paid back, with interest

Your bitmoji drops down and it seems like you're considering what to do next. It feels good, to know you received the envelope he left at the front desk in the spur of the moment, his Snapchat handle scrawled on it alongside a short “Please add me when you get this :)”

Then…

-did u get in trouble? bc of me?

>nah

>my parents caught me doing worse

He pauses and bites on his lip, weighting pro against con of telling you.

-do i want to know??

>hosted a party and couple of my friends had an orgy in my parent's bedroom. they came back early and…

-holy fucking shit what the fuck

He opens the camera and snaps a selfie, pouting and adding a text about being grounded for the remainder of this trip.

He holds his breath in anticipation until the little pink square next to your name fills out and he can click on it.

It's a close-up of your face, from an incredibly unflattering angle, and you're clearly not shredding an ounce of sympathy for him.

No text is added.

He sends another pouting selfie, zoomed in as well and lays on the puppy eyes thick.

The next image is half your face hidden under your blanket, with the word "no" taking up much of the screen.

He swipes into the main menu and then further to the friend page, clicking on your story.

What unfurls before his eyes is a miniature movie, single pictures taken all over the city and pieced together with selfies and you talking to yourself.

At once his heart beats a little faster.

His screen lights up, months later, and still his heart won't beat normal.

That morning a letter arrived for him - a letter, for him, in a battered envelope with an entirely foreign stamp and his name proudly on it.

It's from you.

In it he found copies of the pictures you took of him in front of the bridge, the light and dark touching his face.

And then the tiny polaroid he had asked you to take two times, one for you and one for him, and then hadn't gotten the chance to take it with him.

He'd snapped a selfie of the letter and him and sent it to you before opening it, and now he's blinking to keep the tears from spilling over.

Wong Yukhei does not cry, especially not at something like this. And yet…

But instead of an answer snap to your “omg u got mail!!” he opens the screen to a video call, and hurries to brush his eyes dry and fails when the connection stabilizes and he can see you.

It's a different time of day for you, and your hair has grown and changed, too, but the smile that's on his screen is still the same, radiant one as before.

"You got my letter!"

You exclaim, and even though it's a bit warbled and the rendering is a bit blocky, he feels your excitement.

"I did."

"Was beginning to think it got lost in the mail. Do you like the pictures? I put the polaroid in as well, did you-"

"Yeah," He smiles, and the word comes out rasped. "Yeah I- I got everything. Thank you."

You smile again.

It's so nice to see you again.

The words spill out before he can hold them back.

"So, hey," He brings up, an hour later just before you have to end the call. "I'll be flying out next month, to- Maybe we can-"

The grin on your face impossibly widens.

"You serious? My town? When?"

"Uh-" He has to minimize snapchat to pull up his calendar to tell you the exact date.

"You wanna meet up? Get to know my city?"

Warmth explodes in his chest, showing in a barely contained smile of his own.

"Yeah! Yeah that… I'd love that. More walking for me."

You laugh and then both of you fall quiet, content watching the other for a moment.

"I'm happy." You tell him. "I'm really happy I'll get to hug you properly. This-" You gesticulate towards the phone screen. "-isn't really holding up well."

“I’m looking forward to it, too.”

He drops his head on his pillow and smiles.

notes: i hope you liked it :) comments/reblogs make my day, so if you send an ask or just say a few nice words, i’d love that ^-^

you can also find all my other writing on Ao3 - runningfaucet is my @ there

[shipmistress9]

Sex Toy Advent Calendar: Day 6: Purple U-shaped Vibe

Fandom: HTTYD

Rating: E

Pairing: Hiccup/Astrid

Words: 3130

Summary: Day 6 of the Sex Toy Advent Calendar. Today's toy makes up for any previous disappointment. And leaves Hiccup and Astrid eager for further explorations.

AN: I ran a bit into a wall with this one. At some point, I had to delete half of what I'd written for this chapter because it wasn't working, and then RL became pretty tough. Ah, well. At least it's finished now. And in the meantime, I had a lot of fun making notes for the future parts of this series. ^^

. o O o .

Today, it was Hiccup’s turn to be thrumming with anticipation as he and Astrid went to open today’s box. After yesterday's disappointment —though everything had turned out more than bearable in the end—her excitement had noticeably dampened. It wasn’t that she wasn’t looking forward to seeing what was in today’s box, but more that she'd lowered her expectations. Which was a shame, really. 

Hiccup didn’t know for sure which gift they got today. But he'd seen a rough overview of which toys would be in this calendar when he’d bought it, and… Well, the fact that there were two black boxes with the golden letters saying ‘six’ was giving away a lot, especially with the additional information printed on the smaller one in his hand. 

“So, what does it say there?” Astrid asked, eyeing the tiny box skeptically. 

“It says that we can use this charging cable for the boxes 6, 12, and 24,” he said smugly. Then he nodded at the other, slightly bigger box in her hands. “Don't you want to take a look?”

Astrid's mouth had turned into a perfect O, her eyes now alight with new excitement. The sight made Hiccup smile. She was so beautiful like this. With quick eager motions, she tore the box open and held up its content. 

“Okay, and what is this?”

“Well, it’s not a cock ring,” he replied in a light, teasing tone. 

Astrid regarded him with a flat stare.

Chuckling, Hiccup took the purple u-shaped device out of her hands. “It’s a vibrator, obviously. If I remember correctly, it’s called Double Joy. A fitting name, because, well, both sides have their use.” He pointed at the differing ‘arms’ of the U. “The thinner side here is meant to go inside you, while the thicker side with the flared and flattened shape here is supposed to cover your clit. Both sides vibrate, individually if you want. Also, the bit that goes inside you is so narrow that I should easily fit in as well. That way, we can both feel the vibrations and also each other, and your clit gets attention, too.”

Astrid’s lips twitched in amusement as she glanced at him. “Someone’s done his homework, as it seems,” she teased. Then her attention returned to the vibrator. “But I admit, this sounds interesting. Should we try it right away?”

Chuckling, Hiccup shook his head. He wasn’t surprised at her eagerness, not at all. It was Sunday, so they both were off work today and had the entire day for themselves. And, well, she was Astrid. 

But sadly, they would have to wait. “Remember this?” He held up the other box, the charging cable. “It has a build-in batterie and needs to charge first. Besides, there’s something else this thing can do, and I think you’re going to want and explore this option before we get started.” 

“Who says we can only use it once?” she asked, attempting to look innocent and failing spectacularly. “But okay, the charging is a valid argument. So let's get this connected, and then you can tell me aaaaaall about its other features.”

. o O o .

Astrid’s eyes were gleaming as she went through the app’s options. She was thrilled, just like Hiccup had expected. 

“Okay, this alone is worth getting this calender,” she proclaimed after a few minutes. “I can control both sides of the vibrator individually, right here in the app. Strength and rhythm, and…” she paused, her eyes growing wide. “Oooohh. I can even connect it to a playlist and it pulses along with the music?” She smirked at him. “We’re definitely going to try this!”

Having expected nothing else, Hiccup nodded, and then leaned in to show her another feature. “Then I hope you have a fitting playlist saved. Anyway, see this here? It’s a partner feature.”

She squinted at her display. “Okay? And what does it do?”

“Once paired with your phone, only you can control the vibrator. For safety. However, you can decide to temporarily give this control over to another specific app user. For example, we could go out with you wearing it, but I control it. It’s apparently extra silent, so nobody at a restaurant or at the cinema would hear it. Well, unless your moans grow too loud.” He threw her a cheeky smirk, but had to bite back a laugh at the dazed look on her face. Oh, she liked that idea, didn’t she? 

Hiccup felt smug, having found this toy and within the fun context of this calendar, no less. She’d voiced interest in such a toy every now and then, and he was sure that it would see plenty of use. 

Intent on teasing her further, he stepped behind her, hands on her hips and letting her feel how thinking about the possibilities didn’t leave him unaffected either. “You could also take it with you when you have to go on a business trip again,” he murmured against her neck. “And then you could allow me control over it when we video chat before going to sleep. I could make you come and watch you, even without being there.”

Astrid moan, and a shiver ran through her body. She leaned into him, her cute butt pressing at his growing erection. “That sounds intriguing,” she murmured.

“Or you could wear it when you go to work,” he went on, voice low and rough now. “I wouldn’t know what you’re doing or how aroused you already are, but I could keep playing with the control the entire day through. I wonder what your annoying co-worker would say if you interrupt another one of her self-praises with an orgasm.”

Astrid nearly choked on breathy laughter, the image no doubt appealing to her. “Mmm, we should definitely keep that option in mind. How much longer until that thing is charged and ready for use?”

“Another hour, I fear,” he said after glancing at his watch. He wished he could give her a more satisfying answer, but that was the instruction he’d read up in advance. By now, he was pitching a full tent in his loose lounging bottoms. But they could bridge an hour by doing something else… right? 

It was a long hour. Astrid played some more with her new app, arranging playlists or something, while Hiccup made a food plan for the week to determine which ingredients he would have to get. Although he’d have to double-check it later with how… distracted he was. 

Every few minutes, Astrid’s eyes flicked toward the clock hanging over their TV, and every time, she gave an impatient sigh. It made Hiccup grin, her eagerness and curiosity so wonderfully blatant and so cute. Not that he wasn’t interested in seeing what this toy could do, but there was just something so refreshing and endearing about watching her that he was almost sad when the waiting was over. But only almost. 

When the hour was over—Astrid apparently had even set an alarm—she jumped up and all but ran toward their bedroom. Hiccup followed her, chuckling, and found her kneeling on the bed. She held the vibe in her one hand and her phone in the other, and let out a victorious “Ha!” the moment he sat down next to her. 

“It’s working?” He crawled behind her onto the bed, stabilising himself with his hands on her waist as he looked over her shoulder.

“Looks like it, yes.” She tapped a few buttons on her phone, and the vibrator buzzed to life. “Excellent!”

“And what’s your plan now?” he asked, a little bemused as she turned it off again and shifted until she lay on her back. “What do you want to try with it?” 

She smirked. “Oh, you’ll see.” 

With one swift motion, she pushed her bottoms and underwear down, giving him an unimpeded view of her lower half, and brought the toy down to her entrance. Hiccup’s breath caught in his throat as he watched it slip inside her, easily, as if it belonged there. It really was proof of how aroused and eager she was that even after an hour of waiting she was wet enough to not need the tiniest bit of foreplay or lube. 

To his slight disappointment, though, she then pulled her clothes up again and reached for her phone. A moment later, a low tune sounded through the room and Astrid’s eyes fluttered shut with a soft moan. The vibrator was indeed surprisingly quiet, Hiccup could only hear it because he was listening for it and there were no other noises around them, anyway. With his heart beating a little faster, he let out a low grunt as he watched her, clearly luxuriating in the invisible stimulation. She was so beautiful like this. 

She held her hand out toward him, reaching for him. “Come here,” she purred.

Hiccup obliged happily, covering her with his body as she pulled him into a deep kiss. Her hips moved in time with the music coming from her phone, grinding herself against his thigh and making her mewl. 

Oh, this was hotter than he’d expected. He could probably continue just like this, lazily making out, kissing her with one hand slowly combing through her hair, and she’d still come sooner rather than later. But tempted as he was—they had the entire day free, after all, and nothing was stopping them from just spending countless hours in bed—he still wanted to do a little more, go a little further. 

He sat up, much to her complaint, and removed his shirt with one quick motion, then leaned down to resume kissing her. Astrid hummed happily as his hand splayed over her breast, squeezing her through her thin vest before it slipped beneath the fabric to peel it off her. She wriggled to help him, but instead nearly arched off the bed when the music switched to a quicker part for a short while and the toy apparently followed along. 

“F-fuck!” she cursed, eyes out of focus as she gazed past him at the ceiling. Her fingers were digging into his arms, her hips moving in search of that elusive stimulation. “This… this is…”

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Hiccup mused idly, mouthing at her ear. “I think I love this toy already.” 

Astrid didn’t reply and just moaned weakly as he moved down her body and pulled aside the cups of her bra with his teeth. Her nipples were sensitive already and quickly hardened beneath his tongue, so much fun to play with. 

He kept it light for now, merely teasing her. But with half an ear, he listened to the music, and right before he knew another quicker part would come, his lips closed around the hard bud and he sucked, harshly. It made her mewl with longing, and when the music and vibrations grew stronger again, Astrid cried out, limps shaking and hands tightening into fists in his hair. 

Three times he repeated this pattern until she came undone beneath him with a beautiful scream. Her entire body spasmed as waves of pleasure crashed through her, her eyes rolling back into her head. It was a memorable sight, one Hiccup wished he could capture in a drawing later on. She was so utterly beautiful when in the throes of pleasure, so irresistible, so alluring. Just watching her made him feel as if he was about to come himself.

When it was over, she almost desperation reached out, whimpering, and her arm wandered around on the bedcovers as if she was searching for something. It took Hiccup a second to cotton on, still mesmerised by her sight. But then he understood, grabbed her phone lying next to her head, and turned the music off. The low buzzing stopped as well and a moment later, Astrid fell back onto the bed, blissful and relaxed.

“Oh, wow,” she gasped, her head lolling to the sight and with a huge grin on her face. “Okay, this baby alone was worth everything. That was awesome!” 

Chuckling, Hiccup sat up and took in more of her sight. Not even halfway undressed but with her hair sticking to her sweaty forehead and neck, she looked the picture of debauchery. 

“I’m glad to hear that. So I guess the hour of waiting wasn’t that unbearable, retrospectively?”

She let out a shaky laugh. “I’d say it was even more unbearable now that I know what I was missing out on. But just for the records. When I take this baby with me to work, promise me you won’t use the highest setting. I don’t want to fall off my chair when my body just stops responding.”

Hiccup laughed. The image was certainly intriguing, but he’d also noticed something else. She’d said when and not if. Somehow, that didn’t even surprise him. 

What did surprise him though was when Astrid suddenly reached up and pulled him into a blistering kiss. He’d thought that with the apparent intensity of her orgasm just now, she needed a slight break at least. But, obviously, he’d been wrong. Once, he was close enough again, her hands were all over him, roaming over his skin in a show of very obvious eagerness. 

Not one to complain, Hiccup let her guide him, getting rid of her shirt and bra, and enjoyed the sensation of hot skin against his own. Her hands on his back, her legs entangled with his own, her hips grinding against him, slow but insistent. 

“You’re sure you don’t need a break?” Even with how eager she was, he still had to ask, to make sure. “You’re not too sensitive?” 

She chuckled, breathy. “Actually, I am. Just a little, though. But no, I don’t need a break. Don’t want one. I want more.”

Groaning at her needy tone, Hiccup didn’t resist when she pushed his bottoms down and reached for his cock. After her lewd display, he was already hard, the touch of her hand more than welcome on his heated flesh. She stroked him slowly, her eyes drinking in his reaction, and he had to fight not to thrust into her grip in his eagerness. 

Getting rid of her remaining clothes was merely a formality, and before long, she guided his cock to slip inside her along with the toy. Even with how slim this part of the vibrator was, it was a noticeably tighter fit than usual, and at first, they struggled to find the right angle. Once inside though, Hiccup sighed as her silken heat surrounded him. She was so hot, so tight, and just so… so… Astrid!

She was biting her lip when he glanced down at her, her eyes pressed shut and brows furrowed. 

“Are you okay?” His voice was rough with desire, but her well-being was more important. 

Letting out a keening noise, low and needy, Astrid nodded. “I am. Just intense. But good.” 

To give her time to adjust, Hiccup leaned down, supporting his weight on his elbows, and breathed hot openmouthed kisses onto her jaw, down her neck, to her shoulders. It had the desired effect, distracting her and making her giggle. Then she pushed lightly against his chest with her flat hand, and Hiccup pushed himself up again, watching her curiously as she reached for her phone again. 

“Slowly at first, okay?”

Hiccup nodded and was about to say something in response when the vibrations set in. Instead, he just let out a weak groan, his eyes falling shut at the unfamiliar sensation. 

Oh, that felt good!

The toy wasn’t long enough to reach all the way along his cock, but that wasn’t much of an issue. As he slowly pulled out and pushed in again, he found that the toy covered him well enough, and the vibrations were enough to send an additional thrill through his body, anyway. 

And the music… Astrid had picked a calm piece, beautiful, and it was easy to fall into the slow rhythm. It was almost like a dance, in a way. Not that he would call himself a skilled or anything but awkward dancer, but this was different. Easy. Letting the music set the pace for their movements, he enjoyed how it gave him time to indulge in their closeness, their intimacy. Exploring every part of her he could reach with his nose and mouth alone was something he so rarely got the chance to. 

After a while, the music changed, the beat becoming a little faster. It was a natural development to follow, Astrid meeting his thrusts perfectly, and her endless string of moans and breathless sobs as the vibrations grew stronger was a beautiful addition to the familiar melody. 

Hiccup was entirely lost in it all, watching, listening, feeling. The music grew faster, the vibrations stronger, his thrusts harder. On and on it went, a crescendo of sensations. 

Beneath him, Astrid was teetering on the edge of another orgasm, her fingernails digging deeply into his arms. It was pure perfection, and when the music reached its climax, the same was true for them as well. 

It was intense; Astrid screamed with no restraints, and Hiccup muffled his howl against her sweaty neck. Her clenching muscles were like a velvet device of pleasure around his thrumming cock, and the vibrations fuelled his orgasm even further. His hips seemed to move on their own, his thrusts carrying them through to the end even as his cum made her insides slick and slippery. 

“Oh, f-fuck,” he groaned weakly as he nearly collapsed on top of her. He managed to roll to the side instead, forehead pressed against her shoulder, but he kept his arm slung across her chest in a loose embrace. After this, she would need the closeness just as much as he did. 

Astrid fumbled with her phone and then cuddled closer to him once the music—and the vibrations—had stopped. “Yeah, that’s an accurate summary,” she sighed, giggling. She snuggled closer, blindly reaching for a blanket to ward off the cool air. They were both in desperate need of a shower, but that could wait for later. “I don’t know what else we’re going to find in this calendar, but I dare say this toy is one of my top favourites.”

Hiccup let out a tired laugh. He’d hoped for this to be a good one, but the reality was still so much better than his imagination. 

“And you know what’s the best part of it?”

Too exhausted for many words, he just hummed weakly for her to continue. 

She shifted until her lips reached his, and he thought he could feel her smirk as she kissed him. 

“The best part is that we still have the entire day to keep enjoying this toy.”

. o O o .

AN: I bet neither of them will be able to walk anymore around noon at the latest. xD

* - . - * - . o O o . - * - . - *

If you want to support me you can buy me a coffee. I love coffee 😊 (Ko-Fi)

[dpanuncialwriter]

Librarians, Start New Game

November-December 2019, American Libraries Magazine

For librarians at universities with videogame design programs, maintaining a large, accessible gaming collection isn’t a Final Fantasy. It’s a Call of Duty. Beginning a collection may be as easy as pressing start to play, but storing and preserving complex materials is a tough battle—and academic librarians want to level up.

The University of Michigan’s (UM) Computer Video and Game Archive (CVGA) in Ann Arbor boasts more than 8,000 videogames and 60 consoles dating back to the 1970s. “Because we have such a large collection, there are many examples from which to pull and get inspiration, things [students] would never be able to afford on their own,” says David Carter, videogame archivist at UM. “Almost nobody has a collection this big, especially a college student.”

“[People] don’t think of libraries as a destination for digital scholarship,” says Anne Morrow, associate librarian and head of digital scholarship services at the University of Utah’s J. Willard Marriott Library, which has more than 500 videogames and serves almost 400 game design students. “There’s an incentive to see what the obstacles are for bringing these types of original work into the collection.”

Objective: playability

As the owner of more than 2,000 commercial games, 300 student games, and 40 consoles (some as old as the 1985 Nintendo Entertainment System), the University of California, Santa Cruz’s (UCSC) Science and Engineering Library prioritizes authentic playability. Its goal is to provide students with not only a game but also the console it was made for, a compatible controller, and an era-appropriate TV to play it on.

With so many moving pieces, says Christy Caldwell, science and engineering librarian at UCSC, “providing usage of increasingly ‘antique’ [materials] is an ongoing challenge.”

UM has the same goal. “We don’t have to do a lot of tracking down, thankfully,” says Valerie Waldron, UM computer and videogame archive manager. About half of its collection is donated, and as with other academic libraries that own game collections, staffers turn to eBay if they need to repair or buy a missing item. Or they get creative.

“Something broke on our Atari 7800, and we actually 3D-printed a replacement part,” Carter says.

Why is maintaining playability of older games important? Students are mainly studying design and software. “What does the game look like, and what does the controller feel like?” Caldwell says. “Are you seeing something similar to what someone who played the game earlier would have seen and experienced?”

Students are also looking at artwork, game mechanics, subjects, and even source code as inspiration for their own games. “They’re using [archives] for competitive intelligence, and looking at what’s been done already,” says Tallie Casucci, assistant librarian at Marriott Library.

Space is another issue. At Marriott Library, students must go to different floors to pick up a videogame, grab a console and matching controllers, and actually play, since the stations are separated and require checkouts for loss prevention. “It’d be nice to have everything all in one place,” Casucci says.

In Ann Arbor, the CVGA houses both the collection and spaces to play the games on consoles, since the collection doesn’t leave the library. “It’s a very crammed room,” Carter says.

Save game?

UM staffers say they have two missions: to serve the teaching and research needs of faculty and students in order to promote usage of the games, and to preserve those games. “There’s an inherent tension. Usage is the enemy of preservation,” Carter says. “Academic usage trumps preservation. We don’t want to have something just to have it and not let people use it.”

After students from the Entertainment Arts and Engineering program at Utah lost all the materials for Erie, a popular student-made game from 2012, Casucci and Morrow investigated their options. With help from an Institute of Museum and Library Services grant, they published an ebook this fall on how to best archive, preserve, and disseminate student videogames.

“People have been looking at digital preservation seriously, [but] we haven’t made progress with objects that are really complex, like videogames, that have many interactions between files,” Morrow says. “We thought about the existing services in a library and how games might be supported by those services.”

“In our case, it would be the sheer number of analog games to process and store that would be difficult, especially year after year,” Caldwell says. “You’re asking people in cataloging who have never even played a game to suddenly start cataloging media. You need to support them.” The best way to do that, she says, is to develop accurate metadata and consistent, detailed cataloging practices.

But academic libraries still need to strategize.

At Marriott Library, Casucci and Morrow created a tiered retention system for archiving student games, through which students can choose the process that best suits their needs. In earlier tiers, students can contribute visuals such as screenshots or game trailers. As they go further into the system, students can contribute their games in their entirety, allowing future students complete access to its features.

Commercial games have not been forgotten. Carter and Waldron are finding ways to preserve legacy formats of videogames like floppy disks and cartridges. “We’re trying to discover ways of taking the game off its original format and creating an image for it,” Waldron says. “There are still a lot of things to work out, like how to store it properly, retrieve it, or put it back in its original format.” As for regular discs, UM keeps multiple copies and stores them in archival-quality sleeves behind the circulation desk.

According to Heather Maxwell Chandler’s Game Production Handbook, after producing a videogame, developers organize the game’s source assets and archive them in a closing kit—a common practice in the industry to help developers install updates or patches to their games. UCSC would like to implement closing kits down the line.

“The faculty wants to have a record of what students have created,” Caldwell says. “They want students to be inspired by what other students have done and build on that work.”

Carter and Waldron say that videogame preserving and archiving has been underdeveloped in libraries because it is still an emerging format. “Until recently, the history of the videogame industry has been left in the hands of private collectors,” Carter says. “Not to discount the work that private collectors have done—that’s one portion of preservation, but you need academic libraries in the mix.”

“For a long time, [game companies] weren’t really interested in preserving their games, either,” Waldron says. According to Kotaku, this is due to legal gray areas, lack of industry support, and turnover of games. “I think that’s slowly starting to change.”

Conquering copyright issues

Potential copyright problems exist in every layer of videogame collecting, especially regarding older materials with expired copyrights. In October 2018, a decision from the Library of Congress and US Copyright Office allowed institutions to lawfully own copies of older videogames if they were acquired from the original companies in order to make preservation copies—a separate challenge for librarians and archivists as many companies are no longer in business or have discontinued server support.

“Assuming that all videogames are governed by terms of use, it’s likely that any exceptions one would expect in the copyright law are not allowed,” says Carrie Russell, senior program officer and copyright specialist at the American Library Association. “If students are doing close analysis of the games or something similar, it’s likely that license terms don’t forbid just studying and researching the game unless the research involves the need to circumvent digital rights management (DRM) that may be employed by the rights holder.”

DRM is a form of copyright protection licensing for digital media implemented by embedding code that prevents copying, specifying a time period in which content can be accessed, or limiting the number of devices content can be installed on. For example, games with expired or maxed-out licenses may not be library friendly.

Another consideration is that certain PC games come with keys—a string of unique characters—that a user must input in order to play. “But then that [game] is registered, and it’s only good for one use,” Carter says. “If someone donates a PC game to us, if they’ve used the key, we can’t use that game. We have to somehow get another key.”

Currently, libraries’ and archives’ rights to preserve videogames are allowed under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. “That exemption, however, will expire in 2021 and need to be requested again,” Russell says.

Student-made videogames are easier to preserve since students get to decide what university libraries can keep. The student work that libraries archive mostly consists of digital files. They can either archive the entire game or different elements of it, like an abstract, artwork, or gameplay footage.

“We never make the students put up everything,” Caldwell says. “They could say, ‘I don’t want to upload my actual code. I’ll upload my abstract.’”

Students can claim complete copyright of their games or use a Creative Commons license, which allows others to share, use, and build on their work. They can even decide if they want their work to be available to university affiliates or the public.

Librarians, too, try to educate students about the importance of archiving their work at the library, studying other games, and how copyright plays into both. “You have to believe that [students] are going to use [the collection] responsibly,” Caldwell says.

Next-level libraries

Librarians agree they’re just beginning to assimilate game scholarship into academic libraries; progress will continue as the industry and programs evolve.

Caldwell says librarians should be working collaboratively to keep games accessible by lobbying for copyright law exceptions, partnering with game companies, and improving metadata and catalog descriptions.

“Games are to the 21st century what films were to the 20th,” she says. “How long did it take libraries to start collecting film? I think what we can do is start working together sooner, because we’ve already lost so many games.”

UM also wants to encourage students who may not be game design majors to help normalize videogames in the library. “In humanities or social science classes, instead of writing a paper, students are creating games,” Carter says. “We’ve been working with the design lab [at UM] to figure out ways to support the lighter-weight aspect of game creation.”

“[Games are] a part of society,” Waldron says. “It speaks to what our culture is in any given era, like any other format.”

[laughingmango]

1558w, complete, General Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kamila & Sissel (Ghost Trick), Jowd & Sissel (Ghost Trick), Yomiel & Sissel (Ghost Trick) Characters: Sissel (Ghost Trick), Kamila (Ghost Trick), Jowd (Ghost Trick), Yomiel (Ghost Trick) Additional Tags: Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Christmas Presents, Video Game Mechanics, baby engineer at work, professional ghost at work

For @azurefishnets... last year! But what’s a backlog amirite. Now it’s seasonal again!

Kamila shook her head.

“Too bad you don’t get it, Sissel, do you? It would be fun to work on this together.”

Talking to the cat was a tried and true pastime whenever she got a technical break from the absolute concentration her projects required. In that cozy wintry afternoon, brandishing a plastic welder that would be heating up for next minute or so, Kamila looked at her cat, at the pieces of the soon-to-be noise-cancelling earrings spread out on the table, at her apple tea in her favorite mug which had gone cold thirty minutes earlier but everybody knew that it was the thought that counted and that tea was more of a state of mind anyway, and felt at peace with the world.

Sissel could not quite say the same. What didn’t he get? Couldn’t he? He walked onto the table, feigning nonchalance as only a cat (or a ghost) could do, watching her solder three blue plastic rings and fasten them to an earrings base on one side and to a short chain on the other. At the other end of the chain were the blue silicone bits Alma put in her ears at night, the ones Sissel was not allowed to play with. The look of the plastic rings matched that of the silicone plugs – not the same, but they looked good together, as if they were always meant to be part of the same item. Sissel meowed: he got that much. Kamila set down the rings for a moment and sneaked him a scratch on the back, but did not seem to care for a follow-up to her statement.

The earrings were not the only item on the table. A small crawler robot retrofitted from one of Kamila’s early competitions was waiting for the finishing touches – its flashy new red coating was taking entirely too much to dry, as resin coatings are wont to do, and a bottle of ketchup stood next to it. Sissel slipped into the ghost world to paw at the bizarre contraption, still wondering. He understood soldering, he understood knitting, he knew it was bad when acrylics dripped out of their bottles. He understood checkers and had a beginner’s grasp on chess, and knew how to play mean card tricks with a small human help, so all in all, there was no reason to cut him out of the afternoon’s entertainment. He found the knack that made the little robot start and gave it a little ghostly push, out of boredom and contrarianism.

The robot grabbed the ketchup, surveyed the table, found what looked like a dish and was about to squeeze the condiment on Kamila’s tools when she reached for the off button.

“Sissel, no!” she snorted. “Not like that!”

She never could figure out how the cat pulled these pranks, and as a prospective scientist it stung like a personal failure. Still, as a prospective scientist, she had come to the irrefutable conclusion that it was none other than the cat who did it, and it felt like their little secret, and a bit of magic that brought a strange joy to her rigorous world.

“You silly kitten, you know you are my favorite tester in the whole wide world.” She fastened the welder to its holder and gave Sissel her undivided attention. “And I know you are very, very smart.” That netted her some understated purring that may or may not have been intended as a demure agreement. “And that you understand at least half of what I’m saying. The other half is the stuff you don’t want to hear so that doesn’t count.” Busted.

“But these are the presents I am making for my mom and dad, Sissy. We don’t know who your mom and dad are, so we can’t bring them presents!”

Kamila ran a hand through his cold fur, giving her full consideration to the scenario she had only evoked in a burst of mindless musing. “...or should we bring cat treats to the park next week? Maybe they’re still there and I would not want to be rude. I am very grateful to have you, you know.”

Was that all? Sissel headbutted her wrist when he grew tired of pretending to have a heartbeat and breathe, moving away to the other end of the table and staring at her with bright unblinking eyes.

Humans did love to overcomplicate things, really.

Yet that thought, or part of it, remained appealing.

So he set out to work.

It so happened that Jowd shared many traits with the quintessential cat. This was not always a help to Sissel, who had taken to spending most of his time among humans and sometimes felt like he missed out on the finer complexities of both species. It was, however, enough for him to know, deeply and intimately, that the way the detective went on and on about his upcoming work trip overseas was a desperate caterwauling, a call for help. He was so offended by the sheer fact of being expected to hold a speech at some conference that he neglected to share any details about it, or Sissel wasn’t paying attention on the rare occasions when he did, but what was clear was that the sole thought of leaving felt like torture.

Sissel, then, played a waiting game. He would need a stage for his trick: the right moment had to present itself at the police station, among a crowd of Jowd’s colleagues.

It rained; McCaw walked into the atrium and threw the wet plastic wrapping of a snack into the nearby trashcan. Sissel closed the lid when nobody was watching, letting the plastic fall toward the ground; a well-timed loosening of the radiator’s valve blew it away from the trashcan and close to Jowd’s feet. Now – and this was crucial to Sissel’s plans – Jowd had good eyes and lightning-quick reflexes. He would see the perilous transparent slip of plastic and sidestep to avoid it, even gaining a modicum of admiration from the bystanders. It would only garner more sympathy for his plight, then, when an improbable chain of events that began in the dusty spaces above the cupboards made a bowling ball fall on the desk next to where he’d landed, triggering the drawers’ spring-loaded latches at once and throwing all three drawers at Jowd’s calf with considerable strength. The man yowled in pain as he fell over and squinted at the last movement of this drawers disaster: a sheet of wrapping paper and a ribbon somehow flew out of them only to land exactly on his shoulder.

“Doctor’s gonna order some rest for this. You are welcome,” he said through the ghost world. Jowd’s laughter almost tore down the place and so Sissel congratulated himself upon a job well done: his dad had gotten his present.

His other dad would turn out to be a more complicated affair.

Not that anyone else in all his extended families had any claim to the title of “uncomplicated”, ever, but Yomiel remained the uncontested champion in the opposite direction and so Sissel tailed him for a few days, in and out of the ghost world, waiting for inspiration to strike. Yomiel’s new life needed… a dishwasher, a subscription to at least three computer magazines, a book called “Cooking for newbs” (spelling uncertain), a substantial supply of hair gel, a cat-shaped ladle and a cat-printed tie, Sissel learned, none of which were things a ghost cat could provide, unless a ghost cat felt like stooping to ghost crimes.

Rain again. It was a dark and stormy afternoon when Yomiel grabbed an umbrella and got ready to make a run to the convenience store down the corner; Sissel duly followed him inside the umbrella itself. They coasted a pile of junk discarded next to the wall of an abandoned building – broken chairs, a desk, file cabinets, cardboard boxes littered the sidewalk. Nothing special, nothing new. If not for his ghost senses, Sissel would have never given it a second thought. But that presence was there, undoubtedly. So Sissel jumped out of the umbrella and into a fire hydrant, and from there he frantically looked for the control unit of the nearest street lamp.

Sunlight was fading, and the city would soon bask in in its warm artificial lights, but that one street lamp lit up ahead of time to shine a spotlight on the pile of cardboard boxes. Yomiel raised an eyebrow under his shades. The street lamp went out and lit up again. Yomiel shot it a pointed look and approached the boxes underneath.

As he moved one of them aside, a kitten meowed at him, red fur darkened by the relentless rain. It was lost and hungry and had the biggest, roundest paws; Yomiel teared up as he tried to hold it and felt it hold him in turn. He cradled the kitten close to his chest and greeted it with his warmest, most private smile.

The whole street lit up.

“I know it was you, Sissel,” Yomiel whispered to the empty boxes. “You could’ve just told me! Who’s givin’ ya this knack for theatrics?”

“Statistically, you.”

“As if. I’m onto you. But… thank you, my friend.”

“...you are welcome. Just don’t name it after me, will you? Try to break the streak?”

“I’m not making any promises.”

[rachelthompsonauthor]

What is social proof? It’s a marketing concept that we are all inadvertently, unknowingly contributing to every time we click on, retweet, like, reply or comment, and share any kind of social media, article, or blog post on the net. Technically, social proof, as defined by Sprout Social is:

The concept that people will follow the actions of the masses. The idea is that since so many other people behave in a certain way, it must be the correct behavior.

Social Proof and Me

As an author, social media is a hugely important part of my author platform, as it is for any writer or blogger. This is how we connect with readers now, even before the pandemic. Virtual, online events are now the norm. Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube Live video discussions are the new book signings. Twitter chats are weekly on any number of topics; I have two of my own, in fact, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday at 6 pm pst/9 pm est and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday at 6 pm pst/9 pm est.

All important for visibility, branding, and most importantly, connection.

However…there’s a limit. I reached my limit over the course of this past year. It didn’t come all at once. It came, little by little, reaching a peak this past month or so.

Why? How? Me, the so-called social media expert?

Access. Like many people, I have issues with the incredible level of access Facebook gives people once we friend them without our consent. PMs (private messages) are automatic, now with the ability for people to call, voice, and video message us, with no option to shut these options to OFF unless we unfriend the person (we can, however, mute a specific conversation). Technically, we do give them consent in the legal mumbo jumbo we all agreed to when we joined back in the 2010s.

I am not okay with this. And Facebook doesn’t care. Nobody cares. You’re probably thinking, “Geez, Karen. Shut up, already. Stop your whining, white lady.” I get it. I do. First-world problems.

I counter with: I hear you. It’s also part of my business. A huge part. Here’s why:

As someone who manages over 70+ various social media accounts as part of my BadRedhead Media business, plus my own accounts as well, Facebook requires I have a personal account in order to manage all those other Pages. I do understand why, particularly with all the ridiculousness of the past four years with the abundance of fake accounts, fake news, and such.

As a survivor of sexual abuse and stalking, this is ultra-concerning to me. So, what happened this past month or so? Suffice it to say, one person repeatedly tried calling me. I never pick up Facebook calls, especially if I don’t know you. Another left me a few voice messages saying they were offended by something.

Yet another left me another message in ALL SHOUTY CAPS that she didn’t find what I posted inspirational enough and she expected better from someone who is “supposedly on the side of authors.”

Oh, and there is the one lady who started replying on ALL my posts to the kind people who did comment that she didn’t think I replied often enough or to her satisfaction.

Well. I’ve been criticized before. You should read some of my 1-star reviews. There’s plenty!

But, for whatever reason, this struck a chord. I got up in my feels. I cried. I talked with one of them and we worked it out because we like and respect each other’s work in the mental health space. The others I blocked. It’s darn frustrating to donate hours of my time each week to helping writers solely because I want to, only to be told it’s not enough. Like, seriously? Fuck off.

My blood raged. My heart sank. Understandable, right?

But what really made me angry is that I put myself in that position by being available. I accepted that ‘it is what it is.’ This is what the social media platforms have given us, so that’s what I have to work within.

I’m too available. It’s too easy to leave me shitty messages. This is why people hire people like me – to handle this crap for them! So they don’t have to read these ridiculous criticisms from judgy people who apparently have nothing better to do or are having a bad day.

And I get bad days. It’s a damn pandemic. We’re all struggling. Where’s the damn compassion for one another?

I have a dislike/hate relationship with Facebook anyway, since about ten or so years ago when I discovered that a past love had died by suicide by going to his personal profile and seeing, “RIP dude,” messages there. We had spoken early that day. It still haunts me.

So…what to do? I’m claiming my time. I’m not posting to my personal Facebook profile right now. I’m ignoring it. I am checking my Pages and of course, my client Pages. When I feel like I can face it again, I will cull my ‘friends’ down from *checks real quick* 4385 people to maybe, I don’t know, the few hundred in my groups, many of whom I do know and treasure.

Social Proof and You

If you’re a writer, social proof matters. This is the world we live in. Publishing is not only writing.

You need to be ‘findable,’ not only on Google, but also on each individual social platform, so your readers can learn more about you and hopefully, buy your books. If you go the traditional route, publishers and agents want to know how many followers you have (easily upped by buying fake followers or likes from Fiverr or wherever). I suggest not doing that, because:

1) fake followers don’t buy books 

2) it’s usually pretty obvious when you have fake followers because they’re all foreign names, have questionable bios, and no tweets

3) do you really want to start your publishing career with a lie? 

They also want to know what you post, how often, and what your branding is. If you’re an indie author, honestly, the same applies. Social proof is about connection, building relationships, and authenticity. I’ve believed that since I started my business and writing career way back in 2011, and I stand by it now. Start slow, grow slow. It’s not a race.

I’m the furthest thing you’ll even find from a conspiracy theorist – I don’t believe in chemtrails, pizza parlor cabals, or that the earth is flat. However, I am a realist. Watch The Social Dilemma sometime. These huge tech companies share our data without our knowledge or consent (Cambridge Analytics, anyone?). Younger generations are so used to this, they don’t really care – ask them.

(My kids think having a chip implanted in their hands with all their data is a fabulous idea. “So much easier than having to talk and repeat everything over and over. Just scan me and be done with it,” says my daughter Anya (21). “Agree,” grunts my son, Lukas (15). Buy stuff, go to the doctor, whatever. Scan and go. Talk with any GenZ kid, you’ll likely get a similar answer. They’ve been tracked since birth everywhere. They don’t know life without a computer, tablet, or phone in their hands.)

Know that whatever we do, it’s all part of each platforms’ AI, and they share data, which is why that darling pair of shoes you just saw on Amazon is now showing up on Google, Facebook, Twitter, and every website you visit going forward. It’s all about the money, and they all get a piece of that affiliate link.

Every bit of every click is recorded, even when you’re watching videos on YouTube, or a subscription service like Netflix, or perusing goods on Amazon. It’s all connected. I’m not shocked or surprised by any of this, are you?

It’s Not Personal

What people say to us and about us is ultimately incredibly revealing about them. We know this, at an intellectual, psychological, and emotional level. Still, when people say mean things, it hurts. We’re human.

Does it matter in the overall scope of our lives? Who can say. It matters at that moment. It can matter when it comes to overall visibility when you’re marketing your book(s) or trying to get that book contract or interview. Only you can say if it matters to you.

Already a longtime fan of THE FOUR AGREEMENTS by Don Miguel Ruiz, I took a moment to reorient myself with this one agreement: Don’t take anything personally. I also stumbled across an excellent short and entertaining TEDTalk by Frederick Imbo. His main message to stop taking things personally is two-fold;

It’s not about me. Look at the other person’s intention and

It IS about me. Give yourself some empathy. Speak up. Ask questions. Pay attention to how you feel and be vulnerable with your needs.

I’m glad I was able to, inadvertently, employ point #2 and work out some issues with one of the people by telling him what he said made me cry. He apologized. I apologized. We talked it through and we’re still friends.

Ultimately, social media is what we contribute to it. What we make it. How much we allow of it into our lives. Social proof is going along with the tide. I’ve been in this space since 2008. Being connected to others is a big part of the work I do to help and support not only other writers, but also other childhood sexual abuse survivors. However, I’ve reached that point. I knew it was coming.

I’m not shutting my doors. I’m just adding a screen. With a strong lock.

***

Read more about Rachel’s experiences in the award-winning book, Broken Pieces.

She goes into more detail about living with PTSD and realizing the effects of how being a survivor affected her life in

Broken Places, available in print everywhere!

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